Well, One Big Completed Project

Yes, with the publication of my book, Choosing the Hard Path: A Personal History and Memoir, that's one heck of a completed project. Anyone who tells you that writing and publishing is an easy task is most likely pulling your leg. It's complicated and takes a lot. Now the route I took was what's known as 'self-publishing' and there are all sorts of products out there to help guide you through the process.

I was lucky, extremely lucky, because my brother in law was able to introduce me to a publisher who would help me through the process of 'self publishing'. I guess in effect I had a hybrid process in that respect. Frankly I was in no shape, between health and age, to learn a whole new set of skills dealing with layout and uploading to an end publisher like Apple or Amazon.

My publisher ended up being a company near Lake Placid, NY run by Beth Rowland. High Peaks Publishing is their name and Beth's husband Tim is part of the team that brings everything to fruition. They've got a cracker jack designer and layout person, Ryan Harpster at Silverback Designs, who throws himself into all their projects. So, High Peaks takes the author's work, edits it, makes recommendations on order, placement, design and everything else you can think of, including hand holding. The whole process is like being on the publisher's team, or them being on your team. Either way, it doesn't matter.

They upload it to whatever platform you go with and...voila, you just got published. I really can't say enough about Beth, Tim and Ryan. I never could have done this without them. For an author who has no real history, reputation or experience, this is a great way to go.

So now it's over, that project at least and I really do feel a sense of relief and accomplishment. I've had some things I've wanted to say for decades that finally got out on the table and it feels good.

Buy now from Amazon.com

Choosing the Hard Path

Choosing the Hard Path, A Personal History and Memoir, my book, is published. It isn't just a story, it's a series of stories, one right after the other. It's the story of a young family in New Jersey looking for a better life, one different than the previous generation of immigrants and working class folks who had to fight for every inch of recognition and success. 

It's the story of those immigrants and early Americans from places like Ireland, Scotland and Germany. They were butchers and farmers, seamstresses, and bakers, working and living hard in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York and Michigan. 

It's the story of the 60s where change was coming at high speed. Where parents scratched their heads at new music, new fashion and new ideas. The cars were faster and sleeker. Polaroid cameras gave people what they considered near instant pictures and tape recorders and high fidelity record players were things every one wanted.

It's the story of the civil rights movement. White liberals and religious groups got involved in things like Freedom Summer, Selma and Freedom Rides.

It's the story of a young man looking for his place, his vocation, his calling and all of the people he met.

Along the way and woven through these stories, one gets a sense of conflicts and choices needing to be made by lots of people, lots of players. Families struggled to understand each other. Political movements and leaders learned about and utilized new tactics to bring about change.

John Lewis, Dorothy Day, Dan and Phil Berrigan are a few of the people you'll meet but there are so many more.

Writing this book has been exciting for me. There are people who needed to be written about and that has been a joy. There are records and stories that needed to be set straight or clarified. I hope it offers something to historians and inquiring minds. Perhaps to people who are faced with their own hard paths and choices.

So, go to Amazon.com, books and search for Choosing the Hard Path: A Personal History and Memoir by Jim Wilson. The book is $16.95 + shipping and handling. Enjoy!

 

Coming Soon - A Book About The 60's, Civil Rights, Vietnam and Family

Well folks, it's almost ready. Choosing the Hard Path, A Personal History and Memoir, by Jim Wilson. Yes, I've been working on this project for a long time, a lifetime I guess. It's near completion and will be available to purchase within the next month. Final proofing, design work and cover art are all taking place now.

Choosing the Hard Path, tells the story of a young man growing up in times influenced by Elvis Presley, the Kennedys, formica counter tops, Vatican ll, Martin Luther King, Jr along with shifting values and economics. Come along for the ride. Learn about growing up in that era and join in as a young man goes off to a Catholic seminary, college and protests.

You'll be surprised by some of the facts and some of the players. In the end though, you'll learn about experiences and choices that kept leading to more choices.

Final details will be posted here so watch for information and notices.

Villains, Villains Everywhere!

Fear can be a terrible thing and one of the reasons is because it easily creates villains and false enemies. We've all seen it happen. It happened in World War ll with reactions toward Japanese and German American citizens. I remember the hatred toward the Vietnamese and other Asians during our war with Vietnam. Witness 9/11 and other events that followed that quickly created fear and hatred of Islam and Muslims, again including American citizens. Most recently the pot of fear has been stirred relative to South American and Mexican immigrants. They're viewed or presented as evil, bad, criminal, needy and poor. That's some of what fear does. It feeds stories, rumors and prejudice. It makes people suspicious and less tolerant of each other.

But now we are seeing something else. Something caused by an invisible virus. It had its origin in China so Asians are, in some cases, seen as responsible and feared. They became the villains. Then, it moved to our shores on both coasts. NYC has become an epicenter and new fears have arisen and are sometimes stoked. First, because of our fear of the virus, Upstate New Yorkers began pulling down the welcome signs, shooing away tourists and second home owners from NYC. They became the villains. Then rumblings began about keeping our hospitals safe from Covid 19 victims who may have crossed a county border. They became the villains. The same people who had offered open arms to immigrants were now questioning how open their boarders should be to fellow citizens in trouble. We've all traveled and we've all expected that if we got ill in one section of the country, we would be able to get medical help. We never wanted to be villains.

I heard a local hospital administrator recently asked by a member of the press if they were planning on any of their beds (there are only 12) being used for people from other areas of the state. Her answer was that no, they had no plans for that eventuality. I was surprised by both the question and the answer. Governor Cuomo has asked all hospitals to look at doubling their capacity. That's because he and other officials are projecting a shortfall of hospital beds. It seems there may come a time during this crisis when hospital space (beds) will have to be managed to serve a regional or state need. The last thing we need to do is point fingers at this person or that person and question their home address as part of the admittance procedure. You get help in an emergency where you can. A person living outside my county boarder should not be the new villain.

No doubt about it, this virus is scary and it is spreading fear as quickly as it moves among us. We're all scared, every one of us. We don't know if we can leave our house. We don't know where the virus is or how long it has been wherever we are isolating ourselves. Can we get it from the grocer, from the mail carrier, from the pharmacy? All good questions that medical professionals are trying to answer. Each creates another level of fear.

Because of fear there's talk about quarantining travel from NYS, New Jersey, and Connecticut. Florida doesn't want travelers from NY. Rhode Island doesn't want travelers from NY. We New Yorkers have become the latest villain. It seems to me that closing our interior boarders will be difficult. We're already having trouble getting people to understand how important it is to stay where they are and isolate themselves. But that's what we have to do. Let's spend a little less time trying to find the bad guys and the villains. Let's concentrate on physical distancing and looking out for each other.

Handicapped Parking Permits - The New Challenge!

So I'm 75 years old and have recently been diagnosed with a serious lung condition (no sympathy needed or wanted, it is what it is). I've been prescribed oxygen therapy and along with all of this I've been designated as permanently disabled which entitles me to a doctor's approval for a Handicapped Parking Permit. I dutifully went to my Town Office, handed them the doctor's signed application and got that new, shiny blue permit to be hung from my rearview mirror when I parked in a designated spot. You know, the ones we all complain about. Apartment building owners and business owners complain to planning boards about having to provide too many. Vans and buses sometimes park in them as well as those people we all think may be cheating the system in some way. You know who I mean. Those folks we see and a little voice in our head says "he sure doesn't look disabled to me" or "boy, she can move pretty quickly when she wants to", etc.

Well not anymore. I've got mine and I'm going to use it proudly and I really don't care if somebody thinks I'm playing the system. You know, the one that's rigged. Actually, I felt a little lilt in my step as I went to my car, got in and placed the permit in my glove compartment. The rules had been gone over with me and it was made very clear that the permit should only be hung once I parked. Sounds fair.

Yes, the permit was like a coming of age (pretty literally) event that needed to be celebrated. I didn't really get a chance right away but within a few days I had to make a trip to the big city where all of the big box stores are and where I've seen and lusted over those nicely protected spots. Of course a trip like that requires a navigator's check list: oxygen tanks on board, check - reusable shopping bags in back seat, check - water bottle, check - parking permit in glove compartment, check. Everything's AOK. Now all I have to do is back out of the garage.

As I approached my first destination I felt a tinge of excitement. Finally, I was going to get to use one of those special places, the parking space with the blue wheelchair symbol and the yellow stripes. No more door dings. Plenty of room to get in and out. My own little nirvana. Here I go!

I must have waited just a bit too long to get that permit. It turns out all the spaces were taken. We've all aged together and our health must not be so great. Around and around I go in the parking lot, looking for one of the coveted spots and hoping if one comes up I won't have to fight for it. I can see the headline now - "Two Elderly Men Arrested for Fight Over Parking Space". Or worse "Man 75 Takes Designated Parking From Woman By Ramming Car".

Finally a space becomes available. Of course its not as close as I thought it would be and I could still get a door ding on passenger door side of the car but at least there was no fight and no headline. I proudly hang my permit. I've arrived. The rest of you better hurry up though. These spaces are going like hot cakes. But plan ahead and build in some time for circling the lot.

Solidarity With Capital Gazette Victims

As an independent writer, self publisher, blogger, etc. I hope everyone really takes some time to think about the importance of a free press and the work that journalists do on a daily basis. Some of the work is mundane. A lot of it is hard and it's guaranteed that most every piece will annoy someone, somewhere. Sadly threats and disrespectful actions are part of what comes with the job.

Intimidation, fear and physical harm happen far too often to journalists around the world. Thankfully, a belief in telling a story usually outweighs all of that. Solidarity with writers, storytellers and journalists everywhere as we grieve the five lives lost in Maryland.

Decluttering Unearths Interesting History and Connections

We all reach a point where decluttering has to be done, for our own sake as well as for those who we will probably leave with boxes and rooms full of "things" to be cleared, refiled or junked. In the process a couple of things are predictable. There are usually items found that you just can't let go of yet. These items get returned to their place in a box or a drawer to wait for another day or another set of less discriminating hands. Perhaps a certain find is deemed most important and is framed or scanned to be shared with others.

In my own case I recently began reviewing years of disorganized filing, historical documents, pictures, writing, etc. The whole process can be exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. It is exciting to find old items and renew memories or begin a whole new chapter of research.

My parents were both products of the depression and therefore were savers of paper documents of every type. When my father passed away in the mid 90's, he left very specific instructions on where things were, what they were, etc. He had three metal containers that would hardly survive a fire or flood, that held all sorts of personal documents of his and my mother. These were things like birth certificates, baptismal certificates, marriage certificates and copies of all. In my mother's case there were letters to offices of vital statistics pointing out errors in various dates on documents that needed correction, the corrected documents and even receipts for charges.

But there are other items that tell little stories about their lives. At the time of their marriage in the 1930's, my father had moved east from Jackson, Michigan. He had a sales job at a manufacturing plant in Newark, NJ but needed some additional money for the marriage. He borrowed $200 from his former employer, a pawn shop in Jackson. He kept the letter from these folks acknowledging his payment of the note a few years later. The letter is neatly folded in an envelope with an index card describing the details of the incident. He was obviously proud and grateful.

And then there's the letter from his employer in Newark, letting him know that he should take his time visiting with his family back in Jackson at the time of his father's heart attack and eventual death. It's a handwritten note from a fountain pen letting him know everything was fine, other than the dictaphone (a bosses trait). But again, this note had great meaning to my father. A related item sits with the note. It's a small notebook that my father used early in his career to design and price the items manufactured by his employer in Newark - cases and shipping containers. Every notation was in pencil - costs, materials needed and freehand designs.

All of these items ended up back in a folder to be shared with some of my father's grandchildren.

As I've continued my poking around (remember the goal is to declutter), I stumbled across some of my own real estate transactions. One was a Deed from a property I had owned in the 80's on North Glenora Rd in Dundee, NY. As I read the history of the property, I noticed that it was originally a part of the Samuel Eastman farm back in the late 1800's. Now here's where history and connections become intwined.

Sam Eastman was the pastor at the Park Church in Elmira, NY, a progressive congregation. He was a friend of and officiated at Samuel Clemen's (Mark Twain) funeral. Sam was the father of Crystal and Max Eastman, both noted radicals, socialists, anti-militarists, and advocates for women's suffrage. Besides living at Glenora, Max and Crystal spent a great deal of their lives in Greenwich Village. Crystal was a co-founder of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and Max was one of the editors of The Masses. He wrote against conscription into the armed forces as well as many leftist and social issues of the time. Here the connections become clearer. One of the young writers at The Masses at that time was a young Dorothy Day who would go on to co-found the Catholic Worker in NYC. Yes, the same Dorothy Day that I ended up working with in the mid-60's, writing, fighting for social justice, opposing the War in Vietnam, selective service and the draft.

When I lived at the property at Glenora, I knew about Max Eastman's family living in the same area. There was talk of the many visitors from Greenwich Village, artists, writers, etc. It wasn't until recently, however, when I found the old Deed that I became aware that the property I owned was originally a parcel of the Eastman farm. Now, one more thing to make a decision about - history and connections.

Welcome 2018 - Hello Table!

My New Year didn't start out great. Its a bit of a long story but may have some lessons so here it is.

Everything started out fine during that week between Christmas and the New Year Holiday. There was a wonderful visit from my oldest son Nathan, his wife Wendy and my granddaughter Dylan. Busy, busy, busy. Energy oozes out of both Nate and his daughter. Conversation and movement, activity and action, its all the same after awhile and its all good. I've gotten to the point in my life where the only response can really be to sit back and enjoy it and I did. They were only here for a short time but it was a great visit.

While they were here we had to rearrange things for eating playing, etc., so we moved an antique 48" round oak table out from the wall to make room for everyone. As the week progressed, the table stayed where it was until maybe Friday night or Saturday morning long after the kids had gone. We decided the table should be moved back so we lifted it on each side and stood holding it as we heard one of the legs drop to the floor. There we stood, holding a heavy three legged oak table. What to do other than to set it down on its side and work it around to lie on its top with three legs in the air. That's how I was able to assess the damage. A wooden bracket that held the dropped leg in place had split in half from years of rocking and wiggling. I knew the brackets and legs were a bit in need of maintenance since whenever we did lift it to move, I would always have to kick a leg or two to straighten them out.

The table came from my mother and father. I got it from my dad probably 30 years ago. It served my family well. It held a goose one Christmas, many dinners and get togethers. It was loaned to a friend for a Thanksgiving dinner and she even had to have a second leaf made to make things work.

So now, there it sat, upside down on the floor between the two doors leading to the outside deck. I decided to dismantle the other three legs instead of having them sticking up in the air for however long it would take me to figure out where to put the table or how to get it repaired. Oh well, a holiday weekend coming up and no-one would be able to be contacted right away. So the obvious answer was to just leave it where it sat.

Next thing I knew it was New Years Eve. I stayed up later then usual and watched the ball drop, crowds cheer, etc. There was also a Super Moon. One of those rare occasions where the moon either is or looks like it is bigger than normal. From my front room I could see towed the lake side of the house that it was in fact huge and bright. I turned off the TV, shut down the front thermostat and headed to the lakeside of the house. Turned out lights behind me and didn't turn any on in the lake room since the moon was shining so brightly. Here it was about a half hour into the New Year. I decided to go to the deck doors and get a good look at that moon before I went to bed.

As I approached the door to the deck I felt something by my foot but it was too late. The next thing I knew I was falling at a good rate of speed. I felt different parts of my body hit uneven surfaces of wood. First my shin, then my knee. Pain in both areas but the worst was yet to come. Smack - my mouth, specifically my front tooth, followed by my nose hit the tin baseboard cover. I knew I was in trouble. Actually I knew I was in trouble before that. I layed on my belly feeling my tooth, feeling my nose and looking at blood in the moonlight.

After a few minutes I rolled off of the now famous antique table on to my back and laid on the floor like an old beached whale, trying to get up but not able, holding my mouth and nose hoping for the best. No phone, no life alert like the lady on TV, just me laying there trying to figure out what's next. I began yelling for my partner, best friend and soon to be nurse. She had gone to bed early and was behind a closed door in what turned out to be a very sound sleep. I found myself yelling - "I'm hurt, I fell, I can't get up". The only words I knew came from that stupid ad on TV and they got louder and louder. Finally, like an angel of sorts, she appeared in the moonlight, assessing me, the situation and what to do next. After getting me on my hands and knees, we figured out how to get my rear end up in a chair where my wounds were looked over. Ice packs and washcloths were applied and used to clean me up.  We got up, moved around, bent knees and went to a mirror. It was time for bed so that's where I ended up, with ice packs on my leg and lip. I slept thinking of that damn table.

The next morning I seemed to have come through it all ok. My tooth and nose are better than the whack on my shin. Nothing's broken except the table and yesterday we got it up on its side and rolled it into the garage, leaning against one wall.

So 2018 didn't start out so good but its like everything else - its a challenge. You take a fall and you get up with a little, or maybe a lot, of help from your friends or a friend. That's what we do. The down side is that now every time I go to a doctor they're going to ask me if I've had any falls recently? You know, one of the standard questions for elderly folks like me. I'm going to have to tell this whole story and try to explain myself and more importantly, place blame on the table. But now I have to go find the furniture doctor.

Two Oaks

12/23/17

Two massive Oaks

Stand and watch

Over Seneca Lake.

Still holding leaves

In late December

Brown and brittle.

One leaf dances

In the wind as

Others remain quiet. 

Beautiful Oaks

Guarding the lake

In mist and snow

And waiting.

A Day At Union Square

A Day At Union Square

52 years ago, five men burned paper at Union Square.

Friends supported them while others screamed and swore.

An old man, a preacher, preached and blessed the flames.

An old woman said she was old but believed in the young opposing a war.

52 years ago, lives changed at Union Square.

Some began and some began to end.

Many lives, already there and a few yet to come were impacted.

It was an attempt, a grasp for peace.

52 years ago families were divided by Union Square.

Suffering and rage continued for years to come.

But time and age helped with healing along the way.

New life, new relationships and new times began.

52 years ago today at Union Square actions became words.

Are we better off? Perhaps, perhaps not, but we are here.

We are here, listening for other words, watching Ken Burns Vietnam.

We are here, waiting for other actions and hoping for peace.

11-6-17

Buddy's Story

This is a follow up to my last story on my Brittany, Buddy. I had to take Bud to the vet this morning and have him euthanized. Not easy and certainly not fun. Last night we almost lost Buddy to his breathing disorder. He had been out walking, laid down at a certain point and just couldn't get his breath as his larynx closed up on him. Anyway after that last experience, I knew we had to let him go. We spent good time together beforehand and had plenty of time to say goodbye.

But here's some of Buddy's story. I got him 10 years ago from a nearby shelter. I had recently lost another dog and my brother was up visiting from New Jersey. He convinced me we should spend part of a day going to few shelters and just taking a look at some dogs. Off we went. We saw and met all types and breeds of dogs. Some were great looking but didn't have the best personality. Then we found Buddy. His shelter name was Dingle. He was beautiful as you can see from his picture. On the top of his head was a little tuft of reddish hair that always grew longer than the rest of his head hair. He was a bit dirty and stinky from his three month kennel stay.

The folks at the shelter gave me the most history they had. Supposedly he had run away from somewhere, was picked up and was a hard sell kind of adoption. They estimated his age at between 5 and 6 which I think was an over estimate. Part of the reason Buddy was a hard sell was because of his behavior. He had been beaten badly by his previous owner. There were deep scars on his head. As a result, he cowered and feared human contact, especially from men. When he came out to meet me, he sat at my feet shaking and peed and peed and peed. In his cage he played with his feces. I left the shelter thinking no, this wouldn't work.

My brother went back to Jersey a few days later and I returned to the shelter, spent some time with Buddy and made the arrangements to adopt him. Since I was over 60 and he was over five, I got a special senior to senior discount and we were on our way. I wanted to make sure he peed before we got in the car. All set, we loaded up. Buddy was put in the front seat and we began our journey home about 45 minutes away. Soon after I got on the highway, Buddy got down on the floor by the front seat, curled up in a ball and shook all the way home. Somehow though I think way down deep, Buddy knew things were different and that everything was going to be ok. He loved rides from that day forward and I'd always laugh thinking of that first scary ride for both of us.

When we got home, I left Buddy in the garage which he promptly used like his cage at the shelter. He relieved himself and played with the results. Buddy still had to meet Samantha, Sam for short. Sam was an older Beagle that had lived with us for awhile. She had her Beagle quirks and would be the alpha dog in her and Buddy's relationship. They met, he liked her and she tolerated him, to a point.

But it was Buddy and me who's relationship grew. I took him everywhere to help to socialize him from his downright fear of people. People would look at him or walk past him and he'd lean against my leg, shaking and looking anxious and sometimes wetting himself and my shoe. Over time he lost his fear of people and was one of the sweetest and friendliest dogs I've ever known.

Buddy would always sleep with me but interestingly when we had guests, if it was ok, he would always sleep in bed with them. It was almost like a welcome gesture and a reaching out for another friend.

So that was our journey together. We lost Sam along the way but had great times, walking, rolling in the grass and Bud doing actual somersaults on his long leash and then running and body slamming me. He was a true Brittany, loved to run in circles all day long. That's Buddy's story, a guy who was beaten up badly but who found a good home in the end. His last truly funny act was the Pound Cake and the berries (see previous post) which he seemed to enjoy immensely. The best thing is, he knew he could get away with it.

Pound Cake, Strawberries & Blueberries

I've been craving a piece of pound cake topped with some strawberries or blueberries. The season is right and we all deserve a little something special every once in awhile. So yesterday I ventured out. I went to my favorite little farm stand knowing that they would at least have some of the ingredients.

Along for the ride came Buddy, my Brittany who's struggling with a serious health issue that I'll explain. Buddy and I had an awful time last week. Buddy has a condition that basically is an intermittent paralysis of the larynx. It happens if he gets overly excited or if there is pressure on his throat. He can't control his breathing if his larynx closes and he loses oxygen and can collapse. When it happens I calm him and try to talk him through the incident. Our Vet is aware and we've gone over all of the alternatives. Buddy is 14 but in pretty good health with the exception of this condition.

I took him to the groomer last week and he had one of these incidents while being bathed. They took him to a close by animal hospital and called me with the news. When I got there Buddy had been sedated and put on oxygen. Tests were run to make sure his lungs were free of liquid and that his heart was ok. We got out of there 3 or 4 hours later and I spent most of last week and the weekend trying to make a decision about putting Buddy down - decided for it, against it and so on. By Monday I had decided we would hold off at least for now and continue to get the most out of life as long as we could minimize these incidents.

That brings us to the trip to the farm stand. I decided Buddy would come along for the ride because he loves being in the car. So there we were looking at all of the fresh fruit, vegetables and baked goods. I spotted a beautiful homemade Pound Cake on the table. I grabbed it along with a quart of strawberries, a pint of blueberries and a nice yellow melon. Everything got bagged up except for the melon which I always choose to have roll around freely in the car.

I had to make a quick stop at the pharmacy so I made sure the bag was wrapped and tucked. Cracked the windows for Buddy, ran in, picked up what I needed and came back out, in what I thought was record time. Too late though for a Brittany with a bottomless stomach. There was Buddy still into his work. The Pound Cake was completely gone, bag and wrapper destroyed in the process. Strawberries and blueberries were out of containers, poked by a nose, half eaten and spread out on the floor and in the back seat. The only survivor was the melon. Buddy had no shame. No cowering or guilty look and no problem breathing. His paws were a mix of red and purple juice as was my back seat upholstery.

I did my best at disciplining Buddy, ordering him to the front seat before realizing that his paws were soaked in red and purple. Too late! Sped home, worried about the berry effect on a Brittany's digestive system and trying to think about the cleanup project ahead of me.

Buddy enjoyed a nice afternoon nap, but as the evening wore on and went into the night, a stomach ache seemed pretty evident. At 3 in the morning we were both up, Buddy looking for water and the nearest exit and me searching for a flashlight. We survived the Pound Cake, all of its butter, the strawberries and blueberries in more ways than one. Buddy is well, looking forward to his next ride in the car that smells like a fruit scented cleaning product.

The Fourth Estate, Accountability & Politics

The media, the press, pundits, etc. have all taken hits lately and much of it is deserved. The reality is though, that journalism is not only a noble profession but also one that all societies need for the sake of accountability and in the search for truth. We can certainly argue about who presents the truth as we know it or perhaps how we may want to know it, but someone has to put their fingers to the keys or voice to the microphone. We as readers, listeners and consumers also have a great deal of responsibility in this exercise. Sadly there are many who would like all of this to be much easier then it is, this consumption of ideas and this search for truth. It's not and it won't ever be.

Journalists are far from perfect. They're like most of us. They see and hear facts through their own lenses. No matter how hard they try, they have personal biases. All of this has gotten more complicated in the past few months. Many are learning that there really is personal responsibility in our search for the truth.

 So called 'fake news' has been around forever. Disinformation has been a tactic and method of people in power. Taking people through dark tunnels, winding ways and down holes have been ways to confuse and redirect. Policies and actions become sanitized, justified and promoted. Sometimes it's not that significant and perhaps harmless. Other times it justifies war, war crimes and serious criminal activity. Journalists try to help us navigate all of this. Sometimes they are successful and other times they may be complicit in the misinformation. But in general I believe journalists understand their role in keeping both the public informed and people in power accountable. They have to navigate the blockades and confusion for us.

After yesterday's so called press conference with President-Elect Donald Trump all of this becomes more important and more clear. I say so called because the event was really a mix of a rally and a press conference. Trump brought his supporters to the event to applaud and approve his pronouncements. Of course that's his right but it does change the advertised event of a press conference. The shouting match and authoritarian encounter with the reporter from CNN made for great TV for the 45% of the people who supported Trump in the recent election. Many of these folks hate the media because........they're easy to blame for just about everything. But it was a raw show of autocratic behavior that could be very dangerous if it continues and there is little indication that it won't.

I think most of the other journalists present were caught off guard so in the heat of the competitive nature of their business they just continued to shout out for recognition or their questions. I would hope this isn't their response in the future. Journalists really need to pull together when this kind of behavior is exposed by Trump or anyone else. They should call him out and stand with their colleague who is trying to do his or her job. If unchecked, the next move will be to throw journalists out of news conferences, uninvited the troublemakers or belittle them in other ways. It is a form of intimidation that is already occurring with businesses, Congress and government agencies.

A free press is an awesome thing that needs to be protected vehemently. Yes, sometimes, some of them get it wrong and sometimes we don't like to hear what they have to say. The reality is though that they're doing important work that many of us don't have time for.  I'd rather have the diversity of their opinions then one, controlled story.

Journalism, The Good, The Bad & Truth Tellers!

Journalism has changed dramatically in the past number of years. The recent election cycle has pointed that out perhaps more then we expected. Imagine, one of the biggest news stories of the day is 'fake news'. That's right, people, sometimes organizations, posting fake or made up news stories. Google and Facebook are trying to figure out how to monitor or cope with this growing phenomena. Good luck.

This is one of the dilemma's we're faced with in this changing world. The reality is that newspapers are shrinking, dying, disappearing. They may continue in one form or another but they'll never be the same. Cable News presents us with the 24/7 problem. Too many hours to fill and not enough time to really check sources if you're going to stay in front of the competition.

So what happens to us, the consumers of the news. As has become more and more apparent, we are the losers, again. We become the manipulated masses, by someone, perhaps someone new everyday - Breitbart, another country, a prankster, a corporate monster, a hacker, the Main Stream Media (less likely at this point). We want to know what's going on, or what the trends are, or who is doing what. It use to be so easy. Plunk down your change, pick up the paper or journal and read. Even as we became more comfortable with the internet, it was fairly easy. Googling it, bookmarks and electronic subscriptions got us the information faster and we still trusted it.

But now in the information world and the news world it's no different than anywhere else - buyer beware.

Oh and before I forget, then there are people like me, bloggers. Yes bloggers take the heat from everyone. They are the form of journalism that everyone can hate. They are a mixed up group -independent writers, some journalists, some opinion writers, some storytellers and some just troublemakers. Honestly blogs are one of the places where former newspaper and TV and Radio newspeople will end up as the media continues to shrink, evolve or whatever it is that it's doing. Some of these people you'll know and some you won't. Trust will need to be built.

None of this bodes well for us as the public with a need and a right to know. What we've seen most recently, is that candidates and their surrogates no matter who they are or what their ideology, can if unchecked, tell whatever lies they want. They can issue stories, fact checks and the like on their own for us to read and consume. They can create news websites, blogs, electronic magazines, reports or digital video shows.

There are still truth tellers, real journalists and opinion writers who get their facts straight and check their sources. But we're losing them fast like we did Gwen Ifill, a true journalist. We still have Bill Moyers, Amy Goodman and others trying to keep things honest everyday. And there are people, good people in hometown weeklies, magazines and the few remaining giants of daily newspapers. These are folks who are trying as hard as they can to fight what's happening to the media and to provide all of us with the correct information. Sadly, in many cases, we beat them up, egged on by the people who would rather control the information their way.

Clearly I am not optimistic about where this is all going. But I do know this. Truth telling is critical. Truth telling is driven by a value for the truth and for a belief in independence from manipulation. More and more we need to find and identify the truth tellers and support them, encourage them, protect them.

My Fickle Muse

A muse is a mythological entity who helps makes things happen. Traditionally, a muse helps to inspire writers of all sorts - authors, poets, song and music writers. The muse comes and goes, darting around the mind and environment of the creative spirit. My muse seems to come and go more frequently lately - a fickle muse, one who perhaps travels to other venus.

I have a dear old friend, Jack Cook. Jack is a wonderful writer of stories, experiences, history and poetry. He has written books and columns and knows his craft well. Jack and I sometimes ponder and bemoan the disappearance of our inspiration to write, our muse, or muses (perhaps mice) as it were. We complain and sympathise with each other. We become depressed sometimes and even curse the disappearance of the muse.

Now it should be noted that my problem is much bigger than Jack's. He may pause every once in awhile, taking a rest, but his prose and poetry are certainly still there, along with his wealth of experiences. He has been a teacher, a carpenter, a prisoner, an organizer, a father, a barkeep, a keeper of the revolutionary spirit and so much more. Every once in awhile he just needs a break or has to dig a little deeper, or get a jump start of sorts. That's what I tell him anyway.

But the fickle muse does elude us every so often. She/he/it leaves us or just flits around in our heads. There are topics galore. Some are part of stories or beliefs that need to be told. Their telling is, in many ways, imperative. But the muse dances away, sometimes at the most crucial moment. Other stories are bigger, longer term projects that require time and research and thinking. Then there's the music, song, and art, all waiting to be strummed, sung, put to paper or clay and shared with others. Perhaps its all too confusing for my particular muse. Maybe they specialize and mine is just overwhelmed.

Most creative people experience this flight of inspiration. Some shrug it off. Others suffer through it impatiently. Many times there's a bottle of good bourbon or scotch sitting nearby. Something that allows us to wait and ponder as the muse wanders somewhere.

Recently some friends have encouraged me to write more or perhaps write in a more focused way (read book here). I resist. Partly because I think I understand the work involved and the enormity of such a project. But there is a temptation. My fear is the fickle muse and the bottles of bourbon needed to ponder and wait. Having said that, there are stories that should be told. Histories to be recorded and lessons learned. If only I had a more regular muse. We could get some things done.

Not Going Along With What Everyone Else Believes

First things first. There's nothing wrong in going along with a majority point of view. But it's also ok and sometimes extremely important to go the other way and take a minority position.

Over the years I've certainly done both - gone along with the crowd and when necessary gone in a different direction - sometimes far, far off course from what everyone else was thinking and saying. It has been a curse and a blessing. Marching to a different drummer isn't always fun, yet at times it's invigorating and cleanses the soul.

The real problem comes when we do go along with a view that we know is wrong. It could be a moral, ethical or political position. We've all done it I think. It has to do with lots of things - getting along, not wanting to rock the boat, hoping to get ahead in a career, etc. It happens in the workplace, in neighborhoods, in churches and clubs. There are pressures we all face that determine our actions in certain instances.

I remember times in my youth when I stood by as someone was ridiculed, made fun of or bullied. There are times I remember when I acquiesced to racist comments. I'm certainly not proud of those times. On the other hand, all of those experiences have helped me evolve and become a person who tries to speak up more honestly when confronted by questionable actions or voices. I'm certainly not always right but I try to be thoughtful about issues and statements made by other people. When I think about the people I admire, something stands out. They all have that one thing in common - not going along with what everyone else believes. But there's something else. They're not or weren't grandstanders either. They made their point and took the consequences relative to social status, moving forward or treatment by others. Sometimes they even changed people's minds on important issues.

Redesigning Healthcare In NYS - Unintended Consequences

I recently realized that healthcare for pets is easier to access in NYS then healthcare for people. For some reason I was surprised. Back in July I was informed that my primary care physician was retiring. He deserves it so good for him. I was provided with a list of physicians within his system of care and he made a recommendation or two. Before I left his office, an appointment was made for January with one of the providers he recommended. So far, so good. But I have a number of health issues where things can come up. I did have some symptoms that needed some follow up in August. Naturally in my mind, I thought I could just call the new provider, get an appointment and go from there. No such luck and that's when I realized things weren't going to go well.

It turns out the new provider wasn't prepared for new referrals coming into his office even though a January appointment was already made/accepted. I called numerous times and couldn't get calls returned. When I finally was able to speak to a human, I got the distinct impression that the new guy was upset about the new referrals.

Next steps - after realizing I was on my own, I began shopping around. Should I stay in the same system or move on? This requires thinking through health records, distance, insurance coverage, etc. It also requires trying to find out how good a provider and their system is - a chore in itself. I began talking to other friends and acquaintances. Results were all over the place.

After three months, I've finally got an appointment for early November with a provider I've chosen but still don't really know. We'll see how that goes. I hope well.

The reason I've gone into detail on this is because NYS is involved in a major redesign of healthcare for the medicaid population. This is happening across the nation but New York is undertaking its largest effort yet to transform the state's Medicaid health care delivery and payment system through the Delivery System Reform Incentive Payment (DSRIP) program.

New York is one of six states that has a program designed to move its delivery system from a place that’s fragmented and overly focused on inpatient care in hospitals toward an integrated system that proactively focuses on patients and the community. Organizations and agencies are working together to address the same goals and to care for the same patients.

Sounds easy. It's been talked about for years but now, how people and health systems will be paid is tied to the reforms and redesign so hospital administrators and providers are taking it very seriously. Remember though, this is for Medicaid health care delivery. What about everyone else?

Having gone through what I have recently, here's my read. NYS has over reached again and I'm not sure if they even realize the impact of this.They've forced this down to the provider level. Hospital administrators, project managers and providers as well as community agencies are spending much of their time redesigning a massive system for the Medicaid population. All of their resources are going into this effort and few, if any, are home watching the store or how the rest of the system is operating. Medicare and private pay patients are being impacted by the redesign without any real thought as to why or how this is happening.

While I wait for my appointment, I'm told to use urgent care or the emergency room if anything comes up. These are the more expensive options that are part of the target of the redesign effort for the Medicaid population. Interesting.

So back to animal healthcare. Turns out I can call the vet and get an appointment for my dog with ease (within 48-72 hours), even though my regular vet is out on paternity leave. I think we all hope for positive results from NYS's latest effort at Medicaid redesign but there are unintended consequences that need to be watched and acted on.

Memories of A Summer Vacation Long Ago

This piece was inspired by a friend who recently contacted me about some health challenges he's having. For whatever reason his news and contact stirred up memories of a vacation long ago. Perhaps its related to thoughts of my own mortality but it is funny how memories appear and sometimes disappear. File cabinets in our brains hold so much information, sorted and resorted to be reviewed every now and again.

My story starts with an explanation or two. My family, like most, has some, shall we say oddities here and there. They appear in our lineage and we have passed them down through the generations. My father had his set of oddities that revolved around family, success, and new gadgets. He had to get his hands on newly marketed items from cars to cameras to high fidelity radios. He had to be the first in his neighborhood, his circles or his family to have these things. He was a salesman and marketer at heart so it was easy for him to be sold too. In addition, he came through and from the depression and made a success of himself.

It was probably the late forties or early fifties when our entire family - four kids and mom and dad, took a trip out west by car. We would travel to Utah, Arizona, Colorado, Oklahoma and God knows where else. As I remember, we had a new station wagon that made my father very proud. The back seat folded up and down and allowed us kids to sit looking out the back window seeing where we'd been rather than where we were going.

Somewhere along the way, my father realized there was a flaw in the plan for this trip. The heat in the west was brutal in the summer months. Even with windows rolled down nothing but warm, no hot, air blew through the car. My mother was cranky and hot, four kids were cranky and hot and my father was trying to keep everything in order but he was hot too.

My father made a great discovery in some hot and dusty place. Cars were obviously without what we know of as air conditioning today but there was a solution that had just come on the market - car air coolers - specifically, the Thermidor Swamp Cooler. The theory was simple. The cooler hung on the outside of the passenger window. It was filled with water. A fan in the front of the unit was turned by the air flow as the car moved, cooling and evaporating water that created a cool flow of moist air through louvers coming into the passenger window. Voila! Cool air floating through the car making everyone happy. Here is a picture of an actual Swamp Cooler lest you think I jest.

There it is in all of its glory - the Swamp Cooler - ready to do its job, taking the crankiness out of everyone. A few minor details: the cooler needed a somewhat consistent supply of water and the person sitting in the passenger seat (mother) may be a bit inconvenienced by the lack of a view while touring the wonderful landscape of the country. In addition, there would be a constant flow of moist air on the passenger's neck along with a constant whir that joined the rattle of the cooler on the window. The water problem was solved by the salesman adding four good sized water bags to the transaction. The others traveled with us on our tour of the western United States.

My father convinced my mother to give it a try. She could control the air flow with a string attached to the louvers and at least the kids would quiet down. He promised to stop at various sites so she could get out and see the beauty of the west. That would help us kids too since we were just seeing highway we had just traveled over from the back seat.

So we traveled through the Painted Dessert, the Petrified Forest and stopped at the Grand Canyon. Filling our water bags at every stop. We stopped at Rodeos and at roadside stands set up by Native Americans selling pottery and jewelry to us and other tourists. We yelled and screamed about the noise the cooler was making and that the salesman was "a no good lier because it was still hot".

At some point we noticed that my mother wasn't talking to my father anymore. Her head was being held up by her left hand and she was staring straight ahead into the dusty road ahead. There are a few pictures of that trip but oddly none of us. My father focused on the horses, steers and buffalo at the rodeos. No pictures of us all standing next to the wagon with the cooler on the side. No pictures of everyone hauling water for the cooler. No pictures of a smiling mother and four lovely children on the rim of the Grand Canyon.

In the end it all worked out but we never took a long trip like that again and nobody knows what happened to the Thermidor Swamp Cooler.

Memories - they're great things and can bring a smile to your face as they all get refiled and sorted out.

Writing Is Hard Work

I've taken a break from posting items here for a bit but it's not because I've stopped writing. I've just changed my focus a bit, attempting to work on some other writing projects including some short stories and fiction. What I've learned, among other things, is that writing can be very hard work - from the beginning of an idea, to research, to the development of characters, to the composition of text. And yes, it's all work. I don't think it matters if it's poetry, prose, fiction, non-fiction or news reporting. It all takes effort and research. So it goes and it has taken me away from posting here as well as other things.

Reading on the other hand is a real joy. It's easy and fun. We tend to do it almost without thinking - from billboards to novels with lots of other options in between. Few of us however spend very much time thinking about the effort that goes into the writing.  Putting pen to paper, or in reality in today's world, keystrokes to screens, can be a daunting task. There are interruptions, other things that need to get done and the formation of concepts, ideas and characters. It is so much easier to just read what others have created or said. But of course for the writer, that takes the fun out of it.

Hibernating In The Finger Lakes of NYS

Like so many others, that's what I've been spending the last few weeks doing - hibernating, trying as hard as possible to stay out of the cold, trying to stay warm. Tonight there are wind chill advisories of -25 to -30 degrees again and the driveway has won the battle of clearing, blocking, blocking, clearing, etc. The wind from last night did me in and drifting snow plus brutal temperatures forced me to just say the hell with it. I did venture out today and the all wheel drive had no problem so I'll just follow tracks in the drive for awhile.

It has been one heck of a winter here in the Finger Lakes, throughout the northeast and many other spots around the country. Many of us have experienced some seasonal depression. I know this from conversations with others. There have been times that I've thought how great it would be to have a nice cozy place to sit and read a good book or two during the winter months but this winter hasn't been the time I guess. Maybe it's too cold to read or perhaps it's just too hard to focus. For whatever reason, I haven't been able to do it.

I've finally realized after weeks of listening to weather reports that the weather people are a good part of the problem. They love to report over and over how cold it is, how cold it was and how cold it's going to be. They can make two days of sustained cold weather feel like a week very quickly and they seem to enjoy it.  Add to that their safety precautions, pleas to check on neighbors, closings, wind chill reports and predictions for more snow and 48 hours seems endless. On top of that we have a Governor who has taken on the responsibilities of local officials announcing no travel and road closures. It's enough to drive you really crazy.

So I've been spending most of my time at home. My day consists of some fairly long conversations with my deaf and blind Beagle. I do all of the talking as we bump into each other in a narrow hallway. My other dog, a shelter adopted Brittany, likes to romp in the snow until ice balls form between his toes and then he limps to the door with me, happy but done with the damn snow. When he comes in he loves to sit and stare at the fire in the fireplace and I stare at him enjoying his comfort.

So hibernating it is. I just can't find the energy or the wherewithal to get much of anything done. I'm doing some planning for my trip to Selma, Al to remember and celebrate 50 years since the bridge crossing. I'm thinking about painting the basement - even got the paint. Baking bread and scones would be good therapy I guess, but....But I'm going to hibernate for a few more days. Remember there's a wind chill advisory, check on your neighbors, watch the ice. Peace!