A Political Opinion

I am very reluctant to write a political opinion for this blog. My thinking is that political opinions are just a little too controversial for it. I do not want to ruffle feathers. Then I stopped and realized that no one reads this blog so why not just write anything I want. So what follows is a political opinion.

I actually believe that I am a good person to write about America's current political landscape. I'm a good person to do this because I am non partisan; a real rarity. I have no allegiance to any candidate or any political party. However I'm not a great person to write a political opinion because I am not immersed in the political scene. I have some degree of knowledge, but I am not all-knowing.

Anyway, we are a little more than fourteen months from electing a new American president. One of the candidates is tycoon businessman Donald Trump. I find his candidacy curious, curious enough to be the subject of this blog entry. Right now, if the election were this afternoon, he would lose to Hillary Clinton by a relatively small margin. He would defeat all the other Republican candidates. His early success seems to come from making statements that make a lot of traditional Americans nod their heads in agreement. He speaks of curbing illegal immigration (with a wall along the Mexican border), reducing the national debt, a better national health care system, and many more improvements. He claims that the national government is "broken".

So far I have not heard much in the way of specific plans or strategies to combat these problems. Trump has proclaimed that Mexico will pay for the construction of the wall along the Mexican border. I heard him say that myself in an interview. He says that if Mexico doesn't fund it voluntarily, they will be tariffed into paying for it. The notion made me chuckle but I am not all-knowing so maybe it could work. Still, it made me chuckle, which is not a good sign.

Donald stated that he would repeal Obamacare and "replace it with something better". I am at best lukewarm on Obamacare. If I wanted to be elected president, I would probably say something like "I will repeal Obamacare and replace it with something better". I would add the last six words as a vague disclaimer because as unpopular as Obamacare may be, I would not have anything better to offer. I have this feeling that Trump has the same problem.

I once saw a candidate who reminded me a lot of Donald Trump. His name was Ross Perot and for a time he was a leading candidate for the U.S. Presidency. That was 1992. Then his popularity began to wane, he got cold feet, and abruptly dropped out of the race. But maybe Trump will be different. Maybe he'll stay in it to the end. Heck, maybe he'll be our next president. I doubt it, but maybe. If we do have a President Trump in 2016, I hope he not only knows what needs fixing, but also knows exactly how to make the repairs. So far I've heard only of what needs fixing. That's not enough to get my vote. If it were, I'd vote for myself.



  

My Favorite Days

I recently asked myself the question; what were my favorite days of my life? Before such a question can be answered, if it can be answered at all, there are some things that need clarification. For the sake of simplicity I am going to proclaim my "favorite days" as being the days I enjoyed the most rather than, say, days I might deem important. So, out of the running would be the day of my birth, for example. Also, one of the ingredients to be excluded is sex. Okay, there is my criteria.

After giving the question several hours of thought and reflection, I'm going to select two days.

July 4th 1963. The morning of that 4th of July the 12 year-old kid I once was laced on his Red Ball Jets and bicycled down to the local city park where there were games of physical skill where success was worth a silver dollar. One of the games consisted of throwing a baseball into a six inch pipe from about twenty feet. Over the course of an hour I lost my amateur athletic status, replacing it with three shiny silver dollars.

That afternoon some neighborhood pals and I blew up several plastic model cars with firecrackers, our voices deftly mimicking the cries of pain and terror from the imagined, ill-fated occupants. That was followed a few hours later by a dinner of hamburgers cooked out on a charcoal grill, with corn on the cob also on the plate. There was a big glass of pink lemonade to wash it all down. The day was capped by the front row viewing of the evening's fireworks display.

An hour or so later I wearily climbed into bed with several mosquito bites speckling my arms and legs, three silver dollars sitting on my dresser, and a grin stretched across my face. What a day.

August 18, 1987. A lifelong Ohioan, it was my fourth day ever in the state of California, the first three days encompassing the previous 72 hours. It was my first few days west of the Mississippi since a family vacation 25 years earlier. My girlfriend, Diana, who was to become my lifelong partner, and I were staying in the tiny town of Lee Vining, California, twenty miles east of Yosemite National Park. On the morning of August 18th, with the forecast calling for clear skies, we decided to drive up the long, winding, uphill highway to the eastern edge of Yosemite where we would hike the Tioga Pass Trail.

A view from the old mining cabin with the lakes
 below and the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the distance

At about noon we reached the parking lot just inside the boundary line of the park. We strapped on the small backpacks containing our water, lunches, and a small camp stove, and then started up the trail. The temperature was a wonderfully crisp 60, and the deep blue sky did not own a cloud. The trail began at 10,000 feet elevation and for the first few hundred feet it cruelly went up, but once we passed over the ridge, the alpine terrain leveled out. Before us sparkled two small, crystal lakes, and stunning greenish-brown meadows edged by the the rocky faces of Sierra cliffs. We had it all to ourselves, there wasn't a soul in sight.

We hiked alongside the lakes for a mile or so until we reached the remnants of an old mining cabin which needed photographing. We then meandered up to a snowy glacier to make an August snowball. About a half hour on down the trail we stopped for lunch at an overlook where we could gaze down onto the lakes. I cooked us some soup and tea and we sat back and relaxed in the utter quiet, the sunshine supplying a marvelously soothing warmth.

That evening, back in Lee Vining, Diana and I shared a pepperoni pizza and a carafe of wine on the veranda of our motel room as we watched the sun slowly slide below the horizon.

In the years to follow, Diana and I have returned to the Tioga Pass Trail on a handful of occasions, attempting to recreate that first hike best we could. It will always be a great place to hike, but there was something kind of magical about that day of August 18, 1987.  

A Heart For Gardening (By guest blogger Shannon Hayes)

Shannon Hayes

When I was a little girl I wanted to be a doctor. I liked gardening and nurturing flowers and vegetables, but more than anything I wanted to be a doctor. I think it was about my junior year in high school that I decided to work towards becoming a cardiologist. I'm not sure why I chose that specific field, but I did.

I always received good grades in school. I have been rightfully accused of being a nerd. When I graduated high school, I had my choice of universities to attend. I chose the University of Michigan, at least partially because the school has prestige, and I was offered a sizable academic scholarship.

I went through undergrad and pre-med without much trouble. I am not saying everything was easy, but there was never any doubt that I would make the grade. When I went into the cardiology program, I was an intern with Dr. Michael Lane; a highly respected cardiologist at the Ann Arbor Heart Clinic. One day we were examining patients, one of whom was a man in his early 50s who had a history of rather mild heart disease, specifically, partial blockage in a main heart artery. He was being examined because of recent chest pain. His name was John Kelton.

When Dr. Lane and I stepped into the examination room #4 where Mr. Kelton was waiting, I was struck by how youthful and physically fit he looked. I was an intern but I had already learned that the majority of cardiac patients were not exactly pictures of health. Anyway, Dr. Lane and I examined John... Mr. Kelton. We listened to his heart sounds and evaluated his recent diagnostic tests. He had undergone a stress test only a few months earlier and everything was normal. Because of the chest pain, there had been a blood test checking John's blood enzymes for anything that might be indicative of a heart attack. Everything looked normal.

John had a great sense of humor. When I placed my stethoscope to his chest to listen to his heart, I inadvertently set it on a shirt pocket holding two movie ticket stubs. John removed the stubs, gave them a quick glance, then jokingly said, "Leatherheads; great cast, terrible movie." He then flipped the ticket stubs up on a countertop.

When Dr. Lane could not hear John's a mild heart murmur through is stethoscope, Dr. Lane shrugged and said, "I guess my ears aren't what they used to be. I can't hear the heart murmur, but then, I can't hear half of what my wife says."

John made Dr. Lane and I laugh when he humorously replied, "Doc, that problem hearing your wife may not be due to your ears."

When we were done with the examination, John thanked Dr. Lane for his time, and then he turned to me and wished me good luck in my career choice. He said that I was sure to make for a fine heart doctor. Like many nerds, I do not befriend people quickly, or easily, but I liked John. He was a soft-spoken, personable man. I warmed up to him immediately.

The next morning I was scheduled to be with Dr. Lane again. I was looking at what was on the day's schedule when I heard from one of the nurses that John and died the night before. The nurse said that she had heard that Mr. Kelton had died in his sleep overnight and though there was not yet a confirmed cause of death, it appeared to be cardiac arrest.

For a moment I was in shock. This man, seemingly healthy one day, was dead the next day. It just seemed surreal. Had Dr. Lane and I missed something during the exam? If we had, I did not know what it could have been. Then I started thinking about not John Kelton the patient, but John Kelton the nice man I had come to briefly know, a nice man forever gone. The thought filled me with anguish.

Still, I thought I was going to get through the morning and my emotional trauma. Then Dr. Lane and I stepped into examination room #4 to visit a patient. There on that countertop were the ticket stubs that had been in John's pocket the day before. It was just too much and I lost it. Right in front of both Dr. Lane and the patient, my breathing went haywire and my hands started to tremble. I quickly excused myself and dashed into the women's restroom where I broke down and cried.

That was six years ago. I'm now about to go to Wahler Florist. I work there in their greenhouse as the horticulturalist. It is where I belong. The most beautiful roses in Michigan can be purchased at Wahler's, at least I think they are the most beautiful. I also grow cucumbers, bell peppers, and different varieties of tomatoes which I sell at a farm market. I have developed this very delectable tomato that I am quite proud of. I call it the Kelton Tomato. It has a pleasant, sweet flavor that's hard not to like.            



    

 

A Visit To Lake Hope

Today I drove the hour and a half to Lake Hope State Park. It is a small lake within a state forest nestled in the hills of southern Ohio not far from the tiny town of MacArthur. Over the last ten years or so I have visited Lake Hope about every other summer. When I was between the ages of 10 to about 15, our family drove from Columbus the 80 miles to Lake Hope perhaps three or four times. The lake now holds sentimental value for me. In fact, I have paid a call on Lake Hope more times out of pure nostalgia than I did as a kid sitting in the family station wagon. That doesn't seem quite rational but I guess there is nothing wrong with it.

Back in the early to mid 60s when our family would go to Lake Hope, my three sisters and I would play around in the water and do silly jumps off of the two diving boards located at the end of a wooden pier that extended about hundred feet out into the lake. Usually sometime during the afternoon we would meander to the snack bar and get hamburgers, potato chips, and a Coke. Once my dad and I rented a row boat and some fishing gear. We ventured out onto the lake for some fishing. I remember catching a little blue gill.

The snack bar

I'm not sure why I am so sentimental for Lake Hope, but I have my theories. During that period of my childhood I was not a kid who enjoyed sitting still. Consequently, I would occasionally get into trouble, almost always for minor kids' stuff like ripping a pair of pants or perhaps just getting dirty. This was true especially in the summer. The other three-fourths of the year I was in school, where I was pretty much an abject failure. A trip to Lake Hope meant that I would not have to worry about wear-and-tear on my pants, or altercations with dirt, or bad grades in school. Giving it a little thought, it is no wonder I reflect fondly on Lake Hope.

Unfortunately Lake Hope, specifically the beach/swimming area, is not exactly as it once was those fifty years ago. There are no longer diving boards at the end of a wooden pier. There is no longer a pier. And I don't think there is any spot in the confined swimming area that is deep enough to do any actual swimming. But the boat house is still there, and the little snack bar remains there too, although the best a patron can do is the purchase a lukewarm hotdog. But through all the years and all the changes, the laughter of kids can still be heard, and that's a wonderful thing. I know it's wonderful; I once helped provide it.



 

Sporting Entertainment; Jim Style

To one degree or another I have been interested in sports my whole life. When I was playing Little League baseball or playing backyard wiffleball, I would pretend I was Mickey Mantle. All through childhood, and even into early adulthood I would dream of playing one of the "big three" professional sports, the big three being baseball, basketball, and football. Up until I was about 14, I actually had some hope I could make the grade. Reality, that is; the limits of my athletic talent, did not hit me all at once. I gradually figured it out simply by the observation of bigger, faster, stronger kids.

My enthusiasm as a sports fan peaked fairly early. I was a big Washington Redskin fan when I was about 18 or so. That was about as fervent as I ever got for one sports team. That did not last long. By the time I was in my mid 20s I did not know who was on the Redskin's roster. I was a Cleveland Indians fan when I was in my early 20s but my interest in that team never matched what I had felt for the Redskins. It is pure coincidence that the mascots and logos of both teams denigrate the American Indian. Hopefully that denigration will someday be rectified.

For some unknown reason I then went decades relatively indifferent to professional sports. I would watch sports, but passively. As a Columbus, Ohio resident, a bit of spirit was reborn with the debut of the Blue Jackets NHL hockey team. I never played hockey and can barely skate, but I have been a mid-level hockey fan since my teenage years when an NHL game was broadcast on TV every Saturday throughout the winter.

I don't mean to blow my own horn, at least I don't mean to blow it too loudly, but I consider myself a very good sports analyst. I will often forgo the audio portion of a game's broadcast, particularly if I consider one of the announcers annoying. I find I don't need the commentary. I can do just fine on my own. Sometimes I will be watching a Blue Jackets game on television and I'll see an illegal play, and the subsequent penalty being called, ten seconds before the commentators see it, or mention it. "Hey you guys, the referee just called a penalty," I'll mutter at the television. The announcers never seem to hear me. That's okay, I often have them on "mute" too. When you have more experience watching sports than the commentators do, you can do that.

For the last ten years or so I have been oddly bothered by the imperfection of many sports. I'm referring to the sport itself and not the players. The biggest problem is that human eyes, specifically the human eyes in umpires and referees, are not good enough to accurately officiate the action in many sports. I will see a ref make a questionable call in a basketball game, a call that likely alters the game by at least two points, and I'll think; let's see if the game ends with a two point differential, making that call game-altering.

I guess the umpiring and refereeing can't be that flawed. If it were, I would have been a professional athlete, and not just dreamed of it.

 

Mustache

I had a mustache for the vast majority of my adult life. I first grew it on a trip to Florida in the summer of 1970 with three friends. I was 19 years old. I was not yet physically mature enough to grow a good one. It was better than the average high school mustache, but it was clearly not yet fully developed. I did not intend to grow one, or keep it once I did grow it, but as the weeks went by, I just never shaved it. Finally, after a few months, it had become something of a fixture.

By the mid 70s mustaches were all the rage. A lot of celebrities had mustaches back then. There were Burt Reynolds, Mark Spitz and Tom Selleck, to name three who were known for their mustaches. My mustache probably peaked about then both in color, how it fit my face, and also taking into account the general overall popularity of the mustache.

Wilford Brimley

My 'stache started overpowering my face in the early to mid 80s and so I started trimming the edges every few days, just to keep it under control. Mustaches were still moderately stylish, and I thought mine looked okay.

Somewhere in the early 90s both my scalp and my facial hair started to show flecks of gray. The graying mustache did not look overly attractive. I told myself that if I were really concerned about my appearance, I would have to get a whole new wardrobe. Truth was; I felt that the mustache had become part of my persona. I thought about touching it up with dye but I had seen others do it with less than great results.

By the late 2000s, the old mustache was pretty much entirely gray. Worse, perhaps the most famous mustache still being sported was owned by Wilford Brimley. One Saturday afternoon in 2011 I took a long, hard look in the mirror and decided the time had come. For the first time in 40 years the razor blade did not stop when it crossed the area above my upper lip.

Early that evening Diana, my life companion, got her first look at me without the old mustache. She never said a word. Finally, a few weeks later she was talking about someone who had a mustache "just like yours". She then glanced at my face and noticed I was clean-shaven. "You shaved your mustache!" she proclaimed in shock.

"Yeah," I calmly responded, "three weeks ago."

It's great to be noticed.

Age Appropriate

For the last few years I have been on the the threshold of actual old age, of senior citizenship, at least the early stages of it. This is not a particularly pleasant place to be, but it is an interesting one, in its own way. I have occasionally weighed whether or not to chuck all elements of not just youth, but midlife, and pass through the gates into full advanced maturity. I have contemporaries who have done just that. They are often heard saying, "I'm too old for that" when confronted with activities that require even minimal physical strain. Advanced technologies are for "younger people". They will not even consider participation in a casual volleyball game at the company picnic.

It is not all bad. A senior citizen can aspire for a kind of dignified maturity. Their opinions would receive more regard, or at least seem to. They would be allowed to remain seated in a crowded area when others remain standing. Snow shoveling, and other common drudgeries, would be performed by the neighborhood kid. I get it.      

As of the summer of 2015, I will climb a ladder to clear branches off a roof, and I will slid under a car to change the oil. I have been known to stroll over to the local playground to shoot the basketball, and chase the ball at a jog, when need be. I will take on the newest technologies with the only possible barrier being cost and need.

If I may get philosophical... once a man becomes a social patriarch, there's no going back. It's a one-way journey. Everything is temporary, youth, midlife, life itself, so I might as well fight to keep everything intact for as long as possible. It's an interesting part of life, complete with its own struggles, struggles I never would have dreamed existed when I was in those early stages of life.