Five Books I Read Years Ago That Still Have a Message for Today

Book read long ago still have a message for today. — Books read long ago still have a message for today.

Remember the bestselling book from the 1990’s “All I Really Need to Know I Learned In Kindergarten”? It was filled with truisms like “Don’t hit anybody” and “Be nice.” Good stuff, but in talking with an old friend recently I realized we didn’t learn it all in kindergarten. We also learned some important life lessons in Mr. Wohlberg’s 8th-grade class at the Eugene Field School in Rogers Park.

Our class featured a daily hour for “Reading Club.” This was the first year in which we were assigned short novels and works of non-fiction for reading and analysis. The book list was carefully curated, and in looking back I recognize that each had a lesson, one that we can also apply in our current time.

The Eighth Grade Book List 1971-1972

Mrs. Miniver by Jan Struther. This green covered paperback was a series of sketches about a family in England just before the onset of World War II. I remember it as a warm look at the nation, just before immense tragedy and great changes were about to take place. Knowing that England survived can bring hope and optimism to us who are now at the precipice of another world-altering event.
Goodbye, Mr. Chips by James Hilton. Another warm-hearted tale set in England, following the long career of a sweet, under-assuming teacher in a boy’s boarding school. Sort of a pre-Dead Poet’s Society. The take-away to remember? Kind and gentle can have more effect than bluster and braggadocio.
The Good Earth, by Pearl S. Buck. A family saga of early 20th century China. Not every character is a champion, but by studying this novel of other people and other cultures, we can learn not to demonize the unfamiliar in our world.
Profiles in Courage by John F. Kennedy. Yes, JFK wrote (or had ghost-written) this book while he was a Senator from Massachusetts. Life episodes from 8 U.S. Senators who took actions considered by Kennedy to be heroic. Current re-imaging of history may have cast some of his assessments of heroism in doubt, but the concept that our elected representatives should be courageous–hey, what a wonderful, novel, idea!
Microbe Hunters by Paul de Kruif. Probably the least known of these books, it tells the tale of 11 men (sorry, no women in the bunch–or in the group of Senators in Kennedy’s book) who were instrumental in advancing science, in introducing and promoting the concept that many diseases were caused by minute organisms, and in discovering ways to fight those bugs. Imagine that, science advancing mankind! Think that could have any relevance in our era of anti-vaxers and COVID deniers?

Great lessons, though hopefully, my education didn’t end in 8th grade. Now more than ever, we need to be life-long learners. It’s the only way to survive.

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Four Things I Know Doing Crossword Puzzles In Ink

A messy , but completed, crossword puzzle. — A messy completed crossword puzzle.

It gets messy.

There are scratch-outs and write-overs and margin-scribbles. Some of the little square boxes, originally white, now are so intensely filled that only I can tell what letter I have ultimately figured out is the right one.

And that’s the way I like it. Doing my puzzles in ink, I see every step I have taken, every twist and turn and wrong approach. No nice clean erasures.

Those scrawls are what I look on fondly and with immense satisfaction as I review the completed challenge. Those scrawls are where I learn.

It has only been for the last year or so that I have been a daily crossword puzzle zealot. I had been known to take a puzzle magazine with me on a poolside vacation and I have killed some time post-surgery with goofy Cryptic Crosswords. But the obsession to solve everything that the Tribune throws at me, including 3 challenges on Sunday, erupted out of nowhere. And of course, it is a nice distraction during the COVIDaplooza.

And while I have been at it, I have learned a few problem-solving tools; tools that are helpful in more than just the crosswords. They help with solving real-life problems too.

Look for a way in: Sometimes at first glance, the puzzle will seem overly difficult, filled with clues I have no idea about–things like opera and Australian geography or Ethiopian pronouns. But with a little digging, I can usually find a clue or two that makes sense. Maybe it is a simple fill-in-the-blank. Or an easy reference to Mel Ott, the old-time Giants outfielder who is a crossword creator’s favorite shortie. Fill in enough of those, and the trickier ones become easier. Same with any problematic task–figure out what you know, then use that to work on what you don’t.
Find the fork in the road, and take it: Is the right answer to “Long forgotten President” with 8 letters, when you know the last letter is “n” Harrison, or is it Buchanan? Don’t spend forever dithering. Pick one and see where it takes you. Undecided about which vendor to buy your supplies from? Sure, do your homework, but eventually, you’ve got to choose. You can always backtrack later–if you have to.
You may be right, I may be crazy: I could swear that the answer to “The album with the song “Just You ‘n’ Me” at 10 Down is “Chicago XI.” But maybe, just maybe, it is really “Chicago VI.” So get rid of that misplaced “X” and swap in the “V.” All of a sudden it all makes more sense. And maybe that prostate cell I was convinced was a cancer cell isn’t. All of a sudden the diagnosis of benign atrophy becomes much clearer. Let’s do a special stain to prove it.
Love your messes: Every messy square on the finished puzzle is one I struggled over. But in the end, I got it right. Just as every step we take in initiating some new testing may be messy. Time frames are relative, supplies ephemeral, especially in this resources-limited COVIDenvironment. But if in the end when we can look back and say we did it, the previous messes make it all the more rewarding.

So keep on plugging and solving and giving your all. Don’t erase your mistakes-remember them. And we will get this right.

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Adventures in Cat Land

Barb and I went on a road trip yesterday.

A friend had posted a link to an animal shelter in the south suburbs, a community we had barely heard of and never been to before. Our friend thought we might be interested in a cat that was ready for adoption.

The kitty was a nine-year-old male Persian named Billy, neutered, declawed, and in need of a new home. We thought he could make a nice companion for Princess, our own neutered, declawed nine-year-old teeny-weeny cat. Princess has spent most of her life with a canine companion and might now be a little lonely, but since Barb has yet to convince me to get another dog (never say never) a 2nd cat seemed like a possible option.

Barb picked me up from my lab, conveniently located half-way between our far-north home and the far-south shelter. I grabbed a cardboard box for a potential transport container, found a blanket in the trunk with which to line the box, and off we went. The landscape turned more rural in appearance with rolling hills and forest preserves. It was hard to believe we were still in Cook County.

After 40 minutes we reached the shelter, a small cottage set back from the road. A weathered sign on the door asked that we knock, receive a number, and then return to our car to await a phone call before admission. We knocked, and an attendant answered the door, looking as startled as we were. “What do you want?” she asked. We told her we were looking for a particular cat, and without much interest, she pointed out the cat room. “In there.”

The room was stacked with cages, many containing small, howling, sort-of-cute kittens. Not what we were looking for. Another attendant wandered in and I asked her about the Persian we had seen online.

“Oh, do you mean the male or the female?” she asked.

“Huh?” Barb and I both responded.

The attendant pointed to a double-wide cage in the bottom row and told us, “They are brother and sister, they can’t be separated.”

And sure enough, a pair of long-haired kitties were lolling in the cage; Billy, the grey-and-white cat we had seen online and a second, tabby-like long-hair with funky eyes. As we watched, GG pounced on the second cat in what did not seem at all to be a playful assault.

We left empty-handed. We were not ready to adopt a pair of cats to disturb Princess, especially when one of them seemed to have a mean streak. As my lab associate said, the shelter had put on quite a bait-and-switch.

So Princess still has no companion. I suspect Barb’s dog dreams have been reignited. I’m not sure how long I can hold out! Check back here for regular updates…

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photo credit: haileyxb dsc01537_v1 via photopin (license)

Did Hugh Downs Make Me What I Am Today?

My boyhood TV hero died this week. You probably think I am talking about Carl Reiner, who passed away June 29th. After all, Reiner created The Dick Van Dyke Show, one of my favorite TV shows of all time. But as a pre-school kid, I just knew the faces in front of the camera, and Mr. Reiner’s portrayal of Alan Bradie, funny as it was, was just a small part of the show. He wasn’t even as important as always dumped on Mel Coolie. And I could only watch the show once a week; no binge-watching back then. So Reiner didn’t really make much of an impression on me in the early 1960s.

No, the man I watched on TV day in and day out, the man this young kid aspired to be when I grew up, wasn’t an actor or a writer, and certainly no comedian. My hero was Hugh Downs, who died July 1st at age 99.

If you know the name and if you remember him at all, it is probably for his stints as host of Today or possibly 20/20, ABC’s news magazine answer to 60 Minutes. In a New York Times obituary discussing his career, one can learn a lot about his time on those two shows, as well as his years as the announcer and second banana to Jack Paar on Paar’s iteration of The Tonight Show.

But you must read way down to the 16th paragraph of the article to find a brief one-sentence mention of the 11 years Downs spent as host of the TV game show Concentration. But for me, that was Hugh Downs. That is where I met him every morning.

It was a simple game, call out some numbers, match some prizes, solve a simple rebus puzzle, and go home a winner. No need to know trivia, or how much a week’s supply of Alpo dog food cost, or what a survey said. It was the perfect show for a five-year-old with a good memory and an innate ability to solve word puzzles. It would be the launching pad for my life of TV game-show appearances (It’s Academic and Jeopardy!, the Family Feud near-miss) and Password games with friends that are as bitterly fought as a Bears-Packers game in the Halas days. And Mr. Downs was the perfect low-key host. He never got in the way of the game

So Hugh, while I salute all the other great TV work you did, when I write my book Concentration will never have to wait until paragraph 16! I’ll put it right there at the top.

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DePaul Gets It Right, Doesn’t Cancel Police

“You can’t separate the person from the career. It doesn’t matter that there are good cops.” So says Aneesah Shealey, a student at DePaul University, quoted in Tuesday’s Tribune. Fortunately, the administration at Depaul recognizes that part of a college education is learning that not everything is black in white, not every position should be absolute.

What is this all about? Some students at Depaul object to DePaul offering educational programs to–Oh My God– officers of the Chicago Police Department! These programs include a Master of Jurisprudence Degree in Criminal Law, a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Business Administration, and a Writing Fellows Program. The courses are taught at the Police Academy, not on the DePaul Lincoln Park campus.

It would seem to me that officers familiar with the law would be more likely than more legally naive ones to treat the citizens of Chicago fairly and respect their rights. It would seem to me that those officers who are schooled in the nuances of management would eventually rise in the ranks and provide positive leadership. It would seem to me that officers enrolled in a writing program would be open to the world of literature and the arts, and be most likely to embrace the diversity of humanity.

And it seems to me that Shealey and friends, instead of trying to get the programs banned, could fight for the programs to be as good as they can be. The students could insist that the curriculum includes an emphasis on diversity, the recognition of human rights, and the danger of bias. They could advocate that the courses could be on one of DePaul’s campuses so that students and officers could mingle and try to understand what makes their opposite numbers tick.

But according to Shealey, the goals and all the positive aspects of the program are irrelevant. If you are a cop you are tainted with the sins of the hierarchy and your fellow officers, and a university should have nothing to do with you. Talk about the arrogance of youth!

DePaul, via an announcement from Provost Salma Ghanem has made the right decision by refusing to discontinue the academic program for the Chicago Police Department, by not bowing to “cancel culture.” Yes, the Police Department needs to change, but it is not going to go away. What better way to improve it than educating the women and men whom we should expect to preserve and protect all of us?

Thank you, Provost Ghanem and DePaul University.

Illustration courtesy of: http://clipart-library.com/officer-cliparts.html

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COVIDERATA (discovered deep under Stonehenge)

Coviderata

Always remember to cover your nose,
Or your mask is malarky.
You might never again shake someone’s hand,
but you may kiss the air around their cheek.
George Carlin was half right,
those more cautious than you are not maniacs,
but those less cautious ARE idiots.
Take care in crowded and indoor locations,
the person on your left might sneeze,
and his elbow is pointed at you.
With Facetime and Zoom you can be blessed.
But 5-hour meetings are tiresome, especially with your grandmother.
If pro soccer is canceled this year and next,
why would America care?
Gray roots are fashionable. If you live in England they are grey.
The loss of a school year for our children,
works best for the braniacs
who don’t need second grade.
If you have products to sell don’t be gouging,
for Karma will find you in time
and Yoko can be a bitch.
Injecting unproven pharma
can be a prelude to embalming,
but might interest some people.
Most of us are in this together,
Unless you have fled to New Zealand
or to Gilligan’s Island with the Professor.
Funny COVID song parodies have had their time,
but are no longer timely
and rarely funny.
If the NBA can play in a bubble,
can Little League play in a Sno-Globe?
Vaccines = good,
especially on a triple-word score.
Be at peace with your friends, your family, and the uninformed;
just remember there is always an “Unfriend” button.
This is what happens when no one hosts the Oscars.
Ricky Gervais would have saved us,
or maybe Kevin Hart.

Be happy, and never again eat a bat.
You are a friend of the universe.

With appropriate apologies to
Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

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photo credit: jjamv 1-P1290747 via photopin (license)

A Memory, A Diner, and A Reacquaintance

Maybe it is a sign of the times, but looking backward at what we know seems to be more fulfilling than looking forward to what we can only guess at. So a random thought about a long-gone restaurant on what some people call Throw Back Thursday set off a cascade of memories for a lot of folks.

When I was 6 or 7, my family moved from one Rogers Park apartment to another, about three blocks away. On moving day, my older sister and I were sent on a mission to a diner around the corner to buy a hamburger lunch for the family and the moving men from 7 Brothers Moving And Storage Company. Back in 1962, there was nothing unusual about an 11-year-old and 6-year-old handling that chore.

The diner was a small greasy spoon, which in my memory was named the Huddle House. The place wasn’t much; a counter with 4 stools and a cash register in the front, kitchen in the back. Basic, but the burgers were delicious. Lunch went well. Sadly, within a year or so the diner was demolished (lost their lease? closed by the Department of Health?) and an apartment building replaced it.

During a moment of weakness, I posted my story on the Facebook Rogers Park page, unaware that I was opening the flood gates as each reader piled on. “No such place as Huddle House.” “I think it was Toddle House.” “No way, it was Townhouse.” “No way was it Townhouse.” “I’ve got the phone book–it didn’t exist.” “They had a train delivering the food.” “Trains were at the Choo Choo in Des Plaines.” “I lived in that apartment building.” “I lived across the street.” “My third cousin was the janitor there.”

You get the idea. Everyone wants the chance to reminisce, we are all just waiting for the cue. When the “votes” were in, Huddle House had defeated Toddle House as the likely name, and even the deniers were believing that this wasn’t just a false memory of mine. I wish I could convince people so easily about other things, like vaccines, and politics, and White Sox.

I got one additional surprise from my posting. One reader recognized my name and the Rogers Park location and told me she had been my sister’s friend a million years ago back in the hood. I remembered her name (at least the maiden name) and even an image of her face. She was aware my sister had passed away; it was nice to be able to fill her in about my sister and her family.

Maybe next Thursday I will throw out another memory, from another time and place. And anticipate the days when looking forward will once more be as much of life as looking back.

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Virus Visions. Does the Past Repeat?

I am sitting in our sunroom, beams of light pouring through the jalousie windows. Our cat and a visiting pup alternate turns lying in the sun, neither willing to share space with the other. It is a crystal clear and brilliant day. I should be outside enjoying it before the crushing heat returns. But my stomach has been doing flip-flops for the last 24 hours or so, and I feel more comfortable on the sofa, book in hand, gazing out onto the street.

Barb designed this room for days like today; one set of windows facing our backyard; the second opening onto the pond, where only one of four of our newly hatched cygnets has survived the demonic snapping turtles in the water below; the final set of windows giving a view of the street, where we live at the back end of the loop the neighborhood’s main thoroughfare makes as it meanders through the subdivision.

I can people-watch unseen as I flip the pages of my novel. It’s a day made for strolling and all our neighbors, nearly homogenous in their ethnicity, are out. Many proceed as family units–mom and dad on bikes, baby in an attached carrier, young daughters struggling to keep up astride their two-wheelers, bouncing side-to-side on the training wheels. Pairs of neighborly couples stride along, 6-foot distances narrowing, then swelling again as someone remembers. In-line skaters, dog walkers, and loud phone chatters weave in and out to complete the tapestry.

The novel beside me is one that Barb gave to me from her stack on her nightstand after I finished reading the last book in my library pile. The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai alternates between modern-day Paris and Chicago in the 1980’s, the Chicago scenes taking place in an area that would become known as Boystown. It is the story of a great pandemic, though the disease at the story’s center is not COVID-19, the virus is not SARS-CoV-2.

It was early in my medical career when we first became aware of a deadly illness that was striking gay men with the unusual disease combination of Kaposi’s Sarcoma and Pneumocystis Pneumonia. Medically, it struck home. I had given a presentation on KS in med school and pneumocystis was the organism that had ended my father-in-law’s battle with leukemia.

I remember the heated arguments over whether or not this disease, soon to be named Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, was an infectious disease and if so what the transmitting agent could be. Then came the discovery of a virus, originally titled HTLV-III and eventually renamed HIV. Methods of transmission were identified. Rock Hudson became a symbol, Ryan White a hero.

To protect ourselves in the morgue we began wearing chain mail gloves while doing autopsies, at least until my Laboratory Director discovered a unique and clever way to avoid our performing post-mortem exams on known AIDS cases. He told the hospital medical staff that we pathologists would be glad to do those autopsies, as long as the clinicians “scrubbed in” and pointed out the areas in which they had the greatest concern. Autopsy requests melted away just like the T-lymphocytes that had disappeared under the onslaught of the virus.

I recall the controversy over blood testing for the disease, as well as the emergence of AZT, the first drug to have some success in slowing down the progression of AIDS. And I remember the lost medical school classmates, members of a repressed class that was decimated.

And now, as BLM reminds us, once again a repressed class is being decimated, both by a virus and by inequality. It is time to move beyond looking out the window. For me, it will be in a medical context. How about for you?

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When Words Fail Me

1,584,862. That is the number of words the Grammarly online grammar and spell checking program has reviewed for me over the past 3 years. Most of those 1,584,862 words have been used in writing the blog, then rewriting it, and editing it. Words are not what I do for a living, I don’t have that ability, but they are what I do for pleasure, writing them down here, reading them in books and magazines, spelling them out in Scrabble and Words for Friends.

I used to be able to write with some objectivity, even in the face of what I feared could be a natural tragedy. I could write about the wonders of my profession and the weirdness that sometimes was associated with it. I have praised valuable tests and bashed the useless ones. I used to be able to write with some humor–Barb was rolling on the floor reading this old post that came up Sunday on her Facebook memories page.

But words have deserted me in the past month or so. Every time I sit down to write a blog post I am stymied. COVID has worn me down, even while it has been a topic for some of my most popular posts. The state of the democracy is so nightmarish I have given up trying to write about it, at times turning to pictures to tell the story.

And the tragedy of the past week, the death of George Floyd, the responses, the responses-to-the-responses, has left me numb and once again wordless. I start to contrast the knee of Colin Kaepernick to the knee of Derek Chauvin but what more is there to say about that? If we had listened better to the former, we would not be suffering the repercussions of the latter? That type of writing is facile and easy, it is just a juxtaposition of two symbols.

When I will again find joy in writing, feel pleasure in adding to my 1.5 million words. Maybe when our country has refound its mission and its humanity. Maybe when we have all been inspired. Maybe when we are post-pandemic and putting our best effort at solving the other plagues we face–poverty, inequality, and environmental catastrophe are but the first three that come to mind.

I know I won’t stop writing the blog, not as long as ChicagoNow allows me to continue. I just long for the time when it will be fun again, for you, and for me.

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