Monday is a momentous day for the United States, marking both Martin Luther King Day—a time to honor a civil rights icon—and Inauguration Day. It’s a time of reflection on leadership, democracy, and the power of the vote. This got me thinking: who has received the most votes in U.S. history? Male or female, President or Vice President, who is the ultimate “Lifetime Big Kahuna” of American elections?

Let’s count down the top five vote-getters in national elections and crown the winner on our abbreviated version of America’s Top Forty. Can you guess who is at Number One?

#5: Al Gore — 143 Million Votes
In the three national elections from 1992 to 2000, Al Gore amassed an impressive 143 million votes. He won the Vice Presidency twice as Bill Clinton’s running mate, and then famously lost the 2000 Presidential race to hanging chads and the Supreme Court. I doubt Al agrees with Meatloaf that, “two out of three ain’t bad.” Although Gore fell short of the Oval Office, his environmental advocacy and national presence have left a lasting legacy.

#4: Richard Nixon — 182 Million Votes
Richard Nixon’s career was as remarkable as it was tumultuous. Over five national elections, from his Vice Presidential bids with Dwight Eisenhower in 1952 and 1956 to his three Presidential runs in 1960, 1968, and 1972, Nixon garnered 182 million votes. He won four of those elections, making him a dominant figure of his era, even if Tricky Dick’s second term as President ended with the Watergate scandal and disgrace.

#3: George H.W. Bush — 186 Million Votes
The 41st President of the United States, George H.W. Bush, takes third place on our survey with 186 million votes in four elections from 1980 to 1992. He was victorious twice as Ronald Reagan’s Vice President, but flanked by Dan Quayle he succeeded in only one of his two Presidential bids. Though his reelection bid in 1992 fell short, Bush’s patrician demeanor and success in the first Gulf War left a mark on American history.

#2: Donald Trump — 214 Million Votes
Number 2 on the list is President Trump, a position I am sure Rudy Guliani and Sidney Powell would help him improve. His total of 214 million votes is impressive, probably comparable to the number of votes Richard J. Daley received from the City of Chicago in any of his frequent mayoral runs. Just think how many votes Trump could have with someone like The Boss (Daley, not Springsteen) in his corner.

#1: Joe Biden — 291 Million Votes
And now, the undisputed “Lifetime Big Kahuna” of American elections: Joe Biden. With Vice Presidential elections alongside Barack Obama in 2008 and 2012, combined with his two Presidential campaigns in 2020 and 2024, Biden’s lifetime total stands at a staggering 291 million votes. His record-breaking 81 million votes in the 2020 election solidified his place in history as the candidate with the most individual votes ever cast in a single election. Biden’s political career, spanning decades, reflects the enduring power of perseverance and public service. We will be sorry to see you go, Joe.

Conclusion:
There you have it, America’s top five vote-getters. These leaders represent the highs and lows of American democracy, earning their places in history through the astounding number of citizens who supported them. Love them or hate them, they each received a staggering number of votes on the national stage.

The next time you’re at the polling booth, remember: every vote contributes to the story of our nation’s leaders—and maybe, just maybe, to a future “Big Kahuna.” As Casey Kasem used to say, “Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars!”

Help “Getting More From Les” grow. Please forward or share today’s post to one or more readers!

Do you keep a journal or a diary? A daily reminder of how you have spent the past 24 hours? Your activities? Your thoughts? Your meals?

I have never been a diarist—I lack the patience to capture life with a daily entry. While my blog posts sometimes read like a page from a diary, they are too sporadic and their focus is too variable to be a realistic depiction of my daily life.

But there is one journal I am meticulous about. For the last 35 years, I have been logging my physical fitness workouts. It’s all there, in three spiral-bound steno notebooks. Every mile I have run, every stride on the elliptical, every Tabata-lite class I have taken, and every session with a trainer is listed in precise chronological order.

The series of places I have worked out at all make their appearance. The Cardiac Rehab Center at Holy Family Hospital, the microscopic fitness centers near my former Westchester laboratory, and park district facilities in Buffalo Grove and Deerfield are all included in my tiny block lettering. Each mention reminds me of a different phase in my life.

I record my weight and my maximum heart rate. Did I listen to a CD on a 5-mile voyage through the neighborhood? That’s listed too. (In this age of streaming I have stopped keeping track of my workout soundtrack.)

Over time snippets of other data have crept into the rows of statistics. A brief mention of a sore back explains a two-week absence of exercise. Acknowledgments of trips abroad, trips at sea, and trips through the USA all explain some of the gaps, as do references to the occasional medical procedures.

I can look through my logbooks and see how often I worked out on the days before our son or daughter were married—and how exhaustion kept me on the sidelines for a few days after. I can even see how the death of my mother affected my stamina and vigor in the weeks following her passing.

Of course, it is an incomplete picture of my last 35 years. There are no happy emojis at the birth of a grandchild and no sad ones at the loss of a pet. But examining each page does bring back memories—recollections of weddings, funerals, and travels.

Having those logbooks motivates me to keep on going, to keep on listing row after row of entries. And maybe I’ll include some notes to my future self—at least a smiling emoji or a thumbs up now and then!

Rediscovering My Writing Dream

In the first year of my retirement, when our four grandchildren were younger and I was more ambitious, I vowed to write a children’s book and dedicate it to them. A car ride with three of the children suggested an outline for the story—it would be the story of a five-year-old boy who was enjoying an afternoon with his cousins and grandparents but also wished he was at home playing with his baby sister. He wanted to be in two places at once.

How could he do that? In my story, a magic car wash would be filled with bristly brushes, spurting hoses, and foaming soap in a long, narrow tunnel. While the car and its passengers were being pulled along the car wash rails, the occupants, guided by a giant rooster (don’t ask) could amazingly be in two places simultaneously. Thanks to the magic car wash, the young lad could travel with his cousins in the car and play with his sister at home, all at the same time.

The grandkids loved the idea — especially the rooster — so much that I decided to take the next step: attending a free online seminar teaching how to write, edit, and publish a children’s book. The seminar speaker, Miss L, promised penning and illustrating a bestseller would be easy, especially if I signed up for some of her (not free) advanced seminars and tutorials.

That seminar was months ago. Despite nearly daily emails from Miss L reminding me that “today is the day to start my writing voyage,” my project has fallen by the wayside, buried beneath other priorities and responsibilities.

The kids haven’t forgotten though. They continue to ask me if I have written about our special car wash. Barb gives me an occasional nudge too.

But nothing has sparked my motivation—until today, that is. Today the universe sent me a sign that the time for writing is now.

How do I know some cosmic force is telling me to write my book? What is the sign?

Every morning my inbox contains a new “Word of the Day.” Sometimes it’s a word I know, sometimes it’s a word I only think I know, and sometimes it’s a new word for my lexicon.

Today’s word was a newbie for me, Isochronous. The definition of isochronous? Why, it’s multiple events occurring at the same time! Just like the story I want to tell in my book.

Thanks to that little push, I think I am ready to get to work. After all, I now have a working title: The Isochronous Self-Service Filling Station and Car Wash! I know Miss L, Barb, and the grandchildren will be delighted that I am finally getting started.

Kids and blog readers, look for it soon at bookstores and/or gas stations near you. It’s going to be big!

What are your unfulfilled ambitions? I’d like to know what our readers yearn for. Leave a comment, or send them to me at lesrraffblogger@myyahoo.com.

My doctor's visit has just ceased
I've barely left her clutches
When my Apple watch begins to chime
And jerks me off my crutches.*

It's not the instructions that give me pause
I know it's good to read 'em
It's the final line all marked in bold
That has my ulcers steamin'*

"Won't you please go rate my care,
The highest score the better
So that on Yelp and Docs on Call
I'll be the best bone-setter."

"Did the receptionist smile when you paid your bill?
Did our valet park your car right?
Was the coffee hot when you filled your mug?
We need the rating airtight!"

Wherever you go, whatever you do
Your compelled now to relate it
What's right, what's wrong. no in-between
And you better not predate it.

The plumber and the moving man
Your barber and Mom's electrician
Want ten points on a ten point scale
They should pay me a commission!

When I buy doo-dads on Amazon
A hose or some eye-glass cleaner
Jeff Bezos's boys will send a link
That to ignore's a misdemeanor.

"Was the product shipped in a timely way?
Did it meet your satisfaction?
Did the nozzle leak, did the cleaner smear?
Did we take the proper action?"

I understand about data points
They want customers with opinions
But for me it's just a waste of time
I'm not one of the rating minions.

To one request I will respond
When my time on earth is nigh done.
And the God above says "Rate your life."
I'll say "Dear Lord I had a fine one!"

*To my dear friends who may worry, I currently have neither broken bones or painful ulcers!

	

		

							

					

												

							
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My dad enjoyed playing chess and taught me the game when I was just a kid. It was in regular rotation with Scrabble and Gin Rummy for Dad and me. I would play white and go first, Dad would be black, and although at the disadvantage of going second, invariably win. Later, I signed up for the high school chess club (I signed up for everything in high school) and enjoyed reading and watching The Queen’s Gambit, but my talent and interest in chess never really blossomed.

But in the last few weeks, post-op swelling around my eyes has left my near vision out of focus. Reading and browsing social media for more than ten minutes at a time has been a struggle. So it is fortunate that I have discovered a new passion to fill in the gaps between pickleball, volunteering, family time, MSNBC, and Netflix. And to my surprise, that passion has been solving chess problems.

The puzzles unexpectedly started showing up on my Facebook feed two weeks ago. In each unique chess problem, the chessboard is set with a certain number of black and white pieces in various positions, and instructions are given such as “White to move and checkmate (win the game) in 2 moves.” I decided to try one and within the first few moments, I was as hooked on chess problems as I was on Wordle and Connections.

I started trying to solve the problems by staring at the screen and mentally moving each piece. My success rate was low. The Comments Section contained brilliant moves others could see and I was blind to. I decided I needed a more tactile approach and searched unsuccessfully for my old chess set. Amazon Prime came to the rescue. I made a quick purchase and by the next day, I could fumble through the puzzles on a portable folding magnetic chess set.

My fumbling has paid off. With the new set, and some tips from a college student I mentor, my success rate has risen to about 50%. It can take me an hour to solve a problem, but I enjoy the feeling of the small plastic figures in my hand as I attempt various moves to trap the opposing king. Solving one of the puzzles gives me a buzz as great as solving Wordle on my second move.

Last week I introduced my 10-year-old granddaughter to the puzzles, and we enjoyed solving one together. I hope my other grandkids will enjoy them too. My chess-loving dad has been gone for many years, but I’m sure he is looking down on us with a pawn or a queen in his hand and wearing a big smile on his face. I know he would be proud!

Life Lessons Learned

Yesterday marked my return to pickleball after recovery and convalescence from my corrective eyelid surgery. As usual, the courts for open play were crowded and time dragged on a bit between chances to play. I was chatting with a player named Ben when he reached into a pocket, pulled out a wrinkled sheet of note paper, and handed it to me.

Reading is still a little tough for me post-op, but I noticed the emblem of my alma mater at the top. Below this was a handwritten list titled “The Ten Commandments of Pickleball.” The commandments were so obvious that Moses could have brought them down from Sinai on two paddles. “Dink to your opponent’s backhand,” “Try to hit a winner on your serve,” “Don’t forget to come to the net.” You get the idea.

A few minutes later I played two mixed doubles games against Ben. I couldn’t tell if he was following the pickleball commandments, but I could tell that he was pissing off his partners mightily. He was telling them where to stand and what to do. His intent was clear; he planned to poach every ball and hit every shot. By the end of the two games, both ladies who had partnered with him were grumbling, out loud and under their breath.

Watching Ben’s approach inspired me to consider how we can all have a better time on the court. Based on Ben’s play, I present my observations of how to enjoy open pickleball.

MY TEN COMMANDMENTS OF PICKLEBALL

• Everyone is playing on the same court. Stop blaming every missed shot on the quality of the lights, the color of the lines, or the texture of the flooring.

• There are no instant replays. If you can’t make a line call, give the point to your opponents.

• If a line call goes against you, suck it up. No calling the next one in your favor “just to even things up.”

• Never push a partner out of your way, unless it is to avoid injury to either of you.

• Don’t lecture your partner. Your partner likely isn’t paying you for in-game lessons.

• Avoid aiming shots that might injure an opponent. If your shot hits someone with unusual ferocity, apologize, and mean it!

• When you are racking up in an “open” situation, don’t insist that you will only play with your besties. It’s fun and challenging to play with different people. If you want to play only with your friends, you can reserve a court just for you.

• When a ball from another court interferes with anyone on your court, call a let. And don’t complain that you would have won the point.

• You won’t lose any points if you smile every once in a while.

• Be courteous, congratulate your opponents on a nice shot, and HAVE FUN.

On reflection, maybe my commandments aren’t just helpful in pickleball. With compassion and camaraderie, we can all go a long way.

When I see a headline or news photo of a favorite celebrity from my youth, whether an actor, a musician, or an athlete, it is invariably as part of a death notice or obituary; for instance, when a photo of Bill Melton, a White Sox slugger and home run champ in the early 1970s appeared on my Facebook page last week I was not surprised to see it was an In Memoriu notice.

So when I saw Dick Van Dyke’s name in a New York Times headline, I immediately feared the worst. I was sure that Van Dyke, forever Rob Petrie of The Dick Van Dyke Show, had perished. His TV wife, Mary Tyler Moore, has been gone since 2017, and I imagined them cavorting together in their heavenly living room, Rob dodging the pesky ottoman—though would it matter if he tumbled over it? I doubt he would be subject to any injuries in the afterlife!

But happily, and much to my surprise, Van Dyke is still alive! The article was not a notorious New York Times obituary. Rather it was a celebration. Ninety-nine-year-old Van Dyke is the star of a new Coldplay music video.

I rarely watch music videos (crotchety old man alert: I have never seen a Taylor Swift video) but I watched this one, the official video for All My Love. Through a wonderful 7 minutes, Van Dyke shimmies, clowns, and duets (admittedly off-key) with Coldplay’s Chris Martin. As photos of his family fill the screen, he discusses love and mortality, and at Martin’s suggestion, closes his eyes to think about “all the people who have meant something in his life.” Van Dyke’s eyes are closed for a long, long, time.

I am so glad he is still alive, and still a little bit of a performer. Whether as Rob Petrie or as Bert and Mr. Dawes Senior in Mary Poppins, he brought happiness to me in my youth—just as he does while watching him in this video today.

I may have lost Bill Melton, but I still have Dick Van Dyke!

“Do you want to get new license plates for your new car?” Barb asked me.

Astonished by her question, I told her, “It would be harder for me to change my license plates than it was to retire last year.” I meant it!

Barb and I have had personalized “vanity” license plates since 1984. Barb has been OT MOM for most of those years, only recently updating to OT NANA. For 40 years, I have had PATH DOC.

Neither Barb nor I are unusually vain, but we are proud of our careers. With our personalized license plates, we show off just a bit while we provide PR for our professions, two areas of health care that are not routinely in the public eye.

Because of Barb’s OT plates, people often ask if she is an ‘overtime’ parent who works two or three jobs and then races home to her family. She patiently explains that she has had a wonderful career as an occupational therapist and extols the value of a field diverse enough to provide service to newborn infants, stroke victims, and hand-injury patients, Barb’s specialty. The license plate is a great recruiting tool.

It’s rare that anyone sees my car and recognizes me as a pathologist. People ask me if I repair sidewalks or work on trails at the forest preserves. That allows me to clarify what a pathologist is, what we do, and how important we are to patients in hospitals, clinics, and doctor’s offices. I fill them in on blood tests, biopsies, and more. I probably haven’t convinced anyone to join my field, but I hope I have gotten many people to respect it.

Our residences, vehicles, and family size have changed multiple times over the last 40 years. MOM has become a NANA (four times over). Barb and I are both happily retired. But Barb should know that asking me to change my license plate is like asking me to forsake the White Sox. Like the Sox, those plates are in my DNA. They will never be replaced.

The solitary red rose in our front yard is the last flower remaining. Spring, summer, and fall were filled with riots of color, the scent of magnolia, and the air of hope and promise.

Barb has tended the yard with care and devotion, always envisioning what more can be done, what needs pruning, and what needs replanting. The gardens are living things, changing with the seasons. They are a technicolor kaleidoscope of ever-evolving beauty.

The unusually warm October kept the magnificent landscape in bloom far longer than we hoped. But October has ended, the Halloween dress-ups are gone, and November has come with a chill wind that has destroyed color, beauty, and hope. One lonely rose remains.

But if we can survive the coming winter, there will be a new spring next year, a chance for a new beginning. Barb will work hard on her garden. It may take a while, but I have faith—and I hope you do too—that joy, resilience, and wonder have not left us for good.

One Reason Why I’m Voting Against Trump

Gary was the first bully I ever encountered. He was the terror of my freshman high school class. Accompanied by his lanky sidekick Jean, his domain extended from the school locker room to the streets outside the school. His modus operandi was typical for bullies; grab the runtiest of his classmates and shake them down for pocket change.

I never encountered Gary after freshman year. Perhaps his family moved, or perhaps his parents transferred him to a different school. Jean also faded into oblivion. They were not missed by me or my classmates.

I have suffered a few other bullying episodes since those early teen years. A teaching physician in medical school comes to mind, as does a past tennis partner. Instead of reaping some loose change, they intended to belittle and embarrass. I learned to move past them.

But now, the biggest bully is on the precipice of reclaiming his objective, the presidency of the United States. With 10s of millions of Jeans by his side, he seeks payback for imagined persecution, escape from continued prosecution, and to wreak havoc on the American institution. And when he shakes down his supporters to spend a few dollars buying his lines of Bibles and tennis shoes, that must make my old classmate Gary proud. A hustler knows a hustler.

I cannot vote for Donald Trump. I have cast my vote for Kamala Harris, and endorse her full-heartedly. I don’t have the impact of the Washington Post, but I refuse to be intimidated by another bully.