Losing more than Man’s Best Friend

Posted on January 23, 2013 by Mike Shortall

Friday night … I’m scrabbling around the house to meet a last-minute decision to see the late showing of the popular, Oscar-nominee Zero Dark Thirty. As I scramble to purchase tickets on-line, I run out to the car to grab my cell phone.

I see a lone figure walking down the street; but it’s too dark to see who it is, and I’m not even mildly interested anyway. Then I hear my name …

I squint to see who it is in the dark, and recognize a neighbor. He blurts out, “We just had to put Coco down!”

I know who it is now, and move down the driveway to offer my condolences on the loss many people face each day that tugs at the heart of pet owners even when it’s not your own four-legged friend.

As the neighbor draws near, I’m moved by what I see. A grown man of retirement age, tears streaming down his face and sobbing in fits and starts. As I approach and offer my hand, he moves in for a hug and cries almost uncontrollably.

I’m a bit embarrassed, even though no one is around. I know this neighbor, but we’re not close. We have socialized a few times, but nothing that ever developed into a “close friend” type of relationship. In fact I’m probably a bit put off by such an emotional semi-public display over a pet …

Then the light goes on in my head.

This canine companion had been their only child!

He and his wife had never had children. I knew some of the story. Trying and trying but never finding success.

So Coco, a 13-year-old reddish-brown Chocolate Lab, had been in all manner of relationship and dependence the child they never had.

And suddenly, I realized how much this loss meant to him, the proud parent, who was always seen walking his only child throughout the neighborhood several times a day in all kinds of weather.

So I stayed there with my grieving neighbor; trying to offer as much support and empathy as I could muster. His pain was genuine; it was deep; it appeared unbearable.

I invited him into the house for a drink in an attempt to give a chance to get out of the cold and vent a bit. I wasn’t sure what I would do with the movie tickets I had just bought; but it was obvious he needed someone to listen. But after a few moments he abruptly decided to head home, probably because his wife was back at the house dealing with the very same emotions.

Saturday was a full day for us. Travelling three hours away to the Williamsport area to spend the day with my newlywed son and daughter-in-law. We left early and stayed late. Off and on during the day I talked about what happened the night before and the emotional display that caught me a bit off-guard.

I made plans to visit my neighbors on Sunday morning, to check in and see how they were coping. Carol decided to accompany me; and when we got to their door we were a bit surprised by what we found inside.

After ringing the bell, we glance in through the glass storm door and see a baby barrier! We glance at each other and Carol asks, “Did they get a new dog already?!?” I was certain they wouldn’t have so soon.

When they answer the door, they both burst out crying. The emotions are still raw. The loss every bit as painful. And inside lying on the fireplace stone is a weeks-old Golden Retriever pup!

The neighbors seem a bit unsettled by the puppy’s presence, the insistent idea of a close relative trying to help them recover from their loss in the best way they knew how.

The pups new mom was almost apologetic. My friend from Friday night revealed his angst and admitted that he doesn’t know if he will ever be able to accept a new dog so readily.

We visit for about an hour, conversation shifting from sympathetic musing on the man-dog relationship, distracting pieces of everyday minutiae, and gushing over the cute fluffy ball of fur snoozing on the floor.

After a period of time, the sleepy pup rouses long enough to sniff and stretch her way into the kitchen where we sit, then plops down on the kitchen floor for another nap.

I watch my neighbor go from sorrowful grief to the affectionate scratching of an outstretched puppy in mid-yawn to the light banter about the differences in breeds and the unconditional love any sociable pet will provide its Master.

Later that day, I saw my neighbor walking his new companion; accepting the condolences of shocked fellow dog-neighbors; and introducing his new friend to the local canine hierarchy.

And I realized that the best laid intentions of a persistent relative was never to fill a void that was so painfully ripped out, so much as an attempt to round off the sharp edges of a very painful grief.

Such hasty action would not be the choice of many pet owners, but it seemed to work in the smallest way, by dulling the incredible ache with much larger prospects for helping a grief-stricken couple cope with a loss more devastating that losing a Man’s Best Friend.

The Wiffleball Kings

Posted on January 21, 2013 by Mike Shortall

In the late 1960’s Philadelphia Steel & Wire, a small steel processing company located on Belfield Avenue in the Germantown section of Philadelphia, decided to move its operations to a larger, newer facility to be built near the North(east) Philadelphia Airport in Northeast Philadelphia.

So, in 1966 our family moved from a twin on Penn Street to a brand new rowhouse in the Holmesburg section of the Great Northeast. Our old house, which was just across Penn Street (now Penn Boulevard) from the quaint red-brick buildings of Germantown Hospital, is long gone. Just a parking lot now; devoured at some point by the growing hospital.

The relocation was the end of the old; the beginning of the new. And for a 10-year old, barely familiar with the world outside of the five-home Germantown enclave he lived in, it was an anxious, unsettling move.

Much of our new rowhouse was still in its proverbial cellophane wrapper when this Germantown refugee walked outside to explore his new environment. One of my first memories of the new ‘hood was watching three brothers from down the street pour out of their brand-new rowhouse in a cacophony of harsh words and flying fists.

Great, I thought, I moved into a Three Stooges episode!

In minutes I was the unwitting ally in a fraternal civil war fought with stones and insults. But when the dust cleared, it was the beginning of a new stage in my young life.

For some reason, these three brothers, who were always at each others throats – or so it seemed – could do one thing without reaching for the Missile Launch Codes. They could play Wiffle ball!

Wiffle ball – for the uninitiated – was one solution to a city boy’s dream of playing ball in tight quarters without causing property damage. Played with plastic bats and relatively short-flight plastic balls with perforations engineered for the purpose of throwing junk pitches, it joined the ranks of half-ball, stickball, hoseball and boxball as urban versions of baseball, the game played by boyhood Heroes.

No need to find an open basketball court. No requirement to round-up six or eight compadres in order to cover a full football or baseball field. Just find a vacant lot suitable for a field and choose up sides!

Like all neighborhoods in large cities, our games were dictated by the surrounding geography. And although we had the luxury of the playground at Robert B. Pollock Elementary School roughly a quarter-mile away, the convenience of playing smaller games just a few houses away from the comforts of Home was hard to beat.

Our house sat directly across from a PECO (Philadelphia Electric) substation on Ashton Road. In later years our house and the fenced substation would serve as Home Field for our half-ball games. Homeruns most obviously defined by hitting one over the substation fence; triples up against the fence or falling on the sidewalk across somewhat busy two-lane Ashton Road; and doubles – if the fielder chose not to dodge the traffic – were those halfies that landed in the roadway.

But it was our wiffle ball field (Let’s call it Duplex Field, since it sat next to one of the two-apartment duplexes that framed each set of rowhouses.) was the only field of play that FELT like real baseball.

As with all great baseball venues, our wiffle ball field had its little quirks and unique characteristics that went missing when legendary baseball cathedrals gave way to the cookie-cutter, all-purpose stadiums that became the rage in cities like Philadelphia (Veterans Stadium), Pittsburgh (Three Rivers Stadium), and Cincinnati (Riverfront Stadium) in the 1970s.

Petco Park’s homage to Duplex Field

Our long ago Field of Dreams was much more like present-day Citizens Bank Park and Camden Yards. It had features that rivaled images from Connie Mack Stadium, Crosley Field (Cincinnati) or Ebbetts Field in Brooklyn, New York. Or at least it did for a bunch of 10-year-olds.

The physical characteristics of Duplex Field included a Petco Park-type brick building, the duplex running the length of the 3rd base side; jutting precipitously into the left field corner; and offering an imposing challenge to the dead-pull right-handed hitter who wanted to yank one down the left field line.

The outfield “wall” was a chain link fence (Aaron Rowand meet Citizens Bank Park!) protecting the outfielders from a nasty plunge into the sunken yards of the row homes of Ryerson Circle. The right-center field portion of this fence was fronted by triples-producing trench (a Bizarro World reversal of those famed warning track mounds at Crosley and Ebbets Fields), usually full of leaves and discarded paper that made retrieval of in-play balls a slapstick farce of flailing arms and flying trash.

Crosley Field had The Terrace hill. Imagine instead a trash-filled trench …

The most endearing feature of Duplex Field was the rock strewn diamond itself.

Real estate limitations and the flight dynamics of the plastic wiffle ball made a true outfield totally unnecessary. We could barely fit a reasonably sized infield into our bandbox ballpark; so the rough dimensions of our diamond made up almost the entire playing surface.

Second base sat maybe four feet from the centerfield fence. First base crowded the guardrail boundary of the neighboring gas station (at Ashton & Willits Roads), and third sat on a slight incline bordering the lawn on the duplex property. Homeplate enjoyed its own green space backstop where the at-bat team could loll about in semi-suburban luxury.

And that’s how we spent the two or three summers when there was little else to worry about other than how to fill up those idle summer hours. We were Wiffleball Kings!

In a time when parents would see their children – especially their sons – at breakfast and not again until dinner time, there were no video games, no cable TV (three channels unless you had a UHF-capable set), no internet, no DVDs in stacks by an entertainment center. As kids we found all sorts of distractions and activities to fill those long summer days.

For us in the middle years of the 1960s, before we were pulled away by the semi-grownup responsibilities of newspaper routes, part-time jobs, and – gulp! – girls, we did little but play wiffle ball. We would start at 9:30 or 10:00 in the morning and play all day, or at least until the woman running the developer’s office in the basement of the duplex had enough of the noise and chased us off!

And when she climbed into her pink Mustang and went home for the day, we played until dinner, then played some more until the dark chased us on to other idle meanderings.

At times we went a bit too far in trying to emulate our real-life baseball heroes. Keeping records and statistics that rendered our games more adult and serious than they should have been. But our games were also a doorway that opened up our own little world to the larger neighborhood we would live in as teens. Challenges received and issued with other neighborhood clans expanded our circle of friends and introduced us The Outside World.

In the end, wiffle ball was a portal to relationships that would blossom in the years to come.

Our field became the preferred wiffle ball venue, our own version of the old, original Cathedrals of Baseball. It was the perfect melding of the grown-ups game with that of the kid’s size game. The grown-up world with the life of a kid.

It was the kind of life we took for granted as all kids do. The kind of life you never thought would end, would never change. The kind of life that in later years you looked back on with nostalgia and – maybe – a touch of envy for the carefree existence you wish you could recapture if only for a day … maybe even for just a few hours.

It was a time when there was no bigger aspiration to live up to than being a Wiffleball King!

PRUPDATE: (Kind of an pre-update since I haven’t even posted this yet; hence the term prupdate.)

I was going to include several pictures of the old wiffle ball field in this post. Even drove down to the old ‘hood to take pictures like some creepy tourist.

But the pictures of Duplex Field suck (a technical photography term) from the point of view of giving you a true appreciation of our once semi-magnificent field. I post them below, just to back up my earlier “teasing” up of this story on Facebook.

I was shocked when I saw the old field, really just another yard. I said to myself, “Where the hell did all these trees come from?”

Oh yeah … That was almost 50 years ago. Then I uttered the “C” word …

That was almost half-a-Century ago.

No … Not a very good moment.

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One Conversation I’m unable to Avoid

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Mike Shortall

This is one conservation so many believe we need, but not like this. It’s a conversation we really ought to have; but no one wants to have it for this reason. The conversation should be informative and problem-solving, not confrontational and vindictive.

It should be honest. It should be direct. There should be no finger-pointing, no accusations, no belittling any lack of proper terminology or cultural understanding.

We should be reasonable and pragmatic.

I wrote the above in the days following the Sandy Hook tragedy. I smirk at the sentiments expressed there now, as if there was a chance this “discussion”, which was more like shouting that started within minutes of the Breaking News reports hitting the internet, could somehow be non-confrontational, without vindictiveness, without finger-pointing.

A few months earlier I wrote of the immediate reaction to such senseless violence shortly after the Aurora massacre.

But this time I just wanted to get some thoughts together with the intention of waiting until after the funerals for the victims at Newtown, CT were concluded. But in the meantime, most reason on both sides went out the window, ensuring only that no one would really listen in an attempt to solve anything.

To refresh everyone’s memory, I’m not a gun owner. Never was one. But I am considering getting the required permit that would allow me the option of acquiring a gun should I think it necessary or preferable somewhere down the road.

I had been considering this for quite some time, as a method of protection should it be needed … down that road. You never know.

I live in a bedroom-suburban community with plenty of local police protection. Never felt threatened by crime or potentially isolated by disorder. But if something were to happen – personally or in a larger social sense – you want to have options. So I consider obtaining a gun permit a responsible thing to do, even if I don’t follow through right away with a purchase.

I would simply have kept my own personal options opened.

So yes, I am a non-gun-owning appreciator of the 2nd Amendment, as stated in that Bill of Rights as an adjunct to the original U.S. Constitution. And yet, after what happened a few days before Christmas, I can’t help but think something has to change.

I don’t pretend to be an expert on guns, gun law, or current restrictions on what’s allowed or not allowed to be owned. I have heard or read some things on guns, which as presented here should be taken at face value. If I’m wrong, I’m sure someone more knowledgeable will correct me; and I have no problem with that since I’m clearly not an authority.

However, this discussion cannot be solely about guns, weapons capabilities, ammunition and clip capacities.

It has to include school safety and the optimistic concept that declaring a “Gun-Free Zone” somehow makes our children safer.

One of my first reactions, when horrors like this originate from within a family setting, is to ask what the parents/guardians were doing, not doing, thinking, and otherwise managing the individual and their mental health status in the time leading up to the crisis.

In this case, the parent responsible died as a result of what steps she took – or didn’t take – to get her son the help he needed. But without all the details of what transpired, it’s a dangerous jump to conclusions to simply blame that parent.

And so, we have to speak of our handling of mental health issues, where caregivers and parents stand the risk of – at some point – being overwhelmed by their charges. In this vein, I offer the following story of a mother faced with an increasingly violent, hostile 13-year-old son.

(Much has been written about Long’s blog post since it was published. The internet exploded with reactions – both sympathetic and highly critical – to her story. I offer no judgement, and only skimmed a few of the responses to her saga. My point here is to simply present it as an example of what some parents face – aside from parental choices and skill sets – when dealing with a growing child with potential mental health issues.)

You should read it to get a sense of helplessness some parents face when dealing with a seemingly uncontrollable child. How would any Parent(s) react to the challenge described by this single mother?

Having to make sure your younger children have a safety plan when the eldest acts out is no way to live.
What happens when that hostile but manageable son becomes too big for his mother to counteract or control?
Is tossing her son into the criminal justice system, as one social worker suggests, her only option for help? Obviously it cannot be the best option for either Child or Mother.

So many – if not all – mass shooters are found to have some form of mental defect. What is the mental health system’s responsibility in all this? Are we paying now for those decisions over the last few decades that made treating these individuals in society’s mainstream? Are we reaping the consequences of shuttering those institutions that were infamous as hell holes for the mentally ill? Could we have done this better?

Again, I’m not an expert.

I would be the first one to admit that suggesting we need armed guards or police inside our schools is an extreme reaction. But then I look at some schools in cities like Philadelphia, where well-armed police take up station each day to prevent violence during arrivals and dismissals.

And then there’s the evolution among law enforcement on the proper response to “live shooter” situations, be they in a school, a theatre or a mall.

Unlike the Columbine shootings, where police waited outside the school to assess the situation as the shooting went on, police now actively attack the attackers … with guns and violence – if need be – in order to bring the shooting to an end. It’s been learned to be better to confront and stop as soon as possible, as opposed to sitting and hoping for the return of sanity.

And suddenly, the armed school guard idea doesn’t sound all that wacky or reactive. Problematic and risky? Yes. Wacky or without merit? I don’t think so.

When we advertize schools as “gun-free zones”, regardless of the merits of the intent, one of the consequences is to essentially highlight schools as “soft targets” where an attacker knows he can kill and accomplish his dastardly goals virtually uncontested.

But don’t get me wrong. I’m not pushing that as The Answer either. But we should be completely honest about our expectations when it comes to the safety of our children.

The knee-jerk reaction is to blame the guns. But they are just the tools most easily accessed and used. Certainly we can do a better job keeping guns out of the wrong hands. Yet no system of prevention is foolproof.

It’s easy to argue that certain changes in the types of guns, accessories, and ammunition should make a difference. And yet as early as 1927 a school board official in Bath Township, MI was able to murder 38 elementary school children, 6 adults and injured another 58 without even touching a gun!

Again, I offer no claim to being an expert on guns, their types, or the accessories that make them more efficient weapons; but tightening access to them, whether designed to keep criminals or dangerous personalities from using them appears like a no-brainer.

High capacity ammunition clips are already illegal to own. No one can walk into a store and walk out the same day with an assault weapon. Except supposedly you can at certain gun shows. That – I can agree – should stop. But then where do you go?

Now consider the fact that our own Government – such as in the “Fast and Furious” controversy – cannot seem to get out of its own way when it comes to the most lethal weapons and access to them by the most dangerous criminals. When one hand has knowingly pushed the most dangerous weapons to those very same criminals, it’s incomprehensible that anyone would expect the law-biding to willingly surrender their access to those very same weapons.

Obviously, restricting gun access is not the panacea so many think or wish it to be.

And once you get to that point, you realize this problem is a lot more complicated than the mad man’s choice of weapon.

Christmas Tree Wars

Posted on December 28, 2012 by Mike Shortall

“So, how do you guys make sure … ?”

Those words were a precursor to a Christmas experience I had yet to have the “pleasure” of experiencing. By the time I finished that sentence, I was having one of those little voice-in-the-back-of-the-head premonitions of impending Yuletide Aggravation.

We were Christmas tree shopping two weekends before the holiday. And we had found a suitable tree …

A suitable tree is a) alive, b) reasonably full and bushy, and c) fixable in places where it’s not reasonably full and bushy.

After looking at the first 45 trees, I usually remind my spousal unit that the tree doesn’t have to be “perfect”, which always gets me that “Thank you, Captain Obvious!” tilt-headed glare … which of course I live for!

As is the customary belief of REAL Christmas tree aficionados, Artificial Trees are reserved for soul-less, Just-Add-Water, Communists.

Fidel Castro extolling the perfect alignment of artificial Communist Christmas trees.

… and so we arrange for a tree-rustler to grab our prized evergreen and head off to The Prep Area, where the tree trunk gets a fresh cut and – in our case – a hole drilled up the middle of the trunk to accommodate our center-post tree stand.

For years and years we used the traditional four-point screw clamp tree stands and never seemed to have a problem. Then twice in three years we had trees topple over for no apparent reason; one time as we were walking out the door to Christmas Eve Mass.

And ever since we have relied upon our Center Post tree stand.

And this is where Christmas 2012 took its unanticipated cruise through uncharted waters.

The Mistake I made was to ignore the visual warning signs, despite the “uh oh” feeling I experienced after the following conversation, which resulted from my evaluation of the center post, tree-drilling set-up.

“Hey, I’m just curious, but I notice you guys don’t have the usual self-check fixture on the top of the drill rig.” (as had been used at other tree establishments in years past).

“Yeah, well … the grounds not very level here, so we can’t use the fixture as intended or the trees will come out drilled crookedly.”, our tree rustler offered.

“So, how do you guys make sure you drill the tree straight?”, I asked.

“Oh well, I’ll hold the tree in place as straight as I can; and The Driller checks the alignment from three directions to make sure we get it straight.”

uh huh …

Actually, there were two mistakes made here.

The first was to turn our annual Christmas tree purchase into an hunt, where we tour 4or 5 road-side tree lots before we head back to our usual Christmas tree merchant because no tree anywhere else jumps out and screams, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!!” at my lovely wife, Carol with sounds of Schroeder, Lucy and the rest of the Charlie Brown gang singing Christmas Time is Here.

The second mistake was not bailing out as soon as I saw the tree-drilling set up or after hearing that explanation. It just didn’t occur to me that if the drill rig was not level, even if the tree was visually “straight”, the “crooked” drill rig would …

Well … you can guess what happened next.

Get the tree home, but wait until the next day – December 16 – to pop the tree into the center post tree stand. At first I didn’t notice the Leaning Tree of Holiday Anguish. I usually allow the tree to stand in the warm house so it falls out from its tightly wrapped handling and transportation configuration.

The next morning, I come down stairs on my way to work and check to see how the tree is looking.

Oh no … You have got to be kidding me! Crooked?!? The damn thing is CROOKED!!!

At first I thought maybe the tree’s trunk is twisted. So I turned the tree on its stand looking for both The Good Side of the evergreen and an angle where it didn’t look like a drunk leaning against a lamp post. But no matter which way it was turned it somehow looked even worse!

2012 Tannenbaum II

So this Christmas season offered me the one holiday experience I had yet to encounter … The Retail Return of a Christmas Tree. After 50-plus years of Yuletide experience, you tend to believe you have seen it all.

Silly Santa …

Now some might say we were callous to reject an imperfect specimen. Yes, it wasn’t the tree’s fault. It was the boobs on the business end of a lopsided drill rig.

The tree vendors were nice enough about it. They offered me another tree or a refund. I made a cursory glance around for a replacement; although I have to admit, I didn’t WANT to find another one, also subject to the same off-kilter drilling process.

The tree purveyors offered a smile with my refund; and I trudged on back to the same old place we usually go, where the trees are on display with their trunks pre-drilled so there’s no guesswork involved. We ended up buying Tannenbaum II at our usual place and enjoyed a visually balanced Christmas tree!

The moral of the story is … “Familiarity breeds content.”

Also … “If it sounds too stupid to be done correctly, listen to that little voice in the back of your head.”

Flying with Tennessee

Posted on November 9, 2012 by Mike Shortall

(A re-post from last year of a chance meeting of an interesting Vietnam-era vet in the leading up to another Veteran’s Day.)

Carol and I were heading home from a visit to relatives in California on a flight out of LAX. As we settled into our seats, a man sat down next to me on what was to be a fully loaded flight. He was a tad older than me with a pleasant southern accent. He was headed to our intermediate point, Nashville. (Personal details have been left out of this story to preserve privacy.)

He was obviously alone, and we struck up a conversation … something with which I’m not always comfortable or likely to do on a crowded commercial flight.

Mr. Tennessee was on his way to family in Nashville, where he planned to make a new home after being forced – via eminent domain – to sell his house for a Southern California highway improvement. He was quite happy with this situation as he felt he had received a very fair buyout. He was a transplant who had settled in California out of the Vietnam-era military; and he was ready to use this life-changing opportunity to head back Home.

Tennessee told me at some point during our chat, he likes people and likes to talk until he runs out of interesting things to say. He did not disappoint …

So Tennessee launched into an overview of places he had served in Vietnam and military units of which I could make little sense, let alone remember. He spoke indirectly about some of the things he had seen there and of some of the things he did. He also spoke of more peaceful experiences he had enjoyed while in-country and how he felt his service there had shaped his later life. He expressed his admiration for those serving now, and spoke of how serving in the military has changed since he served as a volunteer in a draft-filled military.

Needless to say, I was in full Listening Mode.

Then as the conversation became more two-sided, we shared what our fathers did during World War II. My dad serving in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands, then the Philippines preparing for the invasion of the Japanese home islands. His dad getting destroyers shot out from beneath him in the Pacific. Then Mr. Tennessee turned to what he did in his post-military work-a-day world. How much he enjoyed his sideline craftsman’s hobby; how he looked forward to doing it more – as a man of retired leisure – in his still-to-be-determined Nashville locale; how much he looked forward to his new life situation.

At one point during the 3 1/2 hours to Nashville, Carol leaned over and whispered, “Lucky you, you got the talker.” But I was having perhaps the most enjoyable flight ever. (Let’s face it! We’ve all looked around those departure gate waiting areas, picking out the people we don’t want to sit next to … especially not for a 4-hours flight!) I was enjoying the passing of time with good, interesting conversation with someone whose life experience was very different from my own.

It’s puzzling to me the way certain normal, everyday interactions pique my interest more so than other normal, everyday interactions. Maybe I project something onto them. Maybe I focus on interactions that fit in some way my view of the world. Maybe they just strike a chord in a place I value.

Anyways … I was happy for him – a complete stranger – and for the comfort level he found in his life. He seemed to have “It” figured out for himself; and he was at a good place. He seemed genuinely satisfied with Life and for what the Future held.

And who wouldn’t want to live in that part of Tennessee?!?

27

Posted on October 26, 2012 by Mike Shortall

A beautiful day in late October

She glided down the aisle on a cloud of Whethers.

Will this work? Is he the right guy?

I would never answer for her, although I do try.

None of life’s challenges ever bested that feeling

Of watching her approach as I stood beaming.

The road ahead would be rocky for sure,

That she came anyway gave me the Courage to endure.

Twenty-seven years of a journey through pages

Of happiness, worries, a few battles for the ages.

We struggled sometimes, had laughs we still share,

Three incredible kids made it all worth the wear.

Now we look forward to those years not yet golden.

So many experiences still there to be holdin’

Each other in arms that stretch back to that day

When despite all uncertainty she came anyway!

Happy anniversary, Honey!

When I look back at how far we have come, it’s a breath-taking view!

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A Sunday morning at the National Institutes of Health

Posted on October 9, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Dealing with rare health issues is never much fun. And when the possibilities are shadowy and evasive, it is not only difficult to diagnose, the uncertainty itself becomes a source of anxiety. With this as a backdrop, we found ourselves spending a Sunday morning in Bethesda, Maryland as guests of the National Institutes of Health.

Yep, not a misprint … a Sunday morning in the monolith to American medical innovation and research just north of D.C., that black hole of Government bureaucracy.

Naturally, on a Sunday morning this huge facility was as quiet as a catacomb with barely a smattering of staff on hand for The Institute’s routine of Sunday sample processing. Why Sundays are preferred was not clear to us before our trip; but – to be honest – the off hours arrangement reduced our anxiety level by several orders of magnitude.

We were there for only a few hours, performing a rather simple step that could lead to either a much more complex round of testing and probing, or – hopefully – the answer we really want to hear, “No worries. It’s not THAT. The indicators were false.” Not that The Answer would belay all our concerns; but at least we could move on to other less threatening possibilities.

We ended up at the NIH because local specialists could not nail down the existence of a condition indicated by routine tests, yet elusive to medical imagery technology. A nationally renown expert was the next logical step; and referral to the NIH was suggested. As is the norm for bureaucratic networks, it took us six months to get to the point where patient-specific variables were addressed to the satisfaction of both patient and specialist. Once the arrangements for our visit were finalized, our family physicians were so impressed with our pending NIH visit, you could tell they almost asked if they could go along with us!

And so we found ourselves making a Saturday trip to my sister’s house in Bowie, Maryland for our 8:00 AM NIH appointment for the simple task of drawing blood samples. One would think such a routine medical procedure could have been done locally, as so many of us do for a variety of health-related issues. Not so for the purposes of the NIH … Controls in process and technique are understandably crucial when participating in a diagnostic study.

Our experience at the National Institutes of Health, aside from the necessity of travel, was nowhere near as inconvenient or irritating as we had feared. Part of that was undoubtedly the result of visiting this sprawling facility on a quiet, unobtrusive Sunday morning. But by far, the experience was made relatively painless by the helpful administrative and professional employees we encountered there.

To say I was pleasantly surprised with our NIH visit would be an understatement! From the guards responsible for the physical security of the NIH facility; through the painstakingly thorough, well-organized registration process; to the nurses who administered the sample collection, we were impressed with the professionalism and friendliness exhibited throughout our visit. (I even had the opportunity to argue the merits – and shortcomings – of NFL QBs RG3, Michael Vick, and Tony Romo with both a Redskins fan and a Cowboys fan just hours before Vick played the Steelers as though the football itself had contracted an infectious disease!) In roughly three hours time we completed the entire exercise and were on our way out.

Our biggest problem? Trying to solve the cheese-at-the-end-of-the-maze challenge of finding an open exit from which to escape the monstrous facility. We were convinced it was part of the evaluation process … some form of intelligence assessment. How long would it take these rubes to find their way out? All that was missing from making the test a viable reality show concept was a back seat full of over-dressed, pruning dance moms or elimination challenges at each inaccessible gate!

As a moderate political conservative, who eschews the huge footprint of Big Government, most would expect me to look at an organization like the National Institute of Health as a monumental example of bureaucratic excess. I like to think I’m more pragmatic than that.

There are several valid arguments for the benefit of federally funded footprints on basic social functions. Some are glaringly obvious … National Security, Emergency Management, Social Safety Nets, Interstate Commerce, Transportation Safety. Others may not be so obvious, yet are just as important to a well-functioning society that is responsible for maintaining and improving the health and welfare of its citizens.

The National Institutes of Health’s mission statement reads as follows:

NIH’s mission is to seek fundamental knowledge about the nature and behavior of living systems and the application of that knowledge to enhance health, lengthen life, and reduce the burdens of illness and disability.

The goals of the agency are:

to foster fundamental creative discoveries, innovative research strategies, and their applications as a basis for ultimately protecting and improving health;

to develop, maintain, and renew scientific human and physical resources that will ensure the Nation’s capability to prevent disease;

to expand the knowledge base in medical and associated sciences in order to enhance the Nation’s economic well-being and ensure a continued high return on the public investment in research; and

to exemplify and promote the highest level of scientific integrity, public accountability, and social responsibility in the conduct of science.

In realizing these goals, the NIH provides leadership and direction to programs designed to improve the health of the Nation by conducting and supporting research:

in the causes, diagnosis, prevention, and cure of human diseases;

in the processes of human growth and development;

in the biological effects of environmental contaminants;

in the understanding of mental, addictive and physical disorders; and

in directing programs for the collection, dissemination, and exchange of information in medicine and health, including the development and support of medical libraries and the training of medical librarians and other health information specialists.

The NIH performs research in a number of fields including obvious ones, such as cancer, Alzheimer’s, aging, and infectious disease, and less familiar studies in human genome, bioengineering, and environmental health sciences.

Health and medical research are vital contributions to the advancement of societies. It’s difficult to imagine a scenario where social development can be successful if the overall health of its members are left to the vagaries of commercial research and the lure of The Almighty Dollar. Having a nationally recognized hub for research that ensures growth in knowledge, better health, and healthier behaviors is a benefit to everyone.

Now, from my scant exposure to the NIH, I can’t claim to be in a position to know everything the NIH does or to judge the merits of all they do. But from the point-of-view of a citizen seeking the relief of knowing what’s on the horizon, it’s comforting to know that medical frontiers are being explored.

Lost Weekend in Williamsport

Posted on October 1, 2012 by Mike Shortall

That’s my boy!

Lost weekends occur for a number of different reasons, many of the reasons bad. Much of our September 15th weekend in Williamsport was lost in a blur of wedding activity, waves of emotion, and the excitement of having so many people – important to us – celebrating alongside. It was a weekend we had waited so long for, yet in the moment we were simply swept away in an emotional tsunami.

There was – or so I’ve been told – copious amounts of fine spirits, some wacky dance moves (Guilty as charged!), and a DJ that could be heard in State College.

There was one bizarre episode … involving a diabetic dog … a six-hour lap to the Philly suburbs and back … and one pissed off FoG (Father of Groom) at 0630 hours Thursday morning. Yet, I was proud I even answered Carol’s cellphone even when I KNEW – deep down – it was Disaster calling. Older dogs – like aged parents – do not like disruptions to their routine or their surroundings. And no, best not ask me WHY we had to go all the way back.

The real fun started Thursday night with the kind of scene fathers and mothers spend their lives working for and long remember when – and if – they occur. A chance for just our family and Mike’s soon-to-be, Janelle Lynn to have a quiet dinner with a few close relatives. We took the opportunity to welcome Janelle to the Shortall family. (She’d been warned a few times in the past. This was her last chance!)

But for Carol and me, the highlight of the night was being able to look across the table at the three ~~boys~~ men we raised and what – to this point – is the fruit of all those efforts. The scene was much warmer and satisfying than words can describe. And yes, I’m probably over-dramatizing a bit; but for me, it was a fantastic feeling. Being together in one place just doesn’t happen as much as it used to. And being able to look across the table at three upstanding young men was enough to give both of us the kind of feedback that says … Hey, we did alright!

My proudest accomplishments

On Friday, the really serious prep work began with the pre-positioning of supplies for the reception, including the aforementioned copious amount of booze along with linens and decorations that would take into the wee hours of Saturday morning to install once the rehearsal dinner was concluded Friday night. The Pennsdale Civic Center, a nondescript but roomy community hall, was the venue for Saturday’s reception. The bride’s family took responsibility for transforming The Center into an appropriately decorated wedding hall. And they did an exceptional job that included an elegant, lighted backdrop for the head table and wood-framed lighted columns that marked the corners of the dance floor.

Rehearsal dinner at The Valley Inn

Our turn – as the groom’s family – came Friday evening with an excellent meal following rehearsal at The Valley Inn in Duboistown, just across the West Branch of the Susquehanna River from Williamsport. The Valley Inn offers little to impress from the outside, aside from its intricately carved woodcraft sign. But the sign itself gives just a hint of the carpenter’s treasure inside. The amount of intricate woodwork throughout the establishment is enough to cause even the most experienced craftsman’s jaw to drop. And besides all that intricate woodwork, it also houses its own microbrewery, Abbey Wright Brewing Company.

Our meal for roughly 40 people was nothing short of impressive. The food – though simple – was well-prepared, delicious (The garlic mashed potatoes were a HUGE hit!) and well-attended, not only by a sharp, quick-serving staff, but also by proprietor, Jim Wright, who was there to make sure our party was a hit! I would highly recommend The Valley Inn should you be in the Williamsport area, looking for a quiet dinner or a venue in which to hold your next party or event. (The sports bar is not a shabby place to hang out either!)

Saturday – of course – was The Big Day!

Janelle, the bride chose yellow and a deep pink as the Colors of the Day, with the groom sporting the first Calla Lilly buttoniere I recall ever seeing. The ceremony was bright and joyous, and officiated most appropriately by Msgr. McGouth at St. Lawrence’s R.C. Church in South Williamsport. The happy couple seemed happiest when they exchanged vows on the First Day of the rest of their lives.

After pictures at the church and atop a scenic hill owned by members of the bride’s family, it was off to the reception. One of the proudest moments of the day, besides watching my oldest son take his vows, was enjoying the sight of Mike dancing with his mother in the obligatory mother-son dance.

There’s a certain pride one feels when the mother of your child expresses her pride and – in a symbolic expression – recognizes that in no small way her relationship with her son has changed. The change can be fraught with uncertainty, maybe even a touch of nostalgic longing, but it need not be a source of anxiety if the bond is solid and the love is strong. From where I stood at that moment, there were no doubts that their relationship will be as vital as it was when Michael was but a wee lad.

After ironing out a few complications with the liquor supply (Don’t ask! But a tip-of-the-glass to Vince, Bob and Steve for the Save!), it was time – finally – to relax. Yes, there might have been a touch too much “relaxing”; but what the heck, it had been months of preparation, emotional reflections, and nervous energy. Something had to give, and it gave in a big way! There are – no doubt a few incriminating photos floating around on the internet, and I have but one defense … It was Party Time!

It was – in the end – a day and night to remember. The newlyweds, who will not be taking their honeymoon until later, had a wonderful send off into married life. Their parents – if I may be so bold – did an outstanding job of ensuring their most important life event to date was a rousing success.

The Shortall entourage of family and friends had a wonderful time, and came away with very favorable impressions of the Williamsport, PA area.

Weddings can be glittery, elaborate, painstakingly stage-managed affairs. They are all unique in their own ways and, if done correctly, reflect the personalities of the happy couple.

In another sense though, weddings also provide a foundation for the inevitable challenges and difficulties these intertwined lives will face on their journey as a couple. The Foundation is represented by all those friends and family who surround and support the newlyweds on their big day. Because even as they party and celebrate the new union, there is an unspoken promise to be there when times get tough; when advice is needed; or even just to listen.

The Irish have a blessing that goes like this:

May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

The blessing invites one to understand the journey of life. It offers the hope that life’s travels will be easy, fruitful and safe from pain. The concept of the rising road sets forth the hope that the road through life will take one into higher and higher levels of personal and spiritual development.

From the look of things during that Lost Weekend in Williamsport, Janelle and Michael will face no shortage in those who care most deeply for them and who truly wish for the best in their lives together. And you can’t ask for anything more than that!

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Suing Greg Dobbs

Posted on June 25, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Greg Dobbs launching another assault attempt

Gregory Stuart Dobbs, former Philadelphia Phillies and current Miami Marlin should keep an eye on his mailbox over the next couple of weeks. He will undoubtedly find an unpleasant surprise awaiting him. But before I get into that …

I am proud to announce the end of a personal drought that has run for roughly 48 years! It began when I was about 8. (Might have been 6. It was a LONG time ago …)

That’s when I attended my first Philadelphia Phillies game at venerable Connie Mack Stadium! In all those years, I had NEVER caught a batted ball during game play … or during batting practice … or even as a casual flip by a player into the stands.

You get my drift. Never the chance to smell the processed leather scent of a new ball, to feel the slightly raised stitches or the slick whiteness of the MLB sphere. There was a hole in life … a small hole, but nonetheless …

Connie Mack Stadium: Where it all began

It’s one of those silly things guys who like their sports, who adore the Game of Baseball, are driven to “accomplish”. Just one of those experiences you want to check off the Minor Bucket List.

Most of us pursue our quarry willy-nilly on those occasions when we go to a ballgame and get the chance to sit in The Good Seats … in just the right place in the stadium where the fouls balls will most assuredly fall like manna from the heavens throughout the entire game. Those of us who cherish this quest will deliberately study potential ball flight paths, homeplate proximity, and immediately calculate the odds of a catch as soon as we get to our seats.

Yes, we are a sorry breed.

My personal drought ended on a Saturday evening, June 23, 2012 in the fourth inning of a game at Citizens Bank Park between the hometown Phils and the Tampa Bay Rays.

The Catch will forever go down in Family Lore as a diving, one-hand snag of a screaming line drive into the seats. At least that will be the story I plan to pass down to every one of my grandchildren … eventually. I will have to redefine the meaning of “catch” to include “gaining possession of an object that’s barely moving”. And I might throw in a small child or grandmother saved from a potential cataclysmic head injury.

Me and my elusive quarry, finally captured

But today will be the only time the true story will be told. But first back to my potential lawsuit against Greg Dobbs …

Since the World Championship season of 2008, we have held good ball-potential seats. Section 135 at Citizens Bank Park, just behind third base, halfway down the left field line, 21 rows from the field. We’ve had our share of close calls, including one in 2009 off the bat of the soon-to-be-lighter-in-the-wallet Gregory Stuart Dobbs.

In a game which has faded from memory, Mr. Dobbs assaulted us in our Section 135 seats. His weapon was a screaming line drive foul ball.

As soon as I saw it off the bat, I said to no one in particular, “Uh oh!” (no, not one of my more eloquent observations) The round missile was traveling at roughly the speed of sound and right at my bride’s delicate noggin.

To this day, she insists she would have caught it, had I not stuck my mitt-less mitt in front of her face. But by my calculation, she would still be in a head cast, sipping dinner through a straw.

So I did the gentlemanly thing and knocked her out of the way – gently … kinda – and bravely stuck my hand out to protect my woman … and of course, to see if I could grab that elusive sphere. When the dust settled, the ball was in the possession of a regular Section 135 resident who sits right behind us; I had a knot the size of Placido Polanco’s head growing on my thumb; and the spousal unit was in a tiff because I ruined HER CHANCE to catch one in the teeth!

For years I have lived with the humiliation of missing that Impossible Catch, the shame of ruining Carol’s “big chance” at a Grade III concussion, and the taunts of a coworker who sits a row ahead of us on the same 17-game ticket plan.

The torment finally ended that Saturday night!

Future Hall-of-Fame shortstop, Elliot Johnson (OK, so he’s off to a slow start.) swung at a Kyle Kendrick offering as I sat next to Carol and sipped my chosen adult beverage, a Flying Fish Extra Pale Ale.

As the ball arced tightly toward the population of Section 135, I received a mental text message from that compartment of the brain in charge of Semi-Athletic Endeavors … PUT THE BEER DOWN. As I complied, I thought “Why am I bothering? That ball’s not getting here.”

Sure enough the ball hits three rows ahead of us and about 6 seats to our right. I had stood up just before the ball hit flailing flesh, keenly abiding the next two intra-brain text messages … STAND UP, STUPID and LOOK FOR A REBOUND …

Several people lunged for the possession prized by so many, though it means so little. The ball got through outstretched arms and struck the back of a seat a row or two in front of us, still off to our right.

As I searched for a ricochet, I was stunned to see the ball bounding down our row; seat-back high, clanking off grabbing hands, bouncing off cowering women folk. It struck someone or something and plopped into a seat a row in front and just to the right of my Android-distracted spousal unit. (Later, she would insist she would have had the ball had she not been playing with her phone. Well, at least this time she wouldn’t have needed all that dental work.)

Since I was obediently standing up already, I was in the perfect position to plunge down and grab the valueless trinket. Yet for some reason, I waited for the next rather frantic, emotion-filled brain text that screamed GET IT, YA DOPE!!!

As I swooped down (dismiss all pre-existing concepts of what “swooping” looks like), another gentleman equidistant from the seat on the other side of Carol also lunged down and flailed at the elusive prize. My cat-like movements (consisting of me clawing at the still bouncing ball like a large, slow-moving cat) simply knocked the ball around the seat some more, as I and my competition continued to swat and grab. Finally, I cornered the ball and plucked it from the seat!

I rose triumphant and exhilarated! Displaying my trophy for all The World to see, including that smart ass from work who predicted I would NEVER get my first in-game ball! I was King of the World!

Then Kendrick threw another pitch, and I was just a middle-aged doofus making too much out of corralling a worthless, slightly used baseball.

And that leads me back to Gregory Stuart Dobbs.

I heard that Elizabeth Lloyd and her husband are suing an 11-year-old Little League player in Manchester Township, NJ for $300,000 after allegedly plunking her in the face with a baseball … that might have been traveling 10 miles an hour … while she sat completely oblivious to what was going on around her at a baseball game with pre-teens swinging metal bats and throwing rock hard objects.

I don’t really buy this – that you can hold an 11-year-old accountable for your own lack of attention – but it was inspiring on a much higher financial level! Afterall, if Ms. Lloyd is successful, imagine what I could get from a grown man and well-paid ballplayer – Mr. Dobbs – who was “engaging in inappropriate physical and/or sporting activity” in the presence of 45,000 people!!

In addition, I also lost the “services, society and consortium” of my wife. This was the indisputable result of my thumb injury, which prevented me from completing my “move”, as I prefer The Pinch over The Swirl. For weeks I was reduced to using The Knuckle. It was HORRIBLE! The loss was devastating, insufferable, humiliating, and completely fabricated.

But hey, get me a good lawyer, and I could ~~make~~ take me a fortune!

Greg Dobbs, the bell tolls for thee!

Tips for surviving a Type A Vacation

Posted on June 8, 2012 by Mike Shortall

Now that another summer is upon us, I offer observations and advice for those Type B personalities preparing for another “vacation” with their Type A spouses.

Many of us have one. That Type A spouse upon whom we rely for all the high-intensity, detail-filled tasks that are essential to family health and harmony. The Type A in the family is the go-getter, the organizer, the protagonist for family involvement, the anti-couch potato … all good things … most times.

Unfortunately, some Type As tend to transform into General Patton when it comes to the family vacation. They plan and execute summer get-aways like the D-Day invasion of Fortress Europe. There are Objectives, Operational Plans, and Time Tables. The pace of operations can be intense and unforgiving. And if you tire, get wounded, or fall off the pace, you’re likely to be left by the side of the road like a piece of carrion for the buzzards.

OK … Just a bit of hyperbole there. And maybe there’s nothing amiss with some high-intensity activity on a vacation. Many people seem not to mind.

But, if YOU are the family couch potato – like me – and come ill-prepared for the duration and intensity of this Theatre of Operations, a much-anticipated vacation could end up as your own personal version of The Donner Party. So with my years of experience at being driven by my more energetic, motivated, hyper-vacationated spousal unit, allow me to offer some timely advice.

Keep in mind that each trial, hurdle, ache, and injury will be multiplied by the number of children you will carrying on your back or pushing in a stroller!

Get in touch with Type A reality: Some people – or so I’m told – go on vacations to unwind, to regroup, to blow off steam, to reflect and to recharge the batteries. In other words … To RELAX! But as any Type A Vacation Survivor will tell you, you cannot spell R-E-L-A-X from V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N! And that all you will get from your Type A protagonist is the “A” … and that “A” stands for Apathy! Once rid of your Type B Vacation misapprehensions, you will understand and – more importantly – SURVIVE what is in store for you.

Cardiovascular health: Make sure you are physically fit and ready for a grind. Type A Vacations can include hand-to-hand combat, tests of agility, decision-making under extreme stress, and plenty of windsprints; and that’s just getting to breakfast!

So lose the excess weight. Hit the elliptical trainer and the Stairmaster. Work on BOTH speed and endurance. You’re going to need it!

I learned – a bit too late to save my naive impressions of what vacations are – that the two of us were raised in families that lived at Polar Extremes of the Vacation Continuum. My family – when we went on vacations – tended to gravitate towards the South Jersey shore points, where Leisure is spelled with a capital “L”. The most stress usually involved deciding where to eat; the too long/too late obligatory excursions on the boardwalk; and the occasional case of sunburn.

Not so my better-half’s family vacation experiences. Whereas my family’s vacations seemed geared towards resting and refreshing hard-working adults, her family’s vacations were about The Experience … Getting as much as one can from the trip … Trying not to miss a single offering or opportunity presented by whatever venue they visited … Hit the ground running and don’t stop until the money is exhausted or the hotel insists that your stay has ended!

She’ll claim it is not so; but I have the scars to prove otherwise!

Strength training: You’ll want to bulk up normally for any vacation … all that baggage rustling, equipment stowage and deployment can test your back, arms and legs.

Pre-hotel-check-in on Day One, Disneyworld 2004

Many Type A’s look upon hotel check-in as an unnecessary hindrance to getting all the fun started. If given their way, they would forego completely any initial hotel interaction until very late the first night of a trip. They would prefer to jump, tuck ‘n roll from the still-moving car and commence immediately with the festivities. This is why so many Type A’s will wear their bathing suits on the way to the shore.

However this becomes a real problem when visiting high-activity, high-intensity vacation sites like Disney World. Dragging all those unchecked suitcases through The Magic Kingdom on Day One for hours before your Type A decides to waste time checking-in can be exhausting. So make sure you pay extra attention to strengthening your large muscle groups of the legs and back!

It’s hard not to reflect on our earlier vacations when the boys were but wee lads. The amount of equipment … strollers, porta-cribs, high chairs, toys … we had to drag along with us was mind-boggling.

I can remember staring at the back of our Dodge Grand Caravan thinking, “I’ll never get all this crap in or onto the roof.”

Of course just about then, General Patton would stick her head out the door and ask me why I was relaxing!!

Get your rest before you go: Yeah, I know … Get my rest BEFORE vacation?!? Trust me! As stated above, you cannot spell R-E-L-A-X … Anyway, simply be prepared to GO GO GO from dawn to midnight! You will get to relax when you sleep and if you’re lucky should you stop at a food source where you will be allowed – begrudgingly – to sit down and eat.

Know your rights! This is the toughest part of being a Type B soul trapped in a Type A vacation.

It’s been four days of hard-driving, high intensity, calf-burning activity. You look longingly at the hotel pool, the water of which you fear will never get the chance to wash over your cramping, stressed-out body. You heard rumor that the tiki bar has been hopping the last two nights while you were pushing four-year-old Gertrude and six-year-old Jeffrey in a double dolphin stroller through 25 miles of SeaWorld until midnight. You just want a few hours doing nothing more than reading a book, floating in the pool, or downing a few mai tais. But you know that the Operations Plan does not allow for idle time. Failure to adhere to The Schedule will throw the entire expedition into chaos and anarchy.

What’s a Type B to do?!?

STRIKE!

That’s right, exercise your God-given right to refuse to do anything more than sit around and contemplate your navel! Why should teachers and Teamsters have all the fun?!? Where’s the compassion? Where’s the solidarity?? Where are the damn mai tais?!?

Now that being said, General Patton will be a bit more than slightly miffed at your insubordination and temerity. They will huff and puff; threaten and cajole; plead in the name of the Operations Schedule. DO NOT LISTEN! The sole purpose is to wring another day’s worth of blood from a turnip. And oddly enough, turnips is probably what your knotted, cramped legs will look like at this point of your Type A Vacation!

First off … NO TEARS!! Crying is a sign of weakness to the Type A Patton. They will roll over you like Hitler took the French! If the Type A pressure persists, simply put on your Alec Guinness stiff upper lip; whistle the tune from The Bridge on the River Kwai; and stand your ground!

Simply state in your firmest, most reasonable voice that you will be taking a day off, and that you would be willing to watch the kids at the pool so that General Patton can dangle a foot off the dock for a few hours as well. This strategy has worked for me in the past. General Patton by this point accepts our labor standoffs with rolled eyes and an exasperated huff. And one year she actually chose to forego the pool day and went solo into The Magic Kingdom just to reconnoiter the next day’s Mission.

But for the typical Type A Vacation Generalissimos, The Next Mission is what vacation is all about!