While hiking in Flandrau State Park in New Ulm on June 22, 2021, Linda and I talked about how the pandemic no longer dominates our thoughts. Not like the pandemic  didn’t happen, more like the pandemic is in the rear view mirror and we’re moving forward.   As we walked, apparently I got pretty quiet.  For some reason, as I was thinking about life moving on after the pandemic, the story of Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil came to mind. 

Almost exactly two years earlier, June 23, 2019, (yes I looked it up).  Linda and I were headed north, towards home, up the east side of the Mississippi River, eight days into our several thousand mile road trip along the Great River Road route.  We found ourselves in a Hampton Inn in Clarksdale, Mississippi, on Sunday night, hungry after a long day on the road.  Clarksdale, Mississippi is the home of the crossroads where Robert Johnson is said to have sold his soul to the devil.

There were only a couple cars in the parking lot of that Hampton Inn.  Off in the distance to the west you could see the storm we’d heard about on the radio coming toward us.  We checked in, and asked the clerk if there was any chance there was some place to eat with live blues music.  In case you didn’t know Clarksdale is considered literally the home of the blues. Most of the famous blues artists came from somewhere within a hundred miles of Clarksdale, Mississippi.  

Understand, first of all, Clarksdale has a population of about 15,000, less than half the population of Roseville, MN where I grew up.  Remember also it was a Sunday night. The hotel clerk said there were three restaurants in town which had live blues; however, two of them were closed on Sundays.

The place that was open was Levon’s. She was not sure they had music on Sundays.  We got directions and off we went.  It was just a couple miles away.  As we drove through town it was apparent the town had seen better days.  As we got closer to Levon’s, the houses, businesses and schools were sadly in rough disrepair.  We almost turned around as we approached the old weather worn building with a small sign saying “Levon’s”.  

There were a couple of old men sitting in old chairs in front.  The very small parking lot was as much dirt as it was broken pavement. We swallowed hard and went inside.

Off to the left was an elderly gentleman playing the hell out of a very nice looking acoustic guitar with a tip jar right in front of him.  I guess he was in his mid to late seventies. My gosh he played well.  We stood in the doorway for several minutes, before one of the staff held up a finger indicating he’d be right over as soon as he finished hearing the story he was being told. 

There were only a couple tables with people sitting at them.  We were seated and our drink order was taken. Then a single menu with only a couple items listed was given to us.  

We asked the guy who sat us down what he recommended.  He was about as laid back and casual as you could imagine.   I don’t remember the name of what he recommended but it looked like some sort of gumbo only with big shrimp in it. OMG it was delicious. By the time we got our food the place was filling up.  Near as I could tell everyone who came in was a regular, most of them greeted by name, handshakes and or embraces.

The guy playing the guitar had started to sing the blues.  He was very good.  Yes, of course, I put a twenty dollar bill in the tip jar. 

The next morning as we left town we drove past a large marker on the corner of Highway 49 and Highway 61 indicating this was the site of the famous Crossroads.

The legend is:  Robert Johnson was an embarrassingly bad guitar player.  At age 19 (1929) he left, some say was kicked out of Robinsonville, Mississippi and traveled 45 miles to Clarksdale, Mississippi to the Crossroads of Highway 61 and Highway 49.  Which is where he met the Devil at midnight and made a deal to sell his soul in exchange for being able to create the blues well enough to become famous.

Robert Johnson, in fact did leave Robinsonville in 1929 not knowing how to play the guitar and came back two years later a guitar virtuoso.  There are only forty-one songs known to be recorded in two sessions (29 different songs, some recorded twice) . Many of them are now blues classics. They were recorded in 1935 and 1936. He died a couple years later in 1938 at the age of 29. 

The rumor was, the devil kept his end of the bargain and then the devil took his due. The reality seems to be Robert Johnson from the time he was like 14 he could play the harmonica well and made his way singing and playing in bars and street corners. 

He went to Clarksdale where he lived with his cousin, who was a good guitar player.   It is thought his cousin taught Robert how to play and practiced with him often.  Robert had unusually long fingers so he could do things with the guitar that most people could not.

Pre-pandemic, life was moving along as life does. The pandemic hit and for the next fifteen months, for better or worse, life was different.  Vaccines were a game changer.  We now stay in hotels and eat in restaurants which made taking long hikes in multiple state parks practical.  

Selling one’s soul to the devil seems a tad extreme but I know for sure, taking time for a walk in a state park thinking about the past and the future is a nice way to spend some time.  

The closer you look the more one sees. 

Everyone of the dozen or so of us in the urology office waiting to be called in for a prostate biopsy, appeared to be men plus or minus 10 years of my age (68).  I commented to one of the staff about there being a lot of men here getting biopsies.  He indicated that since covid they do about half as many biopsies as pre-covid.  

The five year survival rate from prostate cancer caught before it spread beyond the prostate is about the same as those without prostate cancer. Once the cancer spreads beyond the prostate the survival rate drops dramatically to about 30% of the five year survival rate for those without prostate cancer. 

The short version

On March 25, 2021 my prostate was surgically removed.  The pathology report confirmed about 10% of the area of the prostate was malignant and the cancer was contained (not spread to the lymph nodes or otherwise).  As of this writing, my bladder control is improving.  I still am restricted on lifting, pulling or pushing and I get tired.  Afternoon naps are often the order of the day.

The longer version.

Back five – seven years ago, I was diagnosed with an enlarged prostate.  I had the classic urinary issues men with enlarged prostates have. Trouble completely emptying my bladder thus having to go frequently.  Trouble starting the stream. Once started I had a weak stream.  Trouble stopping the stream. 

My enlarged prostate didn’t stop me from leading an active lifestyle but it was becoming a problem.  For example, at the intermission of a play I would rush out to the bathroom because I felt I was about to wet my pants. Then when I got to the urinal I would stand there for much longer than it should have taken, trying to get the stream to start. Then repeat as soon as the play is over.  

My issues surrounding peeing became part of a mental plan for every outing.  Eventually I was given a prescription (tamsulosin).  The symptoms diminished for a year or so but the symptoms returned.  The dose was upped but the relief was only sort of better.

Then as part of my annual physical in the fall of 2019 my PSA (prostate-specific antigen) levels were still within the normal range but they had increased from low in the range to high within the range.  Which got me sent to a urologist which after some other scans and tests led to the discovery of my kidney cancer.  

On December 5, 2019, I had my right kidney and the associated malignant tumor removed.   I recovered. Follow up check ups happened at six months, one year and are scheduled annually after that.   A checkup means:  a CT scan of the area my kidney was and an x-ray of my lungs and then an appointment with a urologist to discuss.  

The urologist who did my surgery moved out of state, the urologist for my six month checkup retired shortly after.  I don’t think either one was related to me but who knows.  At any rate, the next urologist up, one year check up (December 2020) happened to be the urologist who assisted on my kidney surgery.  He reviewed the scan and x-ray saying they looked fine.  Which, as a practical matter, meant annual as opposed to semi-annual checkups into the future.  

However, he was also concerned the previous doctor at my sixth-month check-in had not checked my PSA levels.  After all, checking my PSA levels was why I was sent to the Urologist in the first place.  So, blood was drawn and two days later he called me saying my PSA levels were now above the normal range and recommended we do an MRI and biopsy of my prostate.      

The MRI was done mid-January 2021.  Apparently the MRI provides the road map for doing the biopsy.   The biopsy was done in early February 2021.  The worst part of the biopsy is the prep.  Let’s just say my bowels were cleared out and the antibiotic regimen messes with one’s digestive tract.  

About a week or so after the biopsy the urologist called me to let me know there was a relatively small, but medically significant, malignant area on my prostate.  A couple weeks later I am in his office reviewing my options.  The cancer was a slow growing type.  One option was to kick the can down the road, get a biopsy annually and remove the prostate at some point in the future.  The other option was to remove the prostate now.  Doing nothing was not a real option, the cancer would continue to grow, would spread and likely be the cause of my death. 

The thought of doing that prep every twelve months was not appealing but I was on the fence.  Then I asked the key question: Would the surgery relieve the symptoms of my enlarged prostate.  He chuckled. Yep surgery would in fact relieve the effects of my enlarged prostate because it would remove the prostate.  At that point it was an easy decision.  

I am three weeks out from the surgery at this writing.  The surgery was not bad. Overnight in the hospital and I had to wear a catheter for a week post surgery. Little to no pain from the moment I woke up from the surgery to date.  No lifting over 10 pounds for a month.  Linda is patient and kind beyond words. The enlarged prostate urination issues are gone.  

I am not yet completely in control of my bladder but it is getting much better. I am told it typically takes six to eight weeks post surgery to gain full control.  The technology of my “incontinence underwear” is amazing. It never feels wet against my skin, it just gets heavy. 

So that is that.  

What follows are some car-related memories from my distant past.  Once in awhile remembering the past is fun, however, for the record, generally, I prefer living in the present. 

High school was over fifty years ago.  I honestly no longer know if the stories I tell are totally accurate.  I’m going with mostly accurate.  I am not mechanically inclined and not really a car guy.  I like using cars to do stuff, not so much doing stuff on cars. 

Starting about a month or so before I got my license and about a half dozen times, my older brother gave me the keys to his turbocharged Corvair Corsa Turbo 6 to practice driving.  He would say here are the keys, try not to crash.  I then drove off alone. 

It was probably the fourth time I drove his car.  I had the hang of it.  I knew how to shift and the like.  It is just about sunset.  I am turning left from County Road B heading north on the entrance to I35W toward I694.  This section of the interstate was, at the time, brand new with very little traffic.  

I accelerated, my foot to the floor, shifting through the gears. At about 100 mph the front end started to float.  I was not at redline on the tach so I tried to keep going faster. To this day, I think I took my foot off the gas just a split second before I lost control.  I did not crash but it was close. That is as fast as I’ve ever driven. I was too dumb to be scared, but smart enough to avoid wrecking my brother’s car. 

The following summer I got a summer job at a fiberglass repair shop.  I think it was located a couple of blocks from the Minneapolis Auditorium.  They fixed fiberglass boats and did bodywork on Chevrolet Corvettes (their bodies were fiberglass).  They rented some very dumpy storage space down on Nicollet Island.  Part of my job was to shuffle cars from the storage space to the main shop.  That summer I probably drove a dozen or so Corvettes down Hennepin Ave between the storage space and the shop.

One of the cars I shuffled was a custom 1966 Corvette painted British racing green with a dark racing stripe down the center pulling a hydroplane race boat on a custom trailer both painted to match the Vette.  Everyone I passed along the way stopped and stared at a seventeen-year-old kid driving the Vette with a boat down Hennepin Ave.

Donnybrook Raceway started in 1968, (yes I looked it up).  The following year, I drove my 1959 Pontiac Catalina in the middle of the week to watch a Sports Car Club of America event.  Basically, amateur drivers put a rollbar in their stock sports car, put on a helmet, and raced each other.   We were allowed to park and stay in the infield campground (bare field with a couple of porta-potties).  I slept in the car.  The next day my car would not start.  I even talked one of the race mechanics into taking a look and he could not get it started either. 

So that afternoon I hitchhiked home.  There were two entrances to the track one for the general public and the other for the racers and track staff. The non-public entrance was closer to the infield so I walked out of that entrance and stuck out my thumb.  

A green Ford Mustang pulled out of the track, pulled over, and picked me up.  The car had a rollbar. The driver was wearing a helmet and racing gloves. He asked me where I was headed and drove me to the corner of County Road B and Highway 280, three blocks from  my house.  For the duration of the trip, he did not say more than a couple of words.  Which was good because he was driving very fast.  We passed cars like they were standing still.  The tires squealed slightly as we rounded corners.  He was in full race mode. Scaring the crap out of me was probably just a bonus.  

During my Junior year of college, I was mentally not in a good place.  I told my mom I planned to drop out of school spring quarter and hitchhike my way to the east coast.  I didn’t drop out mostly because I was too depressed to change course.  However, when my brother heard about my funk, he suggested I fly out to Norfolk Virginia, where he was stationed (Navy) then drive back home with him and his car.  He was to be deployed for six months in the Mediterranean and did not want to leave his car on the base for that long.  

His car was a custom 1967, maybe 1968, Pontiac GTO painted multiple shades of metal-flake green. Big cheater slicks so the car was raised in the back.  Traded the Corvair Corsa plus some cash for it as I recall.  

So I flew down and spent a week of my Christmas break in Norfolk, VA.  Two days before Christmas we headed home.  The first thing to know is I had long hair.  The next thing to remember is it was a custom painted street rod.  The third thing to remember is the 55 mph speed limit had just taken effect.  About a mile from his base a Virginia highway patrol started following us.  Hour after hour, as we drove from the eastern edge of Virginia to the western edge, a highway patrol car was right behind us.  Periodically one patrol car would take an exit but another patrol car would pick us up. 

When we got to the Virginia / West Virginia state line, there was a West Virginia state patrol waiting to escort us.  The same routine, periodically the patrol car would take an exit, and a new car would be there to follow us.  We stopped for gas and the patrol pulled in behind us.  He nodded his head and tipped his hat but never said anything.  

Once we got to Ohio we were no longer followed.  The speed limit might have been 55 but we wanted to get home sooner than later.  We treated speed limits as suggestions and drove as fast as the traffic would allow. 

No moral to these stories.  Maybe someday I’ll tell you some more. Learning how to break into cars is a good story.  Anyone one of a half dozen teenage road trips is a good story. For now time for lunch. 

 

The closer you look the more you see

www.scaleandperception.com

 

The corn dog from the Roseville VFW was good but an MN State Fair pronto pup would’ve been better.  I was sad the 2020 MN State Fair was canceled, however, I was not crushed.  It is a shame the vendors lost income, but in fact, it saved me a couple of hundred bucks.  I miss the “Great Minnesota Get Together”, however, canceling the fair made sense.

The reality of this pandemic is the virus is highly contagious, spreads mostly through the air between congregated people.  In America, over two-hundred thousand died, five times that number were hospitalized, millions got sick, millions were asymptomatic and yet the vast majority of us are yet to be infected. 

Not enough time has elapsed to know how long immunity continues post-infection. Vaccines are being developed although none are yet proven to be both effective and safe. 

Assuming a vaccine is developed, it will take many months maybe years to ramp up production and to twice vaccinate the over seven billion people on earth. Add the reality that many might refuse to be vaccinated and God alone knows how long we will be fighting COVID-19. 

Most people wish life would soon get back to pre-pandemic normal.  Being honest, I can’t remember any “normal” time in my entire life. In my life experience: more days than not, unexpected shit happens, we react, and then tomorrow comes.  Then, as often as not, during the next day, the unexpected shit once again happens.  

In reality, this new coronavirus is not the only threat we all face. Forces known and unknown are always threatening our lives and requiring us to adapt as best we can.  Cancer, auto accidents, diabetes, illness, overwork, lack of sleep, and oh so much more besides COVID-19 also threaten our well being. 

We wear seatbelts, we filter our water and we wear warm clothes on cold days. We wash our hands, we have sewer systems.  The list of ways we react to threats to help our chances of survival is long. 

Almost always as we react to a new threat, real or imagined, it is first awkward and controversial.  Then, over a period of time, our adaptation becomes second nature (normal). Some people will still not wear a seatbelt but most of us click it on without a second thought.

Right now, most people, including me, think social distancing and wearing a mask is required to reduce the threat of COVID-19.  We also wash our hands, get checkups by a doctor, periodically change our sheets and you get the idea.  Each day we do our best to assure we see tomorrow. Sure we can take some risks, but most of us know tempting fate is not a good long-term strategy. 

A meteorologist responding to a question about bad weather said; the weather is what it is.  Judging the weather to be good or bad is more about your circumstance than about whether the weather is good or bad. Snow makes driving difficult but snow makes cross-country skiers smile.  

People are social beings. The negative consequence of social distancing is real. It goes against our nature. Yet congregating in close quarters such as in concerts, churches, sports, weddings, funerals, and the like are not a good idea during a pandemic. You might not get sick or die but you might well spread the virus to someone who will.  

One thing I know for sure, life will never return to a pre-pandemic normal.  Life always evolves.   Normal always evolves. Who knows what concerts, weddings, sports, and the like will evolve to.  I am actually looking forward to seeing how it all works out.   

Weddings are a good example.  Over the past several decades I attended dozens of weddings.   Each wedding was different. Some big, some very small.  In back yards, in big cities, on farms, in small towns, in big buildings, in churches, in small banquet halls and, you get the idea.  

I saw a bride ride into a wedding riding side-saddle on a white stallion, while a gospel choir sang under an ancient oak tree.  At another wedding, Linda and I were the witnesses and only guests.  Each wedding is unique.  There is no normal wedding. The thing is, in the end,  the status of the couple was: married.  Whether the wedding was lavish or in a judge’s office during a coffee break, once it is done, the couple is legally married.  

Weddings during the COVID-19 pandemic can happen. The wedding might be different than the couple originally thought but no wedding is ever normal and virtually all of them are memorable in their own way. 

I miss concerts but at a recent distance get together, one of our friends played the guitar. You can’t beat live music. Our little mini-concert was every bit as wonderful as I could imagine.  

Where is this normal to which so many of us refer?  Working or learning from home was not the norm, yet there are many who love working or learning from home.  On the other hand,  for some, working or learning from home is not ideal. Doing the best we can with the hand dealt is the best we can do.

Normal is changing like it always does: shit happens, we adjust and move on until some other shit happens. That’s life.  Like the weather, life is not bad or good, life is what it is.  Whether it is good or bad depends on how well you adapt to it.

 

The closer you look the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com

I was the fourth of five.  By the time I was a teen, my parents had experienced the teen years of my three older siblings. My parents loved me, but it is a fact, they did not care whether I ate at home or not.

They didn’t announce they did not care.  Experience taught me the harsh and yet liberating reality of my situation.  I was a new seventh-grader, time got away from me at a friend’s house.  I headed home missing dinner by a couple of hours, not having called.  I  assumed “grounded” would soon be my status as I braced for my parents’ wrath.  I was pleasantly surprised; mom asked If I had a good night.  I responded, “yep”.  And so it started.   

I spent seventh grade (infrequently) and eighth-grade (frequently) exploring the limits of my parent’s indifference of me missing dinner.  Over the remainder of my teens, I never once found the limit.  I never felt unwelcome at home, The table was set for those of us home when the table was set. Come home in the middle of dinner, a setting was added.  Come home after dinner, and you were welcome to any leftovers. Don’t show up for dinner, that was fine also.

My decision of whether or not to be home for dinner revolved around the relative convenience of getting home for dinner.  We lived close to the west border of Roseville, MN.  Most of my friends, my schools, shopping, and restaurants were more centrally located. It was often just more convenient to eat out before going to a sporting event, concert, church event, friend’s house, or the like. 

Between my morning paper route and working part-time, the paying part of eating out was not an issue.  I felt comfortable eating alone. It was often just easier to grab dinner out. My parents were okay with it, so that is what I often did. 

I ate several places but mostly Har Mar Pizza. At first, the staff at Har Mar Pizza treated me just like any other customer,  sit, menu, order, beverage, food, eat, check, and go to the register to pay. 

I usually ordered a sausage, mushroom, and pepperoni pizza. Put the sausage on in small chunks so the flavor is more evenly distributed, please. My normal. But periodically I would change it up occasionally with a burger or spaghetti and meatballs.   

It was not long until, if the cook saw me walk in, he would just ask if I wanted the usual and the waitress either just brought me what I usually drank (Coke for a while then Dr. Pepper) or told me to get it myself. 

Not at first but at some point, generally, when I finished eating, I bussed my table.  If there were some dirty dishes on an empty table I was walking by, I would often just grab them and put them in the bus tray. No big deal. I was there frequently and they were nice to me so helping seemed fair.  

Gradually, not every time, when I brought the check to the cash register, rather than charge me, the waitress or cook would crumple up the check and just throw it away.  

It was never a formal thing but from around ninth grade on, I pretty much always ate for free. How much I helped had also evolved.  If they were really busy I would run a load or two of dishes through the dishwasher or grab some needed supplies from the back room.  They appreciated the help and I appreciated the free food.   

We had an unspoken understanding if I was there with my friends, my friends and I would pay because free did not apply to everyone.  They also understood, interacting with me when I was alone is different from interacting with me when I am with a group of friends.  If the group got loud, they told us all to keep it quiet.  I was never singled out because they knew me well.  I appreciated that.  

As I got old enough to drive, my time at Har Mar Pizza expanded. I would often eat at Har Mar Pizza before and or after whatever part-time job I had at the time.  Even on school nights after an event, I would drop my friends off at their home, then often go to Har Mar Pizza for soda.  The staff appreciated the help of putting chairs upside down on the tables so the floor could be cleaned. 

Maybe you noticed, besides not required to be home for dinner, there was not a curfew.  Coming home at ten or ten-thirty on a school night, was not an issue.  On the rare occasion when I would call telling mom I was going to be late, she asked if something was wrong, confused as to why I called just to tell them I would be late. 

My dinner/curfew freedom was just the way it was for me. It was my reality. I knew my friends did not enjoy the same freedom as I did.  At the time it did not make me cool or the object of pity. It was just the way it was.

Not until I had kids of my own, was the relationship between reasonable restrictions and nurturing clear to me.  I am still working through how my parents could both love me dearly and still not nurture me well in some obvious ways. Dad passed 50 years ago and mom passed 30 years ago so I can’t talk to them about it.  

I still eat sausage, mushroom, and pepperoni pizza. I am not so much for caffeinated beverages anymore.  My Har Mar Pizza days ended when they closed.  I started working for them as a college student when they reopened as Cicero’s Pizza.  

I was still working at Cicero’s until I got my first career-type job working for the State of Minnesota at the Unemployment Division in early 1975.  I am still a bit of a night owl.

 

The closer you look the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com

 

Until the spring of my senior year of high school, blue jeans were banned.  I was warned by the school principal about wearing blue jeans at school during the first week of that year.  In a brave act of civil disobedience, about once a week, I defied the ban by wearing a shirt, tie, and a pair of blue jeans.  In early spring I led some of my fellow students to the football field, under the west end goal post, to protest to be allowed to wear jeans to school.  

Times were changing, whether we protested or not, jeans were probably going to be allowed the following year, but we were seniors.  Later that afternoon I was sent to the principal’s office.  To my surprise, the principal had talked to the chairman of the school board and agreed to not enforce the ban on blue jeans, pending the formal policy change by the full school board.  Protests sometimes work when the timing is right. 

Resolving an issue requires getting the powers that be to focus on the issue. Protests tend to encourage them to focus on the issue.  Once you’ve gotten their attention, sometimes the issue gets resolved.

The First Amendment to the United States of America Constitution grants Americans the right to assemble in support of a cause:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”

There were numerous anti-Vietnam war protests during my entire three years at the University of Minnesota, (1972 – 1974).   Sometimes they were more intense than others.  I was crossing the Northrup mall on the way to my Cognitive Psychology class. A tear gas canister exploded with a mild bang, spewing clouds of gas, about 20 feet from me.  My eyes burned and itched. It was hard to breathe.  The professor sent me to the campus clinic where they flushed my eyes.  From then on, I had less sympathy for the heavy-handed police tactics used during a non-violent protest.

About nine or ten years later, I was the Industrial Relations Manager at White Farm Equipment Company in Hopkins, MN.   As part of the bankruptcy proceedings, White Farm stopped the pension plans and turned them over to the Pension Benefit Guaranty Corporation.  The net result is the pensioners got about 85% of their pensions.  They were not happy. 

Retirees protested with signs and news crews in front of my office.  I felt bad for the pensioners but protesting does not retroactively increase farm equipment sales, thus preventing bankruptcy, which is basically what I said to the reporters with three microphones shoved in my face.  Protesting can only affect future change, not the reality of the past. 

Years later while working for Anoka County,  there was a credible bomb threat from an anti-government protest group.  My team spent two years electronically mapping the County.  The data was backed-up but not off-site. So, I took about 10-15  minutes to gather the backup disks to carry them off-site.   As I headed out the door of my office, two police officers very intensely questioned why I was still in the building and carrying two obviously heavy bags.  Terrorist acts, even threats of terrorism, are not protected by the Constitution.  When terrorism is threatened, being in the wrong place at the wrong time can be dangerous. 

Several years after that, as I headed into work on my first day at MN/DOT, four protesters chained themselves to the doors. It looked like a bigger deal on the news than it did in person.  I just walked through the set of doors next to the doors they were chained to. When I told my boss about the protesters, he told me to get used to it, lots of people protest about roads. I think the protesters saved a couple of trees.  Sometimes the publicity resulting from the protest can make a difference.

I ended my career working for about 12 years at the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency (MPCA).  Each and every one of those 12 years, there were several protests which made the evening news. The unofficial protocol was to walk behind the camera and be quiet if a person was being interviewed.  Officially, we employees followed the same process in making determinations whether or not there were protesters. However, I suspect the protests were often effective in educating the public and gaining support for particular issues.  

The Women’s Rights protests after Trump was elected were large and there were a large number of them.  Clearly these protests moved the needle.  Like many protests, at first, the exact desired outcome is both obvious and still not exactly clear.  Yet over time, additional clarity is often achieved. 

The racial justice protests ignited by the murder of George Floyd by the Minneapolis Police are the largest, most widespread, multi-generational, diverse, sustained I have seen in my lifetime.  We are probably still too close to the moment to know what the outcome will be, however, clearly the role of the police in our society will be rapidly evolving. The intentional or unintentional enforcement of racism by social, governmental, and business systems is now in the spotlight and universally condemned. 

The United States Constitution grants Americans the right to protest.  Protests focus attention on an issue. Changing our ways requires focussing on the new way forward.  Change is tough to achieve, yet, change can and does happen.   

 

The closer you look, the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com

 

Within the past three months, some 108,000 Americans died from COVID-19 disease.  Over 95% were over age 40.  COVID-19 creates orphans. Mostly adult orphans but orphans nonetheless. The surviving children, adult or otherwise,  will very much miss those who succumb.

I am 67 years old.  I was orphaned thirty years ago.  To this very day, I still miss my parents. I think about them regularly.  I talk about them with others regularly. I talked to a stranger walking by our house yesterday, and during the conversation, I mentioned my dad was a bricklayer.

I am so glad for my memories of my parents. However, memory does not come close to actual live interaction.  I wonder if mom would still give me a look of disapproval if I swore in front of her.  She met my children but never knew my grandchildren.  I bet she would like them a lot.   

Mom died in 1990, dad died twenty years earlier, in 1970.  Linda’s mom died in 1964 and her dad thirty years later in 1994.  We’ve been orphans for over 25 years. 

Mom was a no show for dinner with some friends. She did not answer her phone when they called her, so they called me.  Drive to her apartment, knock on the door. No answer.  Manager’s office, key, door chained from inside, hacksaw, There on the couch in her living room was mom, obviously dead.  I was calling my sisters while waiting for the police to arrive when it dawned on me, I was now an orphan.  

My guess is the children of each COVID-19 disease victim recalls where they were when they heard and the various extraneous details of their parent’s passing.  If that parent’s passing made them an orphan, I would guess the empty feeling of being an orphan hit them within minutes of finding out their last parent died. 

Being an orphan sucks. COVID-19 sucks for creating so many new orphans.  

The virus SARS-CoV-2 causes COVID-19 disease.  The infected spread the SARS-CoV-2 virus to others mostly via the droplets of saliva dispersed into the air by breathing, talking, singing, screaming, and the like.  Which is a fancy way of saying, COVID-19 spreads by social interaction.  

Most of the time, COVID-19 is not fatal. As our healthcare providers learn more about treating the disease, the mortality rate is decreasing.   Which is wonderful but over 108,000 times in the past three months, the infected person died before their time.  Every day many hundreds of our fellow citizens die from COVID-19.  Yep, COVID-19 sucks. 

Unfortunately, much of the economy is built around our personal interactions with each other. Limiting social interactions delays the spread of COVID-19 but it also severely limits the economy.  

The trick moving forward is to walk the tightrope between loosening up on social distancing enough to put more people back to work without lessening it so much that the number deaths skyrocket.  We need to strike a balance between limiting people sharing too much of the same air and allowing some limited face to face transactions between buyers, sellers, and other customers.

The impact of striking the balance is devastating to some businesses and actually helps some others. It is a tough test of leadership.  Public health vs. jobs requires strong political leaders.  

The SARS-CoV-2 virus does not care about politics or economics. The SARS-CoV-2 virus spreads whenever it has the opportunity to spread.  Social distancing slows the spread, congregating increases the spread.  Face masks slow the spread, not wearing a face mask increases the spread.  Having enough ICU beds and trained healthcare professionals to limit the number of deaths vs. letting COVID-19 kill our parents. 

Managing the United States’ response to COVID-19 is a tough, very difficult job. There is no perfect solution.  It requires strong, informed, leadership to lead the nation through the deadly minefield that is this global pandemic.  The competing interests all have compelling, often mutually exclusive interests.  There is little to no precedent from which guidance can be taken. Managing this crisis is not about winning, rather about doing the best you can under very difficult circumstances. 

The United States President failed to respond to the early warnings.  As the crisis built, the President abdicated to the Governors of each state his responsibility to lead our response to the pandemic. As the crisis heightened the President did not then seize control of the response, rather choosing to make a series of confusing, seemingly politically motivated statements about the actions taken in response to the COVID-19 pandemic by the Governors. 

Right now there does not appear to be any coherent national plan for reaching the balance between economics and public health.  The number of orphans keeps increasing day after day, week after week, with only wild speculation as to when a vaccine will be available. In the meantime the economy is tanking with the unemployment rate is at historic highs.

We are watching our President taking potshots at our governors one minute and praise them the next, seemingly more concerned with the optics than saving his fellow American senior citizens.   We are left telling each other our sad tales about how COVID-19 decided which of us should become an orphan next.

In case you did not know how I feel, let me be clear. Being an orphan sucks. COVID-19 sucks for creating so many new orphans.  

 

The closer you look, the more you see.

www.scaleandperception.com

 

Many of the thirty-million who recently lost their job also lost a chunk of their identity, some of their interpersonal relationships, and/or some of their self-esteem.  Although, for some, losing their job was a blessing in disguise.

I swear on a stack of Car and Driver magazines the following is more or less true. 

I was about age 27 working as the Industrial Relations Manager at White Farm Equipment at Hopkins Mn. 

The first person I personally ever laid off, cried so much, I just plowed through.  The second person was a 50ish-year-old and 25 to 30 years into his job as a Cost Accountant.  He knew what was coming and was red-faced as he walked into my office.  I thought a friendly smile would ease some of the tension. I was wrong.  As I asked him to sit down and gave him a slight smile followed immediately by his tears flowing while he screamed/cried about me being a terrible monster who obviously enjoyed laying him off because I was smiling.  He went on calling me nasty things and berating me for being a heartless SOB for like ten minutes. 

His job pretty much defined his identity, and like so many others who feel their identity slip away, he was terrified.  If I am not this, then who am I? 

I was about age 24 working as an Unemployment Claims Representative in the downtown Minneapolis Unemployment office.

The claimant (lady) was in her mid-thirties, As a matter of fact, as you could imagine, she said she was terminated from her job after her husband found out and insisted she break off the long affair she was having with her boss. 

The response statement from her boss confirmed the basic details.  Except, he contended, since the affair lasted for over five years, by refusing to continue the affair, she in effect quit the job. I ruled she was terminated through no fault of her own. He appealed the decision.  

A month or so later, at the hearing of the appeal, the employer (my guess in his mid-fifties) and the claimant greeted each other by affectionately hugging and gently asking about each other’s well-being.   During the official and recorded hearing, they each described how much they enjoyed working together and freely talked about their mutually enjoyable relationship (affair).  He told her she could have her job back if they could continue the affair.  She told him she would think about it but she still loved her husband very much.  The appeals judge even asked if they felt this relationship was equivalent to prostitution.  Both said it was not.

This is an extreme case, however, interpersonal relationships (mostly platonic) at work are common.  When the employment ends often the future of those relationships can be challenging. 

I was about age 33 working as an Administrative Assistant to the Anoka County Engineer.  

A recently hired Highway Design Engineer would sometimes miss afternoon meetings with some weak excuse.  He had been warned a couple of times not only about skipping meetings but also the poor quality of some of his work.

One afternoon I went into his office to leave a note on his desk about something or another.   I saw him lying on the floor, knees to chest, with his head on a pillow, a blanket pulled over his shoulders, under a drafting table behind some boxes taking a nap.

He was well hidden unless you happened to stand right behind his desk.  I did not wake him.  The Assistant County Engineer and I took a couple of pictures and let him sleep until he woke up about an hour later. I handled the termination.  It is one thing to doze at your desk but quite another to make a cubby hole with a pillow and blanket to take an afternoon nap.  

A couple of months after I let him go, I saw him at an engineering conference. He was now working for an engineering firm.  We shook hands and we chatted pleasantly for a couple of minutes.  A couple of years later I heard he was doing well at the firm and was promoted to a manager position. 

Sometimes a change in scenery is best for both the employer and the employee.

Another unemployment office story from about 40 years ago.  A janitor working in the corporate office of Daytons was standing at the urinal next to a Dayton’s executive who had repeatedly complained about the quality of the janitor’s work.  The janitor backed up and sprayed down the exec.  He told me it was worth it.  He was disqualified for Unemployment benefits but found another janitor job in a week or two.  

Sometimes shit happens. People do what they do, then move on.

Back in my Unemployment office days, I bet I gave something like the following speech a thousand times.  While you are working, a job is a lot more than just a job. However, once you lose your job, it was just a job.  It is time to focus less on your old job and more on getting your next job.  Even when you think about your old job, focus on how the good experience gained from your last job is maybe what will convince your next employer you are qualified for your next job.   

Good luck to all who will need to find a new job before their unemployment insurance runs out.

 

The closer you look the more you see. www.scaleandperception.com

Six months ago, December 5, 2019, my right kidney and the associated cancerous tumor were removed.  My feelings about my kidney cancer are mixed. 

I did not have any pain or other symptoms prior to the surgery.  The surgery thus did not relieve any pain or symptoms. I know the cancer was real.  I saw the image of the tumor bisected on a table after it was removed.  I read the report confirming the tumor was cancerous.  

However, in my head, the discomfort I experienced post-surgery is associated with the surgery, not the reason for the surgery, kidney cancer.  For me, my cancer remains an almost theoretical thing more than an actual thing. 

In late June I will get another CT Scan and a couple of days later will meet with a Urologist.  I assume everything will be fine.   

Post-surgery, I slept on a recliner for a couple of weeks because my back really did not like me laying flat.  However, it got better.  We’ve since got a Sleep Number Bed and that is working great. 

On my right side of my abdomen are six small prominent, reddened surgery scars. I get tired a little more easily than I think I should.  Which is normal, I am told, until my left kidney grows larger and thus cleans my blood better.  In the meantime it is getting better but sort of annoying.

When I lift something heavy or stretch out like when I put a box on a high or low shelf, I feel a slight twinge in the area where my kidney was. The weirdest thing is when I take a drink of cold liquid, I can feel the cold as it goes down my throat into my stomach. My doctor said he had never heard of that before.  

I am on Medicare which made the cost of all of this pretty much a non-issue.  I am providing some of the details below because I imagine some are wondering how much it cost.

The removal of a kidney and cancerous tumor by a team of renowned surgeons followed by a four-day stay in a hospital is not cheap. The follow-up care by my normal doctor and my Urologist is not cheap. There was a very thorough pre-op physical.  Oh, add the ultrasound scan, CT scan, and the radiologists who interpreted them.  Did I mention the anesthesiologists?  Several lab tests and the followup calls from the nurses to make sure I was recovering properly.  The list goes on.

I only have a vague idea of what it cost to remove a kidney and a tumor.  I got numerous very confusing Explanation of Benefits forms which came over several months.  I tried to keep track in my head.  I think the amount billed was in the forty to fifty thousand dollars range. The amount actually paid by my Medicare Advantage plan was about half of that.

The important thing for me was how much I owed. When I got the news that I needed my kidney removed I called UCare, my Medicare Advantage Plan provider. I was told it would cost me a $250 copay for the hospital and $20 for each specialist visit. They were right. Now six months out, I paid the $250 copay for the hospital stay. I also paid like three or four $20 copays for specialist visits. 

Of course, each month a $329.20 premium payment ($144.20 for Medicare Part B and $185 for my UCare Classic Medicare Advantage Plan) gets deducted from my monthly Social Security.  Which is both convenient and assures the premiums will be paid even if I am physically or mentally unable to do so.   

Just a side note. For me, kidney cancer brought into focus just how important universal healthcare is.  I am now a strong supporter.  There are worse models than the Medicare model. 

Starting to get exercise was recommended by my doctor so I joined the YMCA. I  was a couple of weeks into using an elliptical machine when the  COVID-19 pandemic closed them down.  I enjoyed the Y and am looking forward to getting back at it. 

As far as COVID-19 goes, cancer and only one kidney are on my list of several “underlying conditions”.  Being reasonably careful is about the best I can do about it.   Worrying is not productive. 

I know I had a serious form of cancer and had major surgery.  Which nobody wants.  However, they are now a part of my life experience. It is like they were ingredients added to the stew which is my life. As weird as it sounds, somehow I think my life experience is richer having had this experience. 

Of course, my cancer gives me pause once in a while. There are times when I feel sorry for myself. Mostly, I am reminded life does not proceed in a predictable straight line. When the unpredictable happens, it adds more depth and breadth to my life.  Maybe I am now a slightly less boring person. 

We did several trips last year which resulted in some wonderful memories.  Between cancer and the COVID-19 Stay at Home order, our travel has stopped for the time being.  

Our life goes on.  I got a new lawnmower and mowed the lawn yesterday afternoon.  The lawn really didn’t need mowing but I really wanted to try out the mower.  Two days ago, we sat on a patio, distance talking to our grandkids.  Life is good. 

 

The closer you look, the more you see.  

www.scaleandperception.com

At a Minnesota Wild hockey game, on Thursday, December 19, 2002, between the second and third periods, in front of 18,000 fans, I stood behind the red line. There were 20 pucks laid out in front of me.  If I shot 15 of those pucks into the net within 20 seconds I would win a brand new 2003, Pontiac Vibe car. I was fifty years old at the time. 

I won the tickets to the game at an event put on by FSN at Joe Sensors Bar in Bloomington.  All three of the winners of Wild Hockey tickets at that event were asked to meet before then game in a room at the Xcel Energy Center.  There they had us draw straws. The person who drew the short straw, me, got to shoot for a car. 

I was asked to sign a waiver saying I understood they were not liable if I fell on the ice and cracked open my head.  I also signed a form stating I was not, nor had I ever been, a professional hockey player either at the National Hockey League level or the minor league level. 

I last played hockey 33 years earlier.  Pond squad hockey at Ramsey High School in Roseville, MN.  I could skate but my stick handling and shooting were terrible.   Between last playing hockey in high school and when I shot pucks for a car, I had maybe held a hockey stick in my hands a handful of times and maybe had shot an actual hockey puck two or three times.  

With ten minutes left in the second period, I was instructed to meet a person down by the Zamboni. They had a selection of about five or six hockey sticks for me to choose from.  I found one that felt good in my hands. 

He explained to me that shooting twenty pucks in twenty seconds meant that I could not wait for the puck to reach the net before I shot the next puck.    He told me to shoot the puck then shoot the next puck right away. He would stand behind me and tell me if the puck was on net or going right or left.   

The announcer explained the rules to the crowd. If I got 15 pucks in the net in 20 seconds I would win the brand new 2003 Pontiac Vibe.  He read a short promo for how great the car was. Then he explained that if I got ten pucks in the net I would win $500 dollars. If I got five pucks in the net I would win $50.  The crowd roared. He asked if I was ready in a very excited tone. I nodded. Then asked the crowd to count down with him. Five, four, three, two, one. Go.

I shot the first puck hard but it barely made it to the net.  The guy behind me said, “don’t watch it, shoot the next puck harder and to the right”.  I shot the second puck harder and I almost fell. It took a split second to catch my balance. The guy behind me said stop watching the puck, you were a little left.  I can’t swear to it but I think I got the third puck in the net.  

By the end of the 20 seconds, I managed to shoot about 15 of the 20 pucks.  Only three found their way into the net. The announcer implored the crowd to applaud me.  The crowd gave me a polite but subdued round of applause. As we walked off the ice the maintenance guy said, “I told you not to watch the pucks, you should have trusted me”. 

The Minnesota Wild (2) lost that game to the New York Islanders (4) that night.  A couple of days later I got an envelope in the mail from the Minnesota Wild with a picture of me on the red line shooting and a picture of the car I did not win. 

I wrote up a little note about the experience and mounted it in a frame along with the two pictures and a Minnesota Wild logo.  That frame sat on a bookcase in the basement for many years. I do not remember when it was taken off that bookcase and put in the box where I found it earlier this afternoon.

We have been social distancing for about three weeks now. A couple of days ago, I went to the basement to see if I could fix a hot water circulation pump that has not worked for several years. The electrical outlet it was originally plugged into had been removed when we removed the paneling last year.  So to see if it would work, I strung an extension cord to the nearest outlet.

Linda had asked me to move the extension cord in the basement before one of us broke our necks tripping over it.  On the third request, I reluctantly went downstairs pounding my feet like a three-year-old being sent down to pick up their toys.  

So dear Linda, the answer to the question as to why I didn’t take the extra minute to put the extension cord where I should’ve put it in the first place is:  By putting the extension cord over the boxes and being lovingly reminded to move the extension cord, allowed me to see the pictures and remember being very nervous standing in front of 18,000 people shooting hockey pucks for a car.   

 

The closer you look the more you will see.

www.scaleandperception.com