December 1, 2021
I wish you a happy month of December with many celebrations with family and friends. And then I wish you a happy and healthy 2022. That's my holiday/Christmas card. If you haven't done so recently, please write back to me and let me know how your life is going! I like to keep track of friends.
I know it has been some while since I have written. So a few (he jokes) paragraphs about our year.
Elliott and Martha are getting married on April 30. Martha would like a pretty traditional (albeit secular) wedding, with a ceremony and reception. As we discussed with them various issues associated with a wedding, and as they explored options for venue, food, beverages, photographer, and so on, Elliott became increasingly appalled at how much the event is going to cost. The parents have all agreed to provide substantial funding, and I am sure that the two of them are being frugal, but it appears they'll still end up spending some of their own money. (I'm appalled, too. I facetiously suggested to Elliott that they could elope and use the money for a house. He was tempted; Martha was not.)
They have already discussed names for the children and shared their choices with us. We commented, of course, but we don't get a vote. I sense from their conversation that they do not intend to wait very long after the wedding to try to conceive. They will both be 31 when they get married and I infer that they plan on more than one child. As we know, having children does not always follow the path the parents have in mind (e.g., miscarriages happen; Pat and I did not plan to have Krystin and Elliott be six years apart). I will be pleased to become a grandfather, although I'm going to be an old fart if and when it happens, because—
—in August I noted my 70th birthday. "Celebrated" would be the wrong word, but I did spend it in satisfactory fashion. We drove to Duluth in the morning to have lunch with a retired faculty friend who was the bioethicist at the UM-Duluth Medical School, one of my favorite and much-admired people. Then we drove to Cornucopia, Wisconsin, to spend a couple of nights with my college roommate and his girlfriend at her cabin on the (beautiful) South Shore of Lake Superior. An altogether low key but pleasant way to mark the entry to my eighth decade. So I will be 71 (or 72) when I reach the grandpa stage of life. (Moonrise over the North Shore.)
We spent January 1 to March 14 (2021) in Bonita Springs, Florida. The plan is that we will spend January through March 31 (2022) in Naples (Florida, although Italy would be more fun). We have rented a house (that happens also to have its own pool). Our wedding present to Elliott and Martha (being given to them before the wedding) is a week with us in Florida in February. We get along extremely well with Martha, and of course with Elliott, so we anticipate no difficulties. Until they get into a house, they really don't need much in the way of material goods, and we've come to learn through abundant research that experiences produce much more happiness than goods, so we decided to give them some memories.
In the annoyances-of-getting-older category (this will be short, I promise), I continue to be plagued by balance issues. It all started in September 2020, with dizziness and balance problems, and I saw far too many members of the medical establishment over the last year, all of which appointments and tests led to exactly nothing. I was up and down (literally and figuratively) for months with fatigue because of the symptoms. Both Elliott and a retired faculty friend wondered if I'd had an asymptomatic case of COVID-19. I read within the last month or so an article about "COVID ear," which causes recurring balance problems. Unfortunately, there's only one antibody test that distinguishes between COVID-caused and vaccine-caused antibodies; it is not FDA approved, so not covered by insurance, and is "very, very expensive" (the words from my physician). Oh well. I probably didn't have COVID, but who knows?
As we approach the end of 2021, the condition has settled down to be a balance problem; the dizziness has largely disappeared (and thus the fatigue that it induced in a daily basis is somewhat reduced). So I get along in life, but in walking anywhere I sometimes weave like a drunken sailor.
Otherwise, both Kathy and I suffer from no more than the usual catalogue of the irritations of aging. Oh yes, I got hearing aids, which I knew were coming; both my mom's mom and my dad had them. They're OK, but I'm not sure they're actually doing me that much good because I was only on the edge of needing them. (The biggest problem I had with them was getting the darn things in each morning! I think I finally figured out how to do it right.)
I did come across this little gem and posted it on Facebook: From Science 2.0: How to feel old: 1980 is as relevant to kids today as 1939 was to you in 1980. (For those of us nerds who immersed ourselves in World War II history, 1939 was not remote in time. It was a frightening year, when Hitler invaded Poland and the war began.)
Even though we are long into the age of the Internet and laptops and cell phones, for those of us who came of age when the manual typewriter was the most advanced tool of composition, speaking for myself, I still have a sense of wonder at the advances in technology over the last three or four decades. I am astounded at the amount and sophistication of the programmable technology that can now be crammed into a little pod that goes inside my ear that is smaller than one third of my pinkie finger. On an unrelated point except that it's technology, when I had a CT scan related to my dizziness and balance issues, I asked the technician how much the machine cost. $1.25 million. Uff da.
And then there is old technology. We have in our basement a chest freezer that was manufactured in the 1940s. How we got that sucker down the basement is a mystery; it's a monster and weighs a ton. It just keeps on running. I'm sure it's not energy efficient and I think it keeps the food at about 3 degrees Kelvin (-454 degrees F). We're certain that it will decide to die while we are in Florida (of course, we thought that last year, too, and it didn't), thus requiring Elliott and Martha—who will be tending the house in our absence—to figure out what do with all the food. We also had a small refrigerator from the 1960s—inherited from my great-aunt when we moved into the house—that slowly died over the summer. It was impossible to repair because of the age (which we spent $100 to learn), so we bought a reconditioned one from the appliance repair place that couldn't fix the old one. Of our electricity bills each month, it would not surprise me to learn that 40% is attributable to refrigeration equipment in the house.
In March I, along with a couple of other friends from University student days, went to a memorial visitation for the father of another friend from University student days (we had all been in the University & Student Senates). The three of us locals had not seen our friend whose father had died for over 40 years, but we had a wonderful time talking. He and his wife lived in Kansas for his career and then retired to Georgia (no more winter for them!). I am staying in touch with him and hope to see him in our travels to or from Florida. Needless to say, we had no idea in the mid-1970s that we'd be gathering again nearly 50 years later.
(Me and friends from University student government days; I'm second from the left, in case you can't tell. I'm surrounded by three attorneys.)
What prompts this recollection is that my friends and I agreed that this would be a coat-and-tie affair. Between retirement and the pandemic, I hadn't put on a jacket and tie for a very long time; I wondered to myself if I'd remember how to tie a tie. I had done so for 40+ years, and of course my fingers remembered how to tie it. Which is a good thing because I'm not sure I could have done it if I had to think about it.
A few months pass. In November I decided it was no longer necessary to keep all my jackets and ties, so I got rid of all but three sport coats and a suit and about 20 ties (out of a heck of a lot more than that). I tried to pass off a couple of the sport coats to Elliott (along with a couple/few ties), but he said he has one that's tailored and he doesn't wear one more than once per year, so he didn't want any of them. They are hanging in the basement; I still haven't decided what disposition to make of them, since much of the (male) world no longer wears such garments.
After contemplating doing it for years, we finally got rid of our front lawn—and thus we got rid of all grass on our city lot. I have read for years how really awful our grass lawns are, and then recently read this article in the London Review of Books: https://www.lrb.co.uk/blog/2021/august/the-lawn-problem All these grass lawns are an ecological abomination. We hired a local contractor to cut out all the grass (I'm way too old and out of shape to tackle anything like that—and I didn't want to in any event—see Rule 1b, infra), plant new plants, and lay down a layer of soil and then mulch. We also transplanted a few hosta (of our several hundred) and put in a few rocks and voila! no more lawn. Most importantly, no more raking up all the darn leaves, one of the homeowner's tasks that I disliked the most.
With the removal of the lawn, I could now say that after 32 years, the only parts of my great aunt and uncle's house that I (or someone I hired) have not touched (to change) are the rafters in the basement, the black and white tile in the main floor bathroom, and the interior of the two closets on the first floor (great-aunt Inez's wallpaper remains in them). Otherwise, now no square inch of the land and none of the rest of the house interior have been unchanged. Inez would be astonished.
A reflection of the times, certainly not unique to us: I noted that it was 422 days between our last meal indoors at a restaurant (March 13, 2020, with Elliott, Martha, and her parents, the first time we met them) and a meal indoors with friends (May 14, 2021). A month later we and Martha, Elliott, and her parents all commemorated that dinner by meeting at the same place. With the onset of the Delta variant of COVID-19, however, later summer plans to dine out with friends were cancelled. We have subsequently had restaurant meals with friends and family, especially after we all received the booster shots, but now we await with concern (and irritation) the possible spread of the Omicron variant. Irritation because the wealthy world hasn't provided enough vaccine to the less-developed parts of the globe and because there is such a large swath of people who refuse to be vaccinated, thus allowing the coronavirus to continue to mutate.
Kathy and I were deeply saddened twice this year because of the deaths of two of the husbands of the six couples who regularly attend the annual New Year's Eve dinner that our good friends the Dixons host. In both cases it was cancer. We liked both of them very much and will miss their good company.
Two other long-time friends are going through cancer treatment. Both of them have led reasonably healthy lives and have avoided behaviors that can provoke cancer. But as a couple of faculty friends from the Medical School told me years ago (when one of our colleagues was dying of cancer), apart from situations of risk (employment conditions, smoking, etc.), cancer is a crapshoot. It strikes at random and the causes are frequently unknown. Unfortunately, a virtuous lifestyle only somewhat reduces the risk, it doesn't eliminate it.
June 16 marked five years of retirement for me. I can't imagine going back to work now. Having complete control over my day is far too attractive. I have resorted to my three rules for retirement on a number of occasions when deciding on a course of action. (Rule 1: Do I have to do it (e.g., dishwasher, laundry)? Yes. Then I'll do it. Rule 2: Do I have to do it? No. Will I enjoy it? No. Then I won't do it. Rule 3: Do I have to do it? No. Will I enjoy it? Yes. Then I'll do it. Rule 1a: It can be done later. Rule 1b: I will do it unless I am willing to pay someone to do it. See turf removal, supra.) Or as it was presented more elegantly and more concisely on Farnam Street, "The opportunity cost of your time should increase every year."
The New York Times reported, in late November, on a medical outcome that would be incredibly positive: a cure for Type 1 diabetes.
Brian Shelton's life was ruled by Type 1 diabetes. When his blood sugar plummeted, he would lose consciousness without warning. He crashed his motorcycle into a wall. He passed out in a customer's yard while delivering mail. Following that episode, his supervisor told him to retire, after a quarter century in the Postal Service. He was 57.
His ex-wife, Cindy Shelton, took him into her home in Elyria, Ohio. "I was afraid to leave him alone all day," she said. Early this year, she spotted a call for people with Type 1 diabetes to participate in a clinical trial by Vertex Pharmaceuticals. The company was testing a treatment developed over decades by a scientist who vowed to find a cure after his baby son and then his teenage daughter got the devastating disease.
Mr. Shelton was the first patient. On June 29, he got an infusion of cells, grown from stem cells but just like the insulin-producing pancreas cells his body lacked. Now his body automatically controls its insulin and blood sugar levels.
Mr. Shelton, now 64, may be the first person cured of the disease with a new treatment that has experts daring to hope that help may be coming for many of the 1.5 million Americans suffering from Type 1 diabetes.
Diabetes experts were astonished but urged caution. The study is continuing and will take five years, involving 17 people with severe cases of Type 1 diabetes.
Unfortunately, this comes 20 years too late for Krystin. But I have speculated for a long time that at some point stem cell research would produce a cure for diabetes. It may finally be in the offing.
As we do every year, we gathered at Pat's on October 30 to remember Krystin on her birthday. We make it fun and light; Krystin would be peeved if it were somber because she loved a good party.
After several decades, we changed banks. TCF, which we grew up knowing as Twin City Federal, was sold to a national banking chain. TCF also treated one of Elliott's friends very badly over loss of funds due to impersonation. That was enough. We decided we'd move all our accounts to our credit union (which we should have done years ago because they are friendlier, they are local, they are non-profit, they have better rates, they are easier to deal with, and we the members elect the governing board.) Good idea; the execution was a pain. Financial institutions in particular (e.g., Fidelity) are persnickety about transferring money, and the process was not helped when a guy at the credit union told me that the account number on my checks made no sense—there are no such numbers for their checking accounts. So at one point the house and auto insurance payment bounced, as did the city utility bill. I'm sure my credit rating took a hit (I haven't looked and fortunately I don't have to care).
I think we have everything under control, although as I compose this we don't dare close down the other accounts yet, not until we know for sure that deposits and bills are going to the right place. That was the better part of a month, frequently on the phone with customer service representatives. (The Fidelity people and the credit union people could not figure out why transfers were not working. That took considerable time and effort—and I'm still not sure it's set up right.) Such is life in the age of the Internet. I suppose that it would have taken far longer to make these changes if I'd had to do it by mail or go to each place in person. I am happier knowing my money is kept local and non-profit and not going to outrageously high salaries in some banking conglomerate.
And speaking of banking and income, in cleaning up a few things in the basement one day, I came across my first paycheck—my father was prescient enough to make a copy of it before I cashed it. I was a carryout at Penny's Super Market at the Hub on 66th and Nicollet. $15.61 on October 7, 1967. I earned $15.68 in overtime and 65 cents on regular time, for a total of $16.33, from which 72 cents was deducted for FICA. I worked 9.5 hours overtime (which, I believe, was after 5:00 in the evening), so my hourly overtime rate was $1.65. According to a CPI inflation calculator, that $1.65 is $13.55 in 2021. I don't know if that's a good pay rate for a 16-year-old in 2021.
Kathy and I talk from time to time about moving to a townhouse. The housing market is nuts, there isn't anything available that we'd want unless we're willing to go to a farther-out suburb, and the thought of dealing with all the stuff in this house makes us faint. So we are unlikely to move in the near future.
At a gathering of high school classmates this summer, there was effusive (and embarrassing) praise directed at me for having instigated many events that pulled classmates together. Those present were saying they never would have become reacquainted had it not been for my efforts. Putting aside false modesty, I have indeed organized or helped organize a wide variety of events for classmates since before our 50-year reunion in the fall of 2019; I also pushed for the creation of a class Facebook page that has let others stay somewhat connected. I have found all of this rewarding and I'm delighted that people are getting together as a result of my efforts. I do wonder, though, why other classmates don't do the same. Pulling people together isn't that hard and there ought to be more than one person, out of 400+ classmates still alive and still connected in some fashion, who would organize events.
Irrespective of whether others want to take on the event planning role (what some classmates have deemed my post-retirement career), one result of my doing so has been a significant increase in the number of people I can call friends. I didn't get involved in planning our 50-year reunion with any goal in mind, other than to help, but the result after several years of lunches and other gatherings has been that I can count a number of charming and intelligent people as "new" friends. And they are new; most of them I was barely acquainted with, if at all, in high school.
Coincidentally, I have acquired another small set of new friends as a result of agreeing to serve as lead bridge instructor for a group of 60-somethings who decided they wanted to learn to play the game. Except for a hiatus during the pandemic, we've played every week for nearly three years. Not only have they gradually become decent bridge players, they've also become friends. I knew only one of the six reasonably well; my co-instructor I taught to play bridge in the mid-1970s (as she reminded me) and then lost touch with her; the other four I had never met. But I'm glad I did; they are great people.
The past year, as a result, has been filled with congenial, cheerful, and satisfying social interactions. I regard this trend, heading into my 70s, as entirely positive.
Kathy had her Medicare birthday in November. I wanted to take her out to dinner; she opted to just stay home. I didn't argue. In the preceding months, she'd had the great pleasure of negotiating Medicare and Medicare supplement health insurance policies. Fortunately, we learned of an extremely knowledgeable and helpful broker from a friend; he was able to get me (last year) and Kathy through the process feeling that we'd made good choices.
Our work with our broker only reaffirmed my long-standing conclusion: The entire health insurance enterprise in the U.S. is so screwed up that the only solution to the problems is dynamite: blow it up and start over again. For example, I had to pay $216 for my decennial tetanus shot—because I received it in the clinic rather than at a pharmacy. Had I gone to the pharmacy, my insurance would have covered it. #$%^#$. Who the hell would know that? We have insurance companies making millions or billions of dollars and contributing absolutely zero to the health of any American. Our broker told me that if I supplied the dynamite, he'd bring the plunger. (If any of you are approaching the Medicare birthday and want the name of our broker, let me know. Or if you want to consider changing insurance. He's wonderful.)
As we have done all his life, on the day after Thanksgiving Elliott and I drove 45 minutes north of Minneapolis to a Christmas tree farm to cut our tree. This year, however, a new and welcome addition: Martha drove because she has a small SUV in/on which we could fit two trees: ours and theirs. Elliott and Martha have taken up the tradition, and they also use the old-fashioned C5 lights (not LED, real lights!). For his birthday in November, I gave him four new strings of lights and put bulbs of various colors in all the sockets. I also gave him a couple of bubble lights. Last year I gave him the gold-plated ornaments that my parents had collected over many years.
So we start a new tradition, with them driving. (Elliott also decided that we did not have to listen to the soundtrack to "My Fair Lady" on the way up and to "Fiddler on the Roof" on the way back, which we had also done all his life when we drove to get the tree. I agreed with him.) The question for me is, how long are we going to want to put up a newly-cut tree (rather than Kathy's classy artificial tree)? It's an eight-hour process, from the time we leave home to drive to the tree farm to the time we finish putting on the ornaments. I dunno.
I continue to enjoy my new-found hobby of paint-by-number kits made from photographs of mine, one of which is below (Elliott & Krystin in front of the Golden Temple in Kyoto, Japan). Those who produce these kits do an amazing job on the faces; in the one above, both of them are captured accurately, and the facial reproduction has been equally accurate on the others. Each one takes me maybe 80-100 hours (which I spread over 5-6 weeks). I've done five so far, all with Elliott (with others in some) and given him three of them, the last at Thanksgiving. I offered to store them for him, rather than have them keep them in their apartment, but he said he'd keep them and hang them in their bedroom. Remarkably enough, Martha apparently finds that plan acceptable. I really don't expect them to hang them on any prime wall space no matter where they live. They aren't high art but they're fun for me.
Which reminds me that Elliott and Martha, like many in their age cohort, are dismayed at the prospects for buying a house. They very much want one but the prices for even ramshackle small houses are too high. The "American dream" of a house—in the city or the suburbs or anywhere else outside far rural areas—is out of reach for many. Elliott and Martha have decent incomes and can likely afford a reasonable place, but the high prices call for bigger down payments and larger mortgage payments, the latter of which is troublesome when they also want children. They know perfectly well that children are expensive.
Kathy and I are empty nesters for the first time. Kathy's son Spencer, after nearly four years of living with us and grappling with back and nerve pain, moved to his father's house in September. Unfortunately, Spencer continues to deal with the pain. The medical appointments go on and on. (We were empty nesters for short periods, while Elliott was away at college, but he came home for breaks and we also had Krystin around off and on. Now it may be a more enduring status.)
We look forward to a planned trip to Egypt and Jordan next November, a tour offered through the University alumni association. We hope that the present and future variations on the coronavirus don't cause the trip to be cancelled. Fortunately, unless something goes bizarrely and horrendously wrong in the next four weeks, no coronavirus—Omicron or otherwise—will prevent us from heading south for the winter. We are already thinking about how to pack the car.
With fond regards. Do stay in touch—
Gary
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