#111 wrapping up

 

July 1, 2024

Good morning. Wrapping up.

Redux et finis: hospital visit

Not to belabor the hospital interlude, a few more vignettes that may elicit a smile.  Well, OK, it does belabor it. I'll now be done with this topic, I promise.

            Walk, walk, walk. That's I was told repeatedly after the surgery. (That seems to be a prescription common to several surgeries, in my experience with others who've had different operations.) One of the nurses was following the drill, urging me to walk, and I just looked at her. "Sure. You have on long pants, long sleeves, and a sweater, and you're telling me to walk around with this flimsy hospital gown." She laughed. I had a light jacket with me and I started wearing it over my gown. When Kathy saw that getup, black jacket plus flowing turquoise gown below my waist, and yellow hospital socks, she commented that she hoped I didn't start wearing dresses any time soon. We really are a fashion statement with the gowns and hospital socks, pulling our medicine pole with our IVs along with us as we stroll the halls.

            Because of my hospital experience, I recalled from law school first-year torts class—I thought—that many years ago there was a lawsuit against a surgeon by a patient. (No, I didn't finish law school, but even 51 years later I remembered that there was such a case!) I could not remember any of the details so I asked my long-time friend and colleague Bob Stein (former Dean of the U of Minnesota Law School) if he knew of the case I was trying to remember. He found it for me, for which I am extremely grateful:

The case you may have in mind from your torts class is a Michigan case decided in 1930, Franklyn v Peabody.  In that case, a surgeon doing surgery on a plaintiff's finger decided that in order to obtain the best results some fascia should be removed from a thigh of the plaintiff and transported to the hand. Although it benefitted the plaintiff, the court held that the doctor was not authorized to take tissue from the plaintiff's thigh and the action constituted an assault. [The vote on the court was 7-0 in favor of the patient/plaintiff!]

 I was reminded of that case when Kathy told me that the surgeon told her that she—the surgeon—had removed my appendix in addition to fixing up the small intestine, because the appendix was impinging on the intestine. I don't have any plans to sue my surgeon for assault (and I told her that when I met with her for my two-week check; she was interested in the case and glad I wasn't suing her; it was a light-hearted exchange). Quite to the contrary: One of my classmates was rushed to the hospital about two months ago for an emergency appendectomy that she described as extremely painful and requiring a long recovery. I am pleased to have that potential medical threat removed. (I believe this kind of case—here, assault—is typically a matter of state criminal law, so can vary by state. I have no idea if the decision in this case remains a precedent relied on in Michigan courts nor do I have any idea what Minnesota law is.)

            Walking the halls of a post-op recovery ward is not an intellectually stimulating activity. It also sometimes involves a modest level of pain. It occurred to me, as I composed this vignette, that I could have used my earbuds and at least listened to Minnesota Public Radio or something. It also dawned on me, as I composed this, that I had my earbuds with me while I was in the hospital, in my laptop case. What an idiot.

            I don't know about you, but sometimes I have listless periods during the night when I can't sleep. If that situation continues for more than 15-20 minutes, I'll change venues: I'll go lie down on one of our sofas. (It works about two-thirds of the time.) I was listless the last night in the hospital, when I didn't want to be there. I was excited to get discharged, I'd had too much sleep and rest, and I didn't need any drugs. So I changed venues: I moved blankets and pillows to the couch under the window, across the room from the bed. The change didn't help me sleep but I was amazed at the number of lights I saw from that perspective. I counted 13 lights! Three along the floor, dimly lighting the room, and 10 lights from the medical equipment surrounding the bed. It was a rainbow: green, red, blue, orange. You don't see all those lights when you're *in* the bed. I wonder how long it's been the case that all these machines are in place around the bed. And how much they contribute to the cost of health care. (Of course, these are modest pieces; it's when one goes in for a CT scan or MRI that one sees the expensive equipment, over $1 million each, I was told.)

            I composed a note to the hospital CEO commending the nursing staff for their outstanding care. I will send it as soon as I can figure out to whom I should address it. I learned many years ago that people in an organization are sometimes quicker to criticize than they are to commend. I decided to try to remember to commend at least as often as I griped.

            In the course of conversation with friends of my age cohort, typically for me over meals or bridge, I and we don't think about or reflect our age. Of course we sometimes touch on the aches and pains of getting older, but the talk is otherwise no different from that we have had for years. We do not, in other words, appear or act (or think) "old." Coming out of this surgery, however, I have felt "old." Even Kathy commented that I'm walking around like I'm an old man. One reason I move gingerly is because the incisions remain sensitive. But I have worried a little that such a major physical insult to my body, at my age, might permanently take the starch out of me in some fashion. I had spinal column surgery when I was 41 and bounced back from that without any problem. It's hardly a novel observation that 72-year-old bodies do not "bounce back" from major surgery or injury with the same speed as 41-year-old bodies do, but it may be that they do not bounce fully back ever. I guess I'll find out.

Redux et finis: circles of friends

            A couple of additional observations about the "circles of friends." Dunbar, you will recall, "defines meaningful relationships as those people you know well enough to greet without feeling awkward if you ran into them in an airport lounge. That number typically ranges from 100 to 250, with the average around 150." Here's the visual that I relied on:

 

I mention here a list of friends. I certainly do not keep such a list. Before my March 2024 epistle it was hypothetical. I suspect that like most of you, the only "list of friends" I had for years was my Christmas card list. In the 21st century, it is, of course, my Gmail contact list. I made up a list solely for the purpose of reflecting on relationships. (So I guess if you aren't on email, you aren't a friend of mine!)

            It occurred to me later that a list of friends one might make, irrespective of whatever Dunbar circle in which they might fall, would likely change over time. As I contemplated my list, I realized that had I compiled it 10 years ago, there would have been 30 fewer names on it. In the last decade I picked up a number of friends from high school whom I had not interacted with in 50 years and I acquired a group of friends, want-to-be bridge players, in my role as bridge instructor. (To be accurate, they are now have-become bridge players.) All 15 of my deceased friends would have been alive, so there would have been a net difference of 15 fewer people.  Even though those 30 people have been added to my circle of friends in the last five or six years, that doesn't make them any less valuable to me.

            I am certain that if you reflect on your "meaningful relationships" over the decades of your life, you'll realize that some of those relationships have faded away.

I was surprised to read, in a brief article about losing friends as we age, that "lifetime connections that stand the test of time are rare." (The article, "They Unfriended Me??!! Coming to Terms With the End of a Friendship," is in Next Avenue, "a nonprofit, digital journalism publication produced by Twin Cities PBS (TPT).") Some of the friends on my list have been on it for 30-40-50 and even 60 years. Not counting relatives, counting married couples as one friend, and defining "lifetime connections" to mean regular contact and physical interactions at least from time to time, my list of friendships that have lasted 30+ years has 11 names on it.

I'm curious: Am I anomalous or do you have a handful or more of friends you've known for most of your adult life?

* * *

My friend who is one of the six classmates who've constituted the group of friends for six decades shared my last epistle with the members of the group. One wrote back (three of the six guys are deceased):

 

[Gary] raises some really good questions, ones that have me searching myself on this topic. . . . I’ll just say a few things here. First, I’ve always treasured our . . . group. As I read Gary’s piece and ponder all of this, I’ve come to realize that I have grossly underestimated how rare our little group is. I guess I always figured this happened frequently. That rarity emphasizes again how special each individual in the group is.  (Those that have gone before are still members in good standing.)

One might ask about the point of this scrutiny of categories friendships. In terms of the friendships themselves, there is none as far as I'm concerned; the relationships will stay the same or change as time passes without my categorizing them. The value of the exercise is partly the use of my brain: We can read in many places that intellectual stimulation helps to ward off dementia. I figure that anything that prompts me to do a little research and ponder a topic may prolong my wits staying around me. At least for a couple of additional weeks.

The other point that I neglected to mention is that there is ample research demonstrating that an active social circle contributes considerably not only to quality of life as we age, it also helps ward off cognitive and other decline. (Here's one small piece of a very large literature, if you want to read more: https://www.nia.nih.gov/news/social-isolation-loneliness-older-people-pose-health-risks.) Becoming a hermit is not good for your mental health. So it's worthwhile to keep in touch with friends and to socialize with them.

            That's my lecture for today.

             Gary

 

#109 my hospital adventure

 

June 23, 2024

              For those of you who've gone through surgery, some of this may bring back memories. For those who have not, here's a glimpse of what portends if the physician tells you that you're going under the knife.

              This narrative is more, far more, than anyone wants to know about my recent hospital stay. But I like telling stories and perhaps it will engage and amuse you for a few minutes.

* * *

              I got hit by a train, so to speak.

              It was a routine evening at home last Friday (June 14): cocktails, dinner, Kathy off to crochet and watch a movie, Gary off to read. In the middle of the evening my stomach began to hurt; it felt like a gas bubble, something most of us get from time to time.

A trick I was taught when young was to lie carefully down on the floor, on your stomach, and the gas bubble will go away. It didn't do so this time, nor did anything else I tried to alleviate the pain. After an uncomfortable night with little sleep, Kathy took me to the ER early Saturday morning.

The excellent ER physician did two things first. One, since by this time my pain level was reaching an agonizing level, she got me a pain medicine almost immediately, which I implored her to do as soon as I met her. Two, she ordered a CT scan, which happened very quickly.

We waited a short while for the scan results. The ER physician returned with another physician in tow. The new one, a surgeon, spoke. She said something to the effect that "you need surgery and you need surgery today." My small intestine was twisted and wrapped around the major blood vessel supplying blood to the intestines; without fixing the problem, parts of the intestine would die. Oh. Well. Not much to say. OK. I had no idea what was coming.

Perhaps four hours later I awoke in a hospital room with tremendous pain in my abdomen. The next five days were hospital hell: constant pain from the multiple incisions, a continuing backache from being in bed so long, four tubes coming out of me (two from the nose), and just plain discomfort.

My stomach, as Kathy commented, looked like I was five months along; I was bloated and the skin pulled very tight. One of the tubes went from my bloated stomach out through my nose to a suction machine and served to drain the accumulated liquid and gas, the NG tube.

The hours go very slowly when you don't want to--can't--read, watch TV, do email, anything, because you are utterly incapacitated and doing nothing but turning over in bed trying to get comfortable. Looking at the clock at 6:00 a.m. and realizing it will be a long day with considerable agony does not make one a happy camper. That wasn't the situation all the time I was awake but it was the majority.

My only redemption during this period was dilaudid, a powerful narcotic pain killer, which the docs and nurses dispensed as needed. But I couldn't be on it all the time, so dilaudid was my sleeping med. None of the other pain killers worked, confirming my long-standing opinion that Tylenol is largely worthless, at least for me. I have never used any kind of narcotic, but this experience gave me a glimpse of why people might: When I was in pain, and the nurse injected the dilaudid in the IV affixed to my arm, the relief was instant. It went directly into my bloodstream and caused relief, even bliss.

 I thought things were going well by last Wednesday, and I felt better. Then Thursday everything went to hell and I thought I'd be there until next week. I was despondent. The worst part of this long miserable experience was having the NG tube reinserted. The first time was no problem: it was inserted during surgery when I was under general anesthesia. When everything seemed to be going well, my nurse had removed the NG tube (just a quick pull and it was out—piece of cake). When the situation turned around on Thursday, when the bloating returned, they had to reinsert it. Two of the nurses held me tight while one of them inserted it; they knew that the insertion provokes an involuntary violent reaction. It did. I jerked. It was painful and nauseating.

The situation flipped 180 degrees on Friday. The food processing systems all decided to begin functioning normally again; whatever blockage had existed had dissolved or gone away or who knows what. But the NG tube had done its draining job. I felt great and had no pain anywhere. I no longer looked like I was five months pregnant. I wanted desperately to go home—I made that abundantly clear!—but the docs wanted to be on the safe side, sure I could digest food, and Kathy agreed, darn her. So there I was, dammit, for the seventh night in a hospital bed.

I know of someone who had to have the NG tube procedure, or something like it, as a part of treatment during terminal cancer. If the path to dying because of cancer (or any other terminal illness) includes a tube up my nose, I will decline the tube and accept an earlier exit.

It occurred to me that doctors and nurses deal with patients on two levels. One, they face fellow human beings with a medical problem of some kind, often in pain, and they are in the profession to help. But two, they are treating an organism with an affliction and are on a quest to treat it successfully—and can be brutal in seeking a positive outcome. We as patients are treated as kindly as possible and at the same time with ruthless devotion to effective treatment, which can involve lengthy and painful procedures. None of us can voice much objection, of course, because we must trust they are using the best available procedures and we have to suffer through the treatment in order to continue to live.

I made it a habit to chat with the nurses (heaven knows that the one person on the planet you want to be your friend is your attending nurse) as well as joke about whatever it is they were doing to me at the time. We had a few laughs. I'd inquire where they went to school, how long they'd been a nurse, where they were from, and so on. In a couple of cases, I asked them if they thought they were fairly compensated. Both said yes but added that they were not in the job for the money; they loved caring for patients. Other nurses made that same comment. That commitment was certainly reflected in the care that I received.

              Anyone who has been in a hospital knows that a patient gets poked and prodded and tested repeatedly. The surgery post-op ward added a new element: heparin every six hours. A lovely shot: it stings. Not as much as lidocaine but worse than a routine vaccine. My arms are now dotted with red spots from morning blood draws and heparin shots four times per day. When I questioned the heparin, I was told that blood clotting is a significant concern following abdominal surgery (maybe all surgery), so we get a blood thinner.

I was reminded once again that hospital lingo for time is different from that used in the outside world. "I'll be right back" can mean anywhere from 30-90 minutes. "It will be pretty quick" means an hour or two. "Pretty soon" suggests two hours or more—or maybe not at all.

I was also reminded that in a hospital, one has neither dignity nor privacy. Not to go into too many details, at one point I had a young Black woman nurse student intern cleaning my groin area after a procedure. I joked with the nurse and the intern that some of the routine actions in a hospital would either be subject to criminal prosecution in another setting or would reflect some really weird sexual practices.

A few months back I read in a couple of different sources that the medical profession was abandoning the 0-10 pain scale. You've all seen it, I'm sure. This is the one that was in my room.

If anyone in the profession is suggesting moving to some other scale, Fairview Southdale didn't get the memo. I was asked perhaps 200 times what number on the scale described where I was at that moment. Many of my answers were 7-8. I must have said a dozen times to the nurses that coughing was my enemy: for the first days after the surgery, if I had to cough, I'd be 10 on the pain scale at the site of the incision.

Why did this happen to my small intestine? Docs do not know, the resident who discharged me said when I asked. The surgeon had earlier commented that it was just "bad luck" and the resident agreed. It most definitely was not our fitness routine; he said he couldn't even figure out the amount or kind of external force it would take to rearrange one's intestines. The closest he could imagine would be on one of those amusement park rides that spins you around really fast if you rode it for quite awhile—and even that would be unlikely to cause bowel misalignment. So the etiology remains a mystery.

Meantime, poor Kathy was going back and forth between home and the hospital. It was nice to have her nearby even if we had little conversation beyond my medical status from day to day. I wasn't in the mood to chat, needless to say. Hospital rooms, at least where I was, are all single, fairly spacious, and include upholstered furniture for visitors. One piece was a recliner, so Kathy could crochet and listen to an audio book while I was napping—or she could take a nap herself, which she did a couple of times.

I don't know about the rest of you who've had a hospital stay, but I turned down all requests to visit. A number of you were kind enough to volunteer to come, but I said no. Most of the time I was too distressed and the rest of the time I just wanted to sleep. Besides, *I* don't like visiting people in the hospital because the conversations are often stilted and limited; why would I want to put any of my friends in that position?

What I found remarkable is that I had no food—NO FOOD OF ANY KIND—from dinner on Friday, before I went to the hospital on Saturday morning, and Tuesday. The only substance entering my system, besides a multitude of drugs, was saline solution through the IV affixed to my wrist. From Tuesday through Saturday morning, I had only a liquid diet (e.g., chicken broth, orange gelatin, apple juice, tea, etc., a much-sought-after cuisine). So no solid food from Friday dinner to mid-morning the Saturday eight days later.

              I didn't realize one can go so long without sustenance and not lose some kind of function somewhere. Moreover, even more remarkable, at least to me, is that I wasn't at all hungry during that period nor did I feel particularly weak (other than overall from the surgery itself). I couldn't even finish the liquid diet servings that I ordered—and if I tried, the liquid only exacerbated the bloating in my stomach (thus leading to my relapse).

              My first solid food on Saturday morning, the eight days after Friday dinner, was scrambled eggs and toast. They were my "get out of jail" card: If I could eat them and not throw up within two hours afterward, I would be released. I was already feeling great, peeved that I'd spent Friday night in the hospital. When the resident gave me that challenge, I promptly ordered the food and equally promptly ate it when it arrived. Once finished, I walked down the hallway and found my nurse and told her that I wanted it noted in the record that I finished my meal at 10:26. She laughed and said she'd contact the resident at 12:26. She did; he showed up about 12:35. He signed the release order and the wonderful nurse had me discharged in less than 15 minutes.

              One question that a friend asked was whether I was worried about the outcome. I said no, apart from general worry anyone has about being in a hospital. This surgery was very different from, say, cancer surgery, where your life can hang in the balance. In the minds of the physicians and nurses, there was no mention of long-term risk or an outcome to be feared; it was just an obnoxious process that I had to go through.

The hospital staff was fabulous, as I mentioned earlier about the nurses. They repeatedly assured me I'll be fine and this will just be a bad memory. I hope they're right on the first score and I know they're wrong on the second: it won't be a bad memory, it will come back to me as a nightmare. This was the worst experience of my life.

              For the locals who drive in the area, the next time you drive on Hwy 62 near France Avenue, and you see those huge E M E R G E N C Y letters on the front of Fairview Southdale hospital, you can remember that your friend Gary had the best time of his life in one of the rooms overlooking 62 about 50 feet to the right of the Y.

              On to regular life again, albeit slowly.

              Gary

 

 

#110 Finding fitness

June 6, 2024

            Good morning.

            Many of you have incorporated some kind of exercise routine in your lives for many years or you pursue athletic or quasi-athletic activities or you may do both. Those of my friends who know me well and have known me a long time know that I have been allergic to anything even faintly athletic my entire adult life. (Does bocce ball count as athletic? I suspect not.) The last time I was "in shape" was probably in 9^th grade, when we had to take physical education. I have long understood, and read frequently, that one important way to stay healthy and mobile (and mentally fit) as one ages is to engage in physical activity. The thought makes me tired. I have always admired Hunter Thompson's point of view:

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!" ― Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

I know darn well, of course, that without maintaining a reasonable level of physical activity one will arrive at the grave too early and perhaps after a long period of physical disability of some kind.

            After repeated but friendly badgering from my son Elliott, and after Kathy observed that we have a free membership to Life Time Fitness with our health insurance (the "Silver Sneakers" program), we decided that we'd join. (If I catch all the stoplights right, there is a Life Time club three minutes from our townhouse, so I can't even use inconvenience as an excuse not to go.) I must thus reluctantly set aside my affinity for Thompson and accede to the demands of an aging body. (Elliott has taught himself much about physical fitness and read widely and exercises regularly and he's been on my case for years to do something.)

            So we scheduled a time for a tour and introduction. I assume we were randomly assigned one of the staff trainers, whoever was available. We were assigned to Mena Youssef, a lively young woman of 26 (I learned that later).

            As we walked around, we realized that we had no idea how to use all the equipment we were seeing, we had no idea what kinds of activities or exercise we should do, and little idea of what we expected to accomplish. So we decided we better engage the services of a trainer, and since we liked Mena, we signed up right then and there: once per week for 12 weeks. (Sure, the Life Time membership is free; a trainer is decidedly not.)

            As we talked, I asked Mena if she was from the area. She told us that no, she was not, originally; she was born and raised in Egypt and came, with her mother and siblings, to Eden Prairie in 2006 when she was 8 years old. I was astonished. What I found amazing is that she sounds like she grew up in Eden Prairie. I asked her what language she spoke growing up; she said Arabic (naturally) and British English. I know that if one learns a new language young, it comes easily, and American English is not exactly a "new" language for someone who speaks British English, but I was nonetheless startled at her utter lack of an accent. (I'm no linguist but over the years I've discovered I do have an amateur's ear for languages and accents. When we first visited Life Time and were waiting for our tour and introduction, I told one of the young women working at the front desk that she had a Scottish brogue; Kathy agreed. The young woman was startled; she had no idea.)

            We have now had seven sessions with Mena and could not be more pleased. I guess we're pleased. I come home after our 9:00 a.m. hour-long sessions and I can feel it. We get a workout. I guess that's how this is supposed to work. Mena told us that if we follow the exercise regimens she prescribes, and do them 3-5 times per week, we'll gain one pound of muscle mass every five weeks. I am so excited by that prospect. No, not really. Excited or not, Kathy and I go in four times per week. I enjoy the three mornings per week when we don't go in. (Elliott says he enjoys his workouts on their equipment at home. Good for him.)

            As is often the case for me, the technology associated with exercising was a surprise. Mena prescribes a set of exercises—different each day—that we follow on the three days per week that we do not see her. I learned quickly why all these people at Life Time are walking around with their cell phones in hand, looking intently at the screen. I'm doing it as well, since the exercises are on the Life Time app on my phone. Of course the app also keeps track of what I've done and what weights I've achieved on each machine.

            Another way the technology surprised me is in the seemingly infinite variety of exercise machines that are made. There are dozens and dozens! Sometimes Mena assigns an exercise on a machine she hasn't shown us how to use. Some are easy to figure out; some I can't even find and have to ask one of the trainers where it is, and some I can't figure out how I should use it even when I do find it.

            Since I've never belonged to a fitness club before, I don't know what the difference is between a high-end and not-so-high-end club. This place seems higher-end to me: lots of machines and weights and classes, a pleasant and large training/exercise room, huge and well-appointed locker rooms, generally a classy place. Is Life Time high end? What's lower-end? What's even more high-end?

            I have been impressed with Mena's knowledge of exercise physiology. She told us that after graduating from Eden Prairie High School, she went to the University of Minnesota and earned a degree in Kinesiology. She learned her stuff; for example, she points out the muscles that we're working on with each exercise. Because I have a shoulder that's a little painful sometimes, she tested my range of motion and then told me to go to an orthopedic physician. I have an appointment in the next couple of weeks.

            When we started this program of exercises, Mena told us to be sure we eat enough protein because muscles need protein. When I informed Elliott about this Life Time venture, one of the first things he said was to be sure we eat enough protein. Apart from occasional curious glances at dietary information on almost every food item one purchases these days, I've never paid much attention to it. Now I have to check for protein content.

            I find interesting the social interactions at Life Time: there aren't any. No one talks to anyone else (except on the rare occasions when it's apparent that two guys or two women know each other outside the club setting). I would have thought that there might be some chatter, talk about the equipment, what exercises one is doing, whatever. Nope.

            I suppose that now I have to buy some spiffy gym clothes so I look good while I'm working out. Or maybe not.

            I grudgingly concede that the four hours per week are probably doing me good, although I can't tell it (yet), other than by stiff arms and legs from time to time.

            If you're of a certain vintage (i.e., old enough to be retired), I'd be curious to learn what you do to keep fit and what your experiences have been at places like Life Time Fitness.

            I hope your life is going well. Please stay in touch.

            Gary

#108 Circles of Friends and Messrs. Dunbar and Putnam

 

March 18, 2024, Monday morning 

Good morning.

            The folks who own the townhouse in which we stay while in Florida have a refrigerator magnet with a quotation from William James (1842-1910, Harvard professor, philosopher, and who is said to be the father of American psychology), "Wherever you are it is your own friends who make your world." That quotation has intrigued me ever since I first saw it here. The whole notion of "friends" is one I find of interest. I will return to Professor James later.

(Note: My Washburn Facebook friends will have seen an earlier version of the next three paragraphs.)

I have a friend—male—who graduated from another Minneapolis high school a few years before I did. He and five of his male classmates have remained in close touch for the six decades since they graduated. Three of them stayed in the Twin Cities, three live elsewhere in the U.S. Once past child rearing, they began to get together once a year or every other year someplace in the country. As timing and schedules permit, they travel together, they attended each others’ weddings and their childrens’ weddings as possible. They stay in touch in between events. One might say they are a "band of brothers."

Even more remarkably, all six of the wives have become close friends. Six women, essentially chosen at random, have become about as close as the original six guys. Not quite "at random," of course, because the six guys all came from a similar socio-economic-religious background, so it's no surprise that they mixed it up with women who came from a similar background. Even then, however, that doesn't mean they all have to like each other. I know a number of people from the same general background that I have whom I don't particularly care for. 

Anyway, this strikes me as an unusual and extraordinary set of friendships. I know that I and many of my high school classmates have friendships with one or several of our classmates, but those tend to be individual relationships, or with another couple of people. I don’t know of any that have a group like my friend’s, an entire group of six people plus spouses who’ve stuck together continuously since graduation, a part of one another’s lives for over 60 years. It’s an amazing—and, for them, rewarding—constellation of enduring friendships.

My friend communicated with the group about my comments. One of the wives wrote back:

I would attribute these lasting friendships to the following: 

1. We saw each other repeatedly so we got to know and like each of the men and women individually.

2. We have been witnesses to each others' lives for many, many years. We have seen the births of children and grandchildren and the deaths of parents and even some of us.

3. We want to get along and so we do. We care enough about each other to not dwell on negatives. In fact, some things are actually funny. It seems that we have all decided to be this way.

4.  The men were all smart enough to pick strong, intelligent, interesting wives and the wives were smart enough to recognize this. 

5.  We were all affluent enough to travel and see each other as well as share some adventures. 

6.  We have a broad agreement on values in the world and although we are not identical we do not let polarized views disrupt our friendships. 

In short I think we just decided to be friends. 

As to how did this happen? I think [one couple] are continuing links and facilitators.    We all have contributed in our own ways but they have been a strong planning and communicating link.

One of his five male classmates also wrote:

[My wife] and I also marvel about our group’s friendship for all these years. You have really been our coordinator and touch point for our gatherings, particularly our trips to Italy and Sicily. Everyone has taken the lead in putting together trips to various U.S. cities. You and [your wife] have hosted . . . gatherings w/our Minneapolitan friends for years. We have been fortunate to have had spouses who have fun together and get along w/everyone. The dynamics of our group are unusual and we’re glad to be a part of it.

Contemplating that group of friends led me to think again about Dunbar numbers, the proposition that in general people can have about 150 meaningful relationships, developed by anthropologist Dr. Robin Dunbar of Oxford University in 1993. According to the New York Times,

Dr. Dunbar defines meaningful relationships as those people you know well enough to greet without feeling awkward if you ran into them in an airport lounge. That number typically ranges from 100 to 250, with the average around 150, he said.

 

At birth, it starts at one or two. Friendships peak in the late teens and early 20s. By their 30s, people tend to have about 150 connections, and that number remains flat until people reach their late 60s and early 70s, when their number of connections, Dr. Dunbar said, "starts to plummet." "If you live long enough, it gets back to one or two."

The number 150, and the associated numbers, have been criticized by social scientists, especially since the hypothesis was developed on the basis of research that took place before the development of social media and based on brain size. The criticism is directed largely toward the 150 number; other research suggests that the number can be much larger than that. Dunbar sticks to his 150 and suggests that many—perhaps the majority of—social media relationships are not meaningful in the sense that he uses the term. Maybe 150 isn't right; Dunbar himself suggests a range of about 100 – 250 with 150 as the average. There probably is, in reality, no exact number—but the notion that we can have up to 500 friends strikes me as fanciful. Who could possibly keep in touch with that many people? (See below) Even if the numbers and categories can be debated, I find Dunbar's numbers to be a useful heuristic device.

            Here’s a nifty visualization of the Dunbar numbers (from an article in The Atlantic, May 20, 2021); the indented language following the depiction is a quotation from Dunbar in the article):

 

 

The innermost layer of 1.5 is [the most intimate]; clearly that has to do with your romantic relationships. The next layer of five is your shoulders-to-cry-on friendships. They are the ones who will drop everything to support us when our world falls apart. The 15 layer includes the previous five, and your core social partners. They are our main social companions, so they provide the context for having fun times. They also provide the main circle for exchange of child care. We trust them enough to leave our children with them. The next layer up, at 50, is your big-weekend-barbecue people. And the 150 layer is your weddings and funerals group who would come to your once-in-a-lifetime event.

 

The layers come about primarily because the time we have for social interaction is not infinite. You have to decide how to invest that time, bearing in mind that the strength of relationships is directly correlated with how much time and effort we give them.

I’m not sure why the center is 1.5. You love 1½ people?

            I wondered how many "meaningful relationships" I had. Am I close to 50? 150? I made a list of all the people I count as "good friends" per Dunbar's description, as of 2019, using these criteria:

-- I see them at least a couple of times per year or, when physical interaction is impractical because of geographic distance, I stay in regular touch by email and sometimes Facebook.

-- They would not be surprised if I asked them if they’d like to get together for lunch. (I've *had* lunch with many of them!)

-- I believe they would call me a friend.

-- The list did not include friends who’ve drifted away, for whatever reason. The list also does not include people who I know reasonably well but whom I don’t count as friends.

-- The list includes 15 friends who have died in the last five years. (As Dunbar commented, the number remains stable until one reaches the late 60s or early 70s, so I chose 2019 as my counting year because I was 68 and because since then 14 have died.)

I have a total of 120 in the first, second, and third rings (5-15-50) from the center, of whom 105 are living, although a couple of those might more appropriately be in the 150 ring. (Dunbar says the ring of 15 includes the 5, so in the 1.5 center plus the first three rings there are a total of 66.5. I didn't try to parse further and put people in the 5 or 15 category.) Ask me tomorrow and the number might be 110 rather than 120. It’s not always easy to place friends in the categories; the lines are fuzzy. Assuming my assessment of the relationships is reasonably accurate, I seem to have more friends who fall in the first three rings than the Dunbar number would predict. (Statistically speaking, I bet the standard deviation for the Dunbar numbers is fairly high.)

I don’t know how it would work for you, if you want to amuse yourself with this same exercise, but I found that I could group friends by different periods of life or activities: friends from and ever since kindergarten through high school, friends made during student days in college, friends made from my work setting at the University of Minnesota, high school classmates who’ve become friends in the last five years (because of social events before and after our 50-year reunion), friends made recently in the course of serving as bridge instructor, and "other." That last category includes such people as my ex-wife, my sister-in-law, my daughter-in-law and her parents, former neighbors, and so on; it’s a potpourri. There is also a category with one person in it: Kathy. She’s my 1.5! (Chuckle. If she weren’t in the center, she’d fall in the "other" category.)

It occurs to me that the people whom I might put in the 5 circle, "your shoulders-to-cry-on friendships, . . . the ones who will drop everything to support us when our world falls apart," might not put me in their 5 circle. That doesn't surprise me. I also suspect that some (for example, the six guys and wives I mentioned at the beginning) have more than 5 in that first circle.

Thinking about circles and quantity of friends led me to revisit Robert Putnam's Bowling Alone, (published in 2000) in which he documented the decline of social capital in America. Per the Wikipedia summary, for those of you unfamiliar with Putnam's work:

Putnam discussed ways in which Americans disengaged from community, including decreased voter turnout, attendance at public meetings, service on committees, and work with political parties. Putnam also cited Americans' growing distrust in their government. Putnam accepted the possibility that this lack of trust could be attributed to "the long litany of political tragedies and scandals since the 1960s", but believed that this explanation was limited when viewing it alongside other "trends in civic engagement of a wider sort".

 

Putnam noted the aggregate loss in membership and number of volunteers in many existing civic organizations such as religious groups (Knights of Columbus, B'nai Brith, etc.), labor unions, parent–teacher associations, Federation of Women's Clubs, League of Women Voters, military veterans' organizations, volunteers with Boy Scouts and the Red Cross, and fraternal organizations (Lions Clubs, Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, United States Junior Chamber, Freemasonry, Rotary, Kiwanis, etc.). Putnam used bowling as an example to illustrate this; although the number of people who bowled had increased in the last 20 years, the number of people who bowled in leagues had decreased. If people bowled alone, they did not participate in the social interaction and civic discussions that might occur in a league environment.

            The publisher's blurb for the revised edition, 2020:

 

Bowling Alone surveyed in detail Americans’ changing behavior over the decades, showing how we had become increasingly disconnected from family, friends, neighbors, and social structures, whether it’s with the PTA, church, clubs, political parties, or bowling leagues. In the revised edition of his classic work, Putnam shows how our shrinking access to the "social capital" that is the reward of communal activity and community sharing still poses a serious threat to our civic and personal health, and how these consequences have a new resonance for our divided country today. He includes critical new material on the pervasive influence of social media and the internet, which has introduced previously unthinkable opportunities for social connection—as well as unprecedented levels of alienation and isolation.

 

At the time of its publication, Putnam’s then-groundbreaking work showed how social bonds are the most powerful predictor of life satisfaction, and how the loss of social capital is felt in critical ways, acting as a strong predictor of crime rates and other measures of neighborhood quality of life, and affecting our health in other ways. While the ways in which we connect, or become disconnected, have changed over the decades, his central argument remains as powerful and urgent as ever: mending our frayed social capital is key to preserving the very fabric of our society.

            If Putnam is correct, and social bonds have declined, then one might wonder if Dunbar's numbers, research conducted a few years before Putnam's book but in the period of decline, might not represent a low point in the number of people we have in various categories of friendship. Did people in earlier decades, before the 1960s, have larger circles of friends? I know that my parents, born in the 1920s, had a huge circle of friends; they also belonged to several "social" groups: the ones I can recall were the PTA, church choir, fraternal organization (Sons of Norway, even though there was not a drop of Norwegian blood in either of them), VFW, amateur theatrical group, and singing groups. Their friends came from all of those groups. In contrast, I don't belong to any such organizations. (One difference is that I made many friends over the years of my career at the University; my dad and mom did not socialize with any of the people from my dad's office.)

            One observation that's true for me, at least: both social media (for me, only Facebook; I don't use any of the others) and email have allowed me to retain friends, those who are in the 50 circle, who might otherwise have fallen away either because of distance or not finding time to get together.

            What I've also found is that in retirement I've had the time to renew moribund friendships that would otherwise have gone from moribund to dead. In the instances when I reached out, my friends were delighted and reciprocated and the relationships were revived. One key may be "in retirement": many of us did not have time, during our working career when we may also have been married and raised kids, to give a lot of attention to fading friendships. It seemed to me often the case that they faded purely from lack of time to keep them up, not a parting of the ways because of differences on some scale (economic, political, religious, etc.); as Dunbar points out, "the time we have for social interaction is not infinite."

            Others think about these same questions. Frank Bruni had a marvelously apropos column in The New York Times on March 15. The title was "The Friends Who Got Away" and begins this way:

 

Where did J. go? For a while there, he was such a treasured part of my life, someone I thought about frequently, someone I yearned to see, someone whose dinner company I relished, someone whose emails made me smile. I can’t remember how we met — a mutual acquaintance, I think — but after we did, I never traveled to his city without contacting him in advance and making plans to see him. And he regularly checked in on me.

 

Until he stopped. Was that five years ago? More? And did he stop, or did I? I’m not sure. I just know that I was busy, he was busy, my travel decreased and one day I suddenly realized that we’d lost touch with each other. I also felt strangely timid about reaching out: If he wanted to hear from me, wouldn’t I have heard more recently from him? Or was he thinking the exact same thing?

 

I wondered and wondered. Then some pressing obligation or competing anxiety tugged my attention elsewhere. Then more time went by. And here J. and I are — or, rather, aren’t. We’re onetime confidants who never had a falling out, never said a proper goodbye, simply evaporated from each other’s lives like dew from a blade of grass.

 

I’m haunted by how many times, and with how many friends, that has happened. By how the bustle of our lives and the bustle in our heads take people away from us, though we never intended to let them go. By how unintentional, unavoidable and subtly but stubbornly sad that is.

I don't know if Bruni has read Dunbar (he makes no mention of Dunbar), but Bruni makes this striking observation, echoing Dunbar:

It is

a cold and bitter truth: There are too few hours in a day and days in a year to tend adequately to, or even keep proper tabs on, all the people who have meant something to us and all the people we have meant something to. Affection and attachment battle basic arithmetic, and arithmetic wins.

 

Bruni, like me, acknowledges that there are friends in our past who will stay there. He recalls either hurt or disappointment, by one or the other in the friendship, or that it became no longer healthy or happy, and "while that was unfortunate and perhaps painful, it was also clear. Those friends don’t exit our thoughts, but they also don’t hover there like question marks. We understand what happened." In my experience, it can also be simpler: a lack of interest in continuing the friendship. Not hurt, disappointment, unhealthy, or unhappy, just a failure to stay in touch—on both sides. It is remarkable that these often happen by mutual but unspoken consent.

Off the top of my head, I can count about 15 friendships that have faded. In some cases, they and I let them go; in a couple of them, the aging process took them out. These are difficult relationships to recall because they are gone from my usual contact lists and mostly from my memory. Even where possible, I have no intention of seeking to renew them.

I wonder if, in the past four or five years, there has been an increase in the dissolution of friendships because of political differences. One reads in the news that families have divided and friendships have ended because of the polarization in American politics.

            Let me circle back to Professor James. If he is correct—and I believe that in part he is—then the more friends we have, the more diverse and potentially interesting our lives are. (I write "in part" because unless one defines family as friends, family—unless you are a hermit or have no living relatives or are separated from them all—also makes your world. I am sure Professor James would have agreed.) I revel in my friends, most of whom receive these epistles. So thank you for the contributions you make to my world.

            Gary

 

#107 square feet and cruises

Friday, February 23, 2024

 

Good morning. An unusually quick follow-on to my last epistle.

 

            The puzzle and pursuit of square feet. Idiosyncratic, to be sure. Some might say idiotic. But the effort is entertaining and amusing, at least for me. After one reaches a certain age, anything entertaining and amusing is worth doing.

 

            One of my friends, a lifelong Minneapolitan, in response to my report on the Flagler museum and the Hill and Congdon mansions, mentioned that he and his wife had, for the first time, finally, visited the [Swan] Turnblad mansion, AKA the American Swedish Institute (ASI). It’s a place that a number of my local friends have probably visited at one time or another.

 

            Mention of the Turnblad mansion of course led me to think about it in comparison with the Flagler and the two homes in Minnesota, the Hill House and Glensheen. The Turnblad mansion is a lovely home. It has 33 rooms, according to the ASI website, but the house is compact enough that it would be livable. You could get your cookies and milk in the night without walking half a mile. For those of you who’ve not been there, here’s the main entry/reception hall, taken from the ASI website:

 

I noted last time I wrote:

 

Chester Congdon (Glensheen, on the North Shore of Lake Superior in Duluth) and James J. Hill (James J. Hill House, St. Paul) were pikers compared to Flagler. Gleensheen has 39 rooms and 27,000 square feet, finished in 1908; the Hill House is 36,000 square feet with 42 rooms, finished in 1891. Apparently Congdon decided not to compete with Hill in the enormity of his house. By comparison, Whitehall is 100,000 square feet and has 75 rooms.

 

I contacted ASI to inquire about the Turnblad mansion. I was informed by one of their very helpful staff that “when I add up what we do know, I get about 18,897. There for sure were some small closets and things not accounted for – but that number includes large storage spaces under the veranda. Actual living space is probably closer to 15,000.”

 

I must also correct the figure for the Flagler mansion in Palm Beach: When I called to ask, I was told that it’s 125,000 square feet. Frankly, I doubt it. So we have 125,000, 36,000, 27,000, and ~15,000. I don’t think I’m comparing apples with apples when I compile these numbers. The Flagler is big—but I don’t believe it’s slightly more than eight times as big as the Turnblad mansion or nearly four times the size of the Hill mansion. Trust the Swede to build a tasteful and functional mansion  Those who prefer a more spartan or modern interior decorating style would not find the Turnblad mansion appealing, but I like it.

 

Oh yes—the Flagler mansion was only used two months of the year. They came down from New York, had big parties and got away from winter for a bit, then closed up the house and went back home. The Congdons and the Hills actually lived in their houses. It seems that the Turnblads did not; “Although the family listed the mansion as their official residence starting in 1908, they spent most of their time living in an apartment across the street after 1915. After [his wife] Christina died in 1929, Swan and [their daughter] Lillian moved into the apartment full-time.”

 

            As long as I’m considering big houses: I forgot to comment that when we were staying in Pompano, we took a 90-minute cruise of the canals of Fort Lauderdale. It was, in the words of our host, Shar, a little cheesy. I didn’t know Fort Lauderdale calls itself the Venice of America. Anyone who’s been to Venice might be skeptical.

 

            Anyway, the cruise guide pointed out all the multi-million-dollar homes built by the CEO of this and the CEO of that and this actor and that actor. Homes pretty much jammed together on the canals. (None anywhere near as big as the Flagler home, but still large.) To go along with many of these homes were large, multi-million-dollar boats. Yachts, I suppose. There was considerable “wealth envy” in the cruise narrative and the guide had a sort of kindergarten-level sense of humor. To some extent seeing how some—I know, not all—people spend what I think of as an obscene amount of money on a house makes me a little cynical. The whole event was fairly tacky.

 

            What also puzzles me is why one would spend $10-20-more million on a house to be cheek by jowl with neighbors. Here’s a bird’s eye view of some of the canals:

I don’t know if we were on any of those canals, but you get the idea. One canal-level view, similar to much of what we were seeing (except that we had a sunny, pleasant day):

 

If I had enough money to build a house of the size and cost of these, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t buy or build in that setting.

 

            In complete and refreshing contrast was the cruise we took the next day. A three-hour-plus small, flat boat tour of Rookery Bay, 110,000 protected acres south of Naples. The only ones on the boat were Kathy, our Scottish friends Rod & Morag, and me, plus the driver/naturalist. The guy knew his stuff—he had a B.S. and M.S. in some kind of environmental biology, so could point out all the flora and fauna as we cruised the waters of creeks and inlets and bays. We learned much, for example, about mangroves—the three different kinds in the Bay and what function they serve in a watery setting. The guide was both knowledgeable as well as reasonably funny. It was a marvelous tour.

 

            As Morag commented afterward, maybe it was fortuitous that we had the tacky cruise at Fort Lauderdale and then the Rookery Bay environmental biology cruise because they were so different. I confess that when we were done with the Rookery Bay tour, my ears needed to rest. Our young guide certainly gave us our money’s worth in narrative and education.

                            

            One result of this rumination on housing is that it is very clear to me that I cannot—do not know how to—put myself in a mindset where we have tens of millions of dollars laying around such that I could say to Kathy one morning, “let’s build a 40,000-square-foot home in a warm spot that we’ll use two months of the year” or “let’s buy a multi-million-dollar home on a canal that we’ll occasionally drop in on.”

 

            From our 1300 square foot townhouse in Florida, wintering away from our 2000 square foot townhouse in the Twin Cities, my best.

 

            Gary

 

#106 cars, bikes, houses, lettuce

 

                                                                                    Saturday, February 17, 2024

 Good morning.

            The tales of travel, although not a lot. It occurred to me, while we were sitting in the sardine section of the airplane en route to Florida, that (a) I wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, and (b) smaller seats on airplanes is a first-world complaint; they are a lot better than riding in a Conestoga wagon crossing the American prairies in the middle of the 19^th century—and hardly a problem comparable to the often deadly problems people face on a daily basis in less-industrialized countries around the world.    

We get to the Avis rental car desk and the guy tells us they don’t have any of the middle-sized sedans that we had chosen. Instead, he gives us a no-additional-charge upgrade—to a Cadillac SUV. It is black, so in my mind it resembles a small hearse, and it’s far bigger than any vehicle I’m accustomed to driving. Who buys these things? 

I have a perhaps idiosyncratic view of Cadillacs (and Lincolns): back in the day when there were basically no non-American cars on the road (when I was growing up), the only high-end vehicles were a Cadillac or a Lincoln. I always thought they were an ostentatious display of wealth.

Now, if you have sufficient discretionary income to buy a higher-end car, you suggest (in my mind, totally inconsistently) that you have some taste if you drive a BMW or Audi or a Mercedes. A Cadillac, however, remains for me a display of wealth with no taste whatever. So I am rather embarrassed to be driving it.

I initially thought we might return the Cadillac for the sedan we originally reserved. As it turned out, the Cadillac needed air in one of the tires and a dashboard reset, so I needed to bring it back into Avis. When I called about bringing it in, the guy apologized; he said they didn’t have any cars of my size ready but I could have a Camry if that would be acceptable. (He obviously didn’t know that that’s the size car we’d initially reserved and were driving a free upgrade.) After quick consultation, Kathy and I decided to keep the Cadillac. It’s nice to be sitting up higher when 50% of the vehicles around you are SUVs. So what does that say about me and the stigma I attach to Cadillacs?

I have commented in the past, during our now-annual Naples stay, that I am astonished at the number of expensive cars being driven around here. A few days ago, on a short errand, I was passed by three Jaguars in the course of a couple of miles. Also recently, at a stoplight, I had four Cadillacs around me: three in front, one on the right. Just today on the way home from lunch a Maserati convertible passed us. To say nothing of the multitude of Lexuses, BMWs, Mercedeses, Acuras, Infinitys, and, of course, lots of Cadillacs. The occasional Bentley and Lamborghini show up as well. Uff da. That’s a lot of money in automobiles.

While I am on the topic of transportation, as a number of friends know, I fell off a bike right outside our townhouse. It was really stupid: I looked back to my left because I heard a car on the (very quiet, within our HOA) street behind me. As I did so, I inadvertently turned the handle bars right—and both I and the bike went down on the asphalt. What was even more stupid was that I didn’t have a helmet on. So I got a nasty-looking gash on my forehead that bled all over the place. (The bike was fine.) 

So off to urgent care we go. The doc there takes one look at me and says nope, you have to go to the ER because the ER can do a CT scan, which urgent care cannot. I groaned; I’ve never been in an ER for myself but I have repeatedly been in one in the past for others, especially Krystin. It’s never taken fewer than 4-5 hours to get admitted and treated unless you’re suffering from a life-threatening affliction. The doc tells us of a free-standing ER about 30 minutes away, says they always get people in quickly. So off we go. Here’s a little gore to add to my story.

Her advice was sound. The CT scan and the stitches in my forehead and all the paperwork took 90 minutes. The worst part of the entire sequence of events was not the fall, it was the Lidocaine injection before the guy put in the four stitches. Yikes, that stuff stings!

The upshot is that there was no concussion and the gash on my forehead has healed to the point where you can barely see it. One friend commented that the scar would make me look rugged. I don’t; it’s too invisible.

I will remain on the topic of bikes. Kathy and I rented e-bikes recently and expected to ride to and around one of the large local state parks on the Gulf. I frankly was apprehensive about riding, not so much because of my recent fall but because I worry simply about breaking something. At my age, breaks often do not have good outcomes.

The e-biking was fine, sort of. I can say with certainty that I do *not* like riding on a bike path on a major thoroughfare right next to the traffic. (For those of you who know Naples, Vanderbilt Beach Road.) My balance was mostly fine, but being so close to moving vehicles made me nervous. Whatever gain in lifespan I achieved by the little exercise one gets on an e-bike—perhaps 30 seconds—was offset by the cost to my brain from the tension from the traffic.

The insult was that a good portion of the state park was closed. It seems that they’re still cleaning up and repairing after Hurricane Ian in September 2022. So we rode several blocks on Vanderbilt Beach Road, another several blocks on Gulf Shore Boulevard (also next to traffic, although less), got to the park, and were able to ride just a short way into the park before turning around at the point where the park becomes more interesting. So we rode back to a local restaurant and had lunch and then returned the bikes.

Kathy and I will perhaps explore buying e-bikes when we get back to Minneapolis, where there are many more places to bike away from vehicular traffic.

            Next, big houses. We had friends from Scotland stay with us for six days. While they were here, we drove to the Atlantic side of Florida and stayed with my classmate Shar Benson in Pompano. She is great fun and a fabulous host—and the view from her condo overlooking the Atlantic was spectacular.

 While on the east coast, we visited the Flagler Museum (“Whitehall”) in Palm Beach. It’s one of those enormous mansions built by a Gilded Age millionaire; the entry hall is 5000 square feet, there is a grand staircase, and there is marble everywhere. Henry Morrison Flagler built the house in 1902 as a wedding present for his third wife.

            Here’s a view of the entry hall (the staircase is on the right; from the web) and a view down the central staircase and of the second-floor hallway (courtesy of Kathy). There are many more pictures of the house on the web. 

 

            Chester Congdon (Glensheen, on the North Shore of Lake Superior in Duluth) and James J. Hill (James J. Hill House, St. Paul) were pikers compared to Flagler. Gleensheen has 39 rooms and 27,000 square feet, finished in 1908; the Hill House is 36,000 square feet with 42 rooms, finished in 1891. Apparently Congdon decided not to compete with Hill in the enormity of his house. By comparison, Whitehall is 100,000 square feet and has 75 rooms. Flagler probably knew nothing about the Hill house or Glensheen and cared even less.

            I’d never heard of Flagler. He was a partner with John D. Rockefeller in creating Standard Oil; he also built railroads and hotels in Florida. He is credited with founding the cities of Miami and Palm Beach—because his railroads made them accessible.

            I have commented before that I find these gigantic homes to be offensive. The Flagler was no different, although in this case there was an excellent docent who gave us an hour tour with a narrative that set the house and Flagler in the context of the Gilded Age and the history of Florida. In that sense it was worth the time because I learned quite a bit. I suppose there is one positive thing you can say about houses of this size: You wouldn’t have any trouble getting in your 10,000 steps, just in going from your bedroom to the kitchen to the dining room to your office. But I suppose in that kind of house, with servants and cooks, you personally never went anywhere near the kitchen for your toast and cereal in the morning. Realistically, no one needs this much space; these houses, like my view of Cadillacs, are an ostentatious display of wealth, not a practical place to live.

            Another event while our Scottish friends were here was a visit to a hydroponic lettuce farm run by my high school classmate Mike Ferree. A fascinating process; here’s one photo from inside the greenhouse (courtesy of Kathy). For those of you who know the University of Minnesota campus, the greenhouse is the size of the Northrop Mall.

 

They produce 32,000 heads of lettuce per week; they sell to local grocery stores in Florida. The goal is to get up to 75,000 heads per week by the end of the year. It’s a highly computerized, mechanized process that uses less water and no pesticides. And a very expensive process; Mike told us that they aren’t making a profit yet. Part of the problem is packaging; they want to use less, but the grocery stores say they want the plastic containers with a transparent top because buyers want to see the lettuce. Those containers cost 45 cents each and have a lot of plastic in them; they could use less plastic and pay 23 cents each, but so far the stores don’t believe their customers would buy the lettuce if packaged that way.

            Mike gave us a gift pack of six heads of the lettuce. It tasted great.

            The weather has been cool for Florida; I’ve worn shorts and a polo shirt perhaps 3-4 times since we arrived on January 3. It’s also rained more than usual. Even now, in mid-February, the predicted daily high temps for next week are only in the high 60s. Meanwhile, the Twin Cities is having the warmest winter on record; the gap in temperatures between Naples and Minneapolis is far smaller than it should be at this time of year!

            With it cool and sometimes wet, I’ve had more time to devote to one of my pastimes, my paint-by-numbers. Here, the first time I’ve done a landscape rather than people, the house I visited growing up, lived in for 34½ years, and sold to my son and daughter-in-law. Some of my friends are true artists, including classmates in New Mexico, my son, and my colleague Melissa Anderson. Since I haven’t a drop of artistic blood in my veins, I do what I can 😊

 

         My best.

         -- Gary