tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42830903145386958492024-03-14T11:03:03.226-06:00OMT! [Oh...My...Todd!] Opinion and PersonalOMG...uh...OMT! Observations, Manic Kvetching, Truthiness! Or play on he abbreviation that is perhaps a thousand words instead of the three it replaces. Or...think of it as gourmet popcorn from the void! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-8884877340609408022013-11-12T18:34:00.000-07:002013-11-12T18:34:10.818-07:00Veterans Day...still relevant after all these years<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The first time I was at all conscious of Veterans’ Day, I
was actually still on active duty. The ship made a port call in Boston and I
had driven the command’s van from our home port of Norfolk up the coast with a
couple of crew members who were required to stay behind a couple of extra days.
The 11<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> of the month was actually on a Saturday evening, so a
couple of buddies, against all sane advice, decided to venture out into the one
place we were all told <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to go: The
Combat Zone – essentially Boston’s red light district as I remember it. Why I
consented to go is still a mystery to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps I was still just too young, impressionable, and wanting to fit
in. While I wasn’t into carousing that evening, I do remember my compadrés
trying to get free drinks since it was Veterans’ Day. Suffice it to say, they
paid full price for their libations and their stack of ones was duly depleted
by midnight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Today, it seems like rather than we veterans trying to get a
deal, it’s the retailers who are trying to draw us in and get our business.
Thankfully, there are a number of restaurateurs and retailers who not only want our ongoing
business, but are willing to pony up a free meal or discount to say as much. As a vet, myself, I’m grateful for people like these who aren’t just
all talk. I do make it a point to say, “thanks” and I do write letters to
recognize the good people do. After all, it’s too easy to complain and I see a
lot of good in the world that all too often goes overlooked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That said, there still is a lot of work yet to be done.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It would be very easy to rant about our continued
involvement in South Asia, but it would be equally easy to question a lot of
things about our defense spending. The role of US foreign policy isn’t
something that is easily quantified in a post-Cold War world and crawling around a politician's mind to divine intent is better left to those who are fluent in double-speak and innuendo! Diplomacy and
policy are complicated as it is ,but its execution too often gets lost in
translation as we see played out on the font pages of our favorite news rag. The United States has made a lot of commitments and
despite a few diplomatic mis-steps, I think it's fair to say that our soldiers, sailors, and Marines will
almost always be impeccable stewards of a sterling American reputation. If only we could get Washington on board on that same reputation, we'd have a winning combination!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjuKMwHdoWRO8V-t_4XhXjDJV-8fZMOc_gx9DYAcbPSzSjlnHTXY6agi5HGdTk2KSV64otK7NvAtaHhuIrGFOyapsw5PYgZwil6R0c3NGtb5bZHJCTa8c65pZotH01OP9MhvVTC7Rf4Y/s1600/Veterans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjuKMwHdoWRO8V-t_4XhXjDJV-8fZMOc_gx9DYAcbPSzSjlnHTXY6agi5HGdTk2KSV64otK7NvAtaHhuIrGFOyapsw5PYgZwil6R0c3NGtb5bZHJCTa8c65pZotH01OP9MhvVTC7Rf4Y/s320/Veterans.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When the Vietnam War was hot and heavy, we as a country were
glued to the TV. Walter Cronkite read casualty counts as almost personal and I can remember being
shushed out of the room as the footage showing that last helicopter left the US embassy's rooftop played on the CBS Evening News. It
was tense and it was real and as our veterans came home to the country that not
only drafted them for service, but as well subjected them to horrors that we
can only glibly imagine through Hollywood’s filter. Yet, they were unbelievably spat upon and derided.
Some still bear unseen scars and others just dropped off the grid<em>.</em> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Thankfully, we’re finally acknowledging our failure as a society to
these returning veterans and trying to atone for some serious abuse to those veterans,
but the political climate and bureaucracy in tending to these very real wounds
is abysmally slow and the will to make things happen just isn’t there. Helping
veterans makes for a great sound bite when it’s getting a WWII vet in a wheel
chair into the memorial in Washington, DC, but getting a strapping doe-eyed
20-something mental health care after seeing his buddy vaporize in front of him
isn’t so glamorous. Call it “shell shock,” “battle fatigue,” or now “Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome,” it’s the same and it’s debilitating. And we need to ensure our returning Iraq and Afghanistan veterans don’t suffer the same abuses and neglect our Vietnam servicemen and women did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When requests for help from the Veteran’s Administration go
on for months on end, especially from someone in dire need, that’s clearly
unacceptable; when politicians use veterans for a photo op to make them look like
they’re the solution instead of the problem, that’s unconscionable; when we, as
a people, write off those who have the role of defending us to a sound bite or
statistic, we’re kidding ourselves that we’re safe. We may not have Walter Cronkite tearing up on national news, but each death is still a person with family and friends. <strong><em>It's still very personal.</em></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Now, let me say as a veteran myself, that I’m not suggesting
that anyone owes me anything at all. I’m speaking from a vantage of
witnessing relatives, friends, and fellow veterans at the VA hospitals where I’ve
received treatment for leukemia. The vast majority of us are well-adjusted, despite our bumps,
bruises, and illnesses, but when mistakes are made or when someone falls
through the cracks, it's more than a bureaucratic screw-up...<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it’s a life and the rules are not the same as yours or mine. </i>I’m not
talking about the cardboard signs held by people claiming to be homeless vets on
the side of the road and I honestly question the veracity of most of these
anyway. I’m not even challenging the patriotism of the magnetic yellow ribbons
on the back of vehicles (at least not today). I am pointing out that homelessness,
substance abuse, and suicide are all the very real side effects of war service
and we must, must, must never stop getting these people the help they need to
return to the life they left and love.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6UVMNY9lMnPrDURS6IgUJiqXVb5jfwJioCaFU6AV75r0wu28oG2bBbRGPFJ-YomoAxIjsFpelEa9b1FaLojMijQ3ucqmnlEIpCZoaVleoqvz_6hGRjMwRkYBPKiGWu_P6cwv-WrmX90/s1600/support+our+troops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6UVMNY9lMnPrDURS6IgUJiqXVb5jfwJioCaFU6AV75r0wu28oG2bBbRGPFJ-YomoAxIjsFpelEa9b1FaLojMijQ3ucqmnlEIpCZoaVleoqvz_6hGRjMwRkYBPKiGWu_P6cwv-WrmX90/s320/support+our+troops.jpg" width="154" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPI3RK92OWOBjhvEEn21jRpcVmr6yJD46wCbFm9HAALgZ6PhtAFYxfsqW8qDN8Bn_9LFH3MhLXE3i_vyNDJJ6tMljsnxSNB0QWzzALZb_f_kvSA5lzeZglRaoX99PDvN6USdjiV5eTtZo/s1600/homeless+vet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPI3RK92OWOBjhvEEn21jRpcVmr6yJD46wCbFm9HAALgZ6PhtAFYxfsqW8qDN8Bn_9LFH3MhLXE3i_vyNDJJ6tMljsnxSNB0QWzzALZb_f_kvSA5lzeZglRaoX99PDvN6USdjiV5eTtZo/s1600/homeless+vet.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">More often than not, a vet just needs to be with another vet. There's just an unspoken understanding, a common language and a pride that is really hard to break through when crisis is at hand. Whether it's to regale each other with "sea stories," share common experiences, commiserate, or share a drink, the camaraderie that the military wrought is a bond unbreakable and despite the difference in the particular armed force we served, once we're a vet, the differences all melt away and we're all on the same team.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Here are some resources I stand behind. I know they will help and they are starting points where you can point veterans, contribute, or volunteer. Certainly, you can do your own search should you be so inclined.</span></div>
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<br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">From the Veterans Administrations for </span><a href="http://www.oefoif.va.gov/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">returning OEF/OIF veterans</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">; for </span><a href="http://www.va.gov/homeless/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">homeless veterans</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">. When I'm at the VA asking specifically about these issues, I get answers because these particular issues have gnawed at me. The VA may have its due criticisms, but they're doing what they can with limited resources to help our homeless and returning vets.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.legion.org/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The American Legion</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> - Simply veterans helping veterans...something I can get my head around. I am a member.</span></div>
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<a href="http://vfw.org/home/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Veterans of Foreign Wars</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> - <span>To foster camaraderie among United States veterans of overseas conflicts. To serve our veterans, the military, and our communities. To advocate on behalf of all veterans. I see these people at the VA helping all the time.</span></span><br />
<span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span></span><a href="http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Wounded Warrior Project</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> - To raise awareness and enlist the public's aid for the needs of injured service members; to help injured service members aid and assist each other; to provide unique, direct programs and services to meet the needs of injured service members. I have contributed and would like to continue so with charity bicycle rides. You'll hear more about these people from me. They have my respect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">All I can say from being a veteran and a beneficiary of the VA health services, I am deeply appreciative of those who are involved in making a difference. The medical staff at both VA facilities I've been seen are compassionate and genuine and the volunteers that have brought in books, service animals, or just visited made a world of difference...and so can you. It doesn't take a lot of time or effort, just a little time and some heart. So many people don't have the support network I do and could truly benefit from your smile and attention.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">You don't have to have the answers when it comes to solving veteran problems, but you can help and you don't have to do it on Veterans Day any more than you have to wait until Thanksgiving to lend a hand to the local food shelf or wait until Christmas to buy for an underprivileged family. The need is 24/7/365.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-90961601386683420472013-11-10T16:26:00.000-07:002013-11-10T16:26:05.791-07:00Golden Scars<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">At
a low point in my life, someone very dear to me shared a little quip that,
under the wrong circumstances, might be misconstrued as glib or insensitive.
Yet the words were true because they carried the import of experience. She told
me something to the effect that “Scars are beautiful because they prove that
you heal.” Lately, those scars have a twinge to them much the same way people
who have broken bones will tell you that certain weather will induce aching in
the same areas as the break. I think the aching I feel is because I missed the
mark again. It’s not like I missed the lesson from the first blunder…I got
closer to getting it right, but I ended up hurting someone else in the process,
something that heaps hurt upon hurt.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I
find it ironic and infuriating that these circumstances make me want to be
surrounded by people and at the same time left alone. Having been a tad under
the weather as of late, the scales tipped in solitude’s direction. So I’ve had
a lot of time to myself to ruminate in my own self-imposed ‘time-out.’ In my
quiet times, thoughts either tend to spin out of control until they implode on
themselves or they resolve into a core idea that has been chugging in the back
of my brain for a long time. During these times of clarity, I get physically
weary, emotionally fragile, and just plain spent. Suffice it to say, it doesn’t
take much for a movie, a song, or nothing in particular to bring that familiar
lump to my throat and I’m again finding myself wanting to be simultaneously
with people to lean on and alone to ‘get it out of my system.’ Yet, the real
thing that that pushed through lately is that it’s not that I want to be around
people, but that I want to be around people who have a scar or two.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">You
know you’ve been around someone with scars because they come off as wise beyond
their years; they impress you as authentic, and their encouragement doesn’t
have a pitch at the end. Their time with you is truly selfless. Their smiles
seem to communicate more than their words, yet they don’t let you simply vent
without some sort of accountability attached—you can kvetch all you want, but
be prepared to do something about it! These are the people I truly
treasure. Admittedly, as much as I wouldn’t complain about having a
chiseled physique, a wrinkle-free face with gleaming white, straight teeth, and
all the high-dollar toys, the people who typically have those things aren’t the
ones who make me feel whole. The kind of person with scars doesn’t tell you
what to do, how to do it, or heap guilt upon you for not doing it, but rather
is there for you when you make the same mistake over and again, when you feel
like you’ve fallen for the last time and don’t have the strength to stand back
up, let alone, sit…but their enigmatic smile is there and they have a hand
outstretched when you are able to finally muster enough strength to roll over
and get your face out of the cold, fetid mud. The real kicker is that
someone with one of these scars will probably not call attention to it; they
may not admit to having one. And they’re the ones that lift you to their
shoulders to publicly cheer you when you get it right.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span></a><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">No, the people who have the innate
ability to put me back together are typically those who have been folded,
spindled, and mutilated a time or two and rather than having let circumstances
beat them into some pink slime, they have been refined into something beautiful
yet malleable; and inexplicably, they find a way to become part of you.
The best way to explain that kind of selflessness is in the Japanese art of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kintsugi</i>—using gold to fill in the
cracks in a piece of pottery and thus restoring the piece. The piece isn’t
without blemish of course, but the original break now becomes beautiful. Its
scar has, indeed become a beautiful thing, and has in effect made the original
piece worth much more. I find that to be the case in my own life and in those
who have survived emotional and physical ordeals. After all, the old
proverb, “Smooth seas do not skillful sailors make,” didn’t come about without
a few storms or shipwrecks. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgJ2ZzUTOwHtRXqTjEy1ocxt9BRRUDnsOWugBr9C6v9-frjKC6vZxpRAMaCBQ6jGRKBLf415d-Jx4BJd8iIiVgGIUS-cz3-7E2PMEzn8_yg6gaIMiwQu-urfJw8bxmx9L7VYFuaJSwNI/s1600/kintsugi7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgJ2ZzUTOwHtRXqTjEy1ocxt9BRRUDnsOWugBr9C6v9-frjKC6vZxpRAMaCBQ6jGRKBLf415d-Jx4BJd8iIiVgGIUS-cz3-7E2PMEzn8_yg6gaIMiwQu-urfJw8bxmx9L7VYFuaJSwNI/s320/kintsugi7.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">These
people are all around us and they don’t typically stand out, but their examples
do. Their courage isn’t the kind of thing that makes Hollywood movies, but
rather the scorn of the self-righteous. They are the recovering alcoholics; they
are the young women, caught <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in flagrante
delicto,</i> overcome shame and raise the child with great grace and dignity;
they are the awkward gay kids who push past the bullies and get their degrees
and decent jobs, even after being kicked out of their fundamentalist parents’
home; and they’re the people like you and me, who just made a wrong decision
that had long-term consequences or even just happened to be in the wrong place
at the wrong time and performed the great alchemy of turning sour grapes into vintage
wine!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Healing
is a miracle, and never more so than when you feel like you’re going it alone.
But the great gift of healing is a beautiful mark left behind to remind
everyone that <em><b><u><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">you
have become the miracle</span></u></b></em> and now the agent for healing in
someone else. That empathy born from your own pain is a powerful thing, but
even more so is the wisdom of knowing what to do with it and when to let it
rise up within you. It’s risky, it’s sometimes painful, and it’s often awkward,
yet to the one who is broken, you are to them priceless, immeasurably
beautiful, and permanently part of their beautiful scar…you are golden and
restore someone to wholeness.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I
encourage you to reflect back to the golden people in your own life and let
them know how you are whole because of their gift to you.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
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<strong><em>This posting was originally published January 13, 2013. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-70112747786162112022013-11-10T16:08:00.000-07:002013-11-10T16:08:02.207-07:00Unlike Anything<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-lJMvdp4QsDKJY-SbcIWRy1Eumyu99DTvBiszUZMPoIVDD-Tu866G_G_TX_E1lO3rP4cgDHeeafeC11fKV3GuVj-k4ubeOCSSFbrEjD1gd6rSs6zfzonc3IbZElxRi10KgzKtafu5po/s1600/Crossing+the+ALC+finish+line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-lJMvdp4QsDKJY-SbcIWRy1Eumyu99DTvBiszUZMPoIVDD-Tu866G_G_TX_E1lO3rP4cgDHeeafeC11fKV3GuVj-k4ubeOCSSFbrEjD1gd6rSs6zfzonc3IbZElxRi10KgzKtafu5po/s1600/Crossing+the+ALC+finish+line.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing the finish line after more than 500 miles. What an exhilarating feeling!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Two Saturday afternoons ago, I was riding down Pacific Coast Highway through some of the most beautiful and affluent coastal cities in Southern California, pushing through the final miles of the </span><a href="http://www.aidslifecycle.org/"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">11<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> AIDS LifeCycle</span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> toward the Veteran’s Center in Los Angeles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the previous six days, I had been pedaling from before sun-up to late in the afternoon, pressing the envelope of my own physical endurance and riding an emotional roller coaster ranging from elation to inexplicable feelings of empathy and grief for people I didn’t know. What kind of event could have drawn such an experience that crashes all borders and invades the spiritual? What had I gotten myself into, indeed!</span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The AIDS LifeCycle is an event that raises money for the </span><a href="http://www.sfaf.org/about-us/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">San Francisco AIDS Foundation</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> and the LA Gay and Lesbian Center’s </span><a href="http://laglc.convio.net/site/PageServer?pagename=YH_HIV_Medical_Care"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Jeffrey Goodman Special Care Clinic</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">. Both beneficiaries focus on providing state of the art medical care as well as basic needs for those afflicted with HIV and AIDS. Some of their research and treatment protocols push well beyond California and are adopted across the country and worldwide. Bypassing the statistics and the emotional manipulation one might expect from a fundraiser, I was put face-to-face with this thing called HIV. There was a face to the disease that transcended race, gender, sexual orientation, creed, and social status. There were people who told their stories, simply and authentically and that eliminated any need for trying to play on one’s heart strings. This was real and it proved beyond any doubt that what we were doing in raising money and awareness was saving lives. And it was instilling a sense of profound gratitude that made it progressively easier over the course of the ride, to push past any discomfort.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I did say easier, but by no means easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Determination and attitude will only get you so far, albeit quite some distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It still took a lot of personal dedication to the physical training to be able to ride a bicycle over 500 miles during the course of a week and I can personally attest to feeling not just a little saddle sore to accompany some aching knees and shoulders, numb hands, and tired-as-hell legs and feet! I can also attest to the extreme fatigue from pushing oneself this hard. But I will tell you that not since earning my naval aviator wings, have I ever felt so incredibly and completely delighted and genuinely satisfied in achieving something. And while there’s certainly a sense of accomplishment, there’s a selflessness that transcends achievement and pushes the ego aside to take center stage and joins each and every participant to a fellowship of sorts. It’s the kind of mysterious relationship that evokes tears for no apparent reason and makes even the most reserved person gush with enthusiasm. There may be some merit in the comment of someone very close to me, “It was a religious experience for you.” Bear in mind, I am not a religious person.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So, what was it actually like then? Anyone who knows me at all will know that my personal life has pretty much revolved around getting ready for this event for the past several months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Saturdays were spent training and many evenings spent emailing and on facebook, working on fundraising. When it came down to the wire, fundraising was done, travel arrangements were made, and my bicycle was shipped to San Francisco. And then it was a matter of the challenge of packing and wrapping up the details to be out of pocket for seven days without the electronic conveniences that make up our 21<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>st</sup> century lives. Well, I must admit to having my iPhone with me and charged up thanks to a solar charger and an external battery. No laptop, no TV, no NPR for seven days was a bit of a throwback to 20 years ago, but it really does give you an appreciation for having so much at your disposal. My rolling North Face bag was stuffed to the gills with seven sets of cycling gear (“kit”), camping gear, a toiletry bag, and a couple of outfits to wear in camp at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also had a carry-on bag that included things like my helmet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was tight, but manageable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, I figured I’d have a good amount actually on the bike each day, so it would fit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also had a pack of postcards that I had planned on writing to my supporters to thank them from the road. What’s that they say about the ‘best of intentions?’ Yeah, yeah…I still have that pack and stamps virtually untouched but for two I actually did write out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the pieces of sage advice was to leave all that at home because by the time you get in each n</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">ight, all you want to do is shower, eat, and go to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Noted…and validated by this independent examiner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When the alarm clock went off on Saturday, June 2, I was both exhausted from the early hour and excited to actually begin the trek I had been planning all this time. I made it to the sleepy little Orange County airport a good 90 minutes prior to my flight, knowing that the lines were practically nil, let alone before dawn on a weekend. And that was true for every airline except the one I was flying. Thankfully, I made it through the airline queue in time to breeze through the nonexistent security line which was oddly at the other end of the airport. The short flight to San Francisco had me arriving in time to get my baggage and hit the </span><a href="http://www.bart.gov/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">BART</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> (Bay Area Rapid Transit for those of you who have never been to San Francisco) toward Daly City where the orientation process was scheduled to start at 10:00 am. I had a notion of dropping my luggage off at the hotel in downtown San Francisco and then riding back out to orientation, but found I was headed through Daly City anyway and decided to get off and store the luggage where I would be spending the day. No sooner had I gotten off at the BART station, I saw a line of taxis and decided to have them haul my luggage for me and get me directly to the </span><a href="http://www.cowpalace.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Cow Palace</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">, where the orientation was taking place and where the ride would originate the next day. Now, we’ve all heard the jokes about cabbies being foreigners and not understanding English, but those stories are well…probably based in truth. I went to the front of the queue and the cabbie took my luggage and put it in the trunk and I asked him to get me to the Cow Palace since I had no idea where it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He nodded and drove off and as we’re moving, started punching in details in his Garmin GPS unit on the windshield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the bells started going off. I said, “Hey, that’s cheating.” He said that he had just gotten to San Francisco about a week ago from Yemen through his thick accent. I had him stop the cab and gave him the address and to put in his GPS. At least this way, I know he wouldn’t be taking me for the proverbial ride but rather taking me to the real place! He re-started his meter and we were off. Pulling off the freeway, I was relieved to see my teammates coming off a different line of the BART from the opposite direction and had him stop the cab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew I would be with people who knew what was going on and if we all got lost, it would be together. But, these guys were, for the most part, veterans of the event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We transferred to a bus and arrived at the Cow Palace about 20 minutes later en masse wearing orange knit beanies with silk leaves coming from the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These bright orange knit caps helped us find each other amid the teeming masses and they identified us as “<span style="color: blue;">Team OC." </span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Yes, orange caps, Orange County…you made the connection!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Cow Palace is a huge arena, the kind of place that is great for housing those teeming masses I was referring to (and part of!) and it was there we began standing in the many lines that would be much of our existence for the next week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We began with a safety presentation that spanned the rules of the road and went through what we could expect on the route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also were reminded why we were there. “Nothing is more important than safety” was drilled into our cerebral cortex more than a few times and the message, “It’s a ride, not a race” capped off our time together as we met a few past participants sharing pieces of advice from their experiences. It put everything into perspective as we moved into another area to officially check-in, register, and get tent assignments. I was surprised at how organized things were and just how smoothly the whole process worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To have over 2,200 cyclists and 550 support crew (“roadies”) shuffle through without mayhem was an administrative marvel. Getting our gear from point A to point B and feeding us all would be a logistical miracle, yet the finesse with which it happened was truly amazing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I got reacquainted with my bicycle that had made it unharmed from Orange County and pumped up my tires so I wouldn’t have to worry about it in the early morning, retrieved my baggage, and reversed the route with my orange-capped teammates to the hotel where I could enjoy a real mattress for a few hours that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We celebrated the beginning of our adventure together that evening at a nice Italian restaurant called </span><a href="http://www.boccecafe.com/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bocce</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">, eating plenty of carbs, and having a fun walk back to our hotel through Chinatown.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">4:00 am came early and I said good-bye to that lovely, comfortable mattress, donning the familiar, spandex armor that leaves embarrassingly little to the imagination. For those of us north of 40 and losing the battle of the bulge, it’s simply an admission of age. What can I say? I like to eat…and cycling makes you hungry! Alas, I digress. The Cow Palace was filled to overflowing with enthusiastic riders and roadies. This was really happening. Opening ceremonies was a mixture of elation and somber reminder of why we ride and it proved that AIDS is no respecter of age, orientation, gender, or race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again, a familiar lump in my throat forced its way up as a veteran rider told the story of why she rode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She relived the horror of finding out her mother was HIV-positive and given a terminal diagnosis, but was rescued from the literal brink of death thanks to the anti-retroviral drug cocktails…and then she introduced her to us as she was in the audience having lived over 20 years after that near-death experience…and to top it off, she was volunteering as a roadie. The arena broke into deafening cheers and applause and suffice it to say, her mother was an instant celebrity! It wouldn’t be the last time my emotions went on a roller coaster ride during the week. Lorri Jean, executive director of the LA Gay & Lesbian Center, a veteran rider herself, declared the ride open and the mass of humanity that is the LifeCycle surged toward the bicycle storage area to take to the streets of San Francisco amid more ear-splitting cheers. And so we were off!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Each day brought its own unique rewards and challenges, its own special circumstances that made it memorable. Day 1, apart from being exciting simply because it was the beginning of our trek down the coast was wonderful in that some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen was something I could smell and reach out and touch rather than see from a postcard or a coffee table book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our route took us out of the city to the coast and through a beautiful winding (and uphill) road through the forest to Half Moon Bay and then down to Santa Cruz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along this route, we were given some tail winds to blow us in toward the end of the day and I was not just a little surprised to see I had hit 48.6 miles per hour going down a hill, my fastest speed ever on two wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no desire to reach 50 by the way. I usually pedal along between 15 and 20 on the flat surface with no wind, so this was extraordinary. Pulling into Santa Cruz after more than 80 miles was rewarding and a learning experience. Our baggage was sent ahead and awaited our arrival along with a tent that we pitched at a precise location on a grid amid a sea of identical temporary abodes. Oh, and then we could go shower, which was, in and of itself, another unique experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having spent many years in the military, adapting to the environment is second nature, but finding where everything happens to be is always the challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our showers were essentially semi-trailers that were outfitted into semi-private shower stalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We always had hot water and a bank of sinks stood outside each trailer for shaving, brushing teeth, and restoring our unruly manes to human looking after a severe case of helmet head. There were about eight of these trailers and there never seemed to be much of a wait, if at all. They were separated out by gender and even “gender neutral” for those who were either in transition or for those who just wanted to get cleaned up and unfettered by modesty, I guess. Not surprisingly, there was never an issue about shower facilities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As much as the weather was simply gorgeous on day 1, it turned south as we did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riding through strawberry fields, I couldn’t get the Beatles out of my mind…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">strawberry fields forever</i>…because that’s what it looked like. And the aroma wafting off the fields was amazing! It was absolutely wonderful. One of the many people cheering us on held out strawberries for us to grab along the way and I have to say they were <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>the</u></i></b> sweetest and best tasting berries I have ever had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am totally spoiled now for the taste of a fresh strawberry. After the first pit stop, things started to cool down and there was a bit of a mist, which gave way to rain and wind and from what I heard, hail in some areas. By the time I got to the second stop, it was downright cold and all I could do to keep warm was get back on the bike and pedal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy, was I regretting taking my rain gear out of my suitcase. The Weather Channel had no forecast of rain all week…yeah, right! Oh, by the way, 30% should translate as “pack your rain gear, boy!” By the time I pulled into the lunch pit at mile 48, it was really cold and I was met with the vision of space blankets everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The medical tent was in front of me as I arrived and the first thing I saw was someone totally wrapped up in silver Mylar. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">got my lunch and sat down under the eaves of an outbuilding and shivered while I ate. I decided to wait out the storm before heading on the remaining 60 miles, but before I could even finish lunch, the event coordinators closed the route. Some 1400 of us were all freezing together and it looked like we would be bused to the next stop in King City. Many were covered in the Mylar and others had trash bags keeping them somewhat dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can thank my teammates for keeping me from getting downright hypothermic. Never had a group hug felt so good…and I think it’s fair to say that we were all keeping each other warm like some hive of killer bees!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At some point we were able to get into the student center of the community college across the street and dry out a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And never one to miss an opportunity, the Mylar became the stuff of fashion! And never did the shower feel so good as it did that evening! And never was I so impressed at the quick logistics of getting so many people taken care of and to have no griping about the arrangements. We were all in it together.<br /></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Halfway to LA!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Day 3 brought the first of the monumental hills with a name. The “Quad-Buster” was a steep hill about eight miles into the day’s ride and it was the proving ground that showed my training had put me in good stead. I can’t say that I did it in style, but I made it. Likewise, day 4 held the infamous “Evil Twins,” a different kind of hill that wasn’t as steep, but a much longer climb and misled one to think it was conquered only to find a second peak hiding a few miles farther, hence the name. But it climaxed with a spectacular view of the Pacific and the official half-way mark of the ride and a lovely 13-mile downhill stretch. And there was much rejoicing! Day 5 brought a much needed day of comic relief that came not only in the form of a comedian at dinner, but as well the much loved “red dress” day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sight of a red ribbon going on for miles is truly awesome to behold and that was the original vision for it, but many have taken things literally and wear <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">a red dress</b>…and I must say some people should not wear dresses! Everything from spectacular evening gowns to sun dresses to costumes was seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, being the more modest guy, just wore red cycling gear and called it good. Maybe next year, I’ll go halfway and wear a kilt with a red tartan. I should add here that day 5 was not the only day for creative wardrobe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One team of six riders (two women and four rather burly men) had a great costume every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day they all dressed as Dolly Parton. The guys pulling off a platinum wig and DDD bust balloons with their dark facial hair made for a great and indelible image! Another day, they were the wandering gnomes. Still another, a few were dressed as chickens and others as Colonel Sanders in pursuit. There were some dressed as oompa loompas of the Willy Wonka story. There was no lack of imagination! <o:p></o:p> </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Day 6 brought us in to Ventura where we camped by the beach and held a candle-light vigil. It was one of the most moving experiences I’ve ever participated in and yet, not a word was spoken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sight of 3,000 candles created a surreal image of unity that flowed with passion and yet really showed the fragility of life and light. The vigil was ended with the extinguishing of the flames in the surf and the movement of the light toward the water was absolutely breathtaking and tragic at the same time. The way the flames flowed with the people and then went out was beyond words. And of course, day 7 brought both the sadness that our world that was described as a great big ‘bubble of love’ was about to be popped as the event came to a close and we went on about our lives. We wound our way down Pacific Coast Highway through some of the most exclusive and expensive real estate in the world and then we saw the sign that proclaimed we had entered the city of angels and it was beyond obvious that we had so many, many angels in our midst. It seemed fitting to end here. Team OC gathered at a Starbucks about a mile out from the Veteran’s Center where we would finish and rode in as one. Crossing that line that marked the end of more than 500 miles was a feeling that once again brought those tears as I pumped my fist in the air with thousands of people welcoming me and my fellow riders into the park. For the first time, my knees felt weak, but not from having pedaled so far, but from something else that I couldn’t describe and in the arms of so many teammates, we all just wept until we didn’t. We all had carried each other at some point, but it was time to just be (after making sure we had enough water of course!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So ended the grand adventure amid thousands of my fellow riders and roadies, family and friends. It was not just a little overwhelming to be enveloped in so much love, to see so many smiles, to hear so much laughter, to be part of something so, so much bigger than oneself, and to know that we all made a difference in the lives of someone else. When I consider how many people gave financially and how many more gave words of encouragement, I’m awestruck at the magnitude of it all. It’s one thing to recount the highlights of a seven-day trip that was so utterly overflowing with…with stuff and junk and indescribable other things I can’t put words to, but it’s entirely another to be part of it, to experience the ineffable. <o:p></o:p> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My gratitude is genuine and my heart sincere when I simply say, “thank you” to the many, many people whom have given of themselves in whatever amount and in whatever fashion to make this possible, to my fellow teammates of Team OC who are now part of my extended family, to the thousands of riders, roadies, staff, and behind-the-scenes people who made ALC happen. You’re all awesome. I hope you know that…you’re all heroes.</span></div>
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</o:p> </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This posting was originally published June 27, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Leukemia Chronicles</span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">, and other Freelance Writing</span></em></strong></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-18373533255321616322013-11-10T15:09:00.000-07:002013-11-10T15:09:27.844-07:00In Memoriam<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Joseph Stead Jacobson was
born May 6, 1913. I found out yesterday that he was a 13-pound baby! The
picture I have of him as a child shows him with curly blond hair and a bit of a
cleft in his chin that followed him where the blond didn’t. What I knew of his
early years was rather sparse, relayed through stories from my grandmother, my
mom, and aunt as we looked through old photos and of course, the slide shows.<br />
<br />
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</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My grandpa has always taken
lots of pictures and put his world travels onto slides. I can remember so many
evenings after a Sunday dinner when he would break out the slide projector and
screen and when I got old enough, I got to advance the slides. While in the
Navy, I was on leave and brought out my young family to Utah. He put together a
show for us and I saw for the first time in my life that I belonged – not
because I was in some of the photos, but because I bore an uncanny resemblance
to somebody in the family in a photo taken decades earlier. My wife at
the time saw it first. She gasped, “You look just like your grandpa.” And
sure enough, I did…or do. And as he passed peacefully this morning, I feel like
a part of me has gone away. In a real way, it keeps his memory in the forefront
every time I look into the mirror, even if I don’t have the cleft in my chin
and my hair is only blond-ish. His turned rather dark.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><br />I’ve been incredibly
fortunate to have grown up with grandparents living close by. My memories of my
grandpa are indelibly etched into my childhood experiences and it’s fair to say
that my academic aptitude and love for the mountains came from time spent with
my grandparents. One of my earliest memories was helping my grandpa carry corn out of the
field behind their home. The bucket was so heavy and I strained at the load of
un-shucked ears. Barbecue after hiking up the trails overlooking the Salt Lake
valley in Millcreek Canyon sticks in my mind, but I think the trip that was the
most special was a fishing expedition to the North fork of the Duchesne River
where I remember catching four good sized trout in less than 30 minutes. Their
VW camper was the ticket to adventure and I got to go. As I grew up, I don’t
know that anyone was prouder than he, as a career Army officer, that I chose
the military life (even if it was the Navy!). While he was part of the
aptly-named “Greatest Generation” and a World War II veteran, he never spoke
about his battle experience…but a couple of years ago, he let a story slip out
about timing artillery rounds to arrive at the right time on the Germans. I do
know he suffered from what was then euphemistically called “battle fatigue” or
what is called PTSD today. War may be glamorized, but it is hardly glamorous
and he bore some rather deep unseen scars. Photos of a uniformed Colonel
Jacobson come to memory and a twinge of pride resurges. When I was
disillusioned and feeling like my life was about to crumble, he told me,
“There’s the real and the ideal. Our aim in life is to get as close to the
ideal as we can without losing the real.”<br />
</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">When my first son was born,
my grandpa was there and when we brought the little guy home, the namesake
first great grandson became “Little Joe” even though it was his middle name!
That little guy is now 6’-3”! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Just as there are no
manuals written to teach one how to be a parent, there aren’t any guidebooks on
being grandparents. You just rise to the occasion and do what is in front of
you. While I was figuring out who I was, my grandpa bore a bit of the brunt of
my inner turmoil, yet he graciously took and redirected it and was still there
when I walked home feeling like a failure. But if there’s one thing he
exemplified, it’s reinvention. He had other careers after he left the military
that had him learning and teaching at the same time. Amazingly, he was
translating Turkish literature and selling the books on amazon.com well into
his 90s, not because he needed the money, but because it was a new challenge.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My last face-to-face
conversation with my grandfather was last summer when I was in town for my 30</span><sup><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"> high school reunion. Sure, we
chatted about family, work, traffic, and the trials of life, but more, he was
still as sharp as ever, discussing Tolstoy and Hugo and other classics of
literature and their thematic elements. If there’s anything I can learn from
Joe Jacobson, it’s that reinvention is not optional, it’s inevitable. The
question is simply a matter of how well and how completely to take that
transformation. It’s never too late to learn, never too late to give, never too
late to love. When I left that August morning, I still got one of those bear
hugs I used to get when I was a little guy myself, including the sound effects,
albeit with a little less oomph. I’m so very grateful that the last meeting
ignored the failures, forgot the hurt, and never mentioned the mistakes but
rather embraced the very best and filled us both with a genuine smile and
shared lifetime of love.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My grandfather was 99 years
old when he passed peacefully out of this life this morning. I’m feeling a bit
numb and a bit lost right now and while it hasn’t fully hit me, I’m missing
him. I will remember him always as the tough ol’ guy with a bit of a tender
side.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Thank you, Grandpa, for
your sacrifice for our country and for the gentle but abiding love you gave me
and all of us. Be at peace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
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<strong><em>This posting was originally published June 11, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-78604809051607950402013-11-10T14:48:00.000-07:002013-11-10T14:48:34.458-07:00It's a Wrap, Folks!<br />
It's hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that after so many hundreds
of miles, training is over for the AIDS LifeCycle. The 545-mile, 7-day
event starts in less than a week and I've got my plane ticket, arrangements for
the bicycle to be shipped to San Francisco, my team kit, and all the other
stuff pretty much ready to go. Just need to pack...and that's gonna be a
challenge. Imagine camping for seven days, but riding your bicycle all
day, every day in between. There are some early hours and some stinky
clothes to deal with, but there are also a lot of memories in the making
and at the end of this, some real help to real people. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The training, the social time lost, the fundraising, the aches and pains,
and all the other things that go into a monumental event like this,
notwithstanding my own age, is all worth it. My next entry will be after
I get back from the event, but you can friend me on Facebook if you want to
follow along on my progress...and of course, you can be part of the wonderful
group of people pushing me along the way by contributing at <a href="http://www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark"><span style="color: blue;">www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark</span></a>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
***<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It’s a Wrap, Folks!</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It’s official. Training is
over and it’s now time to put everything in something the airlines won’t lose
and look toward “Day 1” of the AIDS LifeCycle. While I have participated in
other long-distance rides that support charitable organizations, the scope of
this ride is not only a bit daunting, it’s really amazing. The sheer logistics
of getting over 3,000 people from one point to the next every day for a week is
an astounding task. And that’s before you factor in things like weather and
mechanical breakdowns.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Suffice it to say, I have a
lot running through my head. It’s going to be a Herculean physical feat,
to be sure, but I’ve found in the past that once you strip away the
distractions of daily routine and the multitude of conveniences and electronic
entertainment of modern American life, you come to your core – that person who
you really are. You also come to the reason you ride in an event like this. You
face your own selfishness and petty limitations and you push past them.
You find that there’s something in you that truly epitomizes that good and
noble part of us that cries in rage at injustice, that sheds a tear at
suffering, and despite the many abuses of our social safety nets, still perhaps
feel a twinge of guilt in ignoring that homeless guy with the sign at the
off-ramp.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I’ll be riding for the many
people who have contributed and in memory of those who aren’t riding any
longer. That is perhaps a bit sobering, but the fact of the matter is that AIDS
is not, by any means, over. We still lose far too many people to something that
can be treated, if not outright prevented, but we have to talk about the
uncomfortable without blame and we have to reach out in compassion instead of
judgment. Our society demands that we do at least that.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Fundraising continues
although I will have met the minimum to participate. I have a multitude of
thanks and acknowledgements to make but I’m going to save them for after the
ride except to say in a general, but heartfelt way that I am appreciative and
genuinely humbled by the outpouring of generosity that is allowing me to make a
difference for so many others. It’s not too late to become one of the many
people who have become heroes in my eyes. Please visit </span><a href="http://www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><span style="color: blue;">www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark</span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"> to contribute. Please let me know
if there is someone you would like me to ride in honor or memory of. It would
be my great privilege to do that for you. If you haven’t already, please
include a physical address so I can send greetings from the road.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Warmest Wishes,<br />
Todd Park<br />
Rider #1136</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em>This posting was originally published May 28, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-5265111676394752652013-11-10T14:42:00.000-07:002013-11-10T14:42:33.212-07:00Message Fatigue<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">A version of my posting
below is on my AIDS LifeCycle page. I struggle with fund-raising because
I'm acutely aware of what the topic of money does to people. I've seen
people's faces change in front of my eyes when I bring the topic up. And let's
face it, we all really don't like rejection. Salespeople have the
thickest skin of anyone I know, yet I'm sure the numbers of "no's"
gets to them at some point. You know what the irony is? As part of my job, I'm
asking for people to return money to my clients. The obvious difference is that
the people I talk to professionally don't know me. Fundraising involves
reaching out to friends...whom I want to keep as friends! The ideal situation
for me, of course, would be to ride and have someone else raise the
money! Ah, in a perfect world! </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The thing that comes to mind
is "message fatigue." We're hit from all sides and honestly there are
so many needs that beg, no <strong><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">scream</span></strong>
for our attention. But we have to find the causes that really speak to us. For
me, HIV/AIDS isn't something that has affected me directly and I hadn't even
known anyone that was affected by the disease until I wrote an article for a
magazine about a charity event in Minnesota. I was shocked to find out that I
did, in fact, know people, some of which were friends and even one family
member. It's not the only cause I contribute to or get involved with, but
riding 545 miles on a bicycle makes it pretty significant.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">* * *</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Rarely does a day go by
where I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t</i> receive some sort of
direct mailing asking me to contribute to a charitable organization.
There are enough genuinely worthy causes amid the misery, famine, disease,
poverty, hatred, inequity, political gerrymandering, culture, business
proposals, and once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that I regrettably find myself
jaded by the hooks, regardless of how really well-crafted they are. The voice
in my head keeps saying, “I’ve heard it all before,” yet in my heart, I am at
the same time grieved to the core and shaking with rage that humanity can sink
to such levels.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Perhaps that’s why I
decided to do more than write a check when it came to HIV and AIDS. No,
I’m not living with HIV; no, I’ve never seen the abject suffering first-hand;
and no, I’ve never lost anyone I loved to AIDS. But neither can I stand idly
by. I chose to get involved and ride in the AIDS LifeCycle. I don’t care
about gender, orientation, or race; and I don’t really care how someone got it.
My response is simply to reach out in compassion and this is my way to do
it. For those who have reached out and donated money on my behalf, I’m sincerely
grateful.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I’ve made my travel
arrangements to get my bicycle and myself up to San Francisco the weekend this
shin-dig starts and I have the time off work approved. This must be
happening! The many, many miles on my bicycle, the fundraising, and the mental
preparation are all coming together. I can’t tell you how much it means
to have such a number of dedicated supporters backing me on this
endeavor. Physically, it’s the toughest thing I’ll undertake outside of
my flight training, which was nearly 20 years ago! Emotionally and mentally, I
think I’m there. The last two long-distance charity rides I did
(incidentally, also for HIV/AIDS) had me in the middle of nowhere facing the
elements in solitude and that experience broke me down to my core. It’s
both exhilarating and sobering and it really is a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spiritual</i> experience because at some point during this trek, one
comes to the physical, emotional, and intellectual end. It’s just you and
the bike against the elements…and here there’s no room for self. It reinforces
the basic tenet of this ride: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s not
about me.</i></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I’ve said this many times,
but it bears repeating: I can’t do this without my supporters. Big thanks to my
latest group of heroes who have stepped up and made contributions on my
behalf: fellow members of Tapestry Unitarian Universalist Congregation in
Mission Viejo, Marilyn Schroeder, Susan Jagielko, and Beverly Huff, as well as
our minister, Jennifer Owen-O’Quill; Naval Academy classmate, Curtis Pearson;
and a member of the Midtown Writers’ Group in Minneapolis, Malyssa
Woodward. You all are indeed heroes! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em>This posting was originally published May 15, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-38645523318273642772013-11-10T14:37:00.000-07:002013-11-10T14:37:01.758-07:00In Praise of Parenthood<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">In high school, I had to
carry around a hard-boiled egg for a week as part of assignment, ostensibly to
teach us 17 year-olds that having kids was a full-time job. We had to
carry it with us everywhere – to every class, to the dinner table, to the movies.
The teacher signed the eggs to prevent us from switching out one that had
escaped our grasp and some of the girls even made egg-cellent little carriers
to show off their ‘kids.’ My nephew recently had a similar assignment. I
think it’s fair to say that eggs have come a long way, baby! In my mind,
the thing looks like a cross between a doll my sister carried around as a toy
and something out of a horror flick (no offense intended to my nephew, whom I’m
sure thought his kid was the best looking of the bunch).</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">At the conclusion of the
assignment, he had to write out some of the lessons he had learned and I have
to say, I was duly impressed, all familial biases aside. The other thing that
impressed me was that he was open to more input from us old folks who actually
had kids. The eternal class clown in me bandied about the temptation to post
something clever on his Facebook page. It runs in the family and my very
kind-hearted nephew didn’t sign up for that. But I stood the risk of having it
come across as glib, cliché, or downright trite.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I stewed on it a bit.
After all, when someone has glimpsed something about parenting at his age that
is beyond the movie stereotype, the response has to be with real time-honored,
dare I say it, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wisdom. </i>I’ll give this
a PG-13 rating for honest content, so if there are sensitivities involved,
click the little ‘x’ and watch a YouTube video or something. No harm, no
foul.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">So, my numbah one nephew,
this is for you. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Marriages don’t always last
forever, but once you’re a parent, it’s for a lifetime. When you’re in love, no
one thinks about the possibility that there may be circumstances that end that
bliss you’re feeling. Hormones rage in torrents through our bodies and we can’t
imagine that the one we’re infatuated with could be anything other than our
ultimate mate for life. No one else could possibly understand what we’re
feeling. But things happen; there will always be misunderstandings that no
amount of talking can explain; feelings get hurt; pride takes one in the chin;
people split up. But the kids…what about the kids.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Our family has different
kinds of family structures and we’ve all managed to turn out OK. Is one better
than another? I won’t go down that path because I was raised by your
grandmother who was a single mom during a time when most women weren’t able to
find jobs other than teachers, nurses, or something administrative like
secretaries, bookkeepers, or clerks. There’s not a thing wrong with
professions like those, but I hope you see that women are capable of pretty
much anything men are and quite frankly should be paid equally and more to the
point, have the opportunity. The late 60s and early 70s were a rough time for a
single mom. When my mom found herself a young 23 year-old divorcee in Salt Lake
City, she found herself at the wrong end of a lot of upturned noses and gossip,
yet she sacrificed what would otherwise be the best years of one’s life to
raise your aunt and me. And she did it with a lot of grace and humor and bills
for stuff we broke. And there were a lot of sleepless nights and questions she
had to answer and the little league games and the gymnastics lessons and the
clothes and the new dining room table that, on the day it was delivered, got
bathed in lasagna fresh out of the oven. You grandma wasn’t just about business
though. Sure, she found a way to pay the bills and keep us fed and dressed, but
we laughed and played and to this day talk about the silly tricks she played on
us to keep herself laughing when she just wanted to cry. Being a parent
is a precarious balance of obligation, childlike joy, unconditional love, and
self-sacrifice. And growing up in that single parent home, I never lacked for a
thing and although I grew up for the most part without a dad, I was equipped to
be one myself because of what my mom instilled in me.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">As you know, I ended up
graduating from an Ivy League school and flying for the Navy. Your aunt
has been married for 17 years and has done so many things both professionally,
as a volunteer, and now is a parent herself. And then there’s your own dad.
Because he’s here, it shows that you don’t have to have the same blood to be
family. Your dad’s dad was my stepdad. One thing my mom said to me about him
that has always stuck with me. When they married, he filled the role of my dad
even though he didn’t share my bloodline. Your grandmother told him, “You can’t
discipline my kids until you love them.” I think he did come to love us and we
took to him as well. Your dad came along when I was 13 and as “luck” would have
it, found himself also the product of a single parent household when our mom
was once again on the wrong end of a divorce. And then there’s you. Like
your dad and I, you understand what a single-parent household is like. You also
have the challenge and benefit of a blended family. And then there are my kids,
also products of single-parent households. As far as I can see, we’re all
doing all right. Why is that? Because the parents gave it their best and we all
loved our children. I think that’s the ultimate answer in what makes the best
family: love. I won’t go on about what love is all about, but if you read
between the lines of what I’ve written so far, you can see it has precious
little to do with how you feel, but rather what you’re willing to do. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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</v:shape><span style='mso-element:field-end'></span><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Four of my five children have grown
up and are flying out on their own. My oldest is a parent herself now and
I still scratch my head some times wondering how I could be a grandfather
before I’m 50. But the little ones are there and growing into their own little
personalities. I can see their mom in their faces…and in their mannerisms. The
old “I hope you have kids just like you” is far from a threat. Rather it’s hope
that their kids are as beautiful and wonderful as they are. My oldest son is
well on his way to being a dad. He’s dating a beautiful girl and I won’t
be surprised when I get the phone call some day soon when he tells me that he’s
engaged. Most recently, I danced with my daughter at her wedding and the tears
that I had when she was born poured down my face as she rested her head on my
chest while everyone looked on. True to form, I tried to make light of it by
saying, “Everyone’s looking at us!” but the music played on and we shared the
kind of moment only a father can share with his daughter. A lifetime of
memories flooded through my mind as I remember the day she was born, her first
steps and trying to feed her and her twin sister at the same time, the way she
loved books and could read before her older brother, her favorite Disney
characters, and before I knew it, she was a young woman talking with me more
like a friend than a child. And the guy that tapped me on my shoulder would
sweep her off her feet and they would run out the doors together to the waiting
car.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It proved to me that
despite the circumstances that caused my own divorce, my children would be OK.
It was another opportunity for me to forgive myself for my own shortcomings and
to extend that same forgiveness to my own father as I’m sure he has beaten
himself up about his own first marriage. I think it’s fair to say that your dad
has gone through that same sort of self-flagellation and forgiveness as well.
But remember what I said? Being a parent is forever, so although I may
have been left alone on the dance floor, figuratively speaking, I was far from
alone. Some day, if you choose to be a parent, I know without a doubt you’ll be
a good dad. I say that because I see within you the capability to see others,
to give, and again most importantly, to love. You already know that. You
already know that changing poopy diapers, and giving up sleep, and foregoing a
night out with the guys in order to make the relationship or to stay with the
kids so your other half can spend a night out is all part of being a
parent. Being a parent is pretty daunting, it’s a LOT of work, and the
work never ends, even when they’re grown. Parenting is a lifetime commitment.
But being a parent is pretty cool, too. You can be glad that you have parents
who love you.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I have confidence in you. I
really do think you’ll make a great dad. You have a great example to learn
from. Just take your time, will ya? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em>This posting was originally published May 13, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-35231665064157035722013-11-10T14:21:00.002-07:002013-11-10T14:21:46.660-07:00Limitations...feh!<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The entry below is from my personal page for the AIDS
LifeCycle event I'm participating in on June 3-9. I took last week off
out of my training schedule to be with my daughter for her wedding and it is an
experience I am profoundly grateful to have been a part of and when this
bicycle ride is over, I'll write about it (I promise!). Besides, they're
on their honeymoon right now and I have to have some pictures to include.
Having missed that week of training proved that no good deed, truly, does
not go unpunished. I got my two-wheeled comeuppance yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKjHXAMOlYUEH4PhWqbJ7Hg_xY8Lxb5BwPkfVW-uzRJJnFkXPgNYUpSfpBCvSH5Ml7_g66OV5zAvAhWUbezKiP-SPadesDvZnsyDKNIiwHhfek-Od7Vw_LS-MqGQ2yJjFlw4VvqnFq9E4/s1600/Dassi+and+me+-+20+years.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKjHXAMOlYUEH4PhWqbJ7Hg_xY8Lxb5BwPkfVW-uzRJJnFkXPgNYUpSfpBCvSH5Ml7_g66OV5zAvAhWUbezKiP-SPadesDvZnsyDKNIiwHhfek-Od7Vw_LS-MqGQ2yJjFlw4VvqnFq9E4/s320/Dassi+and+me+-+20+years.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>They grow so quickly...sounds kinda cliché doesn't it, but it's true. On the left, my daughter at about 3 and on the right, me dancing with her at her wedding.</em></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not generally one to kvetch unless it’s with a bit of
tongue in-cheek. Well, maybe if I have a good audience, but most people who
know me might criticize me for bottling up my complaints and angst and my
doctor will likely look over the top of his half-moon glasses and chide me
about my blood pressure as a result! That is, if I had an avuncular physician
with whom I had been developing one of those Marcus Welby-esque relationships.
In reality, I can’t remember the name of the last doctor I saw at the VA, but I
do remember that I couldn’t pronounce it! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That said, I put in 63 of the most grueling miles on my
bicycle yesterday. That 50-65 range must be my punishment limit when it
comes to difficult riding. My first real long-distance ride where I had
to hang it up was the 2009 Minnesota Ironman Bicycle Ride. The cold, the
rain, and the nasty wind all conspired to make me, once again, question my sanity
for doing this. For fun, no less! Yesterday’s ride was nothing like that. It
was misty and calm in the early morning, but turned out to be a beautiful,
sunny day…and filled with a *lot* of climbing. Suffice it to say, we don’t have
them thar kind of hills in Minnesota. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had reached my limit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would far rather reach my limit where I am with a group or
had support crew than out in the middle of the great hinterlands, but it’s a
touch painful and humiliating when you get there. As a younger man, I was
immortal like all my compadres, but now as someone who is pushing 50, not so
much. I’m feeling the aches and pains of middle age that tend to be amplified
by endurance sports; I’m having a really difficult time of dropping that extra
pound; and my doctor with the unpronounceable name is being more serious about
my all-American diet. Limitations are becoming more than a number on my
credit card statement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think it’s fair to say that we can be grateful that
self-imposed limitations can be pushed over like a house of cards, but it’s
also fair to say that ignoring other limitations is unwise, unsafe, or
irresponsible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, what do thoughts on limitations have to do with this
event? We train as a team and watch out for each other with an emphasis on
safety. We make sure everyone is getting enough water. If you’ve ever been cut
off by some hot-shot cyclist, you’ll understand why we make it a point to
scrupulously observe traffic laws. Yes, Mr. Eastwood, “a man has got to know
his limitations,” but more than that, without them, our focus is self-directed
and self-centered and this 545-mile trek becomes a colossal ego trip rather
than a labor of love. So, I'm navigating my limitations, pushing past
some discomfort and pain, but watching the ones that further the reason this event
exists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you to my latest heroes: Jim & Carol
Semelroth, Jay Lickfett, Ellen DeYoung, and Karen Nichols, all from my
spiritual home in Mission Viejo: Tapestry Unitarian Universalist Congregation;
my long-timer friend who makes me laugh out loud and talented writer, Christine
Mounts; and a Utah friend who has an easy smile and a big heart, Sean
Bollinger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And thank you all who continue to encourage me. It means the
world to me and even more to those for whom I'm riding.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em>This posting was originally published May 6, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-77312287952710710472013-11-10T13:49:00.000-07:002013-11-10T13:49:03.450-07:00The Invsible People<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Each week, I update my AIDS LifeCycle page with an entry talking about the
ride, my preparation, what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it. No sane
person (well, I guess I should say no <em>typical</em> person) spends so much
time in the saddle for people they've never met, so there's always a bit of a
back story as to why I put my own skin into this HIV/AIDS game if I don't have
the disease or have known someone who has been one of its fatal victims. Call
it what you will, I'll just say that it's important to give where I can.
And this is one way. I've re-posted the entry below from my post today:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Not so many years ago, a
diagnosis of HIV was treated with the gravity of any other terminal condition
and the message, “get your affairs in order.” For the most part and something
we can be grateful for, the graphic images of the slow, painful, and
humiliating deaths of people from the ravages of AIDS are rare. In Minnesota,
where I just moved from, infection rates are the highest since 1992. Here
in California there are nearly 109,000 people are living with HIV and across
the nation, there are some 1.1 million of us living with HIV and AIDS. The fact
remains: <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">AIDS IS NOT OVER. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I first looked into
HIV and AIDS in this country, I didn’t realize it was still such a problem. I
just didn’t see the suffering and hear of people losing friends in terms of
recent history. That was the case, mostly because of the success of
anti-retroviral drugs and progressive research. People who were infected were
living longer and walking out of hospice care on their own two feet rather than
on a gurney en route to their own funerals. I just never knew anyone with HIV.
Well, truthfully, it’s just that I didn’t know that there were people around
me, including friends and even one family member, who were HIV-positive. And
I’ll bet it’s the same with you: you know someone with HIV and just don’t know
it!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">They are the invisible
people.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">They are male and female,
gay and straight, young and old. I know people all along that spectrum and I’ve
seen that without a doubt, HIV is no respecter of its host. And as a result,
there has been a fear of the disease that has pushed discussion about
prevention and treatment off the table as if somehow ignoring it will make it
go away. We know what does and does not cause the spread of HIV, yet…<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The stigma persists.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A couple of weeks ago, I
participated in the Paul Hulse Century, a 100-mile ride put on by a group of
cyclists called “Positive Pedalers.” These are among the many today who are
living with HIV rather than dying from AIDS. Most of them wear bright red
jerseys with “Eliminating stigma through our positive public example”
emblazoned on them. Without exception, the Positive Pedalers I have met do
exactly that. They tend to be the most upbeat people I know in spite of the
fact that they happen to be carrying around a disease that will take their
lives if left unchecked. They refuse to be invisible.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Most still equate AIDS with
a death sentence and to be clear, AIDS is a killer. But it doesn’t have to be.
We need to talk about HIV and AIDS to prevent the upcoming generation from
infection, we need to continue medical research to make treatment options more
affordable and effective, and we need to take care of those who have the
disease because quite frankly, a society is measured by the way it takes care
of those who need help. And that’s where this event – and you and I – come into
the picture. We all can make a positive difference.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Thank you to my latest
supporters: My uncle, Mr. Don Jacobson and Carolyn Bennion; my cousin Dan
“Jake” Jacobson; my high school swimming teammate, fellow CAP cadet, and all
around great guy, Rick Fullmer and his wife Judith; riding buddy (who more
often than not, kicks my rear tire into gear) Shelly Weir and her partner Candy
Koogler; and my co-worker, Debbie Zissis.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Re-posted from my AIDS LifeCycle page at </span><a href="http://www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark</span></a><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Please donate today. It will mean the world of difference to people living
with HIV/AIDS.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This posting was originally published April 22, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Leukemia Chronicles</span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">, and other Freelance Writing</span></em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-19902888414799200222013-11-10T13:40:00.001-07:002013-11-10T13:40:51.540-07:00Why Am I Doing This Crazy Thing<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyone who knows me knows that I like to ride. I cycle long-distances
for a lot of reasons, one of which is that I can combine my enthusiasm for the
sport with a charitable act and make the world just a little bit better.
Currently, I'm training for the 11th annual AIDS LifeCycle - an event
that raises money for HIV and AIDS while moving some 3,000 cyclists
545 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles over the course of seven
days. No small feat, but AIDS is no small problem to overcome either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For every person who rides in the AIDS LifeCycle, there's a back story. In
my case, it's because I wrote an article a few years ago. My editor sent me an
email with a point of contact for the Minnesota Red Ribbon Ride and I did a
quick interview with the executive director, Theresa Fetsch. Her boundless
enthusiasm was only the tip of the iceberg for an organization that supports
eight AIDS service organizations throughout the state. My next interview was
with someone who had participated in a number of these rides and was also
HIV-positive. He invited me to come to a training ride to meet a number of
people participating to get a better feel for what the event was all about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At the time I had a mountain bike, but I pushed through the 37 miles of
rural Minnesota and I met all manner of people that spanned my expectations
including husband-wife teams and one guy riding a BMX bike with a fox tail
flapping from the seat...and for the first time I knew, I met people living
with HIV instead of dying from AIDS. I made a good will donation to one of the
riders I interviewed and after filing my story, I thought that would be the
last I heard of the event. I was clearly wrong. For the next several weeks,
literally everywhere I turned, I ran into people who were participating, raising
money, holding fundraisers, and somehow connected to this Red Ribbon Ride.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Clearly, the universe was speaking.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next year, I committed to ride in the 2009 Minnesota Red Ribbon Ride. At
the risk of sounding cliché, it changed my life and my attitude toward the
disease. Oh, and I found that despite my previous assertions, I knew quite a
few people who were affected by HIV and AIDS; and some of them were friends of
mine. I rode again in 2010 before being transferred to Southern California for
work. In 2011, I met some local cyclists and rode the Orange County Ride for
AIDS a single day, 100-mile event.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I registered for the 11th AIDS LifeCycle.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But this is not about me. That is the unwavering message that flashes before me
when I grow weary at down-shifting into low gear to go up yet another hill. It
is the thing that is branded into my brain as I drag myself out of bed early on
Saturdays when, like every other working stiff, I should be sleeping in...at
least until 8:00, right? And it is the thing I *must* remember when I'm really,
really tired from having put in so many miles I just want to quit. It's not
about me...and I need you, my faithful supporters, heroes, and friends, that
this champion saddling the two-wheeled steed cannot win the battle for those
unable to fight without your help.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thank you to my latest supporters: </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Duane Vajgrt and Jeff Benedick from the OCRA; Fred Kilby and his mother Mary;
Dr. Sarah Jerome, the best optometrist ever and my constant supporter; Kathy
Michaels (our dog's adopted aunt!); Fred Subia, my first real friend here in
the OC; Martin & Lada, my Czeck amigos (how's that for mixing things up?!);
Jay Casper, childhood buddy and little league teammate; Bobbie Kollar, my high
school classmate who extended the welcome mat when I moved into the realm of
the Orange Curtain; Jay Miller, genuinely big-hearted and long-time Minneapolis
acquaintance; Lois Elfman, editor extraordinaire; and most importantly, my
family my daughter, Nichole; my mom, Annie Thompson; my aunt Susana Jacobson;
my grandparents, Mr. & Mrs. JS Jacobson; and my sister in-law, Angela
Thomson-Brenchley.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Re-posted from my AIDS LifeCycle page at </span><a href="http://www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark</span></a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Please donate today. It will mean the world of difference to people
living with HIV/AIDS.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This posting was originally published April 22, 2012. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Leukemia Chronicles</span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">, and other Freelance Writing</span></em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-83190179547056656352013-11-10T13:34:00.002-07:002013-11-10T13:34:48.315-07:00Dude, That's Intense!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIKTHYZNpGNqKvgXww64DtdBsXR4CIF-uVKHEFwpSo_vmOv8WBbaI1IeEiGCbiucrKo8f4xKMyb9nELLmUvce_MhkfEsjhLjlHv0JwLRRX_jJjmV6LGDQI1RMCY95q_wp7vO-UZxn6yU/s1600/OCRA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIKTHYZNpGNqKvgXww64DtdBsXR4CIF-uVKHEFwpSo_vmOv8WBbaI1IeEiGCbiucrKo8f4xKMyb9nELLmUvce_MhkfEsjhLjlHv0JwLRRX_jJjmV6LGDQI1RMCY95q_wp7vO-UZxn6yU/s1600/OCRA.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After 100 miles on a bicycle...great day all around!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The old saying, “A
picture’s worth a thousand words” could never be truer than in someone’s facial
expression when I say, “I’m riding my bicycle 100 miles.” Eyes usually widen
with disbelief, followed by a little slack jaw. Maybe one eyebrow is above
the other to say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, right</i>. More
often than not, the sentiment I get here in Southern California is “Dude,
that’s intense!” Have no doubt that the surfer dialect has been thoroughly
integrated into the Queen’s English in this part of the country.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">October 15 marked the third
time I’ve mounted my bicycle to raise money for organizations that help people
living with HIV and AIDS. It may come across as trite to say that my life was
changed by participating in an event like this. But, to a person, everyone I’ve
spoken with who gets involved finishes with a different outlook on both the
disease and the people as a whole. As a freelance writer, I’ve penned articles
that address the pandemic that is AIDS, the statistics, and the impact that the
disease has made. It’s not pretty…and it’s not over. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">There is more to the story
than the cold facts, even though some of those facts are pointing at people
living with HIV rather than dying from AIDS. Granted, we tend to focus on the
important rather than the urgent when we are faced with the prospect of our own
mortality, but far from self-pity, my experience with the people who are
HIV-positive on these rides has been nothing short of inspirational. The
courage, enthusiasm, and attitude give my petty complaints a healthy smack-down
and lift me back up with a revitalized perspective. I have also had the
opportunity to meet an incredible cadre of dedicated people who span every
segment of society who just want to do something to help.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Suffice it to say, during
the course of the many, many miles cycled in training and the events
themselves, there’s a tremendous amount of time where the only thing around is
the road and nothing else. I’ve ridden through the farmlands of Minnesota
where I saw nothing but corn fields for as far as the eye could see and the
thin strip of asphalt pulling me onward in spite of a saddle-sore posterior,
aching shoulders and knees, and numbed hands. It brings you to your physical
and emotional end at some point and you come to the stark realization that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it’s not about you, numbskull!</i> The very
memory of that epiphany brings a healthy lump to my throat. It’s amazing to
find a fellow veteran rider where in an instant, we communicate the unsaid
about coming to that particular point and the tears come. Deep indeed
calls to deep.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">People don’t want to talk
about disease as if speaking its name invokes some horrible demon who will
inflict suffering. The sad irony is that talking about HIV and what causes it
can prevent it. Certainly, there’s a time and place for certain sensitive
subjects, but to avoid the uncomfortable nature of sexually transmitted
infections or to assert that HIV is divine retribution for deviating from some
arbitrary plan is analogous to pointing an accusing finger at an innocent child
for contracting cancer. It’s time to look past the why someone has a
physical infirmity of any kind and look toward improving their lives. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Here’s the crux of what I
want to say: you can—we all can—make a difference in someone’s life. It’s
not in my nature to play the guilt card on someone, but I can say for me, I
think it’s crucially important to get outside the comfort zone and give out of
my abundance. I may not be wealthy, but I have enough. That said, giving
does make me wealthy in a way. Whether it’s in writing a check to a charitable
organization or raising funds for a cause, I feel it is my obligation to
improve someone’s life much the same way I felt it crucial to serve my country
in the US Navy. Fundraising is not my forté, but it has taught me well that
those with the most generous heart aren’t always the ones with the biggest
donations. It also proved to me that friendship is tried when money is involved
and those friends who not only throw you a couple of clams toward making a
fundraising goal are more likely to be there for you when you really need them.
What has touched me the most was receiving a donation from people who
sacrificed out of their own need. It brought back the best of what
spirituality has to teach us all and flies in the face of those who would use
their brand of religion to condemn rather than heal. The parable of the “Good
Samaritan” never resonated more.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">While I have the physical
ability and strength, I can participate in these events for someone else; while
I have time, I can do something or just be with one who needs a helping hand or
a smiling face; and of course, while I have financial resources, I’ll continue
to be as generous as I can. If you want to feel fulfilled, I encourage you to
find a cause you can throw yourself into and give someone a meal, a smile, a
reason to hope. I encourage you to make a positive difference…I can’t
guarantee it’ll change your life like it did mine, but then again, you never
know. It just might be intense, dude!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">*
* *</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The
event I rode in was the </span></i><a href="http://www.ocasf.org/category/asf-events-activities/oc-ride-for-aids-2011"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: purple; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Orange County Ride for AIDS</span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">. While it wasn’t the
point of this post, I hope you’ll consider donating toward my 545-mile bicycle
trek from San Francisco to Los Angeles in the 2012 </span></i><a href="http://www.aidslifecycle.org/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: purple; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">AIDS LifeCycle</span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">.
You can visit my page </span></i><a href="http://www.tofighthiv.org/goto/toddpark"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><span style="color: blue;">here</span></span></i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">…or
you can ride with me. I’d be honored to have you along. If HIV/AIDS isn't the
charity of choice for you, find what inspires you and get involved.
You'll be *so* glad you did!</span></i></div>
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em>This posting was originally published November 8, 2011. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-28241584946249943362013-11-10T13:24:00.000-07:002013-11-10T13:24:03.311-07:00While There's Time<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Having just returned
from my high school reunion, I got to experience first-hand, the leveling
effect of time on people. My high school years weren’t filled with the stuff of
musicals or angst-ridden movie teens, but my coming of age was replete with
cliques and hormone-induced drama just like every other school. In walking up
to a group of classmates after thirty years, you no longer see the jocks,
nerds, or girls you were too timid to ask out. You just see a bunch of
people, some of which have a vaguely familiar look to them and some of them
even have a name that falls out of the cobwebs of the addled middle-aged brain!
</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The lines of our faces seem
to be more pronounced in spite of the latest overpriced cosmetic unguents and
surgical procedures and to be sure, quite a number of us show signs of
having weathered a storm or two. Everyone had filled out and a few of us kept
filling out…although I noted one guy who had been rather rotund in high school
looking really good. I actually didn’t recognize him at all until someone said
his name and then the face came through like one of those magic eye 3-D
puzzles. The big 80s hair had been replaced by low-maintenance cuts or in the
case of some, receding hairlines. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Instead of comparing
possessions or bank balances, we were sharing pictures of loved ones, tales of
overcoming, and smiles. The passage of time brought us together instead
of keeping us in our own little groups. At the end of the day, isn’t that what
life is all about? It’s simply relationships, families, and community. I met
classmates who had formed the more traditional family and were enjoying the
fruits of their love in multiple generations. But more often than not, few of
us—even in conservative Utah—were still in those traditional families. Some
of us divorced and remarried and some of us never married, happy to live a
solitary life to pursue a career or a life dream. Some of us found our
love in someone of the same gender and some of us are simply living with
someone else with nothing but authentic affection and commitment tying the
relationship together. Nobody was particularly concerned about the politics of
someone’s relationship, just that they were happy and healthy.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Sure, it’s naïve of me to
think that this kind of harmony extends past that evening at the Salt Lake
Hilton, yet I do believe at some level, it’s not outside the realm of
possibility. Rather it’s what should be the norm. You see, the thing that
brought us together outside of the obvious was simply that we were face-to-face
and we wanted to reconnect. As I look in our technologically-dependent culture,
it’s clear that what has driven us apart is the lack of human interaction.
Unfortunately, there are those who will use that particular lack to ensure the
influential retain their sway on their unwitting subjects. Powerbrokers
and kingmakers alike know how to dehumanize and disenfranchise, but there’s
something about human contact that levels the playing field. Seeing the lines
on another’s faces force us to recognize that each wrinkle was earned at a
cost—some certainly from age, but as well some from pain. And empathy is
something a statistic can never impart.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It’s far easier to log on
to Facebook than it is to walk next door and sit down with your neighbor.
It’s far easier to type out feedback to an article that presents an opposing
view to our own rather than to employ critical thought and pull out the points
we do happen to agree with. It’s far easier for a politician to jump on a plane
and go to the home district for the routine extended weekend than to pound
out genuine bipartisan legislation that requires actual compromise and empathy
for constituents. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The Internet has made it
possible to keep current on so many things in an instant and with the advent of
social networking, we’re able to participate in a sanitized version of the
lives of our family, friends, and acquaintances. The Internet has given a voice
to those who were the invisible people of yesterday. Yet that same power has
had an unanticipated effect of driving us back into our own adult cultural,
political, and philosophical cliques. While it’s no surprise to anyone that
people congregate with those much like themselves, the thing that is missing
from the equation is the civility that comes from knowing our neighbors. We may
disagree with one another, but the level of openly displayed rancor has a
de-sensitizing effect and it redefines what had been heretofore normal and
civil—and not in a good way. Modern day messiahs of hatred are ascending by the
day, appealing to pliable minds, inciting them into a frenzy of moralistic
thinking that is based on blatantly incorrect figures, manipulative theology,
and outright fear, reminiscent of pre-WWII Germany.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It’s just far easier to be
anonymous than to forge real relationships. Relationships, families, and
communities are messy. They require that we become vulnerable and show that our
hairlines and wrinkles are the prizes for working through difficult issues,
that our scars are indeed beautiful because they prove we heal. And they
require that we listen more than we speak. Sure, we get angry and we fight and
cry together, but in time, we remember the important things. It's time to
unplug and reconnect with each other. The entertainment will still be there
later, but the people in our lives may not be. We have to make a positive
difference…while there’s time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em>This posting was originally published August 30, 2011. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-28270018217763047122013-11-10T12:53:00.000-07:002013-11-10T13:12:15.504-07:00Dreams Deferred<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My son and I just had a very long phone conversation. He called to share some news with me that he had been waiting for, and unfortunately, it wasn’t good. He was working toward a profession that would not only help others, but would be a lot of fun as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He found an organization called <a href="http://www.itecusa.org/" target="_blank">I-TEC</a> (Indigenous People's Technology and Education Center) that was founded by the son of his hero, for lack of a better term. My son got the opportunity to meet him and express appreciation for the work the organization does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was excited beyond words when an offer came back that would help him get his private pilot’s license and the requisite follow-on ratings to do the humanitarian work the company does in return for construction skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My son’s Facebook postings were full of the kind of enthusiasm that dreams are made of and the kind of wording that let me know he was still a kid inside <a href="http://austinpark.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">[Click here to see his blog].</a> However, that unbridled enthusiasm was dashed in the blink of an eye when the news from the FAA came yesterday. It ruled that he was physically unqualified to pilot an aircraft although his congenital conditions had been surgically corrected. It shattered his dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So, what’s next?” I cautiously asked him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His response was remarkable and something that made me very proud of him, especially in light of this blow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said that he knew that he was in a place where he was supposed to be and that even if he wasn’t in the pilot’s seat, he would continue in the humanitarian work in which the organization is engaged. It took me back to the day when I was exactly his age and the same verdict had been passed down to me by a navy flight surgeon: NPQ - not physically qualified. I remember the utter disappointment, the devastation, I felt when those three little letters were stamped on my pre-commissioning physical form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like him, I had made a commitment, and I knew where I was supposed to be. I shared that story with him and how five years later a door was opened that allowed me to fulfill my dream of being a pilot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had I not gone forward on a positive note the day I got my own bad news and gave my best efforts, the door would have remained bolted shut, so I told him to be the best at whatever he does so that if a door <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> be opened, someone will show him the way through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The other thing that his response told me was more important than allowing me to comfort him with my own success story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It told me that my son was becoming a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, he towers over me at 6’-3” but it was dealing with this kind of situation with grace and maturity that told me that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my boy was growin’ up! </i>And that—more than the empathy of some medical authority’s ruling raining on my son’s parade—brought a tear to my eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While so many of us would have complained about the injustice of it all, about how bad things happen to good people, and any other kind of excuse, he took the figurative road less traveled. Sure, he’s grieving the death of a dream, but it’s clear that he will be fine in short order…and who knows?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That dream may have soap opera qualities and re-surface out of a dramatically impossible situation and allow him to fly after all. One can have hopes, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, dreams are the stuff of hopes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, if anyone, should know that. I got to live my dream, something for which I will be forever grateful.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t stop there, though, because a genuine gratitude journal should be refreshed daily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having my son call me and pour out his heart over this disappointment was, in and of itself, something that filled me with gratitude for him. Despite the continent that divides us, nothing can separate matters of the heart and of trust. The old adage of ‘like father, like son,’ wasn’t lost on me when he chose to go into aviation and it wasn’t lost on me again yesterday when at the very age I had my own road block put in front of me, he did as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He may not get a chance to fly as I did, but I believe he will still find the dream that will both fulfill his heart and make all of us envious of his accomplishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, we’re already very proud of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who wouldn’t be?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am not prone to <em>schadenfreude</em> and certainly do not revel in my own trials and tribulations, but I am excited to see what kinds of adventures and experiences he has as a result of this detour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own dream detour took me to Europe and gave me experiences with people who taught me incredible things about humanity, about other cultures, and ultimately resulted in the very man who is navigating his own road today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a good reminder that the road on which we travel will always have rough patches that slow us down and sometimes put us out of commission for a while, but the road continues on whether we like it or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only question is which road we will travel. Having experienced infamous LA traffic first hand, I can tell you that the analogy is as true in life as it is for commuting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may come at you at break-neck speed or it may come to a stop in a frightening instant, but the road does indeed get you where you’re supposed to be…eventually!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dreams deferred hurt like hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s just no other way to say it. Yet, without exception, everyone I’ve ever spoken to that is living their dream says that timing was everything. And rather than chalking it all up to blind, dumb luck, I prefer Seneca’s definition of luck being where preparation and opportunity come together. The ‘lucky’ ones? Seems to me they sure do work hard. And my son? Yeah, he’s a lucky one, even though it may not look like it today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doubt, he’ll be making a positive difference on the road ahead of him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><em>This posting was originally published August 7, 2011. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, The Leukemia Chronicles, and other Freelance Writing.</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-76859383652039385832013-11-10T12:37:00.000-07:002013-11-10T12:37:57.461-07:00The cure to a Bi-Polar Congress: Genuine Leadership<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I’ve been struggling with
the increasing polarization of my country. In a nation that was founded
on the premise of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">E Pluribus Unum </i>(lit:
out of many, one), those with the loudest voice and the most outlandish
accusation are driving a wedge into our national identity and inflicting all
manner of harm, both imagined and very real. It’s not enough that we were
divided to the point of civil war that took 600,000 lives and wounded another
million 150 years ago. We’re picking fights about everything, newscasters and
televangelists alike are proclaiming mayhem in the streets and that the ‘end is
nigh!’ Are we beating plowshares back into swords? Did we not learn
enough bloody lessons along the way? Civility? It’s becoming relegated to an
entry in the dictionary. (For those of you who were born after 1984 when the PC
was making its advent, the dictionary is a book with paper pages and it tells
you what words mean and it uses all letters…no numbers…gr8!). Once again,
families are divided against themselves and friendships are being tested to
their limits. One more example as of late is the financial reputation of
the United States—the richest nation in the history of the planet—being
monkeyed with and putting us back on the road to recession or worse. And it’s
all in the name of partisan bickering.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">There was a time when I
revered my elected officials as people worthy of respect. They cared
about the people in their districts in the spirit of public service and
patriotism. Rolled-up shirt sleeves weren’t done so for a photo-op, but because
they were actually working long hours. Members of Congress stayed in
Washington, worked into the wee hours of the morning, and actually collaborated
with each other to forge alliances and create incredibly complicated projects
that were the envy of the entire world. They came together and set an
example for the rest of us common folk, making a way to send astronauts into
space and ultimately to the moon; they worked to build the Interstate highway
system; and they made it possible for imposing, gleaming edifices of American
infrastructure to be built. Our federal government has made sure our air is
breathable and our water is safe for both mankind and wildlife. It paved the way
for groundbreaking medical research and made our lives immeasurably more
comfortable. While you may be longing for the idyllic life of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leave it to Beaver </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Father Knows Best, </i>open that window and
let the heat in. It’s the big, bad ol’ government that built the TVA and the
Hoover Dam and offered incentives to make our electrical service grid support
all those air conditioning units. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And</i>
let’s not forget the countless millions of people around the globe benefitting
from the philanthropy of the American people by way of foreign aid payments.
That you’re reading this on the Internet is another benefit of US federal
government innovation. The World Wide Web had its beginning as a military
application. Would that kind of cooperation happen in today’s Congress?
Sadly, I doubt it.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Of course, the same power
that wrought such wonders of human achievement has also been the author of
unthinkable destruction and irresponsibility on scales that boggle the mind.
While both those extremes can coexist without imploding is something that will
be one of those great unsolvable mysteries. Criticism of that same
complex system is something as well that makes it all the more magnificent. I’m
not the first to tell you our system of government has some flaws, but in
total, it has the greatest potential of any in modern history. That is frankly
because our system is, in Abraham Lincoln’s words, “of the people, by the
people, for the people.” It is our people whose character has had the right
combination of bravery, humility, and ingenuity that has built a nation that is
the envy of all others. That combination, however, seems to have been
bought by special interests on both sides of the political spectrum to where we
now have to major parties that I simply call, the party of “No!” and “No
backbone!” </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Republicans have raised the
issue of unemployment and the economy as the key issue during the mid-term
election and won handily in districts that have traditionally been considered
“swing” areas. To date, they have focused on tightening down on social issues
(abortion, gay rights, education, etc.) to placate the newly empowered,
so-called “tea party” brand of conservatives. Democrats, on the other side of
the aisle, could have passed virtually anything they wanted during the 2008 and
2009 legislative sessions, but tried to be all things to all people—an
impossibility and a recipe for certain disaster. To their credit, they slowed
the growing unemployment figures, but they’re stagnant as is the economy. So,
rather than making a difference, petty partisan arguments and mud-slinging have
become <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">de rigueur</i> and we are marching
toward the day when the debt ceiling becomes our own financial Armageddon.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Let’s put aside for a
moment the state of our fragile economic recovery. Let’s put aside for a moment
the fact that debt ceiling has been raised a stunning 74 times since 1962, with
not even the batting of an eyelash by either party. Even if this were the first
time the ceiling was in jeopardy of being reached, the consequences of doing
nothing or standing one’s ideological ground to cut spending are so monumental,
so disastrous, that to dance this close to the precipice of default is not only
irresponsible on a scale not ever imagined, it’s criminal, especially in light
of the fact that it’s a problem of the Congress’ own making…that they’ve known
about for months. The headlines today read more like a parenting magazine than
governmental politics as Republican leaders act like spoiled, errant children
who didn’t get the right flavor of lollipop with the Democrats as the
permissive parents. Democrats don’t fare much better, stooping to mockery of
the President in his negotiating.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">We don’t need any more
posturing. We don’t need any more clever sound bites. We don’t need any
more theatrical righteous indignation. This is not, after all, the World
Cup. It is, to quote Bill Clinton, “the economy, stupid!” What we, the
people, want and need is simple: leadership. We need our elected officials to
do is lead. Representatives, Senators, Mr. President: that requires some
cooperation on your collective part and if it means staying late and burning a
whole lot of midnight oil like you used to, then you damned well better do
it. That’s what we elected you to do and that’s what we expect. If you
are unwilling or unable to do that, perhaps it’s time you resign. And
when you’re on your way out and checking your badges in at the door, perhaps we
should change the rules on benefits. Unless you’ve been with ‘the
company’ for at least 20 years, you have no ongoing benefits…just like the rest
of us.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">So, please, come together
and remind me why our system of government is better, why I entrust my
livelihood and security to the people I vote for every November. Remember that
we are the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">United </i>States of America,
not blue and red states, not Republicans and Democrats. Make a positive
difference: LEAD!</span><br />
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<strong><em>This posting was originally published July 24, 2011. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-8407055205118652972013-11-06T14:54:00.005-07:002013-11-10T11:54:59.836-07:00No Regrets<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">iTunes offered a free music video download of </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPLmPziTaho"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">John Mayer’s “Say”</span></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> a couple of years back. Even though it was essentially a promo for the movie “The Bucket List,” I like John Mayer’s music and the words resonated with a resolution I made about ten years ago when life felt like it was at its nadir: from this point forward, live life without regrets. Despite the critics’ opinion that the film was sappy and sentimental, I thoroughly enjoyed it, albeit with a tear or two in my eyes. Yeah, color me sappy and sentimental. Guilty, as charged. The movie is about two men who meet in the same hospital room after receiving a diagnosis of terminal cancer. They make a list of things to do before they ‘kick the bucket,’ hence the name of the movie. Suffice it to say, the film resonated with my resolution.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The prospect of a ‘bucket list’ is a bit abstract to me in that while I have made lists of personal and professional goals, my own mortality just hasn’t been something I’ve given much thought to, even when I was an active duty Navy pilot flying off the coast of the former Yugoslavia during its mid-1990s conflict. We joked about having our life insurance current, but we never thought our number would actually come up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s just it, though, isn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless we have managed to get one of those unsolicited invitations to join AARP or earn those senior discounts at Denny’s, very few of us think about our own aging body and its impending demise and we certainly don’t think our time has come when we’re actually looking it in the eyes. OK, shoot me for mixing metaphors…or don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think it’s my time yet! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I have had to face the death of others rather infrequently over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps I’m lucky on that point or it’s simply a matter of my age and living in a time where medical advances have extended our lives. Maybe it’s as simple as having precious few friends and acquaintances who are out to get a Darwin Award for successfully cleaning the gene pool of ‘stoopidity’ or my Scandinavian ancestors who have made us a very serious, rule-following people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any way you look at it though, death is just a part of life. We all die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No surprise there, but if you think about what people do and say at funerals, wakes, and memorial services, you’ll find people not talking about death, but rather celebrating lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Far from being a morbid topic, it seems to me that death teaches us how to live. Move past the platitudes and pithy little euphemisms to mask a topic that people often feel uncomfortable with. Focusing on how one lived eases the loss and because we tend to suppress or outright choose to forget the negative, the best memories flood up like a wellspring. I’ve really not had the opportunity to attend many funerals, but the ones that have done justice to the memory of the recently departed and given closure to the bereaved have been those that have a lot of laughter, in bright, wide, open spaces, and allow people the freedom to express themselves. I recall the memorial of the partner of a high school classmate of mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She died very suddenly of a brain aneurysm—no warning, no symptoms. It was the classic bad thing happening to a good person, yet she had collected such a sea of friends and acquaintances that the place was overflowing with laughter as we recalled how she had filled our lives with smiles and great memories. It was held in a garden in the foothills of Salt Lake City, a fitting backdrop for a blossom having shed its last petal. Sure, there were tears, but it truly was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">celebration</i> of life. Judging from the crowd of friends, family, and acquaintances, I don’t think she was a person of faith, but she had lived her life well and was indeed surrounded by a great ‘cloud of witnesses.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Regardless of what one believes awaits us on the other side of our passing, living life well is an imperative and nothing drives that point home more than its end. My grandparents are in their 90s and still rather active. They tell me that each day is a ‘bonus,’ recognizing that they are approaching the day when their figurative warranties will expire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve made plans and communicated their final wishes, something that is not only wise from the standpoint of having their own wishes honored, but saving those left behind from having to make some rather difficult, emotionally-charged decisions. It’s a gift of love in terms than cannot be measured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Estate planning is indeed a gift to our survivors, but we can also plan for that day by living fully and well today. If genetics are any indication, I could have another 50 years ahead of me or driving along the infamous 405 freeway, I could meet my demise just in the blink of an eye. If you haven’t seen the legendary Southern California traffic, just imagine eight lanes moving at 80 mph at a distance from each other that would make any Driver’s Ed teacher put out his hand and stomp the imaginary brake on his side of the car. Anyone who had their parents teach them to drive knows what I’m talking about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The story goes that no one, on their death bed, regrets not spending more time at the office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The regrets come from not doing what’s important, from not doing the things that had meant the most, from not fulfilling the dream in one’s heart, from not saying, as John Mayer sang in his song, “what you need to say.” I’m not suggesting quitting the job and taking a hedonistic holiday, but rather to live with determination, moderating the daily grind with hope and making an impression on those around us that will assure that the day we face death, there will be no regrets…and no room for people to sit because there are such a great number of people who we’ve touched. Don’t wait until it’s convenient, live that full life devoid of regrets today. Make a positive difference.</span></div>
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<strong><em>This posting was originally published July 17, 2011. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-77533187112055607412013-11-05T18:39:00.001-07:002013-11-22T16:46:54.658-07:00The Impetus of Greatness<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Thirty years ago this week, I raised my right hand and took the oath of office of a midshipman. I was inducted into the US Navy as part of the Naval Academy’s class of 1985 with nearly 1,400 other skinny, goofy-looking kids in ill-fitting white uniforms that were reminiscent of the Cracker Jack guy. For the next four years we would be prepared “morally, mentally, and physically” to lead sailors and Marines into harm’s way. We all learned that it was often the trivial things that really mattered, that it took teamwork to succeed, and that help might come from the most unlikely of places. Completing a course of study at that venerable institution, we all came to realize, was just the beginning of something new and although we may have earned a degree, we knew precious little about the stuff of real leadership.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjszzbMq-HgaEr8OjXeSPjQEeqUkXV5hrEBxkr_LdmLhMDMc1QPG8T35w9VrniIrV8tC0ECfPCm6U9Um2UKpAkiVf_ljoxUFyI1uTu0ZDjyedVDqSG2uaQjds6mwyCIgsJWqpTjTrn7n28/s320/Bob+Owendoff.jpg" width="248" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Owendoff's senior year (1968) <em>Lucky Bag</em> photo</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After graduation, I was assigned temporary duty at the Academy until my Division Officer School class started in Newport, RI some months later. During that time, a salty lieutenant commander named Bob Owendoff saw me for the aimless young guy that I was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew me as one of his students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t a slacker in either his Fluid Dynamics or Statics classes, but neither was I a superstar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember I did enjoy the material though. I have always had a knack for solving problems but amid the fire-hose method of instruction at the Naval Academy, his teaching style really helped me to actually absorb the material. On a personal level, we clicked as well. He took me under his wing without me realizing it. He turned me on to planners before they were mass-marketed in big box stores and he helped me get my act together as a junior officer before I stood in front of 20-odd junior sailors looking to me for that elusive thing called leadership.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, in turn, would ask them to work miracles…or at least keep out of trouble. Thankfully, they usually did both.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bob also got me focused on making goals. Up to this point, my goals came in the form of curriculum and official orders. He gave me a little book called, “How To Get Control Of Your Time and Your Life” by Alan Lakein. In it, there’s a little exercise where you set long-term and short-term goals, and then there’s the question, “How would you like to live if you knew you would be dead six months from today?” Like every other 22-year old, mortality was not yet part of my vocabulary, but going through that exercise distills down what is really important. I think that was Bob’s greatest gift to me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You see, Commander Owendoff wasn’t the picture perfect officer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t project himself as particularly strong or dynamic, nor did he have striking features.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, he had a bit of a paunch and his speech sometimes was a bit indistinct. In short, he didn’t exude the crisp image that Annapolis evokes, but he was smart as a whip and he knew a thing or two about leadership.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most important, he had the kind of character that was willing to put reputation on the line for the sake of principle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this because he had done just that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He never told me the details that kept him from being promoted to Commander and wearing the coveted “scrambled eggs” on the visor of his officer’s cap, but I knew he had taken some sort of unpopular stand and spoken truth to power. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He weathered the storm, but it effectively robbed him of his swagger and stopped his rising star of a career. Bear in mind, this was a guy who had published and received a patent before he had graduated from the Academy nearly twenty years prior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I went on to enjoy a fruitful naval career. After earning my Surface Warfare designation, I was able to achieve my life’s dream of being a naval aviator and earned a couple of medals and other assorted “fruit salad” of ribbons in the process. That dream had been in gestation since I was a boy and I had seized it and followed through to realize those goals, even when they appeared to slip between my grasping fingers. For that opportunity, for that experience, I will forever be grateful to Bob Owendoff, the guy to many, who appeared to be “less than,” but in reality, had the guts to do what most couldn’t because it wasn’t “career enhancing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Sure, I’ve had the extraordinary privilege of serving with and working alongside people who had “the right stuff” and to be sure, those people influenced me in ways I marvel at today, yet there are many unnoticed, rather ordinary people who maintain their sense of self in spite of daunting challenges. They somehow escape the spotlight while becoming an unwitting impetus for greatness when those with their names in lights might have otherwise settled for “good enough.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Not all of us are destined for “greatness” in terms of power, prestige, and wealth. Perhaps that’s a bit of a rub in today’s culture of entitlement and self-aggrandizement, but the sooner we realize the potency of being authentic, the sooner we can be truly content, even in the worst circumstances. In my experience, the best way to do that is to recognize yourself for who you are rather than trying to be someone you’re not. Coming to peace with that allows us to be great in the same way that Bob Owendoff was for me. We all have the potential to influence others, but no one is influenced much by a phony. Bob was genuine and he encouraged me to be the best naval officer I could and he pushed me a little outside my comfort zone in the process. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The last time I saw Bob was in 1991 as I was en route to Pensacola, Florida.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sad to hear that he had <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/charlotte/obituary.aspx?pid=113125303" target="_blank">died rather unexpectedly in 2008</a>. I think it’s fair to say he lived a full life of doing what mattered for others. Perhaps, he equipped others to be, like he had been, an impetus to greatness. Thanks, Bob, for </span>making a positive difference in me…and in who knows how many others.</span></div>
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<strong><em>This posting was originally published July 11, 2011. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09914667944851181928noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4283090314538695849.post-30724280962752398012013-11-05T18:15:00.000-07:002013-11-10T11:55:22.835-07:00Authentic Patriotism Is Selfless<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s Independence Day Weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of us are spending the down time relaxing at the beach or getting one of those ‘honey-dos’ out of the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of us are pulling out some sort of red, white, and blue ensemble to wear to the family barbecue before we break out the sparklers for the little ones and then perhaps we find a good place to watch the local fireworks. That is, if we’re not actively engaged in trying to blow off our own fingers with the bargain pack from Bubba’s Fireworks Emporium. It’s what we do on the 4<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> of July. It’s tradition.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t say it’s what the founding fathers did to commemorate Independence Day though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, I can. They didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t until 1870 that the 4<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> of July was declared a holiday in the District of Columbia and it wasn’t a paid holiday until 1938. A lot of us assert with the voice of authority that we know what early Americans did and how they felt and even if it didn’t hold up under the scrutiny of historical fact, Wikipedia can be edited to prove it so!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What we do know of most early Americans is that for them, patriotism was genuine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be patriotic was not a celebration, but a way of life. It meant their literal survival. Signing that parchment in Philadelphia in July of 1776 meant publicly putting lives in jeopardy. The founding fathers united with each other, putting aside whatever difference they had about our fledgling nation: “…we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today, it’s too easy to pass off those potent words glibly or with pompous airs of affected patriotism. Our culture has lost the gravity of pledging one’s life, fortune, or honor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 21<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>st</sup> Century America, the precious few people who actually put their lives in the balance for another are limited to those in law enforcement, military, and firefighting. These men and women are our modern day heroes who quietly state with a smile and genuine humility that they’re simply doing their job. Unfortunately, some of them bear scars on their bodies and in their minds that are irreparable. We, as local communities and as a nation, regrettably don’t do enough to take care of our wounded warriors. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Putting one’s fortune on the line for the sake of a cause is something that is an utterly alien concept to the vast majority of Americans today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Money has become far more than a medium of exchange in the materialistic society that we live in. We place it in such high esteem that if a tax increase is proposed, the thin veneer of civility we have is gone and we resort to juvenile name calling, savage behavior, pointing fingers, and screaming incoherently. I find it odd that these people who shout threats to their elected officials don’t seem to mind that captains of industry are offshoring jobs while paying themselves obscenely large bonuses, wrecking corporations thought ‘too large to fail,’ and bringing down the economy with them. Ironic that we appear to have more confidence in corporations than our own government.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The concept of individual honor is antiquated to most of us, yet to those who signed their names to the Declaration of Independence, it was a foregone conclusion that putting pen to paper that day was the same as putting a bounty on their head and forfeiting one’s good name. It is well documented that many of them as well as their families suffered great loss for their bravery. This kind of sacrifice is something we can process mentally, but it is abstract in modern terms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is, unless you’ve seen the war-torn streets of Iraq or Afghanistan up close and personal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is fair to say that many people equate patriotism today with red, white, and blue clothing, stickers, and décor and in the grand scheme of things, I really don’t have a problem with those who are enthusiastic about displaying the stars and stripes in whatever motif, although I think I’d draw the line at some sorts of red, white, and blue apparel that leave little or nothing to the imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do think though, that we, as a modern culture, have lost the sense of what authentic patriotism is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thomas Paine might label most of us as “sunshine patriots” because patriotism, at its core is selfless. We are indeed experiencing economic times that “try men’s souls” and rather than rise to the occasion, the word ‘sacrifice’ is not in most people’s vernacular and we indeed shrink from the service of our country.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was 235 years ago today that the Declaration was signed by our founding fathers, by patriots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They held a lot of ideological opinions in the forming of the nation that is now America, but the things that made our country different from any other on the planet was that they came together, to be united.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were willing to sacrifice for one another, up to and including their very lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a word, they were selfless. The chapel doors at the US Naval Academy bear the inscription, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">non sibi sed patriae, </i>which translates as “not for self, but for country.” Today, it is worth repeating those words because true patriotism is selfless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The most visible example of patriotism I’ve ever seen wasn’t a bumper sticker, nor was it a t-shirt that had American regalia. It was a naval veteran named Bob Fant who had been captured by the North Vietnamese when his plane was shot down in 1968. He spent years in captivity enduring torture, malnutrition, and horrific abuse. I met him decades after his release.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in civilian attire and a group of us navy aircrew were in our dress uniform during the morning colors ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had just finished SERE school, a course where we experienced simulated POW conditions for a mere week. As the flag was being raised, we dutifully saluted while the national anthem was played over the PA system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He held his hand over his heart and watched the flag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I caught the sunlight glint off of his face as a tear coursed down his face. Rarely have I seen people who had such genuine love for country, but that day, all the bravado that we aviators typically display fell away and I knew in an instant that while we can buy cheap patriotic-themed junk, the price to know genuine patriotism is high, indeed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, enjoy the barbecues, the fireworks, the smiles of friends, family, and loved ones, but beyond the day, may I respectfully recommend that you do something that affirms the ideals of what we, as Americans, are all about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may be as simple as extending a word of thanks to a cop, firefighter, or serviceman for putting themselves out on the line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s engaging in some sort of volunteer work that makes a perfect stranger’s life just a bit better, but let your patriotism this July 4<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup> be selfless. Let it be authentic. Make a positive difference.</span></span></div>
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<strong><em>This posting was originally published July 4, 2011. I've split my writing into different blogs: Opinion, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1935863796778960516#overview">The Leukemia Chronicles</a>, and other Freelance Writing</em></strong></div>
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