The Grumpy Doc

Grumpy opinions about everything.

About the Beach


I’ve never been a big beach fan. I don’t enjoy laying on the beach and I’ve never seen the fascination with sunbathing. It might have something to do with the two severe sunburns that I had as a boy. My back and chest were covered with painful blisters, and I tried to sleep sitting up on a stool so I wouldn’t touch anything. I started using SPF 50 when it first was introduced and was as thick as grease. Every particle of sand I came in contact with stuck to me until I looked like a large sand monster. It had to be scrubbed off with a washcloth and I could still feel the residue. There have been improvements in sunscreen, but not enough to make me want to lay on the beach.


Even when we were stationed in Hawaii, I never spent much time on the beach. The beach was something you crossed so that you could boogie board in the waves or swim out to scuba dive. When we had friends come to visit from the mainland who wanted to go to the beach, I made sure to find the nearest shade and make a beeline for it.


As I get older though, I have found a new appreciation for the beach. I still don’t lay on the beach, and I still don’t like the hot sun. Now we tend to take our beach vacations in the winter when it’s cooler and the sun is not nearly as intense.


I enjoy walking on the beach now, just above the run up of the waves. I watch the water run in rivulets across the sand and try to avoid getting my shoes wet. In the winter the beach is less crowded and much cleaner, an altogether more pleasant environment.


I carry binoculars to watch the birds and hopefully see some dolphins offshore. But one of my real pleasures is being able to spot large ships on the horizon. I’ve always had a great fascination with ships and just enjoy watching them through the binoculars and trying to imagine where they might be going and what they might be carrying on board.


I enjoy watching the water in constant motion. It seems to me to possess both calmness and a loosely contained power waiting to break havoc on the shore. The very restlessness of the waves brings a peaceful sensation to me. It is a feeling matched only by a cascading mountain stream.


The ocean is an enigma. It is believed to be the original source of life. But, in an instant, it can turn deadly and destructive, destroying lives and property. It can transition from tranquility to fury and back to tranquility almost instantly leaving you to wonder how such devastation could occur in a few moments time.


Walking on the beach also gives me time to think about things I might want to write about and to organize them in my head before I sit down to put them on paper (actually, on the keyboard). When I’m walking on the beach, I don’t feel the call of the many other things I think I should be doing. It’s not a place for self-imposed schedules and deadlines. The lack of distraction does wonders for my concentration.


I’m sure everyone has their own place to find their zin. For me, it’s the beach in the winter.

Travels of a West Virginia Boy Part I, Hong Kong

   The first time I left the United States I was 21 years old and on my way to Vietnam. In one of those little ironies of life, I would visit Hong Kong three times before I ever made it to New York City. Growing up in West Virginia, my family thought a trip to Myrtle Beach was the height of travel. It’s still the destination of choice for many West Virginians and I still love the South Carolina low country and fried sea food.

   My first trip to Hong Kong was in the spring of 1970. I was serving on the USS Sanctuary in the coastal waters of Vietnam. I had my R&R (Rest & Recreation) trip planned to Australia later in the summer. However, I received orders ending my tour early because I was to report for a training school in San Diego in early June. This meant if I wanted to go on R&R it would have to be soon. The only R&R destination available in my time frame was Hong Kong. I knew next to nothing about Hong Kong. The closest I had come to Chinese culture was chop suey at the New China Restaurant in Charleston.

  R&R was basically a five-day vacation that the military gave you when you were serving in the Vietnam area. It was something you looked forward to for the first part of your tour and then you would dream about it for the remainder.

   Even flying into Hong Kong was an exciting experience. The old Hong Kong airport was almost in the middle of the city. The flight path carried you down between the buildings. I remember looking out the window of the plane and into the window of an apartment building. There didn’t seem to be enough room for the wings in between the buildings, but somehow the plane landed without incident. That initial look out the window may have been one of the most surprising things that I have experienced.

   When we first arrived, we were given the typical military orientation lecture that included warnings about venereal disease with a large map that showed us the areas of Hong Kong we should avoid. Of course, for many of us that meant those were the areas we were going to head to first.  They also gave us a list of hotels we could afford without spending all our R&R money.

   Hong Kong was like nothing I had ever seen before. I spent the first day wandering around the crowded streets watching the people and trying to sort out the multitude of sights and smells.  There was an odd combination of delicious, exotic and downright strange. Street food was everywhere and so were street vendors.  The first day I was determined to sample as many different foods as possible. They varied from delicious to inedible. I’m sure that was just me, because the Chinese people seemed to most enjoy the food I couldn’t eat.

   I also looked in a lot of shops trying to decide what I should buy.  The shop people were friendly and spent a long time answering my often rambling questions.  I had been advised to be very careful about negotiating prices.  A Chief Petty Officer who was familiar with Hong Kong (his wife was Chinese) told us, “The Chinese people are basically honest.  They won’t steal from you, but if you’re a bad negotiator, they are glad to let you pay three times what it’s worth.”  In Hong Kong you even bargained over the price of a pack of gum, a skill I never really developed.

    I eventually decided I would have a suit made because I had never had a tailor-made suit. I also had some shoes made.  I’m sure that because of my poor negotiating skills I paid more than I needed to, but I was happy with the price and that was all that mattered to me.   I thought I was pretty fashionable, but looking back I probably could have done better in my selection of material.  The shiny shark skin material that looked so cool on Frank Sinatra didn’t do anything for me.  The shoes were nice though.  I wore a size 14 narrow, and it was nice to have a pair that actually fit.

   The second night in Hong Kong as I was leaving the hotel, I ran into an Australian sailor who had been to there many times before. He said he’d show me the “real action” in Hong Kong.  As we walked along, he turned down a narrow and dark side street and then into a basement level bar that had a big neon sign that said “Club Red Lips” with a big pair of neon lips underneath it. The place was dark and crowded with a lot of Australian sailors and Chinese women. It smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and sweat. After two beers my new friend turned to me and suggested getting out of there and going someplace where there would be some better action.

We started down the street and as he was ready to turn in to an even darker and narrower alley, I suddenly remembered I had someplace else to be. The “real action” was starting to seem a little too risky to me.

 I begged off and headed back to a better lit part of town to have dinner and drinks with other American sailors. I suppose it was something he was accustomed to, but it was a little too much for a West Virginia boy to deal with.  It turned out I was not as rowdy as I thought.

   Most of the rest of my R&R was spent doing the typical tourist things and riding tourist buses. I didn’t venture down any more dark and narrow side streets. But I really did have a good time. 

   My next trip to Hong Kong was in May of 1975. By this time, I was in the Marine Corps and was an infantry officer. I was part of a Marine Amphibious Force that was embarked on Navy ships. We had recently completed support of the evacuations of Saigon and Phnom Penh and the recovery of the merchant ship SS Mayaguez.  Our ships anchored in the harbor in Hong Kong for liberty call for the sailors and the embarked Marines.

   Since I was one of the few officers in our battalion who had been to Hong Kong, I was tasked with briefing the troops on the things they could do there. I spent quite a while going through the ship’s library to find a few things about Hong Kong and then doing my best to remember some of the things that I had done during my previous visit. Of course, there was no internet to check.

   I was happy that I had come up with a quite detailed list of sights to see and places to go. I gave my briefing. I told them where they could catch buses and where they could catch the ferry and where there were good places to shop and where there were good places to eat. When I finished, I ask for questions and the first question was, “Is it true that there’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken in Hong Kong?”  Yes, it was true.

While I didn’t have any fried chicken in Hong Kong my friend Walt and I decided to be a little adventurous. We went to a “non-tourist” restaurant. Walt ordered pigeon, thinking it would probably be Cornish Game Hen and I ordered beef with bitter melon thinking how bitter can it really be, after all it is melon. Well, Walt’s pigeon was pigeon, and it came complete with head, beak, eyes, and feet. My melon was so bitter I couldn’t eat any of it.

Our stay in Hong Kong lasted four days and then we were back onboard ship to return to our home base in Okinawa.  I knew I would be returning to Hong Kong in a few months when Margie joined me for Christmas leave.

The Perfect Margarita

I know there are a lot of recipes for a Margarita floating around and that they all claim to be the “Perfect Margarita”. But they are wrong! After much experimentation and working in consultation with a world-renowned Margarita expert (my wife Margie), I have settled on the following recipe.

2 oz Patron Silver tequila
¾ oz Cointreau
1 oz simple syrup
1 oz lime juice
1 oz lemon juice
½ oz orange juice
Shake with ice and pour into a chilled Margarita glass.
Garnish with a lime wheel.
Enjoy!

Comments on preparation from The Grumpy Doc:

  1. Don’t skimp on the tequila. I tried to slip in a cheaper brand because I thought there were so many other ingredients it wouldn’t matter, but my consultant called me on it after the first sip and she didn’t know I’d made the switch. I now have an almost full bottle of middle shelf tequila gathering dust.
  2. Use Cointreau. It’s tempting to try and save money by using Triple Sec, but it doesn’t have the flavor. Some people like to dress it up with Grand Marnier but it can overwhelm the drink.
  3. Fresh squeezed juice only, no bottles or squeeze containers. And please, no bottled mixes!
  4. Simple syrup made with cane sugar. Agave syrup, if you can find it, works well. Please don’t use the abomination sold as bar syrup.
  5. A salt rim is optional but The Grumpy Doc thinks it detracts from the drink.
  6. Drink responsibly.

CHEERS!

The Grumpy Doc Award

This was presented to me by my friend Jack in recognition of my contributions to world grumpiness. Thanks Jack! But it could have been bigger.

Anchors Aweigh, Part IV

I reported on board the USS Sanctuary in September of 1969 and went to the personnel office for my assignment. This won’t surprise anyone who was ever in the Navy, but they seemed to have no idea that I was coming. After conferring among themselves, they came back and told me that I would be senior corpsman in sterile surgical supply.

Sterile surgical supply was where we prepared and maintained all the equipment necessary for conducting surgery as well as the sterile equipment used in the clinics and wards. The Sanctuary had several surgical suites that were busy almost all the time when we were on station in support of combat operations. It was a busy place and went through a lot of equipment.

Life on board a Navy ship is a 24 hour a day, seven day a week job. There are no days off when you’re at sea. Fortunately, as a member of the hospital crew, I was what they called a shift worker. Which meant I had a set schedule. Members of the ship’s crew were watch standers. That meant they worked in four hour rotations that changed every 24 hours. We could at least have some type of a routine for awake and sleep time, but for a watch stander the schedule was constantly rotating. As a petty officer and a supervisor, I was exempt from some extracurricular duties such as working on the mess decks and taking part in working parties for regular ship maintenance and supply.

The work was hard and continuous. There was no shortage of casualties in 1969. Our job was to provide direct medical support to our troops in combat. The wounded were flown by helicopter directly from the battlefield to the ship. We got the most severely injured; the ones who couldn’t be effectively treated at a field hospital.

The crew was highly trained and incredibly efficient. From the time a wounded soldier or marine landed on our flight deck it was only minutes until he was in the operating room. The survival rate for the wounded in Vietnam was far greater than it had been in either World War II or Korea. This was largely due to the speed with which casualties were transported to definitive medical care.

We generally didn’t treat civilians, but one day, unbeknownst to us, one of our medevac helicopters was bringing in a pregnant Vietnamese woman. When she was offloaded on the flight deck she was already in labor. They brought her down to the preoperative holding area which was adjacent to our sterile supply room. When there was a heavy influx of casualties, we helped out in the preop area that functioned somewhat like an emergency room.

We were standing there, an anesthesiologist and three corpsmen, trying to figure out how to deliver a baby. Thank goodness the woman took it in her own hands and delivered the baby herself! Of course, that didn’t stop us from congratulating each other about delivering the only baby born on a Navy hospital ship during the Vietnam War. If only all our patients could have turned out so well.

When I remember my time on the Sanctuary, I try not to dwell on the suffering of our patients. Their sacrifices still move me to tears. I prefer to be grateful that I was mostly out of direct combat and to focus the less intense episode that helped us maintain our sanity.

One unexpected benefit of being the senior corpsman in sterile surgical supply was being able to order those supplies. One day while going through the supply catalog I discovered it was possible to order five gallons of pure medical grade grain alcohol. And even better, it required no approval. I also ordered a large five gallon glass beaker. We had wall mounts in our work room where there were glass beakers with soap solution and acetone. We also had an empty wall mount.

The alcohol arrived, along with the five-gallon beaker. I put the alcohol in the beaker and pasted a large poison sign on it. I got green food coloring from the mess decks in return for a promise to share. It’s easy to be generous when you have five gallons. I did have to emphasize that it couldn’t be drunk straight but had to be diluted by fifty percent with fruit juice or soda.

The food coloring gave it an appropriately poisonous appearance. It also gave us the advantage of hiding it in plain sight. I quickly became the most popular corpsman on the ship.

Right after Thanksgiving the CO of the ship issued an announcement that the crew was now authorized to put up Christmas decorations. (I think I’ve mentioned before that sometimes I don’t always think through my wise cracks.) The fact that we were now authorized to have Christmas got me thinking. I made a large sign that said “All enlisted personnel desiring to have a Merry Christmas must report to the ship’s office to obtain a Christmas chit. Personnel having a Merry Christmas without an appropriate chit will be subject to nonjudicial punishment.” A chit was basically the Navy’s version of a permission slip. I thought this was pretty funny. Apparently, the ship’s office did not agree when people started lining up to get their Christmas chits.

This resulted in a stern lecture from our leading chief. It generally consisted of about every third word beginning with the letter F. I was sure I was going to be reassigned, reduced in rank, sent to the brig or something even worse. Surprisingly, after many blistering words, he dismissed me with a wave of the hand. As I was leaving, much relieved, the chief said, “And you can drop off the rest of that grain you got to the chief’s mess .” That depleted my supply and ended my short-lived popularity on the USS Sanctuary.

Right after Christmas, we had the opportunity to have a Bob Hope show on board the ship. Everyone was crammed onto the main deck to watch Bob, a few musicians and some dancers put on about an hour and a half show. I was way in the back as we had all the patients in the front. Bob’s jokes were corny. I’m sure the dancers were pretty (I wasn’t close enough to tell for sure) and the musicians weren’t particularly talented, but a good time was had by all.

Navy ships at sea in a combat zone practice strict blackout at night. Hospital ships don’t. Not only are they painted white, but they are lit up like a cruise ship with large flood lights hanging over the side of the ship to illuminate the red crosses. This illumination led to what quickly became one of our favorite pastimes.

Inshore ocean waters in Southeast Asia are infested with sea snakes and they are attracted to light. One sailor had his parents send him a sling shot and BBs and before long the ship’s rails were lined with sailors firing BBs and watching the snakes rolling in the water. For most of us, these were the only shots we fired in Viet Nam.

Once, while cruising close to the mouth of the Perfume River near Hue City, the ship went dead in the water. The rumor quickly spread among the crew that the NVA had attached a mine to the hull. Everyone rushed on deck to watch as divers went over the side to investigate. Imagine our disappointment when they surfaced dragging a large fishing net that had wrapped around the propeller.

I don’t remember as much about the trip home from Vietnam as I do about the plane ride over. I do remember that as soon as the plane lifted off the ground everyone on board started cheering and applauding and whiskey bottles were passed up and down the aisles. (Perhaps that’s why I don’t remember much about the flight.) Needless to say, it was a very happy trip.

There were other events that I may share at some point, including a misguided trip to Camp Eagle and several port calls to the infamous Olongapo in the Philippines. However, this post has gone on long enough, but I may return later to revisit these memories.

We arrived at Norton Air Force Base, which I now knew was in Ontario, California, not Ontario, Canada. They took us through customs and started searching our bags. I was wondering why, because I couldn’t imagine anything we could possibly be bringing back that would be valuable enough for customs to worry about until I saw them going through bags and pulling out weapons, grenades and even a mortar shell.

This was in the spring of 1970 and the height of the Vietnam War protests. As soon as we cleared customs, they put us in a large auditorium and gave us our welcome home briefing. One of the few things I remember from this is that we were told that if we did not have civilian clothes that we should go to the base exchange buy some and put them on before we got to LAX. Under no circumstances should we go to LAX in uniform because we would be harassed or possibly even assaulted by protesters. This was not quite the welcome home any of us were expecting.

I was on my way to an officer training program and four years in college. I was sure that by the time I graduated and got commissioned the war in Vietnam would be over. But, like many things associated with that war, nothing would ever be certain, and I would see that sad country again.

Critical Thinking


Recently I have been reading about the significant increase in childhood diseases that previously had been well controlled with vaccines. There are a number of factors at play here. One is the pandemic which has reduced doctor’s visits and with it some routine vaccinations. But the most significant factor is the resistance among the vaccine deniers not just the COVID vaccine, but vaccines in general.


This is especially troubling to me. These are people, many of whom are well educated, who have chosen not to vaccinate their children or themselves. The majority of these decisions are based on misinformation which has resulted in faulty decision making. I’ve addressed this in a previous post entitled Fake News. However, I would like to address some additional issues related to what is commonly called “critical thinking”. The ability to apply critical thinking would most likely have resulted in a far smaller vaccine denial movement and fewer deaths and disabilities.


Just to start, I’m going to repeat the definition of critical thinking I used in that post. “Critical thinking is the intellectually disciplined process of actively and skillfully conceptualizing, applying, analyzing, synthesizing, and/or evaluating information gathered from, or generated by, observation, experience, reflection, reasoning, or communication, as a guide to belief and action.”


That post was principally geared to critical thinking in adults. I wanted to discuss how to gather information, evaluate it and make a rational decision. I’ve come to realize, that by the time we are adults our method of thinking is very close to being set in stone. If we are to make a significant impact on the way our population evaluates data and makes decisions, it must start with the children.


I believe that the two pillars of early education should be reading and critical thinking. Admittedly, I am not an educator, but I believe if you can read you can teach yourself anything. But you also need the ability to decide what you should believe. The framework for being able to make these decisions is critical thinking.


In some ways critical thinking has been taught in the past, often as the Socratic method. Elements of it have been in specific courses such as philosophy, logic, and scientific investigation. These courses are usually designed for older, advanced students who most likely have already developed these skills or have a natural inclination to pursue such inquiry and evaluation.


For most students, if they haven’t learned how to gather information, evaluate competing ideas and draw coherent, fact based conclusions by the time they are in high school, it may be difficult for them to do so. Critical thinking must be a substantial part of education from the beginning. It cannot be a separate course. It must be integrated into the way every subject is taught. Students should not just be given rote information to be memorized. They should be taught how to think and evaluate and then they should be provided with all the information necessary to make their own informed decisions.


What does this mean? It means that all sides of a topic should be covered. There should be no forbidden subjects. There cannot be an effective analysis of competing information if only one side is presented. This needs to begin in the very first years of education. After all, as Americans we want education not indoctrination.

The ability to develop critical thinking and to make informed decisions requires the exposure to all varying ideas without any value judgment being attached by the teacher. The idea of an academic “safe space” where students are insulated from hurt feelings presupposes that they are unable to evaluate competing ideas and must be protected. This is the very essence of indoctrination and should be an anathema to education.


Children need to learn that the world is not a safe place. If they are not exposed to the competing ideas, how can they be expected to evaluate and recognize the harmful ones? If they are only exposed to one side, they will come to believe that side is the only true side regardless of its value.


I will use myself as an example. There were no efforts to teach critical thinking when I was a student. We were taught that everything presented in class was the right thing, and we were not to question it. Well, this might be true in math and many science classes, but it is not true anywhere else. It was not until well into my adult years that I recognized many of the things I had been taught were the result of societal prejudices and in some cases even ignorance. As a result, like many people, I tended to defend my long-held opinions even after I recognized their weakness.


I was very slow to adopt new ideas. Many of the opinions I now hold are far different from those with which I grew up. Critical thinking was not easy for me; challenging your core values never is. We don’t want our children and grandchildren to have to suffer through the same weakness of thought that we did.


Would the evaluation of competing information that is part of critical thinking have helped prevent the wide scale vaccine denial that we are currently experiencing? Many rumors are being spread about COVID and about the COVID vaccine, just as they have been about other vaccines in the past. There were many rumors that the disease did not exist and that the deaths were faked. These rumors are still on the Internet. They never had any verifiable source and anyone taking the effort to view the data would know that there was a significant death toll early in the pandemic.


The effectiveness of COVID vaccination can easily be checked on the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website www.COVID.cdc.gov. A study in November 2022 shows unvaccinated Americans had a 16 times (not percent) higher rate of hospitalization compared to the fully vaccinated and a study from January 2022 shows the unvaccinated had a 12.7 times higher COVID related death rate.


There were many reports about side effects of the vaccine. Checking available medical sources, it is easy to discover that while there are some side effects, there are many misstatements or exaggerations about the COVID vaccines. The side effects are similar in frequency to other vaccines and medications in general. Vaccine side effects tend to diminish as the vaccine is improved in subsequent versions. A detailed review of COVID vaccine side effects can be found on www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/vaccines21.


Social media were quick to jump on every alternative to vaccination. It took very little research to realize that none of these alternatives (think Clorox) had documented medical justification and had never been effectively studied. The supposed studies that were cited were either significantly flawed or could never be duplicated or even be found. Because they had no experiencing in critical thinking, many people accepted the unsupported statements that most satisfied their desires, either politically, socially or medically and adopted them as truth. Unfortunately, this failure in critical thinking resulted in hundreds of unnecessary deaths and severe illnesses.

Anchors Aweigh, Part III

When I left my duty station in Key West, the Navy handed me my orders and a check to cover my travel costs. As always, they left it up to me to figure out how to get there. I didn’t worry about that for the first two weeks. I was at home in Charleston, WV, and when I had a week left in my leave, I thought it was time to figure out how to get from Charleston to Norton Air Force Base, where I was supposed to get government transportation to take me to my new duty station, the hospital ship USS Sanctuary that was cruising off the coast of Vietnam.
I asked my father. He had never heard of Norton Air Force Base either and he suggested we contact a friend of his who was a travel agent. So, Dad gave him a call and two days later I went down to pick up the tickets. The agent handed me an airline ticket to Ontario International Airport. While I was trying to explain to him that I wasn’t going to Canada, that I was going to take my orders to Vietnam, he laughed and told me that Ontario was actually in California. It was the closest commercial airport to Norton Air Force Base.
While the Navy had given me money for transportation, it would only cover coach. In those days a coach seat was about the size a first-class seat is today. That flight took me to California where I got a bus to the Air Force base for the government chartered flight to Vietnam.
It was a long trip from California to Da Nang. We stopped in Hawaii to refuel. Unfortunately for us, they wouldn’t let us out of the airport. We were on that airliner long enough that they fed us three times, once on the way to Hawaii and twice between Hawaii and Da Nang. All three meals consisted of baked chicken, peas and carrots, and mashed potatoes. It wasn’t so bad for lunch and dinner but baked chicken for breakfast just wasn’t something I was up for. In typical government style we had three meals supplied by the lowest bidder.
I arrived in Da Nang to discover that the Sanctuary only came in port about every 6 to 8 weeks to resupply and wasn’t due back for three weeks. I got assigned to the transient barracks, where the Navy puts people awaiting further assignment. Sometimes at morning muster (roll call) they gave us jobs such as unloading trucks or doing basic lawn maintenance. Most of the time we were on our own to entertain ourselves.
The transient barracks was in Camp Tien Sha, a Sea Bee run support base. The most popular place on the base for enlisted men was the movie theater. It was open 24 hours a day and was free of charge. You could bring your own beer and they even allowed smoking in the theater. (Everyone smoked in the 60s.) They only had four movies which they ran in continuous rotation. But most importantly, it was the only place on base that an enlisted sailor could go that was air conditioned. Some guys even slept there.
While the camp was in one of the most secure parts of the Da Nang area, occasionally at night the alert sirens would sound. If any place in the surrounding area was attacked everyone got an alert. We would then go out to the bunkers and stand around outside to see if there were any rockets landing close to us. If there were, we would go inside the bunker. If not, we stood around outside smoking and trying to avoid the shore patrol who drove around to make sure we were in the bunkers. Occasionally we could see an explosion or the path of tracers in the air. Mostly we could just hear them. We were never quite sure where they were, but we were fairly confident they weren’t very close.
One of the most entertaining things was watching the TV news reporters. Camp Tien Sha had a weapons repair facility. If you were near it, you could hear machine guns and other weapons being test fired after having been repaired. You could also see tanks and other armored vehicles running up and down their test track. We got a big kick out of watching reporters put on a helmet and a flak jacket and stand in front of the camera while the tanks ran up and down behind them and the machine guns fired and them saying: “I’m reporting from the front lines in Vietnam. You can hear the battle raging behind me “. Occasionally, we would laugh so hard that one of the production people would come over and run us off. I know we ruined more than a few shots.
Eventually I got called to the personnel office and was told that the Sanctuary was due in port that afternoon. They handed me my orders and told me to report on board. I asked how to get to the dock and the personnel clerk just looked at me and shrugged. I eventually found my way to the motor pool and got a ride with a jeep that was heading down towards the docks.
There were several ships in the port at that time. However, the Sanctuary was hard to miss. Unlike other Navy ships that were painted gray, the Sanctuary was painted bright white and was emblazoned with big red crosses on the hull. I walked up the gangway, saluted and requested permission to board. In Anchors Aweigh Part IV I’ll talk more about life on the Sanctuary.

Parking in Italy An Unexpected Adventure

Over the years, I’ve complained a lot about the parking in Charleston. Not enough on-street parking. People encroaching on the next space. Parking garages are too crowded with too many reserved spots. However, I’ve gained a new appreciation for the ease of parking in Charleston.

Margie and I recently took a trip to Italy with our daughter Annie and her family. At Annie’s recommendation we decided to rent a car so we could travel more freely. One of the most interesting or perhaps I should say stressful parts of our trip was the driving and parking in Italy. But driving is a story for another day. Today I’m going to talk about parking.

Even the process of car rental in Italy is different from what we’re used to. I reserved a car online and filled out all the necessary forms including passport and driver’s license numbers. When we arrived at the car rental agency, they asked for my driver’s license, passport and credit card. They made a copy of my license and passport and ran my credit card. We had a brief conversation where they tried to get me to upgrade to an SUV for only an additional €20 a day. My son-in-law had already warned me that I needed to get a small car because parking was difficult. They had one more tactic to try to get that extra upgrade. Unless I upgraded to an SUV, I would have to take a standard shift car. I wasn’t concerned because I learned to drive on a standard and drove one for many years. More on that later.

They handed me a set of keys and gave me vague directions towards the parking garage. When I got to the garage and found the rental company’s area, I was expecting to be handed paperwork and to inspect the car with the rental agent. To my surprise, the agent pointed down the row and said space #26. No paperwork, no inspection and no directions on how to get out of the garage.

I finally found my way out and onto the highway. It took about an hour to get to Milan from the airport. As soon as we located the hotel, we started looking for parking. The hotels in Italy typically do not have a parking garage as part of their facility.

My first thought was on-street parking. But that thought didn’t last long. There was hardly an inch of curb that didn’t have someone parked on it. The cars were all parked less than a foot apart with little or no space to maneuver in or out. I really don’t know how anyone got out of these spaces. I know I couldn’t have. The cars were fairly small so maybe they could just drag them out into the traffic lane. I soon realized why no one left spaces between the cars. If there was more than about two feet of space, there was a motor scooter parked in it. I wasn’t yet brave enough to attempt parallel parking on the street in Italy.

Luckily Margie spotted a parking garage just around the corner from the hotel. We pulled in and I tried to get a ticket to enter. I kept pressing the button, but nothing happened. Finally, Margie got out of the car and got the parking garage attendant who was busy smoking and talking on his phone. He came over, gave me an exasperated look and did a quick double tap on the button and that produced a ticket. Perhaps that’s what it said in Italian underneath the button. I really don’t know.

But the gate still didn’t go up. I waited for a while and then thought maybe I had to back up and go over a pressure plate in the driveway. The whole time the Italian drivers were lining up behind me. Much to my consternation I discovered I didn’t know how to get this car into reverse. I tried all the things I remembered from driving standards in my younger days. I pressed down on the shift lever and tried to shift it. It didn’t work. I felt for a button on the shift knob, nothing there. I felt for a handle underneath it to release the gear shift, nothing there either. About that time, Margie noticed that the arm on the gate had opened. I didn’t know why, but I wasn’t going to complain because I certainly couldn’t back up.

We started up the ramp. Now imagine a spiral ramp much like the exit ramp in the parking garage of most large malls. Now imagine it’s about 15% narrower. And now imagine there is two-way traffic on this ramp. I was fortunate on my way up because I only encountered one other car. He had just started to enter the ramp as I got there so he backed up into the garage and I went on up the ramp. There were six floors in the parking garage and of course there were no spaces on anything but the 6th floor. I pulled into a very narrow space and told Margie this car is going to stay here until we leave town.

Additionally, if I couldn’t figure out how to get it into reverse it was going to stay in that parking garage forever. After playing with the shifter for a while I discovered that about a third of the way down the shift lever under a leather boot was a ring that you put your fingers under and pull up in order to shift it into reverse. It was very cleverly hidden, I’m sure just to confuse American tourists.

The trip up the ramp was exciting but nothing compared to the trip down. We started down slowly and I was very thankful that I didn’t upgrade to an SUV. On the way down the ramp, we passed five other cars. With each one we had to get over to the edge of the ramp and then continually jockey back and forth to work our way past, with literally inches to spare between our cars and the wall. I kept waiting to hear scraping of metal on concrete or metal on metal as the cars collided. I was watching the other car while Margie was watching the wall. I wish I had thought to turn off the car’s proximity alarm because it was dinging all the way down. Luckily, we made it to the street without any structural damage to the car.

I vowed then and there that I wasn’t going to park in any more multi-level parking garages. We went from Milan to Florence. There we found a parking garage where we pulled through the door and turned the car over to an attendant. Next, we went on to Siena where we found a parking garage outside of the main part of the city. We pulled in the door and the attendant took over and drove us to our hotel. Then he took our car back to the garage, parked it and came back to pick us up at the end of our visit to Siena. (If I had wound up on the 6th floor of another parking garage with a narrow two-way spiral ramp, I might have just abandoned the car and started sending a monthly payment to Italy.)

Parking in Charleston may not be as bad as I thought, but at least in Italy I never saw an extended bed, super duty pickup truck in a space marked “small car only”.

Have You Been To The Museum Of African American History And Culture?

Margie and I are frequent visitors to Washington, DC. We love its history, its cultural activities, and its restaurants. We love the feeling of pride in being Americans that comes with a visit to the city. Over the years we have visited almost every major site from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier to the Treasury to see money being printed. But there had been one place that had eluded us since it opened in 2016, the National Museum of African American History and Culture. We tend to be last minute travelers and the tickets have always been booked up months in advance, until this year.
We finally got tickets during our visit in May. It was a profound experience and I recommend it to everyone. Beginning with the early 1600s, it is a magnificently presented and emotionally challenging trip through the Black experience in America. As would be expected, slavery plays a significant role in the story told by the museum just as it does in the lives of African Americans and in the history of America.
I can never know nor understand how the history of slavery affects black Americans. I do know, after visiting the museum, I was deeply affected and that if those enslaved people had been my ancestors, I’m not sure I would be able to accept it without deep anger. It made me think that it is time for me to take a deeper look at slavery and how, 150 years later, it still reverberates through our society.

Intellectually, I believe I have had a basic understanding of the facts of slavery, its economics, its structure, and its broader role in history, particularly in the 19th century. But until I saw those exhibits I had not had a true understanding of the suffering, the pain, and the dehumanizing impact inflicted on those who endured it. I want to share with you some of the things I have learned about slavery.

John C. Calhoun, vice president under both John Quincy Adams and Andrew Jackson, was one of the strongest advocates of slavery ever to have served in the US government. He defended slavery as an almost benign institution that benefited the black people who were subjugated in his service. He used the term “the peculiar institution” or “the peculiar labor” to avoid the word slavery. As you can see below, he may also have been one of the scariest looking people ever to have been in our government. But slavery didn’t start in the American south and to begin to understand it we must go further back in history.

Slavery as an institution has been around for millennia. It is even mentioned in the Bible. However, most Americans’ concept of slavery is that of chattel slavery as practiced in the antebellum south in the United States and in the Caribbean. It is important to understand the history of slavery in the world to gain a true perspective on the odious nature of that exceptionally cruel form of slavery.
The practice of slavery preceded written history. It occurred in ancient Egypt, in the early mid-eastern states, and in ancient China. It is described in both the Hebrew and Christian bibles. Mesoamerican civilizations were known to have practiced slavery prior to European contact. It appears to have been well-established in almost all ancient cultures.
However, most historic types of slavery generally differed from what we think of as slavery in the Americas. In ancient civilizations many slaves were either prisoners of war or what were known as debt slaves. War slaves sometimes were repatriated when wars ended. Those who were not sacrificed to the victors’ gods were occasionally integrated into their captor’s society. This is not to say that this type of slavery was not brutal. Slaves were often malnourished and were at times subjected to such arduous working conditions that they died of exhaustion.
Debt slaves were those who entered a period of slavery because of the inability to pay bills but were sometimes able to work their way out of slavery and purchase their freedom. Their treatment, while less harsh than other forms of slavery was far from kindly.
Similarly, the serf system of the European middle ages was a form of slavery where peasants were bound to the land and owed their lords their service but were not specifically owned by the lord. A modern analogy to serfdom occurred in the first decades of the 20th century where miners were bound to the coal companies by their heavy debts to the company store.
Among the earliest international slave traders where the Vikings, who may have been the first to develop the slave trade into a purposeful business rather than a byproduct of war. They raided into the Baltic and Slavic countries and sold their captives into slavery in Western Europe and the northern African Muslim countries. Because Muslim law prohibited one Muslim from holding another in slavery, the trade in slaves quickly became international and highly profitable. It may be apocryphal, but some people claim that the word slave was derived from the fact that many Viking slaves were of Slavic origin.
While it would never be argued that any slaves were well treated, most did not suffer the type of abuse that existed in the Americas. Chattel slavery considered the slave to be not human but property. Property that could be disposed of or treated as the owner saw fit. This led to be a form of abuse which was particularly heinous.
But even this form of slavery was more complex that most of us realize. In the African slave trade, many of the people who were bound into slavery initially were captured and sold by other Africans. Most of the African coast slavers were Black rulers who sold either their subjects or their enemies captured in battle. Many Muslim African rulers had no problem selling other Africans they considered to be pagan. And of course, the Christian whites had no problem enslaving people that they felt to be “less than human.”
While we in the United States focus on slavery in the 13 colonies, most Africans sold into slavery in the Americas were sold in the Caribbean. Slavery on the sugar islands was particularly cruel. Due to disease, over-work and the brutality of the slave owners, most slaves did not survive the first year in the islands. To further underscore how the enslaved were considered as property and not as people, Caribbean slave holders believed to was cheaper to replace those who died than to provide them with adequate food, shelter, or health care.
After the slave importation was abolished in the United States, but while slavery itself was still allowed, many slaves were sold from the 13 colonies into the Caribbean sugar islands. This was little more than a death sentence for those who were shipped there. Families were broken apart with husbands and wives, parents and children never seeing one another again.
Even those who remained on the plantation were often brutally treated. On most plantations, slaves were forced to work from sunrise to sunset six and a half days a week. They had one set of clothes. Often entire families were housed in a 10 by 10 foot cabin and given only meager food. Those who did not work to the satisfaction of the overseer were frequently beaten and women were subjected to sexual abuse without any recourse. Many of the enslaved were not even allowed the basic dignity of a last name, though some, often secretly, gave themselves a last name to express their humanity and to strengthen their family structure.
To understand how these people were treated as property, one only need look at wills and probate records of the time. A will might state the “property includes five horses, a plow, a house, a barn, three black men, two black women, and three black children.” They were listed as property alongside animals and farm tools.
It is little wonder that slaves frequently made any attempt they could to escape to freedom. In fact, it is amazing to me that there were not more slave uprisings.
In the years following the Civil War, as part of the myth of the lost cause, there was an attempt to rewrite history, picturing slavery as being “good” for the slaves. The claim was that it provided them with structure, a Christian education, and a chance to become “civilized.” You can look at photographs taking during and immediately after the Civil War and realize that a big lie was the basis for this claim. People who deny the brutality of slavery have much in common with those who deny the brutality of the Holocaust.
I’m not a believer in original sin or that the evils of past generations are bestowed on the present. However, we must recognize that many of our fellow citizens are still, over 150 years later, strongly influenced by the echoes of the evil of slavery. This has been an open wound for many years. If it is ever to heal, we need to recognize what happened and that many people have a deep emotional tie to that history.
Black Lives Matter has a visceral meaning for African Americans that white Americans can never truly understand. But everyone can understand that there was a time when Black lives didn’t matter.
I don’t have all the answers. I never have and never will. But I do know that healing begins with understanding. Denial only prolongs the hurt. It is time to reach out, from both sides, face the uncomfortable truths and recognize that we are all Americans and must work together for a better country and a brighter future.
And that is my grumpy opinion. Agree or disagree, that is your right, but please give it your thoughtful consideration. Your comments are welcome.

Thinking About A Legacy

Now that I am in what is euphemistically called my twilight years, I’ve begun that to think about my legacy. How will I be remembered? Will I be remembered at all? Does it really matter?
There are already some things that I know. I will never do great things like Washington or Lincoln. I will never write great works like Shakespeare or Hemingway. I will never create great inventions like DaVinci or Edison. I will never have great thoughts like Aristotle or Thoreau. I will never be a great athlete like Jim Thorpe or Babe Ruth. And I will certainly never be a rock star like Elvis or Mick Jagger.
So where does that leave me? I think, like most people, I will have to be content that I did my best, helped as many people as I could, and did as much good as I was able.
I think my legacy will be in my family and my friends. For more than 50 years I have had the love of a good woman who made me more than I ever would have been without her and saw much more in me than I saw in myself. I also have two wonderful children, who while not perfect, (but whose children are, despite what their parents would have you believe) have been a great joy for me. And, of course, my grandson who is the best legacy that I will leave behind.
I’ve had many true and wonderful friends in my life, and I can only hope that I have been as positive an influence in their lives as they have been in mine. I know my life would have been far emptier without them. The one truly great thing about friends is that there is no limit to how many you may have and that you may continue to make new friends even as you get older.
I have also been blessed in my life and in my career to be able to help many people in the most trying times of their lives and to sometimes make a lifesaving difference. Most of these people, I expect, will never remember me, but it is enough that I know that I made that difference.
So, what is our true legacy? It is the people that we have loved and who have loved us. It is the good that we have done, and it is those whom we have helped. This then, is a true legacy of which to be proud. It is better than fame, notoriety, or wealth (well, maybe wealth would have been nice). It is certainly a legacy that I am satisfied to leave behind.
And, that is my opinion, although not grumpy for a change.

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