Fellowship

fel•low•ship (f l -sh p )
n.
1.
a. The condition of sharing similar interests, ideals, or experiences, as by reason of profession, religion, or nationality.
b. The companionship of individuals in a congenial atmosphere and on equal terms.
2. A close association of friends or equals sharing similar interests.
3. Friendship; comradeship.


When I used to avidly ride motorcycles, part of the allure was to go to the big rallies that drew thousands of bikers. Sturges, Daytona, Easyriders at Chillicothe, etc.

The public perception was generally wild cavorting, excessive drinking, public nudity and drunken brawling. I seldom saw a fight, if any at all. Troublemakers were unwelcome.

Friends would ask me if it was scary to spend a few days with these characters. Not a bit. Everyone was joined in celebrating the fellowship of the bike, usually a Harley. They held more interest in what we had in common than what differentiated us. You made many friends. I looked forward to all these events.

I don’t ride anymore, but I do paddle. And Paddlefest Cincinnati was this weekend. A couple thousand people together to celebrate the sport. Exchanging reminiscence of good times we had together in the past and excitement about better ones in the future.

It’s a beautiful thing.

I want to be a doll.

“”You’re a doll,” I said.

“No, that’s what I say to you after you take that box upstairs. In the guest bedroom, please.” The box was one of Liz’s “Care Packages.”

“I mean, you’re Liz’s doll. Don’t you see it?”

“What I see is the box is still sitting in my living room.”

Fran and Liz met years ago when they modeled. It was a profession for Liz and some part-time spare change for Fran.

I don’t know anything about Liz’s first marriage. But, the second one seemed to be based on figures. Hers and her new husband’s bank account. She married an older Florida real estate developer. His passion was constantly hopping around the state, buying waterfront land and putting up bricks. Hers was continuously shopping for clothing, analogous in price to land with sea views. They were both happy with the arrangement, so all was good.

Apparently, clothes shopping isn’t an aerobic event, because Liz eventually added a few pounds. Not a whole lot, but enough to take her out of the league of the stuff cut for the svelte.

She could continue to lavish expensive threads upon herself, but the form-fitting cocktail dresses were out. She hired a trainer, but that didn’t have sufficient impact. A lesser woman would’ve given up the hunt.

Liz continued her shopping passion, but sends her finds to Fran, who pretty much held her weight. Hence, my observation.

“You’re Liz’s doll.”

“You’re getting too much sun.”

“I’m not kidding. She plays dress-up with you. Heck, that’s not bad. In fact, I would like some expedition guide to send me clothes. I want to be someone’s doll.”

“Good luck with that.”

Summer!

We were on a lake this past weekend, drifting in the heat. A mixture of friends and new acquaintances with the common bond of the water, chatting and laughing.

No, wait, another link. The enjoyment of summer. Do you remember what it was like toward the end of the school term? You knew exactly how many days were left until summer. You knew that better than you knew days left until your birthday or Christmas. The joy of summer and all that entails. Fun, friends and the carefree life.

I felt that again and won’t let go. It’s going to be a great summer!

Father's Day

Father’s Day. Means a little more each year. You always wondered what kind of job you were doing. Now, you’re staring at a reflection of yourself. And, of course, your spouse.

I am eternally grateful that I can look at two decent, productive and happy adults. Apples don’t fall far from trees. And, I do give a lot of credit to their mother.

I know I contributed to their success, but also to their pressures. In their formative years, I was pretty visible around town and they were always asked if they were related to me. Sometimes that’s good and sometimes it isn’t.

I can relate to that and I still haven’t outlived it, even though my father died over forty years ago. My cousin reminded me of it the other day, bringing up an incident from our youth.

We grew up in a row house section of a large city. In warm weather, you were in the streets playing halfball, stoopball or whatever. In colder weather, you hung out somewhere, often at the candy store. It wasn’t for the candy.

Candy stores had pinball machines, the arena of intense competition and betting. One day, we were in Pop’s Candy Corner and I was up. I was hot and had racked up a couple bonus games. The rule was, if you had free games on the dial, it was still your turn until you burned them off. To get in line, you put your coin on the glass top.

As I worked the flippers and body english, three older boys came into the store. The ringleader walked up to the machine and stared at me. When I didn’t react, he told me I was done. Since the protocol was widely known, it didn’t seem worth arguing about it. I kept playing.

He nudged the machine into a tilt. “I said, you’re done. Now beat it or I beat you.”

I looked at him, trying to decide the right move. Pop had been watching it all and came running from behind the counter. My cousin jumped in front of him. “He’s Charlie’s kid. Charlie the war hero. He can handle it.”

Yes, I was the war hero’s kid. My father, part of an immigrant family, had attended trade school and became a printer. He enlisted when the war broke out and was sent to England. He was part of the D-Day invasion and was wounded twice fighting toward St. Lo. It wasn’t a time when they sent you home for leaking some blood. However, at St. Lo, a bomb added a third purple heart.

He was sent home with a silver star to rehab in a VA hospital for about a year. He never regained use of his right side and taught himself lithography. He was known as the neighborhood’s hero. I was known as his son. A lot of expectations went along with that. In some ways it helped and others, it was a burden. I just looked at it as part of my life and I think my kids did, too.

They made the annual call to ask if there was anything I wanted for Father’s Day. The answer is always the same. I don’t need anything, but a full day together would be great. Just to enjoy the affirmation after years of wondering what kind of job I was doing with them.

You try to teach them lessons, but it can be difficult to tell what sinks in and what bounces off. Results should be enough to tell you. But, an overt sign that they absorbed a lesson is a welcome plus.

I didn’t tell them that I had already received my present a couple weeks ago, in that vein. My son had written something on one of his web sites:

“Every morning in Africa a gazelle wakes up. It knows that it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning the lion wakes up, it knows that it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn't matter whether you are the lion or a gazelle. When the sun comes up, you better start running.”

That’s an overt sign of the learning. And, my favorite present.

Expectations

At a pre-trip meeting for an April kayaking trip (Georgia/South Carolina), participants were buzzing in anticipation about paddling with dolphins, alligators, etc. I suggested they not fix their expectations. You almost always miss out on something and creating a firm check-off list can create disappointment.

On the other hand, there are almost always bonuses of the unexpected. Such was the case with the Muskingum River trip this past weekend.

In a prior blog, I projected much more enjoyable paddling in a kayak than I previously had with a canoe that wasn’t designed for distance. That proved to be true, but the real delight was in the chemistry of the group.

The average age was probably in the 50s, but you wouldn’t know it. Non-stop cutting up and laughter. It was more like an outing of college kids.

Some have asked me if the trip was too long (34 miles in two days). With those people on the trip, it wasn’t long enough.

The Muskingum

If you guessed that the current volume of writing indicates pre-trip displacement activity, you’re correct. Tomorrow I’ll leave for a multi-day kayaking trip on the Muskingum River.

The genesis of this goes back years, when I spent a long weekend at an inn on the river. We went for a walk and came upon some women with canoes, camping on the river. They were retracing a trip one of their father’s took decades before that encompassed the length of the river. That planted a seed.

I ruminated about the rustic countryside and manually operated locks on the serene waterway. But, the seed didn’t germinate for a couple years. I finally planned a trip and opened it up to anyone in our paddling club.

A relatively new whitewater canoeist signed up. She asked to borrow a kayak. I had my doubts, but she was very athletic. And, would be a lot of fun to have along.

The day before departure, she showed up on my doorstep. She had second thoughts about the kayak and wanted me to canoe with her. The only tandem we had between us was my whitewater canoe and that was slow and didn’t like to go straight. I wanted her to come along and told myself she was a strong paddler.

It was a mistake. We were a turtle among cheetahs. And, worked our butts off. I could hardly wait for sundown to cram my tired bones into a sleeping bag. The subsequent days weren’t any better.

The surroundings were great and I envied the kayakers effortlessly cutting through the glassy waters. I vowed that I would return in a more suitable craft to fully enjoy it. Somehow, years passed without that coming to pass.

Until tomorrow. Can’t wait.

The cost of mental illness

Steven Johns is dead. James von Brunn shot him. For no reason, other than his own issues.

In today’s AP article, von Brunn is described as spending decades spewing rants, diatribes and hate. Do you need any more red flags? Was there any doubt that he was a head case?

Johns’ mother described him as a teddy bear. What price of mental illness treatment would’ve exceeded his value?

The cost of mental illness isn’t in treating it. It’s in not treating it.

Now you've got a gym

Standing in the locker room after a great workout and not feeling the urge to change. Other guys are hanging out, too. Life circling back? After a great game in high school, not wanting to shed your jersey because the magic of the moment might come off with it.

Tom and Gene were on either side of me as I wondered this aloud. “You think too freakin’ much,” growled Tom. He growls a lot.

“Yeah, we do tend to hang out,” replied Gene. “Creatures of habit, everyone tends to use the same lockers. They like these two rows.”

“The lights are directly overhead in these aisles.” I had given thought to this before.

“So, you can’t see to tie your damn shoes in the others?” One thing about Tom, he’s consistent.

“The lights are directly overhead here. Highlights muscle definition after a good workout. Positive reinforcement for the effort.”

“Muscle definition? These muffintops?” Tom’s word for people whose rolls of fat hang over the waistband. A couple heads swiveled toward him, but wisely decided it wasn’t worth it.

“Give them credit for working on it.”

“They need to work a lot harder.”

“Hey Tom,” Gene smiled, “can I work for you?”

I had wondered if the lighting was part of gym marketing. Maybe they should have funhouse mirrors that take off ten pounds.

Let’s see, what else would make a great gym? I think stands of spectators who would cheer you home on your last lap at the track or in the pool. Then, you climb a podium and receive a medal on a ribbon.

A posse gives you your robe and towel. There’s a juice bar as you come out of the shower room. You climb on the scale, which reads your body fat content. The reported weight is what you’d be at 5%. The sound system is pumping in the theme from “Rocky.”

Okay, now you got a gym.

Yes, it does get better than that.

A couple of women in our paddling group were exalting on the web about their weekend: an extremely enjoyable paddle under the full moon with a couple dozen of our friends on Friday night and then two days of developing their whitewater skills.

Does it get any better than this, asked one. No it doesn’t, replied the other.

Actually, it does. Watching them blossom and rejoice is a treat.

They’re both mature women and have had the physical setbacks that age and other factors can impose. And yet, they have the character to extend and grow. Joy comes from that and it’s shared by your friends.

I posted an extra kayak for sale on the web. A young man said he didn’t have near that much money, but wanted to look at it, just so he was sure when the day came. Okay, no big deal to show it to him.

Apparently, it was exactly what his heart desired. He virtually hugged it and said he’d die to have it.

I asked him how much money he thought he could pull together. He did some mental gymnastics and came up with a number short of my price. “You come up with that and it’s yours.” His eyes about popped out of his head.

Seeing that is as good as it gets.

Indicators look good

Today’s news tells me we don’t have a thing to worry about because the indicators are that the economy is doing just fine. Leading off, John Boudinot just got a nice new job in Missouri. If John can skewer himself a plum, who can’t?

He’s been presiding over Cincinnati’s public employee pension fund, where it has come to light that managers are illegally lending out the money, failing to cash checks, paying deceased retirees, etc., etc., etc. It's a sinking wreck. This goes back a ways, but has persisted even after a revealing audit in February 2007. In all fairness, I will lay some blame at the feet of the auditors.

They said that the pension management needed to put a system in place that would identify when payees died. Pension management did attempt to utilize an outside service to alert them through Social Security number tracking, but had spotty application. Here’s the punch line, though.

In cases where the system was able to flag a deceased, the pension plan still continued to pay. This is clearly the fault of the auditors because they just said to install a system to identify deceased payees. They failed to add, “and then don’t continue to issue checks to dead people.”

Next indicator is that the latest installment of the Obamas date nights features jetting to New York for dinner and a play. If you’re paying for an executive chef staff in the White House AND firing up the fuel-gulping 747 to go out and grab a burger, how bad could things be? Taxpayers must be rolling in it to underwrite this opulence. People went bonkers when some car execs crammed into a small jet to attend seminal economic meetings in DC. Peanuts compared to a mega-airframe for a night out. I don't hear the outcry, so the assumption must be economic recovery.

Go ahead. Just burn up those taxpayer dollars. It may be worth it just to see a president dating his own wife.

Also good news about patching up the hole in the ozone. Otherwise, why light up the big candle just so a couple people can grab a quick knosh? Next you’ll be telling me that Al Gore has a hundred-foot yacht.

And finally, news of a local entrepreneur who has been successful starting his company, “The Dog Janitor.” They will come out to your yard and pick up your dog’s crap. Ah, the sweet smell of success.

I can see what a problem it would be to look after your own dog. Some of those piles weigh literally ounces. And, there might be more than one a day. You have little choice but to pay outside specialists.

If we can afford the dog crap (applies to all the above), how bad could things be?

Elmo

One reason I selected my college was I needed an urban area where jobs would be available to work my way through school. The job I held the longest was as a store detective with a department store chain. Now, that would be called a loss control specialist, or some such thing.

I interviewed for the job at the downtown location. When offered the position, I said that I guessed people without seniority would probably be assigned to that store.

The interviewer smiled. “You’re not from around here, are you?” I said that I had been in town a short time. “We’re going to break you in easy with a nice suburban location. Chuck will give you directions to the Swifton Shopping Center.”

They must’ve had a big laugh about that. Swifton was a war zone.

But, that made it easy to get one’s quota. Addicts prowled it at all hours, scooping up goods to fence to finance their habits. Things really picked up when the rough high school across the street would let out in the afternoon. They’d descend on the place like locusts.

I adapted and the location was convenient for me. When scheduling elsewhere came up, I didn’t volunteer. But, sometimes you were assigned.

One place I didn’t like was Cherry Grove. Aside from being on the other side of town, the shoplifting traffic ran heavily to teenage girls from well-off families, stealing on a lark. When arrested, they fell apart. I preferred dealing with the career criminals to that mess.

I was thinking of this as I stood in line at a convenience store. The man in front of me was an immense individual. Like Elmo.

I had been assigned to a day shift in the downtown store. After completing it, I was doing some paperwork in the office when an assistance code was broadcast.

I ran down to the front entrance and there was a huge man with a radio under his arm, dragging three detectives out the door. One on each arm and the third clutching onto his leg.

A technique was to lift someone off his feet. Without balance or traction, he was more controllable. Since Elmo, this guy, looked to be about 350 lbs., that seemed out of the question. So, I leaped onto his back.

Bad move. He flicked me away like a fly.

Still, it had cost him some balance and he put down a hand to support his forward lean. I jumped up and slapped a cuff on his wrist. Then I stomped it down, tight. Another technique.

That worked. It wasn’t long before he was begging for relief. The condition for that was that he let me manacle his wrists and ankles. His feral eyes bored into me as I put them on. I wouldn’t be getting a Christmas card from him.

Fast forward a year. My girlfriend called. Her father worked in the Over-the-Rhine area and had a flat tire. Something was wrong with the jack. Could I go help him?

My car was in the shop so I jogged down there. He had set up the jack too far from the car. The weight of it bent the jack in half. The front bumper was just about resting on the ground.

As I was contemplating the options, the crowd of spectators parted to allow an enormous man to stride toward us. It was Elmo. The tire might not be the only thing smashed on the street.

He walked right up to me and said, “When I pick up the car, switch the tires.”

“Huh?” I understood what he said, but it seemed improbable. This was a full size Pontiac with the big block V8 sitting right behind the flat.

“I’m going to pick up the car. Reach through my legs, take off that wheel and put on the spare.”

He grabbed the edge of the wheel well and I squatted behind him. He heaved at it and the car rose. I pulled off the flat and rolled the spare into position, quickly tightening a few of the lug nuts.

I thanked him, offering a five. He waved it off and walked away. Whether he recognized me or not, I couldn’t tell.

The postscript is that a week later, I had to try it. Could barely budge the car. A buddy joined in and we didn’t have much more movement. Elmo was one strong specimen.

I wonder about him and theorize that he was basically a good person who had found himself in a desperate situation that compelled him to steal. I hope things worked out better for him.

Jonathan Livingston Sea Kayak

Everyone likes feedback. We wouldn’t bowl if there were no pins, or golf if the greens lacked holes. But, there can be a dark side.

In this case, it began when I used my GPS to clock the speed of a new kayak. It was the “improved” model of one I had previously owned. I just wanted to get an idea of how much improvement the upcharge bought.

Might’ve been a mistake. Oh, it was faster, but I erred in not packing away the GPS after the test. I began to take it out when I paddled the boat alone to see how far I could push the envelope. Jonathan Livingston Sea Kayak.

I needed more benchmarking, so I surfed the web for reported kayak speeds. The web. Facts. What was I thinking?

There were reports from people claiming to push their recreational boats over 10 mph. Halfway down a waterfall? I culled out what seemed factual.

There are race paces over courses and top speed. Working on maintaining race pace is okay, but top speed held the allure. I started in the low sevens. My eyes were set on 7.5. As I got used to the boat, I cracked that and 8 bobbed up on the horizon.

I tweaked technique and adjustments, inching ever closer. But, hit the ceiling short of the goal. I tried various things but it hung just out of reach, taunting me.

I thought I had about maxed out the boat and myself. What about the paddle? A wing configuration (modern innovation) would do it, but I’m a traditionalist. The wing wouldn’t do.

Back to the web and looking for a very good paddle. Found one, but the price was dear. Worth it to break the barrier? More to the point, would that do it? My finger poised above the mouse as I vacillated about sending the order over the wire. All that stood between me and that paddle was the word “Vespa.”

In high school, my friend’s father worked for Sears and got him a motor scooter at a discount. It was private branded for them but was a Vespa 125cc. Seemed like a lot of fun for George, but riding along on the pillion seat was getting boring for me.

I worked in an auto supply store and was dropping some stuff off at the local junk yard one Saturday. A battered old Vespa was leaning up against the fence. I asked the owner about it and he said it came in with some stuff he bought and was real junk. It was tagged for the crusher. I asked him how much he wanted for it. He asked me how much I had on me. Deal.

The biggest problem was that the kick starter was shot. That meant I had to run with it, jump on and pop the clutch to get it started. Until I figured out just to park at the top of driveways or other hills.

It would take a little while to accumulate the cash to fix this. I was rebuilding a car, which was sopping up my earnings.

So, George and I started riding everywhere together. Being young males, we often turned this into a race. My junker topped out at 39 mph, his new bike at 43. That was getting old real fast.

I decided to divert some scarce bucks to getting the head milled and a more robust head gasket fashioned. Not cheap, but it would be worth it to erase the image of George leering over his shoulder.

I got the head back and eagerly torqued it down for the test drive. Clocked 37 mph. Huh? All that money and it’s slower? Maybe it was the wind. I made the run in the opposite direction. Again, 37 mph. Crap!

So, I’m thinking of that as I’m poised to order the paddle. Cracking 8 mph or money down the drain? Only one way to find out.

Oh, the Vespa? I tweaked it for a while, but just managed to get it back up to original speed. Then, one day I was back at the junk yard. There was a battered old Harley leaning up against the fence. I asked the owner how much he wanted for it. “How much do you have on you?”

Outside Affirmation

It worked just the way I thought it would play out. Not something that happens all the time.

We just completed our CARF audit. CARF is kind of the ISO of our profession. They turn you upside down and inside out to see if you have their almost 400 policies and procedures in place and are managing them competently. The staff generally anticipates this like a colonoscopy, which is a good analogy.

I do look forward to it. I know we’ll do well (we received the highest possible rating) and the positive impact will be staggering. The staff receives ample feedback and positive reinforcement from me. But, to them, it’s not the same as outside endorsement. I don’t quite understand that because we know better how we perform than the auditors do, but whatever floats your boat.

As soon as the auditors were out the door, a spontaneous celebration broke out. My hand is sore from the high fives, but it’s a good feeling.

And, that will fade. I suggested that I find other organizations to audit and certify us, so we could have a celebration every month. The staff responded that I should review the succession policy, because that would come into play when I was found in the trunk of my car.

Message received.

Hoarding may be funded.

The battle of DSM-V is approaching full-tilt and most people are blissfully oblivious. They aren‘t aware of the impact on their healthcare costs and other facets of life.

In a little over a year, the fifth edition of the “American Psychiatric Association Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" (DSM-V, for short) will be put to bed. It’s the bible of the profession worldwide and is printed in 13 languages.

What’s in it will determine what gets treated and how. Maybe more importantly, what gets paid for and how. Whose field is hot and whose is not. It goes far beyond that, especially in legal issues. Who gets earmarked benefits or special protection or exemption.

With all this at stake, how much could’ve changed since the last edition? That was 1994, so the field is pretty wide open. No, brains haven’t changed much, but environment and technologies have. And, there’s no end to ambitious individuals and institutions who will lobby to bump up their specialties in the pecking order.

Perhaps the most obvious change will be in the area of gambling, sexual and internet addictions. While once viewed as undesirable habits to be addressed with will power, they are now nominated for mental illness status. Higher volume abetted by additional channels brings them to the fore.

This is not a mere finger exercise. When someone goes from character flaw to illness status, there are resources that become available. And, since resources are not infinite, they’re usually coming out of someone else’s hide. If people have nothing better to do with their lives than to bet the ponies, pay hookers or court affirmation on the web, that’s sad. But, I don’t think it’s worth pulling funding from treating suicidal adolescents, etc.

And, what if the classification is materially pointless or duplicated? For instance, the embittered losers now have a champion who wants them certified as a mental disorder because they can barely function outside of ruminating about the circumstances and people they obsess with. They are further described by their sponsor as angry, pessimistic, aggressive and hopeless haters. Of course, hanging a catchy name on the theorized sickness made it more tangible and quite the cause at last month's APA convention.

That is unfortunate, but even their advocates admit that they won’t seek therapy because of the perception, “the world needs to change, not me.” If offering treatment and/or applying it won’t do any good, why waste time?

And, haven’t we already covering this ground? Let’s see, people who bump heads almost everywhere they go but project the responsibility for it, delude, obsess with issues, sow seeds of hate, etc.? I think we might’ve already made the mental illness call on this about a hundred years ago.

There’s no point in reshuffling the deck now just to create some book contract and grant opportunities. If there’s little hope of successful treatment or it’s already been covered, let’s shift our focus to areas where we can effect the most positive impact.

And then there’s obesity. Not plumpness, obesity. It’s proposed as a symptom or risk factor. This is kind of a chicken and egg argument, as far as I can see

That’s the real question, because it’s already being factored into the medical equation. That is, we do psychiatric evaluations on candidates for bariatric surgery. Why are we going to that trouble and expense if we don’t agree what’s the cause and what’s the symptom? Or, is obesity a cause of mental illness or a sign of it? Or, neither?

I do understand that we’re not fixing computers here and everything is subjective. My concern is that we obfuscate and loose sight of the root problems through an unchecked proliferation of special interest theories.

Are we casting new light or stirring up dust? I don’t know. Ask the guy who’s advocating hoarding as a mental illness.

Inspiration is where you find it.

It was a non-stop weekend and I definitely didn’t feel like going to the gym after work today. Fortunately, yesterday gave me something to draw from.

A kayaking friend of mine has suffered back problems over the years, with multiple operations. I hope you’ve never had these tribulations and will have to take my word for it that they can bring tears to your eyes. Just a hiccup can be a passport into a world of pain.

She’s recovering from her most recent procedure and we paddled yesterday. I half expected her to be in a beamy recreational boat but she brought her full-out sea kayak. A demanding craft, it’s a just a little wider than the computer monitor I’m looking at and, in a week or two, she’ll be jockeying it through the waves of Lake Erie which could be taller than her.

If she can horse around a skinny boat through that, I could drag my tired carcass to the gym. Thanks for the inspiration.