Big Boys and Cry Babies

The title would suggest that there are two types here. At this point, I can tell you that they can be one and the same. I know because I am both.

My dad was of the generation that believed "big boys" do not cry. I grew up in his image. Now, he was a long way from being a hard hearted John Wayne type, but men did not cry in his world. His mother outlived him, but I do recall seeing him red eyed (no tears) when his father died. So, that was the way I grew up. My mom would cry at the drop of a hat but not him. When I cried, as a child, and he saw me, he would just tell me to shut off the waterworks and be a "big boy". He had far better judgement than to say that to my mother. My dad loved me. I am sure that he thought that he was making me a man, and he did. When he died, I sat by my mom and never let a tear grace my eye. I did have this strange tightening in my throat though. He would have been proud.

Almost sixty years later, I find that things have changed. How and just when, I do not know. I do know that somewhere along the way, change occurred. These days, I can tear up at a sad event without a problem. Just why, I have no clue. Maybe enough sad things have happened, so I cannot help it. Most of my life has been exceptionally happy, but we all have sad things in our lives. I have certainly seen plenty of sadness in other people's lives. Maybe we all have a limit to what we can experience and witness before we lose our "big boy" mentality.

Maybe with birthdays we lose some of our inhibitions. I do know that age can decrease the frontal parts of the brain that control emotions. I have seen a lot of stroke victims who have emotional lability as part of their deficit. Some people cry at inappropriate times with other conditions. Maybe it is a combination of upbringing, emotional experience, and mental function. All I know is that it is as it is. I don't worry a bit about it.

Machine Gun Kelly and My Pop

My dad grew up in Memphis, Tennessee. He went to Lenox Elementary School from about 1909 and Central High School until about 1921. I say "about" because he was born in mid-December 1902, so I count 1903 as his first year for school age purposes. Anyway, at Central, in one of his classes (Chemistry, I think because he related this to me many years ago), he sat behind a boy who became George "Machine Gun" Kelly. I once asked my dad what this guy was like. He told me that he was, even then, sort of a bum. He was not good in school, not in class a lot, etc.

If you don't know Machine Gun Kelly, the link above will tell you about him. I am glad the he and my dad never became real buddies.

Running, Then and Now

First, for those that don't know me, I am approaching the age of dirt. I like that, when other choices are considered. I do have a few more senior friends than me (they know who they are). The most senior is 92. As far as I know he is still a walker.

In 1969, I accepted the best deal that I ever got from the federal government and wound up in the Neurosurgery Department of a naval hospital in Boston, MA. I lived in Peabody, MA (pronounced "PEA body" instead of the famous Memphis hotel, "The pea BODY"). We lived in an apartment complex know as Northshore Gardens. Now, the Gaaaaardens, as a Bostonese would say, was nice enough. Nice paved streets and hills were at the front door.

For some reason (I told you I was old), I put on a pair of basketball shoes and started to run these hills. The only time you saw any shoe remotely like a running shoe was at a track meet. There were a lot of military guys staying in shape out there in the dark every morning. I did not see them a lot, since it was dark. I could hear them breathing, so I knew they were there. I didn't realize it then, but those basketball shoes were a good training aid. Kind of like running with lead shoes. Anyway, this little bit of early morning running did not get me hooked.

When military time was over, I moved all to Alabama to get started with the serious business of making a living. Our first house was close (not too close) to a high school with a quarter mile track. One early morning, I put on the big shoes and started doing track mileage. In summer, there were probably 6-10 guys that would show up during an hour. In winter, you just heard a lot of feet hitting the track and heavy breathing. One occasion really sent me in a new direction. There was an ad in a magazine for a running shoe. They were from France and not cheap. I ordered a pair, put them on, and felt like I was floating when I went for a run. They were way too narrow, and the worst shoes that I ever wore after the basketball footwear. Still, they were the lightest shoes that I had ever had.

Not long after that, I was in Memphis for a day or two and came upon a running shoe store of all things. After trying out a few, I bought a pair. Probably Nikes, but who knows now? I took them home and was partially hooked. Why partially? Because a few weeks later, a friend told me that he found street running much less boring that that on a track. HE WAS RIGHT!! From then on, the only time that I ran on a track was to do interval training. About this time we moved about a block away from the track. I started running in the street, and that was that. I had a regular 7 mile out and back course that was along a nice road to and from an industrial park. It was a good mix of ups and downs. On an early morning, I might see a dozen cars.

So, began my serious life as an amateur runner. I soon acquired a painter's cap, a singlet, and some running shorts. My pride (I think they are still in a box somewhere) was a set of "New Zealand Splits". These were next to nothing in weight and were shorts cut up to the waist band. I had no other equipment. Shoes, sox, shorts, singlet, and cap. I later got a cheappo watch for timing. I do not recall when I first ran in a 10 K race. By this time, the running craze had begun. It was probably a friend who told me about races. I should say definitely, that I was never a competitive racer. I began as a LSD runner (Long slow distance) and stayed with that. I remember a friend telling me that on race day, I would run my best time. This was due to the added adrenalin from the excitement of the event. I thought that he was full of it. I knew my times. He was right. I bested my times always on race day. Not a lot, but it got so that if I had not been a little faster, I would have been very disappointed. I found that the "runner's high" was a real thing. It started at about 4 miles at first, but as my distances increased, it took longer to appear.

One physiological fact for me became quickly evident and guided my run routes always. About 4 miles into any run, I began to get a "colon call". Later with marathons, I always had an enema before race day. I probably did this before 10 Ks too (told you I was old). On my daily runs, I was fortunate to be in a lot of undeveloped property areas with lots of trees. A baggie with some toilet paper in it stuffed in a sock worked fine. It was usually dark anyway.

There was a fledgling group of runners in the area, so I went and met with them on occasion. One night a man came over from an adjacent city as a guest runner. This guy was "Mr. Runner" in Alabama then. We started with a 10 K, and then we talked with each other. I found out that in December of each year, there was a marathon in Huntsville, AL. In those days, there were probably 20 or less marathons in the whole country. Two were in Alabama. Huntsville was the best in many ways. It had more recognition and was relatively flat. I started to train for this in March of 1979 (I think). Training advice for marathons abounds today, but in 1979, there was little to none. The only thing besides increasing milage was to add some intervals once a week. Probably, these were of psychological benefit only. December arrived, and I thought I would give it a try. With an empty colon, I drove over to Huntsville, lined up, and got underway on a very nice and cool day.

Today, a marathon is a lot different. Some have activities that last several days before the run. There are all sorts of shorter runs, exhibits, carbo meals, etc. At my first marathon, I could have gone the evening before for a spaghetti supper, and that was it. I passed on the supper because if carbo loading helps anyone at all, it must be the really fast runners. I was not then, and never was, in that group. In Huntsville, after you finished, you got a hot dog and an orange. Of course, I was excited. I had been over a lot of the course already, and I knew that unless I fell, I would finish. At the end of the day, I could say that I was a marathoner. The race was run. At about 20 miles, I met the "wall". The "wall" is a point where your body has used up all the usual muscle energy sources and shifts over to protein as a source. This is not fun at all. I owe a lot of my will power at that point to a rather large Huntsville policeman standing in the road. He was saying over and over, "You are looking great, and it is only a 10 K to go". At that stage, a 10 K seems like a walk in the park. With a further and slower struggle, I made it to the end. I had reached my goal of under 4 hours, had my hot dog (tasted really fine too), and drove back home to soak in a hot tub. Climbing stairs was a challenge for a few days. Going by the book, I skipped a day, and two days later, I ran my regular 7 miles. For a time or two, 7 miles seemed really short.

I continued to run my 35 miles a week and ran in some 10 K races to keep up. Two more Huntsville marathons were in my future. The second one was in the rain, and the only time that I ever got hungry while running any distance. This occurred when I passed a fast food joint. The third and last marathon, I did with a friend who was a first timer. We had made an error in out training, in that we ran a 20 mile course only two weeks before the race. This was not enough time to recover. I ran a few minutes (12 as I recall) over my 4 hours, and I got bored. After that, I stuck with 10 Ks only.

The old knees began to give out, so I retired from running. Three days running and three days crawling around was not worth it.

These days, I am surrounded by runners. Three generations of them and a spouse still pound the pavement in all sorts of races. Equipment abounds. All sorts on improved shoes, orthotics, timing devices, monitors, etc. are a big business. There are even watches with GPS systems built in, so you can find your way home if you are lost. These days, I go as the unofficial photographer, medical support person, general jacket holder, and flunky. If I could run now, I think I would still go with some decent shoes, a singlet, a cap, and my good old New Zealand splits!

A visit to the Onion Market in Bern

Each fall, there is a big market in Bern right in front of the capitol building and spreading through all the side streets. I had not been to this in years, but this year, there was an American friend here who wanted to see this. The last time I went, it was a cold and messy day, but this trip was going to have beautiful weather, so off we went. Our friend met us in the main station, since he was coming from Zurich. They run special trains to this affair, so it was no surprise that it was covered up with people. This affair usually sells about 50 tons of onions in all fashions. This year, they added about 6 more tons to that figure. There is a real carnival atmosphere on that day. There are onions made into all sorts of wreaths, chains, and doo dads of every sort. There are all sorts of onion and garlic dishes. A vampire would not be happy here.

Of course there is garlic butter bread that is toasted. The small cheese and onion tarts known as Zwiebelkuechen, and lots of spicy Gluhwein. There is no shortage.

Hey! I didn't Think I Had Been THAT Good!

This morning about ten, the doorbell rang. The mailman had come and gone, so I had no clue as to who it was. I go down and what do I find? Sammiclaus and his two helpers. What did I see otherwise? One of the helpers had a bottle shaped sack in her hand. It was a gift from Sammiclaus. I was wished a Frohe Adventzit and a Happy Christmas by Sammiclaus, who then agreed to having a photo made.

Later, I found the sack to contain a nice bottle of Swiss Dole. It is the custom here for each resident over the age of 70 to receive a bottle of wine when Sammiclaus comes each Advent season. I believe that each "round" age year (70,80,90, etc.) you also get a loaf of bread. Tell me that old age doesn't get you any respect!

An Update on "J", a Teenager During WW II

In April of 2006, I wrote a piece about "J". A lot of people seemed to enjoy this. I know that It was a fun thing for me to do. For the present reader, I would recommend having a look at this now. I always enjoy hearing stories of "J"'s youth and young adulthood in Paris and the areas adjacent during WW II. "J" is 87 years old now but still retains a lot of memories of those times, as a teenager and young woman. I recently had a chance to ask more questions of her.

I have just finished a book entitled "Paris" by Anthony Beevor and his wife, Artemis Cooper. It covers the years between 1944 and 1949. I found a lot of names that I recognized but knew very little about, so I thought of "J". I should say now that she and her husband have both had a share of health problems, and I found her thin and frail but still mentally sharp. Since the last visit with her, we have had an opportunity to visit her old Parisian home in a Paris suburb and could relate to her stories of Jewish neighbors who simply disappeared, the bomb shelter that was in their basement (and remains there today), and the small enclave that was her street. "J" still retains that house, but it will likely pass on for sale after she dies.

It was enlightening and fun to spend an hour or so with her. I started by asking her about Charles de Gaulle and her thoughts about him. From Beevor's book, I had gotten the idea that like him or not, most French people thought of him as a savior and the future of post-war France. Indeed, "J" was a Gaullist of the first order and agreed with me that had it not been for him, France might well have become a communist country. I was surprised to find that "J"'s father, an industrialist, used his factory as a haven for Jews, as well as others, who would have been deported to Nazi camps. By keeping them on as required workers, they were spared scrutiny by the Germans. She said that at first, the tales of concentration camps were not believed, but later it became evident that the stories were true. When the Germans left Paris, there were still a lot of French places, such as Alsace, where military actions took place with the Free French and the Allies fighting together against the Germans.

About this time, after her recovery from her back injury in the OSS "J"'s father wanted her to go to England, where he had business connections, so she spent almost four years in post-war London. In spite of the desolation of blitized city, the young people there had many social events and parties. She had spent some time in England before the fall of France, so she had English as a language already. Apparently, she took one of the last ships back to France before the Germans took the country. She lived in a boarding house in London until another lady invited her to share her apartment. She endured rationing as everyone did, but despite this she had a good experience. Her next journey was, of all places, to Argentina. Her Godmother had properties in that country, so they traveled to South America on a freighter, making many stops on the way. In Argentina, the Godmother's property had been illegally sold to other people, courtesy of a crooked lawyer. This occasioned "J"'s return to Europe.

After all this, she wound up going to Engelberg to get away from the destruction all over Europe. There, she stayed in a hotel owned by her future husband's family, met him, and they have been married over sixty years. They still have an apartment in the village there. She tells me that there are many old photos that she can share with me. I hope to be able to see and scan these for a future blog. To say that "J" has had a historical life is an understatement.

Cleavages, Clefts, and Kilos

As I begin this, I am in Western Austria in a narrow valley toward the Italian border in a region known as Tirol. We are in a village called Laengenfeld, where there is a spa called The Aqua Dome. Now, ordinarily I am not the least interested in spas, but some friends of ours have been here three or four times. They cannot stop singing its virtues, so I decided to give Barbara a birthday gift of three nights in this hotel/spa. Unlike me, she can sniff out a spa miles away. The trip from Sachseln to the spa goes through the beautiful Arlberg region of Western Austria, so the three hour drive passed quickly. Our spa days began on a Tuesday, so we spent Monday night in a Gaesthaus near the village. That way, we could check in early and have a whole day of activity in the Aqua Dome. I think the words "decadent fitness" best describe the Aqua Dome. It is a sumptuous and elegant hotel with all the amenities one would expect. Having a daughter with a degree in hotel management, elegance in hotels is not an unknown concept for me. It reached a new level when we were upgraded to a suite with a fireplace, and I switched on the flat screen TV to be welcomed by name on the screen. Suffice it to say that this suite was luxury compounded. The philosophy of Aqua Dome seems to be to encourage fitness for those who want it and throw in as much decadence as anybody desires. They seem to do a great job with both entities. As one might expect, I went heavy on the decadent side. Here, I might mention that we are in Germanic Europe here where customs and mores can be a bit different from other places in the world. The brochures and web sites of the Aqua Dome mention that some areas of the spa are "Textilefrei". In English this basically means no clothes or bathing apparel. Where I come from originally, this means "nekkid". Saunas and spa pools are commonly sans clothes in the less puritanical areas of the world. This along with large pools of bubbling thermal spring water, had been an item on my bucket list for some time. I anticipated this with only minor reservations, quickly resolved by our friends who assured me that after five minutes, no one noticed a thing. Of course, I did not drive three hours just to skinny dip with a bunch of people who I never met, but it presented itself as an opportunity that I had not had, even with the neighbors next door to us in Switzerland who have a hot tub. Bathing in a thermal pool and enjoying the variety of saunas sounded good to me. The set up of the hotel was such that movement about between Textilefrei and clothed areas in the bathrobe furnished to each guest was no problem. I was surprised at how easy it became to shed all modesty and inhibitions when people without clothes were in the majority around you. We are all made alike in most ways, and sometimes slight variations can be of interest. There were no Playboy Bunnies seen by me, just natural creations. That all out of the way, food was another consideration, as the pictures below confirm. Breakfast and dinner came with the daily price of the hotel. Both were meals beyond the ordinary to say the least. If one was in a Textilefrei area and wanted one of the meals or a snack, this was not a problem. I saw a few people avail themselves of this in the areas set aside for such. Some had robes on, while others did not. Hot soup in the lap could be a hazard, I suppose. We had meals in the clothed hotel areas. In the main dining room, we were assigned a table for the duration of our stay and got to know our neighbors. The hotel and spa are multilingual, so all sorts of languages can be heard. English is spoken throughout, but as usual in Austria, the locals try to accommodate you if you try another language. Our servers went out of the way to help us along our somewhat primitive ways in German. It was obvious that the employees are happy here. They do a wonderful job and are genuinely happy to see you. English seems to be the common language between locals and those from elsewhere in the world. This is true in Switzerland, so we were not surprised.

Food is a subject close to our hearts. It would be an understatement of the first order to say that we had wonderful meals morning and night at the spa restaurant. I will say here that our photos are mostly of food or outdoor scenes. Carrying a camera into the "Textilefrei" areas did not seem like a good idea. After breakfast, anyone that needs to eat from hunger must have a serious medical problem. For a typical buffet breakfast, one finds analmost indecent array of food. Huge buffet tables of breads, fish, sauces, cereals, meats, fruit and juices, cheeses, and eggs. We agreed that three days of this was about all we could handle without going home in a smock with guilt about gluttony.

My routine became thus, in the morning I spent time in the "Saunawelt" alternating between several different saunas and periods in the two thermal pools. Both pools had alternating changes in the water flows, so one got a massage, as well as, a soak in warm water. At one end of a pool there was a terrace where one could have a drink or snack, in or out of, your robe. Behind that area was an outdoor sunbathing area walled off with hedges. There, one can find a area of snow, if you are so inclined to roll in it after a sauna. About noon, I would pull on some trunks and go to the regular swimming areas. There one could stay under cover or go into one of the three elevated basins. There was a choice of a whirlpool, a salt water pool, or a pool containing a higher level of sulfur. They all had fountains and whirlpool action. Everywhere, one could lean back and see blue skies and alps. A moonlight evening soak was spoiled by the coming clouds. After a day of such delights, one felt very pleasantly fatigued. Not work fatigue, but that fatigue that is such as one feels after a long period of slow running.

After some evening libation (saw no snakes but was on the lookout), it was dinner time. That was never a chore! By ten PM, no one wanted to do anything but sleep, and sleep well.

If this was spa life, number me among its fans. If anyone was serious about spa treatments, there were plenty from which to choose. There was even a 500 calorie menu to order, if you dared do this.

Some of our food pornography is at:

http://tinyurl.com/64pppp9

Normandy 2011

There is an old saying that "You can't go home again". I believe that is true of most vacations, holidays, etc. of course if it were an infallible truth, I would not live in Switzerland. We just returned from ten days in Normandy that I believe were an exception to that rule also. This may largely be due to Carol and Steve spending six of those days with us, as we all sought things of interest. What follows is what some might call a trip log of our adventures into a time past.

21 April, Thursday

We left home in the early AM, as the dawn was breaking. This trip was to be a first real test of our use of a GPS tracking system, so we listened as our guide, Jill, led us along roads that were at first familiar, but then became unknown. We crossed the Swiss border into France at Basel. As we drove through the Alsatian country, we reached a point where we decided to fore go our point to point instructions to Jill, and let her take us on her own to Saint Quentin. Since we had decided to make this a two day trip to our destination, we had booked a hotel in the city of that name just to be able to say that we had spent a night in Saint Quentin. This was no problem for Jill except for a short stretch just outside of Saint Quentin when some parallel high tension power lines got her a bit bumfuzzled. She recalculated, and we arrived just fine.

We left home in the early AM, as the dawn was breaking. This trip was to be a first real test of our use of a GPS tracking system, so we listened as our guide, Jill, led us along roads that were at first familiar, but then became unknown. We crossed the Swiss border into France at Basel. As we drove through the Alsatian country, we reached a point where we decided to fore go our point to point instructions to Jill, and let her take us on her own to Saint Quentin. Since we had decided to make this a two day trip to our destination, we had booked a hotel in the city of that name just to be able to say that we had spent a night in Saint Quentin. This was no problem for Jill except for a short stretch just outside of Saint Quentin when some parallel high tension power lines got her a bit bumfuzzled. She recalculated, and we arrived just fine.

Jill, our GPS

The hotel/motel was of interest in itself. It was totally automatic. There was a desk person available for a few hours, but check in, meals ordered, and check out was all done by computer. It wasn't a bad spot for a night.

22 April, Friday.

We were up and away from Saint Quentin after a quickie coffee and croissant breakfast. Jill, our GPS assistant, got us through several rest stops and even more toll booths to Bayeux by noon. The French roads and expressways are very nice. Even though there were places with high volume traffic, the pace rarely slackened. Compared to German autobahns, these were much better in that respect. The tolls seem to be well earned. We arrived at The Dean's Manor on the edge of Bayeux, loaded into our room for the two nights before we can get into the apartment on Sunday, met the Chilcott family members (the colonel, his wife, a son, and several grandchildren who are visiting from England), and then decided to find the Hertz rental location, so we would be familiar with it when Carol and Steve arrive tomorrow afternoon. We went to Arromarche later for a look around. The weather was warm and beautiful, and there were a lot of tourists there.

6th June Restaurant in Arromanches

23 Apr Sat

We were out after a light breakfast at the Manor. We went into the village to meet Elizabeth and Bob Castleman. I had not seen these folks in at least 50 years, and it was by coincidence that our paths crossed at the same time in Normandy. We had a nice two plus hour visit and lunch with them. Then we went to the Bayeux train station to pick up Carol and Steve and went to pick up their rental car. After they got settled in at the manor, we decided to go back to Arromarche, so they could see the lay of the land there. We had dinner there again at the 6 June Restaurant before returning home for the evening.

A bit about Colonel Chilcutt. He was deathly ill in the Caen hospital four years ago when we were here. Today, he says he is better than he has been in years. He is ambulatory, lucid, etc., but I doubt he is as good as before his illness. His demeanor would put some off, but I found him to be very knowledgeable about the D-Day happenings and the logic behind them. He can come over as a demanding host, but if one listens and ignores his bluster, one finds him possessed of a very dry wit. He is 77 years old, and his father landed with the British here on D-Day. He has a map room in a large attic over one of the barns that is packed with wall maps, all sorts of air and beach mockups, and several large picture scrapbooks of D-Day original photos. I hope this collection will find its way to a museum some day.

24 Apr Sun

Out to the Bayeux Cathedral where the other three went to mass, while I cruised the village. The processional at the mass was led by several older men, one of whom carried an American flag. They were obviously WW II veterans. After mass, we had a reservation at La Rapiere. This was a treat and likely, the best meal of the many fine meals on our trip.

At La Rapier

Next, we made our way to the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach. Arriving in mid-afternoon, we saw a long line into the new visitors center. We bypassed that and enjoyed the new entrance walk way to the cemetery. This spot is, for me, just like going to Arlington National Cemetery in the USA. There were mobs of people, but there is a hush over the whole place. People walk the paths and go into the rows looking at the stones. The place is kept in immaculate condition at USA taxpayer’s expense, but one does not resent a single dollar used for this purpose. A majority of these heroic soldiers died well before thirty years of age, and one marvels at the loss of such potential for our country. Of course, if you take over nine thousand young men in a general population, you will have some misfits. Perhaps the war saved them from that, but it extracted an ultimate price. Keeping one’s eyes dry can be very difficult.

After a supper of snacks, we all packed it in for the night.

Markers at American Cemetery

25 Apr Monday

Monday was a French federal holiday. The big LeClerc supermarket was closed. I had seen a notice in a grocery in the middle of the village that said it would be open. I drove down, found it up and running, and stocked up on some items there. I saw some jars of duck fat. The French cook with it, so I will take one back home to Sachseln with me.

Returning home, we unloaded the groceries and took off for lunch in Port en Bessin. This harbor town was a favorite from the trip four years past. We honed in on our favorite restaurant and had a sumptuous lunch.

A Plateau of Seafood

After a post-prandial stroll around this pretty village, we took off for another D-Day site at a spot down the road called Longues sur Mer.

Longues sur Mer is at a point on the map labeled “Chaos”. It must have been chaotic on D-Day The battery at Longues sur Mer is an impressive group of bunkers that bear testimony that the Germans knew what they were doing when it came to reinforced concrete in their Atlantic Wall. A forward bunker served as a spotting site so the guns behind them could obtain an accurate range. The broad expanse of flat land between that point and the guns surely cost some major casualties to secure.

We left Longues sur Mer and drove a short distance to Pointe du Hoc. This was the site of a fierce battle against the Germans by the rangers of the US Army. Out of about 200 men, 90 were left able to fight after the capture of the area. To see the cliffs that these men negotiated with cables and ladders while being fired upon by the enemy is amazing. The whole area is reminiscent of a golf course with way too many grass bunkers. The “bunkers” are shell craters from the allied bombing and naval fire before and during D-Day. The capture and neutralization of this point eliminated it as a spotter outpost for the German guns firing at both Omaha and Utah Beaches.

26 Apr. Tuesday

Today was exceptional. We drove to Caen about 40 minutes from Bayeux and spent most of the day at the War Memorial Museum. Caen was the scene of some of the heaviest destruction in the Normandy fighting. The city was virtually leveled. This museum has exhibits starting with the end of WW I, going onward to show how the armistice made life intolerable for Germany, and how this led the population to accept Nazi leadership as their only hope for the nation’s survival. The exhibits then go into great detail with WW II, and then even give a good background to the Cold War after the allies defeat of Germany. It was an impressive visit, and even though we thought we were “Museumed out” for the day, we were very close to the Pegasus Bridge. Off we went with our faithful GPS leading.

Pegasus Bridge was the scene of a significant British result at the D-Day landings. It bridged the Caen Canal and was a vital source to protect against German counterattacks. The Brits used glider landings to place troops on the ground there and capture the bridge. The museum at Pegasus is specific to that operation and was a source of interest, since we knew barely anything of this history.

Pegasus Bridge

27 Apr Wed

We had heard that the museum at the new visitor’s center associated with the American Cemetery was not to be missed. The long lines had discouraged us on our initial visit. We tried to be there for the opening and had no problem. The entrance security is much like an airport, hence the line. This site was under construction on our 2007 trip, but I have to say that this is a penultimate museum of which any American can be proud. I am glad we did this in two segments, since the cemetery itself warrants some time in itself.

We then decided to go on a mission to find Brecourt Manor. This was a topic seen best in the Band of Brothers series on TV and DVD. After a bit of convoluted driving, we did find a spot that the GPS said was Brecourt Manor. About all we saw was the barnyard and a bit of the manor. In the barnyard however, we met two young men whose English was better than our French. One guided me across the road, pointed at a pasture with a hedgerow, and said we were welcome to look all we wanted. The pasture was mined, but this time only with cow paddies. We got an up close look at where the men of Easy Company, 506^th Parachute Infantry, 101^st Airborne knocked out the four big guns shelling Utah Beach. Since our visit, I have learned that there is a monument to Easy Company at Brecourt Manor. We missed this, but I’ll bet we were within a few yards of it.

The Hedgerow at Brecourt Manor

Next, we sought Utah Beach. It was low tide, breezy, and practically empty. Extensive construction is underway at the museum, and it was time to look for lunch. Barbara and I had lunch at a beachside spot near Utah Beach in 2007 on the way from St. Mere Eglise to Utah, so we drove a few kilometers in the opposite direction to find it. The Brasserie Normandie was still there, as it had been four years before. We enjoyed it again.

After lunch we made a quick stop in St Mere Eglise and parted the four of us, so Steve and Carol could see the excellent 101st Airborne Museum there. Barbara and I continued onward to the German War Cemetery near La Cambre where 21,000 soldiers, known and unknown, are buried. This is a beautiful and peaceful spot in contrast to all the mayhem that led these soldiers to be buried here.

German Cemetery at La Cambe

28 Apr Thurs

We explored the map room in the top of a barn at Dean’s manor first. One could easily spend a full day here with all the maps, table mockups, and photo books. Students from military schools over the USA, including West Point used to visit this room for tactical instruction.

The Map Room

After the map room, we made our way to Grandcamp Maisy to explore the German battery there only discovered and opened about five years ago. Though well documented in war records, this site was covered over after the war to use for farming. Aerial Photographs studied by a young Englishman showed its presence and it was rediscovered. Today, it is a work in progress, but in the four years since we first saw it, much has been done.

Maisy Battery

Then, guess what? It was lunch time! We went back into the village proper, and after searching a few menus, found our spot. La Belle Mariniere was a great choice. A small room with two brothers, one the chef, and one the waiter. We had an elegant and tasteful lunch with a reasonable price. certainly a spot worth a return!

A fine Meal

After our lunch, we headed back to the manor so Carol and Steve could pack for their return to Paris the next day.

29 Apr Friday

Today's first order of business was to watch the royal wedding on TV and computers. That social obligation out of the way, I took Steve to turn his rental car in. We went to the station with them to catch the train and saw them off. Although it was somewhat gray and later turned into a drizzle, we decided to head for Juno Beach. Jilly got us to Courseulles sur Mer, the village at Juno Beach It reminded me of Arromanches at Gold Beach. The day was not pretty and after a snack and a look around, we made our way back home.

Juno Beach Monument

30 Apr. Sat.

We slept in awhile, then we got the packing underway. We made a last foray into the village to buy some gifts for people back home and had lunch at La Table du Terroir. It was a memorable experience. The last Norman oysters of this trip were as good as always and the absolute best Tripes al mode de Caen that I have ever eaten, bar none. Barbara's appetizer and pollock main dish were much to her pleasure also.

Tripes a la Caen

Now, we have paid our landlady, said our goodbyes to her and the colonel, and plan an early departure for the AM.

Hoarders

Well, another new thing has entered my life! I can tell you that it would have been the last thing I could have imagined too!

I have long been a fan of the American TV network, A&E, but it has been some months since I looked at any of its material. Now, I find the focus seems to have shifted away from arts, and in my view, it has moved a long way away from entertainment. I was recently exposed to some episodes of "Hoarders". This program can only be described as sad and repulsive. After some time away from the USA, I am at a loss when I see what the public will support and watch.

For those uninitiated in this program, it seems to chronicle the stories of a variety of people afflicted with a disorder causing them to pathologically collect and store a variety of items, both animate and inanimate. The scenes in and about the homes of the people affected are truly spectacular. They are also perverse, disgusting, and filthy. This not a show to watch while eating, or contemplating such. It might serve as a weight control measure, if you watched it enough.

I must admit that for me, it could become a morbid fascination, but only in homeopathic doses. I still think it would be best presented by its own separate channel. Perhaps, something such as The Weird Channel would do.

A few Hours above the "Soup"

This time of year in CH, we can go for days without seeing the sun. Our house on a lake is 500 meters above sea level. Some times, the fog is so dense that we cannot see across the pasture to our neighbor's house. I like these days. They are fine for books, internet, and napping. Driving is not a problem, so we are free to travel.

Some people cannot tolerate days of no sun. They get "Seasonal Affective Disorder", known as "SAD". Some get really depressed and need to go upwards for some sun. This may mean a few hundred meters or even more. That is why one often sees people at ski areas shedding clothes like they were on fire to get the sunshine.

There is a little known spot above Sarnen called Langis. Langis is a well known cross country ski area in the winter with about 40 kilometers of groomed trails. In the summer, it is a fine place to hike, and along a small river, a good spot to cool off and picnic.

Langis is at 1500 meters above sea level. The fog is always below, and on pretty days, the sun is bright. There are two places to enjoy there. The Langis Hotel and a smaller restaurant along one of the trails.

Recently, we spent a few hours for lunch at the hotel. The place becomes more popular each year, and I am told that on weekends, the large parking area is full with a waiting list.

This shows about 10 % of the parking lot at Langis.













Below is the beginning of the winter walking and cross country trails. The trails are on an honor basis. You just put 5 CHF in the wooden box. There is no control, and you do not have to have a ticket.


Here is the hotel. A postal bus makes the trip up from Sarnen several times a day in the winter. In the summer, there are fewer trips, but at least two daily.




Of course, lunch was a good reason to drive up to Langis. Here you can see what on a lot of menus is called "cheese toast". OK, it is toast and cheese, but it isn't a Kraft slice run under the oven. It is a large slice of Swiss bread, covered with ham, and layered with some wonderful "Bergkaese". Then the whole thing is splashed with a bit of white wine and run under broiler covered to steam. It is not your Momma's cheese toast!!

A Guest Post

My wife, Barbara, wrote this. It is true, and all of it is her story for which I am thankful on Thanksgiving. Maybe we have more to thankful for than we realize.
 

Grieving the death of a stranger on Thanksgiving Eve

In 1966, I was a 20- year old senior nursing student at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boson. Already able to handle significant responsibilities, I had to work in the Intensive Care Unit on that Thanksgiving Day.  Right after the day shift ended at 3:30 p.m., a classmate and I drove to my sister’s home in Scituate MA. It meant a lot to me that the family was waiting until we got there to have dinner.

That Thanksgiving and all of the ones since have never been the same for me as those wonderful carefree ones preceding it had been.

The evening before, at the Charles Street Red Line MBTA station, I watched a tall man, in a beige raincoat, carrying a brief case, jump in front of the train.

I was waiting for the train, maybe sometime around 5:00 PM. It wasn’t quite dark yet; the weather was mild, cloudy and gloomy.

Some of the details have faded but I remember this stranger walking quickly past me, just inches away and maybe for a quick second making eye contact. I always smiled at people in those days so maybe I did then as well.  He was in such a hurry. Why didn’t I wonder why he was moving at such a fast pace on his way to the far end of the platform, away from the others waiting for the train?

Just a few minutes later, as the train was approaching, he jumped onto the track and the screeching of the brakes pierced the quiet of the twilight.  It happened so fast, I wasn’t sure it was real, but reality struck as workers quickly cordoned off the area and closed the station.

Who was this man? A husband? A father? A businessman? Was he facing spending Thanksgiving alone? Was he having financial or marital problems?  Or was it just a deep depression that holiday festivities seem to make worse for so many people? Could I have smiled harder and maybe distracted him?  If he could have gotten through the holiday weekend, might he have had a change of heart?  Over and over again I’ve asked these questions.  The idea of never knowing anything about this person, who died in an instant right before my eyes, has made it even harder.

Now here I am again, 44 years later, still feeling so sad about the death of a stranger on Thanksgiving eve.  Someone, somewhere loved that man and I just want them to know that I am so sorry for their loss.

This year, I just finally needed to share this story. I never met him or spoke to him but he will always be with me.

A Trip to the Grimsel Pass

Yesterday was a spectacular weather day. Barbara has had school vacation for the last two weeks, so we took off. Originally, we planned to go to Meiringen and go through the Aareschluct, however on the way there, we saw that the high passes were open again. Some days ago, the early fall snows had closed them. Since they had reopened, we decided to go up to the Grimsel Pass and check things out.

On the way, we paused in Lungern because the Wetterhorn was in fine shape for a picture, as was the nice lake.

We went over the Bruenig Pass and started up the Grimsel road at Innertkirchen. There was a fair amount of road construction in the tunnels on the way, but the drive was as spectacular as ever through the village of Guttanen, past the hotel at Hardeck, the Gelmerbahn valley station, and on above the tree line.

Soon, we were at the Grimsel Pass summit. From the parking lot, I was able to see the highest mountain that I ever climbed. The Sidelhorn is 9028 feet above sea level, and it looked a lot harder than it did twelve years ago. Glad not to do that again today.

Most of the shops, etc. at the pass have already closed, but the one hotel/restaurant that was open had a crowd, as it was noon. We decided to look at the Marmot zoo before lunch.

Then, it was time for nourishment for ourselves. Our server told us that after 24 October, the place shuts down until June.

The top picture is the Walliserteller, a plate of air dried meats and cheese served with typical Wallis style bread, pickles, and pearl onions. This was the small size, so the regular would be a multi-person meal. Barbara had a good looking mushroom soup and then had to help me with the dried meat dish. Foods and tastes are always enhanced by high altitude.

A short ride down from the pass, one comes to the Grimsel Hospiz and the actual Grimsel Dam. There has been an extensive renovation of the Hospiz Hotel, and the power company has added a very nice new visitor's center with a wide variety of exhibits.

In 2001, Barbara and I were hiking a wanderweg along the northern side of the lake formed by the dam when she fell and fractured her ankle, requiring a helicopter rescue by the REGA service. The pictures don't show the path from our vantage, but it parallels the lake shore where the mountain river exits the rocks.

While were at Hospiz, we toured the visitor's center, noted the rates at the hotel (very reasonable and open year-round), and watched a working helicopter moving equipment from a project on the dam. Not cheap at about 90 CHF per minute!

This trip can be done without a car using the great Swiss Postal Bus System too.

Then it was time to head for home. Wonderful weather, good lunch, and a chance to see what man and nature can do.

It's Football Time!

The NCAA season is upon us in college football. With ESPN, even in CH I can see about 300 games. Not always my choice but some great teams unknown to me. So far I have watched three games and am in the midst of a fourth.

Early observations:
Arm garters are still a big thing. All I could find out last year was that they were some kind of "fashion statement".  If that's the case, they probably aren't the stupidest thing that ever got that term. I can't help but wonder if there isn't another reason. If the blood return from the lower arms and hands is impeded by these rubber bands (I guess they are rubber), do the fingers swell enough so the hands are bigger to catch the ball or another player?
This season there seems to be a proliferation of intricate and ornate tattoos on many upper arms. Some of these guys look like a character in "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo". Are these supposed to frighten the opposition?
Has anyone done a survey on how many players have first names that start with a "T"? There is a whole gaggle of them.

Somethings do not change. The quarterbacks still don't even scratch without a signal from a coach. The cocktail waitresses and waiters still carry around drinks to the players. I suppose that is to prevent fights and gossip at the water cooler.

Evidently, college football players don't spit. Maybe they drool a lot, but one cannot see that on TV.

The season has just begun, so there will a lot more to come. I am looking forward to it!

An Old Mistress of Mine

I first met her way back in 1974. We were both much younger and had a bit of a wild streak in us. Little did I know then that our lives would be intertwined for over twenty years. My wife and children knew about her from the very first but rarely interacted with her. This was good because I loved her dearly and would have been heartbroken if I had been made to give her up. A lot of my friends were jealous of our union. My business partner gazed at her and simply said, "She is a real sex machine". She and I both had a penchant for traveling, and we went many places together with great pleasure. It was a rare occasion when we were apart for more than a few hours. Her upkeep was not cheap, but the joy she gave me was well worth more than mere money. Sometimes, I felt as if I had waited my whole life for her to come to me. As she aged, she became like a fine wine; more precious than ever. She watched my children grow up, and even a second wife was tolerated. Her health remained good until the very end. When I had to give up up, she was still a daily delight in my life. I know that she has found another liaison, but I have not seen her in many years. I do keep her picture with me and often look at it with a certain longing in my heart. She has become more and more valuable as the years have passed.

A 911 Porsche Targa. In 1974, she cost 13,500.00 brand new, and in 1994, she fetched 9,800.00 on departure.

Dummie

Dummie was all that I ever heard him called. As a preschooler, I sometimes would see a large black man in our neighborhood. I say large because everyone was large to me, but I used my father as the standard. If someone was taller than my dad, he was large. Anyway, my mother told me that the man was called Dummie because he could not hear and therefore could not speak. That, in itself, was a new revelation to me.

I suspect that Dummie did yard work for some people, but I never saw him except when he was walking in the street by our house. He always had a big grin on his face and would give a wave. Shortly after I began school, Dummie seemed not to be around anymore. One can hope that maybe he went to The Tennessee School for the Deaf, but I doubt it. In this day and time, his life would have been very different.

Gigli Eats a Bit of Crow

Some of you know that I am not much of a Francophile. I don't know why. I have French ancestors, a French name, and I have had some great excursions to Province, Grenoble, Lyon, and Normandy. Regardless of this, I have never had an urge to see Paris. I have often disparaged the city as sidewalks covered with dog poopage, surly people, French snobs, etc.

It was a source of conflict for me when two of my grandchildren wanted to come to Paris on their spring break and requested that Barbara and I meet them for a week in The City of Light. Without a believable way to cop out, I agreed, and off we went. The TGV ride from Basel to Paris was like greased lightening. We had booked a hotel around the corner from what was to be our apartment for a week, so we could meet the USA contingent there the next morning. In past French visits, my severely deficient French had always served me well. It was true in all of Paris, that if one opened a conversation with a bit of their language, they were happy to speak with you in yours, if they could.

I found the service in the stores and restaurants at least comparable with that in any tourist mecca. That was never more evident in the many open markets that Paris has. On more than one occasion, a person waiting with us would also offer their assistance in translating. The same was true on the streets when looking at a map, etc.

I was surprised to hear and see German both written and occasionally spoken in Paris, once occupied by the Nazis. I frequented a small bakery close to the apartment and usually used a French word or gesture to communicate. On one day, I misspoke a few words of German. To my surprise, the young lady clerk spoke back to me in German! She spoke both German and English but was better at English.

We enjoyed the usual tourist spots such as the Eiffel Tower, The Lourve, and other attractions. These would be a shame to miss, but for the most part are best seen once in my opinion. Everyone should do these things, but many such as the tower are best enjoyed from a distance. The Champs Elysees was a favorite for people watching and widow shopping, but since the rents are over 100,000 dollars a month, the prices are a bit high for my tastes. The avenue does make Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse look a bit small time.

Would I go back to Paris? Sure I would if given the same circumstances. One must understand that I was with some of the people who are treasures of my life. If not, then I still might go back, but only after some other things on my list. Another trip to Normandy, another trip to Berlin, more of Austria and Bavaria, and last but not least, Ireland. If I went back to Paris, I likely wouldn't do so much of the tourist thing. I would spend more time in the side streets and by-ways.

Anyway, I hope crow will BBQ well, since I have the grill fired up.

NO NO (Norah)

I got the idea for this blog from a book that I have almost finished. "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett, could almost be a biography of my early years. Some of you know that I was born and grew up in the South (Tennessee). Hitler invaded Poland when I was 6 months old. The Civil War had been over for 75 years, but there were remnants of segregation all over the USA (not limited to the South). Because of that, black people were at the bottom of the job chain. A lot of black women found work as maids. Maids came in two categories, day and full time. Full time meant that they lived on site. Full time maids wore white uniforms, as a rule, at least out in public. A white uniform on a black woman with a white child in tow would get her into a lot of places that she would not ordinarily go.

Exactly when NO NO came to live with us is beyond my memory, but I expect it was while I was still a baby in arms. Our house was separated by about 10 yards from "the little house", a two room affair attached to our single garage. The small house was fitted with gas heat and electricity. It was NO NO's home. During the day, she took care of our house, and mostly she was my nanny. I was her full time charge, but my mother took care of a lot of the household duties. I never recall NO NO cooking or serving meals. She did wash and iron clothes, but I think she had me as her main duty. The rest was secondary.

Why NO NO? It was all I could get out of my mouth in early talking efforts, and it stuck. In effect, I renamed Norah. I know that she had at least a sister, but I recall no history of a marriage or children for NO NO. She had a family name, but I have forgotten this and likely never heard it more than once or twice. She was such a great part of my daily life that I always considered her as family. Unlike some in "The Help", my parents treated her as a valuable member of the household. I have no clue as to her salary, but she had a place to live, which I learned later was a nicer spot than a lot of her friend's. She had at least a Sunday off, and her schedule could be flexible. She worked only nights when my parents were gone. I learned a lot about many things from NO NO. Early on, she taught me about race. The "N" word was not used in our household. She was called by her name, and others were called "colored". I remember being in a car somewhere with my mother and NO NO, and for some reason race came up. NO NO explained me that God made all people but some were different colors. She always preferred to think of her self as a Negro. That was a lot for a 3 or so year old to soak up, but it was the first word that I learned to spell. I knew that her skin was black but she was still NO NO to me.

On occasion, we would travel down into Alabama or to Memphis to see grandparents. NO NO was always with us. I wish that I could know where she slept, bathed, or went to the bathroom at those places. My grandmothers both had maids but not full time. I can only imagine that NO NO stayed with these women. Once, in Memphis, NO NO took me to the municipal swimming pool not far from my grandmother's house. I strolled off and jumped into the deep end of the pool. NO NO began to scream for help, as I sunk. Not being happy with the response from onlookers, she jumped into the pool, white uniform and all, to fish me out. Now, a black woman in Memphis, Tennessee in the 1940s, jumping into a whites only public pool was out of the ordinary. Years later, she would pull up her skirt to show her knees. "See them white scars on my black skin? That is from pulling you out of that water". Regardless, I am here to tell the tale. My first nickname was also a thing from NO NO. While in Alabama at my other grandmother's house, I came out the back door one morning crunching on something. NO NO was already in the yard and thought I had a piece of toast in there. UNTIL, she saw two legs slip through my lips. She fished out a June bug, and for her, I always answered to "June Bug".

As I mentioned, NO NO had at least one sister. The first time that I remember her was in her house which was also some sort of black woman's beauty parlor. For a small child, the view of a black woman having her hair done with a curling iron heated to sizzling over a coal stove was impressive. NO NO's sister had a boy my age named Robert. Sometimes, Robert would come to see her, and we would explore the small world of our back yard and vacant lot. When it came time for Robert and I to go to school, our ways parted. That was the way it was then. I wonder what happened to Robert? In later years, NO NO went to live in retirement with her sister. Even when in college, it was a Christmas time visit yearly that we took NO NO her gift there. Usually, a 10$ bill. Often that would buy her a ton of coal for her winter. One of those years, my mom told me that this year we would not go. NO NO had died. How old? I do not know, but I remember her gray hair. My mother never had across word to or about NO NO.They were partners more than employer-employee.

Random memories: I can remember that it was a joke in our house that NO NO would rock me to sleep even after I was almost tall enough to drag the floor with my feet. I remember NO NO as a snuff user. Did you know that a finger in her mouth with it applied to a bee sting is curative? As in the book, there was a network of maids who cared for children together. I remember my sandpile sweetheart from down the street had a nanny named Jessie. NO NO taught me by listening to speak in "Dialy" (dialect). This stood me well when in the 5th grade, my teacher (whose father had been in the KKK) praised my recitation of an Uncle Remus story in class

There is no doubt in my mind that NO NO loved me, as if I was her own. Our skins were different, but I don't think for a minute that we thought about that. Times change. Sometimes for the best. I do think that I had something that others will never have. Right or wrong, it was good for me, and I think it was good for NO NO.

I loved "The Help". The author's web site is informative also.

Pathology Reports

For the few that will get prostatic cancer, a word on reports.

I think that reports need to be addressed, both biopsy and surgical pathology reports. As a medical student, I was fortunate to spend a 3 month lay-out quarter working in a hospital pathology department. Since it was in the nation's largest privately owned hospital with about 1200 beds, we had plenty to do back in the 60s. I was also lucky to work with four very nice pathologists who were interested in teaching. Other than a dozen autopsies (also very instructive), I spent all my days cutting surgicals. For whatever reason, surgical pathology was not stressed in our general pathology courses, so my mind was a fertile field to plow.

Each day, I was given specimens removed at surgery to describe grossly into a dictaphone, cut sections (I was taught where to cut on a given specimen), and then read with a double microscope the microscopic slides from those that I had cut two days before. The pathologist was on the other side of the double scope to teach me. It was one of the most rewarding periods in my medical education. With this lengthy preamble, I will now try to get to the point.

We saw a lot of prostate specimens, both whole and chips from trans-urethral resections (TUR). I would guess maybe 20-30 specimens per week. Most of these specimens were sent to us because men had prostatism (BPH) and not cancer. In those days, there was no PSA test, and a man with PC usually came to surgery because of a nodule on DRE. The TURs were the majority unless a man with a so-called "median bar" required open prostatectomy, which was treated with complete removal rather than a TUR.

When examined microscopically, often the chips or the sections of the whole prostate would reveal malignant cell structures. These were usually considered as incidental findings and reported to the surgeon. CT scans were unknown, bone scans were so primitive as to be nearly worthless, and the urologist had to watch for new evidence of recurrence. If bone metastasis showed up on x-rays, then an orchiectomy (testicle removal) was done. Biopsies may have been done back then, but I recall seeing none.

OK. Now to the REAL point of this message, When a pathologist looks at sections of prostate tissue with cancer evident, there is not a little sign there down in the tissue that says "Gleason 4+3, 4+4, or some such". This determination is an ESTIMATE, not an absolute, and it is based on cell appearance. Give the same slides to another pathologist and, you may get a different grading, up or down. The same goes with estimates of per cent of the prostate involved. Of course this is a good reason for multiple readings of slides. I suppose one could send slides to a hundred pathologists, and then take the majority opinion as gospel, but that is ridiculous. In our department, it was standard procedure for more than one doc to look at anything questionable. Disputes were judged by the head man. Gleason was yet to set out his system, so the grades were I-IV, with IV being what is now a Gleason 10.

If you are disturbed by your Gleason score or other micro findings remember the doc is looking at a tiny portion of your prostate on biopsy. In a whole specimen, as a rule, the look is not a lot greater (sometimes our guys would tell us to make more slides of other areas to see further cells). Those scores are not written in stone by any means.

The New American Football, Page Two

Some weeks ago, I wrote some observations about how American college football had changed in my perception over the years that I have seen it infrequently. Well, now the season is over. I had a lot of fun watching various teams from all over the USA play season and bowl games. The ESPN-360 was well worth it.

I like ESPN, but I wonder if they realize that their announcers and "color commentators" are often afflicted with the terminal "blathertosis". These guys are constantly yapping about something and not always about football either. I really do not care about which restaurant at which they ate last night. They often digress, and frequently sound like pitchmen for a given player or coach to the NFL. I wonder if they get a commission? Another thing; what is the deal with all these girls(mostly) running around on the sidelines with green bottles like cocktail waitresses? I understand the need for good hydration, but what happened to the table with cups of liquids on it? These players are big boys who ought to be able to get their own drinks. On another note,each broadcast team seems to have at least one female member who is on the sidelines. Now, I am all for equality in the workplace, but if I was a coach in a tight game, I would likely be unkind when one of these babes stuck a microphone in my face to ask an asinine question about how I felt.

I guess the modern locker room looks like a hospital now with x-ray machines, CT scanners, etc. Won't be long before there will an OR in it, so that arthroscopy can be done on shoulders and knees. Sometimes, the coaches look like they are going to stroke out also, so CT scans might be helpful for them.

Just a few last thoughts for this year....