November 22nd, 1963

November 22^nd,1963, my tenth birthday, was marked by two great occurrences, one of great historical significance, one of great personal significance. 

It was lunch hour at school.  I’d finished eating and was outside for recess.  My friend Paul lived nearby.  He’d gone home for lunch.  When he got back to school, he immediately looked for me on the playground.  He told me that President Kennedy had been shot. My initial reaction was disbelief. I told Paul that I didn’t appreciate his humor, especially on my birthday.  However, I soon realized he was not joking. Something serious had happened.  We returned to class.  The teacher was in tears.  A black and white television was set up for us to watch.  We heard that President Kennedy was dead.  We continued to watch the news quietly, until it was time to go home. 

If I recall correctly, this took place on a Friday afternoon.  I am told that memory is quite unreliable, yet my recollections from that day feel very real to me. 

I got home.  Our television set was on.  A birthday celebration had been planned, but my parents were unsure what to do.  We ended up going out for a birthday dinner.  I remember the restaurant being very quiet, the employees and customers very somber. A television set was on for all to watch.  After dinner, there was a muted celebration. Relatives came to the house, presents were opened, and birthday cake was served. 

The day Kennedy was assassinated marked the end of “Camelot”, a period of national optimism and innocence.  What followed was the tumult that characterized the remainder of the ‘60’s. 

November 22^nd, 1963 was also the day my parents gave me a microscope.  It was not a plastic toy microscope.  It was a Swift student microscope, the kind used in the high schools.  It came in a heavy locked wooden cabinet.  It was anchored to the cabinet by a bolt, so it couldn’t slide around and get damaged in transport.  It had built in illumination and could magnify up to 600X. 

Over the next months and years, I built a small laboratory in the basement.  I did some primitive dissections, mostly on insects and worms.  From my specimens I prepared some primitive slides.  However, my favorite ‘experiment’ was examining drops of pond water under the microscope to see otherwise unseen creatures; daphnia, paramecium, and amoeba. 

Around then, I read Microbe Hunters by Paul De Kruif.  I learned about Louis Pasteur and Robert Koch, scientists who used the microscope to discover killer bacteria, heroic discoveries that subsequently led to cures and the saving of countless lives.  These famous scientists became my inspiration.  As it turned out, the day I got my microscope marked the beginning of a personal journey, culminating in my medical degree. 

November 22^nd, 1963, was my tenth birthday. It was a day of great historical significance.  And it was a day of great personal significance.  I remember that day well.

Discipline

“True freedom is impossible without a mind made free by discipline.”  Mortimer Adler (1902—2001)

When children and adolescents came to the office with out-of-control behavior, it was rarely for lack of punishment.  Many had accumulated years and years of punishments.  They’d been spanked, grounded, and yelled at.  They’d lost privileges and had possessions taken away.  Some had even been to court, in juvenile detention or on probation.  Most of these youngsters were over-punished and all were under-disciplined.

Mistakenly, impulse-ridden acting-out children are often labelled ‘willful’ whereas it would be more accurate to label them ‘will-less.’  They are not making ‘bad choices.’  There is no act of decision making.  Without self-discipline they don’t stop to think and choose.  They react.  Like tapping on a knee, their behavior is reflexive, not reflective.

It is important to know the difference between discipline and punishment.  Discipline comes from the Latin root ‘Discipulus’ meaning pupil.  Discipline is process of teaching that emphasizes hard work, the practice of good habits over time, setting long-term goals, and accepting delayed gratification.

Take for example a child learning to play a musical instrument.  Discipline is the 15 or 20 minutes spent practicing every day, even when they’d rather being doing something else, even when it feels boring or hard.  It may feel like punishment, but it’s not.  At first the music sounds clunky.  Scales are no fun.  But stick with it for a few months and they begin to play some melodies.  Stick with it for a few years and they begin to play and create beautiful music.

Punishment is getting yelled at or grounded for not practicing.  Punishment gets you no closer to the goal of mastery.  Practice does.  Inevitably a parent asks, “What do I do if my child refuses to practice.”  I reply, as in the movie Apollo 13, “Failure is not an option.”  “If your expectations are clear, your child will practice.”  (By the way, it is estimated that 1,200 hours of practice are needed to become 'good' on the violin.  6,000 to 8,000 hours of practice are needed to become a concert violinist.)

There are important keys to raising a disciplined child.  It takes a caring and committed parent, willing to instruct and to model.  The parent must teach the value of delayed gratification and help their child to set long-term goals.  The parent must motivate, conveying the belief in their child’s capacity for ultimate success. 

Disciplined, a child learns to postpone immediate gratification for more distant goals.  Disciplined, a child acquires the self-confidence that comes from hard work and achievement. Disciplined, a child grows prepared to assume adult responsibilities to family and to community.  Disciplined, a child is prepared to face life’s trials and challenges with courage and with character.

The Giving Tree

A popular children’s story begins, “Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy.”  When I first read The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, I didn’t understand its wide appeal.  I thought it was an awful story about a self-centered child and a tree who couldn’t say ‘no.’  I thought that the story might as well have been titled The Taking Boy.  The tree gave without restraint, and without any expectation that the boy give back in return.  She gave until there was no more to give.  The boy initially loved the tree as a child might love his mother.  But as he grew, the tree became his object to use and exploit.  She freely gave, and he selfishly took her fruit, her branches and even her trunk.  He wasn’t concerned for the tree’s well-being.  He visited her only to ask for more.  He never said thank you.  He didn’t call on weekends.  He never brought his family over to visit.  Had the tree ever said no to the boy’s request, I believe that the boy would have left and never come back.

Over the years, as I’ve reread The Giving Tree, I’ve come to believe that there is a great deal of subtlety to the story, subtlety that I did not originally recognize.  If the story is heard as a charming parable of loving and giving, then I believe that the meaning is missed.  If it was intended as a children’s story, it is a children’s story without a happy ending.  The illustrations in the book are telling.  The pictures are sparse, lines drawn in black and white.  The little boy becomes an unhappy, withered and worn out old man.  The tree is reduced to nothing more than a stump to sit upon; nothing left to give, nothing left to offer to a new generation.

The Giving Tree is a classic best-selling children’s book.  What is its appeal?  Perhaps, each of us has wished at some time or another for a giving tree, a source that gives without end and that asks nothing of us in return.  The brilliance of the story is that it does not romanticize this fantasy.  Instead, Silverstein shows us the ultimate emptiness of mindless indulgence.  Some wishes are best left not granted.  Sometimes it is important for parents to set limits, for children to hear, “Enough!”  The story is as much for parents as it is for children. Who among us as parents wants to raise a taking child?

American History

There are no facts, only interpretations.” (Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844--1900)

History is not objective.  There is no such thing as “what really happened.”  History is made of facts selected, facts ignored and omitted, facts interpreted and ultimately facts arranged into a narrative. Histories are written, rewritten, and perpetually revised often reflecting the tenor of the times in which they are written. Though built upon facts, History is a subjective story that mirrors the historian’s bias and agenda.

My high school American History textbooks were written in the 1950’s or early 60’s, pre-Viet Nam, in the congratulatory post-WW-II years. My textbooks were full of facts to be memorized. The narrative was patriotic.  The focus was largely on events involving presidents, politicians, generals, explorers, industrialists, inventors, and an occasional scoundrel.  With a few token exceptions, American History was largely about the achievements of our nation’s notable white males.

A few months ago, I read These Truths: a History of the United States by Jill Lepore (2018).  It is a history of America from colonial through modern times.  With the facts she selected, omitted, interpreted, and wove into a narrative, this female historian has authored a new, credible, yet very different American History.  Her narrative is filled with facts about the often over-looked; African-Americans, Native Americans and women. Her history is full of facts, but it is a very different history from what I was once taught.  It is a more nuanced and questioning narrative that includes both this country’s epic achievements and its epic short comings.

I can’t help but wonder how today’s news will one day be recorded in the history books.  In real time, based on the same daily ‘facts’, there is no agreed upon narrative. There is a FOX narrative and there is a CNN narrative.  There is a GOP narrative and a Democratic Party narrative.  There is a narrative from those who are rabidly pro-Trump and a narrative from those who are equally adamant that Trump must go.  Fifty years from now who will tell the story?  Who will be the interpreters of these times?  Who will decide what facts to include and what to omit in the high school textbooks?  What will be the agenda?

Fifty years from now, these turbulent and troubled times will be written about and remembered.  But not objectively, not “what really happened.” There is no such thing.

Memories

I visited an old friend today.  His kid sister and niece were there too.  I did a lot of talking, recounting many memories of our growing up.  We go way back together.  I met Marc through a common friend when I was in second grade and he was in third.  I remembered that we went to Ash Grove Elementary school.  I remembered that I lived on Monaco Street and he lived on Ginger Court.

I talked about memories of the many adventures we shared over the years.  I recounted tales of our prowess playing touch-football. I recalled our competitions on the tennis court, at the poker table and over the chess board.  I remembered, when we were a bit older, the many times we skied together at Loveland and Winter Park. 

I remembered the times we got together at my house to ‘jam’, Marc on the violin, me on the guitar, our friend Paul on the piano and another friend Steve on clarinet.  Marc’s sister reminded us of the times at his house where we brought our stamp collections together to barter and to trade.

Marc and I once drove together to California to visit a friend.  I remember on that trip camping at Yosemite among the bears and camping at Lake Tahoe among the casinos.  Coming home, we camped at the Maroon Bells among the aspens.

When I was in medical school and Marc was in law school, we shared a house.  If I remember correctly, our total monthly rent was $121.72.  I remember that Marc disliked my cooking, especially my turkey soup made from a leftover carcass.

I remember being there for each other as we weathered the ups and downs of girlfriends and dating.  Eventually, I introduced Marc to my cousin, and they got married.  The same cousin introduced me to my wife-to-be.

Today, I shared with Marc my memories of last night, when I attended his daughter’s wedding.  I shared with him how in love his daughter and son-in-law appeared to be.  I told him that his other children seemed well and that his grandson looks just like him.  I told him that he could be very proud of his family.  I assured him that even though he wasn’t at the wedding, he was not forgotten.

Today, I was flooded by memories.  I needed to tell the old stories.  Marc had no stories and no memories to share.  About eight years ago his family noticed some subtle changes in his personality.  Now, he is in a nursing home due to his advanced dementia.  Marc has tremors. He speaks but a few words and can barely stay awake.  Marc was a good man and a dear friend.  Why this?

Marc no longer recognizes me.  For a few moments he seemed to recognize his sister and she was able to get him to smile, a smile from the past that I remember very well. 

Ecclesiastes

One week ago, on the holy day of Yom Kippur, Jews prayed that they be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life.  How odd that one week later, on the harvest festival of Sukkot, the biblical book of Ecclesiastes is read in which a disheartened author questions life’s significance.  “I thought the dead more fortunate than the living.  Better off than either is he who has not yet been.”  Last week we prayed for life.  This week we ask, “Why?”

Koheleth, the author of Ecclesiastes, raises fundamental existential questions. What is the point of our lives?  What is purpose of human events?  Like many of the modern existentialists, Koheleth finds no obvious answer.  To him the world appears stale and unalterable.  “There is nothing new under the sun.”  He comes to doubt the divine attributes of justice and mercy in a world where those who are evil prosper and those who are righteous suffer.  He finds nothing of substance in the pursuit of knowledge, power, wealth or pleasure.  All is for naught.  The wise and the foolish, man and animal, share the common fate of death.  Better never to have been born.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”  This familiar refrain, from the poetic English of the King James Bible, echoes throughout Ecclesiastes.  However, a more accurate translation of the Hebrew word hevel is not vanity, but breath or vapor.  “A breath of breaths.  All is but a breath.”  Ecclesiastes is not about vanity.  It’s about the elusive and illusory nature of our lives.  All is transient, like a breath exhaled, visible momentarily and then gone.

Despite doubt and disillusionment, Koheleth teaches a pragmatic philosophy of happiness.  Know that the cycle of life and death is inescapable, “a time to be born and a time to die.”  Therefore, understand and accept that which is inevitable.  Don’t pursue what is futile, because that leads to despair.  Instead, savor if you can the good fortune that comes during the brief span of life.  Live life in moderation.  “Do not be over-scrupulous.  Do not be wicked either.”  There is solace in the words of Koheleth, reassuring us that we don’t have to be perfect.  “There is no man so righteous that he always does what is best and never makes a mistake.”  Enjoy youth, appreciate good health, and rejoice in life’s bounty.  Seek companionship and “enjoy life with the woman you love all the fleeting days of your life.”

Why is Ecclesiastes read during the joyous harvest holiday of Sukkoth?  Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, the Days of Awe, have just passed.  Perhaps Ecclesiastes marks the beginning of a new spiritual cycle.  Yom Kippur and Sukkoth. . . “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.”  A time to repent and a time to question.  A time for faith and a time for doubt.

Middlemarch

“I can’t bear fishing.  I think people look like fools sitting watching a line hour after hour – or else throwing and throwing, and catching nothing.”  (from Middlemarch, by George Eliot)


A few weeks ago, at my wife’s prompting, I began reading Middlemarch a British novel, written in 1871 by Mary Anne Evans, better known by her pen name George Eliot.  I read her short novel Silas Marner in High School and hated it, but what the heck.  Middlemarch is a highly regarded classic, considered by some to be one of the great British novels of all time.  With that in mind, I set out to fill a significant hole in my reading resume.   

Having found an edition with sufficiently large font, I began the journey, page one.  Usually, by page 50 I can tell if I like a book.  Page 50 is my point of no return.  If I don’t like a book, I stop at page 50 and go on to something else.  Otherwise, I feel committed to finish what I’ve started.  With its flowery and difficult to understand Victorian English, I wasn’t loving Middlemarch, but neither was it so bad that I stopped at page 50.  I kept on reading.

As I read, I was aware of George Eliot’s craftsmanship with language, her ability to generate memorable and quotable phrases (like the disparaging comment about fishing cited above).  But as I read further into the novel, I realized that I couldn’t have cared less about the well-intentioned but highly dysfunctional protagonists Dorothea Brooke and Dr. Tertius Lydgate.  Meanwhile, I was struggling to keep track of a rapidly expanding list of bland and mostly unlikeable characters.  And to make it all-the-more challenging, Middlemarch is filled with obscure references to 1830’s British politics, which can only be understood with the addition of frequent annotations.  And I hate reading footnotes.

Middlemarch is a dauntingly long novel, running over 900 printed pages.  I made my way to about page 400, and then started making excuses for putting the book aside, reading less and less each day.  I was not enjoying Middlemarch and there were so many other books I would have rather been reading. 

There is a great psychological truth:  the larger the investment, the harder the defeat.  A good deal of my time was invested in this book, 400 pages read.  However, more than 500 pages to go.  It wasn’t going to happen.  I could go no further.  Admitting defeat, I surrendered.  I felt horrible that so much of my time and effort had been squandered. And for what?  But I decided that it was time to cut my losses and move on to something different.

Fortunately, I didn’t feel horrible for too long.  I had an idea.  With an investment of only thirty-minutes more of my time, I finished Middlemarch chapters 43 through 86 and the finale, learned what happened to each of the characters, found out how the story ended, and was able to put the book up on my shelf with no guilt or regret.

Thanks to SparkNotes online.