The Little Words Mean the Most

We miss you, Tom Wachtel

[10:49 am] Tom was my doctor and Simone's. He taught me how to hunt edible wild mushrooms. He calmly and sensibly guided me through several rough waters. I looked forward to going to his office. We eagerly yapped about travel and hiking and the health care industry, while his other appointments backed up. He was repeatedly named one of Rhode Island's "top docs" by his peers and had co-authored a highly regarded guide to geriatric care (3rd edition, 2008). He died Monday, leaving his wife and three children. There are some people you're just instantly friends with. Something works. Tom was that for me, even though I only saw him a couple of times a year. With deepest regrets, may you rest in peace, Tom. [6:12 pm] I am sad. Sighing sad and listening to sad, then triumphant, music. I want to send off Tom well. And I don't want to send him off at all. Though our time together was measured in hours not days, he was important in my life. He saved me, really saved me, at least once. I miss knowing he's around.

A reputation garnished

VS.

If you haven't had the caperberry experience and you love martinis (moi), you're in for a nice surprise. Olives are a bit pedestrian, unless you eat at least four; then they're lunch. Pickled caperberries are not all that common (although here in Rhode Island I can buy them at Ocean State Job Lot). Caperberries have an earthier-than-olive flavor, with a grainy mouthfeel when you bite in. Plus they're naturally convenient: they come with a stem, no toothpick need apply.

Cast a'what?

Man, I've been castigated. And it felt good.

I don't like Puritans. The whole anti-Puritan issue for me goes back to the Australian summer Olympics.

During news coverage of Australian society and its "hey, mate" values, a doctor running an authentic (i.e., unglamorous) drug addiction clinic in Sydney talked about his country's (preferable, in his view) attitude toward junk and junkies. Vs. the American approach, where HIV/AIDS is still routinely passed by needles (not an Australian problem; thank you, White House) and where one of every 100 U.S. males is now in jail, rotting and useless to the rest of society, mostly for drug-related offenses. A mind is a terrible thing to waste? Tell that to the "lock-'em-up-and-throw-away-the-key" crowd.

"I'm so glad we were founded by convicts, not Puritans," the doctor smiled into the camera. I fell in love. Ditto, my liege.

Maybe it's from living in Rhode Island all this time. Founder Roger Williams fled the Puritanical attitude.

Me, also. Puritans being, by my definition, all those who feel they deserve -- thanks to their Christian (or Muslim, for that matter) tenets -- a right to stick their noses into other people's lives and lay down the law -- from on high. That part's important.

The issues have always been life and death with the Puritans. Don't think for a moment that Puritans didn't argue just as vehemently, with zero compromise or doubt, why witches should be agonizingly burned bound to a wooden pole in the town square. Zero doubt then. Zero doubt now that removing abortion from the menu will do mankind (it's a patriarchal thing) a favor.

Which brings me back to my castigation.

At the national Child Advocacy Center conference in Washington, DC, I made a comment.

Making comments is a BAD idea when you're a presenter. You were invited for your pragmatic how-to's. E.g.: "How do we make our newsletter produce $50,000 in charitable gifts per issue instead of $5,000 per issue, like that Minnesota hospital you trained?"

Personal commentary? Don't! And then there's real life.

I said it. After yet another Planned Parenthood slide came on screen as an example of "best practices." I commented to my audience, "You know, Planned Parenthood is NOT about abortions. It's about preventing unloved children."

So. Predictably. I get this email a day later. Tells me how good the workshops were. "Very helpful!" Pause. "But I want to tell you something you might not realize."

Sudden Topic Switch Syndrome: STSS.

Now he's being the helpful counselor, his arm draped fragrantly across my shoulder.

Understand. I'm over 60. Or "post-young," as Krishna terms it. (More about her in another blog.)

I've heard this before.

It's the awkward opening that self-satisfied and supremely confident (as in: supreme being) people use, to pretend fellowship with a deluded enemy.

That would be me. I am the idiot enemy. I use too many examples from Planned Parenthood in my presentation, I'm being told (chastised). I should be aware that "many" of those in the child advocacy movement "abhor" Planned Parenthood.

We'll leave unexamined the connection between unwanted children and child abuse.

I respond by email, "I love my mistakes. They teach so much more than my safe stuff."

I congratulate the complainant for his courage bringing up a tough topic. I apologize for any discomfort he's endured.

I never hear back. Which is another thing about Puritans: self-righteous AND rude. As people go, there's really not that much to work with.

DC is short

The Children's Advocacy Centers reception headed for the heavens on the 11th floor, overlooking a few blocks of US officialdom with a broad broom's-worth of dry, warm wind.

I found Virginia Stallworth from Memphis. She hugged me, introduced me to her chief forensic interviewer. Out the corners of our eyes: three-star finger food; cash bars poised to spring in every corner. My throat tickle began. A $10 with tip Yuengling beer drowned the sudden, hacking discomfort. But did not kill it.

DC is a low city, most buildings no higher than 7 or 8 stories. Slept well. And by the way, I [heart] Reagan National airport. It's compact, easy to understand, efficient, has an excellent wine bar and book store, and is minutes away from downtown. L-r: taxi queue, a license plate complaint, my Hugo Boss power tie, purchased at a Paris airport.

Drinking St. Croix

"Hey, farmer!" I yell with what's left of my voice after six days on the road doing public speaking.

Frank waves. "I thought you were coming to help me weed," he says as we close. I buy two of his museum-quality mixed pots. Hummingbirds dart in and out. Frank shows me quietly the ground sparrow nesting in his annuals. There are the herringbone chicks, huddled. The mother is off harvesting cut worms for din-din.

In a greenhouse, Frank eases out his belt knife and slices me off three heads of fresh lettuce. I snap three ripe tomatoes from the vine, under his instruction. He's also selling pickling cukes from his hut. Little, tender pickling cukes are all Simone will eat.

Climax: Frank hurries up to his ranch house to grab for me an 8th-month-old bottle of his St. Croix wine, a red, to shove it into a wrinkled bag.

His wine never gets any older than eight months. "We keep drinking it," Frank admits. For his first career, he was a social worker. Now he's a good farmer. He wants to be a good vintner, too.

There aren't that many vineyards making delicious wine in the Northeast. Long Island has some red-making that can hold its own. Connecticut has its moments. Rhode Island is mostly tourist wine with few exceptions (Greenvale Chardonnay, Newport Vineyards Ice Wine). Massachusetts, too. The Puritans and Pilgrims weren't drunks. It shows.

St. Croix is a red-wine grape well adapted to the region. I'm drinking Frank's latest vintage. Sharing with a friend. We both like it. Balanced. Hints of leather. Notes of earth. Not at all fruity. Home run first time at bat, Frank.

Thank you, darling

Maybe it's me sitting on a stool at the bar alone, inside the polite fortress of Downtown Norfolk Courtyard Marriott. Maybe it's me eating filet mignon au poivre with a book indecently open, a neon yellow highlighter dashing into action like a spaniel.

Maybe it's me ordering a stiff martini straight up to start. The 2 glasses of cab sauvignon after. Maybe the weariness on my puffy face after teaching on my feet for 6 hours.

Maybe the secrets unwinding, toes exhausted. Across my sundown brow; thinking things through. Lady bartender studying for exams brims my glass: drink or drown. When I call the bill, she gives me the bishop's forgiveness, "There you go, darlin'." She knew. Everywhere.