Late Sunday we landed in Detroit Metro to conclude our second California trip in a little over a month. Hard to say when our pull to the Golden State began. My dad took me to San Francisco in 1964 to watch Barry Goldwater get nominated, and this 11-year-old was fascinated by the cable cars, architecture, terrain, Fisherman’s Wharf, the Golden Gate, the Bay, and the food. Hippies hadn’t come yet but I joined them in spirit a few years later. At every stage of my medical career, I applied to SF institutions, but the folks at UCSF and Stanford didn’t seem to want this Michigan boy as student, resident, or fellow. Kathy’s little brother Jimmy took his Ohio DeVry degree to Silicon Valley in the late 80s to land a job at Cognex for a career now entering its 4th decade. Of course, we stopped to see him when Kathy went to check out post-doc opportunities at UC Davis and UCLA. Fortunately, she chose to stay in Ann Arbor. Trips to the Bay area to see Jimmy and family were common. His 3 terrific kids were as close as Kathy and I were going to come to our own, so we treasured them. When I decided to take a sabbatical, I chose to spend it with my main ‘scopy buddy Ken at UCSD. So, we lived as natives through that frigid winter of 2017 (rarely over 60; the natives would apologize to us, between shivers). Revisiting La Jolla was such a pull, we looked seriously into buying a place out there. Of course, we wanted to be right on the water on Windnsea Beach, which pushes up the price somewhat. Our financial advisor finally pulled us off, stating we could only afford a California place if we sold our Ann Arbor house. Well, that’s not happening, so we rent. I reestablished connections with a couple of similarly twisted guys – both now practicing in the Bay area – with whom I’d served my residency time at Barnes Hospital.
So, the California Republic pulls on us in many ways. Our excuse for this year’s trip popped up last Fall, when Bill Kirchen announced he was pulling together all the living Lost Planet Airmen for yet another series of reunion concerts (1). Since I first saw them 4/17/71, I’m well into my second half-century of fandom. One show would be outside, at HopMonk Tavern in Novato, where we’d already seen the band twice before. Novato is just a half hour south of Petaluma, where my Barnes buddy Dave practices concierge after bolting from academic endocrinology at U Iowa. We’ve been including stops in Petaluma ever since Dave started inviting us to his “Safety Meetings”, held in the back room of his friend’s hardware store 5:15 PM every Friday (2). There, like minded guys (Kathy’s the only woman), gather to set right the ills of the world while nibbling on snacks and consuming various intoxicants. We haven’t taken to publishing our proceedings. Yet. Both Dave and I are very fond of Rajiv, our African American friend (born and raised in Kenya of Indian parents), who’s just retired from a practice in Walnut Creek, which Rajiv selected by looking at maps showing household income as well as density of rheumatologists. We’ve been inviting Rajiv to these meetings for several years, and he’s expressed his enthusiasm at being able to observe Caucasians in their natural environment but always comes up with an excuse.
So, we bought tickets on the spot and made arrangements for the trip, then long off. Per usual, we’d hang with the fam in Pescadaro, staying 15 miles away on the ocean in Half Moon Bay (3). We’d fly to San Diego and spend a few days on Windnsea Beach. Seemed like a plan till the young ‘uns stepped in. Jimmy has 3 kids, all home schooled and each college ready years before their peers. His oldest, Orion, was set to conclude his time as a banana slug, graduating with a degree in Geology from UC Santa Cruz. It wasn’t till April that details were settled, but his graduation wasn’t going to overlap with our concert, so we planned for a month earlier. That left a goodly portion of our previous plans superfluous, so we pared them down so our concert trip would be an over-and-back, in Friday and back Sunday.
That’s the trip from which we just returned. Since we made our plans on short notice, our usual haunts were booked. We stayed at a quirky little Petaluma hotel, the French-inspired Metro (4). They’d devised a clever way to expand their available lodging space on their tiny patch of ground. See here where we spent our two nights.
There were 2 other Airstreams on the premises. Each had a little poster attached. See ours. Let’s just say Kathy and I were comfortable. Morning’s fresh crepes and pour-over coffee enjoyed in the outdoor garden were a delight.
Wonders of Marin County were all around to experience, but since this was much a business trip for us, we stuck around to tend to those matters leading up to the Saturday afternoon concert. Kathy had brought a bunch of her children’s books. My book on the story of the band we were about to see was still in the hands of the publishers. I had 2 folders each with the most recent draft in case anyone was curious. I made up a couple dozen “teaser” bookmarks, with Kathy handed out to some curious old hippies as the concert came to a close. She sold almost all of her books, including some to Bill Kirchen’s wife Louise, who’s a grandmother after all.
The old hippies on the stage delivered a knockout performance. Guests Floyd Domino (Asleep at the Wheel’s original pianist, standing in for the late Commander) and Blackie Farrell (song writer and outlaw singer extraordinaire) taking things even higher.
Left to right: Floyd Domino (ex-Asleep at the Wheel), Dr. John Tichy (emeritus professor of mechanical and aerospace engineering at Rensselaer Polytech), Bill Kirchen (Titan of the Telecaster), Buffalo Bruce Barlow (on bass: the only Bay Area native in the band; he turned down an offer from Little Feat to stick with the Commander), Android E. Stein (fiddle & saxes, an eternal hot ticket on the NYC music scene; you heard him in the band on Prairie Home Companion for 10 years, movie too), and a missed name on pedal steel. LPA have been through a lot of pedal steel players, all capable. There’s a drummer back there, who also did a great job even if I’ve forgotten his name, too.
This is a special trip for Bill and Louise, as they lived in this area during the Commander’s heyday and were married in nearby Glen Allen in a magical ceremony 50 plus 2 years ago. Sure, it’s cooler here than in Austin Texas, but the draw is far deeper than that.
And no Bill Kirchen concert – Airmen or no – would be complete without his rendition of what was the the LPA’s signature song, their only “hit” by Billboard standards. Bill has taken the 1955 Charley Ryan song about that hot rod race to new heights with his guitar virtuoso embellishments (5). Dave has eclectic musical tastes like mine and knew all the songs the band sang. They’ll do it all again next year and I’ll be there for tickets as soon as they’re announced. Both Dave and I agree with the message from the first song of their set: “There’s a whole lotta things that I ain’t done, but I ain’t never had Too Much Fun.” (Austin ’74, videography added by the Commander years later: 6). Can’t stop us from trying! The band closed – before encores – with “Lost in the Ozone” (7), where I’m sure we all were by then. I was there when they recorded this track in ’71! Take me back!
I started earning a regular paycheck in 1979 and have lived 5 places since then. At no point did I have a proper mancave till now. I had to exude toxic masculinity and smoke cigars all over the house. Since I have an understanding wife, a pretty big house, and don’t really smoke cigars anymore, there were no problems with this arrangement. But a combination of gifts and discovery of some treasures from my past combined to create me one, which I’m enjoying tremendously. But what corner of Harbal house was suitable for this purpose? I owe that to our builder, Gary, who in his plans for the grand redesign of our house in 2004-5 included the creation of a distinct laundry room. Till then, we relied on a washer and dryer behind some folding doors in the corner of our “lower level” (a.k.a. basement). Now, those replacement appliances are in their own room, still downstairs, where behind closed doors I can bring cleanliness to our household. Yes, I’m the washerwoman here. I’d told my wife several times of the affinity for mundane household chores I’d developed in med school, having recognized these tasks would mark rare breaks in my medical grind that I should learn to enjoy. Kathy didn’t wish to stand in the way of my pursuit of happiness, so happily let me take on the cooking and cleaning.
The decluttering effort we began in my retirement turned up some forgotten treasures, in particular our combined collection of over 400 posters devoted to space, music, and sports we’d accumulated over 50 plus years. The posters went up all over the place and we ran out of wall space. But what brought the room together was not the art, but an appliance. When Kathy was based in D.C. for NASA ’98-’02, we bought a nice Denon stereo for her. That ended up in her office here, but she rarely used it. You couldn’t get your choice of music from an iPhone at the turn of the century, but hers became her preferred source when in her office back here. Finally, the idea came to me it might be nice to have some CD music while folding. I found some floating shelves to hold the receiver and speakers and set it up. I also found an unused teak CD bookcase and hung it up. Just the new music studio itself was a joy, but the room needed decorations. I hung from the wall several items I might be using and would prefer not to have to run and get when needed. The biggest expanse of wall now holds a painting made for me by my St. Louis nurse friend who also paints and offered to create something from a treasured photo I’d had taken in Shirley MA after a concert by Bill Kirchen with Commander Cody as special guest. Right next to it is a poster from the last time I saw the Commander, at Callahan’s in Auburn Hills March ’21. Also up is a poster from Asleep at the Wheel, signed by 6’6” leader Ray Benson and celebrating their 50th anniversary, and 3 other concert posters: one from John Prine’s last concert in Paris February ’20 and from my student days, 2 colorful announcements of concerts by the Allman Brothers and the Grateful Dead. The 6 non-music posters start before you enter the room, with a colorful spacy poster announcing the “Future Worlds Lecture Series” of 1971. Luminaries like Buckminster Fuller and BF Skinner appear. I included one from my UofC days (for the “Lascivious Costume Ball”, featuring a bare-breasted co-ed); the UofC president shut the event down in ’84 but it was revived in ’08 (1), from my dorm wall (an instructive illustration of the many forms of hashish), a print from my artist brother Marty depicting his stock character wishing he were a cowboy (2), a photo from Vicksburg resident Jeanne Church of a Great Blue Heron in flight, my spirit bird (3), and a framed postcard-sized print of a wolverine’s skull, courtesy of UofM’s Museum of Natural History (4). Most recently, another dorm wall poster arose, this one a cartoon of a hippie with some pirate characteristics announcing. ”When you’re smashin’ the state kids, keep a smile on your face and a song in your heart”, likely lamenting even then the humorous lessness taking over the revolutionaries. These hippies begat the modern leftist movement, which still suffers this humor deficit.
So, you can imagine how happy I am down there folding socks, listening to tunes under a good stereo under the watchful eye of George Frayne IV (a.k.a Commander Cody) and Mr. Prine. One unexpected consequence is that my music carries up the laundry chute to the master bedroom area. Could disturb whomever might be trying to rest there. Turns out a pillow jammed up the chute takes care of the problem. All our clothes are clean and nicely folded these days, and I never allow them to get too dirty, as I’m always seeking excuses to occupy that room, my new mancave. Let me know if you know any other men with such an arrangement.
Now all of you who just completed that phrase, raise your naughty little hands! No, this isn’t a treatise on childhood snigger porn – good one for later – but results of my cost analysis of making that classic summer refresher.
My motivation was my rediscovery of the Arnold Palmer drink as part of my continuing quest to find substitutes for beer. I think ol’ Arn often put a couple shots (he preferred Ketel One) in his tea and lemonade on the 19th hole, but it’s very enjoyable without (1). The stuff is available in cans everywhere, but it’s so simple to make, why put up with the empties (cans and your wallet)?
Even though Palmer was among the first pro athletes to commercialize his name on a long line of sports and apparel products, I don’t believe he trademarked his name for his signature drink. His trademark signature/umbrella logo boldly emblazons every container of AriZona Tea’s version (2), so I think Arn’s descendants are doing o.k. People have enjoyed Arnold Palmers for decades without paying an extra penny for his name. AriZona beverages started putting the drink in cans in 2001 and now sells 400,000,000 cans annually (world).
Per Wikipedia, Arnie preferred his drink 3 parts tea to one part lemonade (1), but the universal recipe is half-and-half. Indeed, that’s the name given to the drink by those who eschew eponyms. You can get the deep story straight from the source on Arnie’s webpage (2). The spiked version is often called a John Daly (3). Miller Cohrs sells a drink called “Arnold Palmer Spiked” (4), but the alcohol comes from a fermentation of malt (Ketel One is a Dutch product made from 100% European winter wheat, and some other vodkas come from potatoes. But no malt for vodka, that’s for beer). But alcohol is alcohol, and who cares if the spiking juice came from distilling a brewing batch otherwise slated to be Cohrs Light? The brand’s been very popular, outstripping “Twisted Tea” as the #1 canned alcoholic tea (4).
I just made my last (non-alcoholic) batch with a half gallon of tea from 10 bags at room temperature plus a half gallon of prepared lemonade that was on sale at Busch’s.
I decided to make a fresh batch before writing this and tally up cost and calories for various methods of preparation. I live in a food jungle, not a food desert, with the 2 mile stretch of Plymouth from my house East to US-23 populated by 3 major grocery stores (Kroger’s, Busch’s, Plum), 2 very good ethnic groceries (Chinese, Indian), and 3 party or convenience stores. If I want to reach out, Yelp tells me that within 2 miles of my address are 5 grocery stores, 4 ethnic markets, 4 delis (including Zingerman’s!), 2 butcher shops, 1 fishmonger, 10 party/convenience stores, and of course the Farmer’s Market, convened just 1.2 miles away every Wednesday and Saturday morning in season. We eat well in Tree Town.
I decided to go to Busch’s, the middle brow of my nearby groceries. If you want to stock up your lemonade factory, here’s what you’ll need, along with prices I paid:
Lemons: $2.99/2# bag of 6
Sugar: $4.99/5# Pioneer beet sugar
Stevia*(liquid): $9.79/2 fluid ounces -> 12 tsp -> equivalent to 12 C sugar
and if all you want to do is open a container:
ReaLemon: $3.79/32 oz, enough for 42 8oz regular lemonade, or ~9¢/serving
frozen lemonade concentrates: $2.79-$3.49/12 oz: 47¢-58¢/8 oz serving.
commercial ready-made lemonade: ranges $2.99/64 oz to $4.29/32 oz, or 37¢ – 98¢/8 oz serving
There’s a lotta sugar in traditional lemonade, ready to fatten us up not to mention the many other ways it slowly poisons us. Of all the low-cal sugar substances, only stevia is a plant-based product. All the rest – like aspartame, sucralose, saccharine, and the US-banned cyclamate, are generally not considered as healthy due to potential side effects and lack of nutritional value. The Mayo Clinic has summed up those choices nicely (5). Stevia is derived from the shrub Stevia rebaudian,native to Paraguay (6). The plant extract contains glycosides. These glycosides, extracted from the plant’s leaves, including stevioside and rebaudioside A, are diterpenes with a common backbone structure called steviol. These two are the main sweet components and are significantly sweeter than sucrose (table sugar), typically by a factor of 250-300. Those diterpenes tickle “sweet” receptors without raising glucose or insulin levels, a boon to the pre-diabetic with a sweet tooth (7). As with all non-sugar sweeteners, stevia consumption alters gut flora a bit. That plus some other adverse effects have led some to question whether the compound deserves its place on the FDA’s GRAS (generally regarded as safe) list (8). Maybe it’s true what they say (9). It’s easy to find and seems pricey until you consider how potent the stuff is. Amazon features 7 pages of options (10).
Lemonade’s a pretty simple recipe, but I hadn’t made my own from scratch for a very long time, so I had to look one up. I went to the bible that has guided my cooking from the very start, Rombauer and Becker’s Joy of Cooking, first published in 1931, and still in print (11), Doctor’s daughter and lawyer’s widow Irma Rombauer’s first go with a trade publisher came in 1936, and you can get a used copy for a mere $549.95 (12). Getting the best-selling cookbook of all time (over 20 million copies sold to date) off the ground was no piece of cake, as it were (13). The 90-year-old cookbook has a bright future, as the trad wives of gen Z have taken to it big time (14). With the current edition, at 1200 pages and 4.6 pounds, you certainly get your money’s worth, especially at Amazon’s current price, nearly half that of list (11).
Reinforcing what a bargain this is, my aunt’s 1964 edition set her back $6.50, or $68.20 in today’s dollars. This latest edition was revised and expanded by Irma’s great-grandson John Becker and his wife, Megan Scott. You could say the boomer generation was fed from it, at least the lucky ones. You can still get a replica of Irma’s original self-published edition, only $16.95 on Amazon (15). My mom and Aunt Dorie both found it indispensable, and I inherited both of my aunt’s hardbound copies, one I had given her for as a Christmas present. When I went off to school, I bought my own copy as a pair of paperbacks, which still sit on my kitchen bookshelf, ever shedding their covers to be taped back on
So, here from page 34 of my aunt’s book are not just one, but 3 recipes for lemonade.
Only the first is in my paperback. The extras could be helpful if you’re feeding a crowd or seeking convenience.
So how do these data translate to a better lemonade/Arnold Palmer experience? Below, I’ll show the several ways you can do this, accompanied by cost data so you can do it with thrift.
The key to the several recipes I’ll list below is the sweetener. Even that’s controversial, as some like their lemonade sweeter than others. That’s one beauty of making it yourself, as you can control the amount f sweetness.
The Joy of Cooking recipe calls for just plain sugar. But read the fine print and see you first must boil the sugar in water then let it sit to cool. Basically, you’re making “simple syrup” (16). This bartender’s staple is simply a 1:1 sugar:water mix boiled then set to cool, usually for a later day. It’ll keep for a month in the fridge. Since sugar in water takes up half the space it would as a solid, the resultant mix contains per volume an amount of sugar equal to about 1/3-1/2 more than a solid
measurement would yield. So, if you want 1T sugar, use 1 ½ T simple syrup. I’ve checked this out myself, on my own batches, and these proportions hold true.
The stevia is a little more complicated, as it is so potent. You never use much, and I recommend you titrate up. The nice folks who make Stevia Have provided a helpful conversion chart (17).
While Stevia come in a liquid form, mostly it is sold as granules, looking a lot like table sugar. A recipe for ginger ale at their site uses stevia to make a syrup, which is boiled then cooled, a lot like simple syrup (18). For fun, I also made the lemonade syrup recipe shown above, only with Stevia. Despite US approval, the World Health Organization frowns on stevia (and all artificial sweeteners), recommending consumption of no more than 4mg/kg/day (19). So, if you’re a typical 70kg (154#) American, you could throw back 58 of these stevia-laced 8 oz lemonades/day. As a supersized person (250#/114kg), I could look forward to a day with 91 quaffs. Remember, everything in moderation (including moderation, per Oscar Wilde).
It’s less complicated for the lemon juice, if not entirely so.
Calls for “juice of one lemon” don’t always denote size of lemon or volume of juice yielded. Lemons are characterized by a 3digit number, which denotes the number of lemons that size that fit into a shipping case: 240 to 540. Michigan State has produced a nice guide, which includes this illustration (20 (). The small print may be hard to read, but range of sizes is clear.
Dr. Google tells me from several sources that an “average lemon” yields 2-3 tablespoons of juice. If you’re fond of metric, here’s a nice thorough reference (21). In it, the author reminds you can increase the juice yield by gently rolling and/or briefly microwaving each fruit before squeezing. I’ve stuck with actual volumes of juice in my recipes. I got 135 ml of juice from my 2 larger lemons, which together weighed 14.3 ounces (450 gm). I juiced half my 8-bag of smaller lemons – which weighed 12.8 oz (363 gm) – and got 205 ml. So, on a juice/lemon weight, I got a better yield from the smaller ones, this time. So, with 45 ml/8 oz cup of lemonade, I’ve got enough for 7 ½ glasses. Note that the lemonade syrup uses some rind, so not all that precious zest flavor goes to waste. But do you really need to do all that squeezing when there’s ReaLemon? While bottled juices have most of that lemon flavor, they just don’t have the zest of fresh-squeezed (22). The author of that article reminds that leftover lemon juice can be frozen in ice cube trays for later use.
Now, first, the recipes, then the breakdown. No need to duplicate the recipes using straight sugar, but I do include those in which I used simple syrup.
First, the basic lemonade. Note there is no boiling involved, and the volume here is just one cup. Now, the basic recipe using Stevia. If you don’t have the liquid Stevia, you’ll need to go through a boiling step.
Finally, the syrup recipe using Stevia. Handy to have, as you can whip up fresh lemonade on demand in mere moments.
I like this for the convenience as well as the use of lemon rinds and of course the 3 calories per 8 oz serving. You can use it for an Arnold Palmer at least a couple ways. You can just make up the lemonade and mix it with tea, or you can pour the syrup right into the tea. I make mine in a half gallon jug. If lemonade should occupy half that jug, I’d pour in 4T of syrup to a jug half-filled with tea. After that, I can get a little creative, approaching the mix Arnie originally preferred (3 tea: 1 lemonade). Regardless of how you got there, that homemade Arnold Palmer can of course be adulterated further. Remember the John Daly? Just add 2 shots of vodka. Now with that stevia, haven’t we come up with a “diet” drink? With 12 oz of drink and 2 shots of 80-proof vodka, there’s 194 calories, add 5 for the lemon, packing a 24-gram alcohol punch. That’s about the same punch as my favored drink, a 12 oz 7% IPA. Remember, much of my motivation for this project was weight loss, and beer was a huge factor in my weight gain. Calories in that IPA? 220/can (23). Not much of a delta. And my carb-counting wifey tells me lemons have a glycemic index of 20. With each pound of fat accounting for 3500 calories, I’d have to quaff 167 John Daly’s in place of beer to lose a pound. That could take weeks! But every little bit helps. I could drink the Arnold Palmers without the vodka, but where’s the fun in that?
For those recipes in which you’re basically adding water, you can fancy things up by using something sparkling. If you don’t want to fuss with all those empty bottles and cans of club soda, La Croix, Perrier, or whatever , check out the SodaStream. This nifty Israeli product produces unlimited bottles of sparkling water provided you keep its CO2cannister filled (24).
Now, go whip up some so your kids can sell it from their stand out front! You can help them set their price point, using the data below. From what you get, you may want them to push it as a gourmet item. Would probably be a hit in Ann Arbor. Free range, organic, and sugar-free! Oh, and artisan!!
7. Momtazi-Borojeni AA, Esmaeili SA, Abdollahi E, Sahebkar A. A Review on the Pharmacology and Toxicology of Steviol Glycosides Extracted from Stevia rebaudiana. Curr Pharm Des. 2017;23(11):1616-1622. doi: 10.2174/1381612822666161021142835. https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/27784241/
I spent a little time last week in the village where I was a teen, Vicksburg. The occasion was the awards ceremony for the Southwest Michigan Tournament of Writers. I’d received dispensation the year before from the director to enter, even though I was not a local. The stipulation was that I confine my writings to Vicksburg. I did, and managed to win an honorable mention in my age group (1). I tried again this year with a heartfelt recollection of my ‘burg years and the events that had brought me back to the village. No repeat performance, although there was more competition this year with more entries and collapse of the senior and adult categories into one group. There were over a 100 entrants all told and 15-20 in my category. Fortunately, Vicksburg Arts compiles all entries into a book they sell on Amazon, so at least I got another chit for my CV. You can read my entry if you send Amazon 12 bucks for the book* (2). From judges’ comments, I learned my entry was poorly proofread (guilty!), sometimes imprecise and sometimes rambling. I may have approached achieving their word count a bit too vigorously. I’ve taken those comments and fixed up my entry, which is what you see below.
My life would have turned out much differently had not fate landed me in Vicksburg, and I am forever grateful. Perhaps by reading the following, you’ll understand why.
Head in Tree Town, Heart in the ‘burg
How’d I get to Vicksburg? Remember those dog food commercials in the 80s that featured that cute rambunctious bulldog (3)? This Ike was sure a lucky dog when in ’64 the Fisher Body brass kicked my dad from the Tech Center to Comstock to raise their biggest metal stamping plant ever. Dad’s eagle eye caught a red shingle ranch on the North shore of Barton. Thus began my 5 years in the ‘burg, where the teachers, coaches, students, friends, and neighbors helped me grow from the shy fat boy bullied by the cool kids in Birmingham, to the tallest (and skinniest) player in the Wolverine Conference who graduated almost at the top of his class then headed to Ann Arbor to attend U of M.
Tree Town wasn’t heaven – studying was expected – but it came close, establishing. Hold that lasts to this day. Nearly everyone there is from somewhere else. True “townies” can name the AA elementary school they attended. I’ve spent 47 of the last 55 years here, and, as occupants of our ’58-built house since ’85, Kathy and I are seniormost members of this 13 house neighborhood, the two other families claiming longer residence both second generation owners. Still an Ann Arbor (AA) outsider, me, like my wife, born of Michigan grads (in Ohio), faithful football season ticket holder since ’64, recipient of 3 post-graduate UofM degrees, and 28 years of University paychecks. She can only count 44 years of Tree Town living, interrupted for those 4 years in D.C., but that’s another story.
I came to Vicksburg as an outsider, too. Boy, did Vicksburg take me in. Leaving wasn’t hard, as look where I was going! Shortly after joining UofM faculty, one of my colleagues – Bruce Richardson, a small-town boy himself – said to me “Bob, a lot of smart people come out of small towns, and the smarter they are, the faster they come out”. Not a completely nice comment, but it sure would have fit that tall guy headed east in ’70.
Things went o.k. in AA. While resisting the siren song of hippiedom, hearing a lot of great music, I shed my flirtation with law school and dove into the math and science that was my strength. That worked! On to med school! “Where you from?” in AA or Chicago – was an innocent conversational opening, not a “microaggression”. Students meeting anew quickly learned each other’s origins. Not everyone was from them ritzy Dee-troit suburbs. Some even hailed from a Wolverine Conference town! When one’s origin was sufficiently unique, nicknames were born. Yes, I was called “Vicksburg” a few times. It coulda been worse. One guy on our floor from Marlette, up in the Thumb (2020 census pop’n 1855), tried to tell us that his town was a pretty big place. Henceforth, he was “Big City”.
I never tried to hide my small-town roots. Hard to do with those weekly reminders, the Commercial delivered to my dorm room. My more-sophisticated hall mates got many a snigger from reading about the goings-on. I taunted a couple old girlfriends for a while, went to parties back in Kalamazoo, and had some VHS friends up for concerts. Summers were in Kalamazoo, working in that plant my dad helped establish. Dad sold the Barton Lake house after I went to AA. Living with Dad, I still could hang with some of the same gang that was still around.
Those easy jaunts to the ‘burg – either 15 miles from Candlewyck or 100 miles from AA – disappeared after I was admitted to the University of Chicago then matched to Barnes Hospital in St. Louis. Learning medicine over those 8 years didn’t leave time for much else, especially trips home. My fellow residents were all top-of-the-class eggheads, so the competition was fierce. Sharing details about one’s beginnings helps humanize, keeping our heads from blowing up. Curiously, most of the guys I called buddies were also from small towns.
In St. Louis, there was some time for the radio, and I never missed those Saturday late afternoon broadcasts of Garrison Keillor’s “Prairie Home Companion”. His tales of the quirky, stubborn, resilient, sneaky-smart, and life-loving residents of Lake Wobegon took me right back to the ‘burg. Garrison’s gift is to portray these small-town folks not as helpless rubes, but as special, unique, and lovable individuals, people you root for. Imagining I could fit into some of his stories, I came to feel more and more comfortable – and proud – being a small-town midwestern boy. My first chief at UofM, Giles Bole, grew up on a farm outside Battle Creek. We both talked with that midwestern twang. Giles was a hotshot researcher, invited to take his show on the road to places like Stanford and Harvard. He said he turned up his twang for those Harvard eggheads. Hearing him talk, they figured he wouldn’t have much of anything intelligent to say. Then his superior intelligence kicked in, and what he said was appreciated, understood, and unexpected.
Then, as Rodney Crowell sings in “It ain’t over yet” (4): “I got caught up making a name for myself. You know what that’s about.” It was my dream to become a Professor of Medicine at my beloved alma mater, and here I was on track to do it. I neglected all sorts of things while I had my nose to that grindstone. I thank God for my dear wife, who stayed with me while chasing her own dream, and the few remaining members of my little family who stuck with me. And thank goodness you can’t keep those Vicksburgers down. I missed the 10threunion as I was on-call. VHS70’s class president Steve (a.k.a. Hummel) began to throw parties for our old crowd, usually at his house, but sometimes at a local restaurant. Fun, and nobody gave a crap about my credentials other than to remind me how I screwed myself out of being class valedictorian, losing by 7 ten-thousandth of a point (5). Our class’s insult artist, Ott, took to calling me “Mister Ike”, not buying my explanation that that title would be appropriate were I a qualified surgeon in England.
My best friend from the ‘burg, Eric, lived many places after graduation, rarely near me. After one of his moves back to Michigan, he found himself in this area so came to my house. I was at the hospital when he knocked on our door. Kathy answered, and Eric followed his introduction with a pitch for subscriptions to several magazines he said he was selling, blowing his cover when he burst out laughing. We’d have some great times over the years, sharing a house on Lake Bellaire Memorial Day weekends, often a dip in Eric’s pool around Labor Day, and a small boat cruise of Alaska’s inside passage plus trip to Denali in 2014. Like a good friend should, Eric often improves on my ideas. When the 30th reunion was rolling around, I suggest we rent a place on Indian Lake for the week before . We can do better, he said, and we spent a week driving and hiking around the Keweenaw.
All well and good so far? Clearly my years in Vicksburg gave me a solid foundation for my brain, and for my heart, many friends and many wonderful memories, except maybe one. But I gave that one little thought till my retirement. Free from having to get up, put on the white coat, and go see patients, I quickly got into that favorite retiree sport: not pickleball, but decluttering! Guided by Magnuson’s The Art of Swedish Death Cleaning (6) and Washtenaw County’s on-line guide “Trash to Treasures” (7), Kathy and I went at it. We didn’t send Marie Kondo any money, but invoked her “joy, no joy” test frequently. One medium-size box brought plenty of joy, till I got to the bottom of it. Marked “Vicksburg Items”, it contained some little trinkets from those times, all my English papers (complete with Mrs. Pharriss’ red ink), even a handful of George Wallace for President pamphlets. Then, on the bottom, were several sections from the Kalamazoo Gazette and the Vicksburg Commercial. Yellowed and brittle, as you’d expect a newspaper from 1968 to be, I knew the story right away from the pictures, long before reading. My friend, classmate, teammate, and namesake Ike had driven his dad’s station wagon, containing Ike’s teammate Pat and 3 boys from the class of ’68, right into the path of an eastbound Grand Trunk freight. An event from over 50 years ago I thought I’d forgot is one for which I recall every detail as if it were yesterday. After wallowing all morning in that sorrow and loss, I recalled that I’ve found it helpful to write about troubling things, helping to make sense of them. The late Detroit Free Press cartoonist Guindon had one with his characters sitting at a table, pen in hand, staring off into space; the caption “Writing is God’s way of showing you how sloppy your thinking is”. My way was set. I would go and learn all I could about this event then write it up. Too big for my new blog. Maybe a magazine featuring Michigan stories? Maybe a book, if I write enough words? But what I could tell with the words I’d be generating at that point would have too many holes. Some field research was necessary. The train from AA to Kalamazoo was familiar from visiting my dad in hospice. I knew the choo-choo was the way to go-go, particularly with the 3 hours round trip giving sitting time rather than fighting the traffic on 94. The Radisson ”spaceship” was 2 blocks from the train station, and Enterprise rent-a-car would meet you at the station and take you to their place 3 ½ miles west on W. Michigan, where you’d pick your car, repeated in reverse. The Kalamazoo public library was 3 blocks away, and there were microfilmed Gazettes chronicling events of that fateful week. 15 miles south is the ‘burg. I was pretty sure their District Library would have old Commercialsbut couldn’t find any in their on-line catalogue. Instead of just looking for myself, I asked Eric for advice, who said Sue would know. She was editor of South County News (SCN), the monthly that replaced the Commercial. She did plenty of scut for her dad Meredith Clark, publisher, back in the day. She directed me back to the VDL, and there they were. Sue liked my mission, met us at the library, took pictures, and wrote me up! (8). She was such a wonderful person, so full of life at 80, always interested and always interesting. I counted her as a new friend. Then she died, suddenly and unexpectedly. Her SCN solicited remembrances and published mine (9).
Could he fate of my collaborators made some of my classmates reluctant to talk about the accident? No, it wasn’t that. Knowing I could milk my ‘burg crowd for reminisces and insights, I arranged on each of my trips to meet as many as could respond to my invitation to gather at some restaurant in the area. I wasn’t forceful in how I conducted these “meetings”, but I had my briefcase full of clippings to show and did. My friends reminded me of many things I had forgotten or never knew. There were more and more quiet stretches and subject changes with each meeting. Finally, when it was just me and him at the table, Jim put it to me “Bob, a lot of people just don’t want to hear about this thing anymore.” I guess some people deal with past events by shutting out painful ones. Not me. I was accused by one of my psychiatry instructors of having a “hydrodynamic” theory of emotions. Still do. Negative emotions are like pus: need to be drained when encountered. When I figured my ‘burg sources had run dry, those train trips stopped. Some additional information came from unexpected sources. It turned out that the lawyer solicited by the 4 boys’ families suing Grand Trunk was the father of Sam, also a lawyer, and my friend since we met as freshmen on the 4th floor of Chicago House, West Quad. He directed me to the county clerk, who got me the court records from the Grand Trunk trial.
That was plenty to go on. The book practically wrote itself, although it came up kinda short. I couldn’t find a magazine I thought would take this 2,338-word article. Jeff Bezos has been a pal, publishing 8 (and counting) of my books (10), but found this first one too short for a paperback. Amazon does offer a Kindle, free. I’ve printed up a couple runs, the first in time for VHS70 50th. I left them in the car but made copies available to the interested. Several were. Copies sit in several public libraries – Vicksburg’s, Schoolcraft’s, Kalamazoo’s, and Ann Arbor’s – and the Vicksburg Historical Society, and are available through Docere (11).
So, I consider the book a success, even if Mr. Bezos hasn’t written me any big checks. While the pain of that fateful time in October ’68 won’t ever go away, I now have a much better grasp of those events, and a feeling for how they shaped us. Moreso, re-engagement with the ‘burg: the people, places, and memories have been precious benefits. COVID influenced everything those days, curtailing the research trips, but also getting me to Zoom with my classmates monthly leading up to our 50th. I volunteered to set up the meetings as Zoom is part of the software the U gives me. Hummel (class president Steve)got me the class list and I was off and running. Since I didn’t screw it up too badly, Hummel passed me the torch for organizing our 55th!
I get to the ‘burg a lot these days. Kathy seems to like my friends, at least most of them, and we’ve met some wonderful people. I even roused up an old teacher for her to meet, finally getting youthful nonagenarian Mr. Horn out his lair on XY. My basketball coach, he still insists he was right not to play me, even when I’m buying his beer. Of course, Mr. Horn likes Kathy. He always had an eye for pretty girls. We’ve done “Christmas in the ‘burg”, hit beers-and-brats, attended baseball and basketball games (I enter free thanks to a senior pass from Mike Roy) , gone on a “Historical Vicksburg” tour, attend services at VUMC (Vicksburg United Methodist Church) whenever in town, always hit “Something’s Brewing” (whose proprietor Heather we befriended when she had a shop on South Street downtown), and of course Distant Whistle. I even get my haircut at Getty’s! As I hinted before, Kathy likes the ‘burg. For her birthday 3 Julys ago, I bought her something from an ad in the SCN, a glamor photo shoot by Linda Hoard (12), who’s niece-in-law to my classmate Kevvie. Kathy’s a writer, too, and has pitched and sold her children’s books at Gilbert & Ivey. We’ve even given thought of getting our own Vicksburg getaway, to the point of spending an afternoon with a realtor looking at lakeside properties. The meeting with our financial advisor which followed got the sober recommendation that we could swing this only if sold our Ann Arbor house. No way that’s going to happen, so we just must hope for rising book sales as we rest in Tree Town. But we’ll keep visiting for sure. It’s only 108 miles from my door to Distant Whistle, a place where both my brain and heart are very happy. But, whenever I’m walking Main Street I’m pretty happy even before Andy and Dane open their doors. Maybe it’s Heather’s latte.
2. Ike B. Head in Tree Town, Heart in the ‘burg. In: Vicksburg Arts Tournament of Writers Volume XI. Adult Edition 2025 pp123-132. https://a.co/d/7uvsghv
6. Magnusson M. The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter (The Swedish Art of Living & Dying Series). New York: Scribner, 2018 https://a.co/d/bhuzu0X
Ten years ago, today was one of those beautiful Ann Arbor early May days much like today might turn out. I write this by the fire looking out at cloudy and 45, but it’s early and I have faith in Michigan weather. Another day for sweats and shorts, in sequence for certain, and likely at the same time for a while. Days like these just pull you outside and 10 years ago was no different. But Kathy and had a plan. Sure, we’d stroll down to the Argo Park sluiceway and boat livery, up the river trail, over on the Leslie Park Trail to Black Pond Woods and home, but while out there, we’d be cooking our dinner. I’d had my Pit-Barrel smoker (1) a couple years and loved it’s basically a 55-gallon oil drum with a lid and bottom into which you lower a basket of burning charcoal then hang meat for a nice slow cook. That day 10 years ago, we hung 2 slabs of rubbed ribs, closed the lid, and walked out the door. Yes, my entire BBQ arsenal sits on my very expensive deck of ipé (a Brazilian hardwood), part of the renovation of 10 years previous, before which was mere pine, Long ago, I built a 38X74 tiled platform to keep hot items from contacting the wood. When the platform fell victim to our renovation, I got the lead carpenter Brian to build me a new one. Of course, it was much nicer than the original – built with ipé! – and sat between my cooker and deck 10 years ago, just as designed. So, we left our smoking barrel without a care.
For fun, we reversed the order in which we usually attack the aforementioned path. We got quite a bit of time in the woods before hitting the river and Argo. That turn at Argo to walk along the sluiceway marks the beginning of the trip home. About a third of the way along the sluiceway, we heard some sirens then saw a couple fire trucks headed East, same direction as our house. Kathy sniggered “Hope they’re not going to our house!”. Right after that, her phone rang. It was Cathy, our next-door neighbor “Your house is on fire and your deck is gone!”. She did reassure us that firemen and their vehicles were already there. Her husband Paul had identified and put out the main fire before they arrived. We were still a little over a mile away but picked up our pace for the rest of the walk. As we turned down Leaird off Broadway, in was clear where all the action was on Harbal that afternoon. Fortunately, we saw no smoke rising from our house. Had any flame dare emerge, the two green-yellow Ann Arbor fire trucks would have shown it no mercy, especially with the army of uniformed personnel on my driveway at the ready to hold the hoses and turn the faucets. And if any help was needed, I’m sure some from the crowd of neighbors there would have volunteered. The ribs were about done, and their aroma wafted over the place. Later, after Kathy and I had inspected everything, we moved the cooker from the flammable deck to the asphalt driveway. The crowd gathered around that thing like it was a firepit on a wintry night. It was 70 and sunny. The firefighters stayed an awfully long time after my fire was out, and I don’t think it was just to make sure it stayed that way. As I hadn’t cooked nearly enough to feed such a crowd, nobody got any. They slowly slinked away, but not before I got a talking to from their commander about how dangerous it can be to barbeque on a wooden deck. I didn’t argue with him but contact of my cooker with the deck never happened, although it did have an indirect role in the fire. Regardless of how the fire happened, it was a sight to see (the platform had been flipped up). And, yes, I still barbecue on the deck.
The flames that cut that surgical hole in the deck began in the plastic folding side table we kept next to the cooker but not on the platform. There’s always a little peril in using the smoker when it comes to getting the fuel in place. You fill a basket with charcoal, pull out enough to fill a starter chimney, pour those grayed coals back in with the rest, then lower the whole thing down. The bar you hold is very close to hot coals. Oven mitts are mandatory, but they sometimes catch fire. A run to the sink does away with that. It was a job always did, but 10 years ago, I was less than 5 months out from a bike accident that trashed my brachial plexus leaving me with a useless right arm. I was getting better, but still not strong enough to wield a 10# basket of burning coals. Kathy agreed to step in and ably lowered in the coals. One of her gloves came up smoldering, and she patted it out. Receiving no direction from her husband to do otherwise, she left the gloves on the side table. And that’s where it began. Flames and heat from the burning plastic side table scorched the brick and cracked the window by which it stood. The flaming mess burned right through the deck and fell on a small folding teak table, now history. The fire settled on the ground and shot towards our neighbor. I think it was at that point Paul, neighbor on the other side, put it out.
We called Gary, our builder, to involve him in the restoration. He was aghast at the pictures we showed him and got worried the fire might have affected the nearby metal spiral staircase. He came, inspected, and proceeded to put it back together like nothing happened. Our house and its contents got a thorough cleaning. We had to replace the gloves and the table. At the time, Kathy was working on a masters in geology. The head tech of the lab in which she was working heard the story and gave her a pair of long asbestos gloves. And the table? We found a metal one about the same size as the vaporized one. It’s working out fine. Entering our second fire-free decade.
If this story has you hankerin’ for some ribs, here’s the recipe. The Pit-Barrel Cooker people put out a nice video (2). Beer ribs are fun, too (3).
It’s a wonderful thing when a patient becomes a friend. Such was the case with Valda from Kalamazoo. We found that we shared much in our views on food, music, and politics, and concern for the future of Kalamazoo. She became sort of a protegée, as I guided her along recipes, including some from my “cookbook’ (1). Of course, I had to inflict upon her my boomer music sensibilities, a boom she just missed, settling for her “Prog Rock”.
When a recent near disaster plunged me into a meeting with my recipes, I thought she’d get a kick out of my description of the proceedings, which I note below.
I know you’re rockin’ away on that boat, proggin’ down and head bangin’. I hope you’re having half as much fun as I have these past 2 ½ days. I stumbled into an unexpected project when my shaking of the screen that held all my recipe boxes left Aunt Dorie’s bigger box on the floor. Some pick up and rearranging would be in order regardless, but I knew this box was the spot where my dear late aunt also parked her torn-out recipes. I’d been meaning for years to organize these and clip them out to paste on 3X5 cards. Here was my chance. Here I am, 10 gluesticks and 2 packs of 3X5 cards done. I still have to finagle with some entries, laminating, Xeroxing, and annotating. Early on, I came across a clipped recipe for Latvian pierogis. I attach it here so you can check it for accuracy (see below). Later, I came across a 4X6 card in my dear Grandma Slater’s handwriting for “pirox” attributed to “Mrs. Miske”, her exotic Latvian neighbor. I couldn’t find the card as I started to write this. Grandma loved those little ham-filled rolls and they graced every outing table.
Fun to go through the old recipes. Grandma and the rest of the Slater women loved their cookies, pies, and cakes (as did her grandson!). But in there are some gems, like the Slater family recipe for mincemeat (annotated by my aunt as “very valuable”). I also found a recipe for “green tomato mincemeat”. I found my grandma’s recipe for “suet pudding”, but can’t decide in which category I should file it. The torn-out recipes come on so many different media. I’ve cut recipes from torn out pages of personal calendars, tops of Quaker Oats cannisters, empty packages of Lipton soup, backs of grocery cashier slips, and of course numerous clippins from newspapers and magazines. I’ve taken to including, when such info is available, the date and name of publication. Oldest so far is from a 1965 issue of Grit.
I wrote a couple years ago about the joys of going through old recipe boxes (2). Such deep memories they bring, especially in a family like mine where food was so important. Seeing the handwriting of long-dead but much-loved people, I can almost smell the goodies these recipes would produce to serve me. Who knows how much I’ll dive into these 2 boxes once organized (yes, Aunt Dorie had a separate box for 3X5 cards). There are some “dupes”, if you’re interested.
Well, it’s kept me from writing that damned article I’d promised an editor by St. Patrick’s Day. I guess that’s next. Hardly as tasty.
As promised, here’s that Latvian recipe:
References
Ike R. Musing through a pandemic. On the sidelines. Volume V. Foodies!. Amazon (Kindle) 2022. Published 8/26. https://a.co/d/1mkh613
My Spotify turns up endless delights. Tonight, my “Cat Stevens Radio” Spotify channel spit up an old Bob Seger classic that’s always been very meaningful to me (1).
As I felt once again these lyrics in my soul, I thought perhaps most superficial fans missed the meaning of this song. Sure, it’s about how tough life is, but there’s so much more.
Just like those catechism books that strove you to digest several lines of explanation for a single fragment of scripture, I ask that you bear with me my interpretation of Seger’s lyrics, my interpretations in italics.
It seems like yesterday But it was long ago Janey was lovely she was the queen of my nights There in the darkness with the radio playing low, and And the secrets that we shared The mountains that we moved Caught like a wildfire out of control ‘Til there was nothing left to burn and nothing left to prove And I remember what she said to me How she swore that it never would end I remember how she held me oh-so-tight Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then
My Rosie post-dated Bob’s Janey, but she was the queen of my nights, parked in the back roads by the airport. “Night Moves (2)” is also highly apropos. Unlike Bob, I’m not so sure about my ignorance
Against the wind We were runnin’ against the wind We were young and strong, we were runnin’ against the wind
This was the way. We thought we were on it, only to get blown back.
The years rolled slowly past And I found myself alone Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends
Boy oh boy, does this happen!
I found myself further and further from my home, and I Guess I lost my way There were oh-so-many roads I was living to run and running to live Never worried about paying or even how much I owed Moving eight miles a minute for months at a time Breaking all of the rules that would bend I began to find myself searching Searching for shelter again and again
Was someone else going wild in the 90s? When that’s all gone, of course we’re searching for shelter. If you’re fortunate (like me you have those who have been on the sidelines, ready to take you back.)
Against the wind A little something against the wind I found myself seeking shelter against the wind
Well those drifter’s days are past me now I’ve got so much more to think about Deadlines and commitments What to leave in, what to leave out
Wild life leaves details to be addressed.
Against the wind I’m still runnin’ against the wind I’m older now but still runnin’ against the wind Well I’m older now and still runnin’ Against the wind Against the wind Against the wind
And here come the Eagles
Still runnin’ (against the wind) I’m still runnin’ against the wind (Against the wind) I’m still runnin’ (Against the wind) I’m still runnin’ against the wind (Against the wind) still runnin’ (Against the wind)runnin’ against the wind, runnin’ against the wind (Against the wind) see the young man run (Against the wind) watch the young man run (Against the wind) watch the young man runnin’ (Against the wind) he’ll be runnin’ against the wind (Against the wind) let the cowboys ride (Against the wind) aah (Against the wind) let the cowboys ride (Against the wind) they’ll be ridin’ against the wind (Against the wind) against the wind (Against the wind) ridin’ against the wind…
Good for Bob to mention those who will be joining him. I’ll be there too.
Tear me away! There’s a whole evening of Cat Steven’s radio ahead!
Today’s blog serves as an accessible reference list to “Head in Tree Town, Heart in the ‘burg”, an essay I submitted yesterday to the Southwast Michigan Tournament of Writers. Because readers will see only print, I provide a link to this page so the reader can access the links to which the references refer. The awards ceremony will be in Schoolcraft, April 24. All entries will go into a book – Vicksburg Cultural Center. Small Town Anthology XI: Southwest Michigan’s Tournament of Writers 2025, – available on Amazon.
4. Magnusson M. The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning: How to Free Yourself and Your Family from a Lifetime of Clutter (The Swedish Art of Living & Dying Series). New York: Scribner, 2018 https://a.co/d/fNgg7no
An essay I’m about to submit to the Southeast Michigan Tournament of Writers (1) weaves around the writing of my first book, a process that really strengthened my ties to my old home town. Started in February ’19, first published May ’21 and updated March ’23, The Accident tells of that awful week in October of ’68 when time stood still in my little Village after my friend and namesake Ike drove his dad’s station wagon bearing 4 other boys into an eastbound Grand Trunk freight. Nobody in the ‘burg alive at that time has ever forgotten it. You can get the book on Amazon as a Kindle for free (2). I print up a run every so often and always have some of the little books available. If you live in Ann Arbor, Kalamazoo, Schoolcraft, or Vicksburg, you can get the book in their libraries. The Vicksburg Historical Society also has a couple copies.
Since it can be done easily, I’ve put a PDF of the book on my GoogleDrive, which you can access through this URL https://tinyurl.com/accident68.
Links to the 2 songs, book, Amazon author page, and newspaper article mentioned in the book can be accessed at https://tinyurl.com/sccidrnt-links
PS. If you check out the Amazon page, you’ll see that all 5 readers of the book who bothered to comment gave it 5 stars!
Listening to John Prine’s Spotify channel last night got me thinking about a project I started years ago and now might be about time to deploy. I’ll link John’s song about this at the end, but first let me relate the details.
From my birth I’ve been lucky. After a while you wonder what the pattern means.
Everyone to whom I’ve described my June 2022 accident – especially those who looked at the crash pictures – say I’m lucky to be alive. I suppose so, and I’m very grateful.
But luck has followed me my entire life
I’m lucky my birth mother, 19 and unwed, chose to carry me and put me up for adoption. I’m lucky a vibrant and loving “Dutch couple” went and had that lawyer make me theirs.
I’m lucky that same couple, and their families, showered me with affection, support, and all things material as they saw me as their much-wanted child. The spoiling continued into my adult years, fading only as most of them died off.
I’m lucky for my father’s success at Fisher Body, which kept him up and supplied his little family with a more than comfortable life.
I can’t say I was too lucky to have lived through unexpected sudden premature deaths of at least 4 close family members – include my mother – before I hit my teens. But it helped me learn early to deal with loss and cherish ever more those who were still around.
I was unbelievably lucky that my mom had a younger sister, my dear Aunt Dorie, who always doted on me and stepped in to provide support, encouragement, guidance, and ever more spoiling after my mother died. A nurse, her gentle nudges of me toward medicine probably were responsible for making me a doctor.
I was lucky Dad secured me a summer job at his plant, giving me not only something to do in the summer (and working with working class folks), but the very real earnings from that job, coupled with extreme savings, paid for all my expenses at U of M.
Getting into U of M was no luck.Grades and test scores assured that.But luck kept me from drowning into the seductive hippie way (eventually) and for flipping me back to science classes when the pre-law/poli sci thing wasn’t working out.
I was lucky to have an academic advisor suggest to me that I pursue a masters program instead of wiling away in undergrad classes as I waited to see what happened with med school. Because of my late decision to pursue med school. I had a year after graduation to fill as I secured my MCATs and buffed up my application.
Yes, I was very lucky to get into med school.Few of the schools to which I applied even offered an interview.Visiting the prestigious University of Chicago, the Dean of Students (who loved student athletes) sized me up and asked if I played basketball.“IM” (e.g. intramural) I said.To this day, I believe he heard “I am”. Regardless, my acceptance letter was in the mail the next week.
At U of C, I was lucky to have such attendings as “Fatty” Lou Cohen, Leon Resnekov, Jim Boyer, Leif Sorenson, Sam Refetoff, “Albino” Baker and Irv Rosenberg (whom I learned years later was uncle to my brother-in-law Bob’s first wife).They recognized my talents, encouraged me to develop them, gave me direction and support, and pushed me to become the best doctor I could be, not an urge I felt entering med school.All my patients need to thank them.
Luck landed me in St Louis, at the great Barnes Hospital.Blame the match computer.I had the BS flowing when I interviewed there with pulmonologist Dr. Bob Bruce, who must have bought it.When I made the call from London on March 15 to learn where the match computer had put me, it was Barnes, my 4th choice. My response to the news “no shit!”. None of the other 9 programs I visited sent me a “magic letter” saying they wanted me. Such letters are directed to candidates the program really wanted but passed over in the match
I must have had a guardian angel watching over me at Barnes for all the trouble I got into.There were plenty of earthly St. Louis angels about who seemed to like tall geeky house officers
I should even find it lucky that my hard-assed chief of Medicine Dave Kipnis chose to punish some of my transgressions by withholding his approval for me to sit for boards pending proof of successful completion of a year of employment followed by a letter from my supervisor stating I was of good character.Throw me in that briar patch!
The jobs I cobbled together from previous moonlighting paid me 4 times as much as I earned as a resident for far fewer hours worked.My building moved me to a 16th floor penthouse overlooking Forest Park, where I entertained some lovely angels.I’d signed up for my fellowship at Michigan just as that extra year started, so I felt secure.Giles Bole at U of M, one of the only 4 institutions I’d visited, offered me a post.Barnes, UCSF, and Hopkins all passed.Giles told be he’d chosen to ignore Bevra Hahn’s letter, which was quite negative. She was the star rheumatologist at Barnes, and an inspiration to many. 5 of my class of 30 chose to go into rheumatology. While Bevra was probably one who tipped me to a future in rheumatology, and I thought I’d performed well on her service, I had the habit of leaving her Monday PM rounds before they were finished so I could make my moonlighting job at Christian NE up north in Florissant.Another stroke of luck that Giles would ignore that blot.I think I validated his opinion, as he offered me a faculty post a year and a half later. UofM was full of great role models, old (Giles, Bill Castor, Armin Good, George Thompson) and young (Tommy Palella, Joe McCune, Tom Schnitzer).Tom took me into his virology lab, where my greatest stroke of luck occurred. Tom mused with Tim White of Kinesiology what might happen if the mice I was making polymyositic with reovirus were exercised.Tom arranged a meeting with Tim’s PhD student who knew how to exercise rodents.Tall, dark, smart, and lovely, she says she fell for the white coat and the line of talk about polymyositis.We’ve been inseparable since, even if the project went nowhere.It’s all been gravy.
I didn’t know when I landed at UofM their department of Medicine was being run by a young hotshot up from Duke, Bill Kelley.Bill never saw a boundary he didn’t want to push. A rheumatologist himself, he saw his specialty as needing to adopt “certain technical procedures appropriate to our specialty”, particularly arthroscopy.That notion was in place before I arrived, but when Tommy Palella, his protégée, introduced me to him, he saw his point man for the project.I thought he’d been impressed by my smarts when I presented a case of Brucellosis I’d diagnosed, but his son Mark, then an intern on my service my second year on faculty, said the main attraction was size.I was 6’8” tall. Mark said that according to his dad, “orthopods always respect size”.Conveniently, Bill’s first fellow at Duke was a guy named Bill Arnold, who’d moved into private practice after tiring of purine research at U Illinois.Bill had partnered with a Northwestern orthopedist to learn arthroscopy, and was doing it independently in Chicago.So off I went for a year with Bill to learn the craft.It wasn’t the smoothest path, but life as a pioneer led to papers, courses, international speaking engagements, and a lifetime as the “scopydoc”, even though I finally stopped doing it in 2001.
It was hard to pull away for that year in Chicago.The May before I left Kathy and I went house shopping with Gail Kimball, wife of Olympic diving coach Dick.On about our 3rd day out, we happened on a house on Harbal Drive, just listed.We put a deposit on the house that day, and eventually got it, although it was in a tax lien and penalty mess from the then current owner.Still, a true stroke of luck.We’d move in in August, Kathy holding down the fort while I came home on weekends.It’s worked out, undergoing renovations during the first Gulf War, then again in 04-’05, when we completely moved out for a year. We love it, and would live nowhere else.It means living in the “People’s Republic of Ann Arbor”, but it’s possible to look past the politics and enjoy the many other features that Tree Town offers.Whether I’d get to stay in Ann Arbor was touch-and-go for a while.I was hired on the tenure track, meaning I’d have 7 years to publish and establish a national reputation.I was kinda slow at the beginning and Tommy had to petition for an extension, based on the fact I’d been hired as instructor but spent that first year acting as a trainee in Chicago.I finally got some papers published and satisfied the promotions committee.Another lucky break.I’ve lived in Ann Arbor all but 8 of the past nearly 55 years.We both bleed blue, and still love our University, even if it doesn’t love us back.
At home, I enjoy the consequences of taking my adoption papers to a PI and ending up with 4 brothers, 6 sisters, and 2 living parents.How lucky is that, to have a brand new family?With my new mom, dad, and 2 sisters now passed, I’ve known loss, but the rest are there.
With time at home, I’ve managed to reconnect with friends from back in the day.Organizing the Zooms for my high school class to connect during the dark times of COVID, I saw some faces that had changed just a little bit. That’s very lucky.I’ve reconnected with friends from the cradle to post-retirement times. Yes, it can take some effort to reach out, but I feel very lucky that these old friends still remember and like me. Relationships are everything.
In the 80s, Purina shot several short films about my life, selecting a charming bulldog – “Ike- the Lucky Dog” – to play my part (1).He still has quite a following.
And ya know you’ve made it when John Prine records a song for you (2).
As life goes on, I relish every morning I wake up. If you need a soundtrack as you go along this same path, listen to more John Prine.
Bob Ike's blog 