December 21 2020--Ladies of Forest Trace: Kapos

A number of Behind readers have been asking if I've heard from the Ladies of Forest Trace--my very ancient mother (who was 107 the last time I wrote about her) and the "girls," a group of her friends, who lived together in Lauderhill, Florida, in Forest Trace, a residence for seniors.

When George Lindberg asked about them the other day, George who has followed them here for years and who knows their histories and should have known their fate, I realized something strange was happening--George, other friends, and readers have been asking if I've heard from people who are no longer here. No other way to put it--people who are deceased, who have died.

I asked George,"What's with this? You of course know that . . ."

He cut me off. "I know what you'e asking and what more can I say. I know the truth and what's realistically possible, but with all that's happening one could think that maybe, just . . ."

This time I tried to cut him off, but George pressed on, "That your mother and her friends would have figured out a way to, you know, communicate with you and that you would then be able to pass along what they've been thinking and where they see us headed. On the other hand," he continued, "they may have decided to ignore the mess we've made of the world they left us. Who could blame them if they're looking for distractions. Like the rest of us. But if there is any way to reach out to us, mother Zwerling is the one I'd bet on to figure out a way to do so."

"What a wonderful fantasy," I said, "I would love to hear from her."

And then, shortly thereafter, wouldn't you know it, I began having a series of vivid dreams in which my mother and the Ladies were featured. 

When I told George, he didn't seem surprised.

"Don't let them tell you how wonderful it is where I am now," my dream mother said, sounding very much herself, "You would think they could at least serve a good piece of fish. But it always comes out dry and tasteless."

I leaned in, wanting to remember every word.

"Can you believe it," my mother said, "The world is coming apart at the seams and I'm talking about fish!"

"It's all right," I said, "Just hearing your voice is wonderful enough. And so . . ."

No, no, darling. I know you want to know about them. Him. What we think."

"Well, yes, but I don't want to aggravate you."

"What else do I have to do? Aggravation here is an activity. Like shuffleboard, Mah Jong, and bypasses."

She whispered, "We'll talk later. I don't want to upset the younger girls. They get cranky if they miss their beauty sleep. So I'll wait until they go to bed and come back. At 7:30. Then we'll have time to talk. As you would say, heart-to-heart. Or do I mean, head-to-head? As I told you last time I'm beginning to forget things."

I could sense her frustration. She had always been a perfectionist. Holding herself to the highest, most impossible standards. The rest of us as well.

At the stroke of 7:30 I sensed her presence.

"Did I wake you?" she asked softly.

"No," I said in jest, "It's still a half hour to my 8 o'clock bedtime."

Ignoring that, she said, as if out of the blue, "So, do you know about Kapos?"

"I do, but what about them? What do Kapos have to do with him? You promised you would tell me what you and the Ladies think."

"Tell me first what you know about them."

"Him and his people? His enablers?"

"That's a good way to talk about them. But I mean his Kapos. Tell me what you  know about them."

To talk about them was not something I relished. We lost so many relatives in the camps. This would take us well beyond aggravation.

"You can tell me. I'm still your mother and your can share anything."

I knew that to be true and so I said--

"During the Holocaust, there were Jews who were called Kapos. They were chosen by the gestapo guards to help them run the camps. Including murdering their landsmen, other Jews, in the gas chambers and ovens. They were the lowest of the low. Animals."

"And for this," my mother said, "the Nazis gave them more food to eat. They should only perish."

"Most of them did. Most of the Kapos also were exterminated. But, mom, I am still reluctant to think about him as a Nazi or a Kapo. As a despicable authoritarian, yes; unfeeling, yes; corrupt, yes; dangerous, yes. But not like an SS Nazi or a Kapo. It hasn't, and I believe it will not, come to that. I think he will begin to fade from the scene after Biden is sworn in. But," I said, "here I am telling you what I think while I'm really interested in hearing about what's on your mind. The Ladies too."

"What we see to be the worst are those you call enablers and what we call collaborators. They are the most dangerous. Without them collaborating he never would have gotten this far. We do think he has harmed our democracy but it still survives and will outlast him. About his Kapos, though, we're not so sure. That's what has us worried."

"I agree."

"How many billions voted for him?"

"Seventy-four million is bad enough. Thank God it was only millions. But too many. Especially if you're concerned about his supporters and what they might be up to."

"Now you see why the girls are always sleeping. Or trying to."

"And you?"

"Like a rock, knock wood. I'm happy to be at eternal rest. Which reminds me, it's past my bedtime. I listen to music, operas, when I'm sleeping. In spite of what is happening music that beautiful reminds me things will get better.

March 17, 2020--George Lindberg's Straw Dog

George Lindberg, a very good friend from Maine sent me this and I thought you might like to see it--

There are a few more coronavirus cases here in Maine.  Folks hunkering down, staying at home. Schools preparing for homeschooling on line.  As you know all the kids in Maine have PCs.  Sure. But they all don’t have wi-fi at home.   

Our kids calling to shop for us and whatever else we need.  I asked for $$$ but they won’t . . .

Stores are having a run on toilet paper and paper towels.   

What?

Crazy stuff this pandemic. 

I’m wondering if all this money earmarked for coronavirus relief will eventually be tapped for wall building.  I’m surprised Honduras hasn’t been blamed for it.  

Well, stay safe down there. We’ll get through it.  Our supreme leader is at the helm.  

Oh crap!  I just realized that must be the reason for the run on toilet paper.  

September 18, 2019--The Man Who Mistook a Chipmunk for His Wife

A friend asked me to repost this. So here it is. It first appeared in June, 2018--

Neurologist and author Oliver Sacks was an acquaintance who wrote widely for lay readers about the complex world of mental "disorders." 

I put disorders in quotation marks since in his writing he challenges many of the traditional paradigms that classify many mental conditions as abnormal and as cognitive deficits. 

In my favorite of his books, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, in four sections Sacks presents a series of brief case studies focused on aspects of neurology. 

In the first part he discusses neurological conditions that are usually construed to be deficits in normal brain function. Taking a very different tack, he argues that the medical community tends to define almost all divergent neurological conditions as some kind of deficit.

But, he claims, this paradigm is too narrow because it marginalizes these conditions, making it difficult to understand their full range of function, and that the traditional medical classification system also underestimates individuals' abilities to find ways of compensating for atypical mental function. 

In other words, the deficit model often leads to a lack of empathy and nuance and gets in the way of a full understanding of what is almost always characterized as illness and thus impedes effective ways of working with individuals who present unusual behaviors. Including behavior experienced by Dr. P., someone Sacks worked with for a number of years who had a rare form of "face blindness" that left him unable to distinguish between his wife's face and his hat. The man who mistook . . .

I thought about Sacks and the book late last week while standing in the road with George Lindberg, a close friend, who was asking me how my Parkinson's is progressing.

"The meds seem to relieve much of the tremor in my right hand," I said, "It's my only symptom thus far. So I'm feeling optimistic about the situation."

I extended my hand to show him. "That looks pretty good," he said, "Do you notice any things that cause increased tremoring?"

"When I have any anxiety, which I am prone to have, it does increase the tremor. In fact, it's happening right now. Maybe because we're talking about it." 

To show him I extended my arm again and my right hand was shaking quite visibly. "It stops right away if I tell myself to calm down." I showed him how that works. In a few seconds my hand completely calmed down.

"Does your neurologist say what might be in the offing?"

"In fact the last time I saw him I asked about that--'How long will it be before I'm like Michael J. Fox?'"

"I like that and I like Michael J. Fox," George said.

"I do as well. The doctor asked again how old I am and when I reminded him he said, 'In your case you'll be long gone before that happens.'" Liking how that sounded he smiled. Which is unusual for him.

"So I have something to look forward to," I said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I said, also smiling, 'Being dead.'"

"That sounds good to me," George said, playfully referring to me.

"One thing, though," I added, "There's this commercial on TV for a med that claims it can lessen the delusions and hallucinations that supposedly 50 percent of people with PD will experience. That doesn't sound so good to me."

"Again," George said,"before that happens maybe you'll be fortunate enough to be long gone." He's a good kidder, which I like about him.

"What's that?" I said to him with my hand flapping.

"What are you pointing at?"

"Down the road, all the rustling in those bushes." I indicated where with my steady hand.

"I can't see what you're referring to," he said, "It would be strange since there's no wind."

"Rona's doing a lot of pruning. Maybe that's her in those bushes." I pointed again down the road where it looked to me like she was working. "But that would be unusual since that's really not on our property, though the owner of the log cabin, who's rarely here, likes it when Rona neatens things up."

George and I stood there peering at the bushes that were in rapid motion. At least they looked that way to me.

"Maybe it's a bear," Kidding, George said.

"Do we have bears here?" I asked taking him seriously.

"Not usually" he said, "Though strange things happen all the time. The berries are starting to set so bears could be lurking."

With that there was increased movement in the bushes. I clutched the shovel I had with me, getting ready for I knew not what.

And just as quickly, all movement ceased and popping out from the bushes was not Rona or a bear but a chipmunk that preceded to bounce across the road.

I'm not sure what George made of all this, but I was thinking about Oliver.

June 7, 2019--Once Again: The Rhumb Line

A number of people asked me to repost this. It first appeared July 27, 2016. The "George" is George Lindberg. He's always good for a story.

It was a hot morning and George took a break from mowing our lawn.

"I hear from your missus that you're looking for a new place to have lunch on Wednesday."

"Yes, a cousin is going to be in the area. In Rockland."

"I know you like the Slipway in Thomaston. The same owner now has a place on the harbor in Camden, the Rhumb Line."

"That's exciting," I said, "He had one of our favorite places in Port Clyde. Until Linda Bean of the LL family bought the property. He couldn't stand her because of her homophobic politics and refused to remain as chef. That's when he opened the place in Thomaston."

"The one in Port Clyde was called the Dip Net."

"In addition to being such a good restauranteur," I said, "he comes up with great names for his places."

"What do you think about Rhumb Line?" George asked.

"We haven't been there yet," Rona said.

"I mean the name."

"I know what a dip net is--a long-handled net used to land fish--and a slipway is a boat launching ramp. But a rhumb line? That's a new one for me. It sounds nautical."

"It's a navigation term," George said, "If you don't know what it is I think you'll like it."

"I'm eager to hear."

He let go of his lawnmower and with a sweeping gesture, using both hands, created in the air the shape of a large sphere. "Make believe this is the earth," he said, "In three dimensions."

"I got you. I loved solid geometry in high school. Especially how to think about and understand how lines on a solid three-dimensional globe work. Arcs and such."

"Exactly. So if you, for example, head east from here across the Atlantic and don't change course--in effect, go straight--the shortest distance from point to point is not a straight line, as it is in two-dimensional plain geometry, but an arc, a circle. Thus ships or airplanes follow the Great Circle Route to get to England most directly."

"And a rhumb line?" I asked.

"I'm getting to it." George likes to take his time when explaining concepts to be sure you're following him. He's really good at this. Particularly if the concept is complex or full of ambiguity. His favorite type. He also likes telling stories of all sorts. The shaggier the better.

And so, again with a gesture, maintaining the outline of the globe with one hand while with the other, where the Equator would be, he traced a spiral in the air, up from the Equator toward the North Pole.

"A rhumb line is a line on a globe that as it moves forward crosses all lines of longitudes at the same angle. That's the key--the same angle. Longitude, as you know, being the way on a globe that we map north-south slices of space and location."

"I think I'm beginning to get it," I said, "To trace a great circle on a sphere one moves along in a three-dimensional arced line, not changing course because the distance between lines of latitude are constant."

"Exactly."

"But with a rhumb line, to cross longitudes at the same angle one has to constantly change one's course."

"And thus a spiral is traced on the globe because as you head north--or south for that matter--as one approaches a pole the separation between the lines of longitude get narrower and narrower. If you will, compressed closer and closer together so it's necessary to constantly adjust your heading."

"And?" I said.

"And what?" George said.

"Whenever you get into these kind of things you always have another meaning or two to offer."

"Me?" he said with a shrug, trying to hide a smile.

"Please proceed."

"I know how you like to go round in circles. I mean," he quickly added, "not in a bad way, but metaphorically to see what you might stumble onto that's interesting."


"Could be true," I conceded. "And so?"

"With great circles and now rhumb lines you have more circles and spirals within which to go round." George winked.

I tried to get us back to basics, asking, "But is it a good restaurant?" I thought I had cleverly circled around to where we began.

He smiled and, ignoring me, said, "According to the theory, no matter what course you set we all end at the same place."

As I pondered that, he said, "But be sure not to forget to order the fried oysters."