Received a phone call from sis on Friday. The results of the PET scan had come in. They brought confirmation of what we had strongly suspected but fervently hoped against.

Dad, on the threshold of 78, is also in the first stages of Alzheimers.

Here on this Father’s Day, may I tell you a little about my dad?

He earned a Master’s Degree in Biology from the University of Oklahoma. Until he retired in 1984, he was a college professor, the head of the Biology Department at a small state college in Southeastern Oklahoma.

Yes, he retired early. He said teaching had stopped being fun because it seemed fewer and fewer students were actually interested in learning anything. He was 54 when he quit. (Dear God, in seven years I’ll be the same age he was when he walked away.) But over the years I’ve come across dozens of former students who told me he was the finest teacher they’d ever had.

When I was a kid, taking the bus out to his campus office after school was an exotic adventure. His classroom featured, beakers and test tubes, a huge Anaconda skin, an old wasps nest the size of a German Shepherd, slimy stuff in aquariums, and unspeakable things in jars of formaldehyde. To me and my friends, Dad wasn’t a mere science teacher. He was a “scientist” and, in my mind, one of the smartest men in the world.

As long as I can remember, Dad has been obsessed with crossword puzzles. He’s long been able to work the New York Times crossword in short order. Until recently, anyway. A quiet, soft-spoken man, it’s always been ironic that a person of so few words should know so many.

Oh, yes. Words.

About a year ago, we started noticing Dad struggling to find the one he was looking for. It was usually a noun that seemed so elusive. Just here and there at first, he would not be able to come up with what a certain, common thing was called.

In an especially poignant irony, the first occasion I really noticed this development, Dad was telling me about a gentleman in their church:

Dad: We got some bad news the other day about old Mr. so and so. He’s got. . . He has . . . oh, what’s the name of that thing old people get where they can’t remember anything?

Me: Alzheimer’s?

Dad: Yeah, that’s it. He has Alzheimer’s.

The missing nouns problem has gotten gradually worse over the last year and has, on bad days, made communication a challenge for Dad. Because his speech pathways have really been the only point of attack, he has been fully and painfully aware of what is happening to him. It’s been a year of frustration, discouragement, and embarrassment.

Exposing Dad to additional embarrassment is the last thing I want to do, so I won’t elaborate. (Dad doesn’t read blogs so he won’t be reading this.) The fact is, he is bearing his present circumstances with extraordinary grace and peace.

On my last trip home, we took a drive into town. Dad, who in my lifetime has never wanted to talk about anything personal or sensitive, took the opportunity to talk to me about what he was facing. No, he hadn’t received the definitive diagnosis yet, but he knew:“I just want you to know I’m not upset or sad about what’s happening to me,” Dad told me. “I’m not asking, ‘Why me?’ I been on the receiving end of too many blessings that I didn’t deserve to complain about this. It just is what it is.”

Of course, barring something miraculous, some of the most trying and heartbreaking days ahead will be faced by my mom. She was the one who, before my sister called, had tried to tell me what the doctor had said about the PET scan. Out of a 20-minute flurry of medical jargon and diagnosis and prognosis, Mom could remember only one phrase the doctor had delivered:

“Well, it looks like we’re slipping away.” he’d said.

Yes, it would appear so. But not yet. We have some time.

Time to say things you’ve wanted to say but haven’t because that’s just not what we do in our family. Things like:

“Thanks for always making sure we all had good cars and insurance and gas credit cards while you drove beaters for decades.”

“And for never once taking any of the golden opportunities I presented to berate or browbeat or second-guess or say ‘I told you so.'”

“You need to know that you did a good job. No, you weren’t perfect. You’re as flawed and damaged as the rest of us. But you got the big things right. And a lot of the little ones, too.”

“And by the way, did you know that there has never been a single day of my life that I haven’t been proud that you’re my dad?”

“And one more thing. . .some words I honestly don’t think I’ve said to you since I got too big to kiss you and Mom goodnight before running off to bed. . . I love you, Dad.”

So, I’ll sieze the precious time we have. And I’ll say what ought to be said.

Before he slips away.

I swapped email today with a friend who lives in Cape Town, South Africa. It put me in remembrance of the day I snapped this picture, right below Table Mountain in Cape Town. . .

 

It was a good day.

The shot is of the “12 Apostles”—the series of 12 peaks which stretch southward from Table Mountain toward the tip of African continent. It was late afternoon and I was standing right about here shooting South. (zoom the map out for perspective)

My traveling companion that day was a native South African so he knew the territory. We drove on South along the coast road to a beautiful beach town called Hout Bay. We had a dinner of Ostrich, Springbok, and Kudu—all delicious.

Since I was a kid, I have always loved standing out under a dark sky and watching the stars. I learned the constellations and the planets early on but since I have lived most of my adult life in major cities, the chance to stand under a truly dark sky is a rare treat. And thus I couldn’t resist asking my friend to pull over before we headed back to Cape Town so I could stand under a set of stars I’d never seen before.

As Crosby, Stills and Nash said, “When you see The Southern Cross for the first time. . .”

Well. . .as I said. It was a good day.

This week, Sen. Reid , insulted two of the most decorated and accomplished leaders in our military. Two men with lifetimes of unblemished service to our country.

I think it’s time to bring Dennis Miller back out. Here Dennis shares some thoughts about the distinguished Senator:

It is maddening to think that this guy is now Senate Majority Leader solely because a couple of states that should know better threw a Bush-fatigue hissy fit in the last election cycle.

Thanks Montana. Thanks Virginia. Nicely done.

I’m a big fan of the old Wallace & Grommit claymation films. In recent weeks I had been seeing some CBS promos for a new series by W&G creator Nick Park in which regular Americans (meaning eccentrics, oddballs, and neurotics) are interviewed and then the audio is put into the mouths of claymation characters. It’s hard to explain, you just have to see it.

I had missed the debut program so I was grateful when friend and colleague, Jon, over at www.talkmulch.wordpress.com sent me a link to the CBS site where the entire program, sans all but a couple of commercials, is avialable for streaming.

If you have a pretty fast internet connection and 21 minutes to laugh out loud, I say go to Episode 1 of Creature Comforts as fast as your clicky finger can take you. {Note: I’m not being able to link directly to Episode 1 so you’ll need to click “Watch Full Episodes” and then choose “Episode 1.” Turn up the audio you won’t want to miss the first few seconds.}

Apparently some television show called “The Sopranos,” which apparently is not about four blue-haired ladies in a small town church choir as I had originally assumed, has reached some sort of remarkable denouement that has generated much buzzulation on the Internets.

I josh, of course. Although I have seen only a small handful of episodes because (A) I don’t subscribe to HBO or other premium movie channels and (B) even if I did, the ratio of F-Bombs to nouns and verbs is much too high for me to allow it into my living room.

I know that will sound like I’m Mrs. Prudence McUptight to the average Internet denizen. And I know with even greater certitude that I do not care. If James Gandolfini himself walked into my house carrying a gift Rolex and the keys to a new Mercedez and started talking like that, I’d toss him out on his ear.

I have no doubt that the show is brilliantly written and acted. In fact, one of the cable channels has recently started running episodes will all the F-bombs dub-replaced with “freakin’.” And I’ve enjoyed watching it. Of course, the purists are surely rolling their eyes so hard they’re in danger of popping out and flying across the room at the desecration of the original script.

Whatever.

Here’s James Lileks this morning offering, mid-Bleat, his thoughts about the final episode. He liked it.

In this post, I responded to an op-ed column in which (usually) conservative columnist, Linda Chavez, pretty much labeled anyone who opposed the immigration bill, a racist.

Her assertions were so outrageous and malicious, and rightly sparked such widespread shock and awe, I’ve been wondering if some sort of apology was going to be forthcoming from Ms. Chavez. Well it has. In a way.

In this very long essay on National Review Online, Linda begins well enough:

“On reflection, I went too far. I blew off some steam and in the process offended some erstwhile allies. I should have been more careful in my wording and not tarred with such a broad brush. I should have been clearer that not everyone who opposes the Senate bill does so for illegitimate reasons.”

Fair enough. But do you sense a “but” or a “however” coming? Oh yeah. . .

“But I’m not altogether unhappy I wrote the column, or a subsequent one describing the reaction it provoked.”

The fact is, Linda expends precisely 128 words on the apology, and then another 4779 words following that “But” undermining it. For example, early on she writes:

“The immigration debate has stirred up some pretty ugly sentiments and conservatives need to be especially careful in this regard.”

Come on. Everyone, and I mean everyone, expressing opinions in an online forum gets a measure of hateful, ugly, mindless spewage. Citing it, as Linda does, as evidence of anything meaningful is shoddy argumentation. It gives off the same vibe as the Dixie Chicks positioning themselves as brave defenders of truth because they received some death threats. Please. Is there a public person in America that hasn’t received a death threat? Chris Sligh, a contestant on American Idol got death-related hate email for sassing Simon Cowell,  for crying out loud.

Of course, it’s the views expressed by responsible, influential people that really matter. And Linda’s fellow pro-immigration reform bill advocates have a been a rich source ugly smearage the last few weeks, starting with Linda’s original column for which she is now apologizing, and moving on to President Bush’s comment that oppenents of the bill don’t want “what’s best for America.”

Deep into her response Chavez writes: “I’m not asking for politically correct censorship of ideas; I am asking for civility and a commitment to true colorblindness in all public policies.”

But earlier in the piece she crtiizes NRO contributors and vocal immigration bill opponents John Derbyshire and Mark Krikorian precisely on politically correct grounds. For example, she points out that Derbyshire has, on occaision, referred to Hispanic day laborers of unknown national origin as “Aztecs.” One gets the impression she would have preferred, “Hispanics of unknown national origin.” Except that someone in the PC crowd would have cried foul and said the correct term is “Latino.”

She also quotes Derbyshire as admitting that he’s a racist. He did indeed, in addition to admitting that he’s a homophobe and a sexist. But if you follow the links she provides you learn what Derbyshire means. Namely, paraphrasing, “If believing that different races generally have differing charateristics that make them better at some things than other races generally, makes me a racist in today’s PC environment, then I guess ‘I’m a racist.’ And if believing that men and women are different and that those differences result in them generally being better and worse respectively at certain things makes me a sexist in today’s PC environment, then I guess “I’m a sexist.”

Clearly, Chavez is trying to have it both ways. She wants to deny that she is calling for PC college campus-ish speech codes, while criticizing people who don’t adhere to them. It doesn’t track.

Finally, Chavez makes a clever attempt at guilt, or at least shame, by association for those who oppose the bill:

I will not appear with or allow myself or my organizations to be in any way associated with David Duke, Jared Taylor, American Renaissance, or others in the fringe “white identity” movement, as they sometimes call themselves. I’ve never hesitated to call such people racists; they are. It doesn’t matter that they share my opposition to racial preferences; we do so for very different reasons. But racists are not the only problematic allies conservatives encounter when it comes to the immigration issue.

I doubt that most conservatives know the roots of the modern immigration-restriction movement.

 Thus, a very-much warranted apology starts so well and goes very wrong. And then it just goes on and on. Thus, her closing paragraph begins: “It is also dangerous to win the immigration debate by stirring up racial or ethnic animosities by playing to the prejudices of that small group of Americans who are motivated by racism and nativism.”

I would respond by pointing out that it is much more dangerous to try to stifle debate by browbeating those on one side of it with a club of political correctness and assmuptions of bad faith. There’s little evidence that the first danger is actually happning. While each Chavez pronouncement is an indication that the latter actually is. 

Now that the charging bull elephant known as the McCain-Kennedy-Kyl-Bush amnesty (the operative word in that description being “bull”) has been stunned by a two-by-four between the eyes in form of a populist/conservative uprising and, for now, is staggering backwards with stars and little bluebirds circling its head. . .

. . .it would seem a good time to see what might actually need to be done where immigration is concerned.

For my money, David Frum pretty much nails it in this op-ed in the L.A. Times. Read it! That bull elephant may be preparing to charge again.

Here are a few other miscellaneous items from that old issue of R.D. [Cover Image] (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, see here. And Parts 1, 2 and 3 below.)

• The positioning statement on the cover says, “Articles of Lasting Interest.” Well, I would say so. Forty-six years later I’m reading them and writing about them. Now that’s truth in advertising!

• There is a profile of the amazing black female athlete, Wilma Rudolph, recounting her performance at the 1960 Olympics in Rome. The article originally appeared in The Rotarian magazine and was written by some fellow named Alex Haley. Of course, Haley was never heard from again.

• Turn a page and suddenly you encounter this, vaguely unsettling apparition . . .

A woman with a cupcake on her head and, if the copy is to be believed, egg in her hair.

• And this—the answer to a question that had plagued mankind and thwarted our most brilliant scientists for decades. [The Question]. I can hear the shame-soaked taunts now: “Pore smotherer!”

• There is also a profile of JFK’s newly installed Secretary of Defense, a man who, at 44, had only recently been appointed President of Ford Motor Company.  “A close-up of the tireless, incisive management expert who gave up millions as newly-elected president of Ford to take on ‘the most thankless $25,000-a-year job in the world.'”

His name—Robert McNamara. Of course, he didn’t know just how thankless it would be. By the time of his departure from Defense in 1968, McNamara would become the focal point for seething, irrational anti-war rage that was fashionable among hippies, campus radicals and young lefty Hollywood types like Jane Fonda.

On November 2, 1965, protestor Norman Morrison set himself on fire in front of McNamara’s Pentagon office, after dousing himself in gasoline. When people are doing that, that’s pretty much the definition of a thankless job.

On page after page I found the beginning threads of stories that can be followed right into our headlines this morning. Threads like the article about the new Cuban refugees fleeing the tinhorn revolutionary that had recently taken over Cuba—”Castro Betrayed Our Country!” Or the one about the bright hopes for peace and harmony in barely-12-year-old Israel—”Sound of Singing in Israel.”

And thus  I wonder. . . What innocuous stories in this month’s Reader’s Digest are the opening scenes of a drama (comedy, tragedy or farce) that will still be playing out four or five decades from now?

Snapped at a airport in Japan. . .

From the very amusing Hall of Technical Documentation Weirdness (Note: some mildly off-color commentary), where you will also find. . .

This is probably my favorite item in the entire issue. The writer is Harland Manchester (a name, by the way, that shouts “fictional character in a bad romance novel) and his article is pretty much an expansion of the subtitle; or to paraphrase, “Space is scary and we have better things to do with our money than try to keep up with shoe-waving Soviet dictators.”

If there is a whiff of geezerism or fogeyosity wafting from his complaints, you should know that Mr. Manchester was born in 1898.

In May of 1961, the Mercury Space program was well underway. In fact a couple of monkeys had already been shot into suborbital space. And a few months before this issue went to press, a chimpanzee named Ham had shown that he had “the right stuff” in Mercury Redstone 2.

Harland Manchester wrote a couple of books in the 1940s about science and technology and even has an IMDB listing for writing a 10-minute short starring Chill Wills—1944’s “The Immortal Blacksmith.