The Sailing "to do" list: Waxing, and in a word, Jazzed

Tobermory in the North Channel, Lake Huron

We are getting ready for another Summer Sailing Adventure 2012 aboard Tres Joli. 

However, as I write, I look at the massive amount of work facing me in getting Tres Joli ready for launch, and I become depressed, completely catatonic and crestfallen.  The list of repairs, fixes, and details to attend is limitless.  Both boys are in the middle of college final exam preparations-- hardly a time to be bugging them, and foisting maritime maintenance responsibilities on their shoulders!  Kay is telecommuting still, and across state lines 5 days a week.  If I even have a prayer of enticing her into some sailing this summer, it is probably best not to start with a plea for work aboard ship, especially after her solo marathon to finish this year's taxes with little assistance from me.  So I start compiling the list of things the boat requires, but that just gets more maddening the more I write.

It's not that Tres Joli isn't a grand lady.  Paul and Sandy, her previous owners attended to her care exceptionally well, and outfitted her in a style to which we've all become readily accustomed.  But there is frankly nothing worse than looking at her hull in the marina yard, within walking distance of Lake Erie's shore, and seeing the kind of sorry, smooty grime that lays her beautiful markings low by the end of a long winter season.  Where to start?

A good place is probably at the marina, setting up a launch date. A timeline, methinks, will bracket all the work, and help to contain the endless litany of items.  In order to do that, of course, I need to make sure my account is up to date.  Fortunately, there is only $700 in outstanding balances for winter storage due, so that's the first of many checks we write for the boat this year.  I know, why bother complaining?  Everyone will just pipe in:  A boat is an endless hole into which we are destined to pour all disposable income. And we are on record saying that Tres Joli is more an investment in making memories, so best not to go down this path.  Besides Tres Joli certainly deserves more consideration than that.

She is a valued member of our family, and she's been hibernating all winter just waiting to entertain us for months.  We simply need to give her the attention she's overdue.  So the marina and I settle on a date:  May 4th.  This is the official start date for our Summer Sailing Adventure 2012.  That gives my long list some needed definition. 

Anyone out there wanna join us for the pre-sailing preparatory fun?

Last year, Will helped with the hull preparation.  We now have this part down to a five part science.  It mirrors scenes from the Karate Kid in which we chant "wax on" "wax off" about a thousand times until just moments before our arms fall completely listless and useless at our sides.  The hull is first rubbed out, and then two coats of hull wax are lovingly and diligently applied and buffed with an electric waxer to a high gloss.  Seeing the shining result always makes me feel like everything else is possible as the sheen of the near-new looking hull radiates against an emerging spring sun.  Everything is possible.

Two years ago Max and Don Treanor gave up an entire Saturday to rub out and wax Tres Joli.  They were so dedicated, never complained, it made me feel guilty and euphoric all at once.  Admittedly, it took our friendship to an entirely different level.  Show of hands, how many of you can lay claim to a friend who will spot you an entire Saturday to wax the boat before it's even in the water?  Yes, with the Treanors we've experienced the highs of many summer nights in Oyster Bay barging Tres Joli and In Transit II together while all the kids splashed around in the near frigid waters.  We've also hit the lows with Don's heart attack and health scare.  But nothing compares to waxing a boat.  What I've learned is simply this:  a friendship bonded by a day of boat waxing-- that is as precious as life itself.  After all, we ultimately learn that life is certainly not a given, but having a friend to help through the entire duration of an annual boat wash and wax ritual -- that's equally priceless and rare!

Of course, this year's feeling of overwhelmedness regarding boat work has its roots in being an "empty nester" I'm sure.  Usually there was at least one of the boys I could bribe into helping.  And I don't have the chops to call friends or their young charges for assistance.  Owning a boat, I need to remind myself, is about maintaining a certain amount of self-reliance.  So I start to get my head around doing what I know must be done-- I need to do most of the work for myself, and by myself without further complaint. Enough whining already.

But this only motivates me so far.  So I go back to the lists, and of course this gets me in front of a computer screen checking out all the sailing websites for all the items I think I will need for the boat.  It doesn't matter that Paul stocked the lockers of Tres Joli with enough repair parts and cleaning and fixing tools and materials that I probably don't need to buy much of anything-- a few new buffing pads, a bit more black spot-off.  Of course, this little online excursion leads me inevitably to yachtworld.com where I start checking out fantasy alternatives-- newer model boats that won't require the same hard toil to look bristol.  But with 2 kids in college, less than a freak announcement from the State Lottery Commission means we need to be content with our lot in life-- the good old boat that we have.

But as I peruse the sites, and find all manner of reasons to procrastinate further, I get an email from my marina landlord.  He shares his excitement about the coming season, and tells me they are also considering sailing to the North Channel this year.  This gets me all jazzed, because I have been planning a cruise there for 2 years now, and have twice come up short due to time constraints.  This year, I look over the sailing calendar with the grand sense of optimism that only sailors possess-- possessed of a fantasy that things are perfect and possible, even when my better judgment suggests that bliss lasts but a fleeting moment or two with all things maritime, whether on land or at sea. 

I am on the cusp of actually figuring out how to plan a cruising summer that will take us beyond view of Toledo's energy plants to one of the Great Lake's fairest cruising grounds-- Tobermory on the North Channel. I imagine gentle summer breezes as the sun sets after a glorious dinner of simple galley fare, shrimp and grits and a few really cold Coronnas and an equally well-chilled bottle of Conundrum. (I know my tastes are pedestrian, but keep in mind that just means I am easily satisfied.) 

Before long, I jump off all the sailing websites, respond to my marina landlord, and start looking at the chaos of the boy's pending work schedules, graduation commitments, Kay's work travel and mine, and a late summer wedding out west.  As I look over the months ready to circle open blocks of time into which I can insert even modest sailing plans, I am almost into August before realizing this exercise when taken down to its finest details will only make me feel like summer is gone before it even arrives (a feeling inspired already, in part, by the March Madness Summer Weather of 2012)

Tobermory perches me squarely into the realm of fantasy, more a concept than even a destination at this point.  I love the name, unusual, like a big word no one else has heard used in a sentence before.  This gets me jazzed, and moments later two communications take my enthusiasm even further. 

The first, another email from landlord Bill telling me that they are sponsoring the Pink Boat Regatta this year at Toledo Beach Marina and wants to know if we'll participate.  I say yes without much thought, and as I research the Pink Boat Project online, I get even more jazzed.  A young guy named Tom Watson has painted his 28 foot Triton Pearson "Darwind" pink and decides to sail around the world to fulfill a lifelong dream and raise $1,000,000 for Breast Cancer Research.  So we are signed up, reading to start posting, and line up pledges for a race on September 15th to support Tom Watson's noble sailing project. 

Click here to Join the Pink Boat

Then, as good fortune has it, as I finalize my laundry list of sail maintenance items, I receive another email.  It's official:  my nephew Levi is going to fly from his home in Bethesda Maryland to join us aboard Tres Joli the first weekend he gets out of school.  Jazzed some more now.  As Will, Dan, Jake, Evan, Colin and Tyler will attest, there is nothing I enjoy more than taking others out sailing with us, especially those new to the sport. 

Despite every cautionary flag thrown down by knowing friends who have witnessed firsthand some of my "misadventures" at sea, which parenthetically have never included loss of life or serious injury, I remain confident that others can trust the safety of their firstborn sons to my care.  I consider reminding folks that I first had Will aboard a sailboat when he was 8 weeks old, but the fact that we ran aground as he began teething doesn't inspire confidence among any who've already heard that story, and certainly not among friends who know me less well.  Yes, I'm jazzed.  New crew to Tres Joli.  Yet another impressionable mind waiting to be spellbound by what we do with wind and water and our wiley winsome ways. 

Oh, yeah, what about that long list of things that still need to be done? Who cares?  I now have a Pink Boat Project, and Levi's homecoming aboard Tres Joli at the top of my list.  The rest will follow. 
 

Why is this night so special?

Generally speaking, I think Passover is one of the most under-rated holidays in the religious canon. I sometimes think in the back of my mind that it really requires a major branding and marketing awareness campaign in order to give the celebration its proper due.  I'm not just talking about its time- honored role in the Judaic tradition.  But elements of Pesach can be found in all three tenets of the largest faith traditions on the planet-- Christianity, Judaism and Islam.

I first learned this back in college.  I was transported by my then-girlfriend home to her family for Passover one year.  It was my first Seder, and one I will long remember.  I had falsely concluded that I was dating someone so altogether different from me in so many ways. We had been raised so differently, me in an ethnic, devout Catholic home, her in an orthodox Jewish one.  As I entered the dining room, there were the symbolic foods of the Seder plate-- bread, wine, salt, water, eggs, lamb, and horseradish. Where had I seen this all on display before? 

As it turns out, these were the same foods my mother gathered each year and put into our Easter food basket and took to church on Easter Saturday for the special blessing. My mom would dutifully take us to church in the morning, and after the service we returned home where the food was held sacred; what wasn't eaten was burnt later with flame, and not thrown in the trash.  The food couldn't be reheated and was eaten cold as if we were on the run. Each of the elements held a special meaning-- symbolizing different aspects of the deliverance of the people of Israel from slavery into freedom, and the Passover's intimate connection to an Easter redemption that followed.

For my parents, whose own parents came to America as immigrants, this tradition was upheld with great reverence. My parents weren't encouraged to speak Polish in their home, and were raised to become fully assimilated into the mainstream American culture of the 50's. But at the same time, they held fast to certain customs, and the blessing of Easter baskets with special foods connects me to past and present traditions that I find ever more meaningful as the years pass.

Is it the universal emphasis on spring renewal, celebration of the good, bitter and sweet legacy of the past that I find so compelling?  Or the redemption in a newfound freedom from oppression? Or is it the connection that Passover provides, a pathway that connects me back to my own ethnic Catholic past?  Passover certainly validates for me that for as much as we differ, we are all of us one in the same, united in our common bonds of humanity.

Passover connects us all by bisecting our diverse stories.  In these we hear and see our love of family and fellowship.  We look forward to the special foods and quirky traditions of an intimate holiday repast-- Jack and Judy's songs and costumes in years past, our now vegan and traditional culinary spread, our potluck of different tastes. We rejoice in the joy of the youngest among us, Ethan and Sarah, as they beg the important questions.  Why is this night so special?  We see the earnestness in their faces, yearning for us to tell them. And we did!

With Bill's guitar version of Die-die-yaynu, Caroline's recent Nightingale Award, Rick's technology download inspired by his recent way cool CNBC fame, and Edie's book talk about the latest and greatest reads (Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson or the Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks).

Being part of the Trapp, Nolish, Broida Passover tradition over the years is a joy to behold.  This year at Rick and Shawna's we were introduced to the fifth question, why is there an orange on the table on this night?

We learned, in deference to the women of Passover, a feminist once asked, "When will women enjoy the same rights as the men?" The answer she was told would be found when there was an orange on the Seder plate. The orange in this sense symbolizes the sweetness of bringing both women and gays into the full celebration of their rights, and an end to their oppression and slavery as the Israelites endured in the past.

This of course begs the last question of our evening, embodied in the picture (attached) from our Seder celebration tonight:

"Orange" you glad to know why this evening was so special? For me, one important reason is that it was spent in the company of these wonderful extraordinary women, connecting me to Gerry and Vicki and Anka and all those women not present this night, but whose spirit, customs and traditions remain so powerful and alive.  For it is ultimately revealed to us on this night, as on so many others that in the end we have but each others and our stories.  

Shalom! 

Stark View of Juvenile Justice: What Have We Learned in 20 Years?

What have we learned about juvenile justice in Detroit over the past 20 years?  After reading your coverage in Sunday’s front page about Joshua Brown, and the tragic death of Kade’jah Davis, it appears we’ve learned precious little. My heart grieves for Ms. Davis’ extended family and friends.  We should know by now that the injustice here isn’t limited to the fact that her alleged perpetrator wasn’t tethered.  It cuts way more deeply and broadly than this.  On what basis can I make this claim? 

Because just over 20 years ago, on March 13, 1991, my grandmother Vicki was killed in her Eastside home by a newspaper carrier who was 14 years old at the time.  Unfortunately, as we’ve witnessed time and again, we seem remarkably unable to make any substantive changes to prevent these crimes, which impact community life for all of us in the metropolitan Detroit area.

Back in 1991, excessive caseloads and haphazard information and record sharing between the Family Independence Agency, the MDOC and the local police authorities were epidemic.  For instance, no one was able to “connect the dots” and identify that my grandmother’s killer was being commended for meeting the terms of his probation, and recommended for “step-down” to a juvenile center and release on the very same day that he was apprehended for another assault in a neighboring jurisdiction.  His arrest warrant ultimately lapsed and he returned free into the community at large.

People always ask me, didn’t the prospect of his release scare me? Not nearly as much as the facts in front of us, and the imminent threat this poses.  25,000 people are currently under some form of MDOC “supervision,” and over 5,000, or 20% are in violation of their parole or probation.  These are staggering numbers, in case you were thinking this problem is limited strictly to residents of a decaying inner city.  Admittedly, those who let Brown slip through the cracks need to be held accountable.  But the Free Press failed to report on one other important measure in this equation—the size of correction officers’ caseloads.  Let’s not put the blame solely in one place—if we all don’t rise up together to address this epidemic, we will all stand lamentably arm in arm at the grave of another hapless victim. 

Because the facts regarding Kade’jah Davis’ death appear suspiciously similar 20 years later:  an entirely preventable crime, and a perfect storm of missed opportunities to put a safety net of corrective measures and protections into place. 

While the myriad causes of juvenile capital crime continue to baffle, we see a startlingly similar pattern here: corrections officers overwhelmed with extraordinary caseloads unable to track probationers; prosecutors without the necessary tools to enforce stricter penalties early on to deter delinquent behavior; and a dearth of interventions that would separate serious offenders, and minimize their exposure to an arc of increasing violence and crime.  Kim Worthy is right on the mark again.  Holding the system accountable for keeping violent offenders off the streets is a basic first step. 

Taking a look back, I can’t help but concur with juvenile prosecutors who at the time of my grandmother’s murder shared with me the unintended consequences of a landmark U.S. Supreme Court decision in 1967 that has measurably impacted how we adjudicate juvenile justice.  “In Re Gault” gave juveniles accused of crimes the same due process rights as adults. The case involved Jerry Gault, who at 14 was sentenced to seven-years in prison for a prank phone call.  This case established the constitutional right to legal counsel for children facing delinquency proceedings, an important right.  But is it also possible the pendulum has swung too far, limiting the courts’ and prosecutors’ ability to intervene early with juvenile delinquents?  If early crimes are not being evaluated and treated as potential red flags for violent repeat offenders, is it possible the first clear view of judicial consequences appears when perpetrators have ultimately graduated to a life-altering capital crime?

When I look at the record of Joshua Brown, I see a young man first apprehended at age 10 for a serious assault.  His first offense is dismissed for lack of evidence.  His second offense at 13 of burning a kid with a cigarette lighter is dismissed because the complainant didn’t appear.  The third crime, grand larceny, at age 15 receives probation.  At age 18, arrested for home invasion, followed by drug charges, he receives probation.  And the case goes on and on.  If true, what have we told Joshua Brown in the process over the course of eight years?  What does this say about us, and our collective community safety net?

George Lardner, in his epic book “The Stalking of Kristen” makes a similar case covering his daughter’s murder at the hands of a juvenile offender in Boston in 1992.  Time and again, Kristen’s perpetrator fell through the cracks of the community’s dragnet.  George’s investigative reporting on Kristen’s case was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1993.  Sadly, the facts sting with a sickening familiarity.  Another beautiful life felled. Another violent crime that could have been prevented if only the labyrinth of the corrections system had seen and responded with the proper tools in place to the clear and menacing signs. 

When will we learn?  I hope for Kade’jah’s sake, along with Vicki’s and Kristen’s and countless others, we start abiding these sobering lessons, and get working together.  Trust me, the consequences for inaction lie in full view. 

Ron J. Stefanski is an educational publishing executive and free-lance writer who currently resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan

Vicki's Recipe for Rhubarb

Vicki’s Recipe for Rhubarb

My grandma Vicki came to this country from Poland when she was 6 years old.  After spending a decade or so in St. Clairsville, a coal mining town in Ohio, she came north with my grandfather to pursue their fortune in Detroit, working for Walter Chrysler in the Lynch Road assembly plant.  Vicki reminded me of a cross between Rosie the Riveter, and Edith Bunker on the popular All in the Family series.  She came packaged in the same colorful aprons and housedresses, with a Polish accent, and the same homespun, pragmatic outlook on life. 

Vicki was definitely a character that defied the imagination.  She had the equivalent of a sixth grade education, but my father and I were convinced she received intensive training at a Special School for Grandmothers, a place where grandmothers are sent to learn how to be the way they are.  After all, where else would Vicki have picked up on all the things grandmothers the world over seemed to share in common?  Take cooking for example. My grandmother Vicki clearly went to a special school for cooking lessons.  Where else would she have learned how to use bacon fat in just about every recipe from frying food to baking pies?  Where else could she have learned to cook in such mass quantities (often without a written recipe) even after her sons had moved away, her husband had long passed, and she lived alone?

My grandma Vicki learned that homemade pie was a cure-all for many of the misfortunes that befall most people.  She also learned if one homemade pie was good for you, then ten must be ten times better.  I know this because I was at her house one day.  She lived in one of those post-war two story brick bungalows over on the East side of Detroit off Gratiot.  I was taking her to the Sign of the Beef Carver for an early dinner, and then grocery shopping.  As we traveled down the baking aisle at Farmer Jack's that day, she asked me what kind of pie I liked. 

“Do you’ns like rhubarb pie? Maybe I’ll make you’ns a rhubarb pie to take home.  Your dad likes that rhubarb pie. Yeah, y’know that’s what I’ll do,” she rattled on.

Sure.  What else was I going to say? That was all she needed to know.  It was enough to prompt her to make a rhubarb pie for us every week afterward for months on end.  My dad and I would go there on Tuesdays, always Tuesdays, to take her on errands and grocery shopping, since she did laundry on Monday, and had a standing hair appointment on Wednesday.  And each week when we returned from her weekly errands—to the butcher, the pharmacy, the bakery, the fortune teller—Vicki presented one of us with a freshly baked rhubarb pie.  The rhubarb came right out of her backyard, a bumper crop she cultivated along the edge of a chain link fence that framed her postage-stamp sized victory garden. She continued this practice throughout the entire summer, even as her supply of rhubarb dwindled.  Vicki was a pioneer of the Great Depression, by definition a person of extraordinary thrift.  Undaunted, she began to stretch the remaining, thinning rhubarb each week by adding tapioca and more sugar. 

These became more interesting concoctions as the months progressed. After bringing home an anemic green rhubarb pie one week, only to find one still on the counter untouched from the week before, I went to my dad and told him she needed to be stopped.  He wouldn’t hear of it.  “You can’t tell your grandma to stop baking us pies, that’s ridiculous!”  So I went back the next week to take her shopping, convinced I needed to take matters into my own hands.

As we were browsing the vegetable aisle at Farmer Jack’s, I started in, “Grandma, you know, you don’t have to make us a rhubarb pie every week.  That seems like an awful lot of work. It’s okay if you don’t.”

   

She nodded appreciatively, as if she understood.  The next week I showed up in her kitchen, and there on the counter was another creation.  I wasn't sure exactly whether it was a pie.  It was in a pie dish, that much was certain.  But this one was covered in a weird mound of white frothy ooze.  She was standing there, wiping her hands in her apron and beaming. 

I blurted out the most enthusiastic reaction I could muster, “Oh wow, is that another pie?”

“Yeah, you’ns don’t like the same thing all the time, so I made something different this time.” And with that, she presented me with a Green Tapioca Rhubarb Meringue pie.

What I’ve learned in the years since she has been gone is that with little formal schooling, Vicki had more wisdom than most folks with college degrees.  Although her work life was spent on the factory floor, and the only elected office she ever held was as president of the Women’s Auxiliary of the VFW, she remained convinced that she could solve many of the world’s most pressing problems—hunger, world peace and domestic violence, with recipes conjured up in the confines of her tiny kitchen. 

That’s because she learned how to live right as a graduate of that Special School for Grandmothers.  She became an extraordinary student in the larger lessons of life.  She had learned that you can’t believe everything you hear. But as they say, a smart person believes half of what they see, and the genius knows which half.  Vicki was ingenious at knowing which half, because she had faith.  But this faith in human nature ultimately blinded her to the fact that another human being might have something against her, or would take something not theirs to take.  That’s why twenty years ago, Vicki let someone into her kitchen one day, began to feed them, and was killed in the process.  Remains of a mostly uneaten pie were found in her Frigidaire when we went to clean out her house days later. 


Nowadays, whenever I make rhubarb pie for friends or family, I see Vicki so vividly in her kitchen, her apron dusted with flour.  I think of all the work across the planet devoted to pursuing domestic tranquility and world peace.  There’s so much work left to be done.  But the place to begin is very clear.  


Start small in your corner of the kitchen by making someone a pie.  Keep in mind, if you make one each and every week, there will still never be enough rhubarb pie to go around.

Ron's Edible Adaptation of Vicki's Rhubarb Pie

• 1 recipe pastry for a 9 inch double crust pie (I use Crisco instead of Vicki's bacon fat)
• 2 cups diced rhubarb (try to pick the fattest, red juicy stalks and leave the green ones!) 
• 2 1/2 cups hulled strawberries 
• 1 cup white sugar
• 2 teaspoons cornstarch
• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
• 3 tablespoons butter, diced
• 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg (I'm not a nutmeg person, so I eliminate this)
• 1/2 lemon's worth of grated lemon zest (I added this too)*
• 1 tablespoon white sugar
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

* I can't imagine Vicki displaying the patience to grate a lemon!

Baking Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 450 degrees F (230 degrees C). Divide the pie pastry in half; roll out half into a circle on a floured work surface, and line a 9-inch pie dish with bottom crust. Roll the remaining half out into a 10-inch circle on a floured work surface, and set aside.
2. Mix the rhubarb, whole strawberries, 1 cup of sugar, flour, butter, and nutmeg together in a bowl. Pour the filling into the crust-lined pie dish.
3. Cut the remaining crust into 3/4-inch wide strips (use a scalloped edge pastry cutter for a prettier crust). Moisten the rim of the filled bottom crust with a bit of water, and lay the two longest strips in a cross in the middle of the pie. Working from the next longest down to the shortest strips, alternate horizontal and vertical strips, weaving the strips as you go. Press the lattice strips down onto the bottom crust edge to seal, and trim the top crust strips neatly. Mix 1 tablespoon of sugar with cinnamon in a small bowl, and set aside.  Okay, truth be told I added this entire step.  In truth, Vicki would not have the patience to create a lattice with the dough.  In fact, she worked the dough too much on most occasions, and her crust wasn't as flaky as it should be, so I have added this, knowing she'd smile on the result.
4. Bake in the preheated oven for 10 minutes; reduce heat to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Remove pie. Sprinkle the top with the cinnamon-sugar mixture, and return to oven; bake until the crust is golden brown and the filling is bubbling, about 30 more minutes.
5. Nota Bene:  Vicki was notorious for going outside to put her wash out on the clothesline while there was a pie in the oven.  She would invariably return to the kitchen to the smell of burnt sugar.  As a precaution, especially if the rhubarb is especially juicy, I place a cookie sheet underneath the pie with some baking soda in case some of the filling spills over.  

A Healthy Tribute to Two Real Sweethearts this Valentine's Day!

Ron’s Favorite Scones are Now Vegan!

As a tribute to his dear son Dan and sweet friend Caroline, for Valentine’s Day this year, Ron gave his kitchen crew the assignment to take his decadent, delicate homemade scones and make them with vegan-only ingredients.  No small task given that their richness comes from traditional eggs and butter.  But they happily went to work.  Check them out.  The result:  New Better than Ever Vegan Scones! Amazingly delicate just as before.  Sweet tribute to Dan and Caroline, two Vegan Sweethearts!

The Not-so-Secret NEW Vegan Scone Recipe

1 stick vegan vegetable spread

2 cups flour

¼ teaspoon salt

6 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda

2 teaspoons cream of tartar

2 egg-equivalents*

1/3 cup almond milk (you can also use rice or soy milk)

* Egg equivalents were made using 2 tablespoons of ground flaxseed, mixed with 3 tbls. of water for each egg (so this recipe would use 4 tbls. flaxseed + 6 tbls. Water)

Grind the flaxseed, measure out 4 tablespoons and put in a bowl with 6 tablespoons of water, and mix together and let sit. Using a pastry blender, cut the vegan spread into the flour and salt.  Mix until it looks like course ground cornmeal.  Add the sugar, baking soda and cream of tartar.  Take the flaxseed mixture and fold in using a wooden spoon until the mixture is fully blended.  Form the mixture into a long 3” tall rectangle on a floured surface, then cut into triangles.  Sprinkle the tops of each with sugar, and press dried fruit into the tops of each as you desire. Bake in a pre-heated oven for 6-8 minutes at 450 degrees. 

Serve with jam or fruit spread.  Enjoy them in good health, and thank Caroline and Dan for their inspiration!

 

Cautionary Tales with Our Kids: Oversight NEVER ends

Our Cautionary Tale with Our Kids:

Michigan State Student dies of suspected infection

This is a true story with a happy ending.  I can say that now, because after returning home from a fantastic trip to Toronto Public Library, my last few hours picking up Dan at Michigan State were a parents' worst nightmare.

It all started when I went to pick up Dan at Michigan State to bring him home for a weekend of rest and relaxation.  His past few weeks at school had been demanding, and included late nights with little sleep.  He expressed worries that he might even have mono. (I didn't press him for details.)

When I arrived on campus he was still crashed in his room, and I had to call him a few times, but thought little of it. We decided to eat lunch in the cafeteria at Brody Hall, and I was overwhelmed—it is an incredibly impressive operation. Great food, great staff, great service as North America's largest non-military food operation.

I noticed Dan was eating very little, some bland cereal, and a juice drink.  As we drove home to Ann Arbor, Dan suddenly began complaining about feeling really sick.  When pressed for details, he said he was just achy, nauseous and feeling really tired, this after sleeping 12 hours the night before.

We were picking up his car at the dealer in Ann Arbor, and as I dropped him off, I noticed he was looking pretty sallow, and very lethargic. I pressed him a few times about whether he was well enough to drive home, and he assured me he could, and we live just a mile away.

As I got into my car, I checked my Blackberry and saw I had an email from the Provost's Office at Michigan State.  The subject line said: "Student dies of suspected bacterial infection."

I read on: "Late last evening, a 19-year-old Michigan State University student living in Snyder-Phillips residence hall was taken to Sparrow Hospital and passed away a few hours later. At this time, officials with the Health Department are investigatingthe possible cause of death as a bacterial infection, with one of the suspects being meningococcal disease. Health department officials are working to identify those people who may have been in close contact with the student and could be at risk. Those individuals identified as being at risk are receiving antibiotic prophylaxis.

Meningococcal disease can cause both a systemic (rapidly progressing flu-like) illness, and an inflammation of the membranes that cover the brain and spinal cord, commonly known as bacterial meningitis. The spread of meningococcal disease typically requires close contact with an infected person. Common symptoms include flu-like symptoms, sore throat and a fever that rapidly becomes more severe, unlike most respiratory illnesses. These symptoms can develop over several hours, or they may take one to two days. Other symptoms may include nausea, vomiting, and discomfort looking into bright lights, confusion and sleepiness. Students who are experiencing symptoms should contact the Olin Student Health Center or their health care provider. If one is getting rapidly ill, one should go to the emergency room."

I was now in full alert mode.  I called Dan, and he had just hopped into bed as I reached him.  He was barely talking at this point, and didn't want to be on the phone.  He all but hung up on me.

"Dan, by any chance were you at Snyder-Philips yesterday?"

"Yes, I had dinner in the dorm there."

A pit in my stomach formed. "I want you to meet me immediately at the UM Health center on Jackson Road."

He protested, was just really tired. He tried to assure me everything was fine.  I emphasized why he needed to get to UM Healthcare immediately "Dan, meet me at the health clinic immediately. I just need you to get there right away, can you do it?"

He was lethargic and the severity of the circumstance was only slowly beginning to dawn on him.  It became clearer when he arrived, and the triage nurse immediately put a mask on him, and isolated him from everyone in the reception room while we waited for the doctor.

We shared the Provost's email and the entire story with the doctor as she fired questions and examined him.  She seemed concerned, and when I pressed her she said, "I've seen a lot as a doctor over the last 25 years.  Nothing scares me.  But I have to tell you, this strikes fear in me. You did the right think getting right over here."

As she completed her exam, she explained that rapid decline actually presents with far more severity than Dan was exhibiting.  Since MSU didn't share the student's identity, it was impossible to know if the student had actually been in contact with Dan. The doctor decided to treat Dan as an at-risk candidate, and had a nurse immediately administer Rosephin prophylactically.

As the nurse was doing so, the doctor left the room only to return a moment later extremely agitated. She had asked if Dan had any allergies to medication and we said 'Keflex and Amoxicillin.' Her original research showed this wasn't a problem, but upon further investigation, she had discovered he might be allergic to the antibiotic he just received.  They immediately administered a dose of Benedryl, and kept him under observation for 20 minutes to make sure he didn't go into anaphylaxis.

When the doctor returned, she had good news on several fronts.  Although Dan was sick and his symptoms came on fast, they were not severe.  In addition, because of Dan's mission trip to Costa Rica in '08, he had been vaccinated for meningitis, and was more than likelyprotected, even without specifics on the strain of bacteria. And as an additional precaution, he now had a strong dose of antibiotics in his system.

At this point, I resumed my normal breathing and heart rate.  Dan took some soup when we got home, and went to bed immediately.  He had a good night's rest, and this morning appears to be on the mend altogether.  At this point, while Dan sleeps in the other room, I am contemplating the discussion that follows when he gets up.

As a parent, how do I explain to him how serious this could have been?  This is a reminder that our children our always at risk and require our vigilance even from afar.

As Dan's doctor explained, meningitis strikes fear for good reason—those who are lucky enough to survive it often do so without their limbs! Last year Dan and Will's scout friend Jeremy died from meningitis after a rapid onset.

I am thankful to Michigan State for their proactive communication blitz, and their health mobilization efforts.  I am thankful Dan appears to be better already.  I am thankful that mission work in a third world country proved to be a fortuitous and good thing for other reasons.  I am thankful I don't have to amplify another word about risks.  We've encountered and addressed risk together first hand.

We're aware of the reality of how fragile our health can be, and down the road, I may even smile at the picture Dan asked me to take of him while we waited for the doctor with that mask on.

But not just yet!

 

The Case for a Good Funeral: The View from This Side of Heaven

I think there is a benefit that has accrued to me by virtue of attending way more funerals than most people have in their lifetime.  At first glance this might seem counter-intuitive.  Funerals are to be dreaded.  They are sad, sorrowful affairs, with lots of crying, a ton of emotion, and in many cases, they are also occasions for more than a fair share of drama. 

I especially dread the ones with open caskets.  There is something deeply unsettling about seeing someone laid out “in state.”  I remember when my mother was interred, the first time we saw her, the undertaker had attempted to make her lips look less drawn by over-reaching with her lipstick, and the odd result was that she looked like she had the pasted-on smile of the “Joker” on the famous Batman series.  When my father died, it was after a week or so of extended hospital care on a ventilator, so he had hadn’t shaved.  Despite all the photos I had provided the funeral director, we showed up for the first family viewing to see him presented “in state” with a full mustache.  I had never seen my father sporting any kind of facial hair in his entire life, and the effect was startling.  He looked like he could pass for Tony Soprano’s older brother Sal.  Very unsettling. 

Funerals are further made awkward when relatives press their hands into your arm and whisper, “she/he looks good.”  I’m not sure why people say that, and whether it’s really true under the circumstances.  Even in a hospital bed my mother looked better—she was alive.  You get my point. 

The more funerals you attend, the more you also begin to see that they fall into a clear hierarchy.  Those of the elderly are small, orderly affairs.  In many cases only a few relatives and friends remain.  My mother said you could always tell how old someone was by the length of their funeral procession.  Given the tragic way my grandmother Vicki died, that proved to be a very prophetic commentary.  After all, she was taken from us prematurely, and despite that she was 85, her funeral procession stretched for almost a mile.  She was obviously young at heart and adored by throngs of admirers.  

For the truly observant, funerals also represent an opportunity for reflection; for looking back and for taking account of things.  It is almost impossible to sit at a wake while someone is reciting a decade of the Rosary, and not have your mind wander off in zillion different directions.  Thinking about your relationship to the deceased, thinking about your proximity to their circumstances.  It isn’t too long before it’s all about you—when might I be next?

My friend Brian Martinuzzi’s funeral these past few days offered me just such an opportunity to be observant and reflective, and a good many things came of this experience.  First of all, it is actually wonderful to see a great family at the funeral of an immediate loved one.  Good families seem to keep the press of drama to a minimum, or at least out of the public view, and they also rally.  They display themselves for who they are—just honest, caring, decent people you’d love to have living next door to you.  Families you’d love to spend more time with.  I can’t help but think it would be great to be part of one of the Martinuzzi’s intimate holiday gatherings, to watch the sibling dynamics, the inner family chemistry and repartee.  The traditions, the simple joys, seeing who brings the food, who shows up perennially late.  Just speaking with any of them, you get a sense that the quick and incisive wit that surely finds itself on display at their family affairs was probably shaped and crafted at spirited family dinners. 

As a kid I had some exposure to life at the Martinuzzi table.  With 7 kids, it was spirited for sure.  Pure chaos might be a more accurate description.  There was the time I was there for one of Joan’s meals, and Kurt had put Lisa on the Lazy Susan that spun the food around the circular table in the center of the kitchen.  Everyone except Lisa thought it was quite funny and highly entertaining to watch her spin, with her long hair flailing, until she finally screamed to be let off the improvised merry-go-round, and ran off crying into the bathroom where she promptly threw up. 

Watching the Martinuzzi family at the wake of their “number one son” was a sight to behold.  For all their differences, you can’t help but be envious of the entire clan.  The deadpan funny, tough-as-nails Massachusetts matriarch Joan, the graceful Anne, the scrappy boys from Brian, Kurt, Neil to the rough and tumble younger two, Eric and Peter.  And of course the ever adorable youngest one, Lisa.  Each of them pursuing life on it’s own unique terms.  It brings back memories of their dad, Eddie.  With his broad smirk and earnest demeanor, and his close-cropped hair, shorn as if to limit any display of his well-defined Italian hair and features, Eddie was clearly a patriarch well suited to the strong matriarch sitting across the table.  

Listening to Lisa, Neil and Kurt speak about Brian in the past tense was both mesmerizing and intense, bittersweet and telling.  I have to be honest.  As I approached Brian’s wake, I felt a powerful reaction, a ton of raw unchecked emotion.  Part of it, I concluded, was a consequence of the announcement.  I had received the news about Brian from Kurt via a group email.  My first reaction was “here goes” as I saw Kurt move into his all-too-familiar distant, detached doctor mode.  He offered us telling tribute, sanguine medical prognosis and logistical details all in one matter of fact missive written like an auto-repair manual, something I’m sure Brian would have actually appreciated, given his penchant for exacting detail.  At the same time, Kurt shared how much he was already missing his frequent phone calls with Brian, and it hurt my heart to hear him say that.  Clearly Kurt was feeling the loss, and unlike Eddie’s funeral where Kurt spent much of his time in the choir loft, observing events from a distance, he was clearly participating fully in an exercise of communal caring and grief.

Part of my strong reaction to Brian’s passing also had something to do with our proximity in age.  It is hard to see someone you’ve grown up with since the days of boy scouts die so suddenly.  In real terms, Brian’s six-month illness was a rapid fast transition, made more stunning by the fact that it came out of nowhere.  One minute he had left the law firm and was in a job transition.  The next minute he was seeing a doctor for some unexplained symptoms, and in another nanosecond he had a terminal diagnosis, and was headed into surgery.  Of course, part of my reaction was the deep sadness I felt thinking of Joan.  I know too well from my own past family experience how hard it is to watch a parent bury one of their children.  As a parent, you cannot imagine anything worse.  There is good reason for that.  Nothing is worse.

I also may have been looking at Brian from my bias as a married man with a family.  Brian, after all, was a bachelor without children.  There was something I kept thinking—Brian was such a nice, caring, good man.  It felt a little like he had not benefited fully in the rewards such virtues certainly entitled him—that is to say, a good wife, and the blessing of children. But after listening to his siblings talk about him at length, I think I had that part of Brian’s story wrong.  Brian lived a rich and fulfilling life through others.  He was a dedicated uncle, brother, son and friend, relationships that stop us from otherwise worrying needlessly that he had somehow missed out.  

The redeeming part of attending funerals for people like Brian is that they confirm our faith in a higher order.  It is so easy to look back on his life, and fret about the question “Why?” until suddenly it hits you like the sudden revelation that it is.  There is a reason why good people leave this planet way to soon.  It happens all the time.  If you were God, wouldn’t you be stacking the skies above with the best and the brightest?  When you were contemplating spending an eternity of time with someone, wouldn’t people like Brian be among those first to come to mind?

There is also something very revealing about watching other people at funerals.  Members within close families sometimes take exception to the distant relative or friend who shows up at a funeral and cries excessively, in the same way they decry the person who seems to display no emotional register when the circumstance certainly warrants it. But grief is an entirely personal pursuit, and in truth, mourning is not an indication of character.  Rather, it simply reveals it. 

I was sitting next to my friend Gil’s dad, Mr. B, during the service, and watched him tear up during the eulogy.  He said afterward, he didn’t really know Brian or the family all that well, but there is something truly virtuous about a guy who registers strong emotions when he clearly sees something.  Mr. B immediately sensed that herein lived someone who truly made a difference in the lives of others. He said after, “I had heard all the stories about the Martinuzzi kids back in the day when someone was always in trouble.  What a great family. I only wish I knew him better.”  Isn't that what we’d all like to have said of us in the end?  It was so heartening to see Mr. B shed tears upon hearing the other side of the Martinuzzi family chronicle, that story for which a good funeral is necessary. 

That’s the stuff that really makes a funeral worthwhile.  It’s on this side of heaven, right up close to death’s door that we are reminded of better days, and a more complete picture of a person emerges, their unique worth ultimately revealed to us.  This got me thinking about the other display of emotion that always grabs me about Mr. B.  Whenever he sees any of his boys, he always hugs them and kisses them openly.  For men of his generation, this is an uncharacteristic display of affection.  But by God, seeing both of these sides of him, his ability to show real affection and grief, is an inspiration to be the guy that stand-up guys like Brian would want us to be.  And the fact is, we need more guys like Mr. B. and Brian, Neil and Kurt, to remind us that these emotions are not reserved for weddings and funerals, but available and ready for wear every day in the most common way, in the midst of life’s minor miracles and daily milestones.     

We can’t possibly sustain a saccharine-sweet life with all bliss, and beauty, blue skies and babies.  With pain, suffering and life’s ultimate impermanence facing us squarely in the face, we must come to appreciate that without some exposure to Death’s sting, and illness’ bitter rough edge, life’s most important victories and joys would be lost on us, taken for granted, cast off as ordinary.  Without others on hand to laugh, cry and grieve, we would simply wither into that isolation that our blessed connection with others prevents.

In Kurt’s tribute to Brian, he mentioned the two opposing life views held in the palm of his hand.  In one hand, was a note saying, “I am but a speck of dust.”  In the other hand, the note said “The world is all for me.”  If not for a good cry at a sad and bittersweet funeral of a dear and wonderful soul lost to us, where would such reminders of the truths grasped in both his hands greet us? 

As I completed writing this, I learned that a former colleague was killed this morning on the side of I-696 awaiting assistance on the way to work.  I re-read the email Dennis had sent me three days earlier talking about the blessings of the New Year.  There but for the grace of God, go us. 

Living well, I rest thee in the thought.