Certified: I’m Digit(ally) Impaired

The bushes in our backyard were threatening to become trees with some having reached beyond the height of the purple martin house. I knew that they should be cutback and had tried more than once to get my two-cycle gas hedge trimmer started. It took me awhile to figure out the plastic tube from its gas tank had broken – as it also had on my gas powered blower.

Within three short weeks of this discovery, everything was fixed and ready to go. Except I wasn’t. Temperatures started regularly exceeding the century mark and my enthusiasm for the task (which was low to start with) became inversely proportional to the temperature. When I finally got the gumption, I found the ”repaired” gas hedge trimmer again would not start. Closer inspection revealed the little plastic bubble used to prime the engine had developed a hole in it about the size of the price tag of my earlier repair. Rats! I decided against throwing more good money down this path and headed for Home Depot. I was going electric.

I found a beautiful model for a little more than I wanted to pay but rationalized it because (1) it would never require fuel line repairs and (2) it was Father’s Day and I deserved to splurge. Plus it could cut ¾” limbs and had a l-o-n-g blade so I could reach those higher branches. Feeling good with this decision, I brought it home and put it in the garage where I admired it every time I passed it during the next couple of weeks.

Last Tuesday I tardily decided to get outside early and get as much trimming done as I could before the thermometer hit 100. By 9:30am I was in a hospital emergency room having been transported there by my very pale BBL. The top inch of my left index finger was being held on by a bare thread of skin. [Some advice to DIY hackers: if you’re going to maim yourself, do it fairly early in the morning and you’ll avoid the long lines that develop at the ER later in the day.]

Ironically, my BBL recognized the ER doctor as the one who had attended to my last emergency visit a couple of years ago. If nothing else, we are loyal with our patronage. Dr. Z quickly consulted with a couple of different hand surgeons to assess the prospects for re-attachment. He reported it could be done but would probably require a 10 hour operation followed by an ICU stay, and probably cost >$100,000; and then there would be the increased possibility for complications. Not a hard decision for me. I’m no fan of surgical operations or hospital stays, having had some past experience with both. Besides, I’m already used to typing one-handed.

Dr. Z referred me to the hospital’s hand surgeon on call – Dr. A (no kidding). We were told to show up in his office by 3:00pm and he would work me in. We cheated a bit and showed up earlier. This is when I learned that hand surgeons usually double as plastic surgeons (maybe it’s vice versa). Arriving early meant we got to study at length all the “before and after” pictures displayed on the wall and the digital picture frame in the waiting room. We saw lots of shots of improved butts, thighs, breasts, tummies, throats, chins, etc., but not one hand!

When Dr. A finally worked through his more interesting procedures and got to me, he asked how I was doing. I felt oddly fine under the circumstances, but told him I was going to really freak out if he asked me to disrobe. An hour later, he announced the completion of “a textbook amputation”. Certified by Doctors A to Z, now I can only count to 9 2/3 – unless I’m totally disrobed.

It Was All Relative

My BBL achieved her XXth birthday last week. On her short “wish” list was a desire to visit family by taking a roadtrip to roam the Northwestern reaches of Chicago-land & /Northern Indiana capped with a stop in St. Louis.. The caveat (and I think her real birthday wish) was that she wanted me to chauffeur her! So we packed up the Mighty Mercury Montego and racked up some impressive stats:

2443 total miles
219 hours away (start to finish)
200 tollbooths (it seemed like that many!)
87 gallons of gas
53 average miles per hour (not 83 as originally posted!)
46 hours (behind the wheel)
28 average miles per gallon
Resulting in visits with:
1 Father (in-law)
1 Mother (in-law)
1 Son
1 Doctor (SO)
1 Step-Cousin
3 Brothers (in-law)
3 Sisters (in-law)
5 Nephews (in-law)
6 Nieces (in-law)
6 Spouses of brothers/sisters/niece (in-law)
7 Pets (in-law?)
Or:
28 family members visited (excluding pets)
87 miles driven per relative
199 ounces of gas consumed per relative
469 minutes away from home per relative . . .

But who’s counting? It was a priceless experience.

Thanks to all who have served

These aren't my words, but they definitely mirror my sentiments:

It is the VETERAN, not the clergy, who has given us freedom of religion.

It is the VETERAN, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the VETERAN, not the legislator, who has given us freedom to assemble.

It is the VETERAN, not the judge, who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the VETERAN, not the politician, who has given us the right to vote.

It is the VETERAN, not the orator, who has given us freedom of speech.

And if you can read this in English, thank a VETERAN!

If you've got two minutes, check out this link, then click on the screen to start.

Best wishes for a happy and safe holiday weekend.

Voir Dire Y’all

Last week I answered my civic jury duty “invitation” for the DC court system. Not the DC you might immediately think of, but the local county court system with the same initials and, I guess, the same pedigree.

This is the third time I’ve been summoned for jury duty by this court. In retrospect, that averages about once for every ten years I’ve resided in their jurisdiction (and about half the invitations my BBL’s experienced, for which I’m thankful).

In the past, the event ALWAYS came at an awkward time for service, but this time there were no conflicting pressures upon my time and I approached this “opportunity” with a different mindset: I found myself mentally willing, albeit not particularly anxious, to serve should I be selected.

The first couple of hours were no different than my previous visits – essentially a boot camp to explain the process, how honored one should feel that a computer had selected you at random, how even MORE honored you should feel if the computer again randomly selected you for a specific jury pool, but that you could not feel honored if the computer selected you and you happened to somehow be associated with the legislative branch of government, etc. Thank God the court has some minimal standards!

So I felt duly honored when the computer randomly selected me to report to the 999th district court – but they won’t need you for at least an hour. We were instructed to show up again no later than 11:15 or else the sheriff would be sent to find our honored bodies, presumably to dishonor them somehow/someway.

At 11:30 the 999th Court bailiff came to read off my name with approximately 34 other honored people and inform us that (a) the judge does not like cell phones, particularly ones that ring/buzz in his courtroom; (b) if your cell phone does make its presence known, he will bestow a contempt of court fine of at least $100 on your honored wallet, and (c) show up at the courtroom no later than noon without food, drink and preferably your cell phone (or else you know what).

At the appointed hour, we were role-called in to the courtroom. I am not in the first twelve, but find myself well within the first half of prospective jurors. After we genuflect to the cell phone phobic judge, we begin the process of voir dire. Anytime anything remotely representing a French phrase is uttered in Texas, one can be forgiven to assume the worse could happen.

Both the prosecuting and defense attorneys “explained” the voir dire process as meaning “to tell the truth.” They both professed to wanting to get to know us better. In actuality, what they both really wanted to do was start un-randomizing the process of jury selection that the County had spent so much time and treasure to accomplish. In other words, they each wanted to stack the jury in their favor as much as possible. The game was on!

Although we could see the defendant, the rules of this game were that the attorneys could not represent any specific facts of the case; they could only ask questions about jurors thoughts of the case in the abstract. The only specific: the charge in this particular case was burglary of a habitation.

The prosecutor started hitting voir dire paydirt when he explained the penalty for this particular crime could be 20 years to life under certain circumstances. The question: could you consider such a sentence? Much consternation arose among my peers that they could vote for such a sentence. What circumstances would warrant it? The prosecutor offered as one scenario: what if you found out the defendant had murdered someone in the past? Hmmm. Defense attorney calls a sidebar conference with judge. The verdict – let’s adjourn for lunch,

We reconvened at 2pm. It’s the defense attorney’s time at bat. We learn that at one time he was a mayor of a small municipality nearby (I can’t help myself hoping that they had a good audit committee there). He tries to address the prosecutor’s scenario with a different one of his own. We find out if the defendant is found guilty of this crime and, let’s suppose, he was guilty of two other felonies, say as simple as passing 2 bad checks (>$1500 each) twenty years ago, A-HA, then the State would require us to consider that 20-year to life sentence as minimum. Oh, and by the way, what do you think if I don’t put my client on the stand to testify in his behalf? You know he doesn’t have to say a word – you have to presume his innocence. Can you do that? Consternation consequently expressed on several levels amongst my peers = defense voir dire paydirt.

To make the proverbial long jury selection story bearable, the judge eventually called the attorneys to his bench where they conferred for some time. At the end, I was not particularly surprised to learn I wasn’t selected to serve, but I was surprised that NO ONE was selected to serve from this group. The system voir dired itself out of a jury and I’m still unsure of the mechanism (I thought each side could strike 10 prospective jurors apiece which would have still left at least 12).

What I do know is approximately 35 citizens sacrificed a day of their time and treasure (mine amounted to driving ~70 miles + lunch) – but for the infrastructure (judge, attorneys, bailiffs, court reporter, security screeners, etc.) it was just another day at the office, playing the game where they know the rules.

Reflecting upon the experience, I was extremely surprised to learn that seemingly more than half of my fellow jury candidates had experienced some type of theft; most were in-personal (garage, auto, office, etc), but some were of a very personable nature – and under capable attorney questioning, I found out that none of the perpetuators had been identified, much less brought to justice. I, for one, am therefore very surprised at the restraint these “random victims” exhibited at potential sentencing scenarios during voir dire.

One result of all this: I have started setting the home security system again. Why? In addition to the above, what if I told you (hypothetically, of course) I heard a court employee say the defendant has been charged with more than 15 similar offences?

Collaborating Testimony

I have always thought of my BBL as an angel (well, at least most of the time). She came home last week with a letter that had been sent to the hospital by a patient she had briefly interacted with.
“Three days until Christmas and nine days before my scheduled surgery, I found myself at the pre-op appointment at the hospital. It was the third hour taking care of the business at hand and I was growing weary, but this was my last stop. This particular nurse was asking questions regarding my health history and, as her fingers typed feverishly on the keyboard, I couldn’t help but notice a silver ring on her little finger. From my vantage point it looked like a small angel charm dangled from the ring. It was the smallest charm I’d ever seen, and the angel appeared to be holding a trumpet. I answered her questions without too much effort but was mesmerized by her ring.”
“Abruptly, my eyes were removed from the ring as she turned toward me waiting for an answer to her last question. I paused for a second but knew no other way to answer except to honestly say, ‘I don’t recall much about myself at that time of my life because my middle son had just passed away from cancer and I was grieving.’ She turned even more to face me and gently asked what form of cancer. I replied, ‘Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma; he was about to turn 21 when he passed away. He was an A&M student when he …’ And by that point the tears spilled out and I began sobbing, Just thinking back to that time … in the grip of the darkest season of my life, produced such intense pain and sadness. The nurse graciously shared that no mother should ever have to endure such pain.”
“For some reason, I told her that I’d been staring at her angel ring and that I wanted to buy myself one like it—that I believed in angels. Without hesitation, she shocked me when she spoke: ‘Please take my ring—I want you to have it! This angel charm isn’t even made anymore.’ I argued that I had no intention of taking her ring, but she softly said, “I haven’t worn this ring in a long time. I don’t know why I wore it today, so it must have been to give it to you. Please, have my ring.’ She took it off her little finger and I tried it on mine…it fit perfectly.”
“We completed the questions and stood up. We hugged. She was my nurse, my friend and my angel that day – and she had no idea that I had prayed to God that morning desiring more of Him and a strong sense of my son’s presence in my life that day.”
That’s my BBL. 
1/24/11 edit: corrected typo "harm" to "charm"

Spirit of St. Louis

Less than ninety days ago, it wouldn’t have entered my wildest dreams (not that I have that many anymore) that I would ever spend a Christmas in St. Louis. My visit there awakened some good, and some sad, memories.

In November, our Denver-based number one son moved East to Lucky Lindy’s hometown in order to join a firmly rooted Western based financial firm (whose motto is “Together We’ll Go Far.”) Fulfilling the “together” role, Dr. S(O) also made the same journey (we will not speculate on who followed whom). Faced with the prospect of not having our kids together with us on Christmas morn, my BBL artfully wrangled an invitation for us to visit the new transplants. And so we did -- and had a great time. Then, on the day after Christmas, my Blackberry calendar reminded me that John, my St. Louis friend/associate, had died nine years ago.

In the 27 years I served as a region manager, St. Louis had been in-and-out of my geographical sales “responsibility” at least three times. During one of those touch points in the 1990’s, it represented the best market share area in my region, if not in the entire nation. Certainly not because of me, but most certainly because of John.

I remember that John almost didn’t get hired by my company. The region manager who was trying to hire him confided that he was very worried that the current perceptions of what a sales rep should look or be like (young, athletic ie. run/play tennis, etc.) would wash him out during the HQ interview process. He shouldn’t have worried so much, because the guy who looked like a balding fireplug proved to be the sparkplug most of us would come to admire. As evidence, I remember that John’s name, when mentioned during national sales meetings would elicit a spontaneous karaoke version of Volare – a close approximation of his surname.

Confident. Intelligent. Engaging. Cognizant of “the little people” in any organization. Independent. Principled. Loyal. Seeing/Using Humor. Organized. Networking for the good of all. Devoted to family/friends/associates. All attributes of John – and every other person I know or have known from this city. Perhaps all represent the true “Spirit of St. Louis”.