Armistice Day 2018

From Metro News in the U.K.:

As we approach the centenary of the Armistice on November 11, the Imperial War Museum has released a recording of the moment the war ended, patched together using recordings from their collections. The artillery activity it illustrates was recorded on the American front near the River Moselle, one minute before and one minute after the war ended. Read more here

My paternal grandparents, Raymond Shay (Big Danny to his grandkids) and Florence Green (Mudder), were both near the action in the closing days of the war. My grandfather was a cavalry officer with the Iowa National Guard and my grandmother was a nurse serving at Evac Hospital No. 8. Several years ago, I printed Mudder's diary (with commentary) on these pages. Here are her entries from Nov. 9-12:

November 9: The Germans have until Monday 11am, am crazy to know how every thing is going to turn out. Am waiting to go on a candy making party but looks like we won’t go tonight as the officers can’t come, such as life, just full of disappointments.
November 10: Busy as could be today, tomorrow is the day which decides about the war, am so anxious to hear the return.
November 11: Am some happy tonight to think the war is really over. I cannot believe it. Haven’t heard a gun since 11am. Great celebrating everywhere. Can almost hear the city hall in Baltimore ringing, and what a wonderful time for Paris.
November 12: Nothing exciting happened, patients coming in slowly. Took a walk. Our orders came. We go Evac to #15, hope from there to #2.

The U.S.-led Meuse-Argonne offensive was still in process, with nurses at Evac #8 working around the clock. Researcher Dr. Marian Moser Jones of the University of Maryland read Mudder's diary and had this response:

As she notes in her diary, Florence was sent to evacuation Hospital number 8 during the end of the Meuse Argonne Offensive in late October, after stints at Evacuation Hospitals 1 and 4. Evacuation Hospitals were nearer the front than base hospitals. Green served near the front during the final push of the war and was part of a group regularly exposed to large artillery fire and aerial bombardments.

University of Maryland Professor of Surgery Dr. Arthur Shipley served at Evac #8. He wrote about his experiences after the war. Here are some of his observations about evacuation hospitals:

The Evacuation Hospitals were usually up to 10 miles from the front. They were well out of reach of the light artillery but within the range of the "heavies" and, of course, were subject to bombing. The difficult thing was to place them along the lines of communication, and at the same time far enough away from ammunition dumps and rail heads not to invite shelling or bombing. They were plainly marked with big crosses made of different colored stone laid out on clear space, so as to be easily seen from the observation planes and to show up in photographs. If there were buildings in the hospital group, red crosses were often painted on the roofs. This was most important, as wounded men in large numbers could not be moved into dugouts if the hospitals were subjected to much shelling. During the Argonne offensive, we were at the top of our strength. We had about 1000 beds for patients, 410 enlisted personnel, 65 medical officers and 75 nurses.

My grandfather also kept a diary but he wrote only short, officious entries. We do know he was involved in the Meuse-Argonne offensive but lack any details. I can only guess his feelings on Armistice Day. He told stories about his role in the war but none about the final bloody days when U.S. troopers suffered massive casualties. The Meuse-Argonne American Cemetery holds 14,246 headstones for the U.S. casualties of the final 47 days of the war.

I am writing a novel set in post-war Colorado. During my research, I learned a few things. The war set people in motion. An Iowa farm boy and a middle-class Baltimorean ended up in Europe during one of the globe's most savage moments. As the song goes: "How you gonna keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Paree?"

All four of my grandparents moved to Denver in 1919-1920. I always wondered why. That's the theme I explore in my novel. What caused my relatives to slip the bonds of their homes and venture West? The frontier was closed, Frederick Jackson Turner said after the 1890 census revealed that the Wild West was wild no more. Maybe my grandparents didn't see a frontier but they saw something. What was that thing?

The more I read about the war, the better I understand the era and the less I understand humankind. I hope to bring some shape to the shapeless.

Leukemia is a family affair

My brother Dan found a match.

I wrote over the weekend about Dan’s search for a bone marrow donor. Millions of people are on the donor registry, but very few have just the right qualities to match Dan’s metabolism.

Dan was diagnosed with leukemia just before the 2012 holidays. The holidays, it seems, are a dangerous time for the Shay family. I celebrated them by having a heart attack. My brother Dan celebrated them by going into the hospital for a gall bladder surgery that turned into a diagnosis for acute myeloid leukemia. Five of my other siblings spent Yuletide swabbing the inside of their cheeks and spending the swabs off to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. Our sister Molly did not return a swab kit because the Italian post office was on strike, or maybe it was the railroads or the airlines.  Anyway, she finally located her kit at the P.O. and sent it off to Houston.

The first almost-perfect match for Dan was our sister Mary, who is the youngest. It’s better to have a match among family members, as the rejection rate is lower. Mary was excited to be the chosen one. My sister Maureen thought she was going to be the chosen one, as she and Dan have a lot in common.  But Maureen was not a match.

I was not tested. My recent heart attack and my advancing age left me out. Age, it seems, is not as big an obstacle as my medical condition. Donating marrow takes a toll on the body. The docs prefer to have donors between the ages of 18-44, although they will use those in the 45-60 range. Once you reach 60, though, the strain on the donor’s body is higher and the quality of marrow is lower. Since I’ve already had one heart attack, I could easily have another.

My sister Mary is afraid to fly. So, she drove from Tallahassee to Houston with Maureen and Dan. A few days after arrival, Mary went in for a battery of tests while Dan underwent another round of chemo. Complications arose. Not with Dan but with Mary. X-rays detected a spot on her right lung. More pictures were taken. The docs decided to do a biopsy. Results showed cancer. The docs decided to remove the middle lobe of Mary’s lung and the take a look at the lymph nodes while they were at it. Mary, of course, is stunned by this turn of events. People tell her that she’s lucky to be at MD Anderson, the best place in the world for cancer treatment. She agrees, but can’t help asking, “Why me?” She wonders why she’s the only one crying in a hospital filled with cancer patients from all over the globe. Her answer: “They knew they had cancer before they came here. I didn’t.”

Mary had cancer and Dan no longer had a donor, as current cancer patients are not good risks. Mary will be operated on at MD Anderson on May 28. Dan returned to Florida to find a new donor. Local fund-raisers and donor sign-ups were held for him in Daytona and Ormond Beach. News finally came last week that Dan had a 20-year-old donor that fit the bill.

Then came a surprise. The long-delayed kit from our sister Molly landed at MD Anderson. The preliminary test showed promise. When the final results came in, Molly was as good a match as Mary, although slightly older. Apparently, a 57-year-old sibling is a better prospect than a 20-year-old stranger.

There’s a catch. Molly is finishing up a stint as a lactation specialist at Aviano AFB in Italy. She’s been over there for more than a year. She likes her job and, on days off, is learning a lot about fine Italian wines and food. She has traveled to the Vatican and to Venice and Croatia. But she still needs to wrap things up before arrivederci. She’ll be back in the states in late May, make her donation and head back to her home in Tallahassee. She will have to rest up from jet lag and marrow lag.

Dan will receive his transplant of cells and will be in Houston recovering for 100-some days. His body will be vulnerable after the infusion of our sister’s cells. Infections can occur. I’ll probably fly down to see him for a week. I’ll be recuperating from surgery to implant an ICD which will keep my heart beating regularly – and prevent catastrophic heart failure. Just call it the rhythm method. I got rhythm, who could ask for anything more?

The rhythm method? That was my parents birth control process, which is one reason they had nine kids. But if they had used another more trustworthy method, Dan would not have all of these wonderful siblings and their transplant-friendly bone marrow. My wife Chris and I used to joke around with our son and daughter. When they were fighting, we’d caution them: “You may need a kidney someday.” We didn’t realize the truth in that statement.  You may need a kidney someday, or a batch of bone marrow. 

Easy to Love but Hard to Raise: "You are not alone"

One of my essays, "The Great Third Grade AIDS Scare," is in this anthology. The overall message of the book and the blog and all of its writers is "You are not alone," even though it sometimes feels like it. All kinds of compelling posts on the blog about medications, education, outreach, relationships, resources, etc. To connect, go to the blog at http://www.easytolovebut.com/

How one small event can put things in perspective

Yesterday I was reminded of life’s important moments.

Chris and I attended a christening at the First United Methodist Church. Katherine Margaret Cotton, infant daughter of our friends Don and Karen Cotton, was baptized by Rev. Trudy. It was a few family members and some friends. Lots of photos.

Much of the liturgy was about water and its healing powers. There was no full immersion, or even a partial one. Much different from the Catholic ceremonies I’d witnessed, the ones we held for our two children. Just a touch of water and a few words on Saturday and the baptism was complete. All of us in the pews pledged that we would be there to look after Katie. And we will.

She was born in Cheyenne two months prematurely. Rushed to Denver Children’s Hospital via ambulance, her father at her side. Joined by mom two days later -- Chris and I ferried her to Children’s. It was less than a week before Christmas. I was frightened when I saw the tiny baby in the huge incubator. This three-pound girl was hooked up to an assortment of tubes and wires. But she was in good hands in a hospital ranked among the top five in the nation.

She and her parents were in Denver almost two months. Karen and Don stayed at the Ronald McDonald House (remember to donate next time you're at McD's). And now they’re all home.

Welcome home.

I’m sure that Karen will be sharing many photos in the coming weeks. She’s a writer and photographer, after all. And a proud mother.

Wyoming Rep. Bob Nicholas, R-Cheyenne, arrested by Florida authorities for allegedly beating his disabled son

What can you say about an elected official (anyone, for that matter) who does something like this (as reported in the Wyoming Tribune-Eagle):

State Rep. Bob Nicholas, R-Cheyenne, faces a felony charge of abusing a disabled adult in Florida following a Nov. 23 arrest.

Nicholas, 54, was arrested in Boca Grande, Fla., while on vacation after allegedly punching and kicking his 19-year-old mentally disabled son, according to a Lee County Sheriff’s Office report.

The document indicates that multiple witnesses outside of a restaurant saw Nicholas hit his son repeatedly with a closed fist, push him onto the sidewalk and then kick him more than five times.

--clip--

Nicholas said his son became disruptive and combative during lunch. He said he was only trying to get his son out of the restaurant, and he described his response as "corporal punishment," according to the sheriff's report.

--clip--

"I accept I will have to explain my actions," he said. "And if I was too strong with my son, I will address that as well."

Nicholas, who lives in Cheyenne, is an attorney and was elected in 2010 to represent House District 8.

He serves on the Legislature's Joint Judiciary Interim Committee. The biography he provided for his last campaign listed that he has served for more than 10 years as a board member on the Caring for Children Foundation and is a Special Olympics coach.

Nicholas' son lives with him in Cheyenne. He has two other adult-age children.

The legislator said he has no intention of resigning his legislative seat.

"I don’t think I committed a crime, so why would I?" he responded when asked.

Read entire story at http://www.wyomingnews.com/articles/2011/12/03/news/20local_12-03-11.txt

A short story about one government-issue, middle-class, Middle-American family from Denver

My government-issue parents in Denver, circa 1950. Thanks to my sister Mary for the photo.

I was born in Denver at the tail end of 1950.

My father was a World War II veteran who used the G.I. Bill of Rights to graduate from Regis College (now Regis University) in three years. It was a private Catholic college, one he never could have afforded without the government program, promulgated by Pres. Roosevelt and sponsored by Democrats and Republicans, that provided college degrees for millions of American men. The U.S. Navy paid for my mother's nurse's training at Mercy Hospital in Denver. The war was over before she finished so she didn't have to join the fight. But she did use her government-supported training to help support her nine children from 1946 until she died forty years later. My father spent most of his working life building Defense Department-funded ICBM missile silos around the West and then with the space program in Florida. His salary, directly and indirectly, was paid by Uncle Sam.

My father's father made a pretty good living in Denver selling insurance with Mutual of New York. But before he joined private industry, he served with the Iowa National Guard on the U.S. Mexico border and then in France with the AEF. After repeated gas attacks, the Army shipped him to Fitzsimons Army Medical Hospital outside Denver. During his recuperation, he struck up a friendship with an Army nurse, Florence Green from Baltimore, who had traded the life of a debutante to tend to shattered soldiers on the front. The U.S. Army trained her in the healing arts. Grandpa Shay was forever grateful. Both Grandma and Grandpa received the lion's share of their medical care from Veteran's Administration hospitals in Denver and Cheyenne. They both were buried in Denver's government-administered military cemetery, Fort Logan. You can go visit them. Notice what a fine job the V.A. does in maintaining this national landmark. Go ahead, notice.

My mother' mother was the first postmistress in a little town outside Cincinnati. She liked her government paycheck. But one summer she joined her sister and two friends for a road trip via flivver to the Rocky Mountains. The roads were rough. Fortunately, Brevet Lt. Col. Dwight D. Eisenhower had led the U.S. Army's Motor Transport Company from D.C. to California in 1919 and made the road navigable. A year later, she was following the same government-blazed trail and, a year after that, she and her sister were living in Denver and visiting the mountains regularly.

Ike was from Kansas but he liked Denver. He got married in Denver to Mamie Doud and later fished the U.S. Forest Service mountain streams during his breaks from the Oval Office. During one Mile High trip, he suffered a heart attack and recuperated at Fitzsimons Army Hospital. I was four -- almost five -- at the time. Our family lived just off of Colfax Avenue in Aurora and my father took me down to the corner, pointed at the well-lit building across the street, and said: "Our president is right over there." The president was a Republican. My father was a Democrat -- then. But he said "our" president. Gen. Eisenhower had been his supreme commander in the ETO. And now he was his -- our -- president. We then walked back to our $8,000 house, purchased without a down payment and paid for with a low-interest loan. At the end of his life, my father was astonished that he paid twice as much for a new car as he paid for his first house. He was a Florida Republican by then, a by-product of Nixon's southern strategy. He seemed astonished by many things, particularly the Liberal politics of his eldest son. Even though he passed away almost a decade ago, Dad may be astonished still.

Spawn of our government-sponsored parents (see above), taken in her backyard in Daytona Beach, Fla.,
where we used to watch government-sponsored rockets blast off into space (from the Mary Shay Powell archives).

My mother's father came from Ireland in 1917. He worked with his brother on the Chicago El until he got sick and had his infected lung removed at the city's charity hospital. The doctor advised him to take his one remaining lung and go to the healthy climes of the West. Grandpa made it as far as Denver, liked it, and decided to stay. He worked at the post office for many years, and then the railroad. He also was a handyman and a helpful neighbor. He only had a sixth-grade education, but I learned more from my Grandpa Hett than I did from almost anyone else. He was a strong believer in the healing power of ice cream. This also is my belief.

These are my forebears. An imperfect lot, to be sure, and I carry on that tradition. It is possible that we all would be perfectly fine without the programs and opportunities offered by our citizen-funded government. It is possible, yet unlikely.

Dear Pops: Happy Father's Day from Netroots Nation

Thomas Reed Shay (a.k.a. Big Tom)

Alone on Father's Day. That occurred to me as I awoke this morning. I'm in Minneapolis, Chris is in Cheyenne, Kevin is in Tucson and Annie in Denver. By the end of the day, Chris and I will be together on Father's Day, which is important to both of us. Our kiddos have their own lives, as they should.

My father, Thomas Reed Shay, passed away eight years ago. Wonder what he would have made of the Netroots Nation conference? He turned my age of 60 in 1983, when we were knee-deep in the Reagan era. He was happy with the Reagan era and I was not. He was a moderate conservative, one of those people in the South who first went from Democratic to Republican for Nixon in 1968 and again in 1972. The beginnings of the vaunted Republican Southern Strategy, which culminated in two terms of Ronald Reagan chipping away at federal government programs and protections. And now look what we have.

My father would have found some common ground among the working people at Netroots Nation. He would have objected to some of the tough talk against Republicans. Not sure if he would have much in common with Tea Party Republicans such as Michelle Bachmann, a guest speaker at The Right Online conference held across the street from Netroots Nation. T.R. Shay was a William F. Buckley fan and watched him regularly. Free enterprise, hard work, small government. He believed in all of those principles. So do I.

He was the first in his family to go to college and he did it on the G.I. Bill after four years (two in Europe) as Government Issue (G.I.). He bought his first house with no down payment courtesy of the U.S. Government. He worked on government contracts for Martin-Marietta (now Lockheed-Martin) building ICBM missile silos across the West. Later, he worked on the space program with G.E. and NASA. Government programs.

He was a Florida state government employee (now an endangered species, thanks to wacky Republicans) and later had his own accounting business. He was the first one of us to own a personal computer -- the Apple IIe. We considered it a strange and wondrous thing. He seemed at home with it. He built his own crystal radio sets as a boy in the 1930s and, in the 1950s, built his own hi-fi. Not surprising that he was a radio operator with the U.S. Army Signal Corps in World War II.

If my father were still alive, would he be a blogger? I have no doubt that he would be a confirmed user of Facebook. His handle would be Big Tom, which is what his grandkids called him -- at his insistence ("I'm too young to be a grandfather!") If he blogged, he would be somewhere in the middle, caught between moonbats such as myself and wingnuts such as Andrew Breitbart et.al. He might also find himself closer to what I do, as the center has moved to the Right at the insistence of the Right.

As you can see, I'm thinking about my father today. We didn't always agree. But he was always my father. I miss him.

Children's Mental Health Awareness Week (May 1-7) celebrates "the diversity and resilience of families"

Most children with mental health challenges do not get the help they need.

Here are some facts to mull over from the Federation of Families for Children's Mental Health:

• 1 in 3 adolescents (aged 13 to 18) with mental disorders receive services for their diagnosis.
• Half of adolescents with severely impairing mental disorders never receive treatment.
• Service rates are highest for adolescents with ADHD (59.8%) and behavior disorders (45.4%).
• Fewer than 1 in 5 adolescents with anxiety, eating, or substance use disorders receive treatment for those disorders.
• Hispanic and Black adolescents are less likely than their White counterparts to receive services for mood and anxiety disorders.

Kevin the Climber, Part II

Vedauwoo photo from climbing site vedauwoo.org

This is a good day to be recalling some of my adventures with our son, Kevin. He’s flying in from Tucson today as a 26-year-old man who has a life of his own a thousand miles away. He’s a groomsman at a good friend’s wedding, and he taking an elongated spring break. He’s on the lifetime plan at a community college. But it’s his plan and I’m glad he has one. He doesn’t do much rock climbing any more, but it was his passion as a youngster growing up in Colorado and Wyoming. This post is the second installment of Kevin the Climber.

I watch my son Kevin as he clambers up the tumbledown boulder field of Vedauwoo in southeastern Wyoming’s Laramie Range during the summer of 1996.  There is something natural about this 11-year-old’s ease with the billion-year-old rock, the way he picks his way through narrow passageways and finds just the right finger hold to get up and over a house-sized chunk of Precambrian granite.  You could say that since he is a third-generation Coloradan, born within the magnetic fields of dozens of mountain ranges, he was destined to climb rocks.  He could just have easily been born to yodel country-western songs or snowboard naked or speculate in Aspen real estate or a thousand-and-one things Westerners seem compelled to do.  Kevin prefers rocks.

Where Kevin sees a ladder to the sky, I see a rocky barrier. I will climb until I get to the top or get stymied by a “radical vertical,” whichever comes first.   The rocks seem to beckon Kevin, to welcome him in ways foreign to me.  I have suggested that he should take rope-climbing classes, learn the traditional roots of the sport.  “Why would I want to do that?” he asks, as if it never occurred to him to place something as foreign as rope between him and the mountain.

It’s possible his rock worship might date back to our Druidic roots, our Celtic ancestors’ reciprocal relationship with the natural world.  It may just be that he likes free-climbing rocks the same way I loved surfing during my teen years on Florida’s Atlantic coast.  The Druid Surfer spawns the Druid Rockhead.  If we could jump back in time a million years or so, we could both be engaged in our separate passions right on this very spot.  He could be climbing Mesozoic rocks, still bursting from the earth’s crust, and I could be surfing the bitchin’ waves of the ancient inland sea.

Because Kevin has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, his love for rocks has physiological roots.  To concentrate is everything for this hyperactive kid.  He can’t do it for extended periods of time unless he is under the influence of Ritalin, a drug that helps him control an aggressive impulsiveness, one of the telltale signs of ADHD.  Right now, as he climbs toward the sharp blue Wyoming sky, the Ritalin, a central nervous system stimulant, is working on my son’s brain stem arousal system causing it to not be aroused.  Why is that?  Don’t look for any help from the medical texts.  Says thePhysicians’ Desk Reference:  There is no “specific evidence which clearly establishes the mechanism whereby Ritalin produces its mental and behavioral effects on children, nor conclusive evidence regarding how these effects relate to the condition of the central nervous system.”

Each time we climb, Kevin eventually disappears, leaving me to my own shortcomings as a climber.  I don’t mind.  Rocks offer him solace and solitude.  They do not call him names.  They do not mistake his energetic aura for anything else.  They are rocks and that is why we came here and why he will continue to climb long after I am sidelined by the aches of an aging Baby Boomer body.

Alone on the rocks, I get a chance to conduct my favorite climbing activity: sitting on a perch, watching the dark patterns that drifting cumulus make on the blue-green landscape.  Across the narrow valley, members of a rope-climbing class from University of Wyoming take turns rappeling down a cliff.  In the far distance on Sherman Hill, a line of trucks crawl along I-80 and a freight train crosses “The Gangplank” of the Laramie Range — a granite sheet that is a centuries-old thoroughfare for Cheyenne and Arapaho, pioneers, railroaders, vacationers and truckers, those transients that have been both boon and curse to the West.

I luxuriate in the feel of the cool breeze on my face, the tart taste of an apple on a July afternoon.  Hawks ride Vedauwoo’s complex air currents. A wonderful dream, to fly like a hawk.  Some time within the next hour Kevin will shout my name and I will look up to see him waving from a pinnacle, his lanky form etched against the blue sky. “Come on up!” he will yell, and I will return his wave and shake my head.

He goes some places where I cannot follow.

Cross-posted from easytolovebut blog. Way back when, this piece appeared in a longer and slightly different form in Montana’s now-defunct Northern Lights magazine.

In "Easy to Love but Hard to Raise," parents tell their stories

I'm pleased to have my work included in Easy to Love but Hard to Raise, a book from DRT Press set for an October release. Editors are Adrienne Bashista of Pittsboro, N.C., and Kay Marner of Ames, Iowa. Both are accomplished writers and editors who have experienced struggles in raising their own children. I have been impressed by their thoroughness and kindness. It's evident in their own essays and in their dealings with writers. My snarky self had a hard time with it, at first. One thing I learned early on as a parent with a son diagnosed with ADHD and a daughter with PBD and ADD -- wear your armor when you venture out into the world. My armor is my sharp tongue and, when that fails, scathing wit, to dull the cold hard stares and even colder and harder words of people who don't understand.

It's been a pleasure to work with Kay and Adrienne. Looking forward to the book. Here's some info the editors just posted on the brand new Easy to Love but Hard to Raise blog:

This blog got its start with the book: Easy to Love but Hard to Raise: Real Parents, Challenging Kids, True Stories (DRT Press, October, 2011). Contributors to this blog are connected to the book in some way: they sent in essays, offered their expert advice, or lent helpful thoughts and useful advice.

But our hope for this blog goes further than simply giving our book a presence on the Internet : we’d like our space to be a safe, kind, and understanding resource for anyone raising a child who is easy to love, but difficult to raise. We are here to support, share stories, commiserate, give tips, and provide safe haven for anyone parenting children impacted by ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder), SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder), PBD (Pediatric Bipolar Disorder), OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, PDD (Pervasive Developmental Disorder) or any other situation the takes the already difficult job of parenting and adds to challenge.

In memoriam: My younger brother, Pat

Obituary for my younger brother, Patrick Kevin Shay...

Patrick Kevin Shay passed away Dec. 8 at Palm Bay (Fla.) Hospital. He was 54.

Pat was born in Denver, Colo., on Nov. 18, 1956. After his family moved to Daytona Beach in 1964, he attended our Lady of Lourdes Elementary School and graduated in 1974 from Seabreeze High School.

He served in the U.S. Air Force from 1977-81, stationed overseas for two years in the Republic of South Korea. He was an avionics senior system specialist.

He married the former Jean Weikel on May 1, 1982, in Daytona Beach. They moved to Palm Bay and he joined the Harris Corp. as an engineering specialist, and worked there for more than 25 years.

Pat was a dedicated husband, father and softball coach. He coached for 15 years in the Palm Bay Little League, winning county championships and traveling to tournaments all over Florida. He never missed a single game or school function.

He is survived by his wife, Jean, his three daughters -- Katie, Palm Bay (Jeremy), Maggie, Davenport, and Erin, Palm Bay; one granddaughter -- Riley Ames of Palm Bay. He is also survived by eight siblings -- Michael Shay, Cheyenne, Wyo. (Chris); Dan Shay, Ormond Beach, (Nancy); Molly Shakar, Tallahassee (Jaime); Eileen Casey, Winter Park (Brian); Tommy Shay, Palm Bay; Tim Shay, Daytona Beach (Jen); Maureen Martinez, Tallahassee (Ralph); and Mary Powell, Tallahassee (Neill); and numerous nieces and nephews. He leaves behind a multitude of friends.

He was preceded in death by his parents, Tom and Anna Shay, Daytona Beach.

A celebration of life will be held at 2 p.m. on Monday, Dec. 13, at Fred Lee Park in Palm Bay. Family invites you to a reception at the Shay home immediately following the ceremony. You are encouraged to wear orange and blue, the colors of Pat's favorite sports team, the Florida Gators.

I lieu of flowers, plant a tree in Pat's honor or contribute to the Arbor Day Foundation.

This is the obit I wrote for official announcements. The personal remembrance will come later.

Keep an eye out for those great tomatoes

A watched tomato never ripens.

No matter how much I stand and stare, my tomatoes will not ripen into salad fodder. I do not have super powers!

But that's the best part, right? Wandering outside for the morning look-see and finding a red one -- or at least trending toward red. Want to pick that baby right off the stem and pop it in the mouth. Savor that homegrown taste. A burst of sunshine.

But not yet. Still harvesting broccoli and lettuce. Ate some fingerling zucchini and flowers in a salad. My lone surviving crookneck is growing ever so slowly and has not blossoms yet. It's next-door neighbor, a green squash, is ready to flower.

On the side yard, my pole beans have climbed the trellis almost to six feet or so. Had to cajole them up the trellis, as one of the plants had a fixation on the nearby wildflowers. It was tough to break up the relationship, but it was going nowhere -- I could see that and had to intervene. A few of the marigolds are flowering. I grew them from seed and they're taking awhile.

I'm making plans for next season's garden. I'm going to let the strawberries spread out and prepare for next spring. The garden next to the porch will become the berry patch and I'll move on to new ground for all the rest. I have a patch of grass than gets almost-all-day sun. The grass doesn't grow very well as I've never given it much attention. That's the next patch of lawn due for replacement. Already looking forward to next season...

Tomorrow is my father's birthday. He'd be 86 today but passed away in 2002. He wasn't much of a gardener when I was a kid. But when his nine kids began growing up and leaving, he turned to gardening. Ornamental, as you can grow plants all year in central Florida. He did grow kumquats, more for their looks than their taste. You can eat the grape-sized citrus fruit, and make some terrific jams and jellies from them. But so much easier to snag an orange for a snack.

My mom died young and my father later married again. This time to a dedicated gardener. Their house in Ormond Beach featured all kinds of tropical and subtropical ornamentals. What really pleased him, I think, was the well-manicured lawn, mowed weekly by a lawn service. No longer did he have to wait for one of his sons to return from the beach to mow the grass. For us, surfing came before lawns and gardens. Not true any more -- for the most part. My Florida brothers all have their own gardens, and spend more time on them than surfing. As for me, well, the waves just aren't that great on the beaches of Cheyenne.

Dad and Connie were members of the volunteer gardening corps at St. Brendan's Catholic Church where Chris and I were married 27 years ago. The gardens looked fine when the family gathered at the church for his funeral mass in spring of 2002.

Dad -- here's a gardening birthday wish from your eldest son.

Gene research could hold clues to ADHD

Fascinating piece Friday on NPR’s Talk of the Nation Science Friday about new research on Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). To listen to the interview, go to http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=92455272. Here’s a synopsis:

This week in the Journal of Neuroscience, scientists report that in two brothers with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, or ADHD, a genetic change appears to make one of the brain's neurochemical pathways — the dopamine transporter — run in reverse. The result of that miswiring is that the brain acts as if amphetamines are always present, the researchers say.

Randy Blakely, one of the study's authors, and Allan D. Bass, professor of pharmacology and psychiatry at Vanderbilt University Medical Center, talk about the findings and what they might mean for ADHD treatment.

So, the dopamine transporters in these two brothers run backwards and that causes their ADHD? That could explain a lot, as too much dopamine leads to anxiety and nervousness and hyperactivity. The studies could lead to some breakthroughs in treatment for ADHD. It also explains the workings of Ritalin and Concerta and other central nervous system stimulants. They cause the dopamine tranporters to reverse their actions which, in the case of the two brothers, means that they are shifted from reverse into forward. Weird, eh?

Both my kids have ADHD. When we first put our son on Ritalin at the tender age of five, his pediatric psychiatrist admitted that scientists didn’t understand why Ritalin worked – it just did. Not exactly what parents want to hear when their five-year-old is being given a drug on the DEA’s list of Schedule II controlled substances, just one step down the scale from heroin, Quaaludes, magic mushrooms and LSD (also, inexplicably, marijuana).

So here are some new clues to the workings of ADHD medications.

I’ve written a lot about our family’s experience with ADHD. One of my early published essays on the subject in the now-defunct Northern Lights magazine was named "Hummingbird Minds" after a description of ADHD by hypertext pioneer Ted Nelson. He had ADHD in a big way and said that he and my son and millions of others had "hummingbird minds." That phrase became the title of my web site and later on my blog. In the beginning, I wrote a lot about ADHD but not so much any more. My son is 23 and in college. My daughter is about to enter high school. My son Kevin no longer takes medication for ADHD as he’s come up with other coping skills. It may be that ADHD is losing some of its sting as he ages. Not sure.

Some of my published work about ADHD can be found on my web site. Go to the "Writing" section on the sidebar and click on "On ADHD." Here’s an excerpt from my essay "We Are Distracted" published, in a slightly different form, in the 1996 book In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction by W.W. Norton and co-edited by Judith Kitchen and Mary Paumier Jones:

Physicians have been prescribing Ritalin (a.k.a. methylphenidate) for more than 30 years for a condition that has been known as Minimal Brain Damage (MBD), Minimal Brain Dysfunction in Children (MBDC), Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), and ADD with Hyperactivity (ADHD). If some progressive therapists and groups such as CHADD (Children and Adults with Attention Deficit Disorder) have their way, the official designation may one day be changed to Attention Deficit Syndrome with hyperactivity (ADHS). This alphabet soup can be confusing. Once, on his first day at a new school, my son announced in front of the class that he had ADHD. The next day, several very nervous parents called the school, concerned about the new student who had AIDS. Being a "hyper" kid turns you into one type or pariah; AIDS carriers get special mistreatment. It was weeks before the confusion was straightened out. But the impression had been made. Kevin was different; different is bad.

On Father's Day, be a mensch

"What separates the men from the boys....is the size of their toys."

You’ve seen that phrase on the bumpers of king-cab pickups, or maybe on fancy boats plying the waters at the reservoir. Maybe you heard it on a Father’s Day commercial urging you to buy something big for that big boy in your life. A mega gas grill or riding mower or tool set.

But maybe we should work on a new slogan. "What separates the men from the boys...is the size of their consciences."

Doesn’t rhyme, I know, but I couldn’t think of a good one to get my point across. Which is: a man is supposed to have a mature conscience, while boys can be forgiven for immature thoughts and actions. A teenager, for instance, might wield his sexuality in a reckless way. It may lead to unwanted consequences, such as the pregnancy of his partner. A man, on the other hand, has the ability to use discretion when it comes to sex. Don’t laugh – the opposite is just as possible. But a man can think through the rush of testosterone to its inevitability. Gee, maybe I should ask her if she’s on the pill or has had any STDs or maybe I should check out the condom aisle at Walgreen’s before doing this. Consequences!

But if we’re all just overgrown boys, then what’s the point? We’re only fit for playing with toys, whether young or old or in-between. That’s all we see on TV commercials. Poor saps can’t be counted on to take care of the kids or figure out the new cellphone or shop for groceries.

But I propose that the measure of a man is not in his pants or in the garage. It’s in his heart and mind. We’re part of the animal kingdom, that’s true, but we also possess higher brain functions that determine behavior. We can judge the ethical and moral implications of a situation and can act accordingly.

This also makes us political animals, too. We should be able to tell when another human being is lying to us. We should be able to tell when condescension raises its ugly head. We should be able to determine when a politician is up to no good with his/her policies, foreign and domestic.

So, you’re immature if you say "I can’t believe George W. Bush lied to us about Iraq." You’re a boy if you back Bush on his Iraq policies because he's our elder statesman and it's wrong to question your elders in time of war. The facts are out there. By ignoring the facts about life in the adult world of politics, you’re not a man but a boy. You're unable to look beyond the wants of the present to the possibilities of the future. You're a boy.

American conservatives seem to be stuck in an eternal boyhood. Gimme our tax breaks now! Gimme our guns now! Gimme answers now! Gimme our SUVs now! Gimme cheap gas now! Why do they (the terrorists) hate us? Why can't those Liberals quit whining and let us get on with mindless consumption?

Liberals (especially Baby Boomers) are not blameless. They too have been caught in a twilight world of adolescence. We love to bitch and moan and say we're going to change the world. But if it doesn't work out our way immediately, we take roll up our protest banners and go home -- or to law school. The inability to see things through is also a sign of immaturity. Another reason we are in this current mess.

Men, be a mensch, as they say in Yiddish. Or work to become one. Here's how columnist Paul Krugman put it in the New York Times:

'Be a mensch,' my parents told me. Literally, a mensch is a person. But by implication, a mensch is an upstanding person who takes responsibility for his actions.

The people now running America aren't mensches.

A weekend with Monty Python

Yesterday we felt like watching movies, so went down to the Laramie County Public Library to scan the shelves. Movie-renting is a challenge for us. My wife Chris prefers comedies such as "Galaxy Quest" and "Just Visiting," as well as endless screenings of "The Sound of Music." We rarely agree, although we share a taste for old Woody Allen movies ("Annie Hall" and before). My teen daughter Annie goes for dramas that feature dysfunctional families and psychiatrists. Some of her favorites (for now) include "Running with Scissors," "Junebug" and "The Squid and the Whale."

My tastes are all over the map. I like quirky comedies, indies, old gumshoe films with Bogie and William Powell, musicals, and documentaries. The other day I was happy as a clam to catch "After the Thin Man" on TMC during my lunch hour. The cast includes Powell, Myrna Loy, James Stewart, and Ida Lupino. Stewart plays the smarmy bad guy, a murderer. Very cool.

Yesterday's library haul included "Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "Just Visiting," "Thirteen," "The Great Santini," and "Old School." Chris chose the first two; Annie the others. I couldn't decide on anything. That's how it is with me sometimes. I don't know what I want.

Chris and I had a great time watching "The Holy Grail" that night. I know that Monty Python movies and reruns of the TV show are now considered the province of smark-alecky college kids. But what's not to like about "the knights who say ni" and the killer rabbit? The word "shrubbery" never sounded so dang funny.

Meanwhile, Annie watched "The Great Santini" and "Thirteen" on the downstairs box, a 30-year-old TV encased in a heavy piece of furniture that I never want to move again. I had recommended "Santini" as a representative of the "dysfunctional family" school. Annie found it interesting, but a bit dated as it was set in the 1960s. "Thirteen" spoke to her as more contemporary, more twisted. It's a disturbing film, one that conjures up a contemporary parent's worst nightmares. I've seen it, and once was enough. We've been through that kind of torture already with one teenager and don't want another round. Cuts too close top the bone.

Bring on the knights who say ni!

For veterans, history repeats itself

Excellent Father's Day post by GreyHawk at Daily Kos. Addresses the many fathers and sons coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan with long-term traumas reminiscent of previous wars, especially Vietnam. He also quotes some of my favorite poets on this subject. GreyHawk includes an excerpt of an obscure Kipling poem that decries the sorry post-war plight of those Crimean War soldiers lionized in Alfred Lord Tennyson's, "The Charge of the Light Brigade."

On Father's Day, learn something

Father’s Day means so many things. Big lawn mower sale at Home Depot. At the local auto showroom, it’s trucks trucks trucks – and more trucks. Mom might take Dad out for brunch, although that’s not so much a treat for him as for her. In Denver, the Colorado Rockies give a free commemorative hat to the first 1,000 dads who come in the gate.


These are very tempting events for this father. I look upon each day as a chance to learn something, or meet someone new. I am a bit like Elwood P. Dowd in this way. Elwood never missed a chance to talk to new people, give them his card, and introduce Harvey, his six-foot-three invisible pooka (giant rabbit). I do not have a pooka, at least not yet. Give me a few more years of life under the Bush administration.


On Father’s Day, I herd my wife Chris and my daughter Annie into the car and we go off for an adventure. One year it was a trip to Fort Laramie near Torrington. It was a special weekend, with cavalry re-enactments, historic displays, and tours of the fort’s refurbished buildings. Massive cottonwoods line the banks of the North Platte. Annie and I spent some time skipping rocks. On the way home, we ate at a little diner in Wheatland. The food wasn’t great, but it had art on the walls and a rack of self-published "cowboy humor" books on the table.


When both kids were little and we lived in suburban Maryland, we drove to the site of the battles of Manassas, as the South refers to it, or Bull Run if you’re a Yankee. Not sure what Westerners call it. A day spent touring the place and strolling along the creek. We took the long way back to Rockville on the tiny ferry that crosses the Potomac between Leesburg, Va., and Martinsburg, Md.


On rainy days, we’ve watched movies (my choice). We’ve hiked in the Snowy Range and soaked afterwards in the Saratoga "Hobo Pool." We visited the Hartville-Sunrise historic mining district, which is wear Mr. Rockefeller moved his mine after Colorado National Guardsmen mowed down miners and their children at Ludlow.


Today we’re trekking to the Laramie Range for a hike and a picnic. Annie has a new pup, so we want to take her into The Great Outdoors. Butch Cassidy Days is in full swing over in Laramie’s Wyoming Territorial Prison Historic Site. But our pup Coco is too unruly for crowds. I’d enjoy the history, but I’ve toured the place on my own. Maybe next year....


Father’s Day isn’t the only annual occasion I spend time with my family. Although my father was fairly traditional, I am part of the new generation of men who share child care and chores with their mates. We both work. We both value our time off. Luckily, Chris and I enjoy many of the same pastimes: hiking, reading, yelling at Republican Talking Heads when they show up on the TV. In that way, we have been terrible role models for Annie. She now has taken to yelling at the TV – and at her conservative junior-high classmates. This has not won her many friends. Next year, she’ll take speech and debate which may channel some of this energy into an academic pursuit.


One time, when I was depressed, I read this quote: "If you’re depressed, learn something." Don’t know who said it. But it serve me well, especially on each Father’s Day.