SU2C

Everyone who was lucky enough to have watched Stand Up To Cancer the other night I am sure were greatly moved.  You have your thoughts.  I do as well and I felt compelled to write about mine.  Partially out of guilt because even though I have been close to a few who have been in the fight I have been reminded often that I did not really respect what they were going through at the time.   I thought I did, but I didn’t.  I feel Stand Up to Cancer portrayed as well as is humanely possible, what those in the fight are going through.

The show managed to showcase the cause with low key, sincere words from many stars with their own stories to tell, heartfelt songs beautifully sung, reports of progress on the research front and right-between-the-eyes comments from patients, survivors, care givers and loved ones. 

There were many stories that particularly tugged at my heart.   One was of a little boy that loved to play with his legos’.  He said if I die I will take my legos’ with me.  Another was a young girl talking with her caregiver about her dreams for the future.  When asked how much time she would like to have in her dreams, she said “A year”.  The no frills response was “That might not be possible”.   Both of these kids were at the gala.  Both were introduced and applauded.  The girl so beautiful, bald head and all and the boy, smiling with his Mom next to him, chin quivering and striving with all her might to keep her composure.

When the television camera slowly panned the audience I was struck by one thing.  Facial close ups revealed there was no joy.  There was clearly a sense that these people had been pushed to the max.  They were experiencing the ultimate gut check.  Some were in the throes of their battle and would become survivors and some would not.  No amount of courage could fake a sparkle in their eyes.

I was reminded of Peggy, a young woman in the prime of her life.   Peggy complained of headaches.  She knew she was in trouble when she woke up after tests with no tubes attached.  She had stage 4 glioblastoma, a particularly nasty type of brain tumor. 

Several months of treatment were followed by months of clinical trials that offer hope but no promises.  All Peggy wanted was hope. 

For many months I was honored to take Peggy to a brain tumor support group meeting the first and third Thursday evenings at the hospital.  In these meeting the group of 12 to 15 would sit in a circle and one by one, tell of their ordeals and their fears.  Peggy, sitting in her wheel chair, was always brutally honest. 

Due to the terrible consequences of contracting glioblastoma various members of the group would be missing at the next meeting as was the case when I had to tell the group that Peggy would not be returning.

Stand Up To Cancer brought home to me once again that those involved are facing such horrendous personal terror that they need all the help, hope and understanding their loved ones can muster.  We have the rest of our lives.  They may not. 

 

    

QUICK E-MAIL FIX

A week or so ago my wife Terry started receiving multiple copies of the same e-mails,  sometimes 3 or 4 and other times up to a dozen copies of the same e-mail.  She also lost the 6 most recent months of her inbox.  Knowing full well asking me to fix the problem was akin to asking pigs to fly; she did her best and hoped that it would just solve itself.  It didn’t, it only got worse.  I called Cox Communications, our service provider.  They walked me through all the steps to insure her settings were correct and a bunch of other stuff and determined that the problem was not theirs but was the Outlook Express software of Microsoft.

There it was, the dreaded Microsoft.  I was willing to exhaust all remedies before calling Microsoft, including throwing the computer in the garbage and buying a new one.  You see, I have had some mind altering experiences with them over the years.  I am talking about their fix-it department.  I’ll explain.

Whenever I call and explain my dilemma, customer service turns me over to someone they deem an expert on said dilemma.  Invariably, I get a person who took an on-line Rosetta Stone class in the English language a few days prior to my call.  This would not be a problem to most but when you are deaf it is most certainly a problem.

For that reason I am dreading making this call.  I get a good night’ sleep, have a nutritious breakfast, shower, dress and I am as ready as I will ever be.  I dial the 800 number, explain what’s wrong and then listen patiently as the lady tells me she will be transferring my call to a designated expert. 

At this time I interrupt her to deliver my remarks that I had been working on for days.  I calmly explained that I am a deaf person.  I am listening to her over a phone designed for deaf people.  That, nothing personal, I would prefer to speak with a male person because the deeper tones of a man’s voice are easier to decipher than the higher pitch of a woman’s voice.  And, again, nothing personal, I would prefer someone whose native tongue is my own because they’re much easier for me to understand than someone whose base language is other than English. 

The lady says “No problem, I understand perfectly”.  So I am transferred to a girl named Mardy Ann who is 7,295 miles away in the Philippines.  She turned out to be quite proficient in the English language and, with my urging, spoke up enough that I was able to get by.  Mardy Ann turned out to be a gem. 

I am not up to speed with many of the technological advances that the younger generation take for granted so it amazes me when someone half way around the world and below the equator logs on to my computer and I can see them moving the mouse around and making changes to MY computer. 

Mardy Ann told me to just sit back and relax while she fixed things.  I watched as she moved the mouse around and clicked on this and that in a blur.  Often something would have to be uploaded or downloaded and I would watch patiently as a little green bar measured the progress.  Often this process would take the better part of an hour.  The first time it happened I thought she had deserted me so I finally said “Are you there Mardy”?  The answer came back “I’m here Sir”.  She always called me Sir. 

The first day our session lasted 6 ½ hours.  My cell phone died and she had to call me back on the land line.  She finally said she had to go home and would call me back about mid-afternoon the next day. 

The next day’s session lasted 4 hours.  During one lull I learned that monsoon rains had wreaked havoc with Mardy’s small village.  There was severe flooding and roads and bridges were washed away. 

The third day was a 2 hour chat session to tie up loose ends.  Mardy determined that the problem was a corruption of all e-mail files caused by the sheer volume of files.  She gave me a stern lecture about backing files up from time to time to keep thing manageable.  We never did recover valuable inbox and sent items folders.  She did fix, out of the goodness of her heart, a myriad of other problems that had plagued Terry’s computer for some time. 

The next day I got an e-mail from Microsoft asking me to fill out a survey about the service I had received.  I gave Mardy the highest numbers possible in all categories and summarized by saying I thought she should be head of their customer service department.     

      

  

DEAR NBC SPORTS

I wrote the following e-mail today.  What I saw last Saturday morning moved me as much as any of the memorable Olympic moments I have seen over the years.  The fact that at this time in the history of the world there are women being treated like this makes me sick.  The fact that at this time in the history of the world there are women like these 2 gives me great hope. 

Dear NBC Sports and Bob Costas,

I love your Olympic coverage.  I offer my comments here in the most sincere and constructive way possible. 

I have an idea for an issue I feel should be addressed before the Games are over.  I was watching your coverage of preliminary races for the women’s 100 meters event.  Not the qualifying heats but they were called preliminary races.  It was about 8 am PST on Saturday morning, August 4.  There were several heats.  Two of them had women entered from countries that had previously forbidden women from competing.  One was from Qatar and I believe the other was Afghanistan.  Both women were dressed head to toe in full dress complying with religious beliefs that forbid women from exposing themselves in public.

As the Qatar woman was preparing to start the race, the TV camera focused on a close up look of her face for a good minute or so.  She was obviously petrified, her wide eyes glancing quickly from side to side.  After she took her position in the blocks, she waited for the starting gun then stumbled forward and fell to the ground.  She had not taken one step and was taken off the track in a wheel chair.

The other woman ran the full length of the race and finished last by a bunch with a big smile on her face.  As the competitors milled around after the finish, she was still smiling and appeared to be looking for someone to give her a high 5, knuckle bump or something.  Finally 1 other woman, of the 7 or 8 runners came up to her and shook her hand. 

There has been much written and spoken before and during these Games about the plight of women such as these.  Indeed there were comments leading up to their races by the TV announcers about their journey.  These comments, among other things, addressed the fact that their countries would refuse to televise the races they were in.  Each faced ridicule and resentment that would break any normal human being.  They were even forced to train secretly.  These 2 faced an uncertain, grave future upon return home.  Tell me they don’t represent the ultimate in courage. 

My point in writing this is that I feel the coverage of those 2 women deserves at least a segment of prime time coverage.  There are still a few days left.  For women around the world do the right thing, please.

Forest Smith III

Newport Beach, CA, USA

OUR GIRLS / THE FAB FIVE

Pardon me while I get another tissue.  Last night was rough.  I was busy pulling our girls through half way around the world in London.  I was reminded once more why the Olympic Games are worth the 4 year wait.  Each one has their extra special moments and memories and last night was among the best. 

Jordyn,Kyla, Aly, Gabby and Air Maroney firmly fixed themselves in the memory bank of everyone watching.  This group, ranging from 15 year old Kyla to the sage and seasoned veteran Aly at 18, put a choke hold on everyone’s heart. 

I had kids their age.  I have grandkids their age.  How in God’s name do you put kids that age under that kind of pressure without them wilting like an un-watered flower?  They are barely able to drive legally and here they are on the world’s stage, millions watching every move, performing precision routines as if they are in their own back yards on a summer day.  And heaven help those whose performance brought them to tears.  Television camera’s searched them out relentlessly and stayed in their face an eternity.  Try that sometime when you want to choke somebody. 

I marveled at their poise as they stood steely eyed and intently focused on their next routine.  Unlike most sports that require acts of aggression, gymnastics requires extreme control of muscles and nerves while wanting to burst with emotion. 

All of the 4 disciplines require great skill but I am especially awed by the balance beam.  Its obvious why this event is absent from the men’s competition but is there a more difficult task in any sport?  Doing a flip and landing on a 4 inch wide plank several feet in the air has to rank right up there.  This event alone must sustain the home town orthopedic community.

Gabby with the beautiful smile, pillar of strength Jordyn, youthful Kyla, queen of the vault Maroney and leader Aly make me very proud of our girls.  Aly was the capper with a flourishing finish where she bounced halfway to the ceiling while simultaneously breaking into her victory smile. 

While all this was going on TV kept cutting “back to the pool”.  Having recently had shoulder replacement surgery I cringed and reached for the Aleeve while watching the swimmers flail their arms while loosening up.  Ouch!!  Michael Phelps did his thing again as the anchor man of the relay team providing another memorable moment as he set the record for most Olympic medals.  Our girls have several swimming gold medals and all is well in the water.

To those complaining about TV coverage and excessive commercials, get a life.  The coverage has been fantastic.  The close-ups provide an insight into the human side of sports you can’t see from the stands.  It is almost as if you are going through the emotion with the athlete.  What a small price to pay that we have commercials that bring all this to us with flair, expert commentary and fascinating back stories.  And while I am at it, I love the commercials.  They are provided by some of the best advertising minds in the business.  They are creative and entertaining and everything good about our country, the best of the best.

I can’t wait for the next memorable Olympic moment. 

      

YOU DID WHAT?

I am sure there is a name for it.  It is some kind of syndrome or other that hit fathers at some point in life.  Maybe it should be called the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Syndrome.  That would be my choice because I have no other way to describe it.

It usually starts with casual conversation around the dinner table at a holiday, birthday or Sunday night dinner.  Our four kids, their spouses, significant others and friends bring each other up to date on what’s happening in their lives while the grand kids are gathered around a TV to watch Funniest Home Video’s or something.

Wine usually oils the group up so that what is already lively conversation teeters on the edge of uncharted waters.  At least for me they are uncharted. 

Then one of my kids will say something like “Do you remember that night……………………..”  Of course everyone there remembers it but me.  That’s because what happened that night was a more closely guarded secret than the D-Day Invasion.  Through mass collusion, swearing on Bibles, etc., it was deemed at the time “We don’t tell Dad under penalty of death.” 

I then learn what did happen that night.  As the details unfold I think to myself “Not my kids, it can’t be.”  Each one chimes in with their memories of that night, including the wife.  SHE WAS IN ON IT!  Is the bond between man and wife so thin as to be pierced by protecting disobedient children?  All the details come forth, mellowed slightly by the intervening years. 

Then someone else would come forth with their teen year’s horror story.  As each takes their turn, the amount of detail disclosed increases.    Somehow, events that should have led to a year’s solitary confinement are now hilarious. 

As the years have gone by I believe I have finally heard most of the stories.  I have learned that at various times we have had “friends” of our kids living in our garage.  That none of their visitors to our home used our beautiful entry way, they simply climbed through a back window into their rooms.  They drove cars of ours great distances waaaaaaaaaaaaay before they were of legal driving age.  One of them “borrowed” the family boat to take some friends to Catalina Island.  He/she (it doesn’t matter now) could barely see over the bow.

Probably the most shocking discovery of all was, due to the aforementioned back window, I never laid eyes on their cohorts.  I thought at the time it was rather strange that their friends never came to the door to shake my hand and say hello.  But, being the trusting father I am I felt all was well.  Hardly.  There is a good reason they went to great lengths to keep me from seeing them.   Let’s just say I would not have approved of them had I known.  They would have finished their schooling in Siberia. 

I laugh along with them now when I hear these stories.  I have always felt parenting is one part eternal vigilance and one part luck.  We were dealt a huge dose of luck.  I am thankful they are willing to share them with me now.     

My daughter Romy sent me the above recently.  It says volumes about effort and dealing with grief and joy, but my focus here, on this longest day of the year and the beginning of summer, is THE SEA. 

From the day I had my first smell of salt air off the ocean I felt it had magical qualities.  If perception is reality then there was no doubt in my mind the ocean could fix anything.  I am not saying it has Lourdes like qualities but damned near. 

All I know is when I am around the ocean I feel better.  Mentally, physically and spiritually better.  It doesn’t take much.  It can be sitting on the bluff on a foggy night listening to the fog horn at the entrance to our harbor.  Walking along the shore to find interesting pieces of driftwood and bending over to get a closer look at small creatures in the tide pools.  And I love to climb rocks on a point with surging ocean water, mist and foam all around. 

One of my favorite things is to sit in my beach chair on a warm, summer day.  Particularly in the afternoon and into the evening when the wind begins to drop, birds are diving for their dinner, sailboats are racing offshore and the sun begins to set.  I never take a book to the beach.  I am aghast when I hear people say they like to read a good book at the beach.  Are you kidding me?  With all God has spread before you how can you even think of burying you nose in a book?  You can read a book at night or on a rainy day in the winter.  Please.

In the course of an afternoon you see many families lug enough gear to the water’s edge to camp out for a month.  Whether seeking relief from inland heat or treating the kids to a day at the beach, the routine is the same.  They spread out a blanket, stick an umbrella in the sand and break out sandwiches, chips and soft drinks while the kids run amuck.  Kicking soccer balls, throwing Frisbees, guys performing heroic feats to impress giggling girls, it’s all a ritual. 

Meanwhile, The Sea is working its magic.  They will all go home happy, bathing suits full of sand, sun burned and tired.  The next day, with recharged spirits and precious memories, they will tackle life’s struggles anew.  

I always end my day with a slow walk in knee deep water.  The swirling of the salt water around me is good for the soul.  Through the water and the mist I try to soak up every ounce of goodness. 

In the winter it’s quite different but no less magical.  There is a place near where I live that juts out over the ocean.  Emboldened by being on dry land, it is a spectacular place during a fierce winter storm.  With a dark gray sky and howling winds it is beautiful.  Massive waves crash against the rocks below sending spray skyward.  The wind then blows the mist over my vantage point.  Even though it is winter I have my dose of salt water.    

 

FLY-BY

       

As my family can tell you I can be rather emotional when things tug at my heart.  At our family gatherings if the national anthem is being played on TV for an event, they will pass me a tissue.  God Bless America during the seventh inning stretch is another one that gets me misty eyed.  As I have gotten older the lists of things that trigger such a response gets longer.  But one thing that has always been near the top of the list is a fly-by.  No matter how many I witness I get a rush of patriotism and pride that never wanes.

I am one of the great airplane watchers of all time.  If there is one in the sky, I will usually follow it until it is out of sight.  Put me near an Air Force base and I would be perfectly happy to take my place in a hammock looking skyward at daybreak and not leave until sun down.  Just bring me some nourishment and I will be fine.

I spent some time on a project at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway adjacent to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas and I was in heaven.  All day long fighter jets were practicing landings or leaving for a remote up-state Nevada area where scenes for the movie Top Gun were filmed.  They would practice dog fights all day then return one by one to land at Nellis.  There were also massive, troop carrying helicopters that had these huge propeller blades that drooped almost to the ground.  By the time they developed enough rpm to lift off the ground was shaking. 

Naval Air Station Coronado and Marine Corp Air Station Miramar in the San Diego area provided endless hours of fighter plane viewing while fishing in the area.  Closer to home El Toro Marine Base handled all military airplane traffic including enormous cargo planes carrying soldiers and supplies to destinations around the world.  My imagination would run rampant as I watched them become a mere dot in the sky.

Part of the appeal for me was the miracles of watching these manmade things hurtle through the sky but also for what they represent.  A country and people that stands ready to defend themselves if necessary.  That makes me proud.

Watching a fly-by brings forth all those emotions for me.  I have seen many over the years including stealth bombers, Blue Angels, World War II antiques, missing man formations, F-what evers and a tribute to 4 members of the Tuskegee Airmen with a solo fly-by of their famous Red Tail Mustang.  Like I say, pass the tissue.

This past weekend Terry and I were guests at what was billed as the world’s shortest parade.  It was on Balboa Island and it was all of 2 blocks long.  Short on distance, big on stature.  Everyone on the Island gets behind this summer kickoff.  They close the bridge access at 10:30 am and the parade begins down Marine Avenue, the main drag.

The Marine Corp band playing their Marines’ Hymn led the way.  Behind them were city council members, the mayor, police and fire chiefs and other notable locals waving from 50’s era convertibles.  There was a contingent of some 100 golden labs and retrievers with red, white and blue bandanas.  Every block on the island had a “float”.  Most were decorated golf carts.  There was a performance by the Island lawn chair drill team.  The local high schools provided bands and even a break dancing exhibition.  All this was spiced up by a couple of surf bands on the back of flat bed trucks playing Surfin USA and other music that had its roots in our area. 

All of this was a dose of good old American community spirit and pride.  It was highlighted by a fly-by.  Due to typical June gloom there was a very low cloud cover.  It was doubtful if the fly-by would happen.  Finally a voice over the loudspeaker asked everyone to look east.  Out of the gloom and out of necessity, quite low to the ground, appeared a camouflaged P-38 and a P-51 Mustang, vintage World War II, side by side.  They zoomed over the 2 blocks of the parade circled around and buzzed us again.  All was right with the world.