If You Go Down To The Woods Today….

“You belong among the wildflowers, you belong in a boat out at sea.  Sail away, kill off the hours.  You belong somewhere you feel free."---Tom Petty

A gang of incurable optimists led by ancient troublemaker Robert Hutchinson has decided to pick up the beat in the land of 1000 lakes, Melrose/Keystone Heights, Florida.  Hutch and a few cronies have put together a non-profit and bought a batch of raw acreage close to the intersection of Alachua, Bradford, Clay and Putnam counties, establishing WildFlowers Music Park, the better to amuse you with, my dears.  Some of the locals, alas, are miffed, thinking that Bingo Night at the Rooterville Animal Sanctuary and a few rounds at Tom’s Mini Golf should be enough excitement for anybody, but many others will beg to differ.

WildFlowers, all 270 acres of it, is in the process of being transformed from bushes and trees into a rural music park for concerts and other live musical events.  The new owners promise to keep things as natural as possible.  “Not only will we not be removing any of the large live oaks, but we’ll be caring for them and removing invasive species that threaten their existence,” says Hutchinson.  “We are restoring the land to use as a public nature park and will be growing native wildflowers and grasses for the seeds.  Once a year, we will celebrate our mission, support one or more families and make our mortgage payments by hosting a family-friendly festival of music and dance.  The first one will take place in March, 2026.”

Once a year doesn’t mean there won’t be more than one concert at WildFlowers.  After all, it is a music park, right?  But country folk are often slow to clap their hands and jump up and down, wary of those famous flies in the ointment.  Melrose entrepreneur Mark Chiappini, whose family has operated the retail colossus in town since the place was called Shake Rag and people lived in caves and ate dirt, wants everybody to relax.  “We need something like this out here,” insists Mr. C.  “It’s a great place to live, but a tough local economy.  For a businessman, hard to make a buck.  WildFlowers can’t do anything but help.”

Local influencer Regina Coeli (secret identity Gina Hawkins) has hired on as an organizer, which means she will thump drums for the project and drag people out there by their ears, if necessary.  Coeli is a force of nature who will drive up to your house in her cute little panel truck, open the door and invite you in for coffee and Danish, then slam the door shut and haul you to Snoqualmie, Washington if she’s of a mind to.  Don’t fight it, you’ll have a good time.  “Forty years of service and never a complaint,” says Gina, “Come on-a my house, my house come on, I’m gonna give you everything.”

A Visit To Wonderland

A mere mile south of bustling downtown Melrose, Florida sits a gently rolling mosaic of upland meadows, mixed hardwood forests and wetlands that range from small sinkholes to bottomland swamps to a ten-acre ephemeral sandhill lake.  You’d hardy notice if the area wasn’t astir with aging gentlemen clanging around on tractors uprooting junk trees, clearing out annoying bushes and readying the place for the March 2026 opening concert of WildFlowers Music Park.

Out for a look at the shenanigans, we raised an eyebrow when Captain Hutchinson said everything would be in readiness well before D-Day.  There’s land to level, stages to build, pathways to create and March is just around the corner, but Hutch and his cheerful pal Richard Vories sneer at the challenge.  “Most of the clearing work will be done by the end of November,” they promise.

The festival, itself, will be “A celebration of music and dance, a community-driven event that emphasizes creativity and local engagement.”  The event and those following will be scaled-down versions of your typical festivals, fostering a welcoming, laid-back atmosphere and an eclectic mix of music genres and other activities including visual arts, crafts, dance and wellness activities for all ages.  There is no truth to the rumor that Mark Chiappini will dive from a 50-foot-high platform into a bucket of water, but Gina will do her highly-acclaimed Dance of the Seven Veils, always a show-stopper.

The festival will be three or four days long, hopefully with occasionally simultaneous music on three stages.  Approximately half of the attendees are expected to camp on site.  Anywhere from 1500 to 3000 paying customers are expected, along with 500-900 performers, vendors, contractors, volunteers, sponsors, dealers and itinerant bikers who always seem to show up at these things.  WildFlowers is keenly aware of the limitations of small-town roadways and will engage a professional traffic planner/engineer to model the vehicle impact on affected arterial and collector roads, and we’re glad that isn’t us.

The park expects their events to have a much lower sound level than large rock concerts and electronic dance music shows, some of which have been known to blast neighbor Grandpa Jones out of his bed at two in the morning.  The wealth of forested areas and rolling terrain surrounding the festival stages should help.  If you’re dubious, one good reason for keeping the volume down is to prevent the din from the main stage from overwhelming the music coming from the smaller stages nearby.  The mainstage will also be pointed away from all existing houses in the area, the closest of which is more than 1000 feet away.  The greatest challenge in controlling sound at outdoor music ventures is managing those pesky low-frequency bass wavelengths.  The WF gang swears they’ll keep the noise down, anyway.  “We’ve got bass trap woofters and phase canceling techniques,” smiles Richard Vories, looking like a kid in a candy store.  “And Mark is thinking about adding earplugs to his inventory, just in case.” 

Bill with the Mayor of Melrose

NIMBY vs. Not So Bad

Resident Steve Lebel isn’t so sure all this is such a great idea.  “Fundamentally, it’s the impact on the neighbors; the proponents have selected a site that’s in the immediate neighborhood.  People move to Melrose to find peace and quiet and a concert venue immediately adjacent to the village is going to impact that.”  Lebel maintains that traffic, emergency access and environmental risks are high on his list of concerns.  He argues that campers won’t have to leave the site, thus merchants in the community will see little economic benefit.  “It seems that the services that campers want will be provided on-site,” claims Lebel.  “We might get a little bit of retail business but folks aren’t going to leave their campsites if they can buy whatever they want on-site." 

Many neighbors disagree, however.  Some believe the events could bring new energy to the town and point to similar festivals around the country that have operated safely and to the economic benefit of their communities for years.  Larry Easton, who lives across the street from the proposed site, says the festival could provide cultural enrichment and help attract young families.  “It’s going to be a permanent green space, they have marvelous conservation plans.  We love the idea of a music festival and we think it’s important for Melrose if we’re going to avoid the fates of Waldo and Hawthorne.”

Easton contends that people have attended similar festivals elsewhere for decades and the events have become important important parts of their lives, adding that opposition is driven by fears which don’t match up with what he’s seen at similar festivals.  Wildflowers honcho Hutchinson insists that property values near similar music parks have virtually always increased.

WildFlowers is always looking for volunteers and invites visitors.  To get involved as a volunteer, performer or vendor, tab on WildflowersMusicPark.org or look up Gina, dangerous as that may be.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com  

The Underdog

Walter Babish was a timid kid, rare for a Polack and new to the neighborhood.  He was an outsider, unathletic, short and shaped like two fire hydrants joined at the hip.  Walter was quiet, and kept to himself.  When he spoke, which was rarely, it was usually to spout his favorite word, “sorry.”

Eddie Ledwich was also late to the neighborhood, but not as late as Walter.  Lean, tough and looking for trouble, Ledwich thought nothing of beating a guy up in the morning and then again in the afternoon as part of his victory tour.  We got into it one day in Jackie Fournier’s back yard and there was a gallon of blood involved.  Jackie’s grandmother, who could beat up both of us, came out with her broom and broke it up, calling it a draw.  “Next time, I’ll cut your ears off…both of you!” she swore.  Knowing Nana Severance as we did, we didn’t discount the possibility.

It was impossible to conceive of a situation where Walter Babish would take on Eddie Ledwich, but there they were one fine Friday morning, duking it out on the corner of Exeter and Garfield streets.  No one seemed to know what started the fracas, but everyone was delighted that Walter, tears slowly rolling out the sides of his eyes, was standing his ground.  Ledwich got in a head shot now and then, but blows to the body just bounced off the keg-like Babish.

Eddie’s modus operandi was always to keep advancing, usually avoiding his opponent’s blows, but sometimes fighting through them.  His normal adversaries lacked the meaty arms and general heft of Walter, however, who would not back up a step.  Babish, of course, had the rapidly-gathering crowd (if not God) on his side and he felt the weighty responsibility of carrying the dusty banner of the have-nots.  “Kick his German ass, Walter,” chirped little Jimmy Lavery, Walter’s next-door neighbor.  Several seconded that emotion.

If you have a distinct weight advantage and you hang around long enough, good things will sometimes happen.  Ledwich missed a careless jab and Walter caught him on the chin with a heavy shot, buckling his Nazi knees.  Now there was moisture escaping from the bully’s eyes as his foe, bolstered by the haymaker, advanced to the roar of the crowd.  The home-field advantage is not a made-up thing, it lives in little crazed college football towns and high-school basketball gyms every night of the week.  It’s not just you out there taking on the enemy, it’s your band of merry men bringing the power.

Ledwich was backing up now, floundering, people laughing at him, cursing his soul and his heritage.  Babish peppered him with body blows and Eddie was on the ground, sobbing and cussing a blue streak.  He screamed that he would kill Walter “next time,” but even Eddie knew better.  There would be no next time.  The underdog had risen and having done so, suddenly realized his own possibilities.  It was perhaps the best day of Walter Babish’s life.  And it was even a learning day for Eddie Ledwich, who picked up one inarguable truth.  On a given day, despite all odds, beware the mystic powers of the underdog.

Root, Root, Root For The Home Team, But Otherwise….

Growing up in loyal Massachusetts in the 1950s, you rooted for the Red Sox, even though they always finished second in their division to the hated Yankees.  If you grew up in Chicago, chances are you led cheers for the Cubs, even though they never beat anybody.  Someone in Chi-town coined the term “lovable losers,” as apt a description as ever emerged from The City of The Big Shoulders.  Thing is, though, that Fenway Park and Wrigley Field were always filled to the brim with zealous fans cheering on their beloved underdogs.  When the Sox finally ended their 86-year World Series drought in 2004 by sweeping the St. Louis Cardinals, the descendants of lifetime Boston fans took newspapers to the cemeteries to show their deceased forebears the miracle had finally arrived.  When the Cubs ended their even longer 108-year hiatus in 2016 after a thrilling seven-game series with the Cleveland Indians, Chicago fans descended on the Wrigleyville area of town in monster celebrations which went on through the night.  One ancient fan went over to his refrigerator and took out a can of beer he’d placed there 32 years before, reserving it for the Big Day.  Even fans of most of the other teams in Major League Baseball were happy for the two longtime losers and their zealous fan bases.  Everybody loves an underdog, right?

On Autumn Saturdays, football fans pile into their home stadiums to watch the local gladiators dispel some arrogant invaders, then go home and root for every underdog they can find on television.  Not everybody, but most of them.  Academic studies all seem to agree that more than two-thirds of the populace prefer the underdog to the favorite and many backers of the favorite will change allegiances if they learn the underdog is winning.

The Underdog Effect is a psychological phenomenon where people are more inclined to support those who are perceived as disadvantaged or less likely to succeed.  This doesn’t just happen with sports or competitions, it’s a deep-seated response that influences our behavior in many areas of life.  At its core, the UE is about rooting for those who face overwhelming odds.  Think David & Goliath, where a pitiful shepherd knocks off Haystacks Calhoun with nothing but a slingshot and a positive attitude.  The story has endured for centuries, not just because of its dramatic narrative but because it taps into a universal human instinct—the desire to see the seemingly powerless individual or group overcome the all-powerful.  Hopeless characters like Rocky Balboa resonate with us because they embody the ultimate underdog spirit.  We’re drawn to these stories because they reflect a struggle against adversity, a struggle we can all relate to on some level.

Alas, supporters of the underdog often fall on hard times, which is why we Remember The Alamo, the Battle of Thermopylae and the Super Bowl collapse of the 2016 Atlanta Falcons.  But those with little hope wouldn’t be proper underdogs if they started winning all the time now, would they?

Great Moments In Underdog History

Did a small band of underdogs once save Western civilization?  Many historians think so.  In 1566, Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent (not to be confused with Foudini the Magnificent of early TV fame) led his Ottoman Empire army of 150 thousand (count ‘em, 150,000) surly soldiers on a march to take Vienna.  As they marched through Croatia, Suleiman’s boys ran across a small nuisance army that had recently attacked a Turkish encampment, and the Sultan decided to obliterate them just for kicks.

The army in question was a meager force of 2300-3000 Croats and Hungarians under the command of Ban Nikola Subic Zrinski, a Croatian-Hungarian noble and general.  Fearing an attack from Suleiman’s gigantic army, Subic asked for reinforcements from Vienna, but received zero.  Las Vegas posted 1-10 odds on the Sultan, which is about the same as they gave Secretariat in the 1973 Belmont.  You know what happened that time.

The underdogs decided to hold up in the town of Szigetvar in Hungary.  On August 6, 1566, the Ottoman army approached snickering, certain of a quick siege after a minimal battle.  Didn’t happen.  For the next month, the small force fended off the massive army and held the town.  Unimaginably, the Sultan died of old age on September 6th, never seeing Szigetvar taken.  After his death, the Ottomans went nuts, beginning an all out attack.  As they madly charged toward the gates of the town, however, the portals suddenly swung open and a large mortar filled with broken iron responded, instantly killing hundreds of shocked invaders.

The 600 or so remaining defenders then charged out into the town in a suicide attack, taking tons of Ottoman soldiers with them.  Subic was killed by an arrow to the head and most of his army fell with him, but even in death he was still killing enemy troops.  His forces set a trap in the town’s castle as the battle was ending, lighting a fuse to the powder magazine.  As the Ottoman troops checked out the town for survivors and loot, the castle suddenly exploded, killing at least 3000 of the enemy.   The Ottoman casualties from the battle were huge.  They lost 30,000 troops, one-fifth of their army, and with winter coming abandoned their attempt to take Vienna, returning to Constantinople.  The defeat was so significant that many in Europe called it the battle that saved western civilization.  The Ottomans would not attempt to take Vienna for another 120 years.  Still, as usual, Vegas didn’t have to pay off.

2004

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Beantown nine that day:
The score stood three to four with but one inning left to play.
The leadoff hitter soon flew out, the second did the same.
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in miserable despair. 
The rest clung to the hope all underdogs declare.

Now not-so-mighty Millar was advancing to the plate.
He whacked one to the outfield and wound up on first base.
Now Millar was no whippet, and his run might save the day,
The Red Sox called in Roberts for the penultimate play.
Roberts soon stole second and then scored on Mueller’s hit.
Then stands were in a frenzy, the fatal fire was lit.

In the 12th inning, David (Big Papi) Ortiz knocked one out of the park for an unlikely Sox victory.  Next day, the Red Sox got two in the eighth to tie the game and won it on Ortiz’s RBI single in the 14th inning on his tenth pitch off Loaiza.  The game went on for 5 hours and 49 minutes. a new record for postseason play.

This was all fine and dandy, but none of the 25 teams that tried had ever come back from a 3-0 playoff deficit, and the final two games of the series were in New York.

Game 6 was the famous “bloody sock” game, in which Boston hurler Curt Schilling pitched with a torn tendon sheath in his right ankle; it had been sutured in place in an unprecedented procedure by Red Sox doctors. Schilling went seven strong innings, allowing only one run as the Bosox prevailed 4-2.

Game 7 was finished almost before it started, with the Sox clubbing Yankee pitching for six runs in the first two innings and two more in the fourth.  It was all over but the shouting, with Boston winning 10-3 in a laugher.  The Red Sox had done the heretofore impossible, beating the alleged best team in baseball in four straight games after climbing out of the gutter.  It was merely the cherry on the cake when they swept the St. Louis Cardinals in the 2004 World Series.

Underdogs everywhere rejoiced at this inconceivable coup in Boston, but nowhere so much as in the old home town where a record 3.2 million people showed up for the massive victory parade.  The fans lined up over 100 deep in some areas, forcing the city to adjust the route to accommodate the swarm.  Next day, Patrick Thomas, a lifetime fan, went to his grandfather’s grave, placed a Red Sox hat on top of his stone and shared a glass of champagne with Gramps, a Sox fan from 1919 to his death in 1993.  Cemeteries all over New England had stories of similar visits.

Another fan, Jim Gavaghan, got in his car and raced across town to share the joy with his dyed-in-the-wool Sox fan father, a man very old in the tooth.  Perhaps a little too stoked, Jim shook his dad’s hand and shouted, “You can drop dead now!”  His father, only slightly taken aback, replied “Are you kidding?  We’re just getting started.  I’m going to make it to the next one!”  He did, too, despite every prognosis, only succumbing days after the Red Sox dispensed the Colorado Rockies in 2007.  Be a doubter all you like, the power of the underdog is mighty.

That’s three strikes, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com  

        

    

The Wonders Of Lithium

“Look---up in the sky!  It’s a bird!  It’s a plane!  No, it’s LITHIUM to the rescue!”

You folks out there probably don’t know this, but Lithium isn’t merely the magic trick that makes electric cars possible, staves off depression, makes pacemakers viable and keeps your skillet good and greasy all the time.  Now, it turns out the L superhero is kicking some Alzheimer’s ass.  Those hardworking tykes at Harvard Medical School seem to have come across a breakthrough for the ages.

Alzheimer’s is a curse that’s puzzled researchers for decades.  More than 7 million Americans are living with this neurodegenerative nightmare, and it’s predicted that by 2060 the number will double.  Scientists have come across intriguing clues---like the unusual buildup of certain proteins in the brains of people with The Big A---but haven’t been able to pinpoint what’s fundamentally driving the disease.  It’s the famous riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.  But maybe not for much longer.

The Harvard team, led by Bruce Yankner, MD, Ph.D, has linked the dread disease with---you guessed it---a deficiency of lithium in the brain.  The boys also discovered that the metal naturally occurs in the brain and likely plays a major role in shielding it from neurodegeneration.  Yankner first zeroed in on lithium about ten years ago while studying a protein called REST which is believed to protect against Alzheimer’s and is activated by the compound.  Researchers analyzed the brain tissue of cognitively healthy people and those with advanced Alzheimer’s and found that levels of the compound were high in the first group and plunged dramatically in patients with the disease.

Then, they went one step further by testing whether low lithium levels could lead mice to develop Alzheimer’s.  Researchers fed the animals a low-lithium diet, which brought their levels down to what’s typically seen in people with Alzheimer’s and found that this “actually spurred the pathology of the disease and led to memory loss,” according to Yankner.  The scientists were then able to reverse that memory loss and clear the brain of certain hallmarks of the disease, like inflammation and the accumulation of proteins called amyloid plaques, by giving the mice a very low dose of lithium orotate.  After experimenting with several other types of lithium compounds, the team found that lithium orotate was most effective, due to its propensity to evade amyloid, while others bind to it and become inactive.  Wow!

Short of having Dr. Bruce and the gang come to our house, what’s the best thing we can do to get on the lithium train, you might ask.  Well, as you might expect, you can load up on the usual suspects like green leafy vegetables, nuts, legumes, lentils and chickpeas, all of which are great sources of lithium, as are some spices like turmeric and cumin.  “Interestingly, these foods are all core components of the popular Mediterranean diet,” says Yankner.  Lithium can also be found in mineral water.

There are also lithium orotate supplements available online, but Dr. Yankner would rather you didn’t.  “As encouraging as the mouse studies are, until we see it in humans we can’t say definitively whether it would be safe or not and what is the best effective dose.”  But they will soon enough, and one day in the near future lithium tests could detect early-stage Alzheimer’s and be used as a therapeutic treatment.  The Harvard boys hope to initiate medical trials within the next year.

The above is yet another reason we don’t need dumb presidents fouling the waters of Science.  Trumpy’s  shield reads “Mentiri!”  Harvard’s motto is “Veritas.”  The Prez has maybe a couple years left if he’s lucky.  Harvard is 388 years old and counting.  We know who we’re betting on.

Just The Facts, Ma’am:

1. Lithium is the third element in the periodic table.  It has three protons and its symbol is Li.  Lithium has an atomic mass of 6.941.  Natural lithium is a mixture of two stable isotopes, lithium-6 and lithium-7.  The latter accounts for over 92% of the natural abundance of the element.

2. Lithium is an alkali metal.  It’s silver-white in pure form and is so soft it can be cut with a butter knife.  It has one of the lowest melting points and a high boiling point for a metal.

3. Lithium doesn’t occur free in nature.  However, it is found in nearly all igneous rocks and in mineral springs.  It was one of the three elements produced by the big bang, along with hydrogen and helium.

4. Pure lithium is extremely corrosive and requires special handling.  Because it reacts with air and water, the metal is stored under oil or enclosed in an inert atmosphere.  When lithium catches fire, it is difficult to extinguish the flames.

5. Lithium is the lightest metal.  Also, the least dense solid element, with a density of about half that of water.  If lithium didn’t react with water it would float.

“I Don’t Believe In God, But I Believe In Lithium.”---Jaime Lowe

Jaime Lowe: “So, I was on a manic high, which meant that I was hallucinating.  I thought I could talk to Michael Jackson.  I thought I knew secret tunnels to Neverland.  I was like imagining Muppets.  and some of it was very---you know, some parts of mental illness are kind of funny.  Many parts are horrible.  I had accused my dad of being physically abusive and he had never been physically abusive.  At this point, I was running away from him.  And all of my parents.  My parents are divorced.  I have like a million parents.  But they all had seen this pattern of mental disarray and they had figured out the adolescent ward at UCLA was the best place for treatment, so that’s where I ended up.  But I had to take a lot of antipsychotics.  I had to go through a lot before Dr. DeAntonio, the head of adolescent care there, diagnosed me.  He identified my problem immediately because the symptoms are so bizarre, but all similar.

I was there for about three weeks, the first three weeks of my senior year.  It was terrible.  And it was also, you know, fantastic, because I got better.  At the beginning, I was very resistant to medications.  I was still hallucinating, delusional.  I thought the apocalypse was happening.  I thought I was going to war in Nicaragua.  Like, there were these enormous pipes outside the window, and it was just a hospital generator, but I had the idea they were going to get me with poison gas and that it was going to be like another Holocaust and we were all going to die.  I was originally told I was manic depressive, but now they call it bipolar disorder.  That was when I came to the realization that I needed to take the medication.  And that medication was lithium.

So the lithium for me, when I took it, I didn’t feel many side effects, which is partly why it worked for me.  I had been experiencing so much tumult in my life I needed to have something that kind of evened everything out and the lithium did that.  I told myself, ‘okay, this is what’s going to work for me, and this is what I have to do.’  When I went to college, everything was great and I didn’t really think about it.  Lithium was kind of in my back pocket and it worked.  It worked so well that after college my psychiatrist decided we could like, taper down, maybe even try life without lithium.  That was not a good idea.  When I’m not on the medication, the highs and lows are unmanageable.  There are highs that are like wearing head-to-toe glitter and 18 tutus and 30 necklaces.  Don’t even ask me about the lows.” 

A Peek Into The Crystal Ball

Lithium faces a mission no superhero would envy; to accelerate the world’s transition to sustainable energy.  Overall, lithium’s demand is forecast to increase 12 percent annually through 2030, underpinned by EV adoption, renewable integration and digitalization.  One million tons were mined in 2024 and the output must grow to 2.7 million tons by 2030, particularly in the EV sector.  The disparity between raw material supply and demand is worsened by the lengthy timeline for developing lithium mines.  These mines can take 5 to 25 years to become operational, while midstream and downstream facilities require less than five years.  This misalignment presents a significant bottleneck for the battery industry.  Benchmark analysis reveals a staggering $514 billion investment is required by 2030 to meet battery demand.  General Motors and Tesla are making significant moves, with GM investing $650 million in Lithium Americas for its Nevada mine and Tesla is building a $1 billion lithium refinery in Texas.  Tesla plans 20 million EVs annually by 2030, while General Motors and Mercedes-Benz aim for fully electric cars by 2035 and 2030, respectively.

With lithium in relatively short supply, it behooves the industry and owners of electric vehicles to get the most out of their current batteries.  A lithium battery will need less frequent charging to stay healthy is you use the 20-80 rule; keep its state of charge between 20% and 80% rather than frequently charging to 100% or letting it fully discharge.  By avoiding extreme states of charge, you reduce stress on the battery and significantly prolong its overall lifespan.  When storing the car for an extended period, aim for a charge of 50-80 percent.

If you’re an old reptile like Bill, who unconscionably prefers his gas-guzzler, you’ll be out of luck in the relatively near future.  Almost all cars are likely to be electric within the next 20 years, maybe sooner.  The Senate blocked California’s law banning new gas-powered vehicles after 2035, but Captain Trumpy won’t be around much longer and similar laws are coming.  Lithium---it’s the wave of the future.  You can rock it, you can roll it, do the stomp and even stroll it, but you can’t slow it down.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com 

85

“Despite all odds, Bill Killeen will become eighty-five years of age on November 2, 2025.  This is as stunning an event as sleet falling on Key West or North Korea landing on the Moon.  Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of county jails could stay this courier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds.  And he’s got miles to go before he sleeps.”--- Either Herodotus or Robert Frost

 

When we were kids, 85 was a big number.  Our grandparents seemed pretty old to us and they were merely in their fifties.  Nobody had great-grandparents, and Dan, Dan, the Dirty Old Man, a besotted relic who lived at the end of the street was barely seventy.  Slow-moving Monsignor Daly, ever-festooned in religious paraphernalia and looking a lot like God, was the oldest person we knew.  Nobody had any idea how old he was but 75 would have been startling, even though he looked older than dirt as he wobbled through the incensed aisles at Midnight Mass.

Babe Ruth, a very old baseball player, retired at 40.  Dwight Eisenhower, an ancient president, was elected at age 63.  The average life expectancy for men in 1960 was a whopping 66 years.  My maternal Grandfather died in his fifties and my Father at 63.  If Vegas was posting odds back then, I would have been 200-1 to hit 80.  Nancy Kay would say I was lucky, but Tina might ask what’s luck got to do with it?

It’s not as though The Reaper didn’t have his chances.  At 10, I fell out of the tallest tree on Garfield Street, but landed on top of a telephone pole.  At 40, a deranged lunatic held a shotgun on me and accused me of being the leader of his invisible tormentors.  At 45, I rolled my T-top Toronado into a ditch in Micanopy.  At 65, I had a heart attack that sent my ejection fraction spiraling down to 25.  And as a cherry on the cake, last November I had a 50 mph head-on collision with a bumpkin in Marion County, four miles from my house.  Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.

I have had dangerous girlfriends like Claudine Laabs and Patti Wheeler, both at the same time.  I have ridden in Jack Gordon’s car on a Los Angeles Freeway.  I have climbed Half Dome, navigated the Zion Narrows, escaped from the Ape Caves, worn my Red Sox cap at a game in Yankee Stadium.  I have consorted with drug dealers, bar fighters and Janis Joplin.  I have driven a car with no brakes from Tallahassee to Gainesville.  They say if the first one don’t getcha then the second one will, but I’m on number 15 and holding.  How many years must a mountain exist before it is washed to the sea?  The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind.  But surely more than 85, right?

Being 85

When you’re 85, you don’t take much for granted, but there’s no point in being maudlin.  Several years ago, I found myself looking around on our western vacations, soaking in the wonders of a Yosemite or a Yellowstone or a Golden Gate Bridge and telling myself to enjoy it, it would be the last time I’d visit.  Then, a few years later, I’d be back again, feeling silly.  I didn’t tell myself anything the second time.

When you’re 85, you can’t do some things you think you can do.  I used to be able to hop a paddock fence pretty easily.  Just get a bit of a running start, grab the top board with both hands and hop over.  I tried to do that awhile back and my arms didn’t have the strength to get my legs halfway up the fence.  I was appalled.  I’d been diligently doing my strength training three days a week without fail, what happened?  85 happened, that’s what.  Apparently, most people who are not damn fools know that.

When you’re 85, you get a lot of advice, some of it from people who haven’t made it to 50.  Everybody wants to tell you why you shouldn’t do something.  Stay off the roof.  Avoid ladders.  Don’t sit all the way up in Row 54 at Gator football games.  Stay away from young women, they’ll give you a heart attack.  Siobhan told me again last week what a long walk it is from the stadium to my post-game pickup spot at Paesano’s, which is a breeze, really.  To humor her, I got a pedicab ride back to the car.  You wouldn’t believe how fast those pedicab drivers can go.  A fifteen-minute walk turns into a two-minute shuffle.  It’s almost worth the $20 to beat the traffic.

When you’re 85, you think you’ll be too rumpled to attract female attention.  It’s not true because there are also older women in the world, and they have needs.  It doesn’t even matter if you’re married.  A few years ago, I told an aggressive lady at the gym my status and she just said, “That’s alright, honey, it’s every woman for herself.”  I go to Williston every day to drop off Siobhan’s shipments and pick up a newspaper at Walgreen’s.  At least once a week, the same fortyish woman is in there and comes over to talk.  She’s not bad, either.  The other day, she told me to give her a call anytime I wanted to go to the beach.  I gave her Will Thacker’s number. 

When you’re 85, people think you’re a sexual benchwarmer, or worse yet, cut from the team.  I was visiting with an eightyish friend the other day and he recalled some crazy sexual hijinks he and his wife participated in years ago, then said, “Of course, we don’t do that anymore.”  As if he got a notice in the mail sex was outlawed after 70.  I just looked at the ceiling and shuffled my feet.  I figured if I put up an argument, he might call the Sex Police and turn me in.

The Great Escape

When you sit down for a game of blackjack with the Grim Reaper, you’d better have an ace up your sleeve.  Everyone from the Chinese Emperor Qin Shi Huang to Nicolas Flamel to Harry Houdini to Woody Allen has searched for an elixir of life, a philosopher’s stone, a magic trick to beat the Reaper.  Alas, he’s still undefeated and untied unless you buy into the bounce-back of Jesus, who, you’ll have to admit, had friends in very high places.  At least we know now what doesn’t work. Or do we?  Who’s to say Qin’s notion of an island with herbs that granted eternal life was a fallacy?  Maybe his boys just couldn’t find the right island.  Flamel’s philosopher’s stone was supposedly capable of turning base metals into gold, as well as granting immortality.  Could be that in his haste to construct the stone, Nicky got careless and left out the nutmeg.

The real disappointment was Houdini, the universally famous magician and escape artist who could do anything.  Harry promised his wife, Beth, that if he died first he would send her a coded message from the hereafter as proof of his continued existence on another plane.  He gave Beth the phrase “Rosabelle Believe,” an acronym for a stage code they used.  Houdini died in 1926 and Beth held a seance every year on his birthday for the next ten years with no luck.  In 1936, she declared the contract broken.  “Ten years is long enough to wait for any man,” she sighed.

Living forever, or even to a ripe old age requires the consent of the subject, of course.  At 85, the spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak, and life as an infirm nursing home resident is no bed of roses.  Strange things sometimes happen, however, on the way to the mortuary.  One of our good friends called a few years back to lament his neurological disease, hinting that it might be time to push the ejection button.  He was living alone and could barely take care of himself, there was little hope in sight and he was having a hard time finding a reason to hang around.  But a short time later, an associate steered him to a clinic where new treatments for neurological problems were being attempted.  Over a two year period, he improved to such a degree that he felt safe driving again and was able to travel.  In the process, he reconnected with an old girlfriend and they decided to join forces to battle the universe.  As Dave Barry used to say, we are not making this stuff up, it actually happened.  Life is a quirky taskmaster.  Just when you’re willing to give up on it, a magic carpet  arrives at your door and whisks you off to Neverland.  Other times it takes you to Oakland.

The Old Philosopher Rambles

If I could give you any advice, it might be to grow up a Red Sox fan.  You’ll learn early that life dishes out a good share of cruelty and disappointment, but if you hang in there and have faith, eventually you’ll win the World Series.

Some people will tell you that money is not important, which is a big fat lie.  If all the guys in your rock band are collecting Social Security and your wife had to get a second job at the carwash, it might be time for a career change.  Nobody should be a slave to the almighty dollar, but after age 60 noone but Smokey the Bear should be living in a tent.

You should travel as much as you can, especially if you are young and have few responsibilities.  The American West is a goldmine of opportunity, even if you’re not as mobile as you used to be.  While it’s typical to pick out a single destination and spend a week or more there, we’ve found that it’s more rewarding to string several stops together, as in the California coast from San Diego to Sausalito, with a side trip to Yosemite, or perhaps an eye-popping drive north and south of the Arizona-Utah state line.

Do not be put off if the rental-car man tells you he has no cars to pick up in Seattle and leave in Portland, he does.  You might have to tell a gentle fib and promise to bring it back to SeaTac, but there will be no sad repercussions when you don’t.  The bill will be the same and the folks in Portland will be thrilled to get an unexpected vehicle.  Like George Washington, we believe in telling the truth at all times, but you don’t have to be fanatical about it when you’re dealing with an intractable adversary.  By the way, it’s always cheaper to rent a car from a non-airport site.  Use the airport if you’re leasing for a day or two, but rent off-campus if it’s for several days.  We’re talking $300-$400 difference over a couple of weeks.

Finally, don’t be too quick to marry or have kids.  Save some money, see the world, expose yourself to the vast choices that are out there.  There is no single formula for everyone.  A recent poll told a surprising story—two-thirds of those questioned said that despite their love for the children they now have, they would not have kids if they had it to do over.  Among other regrets, they felt their lives had been significantly limited.  Obviously, many people are thrilled to have children, but nobody should consider it an obligation.  Before you sign up with a partner, make sure that person totally agrees with you on whether or not you’ll have kids.

And about that partner---don’t be in too much of a hurry to find one.  Sometimes, the early bird does get the worm, and that’s not what anybody is looking for.  It’s tough enough to live with an ideal partner, let alone be part of a mismatched pair, so take your time.  Try to find an equal, not someone you can push around.  And remember, if you really love someone, your objective should be to enhance that person’s life, not just your own.

For you younger people out there, for God’s sake get a grip when an early relationship falls on the rocks.  Your life isn’t over when Sally Mae takes up with the blacksmith or decides she can’t stand the way you eat.  Before you jump off the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, try this: move far away for a month, at least.  You won’t see Sally any more and your new surroundings will be interesting and exciting.  Sooner rather than later, you’ll run across Rhonda, a woman famous for rendering aid, and all will be well again.  You’re welcome.

It’s tough to be 85.  There are aches and pains in places you didn’t know existed, the other drivers get worse every day and all your friends are dive-bombing into oblivion.  But hey, it’s November---the air is fresh and cool, you have a great wife and you don’t live in Memphis.  Maybe you’ll go to see Gilbert Shelton in Paris next summer or cruise along the Inside Passage or write the best Flying Pie ever.  Maybe you’ll go to one more wedding instead of a steady diet of funerals.

If we’re lucky, we get to keep our memories.  Of childhood on Garfield Street, of hitting our first home run, first-kissing Mary Ellen Jamison and hitchhiking with Jackie Fournier to a Red Sox game at age eleven.  Of riding a train across the country from Boston to Stillwater, of delicious adolescent days in Austin, of courting Marilyn Todd, of sleeping in a vacant room at Rice Institute, of hearing Janis Joplin sing for the first time.  Of living through the never-to-be-forgotten hippie years, when art and music and fashion and new ideas were exploding all over the place.  Of Pamme Brewer and Claudine Laabs and Harolyn Locklair and Betsy Harper.  Of Dick North and Gerald Jones and Newt Simmons and Rick Nihlen, of Bob Sturm and Danny Levine and endless others.  Of The Last Tango, with all of its emotion, excitement, sound and fury.

85 is not just a number, it’s a reward, an accomplishment and more than a grand finale.  If you look at it like I do, it’s just another step on the way to 90.  Rock on!  See you at the party!

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com       

       

We’re Off To The Portland Zoo.

“….to see the elephant and big kangaroo!”---Lieuen Adkins

In case you haven’t been paying attention, hellzapoppin’ in Portland, Oregon these days.  The Donald Trump Royal Mounties have turned their attention to the place because it is a festering nest of rowdy liberals doing unspeakable things like worshipping doughnuts, watching thousands of birds dive into a chimney at sunset, racing pumpkin boats on the Willamette River and voting heavily for Democrats at every opportunity.

Captain Trumpy, who has rarely been there, sees it differently.  “Portland is burning to the ground,” he swears. “Insurrectionists all over the place,” he says. South Portland’s Waterfront neighborhood, home to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) building, has become the site of nightly clashes between federal agents and local protesters opposed to immigration arrests.  Cymbals clash and protestors dash.  The sweet smell of tear gas grabs the nostrils.  “It’s like a war zone,” says local resident Brenda Hammer, who lives across from Ground Zero.  “There are times I have to wear a gas mask inside my own home.”   Mayor Keith Wilson blames the ICEmen for inciting the crowds.  While Wilson was speaking, a resident skulked by carrying two pet rats and screaming at ICE agents posted outside the building.  “Get back in your pen, pigs!” he demanded, without much success.

Most residents, of course, blame Trump for the tumult.  In 2020, during his first term, the fake prez was also accused of inflaming protests when he sent in National Guard troops to downtown areas as thousands demonstrated against police violence.  In the gentrified Alberta Arts District, residents call Trump’s claims about Portland laughable and praise the city for its culture and friendly vibes.  One grocery worker noted the city has a long history of being villainized by the Republican Party, citing George H.W. Bush, who referred to Portland as “Little Beirut.”

The Rose City, of course, is just another would-be notch in Trump’s broadening belt, following after L.A., Memphis and Chicago, where tempers rose, bullets flew and a few unlucky Hispanics were rounded up and exiled to Timbucktoo.  In those three encampments, the residents got angry.  In Portland, they got even.

Feeling Froggy

Portraying The City of The Big Shoulders as a den of dangerous pistoleros is one thing.  Crime has an earthy history there, gangs run rampant through parts of the city and people get shot on a regular basis while sitting in their houses watching Popeye cartoons.  If you think we’re kidding, watch Chicago Med some time.  Memphis tops the list for violent crime with a rate nearly six times the national average, with a particular fondness for homicide and carjacking Kias from little old ladies.  Putting    Portland in the same category as these two places is silly.  The biggest danger to Trump in Portland is all the citizens vote against him..

Portlanders, however, are savvy to the fact that self-aggrandizing tyrants are mortally terrified of only one thing---Ridicule.  If you’re a puffed-up lump of cheese sitting on a throne with supplicants in place and enemies locked safely in dungeons, it’s shocking and downright unseemly to have the population suddenly laughing hysterically at your foibles.  You can rock it, you can roll it, do the stomp and even stroll it, but you can’t dispel the staggering power of Ridicule.

Yo, here come the scary ICEmen in all their wartime finery, helmets buckled, giant weapons in place, looking ready to take on Attila’s mighty Huns, and suddenly they are confronted by---bunnies and piggies and several versions of Froggy the Gremlin.  You can’t shoot Froggy, so what do you do?  Back up, mostly, and try not to laugh.  Even when Froggy shakes his or her booty directly in your face, as Froggies are wont to do.

It’s hard to call a place a war zone when one side dresses up in inflatable bunny rabbit costumes.  When Kristi Noem, the Queen of Mean, showed up on the ICE facility’s roof leering at protesters below, a large person in a chicken suit sauntered up to take issue.  The Queen was outraged when told she couldn’t cut off the chicken’s head and accused local elected leaders of “covering up terrorism.”

The Republicans like to cite any opposition to their folly as “Antifa-inspired.”  Those Antifas are everywhere---upstairs, downstairs and in my lady’s chamber, stirring up trouble.  Federal agents have stepped up their use of force outside the ICE facility where inflatable chickens, dogs and frogs have an endless loop dance party going.  New answer to “Why did the chicken cross the street?”  To get away from the flying pepper balls.  The sight of grossly overstuffed troops in helmets dragging floppy frogs down the street is Portland’s Vaudeville theater.  So far, only a couple of the frogs have pissed on the ICEmen.

Operation Inflation, A Portland Sensation

“I think it’s amazing that Portland is taking a uniquely Portland approach to protests,”  says Oregonian Justin Kent.  It takes any doubt out of the idea that this resistance is a violent thing.”

Kent said that after seeing Operation Inflation take off, he started an online gift registry to get more costumes to protestors and it’s been booming.  “I’ve even had international friends donate costumes,” he reported.  “I set it up on Friday and by Monday I had 26 costumes.  People seem to like frogs the most, but new costumes are popping up every day.  We got a raccoon---that went REALLY fast---and I personally bought about half a dozen unicorns.”

If you’re not wearing an inflatable, you might be donning a onesie costume provided by Kevin X.  “This is my own money I’m spending so Portland can refute claims of violent protestors.  It’s hard for the bad guys to come up with an alternate narrative when people across the country see Portlanders dancing in dinosaur costumes and onesies.  I mean, come on, right?  Chicago is telling the world ‘we will fight, Portland is saying ‘we will be silly.’”

A few nights ago, a small group of federal agents in camouflage and face masks watched from atop the immigration processing center as a unicorn, a peacock, a dinosaur and a raccoon danced to Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time.”  Across the street, the self-proclaimed Frog Brigade, three adults in inflatable amphibian costumes, posed for photos and bounced around in unison.  A very small group of counterprotestors nearby shouted, “We love you, ICE!”  There’s no accounting for violence groupies wearing colanders.

The absurdity of adults dancing in inflatable costumes is meant to display community joy and help dispel the Trump administration’s narrative that Portland is a crime-ridden war zone; as an added bonus, the costumes provide protection from gas and other toxins deployed by federal agents.  Protestor Jack Dickinson, known locally as the Chicken Man was early to the game, having first donned his chicken costume in June during Trump’s military parade in Washington.  “They present a show of force,” he says.  “We present a show of farce.  This is an unacceptable betrayal of American democracy.  ICE is kind of the perfect example of the cruelty with which they are implementing their agenda, and it’s not something we can sit by and let happen.  The inflatables have them confused, on the run.  Even ICEmen know it’s not nice to beat up on Cinderella.” 

A Soldier’s Letter From The Portland War Front

“My dearest wife…

It is week two of the Siege of Portland and still these barbarians will not yield to our troops.  We have severed the cords of their Latte machines but they are making cowboy coffee in their camps, where loud ukulele songs of resistance even now drift on the breeze.  Our platoon has foraged for bush food and is now forced to live on cacao nibs and gluten-free bagels, though Lieutenant Knickerbocker believes he knows where he can raid some salmon jerky.  Not an Arby’s is in sight and the grumbling of my stomach is part of this ordeal.  A mere child has from afar ruined our stew with her banana-slug catapult.

My love, this is not the enemy our fearless leaders advised us to expect, in that they are all pale, even pasty, but defiant or rather not defiant, but interested in longwinded discussion of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, which our officers will not engage in as long as the enemy wears t-shirts blaspheming against Our Lord and our leader.  Nevertheless, three of our men have defected---one lured by a Tarot reading and a promise of dry socks.  Two others went off to shut down a drag show and never returned.

My own faith has been shaken by the discovery that Antifa merely means anti-fascist, and is not an organized terrorist group, but my commanding officer will not address what it means to be anti-anti-fascist.  On the other hand, I have heard that “pollinator garden workshop” is a code name for dangerous assembly, and that “brunchista” is yet another such pseudonymous appellation.

I regret to tell you a Golden Retriever has stolen my ammunition belt, undoubtedly trained to do so by these infidels.  Will it ever stop raining?

I remain your devoted husband,

Ezekiel.”

That’s all, folks…hang on Portland!

bill.killeen094@gmail.com      

 

Where Have All The Doctors Gone?

When we were kids, everybody had a family doctor.  Sometimes we went “over city” to Essex Street in Lawrence to see him, other times he came to our house.  His name was Leonard Bennett Ainsworth, and he was just one of a vast army of family doctors in town, people you could actually call if you were sick and get an appointment with the next day.  It was a little scary going to see Doctor Ainsworth because sometimes there were needles involved or other disagreeable surprises, like when I was in the second grade and was told I had Rheumatic Fever.  In those days, nobody ever got a second opinion, the diagnosis of the family doctor was always sacrosanct, so I missed all but two months of school and the greatest snowfall in twenty years.  Despite the cold weather, my sympathetic mother sometimes let me open the living room window and talk to the frolicking kids outside.  In retrospect, I don’t think I really had Rheumatic Fever, which I was advised would likely return around age thirteen, but didn’t.  Due to my mother’s constant use of flash cards, I learned my multiplication tables and got promoted to third grade anyway.  Go ahead---ask me how much is eight times seven.

I’m not sure I needed my tonsils out, either.  I mean, how do you know?  Who gets his tonsils out these days, and what’s different now?  Nonetheless, one day I thought I saw Doctor Ainsworth’s car pull up in front of our house and I went to tell my mother, who pretended she didn’t know he was coming.  The doctor was there with his crew of assassins to take out my tonsils on the kitchen table and everybody thought it best to keep me in the dark.  I put up a pretty good fight and used excessive profanity my mother was shocked to hear, but I was sorely outnumbered and the inevitable ether rag came down and put me out of commission.  My parents tried to buy my forgiveness with ice cream the next day but I was able to maintain a sulky front for about a week.  I wasn’t too trusting of the knighted Dr. Ainsworth after that, or my mother either, for that matter.

My sister Alice (the Republican) loved her doctors, and no wonder.  At the drop of a hat, her asthma  would act up and three minutes later she looked like an original member of the Blue Man Group.  Alice was in the hospital more than Marcus Welby, M.D. and kept her asthma doctor beside her in a golf cart at all times. “How about another shot of adrenaline, Alice?”  “Don’t mind if I do, Doctor Who!”

Love ‘em or leery of ‘em, our doctors had the superpower of Availability.  They were like members of the family, knew everyone’s name and history and where we all lived.  When you went to their offices, you did not wait an hour to see them and when you did, you got a lollipop and a pat on the head.  We thought our doctor-patient relationships would be like that for eternity.  We could not have been more wrong.

“If This Is An Emergency, Please call 911.”

“If it isn’t, go soak your head.  We’re busy with our telemarketing customers, our gym workouts, our golf games.  Friday appointment?  Not an option, that’s the day we sop up our halotherapy, suck in healing NACL and improve our immune function in the salt room.  But Nurse Annie here will take care of you and answer all your questions if they’re not too difficult.  Don’t forget to bring your co-pay card.”

All that is assuming you can find a viable doctor in the first place.  Docs independent of family practice groups are rare as septuagenarians’ teeth and some of those family practice outfits are run by people who look suspiciously like Doctor Phil.  I had an edgy doctor myself for several years, selected by virtue of his New Age credentials and willingness to push the envelope on occasion.  Unfortunately, he morphed into a reactionary twit and would only prescribe Ivermectin horse wormer when I needed Paxlovid, so he’s somewhere under the bus.  Finding a replacement was a chore, and when I did the office staff was Lucy-In-The-Chocolate-Factory nuts.  One day, I waited 35 minutes past appointment time, then left.  They called an hour later to tell me the doctor was ready to see me.  “I can’t say the same for myself,” I told them.  They told me if I didn’t come back, I would no longer be a client.  “Now you get the idea,” I said.

Where Have You Gone, Doogie Houser-o, Our Nation Turns Its Weary Eyes To You?

The National Center for Health Workforce analysis reports that in 2022 there were 279,194 primary care physicians in the USA, which meant there were 270,660 Nurse Practitioners delivering primary care.  According to the Association of American Medical Colleges, by 2034 there will be a shortage of 124,000 physicians, which will be particularly acute in nonmetro areas like, say, Williston, where on an average day you will find exactly no doctors.  This is why colossal medical centers like UFHealth are spreading their wings and popping up everywhere.  If they are slow to enroll new clients and offer only rotating doctors who mature out after one or two years for greener pastures, they’re still better than the alternative.  What happened, anyway, to a medical field which once drew zillions of excited new faces eager to put up their own shingles?

First of all, aging happened, creating a growing demand for healthcare services.  Next, fewer candidates started appearing at medical schools, and those who graduated were less interested in primary care.  Third, the number of primary care providers who are entering retirement continues to grow.  More than 2 out of every 5 physicians in the U.S. will be 65 or older in the next decade.  Additionally, public health crises like the COVID-19 pandemic, which spike the demand for primary care, put an additional strain on primary care doctors and made the challenge of meeting patients’ needs all the more daunting.  Altogether, a perfect storm leading to the current medical miasma.

U.S. health care staffing shortages aren’t unique to primary care physicians.  While lower starting salaries have contributed to fewer primary care providers, the number of working registered nurses has also been declining for almost three decades.  The shortage began in the early 1990s, when health insurance providers initiated cost-cutting policies.  Licensed, experienced nurses were replaced with less skilled aides and the layoffs made the profession unattractive to those who had other career prospects.  Oy vey, Marty, whadda we do?  Let’s take a look:

The Empire Strikes Back

Many medical students start out expressing interest in primary medical care.  Then they wind up at schools based in academic medical centers, where it’s common to become enthralled by complex cases in hospitals while witnessing little primary care.  The driving force is money, says Andrew Bazemore, a physician and senior vice-president at the American Board of Family Medicine.  “Subspecialties tend to generate a lot of wealth,” says he, “not only for the individual specialists but for the whole system in the hospital.”

A department’s cache of federal and pharmaceutical company grants often determines its size and degree of prestige.  And at least 12 medical schools, including Harvard and Yale, don’t even have full-fledged family medicine departments.  Students at these schools can study internal medicine, but many of those graduates end up choosing subspecialties like gastroenterology or cardiology, and there’s a glut of candidates seeking to be dermatologists.

One potential solution is to eliminate tuition in the hope that debt-free students will take the medical path less followed.  In 2024, two elite medical schools---the Albert Einstein College of Medicine and the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine---announced that charitable donations are enabling them to waive tuition, joining a handful of other tuition-free schools.

Some schools find ways to produce significant numbers of primary care doctors through recruitment and programs that provide positive experiences and mentors.  U.S. News & World Report recently ranked 168 medical schools by the percentage of graduates who were practicing primary care six to eight years after graduation.  The top ten schools are all osteopathic medical schools, with 41-47% of their students still practicing primary care.  Unlike allopathic medical schools which award M.D. degrees, osteopathic schools award equivalent D.O. degrees and have a history of focusing on primary care; these schools are now graduating a growing share of the nation’s primary care physicians.

The University of Washington, number 18 in the rankings with 36.9% of graduates working in primary care, has a decades-old program placing students in remote parts of Washington, Wyoming, Alaska, Montana and Idaho.  UW recruits students from those areas and many go back to practice there, with more than 20% of graduates settling in rural communities, according to Joshua Jauregui, assistant dean for clinical curriculum.

Likewise, the University of California-Davis, number 22 in the rankings with 36.3% of its graduates in primary care, increased the percentage of students choosing family medicine from 12% in 2009 to 18% in 2023, even as it ranks high in specialty training.  Programs such as an accelerated three year primary care “pathway,” which enrolls primarily first-generation college students, helps sustain interest in non-specialty medical fields.

The American Medical Association says that other solutions are not that difficult to find.  The process starts with removing the multitude of administrative headaches that fuel the burnout and early retirement of many physicians.  A second critical solution is reforming a bumbling and antiquated Medicare payment system that has seen physician reimbursement drop by more than 33% since 2001, creating financial hardships especially for independent practices.  A third solution lies with greatly expanding the number of Medicare-funded graduate medical education residency slots, with particular emphasis on primary care.  The AMA enthusiastically supports the newly introduced Resident Physician Shortage Reduction Act of 2025, which would add 14,000 Medicare GME positions over seven years and codify the Rural Residency Planning and Development Program.  This bipartisan measure would help insure that patients have access to well-trained physicians in their communities by expanding training opportunities in both urban and rural hospitals with the greatest workforce needs.

Until then, however, we’re in the medical shitter.  Come back wherever your are, Leonard Bennet Ainsworth, all is forgiven.  Well, almost all.  We’re still having nightmares about medicos in SWAT uniforms carrying ether rags.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com