When I was sixteen I attended summer camp in the mountains near my Los Angeles home. I’ll admit that camping has never been my thing – I’m outdoorsy in theory only.

But it was at that camp I met Gail, my first real girl friend.  She lived on Manning Avenue across town. That meant I had the opportunity to drive my mom’s old Pontiac forty-five minutes each way to pick Gail up for a date.  It’s strange to recall this now, more than sixty years later, because I don’t like to drive any more than necessary, and try as I might, I cannot visualize Gail as a seventy-nine-year-old woman. She’s like Marilyn Monroe who never ages in my mind.

One morning at camp I woke up with two black marks about an eighth of an inch apart on the ball of my right thumb.

What was this?  I knew immediately: it was a bite from a black widow spider and I was doomed to die unless I got immediate help. I’ve always had an active imagination – especially when it comes to dangers from which I might die.

What to do?  I certainly could not tell the cabin counselor. I didn’t want to be labeled as a “sissy,” and I already didn’t get along very well with the other boys, particularly those who had more experience with camping.

I did work up the courage to approach the counselor, stick my right thumb in front of him, and casually ask (while looking the other way), “What do you think this is?”

“Probably a splinter,” he said.

Doomed. Apparently he had never seen a black widow bite before. I was sure the venom was already coursing through my veins and I was never going see my family again.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “Thanks.”

I had only one more chance for help. At breakfast in the dining hall I approached the camp nurse. She had to recognize a black widow spider bite when she saw one.

Again I stuck out my right thumb and repeated, “What do you think this is?”

She must have had little experience with the outdoors herself.

“Probably a small splinter,” she said, continuing to sip her coffee.

My final hope vanished.  I could not bring myself to voice my real concern. I simply couldn’t say, “Do you think it might be a black widow spider bite?”  I couldn’t. It was like not asking a girl to dance with me until she was already leaving the high school gym on the arm of a more assertive guy.

At camp there was no library where I could look it up, and, of course, no Internet back then.  So I spent the rest of my day waiting to die.  I was even a little disappointed when I survived all the way through to the evening campfire.  I didn’t want to expire in my sleep

That was the last time I ever attended summer camp as a camper. Two years later though, I worked as a camp counselor teaching photography. I spent a lot of time in the dark room where I primitively merged the faces of female counselors onto… I’m sure you get the picture.

I’m glad my children seem to like hiking, camping, skiing, and other outdoor activities.  And all of them actually seemed to enjoy summer camp.

Do I need to add that the moral of this tale is, “Don’t be afraid to ask”?

Cheers.

Alan

My dictionary says “A pragmatist is someone who is pragmatic, that is to say, someone who is practical and focused on reaching a goal.”

I like that definition, but what does it mean in real life?

Take my recent medical problem.  I woke up one morning with the fingers on both of my hands tingling. My fingers had also lost sensitivity.  My immediate goal was to get my hands back to normal.  After several visits to a neurologist, an MRI, and x-rays, I was diagnosed with cervical stenosis. The bones in my spinal column were pressing against the nerves in my neck.

My next goal was to find the cure.  Three doctors agreed that the only solution was a five-hour neck surgery.  Okay.  I interviewed two surgeons, and picked one who had an immediate opening on his schedule due to a cancellation.  He also seemed to be the better surgeon.  Surgery was scheduled for a few days later, at the end of March.

The most obvious risks were death, or the accidental cutting of a nerve.  I didn’t spend a moment worrying about those possibilities because there was no action I could take other than refusing to have the surgery.  But I didn’t want to endure this condition for the rest of my years, so surgery was the only option.

Fortunately, I did not experience either of those outcomes. So now my goal is to return to my normal life as soon as I can.

I believe it was Proust who wrote, “We listen to pleasure.  We obey pain.”  So as much as I would like to act as if nothing has happened, I still have significant pain in my neck, and typing is difficult.  I’m told that full recovery may take between six and twelve months.

I’m not going to worry about that either.  It is what it is.  I’m doing as much as I reasonably can, which includes postponing those activities that cause me too much pain.  As Herman Hesse wrote in Siddhartha, “I can think.  I can wait.  I can fast.”  I’m doing all three.  Well, not fasting, but I have lost six pounds.  My surgeon says that the body uses a lot of energy when recovering from bone surgery.

Enough about that.  My next goal is to return to different blog topics and focus on something other than this temporary condition.

Again, many thanks for your support and your reminders that this, too, will pass.

Love,

Alan

When my three oldest children, who are now in their fifties, were between four and seven years old, their mother and I divorced.  This meant that most weekends I took them on an excursion.

One morning, as we drove to an air show, they started using the “F” word.  After fifteen or twenty minutes one of them said, “Dad, we’ve been saying ‘F’.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

“But you haven’t said anything about it.”

“True.  Why should I?  ‘F’ is a word like any other word.”

“Mom gets really upset and won’t let us use that word when we’re with her.”

“Well, there are some words that some people object to, so when you use those words, including ‘F”, you need to consider who you’re talking with and what result you want.”

Apparently they were just testing me, because they stopped using that word after they got no reaction.

There are other emotionally charged words you have to be careful with, especially the other four letter word: “Love”.

In a deposition years ago the opposing attorney questioned me about my practice of signing business emails with the word “Love.”  Those emails had been sent to a man.

“Do you often sign business emails “Love,” he asked.

“Yes.  I do.”

He looked at me strangely.

I am fully aware that the word “Love” is loaded with emotional associations, and can be used as a genteel substitute for “sex.”  But many years ago I began to sign “Love” on emails to people I cared about. The first time was to the wife of a close business associate of more than 50 years.

I don’t recall if she went first on this or I did, but I admit that I felt then and still to this day feel a twinge of “will I be misunderstood?” when I say “love” to others in this context.   What I am intending to say is that “I really care for you and wish you well.”  This has nothing to do with romance or sex.

The word “love” is so potentially problematic that it is often avoided when it should be used.  Ted, a newly married friend of mine, told me that he said “I love you” to his new wife every single evening for six months.  She said “I love you” to him only twice.  He knew that she loved him, but for some reason was reluctant to say so out loud.

During the past three weeks I have received a large number of supportive cards and emails, and most are signed “Love.”  I am so pleased to have so many friends who are willing to use that four letter word, trusting that I will understand their meaning.

And I know that all of my children say “love” a lot more often than that other infamous word – the one that begins with “F.”

Love,

Alan