Editorial

COLUMNIST Editor’s Page

By Victoria A. Schmidt

Iwish to share with you some information about something that is near and dear

to my heart. It is about sharing your time with your friends and family who live in nursing homes or assisted living homes. Specifically, your friends with memory problems.

The process of losing one’s memory is confusing, humiliating, and lonely. Simply put, it is similar to the body rejecting your own life and memories. What happens to the personality is devastating. Of course, every case is different yet time and time again, I hear the patient repeating that “nobody likes me anymore” and they can become bitter and lonely.

I asked people why it is they don’t visit their friends. It is complicated. Sometimes they feel embarrassed if they meet their friend for lunch or dinner. So, they stop the activity. Sometimes they are uncomfortable about what the patient will do or say. Maybe they will call you by the wrong name, or remember your face, but not your job or how they know each other. What we need to remember is that you are visiting your friend. So they use the wrong name. Simply say “Hi” ask how he or she is doing. Talk about general things, like sports, shared hobbies. There are endless things to talk about. Don’t worry if you cannot follow their train of thought. You are just going along for the ride. Laugh if you feel like it, cry if the mood is there. Be real with the person. It doesn’t matter what the subject is, what matters is the conversation. The interaction, the humanity. They are sick, it isn’t contagious, and the point is not the logic, it is the interaction. Letting the people know that they are missed. That they are cared about.

My grandmother died from Alzheimer’s as did my mother. I found different things were helpful with each. My mother had early onset Alzheimer’s and when she lost her ability to communicate, we found that music would calm her. Especially Elvis Presley.

Our friends, our family are still “in there.” Share and try to be near their mood. Eventually they will reach a point where they do change completely. But they are still able to respond to voices, sounds, and touch. They didn’t ask for this disease. Put your personal discomfort away for a while and you maybe even enjoy your time. And be proud of yourself for going out of your way to acknowledge your friend or family member.

Victoria Schmidt

My last two years at Yale were spent happily ensconced in the 2nd floor back bedroom rented to me by my highly eccentric landlady, Mrs. Yates.

I had a girlfriend Farida who came up on weekends from Sweetbriar, whom Mrs. Yates accommodated with the small front room at the other end of the hall. We had developed a ritual. When Farida and I came back from wherever we had been on Saturday night, usually about midnight or 1 am, we made sure to make sufficient noise entering the house and pounding up the stairs to let Mrs. Y know we were there. Then Farida entered her room, and I mine. And waited. Some 5 minutes or so later Mrs. Y, also making sure she was making enough noise to let us know she was coming, came up the stairs and knocked on Farida’s door.—“Oh, my dear, did I remember to leave you fresh pillowslips?” Or some such thing. Farida would feign a sleepy response, “Yes, thank you Mrs. Yates,” while I would then make an appearance at the other end of the hallway, “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Yates.” After Mrs. Yates retreated down the stairs, Farida would then of course slip quietly down the hall to my room. Thus honoring, at least in appearance, the Mrs. Yates Anti-Cohabitation Ordinance.

As I said, those were happy times. Filled in part with the legends and stories of other Yates house residents through the years. One of my favorites was about the midnight marauder. Kitty-corner to our house was another residence, in which an attractive female grad student had moved into a garden apartment. Someone was stalking her and would slip into our backyard to a vantage point from which he could watch the grad student. Mrs. Y was outraged. She tried calling the police, but they always arrived too late, or too noisily, and the marauder would slip away. So, Mrs. Y came up with her own solution. In the backyard where the stalker normally positioned himself, she dug up and built a pit, filling it with mud and water, interlaced at the top with cords on which she replaced the sod. She then alerted the police ahead of her intention to catch the marauder that night. And settled in by her phone to wait.

Sure enough, about 11 he slipped into the back yard. Mrs. Y made the call, but as she was trying to explain the situation, she was interrupted by a ruckus at her front door. Yelling into the phone for the police to come NOW, she then went to and opened the front door and found two men there arguing, one of them naked. Seeing her appear, the other man tried to calm her down: “Don’t mind him, ma’am, he’s drunk.”

“Well, I should hope so!” Mrs. Yates shrilled. At this point a policeman appeared, but instead of asking him to arrest the naked man at the front, Mrs. Y began trying to explain that she needed him in the backyard, where the marauder was. Shouting encouragement, “Constable! constable! do mind the law!”, Mrs Yates sent the cop into the backyard where, however, hearing all the shouting, the marauder had made his getaway without falling into the pit. But the policeman, chasing after him, tumbled in. While the two men at the front of the house also took their absence.

Now this story was before my time, but I know it is true because two longtime residents of the house told it to me, and they were there. At least, I think I remember they told me they were. And it so fits in with all the other stories.

I should mention again that the Yates household, adjacent campus, sat between Skull and Bones, where the Bushes and the Harrimans and others of their ilk plotted the overthrow of governments and the Cabal, or New World Order. While on the other side of the house, particularly pertinent to this tale, sat the residence of the Episcopal Ministry, the church to which Mrs. Yates belonged and where her two ministers lived. And, of course I could repeat the brief tale of the Night of the Aluminum ladder when, during a rainstorm Mrs. Yates, fearful that the aluminum might rust, had climbed the ladder at 5 am from the base of her house to the 2nd floor bathroom window of the ministers’ home as one of them, preparing for matins, had just emerged from the shower. That might also have particular relevance to the continuing story.

In any case, after leaving New Haven, I had moved on to Chicago where I had joined The Revolution. Three years later I received notice from my old housemates that Mrs. Yates was failing. She was no longer living at the house, but in a residence for the elderly. If I ever wanted to see her again, I should come soon.

I caught an Amtrak to New Haven, and a cab to her residence. Entering the communal bedroom which Mrs. Y now shared with seven other LOL’s (littleold-ladies), I quickly picked her out and went to her bedside: “Hi, Mrs. Yates, it’s John, I came to visit.”—She looked at me briefly, then turned her head away.

I tried again: “You know, John who used to live with you.” I was wondering if her memory had begun to go. She turned back toward me: “YOU - are NOT - JOHN! John did NOT have a beard!” Taken aback, I tried to clear my throat, preparatory to trying to explain when I might have grown a beard, but before I could get anything out, she continued: “And if you ARE JOHN, I do not approve of your attempts to dig a tunnel under the city and blowup Mayor Daley!” - Uh, well, no, that was not exactly what I had been trying to do in Chicago, but, um, — she pushed herself halfway up — “There is only one thing I can say to you! Go see Mr. Pitt!”

Who was Mr. Pitt? Maybe, William Pitt the Elder? I really didn’t know much British history. I made one or two more attempts to communicate, but Mrs. Y remained obdurately turned away.

Finally giving up, I turned and headed toward the door, then turned back as out of the corner of my eye I observed Mrs. Y push herself up into an almost fully erect position in her bed. Then her words rang out up and down the ward: “IT WAS A SEX CRIME, WASN’T IT!!!”

Well, existence is a sex crime, isn’t it? I returned to Chicago. Some months later my New Haven friends shared their stories of Mrs. Yates’ final days. One of them had been with her when one of the two Episcopal Ministers, had come to visit. He had not been able to say much before Mrs. Y started talking. She thanked him profusely for a situation in which he had counseled her. He tried to interrupt by telling her it had not been him on that occasion, but she swept on past his weak protests. And went on and on to one occasion after another, attributing to him a plethora of virtues and a series of stories of his benevolent intercessions in her life. Finally, she drew to a close: “But most of all—I need to thank you—for being nothing at all—like that AWFUL Father Frank.”—Of course, it was Father Frank she’d been talking to.

It wasn’t just me and Father Frank. With all of her visitors, Mrs. Y had discharged her grievances. My friend told me that two weeks before her end, she had stopped talking and spent her time humming scales: “la-la-la-La-LALA-LAH-LAH-La-la.” But in the last few days she had lain in bed, eyes closed, her mouth half open: “ommm mm mmmmm—“. Before her death, Mrs. Yates had achieved enlightenment.

By Tom Nussbaum

Remember the awardwinning Willie NelsonJulio Iglesias collaboration “To All the Girls I Loved

Before?” I do. And, like them, I remember all the girls that I have loved before. What? I loved girls? Is that a shock? Well, I did. It was before I came out.

I usually don’t talk about these past romances. It’s awkward. But I had them nonetheless and they involved deep, strong feelings. Situations changed, however. I changed. The feelings and the relationships changed. There was pain, shame, confusion, disappointment, and regrets. But now, after time has allowed me to look at these experiences from a distance, I understand them better and am ready to tell the world about them.

One of these love affairs was with a beauty whose name caused friends to joke that I must have picked her at the Grand Ole Opry. “Are you sure she wasn’t a Nashville back-up singer?” they’d ask. But Iris Pearl was anything but country. She was more pop-rock and disco. Even though her music— she not only played it, she often made it—seemed to accompany us everywhere, Iris Pearl also could talk. Man, she could discuss news, current affairs, or politics. Even sports. I, however, usually tuned her out when she started on the political chatter. It wasn’t that I disagreed with what she said; I just preferred her music.

I was attracted to Iris Pearl the minute I laid eyes on her. She had me with “Hi.” That was the first thing she said to me. Well, technically she didn’t say “Hi.” I read it. It was on a picture of her. Ah, memories. Iris Pearl was great. She always was there for me. Reliable. Never complained. I loved her. She probably was my favorite, the one best suited for me. But it just wasn’t meant to be forever.

As the years passed, her beauty and appeal faded. I lost interest. My eyes and heart began to stray. While I still had feelings for Iris Pearl, I got bored with her. She, after all, was getting older and not aging gracefully. Her medical bills were mounting. But she had been beautiful.

A stunning silvery purple Plymouth Neon.

The color was called Iris Pearl. Hence, her name. Oh, I still remember how we met. I was thumbing through a magazine and there was her picture. In an ad introducing her to the world. She was a new kinda girl. And she flirted with those headlight-like eyes and said “Hi.” The “Hi” was over her rear end. It was a great rear end. I wasn’t even looking to end my previous relationship. But I did. For Iris Pearl. And her eyes. And her rear end. And her “Hi.” She was my pride and joy through the late 1990s and into the new millennium.

When Iris Pearl’s beauty faded and physical condition worsened, I found a younger, cuter gal, a Honda Civic. I named her Heather Honda. Imagine my surprise, though, when I discovered the size of her exhaust pipe and realized Heather was a he. I renamed him Henry Honda. I should have picked up on Henry’s gender when I saw his masculine dark blue color. But I fell hard and fast. Like they say, love is blind and love is love. That was the first time I had experienced that kind of attraction. With a Henry.

I had other cars before Iris Pearl and Henry Honda. My first was a high school graduation present, a 15-yearold Pontiac. It had belonged to an elderly couple, friends of my parents, but they had become too old to drive. So Dad bought it for me and I inherited the well-maintained but out-of-style sedan. I don’t remember if it came with a name. But I doubt it. The previous owners weren’t the kind of people who named their cars. They preferred naming their kids instead. We just had different priorities. I didn’t name the old gal when I took over though. What was I gonna call the Pontiac? Petunia? Priscilla? The old lady “P” names just didn’t work for me. Besides, she wasn’t a new car.

But when I bought my first car in the early 1970s, it was new. And so that bronze Chevrolet Vega was christened Vicki, Vicki Vega. We, however, had problems from the start. She had a weak heart and bed-wetting issues; her engine was faulty and she dripped oil overnight. As a result, she was not in my life for a long time. It was longer than a fling, but hardly long enough to be considered a long-term relationship. When Chevrolet improved their Vegas, however, I traded her in for a new model, a gray one who served me much better. Because of her gray color, I thought of that Vega as a new-butolder gal and I named her Velma.

Velma and I were together until the mid-1980s when I fell in love with a little redhead. She was an exciting gal, an adorable little Honda CRX. I kicked Velma to the curb and drove off with that hot Honda hatchback. She was a lot like me: small and sporty. And we lived together in Seattle, Portland, and back in Seattle again. I have wondered, though, in hindsight, if my time with that CRX was ever based on love at all, but merely physical attraction. Or a mid-life crisis.

And then I saw that picture of Iris Pearl…and I forgot all about that CRX. Even her name. I know. That is despicable. I had, after all, been with her for nearly a decade. But I am not the first man to forget the name of someone he has been intimate with. In my mind, however, I hadn’t “been intimate with” her…or the others; I thought of our experiences as test driving, long Sunday drives, or errands. I look back now at my years with that CRX and I think, “We had a good ride, didn’t we, Honey? And then I just left you for…” Oh my God! Her name was Honey! I remembered her name. It’s Honey Honda!

Oh, Honey. Dear sweet Honey. Now that I’ve remembered her name, I realize how much I have missed her. Maybe it was more than a physical attraction; maybe it was love after all.

I’ve got to go. I’m sorry. I have to look up Honey and see if she is on Facebook. Or the Kelley Blue Book. Or some other form of automotive social media. I really would like to see her again. You know, now that I think about it, I loved her more than Iris Pearl. I’m not even sure I did love Iris Pearl. It might have just been the way she said “Hi” and batted those headlight eyes. Gee, I hope I find Honey. Maybe she’d be interested in going for a spin. Maybe she’d let me get in her again. Just for old time’s sake. Tom Nussbaum

“Think Big”

By Fred Mittag

The American Jobs Plan is a proposed $2 trillion infra-

structure investment. The urgency is apparent. These projects will facilitate American commerce and promote prosperity. The plan will hire workers at good wages, so it is a winwin proposition.

We are falling behind the rest of the world in significant areas. Several bridges have collapsed, killing people who happened to be on them. The American Society of Civil Engineers assigns a grade to our infrastructure every four years. A mark of C- is what they give us. That shoddy grade is an improvement over the previous D+.

The American Road and Transportation Builders Association identified more than 47,000 bridges across the United States deemed structurally deficient. They need renovations or repairs to upgrade them. In addition, we need to bring water systems up to date to get rid of lead pipes that can cause mental retardation in children.

China is a strong competitor, and they are far ahead of us in high-speed rail. A World Bank report says, “The advent of high-speed rail in China has greatly reduced travel time and has transformed Chinese society and economy. A broad range of travelers of different income levels chooses highspeed rail for its comfort, convenience, safety, and punctuality.”

The opposition to President Biden’s plan asks, “How will you pay for it?” The Biden plan would raise taxes on those making more than $400,000 a year and on corporations. On the other hand, this project will pay dividends immediately and into the next generation. In Texas, there are more trucks than cars. They represent every commercial interest. But who pays for the roads these companies use for their trucking needs?

The Walton family gets billions of dollars in tax breaks. The six siblings have more wealth than 49 million American families. The middle class subsidizes the Waltons by providing food stamps and Medicaid to their low-pay employees. This subsidy for such a wealthy family costs taxpayers $6.2 billion a year. Jeff Bezos paid zero taxes in 2007 and again in 2011. Forbes lists him as the richest person in the world at $189 billion. So how does his merchandise get to his customers? Yep, by UPS trucks that travel on roads and bridges paid by our taxes—not his.

The problem with the American economy is wealth distribution. America has plenty of money to pay for everything and anything. But too much is in the hands of too few people. As a result, billionaires and corporations hide their wealth from American taxes in places like the Cayman Islands.

That concentrated wealth does not circulate; it does not create demand for goods and services. People must exchange money to create a vibrant economy. The poor and the middle class spend all their money and save little. They are the ones who drive the economy. There is something in economics called the “ripple effect” or the “multiplier effect.”

Suppose Lydia works at a factory where the manager gave her a $1,000 bonus. Her propensity to save is 20%; her propensity to consume is 80%. Lydia puts $200 in her savings and spends $800 on new landscaping for her yard. Bob, the landscaper, earns $800 from Lydia. Bob saves $200 and pays $600 at Frank’s farm store for supplies. Frank needs tools from the hardware supply owned by Dave. Frank saves $100 and spends $500 at Dave’s hardware. This process continues until the savings at each step finally uses up Lydia’s original $800 purchase. Due to the multiplier effect, Lydia’s $1,000 bonus generated a total of $2,900, three times her bonus.

President Biden understands the multiplier effect. For example, suppose the government finances an upgrade on a bridge and pays $2 million in good wages. In that case, the multiplier effect will generate $6 million of economic activity and prosperity spreads. That $6 million will be subject to taxes, and revenue will flow back to the Treasury.

There is another crucial point. It is not so important how much money the government borrows; what is important is who the government borrows it from. We borrowed from Japan and especially China to finance the Iraq War. That means money will leave our economy when we repay China. If the government borrows it from American investors, the money never departs the country. It goes back to American investors.

Extensive experience, including the Great Depression of the 1930s, proves that lowering taxes on the rich will not inspire them to invest in factory expansion, thus creating jobs. If they get billions in tax breaks, that money goes to the Cayman Islands, not to American economic growth. The Biden American Jobs Plan will generate economic prosperity for the most substantial number of people. It is the middle class that creates the demand that stimulates investment in factories and jobs. The middleclass sets in motion the multiplier effect, not wealth hidden in the Cayman Islands.

President Biden has a good grasp of economic science. America needs his American Jobs Plan.

Fred Mittag