“Strength lies in differences, not in similarities” Stephen R. Covey

In one’s older years one can look back at some incidents of your younger days and wonder about your role – your reaction.  After college I was a naïve young man.  I’ve written about this characteristic before in my post of July 7^th.  This post reinforces that evaluation.  I went to college in New Mexico and had grown up in New Mexico (except for a year or so in the 2^nd grade spent in California).  I thought that the world was like New Mexico.

I wanted to go to graduate school – to learn more and see more of the world.  Via circumstances best told in a different post I got a research fellowship in nuclear engineering at The University of Virginia.  Off I went in my 1956 Ford driving across the country in the fall of 1962.

When I got to Charlottesville, it was if I had landed on Mars.  Everything was alien.  The first – and biggest negative factor – was due to my own ignorance.  In the southwest we don’t have gender segregated public schools.  New Mexico Tech was integrated – but just very few women found the curriculum attractive so, consequently the men out numbered the women – say – 20 to 1.  I wanted a school with lots of women!  Virginia, at that time, had colleges for women and colleges for men.  The University at Charlottesville was for men (except for the graduate school).  I hadn’t bothered to check out this significant cultural facet.  Strike one.

This period was also a transition time in the history of racial integration.  Blacks still faced enormous obstacles.  I had encountered racial - Hispanic/Anglo - prejudice before but it paled (no pun intended) in the face of what I found in Virginia at that time.  UVa did admit Blacks into the graduate school at that time and I formed a friendship with a Black math major with whom I was housed.  When we went to a theatre we had to sit in the balcony.  There were restaurants we couldn’t eat at.  Strike two.

I found that – as a physics major – I didn’t like engineering.  In physics courses we never worried about arithmetic on tests or in homework.  Derive the formula, circle it, and get full credit.  In engineering they expected me to put in the values and calculate the answer – say, 4.135 ergs/sec.  What kind of nonsense was this?  Strike three.

There were other cultural annoyances.  I couldn’t get decent Mexican food.  (See my posting of July 29^th) I couldn’t go rabbit hunting on the prairie.   The sunsets weren’t as pretty.  The mountains weren’t as high.  Strike four.

I left after one semester.

Since my youth, I’ve been back to Charlottesville and Virginia many times and fail to understand why I thought it was so alien.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

"Retire from work, but not from life." M.K. Soni

Retirement is that period in life where you kill time waiting for time to kill you.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

"God gives the nuts but he does not crack them." German proverb.

The piñon tree is a native to New Mexico and I have many fond memories of my extended family going into the woods to gather the nuts. The piñon tree is a pine tree (Pinus edulis) that only grows in the southwestern region of the US. It never gets very big and is the state tree of New Mexico.

To gather the nuts – which don’t appear in abundance every year – my family would take a couple of bed sheets and spread them underneath the target tree. My youngest uncle was usually chosen to climb the tree and shake the branches. The cones or the nuts from therein would fall onto the sheets. When a sufficient harvest was accumulated, the crop would be taken home to be roasted (after extracting the nuts from the cones, of course). There is a learned technique of putting the roasted nut in your mouth, splitting the shell with your teeth and extracting the edible morsel with your tongue that is impossible to describe. It can be efficient enough that you actually gain more energy than you expend.

Several different species of pine trees produce eatable nuts, but – among the cognoscenti - the piñon is the best. If you look at the label on “pine nuts” that you can buy in the grocery store, you’ll find that they come from China – which is OK. They’re tasty and will suffice – but they are not piñons. In fact, there are federal laws which only allow a label of “piñon nuts” to be used only if the fruit is from Pinus edulis. Not surprising, this law was promoted by legislators from the southwest.

Each year I order a few pounds from New Mexico to be nibbled on through the winter months while sitting in from of a wood fire. I find a “Chenin Blanc” goes very well with them.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

“A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish - but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like about coincidence.” Vladimir Nabokov

Coincidences can be mistaken as miracles.  The universe of highly improbable events occurring together is so huge that it is no wonder that it happens sometime.  When it doesn’t happen we don’t notice, so we miss the millions of non-coincidences for each coincidence that we do see.  Pick two important people in your life – spouse, parent, etc.  Had you noted that they (probably) don’t have the same birthday?  But if they did have the same birthday, you would have noticed.

I once was driving in Chicago with my two teenage sons.  We were discussing whether we wanted hamburgers or pizza for lunch.  None of the three of us had strong feelings on the matter.  I stopped at a red light and the license plate of the car in the adjacent lane was “PIZZA-3.”  That settled the issue.  However if the license had been "JYT-648” I would not have noticed nor remembered and it wouldn't have affected my life.

When I was 12 (or so) I was riddled by questions and doubts concerning religion.  “Was there a God?”  “Why did evil exist?”  “Why weren’t my prayers answered?”  One day I was a passenger in a car as my Dad drove along a dirt road well known to us.  An electrical line paralleled the road.  As we neared the top of a hill, I decided to put the existence of God to the test.  “If there is a God, a hawk will be perched on an electrical pole beyond the hill."  One could see for miles from the top of the hill.  We got to the top of the hill and about a half mile away, a hawk was sitting atop a pole.

However, my own test didn’t satisfy me.  I knew there were lots of hawks and poles.  Future trips along the same path showed that 4 times out of 5 there was a visible perched hawk.  I convinced myself that you can’t test for God.  That would be too easy.

But if I have to give an accounting at the “pearly gates,” I’ll be in deep trouble.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

"The decision is not whether or not we will ration care. The decision will be whether we ration care with our eyes open." Donald Berwick

A looming global social crisis is that of health care.  Medical science will advance enough to be able to provide a “cure” for most ailments – but at a cost.  An essential question will be, “Is it worth $x to extent the life of an (say) 85 year old person?”  Granted that 85 is arbitrary.  Maybe the question could be framed about a 65 year old alcoholic or drug user.  If we don’t talk about life extension – how about speaking about a knee replacement? – or a hip?  - or a heart?  Is the replacement of a knee of a 70 year old worth the expense to society?

Evolution has endowed us all with a reverence for life.  If we didn’t think life was important, our species, with limited physical abilities, would not have lasted long in the face of (say) saber tooth tigers.  If the tiger had grabbed grandma/pa and we didn’t think her/his life was important, the rest of us would’ve ran.  But we rallied, used our superior intellect, and saved grandma/pa by a concerted effort.  (Grandma/pa was a big help in caring for our offspring while we gathered berries and venison.)  And we are still caring for grandma/pa even though we don’t really need them anymore. 

At some point the quality and enjoyment of life for an ill elder diminishes to the point where continuing their life offers no benefit either to themselves or to society as a whole.  But evolution offers us no alternative than to sustain them.

Hepatitis C now has a cure costing at least $80,000 and a similar cost may be attached to the to-be-found cure for other maladies.  Should everyone who has hepatitis C be eligible – via medicare/medicaid/ObamaCare- for this treatment?  If not, how do we decide who gets it and who does not?

We as a society do not have a mechanism for dealing with this type of question.  Let me offer one (immodestly, of course).  We are used to making legally significant, i.e., life/death decisions.  Juries do it routinely.  Would not a panel of ordinary citizens chosen randomly from the population, when presented with the medical (other ailments, past history, mental acuity) and societal evidence (age, family, financial stability) not be the best resource to determine, - “Yes, spend the $80,000 or not”?

I suspect the Doctors do a lot of this decision making now and we don’t know about it.  That may be OK, but I see a conflict of interest.  They want to keep working and don't have the fullest breadth of view.

For me, I’m quite willing to cede my oxygen allotment to my granddaughters and really hope not to have a lingering death.  If tomorrow was my last day…I’ve had a good life.  I just wish I had a pill to make sure I didn’t lie for weeks on end being miserable.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

“Think of how many religions attempt to validate themselves with prophecy. Think of how many people rely on these prophecies, however vague, however unfulfilled, to support or prop up their beliefs. Yet has there ever been a religion with the prophetic accuracy and reliability of science? ... No other human institution comes close.” Carl Sagan

I think no other venue reveals one’s deepest beliefs than a medical crisis.  About two years ago I had a heart valve replaced with a valve from a cow (thanks, Bessie, but I still eat steak).  I spend a week in the ICU wing of the hospital.  While residing there I overheard reactions from several families of patients in neighboring rooms to developing crises.  When things went well, the family often praised God and thanked Jesus.  When things ended tragically, the family often cursed the Doctor and blamed the hospital.  This dichotomy didn’t seem rational to me.

There has been a dramatic decrease in mortality due to appendicitis in the last hundred years.  To my knowledge there has not been a surge of God’s power in that time but there has been a tremendous increase in medical science.

If faced with a life or death situation with a loved one, would you rely on prayer and your faith alone or on medical science?  If you opt for medical science what does that say about your religion?  Can God alone affect a cure?  If not, is he/she not omnipotent?  If God works through the Doctor’s efforts, why was appendicitis a hundred years ago – even though good Doctors were trying their best – so much more lethal than now?

How will a cure for the Ebola virus be found?  Will it be medical scientists in the laboratory or 10,000 people praying at the National Cathedral that find a cure?  If it were your child with Ebola which team - one or the other - would you root for?

I recovered fine from my valve replacement and never uttered a prayer, never asked anyone to pray for me, and give the Doctors – not God – the credit.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

“My lands are where my dead lie buried.” Crazy Horse

A favorite and healthy outdoor activity when I was growing up in central New Mexico was “arrowhead hunting.” It was a family (whoever happened to be there) activity lasting most of a day (after breakfast dishes were washed and other chores attended to). Most of my memories come from the farm/ranch of my Welch grandparents. But there were other fruitful sites. My grandmother would pack a lunch and off into the juniper/piñon forest we’d go. It involved a lot of walking – hence healthy. It'd make me feel old now.

I know that such activity is illegal now – but at that time it seemed harmless. Besides the relics of Native Americans we found lots of remnants of the early anglos/hispanics in the area. Old cartridges - .45-10’s seemed popular – bullets, broken spurs, etc. My brother once found an aluminum Catholic pendant, dated from the late 1800s, whose clasp had been worn through. Not overly remarkable except that aluminum was a rare metal in that time hence the pendant was very valuable to the owner. I wish I knew the story.

But the ancient Native American habitants provided most of the finds. We could scour anthills and find tiny turquoise beads. They were just the right size for the ants to clasp by the hole in the center and carry back to the hill. A half-day’s hunt generally yielded six or so arrowheads per person of which, perhaps, two would be unbroken. An obsidian perfect arrowhead was the crème de la crème. Three or four per year were found. Indian corn grinders – both parts – were also found. Stone hammer heads with tie guides were also found. Hundreds of pottery shards with such intricate painting on them that the whole pot must have been an artistic wonder.

The anthropologists from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque were well aware of our activity. I’m sure we were one of a few hundred such collectors they knew of. They once came, visited us, looked at our collection and explained the significance of the “Clovis Point.” We didn’t have any.

After a rainstorm was a fertile time to search because the surface ground had been disturbed revealing, perhaps, what had lying underneath. At such a time, once in an arroyo, two human skeletons had been unearthed. The anthropologists were contacted and they investigated. Neither skeleton was Jimmy Hoffa but dated to about 800AD.

Living in South Carolina now, I realize that one advantage we had in New Mexico was the lack of ground covering vegetation. Gee, you walk in the forest here and you cannot see any ground – only vines, roots, dead leaves, old moonshine stills, etc. Apparently, though there are a lot of Native American relics here. Professionals have no problem with “digs” furnishing history. Locals tell me you can find some on banks or shoals in creeks and rivers.

My brother – through a set of circumstances that he took advantage of – came into possession of all of the relics that my immediate family had found. He did a wise thing, however and donated it all to the Maxwell Museum of Anthropology. 

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

" Life is either a great adventure or nothing." Helen Keller

In my elder years one thing that fills me with awe are the extraordinary adventures we can have as kids – which, at the time, don’t impress you at all.  It’s only after you’ve lived a few decades and look back that you realize how remarkable the experience was.

One such happening in my life was living in a railroad boxcar.  I wrote about it in my book, “Last Summer.”   At the time it seemed perfectly normal.  I suspect that is a common characteristic of kids growing up that, whatever the environment, – rain forests of Borneo, Auschwitz concentration camps , deserts of New Mexico – it is normalcy for them and they try to learn to cope.  Evolution demands it.

But I want to write about another spectacular happening in my life that I look back on in amazement.  During my High School years at Vaughn, the science teacher organized a Science Fair project.  Four of us students, with the teacher, were going to explore and map a cave on the ranch owned by one of the student’s family.  I’d give names and locations, etc., but some people are often sensitive about such matters – and it’s not really relevant to my story.

The cave – in the southeastern quadrant of New Mexico – had been explored somewhat but the tunnels went on forever.  This portion of New Mexico is where Carlsbad Caverns is located and I believe the whole area is riddled with undiscovered interconnecting caverns.

In terms of spelunking, what we set out to do was trivial.  After all we were teenage amateurs. 

The first phenomenon the teacher illustrated by having us turn off all of our flashlights.  We were far beyond the reach of any surface light so it was absolutely pitch black.  Then he asked us to take a few steps on the flat muddy floor of a huge “room” and look behind us.  As we stepped the mud clung to our shoes revealing small luminescent worms just beneath the surface.  In the total darkness they gave the eerie impression of a ghost walking.

In another room, – which until we found it, was unknown - a large body of water occupied most of the floor space.  Descending from the ceiling into the water was the bottom end of a working water well.  The kid on whose ranch we were on, said he knew exactly where, on the surface, the well was located.  I’ve since asked myself the question, “How many people in all of history have seen the bottom end of a working well?”  It’s not easily done.  We saw other attractions – a seemingly endless hollow 15-foot horizontal cylinder carved out of granite with wavy walls.  At the bottom of the cylinder was a three-inch stream of running water.  I suspect that at the end of the last ice age those tunnels were full of rushing water.

I wish I could say that from such depths my life has all been uphill.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

“Workshops and seminars are basically financial speed dating for clueless people.” Douglas Coupland

Besides employer mandated retirement funds, I’ve managed all of my own investments in later years.  I distrust financial advisors.  Cruelly put, “If they’re so smart, why aren’t they rich and living on a Caribbean island?”

I got interested in the stock market early.  The idea of making lots of money and not working was appealing. I read a couple of books - popular then - about the “Dow Theory” – which, I think is largely ignored now.  (When was the last time you heard about a move in the Dow Transportation Index confirming the Industrial Index? – or, for that matter, even hear of the Transportation Index?)  The books introduced me to technical analysis – i.e., the mathematical side – of the stock market.  I had inherited a small amount (a couple thousand dollars) of money, opened an account with a well-known brokerage, and got assigned a stockbroker.  Following his advice I quickly lost half of it in the first year.  I questioned his motives.  Some of his recommendations just seemed to churn my account for the benefit of his much larger accounts - or at least for the commissions.  I started making my own decisions.  I didn’t get rich but didn’t go broke nearly as fast – and, more importantly – learned a lot.

I’m doing financial advisors a disservice.  I had an interest in the subject, especially the mathematical part and read a lot.  If you don’t have that inclination a financial advisor is needed – if, for nothing else, to understand the jargon.  “What is a callable preferred stock?”  “How is the price of a stock adjusted on the day it pays a dividend?”  “What is a covered call?”  “What’s the relationship between bond prices and interest rates?”  “How are ‘risk’ and ‘return’ balanced?”  But if you do have an inherent interest in learning this sort of stuff, a financial advisor is redundant.

I think there is one situation where a financial advisor is necessary – no matter what your interests.  If you were to win the lottery and have a huge amount of money, you can and should hire the best financial advisory people you can get.  The problem is too big for you alone.  They will earn their commission by making you better off and will have the incentive to do so.

The best two pieces of financial investment philosophy I learned are : diversify and there are no guarantees.  When I see an ad on TV where an investment is guaranteed, I cringe.  Oh, and the last thing, when someone promotes a stock for you to invest in for the “long-term” – “long-term” means until they are no longer around to be answerable.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch

“A pipe in the mouth makes it clear that there has been no mistake–you are undoubtedly a man.” A. A. Milne

The attitude about smoking has changed enormously in my lifetime.    When I was 24 or so, I started smoking cigarettes – it seemed to be the popular thing to do in my crowd.  But I stuck to menthols and didn’t inhale.  At first I would only smoke in a social situation – so just a few a week. 

But then I noticed an addiction forming and at that time the initial health warnings started to appear in the press.  So, after only a few months of cigarette smoking, I switched to pipe smoking.  I could get the nicotine to appease the addiction and present a more unique personal sophistication.  I fell in love with the art of pipe smoking.  It had many of the hobby-forming complexities and nuances that wine has – one can choose the type of pipe (briar, meerschaum, corncob,…) and mix your own tobacco from a dozen or so commonly available basic ingredients.  .  Then there were all of the accoutrements – pipe reamer, humidor, pipe stand - that reflected your personal taste (and bank account). 

There were a couple of “store bought” blends of tobacco I could smoke but they didn’t compare in taste with what I could blend myself.  I would experiment – ¼ Cavendish, ½ Virginia and ¼ Latakia, and so on.  I eventually settled on ¾ Cavendish and ¼ Latakia.  I also found an inverse relationship between the aroma of the smoke and the taste.  Some the nicest smelling commercially available pipe tobacco – often a “cherry blend” - had, for me, a horrid taste.

With a pipe I could – and often did – quit for a couple of weeks if I got a cold or the flu.  The addiction didn’t seem as strong.

Early in my professional career, one could smoke almost anywhere – including committee meetings.  If one got asked a hard question, cleaning out your pipe, reloading it, and lighting it could buy you 5 minutes of time to think about your answer.

I generally had about 6 pipes that I regularly used.  One had to “break in” a new pipe.  Honey was used on a briar pipe to form a layer of charcoal in the pipe bowl.  A meerschaum, properly used, would gain a light golden patina on the outside.   Pipe smoking could become a religion.  I miss pipe smoking.  I quit over 30 years ago, but if I were informed that I had 6 months to live, I’d head to the nearest pipe store.  I know where it is.   During a Dr.’s visit I plan the route.

© 2014 Lester C. Welch