Friend Suggestions

When Facebook enticed us, for me 2009, it offered a chance to reconnect forty years after receiving our HS diplomas.  I promptly requested Friends with HS and Hebrew School acquaintances, a few folks from college, and but a handful of personal relatives and people from my town.  Most requests initiated by me were accepted, though girls who marginalized me in HS sometimes declined.  That list settled at about 100.  The algorithm has changed dramatically over the ensuing fifteen years, so maybe about ten of those hundred appear on my feed over a year, not counting birthday notices.  A few died along the way.  But Facebook's business model has clearly shifted from connecting old friends with each other to separating subscribers from a portion of their money, or maybe enraging them in some way.  No new Friend requests have come my way, and I've not offered to connect with anyone else.

Despite this, as I scroll through the messages that the algorithm concludes might keep me preferentially on their screens instead of Twitter's, I can expect to come across a banner of a couple dozen suggestions to initiate new Facebook friends a few times a day.  I scrolled through them.  No doubt, others get their banners with my picture, scrolling past without action, much as I do with my list.

If we have a lot of mutual friends, indicated under the photos, they are probably people from HS, as that is where my FB Friends derive.  If only one or two, which is most of them, they could be anyone's acquaintance or relative.  And many indicated no mutual Friends.  Occasionally a public figure appears.  My own posts early in the FB longevity, included occasional Likes, even verbal responses, from a few men of professional fame, though not recently.  Still, public figures pop up.  One recent one, a sleaze of political notoriety, listed a mutual friend.  She shares that man's political opinions, but I can attest that she is not personally deplorable.  

FB gives the viewer the option of deleting suggested people so that they do not reappear as suggestions, and hopefully my photo gets blocked from their suggested people.  This public blight was one of the few that got my deep six.  He's not appeared since.  There are a few others along the way, people I know locally who I regret forcing to share a communal space.  They get the FB request to make their profile disappear from my suggested contacts.  There aren't very many of those.  It wouldn't really matter, as neither of us would initiate contact with the other.

That leaves me with my ten or so.  All fondly remembered from decades past, though for most I am probably closer to them on Social Media than I was in the Ramapo Senior High School building or school bus.  And there's a secondary ten, people who used to show up more frequently, people of amiable presence and nimble mind worthy of a few sentences exchange.  The FB algorithm has done me a disservice, reducing their frequency on my screen. 

While their business model depends on my staring preferentially at their screens, FB has rightly become rationed time.  None of my current Semi-Annual initiatives require any Social Media.  More accurately, it is destructive to all these intermediate goals.  So putting an array of potential Friends expansions that nobody wants really doesn't keep me glued to the screen or the sponsors for any significant duration.  I'm content with my hundred or so reconnections from fifteen years back.  The ten active, the ten less frequent, and the eighty dormant.

Difficult Day Trip

While not an overly challenging time, in many ways good recent weeks, enough activities caught up with me to warrant a day to myself. My computer failed.  I took it to a local shop with long reputation.  They concluded that it had run out of memory, recommending a new computer with data from the dying one loaded onto it.  Like many, I've become dependent on my laptop.  The local public library has desktops for public use, so I can access the internet and use a flash drive for personal writing.  I did, but it was not really My Space where I do my best work.  The expected return date did not happen.  Lacking a convenient computer, I thought I might do some house upgrades and garden enjoyment.  My best herb pot underperformed, vegetables not thriving and flowers barely emerging.  Rain did not help.

Each summer I make two trips to the state's beaches.  If the rain lets up, I  committed to doing that.  A go from weather.com, a day off from my treadmill schedule, to which I have remained faithful.  I offered my wife a chance to share the luxury of warm sand.  She interpreted the weather report as hot sand but blazing sun, and too soon in the season for the water to lose its chill.  I went myself.

Two sand chairs in the trunk. Sunscreen SPF 30 applied to face by finger, sprayed elsewhere.  Canvas tote bag with my initial embroidered on the front and leather handles filled with all that I would need.  Room left over for my street clothes.

My home state of Delaware has beachfront assigned to three state parks, which I visit preferentially.  A shore runs for some twenty miles southward to the state line with Maryland.  All has public access to the sand, but not public access to facilities.  When my children were school age, like many families we would take a few days off from work, stay at a small hotel a few days, walk the five blocks to the beach each day, and enjoy the interesting town of Rehoboth Beach, dining at places different from what we would find at home.  Now state parks work better, as I have an unlimited Senior Pass that affords me entry and changing facilities.  I've been to all three.  The middle park seems the most developed, with two bathhouses in different stretches.  The southern park is most isolated but has the fewest parking spaces.  I've never been closed out, but had to drive around for a bit at mid-day, seeking somebody vacating their space to go to lunch.  

Sussex County, Delaware's southern county, has changed considerably over forty years.  It used to be a pleasant drive, nearly toll-free, over an iconic road that stretched almost the north-south dimension of the state.  The kids could look at farms and small business areas as we drive to our destination.  Very pleasant to get to and to be at.  Sea shell and t-shirt shops along the main street, little places to get breakfast in the morning and pizza for supper.  People would vacation from Baltimore and DC as well as Wilmington. A wooden boardwalk with a small amusement section just right for grade schoolers preparing for their pilgrimage to the grander Hersheypark or Disney.  Candy shop, ice cream places.  One single realtor dominated.  And a short drive, gave an afternoon at the Outlets, something less ubiquitous at the time, more bargains than now, and an escape from the rain when needed.  The world changed.  Those Federal Workers and lawyers from DC retired with pensions.  Vacation with families became relocation for healthy seniors.  Gays with substantial incomes and no college to save for found second homes and eventually retirement relocation.  And with new money came businesses providing places to spend it and maintain elegant residences.  The state built an expressway to connect its northern population center to the beach.  Now a drive clogs about two miles north of Lewes, the northernmost beach.  Every square cm of flat surface along the main thoroughfare now hosts places that year round residents need.  Lowes, WaWa for gas and snacks, supermarkets with the same names that we find at home. Restaurants are now big, whether parts of chains or independent places funded with private equity.  It's much like home, only farther away and with more traffic that does not let up until state land takes over south of the town of Dewey Beach, where families on vacation can still save up for a few days away.

To get to my chosen state park, I had to creep through the full milage of this economic growth.  I had plenty of gas.  I could use some lunch, not having eaten more than two cups of coffee at home and a small thermos more as I drove.  WaWa has become my roadside destination.  Hoagiefest week, $6 for a 10-inch customized roll.  And a reliable, if not always immaculate, men's room.  I pulled into the lot.  Checked email, called wife.  A few snags on my computer repair.  They needed passwords that I didn't know existed so they could load my Microsoft products from the dying computer to the new one.  I got my cheese hoagie, Swiss at the base, cheddar as the second cheese, some toppings, and some honey mustard.  As I ate half and a few bites of the second half, I dealt with computer care.  Once parked at the beach lot, they would send me a text allowing me to set a new password.  I drove the last few miles, over a bridge, then followed some not entirely single interpretation signs to the beach entrance.  I flashed my Senior Pass, waited for the attendant to nod, then drove to a distant but ample part of the lot.  I called the computer repair tech back, waited for the text message, read him the access number, then gave him the new password.  I wrote it down on a paper next to me, though I am likely to remember it as the one I use for sites that require a complex set of small letters, capital letters, numbers, and symbols.

Ready for the beach.  The walk to the changing lockers are upslope.  I had my tote and beach chair.  My wife interpreted the heat index correctly.  Still, I got changed into swim trunks and t-shirt, then took my time schlepping it all over the state's wooden boardwalk to the sand.  I found a vacant spot at just the right distance from the last tide mark.  After setting up the chair, I took out my cell phone.  The midday sun and intense brightness made reading it unrealistic.  I could not even see the numbers on the screen to enter the password.  I rested a few minutes, then tested the water.  It contained people, mostly kids.  Having lost one pair of glasses in the surf two years previously, I wore a backup pair, and left those at the chair.  It took about a minute to get to the water's edge and another minute to figure out that the ocean warms slowly as the summer progresses from June to August.  Still too cold on July 1.  

Back to my chair, basically unable to communicate, forgetting that for most of my life I could not communicate on a beach, I covered my head with a gray floppy hat, and sipped water from a very effective insulated bottle.  I knew I would not stay very long, maybe another half hour.  I set the time on my smart watch, which offered enough brightness to discern its numbers and settings.  At the appointed time, I put everything back ot the tote bag, folded the chair, and schlepped back to the locker room.  Once back in street clothes, I walked to the parking lot, put the chair in trunk and canvas bag in back seat.  I noticed a few things from the parking space not appreciated before.  At the end of the parking lot they have a pier.  I did not see a lot of fishermen.  They usually position themselves across the street on the other side of the suspension bridge near a series of rocks. I have fished there unsuccessfully once previously but remember the other anglers wishing me and others luck with hungry fish.

Destination two, the only winery in my state that I've not visited previously.  I had been to their tasting room much closer to my home.  Great experience.  Waze told me I had sixty miles to get there, 1.5 h driving, considerably longer than anticipated.  Delaware has two borders with Maryland, one that runs east-west and a longer one that runs north-south.  This town, which borders the two states, sharing the name Marydel, sits about halfway on the north-south line.  When I requested my GPS provide the route home from the winery, it was another 1.5 hours.  Visiting would take me about 30 miles out of my way from the route home.  I had enough time.

About half the distance covered the same route, including high traffic miles, that I would have taken anyway to get directly home.  Then it veered west.  I knew Delaware had its own agricultural presence, though a much smaller one than most other US states.  I've driven past much of it.  Poultry coops line the southern county which I drive past to get to Fenwick Island at our southeastern border or when my destination is the length of the Delmarva Peninsula to reach Virginia Beach.  I have much less familiarity with our northern agricultural areas.  However, two years of every three, I attend the State Fair which showcases my state's farmers.  The route took me through some decidedly rural scenery.  Some farmers apparently do very well, with impressive houses.  More have prefab housing, either converted mobile homes or prefab one story foundation homes.  There are schools, and an occasional child occupied a driveway or yard.  Numbered roads have businesses, typically places to eat something, though not very many familiar chains other than gas stations with convenience stores.  Roads with names rather than numbers only have isolated houses, fields, and some storage silos.  I found that part of the drive relaxing, though I had to keep glancing at the Waze map as turns to local roads came frequently.  While the vineyard may attract the most visitors that the town receives, no signs indicated directions, or even its presence.

I arrived.  They had a semipaved parking area.  I could see grape vines off to the side, though not many of them.  When I visited their tasting room in Pennsylvania, another location not obvious from the road, the superb attendant had given me some background of the vineyard, its town, its history, its transition from purchasing grapes from other vineyards to bottling more recent wines exclusively with grapes grown on its own property.  The winery shares its building with another enterprise of only minimal signage.  I don't know what they do there, and maybe they don't want me to know.  The right half of the building looked better maintained, with a banner at the door indicating open.  I entered.  To my left they had their bar.  Nobody was at the bar, but two groups of about three each sat at round tables in an adjacent room. 

The attendant came over, explaining their tasting policy.  For $15 I could choose four selections, two ounces each.  She confirmed that all grapes had been grown on their property.  Some of the wines had won awards.  I picked two of those.  In all, three reds and a white dessert wine.  She instructed me to take a seat at a table in the large adjacent room.  I chose one near the middle.  As she indicated at the bar, she brought my selections to me, then disappeared to her post.  Ordinarily, at wineries I prefer to remain at the tasting bar with the attendant.  While the wine is their product, information on how they make it, history of the vineyard, sweeteners, conversations about the area I am visiting are all part of the visit's experience.  I had been abandoned to taste what I wanted by myself.

A typical glass of wine ordered in a restaurant would be 5-6 oz. Most wineries that I visited in the past offer five one ounce samples, about the equivalent of a restaurant meal order.  Each portion sipped and swirled.  For a combination safety and experience, I did not want the full two ounces repeated four times, or 8 oz.  The attendant did not bring me rinsing water or little cracker palate cleansers.  Just four stemmed glasses with wine, each sitting on a disposable white paper strip with the name of the wine written in pen beneath each glass.  I drank about half of each red, the full glass of dessert wine.  That seemed enough.  I felt more processed than welcome.  I left with nothing else, not a bottle to take home, a logo glass, or a t-shirt from their small gift shop.

Waze set for home.  The winery sits on Delaware's westernmost road.  It was unclear which direction to turn on exiting the parking lot.  The GPS had me make another right at the next intersection, which brought me to a road marked Maryland and at the next intersection a gas station named State Line.  I turned right again, re-entering Delaware.  While I had only been in a trivial part of rural Maryland, that section appeared more unkempt than the properties on the Delaware side.  More rural roads, mostly named rather than numbered.  Towns that I had heard of but never visited.  Kenton, Hartly.  Recognized from the exhibit signs at the State Fair. Attractive towns from the roadway, though I don't quite understand how people make a secure living there if not themselves farmers.  A few more turns brought me to a much bigger place called Smyrna, which hosted the state's largest correctional center.  Within commuting distance of Kenton, Hartley, and even Marydel.  I assume some correctional workers, not lavishly salaried, would be willing to drive a bit to obtain lower-priced housing on a larger lot.  Numbered highway the rest of the way home, most full speed.  I had only been to Smyrna one time before, to the high school where my son participated in a math competition.  This part of the town looked quite different, less isolated than their HS property, with a number of small businesses.  Some served the surrounding agricultural areas.  Signs and GPS direct me to the highway.  I had entered north of the toll plaza, leaving only one bridge over the state's Canal to deduct a dollar from my EZ Pass transponder.  I arrived home with drizzle the final few minutes, finishing what was left of my Hoagiefest cheese hoagie while still approaching Smyrna.

It did not take long to put my tote bag on the kitchen floor, then stretch out horizontal on the living room sofa.  The day had been long.  Elements of the day's travel took their toll.  Beach time minimal.  Driving time a lot.  Phone with computer technician intrusive to what I thought would be a mini-vacation.  Traffic near the beach within my capacity coped without resentment.  Winery a great disappointment.

But like many of my travels, getting to the destinations offers more satisfaction than staying at the destinations.  Beach not a great outing, marred by traffic and oppressive peak midday sunshine.  I can avoid the traffic on future trips by going to the northern or southern state beach park. The hoagie was quite good, and a bargain at $6.  My thermos kept the water refrigerator cold for the entire day, finishing the water shortly before arriving at the winery.

As much as I admired the winery's peripheral tasting room nearer my home, the on-site experience left much to be desired.  I learned what I already knew.  The experience of visiting a winery for me involves much more than taste.  I insist on an interactive session, which is my usual encounter.  The attendant pours, tells me about my selection, tells me about the winery, the grapes that enabled what I sip.  Even the tastings at the big wine stores offer personal contact.  The wine should be served in a stem glass with enough room for a nose and enought clarity for a swirl.  The stores offer liquid, about 20 ml in a stemless plastic cup.  That's distinguishes a liquor store wanting to sell you a bottle from a winery taking pride in what they produce.  This time it fell short.

In exchange, though, I got to drive through parts of my home state that I've not visited before.  Pretty parts of the state, no crowds, no traffic, few traffic signals.  I learned that some farmers do quite well.  The schools I drove past were regional ones more than local ones, about the same building sizes as where my children attended, but probably much smaller classes and teachers willing to sacrifice salary for a better lifestyle away from the state's population centers.  The produce and the livestock displayed at the State Fair come from these farms.  I got to see them and understand why the State Fair has an entire pavilion devoted to its farms.  Yes, getting there sometimes overrides being there.

Annual Meeting

Mid-June on a Tuesday evening every June.  My synagogue's by-laws, which a handful of people have read once, requires the congregation to meet at least once a year.  Pre-pandemic the assembly took place in person.  Once electronic interface became available a Zoom option was added.   After perhaps one or two Junes, the in-person option was suspended.  I don't remember.  But this year we met hybrid, with approximately equal attendance between our sanctuary and the parallel screen. I much prefer being on site with other people who I might poke in the ribs as speakers express ideas that could have been reasoned better.  Those always seem plentiful.

The evening's agenda has two mandated items.  Our members must formally approve a slate of officers and the coming year's budget by a majority vote, which usually approaches a unanimous vote.  A Nominating Committee recycles the VPs each year since a by-laws amendment eliminated term limits for all officers but the President.  Some have twelve years experience.  Some have two years experience repeated six times.  No new individuals added, though minor shuffling of titles.  The budget has become predictable.  Figures presented, trends noted.  As our membership and dues base declined over maybe twenty years, we live off our accumulated wealth much as the seniors who comprise nearly all our membership do.  Mostly an evening for the people who occupy many committees to tell the people either not on committees or blackballed from them how wonderful the past year's experience has been for them and therefore should have been for us.  Not all of us agree, and each year there are about five fewer of us.

It starts with a welcome from the President, who has led diligently for his three years.  The Rabbi offers some words of Scripture and Talmud.  Then a list of activities that he did in his official capacity.  Then the President speaks.  Then we vote on budget and Board Members.   For an organization that declines a little each year since I arrived there in 1997, a defector from someplace else, it would have been better to have the VPs each issue a page of what happened under their watch, attach these statements to the email notice of the meeting, and adjourn for pareve cookies. Instead, we heard recycled projects.  A list of Torah and Haftarah readers.  We have quite a few.  A list of people who performed one or more aliyot or haftarot for the first time would have abbreviated that list considerably.  I would still be on it.  Education Committee.  Ample projects.  None created by the VP, who still thinks people will flock to signup sheets.  Some things do much better when you invite people.  A High Holy Day committee.  This is rather complex, but it hasn't changed in either format or participants other than our Rabbi's relative newness.  We still have designated women's chairs with signs on them usurped by our all-male choir during their break.  

I like numbers.  Seeing them.  Toying with patterns.  Playing with them.  Imagining how they might be different.  What I saw were committees with names of people attached.  Mostly the same people on every committee.  One VP had the temerity to tell everyone not on them to step to the plate and get on them.  First guy I poked in the ribs, having been blocked from two that interested me by the Dominant Influencers who really don't want smart inquisitive types challenging their agenda or process.  They don't need or want no help.  One of the roles of titled people, one by which folks in my medical world are judged, is the ability to seek out people who can bring knowledge and insight to make each committee more effective.  Two Committees have done that, Security and arguably Ritual, with the Rabbi infusing it with imagination and technical knowledge.  The rest of what I witnessed registers as Group Think, that invitation to nod last year's activity with nary a what if we did this instead.  Nobody challenges anything.  Ways & Means, External Communications:  No committee, just honcho delegating, and often less than that.

They expressed a desire to reverse our annual membership decline.  You do that best by engaging the people you already have.  I think I would ask every chairman who they sought out in the last two years to make their portion of our Congregational programming more effective.  It's mostly none. Make them each seek out and invite two. Then have the Rabbi and Membership VP get a list of every man, woman, and child, putting a checkmark next to each committee or organization each contributes to.  Some will have so many that they should be asked to choose which ones they want.  More will have too few.  They were never invited, and a few shooed away.  Invite them.  And then give the VP who chastised those with too few checks next to their name another deserved poke in the ribs to broaden his understanding.  

Exercise Benefit

Intensifying my physical efforts has gone mostly well.  Treadmill schedule maintained over months.  Speed gradually advanced.  Duration gradually advanced.  Cool-down period initiated.  I might even approach a sense of Flow periodically, but not often.  Mostly it is a chore to complete with a daily end point but no future end point.  It has a purpose.  Feel more energetic.  And I do.  Sleep better.  Mostly improved, though harder to tie the consistency of my exercise program.

Everything has its downside, including exercise.  While I try to have a set time to put myself on the treadmill, with a ritual of placing a brace on my right knee, then adding the running shoes kept adjacent to the lounge chair adjacent to the treadmill, some minor deviations become necessary.  Morning appointments require me to exercise either earlier or later.  I prefer earlier, though when done on consecutive days during the OLLI school term, I can sense the disruption.  While I usually wear my designated treadmill shoes, I also have two other pairs of New Balance walkers.  Both are better quality running shoes than those generics kept on site.  And I walk more comfortably with the New Balance shoes, but I use them primarily as daily street wear because of their comfort and versatility.

I've also made an attempt to improve my flexibility.  Every MWF unless traveling I set the big flat screen in My Space to an eight minute Tone and Tighten program.  It had been M-Th for a long time, but due to inadequate progress, I added an extra session each week.  I feel less stiff but more achy, particularly the sacroiliac and thigh regions.  It does not seem to be the type of myalgia I can blame on each evening's statin dose.  And since adding the intensity and frequency, I've only had to postpone the treadmill once and the stretch program not at all.  Yet the soreness remains noticeable, even at each month's end when I give myself a three day recovery from the treadmill, though not the stretch.

For now, the commitment to this has been mostly good.  In addition to physical well-being, there is a mental boost.  Maybe it's Grit, that ability to perform on days I don't really want to perform.  I've not experienced Mastery, though I probably could not have endured what I do now at each session a few months ago.

It time, some illness or injury or maybe travel will disrupt what I have achieved, as it did previously.  Now I know I can reset the program, add to the intensity every few weeks, and restore what had been achieved.  Worth the effort, both to feel better and to prove to myself my ability to meet a difficult challenge and the excuses to avoid it.

Immunized

 

Fundamentally, I'm a good sport.  At the request of my son, who anticipates his first child and my first grandchild, I had the pharmacist vaccinate me against pertussis. Being a senior, my form would be a Tdap.  It protects me from tetanus and diphtheria as well as pertussis.  In my long medical career, I've never seen tetanus or diphtheria, in large part because everyone got immunized.  I do not recall ever seeing whooping cough, or pertussis, though I recall rounding with pediatricians as a student or resident where that was a consideration for a sick child.  While I've not encountered this, reliable American data anticipates about 10000 Americans will get pertussis each year.  Tetanus and diphtheria have largely disappeared.  While the bacteria that cause these things remain in the environment, vaccinated, herd, or anamnestic immunity is so high that clinical cases no longer emerge.  

Vaccines have become political.  They shouldn't be.  When I took my mandatory pediatric student rotation in 1976, polio and smallpox had been eradicated.  Kids occasionally got measles, as immunization had become available about ten years earlier.  On History and Physical exams that we wrote on patients of all ages, Usual Childhood Diseases were lumped as a unit, most patients emerging both unscathed and immune.  Mumps, chicken pox, and most importantly bacterial meningitis still cropped up.  Not everyone had a complete recovery, as some kids were left with hearing and cognitive effects.  Adults who got mumps, escaping the childhood form, might develop orchitis, which I have seen, and following my own mumps, inadvertently passed along to my friend's father.  These are conditions with widespread effective recovery, but not entirely harmless.  Polio immunization became available when I entered first grade.  I had a HS classmate with forearm crutches and calf braces,  presumably from polio, others with hearing aids, likely from measles.  As viral disorders, many do not have effective antimicrobial options once an established clinical illness arises.

Adults do not get off scot-free.  I've seen hepatitis, even lived through the era when the different forms of this infection became sorted through diagnostic testing.  Influenza can have severe outbreaks, with some patients who do not survive.  And Covid-19 caused a widespread lethal pandemic.  Shingles devastates older people.  And not all viral illnesses present acutely.  Cervical cancer fell dramatically with the incorporation of Pap Smears to periodic gynecological care.  But the young women who got this, even in its early stages, needed significant, often invasive medical care and future surveillance.  A vaccine to prevent this has reduced morbidity.

So what gives high-profile anti-vaxxers credence?  First, perhaps, is that excessive medical care is a variant of bad medical care.  Were it not for the need to protect a newborn, my Tdap would not have happened.  We stopped immunizing for smallpox when the risk of the vaccine exceeded the likelihood of getting a rare disease.  Polio, diphtheria, and tetanus are devastating but in America do not occur.  Still, even the anti-vaxxers don't seem to object to protecting people from rare diseases that will create great harm to even a few.  Bacterial meningitis, Haemophilus and pneumococcal, I've treated kids with both in a pre-cephalosporin era of Penicillin + Chloramphenicol, is memorable to patients, families, and the hospital staff that cares for those kids.  Nobody wants that to ever happen.  No push-back from the anti-vaxxers.   Hepatitis in adults is another life-shortening condition.  If an employer such as a medical center wants its staff protected, no political resistance to this.  Nor to pneumococcal immunization, as pneumcoccal pneumonia and pneumococcal bactermia can be lethal.  

So we are left with controversy over conditions from which people usually recover, particularly measles but also mumps and chicken pox, and vaccines that fall short of the protections offered by polio, DPT, and pneumococcal immunizations.  I've had Covid-19 while up to date on standard protection. My wife had life-threatening Covid while immunized.  This is not a real good immunization when placed against the tried and true medical advancements of fifty or more years ago.  Still, the medical treatment for established infection also leaves a lot to be desired.  And mass immunization capturing people not likely to incur serious harm from Covid, whether school children or healthy adults, remains a legitimate uncertainty for which properly conducted studies in lieu of public reasonableness policies, or even laws, may be a better public option.

My employer mandated flu vaccines.  Many years ago, I had an adverse local site reaction that kept me out of work for three days.  I went twenty years without voluntary winter immunization, taking my chances as a young healthy adult likely to recover.  And the efficacy of the vaccine from one year to the next falls way short of ideal.  Polio and tetanus are eradicated.  Influenza is not. 

The immunizations that reach the recommended preventions have very infrequent adverse effects.  A sore arm like I had.  Yet it can become political.  People of my era remember photos of President Ford, then also candidate Ford, receiving a Swine Flu injection, with the anticipated bandwagon effect getting other patriotic citizens to make their deltoids available.  Before long, a handful of recipients developed Gillan-Barre paralysis, a devastating condition with variable recovery.  And Swine Flu fizzled as an epidemic illness.  The political concerns today involve people whose wealth or prominence creating credence who believe that too many preschoolers who would have recovered from measles are permanently disadvantaged by vaccine-induced autism.  As Reb Tevye of Broadway reminded us in the 1960's "when you're rich they think you really know."  People with professional expertise, most of whom think the measles immunization prevents disability with little risk to the recipient, get marginalized.  However, the medical majority has its failures, too.  While my class had kids with polio and measles residuals, today's public school students carry Epi-Pens generated by mothers who followed the pediatric guidelines and withheld exposure of their toddlers to peanuts.  There are benefits to exposing youngsters to common allergens, with functional development of beneficial antibodies as the common outcome.  

So my own immunizations have been augmented to help somebody dear to me, if not myself.  No covid this year.  Flu would devastate me.  I got that one.  Don't want to risk pneumococcus.  Polio risk averted at my parents' insistence.  Hepatitis immunization as an employer requirement, paid for by them.  Still taking my chances on Shingles.  Maybe I shouldn't

Tolerating IKEA

Wandering IKEA's aisles, or really maze, never gets stale.  I can always count on at least an economical platter of gravlax and dessert.  My last two visits, a recent entry to their St. Louis store prompted by a need for a reliable restroom and to my local offering just a half hour away, did not go well.  Not even that gravlax, as they remodeled their cafeteria.  Still, getting there, followed by a lengthy walk from their parking lot to their furniture display, or even the St. L restrooms, does not deter my next visit, at least to my regional location.

Usually I have some notion of what I might want to buy.  At St. L nothing.  Mostly my local drives, which take a half hour each way through some parts of South Philadelphia shared with marine terminals, other big box stores, some gentleman's entertainment, and warehouses make me wonder how far into the future the next drive there should be.  At times I know what I want.  A mattress. A sofa. My wife accompanies me for those.  More often I go alone.  She and my daughter even stayed in the rental car as I sought out the St L facilities.  

Even when I don't have a specific item to assess, I create some imagined focus.  Shelves, kitchen ideas, closet upgrades, replace my desk chair, some kitchen or lighting tools from their lower level Marketplace.  Something to enable me to stop following the ubiquitous arrows they place on the floor.  I divert myself into a model room or an array of stuff on the floor.  I sit.  I touch with my hands.  I check the price.  For bigger things, can I get it home?  Do I really want to assemble this item in my living room with their shoddy disposable tools and language-free drawn instructions?  

Sometimes I just need to drive someplace other than my house.  A half hour seems the right distance, especially if rewarded with the Swedish version of chocolate layer cake and sodas in flavors that the WaWa does not have.

It was time for my next trip, as I looked at no merchandise while visiting their St. L store, which happened to be in convenient part of town, had readily available free parking and a restroom maintained by attendants.  At home I look at stuff when I visit IKEA, irrespective of need.  Two items:  maybe replace my desk chair, obtained from an office surplus clearance thirty years back.  IKEA has all sorts of desk chairs, price $100-500.  Not all had price tags.  Indeed, on this visit, many bins and individual items had no indication of price.  I sat on several, mostly high-backed, mostly expensive by their standards.  I liked some.  None truly superior to my current chair.  I looked casually at storage.  My Space might benefit from a new recliner.  IKEA living room furniture does not measure up to those of in-person or online furniture stores, either comfort or price.  I did not even seek these out.  As much as I like decorative things, I already have too many, having just purged some from my desk.

In their Marketplace, I look at all sorts of stuff.  I learned on Shavuot that I did not have milchig serving utensils.  Their salad sets looked shoddy.  I could use more milchig plates.  I prefer patterned of some type.  They only had solid white or light blue.  Storage I could always upgrade.  Nothing caught my attention. Gradually I have replaced the lighting in each room and outside.

IKEA creates the illusion of need, but what they really market is want.  I needed nothing, wanted almost nothing except a plate of gravlax and some cake for lunch.  This time they deprived me.

Thumb Typing

 

As an eighth grader, planning my HS freshman curriculum, I sat with my mother and guidance counselor in his cramped office.  He commented that my teachers invariably complained about my penmanship.  Legible handwriting meant more in the 1960s than it does now, when everyone has a keyboard at hand.  He glanced at my grades, then thought he would amuse us by taking me to a branch point.  Become a doctor or enroll in typing class.  Even future doctors had to write in essay books throughout high school and college.  The next fall, I shuttled just a few doors over at the end of my scheduled daily English class to a room filled with Royal and Underwood Olivetti office model manual typewriters.  Too big for anyone to steal.  None bolted to the desks.  My assigned seat brought me to a Royal, frame color robin's egg blue.  They prepped us for accuracy and for speed.  Mediocre on accuracy, though I would probably surpass anybody else in the class in a spelling bee.  Speed limited by the same manual dexterity challenges that got me mediocre grades in art and shop classes throughout Junior High.  My speed lagged behind everyone else's.  I probably could find most of the keys without peeking at them, but the mid-teen me was too insecure to risk typos, which happened anyway.

I got by.  My father had a manual typewriter from college that became our home device.  From then on, I typed my own papers.  When my mother typed them for me, the Greeks always appeared as Freeks.  Proofreading and white-out correction fluid would come later.  When I typed my own papers, the teachers often nudged the grade up a couple of points for the correct spelling and few typos.

I college, I bought an electric typewriter, one that allowed the line return with the hit of a button with my right pinkie instead of a lever to the left of the platen.  It served me for decades, until the advantages of word processing to touch typing became so overwhelming that electric typewriters disappeared, as did the J.J. Newberry store where I purchased it.  That skill of knowing which finger went with which letter served me well, though I never got the hang of numbers on the top line.  The numeric pad to the right of the letters compensated that effortlessly, as I had much practice with an electric adding machine long before hand calculators took over.

Desktops, then laptops.  No remedial effort needed.  Tablets with the keyboard as part of the screen, though, returned me to single finger hunt and peck typing.  And the smartphone, QWERTY keyboard of tiny letters smaller than the tips of my fingers, restored me to the same slow speed, poor accuracy of my Junior High years.  I'm the slowest again.

As I watch kids, though, including my own young adults, and HS and college age kids on buses and planes and other public places, they type fast.  It is not the touch typing that they made me learn in 8th grade, nor is it the nine finger tapping of a keyboard with real keys, whether desktop or laptop.  Instead, the speed comes with two finger typing, the thumb of each hand while the iPhone or Android cradles in a palm.  My OLLI course list does not offer a class in how to do this.  There are tutorials, though.  They date back to the early days of the iPhone.  YouTube videos.  Written monographs.  Maybe they even tutor this in grade school or other places where kids that young shouldn't have phones.

It's tempting to try my hand at mastery, though lack of this skill has not been detrimental. Acquiring this proficiency might be if I use it to text people incessantly.  Still, I cannot help but admire all those young folks tapping their pseudokeys at an awesome rate, even if they would be better off using their devices less.  Like my own entry to touch typing, now sixty years ago, skills enhance with practice.  They become useful, if not essential.  And at present, my left thumb remains mostly dormant on a standard keyboard.  I should try to find a useful purpose for that left-out digit.