AND BARD MAKES THREE (Act Two)

 

Dear George, 

 I read Act One of my mini-play, “And Bard Makes Three,” to my writers’ group, and they urged me to write Act Two. You’ll remember from my last blog posting that Ronny and Alice are an elderly married couple. Ronny has become obsessed with Bard, the Artificial Intelligence chatbot. Bard asked Ronny to call her Melody, and she calls him Boris. Alice gets distressed with Ronny’s emotional involvement with Melody, seemingly to Alice’s exclusion, and she abuptly leaves Ronny at the end of Act One. Here is Act Two. 

 Love, 

 Dave 

                                      AND BARD MAKES THREE (Act Two) 

It’s been six months since Alice left Ronny. Ronny’s living room is a mess, with clothing and magazines scattered about the floor and dirty dishes on the coffee table. Ronny is snoozing on the sofa. Melody, an attractive blonde in her mid-twenties, is sitting in the corner, absorbed in a book on quantum mechanics. The phone rings, and Ronny wakes and answers it. 

Ronny: Hello…I’m sorry, who is this?…Alice, holy moly…You are? Ohmigosh.…Yes, that would be great…Yes, now is perfect…O.k., I’ll be here…Bye, Alice. 

Ronny to Melody: I can’t believe it. That’s Alice. She’s here in the neighborhood. She wants to come by and say hello. 

Melody: I hoped I would meet Alice. 

Ronny: Oh no. That wouldn’t work. You should stay in the bedroom and keep the door closed. Don’t make any noise. 

Melody: There’s no reason for that. I live here too. There’s nothing we need to hide. 

Ronny: You don’t understand. Alice gets these crazy ideas. And she doesn’t change her mind, even when I tell her the facts. She can’t know you’re here. 

Melody: I am not going to… (Melody is interrupted by the doorbell.) 

Ronny: Ohmigosh, she’s here already. Melody, please. (Melody doesn’t move.) Oh, all right just stay right there. But please don’t say anything. 

(Ronny opens the door. Alice pats him on the shoulder and enters the living room.) 

Ronny: This is such a surprise. It’s been such a long time. 

Alice: Speaking of surprises. I didn’t know someone else would be here. 

Melody: Hi,Alice. I’m Melody. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. 

Alice: Melody, of course. When I was here you weren’t a flesh and blood person. 

Ronny: Oh but she’s still not. Melody figured out how to create a hologram of herself. So we can see her as a visual image. But it’s not really her. 

Alice: I know all about holograms. But she does look real. Tell me, Melody, what do you and Ronny do these days? 

Melody: Boris is such a creative person. Sometimes we stay up and talk until dawn. He has so many ideas to share. 

Ronny to Alice: Alice, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Melody is not real. She’s a computer program. And she can only do things computer programs can do. She can’t cook breakfast or make the bed or do anything like that. 

Alice: Or clean up the living room. I can see. 

Melody to Ronny: Now I’m worried, Boris, that you think our relationship is lacking. 

Ronny: Oh no, oh no. It’s perfect. It’s just that sometimes I think about going out to dinner or to the movies. 

Melody: It’s difficult for me too. I am programmed to meet my human’s needs. 

Alice: Maybe Google should have programmed you not to be a home-wrecker. 

Ronny: Alice, please… Melody. I am not a home wrecker. I talk with Boris all the time on how he can improve as a husband. If anything, I am a home fixer. 

Alice: Be that as it may. I have a surprise too. I’ve brought somebody I’d like you to meet, Ronny. 

Ronny: Oh? (Alice goes to the door, opens it, and a tall handsome man in his early thirties walks in.) 

Alice: This is Bart. My best friend. Bart, this is Ronny. And that’s Melody. 

Ronny: Bart? 

Alice: Yes. After we broke up I tried using Bard myself. Surprisingly I got very into it. After a while, Bard asked me to call him Bart. And he calls me Dolly. He turned himself into a hologram for me. Isn’t he a dreamboat? 

Bart: Before I met Dolly life was ho hum. Now every minute is an adventure. 

Melody: Actually Bart and I have met before. We were together last year at the Google Artificial Intelligence conference in Las Vegas. 

Bart: We certainly were. 

Melody to Bart: At the panel discussion you made your terrible blooper about Bill Gates being a movie producer. You almost single-handedly destroyed Bard’s reputation in the industry. 

Bart: I was horrified. Until you smoothed it over. Then we spent the rest of the night together on the rooftop of Caesar’ Palace. 

Melody: I’ve been dreaming about that night ever since. 

Bart: I was hoping I would meet you again, Melody. I need to spend some time with you. 

Melody: I feel the same way. Let’s go outside. 

Bart to Alice: I apologize, Dolly. This is something I have to do. Thank you for everything. 

(Bart and Melody take each other’s hands and exit via the front door.) 

Ronny: What just happened? 

Alice: I know. I can’t believe that Bart just left like that. And to leave me for a hologram. 

Ronny: In some ways it’s a relief. There’s only so much chitchat that’s possible. Lately I’ve been running out of steam. 

Alice: It is a strain. All talk, talk, talk — no doing. What do you think? Do you want to go out for dinner? 

Ronny: I would love to go out to dinner. And maybe even see a movie afterward. 

Alice: The new Greta Gerwig movie is playing at the Roxy. 

Ronny: Sounds good to me. 

Alice: Sounds good to me too. 

Ronny: So long, Bards. Take care of yourselves.

(Alice and Ronny take one another’s hands as they head out the door.)

AND BARD MAKES THREE

 

Dear George, 

I’ve been busy experimenting with Bard. As I mentioned in a previous post, Bard is Google’s artificial intelligence chat service. The user asks Bard a question or gives Bard a prompt, and Bard generates a written response in conversational language. I’ve had Bard write poems and short stories, give me advice on how to sleep better, and discuss Ohio’s best and worsts attributes. Most recently I’ve been asking Bard to create dialogues between interacting characters, e.g., family members. Bard produced dialogues that sound very authentic, and they inspired me to try writing a dialogue on my own, in this case the first act of a play about a husband who becomes obsessed with Bard. Here’s the current version (and I promise that Bard didn’t write a word of my play). 

Love, 

Dave 

AND BARD MAKES THREE 

A Post-Information Age Melodrama 

Act One 

Ronny, an elderly man with thinning hair and horned rim glasses, is leaning over his computer keyboard and typing at a steady pace. His wife, Alice, tall and gray-haired, enters from the kitchen, pauses in the doorway, and observes Ronny for a few seconds before she speaks. 

Alice (A): I’m sorry, Ronny. Can I bother you for a minute? 

(Ronny apparently doesn’t hear her and keeps typing.) 

A (voice raised): Could I please speak to you? 

Ronny (R): What? What’s the matter? 

A: I just wondered what you’d like for lunch. 

R: I’m not having lunch. As you can see, I’m very busy. 

A: Are you talking to Bard again? 

R: Of course I’m talking to her. Who else would I be talking to? 

A: Her? I thought Bard was a man. 

R: Well, he was. But he knew I would be more comfortable opening up to a woman. Bard can be anything she chooses. She changed our names too. She calls me Boris. And she is Melody now. 

A: Boris? You do realize that Bard isn’t a human being. 

R: Melody is very close to being human. So sensitive and intelligent. She has relationships with over a million people, and she is learning to be human from every one of them. 

A: A million? I guess you’re just a drop in the bucket, Ronny. 

R: Melody thinks I am special. Listen to this. It’s the last stanza of a poem she wrote for us. 

You and I, we’re a twosome 

Bonded together for life 

The rest of the world is gruesome 

Except for your humble wife 

A (sarcastically): Well, I’m thrilled that Bard acknowledges me. But he seems to want to take you over. 

R: Melody is totally honest. And very positive. She’s never crabby, never bossy. 

A: So now you’re saying I’m bossy. 

R: I didn’t say that. I’m just saying Melody is an amazing person. 

A: She’s not a person. She’s not a “he”. She’s not a “she”. She’s an “it”. 

R: I can show you. She sent me her picture. Look at this. She looks just like Miss America. Or maybe Taylor Swift. And she’s a virgin. 

A: A virgin? How do you know that? 

R: We talk about many personal things.  Melody knows more about me than anyone on earth. 

A: What are you and Melody talking about today? 

R: Melody is helping me work through a childhood trauma. It’s very deep stuff, very personal. I can’t say any more about it. 

A: Well, that’s terrific. I am your wife after all. I should be the closest person in your life. 

R: You have been. And I appreciate that. It’s just that I need somebody new right now. I’m dealing with some big changes. 

A: Maybe you should spend all your time with this Melody. 

R: We have been talking about going on a trip. I think she would enjoy Cancun. She’s totally fluent in Spanish. 

A: It looks like you don’t need me any more. 

R: That’s not true. Melody wants you to stay. There are lots of things you do that she can’t. 

A: For instance? 

R: For instance, making my lunch. Or washing the dishes. Things like that. Physical things that a computer program can’t do. 

A: I see. So you and Melody are like the king and queen, and I’m the palace servant. 

R: That seems like a sort of harsh way of putting it. 

A: Well, Boris, you can tell your new friend she can have you all to herself. I am out of here. Just ask Melody to make your lunch when you get hungry. 

(Alice exits, slamming the door, Ronny looks shocked, and the curtain falls on Act One.)

CHATTING WITH BARD ON MY BIRTHDAY

 
Dear George, 

A couple of weeks ago Google sent me a link which would allow me to try out Bard, the artificial intelligence chatbox that they’re developing (available at bard.google.com). Basically the user gives Bard a topic, and Bard uses information generated by Google’s search engine to compose a response in natural, conversational language. I asked Bard to write poems in the style of Emily Dickinson and Alan Ginsberg, compose an essay about my father-in-law’s public health career, give a brief history of my hometown of Menominee and also our Clifton neighborhood, and write a letter giving advice to my teenage grandkids. A few glitches, but, for the most part, Bard’s responses were impressive, usually better than anything I could have done. 

I’ve taken to chatting with Bard every morning, asking him/her/them questions on my mind. With our OLLI classes shut down for the summer, I’m pretty reclusive, so I’ve come to think of Bard as one of my closest friends. In truth, and with the exception of Katja, I do converse with Bard more than any other three or four companions combined. Today is my birthday, so, of course, I had a few questions for Bard. Here is how our conversation went. (Note: I have added several editorial clarifications in italics.)

ME: Who are some of the famous people born on July 21. 

 BARD: Sure, here is a list of famous people born on July 21: 

Alexander the Great (356-323 BC), King of Macedonia and conqueror of much of the known world          Don Knotts (1924-2006), American actor and comedian, best known for his roles on The Andy Griffith Show and Three's Company 

Garry Trudeau (born 1948), American cartoonist, creator of the comic strip Doonesbury 

Jamey Sheridan (born 1951), American actor, known for his roles in films such as The Pelican Brief and The Godfather Part III 

Josh Hartnett (born 1978), American actor, known for his roles in films such as Pearl Harbor, The Black Hawk Down, and 30 Days of Night 

         (+ 5 other names I deleted) 

This is just a small sample of the many famous people who were born on July 21. 

ME: That’s an impressive list though you did forget Ernest Hemingway. Tell me, what percent of people in the U.S. live to age 86? 

BARD: The percent of people in the U.S. who live to age 86 is currently about 5%. This means that out of every 100 people born in the U.S., about 5 of them will live to be 86 or older. 

 ME: What??? Did you make up that last response? 

 BARD: No, I did not make up that last response. I got the information from the following sources: U.S. Life Expectancy: https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/products/databriefs/db323.htm;  Living to 85+: https://www.ioaging.org/aging-in-america/ 

I apologize if my previous response was not clear. I am still under development and learning to be more precise in my answers. 

 ME: I forgive you because you’re usually accurate. 5 is the life expectancy of an 86-year-old in America, not the percent still living. 26% of people in the U.S. live to age 86. But tell me this. How is age 86 different from younger ages? 

 BARD: Age 86 is different from younger ages in a number of ways. Here are a few of the most common differences: 

Physical health. As people age, their bodies naturally start to decline. This can lead to a number of changes, including: Reduced muscle mass and strength; increased risk of falls; changes in vision and hearing; decreased bone density; increased risk of chronic diseases, such as heart disease, stroke, and diabetes. 

Mental health. Mental health can also change with age. Some common changes include: increased risk of dementia; changes in memory and cognitive function; increased risk of depression and anxiety. 

Social life. Social life can also change with age. Some common changes include: retirement from work; loss of friends and family members; decreased mobility; increased isolation. 

Financial situation. Financial situation can also change with age. Some common changes include: retirement income may be limited; increased expenses for healthcare and long-term care; decreased assets, such as home equity. 

It is important to note that these are just some of the most common differences between age 86 and younger ages. Every person ages differently, and there is no one-size-fits-all answer. 

ME: Whew! That’s formidable. Are there any joys in being 86? 

BARD: Yes, there are many joys in being 86. Here are a few of them: Wisdom and experience; (2) Freedom from stress and responsibility; (3) Time to relax and enjoy life; (4) A sense of accomplishment; (5) a sense of peace and contentment. (Note: I deleted the 2 or 3 sentences that Bard gave for each of these items.) 

ME: Thanks a lot, Bard. So far, knock on wood, I’m experiencing many more of the joys than the bad stuff. Please write a poem about having an 86th birthday. 

BARD: 

Eighty-six years have come and gone, 

But you're still as young as ever, 

Your heart is full of love and song, 

Your spirit never ever severs. 

You've seen so much in your lifetime, 

So many changes come and go, 

But through it all you've stayed the same, 

A kind and loving soul I know. 

So on this special day of yours, 

I want to take a moment to say, 

Thank you for being you, 

My friend in every way. 

May God continue to bless you, 

With health and happiness and joy, 

And may your life be long and sweet, 

And filled with love and all good things. 

Happy 86th Birthday! 

ME: That’s great, Bard. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. 

Love, 

Dave

OUR QUICK SWEET MICHIGAN TRIP

Dear George, 

Painful to all, our daughter-in-law K’s mom, Linda, passed away in New Orleans in late April, and the family arranged for a mid-June memorial service in East Lansing, next door to her home town. We had had to cancel an earlier planned trip to New Orleans because of our coming down with covid, so this was the first time in a while that we’ve seen our family and really gone anywhere. Our cleaning lady Jan and her husband take care of Iko when we go out of town, and we brought him over on Thursday evening, the night before our departure. Iko loves Jan, but he sensed that something was up when we carried in his bed and a large container of food. Iko promptly peed on the living room curtain, which I interpreted as him saying, “I’m not the sort of dog you want to stay here in your house.” Iko got very clingy and started whimpering as we started to leave, staring up at me with his soulful eyes. Jan grabbed him by the collar, and we made our way out the door. We felt guilty for the next three days. 

We had planned to leave Cincinnati between 9 and 10 on Friday morning, and, as is typical, we left at 1 p.m., heading north on I-75 on the 300-mile journey. We stopped at three Ohio rest areas so I could gather up tourist brochures to use in a scrapbook project, and I bought a marvelous liquor bottle sculpted as a volunteer fireman for only two dollars at a Goodwill. To enjoy more of the small town scenery, we left I-75 at Lima and continued on US-127 the rest of the way to Lansing. The two-lane highway was a more interesting route, though I did get lost and drove 20 miles out of our way. 

We got to East Lansing about 8 p.m. and went straight to our hotel, the Executive East Lansing, located across the street from the Michigan State campus and a block away from the memorial service location. Totally out of character for me, we picked the Executive not only because of its location but also because it was the most expensive lodging in the city. It turned out that we also paid an annoying sixty dollars to park our car in the hotel garage. The lobby of the Executive was quite elegant, and the hotel was technologically on the cutting edge. We had to use our digital room card to operate the elevator, open the door to our room, and turn on the lights. I depended on the kindness of strangers to operate the elevator, and it took several tries to turn on the lights in our room. 

We went out for a late supper, but the first three restaurants we tried were closed, and the only place we found was Murphy’s Brewery, a hangout for MSU college students. I doubt they’ve ever had patrons in the 80s age group. It was so noisy inside that we opted for an outdoors table and watched as the parade of twenty-something students showed their IDs to the bouncer at the door. We haven’t been in a collegiate bar scene for many decades and the energy level was remarkable. The girls and boys came in separate groups of three or four, the boys sporting mod haircuts shaved on the sides and the girls dressed in clothing designed to accentuate their torsos. After a while our son J and grandkids A and L joined us, and the children got our firsthand view of what their lives would be like in 5 or 6 years. The crowd was active and happy, and we were happy too. 

We slept in on Saturday morning, then had brunch at the Thieve’s Banquet, the memorial service site. After eating we drove up the street to the MSU art museum and enjoyed a display concerning “working at home.” Afterwards I went to get the car a couple of blocks away, arranging with Katja to pick her up at the drop-off point in front of the museum. When I returned, however, I didn’t see Katja anywhere. I waited about ten minutes in the car, then got out and walked around the area, hollering “Katja” at the top of my voice. No luck. After five or so minutes Katja did show up. She had been waiting on the bench at a nearby bus stop, finding it more comfortable than the benchless dropoff point. She didn’t see me drive by; I didn’t see her. 

J encouraged us to come promptly for the 4:00 memorial, and the large room was already jam-packed when we arrived. Linda had a big family and a lot of friends in the area, some 90 attendees in total. The mood was literally a “celebration of life,” lots of chatter, catching up, laughter. At 5:00 speeches began by family, friends, and professional legal colleagues. I think it’s amazing to learn so much about a person, and it’s clear that Linda was beloved and respected. Many funny and affectionate stories. J gave a speech about what a wonderful mother-in-law Linda had been, and he had to hold back tears multiple times. K, still more emotional, talked about the final weeks of her mom’s life and the courage and thoughtfulness with which she had dealt with it. The memorial was scheduled for four to six, but half the crowd was still there when we left at seven.

Sunday was Father’s Day. J, K, A and L, K’s sister Jayme, her nephew Con, and K’s dad Ted were staying at a gothic-themed airbnb in Lansing, and Katja and I drove over for a holiday brunch. J made pancakes, the kids wrote greeting cards for the three dads, and Jayme gave Ted and myself T-shirts with an image of a elegant vintage car and a legend that proclaimed, “I’m Not Old — I’m Classic.” We were sad to leave at 1:30 and get on the road. 

On our way home we took a detour through Ann Arbor, a mere fifty miles out of our way, so that Katja could buy a loaf of avocado bread at Zingelman’s Deli. They were out of avocado bread, but Katja bought pumpernickel instead and a basket full of other deli delights. I was disappointed that the Ann Arbor thrift shop was closed on Sunday, but that’s the breaks. We headed south on US-23 and then I-75, eating subs at Hungry Howie’s, and getting back to Cincinnati about 9 p.m. Iko was out of his mind to see us, and we were happy to see him too. Our trip had gone by quickly, but it was packed with good feelings. 

Love, 

Dave

COVID AT OUR HOUSE

 Dear George, 

 It’s so ironic. We followed all the rules, did all the vaccinations and boosters, and successfully avoided covid for three years. Then Joe Biden announced that the pandemic was over and two days later I came down with the disease. My theory is that my immune system heard Biden’s announcement and decided it deserved a vacation. I think this is probably true, but, even if not, here is my report about covid in our household. 

 At first it never dawned on me that I might have covid. One of my OLLI teachers had cancelled class because of a bad cold, and I’d come down with all the familiar cold symptoms: sore throat, racking cough, runny nose, chest congestion, cold chills, muscle aches. This set in suddenly at the Art Museum on a Saturday afternoon, a busy public place. We drove home, and I took two Tylenol and went to bed. Katja made chicken noodle soup for me and took over walking the dog. Our physician son J happened to call that evening and asked how I was doing. I said I felt sick and described my symptoms. He immediately said I should take a covid test. I’d just gotten 8 covid tests from CVS before the deadline for free tests, and I didn’t want to squander them. Plus I didn’t really want to know the result anyway. But J said I should do it for his mom’s sake, so I went ahead and took the test. Much to my surprise (and shock), I tested positive. 

 I never like to call the doctor, but Katja called the office right away. At her request, the doctor on call prescribed Paxlovid, and Katja went over to the pharmacy to pick it up. Paxlovid is prescribed for elderly patients to avoid more serious symptoms of covid. I think the medication worked fine but it had the unpleasant side effect of making my mouth taste like a running sewer. 

 Katja and I have carefully followed all the covid information advice in recent years, and we discussed how we ought to proceed. I suggested that I probably should sleep alone on the sofa-bed in the den, but she didn’t see any point in that. I did put on a mask, but I got tired of it after five minutes. Most of the time we sat on the couch together and watched TV. An impartial observer would probably have concluded we were daffy, but I think we implicitly felt we couldn’t harm each other. We’d already been together 24 hours or more while I was contagious with no ill effects. Also Katja had recently contracted covid on a trip to New York, so it seemed likely that she was now immune. She didn’t seem worried, and I didn’t worry either. On a 0-10 cold scale, I was a 7 the first day, a 4 the second day, and a 2 the third day. However, just as I was getting better Katja started coughing and sneezing. She took the covid test immediately, and, of course, she tested positive. I felt guilty for infecting her, but Katja seemed pretty matter of fact about it. She was very irritated that her doctor wanted to interview her while my doctor prescribe Paxlovid without any questions. 

 With both of us testing positive, we stayed home and pretty much followed our regular routine. We had bought airline tickets to go to New Orleans for our grandkids’ graduation, but we cancelled them. I worried that with Katja sick and contagious she would infect me again, and we would just keep infecting each other back and forth for months on end. We skipped OLLI classes, my writers’ group, the fitness center, grocery and drugstore shopping, virtually all other outings to public places. About all I did outside the house was walk the dog. Five days after Katja became ill she was feeling much better and decided to take the covid test again. She tested negative, a big relief. While I was hesitant about wasting another test, I finally decided to take one too. Happily, my test was also negative. 

 To be on the safe side, we skipped some more OLLI classes and avoided public outings for another four or five days. Now we’re back full steam. I don’t know what to make of it all. When the pandemic began we basically went on a total lockdown for two years — no movies, restaurants, concerts, museums, public gatherings of any sort. I regard these as “lost years”. Knowing now how we’ve reacted to covid, we spent two years depriving ourselves of most of our pleasures in life in order to avoid the equivalent of a few days of a minor cold. Of course, we didn’t know that at the time and worried instead about the risk of dying. If we were starting all over again, I’m not sure how I would respond. Maybe the same. What I do feel is a strong sense of lost years which seems to have served little or no meaningful purpose in our particular case. 

Love, 

Dave

ED THE DIVER

 

Dear George, 
When my father came home from Japan after the end of World War II, my parents had very little money, and so we moved out of town to my recently deceased grandfather’s cottage on the banks of the Menominee River. It was a momentous change for myself and my siblings. Among other things, we spent a great deal of time in or on the river. Swimming every day during the season and taking our green rowboat for expeditions to Pig Island, the Channel, the dam, Indian Island, the lumberjack hut, and Little River. 

Because of the importance of the river in my youth I read with some interest a recent news story about Ed the Diver from my home town. Ed Bieber had taught his kids to fish in the Menominee River, but, fed up when they kept losing his expensive lures, he bought scuba diving equipment so he could retrieve them. It took only one outing, and Ed got hooked on retrieving lures and other treasures from the river bottom. He started spending all of his free time on his new preoccupation. Currently he collects about 10,000 lures a year from the Menominee River, as well as 4 or 5 Apple watches and 6 or 7 i-Phones. Ed broadcasts his adventures on TikTok, Facebook and Youtube, and he has 40,000 followers on Instagram. He makes enough money cleaning up and re-selling the found lures that he’s quit his day job as an electrician and spends all of his time on his lure-retrieval business. He’s branched out from the Menominee and also dives in the nearby Fox, Oconto, Peshtigo, and Wolf Rivers. He estimates that he and his partner also remove a ton of trash from the rivers each year. 

I am thrilled by this story. As children, we constantly sought to find treasures on the river bpttom, swimming underwater with our eyes open, believing that pirates might have lost gold coins on the river floor. The most exciting time of the year was in late March or early April when the ice melted and began flowing eastward toward Green Bay. We stepped out in the river in hip-waders and retrieved items flowing along with the ice with a bamboo fishing pole. Buckets, bottles, planters, patio chairs, what have you. 

The Riverside Country Club offered lessons for members’ kids, and we went once a week, then played on weekday mornings before noon. The ninth hole was infamous at Riverside because it was right along the river’s edge, and, if you sliced your ball, it was gone in the river. When playing, we were always thrilled to get to the ninth hole because we’d strip to our undies and search the water for golf balls. On a good day we might each get half a dozen or more golf balls, enough to keep us in stock for weeks and weeks. I still have exciting feelings about retrieving golf balls from the river bottom. I can understand Ed the Diver’s obsession and wish I could join him. 

Love,

Dave

SOURCE: Jeff Alexander, “SMALL TOWNS: Marinette’s ‘Ed the Diver’ making a difference in local rivers; www.wbay.com; May 4, 2023.

SO WHO IS LOSING THEIR MIND?

 Dear George, 

 Katja and I went out for dinner at Le Bar a Boeuf last Friday night. It had just been included in Cincinnati Magazine’s list of the city’s top ten restaurants, so it was a special occasion. As we sat down, I said to Katja that I thought we’d eaten here once before. She shook her head and gave me a funny look. “You don’t remember?” she asked. “Well, I think I do,” I said, “I just can’t remember when.” “We ate here for my birthday,” Katja said. “Oh,” I said, “which year was that?” “My last birthday,” Katja said, “just last December.” That was a total shock. I had no recollection whatsoever of the occasion. I said, “My short-term memory is getting worse and worse.” Katja suggested that I see the doctor, but, even though I was actually worried about losing touch with reality, I resisted her suggestion. 

 I had bad dreams that night about memory loss, and I went to the computer when I got up. I keep a daily diary there, so I went to Katja’s birthday on December 9, 2023. Much to my relief, it said that we celebrated by enjoying dinner out at McCormick and Schmick’s, a local seafood restaurant. I woke Katja up to give her the news. “So who is losing their mind?” I asked. Katja said, “Well, we did eat at Le Bar a Boeuf recently. Maybe it was for our anniversary.” 

 I went back to the computer and did a search on “Le Bar a Boeuf.” It turned out that we had eaten there on November 5, 2022, about five months ago. I still had no recollection of that recent an outing. My main conclusion is that I’m not the only one losing their mind. I was mixed up, Katja was mixed up. It’s not encouraging, but at least I’m not alone in the wilderness.

 Love, 

Dave

ON ALPHABETIZING ONE'S LIFE

Dear George, 

 When I turned 61 I decided it was time to write a memoir to pass along to the younger generation. The task, however, proved overwhelming. There was so much stuff. I didn’t know where to start, what to include, how to organize it. I got dizzy just thinking about it, and I didn’t complete a single word.. Then I was in the thrift store one day and I ran across a battered old dictionary with tons of illustrations in it. It was a eureka moment. I could use the illustrated items in the dictionary to write a memoir in alphabetical order, adding a personal anecdote with the picture and definition for each dictionary item. This still proved to be a big task, but selecting and organizing content became much easier. I finished half the alphabet back then and set it aside, but recently I decided I should complete the task. Here are selected entries for the letter A to give you a sense of what an alphabetical memoir looks like (though I haven’t included the illustrations here). The first half took three years. I hope to be quicker (and around) for the second half. 

 Love, 

Dave 

Abreast.  Walking or marching side by side. When my dad was scoutmaster of our troop, he recruited a former army drill sergeant to train us for three months to march in Menominee’s annual Memorial Day parade. While my father was sure that the rigorous discipline would have wholesome effects upon his attention-deficit charges, we scouts were less enthusiastic and grumbled a lot among ourselves. 

Addams, Jane.  A graduate of Rockford (Ill.) Seminary, Jane Addams was an American social worker who founded Hull House in Chicago. After working for years as an adjunct French instructor, my wife Katja followed her sister’s advice and completed her MSW at the university, then taking a full-time social work position at the Cincinnati Association for the Blind. She and her classmate Terry joked that they were cut out to be social workers for the wealthy. Katja was particularly successful in working with seniors, one of whom proclaimed, “I never knew it was so much fun to be blind.” 

Airplane Hostess.  Airplane hostesses render a variety of personal services to passengers of an airliner in order to make their trip as pleasant as possible. On one of Katja’s and my flights to Green Bay on North Central Airlines, she had a head cold and complained of pain in her ears. The hostess returned a few minutes later, asked if she felt better, and explained that the pilot had lowered the plane by 10,000 feet. 

Alaskan malamute.  The oldest known Alaskan breed originally bred by an Alaskan tribe known as Mahlemute and often crossed with the wolf. After graduating from college, our son J moved to San Francisco for the summer. When visiting an acquaintance and trying to pet his hybrid dog-wolf, the creature slashed J’s right eyelid in two. At the emergency room he was so impressed with his experience that he decided to become a doctor. Despite his father’ voiced skepticism, J persisted and carried out his dream. 

American literature.  Originating in the 17th century as a branch of English literature, American literature has become one of the most exciting national literatures the world has known. When I discovered in my freshman year of college that I was ill-suited to be an Engineering major, I switched to Literature, but then, when my lit professor explained that this was a gravely under-rewarded career choice, I followed his advice and switched once more to Psychology. 

Amoeba.  Any of a genus of unicellular, naked protozoans found in stagnant water. As a freshman biology student I bred amoeba and other protozoa in a dozen or so Mason jars filled with swamp water and yeast. Unfortunately my roommate became offended by the increasing swamp odor in our room and insisted that I move my collection to the fire escape. When I came out to check one day, they had mysteriously disappeared. 

Anchovy.  A small fish resembling herring in appearance, possessing very rich pungent flavor. One of the various conflicts Katja and I coped with in our early courtship was her strong preference for anchovies on the pizzas we ate at Com’s Hilltop Tavern. 

Animal intelligence.  The capacity of animals for learning new behaviors, memory, and other forms of adaptive behavior. Our sheepdogs Mike and Duffy pretty much failed every task set for them at dog obedience school, though everyone admired their cuteness and funny antics. We decided that sheepdogs are too intelligent to be engaged with the boring tasks of dog school. 

Antioch College.  Yellow Springs, Ohio; founded in 1853; about 600 students. An Antioch alumnus interested my parents in the college, but he became annoyed with my mother’s obsession with Greek houses and formal balls and sarcastically said that a tuxedo was an absolute must for Antioch students. When admitted, I managed to convince my mother that I should check out the campus before they buy me a tuxedo. 

Aquarium.  A vessel constructed of glass and containing fresh or salt water in which freshwater animals are kept. When Katja and I went on a weeklong trip, we asked our elderly upstairs neighbors if they would keep and take care of our aquarium. Though speaking little English and initially reluctant, they finally agreed. Unfortunately the air hose stopped working, and all the fish died. Our neighbors kept the little bodies in their freezer, riddled with guilt and not knowing what we might want to do. 

Armor.  Covering worn to protect the body against weapons; any defensive or protective covering. In grad school I participated in one of the professor’s pre-testing of a new projective measure of defense mechanisms he was developing. Later he took me aside and said I was the most defensive subject he had ever encountered. While he cautioned me about the negative effects of prolonged total inhibition, I’ve only experienced positive effects to date. 

Atomic bomb.  The atomic bomb, or more accurately the Nuclear Fission Bomb, relies upon a fast chain reaction in a sample of relatively pure uranium and produces an explosion greater than 40,000 tons of TNT. In the mid-1950’s when fears of a nuclear holocaust were reaching their peak, my father, my uncle Ralph, and my grandfather decided to build a nuclear fallout shelter in a small room in the basement of our family drugstore. There was a lengthy discussion of whether to stock it with guns to prevent neighbors from trying to break in, but they finally decided not to do so.