We have to stop shielding our children from the realities of healthcare, sugar-coating all the difficulties they will eventually have to endure when they are out on their own. The next time your child is temporarily down with a short term affliction like a head cold, you can give him or her an idea of what lies ahead . Something like this:

“Good morning Joey. How are we feeling today?”

“A little better, Mom. I’m not coughing as much but I’m a little upset about the bill you put on my supper tray last night.”

“Why, Dear? I thought it was reasonable. We had to move your brother into the guest room so he wouldn’t catch your cold and that, of course, upgraded you to the private room rate.”

“I know that, Mom. It was in the booklet you gave me, right after my first sneeze, but how come I had to pay for Dad’s visits when all he did was poke his head in the door and ask, ‘How are you doin’ Son?’ and then leave to play golf.”

“Those still qualify as visits, Dear. I told you months ago you should enroll in our KiddyCare Plan but you didn’t want to sign up.”

“Mom, the monthly charge would have been almost half as much as I’m making mowing lawns.”

“Yes dear, but now you can’t expect the family to cover you if you chose to be uninsured. The plan would have covered almost half of your treatment expenses and with a small co-pay we could have moved a TV in here.”

“And, Mom, there’s a $10 charge that’s labeled ‘Mrs. Romano’. What’s that all about?”

“That’s Rose Romano, Dear. She’s in my aerobics class. She has nine children and four grandchildren. She’s an expert on head cold therapy, as good as board certified. Rose gave me valuable advice and rented me her vaporizer and electronic thermometer.”

“Couldn’t we just have the doctor come over and check me out, Mom? I’ll pay the bill.”

“No, Joey. Most doctors don’t visit anymore . We might have had to take you out in bad weather and you’d have to sit in a crowded waiting room, exchanging bacteria with the other patients for an hour. Why don’t you sign up with KiddyCare now. We have no rules against pre-existing conditions and you’d get an unlimited supply of Kleenex and cough drops of your choice.

When you get better, Joey, maybe you should make snow-shoveling another branch of your business to help you with the KiddyCare payments.”

Soon after I’d watched the “A Field of Dreams” movie six times, I began to receive strange messages, something like the ones Kevin Costner had in the movie. But I didn’t know how to respond. I don’t speak Italian.

However, I have many Italian friends. So after a week or so of these weird dreams I called my buddy Frank Savino and asked for his help…… “Sounds like whoever is contacting you wants you to do something important,” Frank said, “But I think you’re supposed to wait. “

The same message was delivered every night. Frank finally gave me his take on the translation after I repeated some of the phrases: “They want you to build something to do with a game.”

“Build something? “I can’t build a baseball field like in the movie, my lot is only a quarter of an acre.”

” I think they want you to build a bocce court. I looked it up. The smallest court is about 10 feet by 60 feet. You can fit that in, can’t you?”

“I guess so, if I move the picnic table, the old swing and the St. Anthony and Buddha statues. I’ll ask Google about bocce court construction and order the material. “

I did some bocce checking and was surprised to learn it’s the third most popular sport in the world. Imagine that! It follows soccer and golf. How come I’ve never seen a game played on TV?

I gave my order to Joe at Parsippany Lumber the next day. “What are you building?” he asked……..”A small bocce court. Do you know anything about bocce?……”Oh sure, I play it all the time. You’re going to need more than lumber, like a pallino target ball and eight other balls. I’ll give you my cousin Anthony’s number. He can get you everything you need. I’ll insist on a discount.”………Three weeks later, I had a legitimate bocce court and the dreams became less frantic. But they didn’t go away.

I’d installed a hanging light bulb over the court and looked out there every night, but no one showed up, only moths. Then one night, around 1 a.m., I heard clicking noises. There was one player out there, an old guy who seemed to be playing a serious solo game. I raised the window and shouted “Buona notte!” He looked up, smiled, waved and resumed his bowling. It was like interrupting Rip Van Winkle in his game with the little Dutchmen.

One night later, with Frank Savino at my side, I looked again. There were two players! They were shouting and arguing at 2 a.m. and none of the neighbors lights were coming on. Apparently, only Frank and I could see the players and hear the shouting.

“I’ve done more research, “Frank said. I think I know who those two players are. I’ve got photos. The taller guy is Umberto Granaglia , once called ‘The greatest player of the 2oth century’. He died in 2008. The other is Jose Botto, the USA’s most highly decorated bocce player. He died the same year, but these two never got to play each other. It must be a match they wangled out of St. Peter, a last wish of one or both of them.”

“Now this is probably a wild guess,” Frank said, “But maybe the deal had to be a secret match with no audience. Botto had a Jersey connection and might have suggested a backyard midnight tournament here.”

That may or may not be the background for this weird series, but after a dozen or so games in the seesaw battle, the two champs calmed down and accepted a few bottles of excellent chianti and three extra large everything pizzas. Umberto and Jose drank and ate heartily and so did Frank and I. Frank told me, according to his translation, the match ended in a tie. I hope the rematch is in Italy. By the way, not one of Frank’s many photos turned out to include the two champs.

First time anxiety is a universal experience. You may look forward to that first day eagerly, dreaming dreams of your excellent performance, your cool demeanor as you catch on quickly and breeze through the new demands on your aptitude and courage.

But most of us have to follow Mother Nature’s initiation plan, forcing us to tough it out and gain confidence by conquering our fears while we learn the new system.

We should not give free rein to our imaginations. On my first day at school I became convinced my parents had rented me out to a finger painting company and I might never go home again.

Anxiety during your first driving lesson is unavoidiable and a calm, encouraging instructor can be very helpful. Unfortunately, my Dad overdid it. “Your driver’s test is less than a week away, but don’t worry, I’ll give you the crash course. Whoops, forget I said that!”

My first day in basic training was filled with shouted commands, profane threats of disciplinary action and derogatory comments about “this latest batch of incompetent rookies”. That night I wondered if it was a court martial offense to leave your bunk without permission and my bladder almost burst. Fortunately we were aroused by a foul-mouthed sergeant at 5 a.m.

Then there was my first day as a journalist. Okay, as a part-time reporter. It was during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962 that had the whole country on edge, but I wasn’t covering the Pentagon, just a small town board of Education meeting. Nevertheless, my shaking knees were making the press table rattle and I was taking copious, barely legible notes about grammar school business.

The Board President seemed to want to shorten the meeting so everyone could go home and get the latest crisis news on their TV’s. “We’ll deal with the janitorial budget at the next meeting,” he said. And then added, “If there is a next meeting.”

The threat of a nuclear war was in the back of my mind too, but up front I was really worried about having the correct spelling of the name of the newly hired gym teacher.

,

I’m well known as the type of guy who can make things happen. Don’t think I’m bragging because I’m not. The things I make happen are not usually the things I had in mind .

Like way back when I was a smoker. I’d be waiting for an overdue bus on a wintry night. Shivering, I’d light up a coffin nail to calm down and sure enough, the late bus would turn the corner and I’d have to snuff out my Camel and lose three cents. (Well, that was years ago.)

I’ll have to forget I’m a Mets baseball fan and avoid watching their games on TV. It seems every time I tune in, their fortunes become misfortunes. One night the TV sports guy on the late news mentioned the Mets were one run ahead of the Cubs in Chicago in the bottom of the ninth inning. Thinking it safe, I switched channels in time to see the Cubs shortstop break his 11-game slump by hitting a ninth inning base-clearing homer. I’m quite sure the Mets centerfielder McNeil turned and shook his fist at me as he left the field. It really hurt.

I’m thinking of betting against the New York Giants football team this year. All’s fair in love and sports betting. If I lose, my Giants will have a winning season and I’ll only lose a few bucks. Next year maybe I’ll convince them to help me bet my house against the team. Hopefully, the team will give me a small cut of their Super Bowl pot so I can get my house back.

By the way, this negative method also works for me in getting my actual favorite candidate elected. If you’re not a charter member of the Jinx Club, this would be a dangerous game to play.

At certain times over the years my morale has suddenly taken a nosedive because of what I heard just before I started on what I thought was going to be an enjoyable new experience.

At a Pocono resort I’d just mounted a friendly-looking horse and began to introduce myself to Violet as we trotted off when the wrangler called out, “Mister, that there horse ain’t called ‘Violet’. It’s ‘Violent'”. I was rescued three miles away later from a tangle of poison ivy where I’d been tossed.

Arriving for my new driver’s license test, I felt confident, remembering the rules of the road Dad had recited during my practice drives. “Good morning!” the Motor Vehicle Inspector said. “I just got out of the hospital. Some kid made a too-sharp left turn last week and we crashed into an approaching car.” I was turned own that day for making a too-wide left turn.

As a USAF private, hitch-hiking to get home on an Air Force bomber, I enjoyed crawling through a narrow tunnel into the empty rear gunner’s compartment for great views of America’s East Coast cities. I hoped to repeat the visit later but was confronted by a flight officer who shouted, “Never, ever, take off your parachute in a B-25!”

Years later, waiting for my buddies in a crowded New Jersey singles bar, I ordered a beer. As the bartender poured, he called to the back room, “Joe, we’re running out of glasses!”
“I’m washing them as fast as I can!” Joe called back.

“We don’t wash glasses on Saturday night!” the bartender reminded him.

What the hell! It was a hot night. I chug-a-lugged anyway and passed the word, letting the next thirsty guy decide for himself.

What would the world be like without soap? It would be a very filthy, smelly place. We’d have to wear disposable clothes, eat off paper plates and use sandpaper when taking baths or showering. Just plain water wouldn’t work. Somebody had to find a way to make insoluble grime soluble. The Babylonians did that almost 5,000 years ago and left the recipe on a clay tablet.

That’s rather surprising since the recipe for basic soap is so simple It could be ranked “as easy as apple pie”. There are only three basic ingredients: Water, lye and lard. Some have added additional ingredients like perfumes and vegetable oils to soften the skin and make us smell like salad bars.

Pumice is added to specialty soaps used by greasy mechanics and splattered house painters. It does the job and removes only a few top layers of skin.

One of the uses of strong brown soap is to curtail the vocabularies of little boys. I can still taste Fels-Naptha after commenting loudly when the Mets lose a close game.

Lye is also called “caustic soda”. It’s strong stuff and unfriendly to our skin and eyes. Vinegar isn’t an ingredient but should be kept handy to help neutralize the accidental splashes that get past your heavy gloves, impervious apron and safety goggles. The only other safety requirement I remember is to make soap while your kids are in school and the pets are in the backyard. This also applies to your husband if he’s the clumsy type.

I have always been a born follower. Once, as a third grader, I was told by the teacher to lead the boys into the schoolyard for the recess period. I lost most of them before I got out the back door. Three rascals were discovered later trying to outsmart the candy machine in the teachers’ break room.

I managed, in the Air Force, to get a job in communications where I never had more than two or three subordinates. One of them, at least, eventually learned enough to outrank me by one or two stripes.

There was the time I was with a group of airmen undergoing our annual physicals on a west coast air base. As we emerged from the base hospital one day, an officer came by. “Corporal,” he shouted, “march these men over to the mess hall.”

(March these men?? ) I hadn’t marched anybody since that third grade debacle. “Yes Sir,” I said and he returned my salute as I turned to my troops and shouted, “Fall in!” As they began to line up or whatever you call that, I remembered the mess hall was a half mile away to my right.

I also remembered how James Whitmore got his outfit’s immediate and obedient attention in that “Battle Ground” movie. I shouted as gruffly as I could manage, “Right face!” but my to-my-right mess hall was to-their-left and they’d be marching off in the wrong direction.

“Are all you guys deaf?” I growled, “About face!” and then “Forward march!” I had them moving in the right direction, but some of them were murmuring and shaking their heads. None of James Whitmore’s outfit shook their heads or murmured, not even Van Johnson.

I began shouting Whitmore’s cadence piece. “You had a good home and you LEFT. Jodie was there when you Left.” Apparently they’d all seen the movie and they joined in. I was also getting into it when one of the boys up front shouted, “Corp! You’re marching us into an excavation!”

“Stop!” I shouted. “I mean, halt!” I had to improvise. “Let’s fall out here and fall in at the mess hall. In between, if you spot the Lieutenant, shout, “Company scatter!”

“Don’t worry,” the experts say, “memory loss is a normal part of the aging process.” I’m supposed to find that comforting? Isn’t dying also a normal part of the aging process?

It’s getting to the point where I forget the meanings of ordinary words and I have to look them up in the watchimacallit. And it’s even making it difficult to communicate socially.

Recently a friend asked if I had a favorite movie. “Yes, I do,” I replied. “I don’t remember the title but it was a detective movie with my favorite actor in the lead. You know, he was in a lot of other movies with what’s-her-name, the blond actress who married the Oscar-winning director of the World War I film, or was it the World War II film? Why are you shaking your head like that? I answered your question.”

“Transience” is what they call the process of old memories being jettisoned to make room for new ones. Like our computers, our brains have limited memory banks and every little item has to be given a priority number. We probably remember the Mets’ first World Series win in 1969, but “What the heck is that spice my wife told me to buy at the supermarket today?”

There has been a possible breakthrough in this area of cognitive psychology called “Doorway Amnesia”. Notre Dame scientists have given it a more exact definition. We used to think when we left the living room to get something in the kitchen and forgot what it was when we got there, it was merely a matter of short term absentmindedness.

Notre Dame researchers think the doorway itself might be the culprit since it’s the entrance to another venue which tends to delete older information in our brains to make room for what happens in this new place. Subjects in their experiments tended to remember missions after walking the measured distance unless they passed through a doorway on the way.

Should we start eliminating doorways in our homes? And what about in the Pentagon, the Capitol, the Whitehouse ?

(I wrote about my sorely missed Molly before, but I’ve become more upset with the way Big Business is frequently changing their confusing rules as if we were a bunch of serfs subjected to their whims.)

A long time ago I dropped in at the ATM with my faithful dog Molly. I thought she would enjoy the experience. She liked most people, especially kids, but we came upon a confused crowd of adults in the bank’s lobby. They were arguing about the new ATM instructions. There were pros and cons. Molly had no opinion, but she looked upset and was getting fidgety.

I was finally able to reach the machine and make a withdrawal, but by then, Molly had made a deposit. I won’t be able to use that ATM for awhile. The crowd raised quite a stink and Molly and I scurried out.

Another list of bank rule revisions had managed to upset that crowd. If you find our rapidly changing technology with its new rules, unsettling, imagine the effect it’s having on our dogs. When they first joined our families, our lives were simpler and calmer. They had no trouble as welcome additions to our packs, becoming protectors of our young children and challengers of suspicious strangers. All that came naturally.

Molly would have liked to help out with the ATM problem, but she was still trying to figure out television and didn’t understand how the family could sit there calmly while all that shouting and shooting was taking place outside the window across the room.

Cars were a different matter. Molly loved to rove, especially at higher speeds. Sightseeing and sightsmelling with her head out the window and ears flapping in the wind, were just her thing. A big plus was being able to bark insults and challenges to large dogs and haughty cats along the way while sitting in a speeding ironbound car.

She had the twice daily task of taking me for my walks. I’m sure when I whistled and she saw me with leash in hand standing by the door, she thought, “The old guy has to go out again and be led around the neighborhood. But that’s a fair price I have to pay for the kibbles, treats and belly scratches.”

I think they got it all wrong. “Planet of the Apes” was a failure. They chose the wrong animals.

Belief in life after death has been widespread throughout the world over the centuries, although the details vary greatly among the believers and many others refute the concept of an afterlife completely.

Some maintain the Highway of Life eventually comes to a dead end and oblivion. Others expect to stop at an important toll booth before a fork in the Highway that leads to two very different destinations for eternity-bound travelers. A third group hopes for an eventual U-turn opportunity and another chance to live more worthy lives on earth.

Mark Twain’s last book, “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven,” was an imaginative celestial travelogue with humorous jabs at the prevailing ideas of after-life in the early 20th century. For instance, the Captain reported Earthlings were a minority group in heaven compared to the billions of afterlife travelers from other planets in the enormous universe.

According to the Twain book, new Earthling arrivals soon became bored sitting on clouds plunking harps and began to search for more interesting experiences. They were not disappointed. There was a great hoopla at the entrance gate one day, attended by many famous saints. It turned out they were awaiting the arrival of a recently redeemed man, a bartender from New Jersey who’d regretted and confessed his sins at the very last minute to earn his halo.

Mark Twain died three years after his encouraging book came out. I wish he’d be allowed to write another one now with actual exciting details and descriptions.

There have been many so-called afterlife experience accounts. One is about the widow who’d just been granted admittance past the Pearly Gate. Saint Peter asked for her first wish. “I want to join my late husband, William,” she said. “His last words were he’d turn over in his grave if he knew I was kissing another man.”

“Oh!” said Saint Peter, “You must be talking about ‘Whirlwind Willie’!”