If the Ford Edsel was human, I'd see it . . . in a mirror

Getting older is a lot like doing maintenance on a Ford Edsel, decades after Ford shuffled it off into discontinued models with the sincere hope it would soon become a fading memory.

But those who fell for the initial public relations and marketing hype were not amused. And while most of those buyers in the purported innovative, evolutionary motor vehicle of their dreams were just plane pissed—there were a few who stubbornly clung to the Edsel, willing to spend on the repairs, upgrades, and maintenance with hard-to-find parts needed to keep their "classic" vehicles shiny and with lines and looks that bely the sales and initial advertising disasters that followed the brand.

I have a lot to empathize with the Ford Edsel, B. 1957 D. 1959, but like the re-imagined "Lost Cause" of the Confederacy, Edsel has survived, albeit as an obstinate, delusional proud automative cult flipping the middle gear to the motor vehicle historians.

But so much for "Edsel." It's metaphorical analogy (is there such a thing. If there is not, there should be). Anyway, I'm and Edsel.

 Twelve years ago, it was open heart surgery to replace a congenitally defective aortic valve with one made of metal, plastic, and bovine tissue. A year ago, it was a replacement, this time less dramatic surgically, implanted via femoral artery to the heart, in effect smashing the old artificial aortic valve with a new one.

In between those procedures, the cardiac heartbeat regulating nerves deteriorated—not an unusual side effect for open heart valve replacements—so I got a pacemaker stuffed into my chest.

Then, headaches and vision loss led eventually to a benign brain tumor diagnosis. Brain surgery excised a 7-centimeter menigioma. I recovered, cognitive functions intact, vision saved, but a persistent minor left-side weakness as a reminder.

In a week and a half, I get an "ablation." Seems an irregular heartbeat is now the cardiac "must do," to keep me going. 

Hey, as an Eastern Orthodox Christian convert (six years now), I've learned humility is an underappreciated gift.

And, of course, I go in tomorrow to make my periodic confession to my parish priest -- and ask his blessing for the upcoming procedure.

I've learned it's mostly ineffective to explain such things, especially in terms of faith, but it's who I am. Live with it; I do.

At least for now.

And if I do not, at some point, "live with it," well that's what faith is about. Don't try to figure out the rest, folks.

Our ramped up simian brains are remarkable, but they have a really hard time contemplating the cosmos, eternity, and the limitless essence of Love.

That latter part, it's a God thing.

The Donkey History Museum: something to bray about

 I don’t know about you, but my spouse has occasionally warned me, “Don’t make an ass of yourself.”

Now, visiting Mesquite, Nevada—and its quartet of casinos tempting Arizona, Utah and Nevada I-15 travelers to detour for a bit of gambling—might pay off or deplete that RVing gas and groceries budget.

Hence the risk, amigos. Dreams of fortune versus, in my case, the wrath of my wife, she of Norwegian ancestry and the dormant genes of the Valkyrie: DNA and ancestry best left to rest in Valhalla—trust me.

So, on an overnight stay in this Virgin River Valley town of 20,000 on the northeastern fringe of the Mojave Desert, I found the perfect—and an educational—compromise: the Donkey History Museum.

*to read more of this article and see more photos, click here:

Swansea Ghost Town: A rough road to faded desert dreams

Having set up camp alongside the Colorado River near Parker, Arizona, my adventurous wife, Barbara, decided to take our trusty “toad” compact car to see a real ghost town.

It was a pleasant and warm day, barely a cloud in the sky. But we did not take our 2019 Ford Fiesta to the Tombstone “ghost town,” where the Shootout at the O.K. Corral made Wyatt Earp famous in 1881, and where tourists today can see a tamer, bloodless reenactment of the same while sipping on a cold craft brew.

No, not Tombstone. We also passed on a slew of other deserted Old West settlements in Arizona. We chose the remote La Paz County ghost town mining community of Swansea, AZ, our surrender to serendipity becoming a bumpy, dusty, and rough 65-mile round trip odyssey.

*To read the rest of this article of mine, and see more photos click here

First visit to Red Butte Garden: a long glimpse at earthly paradise

 It was my first ever visit to Red Butte Garden, more than 100 acres of botanical and hiking bliss along the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains that provide the eastern boundaries of Salt Lake City.

I know. First visit for me, courtesy of my son, Rob, to a glimpse -- and long one -- of earthly paradise.

Yes, I repeat with chagrin, my first visit, and I've been in Utah since 1982, when my journalistic career brought me first to the Salt Lake City Bureau of the Associated Press, and later The Salt Lake Tribune.

Now 71, and retired, I finally made it.

Thanks, son.

Heat wave escape: In Utah, just a drive into the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains

The Wasatch Front is in the throes of a heat wave, as is much of the Great Basin and Intermountain West.

Escape is nearby, up into the 11,000-foot Wasatch Mountains, those snow-packed 11,000-foot offshoots of the Rockies.

Thank God.

So, my wife Barbara and I drove up Parleys Canyon, along a couple scenic switchbacks, and basked in cooler temperatures, the scent of mountain wildflowers, pine trees, and aspen.

It was a nice few hours together in the snowcapped Wasatch Range.

Let's call the experience “ Babsendipity,” since it was Barb at the wheel.

beauty, steps, breaths, and ancient prayers -- perspective, and peace

Here, I've learned, is what to do if you wake up in a funk today.

I recently did, and decided to follow my parish priest’s (Fr. Paul Truebenbach’s) recent prescriptions for depression: prayer, exercise, focus on needs of others.

So, there I was, in the early morning trek through the icons of nature, the words of the Trisagion and Creed on my lips, as I hiked through and around forest trails, flowers, wildlife, and streams around the Wheeler Farm Historic Site.

For me, the beauty, steps, breaths, and ancient prayers culminated in perspective, and peace.

About my 'big sister,' the times and seasons of life, and love eternal

 Her name is Carolyn.

She has always been my "big sister," being born three years before me.

But because of her oxygen deprivation in the womb, and the cerebral palsy she was born with, it was my role from a young age to be her "big brother."

She needed surgery to correct her crossed-eyes as an infant, and physical and often painful strap on leather and metal braces to hobble a few steps. I was five years old when Mom took me outside on a warm Norwalk, Calif., day and explained why my sis still could speak only short sentences, and then only with intensively exhausting stutters.

"Carolyn is what the doctors call 'mentally retarded,'" Mom said softly. "She won't be able to learn like you. And since she is crippled, people stare at how she walks, and some kids will even tease and try to hurt her."

There were tears forming in Mom's eyes. "You will be her 'big brother,' more and more as you grow," she said, trying to smile encouragingly.

And so, I tried to be just that. Protecting my sister from neighborhood bullies got me in my first fights as a young boy, and the violence escalated from a punch in the stomach for a kid who pushed her to the ground, to blood and chipped teeth for both me and one, sometimes more bullies as I grew into adolescence.

But I could not protect Carolyn from the emotional swings and physical tantrums that came as she grew, too, though physically handicapped but strong as an adult. Still, she had the cognitive limits of a 4-to–5-year-old.

Mom, barely 5-foot-2, would try to keep the larger Carolyn from biting chunks out of her own arms in self-destructive rages; and often, Mom, too, would end up with bruises and lumps from my sister's kicks and bleeding, whaling fists.

When the rage subsided, a confused Carolyn would see, but not understand injuries to herself and Mom. Sis would cry, "S-s-s-orry, Mom, S-s-orry!" Mom would wince, but always hug, whispering loving assurances, her own face wet with tears.

Half a century ago, there were limited choices to address this crisis. Special Education classes then were little more than dumping grounds for any and all mentally and physically handicapped kids. 

Group homes for their care did not yet exist where we lived in Eastern Washington. But the situation with my tortured sister could not continue, and eventually medical and social workers consulted advised placing Carolyn in institutional care -- a nearby state-funded dormitory facility where she would be cared for along with 80 others "like her."

Mom and Dad reluctantly agreed. I was 12 when my sister was moved to a multi-story, brick Lakeland Village. Oh, we visited her there often, and holidays she would join us at home -- for a night or two -- but then would come time for her to go back, and still sometimes, not peacefully.

Over the ensuing years, Lakeland Village gradually placed its charges in smaller group homes. Physicians would now prescribe medications to ease the mood swings, social workers arranged regular outings and crafts, exercise, trips to the movies and church services.

The years passed. Mom and Dad would regularly visit Carolyn, keeping track of her clothing, medical, bedding, and growing stuffed animals collection. But then came their own aging, dementia, assisted living and then nursing home care, finally ending with their deaths in 2019.

I could not qualify under Washington state law to myself serve as Carolyn's legal guardian, since I had lived and worked 800 miles away in Utah for several decades; my sister came under the care of professional state-appointed guardians.

I have been able to talk with her on the telephone often and visit her in person on several occasions over the past few years. I saw her health deteriorating, her mobility requiring first an aluminum walker, and then a wheelchair. Her breathing became increasingly labored, and then in the past few months, trips to the hospital and long-term nursing care before a brief return to her own room and belongings at her residential group home.

I have been able to talk with her on the telephone often and visit her in person on several occasions over the past few years. 

Her breathing became increasingly labored, and then in the past few months, trips to the hospital and long-term nursing care before a brief return to her own room and belongings at her residential group home.

Last night, the call came from the director of her home. My "big sister" may not make her 74th birthday in July. 

Again she was rushed to the hospital, where doctors found her unable to safely swallow, her blood oxygen levels in the low 80s. She was put on supplemental oxygen, and a feeding tube inserted to stabilize her.

Once that is done, it was hoped Carolyn could return to the comfort of her group home room, in her own bed, surrounded by those stuffed animals, and what had become her caregiving sisters and family.

"Comfort care," was the term. It was an echo for me, being the same words that had been used to govern the final journeys of our parents, before they passed away in their sleep, just months apart a few years ago.

Despite my lack of legal status in Carolyn's case, her caregivers have been willing to keep me regularly apprised of her status. The immediate future, and how it unfolds for her, and me, her distant "big brother," is known only to the God we both love.

And so, once again, I wait, and I pray. 

I ask for physical healing, knowing that even if it comes for her, it will be a brief reprieve. Rather, I pray, too, for her ultimate healing -- a peaceful, painless release when the time comes -- and a heavenly welcome and embraces from Mom and Dad.

Love, after all, is eternal.