Notes from Blackdog Bog: Winter, the stubborn bastard

Chicks for sale at Tractor Supply

This winter is proving to be a stubborn bastard. I am hopeful, however, that we may be close to turning the page to an illustrious spring. My evidence is the emergent garlic sprouts in my little garden and that Tractor Supply is proffering baby chickens and ducks for backyard poultry adventures and bigger enterprises.

Spring reminds of youth; of revitalized swagger; of unbridled optimism and the freedom of hope. I have the good fortune of working in an environment where youth is a constant stream – each year, new classes of hope-to-be pharmacists matriculate and energize the school. A couple of years ago, the dean quipped, “The only thing that gets old around here is us.”

Over the last two weeks, I’ve been part of teams interviewing nearly 40 students who applied for scholarships. Twenty-two at the College of Pharmacy and 17 members of the Men’s Glee Club presented their best spit-shined selves and responded to a barrage of questions from multiple interviewers. At stake was nearly $30,000 in scholarships available to members of the Glee Club and almost $70,000 available to 3rd and 4th year pharmacy students. The interviews are inspiring but the ultimate selection process is painful – deserving students couldn’t be selected due to a scarcity of dollars. Andrew Carnegie’s late life observation became very real: “I resolved to stop accumulating and begin the infinitely more serious and difficult task of wise distribution.” I hope we were wise.

I stopped off to visit Howard on the way home tonight. I hadn’t seen him since March 6 – distracted by the million bites of life’s gnats. As I approached his house, I saw him napping in his chair by the window and I nearly turned around and tip-toed off. No, go ring the bell.

I hit the bell and pledged not to follow up with a second ring nor knocking – 3 minutes would be my wait. I’m pretty sure that the door opened at the two minute fifty-nine second mark and Howard beckoned me inside.

“How are you?”

“Not well.”

“Should I go?”

“Hell no, sit down.”

I wish I could take credit for timing – today was Howard’s 87th birthday and his sons and some friends had just left after celebrating over some wine, lamb chops, and laughter. While this was very tiring to him, he wouldn’t hear of me leaving right away.

“Peter, I don’t breathe so well,” he shared. “Three months ago, I could walk 3 miles; now, I can’t make it to the mailbox and back in less than 10 minutes.”

We spent some time discussing his symptoms and his pending doctor’s appointment in the morning (“that son-of-a-bitch better have some answers or I’m getting a second opinion”). In short, Howard’s heart is a mess and his pulmonary function is insufficient. He’s uncomfortable and frustrated.

His son visits daily and he hears from friends from the many decades of his life. He reads his Bible and told me to say hello to “the gang.”

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering	5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,	10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,	15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. . . .