In the tapestry of my passions, woven with threads of American history, fascination for large North American mammals, and a penchant for irony, a unique story unfolded during my visit to Camp Pendleton. It was there that I discovered the intriguing tale of the bison project, a narrative that spans decades and involves the resilience of a species nearly brought to extinction.
For decades, I have harbored a profound respect for bison. From childhood encounters at the Bronx Zoo to thrilling wildlife sightings in Yellowstone National Park, I have always been captivated by their strength and resilience. However, their journey in America has been fraught with hardship. Once roaming the Great Plains in millions, their numbers dwindled to near extinction by the late 19th century due to excessive hunting and habitat loss.
Fortunately, the 20th century witnessed a concerted effort towards bison conservation, leading to their gradual resurgence. Yet, California was not typically considered part of their natural range. This is where the story of Camp Pendleton’s bison takes an unexpected turn.
In the 1970’s the San Diego Zoo partnered with Camp Pendleton to establish a breeding program with the introduction of Adam and Eve, a pair of bison. Despite the seemingly incongruous setting of a military base, this program proved immensely successful. Over the years, the herd has flourished, with over 150 bison now roaming the hills and mesas of Camp Pendleton.
Their primary habitat lies near the artillery range, offering a stark contrast to the sounds of military exercises. As a Marine soldier and fellow golfer shared, “We often have to stop shooting practice while the bison graze through the area. They have no natural predators here, except for the occasional golf ball or shell fragment.”
This observation resonated deeply. Witnessing these majestic creatures thrive under the protection of the very institutions that once played a role in their historical decline served as a powerful reminder of our evolving relationship with nature. The story of the Camp Pendleton bison serves as a beacon for hope, reminding us that even in the midst of human activity, nature can find a way to adapt and thrive.
My hiking boots and poles touched down on the Dawn to Armstrong Trail in Park City, Utah, my absolute favorite hiking destination! Picture a trail where snows and rains have conspired to create a floral paradise, painting the landscape with an explosion of colors. And guess what? This trail has a little something extra to offer besides Mother Nature’s charms – modern technology! So, lace up your boots, charge your devices, and join me on this tech-infused adventure through the wonders of the Dawn to Armstrong Trail.
Blooming Wildflowers: As I set foot on the trail, my eyes widened with delight. The recent snows and rains had cast a spell, and the wildflowers responded by bursting into bloom with such enthusiasm that even the most seasoned botanists would be envious. Golden Columbine, Woods’ rose, Common Pacific Pea, Sticky Geranium, Wasatch Penstemon, and Pacific Ninebark paraded their colors, turning the trail into a living tapestry. Thankfully, I had my trusty sidekick, the Picture This app, to help me identify each flower. With a snap and a click, I became a botanist extraordinaire. Move over, Fremont and Ogden!
Symphony of Bird Calls: As I ventured deeper into the trail, a delightful cacophony of bird songs enveloped me. The Yellow Warbler, Chipping Sparrow, Western Tanager, and Black-Headed Grosbeak took center stage, performing their avian concert with gusto. How did I know who was who? Well, I whipped out my virtual maestro, the Merlin Bird ID app, which analyzed their melodious tunes and provided me with front-row seats to the avian symphony. I couldn’t help but imagine President Theodore Roosevelt himself tapping his foot to the beat, although I doubt he had access to such technology back then.
Tech Guides the Way: Amidst the lush scenery and melodious serenade, I realized that staying on track was crucial. Enter AllTrails, my digital hiking guru. With its comprehensive maps, trail descriptions, and weather updates, it kept me from getting lost and even warned me about the occasional lightning risks. AllTrails had my back, ensuring I wouldn’t end up as a character in a survival reality show. So, armed with my smartphone and a good sense of humor, I embraced the harmony of nature and tech.
Conclusion: The Dawn to Armstrong Trail is a testament to the beauty of nature, but it’s also a shining example of how technology can enhance our experiences. As I strolled along, Picture This transformed me into a wildflower expert, Merlin Bird ID made me a bird whisperer, and AllTrails guided me with the wisdom of a seasoned explorer. Who knew that 19th-century explorers and President Roosevelt could be upstaged by the likes of an app?
So, dear hiker, don’t hesitate to embrace the wonders of technology while immersing yourself in the wonders of the Dawn to Armstrong Trail. Let modern-day explorers like you use apps to become botanists, ornithologists, and expert navigators. Laugh, learn, and indulge in the perfect harmony between nature and tech as you create your own unforgettable adventure on this enchanting trail. Happy hiking!
Park CityWasatch PenstemonWoods’ RoseZonal GeraniumArmstrong Trail and King Con Ski Lift
A field trip to the Green-wood Cemetery, nestled between bodegas and diners in Brooklyn NY, seemed timely as my own expiration date looms closer as the aging process inexplicably marches on despite my total commitment to sunscreen and healthy eating. Just days from Halloween, the compulsion to explore an iconic burial ground beckoned and detoured me from my previously decided upon destination having been the Brooklyn Museum and Botanical Gardens. My wife and partner appeared dubious. We boarded the Q train for Brooklyn at 72nd street. We disembarked at the Green-Wood Cemetery transit station. Our journey started somewhat inauspiciously upon emerging from the SW exit. I saw signs for the transfer train lines: The D, The N and The R (DNR). Was this a deliberate attempt at macabre humor by the NY Transit Authority? My wife, a fellow physician, recognized the DNR or DO NOT RESUSCITATE acronym in full display as we entered the cemetery from the 36th St. entrance and she chuckled to herself.
Green-Wood unrolled in front of us as we entered the gates and passed the guardhouse on our left. Bucolic best describes the 478 acre land that was dotted with multiple bodies of water, fountains, trees, rolling lawns, massive gravestones and individual family mausoleums constructed with stone, glass and marble. Breathtaking! I briefly stopped at an information kiosk and learned that this South Brooklyn cemetery had been established in 1838 as a burial site for the burgeoning city in which it lies.. As an amateur student of history, I was drawn to the celebrity names of the past promised in the self-guiding map provided. For these departed individuals, the splendor of the mausoleums and monuments of their burial sites broadcast their influence and importance in their past lives.
DeWitt Clinton, 6th governor of New York and father of the Erie Canal, is buried on a green covered hill with a life-sized statue of himself standing on an oversized marble sarcophagus. He gazes over all of Brooklyn with his left hand raised as if shielding himself from the sun to better his view. Commanding!
Boss William Tweed, head of the 19th century corrupt political machine known as Tammany Hall, was prominently interred on Battle Hill, a revered site at Green-wood cemetery because it was the site of George Washington’s battle with the British at the inception of the Revolutionary War. A world class rogue and huckster, Tweed siphoned millions of dollars from construction of the Brooklyn Bridge, Central Park and the Courthouse in Downtown New York.
Among the century old London Plane trees and Dogwoods lies Samuel Morse beneath a Greco-Roman inspired monument. The inventor of the telegraph, classical painter and Morse Code originator had a near perfect record until he advocated for slavery during the Civil War.
While the glamor of the granite palaces marking the famous and infamous in death never failed to impress, I realized that the essence of humanity was to be found in the more modest gravesites. Thousands of small granite tombstones marked those who had served in the Civil War and the World Wars. Rows and rows of tombstones lined the grassy knolls as if the stones were marching in a regimented formation.
Fighting on opposite sides of the Civil War, William and Clifton Prentiss were reunited after sustaining mortal wounds in the same battle and interred together in perpetuity at Green-Wood.
Louis Abel, an electrical engineer serving in the 112th Infantry was stationed behind enemy lines in France during World War I. He writes his brother a letter 13 days before his death:
My dear Brother Eugene:
As the war goes on and as I come out of each engagement still alive, I think often of those at home and wonder if I will ever see them again. You are all in my thoughts continually when I have time to think of other things besides the continual shellfire and fighting. My nerves have been sorely tried and many officers and men have lost out completely due to nervous strain making them useless. I sincerely hope all is well with you and yours. Love to all and may God who watches over us all bring us together again.
Lovingly your brother, Louis
Charlotte, a 17 year old girl on the verge of becoming a married woman, was accidentally killed in a carriage accident in 1844. She is interred next to her fiance who took his life in complete and utter grief over her unexpected death. Do-Hum-Me, an 18 year old Sac and Fox Nation Indian woman, was brought to the East in 1843 from her native lands in Iowa by her father to negotiate treaties with the federal government. She was hired by P.T. Barnum to perform Indian war dances in his New York theater. Without resistance to Western disease, Do-Hum-Me fell ill and died of an infectious disease. P.T. Barnum was so distraught he paid for her burial and tombstone. Two women, ill-fated for early deaths and thus virtually unknown during their lives, have become well-known and are frequently visited gravesites at Green-wood.
The sky darkens and a late October rain begins to fall. My wife and I open our umbrellas and prepare to depart the cemetery. We are headed back to the subway to return to Manhattan. We cannot help but to reflect on the beauty of the cemetery and the lessons it has taught us: it is the quiet lives of so many who are unsung in the world that reach out to us in the most unexpected places that remind us the importance and beauty of every life.
DeWitt Clinton GraveSamuel Morse MonumentDo-Hum-Mee GravesiteChapel & Grounds Green-Wood Cemetery
It was time to travel despite a war in Eastern Europe, runaway inflation, political turmoil and exploding Omicron SARS-CoV2 variants. With a KN-95 mask, COVID antigen tests and $50 worth of digital guidebooks in hand, we boarded a river boat to glide upstream down the Rhine, Mein and Danube, from Amsterdam to Budapest to find history, fine spirits and the origins of ancestor’s past.
We were going to the edge of civilization, as the Romans had defined it circa 2000 years ago. The Rhine and Danube were the North and Eastern boundaries of the empire, warding off the barbarians, the Goths, Vandals, Visigoths and Franks. The Franks had plundered Eastern and Western Europe, united under Charlemagne and eventually (?with the help of intermarriage and French wine) settled down in France so their ancestors could appreciate fine architecture, food and Jerry Lewis.
The tragedies of history were retold by guides, museums and historical plaques as the craft dodged buoys and passed feudal castles. In Amsterdam, Cologne, Regensburg, Vienna, Rothenburg, Bratislava and Budapest were military monuments, holocaust memorials, mass graves, ramparts and moats, museum artifacts, artillery and ballistic impacts on stone walls that testified to perpetual war and oppression from the Middle Ages onward. The grievances are engraved in our schoolbooks: Romans v. Barbarians, Christians v. Arabs (Crusades 1-4), Protestants v. Catholics (30 Years War and others), Ottoman Empire v. “Civilized” Europe, Habsburgs v. National Uprisings in the mid nineteenth Century, Prussian Wars of the late 19th century. The 20th century brought us World Wars I and II ending the Holy Roman and Ottoman Empires and Hitler and the Third Reich at the expense of over 60 million lives.
As we headed South and East along the Rivers, I encountered glimpses of my Jewish heritage. The Jewish Diaspora from antiquity forced migration from Western to Eastern Europe along the Rhine and Danube. Jews were multilingual merchants, bridging the Arab and European divide and helping to create the trade routes from Asia, Africa and Europe. They were artisans in the pre-industrial world and creators of the financial world that allowed the development of city-states. Judaism financed the release of Richard the Lion Hearted of England’s release from captivity and paid for the defense of Vienna against Ottoman Invasion in the 17th century. Yet, each town’s history was marked by the same recurring theme: Jewish expulsion and persecution.
Tragedy often begets opportunity. Science, medicine and art blossomed along these European river tributaries. Booerhaave, the Dutch physician, organized hospital divisions, defined pathology and described his eponymous esophageal rupture syndrome. Dicke, an Amsterdam physician, recognized abdominal pain and diarrhea in Dutch children reintroduced to bread following privations of World War II and described celiac disease. Down the Rhine at Erlangen, Germany, Demling and Classen devised a modified electrified wire passed through an endoscope and allowed non surgical removal of bile duct stones in a jaundiced nurse in 1973, introducing therapeutic biliary endoscopy to the world. Wilhelm Conrad Rontgen, discoverer of X rays, taught on the Mein River at Wurzburg in the late 19th century. Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalysis treatise and practice was a part of 1890’s Vienna. Laszlo Biro from Budapest, invented the ballpoint pen and freed the world from fountain pen leakage.
Music flourished along the river, providing the world with the classics from Mahler, Mozart, Beethoven and Liszt.
History was infused in everything we saw and consumed. I ate herring in Amsterdam as the Dutch West India Company sailors did before traveling to Nieuw Amsterdam and quaffed Riesling from The Rhine Valley from Middle Age monastery vineyards. A McDonalds and statues of Ronald Reagan and George Bush in Budapest were symbols of who won the Cold War.
The realities of the past portend the fragility of peace for the future. The murmurs from these ancient rivers give us pause to respect and cherish our freedoms.
Mozart’s Piano Budapest MarketRhine WineVineyard Rudesheim GermanyRembrandt’s StudioFlowers in AmsterdamOn the Amsterdam CanalChildren on Margaret Island Budapest
I was perched in the upper deck of venerable Yankee Stadium as the dulcet tones of “O Canada” serenaded the patrons. As the Yankees took the field for a day game against the Toronto Bluejays, my thoughts turned toward food and beverage. A hot dog and a beer, I mused, was the classic choice. I felt the kinship of brews from the past, imagining my Uncles’ Bill and Herman and Cousin Jack quaffing Ballentine, Rheingold and Knickerbocker Beer under the facade as the IRT Subway rumbled by and DiMaggio rounded the bases.
I was well aware of the importance of beer in life and in baseball. It established prehistoric man’s enthusiasm for agriculture, paid the wages of those who built the pyramids and motivated thousands of undergraduates to learn beer pong. In the mid 19th century, immigrants from Europe migrated across the Atlantic, to the land of opportunity. One in particular, the Bavarian Franz Ruppert, established a brewery in New York to slake the thirst of 19th century New Yorkers. Franz’s grandson, Jacob Ruppert, Jr. inherited the brewery from his father and purchased the struggling New York Highlanders in 1915. With his “beer wealth” he rebranded the club the Yankees, bought Babe Ruth from the Red Sox, established the farm team system, put numbers on the player’s uniforms and moved the Yankees out of the Polo Grounds and into a new Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx.
Ninety-nine years after the opening of the original Yankee Stadium and 27 championships later, the “beer magnate’s” acumen has proven successful.
The memories of Three Ring Ballentine and Knickerbocker Beer have faded but the smell of outfield turf, and the aroma of malt and hops in the upper deck and bleachers in the Bronx in springtime lives on. And as the 20th century philosopher and late Yankee announcer Mel Allen opined, “How about that!”
As new grandparents, we await the wondrous moments of human development to flow into our much loved grandson. It has also awakened our curiosity of what lies ahead during his lifetime after we are a forgotten footnote of family lore. Sensing our own sense of evanescence, my wife and I embarked on the worldwide pursuit of genealogy. Who are our ancestors? What were their struggles? What can we learn about the past that we can pass on to the future members of our family?
I strolled through the American Museum of Natural History and came across the hominid tree. Australopithecus, Homo erectus, and Homo sapiens were primitive versions of modern man but broadly complex and contained too many branch points to fully understand and impossible, of course, to trace back to our grandson. Lessons of life on the Serengeti may not be helpful in our grandson’s future. Consequently, I narrowed the scope by 250,000 years by downloading MacFamily Tree 2019 and joining ancestry.com.
Standing on the shoulders of prior family tree creators, I embarked on tracing my wife’s ancestors. A few clicks and I was back eight generations and landed in the 17th century in Scotland and Ireland. Her tree was historically stocked with five Revolutionary War heroes, an indispensable aide-de-camp of George Washington, and our 11th President, James Knox Polk.
Documenting my dearly departed Ashkenazi Jewish brethren proved a more difficult challenge. I summoned wisps of memory from late relatives recalling a “Civil War soldier,” an “uncle with a battle injury,” and a “Wall Street merchant.” The documents were sparse to non-existent until I summoned the meager Eastern European geography clues left in the U.S. census forms of my ancestors. One patriarch listed his origin as Poland Russia and emigrated to New York in 1865, returned to his native land and then returned again to the US in 1875 with a wife 30 years his junior. What were the circumstances that prompted this circuitous path? What made him leave the US so quickly after his perilous journey? Unlike my wife’s clearly documented centuries of ancestor life, including details of her Presidential cousin’s kidney stones in 1812, my great grandfather’s trail turned cold. Serendipitously, he showed up in a Civil War Archive as a private in the 41st Regiment in 1865. As a replacement soldier, he received $300 so that the wealthy could be spared the injury and death that the war bestowed upon its participants. His regiment consisted of European foreigners regaled in the New York press due to their “extensive experience” in wars fought in Eastern Europe. Their return to New York City in 1865, after 70% of the regiment had perished, was snubbed by the mayor who sent a city councilman to attend the ceremony. I could understand his return to his native land and family after these events. But WHY did he return ten years later? History of Russian Poland filled in the explanation. Poland ceased to exist in 1795 and was carved up by the imperial powers of Russia, The Habsburg Monarchy (Austria) and Prussia. Numerous national uprisings against the occupying powers occurred in the 19th century. Russia was particularly brutal in suppressing the uprisings and singling out ethnic groups, especially Jews for punishment. The Pale of Settlement, enacted by Catherine the Great in 1791 and enforced by subsequent Tsars, prevented Jews from migrating eastward to Russia and limited Jewish involvement in public life. Jews were forced to serve in Russian military service for 20 years and their children were coerced to participate in exchange programs with other ethnic families so that Jewish children could be “Russified” and their Jewish heritage could be suppressed. With the assassination of the Tsar Alexander II in 1881, widespread pogroms that indiscriminately killed Jews were encouraged by the government. Fascism, while not invented in Eastern Europe, thrived in the urban and rural areas. This singled out the Jewish minority for the ills of society and excluded them from national life. Out of this maelstrom of terror and unrest came Jewish charity and unified cooperation amongst communities for survival and ultimately migration Westward.
With this background, my great-grandfather permanently emigrated to New York City. His children took jobs as clerks, shop girls, “fancy goods” peddlers and paper cutters. One young relative was employed as a “lemon squeezer” in presumptively a bar. The family took in boarders to put food on the table. My great-grandmother, known to me when I was 8 and in the throes of advanced dementia, had many years earlier extricated herself from poverty and became a nurse-midwife. Sacrifice for the family was evident when sifting through the detailed census information at the turn of the 20th century. Military records recorded service in the first and second World Wars with distinguished service and injuries incurred in battle.
Our hominid ancestors gave us upright walking, tools and reasoning. As my genealogy tree branched and diverted to other spurs, it became apparent that the accomplishments of my generation and my descendants had only been possible by the sacrifices and tribulations endured by my family. Gratitude, respect and knowing the inter-connectedness of the human condition is the take home lesson to pass on to my new grandson who begins his story before our very eyes.
The alarm blared at 6:00 AM wakening me from a deep slumber. An early message in retirement is never a good thing, I thought, as I brought up the message icon. Our ‘grandson to be’ had decided to arrive five weeks early. We booked our airline flights to the nation’s capitol and arrived, rumpled and tumbled by the Uber drive over the Potomac, to our hotel off the National Mall.
Too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing, we pondered, as grandparents with 70 lifetime years of pediatric and internal medicine experiences. Lung function, oxygen requirements, surfactant, feeding ability, brain development and infection risk percolated through our collective anxiety. Scientific probability tempered with prayer was the way to dispel these troubling thoughts.
He was born fully formed, loudly screaming and feisty. He entered the Neonatal ICU for warmth, feeding, oxygen and observation time for the next 10 days as we wandered around Washington, D.C. awaiting his discharge and arrival to his parents’ home.
My anxiety was heightened by the present and past of the U.S.A. A man with a train conductor’s hat sat in front of the White House blaring music and chanting, “We are on the train of destruction.” Placards in front of the Capitol declared the illegality of vaccination for union workers. We strolled to our grandson’s future home by passing the Garfield Statue (assassinated president) and Ulysses S. Grant on Horseback (Civil War with 600,000 dead). We continued on past well dressed legislative assistants (struggling to pass much needed infrastructure bills) coming out of the Richard Russell Building. I looked up Richard Russell, who was a former Senator from Georgia who defended Jim Crow and obstructed Civil Rights legislation, and wondered how his name was chosen for an entire building in Washington DC.
Our grandson was thriving, gaining weight and bonding with his parents. Relieved, we passed the time in our nation’s collective warehouse: the Smithsonian Institution. Endowed by James Smithson, a wealthy Englishman who dabbled in chemistry and mineralogy in 1820, who generously donated his inheritance to a country he never set foot in for the cause to advance science and knowledge. The Wright Brothers started their research through the museum’s scientific holdings and solved the heavier than air flight conundrum that baffled the world’s best minds. Lieutenant Commander Philip Van Horn Weems, recruited by Charles Lindbergh to perfect a better aviation navigational system led to an era of safer air travel for all. We saw the art of Saul Bellows documenting urban life in the early 20th century and appreciated the genius of the early neoclassical architects such as James Renwick, Charles Bullfinch and William Thornton who shaped our Capitol and early federal buildings.
At the Library of Congress we saw a portion of the over 800 miles of library stacks and more than 25,000,000 volumes that are available to all Americans that wish to research any topic and can participate in a plethora of summer programs for kids to introduce them to learning and research. This spectacularly beautiful building was full of historical treasures and important information. For example, we learned of the accountability of a democracy, embodied by the Presidential Recovery Act of 1978 that transfers Presidential papers to the public domain after office. This Federal Act was prompted by the willful burning of presidential records by Grover Cleveland, Millard Fillmore and numerous other Commanders-in-Chief.
Throughout our stay in DC we continued our US historical scavenger hunt: we saw the documents of Lincoln establishing agricultural/land grant colleges in the 19th century that created American engineering superiority, the bravery of Harriet Tubman guiding slaves to their freedom through the Underground Railroad and the bigger than life statue of Albert Einstein in front of the National Science Administration accompanied by his proclamation of free thought in his new country and safe harbor away from fascism.
Opportunity, American ingenuity, hard work and the limitless resources of art, science, politics and jurisprudence documented in our nation’s capitol left us truly humbled. The presence of such endless possibility that is freely bestowed upon every American Citizen— in the backdrop of our grandson’s birth— left us in awe and rendered us speechless.
Our grandson graduated from the Neonatal ICU into his home now several ounces heavier, with healthy lungs and an animated disposition. We, as grandparents, are now in the grandstand joyfully watching every moment of his wonderful life. Just knowing that opportunity and choice are around the corner as he grows and prospers in our great country brings us comfort as US citizens and hope for a brighter future for our newest patriot and family member.
Roadtrip!” Visions of Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Vacation and John Belushi’s scream of “Roadtrip!” in Animal House jumped into my consciousness. The reality was a 1,300 mile car trip up the I-95 to a bat mitzvah in New Jersey. Armed with Google Maps, hotel booking websites, speed trap detectors, streaming music services, several bags of M and M’s and 14 gallons of gasoline filling the tank assured me of a well-planned trip that could not be marred with concern or interruption. I guided the Subaru SUV onto the steaming Florida Highway Interstate and headed North.
Rumbling past Jacksonville (Named for Andrew Jackson, who knew?) and over the St. Mary’s River into Georgia, the motels and the Loblolly Pines blurred together as we approached the South Carolina state line. A few hundred miles later, my smart car, uttered in a distinguished Bostonian accent, “your fuel levels are low, shall I search for a gas station?” I pushed mute, left the I-95 in Fayetteville and was ready for a quick fill up in the nearest Circle K. Soon enough, a station appeared that was empty of cars but thoughtfully the pump handles were ensconced with plastic. This was a nice Covid protection, I thought. As I squeezed the pump handle with ever increasing pressure, the fuel gauge failed to engage. My wife stuck her head out of the passenger side of the window, and exclaimed in that know-it-all-tone, “The plastic on the handle means they are out of gas. I reminded you 200 miles ago that a computer hack shut down the Colonial Pipeline and gas would be scare in the Carolinas.” “It’s a big town, we’ll find gas,” I stammered. Confident that all that fracking, gulf oil reserves and the assurances of Colonial Pipeline execs would lead to a full tank down the road.
My swagger started to fracture after four empty stations and a “skull and crossbones” emoji appeared near the gas gauge. Limping into a Red Roof Inn on less than one gallon, I anticipated a long layover, minutes from Fort Bragg and the U.S. Army Special Operation Command. Was there a way out? Scrolling down GasBuddy, multiple stations appeared with a slash across the gas tank indicating dead pumps. Logging off the internet and onto the sidewalk, we hiked a mile up to the nearest 7-11 in search of up-to-date information on gas shipments. My wife brought a wad of 20s with her in case bribing would be required. “A tanker was spotted five miles away heading toward a Circle K,” the cashier said in a slow Southern drawl. We coasted to our destination and got in line with 50 other cars desperately fighting for fuel. The hour wait was filled with mathematics and history flashbacks. What is the fuel volume delivered by the standard tanker divided by the autos ahead of us? Memories of the Arab Oil Embargo and waiting for my 1/2 tank of gas with my even license plate was a returning visual in my mind. Now, 43 years later, I could not think of how I would tell my younger self that I would be gas deficient four decades later due to rogue computer hackers. The moment had arrived, the pump inserted and the sweet distilled hydrocarbon liquid flowed into the tank. I peered to the side and saw a guy in military fatigues pumping gas into his Mustang. Could Special Ops storm Russia and unplug every hacking computer network? Not so easy. Another thought entered my mind from my pumping experience: the leaf controlled the dinosaur kingdom millions of years ago and now oil and gas clearly controlled a trip up the Eastern Coast and dictated our potential absence or presence at a bat mitzvah.
We rolled out of the Carolinas the following morning while tracking the gas gauge every 50 miles and filling up before the fuel gauge got below 3/4. Never take gas for granted! Shortages of gas delivery and panic buying is a real American response. Perhaps, I thought in a rare moment of self-reflection, i should listen to my wife (who did tell me in December 2019 that a global pandemic was about to occur from a virus found in Wuhan China) regarding human behavior and its defensive responses under pressure and fear. Finally, bring on the electric cars!
The Door Dash delivery was on the top of the steps, delivered from a pizza service in San Diego that claimed “New York Style Pizza.” After the ritual disinfection of the pizza carton, the lid was lifted and I was delivered into another time and place. Scotty, the owner of a Queens pizza restaurant 60 years ago, was ensconced in my olfactory memory. He was flipping the dough as his octogenarian mother was lovingly molding a veal parmigiana hero that could make a grown man cry. Melted mozzarella, oregano, sausage and mushroom fumes reawakened a gustatory experience that I experienced for the first time, many years ago. With hops entering my nostrils from my Dad’s 1965 Miller High life, I left the COVID virus prison and entered a happier time when New York City was a palace of gustatory delights and my childhood garden was in full bloom.
Through my nose, to the ethmoid sinuses, onto the olfactory epithelium and 60,000 smell neurons directed my pizza delivery directly to the frontal lobes and limbic system where Scotty’s still lived in vivid memory. This ecstatic experience is being stolen from millions by a renegade virus which has shut down the world for the last year. Expunging the smell and taste in some of the 25 million who have had COVID, which may have long lasting and permanent damage of the olfactory system. Malnutrition, depression and the loss of warning symptoms to natural gas leaks or tainted foods may be the legacy of sufferers of nasal COVID injury.
The least regarded of the five senses, smell and taste have taken a back seat in medical training and in popular culture. Medical school has few lectures on the proper function and diseases of smell and taste. Medical history taking neglects inquiry of one’s nasal and lingual capabilities. Olfaction has been a butt of jokes for generations of comics from the Simpson’s “smell you later”, Hawkeye Pierce’s ridicule on food sniffing in M*A*S*H and Mel Brooks flatulence scene in “Blazing Saddles.”
The dismissal of this forsaken sense is belied by its prominent location. The olfactory nerve, the shortest of the cranial nerves, sits in the front of the brain and sends projections to multiple areas including the emotional hub, the limbic system. Our evolutionary ancestors and current mammalian brethren rely on scent to distinguish friend from foe and food from poison. Our beloved canine, Millie, the Jack Russell Terrier from times past would apply the sniff test and rarely made a bad decision on food or domicile choices.
Obscure medical jargon has entered the mainstream with anosmia (lack of smell), parosmia (smell that fails to correctly match the odor) and phantosmia (phantom smells) appearing on long hauler COVID social sites. “Everything smells like burnt coffee” I heard a patient exclaim. “No longer can I taste the citrus in my tea,” another laments. “I ate a hamburger and I miss the onion smell and taste.” Essential oil kits are hawked on Amazon in the hope that olfactory re-education may hasten recovery. While the long term outcomes are not apparent in so recent a disease, it appears that up to 5% of smell sufferers may not regain perception at 6 months.
“Don’t it always seems to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til its gone,” Joni Mitchell’s ballad went in the ’60’s. And so it goes with Scotty’s appetizing, fragrant pies from the same decade. Enjoy your senses and don’t forget to stop and smell the pizza.
It was 1963, the Yankees were swept by the Dodgers in the World Series, the Kennedy assassination was to be a month later and the Jetsons were on network TV. My upstairs neighbor, a wise old soul, a year ahead of me in 5th grade, casually predicted the future as he was downing his second Twinkie. “By 2000, all of the Jetsons things will be there for us.” The flying cars, the robot maids, the vacuum transport to Europe and the 2 day work week.
Fast forward to New Years Eve, 2000 as I anxiously turned on the TV to watch the Times Square Ball drop to usher in the new millennium. Car commercials came on, all terrestrial vehicles, United Airlines ads promising low fares to Europe at subsonic speed and no robots in sight in my Southern California home. How could Joel, my upstairs neighbor, be so wrong? A case of media distortion syndrome, baby boomer edition, no doubt.
Social media is replete with opinions and conspiracies that pass as truth and shape our world today. My generation, spared from the early influence of the internet, was a product of broadcast television. The three networks (CBS, ABC and NBC) and local New York City stations, WNEW channel 5 and WPIX, channel 11, raised us through the ‘50s and 60’s and shaped our proclivities, biases and sense of reality. Through the writer’s scripts, we were raised on the magical, the ingenuity of the white male, the geological time slips, bigotry-lite, and anthropomorphisms. Here is a sampling of television education gone wrong:
The Magical
Bewitched: A corporate advertising executive who marries a witch that can twitch her nose and change reality.
I Dream of Jeannie: An astronaut finds a magic lamp and releases an attractive genie who alters reality and discombobulates authority.
Family Affair: A wealthy, N.Y. bachelor engineer becomes surrogate father to two prepubescent 6 year olds and a female teenager, assisted by his English valet. No problem!
Bachelor Father: Bachelor attorney adopts his adolescent niece and live happily ever after.
Sky King: Rancher and aviator raises his niece and extricates her from all sorts of perils.
My Three Sons: Widowed engineer raises three sons with the help of his father-in-law and later invites his daughter-in-law to live with the extended family. No problem!
Geological Mayhem
The Flintstones: Stone age family lives in Bedrock with their pet sauropod dinosaur. Humans: Pleistocene epoch, Dinosaurs: died in Late Cretaceous: 65 million year gap; a rounding error to the networks.
The Jetsons: Flying cars, humanized robots and push button jobs but no physicists consulting on the show..
Anthropomorphisms
Mister Ed: A debonair horse who only talks to his owner and has an egotistical streak.
The People’s Choice: Politician’s basset hound makes wise cracks about the hi jinx experienced by his owner.
The Real McCoys: An Appalachian grandfather moves with his grandson, and his family to cast aspersions on California natives. Starring Walter Brennan, a John Birch Society member and avowed racist.
All in the Family: A Queens cabdriver, Archie Bunker, spins prejudice at home but his persona softened by his work ethic and his financial and housing support of his liberal son-in-law.
The Beverly Hillbillies: Appalachian family moves to California where rich, wealthy Californians belittle the rural immigrants. A mirror image of The Real McCoys.
What we digested from those 3 networks and local feeds was entertainment to some and truth and dogma to others. Twitch your nose, rub a lamp, consult your single male engineer/attorney about child rearing or converse with your horse or your loquacious canine and prepare for a blissful life. As to our current world, with each more outrageous conspiracy theory espoused on cable and social media, the Senate ready to discuss disenfranchisement of millions of voters I can only shake my head and utter the insightful and comforting words of an equine star of yesteryear, “Oh Wilbur.”
