Saturday, December 15, 2018

Giving money and power to govenment is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys



The title of this piece is a quote from political humorist PJ O'Rourke. It pretty much reflects my view toward the Federal government (see my earlier blog entry "Monkeys with Guns") and some State legislatures (like New York and Pennsylvania) who are known for significant levels of corruption.
While there are many smart, ethical, and reliable people who work in State and Federal government (I know many personally) there are others in positions we should be able to trust who can't be relied upon to act in the best interests of the taxpayers.
Examples from past and present administrations are legion: The Bay of Pigs, Watergate, the Iran/Contra Affair, Invasions of Panama, Grenada, Iraq, and Afghanistan, support of corrupt foreign governments (such as Marcos in the Philippines and the current Saudi regime) and many others you can probably name quite easily. 
On a national level, you can look in the news every day to find examples of things you find objectionable: police shooting unarmed people, inept disaster response (Hurricane Katrina and Puerto Rico stand out),  the Border Patrol stopping cars 100 miles from the border to challenge individuals' citizenship, and a plethora of other examples.
Congress serves as an outstanding example of waste and inefficiency. They "work" less than half the days in the year, and would be hard-pressed to identify many real accomplishments. They hold hearings and press conferences, but much of their time and energy is spent bashing members of the opposite political party. On top of that, they have granted themselves perks to create a separate class, such as free unlimited air travel (the bills go to the Department of the Treasury, who pays them without questions), they have a free platinum-level health plan, laws are passed that they are exempt from following (such as insider trading), and they have a pension that any other American citizen would love to have (and which will never be underfunded).
The current administration continues the trend of waste. "Drain the Swamp" has come to mean frequent golf trips, inept and unqualified political appointees, ignoring Federal regulations on such things as air travel and purchasing, telling our allies that they are a threat to our national security, complimenting (and envying) dictators, starting trade wars that are resulting in layoffs and business closing, and a host of other unflattering acts. While I respect the office of the President, I find it challenging to extend that respect to the current occupant, who seems incapable of telling the truth or accepting any responsibility for anything negative he or his minions have said or done.
I guess I can comfort myself in knowing that, based upon how little Congress is in session and that a term for President is only four years, things could be a lot worse. I guess the best we can hope for is to keep the whiskey and car keys are out of reach as much as we can.



Saturday, November 3, 2018

Russian Spies in Acadia




The Schoodic Peninsula lies across Frenchman Bay from Mount Desert Island. Both contain parts of Acadia National Park. Up until 2002, the Schoodic Peninsula was also the location for the Schoodic Point Naval Base. Established in the 1920's as a radio station, the base evolved into a sophisticated communication facility that sent and received messages with submerged nuclear submarines. In its' final iteration, it was part of a network who used high frequency direction finding (HFDF) to target "enemy" ships for cruise missile attacks.
So what about Russian spies? During the mid 1990's, I managed an Adolescent Psychiatric Unit at Lehigh Valley Hospital in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Sharon was one of the nurses who worked with me, and her husband, Joe, was an FBI agent.
I met Joe at a party. When he found out that I had lived on Mount Desert Island, he told me of one of his experiences following Russian spies up there. The story starts in New York. Back then, Joe's job was to conduct surveillance on Russian intelligence agents who were part of the Russian diplomatic presence in New York. Joe and his partner were following two Russians, who headed north and ended up in Bar Harbor. It was pretty obvious they intended to gather whatever intelligence they could on the Schoodic Point Naval Base, and staying in Bar Harbor allowed them to blend in with the tourists and not attract a lot of attention.
The Russians checked into a hotel. Joe and his partner were nearby and deployed listening devices so they could eavesdrop on the Russians. The Russians only spoke English, even in private.
Joe described how they had the television on and were watching a Western. Spy #1 reportedly said, "That's John Wayne; I really like his movies." Spy#2 somewhat harshly corrected him, saying, "You asshole; that's not John Wayne, that's East Clintwood!" Joe and his partner were far enough away that their laughter did not give them away.
I doubt that anything amazing or surprising came of the trip to Maine, but it was a common practice for Russia and America to spy on each other and continues today. There's no way to know for sure, but who knows? Perhaps one of the Russian spies was a young Vladimir Putin.




Monday, October 15, 2018

Organic Firewood? Really?





I just returned from a week in Acadia. In my travels, I spotted many signs, including "Pete's Pretty Good Ice Cream", "The No Frills Oil Company" and "The Pickled Wrinkle" (a restaurant). The sign that stood out the most was for Organic Firewood.
Along with deluxe, premium, and gourmet, organic has become a word so overused as to become pretty meaningless. Supposedly, organic items are supposed to not have been sprayed with pesticides or other chemicals. Using the term "organic" in describing a product (or using one of the other terms) seems to be give permission to charge more for the product, even if it isn't any different from the same type of product that is not described as such.
I guess, if you think about it, almost all trees (except some fruit trees) could correctly be described as "organic". That being said, would you pay extra for a few pieces of oak because you "always buy organic"? 
While I can understand the term "organic" associated with a number of food products, applying it to things such as firewood begins a slippery slope which could make future product naming quite interesting. What's next? Organic Condoms? Organic Snow Tires? I guess it depends upon how daring an individual cares to be. 
As for me, regular firewood is good enough.

Sunday, September 23, 2018

"Looking for someone incredibly competent"




The title of this piece is a direct quote from someone at the highest level of an organization in reference to someone I worked with after the decision was made to terminate him. The statement was describing what they wanted in a replacement.
While he did not say directly that the individual was incompetent, the implication was certainly there and was, from my perspective and that of many others, correct and well-deserved. It was a situation in which someone driven by ambition took on a job for which he was unprepared, not even remotely qualified, and who was unable or unwilling to develop the necessary skills to be successful. 
Although the decision to place this individual in a very responsible position was deeply flawed, it was compounded by allowing the person to remain in the position through three changes in organizational leadership, long after it was obvious he shouldn't be there. It is an unfortunate example of not making a difficult, but necessary decision in a timely manner, and many paid the price. While I would say "shame on you" to the individual who made the original decision to place this individual into the position, equal blame goes to the successors who decided to just hold their noses and to allow it to continue. Difficult choices sometimes need to be made, and they all failed.
While I am glad that this individual is elsewhere, and hopefully where he can do no harm, I think about how devastated I would feel if one of my superiors made a similar statement about my competence.  I have a reputation for being honest and competent at what I do. One of the keys to my success was that I was always careful not to take on jobs that were clearly beyond my skills and capabilities. While having ambition may be helpful to some, It was never something that drove me. I never had a desire to be vice president of anything, and I am OK with that.
Over the years, I have had the opportunity to work with many skilled and talented leaders. Unfortunately, this individual just wasn't one of them.

Monday, September 3, 2018

Indiana Jones in Acadia



In 1910, J. P. Morgan purchased bought Great Head and Sand Beach on Mount Desert Island as a gift for his daughter. His daughter had three bungalows, a barn, and a superintendent's house built above the beach. In 1915, she had a round stone tower tea house constructed. 
In 1947, a fire swept over much of the eastern side of Mount Desert Island. Many large summer homes, known locally as cottages, were destroyed. The tea house was damaged and the other buildings on Great Head were destroyed. 
Two years later, Great Head and Sand Beach were donated to Acadia National Park. The tea house was later torn down for safety reasons, leaving the foundation.
If you look at the photo above, Great Head has a few small trees, but is otherwise bare rock with some low vegetation. Today, the peninsula is heavily wooded with a few hiking trails.

Most people who hike Great Head are unaware of the history of the tea house or that the foundation is still there. One has to look for it, for it is not obvious to those passing nearby. 
Other remnants of the past can be found nearby. Near the elementary school in Bar Harbor is the remains of a stone wall from an estate. At Compass Harbor, south of the town, you will find a set of granite steps and the remains of a foundation from a waterfront home. 
For those who want a different experience in Acadia, delving into the past can offer a glimpse at an interesting time in recent history and the lives of Rockefellers, Fords, Morgans, Du Ponts, and many others.



Sunday, August 19, 2018

Massholes, or What?



We are Vermonters. You also have New Yorkers, Pennsylvanians, Californians, Floridians, Georgians, Texans, Minnesotans, etc. For some states, though, I am not sure how the residents refer to themselves. Among these few is Massachusetts. 
Several years ago, I worked with someone who had moved to Vermont from Massachusetts. While there probably is a more polite and politically correct term for them, he proudly informed me, "We're Massholes". There have been occasions where I can totally understand the nickname. A few years back, on a trip to Acadia, I noticed a fair number of drivers who sped, drove erratically, parked illegally, and who were generally annoying in the display of their driving skills. Interestingly, every single one sported a Massachusetts license plate. The trip has been known ever since then as "Massholes in Maine".
While every state has their own share of people for whom a version of the term "Masshole" may be accurate, there are also many others for whom it isn't. I am pretty sure that the Commonwealth does not officially endorse the term; I am just not sure of the correct term.
I don't want to go through life referring to all Massachusetts residents as "Massholes" so, if you happen to know what the correct term is, can you let me know? As Oscar Wilde once said, "A true gentleman is never deliberately rude."

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Asshole Rock




In my travels in Maine, I have found or heard about some places with pretty interesting names (see my earlier blog entries on Hot Ass Pond and Bunker's Whore). 
I recently came across another one, called Asshole Rock. Like Bunker's Whore, Asshole Rock is a marine ledge, and is located in the passage known as The Gut, which separates Great Cranberry from Little Cranberry Island off of Mount Desert Island.
Asshole Rock is described as porkchop-shaped with a large crack down the middle. One wonders if the crack contributed to how the feature got its name, but I was unable to find any information about this. Although there are stories about how some places, like Hot Ass Pond and Bunker's Whore got their names, the naming of Asshole Rock remains a mystery.
While lobstermen set some of their traps in the shallower water closer to shore, many set traps in the deeper, colder water further out. The Gut serves as a shortcut to get to the deeper water without having to take the longer way around either of the Cranberry Islands. Tides influence the depth of the water around the rock, so going safely through The Gut can happen only at certain times of day. Using GPS to navigate is not safe, because it is not accurate enough to guarantee you will not run aground.
One of my sources, a local named Bruce, described how to navigate safely through The Gut the old-fashioned way. According to Bruce, when you sight Asshole Rock, look for the crack on the ledge. If it is completely exposed at low tide, it is unsafe to proceed. If the bottom of the crack is still submerged, steer forward toward the boulders, but look backward at a church steeple three miles away which you align with a seaweed-covered stone a hundred yards off the boat's stern. Looking forward, when the ledge lines up with the tree line on an island two miles to the east, turn the boat forty degrees to port.
During Prohibition, small ships loaded with cases of whiskey came down from Canada and stopped outside the three-mile limit in international waters. Locals came out in small boats to unload cases of whiskey and attempted to elude federal agents in fast boats to run the cargo ashore where it could be distributed to buyers. The locals risked arrest and seizure of their boats but, if they were skilled and lucky, this did not happen often and there was money to be made during hard times.
Reportedly, if locals were being chased by federal agents, going through The Gut offered an opportunity to escape. Many chases ended because the pursuers did not want to risk running aground.
Today, Asshole Rock serves as a reminder that, although radar, GPS, and other modern devices are helpful, sometimes you just need to rely upon skills learned from the old salts.

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Meeting Martha Stewart

Uncle Buzzy

When I was a child, I lived in Southwest Harbor, Maine, on Mount Desert Island. Our neighbors were the Beals, who owned Beal's Lobster Pier in SWH. Always known as Uncle Buzzy and Aunt Prue, they were married for 70 years until Uncle Buzzy passed away in 2010 at age 89.
Uncle Buzzy's father had established Beal's Lobster Pier in the 1930's, and Buzzy retired from lobstering in 1967 to take over operating the business when his father died. The main function of the business was to buy lobsters from the lobstermen and resell them to restaurants and private individuals in the area (they would also ship live lobsters on ice anywhere in the country). In the late 1990's, Buzzy retired and turned over operation of the business to one of his four children, Sam. Even though Buzzy was "retired" he was still frequently at the pier, sorting lobsters and making deliveries of cases of lobsters to various locations on the island in his pickup truck.
I have returned to Mount Desert Island many times since I moved away, and always made a point of getting together with Uncle Buzzy and Aunt Prue to visit and enjoy a dinner together. It was at one of these occasions that he related to me his experience of meeting Martha Stewart.
Martha Stewart had purchased, in 1997, a 60+ acre estate in Seal Harbor called Skylands. Originally, the estate had been owned by Edsel Ford. It is shielded by trees from view from the street. If you are on a scenic cruise out of Bar Harbor, all you can see of the estate is part of the roof and a chimney.

Martha Stewart at Skylands

From the start, Martha did not endear herself to the locals. A story that made it's way into the Bar Harbor Times told of a young couple who decided to drive up to Seal Harbor to look at Martha's estate. Reportedly, when they drove into the driveway, she did not take it gracefully. She reportedly put the chain across the driveway entrance to prevent them from leaving and called the police. When the police arrived, she told them that she wanted the couple charged with trespassing. When the police pointed out that they would also have to charge her with kidnapping and illegal restraint, the matter quietly resolved.
Uncle Buzzy's introduction to Martha Stewart occurred in the early 2000's. She called Beals's Lobster Pier to order a case of live lobsters and wanted them delivered to Skylands. Buzzy was making deliveries to the local restaurants that day, so he headed to Seal Harbor in his pickup truck. Entering the estate, he drove up the driveway to the front door and rang the doorbell. Martha Stewart answered the door and started loudly berating Uncle Buzzy (he was pretty deaf, so it was not as effective as she might have wanted) and demanded that he go around to the "servant's entrance". The delivery was made and Buzzy continued his rounds.
This was not the end of bad behavior by Martha Stewart toward the Beals. Buzzy's oldest son, Elmer, and his wife own a small seasonal restaurant named the Burning Tree, which is in Otter Creek, a small village near Seal Harbor.
The Burning Tree is a place that serves outstanding food (Elmer's wife is the chef), but it has limited seating and is hard to get a reservation unless you plan days ahead. I have had dinner there with Aunt Prue and Uncle Buzzy a couple of times. I guess being related to the owner can be helpful in getting a table.
According to Aunt Prue, one night the phone rang; it was Martha Stewart wanting a table for dinner in two hours. Elmer, who was manning the phone, told her that the reservations were full for the evening, but that she was welcome to come another time. Her response reportedly was, "Do you know who I am?". Elmer's response was that he did, but that the reservations for the evening were full and offering a table on another night. She hung up without saying anything more.
Martha Stewart has multiple personas, ranging from being charming and very business-savvy to being an entitled ass. I don't know if she had ever called Beal's Lobster Pier again to order a case of lobsters, but it's a safe bet that, if she did, Uncle Buzzy declined to handle the delivery.
  



Sunday, May 27, 2018

Venerable Bede




On this Memorial Day, I am thinking about all who have served in our military in times of both peace and war. One of them was my paternal grandfather, Wilfred Bede Mitchell. In his personal and professional life, he went by his middle name as W. Bede Mitchell. I always had thought that Bede was an unusual name. Doing a little research, I found that the name came from Venerable Bede, a 9th century English monk (perhaps influenced by some of our ancestors being members of the clergy near the city of York).
Bede served in the Army in both World War I and World War II. In World War I, he was a medic and, as far as I know, did not leave the country during the war.
Between the wars, Bede attended medical school, became a physician, got married, and had four sons. He worked as a obstetrician and lived with his family in Detroit. Before the United States entered the war, the military started to expand, and Bede helped the Selective Service by conducting physical exams for draftees.
After the war started, Bede went back into the Army and served in the Army Medical Corps as a captain. I remember my father telling me that the family moved from Detroit to Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas. While the family remained in El Paso, Bede shipped out to the Pacific theater. I do not know all of his travels, but I know that part of his time was spent in the New Hebrides. At the time he was there, it was a quiet place. Bede was an amateur artist, and spent some time of his doing charcoal sketches, some of which I have. He also carved some letter openers, two of which I have. The letter openers are not especially useful in this digital age, but they and the sketches are treasured nevertheless.
After the peace and quiet of the New Hebrides, Bede was in the invasion of the Philippines. The most exciting moment in his service occurred here. He was working in an Aid Station that was attacked by the Japanese, and he was fortunate to be one of the survivors.
When the war ended, Bede was in the occupation of Japan, and was there for awhile before returning stateside and returning to Detroit with his family.
After returning home, Bede developed a brain tumor. He underwent surgery to treat it, which was initially successful, although my father told me that he was no longer able to perform surgery, and limited his medical practice to consultation. Unfortunately, sometime later, the brain tumor returned and led to his death. He was cremated, and his sons buried the ashes at the base of a tree on the family property where a vacation cabin was located in northern Michigan.
Unfortunately, all of this took place before I was born, so I never got to meet him. Based on photographs, his art work, and what my father had told me about him before he too passed away, Bede was a pretty interesting guy and I would have liked very much to have met him and to get to know him.
Over the centuries our country has existed, we have been lucky to have Bede and millions of others step up when the country was in a time of need to offer their service. Thank you to all who served yesterday, serve today, and will serve tomorrow.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

I did not attend his funeral, but I wrote a letter to say I approved it


The title of this piece is a quote from Mark Twain. Having worked in healthcare since the early 70's, I have met a great number of people whom I liked and respected, many that I knew superficially and didn't have strong feelings one way or another, and a select few for whom I had a fairly intense dislike. This last group could be described by a variety of terms: psychopath, butt head, vice president, etc. 
I am sure all of us have come across people like this that we either know personally or know about from others. Dealing with such individuals can be painful, frustrating, and sometimes life-changing, not in a good way. While it would be tempting to inflict harm upon the members of this small group, the fact that it would be a felony is enough to discourage me and many others from such action. Besides, most of these individuals in the long run ended up self-destructing; getting fired or demoted.
Sometimes it is better to frame your dislike in terms of thought, rather then action. That's why I like Twain's perspective. So, the next time you run across someone who really passed you off and who tempts you to commit a felony, rather than acting on these thoughts, just do what I do and say to yourself: "Yes, I'd write a letter for that one,"


Sunday, April 22, 2018

This Mural is Racist?


In a small alley off of the Church Street Marketplace in Burlington, Vermont, you will find a mural painted on a wall entitled "Everyone Loves a Parade." The mural depicts several actual people in the group, and has been there for a number of years.
Recently, a local individual complained that the mural was "racist" because it did not depict any "people of color". While that individual is entitled to an opinion, it's not one I support. To me, the mural would be racist if it included a person or people of color and depicted them in a negative or demeaning way. To me, people who take direct action, such as uttering racial slurs, distribute flyers demeaning or insulting people of color, deny service to these people, or other similar actions, are racist. 
Is this artist, who is expressing his vision, and not doing anything one way or another related to people of color, being racist? By the same extension of this logic, Da Vinci's painting of The Last Supper is racist. So is Michelangelo's painting of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Paintings of groups of people by Rembrandt and Renoir would also be racist. All of Norman Rockwell's paintings (except one: The Porter from 1947) would be racist. Even Disney's Seven Dwarves would be racist because neither Grumpy nor  any of the other dwarves is a person of color. The fact that an artist does not include a person or people of color in his or her work does not, in my mind, make it racist.
Does the fact that I happen to like the mural make me a racist? While I can, at times, be very opinionated and judgmental, I prefer to judge people by their character and by their behavior, rather than by the color of their skin and to view art by what it contains, rather then by what it does not. 
For those out there who, because of my views, would believe me to be racist, my response is to quote His Dudeness:


Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Meeting Wendell Gilley


I doubt that many of you have ever heard of Wendell Gilley. If you happened to live in Southwest Harbor, Maine, on Mount Desert Island, many years ago, and were in need of a plumber, you called Wendell Gilley.
Born in 1904, Gilley started out as a plumber in the 1920's. In his spare time, he started carving birds as a hobby. Starting in 1931, he entered into a business arrangement with Abercrombie and Fitch to supply carvings of small birds, which he sold for $5. His most famous, and probably largest work, was the eagle for the Wannamaker's Department Store in Philadelphia.
Eventually, Gilley's career as a plumber tapered off, and he turned to bird carving full-time. He had a shop just off of the main street in Southwest Harbor overlooking the harbor, and it was there that I met him in 1980.
My father had been a minister in Southwest Harbor and, when he moved with the family to Pennsylvania in the early 1960's, his farewell gift from the church was a carving by Wendell Gilley, which I own today.
The piece depicts a seagull landing on (or taking off from) a piece of driftwood. The gull is carved from wood and hand-painted, and the legs are made from lead (Gilley had collected old lead weights that had been used for balancing tires and melted them down to cast the legs, which were then painted). The piece sits in my office at home.
In 1980, it was before my father had given me the seagull carving, and I wanted to own a Wendell Gilley carving. I have made about thirty trips back to Mount Desert Island since moving away and, on this particular trip, I stopped by the Gilley workshop. He was sitting in the shop working on a carving, while there were probably a couple dozen other carvings in various stages of completion laying around. I introduced myself, and told him I was interested in buying one of his carvings. I also mentioned that I had lived in Southwest Harbor with my family years ago and that my father owned one of his carvings.
He asked about my family, and I told him about my father having been the minister at the Congregational Church on High Road. His comment, if you can imagine someone talking in a distinct Yankee accent, was "Ayuh. I knew your father. Never went to his church, but I knew your father." He then went on to tell me that he had several orders for pieces, and that the wait to get to mine would be about two years. Two years is a long time, and I wasn't sure I wanted to go down that road. I thanked him for the opportunity to meet him and for his time, and left.
In 1981, The Wendell Gilley Museum opened in Southwest Harbor. Wendell Gilley died in 1983 and, although his workshop was not preserved, the museum houses some of his works as well as works by other wildlife carvers.
I have been in contact with the museum and, as part of my estate planning, I am going to donate the seagull carving to the museum later this year, on my next trip back to MDI. Hopefully visitors to the museum will enjoy being able to see this piece, as well as many others created by Gilley and other talented artists.



Sunday, March 4, 2018

The Accidental Stoner


The other night, my youngest daughter called. She and her dog, Nikki, were visiting her boyfriend at his house when it suddenly seemed like Nikki was having a medical emergency. 
According to my daughter, Nikki was having trouble with her balance and walking with her hind legs, was drooling, one side of her face was drooping, and she was peeing on the floor (she was housebroken and would not do this if she was OK). It sounded like Nikki was having a stroke.
Nikki is an elderly (11 year old) beagle mix that my daughter adopted from a shelter in Quebec when she lived in Newport. She is very social and friendly (unless you happen to be a mailman or a squirrel) and is loved by everyone who meets her (with the exception of Becca's cat).
My wife advised my daughter to take Nikki to the emergency veterinary center nearby, which is open around the clock, and that we would meet her there.
When we arrived and went into the exam room, Becca and her boyfriend were there with Nikki. Nikki was definitely unsteady, had trouble standing or walking, and looked up at me with eyes that were definitely unfocused. The Vet came in and examined her. She said that the symptoms, although they could be from a stroke, were classic for marijuana, and that this should be ruled out before getting into more expensive testing. 
Holding an emesis basin under her obtained a urine specimen, which was sent for a drug screen. A few minutes later, the Vet came back and announced, "The drug screen is positive; she's wasted.".
My daughter's boyfriend shares a house with several friends. Somehow, a small amount of marijuana ended up on the floor. Nikki likes to lick the floor, because people eat snacks and crumbs fall on the floor. Apparently, this is how she ingested the marijuana.
The Vet pointed out that dogs ingesting marijuana is a fairly common occurrence at the emergency center. She also spoke about other things that dogs could not tolerate. I already knew about chocolate, but she also mentioned cookie dough, onions, and grapes.
Anyway, Nikki was given fluids and charcoal, and sent home to rest and recover. The car ride was unusually quiet. She loves rides in the car, and is usually bouncing all over, looking out multiple different windows so she doesn't miss anything. This time, she laid quietly on the seat, cuddled up against me. 
The next day, Nikki was pretty much back to normal. Going forward, hopefully the floors at the boyfriend's house will get a little more frequent attention from a vacuum cleaner. While I am hopeful that the experience would change Nikki's habits, it appears not; she is licking the floor as I am typing this.



Sunday, January 21, 2018

The Family Recipe for Ice Cubes


My late father was a minister in the United Church of Christ, married for over 50 years and, to say it nicely, a sometimes complex and strange individual. In his role as a minister, he was always professional and on point and was an excellent mentor for younger, less experienced ministers. At home, though, not so much.
The household when I was growing up was not abusive or anything like that, but my older brother, younger sister and I sometimes got some mixed messages.
Among the positives I learned at home, I do not gamble (it was never anything that was even mentioned in the house), I learned not to lie to people (he told me that, if you get caught in a lie, you have no credibility; you are better off saying nothing) and, something for which I have always been grateful, he introduced me to Monty Python.
My late mother, who had been an elementary school teacher prior to retirement, put up with a lot from him over the years. It was her who gave my father his household nickname (Jackass) which she used to address him when she was running out of patience and which he recognized as a sign to back off. He, in return, occasionally referred to my mother (although never in her presence) as "The Old Squaw".
I think my father sometimes had difficulty complimenting his children. He may have said some nice things, but I just don't remember any specific example. It was he who nicknamed my sister Flatso (referring to her chest). To me, he once said, "I stuck up for you the other day. Someone said you weren't fit to eat with the pigs, and I said yes you were." Another example: Someone said you were smarter than you look. I told them you'd have to be." I guess he wanted to make sure I didn't have an inflated opinion of myself. Although that's not a bad thing, it would have been nice if he had chosen a different way to deliver the message. Since we never really sat down and had an in-depth conversation, though,this was the way it went.
While being honest was important in the family, it was sometimes a hard lesson to hold onto when one saw examples out there of people that were frequently not honest (like members of Congress and embezzlers). If you are going to be honest (or dishonest) you want to get something out of it. I have never been in jail nor want to, but it's sometimes difficult when you are young to see what being honest does for you. His answer, which is part of the title of this piece was, "If you lead a good clean life, I'll leave you the family recipe for ice cubes." I guess the lesson was that being honest wasn't going to make me rich or powerful or anything like that, but you did it because it was the right thing to do and you shouldn't do it to expect to be rewarded.
As we all grew older, my father had the opportunity to share his unique influence with future generations of the Mitchells. Many years ago, one of my two daughters (I won't tell you which one) when she was about two years old, was picking her nose. My father, being his usual helpful self, said to my daughter, "I'll give you a dollar if you find a purple one." Thanks Dad.