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.

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,"

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:

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.

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.

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. 

I Coulda Piddled You a Better Looking Waterfall

In the 1920's and 1930's, John D. Rockefeller commissioned workmen to build a 30+ mile system of carriage roads on Mount Desert Island. Rockefeller disliked cars, riding in them only when necessary. He preferred horse-drawn carriages, and had the roads built so he could indulge his pleasure. The roads and much of the other land he owned on the island were later donated to Acadia National Park.

While vacationing there, my wife and I decided to hike the Hadlock Brook Loop, near Hadlock Pond in Northeast Harbor. It's a 4-mile walk, highlighted by "the highest waterfall on Mount Desert Island" (a whopping 40 feet). The carriage road passes over the brook on Waterfall Bridge, a beautiful stone structure built in 1924.

We all have had underwhelming experiences in life, and seeing this waterfall is one of mine. It had rained only one day in the previous three weeks, so the brook had hardly any water. Upon seeing the "waterfall", my reaction generated the title to this piece.

I am sure that, when fed by melting snow or days of rain, the waterfall is probably pretty impressive, even on its' small scale. That day, though, I could have done just as well by drinking a quart of water and letting nature take its' course.