Last night, I saw a commercial hawking Jaguar automobiles. The spectacular hood ornament of an attacking jaguar was missing, and I was sad.

It suddenly occurred to me that this must mark the end of a venerable tradition. Many years ago, I happened upon a mechanic who was installing a new clutch in a jaguar roadster. In order to do that, he found it necessary to remove the entire engine and part of the frame. He was very frustrated. He said British autos, especially Jaguars, were temperamental, prone to mechanical problems, difficult to work on, and in general all “pieces of shit.” But, oh the character in those “pieces of shit.” To settle into that bucket seat mere inches off the ground, look down that long hood and to hear and feel that power is something that must be experienced to be understood.
BORING
Now, it is virtually impossible to distinguish one car from another. It was not only the hood ornament which identified it, but each car was the product of a designer who wasn’t limited to producing a car which had a profile like every other make. I suspect those charged with the responsibility of marketing today’s cookie cutter cars are aware of this, for I notice that most ads on TV focus on close ups or interior views.
Of course, I understand that current model shapes have evolved in order to produce more aerodynamic and efficient vehicles, and I appreciate the current models for their comfort, reliability, and conveniences. However, I still yearn for the day when a 10 year old kid could identify the make and model year of a car from a quarter mile away, and loyalty to a particular brand could result in heated discussions as to their respective virtues. This was a time when the advent of a new model year was a big event, and the changes from the previous year were a carefully guarded secret. When the big day came, the new version would be unveiled with all the fanfare of a newly discovered Rembrandt.
LOVE: BLESSING OR CURSE?
You may have suspected by now that I was a car guy in my younger days. I worked on cars and learned to overhaul engines and such, but my fascination with sports cars, especially British ones, was born when one day Dr. McCormick pulled in to my father’s service station and asked me to fill up his brand new bright red MG. It was love at first sight.

After all these years, I am still not certain how much this had to do with my deciding I wanted to be a doctor. I am certain that all the usual altruistic motivations were involved in that decision; however, I vividly recall thinking that if that is what doctors get to drive, I want to be a doctor.
What I did not understand at the time was that doctors are not always capable of indulging in frivolous purchases. This is especially true when additions to the family are occurring in rapid succession, and one finds it difficult to fit six people into a two seated sports car. But finally, in the early seventies, against all odds, I was able to buy a Sunbeam Alpine which, although not an MG, was a reasonable facsimile. I did love that car, even though it did not have much zip, but one of my daughters finished it off by smashing the front end against another car, which she insisted was parked in the wrong place. Following an appropriate period of mourning, I was able to move on and convince myself that a family man needed to have a more conventional vehicle. Despite my resolve to continue on the straight and narrow, that lust was reactivated whenever I saw a person go by in a vintage British roadster. At such times I felt a longing for that feeling of the wind in my hair, an open sky above and feeling as one with my steed.

FORGIVE ME MY WEAKNESS
It has been said that addicts may be subject to relapse at any time and must be constantly alert to triggers that may overcome their resolve. Although my charming, always supportive wife was an enabler, I bear total responsibility for spending my children’s inheritance in an impulsive, irresponsible, episode of poor judgement. It all began innocently enough when Barb and I stopped to look at a battered MG-A parked in a field with a “For Sale” sign on the windshield.
Unfortunately, I mentioned this to my friend Tim, who is a very serious car guy with a penchant for hot rods and corvettes, and he responded by taking me to see Andy of Andy’s Auto Service. I was overwhelmed upon walking into Andy’s shop to find six MGs in one room of his shop, four more in another garage, and several more in varying stages of disrepair in the surrounding yard. Andy obviously shared my love for MGs, so we bonded immediately. A major part of his business is in restoring old MGs to their original glory, and I was impressed with the quality of his work. He estimates he has had nearly fifty MGs during his lifetime.
After inspecting one of his most recently restored cars, I was hopelessly hooked and devoid of reason. He just happened to have a car ready to be restored, and he told me he could have it ready in time for me to drive it before the snow flies. If Grandma was correct when she said “once a man  twice a boy,” I decided to do my best to enjoy my second childhood, and we closed the deal.  Andy had installed a V8 engine in the car he showed me, but I opted to keep the original four banger in mine. I had retained sufficient sanity to recognize that it might be dangerous for an old man to attempt handling a car with that many horses under the hood
The car that would be restored for me was said to be of low mileage, and indeed the odometer in the dashboard, which had been removed and was lying on the floor, showed 24,000 miles. This might not seem like many miles for a 36 year old automobile, but I comforted myself with the thought that sometimes a car may really be driven by a little old lady, who only used it to drive to church on Sunday.
One of my naysayer friends suggested I might not be able to get in and out of a small car like that, making obvious reference to my elongated body and age related debility. I convinced myself this would not be a problem, as I had no problem with ingress and egress when the top was down and rationalized that since this was a priceless work of art, I would never want to expose it to the elements; consequently, I would have no need to ever have the top up. This is what my new baby will look like (I hope). If you see me on the road, wave.

Last evening Barb and I went to see the latest Bourne movie. Sometime ago we came to an agreement after extensive negotiations that we would alternate between squishy romance flics and those of a more manly character. I managed to convince her it was my turn to choose; although neither of us could really remember which type we had last attended (mild cognitive impairment can sometimes be useful). When it comes to movies I have always been a sex and violence kind of guy, and although the Bourne flic had plenty of violence, it was sorely lacking in any prurient themes.
Nowadays, one is forced to suffer through what seems like endless advertisements before the movie begins. I can accept the previews of coming attractions, but when they begin to promote Coca Cola, cars, or vacation trips I feel as if I could become as violent as Jason Bourne. It is my pet peeve, well not actually my pet one since I have many other peeves of equal value, but the idea that I must pay good money to watch advertisements leaves me so cranked up that I may miss the first few scenes of the main attraction. In this case it was 23 minutes from the time the lights went out until the actual movie began. That experience may well have biased my opinion about the movie as I muttered to myself about the injustice of it all through the first few scenes.

NOT A SISKEL AND EBERT
Far be it for me to pretend to be a movie critic, but I do have opinions which I am always ready to share with anyone who will listen. As an enthusiastic fan of cinematic violence, even I felt the level of such in this movie was overkill both literally and figuratively. I lost track of the number of deaths at eight, and that was barely half way through the thing. There was the obligatory motorcycle race through the city as our hero’s bike went flying through the air, going up and down stairs, under trucks, and over cars. Then there was also the automobile chase with a new twist in which one car struck another and then went flying through the air landing on its front end. Of course as tradition insists the chase must go down a one way street in the wrong direction, and after too many near misses ends up in a huge explosion from which our hero miraculously escapes (explosions seem to be big in today’s movies). It has been said that familiarity breeds contempt, and these themes have definitely been overused, and when you know what is going to happen suspense is lacking.

FIRST IMPRESSION
This was not the case when I saw my first action movie which was actually my first movie going experience of any kind. It was “Mutiny on The Bounty” not to be confused with the 1962 remake. I was about 5 years old and saw it with my uncle. I don’t remember a lot about it but do remember the awe that I felt, and that I was instantly hooked on movies. I was also introduced to cashews, and experienced air conditioning for the first time. On top of it all I got to spend an afternoon with my uncle who was my hero.
In spite of the lingering effects of the great depression, the moving picture industry was thriving at that time. The addition of sound to the films was only a few years old, and the ability to project colored pictures on the screen was already happening on a limited basis. Some are of the opinion that the poverty experienced by a vast majority of the populace was a boon to the industry, that for a few pennies one could escape from the misery of hopelessness for a few hours, to where happy ever after themes abounded. There was also the bonus of warmth in the winter and relief from scorching heat of summer (theaters were virtually the only places in town that were air conditioned).
We now have movies which provoke every conceivable emotion. There are scary movies, and those which make us feel sad, angry, excited, aroused, shocked, happy, or repulsed with permutations of all those and more. Directors recognized even in the days of silent films that background music could intensify those emotions, and such a strategy continues to this day, but the in house piano player has been replaced by orchestras.
There were many who predicted that television would mark the end of movie theaters; however a living room couldn’t compete with the experience of sitting in a darkened theater surrounded by a group of people all of like mind and raptly attentive to that huge screen. It is almost as if we become one with the actors as evidenced by the shifting in our seats as we unconsciously mimic our favorite character’s body language. Our cares will be put on hold for a couple of hours and we can allow ourselves to be mesmerized and taken to another place or time. Our only concern will be about our supply of popcorn.

WE HAD IT ALL
In the very small Midwestern town in which I grew up there were five movie theaters. There was the Weller (built and named for the local pottery tycoon),the Liberty, Imperial, Quimby, and Grand. It seemed that the Weller and Liberty theaters showed most of the first run movies, while the Imperial specialized in westerns, and the Quimby which was much less elegant was relegated to B movies or reruns. The Grand was misnamed for it only seated 200 and had seen better days. Whatever grandeur it had possessed in earlier days was sadly missing, and I had never been inside. All the movie houses had been designed with the capability to produce stage plays and concerts, some even predating the movie craze. In some ways that tradition continued as musicals were very popular in my day.
The crown jewel movie house in town was the Liberty. The interior was like an Italian opera house with columns, frescos and gilding everywhere. There was an enormous organ which would ascend out of the orchestra pit and often there would be a “singalong” with the words projected on the screen and instructions to “follow the bouncing ball” as a ball directed the audience to the words. Surprisingly most of the audience would join in and I imagine that it helped to enhance moods in preparation for the main feature.

NO SMUT ALLOWED
The format for movies in those days was much different. The show ran continuously and one could enter in the middle if he chose, and stay as long as he wanted, Some would actually stay to see a movie two or more times to take advantage of the air conditioning. Movies were heavily censored by the Motion Picture Association of America. A kiss was the most explicit sexual content one would see, and scenes requiring couples in bed were always filmed with them in twin beds. Of course nudity and profanity were expressly forbidden. When Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind uttered the phrase, “frankly my dear I don’t give a damn”, audiences all over the country let out collective gasps.

IT’S THE ENTERTAINMENT STUPID
Content of those movies of yesteryear were as they are today sometimes lacking in content, but were not attempts to sell anything other than upcoming features. They began with previews of coming attractions, followed by a so called newsreel, which was mostly human interest stories, until WWII when they functioned as propaganda always with patriotic themes. That was followed by a cartoon such as Bugs Bunny, Roadrunner, Popeye or Mr. Macgoo. Then with great fanfare the main feature would begin. Some theaters would also show a short serial with invitations to return the following week to see what happened to the hero, undoubtedly taking a leaf from the radio soap operas which were very popular at the time.  There were also occasional “double features” when you could see two movies for the price of one.
Movie stars were almost deified, and young people by the thousands flocked to Hollywood in hopes of being discovered.

INFLATION SURE BUT THIS IS REDICULOUS                                                                                                                                                              Movies were affordable in those days. Matinees were ten cents for kids and twenty five for adults. I recall when in later years paying one dollar for admission, I thought this surely would be the death of the moving picture industry. The era was not always pleasant for some however. It would be years later before I noticed that the black kids I knew always sat in the balcony, and not by choice. We learned much about the terrible racism in the south, but we did not talk much about what was going on in our town. We were northerners and so felt we could never be guilty of racial prejudice.

Thus it is that although I have fond memories of those days, they were not without some downsides. The theaters have all been demolished, my favorite one (the Liberty) is now a bank parking lot. We saw the Jason Bourne movie at the movie-plex located in the mall at the edge of town. The seats are great and there are never any interruptions while the projectionist splices a broken tape. All in all it is very functional, but when it comes to character forget it. Well, at least it doesn’t have a balcony.

ODE TO STUFF
There was a time back when I was a kid that I desperately wanted a new bicycle. I had inherited a hand me down bike from my brother which was a wreck. It was so bad that I couldn’t even use it on my paper route, and I was convinced that alone should justify a new one. In spite of all that I did not get another bike, and I never got over it. I was envious of all my friends with their shiny new bikes with basket in front, carrier in back, horns, lights, and some even with whitewall tires. That same feeling occurs yet today when a Porsche 911 zooms past me (I never got one of those either).
That bikeless childhood I hold responsible for my lifelong quest for stuff, a small portion for which I actually had some pressing need. I have been rather successful in my quest for I now find we have a mountain of stuff. This does create some problems as the few things we need are frequently buried somewhere amidst all that stuff. In order to counter that problem we always look for a special place for important things, and promptly forget the location of that special place. The result is that we never lose anything unless it is important.

CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL
My addiction to stuff is little different from other types. This desire to procure stuff is fueled by the expectation that its possession will make me joyful (what Freud called the pleasure principal); however I soon learned that whatever good feeling results will be transient. Of course this explanation is not some wondrous insight, but such understanding did little to affect my need to accumulate more stuff until a few years ago when I realized that stuff was not like money as in the more the better, but at some point it became a liability rather than an asset.
With this understanding of my problem, I decided to go cold turkey, and vowed to cease and desist from accruing any more stuff unless in dire need. In spite of my best efforts, I must confess that I have relapsed on several occasions and succumbed to those same old primal urges to possess more stuff. To my credit, after a brief period of remorse I have always been able to renew my pledge, and now have been free of frivolous purchases for over six months. Barb may question that statement for she is aware that I recently ordered a soap dish for the shower from Amazon for $3.24, but I defend that purchase as a definite need to prevent me from using a bar of soap as a mini skateboard.
Unfortunately the accumulation of stuff is only part of the problem. After one is in recovery one must cope with the problem of undoing what has been done, by finding a way to dispose of the clutter. Recently, my otherwise charming wife defied me by agreeing to partner with a friend to have a garage sale. She did this without consultation and in clear violation of a solemn vow we had made more than thirty years ago to never ever have another garage sale. Since her commitment had already been made, as an all around good guy who is aware of who does the most cooking here, and in the name of marital harmony , I threw myself into the fray. The upside to this debacle was that it forced us to dig into that mountain and decide of what we could rid ourselves.

TOIL AND TROUBLE
As the saying goes this is the point at which the rubber hits the road. Decisions prove to be more difficult and the resolve to disinfect is tested to the fullest. There is the pull of sentiment connected to useless items, the “one of the kids might be able to use this” rationalization, and the infamous always fatal “I might need this later” betrayal. Barb and I collaborated on the mission to ready ourselves for the grand opening and were able to counter many of each other’s objections to letting go of particular items, and in the end the garage was wall to wall stuff.
The sale as expected was not a rousing success, but Barb had an opportunity to socialize with a variety of potential customers which allowed me to hide from the operation. We had been able to dispose of some stuff, but by the quantity left behind it did not appear we had made a great deal of progress. The idea of finding holes in which to stick the left over merchandise was anathema so we were able to find a charitable organization who mercifully agreed to pick up all the left overs.

IT’S NOT ALL MY FAULT
There are outside influences that encourage our collection of stuff. Advertisers have long known about that pleasure principal thing Freud talked about; however television added a new dimension. Everything from kitchen gadgets to condominiums were shown by the beautiful people and the inference was that you too could have a happier and easier life with the help of this latest tool, furnishing, item of clothing, or automobile etc.
Our economy is based on consumerism. Its health is measured by the Gross National Product i.e. the total amount of goods and services produced by a country in a year, and of course there is a direct correlation between production and consumption. Consequently; shopping to buy more stuff is the patriotic thing to do. As a matter of fact that is what our president asked us to do in the aftermath of nine eleven.
Our younger generation consume without accumulating a lot of stuff. They generally are not as interested in Grandma’s silver as were previous generations. Brides often prefer to be registered at Walmart for their gifts. They preside over the “throw-away society”, and are more interested in function and cost rather than form.

THINK OF THE MONEY I COULD HAVE SAVED
The latest iteration of this philosophy are the minimalists whose gospel is that possessions take up time and effort that could be used in other pursuits more meaningful as in relationships and other activities which will promote a calmer and happier life. They posit that materialism is largely an ego thing (catching up with the Joneses). More extreme is the “tiny house movement” where houses are built usually with less than six hundred square feet of floor space. Such a house would certainly solve the problem of too much stuff.
Although these guys may be a bit extreme, I can appreciate their ideas every time I open a closet, go to my basement, or even worse open the door to my attic. Where were they when I needed them?

SEQUEL TO A ‘BAD DAY”
My last blog ended on a plea for human engagement, and I am pleased to announce that such may still exist in some quarters. After waiting a few days for the lost check I had written about to appear, I decided to stop payment and write a check the old fashioned way. With some trepidation I called the 800 number for my bank expecting once again to deal with a robot, and go through the usual litany necessary in order to speak to a person. I was prepared to hear about the importance of my call, how busy people were in helping other clients, and to listen to those disgusting sounds masquerading as music.
STRESS MANAGEMENT
My secret weapon against the assault on my sanity was the speaker button on my phone. I had learned that by engaging the speaker I could do something useful, and ignore the crap emanating from the phone while waiting for that person to whom I am so important to talk to me. I had also prepared myself psychologically for the travails to come by attempting to convince myself that in the grand scheme of things this was not a momentous event, and not nearly as important as my blood pressure.
IT JUST SLIPPED OUT
It is true that on a couple of occasions in the past, I have lost my cool during similar situations, and once had that person to whom I was so important hang up on me, allegedly because I swore at him. I felt similar conflict was nearly inevitable, as I was determined not to pay the $35.00 stop payment fee, and was expecting a debate over who was to blame for the lost check . With that in mind I vowed to be assertive, but not hostile, and felt I was ready.
ALL THAT WORK FOR NOTHING
In spite of all the conditioning in preparation for the ordeal, I found myself totally unprepared for what was to come when a sweet and charming voice answered on the first ring and announced: “I am Elsie, How can I help you”? In my most serious voice, I explained to her my problem and my frustration, and girded myself for the inevitable conflict over the stop payment fee. She replied that she was sorry about my problem and I found myself thinking she really did sound sorry. She then asked me to wait a few moments while she looked up my account.
While doing so she inquired as to the weather in our town (it turned out that she was in another state), and then asked me about my weekend (this was Monday morning), and when I enquired about hers she told me she had taken her son to the park and they had played the Pokeman game. I had been wondering what that fad was all about, so she explained it to me in detail. After our little chat she told me that she had stopped payment and wished me a “good day” saying it in a manner suggesting she really meant it.
OH YE OF LITTLE FAITH
Oh, by the way I forgot to ask her about the stop payment fee. When I talked with Barb about it, she said she thought I had been seduced, and I replied I surely hoped so. After all at my age I rarely experience seduction even as a con game. Nevertheless, I did have some doubts as to the veracity of the experience, and checked my bank account to find that no stop payment fee had been leveled. But even if it had I doubt that it would have changed my perceptions of Elsie for she reminded me so much of my daughters, and the qualities of kindness, and caring for others that they exhibit.
ADVANTAGE: HUMANS
In my opinion, what the world needs is more Elsies and fewer robots. I am aware that such a strategy is not very cost effective, and that a digital brain offers some advantages over the God given type, but when it comes to human interaction people relate better with people than do machines. I also know that Elsie did more yesterday to cement a lasting relationship between me and my bank than all the mailings, emails, and print ads to which I had been exposed over the yearsI had been a customer.

THE WATER MISSION
There are basically two approaches in the treatment of an illness.

1. There is symptomatic treatment, which as the name implies, consists of alleviating the physical discomforts associated with the problem
2. There is the elimination of the cause which in most cases is preferable.

For example there was a time when typhoid fever was incurable and often fatal. Treatments consisted of attempts to keep the patient hydrated, control the pain and diminish bowel hyperactivity.

When it was determined that the most common source of the infection was in contaminated drinking water it was possible to eliminate the cause of epidemics of the disease. Later, effective antibiotics would be developed; however, it is obviously much preferable to avoid contracting the disease in the first place.

Although typhoid fever has been all but eliminated in our country, many throughout the world are still at risk for a variety of water borne illnesses. Water is necessary for life as we know it, and we humans cannot live longer than a few days without it. Consequently, we are forced to drink whatever is available. The most recent example is the situation in Flint Michigan where bureaucratic bungling and an apparent blatant disregard for public health and welfare has put thousands at risk for various neurological problems. In children the extent of brain damage due to lead poisoning may not be apparent for years to come.

Unfortunately, these kinds of problems are not unique to Flint, but are often accepted as a fact of life when they occur in developing nations. When masses of people live in conditions of extreme poverty, they are often eager to welcome any kind of development which could improve their lives. These are often the same places where public health facilities are either scarce or non-existent, citizens are not made aware of the health problems that can accompany resource extraction, and there is little regulation to protect the worker or his environment. A dysfunctional or corrupt government may look the other way while outside influences plunder the nation, and more powerful nations may influence public policy.
It surprised me to learn that this problem continues to exist today even though the age of imperialism is supposed to be long gone. It was brought to my attention in an unlikely place when I attended a presentation at my church by a missionary from Bolivia. She did not fit the image often times ascribed to missionaries as staid and boring, but turned out to be a vivacious and positive young lady. In a subsequent one on one conversation I found Chenoa to be also quite charming in addition to being dedicated to her cause.
Her cause was to restore the water supply in La Paz, the third largest city in Bolivia. The city’s water was supplied by a river which ran through the city, and had its origin in mountain glaciers. Consequently the water was pristine until what some have called the “resource curse” came to bare. That was when mining for minerals began upstream and the waste was dumped into the river. The water supply became polluted with a variety of contaminates which made it unfit to drink. I was pleased to learn that Chenoa and her affiliates were seeking to cure the cause rather than just the symptoms of the problem. To temporize by passing out bottled water for example would obviously do little to cure the illness, and healing could only begin if the mining company would get their act together.
In order to encourage better behavior the Presbyterian Church which sponsors Chenoa wisely teamed up with an activist group called “Joining Hands”. As its name implies this organization is non-denominational and includes not only other churches but multiple other activist groups native to Bolivia. This inclusiveness should go a long way toward reducing the perception by some that missionaries invade their land to tell them what to do. One of the focuses of this organization is on Extractive Industries and Water with the following stated goals:
“Uphold transparency and oppose corruption in countries where mineral and resource extraction create wealth for a few and rampant poverty for the vulnerable majority…Deal with the impact of the extractive industries on communities of people and the environment, advancing the right of the people to access clean water, protected from pollution.”
It was gratifying to hear that a new generation of missionaries are determined to not only talk the talk, but walk the walk. That is not to say that others have not been concerned about global issues; however they have had little power to effect change. Many missionaries have given their lives in their struggles to improve quality of life for their subjects, and indeed that persists today as we hear of clergy who are slaughtered because of their beliefs. The willingness to suffer all manner of privations, sacrifices, and dangers in order to alleviate the suffering of his fellow man requires a dedication beyond my ability to comprehend.
One such person who accepted that challenge was, Dan Reynolds, one of my classmates in medical school. He admitted that he was in medical school only because he wanted to be a medical missionary. My first thought was that this kid must be nuts. Who in the world would want to spend all those years in school just to go hang out in the jungle. Granted, most of us were motivated at some level to be able to help people, but the fact that we would be paid pretty well for doing it was icing on the cake. After twenty years in that jungle in Africa, Dan was honored by our class with a plaque for his service, and he became my dear friend.
Historians would point out that the Christian missionary movement has not always been very Christian in its implementation, but hopefully that has become a thing of the past. The most extreme of these cases was when the conquistadors were instructed to convert the populace of the southern hemisphere to Christianity. One needs only to look at the churches in South America to realize they were quite successful. Their method was very effective. It consisted of giving the prospective church member the choice between conversion or death. We now hear that same strategy is used by ISIS.
One success story in the struggle to provide safe drinking water did not involve church sponsored missionaries, but rather the dedication of one caring individual.

In 1986 Jimmy Carter with the encouragement of the World Health organization set out to eradicate the guinea worm. His success may well represent the most monumental and least noted medical achievement of the century. In the nineteen eighties there were an estimated 3.5 million cases of guinea worm infection world-wide. In 2015 there were 22 cases reported. In the poignant announcement of his affliction with a malignant brain tumor, Mr. Carter announced that he only hoped he would be able to outlive the last guinea worm on earth. The significance of this event cannot be overemphasized as it would be only the second disease (after smallpox) to be totally eradicated.
Guinea worm infection or dracunculiasis as it is called is a horrible disease. It is passed to humans by drinking water containing water fleas infected with the guinea worm larvae. The fleas die, but the larvae persist and penetrate the intestinal wall. They migrate through the body growing to as much as forty inches in length over a period of from 10 to 14 months at which time they exit the body through the foot. This results in an intense burning sensation leading to an impulse to put the foot in water into which the worm discharges thousands of larvae. Since surface water is all that is available, the contaminated water is drunk and the cycle is repeated.
The only treatment available is to entwine the worm around a twig as its head exits the body and to very slowly twist the twig in hopes of removing the worm in toto. This must be done very slowly over a period of several days in order to avoid pulling the worm apart and leaving a portion inside the body. There can be many complications from the infection including amputation.
Since there is no treatment for this disease, prevention is the only option. Of course the ideal solution would be to provide clean drinking water for all. Unfortunately this goal is often not achievable in some parts of the world. It was discovered that the larvae would not pass through a simple cloth filter which could be made inexpensively. When people were made aware of the cause of the infection, they readily complied with use of the filters, and even improved upon them by developing a simpler and more portable version. The success of the eradication venture depended on an intense educational program to some of the most remote areas of the world. The results of that effort demonstrate clearly that ignorance is not synonymous with stupidity.
The problems associated with maintaining potable drinking water are not limited to less developed parts of the world. Mountain top mining is said to pollute otherwise pristine mountain streams in West Virginia, and some insist that fracking has affected their sources of water. The great lakes, a source of drinking water for millions, have been affected by the runoff of fertilizers. Since the Flint Michigan fiasco we have learned that the incidence of lead and other toxic materials in water all across the country have been vastly under-reported. When I was a kid, I was taught that water which came from the side of a hill was always safe to drink, and indeed many farm families relied on springs from those hills for their drinking water. We certainly could no longer rely on the earth to filter out all the poisons from the water we dump on it, and “spring water” could no longer considered to be safe to drink.
It seems to me that governments are very good at proposing solutions to problems but not so good at implementing them, and that is the reason we need people like Jimmy Carter and Chenoa. They deserve our unconditional support support and extreme gratitude.
In this paper I have only addressed concerns about the quality of water, while an even more pressing problem may turn out to be the quantity needed for our species to survive. Some futurists have predicted that competition for diminishing supplies of water may result in more world-wide conflict than that to which we are already accustomed. The squabbles over water currently taking place in California may be a harbinger of worse conflicts to come. For this and other more pressing reasons we can no longer assume that there will always be an inexhaustible supply of life’s most vital substance.

GRUMPY OLD MEN KNOW BEST
This morning I awakened in my grumpy old man mood; consequently decided to do what we grumpy old men do best which is to criticize everything. We rarely offer any solutions to the world’s problems, other than to suggest we go back to the way things were in the “good old days.”

This is a favorite picture of my two grandsons who are now graduating from college. Proof that I am indeed an old man.

There are a few bright spots in my dark grumpy old man mood, not the least of which is that I did awaken this morning. In addition to that, my two grandsons who are about to graduate from college, will do so after receiving several honors which are more than sufficient to make even a grumpy old man pop his shirt buttons with pride for his progeny.

In spite of those bright spots, there is no dearth of issues for any grumpy old man to criticize, and that may also apply to those who are neither old nor grumpy. The first and most obvious thing which comes to mind is this election campaign which shows no sign of ending. If history is prologue we can expect it to start all over again as soon as this one is over.
You may recall from a previous blog that I am a co-dependent spouse of a CNN addict. As such I am accustomed to a continuous barrage of “breaking news” so named even if it is weeks old. After years of listening, I had become sufficiently desensitized to be largely able to ignore that noise that emanated from our kitchen TV. Now after months of listening to all that election campaign claptrap, I am ready to trade in my hearing aids for ear plugs.

There has been an endless parade of political experts who are standing in line to grace us with their expert opinions and prophecies. These are the same experts who assured us that Donald Trump was merely an oddity who would not survive for longer than a few weeks. Among them are journalists, campaign workers, officials of all stripes from the major parties, academics, politicians, and members of various “think tanks.” That last category has always fascinated me, and I have wondered what members of think tanks do other than think. To me, it always conjures up images of a bunch of naked people sitting around with their chin in their hands like a group of incarnate Rodin statues.There also appear to be a plethora of folks who are introduced as republican or democratic strategists. There must be a lot of “strategizing” going on, since there seems to be a bunch of them, which furthers my contention that politics is big business.
Regardless of the title given the participants in these interviews, the preferred format appears to be the use of the split screen with those of opposing loyalties each occupying their half of the screen. The content soon goes from each talking about what a wonderful person his/her candidate is to how terrible the opponent is. It seems to me the moderator is more interested in the interaction between the participants than policy matters. When they talk of the wondrous things their candidate will do, there appears to be no follow-up questions as to how those wondrous things will be accomplished.
Journalists and pseudo-journalists long ago learned that reporting of conflict gets people’s attention. The TV networks have sponsored many (too many for my taste) so called debates encouraging and reporting on the conflicts between participants while the issues get short shrift. It appears that the TV celebs (sorry but I find it hard to call them journalists) would like nothing better than one of those debates to degenerate into a massive food fight so that they might have some “breaking news” to report.

Enter Mr. Donald Trump the unrepentant narcissist and showman who had spent a lifetime seeking attention. It turned out that those years of practice served him well, for he has certainly received attention from the media, so much so that he has not found it necessary to spend any money on advertising. In addition to personally insulting and denigrating everyone who did not pay homage, he was able to be totally outrageous in the process. His overly simplistic statements about domestic and foreign policies were hailed as proof that he was an outsider and not a double talking politician. He pointed out that his talents as a business man could be useful in solving the country’s economic woes. He portrayed himself as a Manhattan version of Horatio Alger, and true enough we know that he started his career with a paltry one million dollars given to him by his father, later inherited a few million more and parlayed that into over a billion while filing only four bankruptcies in the process. He also inherited a few more million along the way, but insists that he is a self-made man.
Well, enough about the prince of the rednecks. I started out with the goal of bitching about the news media. Their coverage of the campaign has alerted me to the magnitude of the business side of politics. As I mentioned previously, there appears to be an endless supply of people selling their opinions. I assume that all of these people are employed somewhere since they all well dressed, and do not appear to be poverty stricken. There certainly are hundreds and maybe even thousands of such people employed in the politics industry. If we were to add all those salaries and book sales to the one billion dollars estimated to be spent by the candidates in this campaign, you might say we are talking real money. It might even be enough to fix some pot-holes, and if any were left we could waste it by feeding some of those kids who go to bed hungry each night.
In the midst of writing this rant, I just took a coffee break, and on my way to the kitchen was fortunate enough to see CNN was announcing more “breaking news”. The big news of the day is that North Carolina is suing the Feds over the bill about who can go to which bathroom. Undoubtedly, this is the most pressing issue of our time. No matter their faults one must give a lot of credit to CNN for securing this scoop. While some people are worried about such trivia as planetary destruction leading to the extinction of the human race, or our apparent penchant for warfare, these guys maintain a laser like focus on the really important news.

As I sipped my coffee, I was surprised to see Carl Bernstein (the reporter of Watergate fame) for whom I have a great deal of respect, appear to for an interview. He appears to me to be the type of journalist who seems more interested in the news than in his own celebrity. I was a little disappointed when I found that his primary reason for being there was to sell his latest book, but my mood improved dramatically when he began to talk about the news media in general. It soon became apparent that he was a grumpy old man also, and a kindred spirit when he complained that both broadcast and print media were very superficial in their coverage of the election campaign.
It seems that the combination of Carl and the coffee have conspired to make me much less grumpy, so now I think I will go watch some TV news and  see if I can learn more about the Donald’s hairdo.