Flesh

On cruise control, I-94, Baraboo, WI, to South Bend, IN, passing the southern tip of a Great Lake, the waves and a memory swell……..

Early July 1965, Michigan City, IN, an outstanding warrant of the rust belt, has the ambiance of a boy’s locker room…smelly and sticky.  I walk up an extra wide stairwell, littered with waiting patients, to the packed 2nd floor office of King Jones M.D.  The decrepit wooden building on Franklin Street is 180 degrees from the impeccably fashioned Dr. Jones; resplendent in a crisp white shirt, tailored Italian suit, brilliant grin, against the background of silky chocolate skin.

The King is an excellent GP, a favorite in the black community, a popular figure at the hospital, and a prolific prescriber…hence, my visit.  A fresh anglo recruit, 26 y/o, representing an obscure Swiss pharmaceutical company, I’m here to introduce a ‘new’ drug, an antidepressant of marginal value.  Typical of the industry, it was simply a chemical first cousin of two existing drugs, neither of which were particularly effective, all too expensive, and accompanied by a litany of side effects.

The truth be damned, posit enthusiasm, tee it up, full steam ahead…fresh from a regional sales seminar, armed with a leather satchel loaded with colorful brochures, pens, advertising gadgets, and free samples, I’m welcomed by the doctor for a brief visit.  After feigning approval, he asked to see a sample.  I demonstrated the drug exactly as described in our product bulletin, 25 mgm., size # 4, flesh-colored capsule.

stock-footage-three-pink-capsules-rotate-on-a-plate-close-up-shot

He stepped back, flashed that signature grin, and remarked, ” Mr. Charles, that all depends on what color yo’ flesh is !”  We both had a good laugh.  There was no tension, he held onto my shoulder and promised he might prescribe the drug.

Fast forward one month, I meet with the division manager, a likable buffoon who had played linebacker for the University of Kansas, most often without a helmet.  We were having an ‘assessment’ lunch to evaluate the desipramine introduction.  Think how difficult it is to describe “lukewarm” or “limp” to your boss…with artificial, orgasmic enthusiasm.  Over a tuna salad sandwhich.  Five decades later, I still harbor guilt from those three years representing what is now referred to as BigPharma, a cabal proven the equal of the tobacco industry.

However, Old Mortarhead’s toothy smile waned, his brow deeply furrowed, when I recalled anectdotally; the reception by Dr. Jones.   I only mentioned it in passing to alleviate the boredom of a business lunch.  He wrote cautiously in his leather memo, a word-by-word transcript, abruptly adjourned the meeting and beelined for the nearest telephone booth.

Bottom line: the company did a quiet total recall of all samples, product literature, hospital displays, and reprinted journal promotional ads within weeks.  This was pre-TV ads implying, ‘ask your doctor if it’s right for you’.  Flesh colored had morphed into “pink” overnight. The cost, in today’s $, had to be in the eight figures. There was no press release, no acknowledgement; this was the era before political correctness.  Recall, the march from Selma to Montgomery, a fresh memory, occurred only three months before.

Later that year, I called on the King once again.  This time, to relate first hand what had transpired from our casual, two-minute conversation in July…he was overwhelmed, overjoyed, and gave me the most robust hug since my Dad returned from the Marine Corps in 1945.  Only then did I realize how important the encounter was for a poor black kid who had worked menial jobs, endured family struggles, just to finish medical school.

This was my personal Edmund Pettus bridge walk across the racial divide.  Sadly, little has changed in 50 years. Yes, there is ‘minority’ representation in the supreme court, the congress, the presidency, in the media, and near total dominance in most professional sports, but the reality belies optimism.  Some improvement, perhaps, but racial tension and suspicion continue, unabated.

I’m almost home now, both in age and @ mile-marker 75.    Our country is not.

There is no quick-fix in our technology hurricane, no antidepressant to elevate our spirit and serotonin level, no microphone-muff CNN press conference, urgently called by a reverend du jour or police commissioner. Insecurity covered with frosting.

Welcome home.  I wish I had the answer.

The  common denominator we share….humanity….remains elusive.  Both for the nation and the turbulent planet, with little regard for the color of your capsule.

 

 

 

Copper Galore

The approach to Houghton, MI., along the Portage Lake Channel is attractive, not breathtaking. However, the anticipation of a week on the shore of the Keweenaw peninsula is pure oxygen.

HQ of the copper boom lasting a century from 1845-1945, it is now home to the famed engineering Michigan Technical University (formerly Mi. School of Mines) with a noted alumnus, Julie Estep PhD, the prominent rhetorician. Ms. Estep quietly manages to avoid the public limelight in Chico, CA., along with her husband, Gary, and four dogs.

Add Norman Rautiola, now living in splendor, Montecito, CA, inventor of patented keyless entry into automobiles.  He also developed the electromagnetic field which senses your approach and opens/closes doors and windows. Being the nation’s electronic valet became profitable, which Mr. Rautiola generously shares, in addition to his time and business savvy, with MTU.

In the future, sooner than imaginable, we’ll be traveling in driverless vehicles. Rest assured, his Nartron Corp. will own the patent.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
L-R, Norm Rautiola, Mrs. and Mr. Al Gebeau (Ford Motor, ret.)
Aboard the Keweenaw Star, MTU in the background

Copper-24459

 

Native copper ore, barely oxidized, MTU mineral museum

Unlike California, the planetary prune, which continues the unsustainable siphoning of the Colorado River, the Keweenaw is surrounded on three sides by Lake Superior, the deepest and largest supply of fresh water in the hemisphere.

Add these pluses:

  • birthplace of professional hockey
  • more Finns than a suburb of Helsinki
  • four times the annual snowfall of Buffalo, NY
  • pure water, clean air, no traffic
  • nearest interstate ramp 264 miles;Duluth,MN
  • Scandanavian indelicacy, lutefisk

Quoting* Garrison Keillor ” the purgatory of lutefisk, a repulsive gelatinous fishlike dish that tasted of soap and gave off an odor that would gag a goat….not edible by normal people. It is reminiscent of the afterbirth of a dog or the world’s largest chunk of phlegm”.

Lutefisk may have been solely responsible for the noticeable Lutheran inbreeding of Swedes and Finns.  Who knows?  What is important is that humans are all hybrids, just like our dogs, and you have to wonder…why can’t we get along?

Tribal battles flourish.  In northern Iraq, the Sunnis slaughter the Kurds.  In northern Michigan, factions of the Chippewa, Sault, Ojibwa tribes engage in turf battles for casino revenues.  Everybody is a loser….prisons prosper; substance abuse and depression become the fast track industries.  A solution might be to have warring factions spend a winter together, sharing firewood, skis, lutefisk, and ice fishing huts.

Population growth here remains at zero. No surprise when most activity, in or out of doors, revolves around ice. Californians may be proud of their tan lines, being on a first name basis with cosmetic surgeons, or thankful their homes have not been incinerated in a wildfire or on a mudslide headed for the beach.

No such problem in Houghton, as the natives have an unlimited supply of water to wash and wax the snowmobile in anticipation of another birth controlled winter. We, thankfully, plan a perfect summer week in the community owned waterfront RV park.  The array of local activities has us mouthing at the frost.

Don’t change the dial………

* Pontoon, Aug 2008 Penguin Books®

©insightout2014

 

Introducing Mrs. Wilson….

Wearing nothing but a halter top, frightening full frontal nudity, that which follows may be unsuitable, a rating of PG-55 for the easily offended. A six month Insightout absence, a vacuum created by the loss of family pet, Jack, is over.

The grieving, the failed attempt to establish a website, www.doggone.org, was not working by early April, 2014. A visit to the local Pet Refuge reversed course; a two y/o female (gasp), rescued and fostered by a loving couple, was available. With zero Westminster breeding, and much more likely the result of hasty, unplanned dog sex, she appeared to be 12 pounds of terrier exhibiting a less than subtle attention-deficit disorder; imagine popping corn in a microwave.

DSCN1808

Naming her would be a hurdle. Calling her Orville Redenbacher would cross a sexual boundary. And maybe subject her to a suit from Old Orv’s intellectual property lawyer. Her markings were similar, in miniature, to those of a famed pinto pony, Scout*. Once again, crossing the gender line, nixed Scout. Monikers like Butterscotch and Cafe Au Lait sounded curiously Starbucksian. No thanks a latte.

To those of you familiar with the geography of southeast Asia, her dorsal fur resembled Malaysia to the east and Sumatra to the west….but who would name their dog “Strait of Mallay”?

DSCN1805

Days after the ‘adoption’, when she failed to respond to a command, my friend said, “can’t you call her by name” ? How dumb is that…naming your dog, Byname. Better that, I suppose, than Beyonce.

And so it went for a week. During a quiet moment of contemplation, our eyes deeply embraced, I realized this furball, like Jack before her, was destined to transform me to a better self. Behind that cornea emerged the vision of Washington Grade School, Hammond, Indiana, 1953, and a 14 y/o dyslexic kid. A chronic troublemaker whose future changed when an elderly teacher, Margaret Wilson, triggered his discovery of mathematics.

Who among us has not had a life altered, by a thoughtful, caring person with no intension of personal gain, yet who never lived to witness the ripple on the pond.

90969-566x848-Senior-Hairstyles5

The gratitude and fondness for one lady, a silver-haired arithmetic teacher, sixty years later, has never waned.

In remembrance…..meet Mrs. Wilson ⬇

Airborne, on a favorite beach, the deserted north shore of Lake Huron

DSCN1768

 

 

* Tonto, sidekick to the Lone Ranger

 

©insightout2014