A New Mexico man’s plan to buy an airplane in Wisconsin in 2018 proved there should have been a little more flight planning than just checking the weather.

The would-be purchaser had asked another man, from Portales, to fly with him to Wisconsin to pick up the aircraft after it was purchased, then fly it back to New Mexico. That’s when the problems began.

Problem No. 1 — The man he had asked to fly the plane did not have a current license (or “certificate” in FAA jargon) to be a pilot.

Problem No. 2 — The plane that was being purchased, a Cessna of some type, was not considered to be airworthy.

Problem No. 3 — One of problems contributing to the plane’s non-airworthy status was that the landing gear was not working properly.

Problem No. 4 — Somewhere over Iowa, the plane’s engine failed and the aircraft was forced to land at a nearby private airport near Waterloo.

Problem No. 5 — The illegal pilot failed to call into the airport declaring that he needed to make an emergency preparation. 

At that point, the FAA got involved. A three-year investigation led to a $5,000 fine and two years probation for the illegal pilot. There was no mention of penalties for the purchaser of the non-airworthy aircraft.

So several thoughts crossed my mind. 

First, how did the purchaser not know or not care that the pilot he had hired to fly his plane didn’t have a license. I imagine the conversation went like this:

          “Can you fly my plane back from Wisconsin?”

          “Well, I don’t have a license to fly a plane, but I once figured out how to drive a John            Deere tractor. I suspect there ain’t much difference between the two.”

And then, why in the world would you ask someone to fly an un-airworthy aircraft several hundred miles. That conservation maybe went like this.

          “The plane’s not airworthy.”

          “That’s okay as long as the dang engine runs and the landing gear works.”

 

My thought is that the plane had a retractable landing gear that was stuck in the down position, but maybe could have folded up on landing.   It apparently held because the plane was reportedly not damaged as a result of the emergency landing. 

I recall one of my flight instructors once telling me that flying is a simple mathematical equation. 

“If the number of landings equal the number of takeoffs, you’ve had a good flight,” he said.

Well, maybe not in this particular case. 

A story in last week’s Albuquerque Journal about Tesla opening a factory outlet in New Mexico led me to reflect on a somewhat similar set of circumstances in the state several years ago. Both involved efforts by trade groups to protect their turf in the Land of Enchantment.

The Tesla outlet, the Journal reported, will be opened on the Nambe Pueblo, just north of Santa Fe. 

The Journal reported that Tesla chose the location, no so much as to be near two upscale New Mexico cities — Santa Fe and Los Alamos — but because they could avoid a restrictive New Mexico law by opening shop on a Native American pueblo. It’s the first such operation on Native American land, according to Tesla officials.

Tesla sells its cars directly to its customers, not through a locally owned franchises, as is the case with most other new car/truck operations. In New Mexico, that was a problem because the New Mexico auto dealers organization had long opposed direct sales by manufacturers to customers, hoping to protect their franchise interest and profitability. 
They also claimed the franchise system led to more local jobs in the state and additional tax revenues. Efforts to change the law to allow direct sales to customers from manufacturers had “repeatedly failed in the (New Mexico) legislature, often amid tense debate,” the Journal said.

So Tesla found a convenient loophole by locating within the boundaries of a tribal nation, circumventing  the state law requiring vehicles to be sold through franchises.  So now, instead of having to drive to Arizona or Colorado where direct vehicle sales are permitted, you can cruise up to the Nambe factory Telsa outlet, pick up something on the lot or drive off in your specially ordered Tesla through  what the company calls “touchless delivery.”

The decision brings to mind the question of whether other such franchise protection measures may be made moot when manufacturers of cars — or other products or services — merely move operations on to any one of many Native American pueblos or reservations in the state in order to circumvent certain state laws. 

What this circumvention reminded me of was a somewhat similar situation regarding sales of beer in New Mexico in the late 1970s and 1980s. The state’s liquor distributors had lobbied for and convinced the legislature to pass the “beer price affirmation law” in 1979 that essentially said beer manufacturers could not charge higher prices for the same product in New Mexico that was charged in other states.  Beer distributors said they were having to pay more for the same 12-ounce bottle or can of beer than distributors in other states. Manufacturers argued that because of the state’s sparse population and expansive geography, it cost more to get its products distributed to all far flung corners of the Land of Enchantment. 

Beer brewers took umbrage at the new law and responded by changing the size of the beer bottles or cans that were sold in New Mexico. By doing so, they were able to claim that the product they sold in the state was unique to the state and not like any other beer sold in the rest of the United States,. As a result, they could charge distributors whatever price they wanted for their uniquely sized beer offering. Anheuser Busch, maker of Budweiser and Michelob, went from the traditional 12-ounche bottle or can of beer to a 10-ounce size and charged essentially the same for what the 12-ounce version had been sold to the distributor. They surreptitiously marketed their beer as “the perfect 10” size, and of course sales cratered. Eventually, the distributing company, which had held the Anheuser-Bush franchise for years in New Mexico, was sold largely due to the fiasco. Other brands increased the size of their product by one-half an an ounce — creating a uniquely sized New Mexico offering — and increased their prices, reducing those distributors’ profits.

The New Mexico beer distributors eventually had to retreat from their stand and the legislature repealed the law. The only winner in the short term were lawyers who lined their pockets as a result of endless lawsuits. Beer drinkers either got less of the frothy brew  for the same amount of money or a tiny bit more for a lot more money.

 

 

Last Saturday, our excessively affable and energetic Golden Doodle, Chester, encountered a skunk in our back yard.  Although Chester was apparently interested in making a friend, the skunk would have none of it.  Luckily ,Chester didn’t get a full frontal blast on his face — just a glancing blow on his side. 

I had just gone to bed when I smelled an overpowering skunk odor, then spotted Chester quickly trotting around the yard. We hauled him inside to prevent any further encounters with our visiting Pepe le Pew.  Margo quickly found an online remedy for diffusing skunk odor, consisting of baking soda, dish soap and hydrogen peroxide. We had to literally drag Chester into the bathtub where we doused him with the concoction and gave him a good bath. We made him sleep overnight in his kennel so he could dry off without spreading his “perfume” elsewhere in the house.

The next morning, although he was still not happy with me for his forced bath, the odor was much more tolerable.

We had previously scheduled one of his grooming sessions for yesterday and figured that his hair trim and a bath would further reduce the smell.

When I picked him up at the groomer, I was told that they had used a specific shampoo that was good for reducing or eliminating skunk odor. I bought the remaining bit of shampoo that they had used in case we had another encounter in the future. But as I drove home with Chester munching on a treat in the back seat of the truck, I began noticing an odor that I remembered but could not place. 

When I got home with Chester, Margo noticed the odor and also said it was something vaguely familiar. We looked at the shampoo bottle and there was our clue  — it was made with patchouli oil. 

Now for you Boomers who were around in the 60s and 70s, the scent of patchouli oil was probably familiar if you happened to be around people who smoked a lot of pot. It was used to cover up the smell of burning cannabis. When you walked into someone’s house or apartment and were overcome by patchouli oil smell or passed someone on a street who reeked of it, you could be pretty certain marijuana had been smoked nearby. Of course, I’m pretty sure that cops at this time were not fooled by this trickery.

So now, it smells like Chester has been experimenting with pot. 

Our son wondered if Chester had started to listen to tunes by the Grateful Dead. Our daughter said her kids wanted to know what Chester smelled like. (I guess we could douse a handkerchief with the shampoo and send it to them, but the Post Office might turn us in as suspected drug dealers.)

Of course, our concern now is that if someone comes into our home or passes us while we walk Chester, they might suspect we have been toking up. 

Hopefully those we encounter with aging Boomer brains will vaguely remember that odor but won’t connect the dots. I hope so. In the meantime, I’m going to fire up some Jimi Hendrix on my I-phone with Chester nearby.  And no, I won’t be smoking pot. 

During the 1999 New Mexico Legislature, a resolution was proposed to give New Mexico an “official state question.” I remember hearing an interview on National Public Radio with the late Sen. Ben Lujan, father of our current U.S. Senator Ben Ray Lujan, explaining why the question “Red or Green” was important to the state. The rather incredulous interviewer didn’t quite get the significance of how important it is in New Mexico to choose your style of chile when ordering your favorite enchiladas, burrito, juevos rancheros or tostadas.

As far as I can determine, New Mexico is the only state with an “official state question,” and it almost didn’t have one, thanks to then Gov. Gary Johnson.

Johnson tried to kill the idea several times because he felt the legislative effort was frivolous and that the question had “neither merit nor meaning for our taxpayers.”  He eventually gave up on his veto quest. It’s estimated that the questions gets asked at least 200,000 times a day, so it apparently means something to a lot of folks in the Land of Enchantment.

What was interesting is that during the same legislative session, a proposal  was introduced to make a dark blue and green plaid as the official state tartan. The legislature, apparently sensing that the Scottish tartan “had neither merit or meaning” in New Mexico, promptly “kilt” it.

(Okay you can groan now.)

Every spring/early summer, the New Mexico State University experimental garden just down the street from our house sells various plants that they have perfected/raised from seed and put in planting containers for sale to the public. This year, I bought three medium heat chile plants and two Big Jim chile plants to put in our raised garden at the side of the house.

We were able to grow corn, basil, cucumbers onions and chile this year in our garden, and it’s has been very successful. Well okay, the corn looked better than last year’s crop, but it wasn’t as “super sweet” as the seed packet said it would be. My Nebraska farm wife says it tasted like “field corn” — that’s the stuff that’s fed to those legendary cattle that sacrifice themselves to make yummy Omaha Steaks. 

But back to the chile. I thought I would only get a few pods from my five chile plants. Boy was I wrong on that. I’ve been harvesting five to six nice pods every day in the last three weeks from the plants. Most have been much smaller than the stuff you buy at chile stands around town, but they’ve all been tasty.

Earlier in August, I purchased several large sacks of mild and Big Jim Heritage chile from our good friends, David and Linda Taylor, to roast in my back yard with my hand-cranked chile roaster. 

I filled up two drawers of our freezer with the chiles I roasted, thinking I was set for the year. Then my NMSU Ag Research Station plants began exploding and I’ve had to figure out how to cram even more of them in my freezer. 

I’ve been roasting all of these on my regular outdoor barbeque grill. It’s a lot more labor intensive, but somehow more satisfying. Here’s some of the most recent pods I picked and roasted. 

 

Yeah, I know almost every one of you readers has cute grandkid stories. But bear with me on this one — it’s about what a class of pre-kindergarten kids had to say after one full week in school.

Last week, students in my youngest grandson’s class were learning about each other and the families of the other kids in the pre-K group. At the end of the week, they were asked to list what they loved. The kids’ answers were written on a white board and a picture of the board was sent to the parents.

The answers were pretty funny and touching at the same time.

One said what she loved most was her mother and another said it was her sister. Another said he liked eating breakfast with his brother. Others liked various parts of their body, predictably naming hands  and eyes. One liked her neck and another her ankles. Quite honestly, I can’t think of when I ever thought much about how my ankles looked except perhaps when I twisted one and it became fat and purple.

Our youngest grandson just turned three. When our two older grandsons were about the same age, they all became infatuated with large moving machinery. My oldest loved fire trucks and garbage trucks, our second oldest had a fascination with tractors. Our youngest gets excited about construction vehicles.

So it came as no surprise that what he listed as loving was “excavators.”

A couple of other “loves” were pretty amusing.

Now I’m trying to be sensitive about gender identity, but I thought it amusing that a child named Bernie said his/her/their favorite item was a “senorita dress.” Bernie could be short for Bernadette or Bernard — it doesn’t matter as long as he/she/they feel good about a party dress.

But I can only imagine the chagrin of a mother who read her child’s top thing they loved as “being able to wipe myself.”

An adult black bear, apparently thinking it needed to cool off during the summer of 2005, wandered into the lobby of a Holiday Inn in Raton. It walked past a terrified front desk clerk, then ambled down the hallway to the swimming pool area.

While taking a dip in the pool, the New Mexico Game and Fish Department was summoned to evict the unauthorized guest and remove it from the premises while paying guests scrambled out of the pool area and huddled in the safety of their room. The bear was relocated to the nearby forest where hopefully it could find suitable swimming accommodations in nearby creeks. 

Eight years later, another Raton area bear discovered that the dumpster behind the town’s Sonic drive-in was an especially easy place to find tasty snacks. Apparently startled when Game and Fish Department officers showed up, the bear scrambled up a nearby power pole and refused any efforts to come down. Eventually the terrified but no longer hungry critter was shot with a tranquilizer gun, tumbled to the ground and was relocated in an area of the forest that was miles away from the nearest junk food outlet.

 

Growing up in Ruidoso, I had several encounters with black bears in my youth. Most were at a safe distance. We had a bear that raided the garbage can outside our home regularly early in the morning during one summer. We could hear the clanking when it removed the supposedly “bear proof” lid from our garbage can, so we would rush out on our back porch to spot it with a flashlight. The bear would immediately scamper behind a skinny ponderosa pine, thinking its rather large black body would somehow be obscured by the eight-inch diameter trunk. In the morning, it would be my job to go out and clean up the mess left by the bear — an almost daily ritual that summer. 

The scariest incident occurred one summer when I was fishing high up on the north fork of the Ruidoso River. I had come to a crossing on the river, which was obscured by a row of bushes as I approached it. When I turned the corner, there was a black bear on the other side of the river — about 15 feet away. I looked at it and it looked at me with a high degree of fear. Luckily the bear was as scared of me as I was of it. We both beat a hasty retreat in the opposite direction and I never saw it again. I was fortunate it wasn’t a mother bear with a couple of cubs tagging along.

Three stories I dug up in the 2013 Albuquerque Journal had explosive topics.

In the first, officers were called to Conchas Lake State Park in northeastern New Mexico to investigate a loud explosion, followed by a plume of black smoke.

The culprit? It was a portable outdoor toilet whose contents — likely a mass of methane gas —  somehow ignited and blew up. The explosion scattered parts of the toilet and its “contents” over a 30-yard area. The ignition source was not discovered.

Perhaps suspecting that the result of bad burritos led to the Conchas explosion, a man who had a grudge against the FBI and may have read about the incident called the FBI office in Albuquerque with a threat. He said he would create a bomb folded into an innocent looking burrito and toss it at the FBI field office. Luckily the perp was caught before he could burrito-bomb the federal agency.

Then to top things off that same year, police in Las Cruces had to shut down their headquarters briefly when a couple going through the contents of the home of a deceased relative found something, well, explosive. The couple found a live World War II hand grenade and thought the best place to take it was the police station. The department wasn’t quite equipped to handle the explosive device, so the office was shut down while the proper authority — the local bomb squad — scrambled over and gingerly retrieved the device. Luckily, it was defused without incident. 

It was late spring 1963. School would be out for the summer in a couple of weeks and many students had probably mentally checked out for the rest of the school term. A group of young kids,  friends who were probably feeling their independence growing, were wandering through the Mesilla Park neighborhood on this warm day when they discovered  the ultimate temptation to do something daring and just a toe over the line of being “bad,”

It was a freshly poured concrete sidewalk on the southwest side of their school in Mesilla Park. 

My guess is that they were all around 10-12 years old, maybe a little bit younger. Two sisters, whose last name was Ferguson, seized the opportunity to lavish adoration on the new British pop group, the Beatles. 

“Beatles Forever,” they scrawled in the still wet concrete, probably while furtively looking over their shoulder to see if anyone was going to catch them. The date they left with their signatures was May 17, 1963.

 

At least two others participated in the “modification” of the sidewalk surface. One boldly announced that  “Judy (heart drawing) Richard,” while another announces that “Joey loves Bufflo (sic).” 

A walk around to the east side of the school leads to a sidewalk to the main entrance. The building, originally designed by famous Southwestern architect Henry C. Trost, has had several modifications and additions over the years.  It is now the Frank O. Papen Community Center. During one of the modifications, an ADA required sloping walkway was constructed to the entrance. The original sidewalk had been signed by members of various graduating classes. When the sloped ramp was installed, signatures from classes of 1945 and 1936 were cut out of the original walkway and placed in the new ramp. 

 

Of particular interest in the signatures of graduates of the class of 1936 were those of two children of the legendary Hunter “Preacher” Lewis. Lewis was the rector of St. James’ Episcopal Church who was known for baptizing any one who wanted to be baptized, raising funds for his churches by pressing for donations from patrons in local bars and starting mission churches up and down the Rio Grande valley from Truth of Consequences to La Union. 

And just at the entrance to the school from the street, the class of 1939 signed two concrete and river rock benches.

Which led me to our own history in concrete in our back yard. On Aug. 31, 1990, our son and daughter scratched their initials in a newly poured concrete patio. I enjoy showing these to our grandchildren, who have probably never had the opportunity to scratch their names in something so permanent. Of particular amusement to my two grandsons from California is my son’s initials, followed by the words “I Bad.” Fortunately for all of us, he never fulfilled that bold pronouncement.

Which brings me to my final thought. How many of you readers have signed your names into concrete somewhere, to be preserved somewhere for many years? I can’t remember a specific place where I did it, but I know it happened somewhere in my past. So where can one find your signature?

 

People who have lived in New Mexico a while are always a bit amused and annoyed when they see maps, postcards and other kitsch showing a saguaro cactus in the state.

Many years ago, at a tacky curio shop I ventured into during a gas stop, I found a kitchen magnet in the shape of Arizona with a saguaro cactus on it.  The magnet proudly proclaimed the state to be New Mexico. I sent it to a colleague at the Albuquerque Journal who wrote regular columns about how New Mexico is so often confused with our neighbor to the west — often with illustrations of those tall robust cactuses found in southern Arizona. He wrote a story about it, noting that the item was probably made in a factory in China where no one had every been to the American Southwest.

And of course the New Mexico Magazine has a monthly column entitled “One Of Our 50 Is Missing,” in which stories appear regularly about delusions of saguaros in the Land of Enchantment.

I found a reference to a 2000 article in the Audubon magazine of the National Audubon Society which breathlessly stated:

“Oaks are a kind of totem species in California like saguaros in New Mexico or maples in Vermont; they define the landscape both aesthetically and ecologically.”

As I’ve been told by botanists, it’s much too cold for saguaros to live in New Mexico. Yet, I’ve run across at least two that are surviving in the Las Cruces area. Both are growing next to southwest facing, heat-absorbing adobe walls that likely protect the species from our occasional below zero weather snaps.

I’ve attached a picture of one growing beside a home in our Mesilla Park neighborhood, looking quite healthy, but possibly missing its friends in Arizona. 

My first reaction to a story in last week’s Albuquerque Journal was, how do you manage to lose track of this much stuff?

The story involved the loss of $2 million in ball bearings from White Sands Missile Range. The missing ball bearings, which officials said weighed about 230,000 pounds or 115 tons, ended up in a scrap metal yard in Albuquerque. Investigators say that’s as much as a full grown whale would weigh.

The ball bearings were used in explosive research conducted at the southern New Mexico base, according to WSMR officials.

Authorities have opened an investigation into the missing ball bearings and two persons have been named as targets of the probe. Authorities said a person tipped them off about the possible theft and relocation of the ball bearings.

The story brings to mind another New Mexico incident involving  large amounts of missing metal in 1973. Construction work was underway on a section of I-25 south of Albuquerque when an informant said that short pieces of rebar that were supposed to be inserted every 30 inches into the highway roadbed were not being inserted as prescribed.

A University of New Mexico student working part time for the highway construction company said he was told by his foreman to skip inserting some of the rebar during the paving process. The student related a conversation in which he alleged his foreman told him “I want you to put in them rebars only when the inspectors are watching. The only way they’ll know there aren’t any bars in there is to tear up that slab. This is between you and me.”

Ultimately, an investigation using high-tech equipment from Sandia Labs showed that a section of highway did not contain the required amount of reinforcement bars. As a result of the finding, the primary contractor for the project paid a penalty of $20,322 and had to purchase a $60,000 surety bond to cover any long-term degradation of the roadway.

The investigation never concluded what happened to the missing rebar. And if you’ve driven to Albuquerque lately along that section of I-25, you’ll notice it has been the site of a major renovation of the busy highway.

I’m hoping there has been careful inspection of placement of rebar in the project. Maybe some ball bearings too.

I ran across an interesting article in my BMW Car Club of America magazine,  Roundel, regarding car ownership and vehicle dependency rates by state. A car shopping website called Co-Pilot, lists the top ten states in terms of number of cars owned per person, along with other statistics. New Mexico ends up being ninth on the list, which made me start thinking about why we’re there.

Many of the other states in the top ten are rural western states, including Wyoming, Montana and South Dakota. That makes sense because we have long distances to drive and more than one vehicle is often a necessity. And if you think about trying to cut our carbon footprint in New Mexico by riding a bicycle, it doesn’t make much sense to pedal 60 miles to get three weeks of groceries. So the rural profile fits New Mexico.

Several states in the top 10 list are lower income states, many of them in the south. The lower income category also fits New Mexico.

The report shows that the average household in New Mexico owns .8 vehicles and that we drive that .8 of a vehicle an average of 19,157 miles each year. That’s the second highest number of miles per year of the top ten states, with Wyoming leading at 24,069 miles per vehicle per year. That shows we really flog our vehicles over the years.

Car crazy California is 31st on the list and not-surprisingly, New York is last on the list.

Our own household has three vehicles, our 2019 BMW X3, a 2012 GMC Sierra pickup and my “always need tinkering” classic 1975 BMW 2002. Do we need that many? Probably not, but I’d be sad to part with any of them.

And I also I think anyone who lives in New Mexico needs a pickup. I wouldn’t be surprised to see statistics showing New Mexico had one of the highest rates of pickup ownership per household in the nation. An old colleague of mine once wrote about the need of pickups in New Mexico and speculated that many of us might have been born or at least conceived in one. 

But I think if you look around many rural areas of our state, you’ll see another reason we have so many vehicles per household in New Mexico. Many folks just never get around to getting rid of that 1981 Buick or 1976 Ford F-150 and let it rust away in the driveway or behind the barn. We’re not willing to say we’ve abandoned these sources of fond memories and we convince ourselves that some day soon we will “fix it up and get it running again.”

The photo below, which I posted in an earlier blog, shows how much of a challenge that might be.

I was skimming through the day’s top news stories on the internet last week when I came across this surprising headline from Reuters:

“New Mexican vigilante group’s sympathizers set fire to government offices, businesses.”

As you might expect, I was rather stunned to read this news about our state and wondered where the burning of government offices and businesses had occurred. And what was the vigilante group protesting? And who were its sympathizers? And why hadn’t I heard about this on any local/state news media?

As I read through the story, it quickly became apparent that this incident happened in the Republic of Mexico, but the headline clearly muddied the waters. A quick change in the wording would have made this story much less alarming for those of us in New Mexico. How about:

“Sympathizers of new vigilante group in Mexico set fire to government offices, businesses.”

Or:

“New vigilante group sympathizers set fire to government offices, businesses in Mexico.”

Most of my career in journalism with United Press International didn’t call for writing headlines. We left that for the print media editors to write at the copy desk before the story was inserted in a newspaper or other periodical or scrolled in a teaser line on the bottom of the TV screen. That didn’t stop us, however, from endlessly writing those headlines for our stories in our minds. I’ve spoken to many other journalists who, over the years, are always writing headlines in their minds for things that have happened to them or what they’ve observed, no matter how mundane.

I had a colleague who was involved in a near-fatal roll over accident who told me that while his car was tumbling end-over-end in a median on a rain-slick Texas highway, he was writing the headline of his death and accident in his mind. Luckily, no newspaper ever had to write it. It was just another traffic accident that probably never got reported.

I spotted another bad one just last week. It said that some former sports figure had “died after drowning.” Well, duh, isn’t the end result of drowning death? He died after he had already died?It should have said he “died from drowning”  or “died in a drowning accident.”  Again, where was the copy editor?

Some things just constantly lend themselves to bad headlines, however. The town of Loving, New Mexico, was a constant source of amusing headlines that you probably couldn’t write your way around. Some examples:

“Loving mayor slugs councilman in the face.”

“Loving police chief arrested for sexual misconduct.”

“Loving man ditches bride at altar.”

The guys at the sports desk always had a “rogue’s gallery” of bad headline writing, usually the best you could find.

One I remember in particular was a story about a Spanish tennis player who had played so badly in his first set that fans began to boo him. He made a miraculous recovery and won the match. The headline for the story read:

“Cheers replace jeers as Poncho pulls it out.”

Two years ago today, a surgeon stitched a pig heart valve into my heart to replace a  recalcitrant aortic valve that hiccupped along for more years than it should have lasted.

I’m still doing fine, maybe slowing down a bit, but that’s probably just age related. All of us Boomers feel like we’ll never get old. Many of us embrace science when it comes to things like climate change or vaccines, but I suspect that most of us Boomers refuse to accept the inevitable science of creeping geezerness.

At any rate, thanks to all of you who occasionally ask how I’m doing. I’m fortunate that the rest of me is in good shape for my age, other than a few aching joints in the mornings and after long rides in the car. And I’m especially fortunate to have a wonderful wife who tries to make sure I eat right, exercise frequently and don’t drink too much red wine (although I try to convince her that red wine is a beneficial medication.)

Here’s a photo of me holding the pillow they gave me two years ago after the surgery. It’s holding up well too, except perhaps for some random red wine stains. “:^)