Jeremy Lin made his debut last night as a Los Angeles Laker starting point guard, and put in a respectable performance.  He was facing his old team, the Houston Rockets, and specifically the man who took his job away last year, Patrick Beverley, who is also the best defender on his team.  Pat played aggressive defense on Jeremy the whole night, as did Jeremy on him, and they ended up with similar numbers: 7 points and 5-6 assists.  More importantly, Jeremy made plays by penetrating and dishing off (or scoring), and as one announcer put it “lit the fuse” under the team.  The Lakers got off to a slow start and were able to pull close once or twice, but ended up losing by 18.

Because of the time zones, most of the Laker games start around 10 PM.  I had recently been able to push my bedtime back to before 11 PM, but now it is going to be harder.  I will have to do what I did last night, record the game and go to sleep.   I was only partially successful with this strategy last night, and this morning I felt like someone had bopped me over the head with a rubber mallet.  It took me the whole day to recover.

Tonight we’re going to a neighborhood meeting with National Grid to find out how long our gas service is going to be cut off for a local bridge rebuilding project.  So it’s time to sign off…

I can’t believe I forgot to write about Jill Kinmont, the Olympic hopeful skier who in the fifties was rendered quadriplegic by a skiing accident.  She made an inspiring comeback to a productive life, which was chronicled in two movies (The other side of the mountain, parts one and two), and two books by E.G. Valens, a writer for Sports Illustrated who became entranced by Jill’s story and her courage. (I read the first book “A long way up”, and am halfway through the second, “The other side of the mountain, part two”.)  Jill became a teacher in her hometown of Bishop, California, teaching native American children.  She married John Boothe, a truck driver and rancher, and lived to the age of 75, dying two years ago. (It is unheard of for a quadriplegic to live to such an advanced age.)

I would recommend the first book and movie to all interested persons.  The second book is remarkable in that Jill is able, with the support of her family, to build a “normal” life for herself despite her disability.  It also provides some interesting glimpses into the making of the first movie, which captured the essence of her experience but disagreed with reality in many Hollywood-pleasing ways.

Somehow I missed the last three Lakers preseason games, including some wonderful plays by Jeremy.   They are shown on Youtube,  so I don’t feel that I missed too much.  Tonight is the first regular season game, against the Houston Rockets, and Jeremy is getting the nod at point guard.  Unfortunately, Steve Nash has aggravated a serious back injury (a disc I believe) and is out for the season.  Ronnie Price, another promising point guard, is also injured.  Anyway, I look forward to Jeremy giving his old team (and their good-for-nothing coach Kevin McHale) a hard time…

I can’t believe it.  In the last month I have published three substantial pieces about my dad in this blog.  Yesterday, in the midst of writing the third one, Swimming with my dad part one,  I began to wonder why my dad was so much on my mind.  My writing stream went dry just before midnight, when I looked at the computer and realized that it was my dad’s birthday!  To my horror I also realized that I had forgotten my dad’s Chesa, the anniversary of his death on September 17th!  And all the time thinking and writing about him…

Dad died twenty-five years ago this past September 17th.  He died on David’s two-month birthday, so I will always remember how long ago he died because it is the same as David’s age.  David is twenty-five now (see?).  So this time of year is my “Dad’s corridor” , because I usually go to Mount Auburn cemetery to visit his grave on September 17, usually with Carol, David, or Jonny, and go there again on October 20th for his birthday.  It is easy to remember his age, because he was born in 1920.  He would have been 94.

(Usually around his Chesa my mom or one of my siblings sends an email to the family, not a big deal but just an informal nudge.  For some reason no one did it this year…)

In between these two special days are the most beautiful days of the year, with the autumn leaves exploding with color and falling gently to the ground.  Usually I make it a point to drive the country roads during this time, with the most striking ones being the ones that are narrow enough to have trees hanging over them from both sides, a corridor of color, my Dad’s corridor.  This year I did not do this quite as much as in past years.  Why? Because the weather has been iffy and the sun hasn’t been showing off the leaves as well?  Is that the reason?

It is so ironic to me that I forgot Dad’s Chesa because I was preparing furiously for my Eureka moment talk, when I told my college classmates in four minutes about his Nobel hopes for me, about David’s birth, about his forgiveness and his wisdom.  I gave my talk on September 20th, three days after the Chesa.

What does all this mean?  Maybe that my dad has been so alive to me this past month, that I forgot that he wasn’t.  He gave so much of himself to make us, his family,  what we are today that he will never, ever be dead to us.  And every year I can look forward to my loving journey through my Dad’s corridor in time.

When I was a kid my parents decided to try our hand at investing in the stock market.  They bought small amounts of stock for each of us, listed under my parents’ names as custodians for us as minors, until we turned eighteen and could take it over for ourselves.  Because I seemed to be interested in chemistry, they bought me two shares of Dow Chemical for about $75 apiece.

During the late 60s I felt some shame at being a shareholder in the company that was manufacturing napalm, which was being dropped at an alarming rate over the innocent country of Cambodia, but for some reason I did not even mention this to my parents.

The issue remained fallow for decades until, about six years ago, we decided to try to reclaim the stock, which was still essentially in my mother’s name.  My mom good-naturedly filled out the transfer forms with her graceful cursive signature, and we duly submitted them.

We heard nothing about the transfer for six months, when I called the broker and asked what the matter was.  “Do you have the stock certificates?”

“What stock certificates?”

“The original certificates which specify the owner of the stock!”

“I think my mother still has them.  Can’t we do this without them?”

“That would be almost impossible!  Find those certificates!”

Next was this exchange with my mom:

“Mom, do you know where the Dow stock certificates are?”

“No, I thought I gave them to you.”

“When?”

“Well when I moved out of the old house.  I threw out boxes and boxes of papers, but I seem to remember seeing the certificates, and giving them to you.”

The next six years were a nightmare.  The brokers, who changed identity more than once, sent us new forms to fill out.  Our financial advisor assured us that this could be done easily without the certificates, but somehow it never got done by him or us.

To make matters worse, whenever we had any kind of spat, the subject of the “Dow stock” would come up.

“You said you would take care of the Dow stock!”

“No, YOU said you would take care of the Dow stock!”

“I made a folder for the Dow stock and put everything in it!”

“Well where is it then?”

“I don’t know, I thought you put it someplace safe…”

The reason I am writing about this now is that, just an hour ago, I went up to the attic to look for two things: an old pair of orthotic inserts for my shoes, and a very short story that I wrote in high school about my dad taking me to the dentist. (This story was a big hit, and got me into a writing course at Harvard taught by Kurt Vonnegut!  This then led to a thirty-year case of writer’s block…)

I found the orthotics, and then embarked on a half-hearted search for the story. (My dad used to say “Guys, don’t be half-hearted! Always try your very hardest!”)  I found a box full of miscellaneous stuff, including a copy of the Boston Globe from the day of David’s birth in 1989, when one folder caught my eye.  It was labeled with my dad’s characteristic angular handwriting in red Parker fountain pen ink, and said “The Dow Chemical Company. 2 shares. 76 1/2 each share. commission 6 & 00/100. total $159 & 00/100.”  After 2 shares, it said in blue fountain pen ink “+1+3= 6 shares”.  Then in my mother’s smaller handwriting it said “per share value $86.19 x 6 = 517.14.

With my hands shaking (figuratively) I opened the folder, and there I found an elaborately printed sheet of parchment with an ornate green border, dated NOV 20, 1989.  At the top was an engraved portrait of Herbert H. Dow posing next to a farmhouse, complete with a barn and a large farm family.  Immediately underneath this sheet were three yellow sheets of the same type, but engraved instead with the likeness of three half-naked Greek gods.  On the first one Herbert D. Dow was the president.  On the other two Herbert H. Dow was the secretary and C.B. Branch the president.  They were dated May 9, 1973, August 6, 1971, and JAN 15 1965.  The last was the certificate I had received as an eleven year-old for $159.

Along with the certificates came more buried treasure– messages from my dad to himself about the stock, all written in red ink on the front of the respective envelopes:

“VERY IMPORTANT.  Share certificate of the Dow Chemical Company.  August 9 (Mon.), ’71 Rec’d.”

“***Edward now hold 3 SHARES! VERY IMPORTANT.  Tell Edward and Mom!”

“***Very very important. Edward now has 6 shares.”

“Edward now has 1 share more. + $17 & 91/100 –> Deposited with New Haven Savings Bank on Aug.5 (Thurs.), 1976.  July 27, 1976 Rec’d”

Tears come to my eyes as I write this.  While I was in prep school, college, and medical school my dad and mom were  indeed the custodians of this stock, which has grown (and inflated) steadily under their watchful eye, keeping track of all transactions, even to the day of the week.  Now we will be able to use this money, not a large amount by today’s standards but not negligible either.

After this long struggle the money does seem inconsequential compared to a more important message.  I have been loved and cared for by my parents for over sixty-one years, and I know that that love and care will go on, even beyond ” ’til death do us part”, because it will live on in the love and care that we bestow on our own kids and their growing families.

Tonight we re-saw another movie about the rebirth of a person trapped in a limited existence.  The movie is Cactus Flower, starring Ingrid Bergman, Walter Matthau, and Goldie Hawn  (who won a Best Actress Oscar), directed by Gene Saks and based on a Broadway screenplay by Abe Burrows.

This movie got a 7.2 on IMdB, and earned every bit of it.  It is the story of a middle-aged dentist Julian (Matthau) who does not want to be trapped into marrying his twenty-something girlfriend Toni (Hawn), and so tells her that he is already married with three kids.  When Toni tries to commit suicide, Julian is shamed into proposing to her on the condition that he will get a divorce, but Toni wants to meet his wife and make sure that she agrees to the divorce.  Julian gets his assistant/receptionist  Stephanie to play his wife, but Toni feels regret when she sees what a wonderful woman his wife is.  From there the plot and Stephanie blossom like the cactus on Stephanie’s desk, into a hilarious Shakespearean comedy of errors.

Ingrid Bergman gives a virtuosic performance as Stephanie playing the spurned long-suffering wife and mother, drawing on her own experiences as the loving assistant who is continually taken for granted.  In 1969, when the film was made, she is 54 years old and at the height of her acting powers, having already won three Oscars (amazingly not even a nomination for Casablanca).  Backed by strong performances from Matthau and Hawn, Bergman steals the show.

I am a sucker for these transformation stories.  Most of us have some sense of feeling trapped by work and family responsibilities, money concerns, and health issues, and the thought of breaking free and blossoming like a flower can carry the promise of (at least temporary) liberation from our cares.

Both the obligation and the liberation form the fabric of our lives.  Don’t they?

It’s sometimes hard to keep some equanimity while riding the waves of day-to-day life:

Up: We visited with Amanda and David over the weekend in New York, saw The Book of Mormon, which was an outrageous treat, waded through a Brownian mob of people in Times Square, and ordered ourselves huge customized burgers at The Counter.

Down: We were sobered by replicating the long tiring commute that David has every day to his work in NYC, paralleled by Amanda’s equally long drive to RPI.

Up:  We drove home through the beautiful autumn leaves of New York and Massachusetts, skirting the colorful Berkshire hills.

Down:  A new threat to our family’s health.  Bad news at first, then reassurance from the specialist, but still a sense of unrest.

Down? : My small surgicenter is taken over by Tenet Healthcare, a large conglomerate.  Much trepidation and uncertainty about our collective and individual future.

Up:  As a result, we get a new improved wi-fi network, and also a promising new administrator.

This was my week.  Anybody got some Dramamine (or a scope patch)?

This morning on the way to work I heard the tail end of an NPR feature about Clay Aiken, which reminded me what a fan of his I have been in the past.

Clay was runner-up in the second season of American Idol (2003), narrowly losing the popular vote to Ruben Studdard, who, despite being a talented performer, did not hold a candle to Clay.  Clay was musical, pitch-perfect, and sang with emotion, and most of his covers have become my go-to versions of the songs.  He sang an exquisite slow version of Dolly Parton’s “Here you come again”, and his redo of Diane Warren’s (and Celine Dion’s) “Because you loved me” was the basis for the slideshow that I put together for David and Amanda’s rehearsal dinner.  In a trip we took before that dinner Carol asked me why I wasn’t using Celine’s version.  I played her both versions, and she agreed that Clay’s was more emotional and had a simple elegance.

After his Idol run and a few records, Clay dropped out of sight for a few years, during which he came out of the closet (I always suspected that he lost out on Idol because of suspicions that he was gay), and adopted a son.

He is currently the Democratic nominee for a congressional seat from his home state of North Carolina.  From what I can tell, his chances are pretty good.  He was interviewed by NPR, who asked him if he would miss his singing career if he won the seat.  He said he was prepared to move on into a new phase of his life.

Wherever he goes, whatever he does…(oh yes, he also did a nice cover of Richard Marx’s “Right here waiting”)…I’ll be following him with interest.

Another eventful week, with mixed results:

Maiya Sykes was unceremoniously bounced from the Voice, “losing” to talented fifteen-year old Elyjuh Rene in the Battle Round, singing Alicia Keys’ “If I ain’t got you”.  Maiya was the clear favorite, and even offered some coaching to Elyjuh, drawing on her experience in vocal technique.  She gave a flawless performance (his was not flawless), but drew unintentionally on her experience in backup singing, where the objective is to stay in the background and make the other singer sound good.  Incredibly, three of the four judges gave Elyjuh the edge, even Blake Shelton, who called Maiya a “world-class singer”.  From what I can tell of the rules, Maiya does not have a chance to be resurrected.  I feel that there is an element of age-ism in these selections, given that the younger contestants are more malleable and teachable than the older more established ones.  Oh well, c’est la vie.  These vocal competition shows love to make news to keep up the interest.

Although I am not usually a proponent of conspiracy theories, I will break with my usual practice.  On further reflection (i.e. rumination) I am convinced that Maiya’s demise was orchestrated by the producers of the show.  This would explain the 3/4 judges and Blake’s judgement despite his “world-class” comment. It might also explained her resignation at the loss.  All four judges turned for Maiya, while only two turned for Elyjuh, and all four sang Maiya’s praises.  The producers are playing to the young viewership, and using the unexpected result to boost their ratings.  I am hereby boycotting the Voice.  So there!

Jeremy did well in his first start (second game) with the Lakers, racking up 14 points and 4 assists in 20 minutes.  He played with Kobe for the first time ever (they were on opposing teams in practice) and after an uncertain first half the two got going.  At some point (perhaps in practice) JLin sprained his ankle and was held out of the third game, hopefully as a precaution.

Finally, a new favorite: The Book of Mormon.  Carol and I made the pilgrimage to a mobbed Times Square to join David and Amanda in watching this energetic best-seller.  It is the raunchiest, most outrageous, and funniest performance I have seen, perhaps ever.  A definite must-see, but leave the kids at home. (There was a bewildered 11-year old sitting in the row  in front of us, the son of a radiologist I learned!)

At work today I took care of a dear old friend, the widow of one of my best anesthesia friends, a CRNA I worked with at UMass.  It was great to see her doing well.   My saying about these “VIP” cases is that you sweat twice as much to produce a result that is half as good as your usual.  Her case went a bit better than that, thankfully.

The NBA has started its preseason.  I learned tonight that I missed Jeremy’s first game, which was the night before last, LA Lakers vs. Denver Nuggets.  So I went onto Youtube and managed to watch most of the game.  Jeremy’s numbers: 27 minutes (most of all players), one point (1 for 6 from the field), TEN assists!  He looked good and ran the offense well. Also, in an improvement from Houston, he was treated with a great deal of respect by the announcers.  I am looking forward to a good season, both from Jeremy and the Lakers.

Jeremy and I have a lot in common.  We are both Asian-American, born in the U.S. of Asian parents.  We both went to Harvard.  We both excelled early and then ran into obstacles of adult life, including resentment and politics, which interfered with our ability to meet our potential.  We are both working on our game.

You who have been following my new blog probably noticed a gap in my posting.  This is because for the last week and a half I have been preoccupied with subjects which I cannot really blog about, namely my family (of origin) and my work.  I feel responsible for the “radio silence”, but suspect that the flow of my posts may have fits and starts to it just by the nature of my life and who I am.  Hang in there with me friends…

…Joe Pantoliano too, sitting in those dentist chairs having someone plug a humongous cable into the back of their necks.

Why? Starting this blog has made me feel that I have a conduit for all of the thoughts, feelings, and dumb ideas that come to my brain every day.  I used to blab all of them to my wife Carol, until she became so saturated with them that I had to limit myself, a painful experience for a born ham.  Now I can go the next step from Facebook (which has been very nice to me) and write about these things in a more coherent (hopefully) and lasting way.

By the way, I’m giving you all an assignment.  Send a Facebook friend request to Robert Meyerholz and tell him to start a blog!  He is retired New Haven policeman who is bursting with short stories about his experiences as a cop.  I don’t think Facebook has the bandwidth to support him any more (joke) and I think a blog would suit him even better.  Read some of his stories first, and see if you agree with me.