Lake of the sky

Lake Tahoe is the drop dead beautiful centerpiece of my youth, and after a few years away from it, I rode along a stretch of highway along its north shore on a recent bike ride.

In the mornings of warm summer days, the deep blue majesty of this lake is like a high altitude mountain pool of consciousness, something vast, calm and spiritual to behold. It is in these early summer mornings when its surface is as smooth as a mirror, all is calm, before afternoon winds whipping off the mountains looking down from the west, rough it up. Within its perimeter of 72 miles, and its millions of acre-feet of melted snow, the lake is a quiet giant of nature in the morning hours. It is a sight that requires more than a few minutes to fully comprehend as one standing at its edge, scans its wide, blue, quiet surface.

I lived at Lake Tahoe from 1959 to 1971, from young kid to mid-teens, then spent weekends during many summers at our house there in subsequent years. Through those years, it became a touchstone, a powerful reference point of my growing up years and all the drama they contained. We had a great hardback history book on Tahoe, called “The Saga of Lake Tahoe,” by Edward Scott, which came out in the late 50s and covered with text and many old black and white photographs, the human footprints made at Tahoe -- especially those of profit-minded white men -- since the mid 1800s.

The Washoe Indians were the first recorded humans to bask in the glorious Tahoe summers. For centuries they escaped the summer heat of the Washoe Valley, which sits below the mountains on the east side of the lake. Explorer John Fremont was the first white guy to see the lake in 1844 and it no doubt blew his mind. I always wanted to see the face of the first human, probably a Washoe Indian, that laid eyes on the lake hundreds of years before that. What a discovery that must have been. A huge mountain lake, edged by hugely tall forests of fir, pine and cedar, all untouched by man. What would he or she have said? I like to think it was Washoe language version of “Holy fuuuuck!!!!” or if a Washoe squaw, “Isn’t this lovely!”

The Washoe Indians lived in harmony with the lake, hanging out there during its pleasantly warm weather summers, hunting and fishing.

But when the white men came barging in with their big plans, the shameless plundering of the lake basin’s forests and its trout filled clear blue waters of unspeakable beauty, began. They drove out the Indians, and because the silver mines in Virginia City, in the Nevada desert to the northeast, required lumber to frame and support the mineshafts from 1858 to 1890, much of the forests in the basin were clear-cut by rag tag crews of loggers using long two-handled saws. Teams of horses dragged the felled trees to nearby sawmills. These lumber men butchered the native forests mercilessly, leaving acres of stumps and triggering soil erosion that began the slow but measurable decline of the lake’s legendary clarity.

But amazingly, in about 60 years, the basin’s ecosystem managed to heal itself from the clear cutting gashes it suffered. Second growth forests grew back in many of the logged out areas, though the trees aren’t as tall and wide as those in the original growth forests. The scruffy early settlers in the 1800s also managed to fish out all the native trout in the lake, setting up fish canneries that eventually shuttered when there were no more fish left. Gee, we never thought we’d all but wipe out the trout population. Brilliant.

To keep fishing alive trout plants were eventually dumped in the lake as well as plants that were non native species: Mackinaw trout and kokanee freshwater salmon.

Mackinaws were brought in from the Great Lakes in 1886, and being a large deep water trout happy to eat smaller fish in the lake, these big boys promptly ate all the remaining native Lahontan cutthroats. Another brilliant move. Mackinaws are still the big fish to catch by Tahoe anglers on their own in boats or with the help of guides. Kokanees were in a Tahoe City fish hatchery in 1944 when holding ponds accidentally overflowed, spilling the freshwater salmon from the Pacific Northwest into Tahoe, where they’ve been spawning primarily in Taylor Creek on the south shore ever since.

Gambling casinos were built on the Nevada side of the state lines in north and south Tahoe in the 1940s. To this day they attract gamblers to the area with little or no interest in the stunning natural beauty of the area. Dreaming of making the big score, they’d rather spend all their Tahoe time in the smoke filled casinos, sloshing booze, squinting at sleazy lounge shows and losing money on the craps tables, playing 21, keno, or pulling down no yield slot machine handles through the night, only to drive home somewhere below Tahoe, broke, with murderous hangovers.
But if I'm coming clean, I owe my years growing up in Tahoe to the casinos. Because one of them, Harrah's Club, on the south shore, in 1959 hired my dad to play upright bass -- he was a professional bass player in Los Angeles -- in their South Shore Room house orchestra. He was no fan of LA and loved the mountains and the lake. He decided that's where we were going to live, and moved my mom, two older sisters and me, up there. Our first stop was in a double-wide mobile home in Oliver's trailer park. It had no frills dirt roads and a loose grid of trailer spaces among sparse pines. Denizens were mostly club worker neighbors, many of whom worked all night and slept all day. "Tortilla Flat" was my mom's name for it. Good call.

Broken down abandoned cars owned by skunked gamblers were common in Tahoe in the 1960s, their humiliated owners figuring it was easier to go home by bus than deal with a broken down car. These days, Tahoe casinos have been hit hard by a double smack down in their popularity by all the Indian casinos that have seriously eroded their market share, along with a longstanding economic recession. 
But through redevelopment, the look of South Lake Tahoe has been cleaned up immensely from the “Tijuana of the Sierras” look it had in the 60s when the California side of the south shore was rife with crummy hotels and ramshackle apartments in the club worker pine forest ghettos. Adding to the tackiness was beat up pavement on the main drag of Highway 50 sporting no shortage of  trinket and t-shirt shops. Now there are bike paths, modern upgraded shopping areas, a tramway up the mountain to Heavenly Valley and there's a look and feel somewhat more befitting a small alpine city sitting in a world-class destination.

Over the years, development by rich landowners included mansions in choice secluded shoreline spots around the lake. But most of the housing early on in the mainstream discovery of the lake was lodges and cabins used during the spectacular Tahoe summers of crisp air and moderate heat. Winters would shoo away vacationers, but the development of ski resorts like Heavenly Valley on the south shore, along with the gaming industry, rounded out a seasonal tourist economy. Heavenly’s contribution to the erosion problem came with cutting down trees growing on the Southeast shore mountain face to make ski runs. Left was the unmistakable dirt scar visible from across the lake called the Gun Barrel. 
As highways were improved and widened to four lanes along the east shore, housing developments started getting built in the 1960s. The 1960 Winter Olympics held at Squaw Valley made the Tahoe area a world stage, even through Squaw is just outside of the Tahoe basin on its northwest side.

The conservation movement of the lake’s environment began in earnest in the 1960s, with studies beginning to see how deep a white plate could be seen in the water when dropped on a metered pole from a boat. Erosion from development --- causing oxygen-eating, water warming nutrients to flow into the lake from its feeder streams, and algae growth – was identified as the biggest factor in the lake’s steadily declining clarity. Oops.

So development moratoriums were put in place and construction permits limited to a lottery and waiting lists to slow down the erosion effects of development. My parents built a house on the Nevada side of the south shore in 1963 before any development moratoriums were in place. So our family was part of the problem in erosion promoting development. Ironically my mom was the executive secretary for the Lake Tahoe Area Council, a now defunct nonprofit that worked to combat erosion-causing development in the basin. Since then, the federal government has stepped in to fund more studies of the lake, including an underwater topographical map of the lake’s bottom, and maps showing its various depths and temperatures in different parts of the lake. Now, tourists can look at an outdoor display in shoreline public spots such as Kings Beach on the north end, recounting the ongoing battle to keep Tahoe’s deep blue waters from become green, murky and choked with algae.

After that north shore bike ride a few months earlier, I got on my road bike and rode the 72 mile perimeter of Lake Tahoe with a riding buddy. I’ve been on that route many times in a car, but always wanted to see what it would be like on a bike. Early in the ride, which we started at Stateline on the Nevada side of the south shore, we got to the unpopulated woods of the southwest shore that flank the winding two lane Highway 89. There, I was happy to learn the obvious:  On a bike you can look up to see a stunning view the mountains that a car with a roof doesn’t afford. Looking up we saw the vertical face of Mount Tallac. Tallac is about 9,000 feet high, up about 3,000 feet from the lake level, and is an incredible day hike I’ve done many times over the years. The view from the top of Tallac is like being in an airplane, showing nearly the entire surface of the lake.  As we continued riding switchbacks approaching Emerald Bay there were the sweeping views looking northeast over the lake. These are jaw dropping world class vistas of vast blue water, blue sky and green forest. Continuing north on the west shore, we rode by Meeks Bay Resort, where as a young teen I worked for three straight summers on the maintenance crew. Now it is less cluttered and still offers a great shoreside view of the mountains on southwest shore of the lake. We rode north several more miles through Tahoe City, where I’d spent a college summer working as a reporter at the Tahoe World weekly newspaper, which is now long gone. We headed east at the north side of the lake and rode through Incline Village’s Shoreline Drive, where many rich people have built mansions. Starting to head south on the east side of the lake we climbed the winding two lane road to Spooner Summit. Then a descent past Glenbrook and I saw the wide spot in the road where my dad and I used to hike down to an isolated deep water fishing spot on a huge granite boulder.

We rode through the granite tunnel at Cave Rock and by its much improved parking lot and boat landing where I fished from the rocks with my Dad and  boyhood friends. The old Manny’s, a greasy spoon hamburger joint that was there all through my childhood was no longer there, probably a good thing.

We rode by my elementary school, and then by the neighborhood I grew up in, the corporate version of the once mom and pop store where I used to catch my bus to school. A few miles later we passed the road down to our favorite beach. And not much farther ahead we rode past the old Rabe’s meadow, just down the hill from the site of what was Oliver's trailer park where we first lived upon moving to Tahoe. And in a flash we were back to our starting point at a casino parking lot at Stateline.

A wonderful statement of Nature, Lake Tahoe is. Its power of mass and sheer beauty has moved many to see it with eyes filled with wonder and awe. May its residents now and in the future protect its beauty, its clarity, its trees, its beaches and clear fresh air from the ravages of uncaring populations of previous generations. Tahoe was taken for granted by too many environmentally unconscious people for too many decades. But it has managed, with help, to recover very slowly from its man-inflicted wounds. May that encouraging trend continue.

May the inspiring beauty of Lake Tahoe always be.

Mark Eric Larson has written two books of essays, "The NERVE...of Some People's Kids," and "Don't Force it, Get a Bigger Hammer. To read, visit: 
http://www.scribd.com/Mark%20Eric%20Larson/shelf

A shameful tale: California's dental insurance gap

I volunteered at a free, two-day dental clinic just hosted in Sacramento by California Dental Association. I did exit interviews of those who were among the first people who stood in line to get badly needed dental care.

A rotating staff conducted the interviews to get recipient feedback. The short sessions gave an up close and personal snapshot of people who came to the clinic for all types of care, from cleanings to fillings, to tooth extractions to dentures, to denture fixes, to broken teeth aid, toothaches, seemingly every dental problem in the book.

The CDA crew was big and well organized. Dentists and hygienists worked for free, as did volunteers. Sponsors donated food and equipment. All was done in a massive room at Cal Expo, the state fair grounds. Seen from a terrace above, the huge clinic floor was abuzz with energy and activity. Lines of dentists and hygienists worked on the steady stream of walk-in patients. Dental chairs were fully equipped, and plumbed with water supplied and drained via temporary rigs of PVC pipe.

Many of the attendees stood in line all night to get treatment. As they entered, a dentist determined what specific care they could receive on the visit. For some it was a teeth cleaning that they hadn’t had from a dentist in years, or ever. Others had complex problems, and because of the limitations of the clinic’s time and resources, could get only the most critical of their problems worked on.

In May, a similar CDA free clinic held in Modesto successfully served a part of the dental care deficit there.

In exit interviews I did, two things came up regularly.  Every person lacked dental insurance. And every person couldn’t afford to go to a dentist to solve a problem, much less get regular maintenance care such as cleanings and fillings. Most said that even after getting care at the clinic, they wouldn't have the money to visit a dentist in the future.

Some of the people were poor and uneducated. Some were homeless. But many were obviously educated and unemployed. Almost all were hugely grateful.

One woman, asked if she’d been welcomed and respected at the clinic, burst into tears. She was so thankful she was speechless.

A man and his young son were there because they had pitched a tent near Cal Expo the night before, the dad said. He and his son, the mother and another child, took turns in the all-night line. The dad and son were among the first treated on the clinic's opening morning.

Some people had teeth pulled and were wracked with pain. Mouths full of gauze, they could only point to their exit question answers. One older man had a whole new set of teeth – new dentures -- and proudly beamed a smile with his new look.

One woman made it clear she appreciated work she’d received. But she and several others said the line outside overnight was a scary experience. A TV crew showed up in the pre-dawn hours to cover the interest in the free clinic. That triggered a rush toward the entrance, causing fights and people to struggle to keep their places in line. The woman also suggested water could have been provided to the people in line, to ward off the effects of August heat.

The overarching problem here is glaring: If you don’t have dental insurance, you pretty much have to do without dental care. The lack of basic affordable care for cleanings and fillings, along with education on how to properly brush and floss every day, degrades anyone's dental health over time.

As a result, the masses of dental care challenged in California have to be lucky enough to hear of a free dental clinic like this that can serve only so many. Then they’re faced with standing in line, likely overnight, and for some, in less than safe conditions. All just to get long delayed relief from preventable dental problems: needed extractions, broken teeth, needed plates, cleanings and cavities that need drilling and filling.

But CDA dentists, sponsors and volunteers who donated huge amounts of time, effort, expertise, money and equipment, deserve a standing ovation for this event. They rolled up their sleeves and continued to tackle a huge problem in California.

The effort exposed another of many big problems facing this state. This one is a wide dental care gap. It’s about as wide as the gap on a set of dentures, with no front teeth.

Mark Eric Larson has written two books of essays, "The NERVE...of Some People's Kids," and "Don't Force it, Get a Bigger Hammer. To read, visit: 
http://www.scribd.com/Mark%20Eric%20Larson/shelf

Avoid flying into windows

I have a fountain in my front yard that all kinds of birds like to fly to and flap around in, cool off, have a few sips. One bad ass hawk occasionally flies in and perches at the top where the water is pumped up, to cool his talons. All the other birds clear out when he comes around.

On summer mornings before the heat sets in, I open the front door and leave it open. My small dog Ricky likes to sit on the carpet square inside the front door and soak up the morning sun. After he gets enough power sunbathing, he ambles back into the house to take a nap. Eventually I’ll shut the front door.

The other morning I was about to leave for an appointment when I heard what sounded like one of my dog’s squeaky toys. Ricky’s a little older, and doesn’t play with his toys much anymore. I checked and he looked up from his bed, not a toy near him. The squeaking continued, and came from near the front door. I looked up to one of the high windows above the door in the entry. I saw a hummingbird vainly trying to fly away, bumping into the second floor window. His usual blurred high RPM wing flaps had slowed to a flutter, and his occasional squeaks were his panic button. He apparently didn’t get why he could see the trees off in the distance, but couldn’t fly to them. In his brain, an invisible wall blocking his flight, did not compute.

The little guy was exhausted from bumping into the window and settled onto the sill.

I wanted to get him out of the house quickly because I had to leave. I found a dust mop with only a pivoting plastic slat on the end. I opened the front door to show the tiny bird the path to freedom and poked the flopping end of the mop up to the sill. That made him fly again, but he headed up against the second floor ceiling. He didn’t notice the open door a few feet below him.

“Look down, c’mon, the door’s down here!” I called up to the scared little bird, as if he could understand English.

He fluttered around in confusion and soon lost power. He dropped slowly until he settled on a high flat spot, the shoulder of the chimney along the stairwell.

But even when I went up the stairs next to the square little ledge, I still wasn’t tall enough to see onto it. I tried more blind herding with the mop, but it didn’t work.

Then I realized I needed to leave soon for my appointment. I wrangled a barstool under the shelf and got on it. Its swiveling seat made it tricky to stand on. And when I managed to straighten up on it I still wasn’t tall enough to see onto the sill. Grrrrrr! What the hell?

I needed a ladder. I didn’t want to leave the bird where he was. He could die there or, somewhere else in the house, after exhausting himself trying to get outside. I didn’t want to come home to a poor dead bird I could have saved.

So I stepped quickly to the garage, pulled out a stepladder and set it up under the shelf.

I climbed it and this time, I was high enough to see the shelf and the tired, scared little hummingbird, wide-eyed, resting. He was propped up against the wall, and eyed me with no small amount of suspicion. I moved my right hand slowly toward him and gently put my fingers around him, gathering him in my palm. He didn’t struggle.

At this point, he probably thought he was a goner, in the hands of Godzilla, about to be eaten. But he was too tired to resist.

I got down off the ladder with him cupped in my hand and walked out the front door. I extended my arm and opened up my hand, and the hummingbird knew what to do. The little guy saw the open sky and trees. He flapped his wings and flew up and away. No window stopped him this time. In a flash, he was gone.

Relieved, I rushed off to my appointment.

Later, I told the story to friends, and one retold it to a co-worker.

“Did he notice the metaphor?” the friend asked about me.

Hmm, yes. Metaphor? Analogy? Life lesson? Deep thought provoker?

I hadn’t thought about it. It just happened and was over.

When I was a kid fishing on rocks along Lake Tahoe, I had a similar free-the-trapped-wildlife experience. And it gave me a great feeling. To this day, it’s still one of my most spirit lifting memories.

I caught a small trout that I didn’t want to kill and fry up. My Dad, as was his way, listened and understood. We kept the fish alive over night in the cold-water filled bathtub. The next day, my Dad drove me and the fish – he was in a water filled bucket -- back to our fishing spot. I stood on the rocks at water’s edge and poured the fish out of the bucket and into the lake. I watched the fish splash into the glassy blue deep water and flash like lightening into his vast world of Lake Tahoe. I can’t ever remember feeling more connected with the universe.

So I pondered, the whole free the hummingbird episode. Like the fish story, it did have the drama of lost freedom we all face at one time or another: freedom lost to unseen traps, fear, both real and imagined, and the crapshoot of regaining lost freedom.

So what if the hummingbird could squeak English to give his account of his scary adventure, one of many that humans commonly endure in their lives?

I imagine he’d say something like this:

Hummingbird: “Hey, I was trapped. I was tired. I needed help. And somehow I got out.”

Me: “So did you think it was a hopeless situation?”

H: “Pretty much.”

Me: “Get a life lesson out of it?”

H: “Oh yeah. Never fly through an open doorway to a building. You might not make it out. I was lucky, I got out. But it was only because of help.”

Me: “Anything else?”

H: “You know those things that block you, but you can’t see them? What are they called?”

Me: “You mean windows?”

H: “Is that what they’re called?”

Me: “Yes, windows.”

H: “Well, what is the deal with them?”

Me: “I know what you mean. It’s a bad feeling constantly running into something you can’t see.”

H: “No, not fun at all.”

Me: “But at least you learned something to pass onto your friends. Don’t try to fly through a window. Only bad things can happen.”

H: Yes, very true. But that doesn’t help if you can’t see them. By the way, thanks for setting me free.”

Me: “No problem, happy to do it. By the way, your English is impeccable. Why didn’t you listen when I told you to fly out the door?”

H: “I was freaked out. The only thing I heard was my bird brain yelling ‘Get out! Get out!’ or, ‘Squeak! Squeak!’”

Me: “Yes, I heard that. Well, stay free buddy.”

H: “Will do. Hey, gotta fly. There are some flowers I need to check out.”

So I guess there are messages in this little caper. For us humans, it might translate roughly to: If you find yourself banging into a wall, stop. There’s surely another a way around it.

Oh, and if you can free any trapped wildlife you encounter, figure out a way to set them free. That’s a good one to remember. Even if you’re in a hurry, it will definitely make your day.

Mark Eric Larson has written two books of essays, "The NERVE...of Some People's Kids," and "Don't Force it, Get a Bigger Hammer. To read, visit: 
http://www.scribd.com/Mark%20Eric%20Larson/shelf

Alpha Nuts talk jobs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-YK2sG9s3t4&feature=plcp

Mark Eric Larson has written two books of essays, "The NERVE...of Some People's Kids," and "Don't Force it, Get a Bigger Hammer. To read, visit: 
http://www.scribd.com/Mark%20Eric%20Larson/shelf

Biscuit Bob

I happened upon him while walking my 12-pound chihuahua mix, Little Ricky Ricardo, on our neighborhood route. He was a tall, balding man with a round face and huge belly. He looked to be in his mid-60s. He stood in front of his ramshackle house and watched Ricky pull on the leash, excitedly trying to run to him. The man held a small Milk Bone biscuit and offered it to Ricky, who ecstatically snatched it out of his hand and snarfed up the delicious biscuit, tail wagging as he munched.

The man introduced himself as Bob and we exchanged howdy dos. It turned out that Bob always carried dog biscuits in his pockets. He’d give one to any dogs on a walk by his house. He knew every dog in the neighborhood.

He mentioned to me he’d had dogs, and missed them. He didn’t have any dogs anymore and didn’t give a reason. I got the feeling he’d loved his dogs so much, he couldn’t handle getting another one or two, and eventually losing them. Losing a loved dog, or any pet for that matter, can cut too deep to do again.

After that, Ricky knew exactly where Biscuit Bob’s house was on our walk. He always picked up the pace when we were 100 or so yards from the house. Ricky always looked hard for him and as soon as he saw Biscuit Bob, it was like he’d just gotten a blast of adrenaline: he danced on his springing back legs as he tried to sprint against the leash, front paws in the air, pulling hard like a chihuahua sled dog, with me being the sled.  He was fired up to cash in on another delicious biscuit from the big fella, ASAP.

Sometimes Biscuit Bob was in front of his house or in the driver’s seat of his van. Sometimes he wasn’t around. Sometimes he’d appear out of his house if he saw Ricky coming. He’d give Ricky a biscuit and pets while we chitchatted about the weather. Bob loved Ricky. Ricky loved Biscuit Bob.

“Ohh yess, that’s good, isn’t it,” he’d say in his raspy dog lover’s voice as he watched Ricky munch in pure bliss, tail wagging. “Yess..My goodness gracious…oh yesss…”

Ricky, a master at working humans for treats by dancing on his back legs while waving a dogpaddle with his front paws, always went back to Bob to make a bid for a second biscuit.

Bob gave him pets and coos, but held his ground. He gave out a lot of biscuits to a lot of dogs, so he had rules.

“Only one per customer,” he’d say.

When Biscuit Bob wasn’t around when we walked by, Ricky didn’t want to quit looking for him. He’d look back after we kept walking, holding out hope he’d still see him.

Biscuit Bob always kept the shades drawn on his front windows. When he was gone he left a bright desk light on visible from the street.

I didn’t know Bob’s story, but he lived alone. I asked him once what he’d done for a living, since he was retired, and I think he said he’d been a mechanic. He once showed me a radio controlled model plane he had in his truck. He liked to take it out and fly it in open areas where other hobbyists do the same. When his breath was labored and he looked like he felt ill, I’d ask him how it was going.

“Fine,” He’d abruptly answer.

Which was his way of saying none of your business.

Friendly to his neighbors, he couldn’t be bothered with keeping his place up. It looked like the thrashed “Malcolm in the Middle” house of sitcom past. His abode was a grungy site, easily the shabbiest home on the tree-lined street on which most of its modest homes and yards are neat, maintained and manicured. He never mowed or watered his brown lawn.

I’ve felt bad for the neighbors on each side of him. They got a daily view of Biscuit Bob’s place, which could be mistaken for a crack house. From the street, it looks like a self-contained, post-apocalyptic, scorched earth, nightmare. Clad in faded gray stucco, it has old double-hung windows with blistered paint, dreary rust colored shutters providing rain leached brownish stains down the side of the house. The house has no roof gutters. His short, flat concrete driveway is busted up into several large uneven pieces from massive tree roots growing under it. And until a couple years ago, to give onlookers and neighbors an extra dose of ugly, Bob had long kept old rusted inoperable cars and trucks parked in his driveway.

By the looks of its curbside presentation, the house’s interior has to be a full-fledged disaster. I pictured Bob sleeping on a greasy mattress in a room down the hall from a foul smelling, never clean toilet.

The kitchen? The living room? I imagine hoarded clutter everywhere, with useless, dusty, dirty, stinky crap of all kinds piled high in every available space, with trails between the junk piles to enable movement to the front door and the other rooms. Of course it could have been immaculate in there. But…nah. No way.

Biscuit Bob drove various used cars and trucks. His latest was a maroon van. Occasionally when Ricky and I were on our walk, he’d drive by us and stop in the street, open his driver side door and give Ricky his biscuit. Of course, Ricky went nuts with glee.

Bob had bad knees, his big, friendly, gregarious neighbor Lou, a woman who lived across the street, told me. When his lawn grew tall from the rain, she mowed it for him.

One day he lost his balance on his steps and fell. So he hired a carpenter across the street to build a ramp from his porch to his driveway. After that was built, he used a walker. His health had suddenly gone south and he’d been hospitalized. I saw him after he came home. His face was gaunt, drained of color, he needed a shave, he’d lost his belly. He looked hollowed out, not long for the world. But he still had a biscuit ready for Ricky.

Then his van was gone from his driveway for a long time. A few weeks later, someone had cut down the bushes on the side of his house and put up a for sale sign.

One day I walked Ricky by Bob’s house and Lou was sitting on her front porch, head in hands, sobbing uncontrollably. I felt like turning around so she could have her time alone. But Ricky and I just kept walking, trying to be inconspicuous. She looked up, took a deep breath, choked back her tears and called out to Ricky.

“Nice summer day, Ricky, gotta get your walk,” she called, the emotion edging her attempted cheer.

She and her friend Jody have always loved Ricky to meet up with their dachshund Maddie. Lou took another deep breath, and I called across to her: “You take it easy, now.”

I didn’t want to ask what the problem was. Somehow it felt better to let her cry out her grief. As we kept walking, I heard her resume sobbing as if she’d never stopped. I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she just got the news that her long-time neighbor, Biscuit Bob, was gone.

And a few days later, in the warm, flower-scented spring twilight of a recent walk, I said hello to the elder lady that lives next to Biscuit Bob. She looked up from her gardening and I asked her if he had passed.  She opened up as if she hadn’t talked to anyone in a long time. She told me he died after an extended stay in the hospital. She’s lived in her house 23 years, she said. Bob’s aunt gave him the house years ago. The neighbor lady, whose own colorful, flower-full yard shows her green thumb, said she knew Bob’s aunt when she lived in the house.

“She kept it beautiful,” she said.

Bob, she said, had served in Vietnam. She said she’d ask him why he just let the place go to seed, and he’d reply, “Why should I do anything when somebody else will do it?”

The neighbor lady said the house was just sold to men who told her they paid $140,000 for it. She couldn’t comprehend the price, given the grim state of the property. They plan to fix it up, she said, and replace the driveway. They told her they found a canoe in the house.

I’m guessing the new owners will try to flip the house. If so, any improvements will likely be done on the cheap so they can pull out as much profit as possible. Still, it’ll take a good chunk of change just to make the place inhabitable. A bulldozer could be the best first step.

As we chatted, Bob’s neighbor lady told of her son who served on a ship that was shelled during the Vietnam War. He had been badly injured. Nasty looking scars covered his legs and after coming home, thoughtless teenagers mocked his legs when they saw him in shorts.

“That kind of thing cuts deep,” she said.

I didn’t ask her if her son is still alive, but I got the feeling he isn’t.

Too many Vietnam veterans were given the cold shoulder by our society upon returning home, largely doing without critically needed support, morally, physically, psychologically, or otherwise. Of all war veterans, the neighbor lady said, “They go through things most of us could never imagine.”

It’s true. How easily we here at home, who’ve never known the fear and the physical and emotional trauma absorbed in combat, turn a blind eye. How easily we, who know nothing of returning veterans’ struggle to cope with their wounded bodies and minds, forget about their needs.

Bob, as a Vietnam vet, like many of his mates that managed to survive and make it back home -- just like those returning these days from serving in Iraq and Afghanistan – come home permanently changed from who and what they were when they left for duty. They come home with injuries ranging from concussions, to hearing loss to missing limbs, along with tsunamis of scary emotional trauma roiling in their psyches. In many cases, their battle zone experiences have been enough to fracture their at-home worlds into kaleidoscoped images of flashback horror.

Although current returning veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan are getting more support at home, more, no doubt, could be done to help them.

How do they pick up the pieces? Some get physical and mental therapy that helps them normalize their worlds with the love and support of their families. But some just can’t shake the seared in memories of their wartime experiences. Trying to cope, some hit the bottle or get hooked on drugs, or both. Some have bursts of violence. Some isolate themselves.

Biscuit Bob lived in full retreat, trying to make it through what he had left of his life as quietly as possible. Only he knew what he brought back from Vietnam, no one else knew what his eyes saw there. Whatever it was, he kept it bottled up tight. His way to deal with his at-home world was to keep to himself, to wait it all out. Just wait. Until, mercifully, it was his time to go.

He didn’t care what people thought of him or his crapped out house, yard and junk cars. It didn’t matter to him. He just did what he had to do. He was himself, for better or worse. No apologies. He’d given up big pieces of himself. Pieces he knew he would never get back. He just wanted to be left alone.

 “He was a lost soul,” said his neighbor lady.

Now, whenever we approach Biscuit Bob’s house on our walk, Ricky still trots faster. To him, a treat is ahead. When Ricky gets to his yard, he looks hard for his big friend. He’s sure Biscuit Bob will appear, with a trusty Milk Bone in his hand, ready to deliver. Ready to give him some pets.

Put on some pants

Editor’s Note: Below is the script of a late night TV infomercial aired during a commercial break in the movie, “My Cousin Vinny.”

A CASINO SCENE IS ON THE SCREEN. THE CAMERA MOVES IN TO DANIEL CRAIG AS A STONE FACED JAMES BOND. A SMOOTH VOICED ANNOUNCER NARRATES:

“It’s something we all strive for. For a man, it’s the key to getting attention from a woman. You know what I’m talking about. It’s being cool. It’s being hip. It’s being a man without acting like, well, femmy. This is how most men want to be seen, and why not? They want to be a man that exudes an air of QC. Yes, quiet confidence.

 So why are there so few men out there like this? Hip, cool guys in social and physically challenging situations?”

VIDEO CUTS TO A MIDDLE-AGED BARTENDER WITH SLICKED BLACK HAIR, BROAD TANNED FACE, WHITE STARCHED SHIRT, BLACK VEST. HE SMILES AS HE LOOKS ACROSS THE BAR. BEHIND HIM IS A ROW OF BACKLIT LIQUOR BOTTLES: 

Hiya men, Joey Balls here!

HE TURNS TO A SIDE CAMERA AND TALKS IN A LOWERED CONFIDENTIAL TONE:

Ya know, you gals are welcome to watch, but if you got a man in the house, it might do them good to come to the TV right now. I’ve got some good info that might help ‘em out for your benefit, if ya know what I mean. So I’m gonna talk directly to them, if ya don’t mind. Okay, so here goes.

JOEY LOOKS BACK ACROSS THE BAR AND STARTS HIS PITCH:

So guys, ya know, a wise man once said, there’s no shortage of pussy for the man that doesn’t act like one!

Well, I won’t tell you who this wise man is.

But, okay. It’s me!

Yeah, maybe I went a little over the top callin’ myself wise, but hey! Put it this way, I’m in a position to know some things! And sometimes I do crack wise, so okay, enough of the chit-chat.

Now guys, take it from me, a lifelong Manhattan bartender with a street-level PhD in human behavior: Not being a pussy is a worthy goal for every self-respecting straight male. And no, I’m not talking about house cats here.

Because when a man acts like a pussy, that means he really is a pussy! And that, truth be told, makes him unworthy of his man card. He might as well start wearing a dress. (No offense, cross dressers, nothing wrong with that. Go for it.)

So if you’re not a cross dresser, there’s nothing else to do but: Put on some pants, for Cryin’ Out Loud!

See, it’s important for a man to have a valid man card. If he doesn’t have a VMC, he really won’t command much respect, especially from a good part of the female of the species.

Guys, let me tell you a little secret: A real man is admired, especially by women who are sick to death of pussies, i.e., straight guys who suddenly act like giddy girls, petulant princesses or quirky queens.

Now don’t get me wrong, many women feel more comfortable around a man exhibiting pussy behavior. That’s because a lotta these gals are bossy, and they can easily boss a balls-free man and get no resistance. They like that. Other gals purposely hang with gay men because they don’t have to guard against unwanted come-ons from creepy skirt chasers. And that way they can talk clothes and shoes, celebrity gossip, and all the other girly talk – with a different kinda man, but technically still a man.

But guys, there are many women that prefer men that don’t act like pussies. You know, a guy with a glimmer of intelligence, an opinion, some physical fitness, who’s cool under pressure: A no BS guy who has a pair.  And who has QC.

Too many times at my bar, I watch these women see a guy show his pussy behavior, and that’s it, they have no interest.

And what self-respecting single man – that isn’t gay – wants that? Now let me be clear, there’s nothing wrong with being gay. If you’re gay, you’re gay, go for it, that’s great.

But straight men, FYI, man pussies are everywhere these days. I see ‘em at my bar all the time. These are the many “men” out there that don’t even know they’re acting like pussies. If they did, they’d be red in the face. They’d no doubt love to be clued in on what they shouldn’t do.

So just what is a pussy?

Well, funny you should ask! If you order now, you can get my best selling DVD, “How Not to be a Pussy” for $12.99, shipping included. Just call the number on the screen and operators will process your order ASAP.

Among the man card saving tips you’ll get with this incredible life changing information will be:

How to spot pussy behavior in yourself and other “men.” Here’s a preview of a few dead giveaways:

You always do what you’re told by your significant other. Because if you don’t, you’ll be the object of wrath. This is known as ball-breaking. And you can officially call yourself pussy-whipped!

You never exercise, so you’re a tubby-ass couch potato; You have no self-respect. You’re pathetic. You hate yourself so you get drunk. You’re a sad non-man.

When faced with a physical challenge of any kind, you always back away. You don’t feel like a man. Because you’re not.

Your drink of choice is an appletini, a cosmo, or a lemon drop. Or a rum and Coke. Or white zinfandel. Or “lite” American “beer.” Don’t get me started…

Whenever the shit hits the fan, you quit, walk away or blubber like a baby that just dropped a pant load. You wish you had your mommy’s teat to suck on. You’re pathetic. An embarrassment.

Any of the above sound a little too familiar? Well there is something you can do about it, and it’s just a call away!

In this value-packed DVD, you’ll find out more man enhancing behaviors that will ensure not only that everybody knows you have a pair, but they’re solid brass.

Plus, you’ll also get the inside scoop on:

• How to make sure you eliminate pussy behavior.

• How to deal with other “men” displaying pussy behavior.

• How to make sure your significant other knows that although other guys may be pussies, you’re definitely not a pussy.

Now, FYI, this isn’t to make you into some macho freak that face paints or pulls stupid frat-boy pranks. No, I’m talking just about being a real man by being one. That means when it’s time to step up to the plate, you’ll no longer get into the fetal position, whimper, suck your thumb and drool.

So act now, and learn how to join the real man’s world. And, if you’re one of the first 50 orders of my DVD, I’ll throw in a whiskey shot glass and fresh hand-made cigar from my personal walk-in humidor. Now that’s a value only a pussy would pass on!

Bob, tell ‘em how to get these balls rollin’! But first, some testimonials of my man empowering DVD:

“I never knew what a pussy I was until I saw Joey Ball’s DVD. What an eye opener! When I tried out the easy to understand recommendations, I never had so much female attention in my life!”  

Jerrod

“I always thought I was all man until I took Joey’s pussy detection test. But after a few changes, now I know I am, and I can feel the admiration around me.” Cecil

“My husband followed Joey Balls’ DVD life changing advice, and now our marriage has turned from boring to roaring! I’m finally the only pussy in this relationship! Thank you Joey Balls!”

Rachel

OK, alright, enough of the chit-chat. Go, Bob!

ENTHUSIASTIC ANNOUNCER: Right, Joey Balls! Call the number on your screen, operators are standing by. Be sure to have your major valid credit card number ready. And men, remember what Tell it Like It Is series host Joey Balls says:

Time to put on some pants!

OffernotavailabletoalllocationsclaimsmadeinthisadareonlytheopinionofJoeyBallsallsalesarefinal.

Screen returns to the prison scene of “My Cousin Vinny.”

Mark Eric Larson has written two books of essays, "The NERVE...of Some People's Kids," and "Don't Force it, Get a Bigger Hammer. To read, visit: 
http://www.scribd.com/Mark%20Eric%20Larson/shelf