Mary & Jerry Jackson at the Mayflower Hotel for the inauguration

Mary & Jerry Jackson at the Mayflower Hotel for the inauguration, originally uploaded by keithsjackson.

Jerry told Gma, "Dan and I have an unusual relationship. I'll do anything he asks of me and he'll do the same for me." As Jerry tells the story about himself, he was a drunk, an hourly wage earner at Champion Paper in Pasadena ,Texas, and loaded with debts. An attack of appendicitis put him in the hospital, making his personal situation much worse. At the time he was dating Mary, a widow with two teenage children. She never left his bedside, never gave up on him. He dried up and never drank again. He began the climb up the executive ladder at Champion. At the same time he was a close friend of LBJ .
He was referred to me for his annual exams at which time he was able to tell me his personal problems and enlist my help. His number one problem was his mother whom he called every day. I became her physician which helped some of her anxiety. Once he called me from the airport where he was scheduled to leave for Argentina. His mother had called him in great distress--could I help? I called his mother's houseman who said he would look into the matter. All fixed.
Jerry made it possible for us to attend the LBJ inauguration in great style. We visited him and Mary in Alaska and stayed with them in their house for a week while they showed us the sights. When he had some dental work done while on a trip to Tokyo, he wouldn't take the antibiotic the dentist prescribed until he phoned me for my OK.
He had no more than a 12th grade education but at the peak of his success he was a vice president in charge of purchasing, a powerful position in an international corporation. He had a native intelligence that carried him far; as he boasted, "MBAs? I hire and fire 'em."
He was all-Texan. And he was a true blue friend.

Macchu Pichu

Macchu Pichu, originally uploaded by keithsjackson.

Gpa says: A Peruvtan landmark that was so thrilling that I wanted to climb around on it.

Alamo Scouts

Recently I had a phone call from a retired army officer who is compiling an oral history of soldiers who had served in the Alamo Scouts in the South Pacific in WWll. I had been the medical officer for the Scouts from January through March 1945.
He happened to mention that an officer had been given the "mushroom treatment." He explained, "That means that he is kept in the dark and fed a lot of shit."

Face to Face with Nature

Last week Yvette and I watched Part Three of the PBS documentary, "The National Parks." Most of the 2-hour segment was devoted to the Grand Canyon; it reminded me of our visit to the Canyon in 1982. What I saw at that brief visit affected me more than any other photographic subject I had ever encountered.
We parked our car and I grabbed my Nikon. Because the weather was threatening, we walked through the souvenir shop to get to the South Rim. The wind had picked up and I could feel the mist of the approaching rain on my face. Protecting my camera lens with my cupped hand, I moved as close to the edge of the Rim as I could. An enormous gray cloud filled the entire Canyon; only a few of the higher peaks were visible and above them wisps of gray whipped about. Lightning flashed but I was too far away to hear the accompanying thunder.
I began snapping frame after frame; when I felt rain on my forehead, I shielded my camera and slowly backed away to the shelter next to Yvette. She wiped my face of raindrops-----and tears; I had been crying.
I did not understand what had happened to me until I had prints made from the best negatives on the roll. It was then that I realized that bad weather was a much better time to get good shots than in bright shining times. A deeper response, until then hidden from me, was that my emotions from the power of nature, its beauty or its destructive capabilities, resonated to an unsuspected depth within me.

The American Dilemma

I was in the Philippines in the spring of 1945. As the war wound down there was little for me to do, so I plunged into Gunnar Myrdal's 2-volume study of the American negro, "An American Dilemma." His conclusion was that America had been founded on the belief that "all men are created equal," yet the negro had always been treated shabbily. This played on the conscience of the American people; thus, the dilemma: proclaim equality, yet harbor hate and actively and passively discriminate aginst the negro.
Considering today's reaction to our African-American president, it's clear that the dilemma persists.

Trying to Change Bad Grammar

I have a thing about the proper use of the verb, “diagnose.” When I read a sports columnist report that a quarterback had been diagnosed with a torn ligament in his knee or hear a news anchor say that an actress had been diagnosed with breast cancer, my reaction is the feeling I get on hearing nails scrape a blackboard. There may be other instances of ignoring proper grammar, but something down deep in me stirs to a boil when “diagnose” is misused. I guess it all started when I started editing in earnest for a national medical journal. I had published a few articles before that but had never paid much attention to using words for clarity and preciseness. At a lunch at a medical meeting I happened to mention that I did a bit of editing of grand rounds for the hospital. A cardiologist sitting next to me asked if I would like to have them published in the bimonthly journal of which he was the editor for internal medicine. So it began---the attempt to convert the spoken word into the written word, always trying to use words whose meaning was exactly what the speaker intended. When I encounter the misuse of “diagnose,” I react by sending an email as follows: “You can diagnose a flat tire. You can diagnose flat feet. You can diagnose bad teeth. But you cannot diagnose a person. You can say that “a doctor diagnosed a ruptured cartilage in the quarterback’s knee” or that “her physician made a diagnosis of breast cancer.” Long ago I stopped sending corrections to abusers of grammar because I soon found I was not changing anybody’s bad habits---the misuse of “diagnose” continued without a pause. I heard from only one person I wrote to: Elizabeth Farnsworth of The News Hour. I had written her about her report that someone “had been diagnosed with breast cancer.” She thanked me for my letter of August 11th, 1999 (hers was dated November 29, 1999) apologized for responding so tardily, and said she would try to incorporate the proper use of “diagnose” in her delivery.

Two Immigrants

Here are the stories of two immigrants; their common theme is the deep desire to get to the land of freedom and opportunity.

My father wanted to go to America. As he made plans, his mother cried bitterly and begged him to stay, even suggesting he join the Russian army, which showed how desperate she was to prevent him from going so far away. But he was determined: at age twenty he left Rudney, Ukraine, for Minsk and then headed north to the German border. Before he could get there he was caught by Russian soldiers. He spent four weeks in jail, then was sent home. About a year later he tried again; this time he visited Rabbi Meyer in Minsk for a blessing, and made for the border. He was successful. He crossed Germany to Hamburg, embarked on the Prince Oskar for the two week sail to Philadelphia. At the immigration desk he was dismayed to learn that Congress had recently passed a law that all immigrants must have $25 in their possession as a requirement before entering the country. Where was he to get $25? Then a kindly gentleman handed him the money, asking no questions and wanting him to sign no papers. It was HIAS in action. The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society was active all over the world helping new arrivals past regulations and other problems. Dad went with the other immigrants to a railroad station, a tag with his name, destination and his brother's name pinned to his coat. He was given a basket with sandwiches, cake, and fruit, courtesy of the Prince Oskar. After a day and night of travel he arrived in Pittsburgh. He wandered around until a policeman, accustomed to newly arrived immigrants, offered to help. He put Dad on a streetcar and instructed the motorman to drop him at Eighth Avenue in Munhall. The streetcar stopped in the middle of the block as a favor to make it easy to find #510, but Dad didn't know which direction to go. He drew on one of his sayings, "A peasant can get to Moscow with his tongue." He walked into a clothing store, managed to explain his problem, and in a few moments was knocking on the door at #510. He had completed his journey; he was united with his older brother Louis who had preceded him to the States by four years. It was October 1914.

Flora, who has the evening shift caring for Mom, also has a remarkable story of coming to America. She was born in Oaxaca, nearly the most distant city in Mexico south of the border. When she was fifteen, she resolved to go to America. She set up what sounds like an ambulatory cafe: whatever fruits, vegetables, meat and fowl she could buy, she would cook and sell as a street vendor. She worked all day, seven days a week. Using the "layaway" plan she turned her earnings over to a "coyote." After about a year, when she had accumulated $400 and despite pleadings by her mother, she and about twenty others and the "coyote" headed for the Arizona border. On American soil she was loaded on a truck with the other illegals to Gainesville, Florida. The trip was punishing: there was no room to lie down and she had little chance to sleep or even be comfortable. At no time, from the day that she started saving money to the moment she crossed the border, did she have any fears or doubt about what she was doing; it helped that she was a teenager, upbeat and full of energy. In Florida she began day-long work as a "picker"; she picked peanuts, jalapeño peppers, tomatoes, and oranges. The hardest were the oranges: she had to carry a heavy basket, and move the ladder from tree to tree; the worst hazard was the bees that tormented her unmercifully. Next she was taken to Selma, North Carolina, where she "dug potatoes," lugging a sack to fill during the long days' work. When she became pregnant, she delivered in a hospital in Rocky Mount, a small town north of Selma. Medicaid helped with her bill. She went to Washington, D.C. where she obtained papers certifying her as a legal resident. She moved to Houston in 1990 and became a citizen in 1996; she was proud to take the examination in English. Soon after, her parents moved to Houston.

written by Dan

An advantage of Old Age

Are you skeptical that I have found something in my old age that gives me a thrill? I can't blame you, but I swear it's true. It's a very important part of our national culture that Yvette and I enjoy practically every evening. No, it's not THAT. It's old movies. And what is so remarkable about that? It's that my memory is so bad that the movies I enjoyed in the 30s and 40s have become enjoyable again, they are almost like new. That means that "Modern Times," Chaplin's masterpiece, will have scenes that I remember clearly and will make me giggle, but I can never recall what led up to his working with those huge machines and how he escaped from the factory. But seeing the movie again with the advantage of captioning means that it's like new.
I've seen "Double Indemnity" many times; Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck and Edward G. Robinson are superb in their roles; I know the plot well. But now I see the camera angles and the use of shadows to add to the tension, subtleties that show how Hollywood exploits lighting and the camera.
Old timers like Marie Dressler and Wallace Beery and Victor McLaglen didn't need talkies to be stars. Instead of following the plots I watch their miming and appreciate how they portray feelings and action, often "chewing the drapes," but always impressive.
Old black and white movies have it all over those in color. And the early movie stars, male or female, had no wrinkles; their perfect complexions which I''ve now become aware of are due to the wonder of lighting which fools the camera and makes the actors timeless.
And the Basil Rathbone duels---always the clash of weapons where it seems someone is bound to get a swordpoint in the gut. Yet I've learned about the choreography of these scenes which permits the fighting to go on and on , always with the potential for wounds but nothing fatal until the script says so. I now see every combat as a study of dance with weapons.
I'm fascinated by film stars Valentino, Garbo, Fairbanks, Gable, and the Barrymores. They are so subtle, they mime perfectly, they capture the screen with ease. Now I concentrate on their makeup, the lighting, the camera angles and see things that my adoring childhood eyes ignored completely.
What I enjoy most out of seeing old movies are the opening scenes. I usually can recall what a movie is about but rarely can remember how the movie opens and how the plot is introduced. The Hollywood writers were masters of that: they were captivating, usually subtle, always smooth. Hollywood has come back to me; old movies are new again.

You should meet Oleg

Everyone loves a success story; it means a lot when a family member is the person you're hearing about.
If you met Oleg, you would find him a shy, unassuming young man, with a ready grin and a mop of jet-black hair. There is no way by just looking at him to know what he has been through. And he'd never offer to tell you his story. But it's a remarkable one.
When Oleg was about age 12, his family was becoming more and more uncomfortable living in the Russian Crimea. Anti-Semitism had always been present but it was getting worse. They had to leave. There were few options; they would have preferred the United States but it was not taking Russian citizens. When Oleg came home in tears from school after being bullied for being a Jew, his mother made the decision: the family—Oleg, mother, stepfather, stepbrother, grandfather (my cousin), grandmother, and great-grandmother—was going to Israel as quickly as possible.
With a few household and personal belongings they flew to Vienna and then on to Israel. After the family settled, Oleg was hospitalized for a circumcision; the Russians would not permit that and Oleg's grandfather felt that action had to be done to initiate Oleg's becoming a true Jew, a descendant of Abraham. When asked about it, Oleg, now 26, says, "It hurt."
Then at age 13, he joined several other refugee teens to become a bar mitzvah. He adjusted to Israel—went to school, learned English and Hebrew. He went to college, became interested in computer science, served his expected time in the army, all the while continuing his studies. He scuba dived, learned parasailing, traveled to Europe and South America.
Recently he completed a M.Sc., probably in computer science.
Pictures of him show a tall, handsome guy with a gorgeous body and a look of pleasure in life.
Today I received an email from him; he is planning a trip back to the Crimea to visit his Aunt Dora (my cousin), give her some money, and visit "nostalgic places."
Quite a guy, quite a story.

A Tale of my Tail-bone

I've never broken a bone. So, today after my orthopedist found that I had a cracked coccyx, there was a mystery: I recalled no fall or blow, no auto accident. Here is what I came up with:
This past spring I began to have sweats. All tests found nothing; I cut my dose of Zoloft in half. That reduced the sweats, but my depression came back: my weight plummetted by more than 22 lbs.On June 7th we went to ballet. Lucy, our housekeeper drove and Yvette occupied the front passenger seat. I sat in the middle of the back seat of my Mercedes so that Irv and Sherry Kraft could sit on either side. It was a 10 minute ride to their house to pick them up; Sherry decided not to go so I was able to move off the middle section to sit on the softer side. At ballet I began have pain in my rump. It continued over the next 5 weeks. When the pain refused to leave, I sought help and the fractured coccyx came to light.
To put it all together: my loss of body fat exposed my lower back /coccyx and a 10 minute ride on the middle section of the back seat was enough to crack my tailbone.

An anniversary

Today I called Dr. Roy Sessions & wished him "Happy Anniversary." He laughed. "Which one?" Twenty-six. Yes, July 13th, 1983 is the date of my partial laryngectomy at Memorial Hospital in the Big Apple. I've called Roy every year to thank him for curing me of my laryngeal cancer and leaving me able to speak without an electronic device or through a tracheostomy opening. I've followed him (by phone) from New York to Washington,D.C., back to New York at Beth Israel and now in retirement at Hilton Head. He's writing a book on medical ethics in cancer surgery.

Fun in My Spare Time

I'm going through my photos, some as far back as 1982. Lots of interesting places: Grand Canyon in a rainstorm, bend of the Bow River (Canada), Scurlock Bldg Garage at 3:00am, interior view of a cone-like flower, dunes of gypsum, etc. Probably my biggest lesson was to learn that not every frame in a film cassete (36) was going to be a masterpiece, that I had to take frame after frame after frame to get the shot that would satisfy me. I learned something from every teacher: the first just said,"Take more," the last said, "Let's crop to make the print more interesting."
My world of photography has been replaced by bridge, also a stimulating, challenging pastime. It's more social because I have a partner and I have opponents, contrasting to picture-taking where I was alone with camera & tripod & light and my efforts to match Ansel Adams & other pioneers.
I wonder what I'll try next?

How we met

"Now, how did we meet?" Yvette likes me to sit next to her recliner and hold her hand so she can start every conversation with that question. She NEVER tires of hearing how I walked into a room full of young ladies, spied her at her table, and asked her to dance. She asks me to tell how she fell in love with me & when I finish, she wants to hear it again. And again. And again.

Yesterday was a better day as we all recovered from a bout with Mom's recalcitrant colon. We had visits from Fuzz & San describing a wonderful vacation with family in Acapulco and Rob, Alicia & Bry bringing too much food & lots of teasing, oral jousting & laughs. Then Mom & I laid down on her bed to watch a (mediocre) HBO production about Churchill & WWll. I watched the tube while Mom petted me. Lovely.

Issues we never solve

"Founding Brothers" by Ellis describes the feeling of the South during the formation of the United States: Blacks (slaves) were not spoken of as human; so the South gave voice and sentiment to the ill feelings of whites toward blacks, an attitude that has affected the mentality of whites everywhere but particularly in the South and seems destined never to go away.

Taxes are one of the issues that ignited the American Revolution ( Boston Tea Party). It is reasonable that people pay their taxes so their governments can provide services. Will they ever stop bitching about taxes and find ways to avoid paying them?

This morning's Chronicle headlined the murder of the "abortion doctor" as he attended church. The nominee to the Supreme court will be faced with questions about her attitude toward Roe vs Wade; pro-life pickets have already lined up outside the White House. The abortion issue will always create a crisis.

Anti-Semitism, born soon after the crucifiction, has always been with us. I think of it as a form of ethnic cleasing matched in history by the Armenians, Bosnians, cultures in Africa and Asia. If it is not one place, it will be in another, forever.



Vietnam War. Americans cannot admit that we lost it---lots of reasons but no matter, we lost it. And we'll never admit it.

Attitudes toward homophobia are making progress with grudging acceptance of same sex marriage, but sentiment toward homosexuality and lesbianism, in general, show few signs of change.

Cheating in school, in the workplace, and in marriage has become the norm in our society. It is wrong but it goes on anyway; the watchwords are "Don't get caught."

Yesterday, Memorial Day was a good day with Yvette. We went for a ride with Lucy (our housekeeper) and Kayla, her 8 mo. old baby. Y said little except to admire the trees. I planned to visit the 2 previous places we had lived but got lost on my way to Pickwick Plaza. I think it has been demolished and the property taken over by Grocer's Supply. As we neared the place, Y broke her silence, "We used to live near here!" Then to 4723 Arvilla the 1st house we lived in. Y was quiet, had nothing to say as I pointed out the house and the jungle of trees and plants so dense that we could just barely see the front door. Then at a leisurely pace until a phone call from Flora, the helper for 2---10pm telling us that we were late. Y commented,
She's going to be mad at you," then became silent.
Ten minutes late to home & then ice cream for all. Y got Rocky Road, her favorite. She ate it all, then giggled watching Kayla grimace as she tasted cold ice cream, then licked her lips at the taste. Y thanked me for a "lovely time."

Our long day

Up at 7 am with Yvette for breakfast, then she went back to bed. I did TNYT crossword puzzle then to Walgreens for bedroom supplies and prints from yesterday. Then to the bank & home for lunch & show Y the prints.
Watched while the our repairman fixed a leak in the system for water for our foundation.
Then held hands with Y as we watched "Benjamin Button."
A fine day

good evening

+-it's been a lovely day. 75degrees,mild wind,humidity perfect. Put my car in shop to fix bad rattles. Called AT&T to fix line #2. Y happy, hungry, ate supper at 3:15pm. I kept her company by playing solitaire. She had ear of corn, bowl of homemade veggie soup and a helping of Rocky Road. She is happy

Letter from Dora

I just received this note from cousin Dora in the Ukraine.

January 26, 2009

My dear Dan, Yvette, Richard, and Sandy:

I received your letters, the photo of all of you, and the photo of Tracy’s little daughter Sheila, a splendid little girl. May she grow up in good health and be a joy to you all. You all look great.

At the bank I received the $350 you sent to me. Thank you so much for caring, for your generosity, and for paying attention to me. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude and a deep bow. Your kindness knows no bounds, for which God gives you and Yvette good health and long life. You live surrounded by your loved ones and in turn surround them with love.

To my regret I am quite alone here, the last of our generation of Yakhnoviches in Russia. David and Rakhil are gone. Tamara, Mikhail, and Gennady and their families live in various countries. They call me and write to me.

Your country is also going through a difficult period. The crisis has seized all countries, including our Ukraine. We hope your newly elected president will change things for the better. In my old age I am left quite alone.

I get information and help around the house from social workers. They do everything I ask of them and take care of those things I can no longer do. My age is taking its toll. On June 23 I will be 88 years old. Thanks to your assistance I don’t live in poverty as so many here do. I’m glad I can stand up on my own and hope things don’t get worse.

I am so glad that you write to me, know who I am, and remember me.

You can take pride in your children and grandchildren. They all are successful in life.

Greetings from me to Steven, Robert, and their families, and also to Evelyn and her family, and to all my other relatives.

I wish you robust health, happiness, success, and prosperity.

With love,

Dora