Remembering the Alamo Scouts on Veteran's Day 2013

Thinking about my medical problems and denial

Zayda's Will

written by Dan Jackson

September 2013

When Dad and Uncle Morris shook hands agreeing to be partners in the shoe business in March 1927, Dad had already been an admirer of Uncle Morris for several years. He knew he was a good business man and a hard worker. He was married to Mollie who was Mother’s sister so there was a strong family connection that came along with business. That family connection had played a strong part in the matter of Zayda’s will when Zayda, father to Mother and Mollie, had died the year before.

In Dad's oral history written many years after Zayda’s death, I found his recollection of the contents of the will and the family turmoil it produced. It was Zayda's wishes that the money in his estate be divided equally among the children from his first marriage, the children from his second marriage, and his then wife, Bobie (Mother and Mollie’s mother). At the end of six months any children who wished to give their money to Bobie were free to do so. The amount of money given to each child was $300, not a great sum. Mother and Mollie had put their money in a bank account intending to give it to Bobie at the end of six months. Zayda's other children held a meeting without Mother and Mollie and decided to give their money to Bobie immediately instead of waiting six months. When Dad and Mother next visited Bobie, they were informed about the meeting, and told to sign a paper which had been drawn up agreeing that all the children give Bobie their money at once. Dad was angry for two reasons: First, the family had held a meeting without notifying him or Mother and second, giving the money to Bobie before the six months waiting period was, in a way, breaking the will, going against Zayda's wishes. As a matter of principle Dad could not condone that; Mollie and Morris agreed with him They, too, refused to sign the paper.

The deeply-felt disagreement among the Egers embittered many members and led to long-standing acrimonious feelings that, to my knowledge, were never resolved. I remember there was an attempt to bring peace to the family by organizing a club, the Eger Tree. The effort was unsuccessful; too many bad feelings remained. Wisely, the next generation ignored the matter of the will and peace prevailed once more.

Riding with Uncle Morris

written by Dan Jackson January 2007 

At Kroger Food Stores, the Roma tomatoes are piled high in a large bin: there must be about a thousand of them. There are different sizes--from golf ball to large lemon--and their shape is never round. They started out spherical when finally ripe on the vine and then were packed for shipment, one right up against the other, so that the roundness was replaced by flat sides with soft corners, and the color, the wonderful red, became orange and shiny.

I could be led blindfolded to the display of Romas and without touching or handling or squeezing one, just stand there and inhale and, without fail, I would be transported back to about age 12 years and my time with Uncle Morris. Every time I smell tomatoes, especially the Romas where the pressure of so many piled high on each other squeezes a tiny amount of juice, I’m transported from Kroger’s to another time and place.

Each summer when I was on vacation from school, Uncle Morris would take me with him when he went on the road for that day’s business as a peddler. Before he moved to Aliquippa, he and his family lived in Carnegie. Weather permitting, he struck out each day to small towns in nearby coal mining and farming areas where he delivered previously ordered goods and took new orders. He prospered but must have felt the need for a change. That was emphasized when two of Carnegie's banks went under because of embezzlement by the banks' president. The depositors' money was returned to them, but Uncle Morris was uneasy about Carnegie's future. So in March 1927, on Mother and Dad’s 10th wedding anniversary, he visited Dad in the shoe store at 310 Franklin Avenue in Aliquippa and offered Dad a proposition: he would give Dad $5,000 cash to become a partner in the shoe business. Dad and Mother loved Uncle Morris and Aunt Mollie (Mother’s sister), and so it took only a handshake to seal the partnership.

It was easy for Dad and Mother to accept Uncle Morris's offer. For one thing, years before, Dad and Uncle Morris comsidered opening a furniture store in Aliquippa. That came about when Uncle Morris, who had done well in his business, had fears for Carnegie's future and wanted more security for his family that he believed Aliquippa, the furniture business, and a partnership with Dad would provide. Also, Uncle Morris and Aunt Mollie, of all the large Eger family, had found kindred spirits in Mother and Dad. When our family lived in Ford City and then Rosston, the Chamovitzes visited us and in turn, we visited Carnegie to share food, talk, and comfort. For me, it was a chance for me to play with the five Chamovitz boys. The warm relationship drew the families together; the consideration of a business deal followed.

High on the list of Uncle Morris's qualities, besides his business ability, his family connection, and his personal warmth that attracted Dad was his having been a yeshiva bocher (student at a school for Talmudic study) when growing up in Romania. Education ranked high in Dad's estimation: education in the Torah, the Talmud, and Jewish law had irresistable appeal. Also, in a family squabble over the will that Zayda (Mother’s father) left upon his death in October 1926, Dad and Mother were joined by Uncle Morris and Aunt Mollie in opposing the attempt by some members of the family to break the stated wishes of the will. As a matter of principle Dad could not condone that. The deeply-felt disagreement among the Egers embittered many members and led to long-standing acrimonious feelings that, to my knowledge, were never resolved.

After the partnership in the shoe business was agreed upon, Uncle Morris continued to pursue his peddling. He needed money for his family to live on and he needed money to build a home in Aliquippa. His customers owed him money so when he visited them to deliver past orders and take new ones, he would collect money owed him.

On days that I would accompany Uncle Morris, we left after lunch and got home before supper. That way Uncle Morris could be certain that he would not have to eat any meals in a restaurant that would conflict with his Orthodox beliefs. He picked me up in his big, black four-door touring sedan. It was roomy, of necessity, because of his large family (five sons), but also because it had to hold all the items he was going to pick up in Pittsburgh and deliver to his customers. I remember the seats were leather, black, of course. There were no glass windows as in modern cars. The space between doors and roof on the sides were completely open; if the weather turned bad, isinglass curtains could be fastened into place. On the trips that I made, we never had to use them.

We took the two-lane road along the Ohio River then passed through McKees Rocks, with its cobbled streets and railroad underpasses, to the Fort Pitt Bridge. We crossed the Ohio River and headed through Pittsburgh to Fifth Avenue. Most of the streets were paved with dark-gray, rounded bricks making traveling over them a rough experience, but we soon reached the smooth, paved streets of the commercial district. Now the streets were narrow and, when business was brisk and traffic heavy, cars were parked on both sides of the street. Result? A single lane thoroughfare with much blowing of horns, shouting, and slamming of car doors in disgust.

The business fronts seemed to be of a piece: The windows were dirty, and although the name of the business was usually done in gold leaf, the years of Pittsburgh’s polluted atmosphere darkened the glass and made it impossible to see what was inside. The display windows had a few items, hard to make out as if to emphasize that curious buyers would do well to come inside. The entryway was always small and paved with the ubiquitous, tiny, hexagonal-shaped, white tiles so characteristic of floors in vestibules, bathrooms, and barbershops of the time. The interiors of the stores varied only in size. The ceilings were high, about 25 feet, covered with decorative tin, every establishment the same. Lighting was poor. Shelves on both sides, sometimes to the ceiling, were filled with boxes. Few actual items were displayed. But Uncle Morris knew what he wanted and called each owner by his first name, often in Yiddish; after all, he was a landsman (a fellow-Jew from the same part of Europe). It was this encounter that brought out his warmth and gregariousness. Time spent with the businessmen was important. They supplied the goods and, when necessary, could give Uncle Morris time to pay, often 30 to 60 days. Friendship was vital for business as well as its social reasons and Uncle Morris could schmooz and deal with the best. He liked both social and business sides in places where he bought goods, and I would later see the same behavior when he delivered the orders to his customers.

Sometimes Uncle Morris left me in the car to watch over his purchases. I had not yet learned to take along something to read but was able to amuse myself by playing a form of baseball using the last number on the license plates of cars driving away from me. I chose two imaginary teams, usually the Pirates and the Giants. The Pirates were assigned even numbers: a zero was a strike; a two was a single, a four a double, a six a triple and an eight a home run. When the Pirates were at bat, an odd number meant the batter was out, three outs to a side. When the Giants were at bat, an even number meant the batter was out, but odd numbers were favorable: a one was a strike, a three a single, a five a double, a seven a triple and a nine a home run. I could put my favorite players at bat , pretend there were foul balls, stolen bases or broken bats, anything my imagination wished.

We visited a number of stores, and since Uncle Morris knew what his customers wanted, he made selections without hesitation. Employees took his purchases to the car. Soon the back of the car was filled with an assortment of items: shoes, dresses, shirts, pots, skillets, men’s suits, mops, lamps, pillows, linens, chairs and once, a roll of linoleum for a kitchen floor. It was too big to fit inside the car, so one end was lodged in the corner of the back seat, and the other end stuck rested on the back door, securely fastened by rope to prevent its rolling back and forth. If the roll was too long to safely stick out into traffic, then the front end would be tied on the front seat where it rested next to my head. It was mildly uncomfortable, and I was glad when the roll was untied and delivered and out of my way.

When Uncle Morris was sure that the items in the back of the car were anchored tightly, we started off, leaving Pittsburgh, heading for mining and farming country. I just sat back and watched the scenery change from buildings, mills, bridges, and stores to trees, hills, and open country. The roads were narrow and paved; when we turned on to a dirt road, I knew we were about to stop.

Our arrival at a house was announced by the car’s engine and by the slamming of the car’s doors. At that point the housewife, who was probably expecting “Mr. Morris,” would appear at the door of the house. The houses were always frame in construction, two-story. Most were painted a neutral gray or green. The front doors were always open; screen doors were in place in a vain attempt to keep out flying insects. Inside, the kitchen was large--the place for meals, family gatherings, and washing and ironing; also, a place to hang washed clothes in inclement weather. There were small windows on three walls with the usual white, pull-back curtains and pull-down cloth shades. In each house, the kitchen appeared the same: gas stove and oven, cabinets, a large table, and plenty of chairs. Sinks were large and cast-iron, used for washing dishes and clothes. The floors were usually covered with a flowery, patterned linoleum. And the walls reflected efforts by the housewives to decorate the room where the family spent most of its time: pictures of flowers, family, calendars with themes of animals and children. All the women we visited were busy at chores and were dressed in print cotton dresses and an apron. There were always children around, infants and toddlers; older ones were off fishing, swimming, and whatever kids in the country do when not in school.

After giving me instructions about going to the back for fruit and tomatoes, Uncle Morris headed to the house. He was a handsome guy: tall with wavy, dark hair, a straight back, and a way of walking, digging his heels into the soft dirt, that made him appear to know exactly where he was going. “Mr. Morris” was here. He was wonderfully gregarious, and by the time I was going along to keep him company, he knew everybody and everybody’s family. Not only did he deliver and take orders for furniture, clothing, and small household appliances, but he also offered advice for family and medical problems: his favorite prescription for pink eye was drops of fresh urine (from the victim) into the infected eye.

So, where does the aroma of tomatoes come in? Well, when he pulled up to the house he was visiting, he instructed me, “Go around the back, there are fruit trees. Get whatever you want; if there are tomato plants, eat the ripe ones, all you want." So, I’m transported 1500 miles and 75 years back to rides with my Uncle, back to warm, summer rides on narrow macadam roads, in an open car, and then being told, “Go to the back.” There were freshly ripened, juicy tomatoes, which I twisted off the vines and sank my teeth into. They might have been a bit dusty or, frankly, even dirty, but I’m not sure I even bothered to give them more of a swipe in deference to Mother’s concern that I might get sick if they were not washed. No matter, I ate them as I found them. Too, I helped myself to the fruit trees, mostly peaches, some apples of the crab variety, and occasionally pears. But it’s the tomatoes that hang in my memory.

Only one time do I remember a passenger, a lady from Aliquippa who needed a ride home from Pittsburgh. I did not know her, though her nephew was my age and a friend at public school and Sunday school. She sat in the front seat with me between her and Uncle Morris. She was dressed in a white, thin, cotton dress and chattered endlessly to which I paid no attention. Then she began to complain about the heat, meanwhile wiping her face with her hanky which soon became a soaking rag. She insisted we feel how wet her clothes were. She went on and on until Uncle Morris, obviously exasperated, reached across me to put his hand on her waist where it was "soaking." She asked me to do the same; I did. Soon we were back in Aliquippa and dropped off our passenger. Uncle Morris pulled us away in a rush and exploded, “She's a hoor (whore)!”

The ride home was without stops, maybe for gas, but I had the sensation of flying. The day’s work was done: now to get home as soon as possible. Uncle Morris sang melodious prayers of Shabbas and High Holidays. I now recognize he was using his wonderful, clear, sweet voice to say, “My work day is done, it’s been successful, invigorating, I’m ready to get back to my family.” In the car, his voice reverberated. Even though the car was “open,” no sound escaped: perhaps the space between the dashboard and the floorboard acted as an echo chamber; the songs stayed inside, ringing in our ears. In the car, it must have been like singing in the shower for Uncle Morris: his beautiful melodies rang over and over to his enjoyment. Time sped by. Uncle Morris was happy, bursting with the day’s success.

I made a lot of trips with Uncle Morris. Singing was his outlet. Not so with Dad: he liked to tell stories about life in Russia; I heard about his dogs, the family mill that ground grain for the peasants in the nearby villages. I heard about his breaking a prized chandelier, about his skinny-dipping in the Brushato. Just as I heard Uncle Morris’s songs over and over, so I heard Dad’s stories of his early life again and again. Now I realize both men were remembering happy times. Come to think of it, when I have breakfast with grandson Bryan, I tell him happy stories of my early years as I was growing up, about my life long ago.

On Being a Patient

written June 2008

Bridge players say, “It’s better to be lucky than smart.” That means that in an impossible situation, where you can’t possibly make your contract, for a variety reasons everything works out. In medicine that can often be true. The diagnosis may be puzzling to you and all the consultants but in some mysterious way you stumble on the answer and you become a genius. Or the illness has a dire prognosis and then, for some unknown reason, the treatment works and the patient once again enjoys good health.

Look at me. Four years after a partial pancreatectomy for adenocarcinoma of the body of the pancreas I’m overweight, glowing with health and with no evidence of recurrence of a uniformly fatal cancer. OK so there is a less than 5% survival rate of patients with the disease, but that number is pretty close to rare. And how did the fact of my still being alive come about? That is the lucky part: it was because of an operation for another serious condition that gives me bragging rights about still being alive.

On a morning in mid-January 1996 I suddenly developed intermittent claudication. I had no other symptoms than severe cramps in both calves when I walked less than 10 feet. Inasmuch as nothing else bothered me, I did not visit a physician till the following day when I kept a previously made appointment with my orthopedist. I mentioned my new symptom to him and he examined me, finding that I had no pulses in my femoral arteries or below. He offered a Doppler study but I knew that palpation had given me enough information and told him that I planned to see my vascular surgeon the next day.

That visit confirmed that I probably had a blocked aorta and I would need an aortogram followed by laparotomy and vascular repair. I was agreeable and asked if the plan could be put off for 10 days until my sons returned from their skiing vacation. 48 hours had passed after what was obviously a serious vascular event but my surgeon calmly assured me that further delay was acceptable. I had enormous confidence in him, he probably had seen and operated on a couple of thousand patients with what I had and if he said I could wait, then it was OK to wait.

Ten days later I had an aortogram and repair of the distal aorta for obstruction by a large cholesterol plaque which had been dissected off and formed a flap over the bifurcation and obstructed blood flow. My postoperative course was marred by the nasogastric tube which eroded the edge of my left nostril. That healed promptly when the tube was removed.

I returned to practice. Four years later I had the first in the series of obstructions of the small bowel due to adhesions formed by the surgery for my dissected, obstructed aorta. At each event I was hospitalized for two to four days. Diagnostic studies always included blood count, urinalysis, and blood chemistries; also chest and abdominal X-rays and MRI of the abdomen. I always had to endure the torturing nasogastric tube.

It was during the episode of obstruction in January 2004 that the MRI of the abdomen showed a suspicious mass in the body of the pancreas; comparison with the MRI made in December 2003 confirmed that the mass was indeed new. Partial pancreatectomy was done February 2004. My oncologist recommended six months of chemotherapy. He admitted it was probably unnecessary, just one of those elements of “doing something.”

In October 2006 I had another and my last episode of small bowel obstruction. My surgeon lost no time in deciding that enough was enough; he lysed a number of adhesions and repaired a ventral hernia (a result of the surgery for the cancer).

It was one of my sons who pointed out that if I hadn’t had the dissecting aortic aneurysm, I wouldn’t have had abdominal surgery which may have saved my life at the time. If I had not had the abdominal surgery, I would not have had peritoneal adhesions. If I had not developed peritoneal adhesions, I would not had had several episodes of small bowel obstruction. If I had not had small bowel obstructions, I would not have had serial MRIs for comparison and the serial MRIs provided information to a sharp-eyed radiologist to detect an early, operable, curable cancer.

Yes, it’s better to be lucky.

My Friend Abe

written December 2006
When Abe died, I lost a good friend. Actually I lost more: a lunch companion, a patient, a consultant in my pulmonary function laboratory at The Methodist Hospital, and a voracious reader who fed me titles of novels and non-fiction that he knew would interest me. And when I visited him at his house a week before he died, I told him how much our friendship had meant to me; “Abe, I love you, and I’m so sorry about what has happened." He said nothing. I asked for a hug, held him tightly, then left.

On my way home, I thought about the disease that was taking his life, how I had studied it, had written medical articles about it, and considered myself an expert about it. Without a sound it had crept into his busy, productive life at the University of Houston and into his blissful marriage. It had given him not a sliver of a chance of successful treatment. Just death.

We had met Abe and Fran at the social gatherings of the “49-niners” - families that had moved to Houston in the late 1940’s. He was an engineer, a chemical engineer. I should have known his interests when he described how he and Fran would visit the concrete slab of the house they were building and water it thoroughly every evening to slow its hardening process and thus, give it maximum strength. He described how he intended to put a panel of signals at his bedside, connected to the security system and the lights throughout the house so that, at a glance, he could see if doors were open or lights were on.

At our initial get together we learned that Abe and Fran played lots of tennis, both together and with friends. Though they were short in stature, they did not lack for enthusiasm and agility; they were known for scurrying around the courts and being tough competitors. Fran took to the usual division of the family agenda with determination. I learned from Abe that their son and two daughters behaved well, got good grades, gave them no trouble. So Fran, who chattered endlessly, and whose face was always shiny and flushed as evidence of her chronic anxiety, accomplished her part of family chores with success. I never heard Abe complain about the children, nor did he find fault with Fran.

Abe had come to Houston to teach at the University in its chemical engineering division. His salary was not enough for his family’s needs, so he took a part-time job at Shell Oil Company. They put him to work applying his expertise dealing with the action of fluids and gases as they flowed through pipelines.

At the University, he was busy and happy. He taught undergrads, he did research, he monitored grad students, and he took his turn as chairman of the department, a task no one wanted. Rotation of the job eased the pain of an onerous function. Actually, as Abe told me of the workings of his department, I could tell he loved being in charge and did it well. As we talked at lunch dates, I learned more about him: he was a consultant to the French government about their nuclear power plants and to the state of Israel for its problems with the desalinization of sea water.

After a year, he gave up his part-time job with Shell and formed an outside consulting firm with two of his teaching associates. His success with his department was marked by the outstanding caliber of his professors, with noteworthy research, and with the numerous scientific papers that were published. Recognition came nationally when his department was given a $10 million grant over a ten-year period to add equipment, take more students, increase faculty– anything Abe and his coworkers needed and wanted. The grant was a recognition of what Abe was trying to accomplish; it boosted Abe’s pride in what he had done. It encouraged him and provided him with the funds to plan for the future of his department.

At one point, Abe took a year’s sabbatical at Oxford University. Fran and the children went with him. It was a time for Abe to relax and explore his thoughts for the future. The University was never very far from his mind. He wanted ideas to better his department for years to come. When Yvette and I were in London, we made a side-trip to spend the day with Abe and his family. We toured the campus with its ancient buildings, classrooms, and libraries, and then made a visit to Blackwell's bookstore to stare in awe at what seemed like acres of books and periodicals. Much intellectual stimulation for one day. And Abe and Fran were such warm hosts.

Soon after Abe and his family returned to Houston, a dark cloud moved in. We heard that Fran had announced that she wanted out of the marriage. She had met a publisher from Washington, D.C. and was leaving to marry him. There was shock throughout the community. What had happened? Did Abe suspect anything? Had anybody suspected anything? When Abe came to see me, he explained his reaction, “Dan, when something like this happens, you check to see if your balls are still there.”

Abe’s next move was inexplicable. In a few short months, he married Nancy, who came under our critical gaze at a social gathering at our home. We listened to her and were dismayed to see that in his haste, or out of desperation to recover his faith in himself, Abe had made a profound error. Nancy whined and complained about Abe. She did not seem to realize that the brief courtship that lead to their marriage was much too short for them to get to know each other: she gave no hint that she bore any responsibility in the miserable state they were in. We squirmed to hear her complain how she was being put upon.

A divorce ended Abe’s misery with Nancy. But Abe had not quit looking for companionship. At lunch at the River Café he confided in me about Loring: a young, bright, vivacious woman who worked in public relations at the University’s front office. Did I say “Young?” Probably about 20 years younger than Abe. She was so good for Abe. When we met her, it was clear she doted on him, could not do enough for him. They laughed a lot, held hands. He told us that when they planned a trip to France, she plastered Post-its all over their house, giving the French for door, sink, shower, hello, goodbye. Abe loved her attention, her youth, her enthusiasm. As I later told Loring, she was more than a “Ten” for Abe; she was about a thousand. Loring became active in Abe’s home to suit their needs: she fenced in the yard to hold her Doberman, planted flowers, rearranged the furniture in the sitting room, painted the pantry, hung more pictures. She was a lively, busy spirit in Abe’s life.

Then Abe came to see me about pains in his stomach. I could find nothing, gave him some medicine, and suggested a return visit. At his return he brought Loring who asked me if stress could be causing his symptoms. I told her that it was high on my list of possibilities. She then explained: The University was looking for a new president. Abe wanted the job. Maybe the tension of hoping to be chosen was getting to him. A wise lady.

The final chapter of Abe’s life came without warning and with a stamp of doom. He became short of breath; a large tumor in his chest, a mesothelioma, was the cause. Mesotheliomas are rare, very rare, and with little exception they are the result of breathing fibers of asbestos. If Abe had been an insulator or a welder or a worker in construction, we could understand his exposure to asbestos. And, besides, it takes 30-40- years after exposure before the mesothelioma appears. So where had Abe been 30-40 years ago, long ago, where he might have been exposed to particles of asbestos insulation? We poked around in Abe’s memory and so, it came out. The small room where he sat in his work for Shell had had insulated pipes overhead. The covering of the insulation was torn, and flakes of asbestos floated down continously. Thus, the small room, the air filled with visible and invisible particles for Abe to breathe.

The irony of it: I, with my interest in lung disease and knowledge of the dangers of asbestos, was watching my best friend die of the mineral which could not let me change his outcome, no matter what was tried or wished for. There was nothing for me to do. Nothing but tell Abe what was in my heart, embrace him, and say goodbye.

Connections between American and Russian Cousins

I recently recorded a video about the links between the Russian and American branches of my family. 

It's really a lead-in to the absolutely wonderful video I received on my 90th birthday from my cousin Rakhil.

More details about both videos can be seen in the comments on YouTube.

Harry Walsh

Dan Jackson
December 2007

About twenty years ago, out of the blue, I received a letter from Russia. I recognized the Cyrillic alphabet but that didn’t tell me who the sender was nor where in Russia it had been posted. After some thought I called a patient who was a professor of French at Rice University and she suggested I call Dr. Harry Walsh at the University of Houston. I did and he graciously consented to translate the letter for me. I told him there might be more letters to translate and offered to pay him for his efforts. He insisted that he would be happy to translate all letters and refused to accept compensation.

That first letter which started our relationship was from my cousin Rakhil in Penza. Soon there were letters from cousin David in Simferapol and later from Israel, from cousin Dora in Evpatoria,and from Rakhil’s son Mikhail in Riga, Latvia. Some letters were long and complaining, some were grateful for contact with family in far off America; no matter, Harry carried on.

When necessary, Harry went to extraordinary lengths to clarify a point, such as the exact location of the village, Karenets, in Russia, where the saga of the Jackson family began. Undaunted, Harry went to a remarkable source, a set of the 60 volume Russian Encyclopedia Dictionary dating from 1896 in which he found maps to help him in his search.

When I told him how impressed I was with the literary quality of some of the letters, he assured me he had not made any changes and that our family wrote in unusually good style.

A bit of lagniappe to our connection to Harry has been his lovely wife Sandra whom he affectionally calls “The Red Head.”

Then about 4 years ago a young man from Dallas applied to Harry’s department at the University to be tutored in basic Russian. He explained that his church group had adopted an orphanage in Penza, Russia, and that he needed some accelerated tutoring so that he could converse with the Russian personnel at the orphanage during visits at the Russian New Year and at summer camp. Harry gave me his name, Michael Miller, and we have become friends with him and his wife Amy. He and his church group carry money, letters, and family pictures to cousin Rakhil in Penza twice a year. He and members of his group spend time with Rakhil (and her husband Isaac before his death 2 years ago), a contact that brightened their lives. It was also a way to send money to Rakhil in Penza dirrectly to avoid fees by banks in Houston, New York, and Penza.

It’s wonderful what the letter from Penza has done. Harry and Sandra have become our friends; We value their warmth and good company.

Harry and Sandra, you have our most profound thanks. Harry, you are a mensch.

My Cancer of the Larynx

In the fall of 1981 I was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx.  The surgery wouldn't follow until July 13th, 1983. 

Letter from Josh on my 95th Birthday

On my 95th birthday last December I received a wonderful package (prepared by Emily) of more than 95 cards, pictures, notes, and memorabilia.  On of many treasures was this letter from my grandson Josh.

As some may know, I (Joshua Daniel Jackson) was adopted into this family; rather than being brought into a family through more ... traditional means.  And when I was younger, I spent a good deal of time trying to understand what that really meant. I realize now that much of what I was trying to understand during that time in my life was: What does it mean to be a part of a family? What does it mean to be a part of this family?

This question stayed with me, in ways that not even I understood, for years. And the more time I spent in Houston. The more time I spent as a child and as a teen with my grandparents especially. The more the answers came. Not all at once by any means; but instead, they came in bits and pieces. I remember hearing stories of an Internist who pushed for changes within the institutions he worked for; because he could no longer stand by and watch his hospital sell cigarettes in the lobby to patients, who would then come upstairs to him with emphysema and lung cancer. A man who would make house calls when it was no longer in fashion.

I slowly began to comprehend what it meant for an Intellectual to leave his home, travel to a new country, and start a life over from scratch. Selling shoes in a company town. I learned why it was important to give back to your community and to those less fortunate within it; no matter how much wealth you had, no matter how much of it you had built on your own. I learned the value of listening instead of talking, of preparing instead of reacting, and of making sure that I do things correctly the first time. No matter how trivial the task was. I learned from my grandfather the importance of treating relationships, not like the means to an end. But like the end itself.

As I grew older, I began to notice that some of the values that I had grown into over the years were not quite as common as I would wish them to be. But in my travels to Le Madeline, for coffee, croissants and quiet conversation I found that even if my grandfather and I took differing routes to come to a conclusion. We often came to one that I found more agreeable than any I could find with (more than) most of my peers. Even with a multigenerational gap between us. I found that my grandfather was more progressive in his thinking than those who had inherited the world from his generation; In fact, even more than their children.

Grandpa, you have been called a renaissance-man while being celebrated on occasions such as this one. But you aren't a renaissance-man. You're not just a renaissance-man anyway. You're more than that. You, Dan Jackson, are timeless. At times, you make the most liberal teens I've met look like anachronistic relics. At others, you make the most conservative traditionalists I've met look like children, ignorant to the values of their families and of their people. You've shown me why it is good to be a quiet thoughtful man. And why it is better to love a strong outspoken woman. The courage, strength and compassion that you and grandma have displayed, -even in the small portion of your lives that I have had the pleasure of taking part in- continues to astound and inspire those around you. And I feel as though that may never change. The imprint that you have left on the world, and on your children, grandchildren, even greatgrandchildren is strong and it will likely outlast all of us. I hope the same of you. I love you Grandpa. And I hope you have a Happy Birthday. I am trying to find my way to Houston. I don't expect to make it before the New Year. But I hope to see you shortly thereafter.

If I Had Been a Man of Violence

I shared this video with Lucy who jogged my memory about the pursuit by Naomi. Sometime in the 60s when I was in practice in Medical Towers, I was called to the phone for a long distance call. It was Naomi. I don't remember anything about the conversation except that I cut it short. At dinner that night I told Gma and the boys about the call. She was amused and curious. "Why didn't you invite her for dinner?" The boys chimed in, especially when they found out I had described her to Gma as very pretty. It seems I missed a great opportunity for an unforgettable meal by not inviting her.

Steve, my son, emailed me this later: "I've been thinking about your v-log entry as requested. Your anger at Naomi is still palpable after all these years. There's no question that it would have been a difficult, if not impossible marriage. She was flighty and rebellious (against her family and, eventually, against you) and this would have made your life miserable. You would have to do all the work to keep things together and, in the end, it would have been for nought (she would have left you). Mom was difficult but steadfast and you needed that. Thus, your attraction to "persevering and persistence." I think, in spite of your anger, you did the right thing. Although I probably would have had sex with her before I said "adios"."

A Visit to a Medical Giant

Bob Chamovitz is my cousin: his mother and mine were sisters. We lived as block away from each other in Aliquippa and grew up together. He is now a retired gastroenterologist. The visit he describes took place around 1978.

Dear Dan,
I went to New York to see Burill Crohn. I called Mt Sinai Hospital and asked for him. "Which Doctor Cohen, the operator asked...never heard of Dr Crohn."

Finally I got a phone number and spoke to his wife who invited me to their apartment near the Museum of Modern Art. I walked in to see a grand piano and there he was, all 94 years of him
seated in a big chair, his edematous legs on a hassock.

He asked about me, why was I there, etc. (His wife said to be brief but he was enjoying himself).  I asked if he was still practicing medicine.

"No," he said. "In NY you can't get a licence after age 93!!", so he gave up consulting a year earlier. He volunteered that no one knows who he is anymore.  He tried to get his grandson into med school but the "bastards" paid him no mind. He told me the story of how IBD (inflammatory bowel disease)became Crohn's Disease. It was at a conference in Australia (?); discussion was on IBD and all its variants and the question was, what to call this bizarre illness and someone shouted, let's call it Crohn's disease. The moderator said, "Let's take a vote All in favor say aye," and it carried by unanimous vote. That was it.

He told me what he wanted on his tombstone:  the prescription that he prescribed, an elixir of codeine 1/4 gr plus small amount of barbital. "So what if they got addicted!"

Was a thrill for me to have been in his presence on a one-to-one setting.