On Friday I opened an email from Bethesda Lutheran Communities, the operator of the group home where our son Gus lives in Watertown, Wisconsin. The gist of the message was that Bethesda had agreed in principle to sell its Watertown services to another organization, Broadstep. For those who don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, Bethesda announced last year that it would be closing its residential operations in Wisconsin, at least partly due to the financial burdens COVID has caused.

Gus has been cared for by Bethesda since 2002, so it was a shock to our system, to say the least. A case worker has been trying to find a new placement for Gus, and in fact, we turned down an opening at a home in Racine based on the hope that Bethesda would find an organization that would take over Gus’ house. That would be ideal—he wouldn’t have to move, and current staff could even be retained.

The tour continues!

It was a tough call. Beth leaned toward taking the spot—if we held out and the sale never occurred, Gus would still have to move and we might not have much say later on. Plus, Racine is considerably closer to our home in Chicago.

The flip side: Gus has caseworkers, staff, and doctors who know him. (Finding doctors and dentists who are willing to treat developmentally disabled people like Gus is not all that easy.) And, you know, it was simply a case of the known vs. the unknown.

We held out. And it looks like it’s going to work out. I almost broke down and cried while I was reading the email. I didn’t think I was walking around and thinking about it consciously. But it was apparently weighing on me more than I realized. What a relief.

So, Friday was already a great day. But wait, there’s more!

Beth and I had a date night. Sort of. We’re both very big fans of Todd Rundgren. In my mind, he’s up there with the likes of Stevie Wonder, Ella Fitzgerald, Prince—you know, transcendent talents. When I was in high school I wore out the grooves on Rundren’s “Something Anything,” a double album (plus an EP) that was all about…teenage angst. He wrote everything, played all instruments and produced the album. He’s always been innovative, and has produced a bunch of successful albums by other artists.

As we cultists say, “Todd is God.”

This is a terrific review of the “Pittsburgh show.”

Well, he’s doing a “tour.” It’s goofy, but if you play along, as we did, it’s a lot of dumb fun. He and his band actually perform every show of the tour live in Chicago. But, each night the stage and backdrop changes themes by city, and he peppers in the appropriate “Hello Cleveland” remarks. Even the clock display is set to local time.

We signed up for the Chicago date. Beth decided we should go out for a drink in advance, as is our wont in normal times. She got dressed up and even wore…lipstick. Me, I was my dumpy self. We went to our local, Half Sour, which can now have indoor dining at reduced capacity. When asked what we were doing that night, we said, “We’re going to a concert!”

When we got home I hooked up my MacBook to our TV, and I blue toothed it to our stereo. Which is a fine piece of HiFi, by the way. (My nerd self soldered the amp together from a kit. It has tubes and everything.)

We connected to the stream at around 7:30, in advance of 8:00 start time, and it was weirdly kind of real. Stage hands were running back and forth hooking stuff up. Behind the stage, we got the images of the Chicago skyline, the lake, etc. There was a familiar pre-concert anticipatory murmur—because 19 people are allowed to attend in person each “date.” It’s pretty tightly controlled—attendees must present evidence of a negative COVID test within 72 hours of the concert. People were comfortably spaced, and between attendees were video screens, each displaying the faces of virtual attendees who’d bought VIP passes.

The footlights were dimmed, the fans roared as much as 19 people can roar, and the band came out—a horn section, three sequined backup singers—in all 11 counting Rundgren. The sound was marvelous from the first note.

We rarely order delivery food, but for this occasion we had Chinese delivered. It came about five minutes into the performance. While I was downstairs in the lobby picking it up, Beth said she started to cry when she heard the horn section, realizing how much she’s missed live music.

We applauded. We hooted. We jumped up and danced. The video production was superb—it came off as slickly as a fully edited and produced documentary concert film.

At the end of the two-hour performance (the guy is 72, and Mick Jagger has nothing on him) we even did the thing you do after a music or theatrical performance—you talk about it. We called our friend Nancy, whom we knew had also “attended.” On speaker phone we marveled at the arrangements, the sound, and, well, it was joyous.

It wasn’t quite the real deal. But thanks to Rundgren’s imaginative, innovative artistry, it was pretty damn close.

Can’t wait for the real thing.

I had the week after Christmas off,  and I took advantage of it by spending a few nights at Starved Rock State Park. I needed some nature time outside the city, and Beth needed me to have nature time outside our condo.

We’re together a lot in these times.

As I finished packing on the day of my departure, I ran through my myriad pills and discovered I’d run out of one of my prescriptions while I was away. I booked a refill and picked it up around noon.

Would you like a bag?” the pharmacist asked. I said no, and stuffed the prescription into my right jacket pocket.

On the way back I stopped at the market for something that Beth needed, and I stuffed it in the other jacket pocket.

I got home, gave Beth her stuff, picked up my rental car, threw my bags in the car, and I was off. About an hour out, I visualized the two books I wanted to bring with me…sitting on the ottoman at home. Which is where they still are.

About the same time, my phone lit up—I didn’t recognize the number, and besides, I was driving, so I didn’t pick up. When I stopped for a break, I checked my voicemail. I hit the play button and heard a gravelly voice and dialect reminiscent of Louis Armstrong. Between the audio limitations of his cell phone and my cell phone, it was difficult to understand what he said, but I heard the word “prescriptions.”

I figured it was a wrong number until I checked into the lodge and unpacked. I reached into my pocket to put my new prescriptions into my toiletries bag and…no prescriptions. Uh oh. Finally the light bulb went off: Lloyd, who’d left the message, had found my prescriptions. I hoped, anyway.

I called back, but the voicemail said leave a message for a woman named Pat. I went ahead and left a message, and within minutes I got a call back. It was Lloyd again, and this time we could hear each other better. He had indeed found my prescriptions and he wanted to know how to get it back to me.

I learned two things: My jacket pockets aren’t deep enough to hold anything much more than a glove. And, for better or worse, every prescription has my phone number and home address. And a stranger now had both.

One thing to know about our Walgreens: It’s at a hub of the elevated Orange and Green Lines, and to the Red Line subway. It’s also a major bus hub. And so, an assortment of what my parents used to call “characters” congregate on Roosevelt. It’s never threatening, but I’ve taken to calling it the Star Wars Cantina. It’s a bit of a gauntlet to walk through with guys selling loose cigarettes and panhandlers.

And  I’m thinking, Lloyd’s one of those characters. And I got worried until…I realized that this man could’ve thrown my prescriptions in the trash. But he took the trouble to call me on his grandmother’s phone. And I felt a little remorse for thinking, even for a moment, the worst.

I thought about asking Lloyd to bring the prescriptions back to the store, but really, I wanted to thank him personally. So, we greed to meet Thursday, the day I returned, at the Walgreens entrance.

That morning I called to confirm that we’d meet at 1 pm. “I’m taking the train,” Lloyd said. “I’ll call you when I come up the steps from the Red Line.”

I went early to grab another scrip at the drugstore—this time I said yes to the bag.  I hung out outside, watching street life. I eyeballed the Red Line stairs and eventually a heavy-set guy with a phone in his hand emerged from underground.

My phone rang and I waved to him without picking up the call.

He walked toward me with a slight limp. As he approached, he said, “Mike?”

“Yeah, Lloyd?”

We broke the rules and shook hands.

I thanked him profusely—and it was sincere. For one, I needed the pills—I was out. For another, it was a three-month supply. So, if I circled back and the insurance wouldn’t pay, I’d be out a fair amount of cash. And finally, the guy went out of his way for me.

He handed me my prescriptions, which I immediately put into the bag I’d gotten from my latest pickup.

And I handed him an envelope to thank him for his time and effort, something he’d not asked for.

And that was that. We said goodbyes and exchanged Happy New Years. I walked north, and he walked around the corner, headed to the Star Wars Cantina on Roosevelt.

Hope you had a great holiday—we sure did. I made turkey, stuffing, mashed taters, and brussels sprouts (with pancetta) for me and Beth.  And then I had to figure out what to do with all the leftovers. Small turkeys were in short supply so I ended up with a big one. But thankfully, some neighbors agreed to help us out and take some of it. We delivered it during a bundled up and blanketed, masked, distanced gathering of our neighborhood friends at our little park. We opened festivities with a bubbly toast to our friend who recently finished a course of chemotherapy, and then a group toast to one another. It was about as thankful a Thanksgiving.

The one, the only, Randy Newman.

Other than that, I pretty much have nothing, but I have come across some interesting reads.

Here’s one that’s in the LA Review of Books (no, it’s not a book review) about one of my favorite artists on the occasion of his birthday: Randy Newman. Titled Adrift in Cosmic Quarantine: Randy Newman Turns 77, it’s a very well researched and written piece—there’s a ton of stuff I never knew. I mean I knew he wrote things like “Mama Told Me Not to Come,” made famous in 1970 by Three Dog Night. I didn’t get started with Randy Newman until Sail Away and have most of everything he’s done since. But he was at it for years before that. From the article:

His first charting record came via Vic Dana, who sang “I Wanna Be There” in 1961, the singer complaining bitterly about not getting invited to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Then the Fleetwoods picked up “They Tell Me It’s Summer,” with its command of pop’s evanescence, and soon top-shelf singers were grabbing on to Newman’s sturdy material: Erma Franklin, with “Love Is Blind” (1963); the Walker Brothers, with “I Don’t Want to Hear It Anymore”(1964); Jackie DeShannon, with “She Don’t Understand Him Like I Do” (1964). Some songs, like “Nobody Needs Your Love More Than I Do” (1965), featured a sure pop strut that elevated Gene Pitney’s reedy, pinched delivery. Newman’s material crossed deftly from pop into soul, with “Big Brother” by The Persuasions (1965), “Love Is Blind” by Lou Rawls (1964), “Friday Night” by the O’Jays (1966), and especially Jerry Butler’s “I Don’t Want to Hear Anymore”(1964). He even placed a song with his guru, Fats Domino, who sang “Honest Papas Love Their Mamas Better” in 1968.

Anyway, great article, with lots of pop music history—give it a read.

And this isn’t a read but it’s eye-opening. (Hat tip to our friend Kyle for sharing it.) It’s a Centers for Disease Control map and ranking of states by the number of gun deaths per 100,000. I’ll submit without comment.

Firearm Mortality by State

Our health care friends (a doc and physician assistant) are better after COVID bouts. Better enough to make it through workdays, but by their accounts, just barely. The devilish fatigue that is often leftover makes it hard to get through each day.

And this doesn’t help. It’s an account by an ICU nurse that speaks for itself. Folks, if you hate liberals, or you hate government guidance, don’t hate your fellow Americans who are literally being driven into exhaustion and some out of the profession—health care workers.

To end on a happier note, Beth surprised me with a gift this past weekend: Richard Ford’s latest collection of short stories. It’s titled Sorry for Your Trouble. I didn’t even know he had a new collection out. So now I have a set of little gems to look forward to, some based in New Orleans.

And I’m already dreaming of our next trip to New Orleans, whenever it’s safe.

Today’s guest blogger Vera Dowell with sons Kevin and Scott on the beach in Kailua.

I am pleased to introduce Vera Dowell as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. America celebrated Veteran’s Day Wednesday, and the piece Vera read in class this week reminded us that military families deserve our thanks on Veterans Day, too. The prompt I’d assigned was “Exactly What I’d Hoped For,” and Vera’s essay was just that!

by Vera Dowell

When Duane opened his letter from the US Air Force and shouted, “We got Hawaii!” I squealed, we hugged, and (Duane claims) that brought on Kevin’s birth two days later.

In the spring of 1965, Duane had traveled to Washington, D.C. to request an overseas posting for his Air Force assignment as a pediatrician. He was told there were no possible openings for him overseas, but there was a place in Hawaii. “I won’t place a doctor there unless he requests it, though.” Duane wisely calculated that three years in Hawaii beat two years in Rantoul, Illinois. He quickly volunteered for the Hawaii assignment. “I can’t promise you anything,” the officer added.

I crossed my fingers, and we got exactly what we’d hoped for.

The planning began: farewell visits to our families, packing one group of belongings for delivery by ship, another that would travel with us, and a third for storage on the mainland. Our car needed to get from Illinois to San Francisco to be shipped to Honolulu. We agreed that Duane would drive it there by himself and I would fly there with the boys. An early morning flight seemed best for a three-month-old and a 21-month-old. Turns out businessmen liked early morning flights, too. Oh my god. What a startling preview to the year ahead of me, handling two small boys alone in an environment completely new to me.

We were lodged temporarily in a Waikiki motel filled with other military families. That was fun! Duane spent the day at work while I watched the children play and visited with wives to learn the ins and outs of military life. In the evening, the four of us walked over to the beach, picked up supper, and reveled in the perfect weather.

Our belongings had not yet arrived the day we moved into our Hawaii home: a rental in suburban Kailua, complete with a fenced-in back yard filled with tropical trees and flowers. Children’s toys, my books, dishes and kitchen supplies were among the missing, but we were assured they’d arrive soon. The next morning Duane drove off to Hickam Air Force Base, leaving me with two little boys. The beach wasn’t close enough to walk to. I knew no one. I began to feel sorry for myself. Here I was, in the most beautiful place in the country, with two healthy children. What was the matter with me?

We started frequenting a pleasant little park across the street when…KA-Boom!! The boys got the chicken pox. First Scott, then Kevin. That ruined a month. Our household goods still hadn’t arrived. I was going stir crazy.

This was not exactly what I had hoped for.

The boys recovered, and one morning at the park I met Carol, a League of Women Voters activist with three young children. A friend, a soul-mate and a lifesaver!

We bought a second car, our household goods arrived just before Christmas, and Hawaii evolved into exactly what we’d hoped for.

The good news is that our visit to see our son Gus, though delayed a day by weather, took place yesterday at his group home in  Watertown, Wisconsin. We stayed distant, sitting on the deck behind the house, but it was good to see him in the flesh, not on Zoom, and to hear him in person, instead of through tinny computer speakers. It was a lovely, sunny day and we sat on the deck and just chilled.

The bad news? In this year that knows no rock bottom, when things can somehow always get worse, they have gotten worse.

Gus’ current home is a duplex. Each side houses four residents in their own rooms, with its own kitchen. Gus lives in the left side.

Last week, we got an ominous email from Bethesda Lutheran Communities, the operator of Gus’ home, inviting us to a town hall call regarding the future of Bethesda’s services in Wisconsin.

I couldn’t make the town hall because I had a work Zoom, so Beth jumped on the call. When I got off my call I’d forgotten Beth was on the Bethesda call. Maybe intentionally. I looked in on her office and said something about my call—and she said, “Aren’t you going to ask how the Bethesda call went?”

I looked at her face. Beth is as even keeled and resilient as anyone I’ve known, as you all probably know. The color was gone from her face.

She choked out this sentence: “Bethesda is closing all its group homes in Wisconsin.”

Gut punched. Kicked in the groin. Cold cocked. I, yes I, was speechless.

Then we were sad. For ourselves, to be sure. We’d hoped Gus would be a lifer with Bethesda, which has cared for him since 2002. And looking for a new home will be a daunting task. But just as sad for the 90 odd other residents of Bethesda’s group homes. For their families and loved ones. For the unbelievable staff who care for Gus and others who’ll lose their jobs. For Bethesda’s long, rich tradition operating residential facilities for the developmentally and intellectually disabled.

Me being me, I also am dealing with anger. Not at Bethesda. But at well-meaning people who years ago pushed the turn to community settings for housing (group homes in average neighborhoods vs. “institutional settings”) with unrealistic and illogical claims. I do not disagree with the idea that some developmentally disabled people will do better in a community setting rather than a segregated campus. Having developmentally disabled neighbors isn’t bad for the abled bodied, either. Integration is usually better than segregation.

But, folks like Gus don’t really get much benefit from it. And group homes, despite pie-in-the-sky claims from proponents, cost more to operate than the concentrated, campus setting Bethesda used to operate.

When Gus moved to Bethesda in 2002, he moved into a nearly new, one-story building that resembled a public school. He had his own room, and his unit had 16 total residents. They had a common area where they could hang out, and where meals were served.

Gus’ unit was connected to others identical to his. They were like interconnected pods. Each had 16 residents and its own staff. But staff could move between the units as necessary.

Now, one of the claims of the pro-community setting folks was that the staff to resident ratio was better. True enough. Three or four staff, as I recall, were on any single shift to take care of 16 residents. The ratio was much better in the homes.

But. Staff at the group homes run a household. That means cooking, cleaning, and other things besides caring for the residents. And if you have two people for the house and one calls in sick, well, that’s a bigger impact, and there was no borrowing people from the attached unit.

In addition, as a Bethesda executive explained to me, “We have to have an accessible van that can carry four residents in wheelchairs at every single house.” Back when Gus was on campus, I remember two or three always at the ready.

So the state ended up mandating that the campus be emptied out and residents move to group homes. But they didn’t up the state reimbursement to Bethesda and other operators. (Another provider, the Catholic St. Coletta, closed its residential service years ago.) For years, Bethesda and other providers have lobbied for that increase. It never came. They’ve been operating at losses on their group homes for many years now.

Which brings me to anger point number 2. We live in a country that saw fit to give enormous tax breaks to the likes of Google and Apple, and to billionaires. But we don’t provide federal support that would provide incremental increases that would barely be noticed.

Bit by bit, my pride in my country is being eroded by shame.

Back to us. Gus will not find himself on the street. We’re working with an agency in Wisconsin and another in Illinois to look for a new home for Gus. He may end up moving as Bethesda consolidates homes as placements are found for residents.

Beyond that, we have no answers, and have all the questions you have.

To the many of you who have donated to Bethesda over the years, thank you, thank you, thank you. We had 18 years of feeling confident and comfortable about Gus’ situation, and you were a big part of it.

I only wish it wouldn’t end.