How to be Human - The Tale of Dr. Howard Jacobson

September 21, 2016. I looked at my watch because I had to be somewhere else. Yeah, don't we all? It was a few minutes before 11 am. As I turned the final corner and looked across the room I saw a frail man sitting in a wheelchair. Although I had never met him or seen his photograph, I instantly recognized who he was. Our eyes met just before I introduced myself. "Dr. Howard Jacobson, I'm Yatin Chachad. Nisha's father and Mrs. Jacobson's friend."

Flashback. A week earlier. Mrs. Jacobson, Nisha's flute teacher mentioned "My husband is in rehab just a few minutes away. I'm going to stop by and see him on the way home." "Really?" I exclaimed in surprise. "Had you told me he was here I'd have gone to visit him earlier. Of course, if it's okay with him." Mrs. Jacobson, with a sparkle in her eye and a smile on her lit up face, replies "I don't mind at all and Howard would love to see you. In all these years, out of all my students and their parents, you'll be the first one to meet him. I really, really appreciate that. It's very kind of you. He's all alone in the rehab center so I stop and see him whenever I'm in town to see my students. Let me tell you about Howard. He's got a little dementia. As long as there was food on the table and a roof over our heads and someone he could teach medicine, that's all he cared about. Howard is a brilliant doctor but not a street smart and that's the reason we're in the situation we're in. Now, he may not know your name, but if you tell him you're Nisha's father he'll know exactly who you are."

Back at he rehab. The frail Dr. Jacobson smiles as he perks himself up extremely slowly in his wheelchair. He's expecting me. This man is 93 years old. "Please come in and have a seat." he says pointing to the only chair I see in the room. As I take a seat, I quickly glance around and absorb as much visual information as possible. There are two sparse beds, one beige landline telephone, two rolling tables at the foot of the bed (one of which has his cellphone on it), a couple of basic medical stands by the bed headboard where IV fluid bags and what not could be hung, some funky medical machine, and there's an air conditioner with a sign on it not to set the temperature below 76°F. A television hangs from the wall spewing its daily programming. Nothing Else. All very spartan.

I hand him my business card. "So do you do photography for a living?" he asks. "I'd like to but nobody likes my photographs enough to pay for them, and so I just do photography for free." I respond jokingly. He laughs loudly. I think we'll get along just fine.

He tries to read the card closely but needs his spectacles. I look for them and hand them to him. They're twisted and completely covered in something opaque. It's not possible to see through them. I ask if I can have them back and I proceed to fix the bend in them. "Yes, please." he says appreciatively. As I look for a cloth or paper napkin to clean the lenses, I find none. I walk outside the room and summon the nurse and ask her for some wipes. "I'll wash them and be right back." she says and she does indeed. As she hands them over she tells Dr. Jacobson "There was some sticky stuff on it. If they get like that let us know and we'll take care of it for you. Somebody will." Mr. Jacobson puts his spectacles on and says in delight "I think I can finally see." as we both laugh.

Meet Dr. Howard Jacobson

I start my conversation "I didn't know you lived so close by otherwise I'd have visited you sooner. I'd like to write a story about our meeting and your life's experiences. I believe there are many elderly people just like yourself who would love to correlate." He acknowledges and adds "There are people like me who fall and end up here like me. I'm allowed to be here for a hundred days, more or less, for free as a senior citizen. You see the reason I'm stumbling is because of my roommate, I can't figure what the hell he's in here for. He's disoriented and that makes me nervous. I'm scared." "Do you ever go outside?" I ask him. "When I was in the other place I'd go outside a third of the time. But here, I haven't been out in ninety days." I can't even begin to imagine what that's like.

I brought something for you." I say to him as I hand him two Mango and Salted Caramel Ghirardelli chocolate bars and a greeting card. "I know you lived in San Francisco a long time ago and thought these may bring back some fond memories." "Yes. Yes. Of course" he says with a boyish gleam in his eyes as he accepts them. He starts reading the card " Wishing you a Superfantastic Day." Dr. Jacobson thanks me for the chocolates and reads the card. It is addressed to him from all of us in the Chachad Family, including my beloved Baby Elsa. "I'll be sure to show this to my wife." he says as he tucks the items in his shirt pocket. "And don't forget to share a couple of pieces with your roommate." I remind him. "My roommate is younger than me. He's only seventy-eight. But he has no idea where he's at. That really worries me. He lowers his voice. I'm really afraid."  He keeps repeating himself about his roommate. I think it really bothers him. Even college roommates don't get along sometimes, so for elderly it may be nothing new. I tell him it's nothing to worry about now that I was here. He seems to feel better about that not realizing soon I'll be gone. But for now, all is well.

As time passed, I found myself in the presence of a more relaxed person

One by one I introduce all my children in descending chronological order. "Baby Elsa is my puppy. I don't have her any more but she lives in my heart. Nisha is my eldest daughter who plays the flute with Mrs. Jacobson. Rajeev, my son, plays the trumpet. Radar is a new puppy we now have but at 12 years old, he's already a senior citizen." He nods "Yes, yes, yes." the entire time, glistening with happiness. "I'll show you some photos of my children." I tell him as I start scanning through my cellphone.

"I'll share something with you." he says "I'm ninety-three years old and there's so much technology it's all new to me." In spite of all the changes in his world and even at his age his cognitive skills and vocabulary are remarkably sharp. "How did you get the pictures in the phone? Do you keep up with technology? And how far behind you do you think I am?" I stare at him and we both laugh it out.

I can tell Dr. Jacobson is enjoying my visit. "Let me tell you a funny story. This morning I did a shave by myself. My therapists told me I had unfinished business and she took care of some spots. I shaved with just the razor. no shaving cream. I used nothing. You feel around and do a little bit at a time. No mirror. She finished it just before you came and so that was good timing. I look good now don't I?"

"I like Glen Miller orchestra. He was popular in the 50s and 60s. I'm from that era. I was the director at the University of North Carolina, I'm too old and I have no friends who call and that's a shame. I have an Irish friend in Tampa who visits me once in a while. He's doing a story on my professional life and life after the age of twelve. I'm Norwegian. Completely Norwegian as one can be. But I was born in Minnesota, third-generation Norwegian. My wife is German, and some Norwegian. I was told a lot of things about my family when I was five years old, but I can't remember." I interrupt him "My daughter can remember things from when she's five years old." He interjects "Wait till she's seventy and ask her what she remembers." We both laugh. "I'll wait till she's ninety-three" I add. We both laugh again, even harder.

"My father was a missionary in China. Chairman Mao chased away my father when I was six or 7 years old. So this is going back 85 years to 1930. I was then a gunnery officer in the Navy during World War II in the Pacific in Japan. I was part of the task force who took the surrender from Japan in 1945. I was a 22 year old officer. I was a US veteran." I stare at him in amazement. An American World War II veteran, a member of the greatest generation of people ever to walk upon this earth right in my presence. After 1945 when the war ended I became a physician. I went to Northwestern University in Chicago to study medicine." "That's a good school." I add. "That's a great school. It was a young school back then only about 80 years old. I was then at the Presbyterian Hospital in Chicago after that. Next to Cook County Hospital, which is a dreadful place. I resigned from my residency there because I was not learning and went to Harvard University and that where my life began. I became an OB/GYN and Physiology specialist. I went to San Juan, Puerto Rico. I got married in 1961 and the first time I left Boston we went to San Francisco. I worked under Ronald Reagan, but I never met him. He was an awful man because he didn't believe in helping people. It was all about the money. So I left University of California at San Francisco and University of California at Berkeley and went back to Harvard and then Rutgers University in New Jersey. They were all great colleges. I then went to University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and finally University of South Florida in Tampa, where I was head of the Department of Public heath. Here I am nobody."

All this while, Dr. Jacobson is getting uncomfortable. I apologize to him "If you have to rest or if I'm taking up your time, I can leave." "What else do I have to do? I have all the time in the world." he laughs. I lift him a bit in his wheelchair and he gets more comfortable. "If I had my druthers, my choice, I'd prefer the northeast to go to medical school if your daughter wants to study medicine. Chicago is no longer up to speed and neither is Florida. Ronald Reagan believed in private enterprise and money ruled everything. I wanted to help others. He was against that. I was a little disappointed in Nancy Reagan, because as broad-minded as she was, she still supported him. Her father was the chief of surgery." I ask him "Did you meet Nancy Reagan or her father?" He responds "Did I meet him? He was chief of surgery and I am this little squirt. What do you think?" We both laugh heartily. "After Ronald Reagan got shot he lived a sheltered life. Nancy's brother was a classmate of mine at Northwestern. I can't remember what happened to him."

I push on. "So how did you meet Mrs. Jacobson?" I was dying to ask this question. "On a blind date. She was younger than me. When we got married, the age difference didn't mean much." He gets a bit confused about times and ages. "We got married in Boston. She was at the New England Conservatory of music and she studied with the first woman flutist in the country. The name slips my mind. I can't remember it was the first chair at the Boston Symphony. Julius Baker. You heard of Julius Baker? Julius Baker is a story in itself and my wife studied with him. She was a great student and so she got the best teachers. The phenomenal student that she was. Mrs. Jacobson, she ran a flute workshop in Florida Southern College in Lakeland, Florida and she took on a hundred students."

"She visits me often. Whenever she comes to teach her students she visits me. She times it that way. Four times a week. I don't know if I'll go home because I don't know how much outside help I'll have. I may be in assisted living. I have to be careful, my back end hurts." I call the nurse and tell her Dr. Jacobson needs to lie down. She arrives and shakes her head negatively "Nu -uh. It's time for lunch in a while." She turns around and leaves. Is this woman really taking care? I don't think this woman has any idea of the greatness of the man in her presence. "Is she nice to you? Are you happy here" I whisper to him. He can't hear. I move closer to him and repeat. "Sometimes they are nice, other times not so much." he clarifies. "I'm nervous about being here because my roommate doesn't know where he is and that scares me. The women here, they like my roommate, he's their favorite." "That's because he's just a seventy-eight-year-old young stud" I remind him, as we both burst into laughter once more.

This is where things are wrong. If a person is not comfortable and wants to lie down, that person has the right to do so. Nobody should deny him that comfort. Least of all this so-called professional caretaker. And that's just it. it's just a job that pays bills to some people. They can lack compassion and sympathy and oh please, simply forget about empathy. And I can understand that this can be a frustrating job and I'm not even suggesting that all caretakers and facilities are to blame. On the contrary, we need to appreciate them. And the question lies, if the caretakers themselves are paid so poorly, who'll pay for and care for them when they're old? The facilities, managers and owners are raking in the cash. Will karma deal these people a fair deal in later life? Who knows.

"Has you enjoyed a happy life?" I ask. "Not entirely. Last thirty years it's been grab hold of what you can." He goes blank or he's trying to recollect more than he can. He's lost his train of thought. "Are you afraid of being old? What can you do about it, huh?" I ask. "Nothing. What can you do? Nothing." he responds and smiles. "I think we're in a world that is unknown, more so than I've ever known. I don't want anything, yet I need a few things. I'm worried a bit. Who knows who's going to be the President?"

It's time to start asking a few tough questions. "What are your thoughts on the healthcare system in this country from your experience as a healthcare professional as well as living in a place where you require assistance?" Dr. Jacobson looks at me in the eye and says "The healthcare system is not functional. it all about the haves and the have nots. Money rules. You should start planning for the future and how you want to be cared for in your old age now. I didn't have any children, and so our planning was different. My wife and I lived in so many different places, adoption was not a possibility. We were all over the world. In China, Japan and the Philippines, people care for their family and their elderly. I also like the Scandinavian system of government-managed healthcare. Everyone must have enough, and nobody should have too much. People in this country (United States) are in imbalance. It's not fair. Our culture does not care for the elderly."

"I have to ask you a delicate question. Because I want to know for myself and I think many people who may read your story who are elderly may have similar thoughts. A lot of people your age are scared of their mortality. What do you think? If you feel offended, you can choose to not answer." He replies "I'm too old for that. I thought about it a long time ago. It's a frightening world. But the inevitable is the inevitable. From my own personal experience, you live day by day, take it in stride and don't worry about it. What can you do?"

My personal thoughts - Life is fragile. It's not an ending, but a march towards eternity. You don't want life to be quick or slow, but satisfying it must be. Dr. Jacobson has led a long, fruitful and productive life anybody can be envious of. I felt a certain numbness and emptiness in the room. The empty feeling gripped my heart and my soul. I had to empathize with the man sitting with me. I looked into his eyes and saw his whole life. I didn't shed any tears, but I felt a cloud of gloom cast over me. For whom I was sorry I do not know. But, in an instant the sadness faded and I felt profoundly happy to be in the company of my new most-esteemed friend.

I smile and tell him he's the oldest person I've ever met. He looks at the ceiling and adds "I have a sister in Minnesota who's eighty-eight years old and I'll never see her again. That's a shame. She has four children. Her name is Lois Nelson. She married a Scandinavian as well. Her in-laws came from the same tribe we did." "All you Vikings!!!" I add and we both laugh.

"When do you get to go out?" I ask. "I don't know. I don't go out. I haven't been outside for three years. I'm sorry." he weeps. "I am sorry for you. It would be like jail for me." "Yes. That's exactly how I feel." he responds sadly. I can see the emotions in his eyes. I was asked to leave my "big camera" outside and I cannot take his picture.

A woman arrives rolling a cart. On it is a tray of food containing a red-colored hot dog, stale looking baked beans, soggy coleslaw and an artificially colored cake. Designed by professional nutritionists (I would assume), this meal hardly meets the nutritional requirements of these elderly people. I wouldn't feed this to anyone under my care. Dr. Jacobson looks at me and says "That's lunch. It's been such a pleasure meeting you. I haven't been available for four years but I've never met any of my wife's students. It's been such a pleasure. I'll be out of here in two weeks and then I'll be out of here, but I've no idea where I'll be. I thank you for coming." I stand up and shake his hand. He loves it.

I take pictures of us together. I tell him they're called selfies. He's most impressed. "Don't tell anyone" I remind him. "I won't tell anybody." he smiles and promises. "I'll be back to see you. I'll get you something nice to eat next week." I promise him. "I'll wait for you" he says and smiles. He then begins struggling in his seat. I ask him if he's okay and if he's trying to stand up. "Yes, yes. I'm trying to stand up." "Why?" I ask him. "I have to say goodbye to you properly." I smile and ask him to keep sitting and give him a hug. "Thank you and have a Superfantastic Day" he tells me. I've taught him my favourite new word. I respond with "I'll get you something to eat next week and I'll try to take you out if I'm allowed."

A Selfie with Dr. Jacobson. He finally breaks a smile for the camera.

Dr. Jacobson's cellphone rings. He tries to reach for it, but its too far. I jump out of my seat, pick it up and hand it to him. It's a flip phone, and in spite of his lack of dexterity, he manages to flip it with ease. He chats with his wife and hands me the phone. Mrs' Jacobson wanted to see how things were going between us. She tells me to make sure the temperature in his room is set at 76°F. I tell her it's at 70°F. She's not happy about it and asks me to change it back to 76 degrees. As anxious as she always seems to be, I tell her to relax and hand Dr. Jacobson his phone.

I stare at my watch once more. It's now almost 1 pm. We had spent a long time together in the previous two hours, all of which was fruitful, at least from my perspective. I tell him to enjoy his lunch and promise him I'll be back next week with a treat. After all I must take care of the people who take care of me, because nobody else will. As I walk out I take one final look I'm content I made this man laugh for a couple of hours. Or it the other way around? He says "I love spicy food. Thank you for visiting. Goodbye."

And that's the tale of one Dr. Howard Jacobson. New Friend. Great Doctor. Tireless Teacher. Military Veteran. Wonderful Human Being.

Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy.

Addendum, September 28, 2016 -  I returned to visit Dr. Jacobson with a special treat of chana masala (curried chickpeas), matter paneer (curried cottage cheese with peas), basmati rice pilaf, tandoori barbecued brisket, tomato and cucumber salad, coconut water, key lime cheesecake bar for dessert and cashew and date energy bars for a later day stash-away snack. Needless to say, Dr. Jacobson enjoyed the spicy food - enough to have his nose run and clear out his sinuses ;)

All comments welcome.

Sadly, Dr. Howard Jacobson passed away. The following is his obituary.

Dr. Howard Newman Jacobson

August 13, 1923 - February 5, 2018

Age 94

Howard Newman Jacobson died February 5, 2018 of respiratory failure at age 94. An internationally known physician with expertise in pregnancy nutrition, his work influenced generations of obstetricians and midwives around the world and laid the foundation for current practices in maternal nutrition. He was born in St. Paul, Minnesota on August 13, 1923 and was educated at St. Olaf College and further in the Navy V-12 program at Villanova in Pennsylvania. He served in the Navy in the South Pacific in WW II as a radar officer on the USS Boston. After the Navy he entered Northwestern University Medical School in Chicago under the GI Bill, receiving the MD degree. He did an OB/GYN residency at Presbyterian Hospital in Chicago then did a post-doctoral Fellowship at Harvard. He has held academic positions at Harvard, UCSF, Berkeley and Rutgers. He was director of the Nutrition Institute in the University of North Carolina system for 10 years, leaving in 1988 to become a faculty member in public health nutrition and maternal and child health at the University of South Florida in Tampa, retiring in 2003. In addition to his academic work he served as a consultant to the HEW [now HHS] Children's Board; the General Accounting Office; and the American Medical Assn. He was a member of the National Academy of Sciences Food and Nutrition Council and vice chairman of the 1969 White House Conference on Food, Nutrition and Health. He served as a consultant to governments in 15 different foreign countries while holding his academic positions. In Florida, he was a member of Governor Chiles' Healthy Start Initiative Work Group, during which time he worked with the Disney Institute on customer service in health care and wrote extensively about his ideas for US health care reform. He received many awards including the NIH Career Development Award and The March of Dimes Agnes Higgins Award. A full biography of Dr. Jacobson can be found at the USF Libraries Special Collections web site under "oral histories in public health".

Howard was the son of the late Reverend Irvin O. And Nora Olson Jacobson. A resident of Plant City, Florida, he is survived by his wife Barbara (Jane) Dinger Jacobson, sister Mrs. Lois Nelson of Minneapolis Minn., and sister-in-law, Mrs. Jodine Jacobson of San Diego CA. He was preceded in death by his brother, Edward O. Jacobson of San Diego. He is also survived by nieces and nephews, both in Minnesota and California. Services will be private, followed by interment in the National Cemetery at Bushnell, FL.

Notes: April 21, 2020. As per my notes with the late Mrs. Barbara Jacobson, At some time or another Dr. Jacobson was a professional involved in OBGYN, Physiology and Reproduction of Cerebral Palsy. He was affiliated with Harvard University Medical school, UCSF, UC Berkeley, Rutgers University, UNC Chapel Hill and USF Department of Public Health. Dr. Jacobson was at the Highlands Lake Center - Rehab Section (OPIS) Room 316 when I conducted the interview.

Captain Yechwando - Resurrecting My Childhood Monsters

Tales From Yesteryear Series.

Summer 2011, 2 pm and I had just picked up my son from elementary school. He's sitting in the rear seat behind me. As I drive by, I am watching some of the hoodlums idling their lives away in the street, waiting for nightfall, clenching a cigarette between their teeth and a malt beer sitting at their feet. They're all eyeing me. I eye them back. "You want a piece of me? Punk Ass Yo!" I say to myself discretely, not to his face. I'm always alert in this part of town, subtly glancing at the imprinting of the cheap pistols and .38 revolvers they have stashed under their loose clothing. Those cheap toys still work I cue myself. With a single button press, I ensure all my doors are locked. I keep driving without incident and eventually reach the tortuously long student pick up line at the middle school to get my daughter. It's going to be an arduous 20 minutes of waiting before another 30 minutes of stop-and-go driving. Unlike every one of the three hundred parents waiting in line I believe in protecting my good Mother Earth that I was gifted. In this 95°F merciless Florida heat, humidity and relentless sun I hear the hissing sound of scorching pavement, three hundred engines running continuously, powering the compressors of their air conditioners. In this heat the A/Cs don't even cycle, they simply work full-time. The people inside their cars are glued to their phones in comfort. My windows are rolled down and the air conditioner rests in silence. It hasn't been turned on since my wife sat in the car three weeks ago. She won't tolerate my nonsense. My engine is shut. We sweat it out. Every single day. Breathing a sigh of relief, you glance at your husband through the corner of your eye and smile knowing you married the right person instead of marrying me. Happy? I don't blame you.

Life in the parking lot could get boring if I didn't always entertain myself. We have a plan. I turn around in my seat and I am faced with little monster Rajeev who growls at me with his meanest little face. I act scared, collapse in my seat and die. I return back to life. It is my turn to scare him. I make a scary Freddie Kruger Halloween face and growl back. He acts scared. I smile at him and he smiles back. We're buddies for life.

Flashback. The year is 1978. I was in the 7th grade at St. Xavier's High School. "Bacchon ki jaan khatre mein hai. (The lives of children are in danger.)" I hear the man saying as he pores over the newspaper. I am standing next to him at the B.E.S.T. bus stop waiting for bus number 87 Ltd to take me to school. Two young children of an Indian Naval officer, a 15-year-old boy Sanjay and his 17-year-old sister Geeta (raped first) have been brutally murdered in New Delhi. Back in 1970s India such an act was unheard of. But we're in Bombay, not Delhi. Why should we be afraid? The brutality of these killings was unprecedented. The entire country is on code red alert, in the grips of terror. The man goes on to explain that the murders were committed by two thugs Jasbir Singh (alias Billa) and his ruthless accomplice Kuljeet Singh (alias Ranga) who had daringly broken out of jail. Their whereabouts had been confirmed in Delhi during the time of the murders. They could be back in Bombay or any other city you could name. Nobody was safe. I gulp in fear. I look at my schoolmates who are waiting with me for the bus. They do the same. We stick together. There's safety in numbers.

Back at school things are no different. The normal discussions of test cricket matches and Vivian Richards or Don Bradman being the greatest batsman ever are now replaced by discussions of Billa and Ranga. Fear has infiltrated every school and waiting for news of the capture of these criminals has infatuated every mind. In our best interest, our school teacher, dearest Mrs. Shyamala Seshan has been instructing us to play it safe and walk in groups. "If she's so worried about us, why doesn't she take us home safely and feed us fresh medhu vadas, dosas and hot Mysore coffee instead?" tongue-in-cheek I ask my desk mate Bob Rupani. Bob's slobbering at the thought of South Indian delicacies. School routine is otherwise uneventful. I reach home and the discussion at the dining table is the same. It's beginning to get nauseous. As I head to bed I make sure every door is bolted shut and each window is latched. But I'm not taking chances. Without my mother's knowledge, I sneak a sharp kitchen knife under my pillow just to be safe. My father is on tour overseas and I have a younger brother, mother and grandmother to protect.

Falling asleep has always been a problem, even during times of no anxiety. That tonight I'll be awake all night was a given. With lights out, I try to sleep to no avail. I keep hearing the tick-tock of the mechanical clock.  It gets louder by the minute until it's deafening. My hand is under my pillowcase clenching my knife. Exhausted, I finally close my eyes and drift into slumber. BANG! BANG! And again, BANG! BANG! My heart is pounding and my eyes are wide open. It's the damned Gurkha (night watchman) making his nightly rounds, knocking his baton on the walls of the building making his watchful presence known to any potential intruder. Even as a 12-year-old kid, I curse him and his ancestors for disturbing my sleep in three languages. I close my eyes again. There's a man inside my head. I can see him. It's Billa and Ranga as one entity. It is a face I cannot forget. The face is half dark and half light. Half Billa, half Ranga. My math class has taught me Half Demon + Half Devil = One Whole Wickedly Diabolical Monster. I open my eyes and try to reassure myself that everything is alright to no avail. It's 2 am in the morning. I dare not close my eyes again. I'm done sleeping. It's time for morning tea.

Few more days pass and the same routine repeats itself every night. I never get conditioned to it. Psychiatric treatment was not readily available back then. Who would want to believe me anyway. Even as the manhunt for the criminals intensifies, the Billa-Ranga creature resurfaced each night until one day the dragnet fell on the murderers and they were finally apprehended by jawans of the Indian Army who recognized the criminals from photographs. The country is jubilant and every citizen heaves a collective sigh of relief. Case closed. I celebrated simply by sleeping soundly. Both criminals were executed by hanging, thankfully in a reasonable amount of time. I was disappointed that they were not forcibly subjected to the wrath of our vice principal Father Bulchand before proceeding to the gallows. It would have been a deterrent to all future murderers. Justice was not fully served.

Thirty-three years pass. It's a hot day in Florida. I'm waiting in the car line to pick up my daughter. My air conditioner is off. I'm sweating. My son is sitting behind me. I spin around in my seat and I am faced with a little monster who growls at me in his meanest little face. Rajeev is more cute than scary, but I act startled and petrified and grasping my chest, collapse, feigning a painful death. After a few seconds of resuscitating myself, without a three-day wait, I miraculously resurrect myself back to life. It is my turn to scare him out of his wits. Until now, the monster in my head had lived a secluded existence. It was time to unleash him. I summon Billa and Ranga, monsters residing inside my brain. Like the girl from the movie "The Omen" possessed by a spirit I unhinge and rotate my head and emit an amplified, blood-curdling, supernatural growl. "AAAAARRRGH!" Although he's seen my scary face many times before and he knows I mean no harm, Rajeev turns pale white, stunned. I smile at him to comfort him and he slowly smiles back hesitantly. "That was awesome Dad." he says satisfyingly. Mission accomplished. We're still best buddies for life. And SNAP! Just like that I wasn't mad at Billa and Ranga anymore.

Captain Yechwando
(click on image if you dare for enhanced detail) 

Five years ago I started my photography business. I hoped to be good some day, a day yet to come. My ambition was to create a unique photograph depicting the character I had created in my head forty years ago. Where was I going to find an actor who would portray the true essence of my creation perfectly? He had to ooze the same emotions and share the same passions that burned in me. I looked within myself and I knew I was looking right at him. For years I had been sitting behind the camera taking photographs of boring landscapes, wildlife, real estate and smiling faces. I decided to turn the camera on myself and with a little help from my son five years ago, my very first selfie was born. I practiced my look in front of the mirror: Half threatening, half recognizable. A little of my dark, unseen, unknown and a little of my light, visible and familiar, he is someone who resides in us all, yet someone you don't want to meet in your dreams or down a dark alley. Not wishing to glorify criminals, I named myself Captain Yechwando, to this day it remains my favorite self portrait (shot with the help of my son Rajeev).

Twenty, thirty years from now if I'm alive, I'll enjoy reading my childhood memories and the beautiful times I spent with my children as I reminisce in my older days. I'll hope my children appreciate the countless hours their parents put in to keep them safe. As you age, you may remember your childhood adversaries and make new enemies, but you always have the power and teachings of great teachers and parents by your side to defeat them. Billa and Ranga may have been frightening, but certainly nothing was as terrifying as a trip to Father Bulchand's office. Cheers!

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

A Memorable Memorial Day

Memorial Day, 2016. It’s been memorable in the past. I stepped out of my car parked at Lake Morton only to find myself completely covered in dog hair. As I opened the rear door of my car to assist my elderly puppy-child Radar step out, I could see a “sixties-ish” aged woman approaching from about 50 feet away. I'm cursing but also thankful she's not like the young hottie I met last week who was selling me loads of toothpaste - it would have been a poor first impression. Believe me, this toothpaste thing happens "alot". I don't bother fixing my appearance or dusting off dog hair. At my age I could care less. The elderly woman wore loose clothing, donned a convertible cap and wore sunglasses to protect her eyes from the rising sun, which in spite of its low morning intensity, can stress sight enough to trigger migraines. As Radar started to sniff the interesting smells on the fresh-dewed grass, the woman broke the silence of the calm lake “He’s reading the newspaper you know.” “Excuse me?” I replied failing to understand what she meant. Smiling, she explained “A sniffing dog is equivalent to a human reading the newspaper. Dogs do that to find out who’s been there before and what happened before they got there.” I smile back at her appreciatively, simply to express my gratitude for her conversation and smile.

Today, exchanges of pleasantries between strangers are rare commodities from the dinosaur era. Lucky for me, I'm Mr. T-Rex and I prey on smiles. I tell her how I happened to adopt Radar after losing my dearest Elsa and what a great life-saving companion he’s been for me. The conversation suddenly changes its direction without indication and catches me off guard. “Jesus can be life saving too you know” the woman says. I sardonically exclaim to myself “That’s just what I ordered!” but I don’t stop her. I am not going to be just polite, but I want to appreciate her for taking the time to talk to me. Ever since I reclined from my engineering duties I don’t come into conversations with anyone other than my wife, children and my friend Walter. I lead a completely isolated existence. Any conversation is good therapy and free is best.

Judging from my non-native appearance the woman tries to confirm “Have you heard of Jesus?” I nodded affirmatively explaining I wasn't born in Papua New Guinea. I grew up in India going to a Jesuit catholic school and college, having not only read the bible before, but having one in my possession. “Jesus died for our sins and the only path to heaven is through Jesus. If you believe in Jesus you’ll go to heaven forever. Otherwise you’ll end up in a really hot place that's not very nice. Once you’re in the other place you’re in for eternity.” I know the place she’s talking about. Life’s not so bad, yet I have a feeling I’ve been there before. The woman asks “Would you like to go to heaven or would you like to go to hell?” I am not presented with much challenge here, my decision taking a split-second before I answer “Heaven.” She takes out a little yellow printout from the front pocket of her white capri and asks “Would you like to say a prayer with me? You simply repeat what I say.” “Sure thing.” I respond, knowing I have nothing to lose. We start reciting the prayer by the verse. She goes first followed by me. It’s the one that is aptly titled “Pray this prayer with me” which I present in it’s entirety for you.

Pray this prayer with me

Heavenly Father, in Jesus name, forgive my sins.
I believe that Jesus lived and died and that You raised Him
to life again, all because You loved me.

Lord Jesus, come into my heart and be the Lord of my life.
Give to me the assurance of my salvation, which is your
Holy Spirit filling my heart as a child of the living God.

In Jesus name I pray, Amen.

(Click on images for enhanced detail)

That's Right. One Way Ticket to Heaven, Babeee. No Charge.
I didn't have my camera on Memorial Day
so I had to Return to Lake Morton for Nostalgia.
Image taken on June 02, 2016.

When we have stopped reciting we look at each other and smile. I'm feeling good. It’s true. As I read along I experienced a simultaneous parallel flashback that time-transported me back to 1979 when Father Jose Luis Aran, our Spanish vice-principal at St. Xavier’s High School used to teach us how to sing prayers in the name of God. The brilliance of Father Aran was in the fact that in spite of being a Spaniard in a foreign country, he embraced India as his permanent home and all his prayers were Indian influenced so the common Indian could relate to. Pure Genius!

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the woman I’m with suddenly starts talking in a foreign language. Surprised, I ask her what it was and what it meant. “It’s Vietnamese, or Vietnamese like.” I asked her how she learned Vietnamese, to which she replied nobody taught her, it simply came to her through her belief in Jesus. It means whatever she wanted it to mean. It's not really Vietnamese. To my Vietnamese ignorant ears it sounded as accurately Vietnamese as Hanoi Beef and Pho noodles. “I can also speak Yiddish-like.” Suddenly she starts reciting something that sounds like Moses and the Ten Commandments. “What does that mean and who taught you that?” I ask knowing very well her answer is going to be “Whatever I want it to mean and Jesus taught me that.” She doesn't disappoint me. "You can chant anything you like because good can come from anything you say as long as you believe in it." she reminds me. There. Lesson learned.

I’m here to walk my dog and we’ve been talking for about 30 minutes already and I am still standing next to my car. I don’t like to waste time, but I get the feeling this time I’m not wasting my time. The woman proceeds to tell how she lived in Alaska and she had a brain tumor and cancer and how she was miraculously healed without medicine simply by asking Jesus to heal her. She asks if I had any problems or health issues. I explained that recent vision tests had confirmed the onset of cataract in my eyes and risk of glaucoma. That and my little Radar was getting old and I just adopted him not long ago. She says that Jesus can heal me and Radar by her saying a prayer as long as I believed in Jesus and the power of healing. By this time I'm thinking this is so unlike who I am, but I agree without skepticism because I have no other medicine. She places her hands over my eyes gently and starts chanting another prayer. With hundreds of thoughts flowing through my head, I am in a hypnotic trance but I can remember hearing the words Jesus, heal, cataract, eyes, glaucoma, please and Amen. If I was outside Cabrini Greens Chicago project with my eyes covered, I’d be worried for my dog, wallet and life, but I felt safe in her hands. When she’s done, she uncovers my eyes. We look into each other's eyes and smile again. I give her a thank you hug. She puts her hands on Radar’s head and recites another prayer for him. I tell her “Radar says thank you.” “Do you have any other problems?” she pushes further. I thought about answering “Duh! Like I can’t sleep at night, I miss my dearest Elsa, I have migraines, my back hurts and so on.” Instead, I graciously reply “No. Everything else is just right”. I may have a couple of little issues but I also have ten million other reasons to be grateful for. I do lead an enviable and blessed life and my family truly loves me. If I were to be offered a wish I'd want to be a kinder, gentler person. For now, I am indeed fortunate to be the chosen recipient of this most unexpected gift. Absolute healing will take patience, but I know I'm feeling better already.

All this has happened in the street, out in the open. I'm not embarrassed. We finally start walking around the lake but she takes the very next street exit. I call out to her as she moves ahead of me “I walk here all the time, so I’ll see you again. Thanks for everything.” Poor Little Radar just can’t keep up. “Wait! I'm Yatin. Thanks for being my friend.” I suddenly shout out to her, subconsciously kicking myself for not introducing myself to my new saviour/healer/stranger elderly woman friend sooner. “I’m Anne”.

All my life I've tried to help others. Today I was the beneficiary of much needed help. This episode has only sparked my hunger to help others even further. I urge you to follow your instincts. Times like these make Memorial Day a day to be thankful for. Wishing you a great Memorial Day. Belated. I'll remember this as the day I met Jesus.

Learning Never Ceases

I'm picking up a new instrument, the tenor saxophone, knowing nothing about music and playing to compete with professionally trained teenage kids. It isn't easy, but I plan on giving them a good run for the money spent on their lessons. Having photography experience always works in my favour.
(click on images for enhanced viewing)

Learning comes slow past 50.

The inspiration comes from listening to Billy Vaughn's classic orchestra since age 5, and also alltime greats such as John Coltrane and Dexter Gordon.

You've Got to Admit - I Look Quite Saxy

Learning slows as you age, but learning always continues. Don't despair if you fail. Keep trying or try something different. The day I quit learning will be the day I'm a dead man walking.

Dr. Karl Brenkert Jr., Dean and Professor Emeritus of Mechanical Engineering

Tales From Yesteryear Series.

"Scardino". "Chach". With a pipe clenched between his teeth, the professor calls out names of students worried about flunking as he hands out graded ME 303 Fluid Mechanics test papers. Then he pauses for a moment, stares bewildered through his 1950s spectacles and exclaims "En-Gee!" and then again "En-Gee?" Ng is a student and those aren't his initials. "What the hell kind of name is En-Gee? I've never seen a name without vowels and just two letters. How in the world are you supposed to say it?" Ng, a Mechanical Engineering foreign student from Vietnam, stands up and answers "Ungh." Grabbing his pipe before it falls to the floor, an even more confounded old man, visibly shocked, exclaims loudly "UNGH? That's not a name. That's a grunt." The entire class including Ng bursts out into laughter. Thoroughbred German, completely American, and 100 percent Sauerkraut was Dr. Karl Brenkert Jr., Dean and Professor Emeritus of Mechanical Engineering at the University of Mississippi. He didn't give two hoots or half a damn. Back in the fall of 1987, such antics would be tolerated. Today, in times of political correctness gone awry, he'd be shown the door, but not before his prestigious status had been revoked. Dr. Brenkert was a trip and everyone enjoyed the ride.

Classic portrait of a younger Dr. Brenkert in his office.
Photo credit unknown

When I started to know Dr. Brenkert personally in 1987, he had just returned from a colostomy or urostomy surgery. He had lost significant body mass. He was leaving Ole Miss to retire to Arizona and himself admitted that he didn't think he was going to live much longer. Just a few semesters earlier, when smoking was allowed in classrooms and University offices, a much larger sized Dr. Brenkert was never to be seen without a lit pipe. After surgery and the ban on campus smoking, he carried around an unlit pipe in the department and classes. For better or worse, those were different times. Simpler times for sure.

I remember the incident during an Engineering Dynamics class when a smart alec civil engineering student stuck an ASCE - American Society of Civil Engineers bumper sticker to the back of his pride and joy 1960s Ford Mustang 1967 Chevy Camaro (as corrected with invaluable insight in comments below by his son Eric Brenkert). A die hard Mechanical Engineer, Dr. Brenkert squandered no opportunity to educate members of other engineering disciplines about their inherent inferiority to Mechanical Engineers. And rightfully so. Dr. Brenkert had tried to take the sticker off and failed, claiming it was stuck with some space-age glue developed by, not coincidentally, Mechanical Engineers. Pride had worked to his detriment and although he wasn't happy about it, he laughed it off. Dare I say that the student responsible had guts pulling the stunt off.

A Graduate of The University of Michigan and Stanford University, Dr. Brenkert was a popular personality among students and respected among faculty peers. When the giant finally bid goodbye to Ole Miss in 1988 he left a void in the department that was never filled. One of his peers was Dr. Tom Horton, another Stanford Ph.D. recruited by Dr. Brenkert to Ole Miss. Dr. Brenkert always spared a few moments to glorify the brilliance of Dr. Thomas Horton at Stanford, always pointing out that even distinguished professors at Stanford were in awe of his genius and regularly approached then graduate student Tom for solutions to problems.

Students were his passion and Dr. Brenkert always invited them to his home to tell stories from a bygone era. Dr. Brenkert always said "You don't have to do anything in life. You don't have to come to class. You don't have to take my tests. But you must face the consequences by failing the class. It's therefore best to do things. Regardless, you don't have to do anything in life." What a profound lesson to young engineers. I have always remembered his words. I don't have to do anything in life. I do things because I choose to do so.

Dr. Brenkert as I remember him
Photo credit unknown

Dear Dr. Brenkert passed away on May 19th, 2011 in Sun City, Arizona at the age of 89, defying his surgeries for over twenty four years. His legacy will forever continue in hearts of people fortunate enough to have crossed his path. RIP Dr. Brenkert and thank you for your service to generations of Ole Miss Engineers.

Note: Some of the above statements may not be completely accurate. I am going by a 30 year old memory. If you wish to add to the story or correct my essay, I would be very grateful. These are not my photographs and I am not taking credit for them. If I can ask for permission or give credit to the correct person I will do so. If you wish for me to take them down (which I hope you do not), I will honour your request. Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy.

Ruger Single Ten - All American Western Classic

1979. Alien. Metro Cinema, Dhobi Talao, Bombay. My friend Rajesh Panchal and I wait in line for our first Adult movie. Were both thirteen and the admission age is 18. Both of us are scared stiff of being exposed. I start pulling my chin hairs ever so slightly to make them look longer. It works. I'm in. Baby-faced Rajesh is not so fortunate. He's asked to leave when he presents his ticket. I wait with him and we grease the doorman's palm with 5 rupees to get Rajesh in. Scary movie? Who knows? Damn straight I paid good money just to see Sigourney Weaver in her underwear, and before you chide me, that's what good, honest teenage boys did in the 70s. The ones who deny are liars.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Getting inside the theater to watch this movie was easier with admission rated "General". Rajesh and I watched this western twice or thrice each and every year for years. Sergio Leone's great spaghetti western is the all-time greatest gun-slinging shoot-em-up western epic ever made. Stack up your Tom Hanks, Cruises, McConaughies, Leonardoes and what-nots times three and they still don't measure up to one Clint Eastwood. Or snake eyes Lee Van Cleef. Or Eli Wallach for that matter. There's also Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More and Once Upon a Time in America - movies in which the revolver reigned supreme. The sword (gun in this case) was mightier than the pen. Before European metallurgical advancement, ergonomics and rapid round ejection wizardry there was the great American Single Action Revolver. Simple. Mechanical. Perfection. If staring into the cold steel eyes of a Western gunman didn't do your britches brown, the sounds of the revolver's spinning cylinder and three clicks of the hammer being cocked would. "Looks like sumbody jist cashed in his chips. Done got ready ta daaaa (to die)." To make it outright nostalgic, cut a generous wad of tobacco and stick it between the gum and cheek and bark it in your gruffiest southwestern drawl. Repeat. You may now spit your juice.

Rajesh and I, both rabid rifle fans each owned an air rifle in our school days. We went on several shooting expeditions exterminating pests. Still, no revolvers. The 1990s saw me become the proud owner of a Ruger 10/22 rifle along with my Ole Miss friend John Gerrie purchasing a blued Ruger single six revolver. It was a perfect buy-one-get-one-free. We went shooting together in the Mississippi backwoods outside Oxford and exchanged firearms for added entertainment and challenge. Who needs a girlfriend when you've got a pair of Rugers to make you jumping happy? Besides Bowheads were a dime a dozen, Rugers not so cheap. You don't have to be a varmint hunter to be a master marksman. ;)

(Click on the photos for enhanced detail)

Ruger Single Ten

With some of my Spaghetti Western Comics

Years later I yearned for a slow-it-down revolver once again. Enter the Ruger Single Ten in modern satin stainless steel, walnut gunfighter grips and fiber optic sights. This revolver is a mechanical marvel, with the sights and sounds of the Colts of yesteryears, but featuring added reliability. The fit and finish is modern with old-world charm. The grips are inviting with the Ruger logo embedded for a very classy touch. It feels warm and cold at the same time. Nirvana for the hand. The trigger is short and crisp. The long 5.5-inch barrel and high-visibility fiber optic sights, fully adjustable for elevation and windage, ensure supreme accuracy. Slow down to load and slow down to shoot - it begs to be enjoyed leisurely. The 22lr cartridge is cheap and easy to fire all day long. Ten rounds makes reloading less tedious and firing opportunities plenty. Maintenance is simple and mostly for caressing this beauty even more, but first ensure that the cylinder is completely unloaded using the sprung manual ejector. Pass me the longhorn brisket and chili beans. I'm in cowboy heaven.

Detail of the Walnut Wood Grips, embedded Ruger emblem
Cylinder and Trigger

Summarized. Ruger Single Ten, An All American Classic. Everything else is simply Un-American.

Striated Hammer and Williams Fiber Optic Sights

So all o' y'all bathroom gunslingers out there, put on yer boots and Wrangler denims and go on out to your local range with a revolver to practice them target skills for some good old-fashioned fun. Or slap in yore favorit bootlegged western on VHS tape, rope up them your kids around the widescreen "toobless wunder" or grab you a bottle of rot-gut corn and rye for some "Yee Haw". Now Git!!!!

P.S.:
I thank Mr. Don Gambuzza of Sarasota for his generosity, his valuable time and in making this article possible.
Disclaimer: Please shoot and drink responsibly and never together. Be safe and have fun.
Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy.

If you have a list of your favourite western movies or old revolver stories, please be sure to post them below. Thanks for visiting and I appreciate your time.

(Warning! Don't instigate violence and blame my post. This post does not serve to entice violence of any sort. It is a testament to the service provided by legitimate armed forces and law enforcement everywhere and also to everyday people who choose to act responsibly in protecting their friends and families.)

Iselyn Dallas - Breast Cancer Killer

There are millions of breast cancer survivors in the world today, plausibly more than any other form of cancer survivors. This bittersweet distinction is made possible because of cancer's unrelenting onslaught on so many women but also because regular examinations, medical technology, science and equipment have made early discovery, proper diagnosis and correct treatment possible. We now have the ability to fight back. (Click on images for enhanced detail)

An Emotional Iselyn Dallas Reliving her most Vulnerable Moments
When she was First Diagnosed With Breast Cancer.
When I look into her dark ebony-coloured eyes
I see a woman who has battle scars, but is unbroken.
Here's a woman whose strength is formidable
and her spirit resilient. An Extremely Powerful Image.

"Hi! I'm Iselyn Dallas. Breast Cancer Survivor." Iselyn Dallas is a Pediatric Nurse Practitioner at Lakeside Pediatrics in Lakeland, FL whom I've known for almost ten years. Iselyn was diagnosed with breast cancer on October 2, 2006, just 30 days before her wedding. "It was a shock. It felt like a death sentence." she says, looking back. "I was devastated, because it was a death sentence for something I was not guilty of. Until that October day 9 years ago, I never really gave much thought to my own mortality. My mortality had suddenly turned into a reality." "The words “you have breast cancer” were a slap in the face and the stark reality that everything as I knew would be no more. What do you do when everything you know suddenly becomes everything you don’t know? Instead of asking what’s for dinner, I now asked am I going to die? Fear took a strong hold of my life initially because I had young adult children and family that I loved fiercely and couldn't imagine not being there with any of them."

Iselyn Looks to her Faith in God for Shelter and Support.
Another Extremely Compelling Image.

Iselyn adds "Also what did I know about surgery, chemotherapy, radiation? All of which I now had to face. It was overwhelming, frightening and lonely. Unless you have walked this journey there isn’t any way to know the devastation it brings. I can still remember that day vividly one minute I was taking care of my patients and the next, my boss Dr. Cory was taking care of me. I was blessed to have unconditional support from my Lakeside Pediatrics family and my amazing family and friends. I also prayed and tuned to God for guidance."

Iselyn Finding Strength and Determination to Fight
and to Live Again While Reading the Holy Bible.

"Come on! I've got to beat the odds! This can't be the end of the world!" "This wasn't an easy journey, but I emerged with a new outlook about life and helping other women." That's when Iselyn decided to fight back, not just for herself, but for women everywhere. In 2008 she started I'm a Survivor, Inc. a breast cancer fund raising nonprofit organization to financially and emotionally support women diagnosed with this illness. "I learned that recovery and survival means you need to have mental, physical, financial and spiritual support, and “survivor” tries to provide all of that."

Iselyn Reflecting on her Past Struggles and Enjoying a Peaceful Day at Peterson Park in Lakeland, Florida

A Jubilant Iselyn Celebrates "Life" and her Victory over Cancer.
Life's too Short to Sit and Cry About.

Today Iselyn is the paradigm of good health, charity, optimism, good spirituality and radiance. She puts her struggles behind her and treats countless children in Lakeland every day and nurses them to back to wellness. Counseling women based on her experiences, knowledge and struggles has become second nature. "You can lower your risks with proper diet, regular exercise and de-stressing your daily life. But if it is inheritable, breast cancer may attack you no matter what lifestyle you lead. Regular screenings and early detection are the key to survival. Most importantly, if you're unfortunate enough to become a victim, don't give up!" "Life is short. Hug your kids and spend time with your loved ones."

Charting Out a New Course for her Life. Ready to go Wherever Life Takes Her.

"In January of 2014 I was appointed the Tampa chapter president of Sisters Network which is a national African American survivorship organization. Because although African American women are diagnosed the least , but succumb to this disease the most Sisters Network is my passion along with survivor  because between the two organizations I get to support women from all backgrounds. Not one of chose this journey - it chose us." "Today I live by the words “life is what you make it, So make it while you’re living”!!! She quotes Stuart Scott "Surviving cancer is about how you live, why you live and the manner in which you live."

A Visionary Iselyn Takes a Glimpse into the Future
of her Foundation as She Leans on the Handrail for Support.
She Needs Help From Others to Achieve her Goals.

We know breast cancer can be curable, yet care remains beyond reach for so many women. This horrible disease remains widespread, relentless, devastating and deadly for many. Survival chances have improved, but risks remain and recurrence and lethality are always a constant threat, never in distant memory. As you rightly knew, the poor suffer the most. Time has come to find a complete cure. This is where we can help. Lakeside Pediatrics has made a generous donation to her cause every year since 2008. My first pledge was to help Iselyn by bringing attention to her cause and her annual fundraiser. Show her you care by helping her foundation with your generous support or pledge. 100 percent of ALL profits generated from the sale of portraits (shown above) autographed by Iselyn Dallas will be donated directly to her foundation. That's my second promise. You've just met Iselyn Dallas, breast cancer survivor. Now get to know Iselyn Dallas, Breast Cancer Killer.

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

Message from Y. Chachad: Anyone can muster enough courage and find the inspiration they need to fight from reading this essay, whether it be dueling cancer, another disease, alcohol or drug addiction or whatever demons you have. The purpose of this story is to never lose hope. Here's Wishing you a Healthy and Happy 2015.

Cliff R. Leonard - Sculptor, United States Marine and Good Human Being

Monday, May 26, 2014. Memorial Day services at Cavalry Baptist Church in Lakeland. The ceremony honouring Marines Philip Clark, Donald Vincent and Ronald Payne had just concluded and I approached the man who had just moved the entire gathering to tears. "Hi, I'm Yatin Chachad, Photographer." I introduced myself as I handed him my business card. "My name is Cliff Leonard" he replied. The entire meeting lasted six seconds. I went home and added him as my Facebook friend and directed him to a post honouring the three Marines and Cliff.

Cliff R. Leonard needs no introduction. For those who know him, he's a legend. For those of you, who once like me, had not learnt of Cliff or his cause, Cliff is a Veteran Warrior who served in the United States Marine Corps in Vietnam, and has since dedicated his life to immortalizing Florida's "Eternally In Service" Marines and Corpsmen by sculpting their life sized busts and presenting them to mourning families. I despise the word fallen Veterans or Heroes. Did they fall from grace? Were they dishonourably discharged? Fallen just sounds derogatory as though they fell out before completing their task and insulting to say the least. Cliff does not ask for a fee when he presents these busts, usually at ceremonies. However, as you may imagine, time, materials and firing a sculpture in a kiln all add tremendous cost which he bears himself. Although Cliff sports a solemn look at functions and ceremonies, his face belies his zest and fondness for humour and life. He sculpts all of his Veterans using photographs and videos, occasionally relying on descriptions as he may have never met any of his creations in flesh and blood. The presentation of the bust to the grief-striken families at ceremonies is usually teary-eyed followed by gratitude and admiration from the entire audience. What better way to honour the lives of men who courageously sacrificed their all for their country. Sacrificed everything for you.

Fast forward several months and hundreds of behind the scene exchange of words, and I was pestering him for a photo shoot on Christmas Day.

YRC: "Cliff, Bossman, I hope you didn't find my immigration and the multicultural post offensive. If so, I apologize. It was not my intention. I still wish to do your portrait and story I promised."

CRL: "Absolutely NOT.  If I had I would have dropped you a note.  I enjoyed it.  My philosophy on offending someone is that it's only a charge on the "offender" when it's done intentionally or if you had been advised beforehand."

This man won't mince words; he even drives a Subaru. We're a bit alike in that respect, but I've got a lot to learn from the master. All I know is they can't throw me out of the country for what I say because I've got my citizenship. Locked up forever in Guantanamo? I wouldn't doubt it.

CRL: "Yatin, Merry Christmas -- Hope all is well!  My Best and Semper Fi.  It's up to you and I to make this a better place next year!"

YRC: "My Dear Cliff, Sorry for the late response in spite of having read your message earlier. A very Merry Christmas to you and your family. I love your attitude on making this place better for next year. If we don't do it who will? You know there are weekends when I just struggle to keep myself busy, but then get so tied up doing things here and there it just takes the entire weekend and then it's back to work. I still want to do a photo session on your work at your convenience. Therefore, let me know a weekend that you'll be free and I'll just plan to visit you one day. I'll throw in a few smart-alec comments for good luck. I'm not a trained professional so you'll have to excuse my inexperience."

CRL: "Yatin,  Thanks.  What ever fits you fancy will be fine with me.  I'm actually beginning to put the finishing touches on a piece now.  No matter the date we can always work something out.  You can give me a holler at your connivence and we will put it together.  My best, Cliff"

YRC: "I really am in a slump and find it hard to churn out articles, but then I can get fired up and pump out a 10 page essay at the snap of a finger. However, I'll let you dictate the course; it's all about you. I'm free this Saturday"

CRL: "Well start snapping!"

Hey! Unbelievably, this man actually double-spaces after a period, just like I normally do, but he can't spell convenience. Maybe it's just a typo, but I won't tell anyone and embarrass him. I know I'm old fashioned, but this wonderful double-space after a period habit that nobody cares about was drilled into me by none other than my mechanical engineering doctoral dissertation adviser. Thank you dear Dr. Jeff Roux.

0700 hours, Saturday, December 27, 2014, and I was on my way to Jacksonville, FL to meet Cliff and his family and perhaps catch him in the act of actually sculpting a Marine statue. I know in his heart he'd rather not have made any of these in memoriam, but war is cruel, and someone has to do it. It's only up to him to do it, as nobody else will and I'm here so we can all share Cliff's selfless experience.

1045 hours, I reached his home and was greeted by his warm smile and strong handshake. I hugged him, a man I hardly know, and we greeted each other like long lost friends. I normally don't touch people. I'm paranoid. I can't get any lice from his head. He's got no hair. I, on the other hand, have a bird's nest on my head. But I shampoo my hair twice a day. Just saying. I noticed he's aged in the past few months since I saw him last. Settling down after a few pleasant moments and a cup of coffee, I commenced photographing him and his work.

(Click on images for enhancing detail)

Cliff and his wife Linda Share a Happy Moment Together.

Cliff Starts Work on a New Bust.
Cliff Requested that I keep Details of the Bust at
a Minimal to Keep the Marine's Identity Private
Until Presentation Time.

Every Detail is Painstakingly Accurate.

Such Passion takes a Physical and
Emotional Toll.
He Completely Immerses
Himself in his Art.This Important photograph also
shows his present and past work.
History Being Made in this Studio.

Eye-to-Eye.
Man-to-Man
Cliff Examines a Bust

Adding Final Details and Finishing Touches 

Nothing is Fast and Easy.
Every Little Detail
Must be Perfect.

Almost Ready for Presentation 

Cliff in a Pensive Mood. The Grim Look

Finally a Smile.
Satisfaction that the Job is Done. Perfectly. 

It's Never Easy When It's Done.
Cliff Showing his Emotions; This One May be Complete,
But Sadly, There Will Always be More.

I had stayed there longer than I anticipated and I had a long drive ahead. I hope I didn't wear out my welcome. All I know is I enjoyed my time with a larger than life figure. I had stated in my earlier essay that Cliff was a God. Do I still believe that? To the grieving families he presents the statues to, he can be nothing short of Godsend. I don't necessarily agree with everything he says or does. He's a flawed God. But still a damn good human being. And that's more important. I thanked him and bid him goodbye, not knowing when our paths would cross next. I hoped that he and his family and friends would enjoy the essay and photographs for years to come. I was a bit nervous shooting his pictures and regardless of what he thought of my photographs, I know we'd still be friends on Facebook. Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy. I think he just did. Why would I spend sixteen hours in a single day (during Christmas holidays) driving, photographing, processing and writing about a person I had met for just 6 seconds? I remembered what Cliff had said, "It's up to you and I to make this a better place." He has to do the things he has to do and I have to do the things I have to do. Because nobody else will. SEMPER FI!

Capture Your Life & Dictate Your Legacy.

Ardbeg Corryvreckan - The Ultimate Islay

Ardbeg Corryvreckan - The Ultimate Islay
(click on photo for additional detail)

Initially, I wanted to add my tastings on Corryvreckan as an addendum to my post on Single Malt Scotch Whiskies. But when you have a whisky so distinctive as this it would be a sin for it to not have a dedicated post in its honour.

'Tis the legend of Corryvreckan, the vile thunderous, seething cauldron named after the Viking prince Breacan, who met his watery destiny, praying his devoting to the Lord of the Isles. Breacan perished in the perilous whirlpool which now eternally adorns his name. Dead? Of course not. The prince slept in his watery lair until he was awoken a wild untamed spirit. The Ardbeg Corryvreckan. The ultimate Islay.

Corryvreckan. Repeatez afetr moi. KoRRRRyVRecken! Just the naem sendz shivres down the spiny spynes of ordinary spineless Scotch distillers. Al scotches begin vith the same threads, butt this one with its ends left unspun and unwoven. Ti also sends you spirralling head frist into a whirlpul of unimaginably ltheal toxicity and powerful intensititty (for those who insist on using preventatative instead of simply preventive) of arommas and flavoures. Simply Legendary and hence, thus and therefore the stuFF off Legends. Measure an dram inside of an Glencairn Krystal Glas. Stolzle preferably.

THE EYES: Les colores amber. Woody. Gold, but a wee bit darker. Like Canadian maple syrup and seemingly equally viscous.

THE NOSE: Roll the glass beet twin your psalms and gently warn the drink. A sniff in the Glencairn and the whirlpool magically rises in a turbulent vortexx (Reynold's Number 2300) and penetrates your lungs. Gentile Peat. Very understated. Not phenolic like Laphroaig. Very deceiving.

THE TONGUE: Strike! Aclohol. Cask strength. LoTs of it at fifty7.1 percent! Explosive. QUickly Followed by Catastrophiq. This ain't 40% Jack Daniels, Jack. Un-Chill filtred; it's all in there. wicked. Untamed. Zis is the stuuff your French grandmother never varrned you about b'cos she never saw it cummingz. You didn't know you had a Fremch Grandmother? Pay attention Huzefa laddie. Oake, Pete, diesel oil, secund hand cigar smoke from Castro's very own 88-year-old nostrills, Kandy bruthday cake, vanille, Spicee, sweet and peppery like the Naga Bhut and then some vanille and berries. And some Vanilla. Vanilla from the maturing in bourbon casks and berrys from finishings in French wine caskz. Unmistakably slaty, sorry, salty pancetta dippsed in pfish oil. I'm slurring.

THE THROAT: Finally, the finish. Dry. Long. Developinggg. Lastinggggg. Lasting long past your great great grandmotherr, bless her soul. Going down like hot sauce made with Kashmiri, Cayenne, Guajillo and Habanero Chile. Alwaysz building and evolving. You're treated to A gamut of flavours. Understand, apreciate and ejnoy them. It's hot and I simple love the burn. This scotch truly complements the mighty Uigeadail, more powerful but not as aromatique. So alike in their Ardbegness, beg your pardon, yet zo diffrunt. Unlike me this whisky exudes arroguncze.

I'm slurring more. You check my Zspellingz. You think I'm LiTt. ssZozzled! WRONG! It's just your eyes burning with jealous envy. You can tell I'm having a blast. One sip and I ask myself; why do I even bother tasting other mortal scotches? Why do I choose to embarrass myself comparing? Insisting on humiliating myself with explanations? Why are you still reading? Nothing compares. The debate ends. This is the drink that rules all drinks. Take a deep breath and dive beneath the surface of Corryvreckan to discover sophisticated swirling aromas and torrents of adventure. Hold tight and enjoy the ride. Drink Responsibly as you please.

Corryvreckan. Distinctly Ardbeg. The Ultimate Islay.