Hooked on Great White American Pelicans

It's 2014, at some time in the November evening. I look up in the skies with eagerness after scanning the lake. I visited the lake daily, anticipating their arrival, until finally my diligence and patience paid off.  In the distant sky, I witnessed the first flock of migrating Great White American Pelicans to arrive at Lake Morton in Lakeland, Florida for the winter, gliding down like a squadron of WWII fighters in classic V formation. The squadron leader commands the flock to circle above the lake, confirming the precise location and safety.  Once there's no evidence of threat, they all land into the lake in a big "SWOOSH", their journey complete. Pelicans don't require a GPS or Google maps. Masters of navigation, they've been perfecting this trick for millennia.

Click on the pictures for enhanced detail.

Of the many blessings that I've been showered with, witnessing this great migration spectacle ranks at the very top of the list.  It is most humbling and awe-inspiring to spend countless hours with these magnificent birds.  Surely, you envy.

These birds are no strangers. I consider them my friends, having spent considerable time together chatting silently. Carrying battle scars, missing legs and distorted wings as badges of honour, each individual has his own identity and exhibits a unique personality.  Live Large. If you have it, flaunt it.

I posted this blog at the request of my childhood school friend Saurabh Shah, who encouraged (pushed) me to share my pictures with the rest of the world. "Stop being selfish." he chided me.  Thank you Saurabh Bhai for your support.

Please keep reading for a related story that unfolded a few days ago.

A pelican enjoying a flaming orange sunset on banks of the lake. The outside pelican is always on lookout duties, while the rest of the flock grooms itself and enjoys leisure time. As soon as another pelican perches next to him/her, the original lookout gets a break. Since our hero is at the end of the wall, he is on perpetual duty, unless he goes swimming. He kept tracking my every move, always watchful of my camera's presence.

These majestic birds grace the banks of Lake Morton, basking in the evening sun, looking for mates, skimming the lake surface for fish and gliding effortlessly through the wind, flapping their 10-foot wings only during takeoff. Apologies Canadians, the original and true snowbirds are Great White American Pelicans.

I begin taking pictures from a distance and gradually creep in, gaining their confidence. When a trust develops, I'm rewarded with an extreme closeup expression. "Eye of Sauron". Looking formidable, this giant pierces my soul with his ruby red eyes blazing, claiming the fiery light of the mighty sun as his very own. Absolutely magical.

A stunning display. This giant is blessed not only with grace and magnificence but also with power to pull it off.  Mesmerizing.

Some of his friends have already started migrating.

A parting look that I acknowledged, "I'll be back next year" he said.

Updated Story. HOOKED!!!

I was hooked on pelicans and then I met a hooked pelican. On February 13th, 2021, I photographed this magnificent Great White American Pelican with a rusted metal hook going through and through its neck at Lake Morton.  I didn't see the hook myself until I shared the pictures with my friend Hanif Abdul who mentioned it. I called and reported the finding to Lakeland Parks and Recreation Authorities. Apparently, someone had already taken notice. The bird was captured and the hook surgically removed. He was then returned to the lake to his mates to prepare for his migration north. 

If you find this story, blog or photographs interesting, Please consider donating to your local animal rescue, SPCA or bird sanctuary. Save a life - go vegan for a day or forever. Your body will thank you.

PLEASE DISPOSE OF YOUR TRASH RESPONSIBLY!!!

Mrs. Barbara Dinger Jacobson - Flute Aficionado and Friend

RRRRRIIIING!! "Hello" I answered the phone. On the other end of the line, an elderly lady spoke "Hello. I'm Barbara Jacobson, the flute teacher calling about tutoring your daughter." Before I could introduce myself, she continued "I was asked to contact you by Jane Sholine, the music director at Lawton Chiles Middle Academy. Now you listen carefully. I only accept students who are willing to learn and excel. I'm a professional flute teacher and I was a faculty member at Florida Southern College before I retired. So don't expect me to come just to babysit your daughter. Is that understood?" I was caught completely off my guard. "Yes, Mrs. Jacobson." She proceeded to make an appointment to meet with my daughter before disconnecting. "Sheesh. I'm going to get along swell with her." I said sarcastically.

The doorbell rang. "That must be the flute teacher." I said as I opened the door. Standing in front of me was a frail-looking lady with messy platinum hair and clothes that were out of style. She was beautiful and she had the most captivating blue eyes. "Come in Mrs. Jacobson" I invited her in. After a long conversation and interview with me and my daughter, she agreed to have my daughter as her student. "Thank you, Mrs. Jacobson." I said. "You can call me Barbara" she ordered. "Yes, Mrs. Jacobson. Maybe next time." I never, ever called her by her first name. She always remained "Dear Mrs. Jacobson."

Over the next eight years, Mrs. Jacobson and I became very close friends. Her beauty, mesmerizing, soft blue eyes and impeccable command of speech always held my attention captive. I argued with her on every topic we discussed. Two strong personalities had clashed and neither one was going to let the other get the upper hand. Because of her husband's fading health (he was sixteen years her senior), her finances were deteriorating rapidly. Knowing very well she would never accept charity, she fought with me vehemently when I tricked her by doubling her pay and gave her gift cards for gas and groceries. She deserved it and she needed it even more. Although I finally reasoned with her, and she eventually accepted, she remained too proud to ask for it. I even chided her in frustration once "Mrs. Jacobson, I'm your best friend. I don't know how many best friends you have but I'm always looking out for you in your best interest." We fought about everything because that's what best friends do.

Whenever she visited, I made tea for her, sometimes coffee. Sometimes she declined and asked for a glass of milk or yogurt. I never knew what she had a taste for until she asked. However, she always went home with enough food to last her and her husband for a few days, which I used to prepare fresh while she was tutoring my daughter and keep ready for her. I even sent something special for her seven dogs. She returned the empty containers the next week. She made her conditions clear. "No lamb or veal. I would like for an animal to have lived at least a year before it's life is taken from it without its permission." she said. With that statement she changed what I purchased for the entire family at the grocery store. When her husband was ill and admitted into rehab, I went to visit him and spent a few hours with him. I sneaked some healthy protein bars past security for him when he got hungry at night. An essay of my visit with him can be found here. How to be Human - The Tale of Dr. Howard Jacobson.

After her husband passed away in 2018, Mrs. Jacobson became more relaxed. She was looking forward to a long life and a less-stressful lifestyle, not having to worry about her husband all the time. "Both my parents lived well into their nineties, closer to one hundred." she said proudly. I told her "I'm sure you'll beat their record." She had become quite progressive and technologically savvy as well. She updated her phone and purchased a tablet and smartwatch to keep track of her new lifestyle and daily activities.

Her freedom was destined to be short-lived. Age and years of stress of taking care of ailing parents and aging husband were catching up with Mrs. Jacobson quickly. She had become frailer over the years and she needed help with little things. I was always glad to assist. I helped her with checking the engine oil, tire pressures and the condition of the battery in her car. On other occasions it was printing something that she needed. It was all good. When she told me on July 13, 2017, that she was had cancer and could not teach any longer, I was devastated. I could tell that she was heartbroken too. I knew this day was coming. I had always wanted to take studio portraits of this lady, but she never allowed me. As she sat there chatting with me I took a few pictures of her without her knowledge with my phone. I have attached all the pictures I have of Mrs. Jacobson as they are all precious to me. On her way out, I hugged her and said goodbye and she cried when she left. This was a lady who would never cry in anybody's presence. As usual, I instructed my daughter Nisha "Please walk Mrs. Jacobson to her car and make sure she's okay driving out." My daughter needed to learn the value of the effort this lady had invested in my daughter to share her knowledge. I had asked Nisha to escort Mrs. Jacobson every single time she had visited for the past six years. This time would be no different, except it would be for the final time. Over the years Mrs. Jacobson had many students all of whom she loved dearly, but Nisha had the honor of being the last one she accepted. So it was very fitting to both that Nisha would walk Mrs. Jacobson after the final flute lesson she conducted before retirement. (Click on the images for enhanced detail)

Mrs. Jacobson reflects back on her travels, students, illustrious career....

.... and her upcoming retirement.......

..... and her plans for the future

Over the next eighteen months, I stayed in constant touch with Mrs. Jacobson over the phone and email. However, she always declined my offer to visit. Finally, on Thanksgiving Day, 2018, she agreed to join us for an Indian meal which I had prepared in her honor. We were all so happy when she graced us with her presence. She even agreed to have her pictures taken. YAY! It was a very casual family affair. After all, she had once told me "You are the only family I have". She was an only child and she did not have any children with Dr. Howard Jacobson. I was her family. She was my family. She was not in physical contact with a lot of people and so she was most eager to talk at every opportunity. When Mrs. Jacobson started talking, she could talk. I listened to every word while she rambled on. (Click on the images for enhanced detail)

Mrs. Jacobson enjoying a spicy Indian meal.

Runny-nosed and teary-eyed, she enjoyed it all.

Eternal Friends. We shall remain best friends for life and beyond.
A happy Mrs. Jacobson flanked by Nisha and me.
This photograph embodies the friendship, respect,
love and feelings we had for each other perfectly.

Mrs. Jacobson and her favorite student Nisha.

I can tell you with certainty, no other student took more interest

in Mrs. Jacobson's well-being.

Thanksgiving Dinner, November 03, 2018. Mrs. Jacobson opened her heart to us. "I think it's okay for me to feel so horrible. I do my things in the morning and eat lunch and then I rest. It makes me more able to think. In the beginning, I had to deal with my husband's pensions. It is incredibly frustrating and even embarrassing when you have to call so many departments and get things straightened out. You can't think straight. It's mainly that I can't find the right words or have the patience. Then I found out that everyone I deal with does not interpret what I say when I tell them I'm all alone and I have no support. They assume that you're living a normal life. Even though I was taking care of him, Howard didn't communicate very well. And basically, everyone disappeared from my life when I stopped teaching. My entire life disappeared. And now, I'm going to have to move when I can, but I have to have the dogs with me. I have four dogs now. And to go from having so many people around me to talk to someone at the grocery store or during doctors appointments have been a shock. Turns out I have a medical phobia. Going back 70 years when we live in the country, I had an unpleasant medical condition and I went from doctor to doctor. It wasn't very pleasant at all." She laughs as her mind travels back into time.

She carries on "When I had the operation they expected me to take care of myself. So going through all the biopsies has been freakish. I also had an incredible phobia of needles, so they just put a towel over my head." We all laughed. "I don't live in a very friendly neighborhood. So the four dogs have been incredible. When I do move I want the dogs to go to a good home before I move into a facility. But I don't do so well living with strangers. It takes a while to find people you like. So I want to stay on my own as long as I can."

I joked back "You sound like me. Phobia of needles and can't get along with anyone I don't like. Heck, I don't even get along with people I like." We all laughed. "You know I have like five real friends in the world and you are one of them." I reminded her that in spite of our generation gap we remained best friends.

The conversation carried on for an hour or more before we sat down to eat. We had a great time that Thanksgiving Day and we were all thankful for having spent time with Mrs. Jacobson. I was particularly thankful that she didn't have to be by herself. I hugged her and thanked her for coming as she left. "Mrs  Jacobson you are my best friend"  I reassured her. "You can call me Barbara you know" she laughed. "Yes, Mrs. Jacobson. Maybe next time." I replied with a smile. She cried once more as I held her tightly and stroked her head gently to comfort her before we walked her to her car.

A few months went by. I had spoken to Mrs. Jacobson in April and she expressed her wish to come to visit us when Nisha was home for the summer. June 28, 2018, 12:44pm. The phone rings and it's Mrs. Jacobson. "My cancer has metastasized, so I am under treatment again and I don't know how much time I have. Now I can't tell you when I'll be able to visit, so I'll just let you know when I'm feeling good."

July 27, 11:27am. RRRRRIIIING!! The caller ID indicated it was Mrs. Jacobson. Expecting her visit that day, I answered very enthusiastically with a big smile "Hello Mrs. Jacobson." The lady on the other end said, "Hello. I'm Michelle Shiver, a friend of Barbara Jacobson." At that very moment, before she said anything else, I knew. Three days earlier, on July 24, 2019, Mrs. Jacobson had passed away. Rest in Peace, my dearest Mrs. Jacobson. I will love you and miss you forever.

Although she had no immediate family, Mrs. Jacobson was cherished by my family and a few of her friends. "Capture Your Life. Dictate Your Legacy." It's never been truer. Mrs. Jacobson was a giant who dictated her legacy. I feel privileged and was fortunate to have captured a sliver of it.

Mrs. Barbara Dinger Jacobson (December 31 1939 - July 24, 2019)

It's not light or dark. When a person in your life is gone, life is empty.

Addendum: A Celebration of Life Ceremony was held in memory of Mrs. Jacobson on Saturday, September 07, 2019 at the Annie Pfeiffer Chapel on the Florida Southern College campus. The photographs from the ceremony are posted below. Please add any missing names identifying the individuals in the photographs. Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated. Read all the captions first and then click on the pictures to enjoy enhanced detail.

Before the Service at Annie Pfiffer Chapel

Pianist playing before the ceremony

Michelle Shiver speaks about Mrs. Jacobson

Sophia Jean, one of Mrs. Jacobson's students
performs exquisitely

Sophia Jean performing
Sonata "Undine" Opus 167
I & IV Movements

Accompanying Pianist performed magnificently as well

Simple, just like Mrs. Jacobson would have wanted it.

Mrs. Jacobson's colleague speaks

FSC Alumni Flute Choir led by Crystal Short Cooper

Prayer for Mrs. Jacobson

Darkness

Before I begin, I wish to mention the lyrics to "Darkness", one of my favorite songs by The Police written by drummer nonpariel Stewart Copeland.

"I can dream up schemes when I'm sitting in my seat
I don't see any flaws till I get to my feet
I wish I never woke up this morning
Life was easy when it was boring

I could make a mark if it weren't so dark
I could be replaced by any bright spark
But darkness makes me fumble
For a key
To a door
That's wide open..."

The journey: This blog is a documentation of my life. So it ticks along .... my life. We all traverse through rough times in life when we're desperately searching for purpose. Whether it is the loss of someone dear or a dear little friend who is lost in life, we all suffer losses and experience the negativity that trails behind. While it was natural for me to have fought these feelings in the past as a younger me, only recently have I started accepting them and even embracing them. That does not mean it's easy or that I asked for it. It is during these trying, dark times that I look for any sense of direction - a path in the shadows, a glimmer of hope, a staircase to elevate me to where the light glows.

Darkness sculpts life: "Only in your darkest moments will you discover your guiding light." Although I crave happiness most of the time, I have come to the realization that I have to venture through the shadows to discover the real me. When life weighs on us, understanding our dark moments can enrich and brighten our future.  Does experience gained through darkness make future setbacks easier? I don't believe so for one minute. The circumstances may be similar, yet each hurdle is unique and we learn and adapt from each one individually. Although we journey through dark times, they are not here to stay and I always look forward to a future filled with optimism. Hunker down. Fight Back. Until next time.

Hope Fuels Joy: All of which encouraged me to pick up my camera to pick a different direction. I wanted to shoot in black and white with a modern camera and classic legacy lenses from decades ago to portray a film noir look and eliminate the confusion contributed by colour. I kept it simple with just a couple of photographs shot within the boundaries of my home. The photographs have no message, other than we must chart out our own direction in life when we're confronted by hardships and we feel estranged. Isolating myself from my family and friends, only served to alienate myself from myself. In the past year I've hardly ever stepped outside my home. Yet I have learned more about myself, life in general, seen the world and how it operates more than in the past fifty years. I decided to focus my energy into my photography to create something of value to me. Inspiration from the song provided a theme for my project. Today, I'm happier than I've ever been in a long time, just radiating positivity. I hope you are too. Thanks for your time and friendship.

"Chiselled of Shadows"
In desperation, I look outside my frosted bathroom window
which hesitantly reveals blurry outlines from the other side.
It does not prevent me from looking outside.
It doesn't prevent someone from the outside looking in.
We all see what we want to see. I see light but remain in the dark.
A photograph gift from my friend Bob Rosinsky
lurks on the wall on the right. It is a reminder of a friend I no longer get to see.
(Click on image for higher resolution)

Look to the light for inspiration
(Click on image for higher resolution)

Wander into the dark for enlightenment
(Click on image for higher resolution)

It's not light or dark,
When a person in your life is gone, life is empty
(Click on image for higher resolution)

Introspect. Taking a deeper look at myself
Added June 30, 2021
(Click on image for higher resolution)

And so the song continues.

"Instead of worrying about my clothes
I could be someone that nobody knows
I wish I never woke up this morning
Life was easy when it was boring

I can dream up schemes when I'm sitting in my seat
I don't see any flaws till I get to my feet
I wish I never woke up this morning
Life was easy when it was boring"

All pictures shot with Fujifilm X-H1 and Carl Zeiss Touit 32mm f/1.8 lens in Acros-R mode although they have been processed differently as I do not have the correct Photoshop plugin for this camera.

A Sparkling Diamond. Gone In A Flash

I already don't want to do this. Yesterday was a horrific day. As I started dressing, I picked up my black trousers and then my plain shirt. As I grabbed my pair of black dress shoes and started slipping my feet into them, I grimly reminded my wife "The last three or four times I've worn these exact same clothes and shoes, I've attended a funeral." This time would be no different. I was headed to a funeral. But there was a difference. This was a funeral for an eleven year old girl; just a baby. Out of respect for the family, I have decided not to disclose any names. The story gets more tragic. Read on.

As I arrived at the Funeral Home, I realized that the service was already in procession. We were a bit late for the service as my wife was working that morning and we had to drive across town. I'm a very punctual person. I don't like being late. It's a mark of disrespect for whoever you are meeting.

I waited outside the chapel for a few moments before I was quietly ushered in and asked to take a seat on the right side way up front. I didn't want to be in the front. At lest I was seated in the aisle if I should feel the urge to leave. As I took my seat next to my wife I saw the tiny open coffin and try as hard as I might, I could not help but look at the girl sleeping peacefully inside. She was dark, had black curly hair, some light makeup and a creamy dress. An adult, possibly a chaplain, preacher or faculty member of the family's church was speaking his comforting thoughts about the girl. I wasn't paying attention to what was said because I was focused on the girl. I tried to live her life through my eyes. I saw her as a baby, growing up, playing with other girls, laughing, playing with dogs, looking into her mother's eyes. Everything. I looked away from her, but caught myself captivated in a trance. I dared not look at her, yet I couldn't keep my eyes away. This was going to mess with my mind. I knew it.

Shortly thereafter, a girl classmate came to the microphone and shared her very touching memories of her departed friend. I started listening. She was already in tears and brought everyone who had come to pay their respects to tears as she shared her personal stories and first impressions of their meeting. A few more girls came forth and shared their heartfelt moments. One of them had lost her father and her departed friend had consoled her in her time of grief. Another came forward who had recently lost her mother and spoke of how her friend was there for her. Everyone who spoke made it clear that the girl we were remembering was truly a blessing in their lives; always smiling and laughing and playing with them. Another family member mentioned that girl had written an autobiography about herself, in which she mentioned all her accolades, and her dreams of becoming a pediatrician when she grew up. I looked at my wife and she looked back at me. This has all been very devastating to my wife and I was there to support her. I held her hand tightly.

As the service came to a conclusion, the mourners were asked to offer their personal condolences to the parents if they wished in a row by row orderly pattern starting from the rear as they exited the chapel. The mother of the child saw my wife and waved at her with her heart breaking so as to thank her for attending. It was going to be a long wait, but finally our turn arrived. So far the mother had held her composure well as she was consoled by friends and family. I prepared my wife to be prepared for a breakdown. As my wife approached the mother both broke down in tears and hugged each other. The mother reminded my wife that she had done everything for her dearest daughter. My wife told the mother not to blame herself for the loss.

This little jewel of a child, just eleven years old, had committed suicide. Eleven year-old committing suicide? Can you even grasp that? I cannot. What demons were hiding inside this child that caused her to make such a disastrous terminal decision? Did she not think of  what would happen to her mother and father? She was old enough to know. She was loved, she wasn't bullied in school, she had lots of friends, loving mother and father and a beautiful home. Yet something went wrong. How could anyone have missed the signs? How? Nobody was to blame. There is no explanation that will suffice. I let my wife have her turn and as my wife stepped aside I embraced the mother tightly and told her how sorry I was for her loss. I couldn't even imagine the pain in her heart. I told her my daughter went to college and we are miserable without her, so I simply couldn't fathom her situation. I asked her to give me some of her pain. The mother just sank into my arms and started sobbing loudly as I held her tightly and rubbed her head. I was a complete stranger to her. I had never met her before. My wife joined us as I held them both tightly and we all cried together. We held each other for an eternity, longer than everyone else before us. Very unwillingly, we broke out of the group embrace, and I managed to crack a tiny smile. I asked the mother to contact us if she needed anything and walked out of the funeral home totally devastated. I had been crushed by a tsunami. I don't think I'll ever forget April 06, 2019. RIP little girl.

Friends, I stopped blogging a long time ago, but I was desperately compelled to document my thoughts. This is the second funeral I have attended consecutively where two souls were lost to suicide and depression. They lived lives surrounded by people, yet they were all alone. Please, it is never too early and never too late to talk to your young children, grownup  children and even adult family members about depression, suicide and hurtful thoughts, just as you've spoken about drugs, alcohol, smoking and sex. The depression threat is infinitely more powerful that all those vices combined. Medicine, professionals and treatment can and will help, but believe me, nothing is going to matter more than a helping hand that understands, because professionals and medicine have no vested interest in you. Family and friends who have invested in a person are all that matter. All the money in the world and fans made no difference to Robin Williams. He was encapsulated by millions of people and yet he was all alone. Be honest with yourself. If you need help with even the most mundane of needs, please ask for help. Don't suffer in silence. A smile and a hug to a complete stranger goes a long, long way. Trust me. I live in a cocoon myself. Therefore, I start conversations with total strangers in grocery stores, gas stations and even stop lights. I believe I have that special gift communicating with people and I share it at every opportunity. Sometimes. I maybe the only one someone has spoken to in a while. Like this one friend I have. I am all my friend has and my friend is all I have. You know who you are. Hug your loved ones tight, be safe and keep on enjoying life. Take care and thanks for being my friend. :)

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.