Just Not Smart Enough

Sure, sure, it's a complex world. Easily I can ask questions, but they seem only to further complicate whatever the topic or situation.

And I'm not smart enough, not smart enough to make the case against having the cleanest air possible.

I'm not smart enough to make the case against everyone having access to safe drinking water.

I'm not smart enough to make the case against our food being the safest, most nutritious available in the world.

I'm not smart enough to make the case against having the finest transportation and utility infrastructure in the world.

I'm not smart enough to make the case against universal literacy.

I'm not smart enough to make the case against feeding all children cost-free in our public schools.

I'm not smart enough to make the case against improving the economic well being of the working poor.

I'm not smart enough to make a case against building smarter, more ecologically sound residential homes and buildings.

Maybe, I am naive.

Perhaps, I am uninformed.

Or just not smart enough.

An Index (13)

        Top imported food sources in the U.S. 

Fruits, fresh or frozen:

    Mexico

    Chile

    Peru 

Fruits, prepared or preserved:

    Mexico

    China

    Thailand

Vegetables, fresh or frozen:

    Mexico

    Canada

    European Union

Vegetables, prepared or preserved:

    European Union

    Mexico

    Canada

Beef:

    Canada

    Mexico

    New Zealand

Fish & Shellfish:

    China    

    European Union

    Canada

Dairy products:

    New Zealand

    Italy

    France    

    

George Armstrong Gass (F)

George Armstrong Gass pushed his chair back from his desk. One more awkward Zoom conversation with a client ended. His shoulders slumped. His morale deflated. He needed to get back to his game, to energize his enthusiasm, to exert his power.

In a word, George needed guidance. No, no, inspiration. A touchstone, a lodestone, a gem of inspiration. A nugget.

Wait—no, a tattoo!

And so two days later, there on his left forearm for his constant review, inked for the world to see, his first. In Mongolian Baiti.

To thine own self be true

Oh, yes. What did Tony Robbins preach, that “Action is the key to any success”. George was an action kind of guy.

A mid-morning sip of Choffy brewed chocolate, a glance at his tattoo, and on to his first client.

“Hank! It’s a great day, Hank. It’s all about wheat these days. Wheat! What have you got available, 5k? Or would 10k be better for you?”

“Tony, Tony, Tony G! Man, I’m glad I reached you. Got a great lead on what’s going on in copper. Yes, copper! I’m telling you. Let me have 2k.”

“William! How are you and the kids? I decided to call you first. No, really—calling you first. Why? A bunch of coal mines are shutting down and demand is going up. It’s brilliant. Take 2k or 3k out of the money market fund?”

“Elizabeth Turner! It’s George. George Gass! I know, I know, long time, no talk. Well I waited for something really special. Really special. I got a 48-hour lead on the monthly corn update. Going to be a huge move. Huge! Let’s go all in. At least 10k—no, 20k.”

When George put down his headset at the end of the day, he sighed. He needed something, something more.

And so, the very next day, there on his right forearm, another tattoo. What Deepak said. In Franklin Gothic.

You must find the place inside 

yourself where nothing is impossible

And now the mid-afternoon cup of honey lavender tea. All would be right with the world. A quick look at the markets, scratch Rockster behind the ears—good boy!—and pull up the call list.

“Walsh, hey, it’s George. You thinking what I’m thinking about the 30-year? Yep. Yep, yep. Me, too. Yep. You in for, oh say 5k?”

“Hey, honey. Oh, yes, really busy. No, no, I’m still on. At 6. No, I’ll be there. Yes, Carmine’s is fine. No, really. Okay. Love you, sweetheart.”

“Ted, it’s George. Can I move you on copper or not? It’s time, I know it, you know it, and the whole world is figuring it out. You’ve got that 10k sitting there waiting for a moment like this.”

“Gordie, George Gass here. Hey, listen, I think we need to get out of wheat and into corn. Yep, I’ve seen the ag numbers. Looks like a good time to strike. Up to you. Of course, the run has been good, but I think corn will bust out. Yep, yep, the whole 32k.”

George gently massaged his temples. Tired, tired of schmoozing, tired of cajoling, tired of being tired. Something. Something to get him over the hump.

Something short, small, out of the way, just below the left ribs. Something from Eckhart. Georgia would look good.

The past has no power

over the present moment

Yes, there was a truth as true as any truth. And why not match it with something more on his right side? The ultimate ideal.

It’s all good!

 Lyman 2022

 

 

 

 

 

The Waiting Room

Wednesday afternoon I spent two and a half hours in the emergency room of a local hospital. I was there because my left achilles and calf muscles gave way while I was chasing down a lob playing pickleball. 

The ER was overwhelmed. All the chairs in the waiting area were full. IVs were being given in an anteroom that once housed vending machines. Vitals were being taken in the area as well. We were all friends by date of birth, height, and weight called out loud. 

I had no book, no magazines were available, and no phone scrolling either. And so, I along with the others, we waited. And waited.

So many wheelchairs were in use that two would have to be moved for one to move by.

Two elderly women, coincidentally, came in by themselves--each had fallen the day before and hit their heads. Dizzy this morning, they drove themselves to the hospital.

Severity of need trumped time stamps. Of course.

The young man with chest pains, the second time in a week, more acute than my injury, severe or not.

The elderly woman who has been coughing for three weeks. 

The staff moved at a measured pace. They all seemed in their 20s and 30s. Efficient, pleasant, on task. The nurse practitioner who did my initial assessment about 30 minutes in would sometimes make eye contact with me. Maybe--or so it seemed to me--she allowed a slight shrug.

The two younger women, both pregnant, clutching at their bellies. Both had a child at their side.

Perhaps I should set myself age-wise in this mix: I will be 69 on the 11th.

A teenage girl, very pale, very thin, eyes alert, making her mother laugh. This is her third trip to the ER in the past two weeks. She leaned into her mother's side, head on her shoulder, and drifted off to sleep.

A young man--early 20s--with cast on his right wrist, left arm in a sling--gingerly retrieved a pair of sunglasses on the floor with his fingers and carried them over to a woman who just checked in.

Around the 90-minute mark, an x-ray tech came for me. She wheeled me through the doors into the central ER treatment where every exam room was occupied and down a hall and down another hall to a mobile machine just outside what looked like a lab. She propped my leg up on a rolling chair. Three views taken, and back to the waiting room.

Three of their four radiologists were in emergency surgery. It may be an hour before a review, she warned.

Four more elderly patients in wheelchairs were lined up at the reception desk. 

Two hours in, a nurse brought me two Naproxens. I've had it before--good stuff.

A young man came in--heat exhaustion, football practice.

About 15 minutes later, another young man--heat exhaustion, construction worker.

A young man wheeled in his mimaw, her head rolled to the side, eyes open. Feverish, he told reception.

Another pregnant woman, both hands under her belly. Husband had his arm around her. They both seemed worried. The nurse patted her knee. 

The nurse practitioner came to me. There is no tear, severe strain to the achilles and calf muscle. I can be released without seeing doctor if I wish. Should check in with my regular physician and go from there.

Perhaps I have buried the lede somehow, but somewhere along the way in my life I came to understand waiting as a matter of perspective. 

My seat in the waiting room allowed me a view through the swinging doors into the treatment area. Within the first ten minutes after my check-in, the doors opened and I could see a staff member wheeling out a gurney with a corpse, fully covered, white sheets neatly tucked in around the body.

One might, without much thought, recall a particular sensibility: Oh, the humanity.