Job interviews over meals

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On a sunny fall afternoon when I was in college, I was driving out in the country. A guy about my age stood by the side of the road hitchhiking. He was wearing a coat and tie, with some sort of folder under his arm. I picked him up. After some preliminary chatting I gently asked him what he was doing hitching in a coat and tie—this was the late 60’s, after all.

He said he was heading home after a job interview, which had been conducted at a restaurant. I asked him how it went. “Well,” he said, “it seemed like it went well. I thought I really connected with the boss. But when we shook hands after the meal he told me I didn’t get the job. I was really surprised. I asked him why. He said it was because I had salted my soup without tasting it first. I was stunned. I told him that I like my food quite salty, and know from experience that restaurant soup is always under-salted. ‘That doesn’t matter’, the boss said, ‘you prejudged the soup. You should have tasted it first. I don’t want employees who prejudge anything’.”

* * *

During a spell when I became disillusioned with my drug company job, I considered a return to academia. Thus, I applied for an assistant professor position at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine. The interviews went well, and culminated in a lunch in the medical center’s Board Room with the chief of gastroenterology and a member of the board. The board member enthusiastically talked up both the medical school and the city of Pittsburgh. He said that he was a Pittsburgher born and bred; he extolled the many virtues of his fair city. Then he idly asked where I was born. “Actually,” I said modestly, “I was born in Pittsburgh.” His face lit up—it was clear that the job was mine for the taking. “So which hospital were you born in?”, he asked. I told him Montefiore, which happened to be the hospital where we were eating lunch. His jaw dropped. “Do you realize,” he said, “that this board room used to be Labor and Delivery? You were born in this very room!” It took me a while to chew on this startling piece of information. In retrospect, I should have said, “Oh, that’s why it looks sort of familiar!”

What an eerie experience it was to be in the precise location where I began my extrauterine life. Despite the considerable attraction of returning to my earliest roots, I decided not to take the job.

* * *

I was having dinner with a pharmacologist in Wilmington, Delaware. This was the result of an invitation to apply for a clinical research job with Zeneca Pharmaceuticals. We were sitting at a small table with low lights. After we each ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc my dinner companion began telling me some rather uninteresting pharmacology tales. I sipped my wine, and tried to track what he was saying. Then, deep into a monologue about serotonin 5-HT 1B/1D receptors, he absentmindedly reached for my wine glass, picked it up, and took a swig. I was startled, but said nothing. After placing the glass on his side of the table, he continued talking. Now I wasn’t following his pharmacology rap at all. Rather, I was trying to figure out what to do about my hijacked wine glass.

It occurred to me that the pharmacologist’s nerdy persona was just a façade. Perhaps he was actually a sophisticated job interviewer, gauging how I would react to his calculatedly boring monologue. And then how I would deal with his deliberate wine glass transgression. My thoughts travelled back to college days, when I was applying to medical school. There was a widely-spread rumor that one of the Harvard Medical School interviewers, a psychiatrist called Daniel Funkenstein, would set up uncomfortable situations to see how the interviewee would react. For example, one commonly mentioned ploy was that he’d say he was feeling hot and stuffy; would the interviewee please open the window? But the window had been nailed shut. We endlessly discussed how we’d handle it. As it turned out, my interview with Dr Funkenstein was quite benign. I was actually a little disappointed that all my preparations for the nailed window and other contingencies had been for naught.

But after a little reflection, I decided that my dinner companion was unlikely to be a pharmaceutical Dr Funkenstein—he was simply a very earnest pharmacologist. So my thoughts turned to how best to extricate myself from this awkward situation. Here were the options that came to mind: 1) I could forthrightly but politely say, “Excuse me, but I think you’ve been drinking my wine,” and point to the glass that was rightfully mine. But I certainly didn’t want to embarrass him. Especially since he would be writing a report about me to management. 2) Just let him keep drinking from my glass. But I liked the wine, and didn’t want to forgo the rest of it. And at some point he might notice his true glass, which was sitting to his right, and get flustered. 3) Try to surreptitiously recover my wine. This is what I ultimately decided to do. While he wasn’t paying attention, I grabbed my glass. Then, to definitively reclaim it I took a swig from the side opposite to the one from which he’d been drinking. After my sip I put it down right next to my plate, and guarded it with my elbow. It worked–the next time he reached for some wine he picked up his original glass. I kept mine very close for the rest of the meal. I’m certain he never noticed anything amiss.

I was offered the job. It had nothing to do with the sauvignon switcheroo, but I decided not to take it.

Magnets and robots

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This isn’t about my young grandson swallowing five magnets. It’s about how he was treated by the medical system after he did.

The urgent care doctor on Bainbridge Island apologized that there wasn’t an x-ray technician on duty (urgent care without x-rays—huh?). Thus, he directed us to a real hospital. Off we went to St Michael Hospital in Silverdale. The first staff who encountered Ari in the ER, just before I got there, ordered an x-ray, to see how far the magnets had progressed on their journey through his GI tract. I arrived in time to accompany Ari to the radiology suite, where the nice technician said that the staff (she wasn’t sure if it was a doctor or a nurse) had ordered a “KUB.” That stands for “kidneys, ureters, and bladder,” an image of the abdomen and pelvis. I told the tech that I was a gastroenterologist, and pointed out that there’s no way that the magnets could have made their way to the lower abdomen or pelvis during the less than two hours since Ari swallowed them; indeed it was possible they were still hung up in the esophagus, which isn’t seen in a KUB. So I suggested that she forget about the bladder, and aim the beam higher, to include the area a little above the diaphragm. She demurred: “I’m so sorry. A KUB was ordered, so that’s what I have to do,”

Fortunately, the magnets were visible on the KUB. They sat magnificently in the distal antrum, the last portion of the stomach, well north of the K’s, U’s, and B. The five little magnets were neatly stacked up in a row—Ari confirmed my guess that he swallowed them in one gulp after he stuck them together, rather than one portion at a time.

Then came the obvious question: Now what? After the traditionally long wait (luckily, Ari was quite comfortable the whole time), the ER doctor finally appeared. When I introduced myself as the gastroenterologist grandfather, his talk immediately went from doctor mode (addressing family and patient) to colleague mode (addressing me). But he was considerate, and occasionally remembered to talk to the family and patient.

He asked me what I would do. I said that since the magnets were small in diameter and nicely stacked up, they should have no trouble exiting the stomach through the pylorus, then wending their way downstream to eventually make an uneventful exit. I of course acknowledged the theoretical magnetic risk—that two would clamp on either side of a little chunk of intestinal lining and erode through. This certainly happens, but since the magnets were already stuck firmly together it seemed quite unlikely that they would un-stick enroute and then reconvene across an intervening bit of bowel. So I thought it was safe for Ari to go home. The doctor agreed, but said he wanted to get this plan endorsed by a pediatric gastroenterologist.

After about a hundred more hours of waiting, the ER doctor returned. He said that the expert decreed that Ari needed to come to the Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital in Tacoma, about 42 miles down the road, so that the magnets could be retrieved with an endoscope. I was quite dubious–even if retrieval were appropriate, the magnets were poised to imminently leave the stomach. Soon thereafter they would be beyond the reach of the endoscope.

But we complied. So as the magnets travelled south through Ari’s GI tract, we travelled south to Tacoma. Ari dozed on the way.

I let Ari and Emily off at the ER entrance, and parked. By the time I met up with them, they were already with the intake nurse. Knowing that Ari had swallowed magnets, she ordered not one, but two x-rays. I asked her why. “For foreign body ingestion we x-ray from nose to anus. You never know what the kid’s done with them.” I said that in general that made sense, but we already had an x-ray showing the magnets in the stomach. They could not have travelled upstream, against the current. Thus, in this case, a KUB was actually the appropriate image. She grumbled, but adjusted the x-ray requisition accordingly.

Then she began talking with Emily about starting an IV line in preparation for endoscopy. I sighed, and piped up again: It was now almost two hours after the magnets had been identified in the antrum. Didn’t it make sense to review the x-ray first to see where they were now? Because if they had progressed beyond the reach of the endoscope there would be no need for intravenous access. She grudgingly agreed, and put away her IV equipment.

We followed another technician to this second x-ray suite of the journey. He explained to Ari what was happening, and answered his many questions. This x-ray showed that not only had the stack of magnets left the stomach, but they had traversed the entire small intestine, and now appeared to be near the splenic flexure. That is, they were at least half way through the large intestine–they went south in a hurry. So no way the magnets could be retrieved by an endoscope. And anyway, they were merrily making their way toward the exit. And, it was clear, we should be too.

Eventually we were conducted to an examining room, which Ari found quite intriguing. During the long wait for a doctor, Ari asked about the function of every bit of equipment surrounding him. Particularly intriguing were all the controls on the examining bed. He said he hoped the doctor would tell him he had to spend the night there.

Finally the doctor appeared. He did a cursory physical examination, looked at the x-ray, and stated the blindingly obvious fact that endoscopy wasn’t in Ari’s future. But he had to get the OK from the shadowy pediatric gastroenterologist who ordered Ari to come to Tacoma. After yet another long wait, the ER doc returned with the required endorsement, and discharged Ari. It was almost midnight and we were all hungry, since we hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Well, one of us had had some magnets at about 3:30. We drove around Tacoma and finally found some meager snacks at a mini-mart .

By the time Ari got to bed it was about 1:15. The magnets emerged uneventfully in the inaugural movement of the morning.



Ari did great, and everyone was very kind to him. Moreover, in their favor, not a single person asked him why he had swallowed the magnets, which would have been otiose. But what struck me most weren’t the long delays, the inefficiency, or the duplication. It was the lack of thought.

An unknown doctor or nurse mindlessly ordered a KUB. So the x-ray technician was forced to perform what was ordered. Fortunately that x-ray did show the magnets, which were clearly poised to continue their downstream journey. I believe the ER doctor’s instincts were right—just let them pass. But understandably, he wanted cover from the expert in Tacoma. It’s not clear to me that this pediatric gastroenterologist—I suspect it was a man–ever saw the x-ray. I wonder if he was automatically reacting to the diagnosis, “magnet ingestion,” and mechanically thought, ‘possibility of perforation—retrieve them’. Even though the tiny magnets were all tightly bound together. And, perhaps even more to the point, even though they were already about to leave the stomach. If he’d actually seen the x-ray, it’s hard to understand how he thought the magnets would remain perched in the antrum for well over an hour until we got to Tacoma.

And at the children’s hospital it seemed that things continued to be driven by script rather than judgement: X-ray from top to bottom. Start an IV in anticipation of endoscopy. Wait for the Wizard of Oz pediatric gastroenterologist to decree what we all already knew.

What’s the explanation for all this non-thinking? It’s easy to draw an automatic line between the presentation and the standard response. But why weren’t these general principles leavened by consideration of the particulars? Fear of liability? Avoidance of criticism for not following standard procedures? Simple laziness? For whatever reasons, it seems that in many circumstances people are trained to follow protocols, not common sense.



After I cancelled some plane reservations recently, I realized the website hadn’t told me how I’d get my refund. So I called Delta. A robotic voice asked me why I was calling. I asked whether my refund would go back to my card, or be retained by the airline as a credit. The robot replied, “Are you calling about a refund?” I reluctantly said I was. The robot then gave a speech about the circumstances under which a reservation can be cancelled for a full or a partial refund. No mention was made of how it would be made. “Did this answer your question?” the robot asked triumphantly. When I forthrightly said that it did not, I was instructed to repeat my question. I tried different words: “After I’ve been granted a full refund, how will it be credited to me?” Robot replied, “Are you calling about a refund?” My response, just before hanging up, is best not repeated in this post.

And yes, as you intuited I am indeed comparing the ER staff’s responses to that of a call center robot. The main difference seems to be the trigger words–for the robot it was “refund,” whereas for the ER staff it was “swallowed magnets.” In both cases the response was automatic, ignoring highly relevant details. But before we come down too hard on the ER staff for being robotic, I suggest that, to some extent, aren’t we all?

Here’s an example: How often, when a friend or a cashier asks, “how are you?” do we automatically answer “fine”? What about figuring out how we really are, and answering accordingly? You’ll probably say, well, I don’t really have the time, and anyway the person asking is simply applying a social convention to lubricate the interchange; they aren’t really asking a question. Of course this is probably true most of the time. But you won’t know unless you try it. Otherwise you’ll just keep starting IVs.

And what about instead of always saying “Have a nice day”—the equivalent of a robotic refund speech—what about taking a few seconds to individualize what we say to the person we’ve just been interacting with? It doesn’t take much effort to substitute “Have a nice day” with “I hope your classes go well today,” or “Good luck with your appointment,” or even, “I’m rooting for you to find a parking space right away.” This sort of individualization might not save the time and resources that an individualized response to magnet swallowing could, but would I think still be very welcome. And it might even start a good conversation.

Perfectly good enemy

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I’ve been painting. Most recently, the two toilet rooms in our house. I resist calling them “bathrooms,” since neither has a bathtub. Calling such a room a “half bath,” is even worse (which half of the tub are we talking about?); “powder room” is about a hundred years out of date, and “restroom” is a silly euphemism. “Loo” is perfect, but only in the UK. So I’m stuck with “toilet room.” Even though it’s awkward, and used by almost no one else.

As usual, the prep took much more time than the actual painting—toilet rooms are the worst. I won’t remind the reader who also does painting, nor attempt to explain to the non-painter, the need to remove the fixtures from the walls and ceiling, clean the surfaces to be painted, put down floor and counter protection, and tediously cover the toilet, the other plumbing, and the non-removable fixtures. And tape around the trim.

Finally, after what ended up being several days of intermittent prepping, I was ready to put brush to paint. The ceilings came first, of course, so that any drips down the walls could be subsequently painted over. But doing the walls comes with the lurking danger of painting a bit too high, so that the pristine ceiling gets marred. (My ever-present wall painting question is whether to use the Shur-Line edge painter, a little flat pad on a frame with rollers to [theoretically] produce a clean line at the top of the walls, or tape the perimeter of the ceiling and use a brush. I ended up doing some of each because, in my hands, neither worked particularly well.) Last comes the tedious trim. In the lower toilet room, not only were there the usual baseboards and door trim to deal with, but the treacherous crown molding at the junction of the walls and ceiling. To paint it, tape had to be applied to both the ceiling above and the walls below, exposing the narrow strip of molding. Thinking about all that taping forced another big decision: should I use the usual blue tape, or the more expensive but supposedly superior Frog Tape (which, predictably, was green)? In the spirit of a controlled clinical trial, I used some of each. Alas, after de-taping I forgot to compare the results. So don’t ask me whether Frog Tape is worth the extra bucks.

While doing all this painting I realized, not for the first time, how incredibly present one must be. A painter has to be aware of everything going on around them: Paint dribbled off a brush may land on the floor, with a proclivity for the tiny unprotected spot where the painter’s cloth has been inadvertently pushed out of place. No matter how tenderly it’s held, the paint tray, which holds a pool of paint for the roller to soak up, can tilt and spill. Alas, both occurred during the toilet room paintings. Moreover, while squatting to paint the baseboard, I backed up to get a better angle and knocked over the paint pot with my heel. (Announcement: spilled paint penetrates even thick, 10 oz painter’s cloth and has to be scrubbed up from the underlying wood floor.) Then, while stretching on the ladder to paint the crown molding, my left elbow grazed the freshly painted wall, leaving complimentary ovoid tattoos on both the wall and my elbow. Shortly after that incident, while standing on the top step of the ladder, I was very mindful of my elbows. But not my head, which bumped against the ceiling. Fortunately, my painter’s hat provided a bit of insulation, so neither head nor ceiling was damaged.

How different painting is from quotidian life, when we’re on autopilot most of the time! Rather than being constantly aware of all of our body parts and how they’re arranged in space, we progress through the day accomplishing various activities while barely conscious of what we’re doing. My morning ritual—preparing a pot of tea and cutting two slices of bread to make toast, is done almost completely on autopilot. Occasionally, when I’m a touch distracted, I realize I have no idea how many spoonsful of tea I’ve put in the teapot.

Perhaps, as while we’re painting, we should always try to be actively aware of what’s going on all around us. I guess that must be what Navy Seals are taught to do, at least while they’re on the job. But it seems unlikely that even Seals could live their entire lives in a state of high alertness; such a level of attention and concentration would be exhausting. So maybe it’s a good thing that we can usually get through the day without constant vigilance.

Though tedious and fraught, the one lovely thing about painting is that there are lots of second—and even third and fourth–chances. In other words, unlike most of the rest of life, the consequences of lapses of attention are generally easily corrected.

Here’s how it went for me: After doing the main three paintings—ceiling, walls, and trim, it was time for touching up. Despite the use of the Shur-Line edge painter and the blue and green tape, the ceiling brandished numerous spots of errant wall paint. I touched up part of the ceiling freehand, with a small brush. It went well, but I didn’t always get a nice, sharp line between the ceiling and the wall. In other places, to try to maintain the sharp line, I decided to use Frog Tape on the upper wall as I re-whitened the ceiling. That strategy seemed sound. But when I pulled the tape off the wall, occasional patches of paint came off too. So both methods of ceiling repair resulted in my having to touch up the wall. And when I did, I sometimes once again hit the ceiling with my brush, meaning I had to retouch the ceiling for a second time. And then the wall again. At least with each successive touching up sequence the total area requiring attention became progressively smaller. But it was asymptotic–the need for touch up never diminished to zero. Since some sections of the wall-ceiling interface looked gorgeously sharp, it was hard to let those that didn’t lie fallow. So in some places, I’m embarrassed to admit, I did as many as four or five cycles of alternately retouching those two right-angled planes.

Finally, after I’d lost count of all the retouching cycles I laid down my brushes and Frog Tape. But I hesitated for days to reinstall the towel racks and toilet paper holders and light fixtures. Because that would have been an acknowledgement that the painting, with its imperfect results, was truly done. If I held off putting the room back together, I could tell myself that after a little break I’d do yet another round of touching up, approaching ever closer to that elusive state of perfection.

But one day the absurdity of such striving struck me. After obsessing over a tiny spot I’d missed in a hardly-noticeable area of the wall behind the bathroom sink in the upstairs toilet room, I turned around to leave. There was a big yellow plop of paint just above eye level on the natural wood door. Yellow was the original color of the wall that I’d just painted over. I was shocked–the same eagle eyes that were detecting tiny flaws in the new paint job had for days glossed over a major painting mistake that was directly in front of me whenever I left the toilet room. It had been there since we bought the house, two decades ago. Perhaps I’d been able to ignore it for all those years because I wasn’t responsible for it. And strangely, even after noticing it, it really didn’t bother me. I had no urge to fix it. Hmm.

It’s said that “the perfect is the enemy of the good.” Certainly that’s true. But after painting and obsessively touching up the two toilet rooms, I’m beginning to think that maybe even “good” can be a bar too high. In many cases, maybe “adequate,” “acceptable,” or “good enough” is what we should aspire to. Maybe the better phrase is “the good is the enemy of the it’ll do.” I hope I can remember that the next time I pick up a paint brush.

Circle M Youth Ranch

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As a kid, I was sent to some unexpected summer camps. None were regular Jewish camps, which would have seemed the natural destination for this child of a suburban Jewish family. For several years I went to a YMCA camp on the Chesapeake Bay called Camp Letts. The camp motto was “Let’s Camp!” Maybe that snappy slogan made it irresistible to my parents.

But the camp that made the biggest impression on me was the Circle M Youth Ranch, in Capon Bridge, West Virginia. My brother and I were sent there for two summers, when I was about 12 and 13. Unlike Camp Letts, the Circle M didn’t have a motto. But it did have a camp song. Unaccountably, this song has been an intermittent earworm for over half a century. It was sung to the tune of I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl That Married Dear Old Dad. Of interest, I Want a Girl was composed by Harry Von Tilzer in 1911. It turns out that Harry was born in Detroit in 1872, and his birth name was Aaron Gumbinsky. His parents were Polish Jewish immigrants. Maybe this Jewish connection is what drew my parents to send me to the Circle M. Anyway, the song went like this:

I want to go to Circle M
just to have some fun.
It is the camp, and the only camp
where I can have some fun.

A good old southern camp with colonel there;
horses, ponies, and cows need care.
I want to go to Circle M
just to have some fun.

Well, I did indeed have some fun. But I never understood why it was the only camp where that was possible; Camp Letts was fun too. Or at least so I thought at the time.

And what about the colonel there? Well, there actually was one—he ran the place, and was revered by one and all. His obituary is on the McGuinness Funeral Home website: Col George E “Smokey” Stover, USAF retired, passed away at age 87 on February 15, 2006. The Colonel was born in Winner, South Dakota and raised in Wyoming and Nebraska. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps and was a highly decorated WWII veteran. Among other things, he served on the staff of the Supreme Allied Commander General Eisenhower. After the war, while serving his country in Hawaii, he established a scout camp, which was named in his honor. Because of his distinguished service to scouting, he was presented with the Silver Beaver Award.

The obituary went on: “He retired from the Air Force in 1961 and established a youth summer camp and operated a 4,000-acre farm in Capon Bridge, West Virginia.” There it was! The obit concluded by observing that Col Stover was “an outstanding citizen, husband, father, grandfather, and friend; and one of the reasons they call it the ‘Greatest Generation.’ ”

I do remember the commanding presence of The Colonel at the Circle M, but I don’t remember the cows that needed care. On the other hand, I certainly recall all the horses and ponies–this nerdy Jewish kid from the suburbs learned to ride them. And even to single-handedly put on a saddle, bridle, and bit. Soon, I was actually competing in rodeo events—my favorite was the cloverleaf barrel race. At the final rodeo, I came in third. That earned me a white ribbon, which I proudly displayed on my bedroom wall for many years. Never mind that there were only five competitors in my age group.

My brother, though two years younger, was a very good rider. But he hadn’t quite got the hang of how to put on a saddle. The trick was to knee the horse in the ribs to make it exhale, then quickly tighten the girth. This prevented it from puffing out its chest in an attempt to keep the saddle cinched comfortably loose. One time Doug mounted after putting on his saddle. Then he dubiously yelled to the instructor, “Hey, Dave, I think this thing is a little loose!” He demonstrated the truth of his observation by rocking from side to side. On his third sway to the left, perhaps while his mount was in the middle of an exhalation, the saddle rotated around the horse, and ended up under its belly. But my tenacious brother hung on, and came to rest suspended upside down, framed by the horse’s four legs. I howled—the Circle M was indeed a great place “just to have some fun”! Even if it was at my brother’s expense.

The other memorable Circle M activity was skeet shooting. I don’t think I’d ever touched a gun in my life, other than one time gingerly stroking the grip of my father’s service revolver left over from World War II. But here I was, this kid on the verge of starting to study for his bar mitzvah, in Capon Bridge, West Virginia, learning how to handle a 16-gauge double-barrel shotgun. We shot at circular ceramic targets called “clay pigeons.” After carefully planting my feet and snugging the shotgun tight against my shoulder, in my most manly voice I’d yell “pull!” This was the signal for the counselor controlling the machine, called a “trap,” to activate it, flinging a clay pigeon high into the air. I followed its trajectory through my gunsite, and at the theoretically optimal moment pulled the trigger. On several occasions I actually scored; how utterly satisfying it was to see that terra cotta flying saucer shatter in midair! Sometimes, when the trap wasn’t working, we simply shot at coke bottles the instructors flung into the air. Amazingly, I don’t remember anyone ever getting hit by flying fragments.

Hoping to activate more memories–or correct the ones I had–I did some extensive Googling of “Circle M Youth Ranch.” There wasn’t much to show for my efforts: I gleaned two ads from 1963 (both featured at the top of this post), and a single article. It was from the June 4, 1966 issue of the Weirton Daily Times, Weirton, West Virginia. The story began, “Youngsters with a taste for the ‘wide open spaces’ and an urge to get away from home this summer can conjure up imaginations of the wild west on the Circle M Youth Ranch in eastern West Virginia.” So, apparently my brother and I—or perhaps more likely, our parents–had a taste for the wide-open spaces, and a wish to conjure up imaginations of the wild west. And it was almost certainly our parents, not us, who had an urge for us to get away from home for the summer. The article went on to state that “Recreation includes” swimming, canoe trips, boating, mountain climbing, archery, horseback riding, and “rifle and shotgun target shooting under National Rifle Association standards.” Yikes–who knew that in my youth I was taught how to shoot a gun by the NRA!

As long as I was already Googling, it occurred to me to see if the colonel’s son was still around—the obituary notice said that Colonel Stover passed away at the home of his son, James, of Ruidoso, NM. He immediately popped up on LinkedIn. I learned that “Jim” is the Director of Emergency Services at Lincoln County Medical Center in Ruidoso. And not only was he too in the medical field, but it appeared that Jim and I were was almost exactly the same age! So he was undoubtedly at the Circle M when I was–maybe it was Jim who won the blue ribbon in the cloverleaf barrel race when I got the white. So I wrote him a warm, maybe even a little gushy, message to his LinkedIn account telling him who I was and saying that I’d love to learn more about his growing up on the Circle M Youth Ranch. I was excited about embarking on an extended correspondence; perhaps he even remembered me as an especially unusual camper. But alas, I never heard back.

I did one final round of Googling. The only new thing that came up was a tiny entry on the website of the Secretary of State of West Virginia: On April 20 1967 “Circle M Youth Ranch and Camp, Inc. was dissolved by court order.” It didn’t say why.

So I’m left with fond memories of a corny camp song, skeet shooting, and cloverleaf barrel racing. I wonder what else went on at the camp that I don’t remember. But my only potential link with the Circle M didn’t respond to my note. I wonder why it was dissolved by the court. But the website didn’t say. And I wonder why my parents sent me and my brother there in the first place. Did they just randomly come across one of those tempting ads in the newspaper and think, why not? Did they learn about it from friends who gave a glowing recommendation after sending their kid there?

Or maybe there was a deeper reason why they sent me first to Camp Letts, and then to the utterly goyish Circle M. Even though they were raised in very Jewish parts of Brooklyn and Pittsburgh, when they were growing up in the 1930s anti-Semitism was rampant. Maybe they, the children of immigrants, wanted to embed my brother and me in the wider American culture, giving us the chance to experience things that were not available to them. Like going to a YMCA camp, and to a good old Southern camp with colonel there. Where we could do very non-Jewish things like ride in rodeos and learn to shoot guns. I’ll never know. But whether I ended up at the Circle M simply by chance or by careful parental calculation, I value the experiences I had there, which were unlike anything else I experienced growing up. Maybe that’s why that song has stuck in my head all these years.

Doctors don’t give shots

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Just after I gave her the vaccination, the woman beamed and said, “Thanks so much, that was a great shot!”

“Not bad for a doctor, eh?” I replied modestly.

She laughed. “Doctor, I have to tell you something. When I was sent to your table and saw that you were a man, my heart sank. I prayed that you were a nurse, and not a doctor.” We both cracked up.

“I understand,” I said. “Doctors don’t give shots.”

It’s indeed true. I gave maybe two or three shots in medical school, and after that no more for over four decades. Until a few months ago. Then the Bainbridge Island Medical Reserve Corps asked for volunteers to give covid vaccinations.

Fortunately, my wife, Annie is a nurse. So she gave me some great pointers (get it?). She even had me practice on a poor, hapless orange. Next I watched about a dozen YouTube videos of nurses teaching how to give a shot. Curiously, every one was different; in fact, there was a lot of mutually exclusive advice. Some instructors insisted that it was vital to pull back the plunger before pushing it in; others said that was completely unnecessary. Several said you had to pinch the muscle and skin up in a tent before injection, another said to flatten the skin by pushing down and out with the fingers. One claimed that making a Z-track was essential; two others said Z-track injections were a waste of time. Do a slow, steady controlled insertion. Pop the needle in like a dart. And on and on. I concluded that no matter how I chose to vaccinate, I’d be doing it wrong.

As I drove to the Bainbridge Island Senior Center for my first shift, my stomach was in a big knot. I thought how easy all the Covid testing I’d been doing for the last few months was—after a few swabs, I felt completely comfortable with my technique, and could focus on connecting with the person I was testing. But giving shots was a new skill; I was once again an extreme non-expert. I fantasized ahead to the time when I felt as comfortable giving an injection as I did with nasal swabbing, and so many other medical procedures I’d ultimately mastered.

There’s an old saying in surgical training programs: “See one, do one, teach one.” But in the vaccination clinic this sequence was attenuated even further: The first step was entirely skipped, and I was assigned a station, given a few instructions for how to draw up the Moderna vaccine, and left alone to vaccinate. (I’d already gone over the package insert in detail, so I was quite comfortable with how to handle the vaccine.) I approached one of the other two vaccinators (a nurse, of course), introduced myself, and asked that she watch me to be sure I was giving a proper shot. Fortunately my first victim was relaxed, which helped me relax. I cleansed the deltoid with an alcohol swab, gently pinched the muscle and skin, darted the needle, and injected without withdrawing. No one yelled, jumped, or even sucked in their breath. I asked my patient how it went; she simply said, “fine, I hardly felt it.” My fellow vaccinator went silently back to her own station, and I proceeded to uneventfully give shots to thirty or so people.


Other than the small minority who looked right at the needle and talked on during the vaccination, most people tensed up in anticipation. So I started telling everyone that I’d warn them just before I gave the shot; “I don’t believe in sneak attacks,” I said. Almost everyone seemed to appreciate that. But a few demurred, saying something like, “No, please don’t warn me. I want to be surprised–I like sneak attacks.” Like with just about everything else in life, one size doesn’t fit all.

After I introduced myself, the middle-aged woman sat down, started trembling, and teared up. She was clearly in the ‘tensed up’ category. “Please don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, and I’ll warn you just before I give the injection.” She shook her head and laughed. “I’m not nervous, doctor. I’m just so excited to finally be getting vaccinated!” After I gave her the shot, we celebrated together.

A young man came to my station wearing a sleeveless undershirt, fully revealing his deltoids–a vaccinator’s dream. His arms were covered with tattoos. I absentmindedly asked him if he was squeamish about shots. He brandished his tattoos and said, “Do I look like I mind needles?” I hooted, and apologized for asking such a silly question.

Arms with tattoos were fun to vaccinate since they provided a target. Once time, literally. The man had a bright red bullseye over his right deltoid. I told him it was an irresistible target, but when I did my measurement (three fingerbreadths below the tip of the acromion), it turned out that the tempting bullseye was too low. So I had to settle for one of the outer rings north of the target.

And speaking of tattoos, at a clinic at the Chimacum Grange, I vaccinated a man with “Loise” emblazoned diagonally across a juicy red heart. I found it very touching. I tentatively asked him, “Is Loise still in your life?” “Yup,” he replied and gestured out to the parking lot, “not only is she still in my life, she’s in my car.”


One of the wonderful things about this work was that I wasn’t being paid. And I had no quotas. So there was no time pressure; I felt free to take just as long as I needed. I explained to each person what sorts of side-effects to expect, and how to deal with them. I sensed that some people simply wanted to get the shot over with, and leave. I respected that. Others seemed eager to ask all sorts of questions about the vaccine, their health, and sometimes even to simply tell me about their work or their life.

People talked about their cancer, or kidney transplant, or a family member who was very ill. More than once I learned that a person wasn’t needle-shy because they had diabetes or rheumatoid arthritis, or another condition that required them to inject themselves regularly. Then sometimes we talked about what it was like to live with such a condition. These were brief, but intense, connections.

I was surprised to see Rafael coming to my station. He had done some wonderful gardening work for us a month previously. As I went over the potential side-effects of the injection I noticed that, even with his mask on, he seemed sad. When I asked him if he had any questions, he looked down, then simply said that during the time he was working for us his mother had died of covid. So he was eager to be vaccinated. I told him how sorry I was, and sat with him a little while after giving him his shot.


The environment where the vaccinations took place was quite unusual. It’s of course rare for any sort of medical interaction to take place in a large space—the typical medical consultation takes place in a little exam room with just the doctor and patient, and maybe a nurse or medical assistant. An operating room may have more people present, but they’re just the staff and a single patient, who’s the focus of all the activity. And even in the ER, the space is limited and curtained off.

But the vaccination centers were different. At the high school gym we usually had between 9 and 12 vaccinators per shift, and over 60 volunteers directing traffic, checking credentials, registering, monitoring, entering data, and keeping track of the vaccines. Over a weekend we sometimes vaccinated more than 2,500 people. I think many who came for their vaccination enjoyed getting a shot in such a big beehive of bustle. They were taking part in an event where they and everyone around them was there for a single purpose: to decrease the spread of a virus, and the illness, disability, and sometimes even death that came with it.

It’s hard to think of another situation where so many people are gathered together for precisely the same goal. At sports stadiums, large groups of people share the same space, but they’re rooting for different teams. At a concert it’s superficially all about the music. But the audience has a rather different focus than do the performers or the paid staff. Perhaps the most similar situation I can think of to a vaccination clinic is a religious service. But even there, people attend for varied reasons—the religious leader, the regular member, and the visitor surely have somewhat different motivations and expectations. At the vaccination clinic, on the other hand, we all shared a single, specific aim, no matter whether we were there to get vaccinated or to volunteer in some capacity. It was so good to be sharing in this goal; I think everyone felt it.


Just as this was a unique environment, it was also unusual in that it was such a simple and happy one. Especially for anything that had to do with medicine and health—there were no orders for further testing, shadows seen on the x-ray, referrals to specialists, or grim diagnoses that had to be delivered. Only a birthing center comes close. The gym was filled with yelps of celebration, elbow bumps of gratitude, and lots of selfies. So far I’ve given more than 450 covid shots. This has been one of the most gratifying experiences of my medical career.

(Note: I’ve made a few inconsequential changes to these stories to ensure the anonymity of each person I mention.)

Attack of the Mama Robin

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I never planned to write a second post featuring a mother robin. Especially immediately following the previous one. But now I have no choice.

The day after I posted my last blog, during our peaceful breakfast we heard a frantic tapping. I ran to the front door, but no one was there. It occurred to me that it might have been Elijah, running late for Passover seder. Then Annie noticed that the racket was coming from the windows above the stairway to the upper floor. Who in the world was making it? Soon enough we saw that it was a bird crashing against a window, furiously attacking its own reflection.

The commotion continued throughout the morning. Finally I was called to action, equally motivated by the noise being extremely irritating and by compassion for the hapless bird. I extracted some cardboard from the recycle bin, stood on my tiptoes on the stairs, and placed it on the windowsill; the idea was to quash the ornithological reflections. The tapping stopped for about ten minutes. Then it began again at full blast. So I went out on the little second story deck with tape and newspapers, covering the windows as far as I could reach. There was blissful quiet for about half an hour.

Then the racket resumed–the bird was charging at various bits of the windows that weren’t covered. What the heck was going on? We got a good look at the bird, and did a search–the attacker was a female robin. Could it possibly be the same one who built the nest and hatched the three babies last spring? Maybe she’d just built a new nest and was defending it against the competition, who unfortunately happened to be a mirror image of herself.

As dusk descended, the assaults mercifully trailed off. But the next morning the persistent tapping and crashing was back. I put up more cardboard and more newspapers, but because the far reaches of the window weren’t accessible, some of the glass remained bare. These gaps seemed to be enough to present the mama robin with a self-image to joust with. Annie went out on the upper deck and joined the fray, clapping her hands, stomping, and yelling, “silly bird—stop it!” I heartily concurred.

On the third day I went out the front door, a level below the windows that were under siege. There was a wobbly line of white poop written across the deck, tracing the blitz path from the katsura tree, which had apparently served as an observation post, to the windows. During the course of the day the line filled in, documenting the cumulative hours spent in theoretical nest defense.

Around the fourth day I noticed with great distress that the thickening white line was sprinkled with red dots—apparently the mama bird had been such an assiduous attacker that she’d injured her beak. That afternoon things were mercifully still. But with a start I realized that this wasn’t merciful at all–perhaps it was so quiet because the robin had pecked herself to death. We were quite saddened , and wondered what else we could have done to prevent her suicide.

Later in the afternoon, while playing Catch the Speeders with my young grandson, I looked up from the driveway and saw a nest nestled in the grapevine which twisted above the outer garage door. Aha! Just as I suspected, the mama robin had indeed been protecting her inauspiciously placed home from a simulacrum of herself.

The next day the tapping began again. I was happy that the mama robin wasn’t dead, and sad that her senseless activity had resumed. It was time to get aggressive. Standing on the upper deck, I reached over to the outer window as far as I dared. I taped up rows of curling, shiny gold ribbons. I attached yet more cardboard. I hung CDs all over the windows. It looked like we’d put up decorations for our grandson’s birthday party.

But still, the mama bird remained in attack mode. Her flapping wings set the sparkly golden ribbons aflutter and made the CDs shimmy, spraying their rainbow patterns out over the world. I went out on the lower deck and peered down at the grape vines above the garage door to see if eggs had appeared. But all I saw were a few dried leaves in the bottom of the nest. Then I examined the nest more closely. It was a perfectly constructed bowl—twigs and moss were intricately intertwined. It was a symmetrical, tidy, and gorgeous creation. Hmm. Maybe a creature that could build such a masterpiece wasn’t so silly after all.



It occurs to me that the same brain that made the robin endlessly strike out at her doppelgänger also directed her to produce an elegant nest that would have been (or, who knows, still might be) perfectly designed to hold her precious eggs. And even if she should not lay eggs this season, or even worse, perishes from her endless dueling with her own image, maybe her activity isn’t so irrational. The same wiring that led her to mount her fruitless multi-day offensive could well have, in ten of her relatives, led to their successfully defending their broods from threats, resulting in the production of twenty or thirty further members of the species. After all, this isn’t about the survival of the individual, but the survival of the species. And down through the centuries this behavior has clearly served her ancestor mama robins well—the proof is that she is here today to protect her nest.

Can we really claim that we humans are more evolved than our bird-brained buddies? We’re perhaps the world’s most expert species in persisting in pointless behavior: We continue to fight wars, even when there’s no chance of victory. We continue to stay in destructive relationships, even when it’s clear there’s no future. We continue to smoke cigarettes, take drugs, drink excessive alcohol, and eat poorly even though we know full well that doing so is at least as damaging as assaulting our reflections.

And alas, with rare exceptions, trying to get our leaders to end a war, or convincing a friend to leave a destructive relationship, or talking someone out of harmful activity is as likely to succeed as hanging sparkly ribbons to stop the mama bird from her self-attacks.

At the risk of ruffling some feathers, I suggest that the mama robin may in some ways actually be a rung or two above us on the evolutionary ladder. At least her misguided actions have utility: they clearly enhance the survival of the species, even if not her own. But it’s hard to see how some our quite irrational human behaviors improve the chances of the continuation of the human race.

The tapping has stopped. The perfect nest remains empty. But the sound of birdsong is everywhere.

What Does the Mama Bird See?

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The trees are budding out. Spring is here. This reminds me that while pruning the wisteria last spring, I noticed a beautiful robin’s nest tucked between several twisting vines. I brought the ladder closer and climbed up to see three perfect eggs (robin’s egg blue, as it happened). In retrospect, I realized I’d heard a bird vigorously tweeting as I was trimming; at the time I’d thought how nice it was to hear such sweet birdsong. But there was nothing sweet about it–I was oblivious to the distress the frantic mother bird had been communicating.

Over the next few days I often forgot about the nest, and mindlessly clomped across the deck to check the rain gauge or turn on the hose. The commotion I generated caused the poor mama to flee in panic and sing her song of fear. And no matter how I tried to tell her that I meant no harm, she wasn’t reassured.

As time passed, I more consistently remembered the nest. I gave it a wide berth and tried to be quieter; the bird stopped fleeing when I approached. Still, she remained on guard: her alert beak and bright eyes stuck out of the nest in one direction, her tail in the other. But she stayed on her eggs. It gave me pleasure to know that she now trusted—or at least tolerated—my presence enough not to take flight.

As she lay atop her three babies-to-be, immobile but wary, it occurred to me how different her perceptions were from mine. What did she see as she looked out from her nest? Perhaps she classified the immediate world into: 1) food source, 2) safe shelter, and 3) potential threat. Moreover, she was almost certainly multilingual to all the bird chatter around us, effortlessly understanding the messages encoded in the raucous cawing of the crows, the scratchy call of the Steller’s Jay, and the peeping of the flicker. At the same time, she was undoubtedly oblivious to things in her vicinity that were important to me: that a spot on the deck had been missed when it was repainted, that the gutters needed to be cleaned out, and that the lawn was in desperate need of mowing.

When I stood quietly beneath her nest, listening for signs that the baby birds had hatched, the mama robin and I were occupying the same physical space. But the reality mapped onto my human brain looks nothing like the one mapped onto her bird brain. Each map served us well, but there was probably only tangential overlap.

Finally, the hatchlings emerged. They stuck their beaks up to the sky, opening and closing them like miniature pruning shears, in anticipation of the early worm. And speaking of baby birds, it occurs to me that not only do the mama robin and I see the world through vastly different eyes, but a baby robin’s Map of the World is almost certainly quite different from that of her mama’s. For example, the mama food map prominently identifies the most fertile worming grounds; the baby’s centers on the mama’s loaded beak. The mama is constantly vigilant for signs of danger; the baby probably doesn’t even have danger-detecting neurons wired up yet.

And, of course, this is just as true for humans as for birds. Like baby birds, when my kids were small, they saw the world radically differently than I did. And in some ways, they still do. And, come to think of it, so does every person in the world. A farmer looks up at the sky and knows he needs to harvest the wheat right away; an artist looks at the same sky and thinks how lovely the clouds with their pretty gray edges are. A radiologist sees clear evidence of congestive heart failure on the chest x-ray; her office manager looks at it and sees blurry shadows. One person walks in the forest and is struck by the unusual comingling of different species of trees; another is overwhelmed by the beauty of God’s creation.

We are each equipped with a unique map of the world, along with rules for how to navigate it. Being mindful of these differences may help us to be more generous to others for the things they say and the decisions they make. We are quite aware of and make allowances for the difference in perceptions between us and our feathered friends; seems like it’s not a stretch to do so for our fellow humans as well.

The Banana Man

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The Banana Man was one of the few completely positive memories I’ve retained from childhood. I should never have tried to track him down.

When I was seven, a sacred family tradition was that every Saturday at noon we’d gather in front of our little black and white TV. That’s when The Sealtest Big Top came on. It was a kid’s circus show, sponsored, not surprisingly, by the Sealtest Dairy. We snuggled together on the sofa to eat my mother’s fabulous grilled cheese sandwiches, always including a big slice of tomato which burrowed into the melted cheese. For drinks we had another of my mother’s specialties: chocolate sodas. They were made with seltzer water, Hershey’s chocolate syrup, and milk (presumably Sealtest). After the chocolate and milk were stirred into the syrup, a foamy, spritzy head formed at the top, giving a pleasant tickle to the nose as we drank it.

The ad-heavy Sealtest Big Top featured numerous regulars, including “Sealtest Dan, The Muscle Man”. Sealtest Dan, as I just learned, was Dan Lurie, a runner up for Mr. America in the mid-1940’s. He won the Most Muscular Man trophy several years in a row. He was outfitted in a black cape, sandals, and faux leopard skin bikini trunks. In a typical act, Sealtest Dan would heft a barbell fitted with two hundred-plus pounds of weights. After he finished his reps, a girl about my age would rush onto the stage and offer him a tall glass of milk (you can guess the brand). Simultaneously, Jack Sterling, the snappy ringmaster, averred that Sealtest milk grew big muscles and strong bones; after seeing Dan press that barbell in his leopard skin bikini trunks, there could be little doubt that this was true. Then the girl stood on her tiptoes to palpate Dan’s formidable biceps, while exaggeratedly mouthing the word, “WOW!” In reply, Dan modestly grinned. The segment ended with ringmaster Jack saying, “Extra nutritious and extra delicious! Get the best, get Sealtest.” Those weren’t the days of subtle messaging.

Despite the allure of Sealtest Dan, to me the most memorable act was The Banana Man. (He was not referred to as The Sealtest Banana Man. This was probably because bananas were not a dairy product, and thus not marketed by Sealtest). The Banana Man shuffled onto the stage wearing a baggy tuxedo jacket that went down to his knees, and a bright red wig that looked like a mop head that had been soaked in some sort of carmine dye. He smiled wanly at the live audience, perfunctorily bowed, and began his magic.

While humming to himself in a buzzy falsetto, The Banana Man reached into his tux and began extracting an extraordinary variety of objects: musical instruments, a huge magnet, watermelons, an enormous comb and mirror set, a music stand, a waste basket, a giant hand, and a bottle of milk (by now, you can probably deduce the brand). Each time something emerged from the interior of his tux he brandished it aloft, and in that same irritating but alluring falsetto said “Ooh!”, or “Wow!” The latter, of course, echoed the little girl’s reaction to Sealtest Dan’s biceps, and seemed like a good summary of the entire spectacle of The Sealtest Big Top. Of all the objects The Banana Man produced, the most dazzling was bunch, after bunch, after bunch of bananas. In my seven-year-old mind, which I carried to adulthood until I was very recently disabused of this belief (more on that soon), these were full, heavy bunches of real bananas. How he did it was never a question; it was magic, after all. The point is that he did, and his feat was both wonderful and hilarious. I think I shared his professed amazement as each bunch came forth, silently mouthing his falsetto “Ooh’s” along with him.

The spectacular extractions went on and on until the contents of the tux filled four miniature train cars, which had been set up on the stage to receive them. Wow! What a show–both amazing, and roll-on-the-floor funny. During my entire childhood I rarely felt closer to my family as we all ate those grilled cheese sandwiches, washed them down with chocolate sodas, and laughed uproariously at The Banana Man.



A week or so ago, a bunch of bananas in the fruit basket for some reason triggered thoughts of The Banana Man. Hmm, it occurred to me, I could Google him! Perhaps I could find out who he really was. And maybe even see one of his performances on YouTube. Unfortunately, Google came through, loud and clear…

I learned that there were actually two Banana Men. The original was Adolph Proper, an Austrian who emigrated to the US, reinvented himself as “A. Robbins,” and invented the persona of The Banana Man. Before a performance, his tux jacket was intricately loaded with 60 pounds of stuff, which took up to 2 ½ hours to prepare. Alas, Adolph Proper died in 1950. But someone named Sam Levine stepped up to the plate. He bought Proper’s entire wardrobe, equipment, and shtick, and continued the Banana Man act in venues including Captain Kangaroo and The Ed Sullivan Show.

After learning the identity of The Banana Man—or, more correctly I guess, The Banana Men—I found a video of one of their performances. This one, on Captain Kangaroo, was by Banana Man II, Sam Levine. He was the same Banana Man I saw on The Sealtest Big Top. And, WOW, was it depressing! I hadn’t remembered that he looked so sad and disheveled. I hadn’t remembered how cheap and tawdry all the things were that he pulled out of his pathetic tux jacket. And most distressing of all, I had no idea that the 300 bananas he produced were tacky imitations. Not only weren’t they real bunches of bananas, they weren’t even fake bunches–they appeared to be hanging from a string, like fish caught on a line of hooks. And they certainly weren’t hefty, rich yellow fruits—they were merely cores of springs covered with pale yellow cloth which Adoph Proper had fashioned lovingly by hand. To pack the tux, the Banana Men compressed the springs, then jammed the flattened fruits into various pockets. Then, as they were pulled out during a performance, the springs sprung, turning the cloth coins into very rough simulacra of real bananas. So much for the magic! Even at the tender age of seven, how could I have been so fooled? Or was I? Maybe I appreciated the ruse, but was happy to suspend my disbelief to enjoy The Banana Man with my family.


As Thomas Wolfe famously said, You Can’t Go Home Again. That’s because when you do, what you find will not be what you remember. And, quite possibly, what you find will be worse. Old Tom sure nailed my Banana Man memories! Alas, after going home again, I now carry two parallel reels in my head: The first one is the Banana Man of my youth, pulling huge bunches of real bananas out of his tux jacket, while my family and I howl in amazement and delight. The second reel is the Banana Man of my adulthood—a bit tattered and worn, awkwardly pulling fake objects only tangentially related to bunches of real bananas out of that same tux. Perhaps these two reels are two different versions of the reality of the Banana Man–mutually exclusive, but both still true. In any case, the more recent reel still nags at me.

I wonder if The Banana Man is a cautionary tale. For example, lately—probably triggered by the pandemic—I’ve been involved in a flurry of Zoom convocations with old high school buddies. Most of us haven’t been in touch for decades. Interestingly, and to my mild distress, we almost exclusively reminisce about ye olde high school days rather than discuss what everyone is doing now. And once again, some of my long-held memories of those days are being challenged. I wonder if we would do better to leave the past fallow, keeping the old memories, right or wrong, intact.

Maybe. But it could be that some of our pleasant memories of yesteryear are actually accurate, and could be made even more vivid by collective recollection. That is, maybe old memories don’t always go in the Banana Man direction. For example, during one of those Zoom chats some of my high school buddies fondly recalled a funny high school stunt of mine that I had completely forgotten about. That recollection made me feel good, and connected. So maybe revisiting old memories isn’t all bad. Maybe you actually can go home again, at least once in a while. I’ll think about that, perhaps while making a grilled cheese sandwich. With a fresh tomato slice, of course, and a chocolate soda on the side.

Different Cultures, Different Truths

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“I saw Khun Ken eating like an animal!” Sukhorn said with a shy, self-conscious smile. Sukhorn was my lab tech at the Suan Dok hospital in Chiang Mai, Thailand, where I was spending a year researching the effects of pediatric malnutrition. It was Monday morning, and I’d just arrived at work. Her statement, needless to say, was puzzling.

“Sukhorn, what do you mean?” She grinned, and demurely looked down. Finally she said, “Khun Ken bought some curry on the street this weekend. And he was walking along the sidewalk eating it. Just like an animal!” I still didn’t get it, and she didn’t seem to want to talk further. So I just shrugged, and attended to my limulus assays.

That afternoon I told Panja Kulapongs, a wonderful pediatric hematologist/oncologist who did most of his training in the US, about this interchange. He started laughing, then explained that in Thai culture the proper thing to do after buying street food is to eat it while squatting down on the sidewalk near the vendor. Eating while walking is what animals do—very tacky, and impolite. I was abashed to realize I was seen doing something so crude, especially since as one of the few westerners in Chiang Mai at the time I really stood out.

Even decades later, this has stuck with me—to this day I’m self-conscious about eating an ice cream cone while walking down the street. And when I see people strolling along the sidewalk munching on a pizza slice or a hot dog, my initial reaction is to think how uncouth they are.

About halfway through my time in Thailand, our research unit organized what I guess would be called a “fun run” to raise money for a pediatric charity. All suited up and ready to go, Panja approached me. “Please remember, Ken” he said, “don’t run your hardest. You want to leave room for doing better the next time.” Then he added, “And most important, don’t come in first. In fact, try not to distinguish yourself in any way.” I completed the run in safe anonymity, firmly in the middle of the pack.

One of the perks of working at the Anemia and Malnutrition Research Centre was that I was entitled to rent a car at a whopping discount. What I got was a cute little beige VW bug that cost me a dollar a day. (This was truly Dollar Rent-a-Car!). Even my modest vehicle turned heads in Chiang Mai, among the multitude of scooters, samlors and tuk-tuks.

Here in The Far East, driving was somewhat reminiscent of being in The Wild West. At the time, the nearest traffic light was probably in Bangkok, 700 km to the south. Even stop signs were sparse in Chiang Mai, and the few that existed seemed more for decoration than instruction. So when driving among all the bicycles and non-automobile motor vehicles, it was important to be hyperalert.

One day I was heading down the main street, going with the flow at about 20 miles per hour. I ended up behind a samlor, a three-wheeled peddled vehicle that carries a passenger or two for short distances. As I very slowly passed the samlor, it was apparent that the driver was staring at me. We locked eyes. Then, suddenly, he jerked his handlebars so that the side of his samlor smacked into the side of my car. We both pulled over. He quickly checked out both vehicles, then peddled off into the traffic. I saw only a few tiny scratches on the passenger front door, so I shrugged and drove on.

Two days later Boonsri, the chief secretary at the research centre, called me into her office. To my surprise, standing next to her desk was the samlor driver, a piece of paper in hand. Boonsri explained that this was a bill for the repair of his samlor, which he was presenting to me for payment. “What!” I yelled more than asked. I explained to Boonsri that the guy deliberately turned into my car, no question about it. It was clearly his fault. Boonsri smiled patiently. “Khun Ken,” she said, “that’s not the point. The point is that your vehicle is worth more than this man’s. So you are responsible for paying the damage”. “But”, I sputtered, “he intentionally ran into me! It was his fault!” “Fault is not relevant, Khun Ken”, she said. “Your VW is worth more than his samlor. So, you pay. It’s quite simple”. She just smiled and shook her head at my failure to grasp the obvious.

I settled down, and reflected. It was, I guess, sort of like no-fault insurance. Or a social welfare scheme, where the richer look after the poorer, evening things up a bit. Actually, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The Anemia and Malnutrition Research Centre reimbursed the samlor driver. As I unpacked this astounding occurrence, it occurred to me that his samlor probably had some preexisting mechanical problem, and the driver opportunistically bumped into my VW to fund the repair. Well, more power to him; with his samlor in tip top shape, I hoped his business would increase. And maybe someday he would save up enough to buy a VW. And then help another samlor driver pay his bills.



The well-worn mantra says that “we’re all alike under the skin.” And we joyfully sing, “It’s a small world after all; there’s so much that we share.” I suppose that’s all true, and I celebrate my common humanity with every other person on the planet. But, in fact, we’re not all the same, and there certainly are things we don’t share. If I had tried to convince Sukhorn that it was perfectly civilized to eat while walking down the sidewalk, she would have been as apt to agree as I would if she told me it was quite polite to loudly hock up and spit into a bowl during a meal (which, at least when I lived there, the Thais frequently did).

So how do I square the notion that we’re all alike under the skin with the obvious fact that there are profound cultural differences? Actually, I think that keeping these disparate truths in mind can be quite helpful when interacting with others. This is especially true when navigating the profound political and religious differences we encounter daily. We ought to respect everyone, because we do, of course, share a common humanity. But because some views are as ingrained and unshakable as the belief that walking while eating is what only animals do, it’s simply not useful to try to change them. If I mentally superimpose an image of Sukhorn or Panja or Boonsri over the face of the person I’m talking to, maybe I can be less critical of opinions of theirs that I find distasteful. And maybe I’ll feel less compelled to, fruitlessly, try to change them.

So here’s what I hope to remember to do: If I’m engaged with another person with whom I have a serious difference of opinion, rather than thinking of them as a stubborn and ignorant American, perhaps I should think of them as from a vastly different culture. Maybe this will allow me to feel more comfortable in accepting that some of their beliefs, though quite different than mine, are simply part of who they are. And then I can focus on the commonality we do share, like Sukorn’s great sense of humor, Panja’s caring and support, and Boonsri’s patience and tact.

The Knurled World

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Lately, I’ve been seeing knurls everywhere. You know, those vertical ridges on bottle tops, toothpaste caps, and lids. At first I didn’t even know what they were called. But out of a dark corner of some unidentified gyrus of my cerebral cortex, I heard a shy, tentative peep say ‘knerl,’ or something like that. I of course Googled it, and was eventually led to “knurl,” which was defined as “a small projecting knob or ridge, especially in a series around the edge of something.” Bingo, I found it! I then spent (or, you might well argue, wasted) many hours scouring the web for “knurl” and “knurling.” Thus, I was introduced to the knurled world.

As the first article I read put it, “Knurling can enhance the aesthetics of a product by introducing an attractive pattern to its surface. Most people will agree that textured finishes are more attractive than smooth finishes.” Already my mind was spinning! Is it really true that most people agree that textured finishes are more attractive than smooth surfaces? That never occurred to me. Though, since no references were cited, perhaps the knurled enhancement of aesthetics is obvious–especially to anyone who knows their knurls. And certainly to anyone who sells knurling machines, of which, as I soon found out, there are many.

The article went on, “Aside from aesthetics, though, there are practical reasons for manufacturing companies to perform knurling. Products that require gripping, such as hand tools, are often knurled to improve their performance and usability…Knurling protects against hand slippage by creating a textured pattern that’s easier to grip.” I found that statement easier to accept than the aesthetics one. But, curiously, though the learned articles as well as the purveyors of knurling machines all state that knurled surfaces are easier to grip than smooth ones, not a single one explains why this is so.

All I could come up with was this: when we grip a knurled surface, the skin of our fingers, along with the various layers of underlying tissue, press into the spaces between the raised portions of the knurl. Then, when we squeeze, we’re applying lateral pressure to the sides of the knurled valleys. That is, we’re pressing our flesh against the adjacent ridges. This provides additional force over what we could apply by gripping a smooth (and less aesthetically pleasing) surface.

Here’s a little thought experiment which, at least to me, proves the importance of our finger tissues getting down into the grooves: Pretend that the skin overlying our fingers is totally smooth and totally non-pliable, like, for example, the metal hand of a robot. If R2-D2 applied the same amount of squeezing force to the toothpaste cap as we do with our fingers, imagine how much harder it would be for him to open it—his robotic digits would likely just slide over the knurling without getting a good grip. And if his smooth fingers squeezed it tightly enough to unscrew it, the cap would run the risk of cracking. I guess it’s a good thing that R2-D2 has no teeth to brush!

When you think about it—or at least when the author of the Wikipedia “Knurling” article thinks about it–knurls are everywhere: the author cites the knurling found on tool handles, mechanical pencils, barbell bars, pistol grips, control knobs, darts grips, surgical instruments, and even the foot pegs of BMX bicycles. And it doesn’t stop there: consider, for example, the “knurled nut,” found so commonly on small diameter bolts, electronic components, musical instruments, and automobiles, to name a few. I suspect that it would be extremely difficult to get through even a single day without interacting with multiple examples of knurling.

So where, you are almost certainly wondering by now, did the word “knurl” come from? Well, that’s easy. Once again, Wikipedia to the rescue: “The terms knurl and knurled are from an earlier knur ‘knot in wood’ and the diminutive -le, from Middle English knaur or knarre ‘knot in wood; twisted rock; crag’. This descends from Old English cnearra but the vowel in Middle English may have been influenced by Old Norse knǫrr ‘merchant ship’ which was known as cnearr in Old English.” You may protest that this is a little abstruse. But not so fast—when you press your fingers against the knurling on the toothpaste cap as you brush your teeth in the morning, simply think of ‘knot in wood’ while visualizing a Norse merchant ship; if you do so you’ll never forget the derivation.

A study of knurls naturally leads to the world of knurling machines. Among other patterns, it turns out that knurling machines can produce “annular rings”, “linear knurls”, “rolled knurls”, and “diamond knurls”, as well as the quotidian “straight knurls”. After explaining the basics of knurling machines, an online article goes on to tackle a common misconception: “A popular myth is that rolled knurls are somewhat more complicated to design than cut knurls because the outer diameter of the workpiece must be chosen to allow the roller to roll an integral number of patterns around the workpiece; in practice if the knurl is applied positively, it will engage with its own impression and create a proper knurl on any diameter of work.” I feel fortunate that I’ve been disabused of my belief in the popular myth of the difficulty of designing rolled knurls which, I must confess, I shared.

As is true in other manufacturing fields, purveyors of knurling machines are eager to be green as well as to reduce costs. One site selling knurling machines acknowledges these considerations by suggesting that “specifiers and procurement agents can shave costs by playing with the closure design, process, or grade of material.” Specifically, “knurl reduction” is advocated. Here’s what they suggest: “You can reduce the amount of material in knurls by increasing the distance between the knurls, reducing the width of knurls or by having different patterns—like each alternate knurl can be cut in size by half. Typically, the weight contribution of knurls in the gross weight of a cap is 20% of the total weight. Even a 50% decrease in this would cut the material weight of cap by 10%.” Sure sounds to me like knurl reduction is the way to go!

In the competitive world of knurling machines, it appears that Shandong Lipeng Co, Ltd is at the top of the heap. Their specialty is manufacturing the knurling machines that produce knurled bottle caps. Their machines can crank out an astounding “30,000pcs/8h.” That’s a lot of knurling going on! It’s clear that Lipeng takes its mission seriously—their website tag line is, “Bottle cap is small, but it is still an art work~.” I guess this is another example of knurlers’ belief that their products have aesthetic value–I’ll certainly try to look at the next knurled bottle cap I encounter as the work of art it surely is.

But there’s more. The Shandong site continues, “Shandong Lipeng Co., Ltd has been carrying the sacred mission to create a leading brand in bottle cap line around the worldwide. Keeping persueing perfect & establishing the uncopied central competitive power to enjoy the reasult as small pieces, huge market. We have the enrich facilities for production and we also take granted to our expert R&D center…” Perhaps their English isn’t expert (though it’s a heck of a lot better than my Mandarin), but their comprehensive knowledge of–and passion for–knurling clearly is! It’s humbling to appreciate the expertise, zeal, and sense of mission that the knurling community brings to its craft. Perhaps it’s a model for us all, no matter what our work.



In addition to a much more profound knowledge of the field, my deep dive into knurls and knurling has shown me how oblivious we can be to what’s everywhere around us. I marvel at how many features of our world, in addition to knurls, that we see but aren’t conscious of. Among the things I’ll try to be more aware of are: the multitude of knobs and handles that we use in the course of a day, the ubiquity of right angles in objects constructed by humans (and their virtual absence in nature), the pervasiveness of some shade of the color green just about anywhere you look, and the interaction of all the ambient sounds that, if we really listen, can be heard at one time. And, who knows, maybe even the immanence of God.