Category: Silver Years

A mentor is defined as a person, usually a business colleague, who takes an interest in helping a younger employee in career development. The mentor serves not only as role model but also counsels the younger person over a spectrum of interests. A mentor may also tout the younger one among other colleagues in order to “smooth the way” for him. I have been fortunate in having one such person in my life: Dr. Ronald Lamont-Havers.

Ron was a half-generation ahead of me, being born fifteen years before I was. Our first interaction came in 1966, after my year-long administrative internship with the National Institutes of Health. He was the Associate Director for the extramural programs of the National Institute of Arthritis and Metabolic Diseases and the major reason why I joined that particular Institute. He convinced me that the position he offered as Associate Endocrinology Program Director would give me, in the shortest possible time, an excellent background for all of the grant-funding activities of the NIH. He was right. I quickly learned about all of the NIH grant-making programs and interacted with many other staff members throughout the NIH. A year later he appointed me as the chief of the Analysis and Evaluation Branch where, with an ancient IBM system, I was part of the newly developing area of computer analysis. It was because of Ron’s interest in my career that I was introduced to the computer age.

Lamont-Havers was himself, an interesting person. He was born in England in 1920 and moved to Canada when he was seven. His undergraduate work was at the University of British Columbia and his MD was from the University of Toronto. He maintained his Canadian accent when he came to the NIH. I found this personally amusing for a strange reason. Later, as I advanced through the agency and did a lot of telephone interactions with upper-level administrators, my voice was often mistaken for his. At that time, he, himself, had been promoted to the position of Deputy Director of the entire NIH. Jokingly, it was said I could have taken over the agency, through telephone calls, if I had tried.

Ron and his wife, Hale, often invited Karen and me to their townhouse for an evening. Their gatherings included members from the Institute and friends from other federal agencies. Sometime between 10:00 p.m. and midnight, Hale would begin to prepare dinner. They preferred engaging conversations to eating! An event with them would last far into the night. Hale was also an interesting lady in another strange way. Her hobby was reading about “real crime.” When Ron would travel to London for scientific meetings, Hale would spend her time at Scotland Yard. I also recall that her favorite cat was named “Dr. Crippen,” after an infamous American physician who killed his wife in London, was tried for the crime, and hanged in the Tower.

Meetings with L-H were also fascinating. Our dialogs focused, of course, on the business at hand, but he would cover a range, from politics to religion. He seemed to have a particular interest in the “Medes and the Persians,” since he was always quoting something about them. Our conversations always occurred while he sat with one leg bent under him. I’ve never known any other man who consistently sat so comfortably curled up in his chair.

Ron was very adept not only in instructing me about the specifics of administration but also about the culture of the Institutes. He demonstrated what stewardship in government actually meant: how bureaucrats learned the rules in order to say “no” and administrators learned the same ones in order to say “yes.” Accepting new ideas, when needed, and making changes, when appropriate, are essential for federal agencies. He was an international expert on arthritis and gave me a consultation on my own shoulder problem.

L-H seemed to take a personal interest in me. Even after I left his Institute to become Assistant Director in another component of the NIH, we maintained contact. When I would visit the agency after joining the University of Massachusetts, he always found time to chat with me, even though he had moved to “Building One” as Deputy Director of the NIH. I lost contact with him once he became Vice President for Research and Technology at the Massachusetts General Hospital. He died in 2019, at age 99.

Shortly after I had arrived at Baylor College of Medicine, I received a telephone call from Dr. Tom Malone, a personal friend and colleague who had replaced Lamont-Havers as Associate Director for the extramural programs of the NIH. Tom said that he and Ron had not realized I would be “movable” from UMA and wondered if I would be interested in returning to the NIH for a position in his office instead of living in Texas. However, having made this recent commitment, I replied that I thought I should stay with BCM. I have often wondered what my life would have been like had I returned, some forty years ago, to the NIH and life under Reagan, Clinton, Bush and Obama. Fortunately, I would probably have retired before being Trumped! There is a difference between being mentored and be apprenticed.

Life in Washington, D.C. did give me a dose of “Potomac Fever.” The condition was not fatal, but it did have long-lasting effects. One of the symptoms was my feeling as if I were living in the center of all that was happening in the world. Every national event seemed to be local. For several years after we had moved to Amherst, Mass., I still subscribed to the Washington Post, until the Boston Globe took its place, but not quite.

On the first available weekend, once we were settled in our home on Cedar Lane in Bethesda, we drove around the District. On a Sunday, the traffic was more reasonable than during a weekday. The Mall and the Smithsonian museums became our magnet: on the north – American History, Natural History, and the Art Gallery; on the south – Freer Gallery, Smithsonian Castle, Hirshorn, Air and Space, and the Botanical Gardens. Changes occurred over the following decades, but these were the places for us to see again and again in the mid-1960’s. When friends came to visit, we would take them to sites everyone expected to see (the Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson Memorial and the Washington Monument) and then to places for us to investigate for the first time. Strangely, perhaps, we never did get to see the inside of the White House. I went to some of the other major federal buildings on my own during those lunch hours I had when I was assigned to the DHEW.

On the other hand, our favorite locations included the National Zoo and the National Cathedral, even if it was high Episcopalian. Both were very peaceful venues to stroll as a couple, although the kids, of course, preferred the zoo. A short time before our arrival in Washington, the Catholic Basilica of the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception had been completed. Around the main sanctuary, there were magnificent chapels dedicated to the Virgin Mary as she had appeared to various nations. However, we preferred the elegant Gothic setting of the Cathedral to the Byzantine style of the Basilica.

Following our arrival in the area, one of our first events was experiencing the Fourth of July fireworks on the grounds of the Mall. It was a grand exposure to what was potentially available in our Capital. Even the traffic jam was worth it.

The construction of the Metro subway system did not begin until the final year we lived in the D.C. area, so I learned to get around the District by car. After many attempts, I finally discovered how to navigate the Circle around the Lincoln Memorial and actually drive north on Rock Creek Parkway, instead of always landing in Arlington Cemetery in Virginia. Karen began to drive our car when we moved from Bethesda to Rockville during our second year in Washington. She had taken driving lessons during high school, but refused to drive when her father attempted to continue her lessons in drivers’ ed. She did her driving, now, in suburban Washington and allowed me to take the wheel for downtown excursions.

I, personally, had two destinations when I thought I needed to escape from the house by myself. During the day, one of them was Georgetown. The streets, with cobblestone or brick pavements lined by gas-converted lamps, were picturesque during the day or evening. I stayed in a townhouse there with young, single, physician friends from the NIH for a week while Karen was out of town with the kids. Georgetown would have been a great place to live, but my salary limited my desire. My second, favorite location was the Lincoln Memorial at dusk, when the fog began to rise from the Potomac. The sharp edges of the temple became concealed by the mists as my own thoughts of any leftover annoyances faded away. Perhaps, these river-mists were the real causes for my Potomac Fever.

There are years which recede into half-forgotten memories. Those from 1966 until 1968 fit into this category. On the positive side, I found my daily administrative work to be enjoyable; I became good at it, too. By attending study section reviews of grant applications, I met some of the leading investigators in the country in biochemistry and endocrinology. I did not miss the laboratory and doing my own research, since I was learning about the cutting edge of these scientific disciplines. My role as an administrator, who helped others, was an acceptable replacement for what I had desired, but not found, in academic education. There were times when I missed classroom teaching, but my day-to-day work compensated for what I thought I had given up in direct interactions with students and professorial colleagues. It was the beginning of a productive career in science administration.

At the completion of my year in the GA Program and the beginning of my career with the NIAMD, we moved from our rental house in Bethesda to another rental in Wheaton, Maryland, the “next town” adjoining Bethesda and the District. There was little to distinguish this residence from any other suburban home: a typical, split-level, white structure with black shutters.

While we were living in our new residence, Deb made her First Communion at St Edward’s, our new parish, although she now attended the local public elementary school. My parents came for their obligatory 48-hour visit for this celebration.

Once again, Karen and I had few neighborhood friends. Most friends were those from work, rather than those who cut the grass in the next-door yards. The closest colleague-friends I had were two members from my “class” of the Grants Associates: Al Heim and Al Broseghini. Karen and I learned how to play bridge and often met with an NIH colleague, Kent Smith and his wife, Nancy, for weekend card playing.

Although she never mentioned it, Karen may have been bored being a housewife who had limited access to a car for getting away on her own. We accomplished the common events of family life together: the usual trips to the grocery stores, weekend ventures to the nearby suburban mall and its department stores, and visits to downtown tourist sites.

I did find an NIH colleague, Tom MacIntosh, who lived near us; we alternated weeks as drivers for our daily commute, so that Karen finally had some means of escape. Tom became a very close buddy, as it can happen when, every day, two guys must invest time together. Two hours of one-on-one conversations, five days a week, resulted in our getting to know one another. A close call or two on an express highway also resulted in an even closer friendship. Our relationship ended in the usual way when Tom and his wife, Roma, returned to Iowa and his private practice following his year as a Public Health Service physician on temporary assignment to the NIH.

I then discovered that Will Nusser, another NIH-er lived in Wheaton and a new, but less talkative commuting, came about. On the other hand, when Will bought my old Chevy wagon for his son, he knew what he was getting, including the small hole in the floorboard that allowed ready access to roadway slush.

The best part of our living on May Street in Wheaton was that it was close to the area in Rockville, Maryland, where we built our first home. We were able to oversee its construction and learn about a new way to have fun, providing we had the money and time for it.

Having a new home being built for us was very exciting. It also required patience, a difficult quality for us with our immediate expectations of completion. Fortunately, we bought a site in Rockville, Maryland not far from where we were renting, and so, we could visit the reality of our dream while it was being constructed. We had, indeed, dreamed of our own home for several years before we were able to construct one. Karen and I had enjoyed pouring over home-design magazines for the first five years of our marriage and had decided on what we liked and did not like. We had even tried to design our own floorplans, knowing that we would end up with one originated by a developer. But we had fun with our daydreams.

The house we decided to have built for us was of a multi-level design. The main floor had a large living room, dining room and kitchen. The upper level had three bedrooms, one for us, one for Deb and one shared by Ken and Kip. The lower level, below the main floor, had two more bedrooms, which were dedicated for my study and for storage, as well as what many would call a den or family room. That’s where we relaxed and watched television in the evening. Below the lower level was a full basement, a space we did not realize, at the time, was unique to northern dwellings. The laundry, furnace, water heater and out-of-season stuff could be found there. Years later when we moved to Houston, Texas, we were startled to learn that these utilities, except for the laundry, were relegated to the attic. We former Yankees could not abide the idea of a water heater above our heads and had our future builders make room for similar equipment being lodged in the garage! At the time we purchased the property in Maryland, we paid about $27,000, and sold it for only a modest increase, five years later. Today, it would take us more than $500,000 to buy it back!

There was only a modest yard associated with our suburban home, perched on a low hill. Grass cutting was a challenge for the front lawn. The backyard was overgrown with shrubs and trees. Over the years, we slowly converted this area into a rock garden, a small site surrounded by nature. Shortly after we moved into our new home, a large tree was uprooted by a windstorm and many weeks were devoted to cutting up the remaining roots and enlarging the opened area. Fortunately, the tree missed the surrounding houses, and ours, as it toppled over.

There was a real advantage in living close to our new house as it was being constructed. We had ordered that the exterior, wood panels be painted a light green to offset the red bricks of the foundation walls. We were amazed when we first saw the glossy finish illuminating our part of the cul-de-sac of our truly outstanding home. The builder repainted with an appropriate outdoor product to give a result that would be less offensive to all of the neighbors.

We actually had known neighbors living around us. They became close friends over the years, and we shared meals and parties with them. On one side were Bernie and Pat O’Donnell; on the other were Joe and Angela Ditchey and their many kids. Our best friends, Bob and Sally Thyberg, lived across the street from our cul-de-sac. We spent many evenings together watching the newly created “Star Trek” and “Mission Impossible.” Bob and Sally also played bridge and liked the same summertime gin-and-tonics and wintertime scotch-and-sodas that we consumed with them. Bob, who worked for the Department of the Navy, drove a motorcycle, which Karen dared to ride with him; I declined.

Stores, school, and church, now St Patrick’s, were within the normal fifteen-minute suburban drive. I continued to commute with Will Nusser to the Westwood building while I remained with the NIAMD.

We led a pleasant and typical suburban life on Flint Rock Road, a place which was much more modern than the home where Fred and Wilma once resided along with their neighbors, the Rubbles. The Thybergs were as much fun as Barnie and Bette and our fireplaces were reserved for making popcorn rather than roasting haunches of a mastodon.

Memories of family life in 1968 have been limited, but the same has not been true for events impacting upon our own lives and those of others in this fate-filled year. Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated by James Earl Jones at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tenn., on April 4, 1968. Within the week, we saw from our backyard in Maryland the smoke of the fires destroying 14th Street in downtown Washington, D.C. Dark clouds rising over the nation’s Capital were not an experience anyone might expect, unless you had lived there in 1812 – 1814. What would come next?

I did not venture very much to that northwest section of the District, even though it was not far from the federal buildings where I had worked and visited during the last three years. We had a close friend, Francie Callan, Karen’s sorority sister, living in an apartment building on East Capital. She was recovering from a broken leg and unable to escape from her third-floor apartment, if the need should arise. No part of the District seemed to be safe if the rioters left their neighborhoods around 14th and U streets. We worried about her and others we knew who lived downtown. We expected Maryland would be safe. Our concerns lasted for more than the four days that the Capital was under attack.

Within a few weeks, the riots evolved into a more settled stage for the siege. A “March on Washington” resulted in the construction of “Resurrection City” located on the Mall around the Reflection Pool, near the Lincoln Memorial. The encampment lasted from Mothers’ Day in mid-May through the last days of June. Many of my physician friends from the PHS and the NIH provided health care to its residents, who, nevertheless, held them under suspicion, since they thought that really good doctors would have had nothing to do with such rabbles.

On the other hand, those six weeks in the early summer of 1968 had one advantage for us and other residents. Because of the previous riots and the resulting tent-city of displaced inhabitants, there were few tourists. This was the only time during our years in Washington that there were no parking problems around the Mall and its museums. Life continued in its usual, routine manner. It lasted until early June.

On June 5, 1968, Robert Kennedy was assassinated by Sirhan Sirhan at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. The Capital, once more, entered a period of shock and mourning, which lasted until late August. I vividly recall, from this period, an incident when I was severely criticized by friends, because I made use of “Sirhan Sirhan” as the topic for a charade game in which we were involved!

The meeting of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago changed the nature of the discussions of my friends and colleagues. But, interestingly, the nominations of Hubert Humphrey and Edmund Muskie as well as those of Nixon and Agnew did not result in the bitterness which developed later in national politics.

In the 1960s it was my observation that civil politicians and civil servants remained civilized. During the day, policy issues would be discussed with great fervor, even with anger. But the political “stupidity” of opponents was not held as a personal demonization, lacking any empathy for the dignity of the human person. As federal employees we never really knew much about the personal politics of those with whom we labored for the good of the nation.

In my later years as a bureaucrat, I had no problems drafting an official response that would be signed by a congressman to an inquiry from a constituent about the NIH. It was a spellbinding time to be a real civil servant and accomplish the mutual goals mandated by the Congressional and Executive branches of the federal government. The real challenge each fiscal year was to help in the construction of three budgetary requests: one for a reduced appropriation, one for a realistic allotment and one if there might be a blue-sky expansion, a seldom occurring event. The only blue skies were the ones brought by the Washington weather and not by federal funds.

During the previous and current administrations in Washington, the nature of Congress and the entire federal government has changed dramatically. If someone does not completely agree with your own position, that individual is now beyond redemption. All negative adjectives can currently be applied to these former-humans. I cannot see myself existing in such a climate of stupid calumny. I’m pleased that I was able to experience being a federal civil servant when they were, indeed, civil both at work, and at leisure.

I have commented in other reflections on the insurrection of January 6, 2021. The insurrections of the summer of 1968 provide me with sufficient memories of Washington on fire.

Once again, being busy and fully engaged in living my life, I had little time to devote to writing about it, although I have found a diary entry about a lunch with Peyton Stapp at the Cosmos Club for Thursday, January 9, 1969.

Peyton, a senior advisor for those in “Building 1,” invited me for our monthly conversation about my career development. That day’s enticement was to assess my interest as director of the Statistics and Analysis Branch of the DRG. The additional carrot was a GS-15 level appointment. I was currently the Chief of the Analysis and Evaluation Branch of the NIAMD, an advancement I had taken two years ago within the Institute. At present I had control of all of the Institute’s data for all of the grants we made. Peyton was proposing a similar role for the entire NIH.

The Cosmos Club was a private social club founded in 1878. Originally it was where the cultural and professional elite men of Washington could gather for drinks, discussion and meals. It had the appearance of the venues seen in old movies. There were well-worn, deep-red carpets, leather reading chairs, dark portraits, male dining rooms, efficient service and the air of the “Establishment” for which it existed. In my notes I wrote that all of this interaction and its location were “… amusing and instructive to this little old 2nd generation WOP who finds himself with a case of Potomac fever.” I did not follow-up on Peyton’s offer, but I did enjoy the occasional lunch with him at the Cosmos Club.

My notes also indicate that two weeks later I happened to meet Dr. Tsoo King in the snack room at the Westwood Building. Dr. King was the person whose negative interactions with me had led directly to my current association with the NIH. He was in town for some meetings at the NSF and thought he should “make nice” with the science administrator in charge of his NIH grant funding. It was ironic, meeting with him in my current role with the Feds.

Interactions with my former colleagues were not uncommon. Two days after my chance meeting with Tsoo, I had a telephone call from Dr. Lucile Smith, my mentor at Dartmouth Med. She called about her own grant funding which had not been renewed during the latest round of competitive reviews. Given the cutbacks in the NIH budgets at that time, this was not an unusual occurrence.

Years ago, when Lucile had learned that I was interested in leaving “active” science to become an administrator, she felt I had “deserted” my destiny, a destiny which she had a part in forming, and I was now abandoning. The feeling was not uncommon for many with whom I had trained. To leave the academic life of research and teaching was a complete betrayal. Becoming a scientist-administrator in charge of the disbursement of funds in support of their efforts was only slightly more acceptable than becoming an investigator in a pharmaceutical house where you received a salary for your work.

My notes also show that the evening of the day Lucile called was when I attended a meeting of the informal Science and Public Policy discussion group of which I was a member. Although there were a half-dozen or so of us from different governmental agencies who met monthly, this evening only Dick Chapman, from the National Academy of Public Administration, Mel Bolster, from the Personnel Management Office, NIH, and Peter Rumsey, from the Research and Development desk of the Department of Defense, Bureau of the Budget came to my house on Flint Rock Road. (Karen spent the evening with Bob and Sally!) During the years, the discussion group dissolved as each of us became more involved with our actual work and had less time to discuss the theory of what we did. Not only journal writing is driven out by the mundane. Thoughtful discussion of what might be accomplished by your work can be outweighed by the act of doing the work, itself.

The last entry for 1969 was written on January 20. “No work today since it was Inauguration Day for Richard M. Nixon as 37th President of the U.S. Watched the ceremonies and parade on TV. Some year we might go Down Town for it. The day was cold & dreary – fitting for some moaners, I guess. I’m not really one of them. Although I voted for HHH – and why, I’m not sure, I have no animosity toward RMN. I guess last Nov. my feeling was I couldn’t with consistency vote for Nixon, since I once voted for Kennedy. How has Nixon changed in the last 8 years? He must have (or I must have), since 8 years ago I was very anti-Nixon. But why not give him a chance to see what he does or does not do?

“Today I did feel sorry for HHH – on TV he looked quite discouraged. Lb., on the other hand, seemed to really mean it when he answered a reporter’s question: “How can a President leaving office be happy?” with the response: “Well, I am!” My guess is that in the coming days, Johnson’s popularity as a former President will increase. He may be another Truman, vilified during his term and beloved afterwards.”

So much for my political observations!

Edit note: This recollection from 1969 was written on January 17, 2019, for the next meeting of our “Legacy in Words” group at Eagle’s Trace. The date of editing it for inclusion in “Cameos and Carousels” is January 8, 2021, two days after the “Four Hour Insurrections” of January 6 when the Trumperians marched on the Capitol, at the urging of the current-but-soon-to-be-former President Donald Trump, and, upon entering the chambers, engaged in acts of vandalism not seen since the British invasion of 1814. I believe there is (or should be) a greater concern about the “peaceful transition of power” two weeks from now, then there was five decades ago! That period saw the Impeachment of Nixon. Some would like to see Mr. Trump’s “Second Impeachment!” within the limited days he has left in this First Term. I’m happy that we, personally, do not have a current “Life in Washington.” All we need to worry about, directly, is the current COVID-19 pandemic! One virus is sufficient.

It was a late evening in January 1969, and I was about to join Karen, who had gone to bed earlier, when I heard the newscast. With its opening words I realized something terrible had happened; the woman who had been murdered was a friend, Cathy Kalberer. She had been married to Jack, a former Grants Associate and a close, personal friend. On several occasions we had eaten dinner with them in their apartment or at our own house. We were surprised when they had broken up last summer.

Cathy had moved to the Spring Lake Apartments on Democracy Blvd. and Jack remained in the one they had at the Grosvenor Apartments in Bethesda, near the NIH campus. Apparently, Cathy had been brutally stabbed. I noted in my journal at the time: “I had to tell Karen about it – needless to say she (nor I) could sleep the rest of the night. Statistically I suppose everyone will come in contact with a violent death – but you never really believe that.” I certainly didn’t.

The next day, I spoke with Palmer Saunders, Jack’s boss, whom I knew. He had gone with Jack to identify the body. On the way there, they were concerned Cathy had committed suicide. Instead, they found she had been repeatedly stabbed and her body covered with knife marks. Although killed in her apartment, her body had been found in a car outside her building. It was thought that some assailant had followed behind her as she returned to her apartment from grocery shopping.

Several days later I met with Jack in his office. Even after their breakup, he still was deeply in love with Cathy, and remained horror-struck with the development of the reports about the incident. We spoke of our times together; nostalgia was only a partial remedy for the hurt. I was pleased I could provide a sounding board for his reflections.

The NIH and the surrounding Montgomery County were shaken by the event. Evidently, Cathy’s murder was only one in a series. About two weeks before her murder, a 14-year-old girl who had been visiting the Spring Lake Apartments had been killed in a similar manner, by stabbing. Shortly after Cathy’s death, a young FBI secretary in nearby Virginia had also been stabbed in her apartment building. The newspapers pointed out that all three were blonds. Everyone was now making certain to lock their doors and cars. Women were staying away from Montgomery Mall, which was near the Spring Lake buildings. The GA monthly gathering, previously scheduled for the social lounge in Jack’s apartment building, was, of course, cancelled. The deaths were general topics of conversation by NIH members for several weeks afterwards. The cases remained unsolved. The news-coverage was finally concluded because of another death.

On July 18, Mary Jo Kopechne died in a car accident near a bridge at Chappaquidick. The driver was Sen. Ted Kennedy. Again, Karen’s concerns became more personal than what we might have expected them to be. Mary Jo had been a close friend of Francie Callan, Karen’s sorority sister, who having recovered from her broken leg, returned to work at the Library of Congress, where she wrote the one-sentence summary for children’s books processed by the Library. Francie spoke to us of her own views about Mary Jo and the Senator.

But few stories, even those about murders and accidents, have long lives in Washington, D.C. Within days, on July 25, 1969, Neil A. Armstrong walked on the moon. That night, or 2:54 a.m. to be more exact, we had encouraged Deb and Ken to join us around the television in our downstairs family room to watch the dim outlines of human legs and feet as they touched a surface other than one found on our earth. It has become a more significant memory than those of deaths in Washington.

Our three kids seemed to enjoy living in the Washington area, even if there were limited opportunities in the immediate neighborhood. Our next-door neighbors in Rockville, the Ditchey’s, had children about their same age, but I don’t recall how much they might have played together. Then, again, I did not have a lot to do about their day-to-day lives at the time. I was there for emergencies.

In January 1969, Karen had gone to the grocery store when Kip came running upstairs, crying loudly. While playing with Ken in the rec-room, he had been crawling under the coffee table and rammed his head into its edge. A four-by-ten-millimeter hole resulted. While I attempted to stop the flow with direct pressure, I sent Deb over to the Thybergs to ask for a ride to the hospital. I had no idea when Karen would get back or how serious the break was. I did manage to stop the profuse bleeding and saw that the cut was too wide to leave open. So, Bob and I took him to the Suburban Hospital in Bethesda, while Sally stayed with Deb and Ken (and cleaned up the mess, I might add.)

The nurse in the emergency room took Kip off immediately, while I filled out some forms. When, after forty-five minutes, they brought Kip out, I learned he had required five stitches – received, I heard, without any crying, complaints, or other events. He had spent the time talking to the staff. I felt that, at three-and-one-half, he had more guts than I did, being thirty years older.

The next day he was fine, except for a band-aid on his forehead. We took him to get a “Billy Blast Off” in payment for his cooperation. With it went a “warning” to him, Ken and Deb that there would be no more “rewards” for getting hurt. There were no other significant accidents, although a year or so later, Ken suffered rug-burns administered, so they claimed, by accident, while Deb and he had been doing some roughhousing. We were fortunate; none of the kids ever broke a bone.

Disciplinary problems were other matters. Parent-teacher conferences went well for Deb who seemed to enjoy school. With Ken, they said he goofed off as often as he could. He seemed to learn rapidly enough, perhaps, too readily, and boredom often overcame him, leading to his mischief in the classroom. He was able to sing the alphabet song before Deb started first grade and was the one who “shamed” her into learning it. He was not challenged, even mathematically, since he could readily do simple multiplication and division in his head while in the first grade. His concept of fractions was better at that time than mine was years later.

On a recurring basis, the three of them presented minimal problems for me; I was the typical, mid-1960s father who went to the office every day. Consequently, Karen became the family nurturer and problem-solver. My responsibility was to see that they went to Mass on Sunday, an occasion which always ended with either donuts or bagels. However, most of the time we tried to promote a joint-front and consistency. On the other hand, at an early age they had learned, especially the boys, that the easiest way to escape any punishment for wrongdoing was to create a disagreement between Karen and me about the potential outcome we might be planning toward them. If we disagreed, they could get away with almost anything.

The major times we spent together were on brief trips to the museums downtown and our extended summer vacations. All three of them enjoyed a long visit to Annapolis with its bright sun, military cannons and boats. The same was true for Monticello and Williamsburg and their early exposure to American history. It was on one of these trips that the boys bought their one and only guns: replicas of colonial pistols which fired caps. Otherwise, games of war had to be fought with fingertips and imagination.

Our favorite site for a summer vacation was Kitty Hawk. The long drive there and back had one “interesting” recurring event: a rest-stop every few hours. Ken said he got to know just about every gas-station between Rockville and North Carolina. Everyone enjoyed the beach and the wind. The only problem was Karen’s fear of heights. She climbed the Lighthouse at Kitty Hawk but refused to step onto the open balcony. The enclosed summit of the Washington Monument was more acceptable. Her phobia of open-air heights lasted until years later, when she finally rode sky-lifts to the tops of several Alpine mountains where we looked down upon air-gliders who ran over the edge of cliffs and sailed to the valleys below. I wonder: did the Wright brothers ever visit Switzerland?

Classically, early mid-life is the time for self-improvements. Once a man has reached fifty, the years ahead must be statistically less than the ones which went before. During the fourth decade, i.e., while still in his thirties, he continues to have the time available to make changes. In the mid-to-late 1960s, my years numbered in the thirties. I attempted my own self-improvements.

I had never been athletic. Realistically, post-age-35 did not mean I could suddenly take on a new body-form, even with diet and weight-loss, both of which I did attempt. Among the federal employees of the NIH, I knew no one who played flag-football or pick-up basketball. Even jogging and golf were not reasonable activities for me. The first was too time-intensive and the second, too expensive to begin. But I did want to learn how to swim.

Swimming was claimed to be a fun-activity. Although at Kent State I had taken a brief PE course in swimming, I really never was able to do it in reality. All I did was “pass the course.” Now in my thirties, I thought learning how to swim would not take too much effort, and only minimal equipment! The local YMCA offered courses. I enrolled and spent a few hours on weekends and evenings trying to learn how to float. I had to start somewhere, and this was surely how to begin. I quickly learned how to sink. Since it was in the shallow end of the pool, I could stand up and sputter before trying to drown again. After what seemed like many months, I was able to move my legs in what could be called a frog-kick. Ultimately, my arms produced a breaststroke. At last, I was able to enjoy floating and gliding in the pool when we went on that summer vacation to Kitty Hawk. I even had enough courage and confidence to dip into the Atlantic coastal waters. Karen, who had grown up on Lake Erie, had taught our kids the rudiments long ago. They took great delight in getting me to sputter as often as possible.

So much for physical improvements.

Artistic ones had to be tried, as well. For many years I had envied Karen’s vocal ability and the enjoyment she had by participating in college musicals during our academic years and in madrigal groups in the first years following our marriage. She continued to find and join singing groups in the Bethesda-Rockville area. She sang; I thought I might be able to draw. In elementary and middle school, I had greatly enjoyed drawing, usually based on pictures or photos. It was now time for me to take formal classes.

Once again, the local YMCA was the source for change. I went to evening classes for charcoal figure drawing offered at a very low cost. I learned how to use Conté sticks on newsprint and how to shade charcoal with my fingers or with a chamois cloth. It was great fun to move the crayon on the paper while looking at the edges of a human model sitting in front of us. There was a marvelous fantasy relationship between the speed of the crayon’s movement on the paper and that of my eye following the figure’s contour. By the time the classes concluded with sketching a male nude, my coordination had greatly improved. I never did well with my attempts at watercolors; oils were easier to use. I set up an easel and working space in one of our two storage rooms on the lower level of our house and had a relaxing time, when I was freed from thoughts about federal budgets and science policy questions.

Karen and I also found time for mutual improvements as well as our separate endeavors relating to music or art. We joined a small gathering who was interested in the Great Books – a project based on the academic process used at the University of Chicago. We would read from a set of green paperbacks published by the University and then gather every other week to discuss our views on the subject matter. Several of our assignments covered Greek playwrights. I was reminded of the joy I once had in taking courses in college that included plays from the Greek classics to modern American and European theater.

Although live theater was available in the District and in surrounding areas, such as the Olney Theater north of Rockville, we seldom made the trip to attend any productions. We had been spoiled by the ready availability of cultural events found in the college towns in which we once resided. It was not until we moved to Amherst, Mass. that we once more had such opportunities. Although its construction had begun in 1964 along Rock Creek Parkway, the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts did not open until 1971, after we had returned to our life in New England. It was there that we, once more, had even greater opportunities for self-improvement. Meanwhile, I was content with my efforts in swimming, charcoal drawing and the discussion of the Great Books.

When I was an undergraduate at Kent State, I never expected the University would someday be a national reference. Then came Monday, May 4, 1970, and the days afterwards. At the time, the Vietnamese war was not on my mind, although it was a preoccupation of many other people, particularly those who maintained we should not be involved in what many saw as a civil war in Southeast Asia. The then-current undergraduates at KSU, as well as those attending other colleges throughout the country, were greatly disturbed by the recent US military incursion into neighboring Cambodia. They began their antiwar protests.

The bars in downtown Kent were packed with students on the evening of the first weekend in May. Some maintained a riot was beginning to start, an event that would not have been possible fifteen years ago, when I went to those same bars.

The beer-soaked revelers arrived back on campus. Somehow, the white, wooden huts housing the ROTC behind the power plant were set on fire and burned to the ground. Governor Rhodes sent the Ohio National Guard, a thousand strong, to prevent further action against the school’s property and personnel. They were present on Monday when many students gathered on the Commons near the Victory Bell, once a favorite location for taking photos of a girlfriend. Even I had one of Karen sitting demurely there.

For some reason that was never known or agreed to, the Guard fired on the students. Within thirteen seconds, four were killed; nine were wounded. The terror of a war in Vietnam became, for the first time, a part of the terror of a war among U.S. citizens on American soil. A photo of a teenaged, runaway girl, Mary Veccio, kneeling over a dying student, Jeffrey Miller, became the image for the new horror. It has become the background photograph for all those who have asked me, upon learning that I graduated from the University: “Where you there before or after Kent State?” They usually omit the word “Massacre.” In some unknown manner, the riot, the shooting, and the devastation have all been encompassed by the name: “Kent State.”

The event and its multiple interpretations appeared on the news reports and in the Washington Post. Books have been written, with varying degrees of accuracy, about the tragedy. The conclusions vary with the writer. Even James A. Michener’s Kent State: What Happened and Why has errors, according to the University, itself. Carl Oglesby wrote his version of the events, based upon the eyewitness accounts of those who suffered there.

I tried to follow some of the published accounts, especially those appearing at the time, but found them troublesome. I preferred my own recollections of those days “before Kent State” when I walked the Hill and passed through its structures which were so important to my own life.

The major post-Kent State event for Karen and me was an invitation to a gathering of alumni hosted by Sen. Ted Kennedy at his home in McLean, Virginia. It was the only time when we entered the grounds of a “celebrity.” We were impressed. We had never been completely engaged with the Senator, especially after the Kopechne incident, but it was in McLean that we gained an appreciation of what charisma the Kennedy’s possessed.

We felt Ted Kennedy’s aura as he walked by us on his rounds and greeted the visitors who had come to reflect on the May 4th tragedy and to honor those whose young lives had been forfeited on behalf of a thankless cause.

It has been a challenge to try to understand the contrast between how the American public reacted to veterans returning from Vietnam and those who served in the Gulf Wars and current conflicts abroad. Thoughts and perceptions vary greatly for those who fought and returned from Vietnam and those who left and never returned from Canada. We rightfully salute those who have had multiple deployments to the Middle East and Afghanistan. Yet those who were drafted to fight in the jungles of Vietnam still bear different scars of war.

Somehow, the images of the massacre at Kent State have become intermingled with those from the Mekong Delta. It has remained difficult to separate the facts and the fiction of the terrors of life.