The Challenge of Remote Caregiving

The very idea of caring for a family member in a different zip code—much less a different time zone—has little precedent. Go back 100 years and most extended families shared a single dwelling. At the most, grandma and grandpa lived across town. Today that’s all changed. The centrifugal forces propelling family members far and wide seems only to be increasing. A 1997 study estimated that more than 7 million Americans were distance caregivers. More recently, the National Council on Aging [NCOA] projected that the number of distance caregivers would increase to 14 million by 2012.

While it is well known that caregivers in general are more prone to depression and physical illness than the rest of the population, few have looked into the particular challenges for those who do so from afar. One who has is Polly Mazanec, Ph.D., assistant professor at Case Western Reserve and an advanced practice nurse at University Hospitals Seidman Cancer Center. I spoke to Mazanec about her findings, which were published recently in Oncology Nursing Forum.

Q:  Looking at the differences between local caregivers and distance caregivers, what jumps out at you?

A: Long distance folks were significantly more anxious and the female caregivers in particular had higher depressive symptomatology. But what was most concerning, both groups had distress scores that exceeded the National Comprehensive Cancer Center guidelines for intervention.

Q: In other words, they ought to be getting help. Are they?

A: Local caregivers are getting help. Distance caregivers are not. In my work as an advance practice nurse in a comprehensive cancer center, there is a whole team to support the patient. There are multiple opportunities for care, including emotional and spiritual support. The team can also assist the family, both with practical matters and general guidance. With distance caregiving, families are left out in the cold.

Q: What are the greatest sources of stress for the distance caregiver?

A: The uncertainty and the guilt. Not knowing exactly how a patient is doing from day to day; wishing one could be there to provide more support; not knowing when or how often to visit. In many ways, that last one is the hardest question: if one can only afford to come visit for one week, when should that be? There’s the cost of travel, the commitment to a job, and the competing needs of one’s own family.

Q: In your article, you described a caregiver whose mother had advanced cancer. She waited until after the chemo to make her visit, but found her mother terribly debilitated and barely able to communicate. This individual was filled with regret, and wished she had gone earlier. When is the best time to pay that visit?

A: Just as when people ask, “Is my loved one dying?” we can’t answer that question exactly. But, we can help the caregiver decide on the timing. Some have a relationship where they would like best to be helping with the details, cleaning, administering medications, and so forth. Others would like to be there when the patient is feeling better so they can talk, do a “life review,” or spend time going to lunch and doing something fun. It really boils down to the need for improved communication both with the nursing and support team and among the family.

Q: Not all families are good at communication. It’s not too hard to imagine some parents responding: “If you were a good son or daughter, you wouldn’t come for a one-week visit. I’m dying and I want you to move out here for six months.”

A: Every family has issues. If a parent were to say something like that, it would almost be a gift. I would look at that as an opportunity to have a family meeting, even if it had to be by video conference. At the meeting, the support team would encourage the patient to talk about the anxiety that was causing the patient to wish for something that wasn’t possible. It’s essential to address those disruptive feelings before all that guilt is placed on the caregiver.

Q: Who should people turn to to help facilitate the discussion?

A: Typically advanced practitioners in palliative care are trained to do that. Some communities may have a palliative care team available through their local hospitals or hospices which would be even better. And of course, if the person you’re caring for is in hospice, they’ll have the team.

Q: And if the patient is not in a support network of some kind?

A: First, you should access their primary care provider. They’ll know counselors in the community who can facilitate a family discussion. Second, two websites are very helpful: The National Alliance for caregiving, and the National council on Aging. Both have good links for local counseling. These sites also have a lot of great help for practical needs—paying bills, healthcare, transportation, and so forth.

Q: Is distance caregiving ever an advantage?

A: It can be. For our study, one person said a parent who was normally uncomfortable with personal matters seemed able to speak more freely over the telephone. I also hear from some people that the distance allows the relationship with a parent not to be all about the illness; the discussion turns to grandchildren or the patient’s relationship with people in the community.

Q: In communicating long distance, what’s most important?

A: Being upfront, expressing your true wishes to be able to help as best you can, despite the limitations. For the caregiver, it’s also important to remember that it’s okay to have those feelings of guilt and worry: that’s actually part of the job. It’s certainly not an easy one. Things are so different from 100 years ago when everyone lived next door.

–Steven Slon

Steven Slon is the Editorial Director for The Saturday Evening Post. This article was first posted at http://beclose.com/

Chicken with Cherry Tomato and Avocado Salsa

We’ve had success with chicken and avocado before, so we were optimistic when we tried this simple recipe from Camilla V. Saulsbury’s 5 Easy Steps to Healthy Cooking. The pairing did not disappoint. In this quick dish, a diced jalapeño gives the salsa just the right amount of heat.

Chicken with Cherry Tomato and Avocado Salsa

(Makes 4 servings.)

Chicken with cherry tomato avacado salsa.
Colin Erricson/www.robertrose.ca

Ingredients

Directions

  1. In a medium bowl, combine avocado, tomatoes, green onions, cilantro, jalapeño, half the salt, and lime juice.
  2. Sprinkle chicken with the remaining salt and pepper. In a large skillet, heat oil over medium-high heat. Add chicken and cook, turning once, for 5 to 6 minutes per side or until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the thickest part of the breast registers 165 degrees. Serve with avocado salsa.

Tip: Any leftover salsa can be tucked into a whole-wheat pita (perhaps with some spinach leaves or shredded lettuce) for a quick sandwich.

Calories 257
Total fat 12 g
Saturated fat 1 g
Cholesterol 66 mg
Sodium 561 mg
Carbohydrate 8 g
Fiber 4 g
Protein 29 g
Calcium 12 mg
Iron 2.2 mg

Excerpted from 5 Easy Steps to Healthy Cooking by Camilla V. Saulsbury. © 2012 Robert Rose Inc. www.robertrose.ca Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

Hepatitis C: An Emerging Epidemic

On the heels of the first National Hepatitis Testing Day on May 19, CDC experts are proposing that people born between 1946 and 1964 get a one-time test for the hepatitis C virus (HCV).

Why? Research shows more than 3 million Americans have hepatitis C, and most don’t know it. Additionally, Boomers account for the majority of these cases—yet 80 percent of that generation don’t consider themselves at any risk for the progressive liver-damaging disease, according to a recent national survey by the American Gastroenterological Association.

Hepatitis C—aka a “silent killer”—can reside in the body for years without causing symptoms. Left untreated, the virus can lead to liver cancer and cirrhosis. Fortunately, new therapies can cure the infection (which is also a leading reason for liver transplants) or control its consequences in many cases.

“Identifying hidden infections early will allow more Baby Boomers to receive care and treatment—before they develop life-threatening liver disease,” stresses Kevin Fenton, M.D., director of CDC’s National Center for HIV/AIDS, Viral Hepatitis, STD and Tuberculosis Prevention.

Researchers predict that a one-time screening of adults now in their 50s and 60s would identify an additional 800,000 people with HCV and save more than 120,000 lives.

Today, most people catch the hepatitis C virus by sharing needles or other equipment to inject drugs. Before 1992, when widespread screening of the blood supply began in the United States, hepatitis C was also commonly spread through blood transfusions and organ transplants.

Take a CDC risk quiz and learn more about Hepatitis C testing, transmission, and treatment at Know More Hepatitis.

Processing Claims

I am sitting by my terminal thinking that if I cut out 15 minutes early, Blue Health will not cease to exist. In fact, the way the thought first takes me is that if I strip stark naked and do a complicated Indonesian dance among the coiled computer cables that connect us all to information and electricity, no one will likely notice.

The phone rings. I pull out the electric plug. No matter who it is I will say, “I’m sorry, our computers are down. Please try Monday, and thank you for choosing Blue Health.”

My job is to approve or deny benefits that have been denied at least three times before they get to me. I am the court of last appeals. But no one can expect me to play King Solomon without my electronics.

I pick up the phone on the tenth ring. Anyone who hangs up before that does not have the necessary staying power to represent himself in the arena of managed care.

“Hello, my name is Carlton Bennett. I am calling concerning a claim which has been denied.”

This last line is one I’ve heard before. The name however gives me apoplexy. This is a voice I know, one I would recognize were I unconscious. “Yes, Mr. Bennett.” I’m test-flying my vocal cords, giving our caller a fair shot at recognizing me. Carlton Bennett is my ex. My first ex. My only ex. My first husband. A man I haven’t spoken to in 15 years, five lifetimes ago.

“How may I help you?” I’m being ironic.

“I was told I could appeal a denial on a claim submitted for my son.”

His son? Carlton never wanted children. It was one of the top ten reasons we broke up. I woke up one morning ready to get pregnant and Carlton developed a serious case of not wanting children.

“How old is your son?”

“Ten, the first of June.”

Carlton doesn’t have a clue. He doesn’t recognize my voice at all. It’s like our marriage. He never knew with whom he was dealing.

“Let me pull up your record, sir. Could I please have your member number?”

“776-42-9816,” Carlton says. “Oh, sorry, that’s my Social Security number.” Eight digits that once were slated to bankroll my old age. I might pretend that Carlton’s Social Security number sounds familiar, but I don’t even know my own. “1456-6-779.” Carlton enunciates each number. He always was a crisp, clear speaker. I punch the numbers in and stare at the blank screen till I remember I unplugged it. I plug it in again.

Subscriber: Bennett, Carlton Wilder. Address: 435 North Grant Avenue, Weston, MA 01090.

Weston. He lives not 20 miles away. I had always imagined him living still in Albany where I left him. I’m scrolling through the narrative of Carlton’s new life. Well, new to me. If I wanted to, I could access every cough and cold and strep infection in his replacement family. If I wanted to, I could work out all their maladies. I don’t want to. Disease and illness scare me silly. This is the last job I should have. Half the time I’m terrified to look at the computer screen.

“The treatments for my son were medically necessary,” Carlton says. Loud rock music is pulsing in the background. It must be his kids. Carlton can’t be playing it. Nobody changes that much. “We took my son to a practitioner of acupressure who was able to successfully treat him.”

The Carlton I knew would not have known what acupressure was. Also, he would have split his infinitives only if he were nervous or uncertain of the legitimacy of his claim.

“What were the dates of service, please?” I’m leading Carlton down the garden path here. Blue Health pays for alternative medicine about once every 37 years.

“The treatments began last July and continued weekly for eight months.”

The man would stand a better chance of having us build a clay tennis court in his backyard.

“The practitioner’s name was Paul Johnson,” Carlton says, as though this might strengthen his case. Ideally, we like to see a long string of letters after the name of anyone we write a check to.

James Bennett. Etiology: Rule out father’s exposure to butoxyethanol, Gulf War. Claim referred to Veteran’s Administration.

Butoxyethanol? I used to wonder if Carlton might have contaminated me by his exposure in Iraq. I worried that what I might have taken from the marriage was some unhappy rearrangement of my genes from some nasty chemicals. I fretted that when I least expected it, I would contract some strange disease I picked up in some careless marriage.

Diagnosis: Profound Insomnia.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Number one, Carlton’s kid doesn’t have something terminal, and number two, butoxyethanol is not our problem here. Young James didn’t get insomnia from Carlton’s Gulf War experience; James got insomnia from Carlton, who probably got it from his father, who got it from his father, going back to Adam, who probably never slept the same after that little catnap when God took his rib and gave him Eve.

Carlton was a card-carrying insomniac. By the middle of our marriage, which is to say when we were 18 months into the thing, we moved for the third time because of Carlton’s inability to sleep. We were always being driven out by nighttime noise. In our first apartment the irritant was what Carlton referred to as black slack, a name he never would have acknowledged as having the slightest racist tint, but a name he never used with anyone but me. That’s what marriage is: a place to be a bigot, if that’s what you are.

Ancient African rhythms gyrated out of gigantic teakwood speakers in the apartment below ours. My bare feet would absorb the rhythm through the floor, the music throbbed like a mean toothache in the left bicuspid of the world, and five nights a week Carlton would get out of bed and go downstairs and knock briskly on the door and act all ROTC and explain how he wouldn’t mind the music at all only he had to study, and the husband and the wife would raise uncomprehending eyes and gaze through Carlton from underneath smart Afros that gave them each a good six-inch height advantage and never say a word.

And Carlton would come back upstairs and put his ear to the gold shag carpet and register with his red face the fact that they had turned the music down so imperceptibly that the overall effect was as though they had turned the volume up.

We moved a month before our lease was up to an apartment in an ugly building with thick concrete walls and heavy metal doors designed to keep noise and silence in entirely separate spaces. But our Cornell neighbors overhead owned amplifiers guaranteed to wake the dead and make them wonder, and their rock band played every day from mid-afternoon till 4 a.m., except for those odd moments when they took breaks to smoke dope and make love not war or to drink and fight. I tried to convince Carlton that we would surely find ourselves slaughtered and tossed in the leafy ravine behind the dumpsters if we complained. In that marriage, nighttime noises always ended in fantasies of our abrupt demise.

Our new landlord had an unlisted number (we were not his first tenants), so we would lie in bed and fret and sigh, longing for the gentle rhythms of Africa still pulsing in our last apartment.

In three months time we moved again, this time to the second floor of a house owned by a quiet if hard-of-hearing couple in their sixties who watched television every night from eleven until 2 a.m. We would lie in bed electrified, on edge, through jokes and interviews and monologues, every word as clear as day, and twitch and start with every wave of laughter, and Carlton would pick up the telephone and we would lie listening to it ring downstairs unheard by the snoozing husband and his snoring wife. “I wonder if they’re both asleep,” Carlton would say as he pulled his raincoat over his pajamas to go downstairs. In the end, we were asked to move.

“This is our home,” the landlord said. “We need to feel free to live our lives here.”

It seemed reasonable even at the time.

That retired couple were living their lives. We weren’t, not a bit. Carlton and I weren’t living anything. We were just trying to get some sleep. We spent our whole marriage trying to get everybody in the universe to turn the volume down so we could get some sleep. I should approve Carlton’s request for payment of his son’s treatment for insomnia just because of the grief it will spare the young boy’s future bride. Carlton and I were the oldest couple in America. We could have been out dancing. We could have been home loving.

“I think I should tell you,” Carlton summons me back to our afterlife in Massachusetts, “I know something about the law. I am an attorney.”

Hello? I know that. I put you through your last two years of law school.

“My question is,” Carlton uses his lawyer voice, “on what grounds exactly is this claim being denied?”

“On the grounds of gross insensitivity,” I want to say. “On the basis of gratuitous unkindness.”

A week or two before we married Carlton told me that if I ever got sick, contracted some horrible disease, lost my sight, or was suddenly disabled, he would leave me. He said he just wanted me to know so I wouldn’t go into marriage with any false expectations, and I said, “Okay,” and then, “I do,” a few days after that. I guess I figured I’d stay healthy. Someone should have kicked me around the block a hundred times. I should have kicked myself.

Then three years later with no one sick or lame or blind, Carlton took off as he had promised.

“My main concern,” Carlton says, “is how much more of my valuable time am I going to be required to waste on this claim? I have a life, you know.” Carlton has the temerity to say these words to me.

He has a life. No small thing that. I push some buttons at random and massage the mouse and try to decide if I can make a similar claim. I have my Jake, who is a sweetheart of the first water. I have a job that keeps me off the streets. I have a house and a gym and a church and a well-worn library card and a couple really funny friends. But a life? Do these all together add up to a life? A life with a big hole shot through the middle, a gaping hole where a child should be, a little girl named Eliza, a little boy named Junior Jake.

And on whom do I blame this life? I know for certain if I hadn’t married Carlton, I would never have married Jake. I wouldn’t have taken the winding snake path that brought me to the town. Carlton was the bridge I took to get to Jake, the road I traveled on to get here. And so, I hold Carlton personally responsible for all of the particulars of my current life. Nobody can tell us for certain why Jake and I cannot conceive a child, but I know the reason. Some way or other, the whole thing’s Carlton’s fault. And I didn’t realize before this moment that that is my belief.

“I have made this appeal three times.” Carlton’s voice grows testy. Not a first in my experience. “A subscriber pays his premiums,” Carlton says. “And what does he get in return?”

I gave you my youth, buster. My twenties. My only twenties, although I did not know it at the time. The best years of my life. Only that’s not quite the truth. They weren’t the best. In some ways they were the worst. The now is so much better. Even I know that. What I have with Jake is solid and kind, warm and openhearted.

Only half the time I can’t see it because of this child of ours who will not come to be.

“I sincerely hope we can conclude this business with this call.” Carlton’s voice has become seriously annoying.

The phone rings again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say. “Would you hold please?” I push the button before he can start to sputter. For some reason I am entirely out of patience with the man. He kept me waiting nine months while he was making up his mind on a divorce. It won’t kill him to wait five minutes.

“Mattie, I can’t find the metal file box with our taxes.” It’s my Jake. “It’s not in the kitchen or in the closet in the hall. Mattie, tell me you didn’t give it away or throw it out.”

“I did neither.” I am almost certain that the words I speak are true, or very nearly. “Jake, I’m busy here.” I only say this to put things on a more equal footing. As it happens, I am not averse to keeping Carlton on the line till Christmas.

“Sorry,” Jake says. “But where could it be?”

“Are you in the den? Look in the window seat.”

“Hold on. Great. Terrific. Here it is. Good girl.”

I forbear to bark as he reaches through the wire to pat my head.

“Jake,” I say. “I’m thinking maybe we should reconsider that adoption thing.” I had not a clue that this was coming. The thought did not exist inside my brain before the words came out.

“What? I thought you said it was out of the question. The last time we talked I pretty much thought that it was.”

“Well, maybe it was, and now maybe it isn’t anymore.”

“Well,” Jake says. “Well. Good. Well good. Well, fine. Okay. Let’s talk about it. We really could use another tax exemption.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s what I was thinking.”

After Jake hangs up I sit here palpitating up a hurricane. I cannot believe what I just said. I’ve always thought that adopting was the one thing I could not do. Too many unknowns. Too many variables. What kind of child might you get? (Unlike having your own baby where it’s all written down in ironclad guarantees.) And, it only hits me now. Adopting a child is no more of a crapshoot than anything else you do. It’s an illusion that anything is guaranteed. Life is a free-fall, start to finish. Name one thing in life that worked out the way I had it figured.

When Jake and I were sure that we would never have a child, not even with space-age sextuplet drugs and obscene medical procedures, Jake started talking adoption. I said we were too old. We’re 79, if you add our ages up. “Who adds up ages?” Jake said. “Our baby won’t.”

Jake hasn’t mentioned it for weeks, but I know he still thinks about it. I saw a book in his car about foreign adoptions and he goes out of his way to talk to Paul and Chris across the street who, at the combined age of 97, adopted a little girl, flying all the way to China to bring her back to grow up on our street.

I want a baby as much as Jake does. More, I think. It’s just that I have always been afraid to take the chance. Then Carlton calls up from the long past to remind me about the shelf life of a sure thing. When I married Carlton, I was signing up till death did us part and then for six weeks after that. Carlton was the surest sure thing I ever knew. Mr. Forever.

Adopting a baby. If anything comes of this and then goes badly awry, I’ll blame Carlton. It’s nice to have someone to blame your life on. If I hold him responsible for my serpentine life up till now, I might as well blame him for the rest. He’ll never know. Or, I’ll drop him a line when I’m 88: “Dear Carlton, Thanks for the phone call at Blue Health 50 years ago. Our daughter Eliza turns 49 today. She is and always has been the joy of my life.”

Carlton. Geez. I push the button on the phone to reconnect us.

“Carlton?” I say.

“Yes.” His voice hints at a decided preference for last names here.

“Carlton Bennett?” I say, regrouping.

“Yes,” Carlton says, all spit and vinegar.

“Yes, well thank you for waiting,” I say. “Sir. Your reference number for the approval is 33987.” I make the numbers up. I’ve found people like to have a number to wrap their amazement in, on those rare occasions when we agree to pay.

“Did you say approval?” Carlton sounds something in the neighborhood of pleasant.

“Yes, we are approving your claim for reimbursement.”

It seems the least that we can do.

“Call me again sometime,” I say.

“What?” Carlton is bewilderment in ten-pound, wing-tip shoes and a three-piece suit.

“I mean if you have any additional questions.”

“Oh.” I think for the first time Carlton recognizes my voice or wonders if he does. “Right, thank you very much.”

“Thank you,” I say. I mean it. “And thank you for choosing Blue Health.”

(Linda McCullough Moore’s newest book is This Road Will Take Us Closer to the Moon, lindamcculloughmoore.com)

The Non-Combatant Hero: Emil Kapaun

Emil J. Kapaun died in a North Korean P.O.W. camp in 1951, locked away with dying prisoners so he would starve to death.

In the 61 years since then, this remarkable man has inspired a growing number of admirers. After his death, the Army recognized his service with a Bronze Star and Distinguished Service Cross. Today, he is being considered for the Medal of Honor by the President and for canonization by the Vatican.

The Post acquainted its readers with him in 1954, when it carried Ray M. Dowe, Jr.’s account of “The Ordeal of Chaplain Kapaun.” Dowe had been in the same prison, and knew how the Captain’s self-sacrifice had helped save the lives of many GIs.

Even before his internment, Dowe said, Father Kapaun had become a legend. He visited front-line troops on an old bicycle after his jeep was destroyed.

Helmet jammed down over his ears, pockets stuffed with apples and peaches he had scrounged from Korean orchards, he’d ride this bone-shaker over the rocky roads and the paths through the paddy fields until he came to the forward outposts. There he’d drop in a shallow hole beside a nervous rifleman, crack a joke or two, hand him a peach, say a little prayer with him and move on to the next hole.

It was his devotion to the wounded that finally cost him his freedom, and his life.

On November 2, 1950, the 8th Cavalry was encircled by Communist troops at Unsan. The soldiers were ordered to get past the enemy as best they could and regroup behind American lines.

Father Kapaun, who was unwounded, might have escaped with them. He refused to go. Of his own free will he stayed on, helping Captain Clarence L. Anderson, the regimental surgeon, take care of the wounded. And there, just at dark, the Chinese took him as he said the last prayers over a dying man.

Kapaun and Dowe were marched to a prison camp where they were barely kept alive on 500 grams of millet or cracked corn every day.

Korea 1950: An exhausted soldier is evacuated by Capt. Jerome Dolan and Chaplain Kaplaun.

Then they cut it down to 450 grams. It was obvious, Father said, that we must either steal food or slowly starve. And in that dangerous enterprise we must have the help of some power beyond ourselves. So, standing before us all, he said a prayer to St. Dismas, the Good Thief, who was crucified at the right hand of Jesus, asking for his aid. I’ll never doubt the power of prayer again. Father, it seemed, could not fail.

At the risk of being shot by the guards, he’d sneak at night into the little fields around the compound… and find hidden potatoes and grain.

When men were called out to [the supply shed] Father would slip in at the end of the line [then] slide off into the bushes… He’d come up behind the shed, and while the rest of us started a row with the guards doling out the rations, he’d sneak in, snatch up a sack of cracked corn and scurry off into the bushes with it.

Father Kapaun took his greatest risks, Dowe said, to slip away with food and supplies to the isolated house where the wounded were kept.

He scrounged cotton undershirts to make bandages. He took their old bandages, foul with corruption, and sneaked them out and washed them and sneaked them back again. He picked the lice from their bodies, an inestimable service, for a man so weak he cannot pick his own lice soon will die.

He joked with them, and said prayers for them, and held them in his arms like children as delirium came upon them. But the main thing he did for them was to put into their hearts the will to live. For when you are wounded and sick and starving, it’s easy to give up and quietly die.

He gathered and washed the foul undergarments of the dead and distributed them to men so weak from dysentery they could not move, and he washed and tended these men as if they were little babies.

He traded his watch for a blanket, and cut it up to make warm socks for helpless men whose feet were freezing.

He did a thousand little things to keep us going.

Inevitably, Kapaun fell victim to the starvation and harsh conditions that struck down so many of his comrades. Captain Anderson, the camp surgeon, nursed him through two serious illnesses. Kapaun had just recovered from them when he contracted pneumonia and fell into a delirious fever.

I believe that period of semiconsciousness was the only happy time he knew during his captivity. Around him there seemed to gather all the people he had known in his boyhood on the farm in Kansas and in his school days. Babbling happily, sometimes laughing, he spoke to his mother and his father, and to the priests he’d known in seminary.

Finally, he sank into a deep and quiet sleep, and when he awoke, he was completely rational. The crisis had passed. He was getting well.

He was sitting up, eating and cracking jokes, when the guards came with a litter to take him to the hospital [where] men in extremis were left to lie untended in filth and freezing cold, until merciful death took them.

The doctors protested violently, but the Chinese ordered Kapaun onto a stretcher and forbad anyone from going along to care for him.

Father himself made no protest. He looked around the room at all of us standing there, and smiled. He held in his hands the golden ciborium, the little covered cup in which, long ago, he had carried the blessed communion bread.

“Tell them back home that I died a happy death,” he said, and smiled again.

Then he turned to me. “Don’t take it hard, Mike,” he said. “I’m going where I’ve always wanted to go. And when I get up there, I’ll say a prayer for all of you.”

I stood there, crying unashamed, as they took him down the road, the little gold cup still shining in his hand. Beside me stood Fezi Gurgin, a Turkish lieutenant, a Mohammedan. “To Allah who is my God,” said Fezi Bey, “I will say a prayer for him.”

A few days later he was dead.

We hasten to add that Emil J. Kapaun, while a remarkable and inspiring individual, made no greater sacrifice than any of the 36,000 Americans who died in that war, or the hundreds of thousands who lost their lives defending this country.

All are heroes. All deserve to be remembered for the price they paid for our liberty.

Father Kapaun helping a wounded comrade. Statue located in Pilsen, Kansas. Image taken by Art Davis… Wikipedia

Save $1,000 Per Year on Cable

Your cable or satellite TV provider may want you to think you’re stuck with them, but you’re not. Thrifty consumers who cancel their cable or satellite TV subscriptions can save $1,000 per year or more. There are some drawbacks to this approach, particularly if you’re hooked on cable news or live sports. But the world doesn’t end after cable goes bye-bye. Cord-cutters are switching to over-the-air channels and Internet-streaming services such as Amazon Instant Video, Hulu Plus, and Netflix.

Of course you don’t need cable or satellite to get basic network channels. When the U.S. transitioned to digital TV in 2009, broadcast channels got a major makeover with dramatically better picture resolution, color, and clarity. Today’s over-the-air TV is a different animal from the bygone days of fuzzy signals sent to rabbit ears that your grandfather had to hold onto to keep any picture at all. Digital TV is very good—if you can get it. To find out what your digital TV reception is like, go to the FCC’s DTV Reception Map at fcc.gov/mb/engineering/maps and enter your zip code.

Cord-cutting is an easy way to save money, but it’s not for everyone. Without cable, you’ll have to work a little harder—or wait a little longer—to watch certain shows. First, you’ll need the right equipment, including a home broadband Internet connection, a Wi-Fi router—both of which you probably already have—and a video-streaming box such as Roku ($50 to $100), which wirelessly sends HD-quality video and audio from the Internet to your TV. You may already have a media streamer in your home and not know it. Many Blu-ray players, game consoles, and other Internet-connected TV peripherals have Wi-Fi streaming built in. Other streaming options include Apple TV ($100), a hockey puck-sized device handy for renting movies and TV shows from iTunes, Netflix, YouTube, and other online services. Apple TV works much like Roku but has fewer channels. For dedicated iTunes users, Apple’s set-top box is handy because it streams your iTunes music, movies, and TV shows to an HDTV.
Google TV is another option. Unlike Apple TV and Roku, Google TV isn’t a set-top box but software that brings online content including Netflix, Hulu Plus,and even full websites (which you navigate with a wireless keyboard, tablet, or other mobile device) to your television. A handful of TVs and peripherals including the Sony Internet TV (starting at around $900) and Sony Internet TV 3D Blu-ray player ($230) have Google TV built-in.

Watching Internet TV is much the same as the cable/broadcast experience, with a few differences. Say you have a Roku box and a Netflix subscription ($8 per month for unlimited movies and TV shows) and want to watch Mad Men. Using your included Roku remote you launch Netflix and select Mad Men from a drop down menu. The catch with Netflix is that it offers only past seasons of shows. The service has seasons 1 through 4 of Mad Men but not the current season 5. And Netflix typically doesn’t have theatrical films just out on DVD. What to do? Using your Roku remote, change the channel to Amazon Instant Video, which rents individual episodes of TV shows and just-released movies at prices ranging from $1 to $5. These costs are an annoyance, for sure, but for most viewers they’ll add up to a lot less than the monthly cable bill.

Caveats? None of these approaches match the convenience of live cable TV. You’ll be relying on a smorgasbord of programming from different sources, which takes planning and thought. If you like to sit back and flip through channels, cutting the cord is not for you. But if you’re willing to take a more active role in searching for programs, you may be ready to take the leap.

Get tips on how to buy a TV today at saturdayeveningpost.com/television.

Helping Men Become Better Caregivers

For many families, caregiving duties automatically fall to women. According to an AARP study, most caregivers are female. But the same study showed that more men are starting to take on the caregiver’s role.  That’s good news on the gender equality front. But if things are getting fairer, there’s still progress to be made. And to put it plainly, male caregivers could use a little help.

Marc Silver discovered this firsthand when his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2001, and though he stood by her and eventually figured out how to be a good caregiver, he’s the first to admit he made plenty of mistakes along the way. After their ordeal (his wife is doing fine at present), he wrote an instruction manual to help other caregiving-challenged men. His book is called Breast Cancer Husband, How to Help Your Wife (And Yourself) Through Diagnosis, Treatment, and Beyond. I recently caught up with Marc to talk about his experiences and to find out what advice he has for other men.

Q:  Why do men need extra help when it comes to caregiving?

A: Caregiving is a role that a lot of guys are unfamiliar with, and particularly in the case of breast cancer, it is thrust upon them with no time for preparation. Personally I just remember feeling totally clueless and getting a few things completely wrong.

Q: For example?

A: Well, my wife Marsha called me immediately after her diagnosis. She’d just been told out of the blue that she had breast cancer. She was looking for some husbandly advice and solace, and my first reaction over the phone was, “Ew, that doesn’t sound good.”

Q: Uh, oh.

A: It gets worse [laughs.] We continued to talk a bit more, but only about logistics, when what she was needing at that point was sympathy and compassion. Then, at the end of the conversation I hung up, stayed at work all day, and didn’t come home until the usual hour.

Q: What did your wife say about that?

A: Marsha told me later, “I must have called the wrong husband.”

Q: In doing research for your book, did you find that your initial reaction—let’s be nice and describe it as missing her emotional cues—was a common one?

A: There are plenty of examples of men who ran straight home to be there for their wives when a cancer diagnosis was made. But yes, many men make mistakes like these, and I’ve heard of worse.

Q: Like what?

A: After a speaking engagement for my book, a couple came up to me and the husband told me that his reaction to his wife’s diagnosis was, “Well, you want to stop for dinner at Hooters?” I asked him if he was trying to be ironic or funny, but he insisted he was just thinking about a good place to get a meal.

Q: Sounds like men can’t cope initially and go into autopilot. Is this denial?

A: Yes, I think so. But it’s a very human reaction. One therapist I interviewed for the book said, “Nobody is sitting there saying, ‘Oh gosh, I hope I get to be a caregiver for a loved one who is diagnosed with cancer.’”

Q: So, guys shouldn’t beat themselves up too much about initial blundering?

A: No, they shouldn’t. That is very important. It is inevitable that you are going to do things that are going to tick your wife off or be not the kind of things she needs at that time. But you can learn from that. A lot of woman said to me that the motto for the husband is: “Shut up and listen.”

Q: Is there something inherently different about men that makes it harder for them to be good caregivers? Or, are men just not socialized to get it? Is it nature or nurture?

A: In my research I found a little bit of both. Men are simply not taught to tune in to others emotionally the way women are. On the nature side, doctors point to studies showing women have more of the hormone oxytocin, which promotes empathy.

Q: Still, it sounds like you’re saying, with some help, men can and do learn to be better caregivers.

A: Yes, absolutely. A big challenge is that men like to be problem-solvers. Instead, they need to learn that their role, as a caregiver, is to be an echo or a foil: Let her talk things through with you without interrupting to say, “here’s what you should do.” You’re not supposed to be in charge here. She is the boss.

Q: Does that make you the assistant?

A: Yes, exactly.

Q: Can you give an example of being supportive, without taking charge?

A: It is very common for a patient to be overwhelmed by all of the medical information. So, it’s important to join her at all medical appointments. Make lists of her questions for the doctors prior to each visit, and keep the list in front of you during the visit to make sure all of them get answered. Also, take good notes on these medical conversations so you can go over the details later.

Q: Your book title stresses helping your wife and yourself. How so? Isn’t that selfish?

A: Part of what you have to do as the caregiver is to be selfish sometimes. Whether it’s going out for a bike ride or watching a movie you like. You need time for yourself to recharge.

Q: So, if caregivers have a need to, say, go play golf or take a bike ride for a few hours, that’s ok?

A: Yes, but I would always ask my wife’s permission first. I interviewed Cokie Roberts for the book. She said when she was going through breast cancer, friends would call up and ask what could they do. And her first response was: “Play tennis with my husband.” It is certainly much harder to be the patient, but it is tough to be a caregiver too.

Steven Slon is the editorial director for The Saturday Evening Post. This column was first published by Beclose.com.

Study: A Cup (or Six) of Coffee a Day May Keep Death at Bay

Are you an avid coffee drinker? Here’s something you can use as an argument every time someone warns you against drinking your third cup of coffee for the day: Coffee may actually add some years to your life.

A paper published recently in the New England Journal of Medicine details a study that began in 1995. A total of 402,260 test subjects (none of whom had heart disease or cancer) between the ages 50 and 71 were asked about their coffee drinking habits. Only 42,000 of all the test subjects were non-coffee drinkers, while most of them admitted to drinking two to three cups a day. A small number of subjects — 15,000 — said their daily coffee consumption usually reaches six cups. 

By the time 2008 rolled in, 52,000 of the test subjects had already passed away. Based on the data gathered by the researchers, men who drank two to three cups of coffee daily were 10% less like to die, while it goes up to 13% for women. The percentage even reaches 16% for women who drink four to five cups a day.

According to the study, it doesn’t make a difference whether the coffee you drink is decaf or not — it’s not the caffeine that matters. Researchers haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact substance that benefits your health — it could be any one of coffee’s many components. It’s clear that more research is needed to establish the connection between drinking coffee and having a longer life, but Dr. Frank Hu of the Harvard School of Public Health believes it’s “the best evidence we have.”

Before you get up from your seat to get another cuppa, Dr. Hu has two pieces of advice for you. First, avoid cream and sugar and anything that could negate the health properties of coffee. Second, filter your coffee beans instead of boiling them, because filtering removes the components that can raise your cholesterol levels. 

This story originally appeared on Tecca. More from Tecca:

41 tasty food and cooking resources to fill up on

Free iPhone app optimizes your caffeine intake, tells you when to put the coffee mug down

Tasty tech tips for brewing a great cup of coffee

How to Make Paneer

Indian Basics book cover
Courtesy of Firefly Books.

This recipe comes from the introductory chapter, “Indian Essentials” from Indian Basics: 85 Recipes Illustrated Step by Step. If you love Indian food, but are intimidated by the idea of cooking it, this book is a great place to start.

The book begins unassumingly with an introduction to Indian spices and dals. Simple recipes like this paneer follow, and will lead you to discover just how easy Indian cooking can be.

How to Make Paneer

Ingredients

How to make paneer recipe photos from Indian Basics.
©2011 Firefly Books. Written by Jody Vassallo. Photos by James Lindsay.

Directions

  1. Put the milk into a heavy-bottomed pan and bring it to a boil. Add the lemon juice and stir slowly until it curdles and forms curds and whey.
  2. Line a colander with cheesecloth and pour the curds and whey through the colander.
  3. Tie the top of the cheesecloth and weigh the mixture down with a can for 30 minutes, or until it is firm. (The longer it’s pressed, the firmer it will be.)
  4. Remove the mixture from the cheesecloth and store it in the refrigerator in an airtight container until you are ready to use it.

To find traditional Indian recipes that will feature your homemade paneer, check out Indian Basics: 85 Recipes Illustrated Step by Step by Jody Vassallo, photographs by James Lindsay, Firefly Books 2011, $24.95 paperback.

May 25, 1912 — The Foreign

Continued from “The Familiar.”

At the same time, there’s a foreign ‘sense’ in the articles and illustrations a century ago.

It was an America where street corners were serenaded with hurdy-gurdy operators instead of saxophonists. An America that seemed to be continually shopping for socks (i.e., “hose”) and garters, straight-edged razors, long underwear, typewriters, and cigars.

It was an America with a sense of humor that included bit more of cruelty than we appreciate now. For example, this item—

 

When Fred Kelly first broke into Cleveland journalism he was put on police. One night he was sent to a big fire down on the flats. A reporter named Brown was sent with him. The fire was a ‘whale,’ and presently Brown disappeared. A wall had fallen and Kelly was sure Brown was under it. He rushed to the telephone and called up his city editor.

“Say!” he shouted into the telephone; “Brown is gone! He’s burned up!”

“What’s that?” asked the city editor.

“Brown is burned up, I tell you! He fell into the fire!”

“All right,” said the city editor, hanging up the telephone. “I’ll send down another man.”

There was a Fred C. Kelly who wrote for the Cleveland Plain Dealer in the 1900s. Perhaps it was considered funny because it actually happened.

Still.

 

Rockwell: The War Years

“War Stories”

War Stories from October 13, 1945

“War Stories”
from October 13, 1945

 

A number of Rockwell Post covers have become iconic — classics we all recognize right away. Some of the wartime covers we show you here may be some of the illustrator’s finest work, yet they are seldom seen. We view them this Memorial Day weekend to honor those who have served and those who serve today.

“War Stories”

War Stories from October 13, 1945

“War Stories”
from October 13, 1945

 

A war hero, holding a Japanese flag, has tales of war to tell, and clearly the memories are not light, the retelling not boastful, and the life-altering experiences he relates are riveting. The news article on the wall shows that the soldier is a local hero. The model was not a former garage employee, but was indeed a decorated Marine named Duane Parks. Rockwell found him in Dorset, Vermont. The other models were, as usual, Arlington, Vermont neighbors of the artist. The man with the pipe leaning in to listen was the owner of the garage, Bob Benedict. The man posing as the policeman was Arlington town clerk and newspaper editor. The young boys Rockwell found even closer to home: the boy sitting next to the Marine was his youngest son, Peter, and the blond boy to the right was his oldest son, Jerry. They, along with brother Tommy, appeared on many a Rockwell canvas.

“The Armchair General”

The Armchair General from April 29, 1944

“The Armchair General”
from April 29, 1944

 

Tracing each advance and retreat is more than an interesting pastime with this gentleman. The service flag with three stars indicates he has that number of sons serving. May the stars remain forever blue, for a gold star represents a serviceman who will not return home. With his customarily remarkable eye for detail, Rockwell shows a tiny photo of each boy by the flag, photos of generals MacArthur and Eisenhower, a wall map, and an old-fashioned radio.

“The Clubhouse Examination”

The Clubhouse Examination from June 16, 1917

“The Clubhouse Examination”
from June 16, 1917

 

Going back to 1917, Rockwell shows us a different kind of “recruitment center.” Even on tiptoe, our would-be soldier doesn’t measure up to the “nesissary hite.” The “recrooter,” decked out in a combination scout/soldier attire, was one of Rockwell’s favorite early models, Billy Paine. Alas, boys sometimes do foolish things in real life and Paine died at age thirteen doing a stunt from a second-story window. He was in fifteen Rockwell Post covers.

“Fisk WWI Soldier – Youth’s Companion” by creator

Fisk WWI Soldier - Youth's Companion from July 26, 1917

“Fisk WWI Soldier – Youth’s Companion”
from July 26, 1917

 

We found a couple of boxes of a publication called The Youth’s Companion in the archives recently. This was a children’s magazine published in Boston from 1827-1929. By happy accident, we noticed this Rockwell ad for something called “Fisk Boys Club” from a 1917 issue. Rockwell numbered Fisk Tires among his many advertising clients. What was the Fisk Boy’s Club? It was a way for youngsters to participate in the war effort:

They are not old enough to go to the front–but they make themselves useful and their labors in bicycle patrols, delivering messages, Red Cross assistants and so on are excellent training in discipline and character building that develops manly and honorable young men.

“Home at Last”

Home at Last from September 15, 1945

“Home at Last”
from September 15, 1945

 

Back to post-WWII for a restful snooze in a hammock on a quiet, sun-dappled afternoon — who could wish for more for our loved ones returning home?

Rockwell was a borrower for this painting. He borrowed the sailor, soon to return to the Navy, from Williams College. The sailor’s uniform was borrowed from a shipmate, as he didn’t have the decorations on his own. The house was borrowed from a neighbor; the hammock from another neighbor. Rockwell borrowed the pooch from his son, Tommy. The shoes were not borrowed however — they belonged to the artist.

America’s Grand Hotels

It begins with the stately pillars, the lavish flower arrangements, and a formal greeting. By the time my bag and I are whisked upstairs in one of the few remaining grand hotels in America, I already feel different.

It’s hard to express what this feeling is, a feeling of pampering and privilege, perhaps. A feeling of having arrived. Even in the land of equality, these are feelings everyone should get a taste of from time to time, but we usually don’t in the hustle-bustle of modern life.

From California to New York, Michigan to Florida, America’s grand hotels are distinctive in their architecture, histories, and traditions. They were created as retreats for Americans made newly prosperous in the Industrial Age. These were newly minted gentility, folks with money to carve out leisure time and lake steamers and railroads to whisk them away.

Today what all the grand hotels share is a sense of occasion. You don’t just pull up to the hotel parking lot expecting a convenient stopover on a long, arduous journey to somewhere else. Here, the hotel is the journey’s end. You book ahead and anticipate walking through those majestic doors to be spoiled by a level of service that’s rare unto extinction anywhere else in American life.

And then there’s just the simple grandness of the history. Each time I go, I wonder: How many people before me have stared up 100 feet to the top of West Baden Springs’ massive rotunda in the Hoosier heartland? How many visitors have marveled at the Moorish exuberance of tile and tapestry at Casa Monica in old St. Augustine? How many travelers have clipped-clopped up to the flag-festooned entrance of Michigan’s Grand Hotel aboard the hotel’s horse-drawn carriage, liveried in burgundy and silver?

The Greenbrier in West Virginia is the oldest of these venerable hotels with a tradition dating to 1778. Back then visitors would brave rutted roads to soak in the sulfur springs that bubbled up in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains.

The Greenbrier is perhaps more like an English country house hotel than any property on American soil. Pillars and ceiling soar, sheltering American and English antiques, glorious mantles rescued from European wrecking balls, and 19th-century oil portraits capturing the flower of English and Southern gentility. That spirit is preserved today in the famous afternoon tea in the lobby at linen-topped tables while a pianist plays soft melodies in the background.

Part of the fun of exploring heritage hotels is taking time to slow down and step back into the traditions of travelers past. You can’t leave the Grand Hotel atop its Mackinac Island bluff without whacking a few croquet balls, rocking on the world’s longest front porch, and parading past a gauntlet of white-jacketed waiters into the vast dining room.

The Grand Hotel commands this jot of limestone, the linchpin between Michigan’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas and the Great Lakes of Huron and Michigan. It’s the place to slip back a century or more to an authentic horse-based society. However high summer’s temperatures spike, Mackinac always sounds like Christmas Eve with the clatter of horses’ hooves and the heel chains on their hitches jangling like jingle bells.

Celebrating 125 years, the white pine Grand Hotel floats somewhere in time, still hallmarked by friendly Midwestern service. There’s a genteel pace at this National Historic Landmark that’s otherworldly.

On this car-free island, the Grand Hotel welcomes its guests to the stables to meet the giant Percherons and hackney horses that pull its distinctive burgundy vehicles. I love to whisper to these leviathans in their stalls and admire the turn-of-the-century sleighs, cutters, and carriages in the Grand’s collection.

While Mackinac Island turned its back on America’s motoring progress, the Indiana hamlet of French Lick couldn’t get enough of flashy cars, shiny locomotives, and private planes all belching fumes into the country air. For 30 rollicking years that peaked in the Roaring ’20s, each arrival meant more high rollers in its dueling illegal casinos of French Lick and West Baden Springs.

While French Lick Resort barred its threshold to the likes of Al Capone, its rival casino just a mile down this Southern Indiana valley, West Baden, was wide open to the King of Crime and his courtiers. Legend has it that you could spot Capone checking in then buying a Chicago paper to see what kind of trouble he’d left behind back home.

Capone cavorted under West Baden’s soaring dome, which hotelier Lee Sinclair crowed was “The Eighth Wonder of the World.” It was the largest free-standing dome in the world when it was unveiled in 1902, a record that stood until the Astrodome in 1965.

Bitter rivals for so long, these two behemoths in the Hoosier countryside now thrive as sister resorts, yoked together in a mammoth historic preservation project. It took $500 million to restore French Lick to grandeur and bring West Baden back from ruin.

Today it’s as easy as hopping on a resort shuttle to zoom between the two, trying out each one’s pools, spas, shops, restaurants, and golf courses.

French Lick now has 23½-karat gold plaster rosettes and brackets in its lobby, recreated from a historic photo. Gold leaf glitters once again on the pavilion roof. The casino is back—and these days it’s even legal.

West Baden has its Pompeian Court back in the vast atrium with Muses and Greek gods looking down. This is my favorite spot for afternoon tea or drinks at the bar, dwarfed by the masters of Olympus and the dome crown that glitters and seems to change color all night long.

Across the country from Indiana, the marbling and gilt are anything but faux at the US Grant Hotel in San Diego—just rediscovered after years in disguise.

When the Sycuan tribe of the Kumeyaay Indians bought the Grant in 2003, they discovered the original white Italian marble of the Grand Staircase lurking beneath the carpet. The staircase posts and balustrades, thought to be wood, were really carved alabaster. The new owners reopened the original carriage entrance and crowned it with a 1930s crystal chandelier.

The hotel seems to have come full circle, glittering again on Kumeyaay ancestral land in San Diego’s historic Gaslamp Quarter.

The Grant is an urban grande dame hotel, an elegant base for shopping at Westfield Horton Plaza and enjoying performances at the Civic Auditorium, Balboa Theatre, and Symphony Hall.

After seeing a show there’s no better place for a nightcap—maybe a signature Ulysses Vodkatini—than the GG Lounge. Relax and let your mind drift back 80 years or so to when one of the Grant’s owners foresaw prohibition on the horizon. He converted the Bivouac Grill into a not-so-secret speakeasy called the Plata Real Nightclub. Bartenders moved the booze through holding pipes meant for steam and salt water from the bay.

The Grant became one of San Diego’s most prosperous hotels during the era of bootleg gin; now, eight decades later, it’s come full circle to thrive as a legitimate grand hotel.

IF YOU GO
Casa Monica

Casa Monica in St. Augustine, Florida
Casa Monica in St. Augustine, Florida

Casa Monica
Where: St. Augustine, Florida
A bit of history: The town of St. Augustine was founded by the Spanish in 1565 and remained under Spanish control for more than two centuries.
Fun fact: The hotel is named for St. Monica, the mother of St. Augustine, the city’s namesake.
The tab: Room rates in low season (January and June-November) range from $159 to $259. High season rates (February-May nd December) range from $179-$399.
Contact: 888-213-8903; www.casamonica.com.

The Grand Hotel

The Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, Michigan.
The Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, Michigan.

The Grand Hotel
Where: Mackinac Island, Michigan
A bit of history: Five presidents have visited the Grand Hotel— Truman, Kennedy, Ford, Bush, and Clinton.
Fun fact: The Grand was the location for the 1979 movie Somewhere in Time starring the late Christopher Reeve, Christopher Plummer, and Jane Seymour.
The tab: The resort is open May 4-Oct. 28. The weekday price ranges from $254 per person per night to $374 per person per night. On the weekends prices range from $274 per person per night to $399 per person per night in a Named Room. The fees include the Full American Plan (three meals included).
Contact: 800-334-7263; www.grandhotel.com.

West Baden Springs

West Baden Springs in French Lick, Indiana.
West Baden Springs in French Lick, Indiana.

West Baden Springs
Where: French Lick, Indiana
A bit of history: Hotelier Lee Sinclair hired 500 men to work 10-hour shifts six days a week to build the domed building that every architect said couldn’t be built.
Fun fact: The last time the Chicago Cubs won the World Series was 1908—the last year they trained at West Baden Springs. In 2011, to break the century-plus drought, the Cubs requested West Baden’s famous Sprudel spring water shipped to spring training where it was sprinkled on the training field and on Wrigley Field in Chicago—to no avail.
The tab: In off-season (January-April and November-December) a French Lick room for two starts at $189 and a West Baden room for two at $299. In peak season (May-October) a French Lick room for two starts at $189 and a West Baden room for two at $299.
Contact: 888-936-9360; http://frenchlick.com.

US Grant

The US Grant in San Diego, California
The US Grant in San Diego, California

US Grant
Where: San Diego, California
A bit of history: In 1939 Grant’s owners installed the West Coast’s largest radio towers on the roof. KFVW radio soon moved into the space, and the hotel scored a coup when President Franklin D. Roosevelt delivered one of his first radio addresses to the nation from the Grant.
Fun fact: For the 2006 grand re-opening owners of the US Grant commissioned a $250,000 hand-milled carpet from Thailand and had it delivered by ship. You can admire the rug’s lustrous blues and golds in the lobby.
The tab: Room rates in the low season of December are $189-$309; the rest of the year, $289-$589.
Contact: 888-625-5144; www.usgrant.net.

The Greenbrier

The Greenbrier in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia
The Greenbrier in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia

The Greenbrier
Where: White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia
A bit of history: Because of the Greenbrier’s proximity to Washington, D.C., the government built a secret fallout shelter there in 1962. The shelter was big enough to protect each and every member of the U.S. Congress plus the executive and judicial branches of the government in the event of nuclear war. A secret for 30 years, the bunker is now open for tours.
Fun fact: The healing—and odiferous—sulfur waters that first drew people here in 1778 still bubble out of the spring under the green-domed Springhouse.
The tab: Off-season (January-April, November-December) room rate for double is $245 midweek, $570 weekend. In peak season (May-October) rates are $379 to $770.
Contact: 800-453-4858; www.greenbrier.com

Mohonk Mountain House

Mohonk Mountain House
Mohonk Mountain House was built in 1869 by two brothers on 2,200 lush acres surrounding Lake Mohonk in the Shawangunk Ridge in New Paltz, New York.

Mohonk Mountain House
Where: New Paltz, New York
A bit of history: This National Historic Landmark was built in 1869 by two brothers on 2,200 lush acres surrounding Lake Mohonk in the Shawangunk Ridge. The hotel has stayed in the same family to this day.
Fun Fact: This picturesque resort is the subject of a Currier & Ives print. It was also featured in the Stephen King novel The Regulators.
The tab: Room rates for two adults are $560-$990 per night, including three meals, afternoon tea and cookies, plus activities such as yoga and use of the indoor pool and fitness center. In low season (January-March) a Midweek Winter Getaway is $170 per person per night based on double occupancy.
Contact: 800-772-6646; www.mohonk.com.

Plan Ahead with Pre-Conception Gene Tests

Hopeful parents-to-be can pass on genetic diseases based on their ancestry—and with no way of knowing it since their own health is unaffected.

“People of every ethnic group can potentially be carriers of certain diseases,” explains Adele Schneider, M.D, FACMG, Director of Clinical Genetics and Medical Director, Victor Center for Jewish Genetic Diseases at Albert Einstein Medical Center in Philadelphia. “But the carriers themselves are healthy and usually have no prior family history of the disease.”

Basically, a child can only inherit a disease if both parents carry the gene mutation for that condition, and each passes it down to the child.

Here’s the good news: Simple pre-conception blood tests can now detect carriers of certain mutations and predict a couple’s chance of conceiving children with the genetic disease.  All those thinking about starting or expanding a family should assess their odds of passing on a disease because of their genetic blueprint. Certain couples, however, may have a higher than average risk.

“We now know that one in four Jewish individuals of Central and Eastern European descent from countries such as Poland, Russia, Germany, Austria, and Lithuania, is a carrier for at least one of 19 genetic diseases.  Most of these conditions strike in childhood and have no cure; all are debilitating, and in many instances life-threatening,” says Dr. Schneider.

Through the Victor Center Screening Program, adults with health insurance who are at risk for Jewish genetic diseases can now be tested at clinics nationwide for about $25. Those with Health Savings Accounts or no health insurance may obtain further information by calling the Victor Center at 877-401-1093.

So, who should get this test?

“Through interfaith marriages and adoption, people who may not identify as Jewish or are unaware of their ancestry may have unknowingly inherited ‘Jewish’ genes and be carriers of a Jewish genetic disease,” counsels Dr. Schneider. “But individuals with one Jewish grandparent should be screened, and interfaith couples also need to be tested, with the Jewish partner being tested first.”

Learn more about pre-conception tests and counseling for genetic diseases from the National Library of Medicine.

Lowering the ‘Boom’: Reducing Pets’ Noise Sensitivities

When summer thunderstorms roll in, some pets dive for cover. If your dog or cat is among those terrified by storms or other sudden, loud noises, such as fireworks, there are steps you can take to help reduce your pet’s anxiety.

According to Dr. Kelly Ballantyne, a veterinarian with a special interest in animal behavior, the reason pets are scared of thunderstorms isn’t always clear. One study found that a traumatic experience linked to noise was the likely origin of noise sensitivity in only about a third of pets with these phobias. Other factors that may contribute to noise sensitivities include chronic stress, genetics, neurochemical imbalances, and a change in hearing.

Practicing at the University of Illinois Chicago Center for Veterinary Medicine, Dr. Ballantyne offers behavior consultations to help pets with phobias and other behavioral issues.

She says it is perfectly normal for a pet to be scared by the loud noises and flashes the first time the pet experiences a thunderstorm or fireworks. A pet may react defensively to these high-decibel noises because they probably hurt the pet’s ears, they lack a regular pattern, and it’s difficult to figure out where they are coming from.

It isn’t normal, however, if the animal does not get used to storms, and each thunderstorm is as terrifying as the previous one. Unfortunately, thunderstorms are common, and these frequent stressors can reduce a pet’s quality of life. Addressing your pet’s fears is important for the sake of the pet—not to mention the household objects sometimes destroyed by frightened pets.

Dr. Ballantyne suggests several measures that may help noise-sensitive pets feel a little safer and less frightened during a thunderstorm.

“First, try to make a safe place where your pet can go,” she says. “An interior room with no windows is ideal because it is more sheltered from noise and the flashes of light. Avoid crating your pet unless the pet already feels that the crate is a safe place.”

When pets are already hiding, don’t force them out: that can scare and stress them more. Playing music or increasing the white noise in the house can decrease the perceived amount of noise from the storm.

Your behavior around your pet also plays an important role in managing the pet’s anxiety during a storm. You should avoid either comforting or punishing the pet, and you should stay calm to avoid increasing the pet’s anxiety.

If your dog isn’t too scared, you can try to play with him. Interactive toys, such as a Kong filled with food, can help as well if he is willing to eat.

A pheromone spray for dogs called DAP helps reduce anxiety in some dogs. It can be sprayed on a bandana and tied around the pet’s neck during a storm.

Dr. Ballantyne acknowledges that noise sensitivities can be hard for owners to manage. Sometimes you can do everything right and your pet is still scared of the storms.

“Don’t hesitate to ask your veterinarian for help,” advises Dr. Ballantyne. “If nothing else is working, your veterinarian can prescribe anti-anxiety medication to augment the behavior modification plan.”

Don’t forget that a pet that is scared of thunderstorms will likely have a similar reaction to fireworks. These pets should be given a safe place to hide during the celebration and should never be taken to watch fireworks.

If you have questions about pets’ noise sensitivities, please contact your veterinarian or a veterinary behaviorist.

Andrea Lin is an Information Specialist at The University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign College of Veterinary Medicine.

Why Home Matters—Especially at the End

My beloved mother-in-law made her departure from this world last week. Despite all of my writing about aging and illness, I couldn’t write about her when it was happening. At 74 and vivacious to the end, she seemed far too young for something this final. Even today, a week later, pressing the send button on this will require every ounce of courage I can muster.

I absolutely loved her. Not loved her like she was helpful with my kids and she took us out for good meals and remembered my birthday. I loved her the way you love someone who’s completely enmeshed in your heart and soul, who is there for you and your family and your friends at all times, who welcomes everyone into her home because she sincerely enjoys their company, and who invests the time and energy it takes to be deeply involved in your life.

No one could possibly describe her as easygoing. She was demanding and exacting and inserted herself into the lives of others, often overstepping her bounds. But her magic was that every overstep was steeped in selfless love, a firm belief that we were capable of excellence and a clear commitment to support us without question at all times. From the first time I walked up the steps of her house, she had my back, and she never let me down in 24 years.

A week before Christmas, the ovarian cancer she’d been fighting for over a year created an inoperable intestinal blockage. The doctors told her that she was at the end.

We were determined to let her die at home. In fact, there was no real discussion about whether or not we would — only a discussion on the logistics of “how.” She got rolled into her living room at noon on Christmas Eve. At 9 pm that night, the 22 members of her immediate family and nine “family equivalents” filed in quietly to do the traditional candle-lit reading of the final stave of Dicken’s Christmas Carol, followed by the 15 children reading The Night Before Christmas one stanza at a time, all of us in the living room that had welcomed us and supported us and entertained us for as long as we could remember.

And there she stayed for three more months, in the living room she built, originally to house the books about art that she cherished and to accommodate some beautiful furniture her father had given her, and, later, to provide a little more room for her growing family.

She built it with large glass doors and a floating glass alcove overlooking the garden that existed only in her imagination at the time. It came to fruition as she lovingly hand-picked each plant and eradicated the bamboo jungle that existed in the ravine outside. Over 40 years, she transformed the large yard into one of the most celebrated shade gardens on the East Coast, a lush patchwork of leaf textures and tones surrounding a glorious swimming pool.

It was there that she hosted hundreds of friends, neighbors, fellow parents and children’s friends for everything from the prom after-after party to little league pool parties for her grandchildren, to philosophical gatherings later written about by famous columnists from The New Yorker.

It was there that she bellowed “NO BALLS ON THE FIRST FLOOR!” at the top of her lungs, first to her sons, then to her children’s friends and then to her grandchildren.

It was there that she started the spirited charades tradition with her children and her children’s friends — hours of pantomimes enveloped in hysterical laughter, the best of the bunch being the evening when the men challenged the women to a match. We accepted, and rewarded the challenge by assigning them Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. Needless to say, the women prevailed.

It was there that she fell down the stairs and sustained a back injury so severe that she could barely leave her bedroom for a year. And it was there that the overwhelming love of and for her children inspired her to spend hours in physical therapy so that she could get well again. And she did.

In that house she raised four smashing children and raised many of their friends as well. She started organizations critical to the well being of her city and wrapped grandchildren in her arms when they bumped their heads. It was there that she lovingly buttered their toast, taking extra time to ensure that the butter spread all the way to the outer edges and that there was plenty of it. It was there that she cooked the Christmas “gooses,” year after year, never once losing patience with the twelve grandchildren milling around under foot.

It was there that she hosted her annual garden party, last year’s being the most joyous because it had been so unclear whether she’d be alive at all. With stereotypical post-chemo short hair, she welcomed hundreds for the last time, having invited them to join her to celebrate her family, the garden and “life in general.”

And so it was naturally there that she came to end the vibrant life that had created and celebrated so many other vibrant lives. She couldn’t leave her bed at all during the final months, but the city came to her, one person at a time, to say goodbye in the room where they’d said so many hellos. And spring came early this year, as if the flowers felt the race against time to show her how much they appreciated the beauty she’d allowed them to create. On the good days, she’d get wheeled outside to see it from her bed, but every day somebody brought the spring in to her in a vase — first the forsythia and crocuses, then the cherry and pear trees and finally, the week that she died, her over-the-top spectacular tulips.

And then, goodbye. She left the way she had lived — with courage, conviction, loyalty, endless love and high standards — in the place where she’d brought it all to life for the rest of us. Home.

—Liddy Manson is CEO of Beclose.com

 

From Our Archives: I Call On Perry Como

In 1960, Pete Martin spoke with Perry Como about his celebrity. In honor of the 100th anniversary of Como’s birth and Zac Bissonnette’s piece, Why Perry Como Matters, we are reprinting the interview in its entirety.

I looked at his hair. It was thick. It had a tendency to curl. It was exactly the right length — not too long, not too short. It wasn’t a butch through which his scalp showed pinkly. I envied him his hair and his even tan, every inch of which was exactly the same degree of darkness. There were no freckles, no peeling spots, I thought, figures that his hair should look right. He should know about such things. After all, fit’s the most famous barber since Delilah, although he abandoned his tonsorial trade about twenty-five years ago to sing for his living.

“I understand you’re a big man in the icechomping field,” I said to Perry Como. “I’m an ice eater myself, and it drives my wife to distraction. She says she can hear the echo of my molars all over the house. Does your dentist tell you it’s bad for your teeth when you crack a whole cube with one bite?”

Como looked cautiously around his office as if he were afraid it was bugged. “I’ve never told him,” he said in a low, conspiratorial voice.

“You mean he can’t tell by just looking into your mouth?” I asked.

“He’s preoccupied with some other dental problems of mine,” Como explained. “For eighteen years I’ve had a small space between my two front teeth. That was my Number One problem. It was a minor one. I acquired a major one many years ago when they drilled why you should know this, but once your teeth are ground and capped, they’re tender afterward. If you get a little cavity or decay on the uncapped part of the tooth, the dentist has to take the cap off, drill a little higher and put on another cap. Dentically speaking, I’ve been going through hell for eighteen years. In all honesty, I guess if I had laid off my ice-breaker bit, my teeth would be in pretty good shape.”

I said, “I’m curious about how you go about crunching ice with caps on.”

“Obviously my caps are made of concrete,” Como said, “I can polish off a whole bowl of ice in no time at all.” He thought for a moment, then added, “I’ll tell you why I think I’m an ice craver. When I play a lot of golf, as I frequently do, and it’s very hot, I perspire bucketfuls. I get dehydrated and I have to push that lost water back into my body, I’m not very big, but in one round of golf I can ooze between five and seven pounds.”

“On just an ordinary, peaceful, quiet day of golf?” I asked.

“It’s actually water. It’s bloat that vanishes.”

I said, “I understand that you play a very leisurely game of golf, a lazy game. So why all the perspiration?”

He smiled, confessing, “I can sweat like a herd of wild animals. My pores are wide open and ready to go any time. I’ll tell you a secret,” he went on, “I know your spies have told you that my rounds of golf aren’t strenuous, that I keep my eyes and ears open to the crunch of grass underfoot and the sound of birdsong as I journey around eighteen holes. They doubtless tell you also that I seem to relish these things so greatly that I play very slowly. Well, to use a sweet word instead of a crude one, that’s a lot of hooey. I may appear to loiter, but honestly I’m just as fast as anybody else on a golf course.” He thought of something and added, “With the exception of England. I really had a problem there. For some reason, British players hit the ball and run. Their wives may find them something less than volcanic at home, but put them down on a golf course, and it’s Balaklava and The Charge of the Light Brigade all over again. They charge at you like wild boars — polite wild boars, mind you, but if they want to play through you, if you’re smart, you let them play.”

I said, “The only English golf match I’ve ever seen was one played between Bob Hope and Bing Crosby for the Playing Fields of England Fund, They had to call it off on the fourth hole because they were driving their balls right down the spectators’ throats. Twelve or fifteen thousand people crowded onto the fairways until there weren’t any fairways; there were just masses of people.”

“I played in a few of those things myself,” Como said. “They’re fun until they start leaving you no room to play in. After that they’re murder.”

I said, “I helped Bob Hope write his story for The Saturday Evening Post. There are those who say he’s no good without his writers around him, but I can testify that there were many times when he said sidesplitting things to me on his own, without his writers thinking them up for him.”

“He’s a swifty with an ad lib,” Como agreed. “Hope’s played a lot of golf exhibitions for charity, and I’ve played with him on some of them. You gather together three or four characters like Hope, and ten or twenty thousand people are apt to turn out. When the galleries start lining up on the fairways until they leave only a long, narrow slit for you to drive through, it scares the hell out of you. You could kill a spectator if you hit him in the wrong spot.

“Most of the benefits I’ve played,” he went on, “have been for boys’ clubs or for such things as cerebral-palsy funds. I remember one day in Washington, D.C, when there were five of us—Hope and I, Ben Hogan, Ed Sullivan and Jimmy Demaret. Most of the people who’d come out to see us play weren’t golfers and knew no golf etiquette. They didn’t even have enough gumption to know they were in danger and get out of the way when Hope and Sullivan and I were shooting. Hogan and Demaret knew where their shots were going, but you can’t stand in front of Hope or me when we’re shooting without running a good chance of having a slice or a hook slam into you.

“That was the maddest day I can remember. Bob was flying in from somewhere with Jim Demaret. They were supposed to be there at one o’clock, but when they didn’t show up, Hogan gave the crowd a golf clinic.
He showed them how to hit some balls, then he explained his shots over a microphone to kill time. People were milling and trampling around out of hand, and I was hiding in the locker room. I wasn’t about to go out there and get flattened. Finally there was the sound of police-motorcycle sirens, and in came Hope.

“From the moment we teed off on the first hole, trying to play golf was ridiculous. By the time we got to where a ball had landed, it was gone, and we never saw it again. I didn’t see the same ball twice all day. There were supposed to be marshals to protect us — they were really to protect the crowd —but they didn’t. So the people gathered in the middle of the fairways and grabbed the balls as fast as we hit them. We kept trying anyhow and finally got to the fifth hole, which was a well-trapped par three. I’ll never forget what Bob did then. It showed a softer and kinder side of this man who seems so cocky on the outside. He told the rest of us, ‘I’m going to hit it in the trap,’ and sure enough, that’s where he hit it.

“I wish I had a movie of the action for the next fifteen minutes. Bob deliberately hit that ball from one trap to another, dealing out stale jokes for the crowd every second of the time. He was giving the crowd a show for their money, and it was hilariously funny. He’d hit under the ball so it would go straight up in the air, or he’d top it and bury it in the sand. You know, people consistently underestimate Bob. He’s much more than just a funny man; he’s a very kind man too.

“We played four more holes because we thought we ought to play at least nine, after which we dropped everything and ran for the clubhouse like rabbits. I simply couldn’t have stood another nine holes. We’d be there yet. It had taken us four and a half hours to play the holes we did play. When we saw a ball, we hit it. The rest of the time we were signing autographs and walking. A couple of times I even walked in the wrong direction because I couldn’t see the fairway.”