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A Tale of Two Grandfathers and Wartime Security in WW I

The Sporks had a bunch of grandfathers and this is a story about two of them: Spork Major’s grandfather and Spork Minor’s Grandfather. Not surprisingly, since the Sporks are related, the two grandfathers were as well — Father and Son.

William J Deed, Jr. was the father of Robert F Deed. WJD was a naval architect, so when WW I came along, he built sub chasers at a boatyard in Clayton, NY. Robert F Deed was 4 years old at the time.

The boatyard was off limits to the public, guarded by armed men at night, and most of the construction took place in a huge shed built close to the water.

When a reporter from The Watertown Daily Times came calling, there was not much that the Navy guy (WJD) could say:

[T]he United States is engaged in a real war and we must realize that in order to win we must fight it out in the best way possible; and one important thing to do is to keep the enemy as ignorant as possible regarding our implements of warfare. They may get the information through their spy system, but we shall have the satisfaction of knowing we did not hand it out to them.—Watertown Daily Times, Wednesday Afternoon, July 18, 1917

CLAYTON BUILDS U-BOAT CHASERS

Good Progress Made on Four Boats

Naval Officer’s Story

What a surprise, then, to come upon a drawing, nearly 100 years later of a boat by “Robert, Nov 7” with “17” written above the month and day. These notations are in adult hand.

This would make the artist 4 1/2 years old and might serve to explain the difficulty of deciphering his handwriting, which reads “Subchaser 337.”

The artist was a future journalist, and so apparently cutting his teeth early on the need for precision, included a label for his subject, which was built in that shed, off limits to the public, but not, apparently, off limits to little boys.

Sub chaser 337 appears on an index of boats built for the Navy in WW I.

http://www.shipbuildinghistory.com/history/smallships/pc1.htm

The boat’s wartime service and a photo of the boat, mostly obscured by a boat next to it, appears in the public archives. The official photo provides considerably less detail than Robert’s drawing, it should be noted.

http://www.navsource.org/archives/12/150337.htm

Sub chaser 337 was launched a month after Robert made his drawing.  We don’t know what use it might have been to the enemy if the enemy had thought to search a little boy’s room.

I was entranced by Jack Kerouac as so many are beginning in high school. Kerouac’s writing went well as a balance to a strait-laced upbringing.

This video uses one of Kerouac’s Buddhist texts in a near-commercial way.

But, I like it even though some of the transitions give me a jolt.

We’ve had a sudden appearance of a wheelbarrow load of rocks and dirt in our compost heap — and we are actively seeking the culprit who wheeled her or his load of dirt 20-100 feet into our yard to make this deposit and mess up our compost.  Who knows what was in this dirt?  How annoying is it?

It appears that this corruption of our soil is a repeat of an unfortunate episode deep in my family’s past.  And I have to say, our esteemed ancestor was none too happy about his experience either.

This is what he wrote July 21st 1869:

Things are growing finely all except sweet Corn — That seems stunted — Fault of manure — got Aaron to misx that poudrette and he ruined it.

Notice that he named names — and I am not.

Patient Safety Day 2014
At a recent meeting with staff of a local hospital, I mentioned that our conversation, of course, occurs in the context of the fact that we all have to die some time.  The Chief Medical Officer immediately responded, Yes, but in our time, not before our time.  That’s what we aim for here: That our patients do not die before their time.There are facts about this hospital that convince me the CMO is not simply saying what I want to hear.  The hospital is making huge strides in creating a safer place for patients, and there is both dissatisfaction within administration about safety levels and a determination to do something about safety to make things better.A breath of fresh air, certainly.Speaking of which, yesterday morning we discovered a single specimen of Helen’s pinks.  She grew them for years in her gardens in Bowmansville, NY.  After her death, her sons and daughters each took seeds, and we all planted them in our gardens.  But after several years, they disappeared.This year – a sign of hope dare I think?  That single pink, heavy with brilliant blooms, so that even the casual gardener noticed.Helen Suckow grew up on a farm, toughened by life and weather, in a place with a street named after her farming ancestors.  She dwelt in fact, laced with ties to family, the tiny community around her, and church.She spent the last several years of her life in an assisted care facility and eventually a nursing home, and she had the courage to make the decision herself to leave her home for a more protective environment.That is why I write about her today:  Hers is one of the stories that worked out well.  Hers is a story that needs to be commonplace instead of exceptional.The continued care from assisted living to nursing home was seamless, and lined with caring staff, comfortable, attractive surroundings, and attention to her wishes regarding end or life care.When her time came, there were no heroic (undesired) measures, and she died in her own bed with family present.So, my wish is for more of us to die in our own time and with suffering minimized.

Patient Safety Day 2014

At a recent meeting with staff of a local hospital, I mentioned that our conversation, of course, occurs in the context of the fact that we all have to die some time.  The Chief Medical Officer immediately responded, Yes, but in our time, not before our time.  That’s what we aim for here: That our patients do not die before their time.

There are facts about this hospital that convince me the CMO is not simply saying what I want to hear.  The hospital is making huge strides in creating a safer place for patients, and there is both dissatisfaction within administration about safety levels and a determination to do something about safety to make things better.

A breath of fresh air, certainly.

Speaking of which, yesterday morning we discovered a single specimen of Helen’s pinks.  She grew them for years in her gardens in Bowmansville, NY.  After her death, her sons and daughters each took seeds, and we all planted them in our gardens.  But after several years, they disappeared.

This year – a sign of hope dare I think?  That single pink, heavy with brilliant blooms, so that even the casual gardener noticed.

Helen Suckow grew up on a farm, toughened by life and weather, in a place with a street named after her farming ancestors.  She dwelt in fact, laced with ties to family, the tiny community around her, and church.

She spent the last several years of her life in an assisted care facility and eventually a nursing home, and she had the courage to make the decision herself to leave her home for a more protective environment.

That is why I write about her today:  Hers is one of the stories that worked out well.  Hers is a story that needs to be commonplace instead of exceptional.

The continued care from assisted living to nursing home was seamless, and lined with caring staff, comfortable, attractive surroundings, and attention to her wishes regarding end or life care.

When her time came, there were no heroic (undesired) measures, and she died in her own bed with family present.

So, my wish is for more of us to die in our own time and with suffering minimized.

Sometimes, something comes along that is simply too enticing to keep to yourself, such as this photograph from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle (NY) in 1905.Picture this next to a high school class picture of today.
Grandmother is seated, first row on the left.
Turns out that of six siblings (including a half-sibling) in her father’s generation, there are no descendants continuing the line for five of them.
And then, Surly Man asks, Well, which line has descendants?
And I respond, Am I a ghost?

Sometimes, something comes along that is simply too enticing to keep to yourself, such as this photograph from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle (NY) in 1905.

Picture this next to a high school class picture of today.

Grandmother is seated, first row on the left.

Turns out that of six siblings (including a half-sibling) in her father’s generation, there are no descendants continuing the line for five of them.

And then, Surly Man asks, Well, which line has descendants?

And I respond, Am I a ghost?

Is this how it begins?

Is this how it begins?
Not saying something bad has happened here
but if it did ‒- How would you know?

Is it because you are so old
or so fatigued with waiting
that all you want to do is
Leave
that you don’t notice the missing
information
and you don’t think
even though you are well-trained to think
(but you are not employed at this time)
anything of it?

No doctor’s name
No diagnosis
No codes

Is this not an invitation to bad events
Even if you do not know
they may
or may not
have happened.

You will not know
what happened
until the report arrives
from Medicare
and your secondary insurer

And then
if you are merely charged a few dollars
for something that never happened
after two insurers have paid the provider
(bigger bucks)

Will you notice then
Or will you simply pay the small remainder

perhaps ‒- just as the other 2,000 patients
in the practice
who are also
too old
too sick
too busy
to give it a thought

And if you ask
And they say
It was all a Mistake
Will you believe that, too?

It’s Not Just About the Mosquitoes

The essay is about mosquitoes, where they live, the harm they do, and how to get rid of them

But it isn’t just about the mosquitoes

The grandmother extracts a sheaf of browning paper, folded in thirds, from a dark drawer where the essay is stored to keep it fresh.

Academic
For $10 Prize

is written on the back of the folded packet.

Ten dollars is what a child can earn if she works really hard, thinks about life around her, and waits for the opportunity.

Ten dollars is a significant amount to earn in 1904.

You could learn to write well enough to earn $10, she says to her grand-daughter ‒ the grandchild who loves to write but has nothing to say because her life has not yet offered sufficient fodder even for a poem.

Poems are harder than essays, the grandmother says. You should begin with essays.

The mosquitoes on Long Island carried Malaria and Yellow Fever. They were nothing to be trifled with, and the need to locate and exterminate them was worthy of the effort it took to walk the paths of the village and to locate ponds and marshes and cisterns where the mosquitoes laid their eggs.

The essay does not merely locate the mosquitoes. It names names. Names villages that have since disappeared, names neighborhoods where names have changed. Names names of families on the lands where the mosquitoes flourish.

The serious teenaged writer could be a not-so-subtle activist, naming DeForest and Valentine and Prime and Townsend, Brush, Gaines, Lowndes, the Episcopal Parish House, Scudder and Dowden’s Tannery as hosts to unwanted and dangerous insects.

Contamination plays a role, and the 16 year-old woman-child names them: the dumping ground that has been closed but still is being dumped upon, the tin cans holding water and encouraging insects.

She exposes political irresponsibility, the villages where a boundary crosses a marsh. Cold Spring is willing to control the bugs, but Oyster Bay is not, and so Huntington residents continue to be endangered.

Infrastructure and failure to maintain it also take a hit:

Last February the mill dam at Cold Spring broke through and left a large opening so that the water ran through and left St. John’s lake entirely empty except for a mass of mud and pools of stagnant water… the banks of the mill race on account of the ill repair they have fallen into furnish a foot hold for the mosquitoes and on account of the numerous springs the sides of the road leading to the depot are often filled with water.

The child grew into a journalist and a poet, her future already foreshadowed in this prize essay that was about mosquitoes and people and responsibility and facts gathered through investigation.

The child has told her grand-daughter about the Town of Huntington and who was living there in 1904 if they had water on their grounds.

If a child were to write this essay today, the essay would remain inside a folder in the teacher’s desk to avoid causing offense to people named in the essay. It would not win a prize. Her parents would be called in for a discussion about discretion and libel.

The grandmother, if she were here today, would pride herself on doing it again: Finding the mosquitoes and naming their human hosts. She did not want to get sick from those insects. She did not want anyone else to get sick.

And so ‒ she would do it again.

Here is the place to go for information on patient safety.
Here is the place to hear voices of patients who have been harmed.
Here is the place to find the voices of survivors of those who have died due to medical mistakes in the hospital.
Here is the place to go for action to make hospital care safer for all of us.
http://safepatientproject.org/

Here is the place to go for information on patient safety.

Here is the place to hear voices of patients who have been harmed.

Here is the place to find the voices of survivors of those who have died due to medical mistakes in the hospital.

Here is the place to go for action to make hospital care safer for all of us.

http://safepatientproject.org/