Healthcare Reform

I interrupt my reminiscences to address the issue of healthcare reform. Putting aside my displeasure at the inability of our congresses and administrations to effect any change over fifty years of deliberations, the nation is not having an honest debate. We have been and are dancing around the question: “Should every resident, or citizen, of the United States have access to the latest and greatest of medical care?” If one only considers the altruistic and politically expedient aspects, the answer is clearly “Yes.” However one must consider the fiscal consequences. If, having considered the fiscal issues and arrive at the same answer, and I do not think that is the right answer personally, then taxes must be increased substantially. If taxes are not increased overtly, then the most insidious of taxes, inflation, will take care of the problem.

A great many people seem to think that universal health insurance will fix the problem. Health insurance does nothing to reduce the total cost of health care delivery. On the contrary the administrative cost of insurance management and associated profits only add to the overall bucket of costs associated with health care delivery. (One potential exception is the cost reduction associated with preventative care, should the incentives influence more individuals to take care of medical issues before they become extreme.)

Why should I have the right to a heart transplant any more so than I have the right to an eight-thousand square foot mansion on a beach with expensive cars in the five-car garage? I should and do have the right for either one if I can afford it.

On a constructive note, I think that the major efforts should be to reduce the total cost of health care delivery. After all, these costs are paid for in only two ways: by the healthcare recipients and taxes. No, insurance does not pay for any of these costs, it adds to the overall cost. I like to take a thermodynamic view of healthcare delivery costs. Draw a boundary around all of the costs:
• Hospital buildings
• Bedpans
• IV kits
• Doctors, nurses, dentists, etc pay
• Hospital administrative costs
• Insurance company administrative costs
• Insurance company profits,
• Etc. (and there are many etc's)

These costs are paid for by healthcare recipients (deductibles, co-pays, insurance premiums) and by taxes (federal, state, and local.) The only way to reduce the amount to be paid is to reduce the costs within the thermodynamic boundary described above. So let us argue less about how all of these costs are to be paid for and focus on reducing the total cost.

Memories of My Early Childhood

First Memories

In April or May of 1935 I recall standing in the dining room of a small house at 4200 Ramona Drive, Riverside, California while my parents were negotiating the purchase of that house. My recollection is that my mother was very fat. It turns out that she was pregnant with my brother, Jerome Caltoft (Jerry), who was born on May 30, 1935.

4200 Ramona Drive

4200 Ramona Drive was a two-bedroom, one-bath house. Facing the house from the street there was a driveway along the left side leading to a one-car garage. I remember at one time my father, who was an avid gardener, had a row of poinsettias along the side of the garage. One winter night there was a hard freeze. All of the poinsettia foliage that was not directly under the eaves was burnt black by the frost.

On occasion a young man would show up on the back stoop looking for any kind of work in exchange for a meal. Although I was very young I do remember the Great Depression. In order to make ends meet, my father sold his blood for $20.00 a pint. He was O-negative blood type. Once, in an emergency, he was called upon to “donate” twice in one day.

In those days many people still had ice boxes, rather than refrigerators. The ice man would drive down the street every few days delivering large blocks of ice.

Ramona Drive ended in an orange grove. There was a large vacant lot just before the orange grove. Shortly before time to harvest the oranges a large pile of wooden orange crates appeared in the vacant lot. The youngsters in the neighborhood took advantage of the opportunity to create elaborate forts using the orange crates. This brings to mind the favorite “toy” that our father brought to Jerry and me: a pickle barrel. That fifty-cent purchase became, in turn, a submarine, a tank, a castle, or anything that a young child’s imagination could concoct.

Every afternoon Jerry and I were supposed to take a nap. One day we decided to sneak out and go play with the neighbor kids. So, I opened the window and, in the process of climbing out, knocked the screen from the window. While I held the screen, Jerry followed me out of the window. It turns out there was a sharp metal flashing around the edges of the screen. Jerry landed on the corner of the flashing and opened a very large tear in his leg. We did not want to alert our parents to our situation so we took a large quantity of adhesive tape and tried to put his leg back together. Needless to say that did not work.

The Petersons lived next door. Mrs. Peterson was a piano teacher. My parents decided that I should learn to play the piano (both parents were aspiring opera singers.) My recollection is that I spent a great deal more time reading comic books at the Petersons than I spent at the piano.

As I have mentioned, my parents were aspiring opera singers. Their voice coach, Norman Spohr(?), had a story about another of his pupils. He said that he once told her that “I am playing on the white keys and I am playing on the black keys and you are singing in the cracks!”

I went to kindergarten and grammar school a few blocks away. There were no school busses at that time so we all walked to school. There were interesting thing along the way to school; among them was a potato chip factory. We would occasionally pause on the way home from school to watch the owner cooking potato chips on a large griddle, and, if we were lucky we were treated to a few samples.

Between the potato chip factory and the school lay an old “China Town”. There was a single street with very narrow, two-story buildings on either side. Only one or two of these buildings had any occupants. One day, one such occupant invited us to come in to see some “firecrackers”. Nothing like a case of dynamite sticks to kick up the adrenalin.

Summers in Petaluma and Oregon

My father was a language instructor at the local community college so we all had long summer vacations. Typically we would drive from Riverside to Petaluma where we would spend a week or two with my maternal grandparents on their chicken ranch. We did not stay longer because, I am sure, while my father was a true-blue Democrat; my grandfather was a right-wing Republican.

From Petaluma we would drive to my paternal grandparents’ place outside of Oregon City. Sometimes we would stop at Castle Crags State Park and camp for the night before continuing on to Oregon.

My grandparents lived in a house that my father had built for them, along with my father’s least favorite brother, John Myers Beatie (Uncle Jack) and Uncle Jack’s wife, Ada. There was about forty acres associated with the house. My Uncle Bob (Robert Hood Beatie) raised hay on the land not occupied by the house and truck garden. Uncle Bob had about one hundred acres across the street where he raised strawberries, black raspberries, and filberts. Next to Uncle Bob’s place my father had one hundred acres of timber and live-oak trees.

Move to Northern California

…more to follow.

Woodrow

When I was a young boy my grandfather had a chicken ranch in Petaluma, California. And on that farm he, my grandfather, had a draft horse named Woodrow. The name should tell you how long ago that was and how old Woodrow was at that time. Woodrow was a large, white gelding. Of course he was a fine draft horse because my grandfather knew a lot about draft horses. He had owned and operated a drayage business in San Francisco before the 1906 earthquake. Woodrow was used to pull a wagon from chicken house to chicken house while the hired hands fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, and cleaned the watering troughs, and so on.

When I was ten years old my father purchased the farm from my grandfather and we moved in. By that time Woodrow had been retired to pasture. He had been replaced by a 1925 Buick touring car, converted to a pickup.

Woodrow was a gentle giant. He readily allowed my brother and me to ride on him. Bareback, of course, because there was no saddle that would fit him.

One episode stands out in my memory. Woodrow and I were plowing the “south forty”. I don’t remember why we were plowing; it was probably just for fun. Anyway, there we were, Woodrow hitched to the plow and I walking behind. Suddenly the point of the plow caught in the root of a cottonwood tree. Woodrow pulled with all of his might, his belly only inches from the ground. SNAP!!! Both chain traces broke and Woodrow went tumbling head over heels. Neither of us was injured, but we didn’t plow any more.

It was a sad day when one icy morning as my father and I were on our way to milk the cows we found Woodrow lying dead by the cow barn. While it might have been sentimental to bury the old horse, on the farm pragmatism reigns and his remains were hauled off to the tallow works.

And so you have read another story about animals in my life.

Alex and Chico

I introduced Alexander as an eight-week old Boston puppy in my earlier posting: “Memories of Riley and Luci”. Living in Thousand Palms without Riley and Luci we focused more attention on Alex. Without Riley to play with Alex had become even more hyperactive. So we hired a trainer to school Alex, my wife, and me. The trainer was much more successful with Alex than with my wife and me. Alex received a diploma. If I had been grading, Evelyn and I would have received failing grades.

For some reason it seemed that we needed to get a playmate for Alex. Being fond of Bostons we scoured the web and came across Boston Brigade Rescue. They had a Boston mix who, at the time, was undergoing intensive veterinary care. We filled out the adoption questionnaire and agreed to wait. After several weeks the folks from Boston Brigade Rescue showed up with Chico. While they conducted a facilities check to assure that it was a safe and secure place, Chico managed to crawl under the back gate and take off across the golf course. It took about twenty minutes to retrieve Chico. I immediately blocked the hole under the gate.

Although Chico was fairly thin with his ribs showing he was, and still is, a remarkably handsome dog. He and Alex hit it off well from the start. They are very well matched, both weighing about twenty-five pounds. They played and romped with no sign of aggression, not even over the food dish.

Although Alex had been something of an escape artist, together Alex and Chico were amazing. With the front door open only slightly, they would both dash between ones legs and take off across the golf course. In one such instance it took almost three hours, until about 1:00 AM, to retrieve them. We have become much more careful so they rarely escape these days.

Alex and Chico have distinctly different personalities. Alex is somewhat aloof, only occasionally seeking attention. Chico, on the other hand, is very needy. He constantly seeks attention and frequently jumps into my lap. Alex is a glutton. He will eat anything and everything. Chico is a very picky eater, frequently eating grass and then upchucking. Contrary to what I would have expected, Alex submits to PediPaws (sanding down his toenails) while Chico will have none of it. Alex loves to play in the water. Chico does not.

So here we have another chapter in the lives of the Beatie pets. When next we visit I shall introduce Lil Maya.

Bob Beatie

OK folks, after a long hiatus here is a short posting describing two of our long and faithful friends, Riley and Luci.

Memories of Riley and Luci

Riley came to us in 1986 over my objections. (I did not want the responsibility of a dog, but my wife had to have a dog.) Riley was a medium-sized, white Sheppard mix. She, yes, “she”, came to us with that name from the local animal shelter. Like so many shelter dogs, Riley was very thin with her ribs very noticeable. Again, like too many shelter dogs, Riley had obviously been badly abused. She had a scar on her nose and was very much afraid of men and large women. She would evidence that fear by crouching low, barking, and growling menacingly. Unfortunately I was one of the objects of her fear. It took several years for us to bond. More about that later.

Under my wife’s loving care Riley fattened up and became a very healthy dog. She enjoyed romping in our backyard and rooting out gophers. Riley continued her menacing ways, thoroughly intimidating some of our men friends. In one instance, unbeknownst to my wife and me, she kept a guest pinned down in a chair on the deck for almost an hour. She just sat in front of our friend, staring at his crotch. He was too terrified to move. Years later Riley did make up with our friend.

On Mothers’ Day in 1987 my wife received a kitten as a gift from her son. Luci was a black cat with white markings, no bigger than a fist. And a small fist at that. We had two steps up to the kitchen from the living room. Luci would sit on the steps with only her eyes and ears peeking over the top step. For the first six months or so Luci would jump on Riley’s back and ride her like a jockey. Both Riley and Luci seemed to enjoy the activity. This continued until Luci got to be too heavy for Riley.

It is a long story how Riley and I bonded. We were living in Redondo Beach, California. I had been retired for several years and had built our dream home in the mountains of southern Oregon. In 1997 my wife was about to retire and I was to drive our household goods to Oregon on our Ford F600 flatbed truck. So, early one rainy morning I took off with the truck, fully loaded, with Riley and Luci in the cab with me. My wife was to follow in a few days in our car. She

urgently advised Riley to be good or she might be left along Interstate 5.

To cut this story short, after nineteen and one-half hours of driving in the pouring rain, we arrived at our new home in the mountains. There had been at least a dozen stops to walk Riley and tie down the tarp over the load. Ever thereafter Riley and I were on very good terms.

Riley and Luci settled down to a pleasant mountain life. In the summer Riley enjoyed barking at squirrels and chipmunks and chasing them under the wood piles. She never caught any. In the winter Riley loved rolling in the snow. She had a very thick undercoat, almost like down, so she was never cold. On the other hand, during the summer, Luci was a very efficient hunter. Every day or two she would deposit a trophy on the master bathroom shower floor. She caught everything from lizards, to chipmunks, to squirrels, to mice, and birds. Fortunately she never encountered one of the many raccoons that made their homes around us. In the winter, however, Luci was a prig. She would not so much as put a paw on the snow. So she spent winters indoors.

One Friday evening in 2002, Riley had a stroke. She flip-flopped all over the great room floor and fell down a flight of stairs. I retrieved her and tried to calm her down. We called the vet who asked that we bring Riley to his place of business. (That was some vet! It was already 9:00 pm on a Friday night.) So, we bundled Riley up and drove the twenty-three miles to town. The vet confirmed my diagnosis of a stroke, gave Riley a shot of cortisone and a sedative, and sent us home. Over the course of several weeks Riley gradually recovered and never had any further problems of that sort.

My wife wanted another dog, supposedly to keep Riley company. So we went to a local breeder and got Alexander, an eight-week old, pure-bred Boston terrier. And keep Riley company, Alex did. We had a beautiful home in a lovely wooded setting with spectacular views. Unfortunately it was twenty three miles to the nearest store, ten miles to the nearest mail delivery, and the long driveway was so steep that we had to put on chains to get in and out for from four to six months of the year. And my wife is a city girl. So we sold our dream home and moved to the Coachella Valley with Riley, Luci, and Alexander. While making up our minds whether we would buy a place and settle down for good we rented a small house in La Quinta. Luci, by now, was mostly an indoor cat. She settled down comfortably. Riley and Alex for the most part made do with the small back yard. On occasion Alex would escape and run down the block to play with the local children.

Riley began to show signs of advanced aging. She developed trouble standing up and frequently wet herself. In her final days we bathed her at least once a day. That was the least we could do in return for her almost twenty years of loyal service. During the summer of 2005 we had to say goodbye to Riley. It was a very sad day!

By that time we had decided to stay in the Coachella Valley and bought a home in Thousand Palms. We moved in the fall of 2005, our retinue reduced to Luci and Alex. While Luci had always been very aloof, (one friend called her “the cat from hell”) she now became more and more friendly, even affectionate. And she became very vocal. Now Luci began to show her age with no more signs of the mighty hunter she had been in Oregon. In the spring of 2008 she developed what turned out to be a cancer on her nose. The vet surgically removed the growth. The surgery site healed well and Luci became even more affectionate and vocal. She never lost her appetite.

Unfortunately, after several months, the growth returned. This time the vet removed the growth using cryogenic (freezing) surgery. Sorrowfully Luci never recovered. After a couple of months she stopped eating and it came time to say goodbye after twenty years. Another very sad day.

And so, you have read a small piece of the story of two, loyal, long-time family pets.

Bob Beatie

June, 2009