R. I. P. Aunt Joanne

My Aunt Joanne passed away the other day. She was 90 years old and had lived a very good life. The funeral is Saturday in Ohio and I wanted to go but had a conflict that will keep me in town.

And, even though I was never very close to Aunt Joanne, I feel very bad about not being able to attend. I would have liked to have been there to say goodbye and pay tribute to her for one of the greatest acts of unselfishness I have ever known.

I know they were called the Greatest Generation because of their contributions in World War II. Aunt Joanne was one of those people -- she was a nurse in the war (Scotland, as I recall) for more than four years.

But the people of that era -- who were born in the first quarter of the 20th century -- taught us more than just how to be brave and fight for our country. They showed us by example how to do the right thing.

Here's an example:

When I was two years old, my dad became very ill. He needed to be hospitalized and he was going to be in for a long time. (In essence, he was a patient for the rest of his life.) My mother suddenly had a big problem. She had four boys ranging from age 2-9 and a sick husband to care for. She clearly needed help. I went off to live with her sister, Aunt Ida and her husband, Uncle Cletus in Dayton, OH. They didn't have kids of their own. I don't know if that made it easier but it was simpler.

My brother Paul, who was four, went to Adrian, MI to live with Aunt Joanne, Uncle Jimmy and their kids. Think about that for second. You take one of your sister's kids -- a little boy you hardly knew who lives two hours away -- and bring him into your house with your own kids (I think there were six of them). That is one terrific, unselfish act. Paul was only at Aunt Joanne's a couple of years -- he came back to Detroit when he was old enough to go to first grade -- but time isn't important here. What matters here is that Aunt Joanne simply opened up her home to a relative in need. No questions asked. Mom needed help and her sister was there for her.

To me, that's why the people of that era were the Greatest Generation. They performed acts of kindness like that automatically and never asked for extra credit or praise. They simply stepped in and did what needed to be done.

Maybe it is because many of the kids of that era were like mom's -- raised on a farm with the knowledge that everybody must pitch in to get chores done. Maybe it is because their parents simply told them it was the job of all the boys and girls to look after each other.

I don't know. But I do know the world would be a lot better if we had more people like Aunt Joanne and Uncle Jimmy in it.

Aunt Joanne was the last of mom's eight brothers and sisters to go. That was quite a crew of Albers kids -- tough as nails on the outside but with a heart of gold where it mattered. I hope they are enjoying being together again.

I Fought The Cold ... and The Cold Won

The Cold War is alive and well these days. No, I don't remain the current discussions in the Spitzer household or a possible coffee klatch between Hillary and Barack. I am referring to man's battle against an invisible foe that can deliver a devastating wallop.

The common cold ... and its army of supporters.

After two weeks of nearly non-stop talking (i.e. 25 public address gigs in two weeks), I was felled this week by a cold. We're not talking a run-of-the-mill, take two aspirin and call me in the morning type of cold. This was the real thing -- a nasty viral infection that kept me home for two days and pretty weak for two more.

Real Men do get sick. And they don't handle it very smartly, either.

It started a week ago today. I had worked the Class A semifinals of the state high school hockey tournament and all seemed to go well. I was scheduled to work a pair of basketball games that night. Now basketball p.a. is considerably more work than hockey p.a. but my voice seemed strong and I felt great three hours before gametime.

During the first game, it became clear to me the tide was turning against me, however. It didn't help that Schoenecker Arena was packed to the gills with loud fans and I was trying (hopelessly, for the most part) to be heard over them. By game's end, I was a noodle and sounded like a seal in heat.

Saturday required a quick turnaround. My first game was at 9 a.m. I somehow croaked my way through the early game and even did a credible turn on the state title game at noon. The basketball game that night wasn't played in front of as big a house as the night before and I didn't overwork myself. I thought I had made it through the worst until Sunday night when my entire body started on fire. The usual pills, cough syrup and assorted bromides weren't much help. By Monday morning, it was an effort to get out of bed and advance to the living room. That was about as far as I got for the next two days. There were a couple of quick trips outside with the dog and a fast fillup on gas.

Otherwise, it was me, my aching head and all the medicine I could handle. Pete, the happy dog, was suspicious as to why I was home and listless for two days but played along and pretended to be sympathetic. (He even licked my face once as I laid on the couch watching a fourth hour of "Law and Order.")

Whatever this disease was, it had me on my heels. Dead people felt better. For two days, I went from bed to the dining room table to the couch to the tub to bed. One sneezing jag so startled the cat he ran downstairs for shelter. My wife was nice enough to make a good of hot brandies for me and then got as far away from me as possible. On Monday, she started hinting I might want to visit the doctor.

After taking Five hot baths, downing a bottle of Dayquil and Nightquil and god know how many cold tablets, I agreed with my wife and went to the doctor.

Dr. Tveten took one look, felt my shoulder and asked me what the hell I had been doing this week.
"Most sneezing and coughing," I replied.
"You sprained your shoulder, you know," he said. (So that is what was hurting so badly. I thought it was my head.)

Dr. Tveten has been around a while but even he was puzzled. In front of him was a fellow with a fever, a sprained shoulder and a blood pressure reading of 115/81, the type of number often associated with food athletes. Trust me when I say this: this is not a body by Jake.

"Okay, you have some sort of non-viral infection," he said. "There are lots of varieties and I've seen quite a few this week. Try this prescription." And he scribbled something in doctorese that only a pharmacist could read.

Us men may be stubborn but we know a good thing when we see it. Whatever Dr. Tveten scribbled is working wonders. I actually tasted lunch today, something that hasn't occurred for me in nearly a week.

In the course of damn near 55 years on this planet, I have broken a toe, fallen out of a second story window and once split a finger nail so badly the doctor had to use a hot pin to remove some damaged material. All of that seems like a piece of cake in comparison to this week. James Caan felt better in "Misery" than I did until Dr. Tveten scribbled me a prescription.

I never saw the enemy this week but I sure felt his wrath. In fact, just thinking about it has put me in a sweat again. A cold sweat.