Turning 65, Part Two

I will turn 65 this Sunday at 5:24 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, according to my birth certificate which is also stamped "legitimate." (They cared about such things in 1944; how old-fashioned.) But, for Medicare purposes, I have been 65 since November 1, 2009 at 12 a.m. That's how it is, now that I am a ward of the dreaded thing we've been hearing so much about: a government-run single payer health plan. Yipes! Does this make me a socialist?

But let's begin at the beginning. In preparation for the Big 6-5 (and also to free myself from the $1,104 per month I had been paying for COBRA coverage since I retired), I studied the Medicare web site -- which is really good, considering it's put together by socialists. To assure that Medicare coverage begins on your 65th birthday, which is the earliest it can begin unless you're disabled, you need to start the official process 90 days before. But even before that you need to know what you want, and you have to have a passing knowledge of the lingo: Part A, Part B, Part D, MAGI (modified adjusted gross income), MedAdvantage (with or without Rx). You get the idea.

Medicare used to be pretty simple after it was passed in 1965. You turned 65 and you automatically got Part A (hospitalization coverage) free of charge, courtesy of the taxpayers of the United States. Fortunately, Part A hasn't been fiddled with too much, and it's still free for everybody. Part B (doctor visits, labs, outpatient procedures, etc.) was added a bit later and required you to pay a premium, but everybody paid the same amount. About a decade ago, Congress decided to means-test the Part B premium ("means-test" is code for "pay more). As a result, the IRS sends your MAGI to the SSA (Social Security Administration), which sends you a letter saying you made too much money two years ago and therefore must pay more than the Part B premium you thought you'd be paying when first started thinking about Medicare. Because I was a corporate fat cat two years ago (as opposed to the senior citizen on a fixed income I am now), I will pay the maximum until my lower MAGI on my tax return catches up in a couple years.

Part B only covers some things, therefore leaving you in jeopardy of getting gigantic bills you didn't expect. So, to alleviate that stress on us oldsters, the government permitted private insurance companies to offer Medicare supplement policies to cover things Part B doesn't cover. So-called MedAdvantage policies go a step further by relieving the government of the burden of paying my Part B bills by covering everything HMO-style. The government then rewards MedAdvantage carriers by paying them a stipend for taking my bookkeeping off its hands -- a situation that has come under considerable, and in my mind justifiable, scrutiny and criticism in the current health reform debate.

Part D (prescription coverage) was added in 2005; I have no idea why they skipped the letter "C" in adding a new Part -- another of those Don't Ask, Don't Tell government things, I suppose. Since Part D is handled entirely by private insurance companies (thus eliminating the socialists from the process), you have to spend an inordinate amount of time figuring out which carrier to use for prescriptions, which to use for Part B supplements or which to trust with both Part B and Part D. It's enough to give to you rheumatism or at least stigmatism.

Here's what I learned in the process: you have to be observant as an owl and opportunistic as an eagle to make the system work for you. The Medicare web site lets you compare Part B and Part D private plans in your area. It's a good system, but it doesn't protect you from the downside risks. Part B and Part D plans only guarantee your premium rate for one year. But what's particularly worrisome is that they may eliminate services they cover at any time, provided they send you a notice well in advance. Prescription drug plans use a formulary to decide which drugs they will pay for and how much your co-pay will be. They are free to raise the co-pay of any drug or to drop it altogether from their formularies at any time, once they give you advance warning.

Of course, you are free to change plans once a year during open enrollment. But what this means for most seniors is that they must engage in a guessing game each year: How sick do I expect to be? (If not very, go with the plan with the lowest premium.) How many prescription drugs -- especially the expensive brand-name types -- do I think I'll need? (If more than a few, it pays to check the formularies in advance of enrollment and pay a higher premium to get a lower co-pay.) And, after the first year on a plan, you're likely to get a hefty premium increase from just about any private carrier. No matter how much research you do in advance, registering for Medicare is a crap shoot.

I must say that the socialists have made the basic registration process pretty easy. I called a toll-free number; waited on hold for about three minutes; got transferred to a Social Security agent in Chicago; and completed the initial registration by phone in about 20 minutes. (The socialists have done an interesting thing: calls from the toll-free line are routed to any available Social Security agent anywhere in the country. I was so very, very happy not to be talking with a person at a call center in India. And I was pleased that no American jobs were sent overseas to achieve efficiency in Medicare.) At the end of the registration process, I was told I'd receive my official confirmation my mail and that my benefit would begin the first day of the month in which I turn 65 (November 1, 2009). And I was told I should sign up for a Part B supplement and a Part D prescription plan as soon as possible to make sure they are in effect when my basic Medicare benefit begins.

So, here I am today. Turning 65. A Medicare and supplemental plan beneficiary, and also a survivor of the registration process. To protect our free-enterprise system and prevent encroachment of socialism we have made the process more complicated than it needs to be. It's full of tricks and traps. I wonder how my dear mother, of fond memory, would have dealt with this process in her frail mental state. My guess is she wouldn't have. Just ignore it until you're broke.

Turning 65, Part One

I am not a Baby Boomer. I cannot be blamed for the failures of what I hope will be our only two Boomer Presidents, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush. Nor for the Boomers' greed, selfishness, materialism and excesses of the flesh. OK, so maybe I dabbled around the edges of those things, but I was born too soon to indulge in all the hedonistic pleasures. I didn't result from my parents' long wartime separation and lack of sex, followed by an immediate post-war pregnancy. I am a War Baby, born five months after D-Day, two weeks after Franklin D. Roosevelt won a fourth term, and five months before the Germans surrendered. With my birth, my father was hoping to avoid the draft. He didn't. He left for basic training a couple months after I was born and didn't get back from occupied Japan until September 1946.

And next month I will turn 65, well ahead of the Boomers. What's left of my hair is turning gray. My joints hurt and I complain about it. I just can't seem to sleep beyond 7 a.m. or stay awake past 10 p.m. (OK, maybe more like 9 p.m.) Most new movies, music and TV shows don't interest me much. I listen to oldies on AM radio that I once bought on 45 rpm records. I have started clipping grocery store coupons. I eat raisin bran with skim milk. I mix Metamucil into my orange juice. I get junk mail from people trying to sell me raised toilet seats "contoured for comfort" and Total Body Cleanse "to eliminate unnecessary toxic build-up." (See above). Sigh. I have become my grandfather.

Of course I know that, considering the alternative, turning 65 ain't so bad. Problem is, I wasn't expecting to get this old. I went to Vietnam and didn't think I'd come back. I watched a lot of friends die of AIDS. My college roommate was murdered at age 34 for no reason by a crazy guy with a handgun. But I'm still around, now approaching the traditional boundary of Old Age. I do wonder, sometimes, why I made it and so many others didn't.

Being on the cusp of the Boomer generation, I know I have been infected by the Peter Pan syndrome so common to the 1946-64 group. "I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up!" But, then, why get old when you can have Botox, a nip or tuck, and knee-replacement surgery, and feel great? Why wear glasses when you can have laser surgery and "look years younger"? Why get fat when you can staple your stomach and pretend you're back at your "fighting weight"?

There are any number of indignities associated with reaching 65. Younger people call me "sir." I hate that. The well-behaved ones even open the door for me. That's not so bad. I enter cars butt-first now because it's easier to drag my legs in behind me. It also takes me longer; I no longer "hop" into a car. Two glasses of wine put me to sleep; double bacon cheeseburgers give me gas. Peeing takes longer during the day but happens too much in the middle of the night. My feet get cold if I don't wear warm socks. My doctor, my preacher and my broker are all younger than I am.

My Aunt Bertha, who lived to be 104, once told me that "old age is bunk." She hated the loss of vigor, the death of her friends and siblings, and the gradual narrowing of her world. However, she managed to drive until she was 90, live independently until she was 98 and enjoy a glass of sherry "for medicinal purposes" until she was 102. I intend to follow her example, God willing.

It is true that, just when you start getting good at this thing called life, your machinery wears out. But, if I follow the manufacturer's maintenance schedule diligently, rotate the tires and occasionally buy a new battery, maybe crossing the Old Age boundary won't be so bad.

Part Two: The joys of registering for Medicare

Lions and Nazis and Bears, Oh My!

Maybe it's because I was born in the waning days of World War II, but I am thorougly disgusted by all those in the current health care reform debate who so easily throw the Nazi label at those seeking a a fairer system than the wasteful, costly version we have now. They ought to be ashamed, but of course they are too enamored of their own rhetoric to blush or to see how filthy they have made themselves.

Adolf Hitler was an insane monster, full of deep hatred for Jews, Gypsies, gays, the disabled or anybody who didn't fit his crazy idea of Aryan perfection. He was surrounded by fanatics and sycophants who saw an opportunity to enhance their own power by bolstering and fulfilling Hitler's nightmarish delusions. These fanatics and sycophants actually believed in the Final Solution and the 1,000-year Reich, or at least they gave a good imitation of it. They put away their consciences and buried their souls.

I won't say that the today's rabid Nazi comparers are in the same league as Himmler, Goering, Goebbels, Eichmann and the like. But they are too dangerously close for comfort. Here's why I say that:

Modern propaganda was invited by Joseph Goebbels, and it was based on the Big Lie theory. Push the same point of view often enough and eliminate competing ideas that might create doubt, and gradually you breed fanaticism. Germans listened only to Nazi radio, watched only Nazi films and read only Nazi newspapers and magazines. It's easy to see why most German came to agree that Jews were to blame for almost everything.

Fortunately, we live in a society where a free exchange of ideas is still possible. I can read the Wall Street Journal editorial page but I can also read the New York Times editorial page. I can listen to Bill O'Reilly (did I really just write that?) but I can also listen to Keith Olbermann.

The problem, however, is that technology now permits us to voluntarily eliminate any points of view with which we disagree. The technology that was supposed to bring us closer together has instead given us the ability to cocoon ourselves and hear only what we want. I believe that today's Nazi comparers have done that to great extent. They listen to Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck but shut out any other ideas that might disagree with those right-wing commentators. This situation is very different from 1930s Germany. But the result is the same: fanaticism....unlimited hatred....unbridled, unreasoned use of disgusting and violent language.

I pray that those who show up at town halls toting assault rifles and those who proclaim that Obama should die a painful death will be forced to read "The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich." The only problem is that fanaticism, once bred, is harder to tame than lions and tigers and bears....oh my!

Happy Birthday, Charlotte!

Charlotte and Addie

Charlotte, our Basset hound, turns one year old today. She was born out in the country, near the town of Greenland, in northwest Arkansas. Her mother was named Ruslana and her father was named Mishka Baryshnikov. (Her human mother was a Russian lady, which explains the names.)

Charlotte arrived at our house on Christmas Eve, 2008. We weren't sure we wanted another dog. We were happy and very comfortable with the Basset we had -- Addie, a perfect pet who rarely barked, loved every human she ever met, took slow walks and slept a lot. But both Terry and I finally agreed that Addie need a playmate, a younger sister to keep her active and, um, help her lose a little weight. (Addie is sensitive about her full figure, so we try not to bring it up in front of her.)

Terry found Charlotte on the Internet, the 21st Century pure-bred puppy marketplace. We had found Addie on the Internet four years earlier, born on a farm outside St. Louis. Addie flew from St. Louis to Dallas and changed planes to come to Los Angeles, where Terry picked her up while we were living in Santa Barbara. Addie was a jet setter before she was four months old.

Charlotte's breeders had posted irresistible photos of Charlotte, and they had also received good online reviews from others who had purchased puppies from them. Charlotte had her papers and puppy shots. We decided we had to have her.

The problem was, she was in northwest Arkansas and we were in Dallas, almost 400 miles away. We decided it would be too expensive to fly her to Texas during the Christmas holiday. So we struck a deal with the breeders: we would meet them in the WalMart parking lot in Checotah, Oklahoma, about half way between us, and exchange cash for puppy on Christmas Eve. It almost sounded a drug deal, but it turned out to be a wonderful holiday adventure. Off we went, stopping for breakfast at the Texas-Oklahoma border. At the appointed hour, we pulled into the WalMart parking lot. We drove around until we found the car with the breeders, Olha and her husband Doyle. They got out and so did we. Olha held little Charlotte in her hands. She was sleepy and a little confused. We offered the cash and they gave us the puppy. The deal was done.

From the moment we held her, we loved her. She cuddled in Terry's lap, her little nose cold as ice. As we drove away from the WalMart parking lot in Checotah, she went back to sleep. We thought maybe she wasn't feeling well. But then we crossed the border back into Texas and she sprang to life. We pulled over at the rest stop near Sherman, and Charlotte quickly relieved herself and grabbed a drink of water. Nothing at all wrong with this girl!

When we got home, Addie wasn't sure what to make of this tiny creature who had invaded her space. She ignored her as much as Charlotte would let her. Following the advice of all the puppy manuals, Terry built a small crate for Charlotte to sleep in. Puppies are supposed to like enclosed, warm spaces until they grow older. Of course, we had conveniently forgotten that as a puppy, Addie had tipped over her crate the very first night and refused to sleep in it ever again. Since then, she's been sleeping on the bed with us. (Please stop with the lectures. We know. People are nuts to let their dogs sleep with them. Bad habit to get into. We should know better. Too late now.)

The first night, Charlotte howled and cried incessantly. She kept climbing up the wire on the side of the crate until she finally jumped over and escaped. End result? Two dogs have slept comfortably in our bed ever since, sometimes crowding their human bedmates for space.

From the moment she arrived, Charlotte has been a blizzard of activity. Unlike Addie, she needs to be in the middle of everything. She loves to find rocks outside and chew them. She likes to tear labels off the back sides of area rugs. (Who did this? Bad dog!) My socks are a particularly favorite chew toy. (No! Leave my socks alone!) She barks a lot and, like most hounds, has an operatic voice that projects somewhere near the baritone range. She especially hates it when, as she watches through the French doors, the neighbor dog relieves himself on our property. If allowed, she will return the compliment on his property as soon as possible.

We have purchased innumerable chew toys for Charlotte, but most are quickly destroyed. Only a set of large vinyl keys, now well scuffed with teeth marks, has survived more than a few days. Since we've moved to our little farm on Whidbey Island, she loves to be outside, roaming to find evidence of deer or other wild critters on the property. Our challenge has been to keep her from rolling in the evidence. Not an easy task, and not always successful.

At this moment, Charlotte and Addie are sleeping soundly, listening to the radio station I favor because it plays music from the 1940s and 50s. But I expect they will awake in awhile, demanding attention that must be paid.

Happy birthday, baby dog!

Crabapples

We have an elderly crabapple tree next to our house on Whidbey Island. It was likely planted right after the house was built in the early 1960s. In the spring, it is covered with beautiful pink and white blossoms that last just a couple of weeks. Then, in a month or so, it is covered with hundreds of little red crabapples, most no more than an inch or two in diameter.

When I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, I remember being warned not to eat raw crabapples. Very sour and nasty, and they caused what was politely called the Crabapple Two-Step. But my grandmother would occasionally bring out her crabapple jelly for us and spread some on a biscuit or scone. It had an intense flavor like no other. I haven't tasted anything like it since then. She also made pickled crabapples that were served as a side dish at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Those of us who sat at the kids' card table wouldn't touch them.

So, here I am 60 years later, with a crabapple tree of my own. At the same moment, we're all are living through the hangover of an era of waste, greed and excess that has made us less wealthy and more sober. I'm more aware than ever that nothing should go to waste, that the abundance of our planet should be treasured and used wisely. If you read the book of Genesis, it says that God gave us dominion over the earth and everything on it, which means we were given control but not ownership. It's ours to love and care for, not pillage and destroy. Big difference.

That's why it just seemed to make sense for us to make crabapple jelly this week. We picked about five quarts from our tree, cut them up, cooked them into a fragrant mush, drained the juice overnight, added sugar, boiled it all until it became jelly and poured it into sterilized jars. My grandmother, I know, was smiling and chuckling. It's ready now for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We can't wait.

I also learned from Wikipedia that, among Anglo-Saxons, crabapples were used as part of cure for almost anything. They were known as wergulu in Old English and were among the nine herbs that made up the Nine-Herb Charm. Essentially, you made a paste of the herbs, applied it where the ailing person hurt and then chanted this poem:

A snake came crawling, it bit a man.
Then Woden took nine glory-twigs,
Smote the serpent so that it flew into nine parts.
There apple brought this pass against poison,
That she nevermore would enter her house.

Well, since sub-prime mortgages, high-flying stocks and lots of shopping didn't make us feel better, why not give this a try?

Father's Day

My dad Orrin in 1938

My dad was quite a man. Full of dreams, many unfulfilled because he died so young -- only 47 years old. We were not alike and were not very close when I was growing up. But we have bond that seems only to have grown stronger in the 45 years since he died.

He always had too many projects going at the same time. He always looked for a bargain, almost never bought new or full-price. And he always wanted to do things himself, whether it was hand-digging a well, installing a furnace or building new kitchen cabinets. If he didn't know how to do it, he'd find somebody who did and learn from them. For many of his projects, I was his not-so-willing laborer. But now I'm happy with the memories.

When I was eight years old, my dad gave my sister and me "new" bicycles for Christmas. Actually, he put them together from junkyard parts that he hand-welded. They looked great to me, even if I had a hard time to learning to ride mine. He was impatient when it came to teaching me how to do things. If I didn't get it right away, he'd get angry or bored. I eventually mastered bicycle-riding on my own, after he gave up teaching me. The same was true of driving a car and any number of other things.

I was a bookish, awkward kid. Growing up, it seemed as if he knew how to do everything and I would never be as good or smart or clever as he was. It wasn't until I was middle-aged that it dawned on me that I had spent so much of my life trying to show my dad that was I worthy of his affection. Several years of therapy also helped me understand that such yearning isn't unique. Many boys feel inadequate compared to their dads and in striving to be like them or even better they build healthy self-esteem.

Today, I admit that I've become quite a bit like my dad. And, like Al Franken's character Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live, I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and doggone it, people like me. And Happy Father's Day, dad.

Lookin' Back, Texas

Luckenbach, Texas -- Home of Willie Nelson's July 4 Picnic

We didn't quite know what to expect when we arrived in Texas nearly five years ago. Being West Coasters by birth and disposition, we were intimidated by some stereotypes we had heard about. For instance, I expressed some fear that Southern Baptists might abduct us and send us off to a reeducation camp for recalcitrant Biblical relativists. We worried that, if word leaked we had voted for John Kerry, the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth (funded by a Houston gazillionaire) would torpedo our moving van. Dallas is Laura and Dubya's hometown, after all, and Dick Cheney lived here when he ran Halliburton.

Now, as we prepare to move to our new home in Washington State, I laugh when I think about the misconceptions and misplaced anxiety which afflicted us. Texas doesn't come close to living up to the stereotypes that smug Coasters assign to it. We've made lots of great friends here, found it easy to fit right in, and quickly came to adore Tex-Mex food. (I am fearful of serious withdrawals when we hit Puget Sound, where taco shells are sold in a box and salsa is canned.)

I remember the day we moved into our house. The movers took all day to unpack our stuff, and in the process the giant van blocked our neighbor's driveway for several hours. We rang her door bell to apologize for the inconvenience, not quite sure what to expect. Imagine our surprise to find that we had parked ourselves next to a native Texan who had spent 18 years working in Southern California. She had returned to Texas just a few years before. Even more surprising, she was an Episcopalian just like we are! And when we told her we were a gay couple, she didn't bat an eyelash and immediately told us she had friends she wanted us to meet. I saw the stereotypes evaporating before my eyes.

Later, I learned that Dallas had changed dramatically in the past couple decades, as more people moved here from all over the country. During our time here, the city has had a Jewish woman mayor, an African-American district attorney and a Latina sheriff who is also a lesbian. The city can sometimes seem more progressive than our old hometown of Los Angeles, that bastion of Hollywood liberals. Of course there are ignorant, intolerant, stupid people here, but they are as easy to tune out in Dallas as they are in California.

Throughout our years in Dallas, we have continually been surprised by the diversity of people, culture and geography here. It's been impressive to see how seriously this city works on improving its quality of life. The Meyerson Symphony Hall, designed by I.M. Pei, compares well with any in the world. The art museums house some of the finest collections anywhere. And the city is about to complete its downtown Arts Center by opening a new opera house and theater center.

So, dear Texas, please accept my sincere apology for underestimating how friendly, diverse and open-hearted you really are. Sure, you sometimes have swagger and attitude, but I finally figured out that you do it mostly with a wink to impress or scare non-Texans. I will miss your affection and hospitality. Thanks, y'all. And come on up and see us in Washington State.