Jury Tales - Part Two - Give a Little

Roughly 15 years ago I was summoned for jury service. At that time, I reported on the required morning, read magazines all day and then was told to call the next morning to see if I my services would be required again.

They weren't.

Summoned again in 2013, I fully expected this jury duty service to be similar to my service from the 90s.

It wasn't. Not even a little.

Collecting ALL the Stickers!

But some of what made it different was entirely my doing.

Monday morning, at the initial jury pool assemblage, John Barrett, Milwaukee County's elected Clerk of Circuit Court, explained the rules and procedures for jury candidates. Near the end of his instruction, he added that we should approach him with any ideas that we have to make our time in the jury pool more productive or enjoyable. He said a person approached him 8 years ago and suggested, "We are here all day with little to do. Why don't you arrange the opportunity for jury pool members to donate blood while they are waiting?"

Thus a great public service tradition was born. Every Monday for the last 8 years, the Blood Center of Wisconsin has been bringing their mobile unit to the Milwaukee County Courthouse and collecting this life-sustaining human motor oil.

Following Mr. Barrett was a representative from the Blood Center. I cannot remember her name, but she gave an impassioned plea for donation.  By the time she was done, I would've donated a gallon right on the spot.

Embarrassingly, I have never donated before, but I recall my many times in the NICU at Children's Hospital seeing my nephews and niece require transfusions. I knew then that donating was the right thing to do and my opportunity to give would never be more convenient than while whiling away the hours waiting for jury selection.

So I finally decided to give a half-pint. The opportunity was too convenient not to. I'm one of those who darn near faints at the thought of a needle going into my arm. I always will be. So I approached my apprehension with more of a game-like mentality: conquer my fear; beat my foe.

I recently read a few stories that one never really lives a fulfilled life unless they face their fears and challenge them. Like, if you  have a fear of public speaking, the best thing to do is get out there and speak publicly. My blood-giving challenge was similar: overcome my irrational fear of having a needle stuck in my arm. I call my fear "irrational," because I saw 2-pound babies have multiple tubes, needles and sensors penetrate their epidermis, dermis and hypodermis frequently -- if they can do it, any fear a 46-year old healthy person would have is clearly irrational.

I let myself become subservient to the process: questionnaires, waiting, the finger prick and the blood pressure test. The latter which reveals that I had better see a doctor soon. My blood pressure, it's not low; it never is. In fact, at first my pressure was too high. They would not allow me to give blood unless my pressure readings descended. The nurse gave me 5 minutes to relax and take some deep breaths. After 5, she took it again and fortunately it had come down enough for me to proceed with my donation.

Squeeze!

Finally they led me to a portable cot. Again, a few questions about my allergies to iodine, if I had any. With no allergies to report, the nurse turned over my left arm and said, "Woowee! We like them veins!"

I'm not sure if this is the worst thing she could have said or the best. To the former point, this made me think of my veins and a needle penetrating them, which gave me the willies and nervous sweats all the more. To the latter point, it cracked me up. I mean really cracked me up. With my nerves jittery already, a little humor made me laugh like a Henny Youngman one-liner.

While I was still laughing, she quickly inserted her appliances and before I had a chance to Instagram a picture of the process, she had collected her pint. (Note: a small benefit of high blood pressure is I donate faster than the average guy.)

Simple. Painless. Much different than the other times I've lost a half-pint of blood - which typically occurred with blunt severity and in far less sanitary conditions. (Oh, State Colleges of Wisconsin.)

Thank you to the person who suggested this idea to Mr. Barrett 8 years ago. I think it was a great one and I appreciate the opportunity to finally not have had a reason not to give. Having finally donated, I will do my best to make a commitment to do this at least a few times per year.

I also appreciated the Otis Spunkmeyer muffin and tomato juice chaser. (Free lunch!)

Save lives. Donate blood. If I can do it, anybody can.

Jury Tales - Part One - Ice Breaker

A quick story from my recent jury service...

After we--13 complete and anonymous strangers--were selected from a subsample set of 30 candidates, we sat around a rectangular office table in the jury deliberation room is complete silence. Each of us wondering, "What's next?"

The only thing that could be heard was the light tapping of thumbs on mobile touchscreens and, occasionally, the heavy, deep sigh of exasperation.

The quietness stifling, I broke the ice:

A grasshopper walks into a bar. 

The bartender says, "Hey, we've a drink named after you here." 

The grasshopper replies, "You've got a drink named Steve?!"

And three days later, my peers elected me Presiding Juror.

Tales from a Los Angeles Cab

I made a new friend today. His name is Manohar Lal. He is from Punjab, India and he has lived in the United States for 10 years.

He drives a cab.

Mainly, the cab that took me from the my hotel in Anaheim to Los Angeles International Airport.

I met Mano (his shortened name) a few nights ago when one of my associates drove us to a seafood house a few miles from our hotel. We enjoyed a good time pairing raw crustaceans, fresh fish and California craft beers. We all did. This includes the guy who drove us there.

Being the responsible adults we have become, rather than drive back, we hired a cab. I hopped in the front seat alongside the cab driver. The driver was Mano.

We exchanged quick hellos and Mano, being an adept businessman as well as a good cab driver, quickly asked, "While you guys are in town, do you need a ride anywhere else?" Two of us chimed up and said we need rides to the local airports. My associate needed a lift to Orange County's John Wayne airport, and me, a ride to LAX a couple of days later.

Mano and I exchanged phone numbers. A day prior to pick-up, he gave me a call to let me know I was still on his schedule and this morning, 15 minutes early, he called me and let me know he was at the Registration area and ready.

Mano loaded my bags in the cab and told me to jump in the front seat. Very un-Los Angeles like we flew up Highway 5 with little traffic. The total ride to LAX was only 30 minutes and the whole time we chatted about his life in India and his new life in America. Anytime you get to hear these types of stories, they're always fascinating and Mano's was no different.

But one part of his story in America really touched me.

Mano provides rides for the homeless and those residing in homeless shelters. He doesn't do it for free -- the shelters give him a voucher for payment, but as you can imagine, the homeless aren't exactly big tippers, so there is definitely altruistic virtue in Mano's efforts.

One day he picked up a woman from the shelter. She said neither her or her husband were employed and their children were suffering and crying from hunger. They were penniless. Mano explained to her that God had given them strong bodies and good health and no matter how difficult, they must find a way to provide for their children. "No child can be permitted to suffer," he told her and as she exited the cab, Mano gave her some money to help get her children a meal.

Considering Mano earlier told me that he came to the US with no money in his pocket and that he had lost anything he gained in a failed restaurant venture, that he was able to donate his money was very moving.

I can't tell the story with written words as well as Mano told it to me, but after his story, I was left verklempt. Mano is such a decent, caring person that I feel a little guilty. Not that I'm not caring -- I am. I just don't have many examples to share that are like Mano's.

I've got Mano's mobile number. If you find yourself headed to Los Angeles and need a ride, contact me. I'll get you in touch with the best cabbie I've ever met.

Milwaukee Superheroes?

In the past week or so, we have seen some extreme weather in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. One day we enjoyed an unseasonably warm 60 degrees and three days later it was -4.  And in between, a wide variety of precipitation and wind.

It was a meteorologist's dream week. Unless, of course, the meteorologist doesn't like driving in dangerous "wintry mix" conditions that they so often describe.

In the midst of all  this crazy weather, I've repeatedly spied a couple who appear completely undeterred in letting Old Man Winter hold them down. They amaze me. They ride their bikes (I'm assuming to work) in all kinds of weather.

Let me repeat: All. Kinds. Of. Weather.

This dynamic duo shares the same route that I take to work daily -- from somewhere in Wauwatosa or Western  Milwaukee down 44th St. to Selig Drive and then along the Hank Aaron Trail that parallels Canal Street.

To the right are a couple of shots I snapped of the pair as I saw them last week.The top picture was snapped while they rode east along the Hank Aaron Trail. The temperature? Minus 2 degrees Fahrenheit.

The bottom picture captures them riding on 44th St. in slippery slush and snow. It was also very windy at the time.

I have been able to take these pictures from my car safely, with no other traffic nearby and in broad daylight. but I've seen these two riding in nighttime snowstorms or rain where taking a camera phone picture would not only have been not safe, but generally not even possible.

A few years ago, Milwaukee's shirtless, make-believe hero "The Milverine" got a lot of press and social media attention, however, since then, I've noticed a good number of other Milwaukeeans could receive the same honor. They're not heroes necessarily, but they're folks steadfastly living life according to a firm set of closely held principles and beliefs. These two bikers certainly fit into that category. I admire their stick-to-itiveness and heartiness. In fact, so much so that if I ever learn who they are, I'll buy them a nice, cold beer.

Or at the very least, a rich cup of hot chocolate. I bet hot chocolate is more their style. ;)

Correcting "The Corrections"

I am 85% finished with a book that I am disliking and am now only reading it to complete it. It was an Amazon Kindle freebie. "Dead Woman Walking: was an innocent woman hanged?" It started out fine, and I enjoyed the imagery of 19th century rough-and-tumble Australian mining towns, but the court testimony chapters killed the momentum of the read. Now I'm reaching for the finish line like God's hand reached for Adam's on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

But this isn't my worst example. A couple years ago I was reading Jonathan Franzen's highly regarded novel "The Corrections."

I hated it.

I was reading it poolside while on vacation in Riviera Maya a few years ago. Over halfway through the book, I nearly threw my softcover version into the water. "I hate this book!" I told my wife. "I don't care if every single one of these people die a slow and painful death. They're all despicable!"

I refrained from throwing the book in the sea and it returned with us only to find itself donated to St. Vincent de Paul a year later.

I never finished it. Never cared. Although I do wonder: possibly those characters developed a rare and incurable deadly form of toenail fungus that slowly rendered their ability to control normal bodily functions and they defecated themselves to a miserable and malodorous death?

In other words: Greatest. Finish. Ever.

Probably not, but at least one can wishful think.

What's the farthest you've ever read a book then stopped? What was the book and why did you stop?

P.S. - Don't include The Bible. I'm still on page one myself. ;)

It's Not Easy Being Me

Sometimes it's not easy being me.

A coworker, who lives in Guadalajara, Mexico, brought these lovely little woven gift baskets filled with Mexican candy during his recent visit to our facility. When I was thanking him (and his wife) for their thoughtfulness, I also explained, "... but I'm having one heck of a time getting the paper off of these little caramels."

He said, "Mike, that caramel is between two wafers of Sacramental Bread. You're not supposed to peel it off. You're supposed to eat it."

How's that for a two-fer? I managed to offended my guest AND my first ever taste of the body of Christ was in the form of a caramel sandwich cookie.

See what I mean? It's not easy being me.

;)

Garfield. The President No One Remembers, But Should

I'm probably the only person in the world who read "The Hunger Games" and "Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine, and the Murder of a President" back-to-back and I gotta say, sorry teens, "Destiny" was better.

The President in the title of the book is James A. Garfield--the US's 20th. Garfield was tragically shot by a lunatic--Charles J. Guiteau, a whack who even lived a number of years of his life in Grafton, Wisconsin--ending his Presidency after only a 4-month stint. And get this, Garfield didn't even RUN for President. He was just so damn extraordinary and such a skilled orator, that his peers (Republicans) chose him and then the public overwhelmingly elected him. Can you imagine THAT happening today? I can't.

Had Garfield been able to fulfill his visions, black Americans might have achieved the freedoms dreamed by Martin Luther King, Jr. ... 80 years before Mr. King even dreamt them! Garfield was a staunch abolitionist in his time and an ardent supporter of equal rights. If there was any good thing about his death, following the bitter Civil War with a nation still divided, Americans mourned as one at his passing.

Okay, I gushed enough about my new-found American hero; find out for yourself: I highly suggest you add to your reading list the sad, but very interesting tale of James A. Garfield authored by Candice Millard.