The White House is "our house."

My brother Bob, his wife Sue, and grandson Luke are visiting us from Texas. As part of their trip, Bob had arranged for my wife Nancy, grandson Asher and me to join them for a tour of the White House. I had little in the way of expectations, except a vague feeling of apprehension. Truth be told, I expected to be herded, along with 20 or 30 other people, through a few nondescript rooms, and shown the door. The reality was quite different.

The day had started with me depositing Bob, Sue and Luke to the local Metro Station where they were wisped away for a day of sightseeing in our nation's capital. Nancy, a 6th grade teacher, continued her relentless attack on ignorance in the public schools. I remained at home, hoping to justify my self proclaimed title of trip coordinator. Surprisingly, I managed to get myself, Nancy and Asher to the parking lot of the agreed upon meeting place (ESPN Zone), without a single accident. We turned out attention to the tour.

Mindful of my condition (75 year old PWP -Person with Parkinson's), we took a taxi to the NW gate of the White House. Not so fast, Tourist. I should have said we told the driver to take us to the NW gate. We soon discovered he had dropped us off at the opposite side of the White House, instead. We walked, and walked and walked. I began wishing I was somewhere else. Eventually, we found the proper gate, met our guide and entered the White House Grounds. Although very happy to have made it, I noticed that my backside was dragging.

Thus began one of the most wonderful and, at the same time, draining experiences of my life. Our group consisted of the tour guide and the 6 of us. He was extremely knowledgeable with respect to the White House and the Presidents, as well. He was very personable and made us feel right at home. Indeed, we were constantly telling our two grandsons not to touch anything, and he simply reminded us that this was "our house". And despite the current environment of heightened cynicism and sarcasm, we found ourselves actually believing it.

My only regret was centered around the limitations imposed on me by Parkinson's, and to a lesser extent, my age. Although I wouldn't have missed the tour for the world, the walking and standing required made the tour extremely difficult. I should have brought or rented a wheel chair, and will do so when taking other tours. Another low point was when the batteries in my camera died and I hadn't remembered to bring spares. I like to think that wouldn't have happened a few short years ago. But all things considered, and after a day of rest, I'm ready for my next challenge. Tomorrow we go to Philadelphia to see the King Tut Exhibit at the Franklin Museum.

My Parkinson's support group

The only good thing about having PD is that it allows me to belong to the Upper Montgomery County Parkinson's Disease Support Group and attend their meetings. The group, which meets each Wednesday, is led by, facilitated by, and sometimes even pampered by Donna Dorros. If it ever became necessary, I'm sure she could even do a little badgering, as well. More about Donna, later.

The meetings are held at a local church, start at 10:30AM and end around noon. The first 45 minutes are dedicated to exercises selected by Gerri Carpenter, a fitness trainer, with an emphasis toward the needs of Parkinson patients. Unfortunately, I can't take advantage of these excellent sessions, usually offering some lame excuse about lower back pains. Truth be told, many of the exercises do exacerbate the injuries I've sustained over a lifetime of alternately playing sports and imitating a sloth. Instead, I ride my stationary bike for 30 minutes every other day (to keep the heart doctor away). Of course, water exercise would be perfect for me, except I hate getting wet, other than an occasional shower. But, I digress ....

The last 45 minutes are spent on discussion. Donna brings articles of interest gleaned from the internet, newspapers, magazines or journals and shares them with with the group. The last portion of each meeting provides an opportunity for questions, answers and sharing of concerns.

Attendance varies week to week, depending on the weather, holidays, vacations, illnesses, and occasionally, the phase of the moon. Average attendance is perhaps 15, a mixture of Parkinson patients and Care-givers. I seldom miss a meeting, others rarely show up. And that's OK! The group also has a wide spectrum in terms of severity of the disease and symptoms exhibited.

Donna and her late husband Sidney started the group and she has continued it since his death (from PD). Their experiences with respect to this disease would fill a blog or two. Suffice to say, her experience, knowledge and empathy make her a most valuable asset for the group. Some of us believe she is at least as knowledgeable about PD medications as most General Practitioners. Donna has a sympathetic ear, a database-like brain, a ready smile, a shoulder to the wheel, and her nose to the grindstone (now there's a weird mental image). There's a rumor going around that she is an angel in disguise. We all appreciate her very much.

Note to support group members: I want to thank you for making me feel welcome. I've especially enjoyed meeting Frank, Virginia, Lester, Rae, Lucy, Ronnie, Margaret, and of course, Donna. I look forward to future meetings and, ultimately, to the day when we become part of the final eradication of our common enemy, Parkinson's Disease.

My Friend, Sylvan.

Sylvan was the last in a series of cats who have owned me during my lifetime. When he died, a decade or so ago, at the grand old age of nineteen, I didn't have the heart to look for another cat who'd have me. It simply became too hard to keep saying, "Goodbye, old friend!" Of course, it's entirely possible that I might have preceded the new cat into the great unknown, but let's not dwell on that.

Sylvan, as you can see in this photo, is dead serious with respect to his duties as watchcat.

This story first appeared in the Montgomery Journal, Rockville, Md., and later on the Trumbull and Core radio show, WMAL-TV, Washington, D.C.

Note to readers: I realize most of you will be unable to read the small print. If you click on the picture, it's likely you'll be rewarded with print that is readable to the naked eye. If this doesn't work for you, let me know (leave a comment or email me). Otherwise, enjoy!

Radio Daze and Knights - T&C and Me.

To be honest, I'm just sitting here wondering how I can justify the use of this title, clever as it might be, without having a clue as to what it means. If I figure it out, I'll let you know. Until then .....

Gather around, boys and girls, and I'll tell you a story. Once upon a time, in the last half of the 20th century, there was a radio program called The Trumbull and Core Show (T&C). It graced the airways of WNAL-AM in the Washington, D. C. area for more than 20 years. I began listening to Bill and Chris in the early 1980's. If memory serves, their format then was "Weather, News and Music", but they seemed to be encouraging greater listener participation.

I became a small cog in this juggernaut when I submitted a few short "bits", on the off chance that Bill and Chris could be duped into using the material on their show. I reasoned that my prodigious output as a Letter to the Editor writer (see earlier posts) would serve me well in this new venture. At least, it showed that I could produce quantity, and occasionally, on a good day, quality. Besides, I felt I was at least as funny as some of the people who were already getting on the show. So, during the 1980's and 1990's, I submitted hundreds of bits to T&C. They didn't use everything I sent; I suppose they thought they needed a little time for their own material. This is the first of a disturbing number of instances where they exhibited a real selfish streak.

On the other hand, they seemed to be giving away an enormous amount of free tickets to movies, plays, concerts, and meals at local eateries. I was incredibly successful at reaching T&C quickly when they'd say, for example, "The next five callers will receive two free meals from Red Lobster." In fact, it wasn't long before I became known as "David from Gaithersburg" because of this uncanny knack. So, between sending them bits and winning prizes, I spent an awful lot of time communicating with Bill and Chris. Indeed, Chris seemed to feel I sometimes called just for the hell of it.

Suffice to say this is the first in a series of posts describing my adventures in T&C-land. In addition to excerpts from "The Best of Trumbull and Core and Siltman" album, I'll tell you about the "Gross National Parade", Trumbull and Core University" and other highlights from this very special time in our nation's history.

Your faithful blogger will attempt to bring audio clips into future posts on this and other topics. In other words, if I can generate the required brainpower to incorporate sound into my blog , we'll have sound. Take it from me, the bits are much more enjoyable with Chris and Bill reading them.

Oh, yes! The title. Well, the post is about radio, the show was presented by two wild and crazy guys on weekdaze and T&C were like the Knights of the round table, except their desks were rectangular. OK! If you think of anything better, leave a comment or get your own blog.

Mr. Stiltman scores again

More often than one might think, my last name gets mangled when people try to pronounce or spell it. It's amazing how many variations I've encountered for a basically simple name, i.e., Silt - man. Once a guy looked at my name and spelled it out, "S i l t m a n - Stiltman, right?"

It's especially disheartening to get an article published, only to have it ruined because my name was misspelled. Some decades ago I mentioned this problem to an acquaintance who was an editor for the Washington Star and handled the letters they received. He suggested I write a piece about my propensity for writing letters to the editor because he had an idea for an inside joke.

My copy of the letter published in the Washington Star is so old that it is almost illegible (see link). I will reproduce it here and reveal the inside joke at the end. I have left out perhaps 25% of the letter for the sake of brevity and to minimize boredom.


Mr. Stiltman scores again.

At last count, over a hundred of my letters to the editor have been published in the communities in which I've lived. This seems a good time to reflect on some of the highlights of this unusual (some might say dubious) achievement, and perhaps even to ponder why a person would pursue such an endeavor.
There was, at least initially, a lot of righteous indignation, coupled with a conspicuous lack of courage. My first published letter, for example, appeared in the El Paso Times in the early 1950's above a pseudonym. While living in Montgomery, Alabama in the late 1950's, I finally mustered the nerve to use my own name.
Years later, in the Washington, D.C. area, the element of apprehension (which nut is going to call me this time?) was largely replaced by other feelings. As each letter appeared in print, I experienced a kind of instant ego-gratification (there's bit of a kick in seeing one's letter next to, say, Henry Kissinger's) as well as a feeling of participation in the political and social issues of the day.
There was even an occasional congratulatory call. Ironically, this often tended to make me drop my guard and get badly zinged. A case in point was the fellow who began, "It's wonderful we live in a country where everyone is free to express their opinions..." But he added, "No matter how perverted." It took a while to recover from that one.
In those days,I attempted to make my point, not in a deadly serious way, but with humor (although I sometimes slipped, none to subtly, into sarcasm). Being somewhat enamored of the better political cartoonists, I suppose I saw myself doing for the Letters to the Editor column what those guys were doing with their cartoons. My intent was, I'm sure, to slay the dragons of intolerance and ignorance, not with the heavy sword of preachments, but rather with the sharp rapier of humor and wit.
Shedding the more extravagant of my illusions of grandeur, I then introduced new wrinkles into what had become a hobby or diversion as much as anything else. For example, I had the same letter published in two and then three papers on the same day. Near the end of this orgy of self-indulgence, two of my letters appeared in the same paper on the same day.
Looking back, I feel I was motivated by several things: idealism, vanity, anger and perhaps just a desire to communicate. At least I'd like to think I've risen above the childish motive of simply wanting to get my name into print.
By the way, if you print this, be sure to spell my name correctly.

David Siltman

Note to reader: I find it amusing to look at the last sentence and then back at the headline. Even funnier is that the editor took pains to insure that the misspelling actually made the final version. Unfortunately,someone kept trying to correct it, but they finally got it wrong.

Marriage # 1: the Texan and the New Yorker

While in the army, I attended an eight week course in Fort Slocum, N.Y. My army buddy Howie, native New Yorker and lawyer in real life, took leave to coincide with my arrival in the Big Apple. He and his wife invited me to stay with them and gave me a tour of the city shorty before I reported for duty. For one born and raised in a small town, this was heady stuff, indeed.

Since the course only met on weekdays, I vowed to spend the rest of my time in the City. This was made possible by the Times Square USO, which provided inexpensive hotel rooms and free entertainment to servicemen. Ever the sophisticate, my first Friday night's choice was a movie.

The next day I was back at the USO hoping to land another free movie. This time, however, a young lady volunteer named Claudette responded to my request by asking if I liked plays. Since I had never even seen a play, I muttered, "Oh, they're OK." or something equally dumb. She persuaded me to see my first Broadway Musical, gratis. I was mightily impressed and decided this was how I was going spend the rest of my time in NYC.

The next weekend I was back at the USO, hoping to enjoy another play and perhaps another chat with Claudette. Well, she was there and had a plan. If I was agreeable, she would slip me an extra ticket. I would hang around until she could leave, we'd grab a bite to eat, and see a play. I remember thinking, "These New Yorkers really know how to get things done!"

The next day we did the "get two tickets, grab a bite and see a play" thing again. This time I added a new wrinkle. I asked where she lived. New Jersey, she replied. Mr. Cool offhandedly inquired, "How far is New Jersey from here?" She replied, "Oh, about 12 minutes on the bus." I could hardly contain my glee at learning I would not have to spend hours taking her home, in case we ever had a real date. So we did the "get two tickets, grab a bite and see a play" thing, with the "Then I'll take you home" thing thrown in for good measure.

Weekend followed weekend as I racked up ten (yes, 10) Broadway plays in eight weeks. I also met Claudette's folks. I remember they were amazed at how much milk I could put away at one setting. I, in turn, was fascinated by the way they enhanced their communication by varying the volume of their voices and using their hands for emphasis.

By the time I returned to Texas, we were planning a future together. Claudette and her mom flew down to meet my folks. This was a bit of culture shock for all concerned. As you may have guessed, this small town was not exactly a hotbed of modern ideas and current fashion. So when Claudette appeared in town one day wearing short shorts, it caused a minor uproar (did I mention the shorts were short?) But overall, the trip went well and included a drive to a Florida beach. I remember thinking that our little group represented quite a diversity of mores and manners. The highlight of the trip was the marriage proposal and the presentation of the ring which my old army buddy Bill had helped me pick it out at the PX.

Our wedding was scheduled for the following February, a few weeks after my scheduled discharge. Unfortunately, I ended up in the hospital with an ailment (never diagnosed) and the wedding was postponed. Howie the lawyer not only sprung me from the hospital and the army, he was my Best Man. The honeymoon, if memory serves, consisted of a seeing a few plays and looking for a job (Claudette already had one).

We ended up with jobs we weren't thrilled with, so when a position involving a series of moves around the country presented itself, we were ready to go. I remember telling Claudette I'd be working with computers. "What's that?" she asked. "I think they're some kinda big, smart, fast adding machines," I opined.

It was a fun job in many ways. Although we were transferred every year or so, we always had friends because we moved as a team. We lived in Massachusetts, New Jersey (Claude was born there), Michigan and Alabama. But this lifestyle got old and I ended up with IBM in the Virginia suburbs. Claudette began a career in retailing, and managed a number of shops in the Washington area.

But somehow, someway, our marriage developed serious problems. It's hard to pinpoint what went wrong; unmet expectations, growing apart, who knows? The last few years were especially rough, leaving scars on us all. We tried hard, and we probably broke the record for reconciliation attempts. But although no one should end a marriage frivolously, it's imperative to know when to fold. We started strong but couldn't finish. We came close, but no cigar.

PD: Coming to grips with my condition

This is an update to my 12/10/06 post. Unable to get a recommendation from my doctors for the chronic pain in my lower back and right knee, I did the following: Since at least part of the problem is non-parkinsonian, I made an appointment for an MRI of my back and XRAYs of my knee. The MRI should enable the surgeon to determine if surgery would likely improve the situation. The Xrays will provide the same information concerning my knee. The rotator cuffs remain in limbo, awaiting their turn. I feel at ease with this plan, so we'll shuffle the cards and see what falls out (a rather poor analogy, under the circumstances).

My current PD medications are working as well as could be expected. The theory is that if I take the proper amount of Sinemet (augmented by Comtan) at more or less equal intervals during the day, the effects (more dopamine produced) should last until the next dose. Otherwise, a period of OFF time occurs until the next dose takes effect.The good time before and after OFF periods is called ON time.

Early on, I asked my doctor if he thought I experienced OFF times. He replied, "If you have to ask, you probably haven't experienced it." Like most aspects of PD, people experience OFF time in different ways. I usually feel anxious, a little confused and begin sweating (even stranger, I often get a chill, as well). This is an excellent hint from my body to my brain that I need more medication. I don't know about you, but all this OFF and ON stuff is making me feel like a light switch. Suffice to say, if I take each and every one of my 16 daily PD pills at the exact times specified, my condition should remain fairly stable. If this sounds a little grim, well, everything is relative.

Surprisingly,I now appreciate life as much or more than ever. As I told Nancy today, "I can endure a lot during the day if I'm getting a reasonable amount of sleep at night. For example, for a week or so, I've slept very well, getting 8 or more hours a night. I can't tell you how wonderful that is. But I try not to get too optimistic, especially when I notice that I'm writing this at approximately 3AM.