Monthly Archives: September 2023

Please Let Me Recognize Human Beings Again

I learned something today. At least one of the lessons was a bit intense, but the point was driven home alright. I even have some homework to do. Let me tell you about it.

I had begun my rainy Monday morning with a big old cup of black coffee and some quality one-on-one time with a local friend and co-mentor. We discussed fear, risk, the art of customer service, and more. It’s important that you know this because I find our coffee sessions enlightening and uplifting. So despite the cool dampness and on-again-off-again sprinkles from above, I had gotten off on a positive spin and this may well have made a substantial difference in the events that followed.

Less than an hour later, I drove my wife to her appointment at a wound care practice in nearby Joliet. The office is a remarkably busy place that emphasizes the importance of punctuality whenever scheduling an appointment and at every opportunity thereafter. The staff calls in their patients two and three at a time. Karen had already gone in and I was occupying myself as I usually do, by working through my unread emails, when a gentleman limped in, under his own power, had a few words at the reception window, and then took a seat in the waiting room, talking the whole time.

Something wasn’t right about him. He was an older man, right around my age, with salt-and-pepper hair and a grayish beard. He wore shorts and loose-fitting mesh slip-on shoes with the backs folded down. He wore no socks, but both his ankles were wrapped in some sort of white cloth bandages that continued down and around his heels. Whatever wounds he had were down in that region. I hadn’t paid attention to a word the man said, but he never seemed to stop talking. I buried myself in my work at hand, seldom looking up from my phone. That is until the man got up again and limped back to the reception window.

That was an unusual move. Nobody goes back to the reception window at that place. Now the man’s voice was escalating and was soon so loud that even I could understand what he was saying, whether I was actively listening or not. Over and over again, he exclaimed, “Are you kidding me?” At one point he slammed his hands on the window counter and began physically leaning into the reception workstation space. The man grew louder and more agitated. “I don’t believe this! I was just half an hour late and now you won’t see me! I’m in so much pain! Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t hear what the reception staff was saying in response. His rant had grown increasingly repetitive.

After a few more minutes, the man straightened up and was no longer leaning into the reception workspace. “This place sucks,” he announced before turning to walk away. Then he turned toward me, still sitting on the opposite side of the room. “And you!” He pointed a shaky hand at me and began limping across the room toward me. “You motherfucker! I sat there trying to talk to you and all you did was ignore me!” There wasn’t another soul in the waiting room. I looked up at his face. When he was sitting, he had been in a corner down the row of seats from me. As I mentioned, he had never stopped talking, but I had no idea he was ever speaking to me. I could feel his anguish. Call it empathy, call it decades of learning and teaching others to diffuse angry calls from customers and vendors, call it whatever you want, but when I looked up, I did not see anger in that man’s face. All I could see, hear, and feel was his frustration and pain. Lots of it. I felt sorry for the man as he limped up, still pointing at me and yelling.

I wasn’t being threatened and I felt no desire to physically engage a man who was nearly crippled by his pain. My heart rate never appreciably increased. I saw no reason to escalate the situation further. Instead, I held up my hand, looked him straight in the eyes, and told him the utter truth. “I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing. I had no idea that you were talking to me. I thought you were on the phone.” We never broke eye contact.

“Oh, no! No! No! I had no idea you were hard of hearing.” The man stopped pointing, took one more step, and grasped my upheld hand. “I’m so sorry, please! I’m in so much pain! God bless you. Please, I’m sorry.” It wasn’t the news of my hearing loss that had changed this man’s demeanor in an instant. It was the realization that there was at least one person in the room who hadn’t disregarded him.

“You’re okay,” I assured the stranger, as he stood over me, still holding my hand, still frustrated, almost sobbing. “We’re just having a rough day here.” He nodded, apologized, and blessed me a few more times before turning and walking out of the waiting room. Things got weirder after that.

The man reappeared at the door, apologized, and blessed me one more time. Then he walked away a second time. Two or three staffers came out to the waiting area. One locked the office door. Another mouthed to me from across the room, “Are you okay?” I raised one hand and nodded my assurance that I was fine. Someone asked whether the back door was locked. They were all petrified.

After a short while, one of them walked out and unlocked the office door again. Moments later, the man returned once more, limping around and still trying to get seen by someone. He sat back down in the waiting area talking about his pain. I looked at him and nodded. No longer perceiving me as part of his problem, he just nodded back at me. Moments after that, four uniformed security guards entered and while they were talking to the gentleman, one of the staffers appeared in the background and silently beckoned me to come in the back with all the others. I complied. Still seated, the man was suggesting to the guards that they could carry him out. Taking his feet out of his shoes, he beckoned the guards to look at the exposed parts of his feet, which were terribly swollen and red with inflammation. I can only imagine what the wrapped parts looked like. I sensed he was receiving no sympathy from the guards and wasn’t going to get any.

Everyone was standing together in the back hallway looking really frightened when I walked back there. More than one staffer asked me if I was okay. I told them that I absolutely was but that I’d felt sorry for the guy. Still, I wondered whether any of them had shown that man in the waiting room nearly as much concern as they were showing me. They asked me to join my wife in her examining room and again, I complied. In defense of the staffers, and probably the doctors hiding back there somewhere, I’m sure they had all been polite and professional, doing everything according to policy. They were not the bad guys. It’s just that I’m not positive there was a bad guy. By the time we left, the man and the guards were gone.

Oscar Wilde wrote, “Experience is the hardest kind of teacher. It gives you the test first and the lesson afterward.” From the wound care center, Karen and I drove back to Plainfield, stopping at our local Meijer to pick up some scrips and various sundries. Afterward, while I was breaking down and loading up Karen’s mobility scooter, affectionately named K-9, a familiar cart jockey walked up and began talking to me. This young man has always been people-friendly, inquisitive, and chatty. Some teenagers seem to have these qualities, while many do not. It has long been my experience that most cart jockeys don’t even make eye contact, let alone initiate a conversation, so this kid tends to stand out. It is through these unanticipated encounters, however, that one gradually gets the sense this young gentleman may be an individual with cognitive delay, doing menial tasks for which he has been deemed qualified, all while displaying a personality that points to something greater.

He displayed a great interest in the way Karen’s scooter could be disassembled. “I didn’t know they could come apart,” he said, looking over the base, seat, and battery. Technically, Karen’s scooter can be broken down further, but in those three pieces, K-9 easily fits in the minivan. In five pieces, the unit will fit into my car’s trunk. But I digress.

On some days, my response might have been limited to a quick “yep,” while hurrying to get done and move on. But after my earlier encounter, I was more inclined to go ahead and give this young man a few minutes of my time, the same as any other human being would be entitled. I explained that not all of these scooters come apart, especially the bigger ones. He went to pick up the portable battery compartment and I cautioned him that it was the heaviest piece of the rig. He hesitated and then proceeded to lift the black box with a little more respect for its heft. As he walked off to continue his work, I got the sense that he had appreciated our conversation. I’m sure not everybody in that parking lot affords him that much dignity.

Yes, I learned something today, mainly about myself, and now I have some homework to do. First and foremost, I realized that while I encounter many people on any given day in my life. I need to recognize them as human beings while I’m at it. Not only that but I need to appreciate them as such. Some folks out there may act like real assholes at first glance. Others may seem downright crazy. Some may seem a bit slow. Some have anger issues. I drive in Chicagoland traffic and sometimes I can feel the stress coming off some of my fellow drivers. Maybe some are in pain, physical or otherwise. Of course, none of them has the right to hurt others, but all are human beings, just like you and me.

Second, it’s true that my hearing is less than great. Some of it was missing from birth and I killed off a good bit more over the decades with my loud music, motorcycling, and other elements of my lifestyle. As a result, it is my obligation to be more aware and observant when I am out and about in the world, so that if and when I encounter someone in need, I will recognize them sooner. To be cognizant of one’s environment is to enjoy it more, to move in greater safety, and to be of benefit to others.

You know, I’ve never considered myself to be above any other human being, regardless of social stature, education, race, religion, sock color, whatever. But what do I convey to other human beings via my words or actions? We all communicate to those around us with our words, our body language, and for those who can sense it, our energy. I need to examine my habits and rework them as necessary to ensure my own message is clear.

Finally, what have I done to improve myself lately? And in light of that, who am I to judge anybody else? Hmmm.

Okay, time to get to work. As always, thanks for hanging with me.

One Less Museum

As I do most Saturdays, on the morning of January 28 of this year, I received an email from the National Motorcycle Museum in Anamosa, Iowa. This email was a little bit different, though. In fact, this one stopped me in my tracks. The subject line read, “National Motorcycle Museum closing its doors.” Just like that, with a period at the end for finality. The email told of the museum’s financial struggles and went on to explain that, “As is proper with closing non-profits, the Museum is using professional counsel during the process.” I’m not sure why that sentence was deemed necessary. Owners of loaned motorcycles had already been contacted, a tentative closing date of September 5 had been set, and after that, motorcycles owned by the museum would be auctioned off, along with much of the Parham Collection, to pay bills. I sat in silence.

For those of you not already familiar with the name, John and Jill Parham of Anamosa, Iowa went into business in 1979, selling motorcycle parts out of the back of a van. That business became J&P Cycles, a highly successful business that grew from swap meets to catalogs to digital, with six retail locations across the US, including Anamosa. In 1989, John and Jill founded the National Motorcycle Museum in — you guessed it — Anamosa. John donated his personal collection of 300 motorcycles to the museum. After a prolonged battle with pulmonary fibrosis, which included a lung transplant in 2010, John Parham died in 2017 at the all-too-young age of 62, the same age I am now. Although J&P Cycles is presumably still going strong, I came to think of the museum as John’s legacy.

The original museum was located in the middle of town and then relocated to what appears to have been a former big box retail location just off US Highway 151 on the outskirts. I had been to the original location once, around 2005, and to the latter facility numerous times. I enjoyed going there as well as sharing the experience with others. I rode there with clubs, friends, and family members. I even drove my wife there once and she doesn’t even ride. She liked it.

So on that cold morning in January, I vowed to visit the museum at least one more time before the doors closed for good. As it turns out, I came close to not making that trip. At the end of March, I was downsized out of my job, which had been intended to be my last. That and other setbacks caused my plans to be delayed time and again until finally, there was no more time. The final closing had been set for 5:00 PM Central on Labor Day, September 4, 2023. So on Sunday, August 27, with about a week to spare, I got on my bike and headed for Iowa.

I opted to take the fast route going out, for two reasons. First, because I had wanted to get out there and visit the museum in one day, using the following day to meander home at a more relaxed pace. But also because after numerous years of use, both at home and at work, my lucky coffee mug had all but lost its colorful graphics and needed to be replaced. By planning my one necessary fuel stop at the Iowa 80 – World’s Largest Truck Stop, I might be able to replace it with an identical copy. And that’s exactly what I did. The Iowa 80 is a massive, working truck stop but it’s also a bit of a tourist destination as well. For me, it was the perfect place to refuel, rehydrate, stretch my legs, answer Mother Nature’s call, and buy my new coffee mug, all in one stop.

I need to point out that while Anamosa is just over an hour north/northwest of the Iowa 80, one cannot get there by any interstate highway. Iowa Highway 64 goes there, as do several county roads, and U.S. 151 goes past it. That’s it. So you either know how to get there, carry a map, or use your GPS. Miss Scarlett, my 2012 Victory Vision Tour, doesn’t have on-board navigation, so I sort of memorized the route and occasionally just pulled over and checked my phone to ensure I was still on it. I never got lost and in all candor, I enjoyed plying the two-lane roads more than flying down I-80. Before long, I had arrived.

How can I put everything I felt into words? I was grateful to be there. I was sorry that for the first time, I was there alone, but that choice had been deliberate. I wanted to take as much time as I felt was necessary to make this final visit. And I was downright heartbroken knowing that was walking the premises and viewing the museum’s collections for the very last time. There wasn’t going to be any next time. In fact, some things I had gotten used to seeing were already gone.

Upon arrival, I immediately noticed that the “motorcycles only” area that had been corralled off at the front of the parking lot had been removed. After riding up to where that area had once been, I parked my bike in an ordinary space, just like anywhere else. I commented on this to a couple who had ridden up behind me, but as this was their first (and last) trip to the museum, they had not been aware of the previous configuration. I turned to see two large banners had been tacked up on the building’s face, one promoting the upcoming auction where most of the museum’s contents would be piecemealed out to their respective highest bidders, the other announcing that the building was for sale. “CALL HEATHER,” the latter banner shouted. Visions of a temporary Spirit Halloween shop flooded my mind. But hey, Heather was only doing her job.

Once inside, my heart sank a little deeper as I saw what was left of the gift shop. Only a small fraction of the usual offerings remained, and people were standing in line to buy that. After purchasing my admission ticket to the museum, I turned around and joined the others, picking over the last of the souvenirs, grabbing up a couple of items for myself and stowing them on my bike before touring the museum one last time.

I walked most of the museum twice that day, sometimes examining the exhibits, sometimes interacting with or simply observing the other attendees. Some pieces had already been removed, presumably by their private owners who had already taken back their loans. Most items, however, remained. And most of those had auction tags on them proclaiming “No Reserve.” To me the tags defaced the collections, like so much graffiti.

Many of the attendees seemed to be like me, people returning for a last look at all the history, taking photographs and gazing at certain favorite pieces. I paused while an older gentleman (probably younger than me) captured a motorcycle from several angles. When he looked up and saw me standing there, he smiled and apologized. “No worries,” I replied, “I’m doing the same thing here.” We shared a moment of laughter and continued on our respective ways. A few others seemed to be assesssing pieces and making notes, not doubt for the auction that was to come.

In all I spent a couple of hours doing what I had come to do. On my way out, I glanced at a photo of the late John W. Parham. Only two words came to mind: “Thank you.”

I walked out of the building, took a couple of photos, and headed to a nondescript hotel in Cedar Rapids, where I would spend the night before heading home. So many thoughts swirled in my head as I rode on. Why did the museum have to close in this fashion? Why did it have to close at all? How bad did the finances have to get for things to end this way? Aside from an email I had received in 2020, penned by Jill Parham herself, asking us to mask up and visit the museum once they had been allowed to reopen following the imposed lockdown, I had seen no distress signals. Not once did I see a “save the museum” campaign or special fundraising effort to prevent the impending demise of this organization. Admission to the museum had been $15. I’d have gladly paid $25 or $30, had I known it would make a difference. And although I had never been a museum member, I’d have likely responded to membership drive expressly aimed at keeping the organization alive.

Why? Again and again I asked myself this. Would this even be happening if John were still alive? And at every turn, my conclusion was the same: I don’t know, but it’s over now. I don’t for a moment think that co-founder Jill Parham is in any way happy to see the National Motorcycle Museum go in this fashion, but the local media seems to have indicated that she was ready to let it go. Apparently it is time for us to do the same.

On the following morning, satisfied that I had done what I came to do, I rode home via U.S. Highway 30. The only observations I’ll share about my ride home are as follows. First, that as one gets closer to the Mississippi River following U.S. 30 eastbound, things seem to become increasingly industrial and utilitarian. That is, picturesque scenery gives way to a straight, flat thoroughfare that is heavily traveled by semi-trailer trucks and gravel haulers.

Second, that the city of Clinton, which I have ben visiting since 1967, derives much of its revenue from industries that may at times have quite an effect on the olfactory senses. While my eldest sister attended college in the northwestern portion of Illinois, we would sometimes stay overnight in Clinton when we came to visit. I had my first “not homemade” pizza in Clinton. It’s actually a pretty cool place to visit, when the wid is blowing from the right direction. Google it.

And finally, if you should happen to find yourself in the vicinity of Morrison, Illinois at either breakfast or lunch time, I recommend the Family Chef Restaurant, right on U.S. 30. It’s a simple place, the staff there is delightfully friendly and attentive, the menu has plenty to offer, and from what I experienced, the food is quite good.

The last 30 miles of my return trip reminded me why motorcyclists enjoy getting away from metro areas. Nonetheless, I arrived home safe, relatively sound, and anxious to share my experience with you, my readers. Thanks for hanging with me.