Among the Great Books -- Not!

I have been slogging through a book for a couple weeks now. I do not use the word slogging loosely. Reading this book in like walking through deep mud in loose shoes. You go so far and then must go back to find something you lost.  Whenever you pause to look around you aren't sure where you are. Still you slog on determine to find some solid ground somewhere.

So why am I reading this thing?

Because I promised a friend I would.

No, he didn't write the book. He's a much better writer than the author who did.

I really don't like critiquing other people's work. When I have engaged in doing so I look for the positives as much as possible. After all, I'm no prospect for any literary prizes myself. Still, I do know some basic dos and don'ts about the trade. Unfortunately, this author seems to get the dos and don'ts confused.

One illustration stands out that represents the entire problem with the piece. In this instance, the author has described his panic at finding his young son missing after the boy's school dismissed early because of snow. Finding his child is not at the school, he says this:

"Noting that cell phones didn't exist, we drove to grandma's house..."

This is truly amazing. This person took a moment to reflect on something not yet existing. Now it is always a little difficult to know for certain where in time this person is, but this particular instance appears to be around 1977. The first commercially available cell phone appeared in 1983, but certainly many times in the mid-seventies during a crisis, say a flat tire on a back road, our first thought was noting that cell phones didn't exist.*

Sadly, the author has a plethora of interesting material that could have been woven into a gripping read.  He would have been better served if he had been exposed to some honest critiques before publishing.
Noting that writing classes do exist, he should have driven to one.

*Technically, by the mid-1970s a cell phone did exist. It had been first used on April 3, 1973. It weighted two pounds and cost $3,995.  As stated, the first commercially sold cell phones were made in 1983 by DynaTAc (called mobile phones at the time). The battery would allow for a half-hour conversation before recharging, which took ten hours to accomplish. 

In the Danger Zone

I woke up this morning in the danger zone. I feel better.

I feel a little better, that is.

You know that time when ill that you know the fever broke, the hills crested and wellness is just around the corner.

In other words, the Danger Zone.

I'm still blowing my nose and hacking now and again. My legs are merely trembly rather than wobbly when I stand. I feel much better in comparison to yesterday, which means I am on the cusp of deceiving myself leading to disasters results such as a resurrection of my symptoms.


I felt the forward scouts of this germ invasion last Friday evening. My wife was suffering for what seems most of the month with her own battleground of coughs and sneezes. I arrogantly believed I would escape notice by the enemy, foolish man that I am. But her throes of agony awoke me late Friday evening and I left the bedroom to her, both of us hoping the NiteQuil would soon dope her to snooze land. I retreat to the computer across the hall.

Immediately I detected this slight roughness in my throat. It wasn't sore, just as they say, scratchy. Was something up? Oh, I hoped not. I did not want to be sick. That is a silly statement, I supposed. Who wants to be sick?

Besides it was inconvenient. I had commitments, I had responsibilities and I had expectations. It was only a few days until Christmas. I wanted to enjoy Christmas. I looked forward to the first Christmas Eve Service at my new church (literally new, new to me and new to itself having only begun last August).

When my eyes popped open at 4:00 AM Saturday morning I could feel that threat in my throat, a bit more insistent I thought, but perhaps once up it would fade away. Sometimes it does. I didn't have time to worry or fret about it. My daughter and I were heading out the door at 5 AM to head north to Toms River, New Jersey to aid in hurricane relief. It was to be only a half day this week.

It was cold and windy. We worked until just after 1:00. I forgot about my throat, but I did run out of steam quicker that day. I couldn't sustain much push as I tried to loose stubborn floor tiles that had to come up and off a floor. I kept wanting to stop, to gulp some water, anything but push that scraper bar into those stubborn, resistant squares beneath my feet.

My wife and I went out to dinner Saturday evening. It was a very chill evening, but I wore a light jacket, figuring I would only be running between the car and the restaurant with minimal exposure to the elements. Unfortunately, on the way home my wife asked to stop at a supermarket because she needed some additional ingredients for Christmas dinner. She had originally planned to go on Sunday, but decided as long as we were out...well you know. It was only a few things, she said, she would hurry.

My wife and I live in some kind of parallel universe of time. If I go to the supermarket for a few things in my particular universe it means ten-fifteen minutes in and out. If my wife says she just wants to get one thing, let's say some ice cream, then time becomes a 78 rpm record played on a 331/3 turntable. If it is a half-hour its fast, but count on at least 45 minutes. She says a few things, then watch an hour pass. And so I waited in the car, huddled in the car, for nearly an hour in my too light jacket.

Surprisingly, Sunday morning I didn't feel so bad. I did sleep much longer than usual. I chalked that up to the work up in Seaside Heights.  My throat still had that scratch, but it seemed no worse. I was confident I was going to escape the war - until about noon.

I had agreed to video the sermon and I guess I was so focused on keeping my camera on the pastor's face and not his feet, that I took no notice of my deteriorating body. But after I came home I sure took note. By Sunday night I was miserable.

It did not improve overnight. I was a mess on Monday. I did not feel like moving. I was coughing until my lungs felt more outside my chest than inside. I couldn't swallow, I couldn't breathe.

My wife, meanwhile, was not really over her own bout, but she was busy preparing her dishes for Christmas. By afternoon she was tired and stressed. She certainly didn't want to make dinner. She didn't  even want to pick up something. She wanted to get out of the house and be waited on and relax. So we went out to dinner and not to the Christmas Eve Service.

It snowed fiercely as we drove to our favorite restaurant just over the Pennsylvania border a few miles. Surprise, surprise, when we arrived we discovered they were closing at 6:00 that night, Christmas Eve you know. They gave us menus, but we declined because I didn't want them held up because of us when they were ready to go home for the Holiday. We left and found a Lone Star that was open. But I was on the verge of collapse by the time we ate. I went home, chugged a NiteQuil and went to bed. I would not have been fit company at our Christmas Eve Service.

Thus I was ill over Christmas. I got no succor that day either. I got up and cleaned the whole house top to bottom to spare my wife any additional stress or bother. And now today, Thursday I do believe, two days past, I feel better. It puts me in the danger zone. As stated, I feel better; I don't feel great. But I have to fight my tendency not to wait the disease out. I am always too quick to try and take back my normalcy, to rush into the morning cleaning and scrubbing of the kitchen as is my daily habit, a chore followed by a four or five mile walk in the park.

No, I am forcing myself to do as little physical activity as possible today and let the cure take place. The enemy is on the run, I know. Give it a day or two of retreat and I will once again be fit and firm, that is if I keep my head, and body, down in the danger zone.

I'm NOT Loving It

I'm of two minds about this, which I will explain later.

Don't you just admire the razor sharp minds of the rich businessman, always looking for ways to do good. I mean what could do more good than jack up your profit by taking Thanksgiving and Christmas away from your minimum wage employees. Why should people be giving thanks to God and enjoying the company of their families when they could be out flipping hamburgers and contributing to the coffers of a big business? Why should they waste time watching the wide-eyed small fries opening their gifts from Santa when their are French Fries to fry?

It is my hope that Mr. Corporate Head slipped on a apron today and went down to the local Scottsdale restaurant to lend a hand. Surely when he calls for 18,000 to give up their Christmas we wouldn't find him sitting sipping a nice Bordeaux from his private wine cellar in front of one of his three fireplaces or perhaps watching Dicken's Christmas Carol being screened on his home theater.  Gee, I wonder how long it'd take the cashier at to save enough to buy a $2,175,000 home on a golf course. Maybe if she or he put away the overtime for working the holidays...of wait, a lot are being asked to work without any bonus pay for a holiday.

Now I said I had two minds about these food joints opening on Christmas. Some things are necessary to open all the time. My daughters worked today, Christmas, at an animal shelter because animals need to be cared for everyday. My friend worked at the hotel where he is employed today as well. Of course, in their cases, they volunteered for the duty and they also get paid a bonus for it.

People have to work in hospitals and nursing homes and police stations and other such places. They is no good reason on earth why a Target or a Walmart should be open on days such as this though. People don't die because they can't shop for one day.

Restaurants are a bit more tricky. I remember thinking about this when I was very poor many years ago. Those were the days I use to wander from trolley stop to trolley stop in Philadelphia looking for dropped change so I could buy lunch. I remember walking the deserted city streets on Christmas Day and seeing the restaurants and grocery stores and delis all dark and closed. I wondered where some of the lonely people went to eat on the holiday.

You have a family or friends and a home to go to Christmas is a cozy and bright day. If you are old and alone or down on your luck they may be no such place. It would at least be nice to find a cheap place to get a meal.

But the workers working such places should be volunteering for the duty and getting paid a bonus rate. So my suggestion here, as long as Mr. Corporate Head has assumed the role of Ebenezer Scrooge, is he play it out to the end, when Scrooge saw the light and sent the goose to poor Bob Cratchit. If you open on Christmas, then take the excess profit over a normal day and donate that to some local shelter. And even more, during the day bag up some of those burgers and fries and fish fillets and take them out to the homeless and the joyless and the old couple who can't get out of their apartment anymore.

But that will be difficult to achieve when you keep your heart in your pocketbook.

A Pickup Truck Load of Unmitigated Gall

I come to my Blogger dashboard this fine Christmas Eve day and what do I see?

"1 Comment Waiting Moderation"

It's always nice to get a comment. It tells me someone has read my dibble and even taken the time to say something about it. I quickly open up the comment and read a semi-cryptic message from someone named Frances, with an e, the female form. I have a cousin Francis, but he isn't a she, so I rule him out. I don't have any followers or friends names Frances. Perhaps I am attracting a new audience; perhaps a new recruit to the magical land of Larry.

However, what in the world do they mean with this comment?

"It's fortunate enough that they have their own pickup trucks. Others have to go for a pickup truck rental service just to move their things."

The comment was made on a post I did quite awhile back called  Photographs of Dads and Sons and Pickup Trucks. (You can click on that title if ou wish to read it.) I'll tell you what it was about right here tough. It was about photographs of sons and dads and pickup trucks, duh!

Actually it was a nostalgic piece, perhaps just short of a tribute to my dad. It was a response to a Post by my friend Ronald on his Retired in Delaware Blog.  I was comparing simularities between his relationship with his father and my own to my dad. The only mention of pickup trucks was in the title and this paragraph at the end:


"One other thing, though, in Retired in Delaware's Post is the pickup truck. Funny now, but this is something we saw quite differently.

On the right is my dad's pickup truck (and my teenage shadow taking the photo). My friend, Ron, was humiliated by having to ride in the back of his dad's pickup. I loved riding in the back of this one. That was where I wanted to ride, me and my friend Richard.

We thought it was cool.

There are some stories about that pickup, but for another time."

So why this comment about our dad's being fortunate while others must rent pickups? Did Francis grow up poorer than Ronald and me?  Was Frances jealous of our families enormous bounty of owning a used, battered pickup truck?  I certainly realize there were families worse off than either Ronald or myself.

Or is Frances a sensitive soul concerned about the downtrodden of our world, those underprivileged souls who must put along this world in rented pickup trucks? 

I clicked up Frances' link to find out something about her and this is what I got.

That's right, an ad for Hertz rentals.

My sensitive little Frances turns out to be some pathetic troll toiling for Hertz. What is her profession? Does she sit in a corner of a Hertz back room hunched over a keyboard all day surfing the web for the key word "Pickup Truck"?  This is Hertz idea of a great marketing campaign, sending comments to any blogger who mentions such a vehicle no matter the context of the post? The brilliant mind of the corporate types on display making spam in the quest to make hay.

Shame! Shame! Shame! You know who I rent vehicles from when it is necessary? Enterprise, they come right to your door and pick you up.

But wait, there's more! You see that ad above, well, tell you what I'm goin' do. You read this Post right now and I'll thrown in another Ad absolutely free, you don't pay $19.95 and you don't even have to pay shipping and handling.

I looked on that Hertz ad and saw the usual suspects down at the bottom, the Facebook, Twitter, Google+ boxes. I didn't know what the fourth box was, the blue one with IN on it. I should have known, but I didn't, even though I guess it was obvious. I just had never seen it before, so I clicked it and it opened this in LinkedIn.

Yeah,yeah, another ad from Hertz, but there was something unique and maybe a bit disturbing about it.

Look there on the right in the middle. There is a familiar face. Hertz has the unmitigated gall to put my LinkedIn profile picture on one of their ads as if I am somehow endorsing Hertz?  Who gave Hertz permission to use my image in their placards? was it Sneaky-Surfer Frances?

I don't want to hear any moaning and groaning from Hertz about this post. If they can plaster my face on their ads, then I can plaster their ads on my Post.  If Hertz ever chances upon this diatribe the only thing they need send me is an apology. I don't care about comments from dweebs like Frances, but I do take umbrage at unauthorized use of my image as a marketing tool.

Driving the Devil's Road Redux

A year and three-quarters ago Frank March drove down the Devil's Road. We told of that adventure on these pages. This included a short video that also was shared on YouTube. Just a little diversion was all it amounted to.

One has to know the Urban legend of the road. (I suppose Urban legend is a misnomer; it's pretty rural about there, but no one said "Rural legend, do they?)

The gist of it is that a cult house hides in the woods somewhere along the route. There are tales of Satanism, of KKK meetings and also that this was the dumping ground for a number of monstrous children produced by duPont family inbreeding.

There is also the side story of the skull tree, so named for the appearance of its trunk and roots. Allegedly a mother left her baby at the base of the tree to die and the roots absorbed the child and formed the skull face. Claims are made that if you stop here in the night you will hear a baby crying.

The third aspect of this whole Devil's Road folderol is the mysterious vehicles that will suddenly appear to chase away any intruder. These are usually described as black pickup trucks or SUVs.


Here is my original video.

Now these many months later the video drew a response:

"None of this is true. I live literally a few feet from the road and I have driven up and down it and walked it at all times of day. I also know most of residents that live up and down it. There is no "cult house"... it simply doesn't exist. However there is a farm half way down it with another house and gate just opposite from it. They do have their own security and cameras on the grounds. If they catch you the cops are usually called immediately. Anyone following you is probably someone screwing around. I know Ive scared my fair share of people down there. The supposed "cult house" is a house in the distance on a hill and it isnt even on Cossart rd. At the bottom of the hill where the trees bend and the skull tree is.. where its suppose to be. But at the top of the hill is just a field. Nothing more. Oh and the skull tree was filled with concrete and taken down because of vandalism."

This is how the Skull Tree looked originally .The baby supposedly left in that hole between the roots.

You can see the skull imagery by imagining that hole and the one to its left as eye sockets. The triangular hole at the base forms the nose.















This is how the tree looked after the holes were filled in with cement. 

People coming by at night wrote graffiti around the base (hopefully none of which you can read in this picture).

According to the comment I received the tree has since been taken down. It is kind of a shame actually. Legends should continue.

(Both photos taken from "Weird Pennsylvania".)

Also according to the comment, none of this is true. Yet, there is a house and there is a tree. They exist. Cults and gangs and women who desert babies all exist. I don't believe in ghosts, spooks and disembodied voices, such as the dead baby's cries being heard if you stand near that tree. But other than that there is nothing in the tales that isn't possible, if improbable.

Why did I once drive down the Devil's Road. Like the proverbial cat, to satisfy my curiousity. You don't live in this area long befoire you hear tells of "The Valley", of "Devil's Road" and of the "Cult House". It is a rite of passage for high school kids to visit the road late at night and scare each other. Even my own children did it. So, with my own bizarre taste for spooky things, I also wanted to experience it.

The first trick was even finding it. I had ofter heard Beaver Valley Road mentioned, but these things weren't on Beaver Valley Road. (By the way, that's beaver, not Bieber -- one spooky thing at a time.) I learned they were on Cossart Road, but where in the world was that? It is actually a road running between Centerville and the Chadds Ford area, but don't look for a road sign saying Devil's Road or even Cossart, for they took down all the street signs, which only adds to the intrigue.

But I found it.

I admit, on the dreary, rainy day I transversed it i found it very spooky indeed. There are a lot of spooky roads in this region. I have driven Old Rt. 100 between Chadds Ford and West Chester probably more than a 1,000 times in my life and stretches of it are just as spooky as can be. It is also lined with oddly twisted trees that seem to reach for you as you pass.

I would have given less notice to Cossart Road if it hadn't been for the black pickup. Yes, just as in all the legends a black pickup suddenly appeared behind me as I reached the point of the alledged cult house. It trailed behind the rest of the way to the end of the road.

Coincidence is how I figured it in my mind. Black pickups are hardly a rarity around here. However, when i exited the road I saw the black pickup do a U-turn and go back up Cossart and that gave credence to all the wild tales.
The Commenter on YouTube said: "Anyone following you is probably someone screwing around. I know Ive scared my fair share of people down there."

You mean people living there have nothing better to do. I wasn't some kid snaking through there in the night. I was an old man driving the speed limit through in broad daylight. (Well, perhaps with the rain, slim daylight, but daylight none the less.) I've heard the residents are tired of the invaders of their peaceful road. If so I would advise them to put the street signs back up and stop scaring their fair share of people by following. All those things do is perpetuate the myth.

Besides, I prefer the myth to the reality anyway.

By the way,  M. Night Shyamalan filmed "The Village" in the fields and woods along this road, one of my favorite movies.

Moochie Departs

Little Moochie passed away early Tuesday Morning.

Only last week she was living up to her name, begging for bits of chicken at our kitchen table during dinner. And she was bounding about the house rather well for an old lady. She would leap upon the back of the sofa, climb over my shoulder and settle upon my collar bone, her head or body pressed against my face blocking any view i had of the TV.

My daughter Laurel had nicknamed her , "The Suffocator".

She came to us in one of the earliest litters left in our storage area behind the house by a rather scandalous feral mother. She was born back in 1997 and was the runt of the litter. She remained our smallest cat, except for Asta who also died this year. (We've been hit hard by Death's scythe this year.) She was never much bigger than a kitten.

Her eyes glowed in the dark, more than any other cat I've seen. It was very startling to just see these two green lights peering from a totally dark space.

We noticed she was losing some weight, but she seemed fine until last Friday. She seemed to shed more weight very quickly and was so light you felt no resistance in your hand when you picked her up, as if she was an apparition and not solid at all.

Over the weekend she grew weaker. We pull a pad on our laps and someone almost always held her those last couple of days. When I placed her in the computer room over night on Monday, she raised her head to look at me, then she lay it back down. I told my wife, "I'll be surprised if Moochie's with us in the morning."

I was right. When I got up the next day, and I get up early, I found her basically as I had left her. She was already stiff, so she must have slipped away in her sleep earlier. I believe she died peacefully. She did not show any sighs of struggle or pain.

She is survived by her brother, Canterbury, the last of that litter. She had a good long life here, much longer and better than she would have had as a feral cat, if she had even survived kittenhood outside.

I expect we will see others pass in the not distance future. This is always painful, but a price you pay when you give older cats a home, as we have come to do. With the exception of Kerouac, the starving kitten my son Darryl rescued two years ago, and Flacco, my daughter Laurel's 7-month old kitten, all our cats are well over ten years old. My mother's cat, which we took in when mom died, is 17 pushing 18. Christy Cat was old when my wife adopted her 10 years ago. My daughter says Christy is 20; I say she is 100.

We'll miss you Little Moochie, rest well.

 12/11/12

Changes Over My Life

This may seem an odd and egotistical video. Almost 15 minutes of pictures of myself. I was sort of challenged to put this together by a friend, a looking back at myself over the 70 plus years of my life. It begins with close ups of my face and how my mug has changed over the years from babyhood to old age. It then repeats the time sequence with my parents and I, then schools, friends, girlfriends, jobs, my children, and so on. An experiment done mainly for one friend.

Sneak Thieves in the Cyber Night

"Some will rob you with a six-gun,And some with a fountain pen." - Woody Guthrie, "Pretty Boy Floyd"

And some do it with a keystroke and mouse click - Larry Meredith, just now.

I'd say these curs lay about in the bushes at night waiting for the unaware prey to amble unsuspectingly by, but they probably figured out some robotic way of doing their dirty deed.

Well, everybody's out to make a living, I guess or at least a couple bucks. It's just some of us have been willing to work for our bread and butter at something that gives a benefit to somebody in some small way, stockbrokers, insurance companies and politicians exempted of course. Even phony beggars have the guts and decency to show their faces on the streets and put on a show.

These people are basically worthless mold, useless fungi, boot scrapings marring the pathways of our lives. They are practitioners of virtual kidnapping and extortion. They are domain snatchers. I suppose we have to grant them being a step or two above hackers who poison the web world with vicious viruses and identity thieves, but that doesn't make them nice people. Probably what they do is perfectly legal, but it shouldn't be.

Can anyone give me any justification for what they do?

Here is what they do. They troll about somehow looking for domain names that they think have a value to someone and then they snatch the name and offer to sell it for a higher price. They seem to come in two flavors, both about as tasteless as the other.

One kind of buys up domain names they think will be wanted, such as a product name, business or person gaining fame. Hey, you're an emerging singer named Sandy Songbird fresh off American Idol, just gaining some rep and you want a domain to promote your blossoming career. You want people to be able to search for sandy songbird.com and have you pop up, but you discover some mud-encrusted bottom feeder has already snatched up "songbird", "sandysongbird", "songbird", "songbirdsandy" and any other convolution of your name they can think of, and they have done it for .com., net, .org, .info and every other dot whatever out there. However, they'' be happy to sell you the right to your own name for a few thousand dollars.

Then there is the other form of these germs. These watch the registries of existing names about to expire and if the holder doesn't renew on the tick of the deadline, they snatch up the name. Then they can offer it back to that holder for a high price because they believe the person has established their whereabouts and won't want to lose that domain.

Yeah, that's what just befell your's truly. I had three domain names kidnapped this past summer, www.nitewrit.com, www.nitewrit.info and www.lemeredith. They were my oldest Blogs, including my first, "Night Writing in the Morning Light". They other two were my "Nitewrit's Own Companion and Commentary of the Gospels" and "Write On; The Official Website of The Kid and The Old Goat". 

It's my own fault for not keeping on top of things. But I have been dealing with a major family crisis the last six months and not doing much else. Anyone ever following me, if there still are, will have noticed my absents from the blogging scene for mucho weeks recently. Thus, I wasn't thinking about my domain renewals coming up in July.

In normal times I wouldn't have had to. You see, I had my domain's set for automatic renewal against my credit card. Should have been seamless, really; except my bank was acquired by another bank at the end of last year and that bank replaced all my previous cards, including THAT credit card with new ones of their own brand and so when automatic renewal time came about, the domain keeper couldn't find my bank anymore and my domain was quickly snatched up by these bottom feeders.

I tried at first to simply change the domain to one at Blogspot, but they had barred any domain change. Fortunately in Blogger you can retain all your previous posts and comments by a simple download and then upload to a new Blog, so my Blogs still exist, just at different domain names. I'm not going to charge someone some ridiculous fee just to get my old domain names back. Having your own private domain is kind of a pride thing anyway, not really all that important.

I did lose my statistics and, sadly, my followers. So I have the challenge of building new followers or hope some of those who liked those Blogs will find me again. I am planning to be actively scribbling my thoughts and opinions regularly once more at "Night Writing in the Morning Light," now at www.lemnite.blogspot.com and add to "Nitewrit's New Own Companion and Commentary of the Gospels" at www.lemcompanion.blogspot.com. 

I just hope whoever gloms on to my old domain addresses doesn't post anything salacious or scandalous in case an old reader stumbles upon them thinking I have turned to the dark side.

HMO - HO HO HO!

There is an old saying, "You get what you pay for."  This is said when someone complains about something they paid little or nothing for; something bought on the cheap, a bargain, a perceived good deal, and then it doesn't work well.

"I bought this two dollar watch off a guy in the street and it stopped keeping time two days later."

"Well, you get what you pay for," is what the fool is told.

Quite often this saying is true.  Not in the case of the Medicare Advantage Plans, at least not the one offered by the A-As-In-Hole Insurance Company. "One of the wonderful things about reaching age 65," a TV ad tells us, "is Medicare." (Not an A-As-In-Hole ad in case you are guessing.) Medicare may or may not be wonderful, but most certainly the Advantage plans aren't. But who knew? Most people I have spoken with about what happened to my mother are amazed when the medicare Advantage is explained to them. I have to admit I didn't know what they were.

I thought they were Medicare Supplement Insurance, you know, policies that cover what Medicare doesn't, like co-pays and deductibles.

By the way, this is another thing where "you get what you pay for" doesn't apply, Medicare Supplement Plans (known as Medigap). You'll see ads from Company Y pushing their supplement plan as being better than Company X, and you are only paying a little more a month. Well, then pick Company X because these supplemental plans are standardized by the government. There is a menu of 10 choices. Each choice offers some additional services, for example Choice C offer Skilled Nursing Co-Pay Coverage, while Choice B doesn't and Choice K only offers 50%; however, Choices B and K don't cover the Part B Annual Deductible while Choice C does.

You need to select the Medigap coverage you think you'll need. Perhaps you never leave the country, so you don't need Choice C because it covers out-of-country emergency care. But whatever Choice you make remember it is exactly the same coverage you will get through Insurance Company X as Company Y, so don't take the one charging a higher premium.

I noticed when we visited one nursing home and I told the Admissions Director my mom had a Medicare Supplement plan called A-As-In-Hole Medicare Super-Duper that she wrinkled her nose.

"That's not a supplement plan," was all she said.

Now remember there were all those crossed off nursing homes that wouldn't accept my mother's insurance. It did seem funny that something from one of the best known insurance companies in the country called Super-Duper Plan would not be universally accepted.

When my mother's coverage was dropped after 43 days instead of the 100 days Medicare normally covers for such therapy I found out why these places wanted nothing to do with it.

I was put in contact with an insurance specialist both by a nursing home and a friend. He explained the different animals. He said my mom would have been fine if she had traditional Medicare, in other words Plan A and B, even without supplemental. What she has is definitely not supplemental.

I had a friend ask me if my mother had the Medicare Plan B premium deducted on her Social Security. Indeed, she did. He said she had Plan B coverage then. Not exactly, what she has is a Medicare Advantage Plan that gives the same coverage as Plan B and she gets the privilege of paying the Plan B premium to the government as well as an additional $145 a month to A-As-In-Hole Insurance Company for it.

So just what is this animal? It is really Super-Duper? Not so much. The A-As-In-Hole Medicare Super-Duper Plan gives you, by law, everything Plan A and B of Medicare does. It still has all the deductibles and Co-Pays, may even have a few additional ones. It doesn't supplement anything. It does include Part D, the prescription drug portion. But you can get Plan D coverage for under $40 a month, so what is the other $105 a month she is paying get her? Remember, she is also paying Medicare her $96.50 a month, but Medicare itself is not providing any of her coverage. No-no-no, A-As-In-Hole is doing it all. No claims ever go to Medicare at all.

It works this way. Medicare collects the regular premium from Mom's Social Security every month. Medicare then pays A-As-In-Hole a portion of that amount. Thus the government makes a little money on the deal. A-As-In-Hole takes that fee and adds their own premium, the $145 a month and agrees to cover what Parts A & B do.

So why would anyone go for this, you ask? Because when you are our age and you see the ad telling you how great the Super-Duper Plan is because it not only covers your Medicare care, but your drug prescriptions and your eye exams and glasses and your hearing aids and hearing exams and for an additional $10 a month your dental, it sounds like a good deal to a lot of us Seasoned Citizens. But since you can get a separate policy for Plan D at less than $40, that $105 additional a month should easily cover those other costs for most of us with money left over in our bank accounts.

And The A-As-In-Hole Insurance company and its cohorts who offer these Medicare Advantage Plans are allowed to make their own rules in some areas.

Thus instead of the 100 days of rehabilitation my mom would have received under traditional Medicare, she was cut off at 43 days by her supposedly Super-Duper Insurance Coverage.

Now a further note concerning my dad, who has this same type policy. It is even more odorous since he already gets his prescriptions and hearing aid needs through the VA as a combat veteran of WWII. What in the world is he getting for that $145 a month?

Stay Away or Be Betrayed By A-As-In-Hole Insurance Company

When my mother had her April Fool's Day stroke her left side was affected. Her left leg and left arm would not work and she could not swallow food. On the twelfth day of April This City Hospital inserted a plug tube in through the stomach wall to allow feeding via of a nutritious if ugly brown liquid from a bottle.

On the thirteenth day of April the Hospital shipped her off to Sunset City supposedly for rehabilitation.

And rub-a-dub-dub she did get rehabilitation from three therapists at this hub, The Physical, The Occupational and the Speech.  Speech is a bit of a misnomer for my mother's talking wasn't at all affected by her stroke. She could speak as well as ever. But Speech Therapy apparently covers all things mouth and throat and this therapist was there to help her regain the ability to eat real food again.

These therapies were doing some good. My mother was regaining movement in her left leg, to the extent at least that she could move it back and forth and reposition it in bed. The left hand was the stubborn part. From the beginning she could raise that arm, but her hand stayed immovable with the fingers squished together. The best that had happened after 39 days of therapy was a slight wiggling of her fingertips.

However, her swallowing was quite another story and in some way the swallowing was the most important of the therapies. If my mother could regain her ability to eat real food it would increase her quality of life immensely even if she did remain handicapped in her extremities. If she could not walk again she would at best be able to enjoy the taste of her favorite foods. This would also allow her to be more mobile, albeit with the use of a wheelchair. It was difficult for her to be moved with the feeding tube. Without it she could be taken to have meals in the cafeteria with other residents, enjoy a meal and perhaps some conversation.

By the 39th day she was eating selected foods such as yogurt and pudding. However, on the 39th day there was a great leap forward. On that day Sunset City took her to a Distant Hospital for a video digital scan of her mouth and throat. Distant Hospital had a far greater reputation in this field than This City Hospital, although my mother complained about them taking her so far rather than across the street.

The next morning I had an email from one of her friends that they had visited that night and she was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Whoa, I thought. If she can swallow a PB&J then can't she swallow everything? I have difficulty sometimes swallowing peanut butter.

When I visited the next day it was lunch time and mom was sitting up in bed being fed normal food, the menu item of the day for the noon meal, macaroni & cheese and a fruit salad. (She said she passed on the chicken as it was a bit chewy.)  She was also eating this straight up, just as you and I would eat. Prior to this to sup on a cup of yogurt she had been forced to turn her head to the left and down with her chin practically on her shoulder. This was to help force the left muscles of the esophagus to push the food along.

What they saw on that video scan changed things. My mother has a pouch in her throat. It is a pre-existing condition. Her personal doctor has recommended surgery a couple years or so back, but she refused because she didn't want to leave dad home alone while she was in hospital. Somewhat ironic as things turned out.

It is my opinion this pouch was more the culprit with her swallowing situation than her stroke. Nonetheless, on the 40th day of her rehabilitation she had made great progress within the last 10 days. Her left leg had become mobile again. She still couldn't "stand and pivot," meaning she couldn't walk, but the Occupational Therapist told me the problem was her right leg was too week to support the left. It was certainly possible with continuing therapy this might be strengthen enough to allow her to stand. If it couldn't she would be limited to a wheelchair, but people can propel a wheel chair with their feet and at this point that seemed a possibility. And she was now able to eat normal meals portending a time when she might actually be rid of the feeding tube.

Everything was looking good.

Then on the 42nd day A-As-In-Hole Insurance Company cut the strings.

On the Friday afternoon of Memorial Day Weekend they sent notice that they would no longer provide coverage for her therapy because she had plateaued, as they called it, and no progress was being made.

The insurance coverage ended on May 28 and so did her therapy and so did her eating of any real food.

TO BE CONTINUED

Part Four: Follow the Golden Years Road of the Last

                       

nce upon a time, a not so young man was swept away by the sudden swirl of events into the Land of the Last.

There he was sent on a quest to find the Magical Nursing Home that would rescue his mother from the evil witches of Sunset City. It was to seem a daunting task, but he had a plan for following the Golden Years Road, although after a while it seemed more a maze of dead ends.

There were in this particular county 24 such places sometimes called Skilled Nursing Centers and sometimes called Long Term Residences. It would seem a lot of choices, but not so much for a poor boy.

Although it was not strictly a matter of cost, that certainly played some minor part. Throwing aside the Veteran's Administration Facilities, of which there were two, neither ranking well on the Medicare 5-Star Ranking System (1 Star for each or much below average), the average yearly cost for a home was $8,219 a month for a semi-private room (slightly more for a private room at $9,223 a month). These ranged from a high of $14,752 a month (a place that rated 4-Stars or Above Average) to a low of $5,627 a month (and a rating of 1-Star or Much below Average).  Cost did not always correlate with the ranking. A home that charged $9,794 a month, the sixth highest, only received 2-Stars or Below Average, while the second cheapest (not counting the VA Homes) at $7,300 a month got 4-Stars or Above Average.

The place where the not-so-young man's mother was imprisoned ranked eleventh in cost, about the middle of the pack, at $9,277 a month, but was one of only two in the county to receive but 1-Star, or Much below Average.

Do you see why he needed to rescue her?

If cost was not a real criteria, the fact his parents had no real resources was. They would have to go into a home under Medical Assistance or not at all, and not every home accepted Medicaid. He could eliminate eight immediately for this reason.

Of course, Sunset City was where his mother lay, so it was subtracted from the mix. So could one home because his mother had insisted from the beginning he must stay away from there, although he never understood why since several people recommended it and the home had a 4-Star rating. Also eliminated was one of the two VA facilities, because his dad said he never wanted to go there.

That left 14 facilities that would accept Medicaid.

The Not-so-young Man eliminated three as being tucked away in a bewitched far corner of the county. They would be places of last resort.

He then contacted the remaining 11 Skilled Nursing Facilities and it began to seem to no avail. He toured four and was placed on the waiting list at three (these included Mushmouth Manor). He did not apply at the fourth because it was the only one in the county to require an application fee. The fee was $250 and since he was now applying for both parents (explanation will be in following posts) that would have cost $500 just to risk being rejected, another last resort home.

He learned from another source that his parents would never get accepted by Mushmouth Manor with their lack of money, confirming his earlier impression of the place.

He was advised at the first home he contacted that he should put them on at least four waiting lists and if one offered a bed to snatch it up. "Demand is high," the lady said, "and everyone has long waiting lists." This was proving true as he searched on.

Two quickly let him know they would not take his parents, one or the other, and the remaining five were not returning his calls (including the one VA facility he had contacted) and as time passed it seemed they never would.

He had reached out even beyond that county, but it was going the same elsewhere. He even went back to PassingGo Home, begging them to reconsider since they did accept Medicaid and that was now what his folks were applying under.

And just when it seemed his plight could not get more desperate, it did. His mother's insurance company dropped her coverage.

Indeed, he wasn't in Kansas anymore.



(Photo on left is from the 1925 silent version of The Wizard of Oz, co-wrote and directed by Larry Semon, who also stared as the Scarecrow [he is on the left]. The Tin Man in the middle is Oliver Hardy, who gained much greater fame later when partnered with Stan Laurel. The actor on the right is O. Howe Black [you read it right], who not too surprisingly was cast as the Cowardly Lion.)

Part Three: Lost in the Land of the Last

I had exhausted the lineup of homes my mother and her friends had suggested. It was time to step away from the few to the many. But how?

I began by that new old fallback, Google. I thus stumbled upon a website that listed every Nursing Home known to man and then some. It gave general information, such as name and address and phone number, a few tidbits such as number of beds and affiliation and lastly the Medicare Rating.

Medicare has a Five Star Rating System for all Nursing Homes that accept Medicare. 5-Stars are the most a home can receive and I am told by professionals in the Medical Field this is very difficult to get. The lowest is 1-Star. There is no such animal as a Zero-Star nursing home. Everybody gets something, even if only a Certificate of Participation.

For Instance, Sunset City only had 1-Star; translation -- Well Below Average, while my mom's vaunted Mushmouth Manor managed 2-Stars, or below Average. Her latest ideal of PassingGo Home wasn't bad at all with an above average rating of 4-Stars.

But these were out of the running for a permanent solution at this point. I needed fresh storage space in the warehouse district of the elderly.

Since Medicare ranked every Nursing Home they came in cahoots with I had some pruning to do. The list did allow you to select by state, so I started with that, but it didn't go so far as allowing the selection of  county. (Later, after more hard-knock education in this field I did find the actual Medicare ranking site and it did allow selection by county, even by individual home. Here is the website to save you the trouble of Google fishing for it if you are ever interested or need it:)

http://www.medicare.gov/nhcompare/include/datasection/questions/proximitysearch.asp?bhcp=1

I then spent an eye-glazing, mind-numbing time scrolling through all the Pennsylvania Nursing Homes and copying all located in my parents' general area to an Excel worksheet. From that list, which in itself was fairly long, I selected those homes rated above average. There were very few near my parents stomping grounds. I then contacted around six homes by email or phone.

Email seemed the better way I found. You could say more and might get a quicker response back. Telephoning connected you to an automated voice allowing you to choose from a menu of buttons just to get to someone's voice mail where you could leave a message, which may or may not ever result in a return call.

From those I emailed, I received an email response, mostly acknowledging they had my email and would contact me in the near future. These places obviously calculate the near future in a different galaxy than mine for I still await that follow-up contact from them.

From the phone calls I received brochures from one, a "Don't call us, we'll call you if we ever decide to care," and a polite but firm turndown from another.

One home did call and invite me to take the tour. My wife and I went on the appointed day and promptly got lost. Once again a road with a hidden part, much like Mushmouth Manor. When we did arrive it was to the wrong building. We finally got to where we were supposed to be and the Admissions Director was very kind and gracious, although we quickly learned there was no hope of placing my parents there. They not only didn't accept her particular form of medical insurance, but they did not accept Medicaid.

Despite this she was extremely helpful and still gave us the tour. This was another lesson learned. Medicaid was not universal in the Land of the Last. I needed more than Medicare ratings, I needed to know who accepted what.

I received about this time a packet from the Department of Aging. Within was a list of the county homes and most importantly whether they accepted Medicaid as well as Medicare. I now changed my approach from less shotgun to more rifle.

TO BE CONTINUED

Part Two: In the Land of PassingGo

Ever since the subject of a Nursing Home reared its ugly roof, I was hearing Mushmouth Manor. It was becoming pretty apparent that wasn't going to happen.

But somehow around this time a new mantra appeared, PassingGo Home. I can't remember who said it first, I just remember I got asked about it and told it was nice. Mom's Speech Therapist also spoke about it to her.

Why an employee of one Nursing Home would bring up another I don't know for sure. My guess is it was an indirect comment and came about from some casual conversation. My mother one time years ago worked for the Valley Maid Potato Chip Company. They really made the best chips around, but eventually they were acquired by Bachman and after that the chips were so-so. One of mom's fellow workers who she had befriended was now a resident in PassingGo Home. Apparently, the Speech Therapist had some business at that Home and when mother mentioned this lady's name told her the woman was in PassingGo.

Now my mother was fixated on that place.

I decided to visit PassingGo next time I went to visit mom. I skipped dad that day and went early, going what I considered a more direct route. It was at least one that took you to PassingGo -- eventually. It twisted and turned about the fields above This City, where my mom was, and I was almost certain I was lost when it popped into vision ahead. A tall building with a curvaceous parking lot and long path up to the front doors.

I went to the receptionist and told her I wanted to get some information about the place.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"No."

"You should have called and made an appointment," she snapped.

She picked up the phone and called someone. She hung up and pointed me down a hallway.

"Go to the third door on the left and see Maude."

I did as I was told. I came to the third door, which was half open and I saw a couple women inside. One was a somewhat stocky lady with a stern face. Turned out this was Maude, the Admissions Director.

I began to tell my tale of woe when she abruptly stopped me. She took me to meet Madeline Mild, her assistant. Madeline was very sweet. An older lady with a gentle voice. She gave me the ten-dollar tour and then we sat while she showed me the admittance form to be filled out and returned. As we parted she asked me to send her a copy of my mother's insurance cards so they could see if it was acceptable. I said I would.

I then went back to This City and visited mother. At least I could tell her I was at PassingGo.

From that moment on I was to hear PassingGo every visit and then within emails from her friends. I had to get her into PassingGo. When would we hear from PassingGo? How much longer until she went to PassingGo?

But as usual these things took time. I emailed a copy of her insurance card to Madeline Mild the very night of my visit. I waited a week and heard nothing. I called her on the phone. It was her day off, she wasn't there. I called the next day. No, she never got the email. She had been out, she said, and perhaps someone else got it and didn't know what it was. Could I send it again?

I sent it again and then called her again. She was not there; she had left for the day. It was very difficult to establish when this lady actually worked. Finally I got ahold of her and yes she had received the email. She had forwarded the copy of the Insurance Card to the business office. We would have to wait until the business office found out if they accepted that insurance.

I waited a week and called Madeline Mild again.  Gloryoski, she was in, but she didn't have the answer. This time the Business Manager had been gone, all week on vacation. She had just returned and Madeline Mild didn't want to bother her until she got caught up. So I waited some more.

After another week I finally got my answer. Sorry, but PassingGo Home would not accept that insurance. Do not pass GO; do not collect your mother and try to bring her here. Go directly to jail in Sunset City.

I now began a search in earnest. I looked first at the sheet the This City Hospital Social Worker had originally given me and saw I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble. PassingGo Home was one of those crossed out because it didn't take my mom's insurance.

But even so, my mom and her friends kept up the chants for PassingGo Home as if constantly repeating its name would overcome reality.

As it were, I wasn't quite completely done with the place, but the rest of that story will come later. I had a lot of other stops in-between this end and that end.

TO BE CONTINUED

In the Land of the Last Stand, Part One

My mother's directive: "Larry, get me out of here," sent me on a quest for an open door somewhere. A month and a half later I felt I had gone about things backward. I should have dug deeper into my mother's purse and discovered it full of moths and looked to the financial future first, but I've had professionals tell me I did things right.

Anyway, I began by looking for a better "Home".

I began with the obvious, another visit to Mushmouth Manor, the place my mother pined for, though only she and God know why.

This time I called and made a set appointment. I also now knew exactly how to get there, thus I arrived at its doorstep over a half-hour early. I almost hate showing up early as much as showing up late, and I really hate showing up late. Showing up late is rude and inconsiderate. It inconveniences other people and it says to them, "My time is more important than your time." When I worked in the corporate world there were managers who came late to every meeting for that very reason, just to show they were somehow the more important person.

So I went a bit out of the way, stopped at a drugstore and bought a soda. I then went on to Mushmouth Manor where I parked in the back lot and drank the drink. Around five until the hour I ambled in and presented myself at the reception desk. The receptionist told me Ms Fingerrub would be right with me and please have a seat.

Mushmouth Manor had a large lobby, like a medium hotel, unlike Sunset City's modest entry with a table and one sofa. Mushmouth Manor had many sofas and chairs and tables and vases of flowers.

In the back, where the people were stored, it was not distinguishable from Sunset City at all. Long hallways lined with ancient citizens in wheelchairs or shuffling along with the aid of walkers. Every home was equipped with poor souls sitting still along some wall, hands folded in lap, back bent like a question mark and head down. It was as if you could order these people off Amazon.com for the singular purpose of decorating your nursing home hall.

I had downloaded two copies of Mushmouth's application and filled one out for each of my parents. After the tour I presented these, and was told there was a waiting list. My father might get in quicker than mom, but there was a wee bitty problem. Because of my mom's current condition she would qualify for Medicaid, but my father would not. He would have to come in as Private Pay (which would run around $9,000 a month), unless he might be eligible for veteran's benefits.

She gave me a business card. "This is our Veteran's expert. Call him and he will help you with your dad's benefits."

We bid good day (which was in reality goodbye) and I left with the same feeling I had the first time, Mushmouth Manor primary interest was dough-re-me. Some weeks later, an Elder Lawyer told me my parent's would not get into Mushmouth Manor with their bank account, confirming my initial gut reaction.

Many weeks and much aggravation later I was told a tale by a close friend of my parents, one of the coterie that had been looking after dad since mom was struck down. One whose husband was one of the most vocal about the indiscretions of Sunset City.

"I went through this with my father," she began. "He fell and broke his him and went into to Mushmouth Manor. Oh, what a terrible place. I came to visit and it was meal time. I don't know what was on his plate. It was a mess, pardon me, but it looked like dog dirt. I said, 'He can't eat that,' and the person told me, 'He can have a hot dog instead if he doesn't want that'.

"And while we were there I heard his roommate say something from the bathroom. He had been in the bathroom when we arrived. I asked, 'Do you need help?'

"'Yes, he said. I've been waiting in here for over an hour for someone to help me, but no one's come.'

"So, I got the man back to his bed and I went out to the nurse's station and told them, 'Have my dad packed and prepared to leave at 1:00 tomorrow. We're taking him out of here.'

"They said he needed a Doctor's permission and this and that. 'No,' I said, 'we're taking him out of here tomorrow.' I came the next day at 1:00 and he was prepared to go and we left."

I thought, why didn't you tell that story to my mother. Maybe she would have stopped yammering at me about the Great and Wonderful Mushmouth Manor. By the lady told me this story it didn't matter anymore.

In the time between my second visit to Mushmouth Manor and this lady's tale of woe, my mother had picked up a new mantra, PassingGo Homes.

It was mainly my own fault.

TO BE CONTINUED

Between the Black and the Red

Several months back I decided to visit a "Home". My wife and I are in good health and shape, but time goes faster when you reach your seventies and eighty isn't so far down the road. At this age a decade can bring a lot of changes.

I knew we couldn't stay here in our present home for several reason. One biggie is financial. It was a monthly struggle to meet our costs and still have some quality to our life, and a year ago I had a part time job. I didn't see how we could afford to keep this place up in the future. Not only to pay for repairs and maintenance, but even to do the regular chores one does. I don't try to kid myself into thinking age is only a matter of mind. It is a matter of body as well and I don't have the strength, stamina or energy I had even five years ago. A little of these things slip away with every birthday that passes and another birthday is coming this month. Although I walk in the forest every morning, up and down rocky trails and such, I am having more and more trouble with stairs and steps, especially if carrying something such as laundry. Besides, our house is too big for us anymore. It was great for raising three kids, a bedroom for everyone and plenty of room to play indoors on a rainy day.

And so I took a tour. I went to a place that had some small cottages as well as apartments. My wife preferred the sense of having one's own place.

The tour was lovely. There was a group of us trailing behind a charming guide. We traipsed long halls decorated with beautifully framed paintings and vases of flowers. We visited a couple in their lovely two-bedroom apartment with its modern kitchen. We saw the expansive rehab room, the chapel, the small cafe and the gift shop. We finished up with a delicious meal in the large, elegant dining room beneath its chandeliers. Some of the residents joined us at the tables to brag about life in this place. As desert was being served, the chef and the servers came out to take a bow for the marvelous luncheon.

What a wonderful atmosphere to live out your final years, except if I could afford to live there I wouldn't need it. At that time the entry fee to just get in the door started at $120,000 and then $2,600 a month and that was just for a small 500 square-foot Studio Apartment. The prices went up with every foot of floor space you added and don't even think about those little cottages. Twenty-Six thousand dollars a month? Our Social Security checks added together don't even reach that before Medicare is taken out. By the time we jumped to a two-bedroom apartment, which is the least we would prefer, the monthly fee would have eaten up my pension as well. The two-bedroom apartment is just over 1,000 square feet, but you do get two baths.

Wait, that's not all! Buy now and we throw in one meal a day, you may choose breakfast, lunch or dinner!

Now granted, you don't have to worry about some catastrophic illness laying you low. You end up needing constant care you are covered.

I'm not knocking the place exactly. I still think if you are wealthy enough to afford living there you are wealthy enough not to have to live there. I am a bit annoyed the place was founded and is owned by a Protestant Denomination. When Jesus charged his followers to take care of the widowed, orphaned and aged, I don't think this kind of opulence is what he had in mind.

I was disappointed so many of the more upscale of these places have church affiliations. You know, the rich will find a way. I think Christian organizations should be more concerned with the less-than-rich.

Believe me, my parents are not headed for Chef-prepared meals or 1,000 square foot apartments. Of course where they are headed is several steps up from what they may have faced a hundred or so years ago.

They didn't have Nursing Homes for people like us way back then. You grew old and had no money and your family couldn't take you in it was off to the Poorhouse or Workhouse. Do you not recall Ebenezer Scrooge.


"Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge.
"Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.
"And the Union workhouses?"  demanded Scrooge.  "Are they still in operation?"
"They are.  Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not."
"The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?"  said Scrooge.
"Both very busy, sir."

It was from such places the Nursing Homes came about, you know, and through the endeavors of the churches. People of age were sent to the Poorhouse along with the riffraff, petty criminals and debtors.

The churches took umbrage at this deplorable situation and thus was born the Almshouse. Alms is an old word meaning to give necessities to the poor. The various churches began establishing these Almshouse to bring the aged poor out of those public government run Poorhouses.

Very commendable, but not as altruistic or charitable as it sounds. In my opinion the motive was less Christian than pride. The congregations and their leaders of the day thought it deplorable that a Christian should have to rub elbows with guttersnipes, pickpockets and the unsaved (you know, the kind of people Christ rubbed elbows with everyday). Not only did you have to be a Christian of good standing to go to the Almshouse, you had to be a member of its founding denomination.

We have come a long way, baby, from those early beginnings to the modern day Nursing Home. Yet there is still an obvious class distinction of what you will be living in until called up yonder.

When I entered the world of the Nursing Home searching for a place for mom and dad I discovered this reality and the fact when it comes to the offspring of the Almshouse -- we  still have a long way to go.