Thank you Bill The Dog

I’ve put off writing this particular posting.  The topic is not a happy one.  In fact, I’ll make the assumption that many of you have gone through the same experience.  And that is, having to put down your pet dog or cat.

Bill The Dog, as I have always referred to our 14-year-old Maltese on my postings, has been a member of our family since he was just a few weeks old. He followed Nicki, a Golden Retriever, who we also had to put down, but after only six years.  She developed throat cancer which eventually did her in.  I took her death heavily after she was put to sleep while my son and I held her.  I had never had a dog before so this episode in my life had a heavy impact beyond anything I expected. 

Bill’s death was a little different from Nicki’s.  Bill lived a normal life until age began its nasty annoyances. He had issues with arthritis, but what eventually had the greatest impact were his loss of both hearing and sight.  It was heart-breaking to watch while he would walk into walls and furniture or just stare into space.  Meanwhile, his plumbing broke down, causing daily messes that had to be cleaned up.  Rosemarie, bless her, kept the hugs coming and put up with the inconveniences.

Over the past few months, Bill developed a hacking problem that caused his ongoing panting to become audible throughout the house, especially at night when things were quiet.  He and I stayed up together on his last night…I had no choice since I am a light sleeper and could not escape his struggle to breathe. We bonded with a final bath I gave him after he messed on the floor and then proceeded to get it all over himself.

Exhausted after hours of panting heavily, he finally fell asleep around 5 in the morning.  It was off to the vet first thing after he woke up.  We left him there while they did a few tests and scoped his airway.  The results were no surprise.  His quality of life had reached the decision point and the humane choice had to be made.

Bill the Dog brought innocence into our household. While we struggled and stressed over the usual issues and ordeals of family life, Bill remained ignorant of the chaos and chose to stay cute, cuddly and showing pure happiness when someone gave him a treat. Unless you have had a pet for some time, it it difficult to explain the attachment that develops.  That first time when you arrive home and your pet is no longer there to greet you…well, that says it all.


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Since we moved last January, Rosemarie’s interest in birds has taken flight, pun intended.  There is a bountiful supply of her feathered friends to watch because our new home backs up on a reserve.  This is an area of land that the state has set aside for just being woodsy and remaining so.  This is just fine with us and I guess with the birds too.  It has, however, resulted in a new line item in the family budget, precisely a monthly 40-pound bag of wild birdseed.  So now the daily routine around these parts includes a refilling of the bird feeder and a few moments or more observing the initial feeding frenzy.

Flashback now to the late 1960s when Rosemarie and I got married and Freidmont moved into our kitchen.  Freidmont immigrated from Rosemarie’s family to ours.  Freidmont was a parakeet, but not your average, everyday parakeet.  Nooooserrie.  Freidmont could push his toys around the tabletop; he would sit on your shoulder and nibble at your ear and enunciate perfectly phrases like “hold me” and “pretty boy” and “love me” while he held your finger, fluffed up his feathers and masterbated. WHILE HE DID WHAT???  Yeah, that!

So here I was sitting in my thinking chair outside in our screened-in lanai (that’s what they call our patio in this fancy-schmancy community we live in) and I gets to thinkin’ about how much Rosemarie loved old Freidmont back in the day when he used to–well that’s been discussed already.  But golly-gee-whizz she enjoyed that pet so I thought what a great surprise it’d be if I got her a new parakeet.  And that’s how Henri was purchased, boxed up and taken home from the Petco Store down the street.  By the way, did you know there’s a shortage of parakeets goin’ on right now.  Yep, I had to go to three pet stores before I located Henri.  By the way, that’s Henri in the pictures.

Now I’ll tellyuh, Henri succeeded right off the bat, at least in one way–Rosemarie sure was surprised when she discovered him, sitting on the third-floor perch of his new, blue 3/2 wired bird house with water view and free wifi.  And I was a bit surprised, too, when I heard her talking to our niece on the phone.  “Yeah, a parakeet,” she was sayin’, “I’ll never know what was going on in that man’s brain when he bought me a parakeet.” 

Oh well, a bird in the hand is worth…what the hell is a bird in the hand worth these days?


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If there is ever some kind of sophisticated review of my works I am confident that the term, “profound,” will be noticeably absent. That said, here’s a summer rerun of a little ditty that I wrote. It appeared here on my blog back in May, 2013…

I’ve got places to go but I don’t know exactly where.

There’s no sign on the road, or map to get me there.

All I know is that I can’t stand still because things move on,

And I’ve got no choice but to be there or else be gone.

No, I don’t know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is I’ve got places to go and I’ve got to be there.


I’ve got people to meet but I don’t know who they are.

There is no list of names; some are near, some afar.

They come from different places and do different things.

Some are simple and humble, others might be kings.

No, I do not know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is I’ve got people to meet; I know they’re there.


I’ve got thoughts to think but I know not what about.

Some are simple, others more complex no doubt.

They all demand some quality time within my mind.

I suspect some individual attention of some kind.

No, I don’t know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is I’ve got thoughts to think, should I dare.


So I’ve got places to go, people to meet, and thoughts to think.

I been given no directions, no compass or charted link.

The people are diverse, the places everywhere and the thoughts are deep.

I don’t know where I’ll go, what I’ll say, or how far I’ll leap.

No, I do not know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is these people and places and thoughts expect me there.


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So there’s this wheelchair, the one that sits in the bedroom waiting to see if the paralysis I suffered after a fall and subsequent spinal surgery last May returns and forces me to give up my walker and take a seat. This chair haunts the hell out of me, but I have no place to put it where it can’t be seen.  In fact, when I first laid eyes on it, it had a pretty profound effect on me.  I wrote about it in my June 24th posting on this blog. Today, the chair continues to be an intrusion, this time because I got to see how much it cost.

Folks on Medicare get a monthly statement that itemizes their medical expenses. It includes the cost submitted by the caretaker or provider, whether or not the Medicare Gods will sanction payment and how much.  The claim is always set substantially high by the doctors, hospitals and other providers because it is normal that Medicare will pay only a percentage of it. It’s a ridiculous game.

Unfortunately, part of our American culture is greed.  Many folks have no problem asking an exorbitant  amount of money for something they are selling.  They hope to get more than the item is worth…and often they do.  The entire medical industry is super greedy.  I’ve have had a pretty robust accumulation of medical bills this year. I am sure my caretakers will say the claims are accurate and justified. Uh-huh.

The cost of my wheelchair showed up on the Medicare statement I got today.  I won’t bother detailing the cost of the chair itself (the claim was in the thousands) along with an incredible list of options that came with it.  In fact, this wheelchair offered more options than a new automobile.  I’m surprised it didn’t come turbo-charged or with mag wheels.  It did however come with a “supplemental” back for the chair that I have never installed.  It, too, sits in the corner of the bedroom, still wrapped in sealed plastic, That’s it in the picture.  It’s a basic cushion that’s 20 inches wide, 17 inches high and 2½ inches thick.  How much do you think the provider billed Medicare for this item?  No, you’re wrong.  Medicare shelled out $260.92 for it.  The provider originally claimed it cost $425.55.  No wonder medical insurance is so outrageous.

Stupid me thinks the cushion–and all the other goods and services in the medical biz– should be priced the old fashioned way:  calculate the cost of the item to manufacturer and distribute, add on a reasonable profit and slap a price sticker on it.  “Reasonable” is the operative word there. But you know, as I do, trying to lower medical bills these days, well good luck with that.

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The Pope’s Stone, Retooled

PopeStarCovFinally! I get to check off one of the older items on my To-Do List! Eight years ago I published my first attempt at writing an adult novel. It was titled THE POPE’S STONE and while any writer’s first novel could be considered a practice piece, I was more than happy with my efforts. Certainly any professional writer would rip it to shreds, but I was pleased with myself since up until that point I had written only a few children’s books which were a lot shorter and a lot less work.

“POPE” is a historical novel which, I think, involves a lot more effort than a piece of straight fiction. The latter is a matter of dumping your mind and guts out onto the pages. A historical novel lets you take some fictional liberties with history if that helps the story move along, but you better have most of the real stuff spot on or you blow your credibility. I spent an enormous amount of time making sure the historical events and locations in POPE were accurate.

So, what was the big “to-do” that had to be done with THE POPE’S STONE? Well, the one point of criticism that stood out was that readers found some of the chapters too predictable. They also had some difficulty keeping up with time and place. The story involves two descendants of a family who live a century apart, yet their lives and all the events and experiences they have parallel each other. To emphasize this, I originally flipped-flopped the time and location chapter-by-chapter. So when you read about a particular circumstance of descendant A, you knew descendant B would experience a similar scenario in the chapter that immediately followed. This sounded like an approachable model to tell the story but readers found it otherwise.

So, what to do? After a few years of procrastination I got to thinking the only way to answer the criticism was to break the book into two parts, one for the earlier descendant and part II for the latter. This did not reduce the concept of how the two lives mirrored each other, but the separation of chapters made the story less repetitive. So I set about maneuvering the chapters accordingly and made adjustments to the text when and where they were necessary.

That’s my story and this time I’m stickin’ to it. THE POPE’S STONE, Second Edition is available via  Here’s the link: I

Or, is necessary, search “The Pope’s Stone, Second Edition, Kuhn.”



Posted in history, Indie Publishing, self-publishing, Uncategorized, WRITING | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


Senior using a walkerI got to wondering last week how many walkers must be out there in our world these days? Yeah, I know…weird!  I had just taken delivery of a new one while I was in the hospital last week.  I joined the walker ranks a few months ago, although I still have hopes that I may one day walk again without one. I never really pictured myself having to use a walker. I doubt anyone does.

Once you step into the walker environment you are fair game for related consequences.  There are also wheel chairs to contend with and inauguration into the I’ve fallen and can’t get up populace. I am sad to say I’ve been there/done all of these.

One way I noticed the walker influencing me was that it made me more observant of where my feet are and where they are about to go, things taken for granted previously. Now, of course, using a walker is no Olympic fete, but it is imperative that you stick every landing. Falling on your own is bad enough, but falling with a walker is worse because it is usually face first.

I originally purchased a fancier walker model–one of those that comes with a built-in seat and storage box. It was a snazzy maroon. I did not get the turbo-charged model but it sure felt like it. The problem with these more evolved walkers is that are maneuvered about on four wheels. The standard army walker has only two wheels with the back support legs being wheelless. Four-wheel models are for only the more advanced users because you may as well be on rollerblades.

Walkers offer lots of possibilities when it comes to supplemental gimmicks. True, some are a little contrived like a bulb horn so you can honk your way through a crowd. I have a wire basket attached to the front of mine so I have somewhere to store my phone. It has a built-in cup holder that comes in handy.   I suppose I could install a GPS system too or maybe even a gizmo that calls for an ambulance next time I fall. There are all kinds of possibilities.

My guess is there are gazillions walkers in use today.  Somewhere out there is an individual or two who own the factories that pump out all these walkers. Walker design and manufacturing are really quite simple.  After all, it’s not brain surgery.  Imagine how rich these people have become simply  by stumbling into a good thing!




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I have come to respect the impressive ability the cockroach has to follow me wherever I go. No, I am not kidding. Cockroaches have lived in every house I have lived in. I guess I should be flattered that they appreciate my taste. It is, I hasten to say, an adversarial relationship we’ve always had. They attempt to overrun every room in the house while I stand by with a can of Raid to fire at will. I usually win–the battle, not the war.


It’s not a likable subject to approach,

This war between me and the roach.

It’s simply horrible and more than I can bear

When I find him roaming my drawer of silverware.

If that’s not enough to quell any attempt to be congenial,

Imagine how I feel when I discover he’s been in my cereal.

He’s too fast to catch by hand, too squirmy to squash by foot.

I might get off a lucky shot of bug spay if he’d just stay put.

Then he’ll scurry about for a place to hide for a few minutes more,

And the next day I’ll find him upside down on the kitchen floor.

Oh the humanity! Oh the cockroachery! this battle will forever cry

I may vanquish some, but the mighty cockroach will never die.

AdobeStock_323924464 (1)


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Marc005I suspect most mothers have a few words or phrases they repeatedly toss out from the pages of their childrearing playbook. Early on as toddlers, “please” and “thank you” were coaxed out of us anytime someone gave us something. The cue from mom was always, “What do you say?” The goal was to embed the proper response in our brain, enough so that “pleases” and thank yous” rolled out of our lips as instinctively as Pavlov’s dog salivated when a bell was rung. My mother must have done the job well since I have spent my entire life expressing my gratitude to anyone who does something on my behalf, no matter how inconsequential. If the mailman were to hand me a stack of bills I’d no doubt issue him a verbal “thank you!”

But it was one of my mother’s more profound phrases that lives on, forever deeply instilled within one of the older, dustier vaults of my brain. And here I am today yet being confronted with it once more. Whenever and whatever it was appropriate to the circumstance, out it came…and still does: little things matter much! It’s a simple concept that has become a no-brainer to me. It came to mind today when a good friend and past colleague and I were discussing the hiring process we used to put people through. I told him if someone came to an interview without a pen I interpreted that as a person who did not pay attention to detail. He said likewise if a job candidate failed at the smaller tasks presented, it was likely he/she could not handle the bigger, more important ones.

Details can, indeed, come back to bite you in butt. But there have been times when I envy those who look at the big picture and don’t get lost in its elements. My brother, always my exact opposite, breezed through life with a “what, me worry?” attitude. I couldn’t handle living that way. I fret over everything and, as such, I have great anticipatory skills. I always foresee all the possibilities a project might present and I am rarely without a plan B…and sometimes even a C.

I have learned many times over that Mom was right–little things do matter much, but it can go both ways. Case in point, my son is currently on hand to help with chores I am not able to do as I slowly recover from a bad fall. He and I do not work well together at all. I need to be in control, always displaying exactly how I want things done. Why? Because years of experience have taught me how to avoid mistakes. But to my son, every LITTLE nudge, every LITTLE direction I offer is taken as MUCH like a bolder tossed at him by a compulsive dictator, a person whom, he says, he will never please. That little comment hurts much and, as a result, I find myself not asking him to do certain things that I can get around to doing myself later on as my recovery progresses.

The lesson I still, after all my years. have problems accepting is letting go sometimes. It means thinking about the little things is not always relegated to just the details, but to people as well. Another phrase comes to mind and that is, people like me would sometimes be better off if they’d stop making much ado about nothing.




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I was sitting in the second row of our van as we pulled up into our driveway after yet another doctor visit. There was a truck in front of the house and a man was unloading something out of the back.  Rosemarie got out of the car, went around to the back of the truck and started helping the man lift whatever it was out of the truck. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was until it came into full view. It was a wheelchair. I stared as my wife was struggling to hold onto it while the man was attempting to handle the task by himself. But I wasn’t really paying much attention to the unloading itself.  Instead, what was going through my mind was that’s a wheelchair and it was for me.  My mind in many ways is still like it was when I was a teenager, when I was a young adult, when I was a family man…but never, never did I ever imagine that I would be watching my wife help unload a wheelchair that was meant for me.. I cannot express the emotion that overwhelmed me at the time. But lucky me, I used it once and I don’t think I will be needing it again anytime soon.


There were more things to come: a walker, bedside appliances and little tools to help me hold onto things or reach for objects higher than I could lift my arms. They were all things I had seen before but they had never been meant for me. Indeed, a fall in the wee hours of the morning which resulted in such an incredible change in my physical well-being was now becoming what I thought at the time perhaps a lifelong situation…pending exactly how long that life was going to last now that it had already spanned ¾’s of a century..


I am pleased with my progress now that it’s been 4 weeks since I had spinal surgery to relieve the pressure on my spinal cord in the back of my neck. Paralysis in my hands and in my arms has not lessened much.  My fingers are numb, they don’t hold things well, I drop a lot of stuff and I cannot write at all—not even scribble. I use a walker because I’m not able the guide my feet exactly where I want them to go although I have a good feeling that the Improvement I have shown so far will lead to walking unaided in the months ahead. My hands and my arms could take up to a year or more from what I understand. Or, I could get lucky and wake up one morning and magically the little valleys and tunnels and whatever passageways send messages from my brain to my fingertips will build new pathways back to some state of normalcy…or maybe not.

there have been one or two milestones if you want to consider than that. I have an electric toothbrush and I have been unable to have the strength in my fingers to push it on and push it . but then suddenly 3 weeks after my surgery I tried again and it’s familiar Buzz started up and it stopped when I push the stop button. It was as if I’ve mastered fine instrument and I took incredible Joy out of the progress I had made. I still can’t slice my own meat open a bottle without dropping the cap on the floor and lots of other things and I assume I won’t Venture Ali overcome at least that is my mission I’m sworn to it and I will work for it.

I have new empathy for people who are so-called disabled or handicapped like those returning from war with some horrific circumstance and who must start a new way of living in an entirely different environment. I am lucky I am told that over time most of my abilities may return. It will not be easy, it will not be shortcoming and it wiil not be without this awful feeling of sadness and frustration. The fact that I have always been a very independent person only exacerbates the situation.

I am a very fortunate individual because I have accumulated a gathering of good friends along the way. These people are in constant contact with me, expressing their concern and otherwise cheering me on.  When you’re in this kind of situation and you realize the good friends you have you’ll never ever take them for granted nor will you ever look at your wife as you have in the past now that she has the burden of being your primary caregiver.  While Rosemary has been an RN for entire life, taking care of an elderly spouse with the disabilities that I have at this point, well it’s even more than the expected “in sickness and in health.”  Sickness was always supposed to be something like the flu, never anything like this. I am such a lucky man.

So that’s where I am today as I dictate into a microphone which interprets what I say and formulas the words my computer screen. there are a gazillion mistakes that I have to fix and some of the misinterpretations of individual words are quite humorous. Nonetheless I have a lot of corrections to do and that means I will be pecking away with my forefinger for a few more hours.  But I want to make sure that as doom and gloom as all this may have sounded, I’m looking forward to continuing my recovery. I have enough determination and optimism to know that things will be better and they are just getting through these current days presents challenges more than any I’ve faced in the past. I am up for the task… but for right now I suggest you have someone else pour your coffee.


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man-falling-down-vector-15468971In case any of you may have noticed, I have disappeared for many many weeks. I know this is very unusual for my blog to go dormant, so maybe even one of you might be curious as to why. Well, now you shall learn why, but first I must ask you a favor. I’m not typing this posting with my hands. Instead, I am using a voice-to-text program. This allows me to voice what it is I wish to say and the computer types it out, although not always very accurately. Forgive me for not correcting some of these inaccuracies but I’m not able to do so in an efficient manner at this time. Nevertheless I think you’ll be able to read today’s posting and get beyond any typos, misspellings or inaccuracies. That said…hello again from Marc’s Blog!

So where to begin? I’m really not sure. first of all, I am always a little reluctant to write about certain personal things that have happened to me, particularly those things “medical” for lack of another word. But my life changed on April 4th and I’m not sure where it’s headed and how I’m supposed to get to wherever it is I’m supposed to get. so with all this ambiguity in mind, I will proceed and for those interested you will ride along while others of you may otherwise go on to doing something else.

around 3 a.m. on the 4th of April I woke up in the middle of the night which was not unusual for me and I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of decaf. I remember carrying it back to my desk in my room and placing it next to the keyboard. I assume then I sat down in the chair and began doing something on my computer. the only thing I remember after placing the coffee on my desk is violently hitting the floor with my right cheekbone. I have been falling a lot lately. No, not tripping or stumbling over something. The falls come while I’ve been asleep. I had falls out of bed and out of a chair that I might be sleeping in. I’ve had years and years of sleep disorders but I’ve never had the falling problem before. some of the falls have been pretty bruising but the ones that hurt the most are those when my head hits first. when your head hit something hard like a hardwood floor there’s an unusual sound that I can’t even describe and the proverbial flash of white light. it’s all true, it does happen. it’s happened to me several times but this last time was critically different. after I hit the ground I immediately woke up I was fully aware of what happened except for one thing that was different this time. I could not move anything nor sense anyting below my neck. I could see, I could hear, I could speak but I could not move any part of my body. I can, in no words, express the horror then I felt at this particular moment. I called for Rosemarie several times and thank God she woke up and came in. it must have been a horrible sight for her to see me lying motionless on the floor. I asked her to get her hand out of my face. she told me it wasn’t her hand, it was mine. perplexing is not a strong enough word to describe the situation.

She wanted to call 911. I maybe. because I wasn’t in any particular pain, persuaded her not to do that just yet. it was right at the beginning of the Coronavirus situation and the last place a 74 year old man should be at that time was the hospital. it took maybe a quarter to a half an hour that I spent struggling to move before I finally was able to gain some movement and sensation in my right leg. what seemed forever was the time it took for me to continue to gain movement and sensation in my body. with help from Rosemarie I was able to eventually get myself on my knees and then slowly work myself up the side of the bed and onto the mattress. I was relieved that I was able to move but still scared to death that I had radically injured myself beyond repair. we waited and fretted for a few more hours and then decided that I really had no choice–I should go to the ER and have myself checked out because I was still far from normal. both my arms and hands we’re paralyzed. I could move them, but I could not manipulate them in any fashion. they both felt that I had fallen asleep on them. they were numb and heavy and I had pins and needles up and down my arms into my hands.This is how they have remained ever since. I also discovered that I could not walk properly and in no way could do so by myself. I was in bad shape.

at the hospital they ran a bunch of tests on me and took x-rays and I was to have a third test the next morning after being held in the hospital overnight. all along all I thought of was the virus and not my particular problems from the fall. the virus news on the TV scared me sufficiently enough to know that the hospital was the last place that I should be. in the meantime it seemed that the room I was in had not been occupied for a while because it wasn’t very clean and I understood that all the virus victims we’re on the floor above me. despite my being a usually low key, uncomplaining patient. I was getting frustrated by not getting any help at all for those things that needed doing. Imagine being suddenly paralyzed and placed in an invironment that could kill you within days. since I have been told that the test I was having in the morning was not urgent and could be done at another time I decided I would check out of the hospital. It was only making matters worse. So I went home. I subsequently began a marathon of visits to doctors, resulting in tests of just about every part of my body. now, a month-plus later, my walking and the functioning of my arms and hands had slowly deteriorated even beyond where they were immediately after the fall. My entire way of living and functioning had changed dramatically in the moment my face hit the floor. So too had that of Rosemarie. We had much to do and much to think about…more on that next time while I had a great fall and await to see if all the king’s men can put me back together again.





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