Bury Me Not

When I was little, I knew of two songs that had the word “Bury” in their titles. The first was a well known cowboy song entitled “Bury Me Not On The Lone Prairie.” It’s also known as “The Cowboy’s Lament” and was originally a sea shanty that was written in the early 1800s by those who came to America to populate its shores.

I first heard the song watching shoot ‘em up cowboy programs on Saturday mornings when Roy Rogers and Dale Evans sauntered into my family’s TV room along with old ornery Gabby Hayes and sometimes, if we were lucky, the Sons of the Pioneers as well!

The arms on either end of the sofa in the television room were instantly transformed into horses and even though we were four kids at home, it seemed I was the only one who ever got up the idea to saddle up the sofa and ride along.

During those years, I also knew of another song with that word, “Bury” and this song, too, was a lament. It was “Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee” by Buffy Sainte Marie. Although I knew the words to the song by heart, I hadn’t made the connection between what the song was about and what Roy Rogers and the gang were up to every Saturday morning.

A few years later, American author Dee Brown wrote a book by that same name. The book made good use of strong documentation from original sources such as council records and firsthand descriptions, and Time Magazine agreed. But there were some who were displeased to see how the history of the cowboy years were portrayed, howling that the book did not portray the government of the day in a good light.

The author’s intention in writing this book, however, was to open people’s eyes to the facts as they pertained to the history of the settlement of the west. Facts from the point of view of the North American Indian. He said that Americans had always looked westward when reading about this period in American history; it was about time Americans faced eastward when learning about what happened during that era.

I was given a copy of the movie, “Bury Me Not At Wounded Knee” a few months ago. Even though the movie is based on the last two chapters of Brown’s book, it was incredibly moving and heartwrenching to watch.

None of us were at Wounded Knee but all of us have been touched in one way or another by what is happening today between governments and Aboriginal people. The broken promises and treaties, the provocations and discriminatory policies … they happened in the past and they continue to happen in the present.

History is sometimes rewritten to make it more palatable to the generations that follow. And sometimes, in spite of the rewriting, the facts find a way of making themselves known.

And so here we are, over 100 years after the massacre at Wounded Knee, and I see a parallel between how Aboriginals were treated and how Autistics are treated.

I see how anti-vaccine militant groups are rewriting history with their claims that governments around the world are in cahoots with the pharmaceutical companies to push vaccines that they insist are responsible for Autism. I see how they cling to a disproven hypothesis by one discredited doctor by the name of Andrew Wakefield in the hopes that causing as much noise as possible will drown out the facts that vaccines do not cause Autism.

Sometimes facing eastward opens one’s heart to things never seen or heard or felt before. Sometimes change is a good thing. Sometimes hearing things as they are saves many from generations of heartache.

Elyse Bruce
Founder and Creator
MIDNIGHT IN CHICAGO

We Are Somewhat Like Borg

Sometimes it’s difficult to explain to someone just what Myasthenia Gravis is and how it affects individuals afflicted with the disease.  Sometimes the explanation is as simple as adding two prime numbers together.

Shortly before Lewis went in for major surgery, a local newspaper reporter asked Lewis to describe Myasthenia Gravis to her.  His explanation was difficult to understand because MG severely hampered his ability to speak clearly but that doesn’t mean that the explanation wasn’t absolutely bang on in its description.

Just a few days ago, as I was sitting with Lewis in the front room one afternoon, I asked him to explain MG to me using the same analogy he had used in the interview.  He smiled and gladly obliged.

“You see,” he began quietly and with absolute deliberation, “your body is a computer.  And your muscles are like the most awesome program you could ever install on that  computer.”  He waited to see if I was following along with his technology laden explanation.

“Your thymus gland is like the most powerful anti-virus protection you could put on  your computer and, of course, MG is like a major trojan that somehow got onto your system for some weird reason,” he added with a grin.

“Now MG disables your anti-virus program so it can’t recognize and destroy invading bacteria or virus or abnormal cell growth or foreign tissue which means,” he pointed out in his impromptu lecture, “that all your programs are at risk including that most awesome program that’s in charge of muscle movement.”  He paused for a moment before continuing.

“Do you remember a year ago when I told you that I believed that MG was like a Trojan?” he asked out of the blue. 

“Yes, I do, Lewis,” I answered him, wondering where he was going with this question.

“Well,” he said, “I still think that if there was some way medical researchers could quarantine the MG Trojan and change its extension from being an executable to being a bitmap, it would still be inside my body but it wouldn’t be able to do anything to destroy my anti-virus or pre-loaded God-given programs.”

I laughed a hearty laugh.  Only Lewis could make MG absolutely understandable by using technological jargon to explain it all to someone like his mother who has minimal computer programming skills.

So if any of you following this blog are MG medical researchers or you know any MG medical researchers, please ask them to contact Lewis so he can share his insights into Myasthenia Gravis.  I’m sure that amongst them all, working together as a team, a cure might one day be found in the very near future.

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Being a visual artist (painter), I have been to many shows where my works have been displayed. These are oftentimes soirees where people in evening dress stand around holding drinks whilst frowning ponderously over my canvasses.
 
It pleases me that people take an interest in my art work and try to figure out what it means to them or what they mean to me.  Art is not only about expression, but it is about reflection and finding new meanings, both within oneself, and without.
 
However, sometimes the production of artwork is a bit more earthy than the later displaying of it. 
 
A couple weeks back, Elyse and I decided to get some prints made of four of my paintings. We have a person that does this for us. He does an excellent job. 
 
The usual modus operandi is to drop the original paintings off at this person’s place of business and then pick up the originals and the prints when the prints are ready. Turn around time is about a week which is amazing considering the amount of work involved.
 
This time, however, our printer was in the area and offered to pick the paintings up, which was fine, except there is a big long trench being dug along the street where Elyse lives. They are replacing a water main, evidently, and work is progressing at a snail’s pace.  The construction going on often prevents anyone from getting in or out of her place of residence and this day was no different.  Our only recourse was to meet half a block over at the IGA/Foodland and hand the paintings over in the parking lot.
 
I had picked Elyse up from volunteering at a local club, and we parked in the lot and waited, with my paintings wrapped in plastic in the back seat.
 
No printer.
 
So we went in and shopped. (They had a dollar-days sale going on, with chicken drumsticks at a dollar a pound.)
 
Still no printer.
 
So we went home (managing to make our way through the construction) and put the groceries away.
 
Then a call to Elyse’s cell phone. But the call got dropped, so we did not know who it was, and we did not have our printer’s cell phone number. Figuring it was our printer, we walked back to the store.
 
Still no printer.
 
So there we were — me, Thomas D. Taylor, painter extraordinaire, whose works are hanging in Canada, the US, and Hungary, and Elyse Bruce, singer/songwriter/composer, whose albums are selling in stores, playing on the radio, and selling on the net – sitting on a bench at the IGA/Foodland with a bunch of unmarked white plastic bags containing my original artwork. A front end loader pulled into the parking lot, dragging with it a cloud of dust and blue diesel smoke which descended upon us like a mist. We coughed, our throats irritated.
 
We could only take so much of that and so it was back home, where the printer called, saying he had just arrived at the IGA/Foodland parking lot.
 
Back to the IGA/Foodland we went once again, where the exchange was made. The paintings went out of the backseat of my car and into the back of his van, which was full of kids – his own and their friends – he had picked up from school.
 
The prints from these paintings will be seen around the world.
 
Ad astra per aspera.
 
To the stars through difficulties.

Pass the Drumsticks Please

I began writing before I could spell, and I began drawing before I had the manual dexterity to command a pencil. I think I would have started painting with acrylic on canvas had I been able to convince my parents that it was worth the expense.

Instead, I bided my time and did not begin painting until I was in college, when I had enough money to be able to afford my own materials.

Everything I have written, everything I have sketched, and everything I have painted has been my own creation entirely and not subject to help, input, or guidance of any kind. I am self taught.

I am told I am a great writer and a talented artist. Most people do not believe it when I tell them how young I was when I began my writing and my artwork, nor do they believe it when I tell them I am self-taught.

The other day I was cruising the internet and I found this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMnwOZA0DQk.

I would have embedded the video in this post however the owner of the video — who I assume is his mother — has disabled the embedding feature on the account at YouTube. Nevertheless, clicking on the link will take you to the video at YouTube.

Sometimes I wish I had such evidence to present in my own defense.

The 4 year old drummer is a sensation, but if you browse the internet even further, you’ll find that he started at three years old. He had to practice for a year before he got as good as we see him in the video.

His natural talent and his cultivation of it is a familiar story to me. I am sure it is a familiar story to many. And it feels good that I can at last provide some sort of proof to sceptics that it IS possible to have talent at a very young age.

What is your talent? And at what age did you discover it?

Thomas D. Taylor
Co-creator
MIDNIGHT IN CHICAGO

On Meeting Gentle People

I wrote about Gareth Patterson already, but if memory serves, I have not written anything about Lester E. Fisher.   He used to be the Executive Director of Lincoln Park Zoo.
 
Dr. Lester E. Fisher was Director of the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago, Illinois from 1962 through to 1992 and has served the zoo in various capacities since that time.
 
For thirty years Fisher served, not just keeping the zoo running, but improving it with each passing year. The Lester E. Fisher Great Ape House (since torn down) was named for him in honour of his efforts. The Lester E. Fisher Center for the Study and Conservation of Apes was created in 2004 to replace it.
 
Am I going to say that anyone can run a zoo?  No. It takes an extraordinary person. Just in terms of sheer logistics, it must be tough.  During the years when I spent my weekends haunting the Lion House at the Lincoln Park Zoo, I sincerely hoped to meet him.
 
My normal routine was to head straight for the Lion House and spend a few hours there and then I would tour the rest of the zoo to see what the rest of the inhabitants were up to.
 
I accidently happened upon Dr. Fisher around 2000 or so.  The Lester E. Fisher Great Ape House was still standing at the time and Dr. Fischer was there. One would have expected some sort of entourage, with the press snapping photographs of him. Instead, there he was, musing thoughtfully as he looked at one of the displays.
 
Perhaps he was waiting for someone, but I have since learned that after his retirement he spent a good deal of time at the zoo, particularly the Ape House, so perhaps this was one of his personal visits.  Apes were animals much beloved by him.
 
“Hey!” I said, ”You’re Dr. Lester Fisher.”
 
I felt mildly foolish, interupting his day like this and intruding on his contentment. I am sure he wasn’t exactly brimming with pleasure over my intrusion, but he was polite and offered his hand, which I shook.
 
(Oddly, these days I have a better idea of how he feels. I have been on TV and in the newspapers enough so now people sometimes come up to me and say “Hey! You’re Thomas Taylor!”   What I feel is amusement, that someone thinks somebody as normal as I am is so special.)
 
“I’ve watched you on TV,” I said, realizing that I’d better say something else before someone else interrupted us.  Something intelligent.  Many times when I have been alone, I’ve thought about how neat it would be to learn all the workings of the zoo, and particularly about the lion house.  Had I had my presence of mind then, I probably could have had an engaging conversation with him.
 
Instead, I said the first thing that came to mind:  “I just wanted to thank you for all the years you put in at the zoo and how much of a difference you’ve made for all of us who visit. Also, you’ve done a lot to make better habitats for the animals. I really enjoy it here.”
 
“Thank you,” he said. You could tell his pleasure was genuine, not just polite acknowledgement.
 
“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt your day,” I said, and we shook hands again. “Take care.”
 
“You too,” he said.
 
And that was the last time I saw him … until three years later when he was invited to a function held at a company for which I used to work.  He did not recognize me, of course, nor was his memory jogged when I told him of our encounter.

He has shaken hands with a lot of people, both important and ordinary folks like me. it would be nearly impossible for him to remember every single encounter.
 
But the thing was, even then, while he was even farther into retirement and still talking about his apes and the zoo and how much he loved them.
 
What passion and what devotion.
 
Last time I posted I said Gareth Patterson inspired me to start advocating for animals and people. Now I’m saying my two encounters with Dr. Lester E. Fisher are part of what keeps me going.

Thomas D. Taylor
Co-Creator
MIDNIGHT IN CHICAGO

Grandma Moses and I

Grandma Moses has always been a person of interest for me.

She experienced the Civil War.

She married a farm worker, Thomas S. Moses, in 1887 when she was 27 years of age at a time when women were married off in their teen years. She and her husband settled on a farm in Virginia where she gave birth to 10 children and saw 5 die in infancy.

She was a widow by the time 1927 came around and never remarried for as long as she lived. She lived to be 101 years old.

Born in 1860, Anna Mary Robertson “Grandma” Moses started painting in 1937 when she was 76 going on 77.  The Depression Era had been raging for nearly 8 years at that point and showed no signs of letting up any time soon.

It took Granda Moses 5 years to go from exhibits in rural fairs and local drugstores to exhibits in fine art galleries in Europe and the United States. By 1943 there was an overwhelming demand for her paintings done on strong cardboard that never measured more than 24 inches by 30 inches.

She was a self-taught artist. Grandma Moses became an American celebrity.

So why am I writing about Grandma Moses when this blog’s YouTube video encapsulates an unforgettable one-day experience at Wonderworks in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee? It’s because of the quote at the beginning of the video.

It’s such a simple, straight forward comment and yet, so many people fail to take advantage of the universal truth found in those words spoken by Grandma Moses.

Elyse Bruce
Founder and Creator
MIDNIGHT IN CHICAGO

The Lion Man of Africa

One thing everyone ought to do at least once in his or her lifetime is to write an author and see what happens.

A perseverative interest of mine is the 37 species of wildcats if you consider the Iriomote cat to be a separate species (as some experts do) rather than a subspecies of Leopard Cat.  Some say there are more than 37 species, but the jury is still out on that one).

During my period of intial investigation into cats, I found myself reading studies on them, books on their anatomies, and books written by the people who work with them.

A book I would particularly recommend is With My Soul Amongst Lions (St. Martin’s Press, New York, New York. 1995) by Gareth Patterson. I was so motivated by Gareth’s work to follow and improve the lives of the descendents of the original Joy and George Adamson “Born Free” lions that I wrote to him to thank him for all that he has done for them.

To my surprise, he wrote back, and we had a limited correspondance going for a while. This was a few years ago, and he’s probably forgotten about me by now although it’s also just as likely that he remembers me specifically because of that letter.

Yet, believe it or not, it was his advocacy for his lions which caused me to devote myself to advocating for environmental causes as well as for people on the autism spectrum.

The phrase “One person can make a difference” has actually worked at least twice over in his case. He has made a great deal of progress in the area of conservation, and he has motivated me to take active steps to change the world in the ways in which I can.

We can all make a difference in some small way.

We can write letters.

We can start message boards.

We can post our feelings on blogs.

We can join organizations that promote our views.

We can inform people around us who are willing to listen.

Gareth Patterson is nicknamed “The Lion Man of Africa” not just because he works with lions, but because he has also done a lion’s share of conservation and philanthropy.

Too often, we take “the lion’s share” from the world.

This week, let’s try to think about what we can give back to it.

To learn more about Gareth Patterson, please visit http://www.garethpatterson.com/

Thomas D. Taylor
Co-Creator
MIDNIGHT IN CHICAGO

On Being Smart

Albert Einstein once said, “It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.”

Two weeks ago, I was set to write a new blog entry. The universe, however, had something far more exciting planned for me.

Now as many of you know, my son has Asperger Syndrome which is a form of Autism.  He was diagnosed many years ago and his diagnosis has never bothered me as individuals with Autism can live long and productive lives even with the obstacles and challenges that Autism brings to their lives.

A year ago, he was also diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis which is a rare, complex neuromuscular autoimmune disorder for which there is no cure.  There are approximately 100,000 people in the world who have been diagnosed with MG and it is 5 times more rare in children than in adults.

Now MG is a more dangerous beast in that it can, and does, kill the individual with MG.

The reason the audio podcasts on Autism Spectrum Disorders and Related Illnesses are so well received is because they are well researched and based on facts.  Make no mistake about it, Thomas invests days and weeks into researching each podcast topic before he even starts writing.

And make no mistake about it, this is the same approach I have taken with learning everything I can about Myasthenia Gravis.  Knowing as much as one can about a problem increases the chances of making well-informed decisions regarding how the problem is to be treated.

Two weeks ago, my son was airlifted from the Peterborough Regional Health Centre to the Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto due to a Myasthenic crisis.  He spent 6 days in hospital where 4 of those days were dedicated to IVIg.  There were tests and observations and more during those 6 days. And yes, we almost lost him.  The good news is that we didn’t lose him.

Through it all, it wasn’t how smart I or any of the medical professionals were that got my son back on even footing.  It was the fact that all of us stayed with the problem and put serious effort into problem solving based on what we knew to be true about MG and what we knew to be true about how MG presents itself in my son.

The next time someone questions your intelligence for taking so long to arrive at a solution in your life, remember that it isn’t always how smart you are that yields the correct answer.  No, it’s how devoted you are to finding the correct answer that will make all the difference in the world.

Ask me; I know.  Being smart is good; being persistent and consistent and dedicated to finding the right answer is better.

Elyse Bruce
Founder and Creator
MIDNIGHT IN CHICAGO

Speaking of Driving

Elyse and I have a rule that whoever does the driving gets to decide when the radio is on or off and what station the radio is tuned to when it is turned on.

I typically do most of the driving when we are together.

Forgetting that Elyse is first and foremost a jazz musician (though she likes and has played many different genres of music), I drove Elyse around for two years with my male arrogance assuming Elyse likes the same music I like … that being, namely, 80’s music.

It was only about a year ago when I started letting her music — jazz as well as 60’s and 70’s rock — infiltrate the car’s cabin.

On our most recent trip, I stopped twiddling the dial when Elyse’s ears perked up at one station or another, and so I got to hear some really good 60’s and 70’s music … music I had never heard before. She and I spent a good deal of time discussing the lyrics of the songs, recording techniques, and the history of the eras those songs were written in as well as the background with regards to the songwriters and/or the artists.

We drove many miles together listening to music and having good conversation. And if you think good music and good conversation can be easily dispensed with, just try driving somewhere on a hot day with a busted radio and a busted air conditioner.

Let me tell you that the 460 air conditioning (4 windows down and driving 60 miles per hour) Elyse’s generation grew up with isn’t as efficient as it sounds when you hear it remembered with whimsical affection by your traveling companion.

A word from one man to another: If you drive with a woman, let her pick the radio station every once in a while. You might be surprised about what sort of good music is out there that you haven’t been listening to, and you might also find out that the diamond that is your companion has a beautiful facet that you have not seen before.

Thomas D. Taylor
Co-Creator
MIDNIGHT IN CHICAGO

Of Dollywood and Big Spotlights

Anyone who has ever driven anywhere new with another person knows that one gets to be the ‘pilot’ while the other gets to be the ‘navigator.’ Usually this works very well as long as both people are clear on what their roles are along the journey.  What usually happens, however, is that either the pilot doesn’t understand the navigator’s instructions or the navigator can’t read a map to save his or her life.

A couple weeks ago, Thomas and I took Lewis to America for March Break. For the most part, the drive was uneventful with the exception of the day we drove from the Chickamauga and Chattanooga National Military Park in Georgia to Pigeon Forge just outside of the Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee.

We had experienced the nightmare of trying to get around the detours in and around Knoxville on our way down to Georgia. We had suffered through the detour for State 40 via the 640 and we had experienced Route 441 in all its glorious confusion.   We were both determined to avoid Knoxville at all costs on our way back into Pigeon Forge later on that day.

Now I will tell you that for the most part, it’s very easy to tell the difference between Interstate and U.S. Numbered Routes, Tennessee and adjoining state routes, access fully controlled and multilane (divided and undivided) Interstate and State highways, miles between the red darts and the exit numbers found between the green darts. And although I can get an idea on some of the reasons a navigator might misread a map, I don’t usually have those sorts of problems.

So there we were, the three of us in Thomas’ car, leaving Georgia behind as we motored along I-75 towards Tennessee. We probably should have taken I-75 but Thomas and I were feeling somewhat adventurous and we wanted to see some of the hidden beauty of Tennessee on our way back late at night.

Mind you, it wasn’t dark when we started off towards Pigeon Forge even though it was darker than pitch when we pulled into Pigeon Forge. We had successfully circumvented Chattanooga when we happened upon the State 11/64 exit that would eventually lead us to Cleveland provided we met up with State 311 just south of Cleveland. We did and with a jig to the right, we were soon on State 40 headed for Ocoee and Route 411. A turn to the left and we were headed towards Madisonville just east of Sweetwater. As the sun set we found ourselves well on our way towards Maryville and options!

We were making great time, keeping to the speed limit and in a moment of silliness, I looked at Thomas and asked, “Do you want to see something really scary?” before launching into “Let The Midnight Special.”   Thomas chuckled at the “Twilight Zone” movie reference.

Once in Maryville, I wanted to head along State 321 that would take us through Townsend where the Tukaleechee Caverns are found and along the edges of the Smoky Mountains National Park. That idea was nixed by the driver who, having driven these roads many times before, felt it was foolhardy to travel in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains after 9:00 p.m.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured me. “All we have to do is continue following the 411 and watch for the turn off to Sevierville.”

It was all so simple. My job as navigator, according to the pilot, was done and so I folded up the map and tried to relax. We coasted into Newell Station a few minutes later and there the pilot saw the roadside signs for U.S. Numbered 411/441.

I had wanted to go right at the intersection but the pilot wanted to go left, and seeing that he knew where he was headed better than I, we turned left. We passed through the lovely little town of Seymour where the roads were narrow and the corners were tight. Then we sailed past the sign announcing that the airport was ahead somewhere.

And then there we were …. IN KNOXVILLE?!?!?!

How in the world did we end up in Knoxville? When I folded up that map, we were well on our way to getting into Pigeon Forge according to schedule but somehow, we found ourselves in Knoxville.

The pilot turned the car around and said to me, “We have to go back along the highway and find the turn off for Sevierville.”

“OK,” I replied, confused at how we had found our way to Knoxville. I was silent for two minutes and then commented helpfully, “The sign says we’re on the 441.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “If we’re on the 441, we should be in Pigeon Forge by now. Watch for the turn off sign for the 441 to Pigeon Forge.”

So I went back to watching the side of the road the way a cat watches string being pulled along the floor in front of it.

“There’s a billboard for Dollywood,” I offered hopefully. There was no mistaking the toothy grin and the billboard spotlights; that was Dolly inviting us to visit her in Pigeon Forge. And then I got to wondering. How was it that we had taken a wrong turn on the highway we were supposed to be on – and that we indeed were on – in the first place? How does someone get on the right highway and still not get to their destination?

We zoomed past another Dollywood billboard and yet a third Dollywood billboard before seeing one for Dolly’s Dixie Stampede. If nothing else, we were learning a lot about the many Dolly Parton attractions in Pigeon Forge.

“Sevierville,” Thomas breathed with relief.

Sevierville? We were in Sevierville and we hadn’t found the turn off yet! I was as confused about arriving in Sevierville as I had been arriving in Knoxville. We hadn’t passed any road signs announcing a turn off to get to Sevierville and yet, here we were in Sevierville.

A right turn and 5 minutes later we were in Pigeon Forge!

The major lesson I learned is that if you have a good pilot and a good navigator, do not tempt fate by singing the first song heard in the “Twilight Zone” movie … no matter how much you like the song or the movie!

And the other lesson I learned was to thank Dolly Parton for having so many billboards along the highway with those really big spotlights on them.