Ben Raymond

Over the years we brush up against scores of people. Some are easily forgotten and others we take with us throughout our life's journey. Ben Raymond is one person who has stayed in my mind and been with me on my life's journey.



Some people are beautiful and stand out in a crowd. Most are average. A few are noticed because they are peculiar. I was like that and so was Mr. Raymond. I wore thick glasses due to poor eyesight. The pop bottle lenses were easy targets for children to try out their creative insults. This was good training for me. I would sometimes fire back insults of my own or laugh. Sometimes the teasing resulted in me feeling sorry for myself. I would bemoan the fact I was not normal like the other kids, but it would pass and I would go on.



Mr. Raymond walked with a limp and one arm hung motionless. I am not sure what happened to him maybe polio or something. He was one of the leaders in my Boy Scout troop and he was like me in that he stood out for peculiar reasons. Like me the boys made fun of him and at times I did too. His nickname was “oney.” He had one good arm and one good leg. We deduced he probably had one good nut as well. It was not the kind of thing said to Mr. Raymond’s face the insults were always said behind his back. He had to know, but he never lashed out at us. He must have realized we were young and dumb. He probably further reasoned that we would eventually grow out of it.



Regardless of the disrespect, Mr. Raymond was nice. He was tall, quiet, and gentle. He smoked a pipe and I watched with fascination as he cleaned the pipe and loaded it with tobacco all very skillfully and with one hand. Mr. Raymond could not play baseball or football with us like some of the other leaders. On camp outs there were certain tasks he could not do, but he was always there encouraging or joking with us.



More than one time I felt ashamed for participating in the name calling. I knew what it felt like first hand and I did not like it. I was guilty of the very thing by which I had been victimized. It is a useful thing to be aware of one’s own hypocrisy and even more useful to want to change it.



Eventually I earned five merit badges and was eligible for the rank of Star. After a board of review and some additional formalities I was ready to receive the award at the next awards ceremony or court of honor. Scouts who receive the rank of Star, Life, and Eagle are given the privilege to choose someone to present the award. Nobody ever chose Mr. Raymond for this task - I was the first. Some of the other kids laughed at my choice. “You chose oney, ha, ha, you probably only have one nut yourself, ha, ha.” I did not care what they said. I had watched Mr. Raymond rise above insults and I was doing the same.



When I asked Mr. Raymond to present the award I knew he was touched. He congratulated me and told me how honored he was that I would think of him for this task. He made me feel better about myself. 



I do not know how much I understood then as a 13 year old boy. I did realize that Mr. Raymond and I were a lot alike. Asking him to present my medal was one way I could acknowledge him, it was also a display of genuine respect.



It is both a mystery and a truth that good character is often forged in the furnace of ridicule and disrespect. A diamond is the result of enormous pressures. How often do people rush past diamonds like Mr. Raymond on their way to fool's gold?



Until the next time

John Strain

Let's Keep Church and State Separate

In Montgomery, Alabama battle lines are drawn over the removal of a monument depicting the Ten Commandments. Chief Justice Roy Moore has refused to obey a federal court order to remove the monument from the state's judicial building and has been suspended by a state judicial ethics panel. Supporters of Moore are protesting at the judicial building and a suit has been filed to keep the monument where it is.



Why does the monument have to be removed? Why did Chief Justice Moore refuse to abide by the federal court order to remove it? Why are people taking time out of their lives to go to the judicial building and protest its removal? Why?



There are simple answers to these questions. The kind of answers you get on the evening news. The monument has to be removed because our form of government keeps Church and State separate. Chief Justice Moore is no doubt a devout Christian who believes the Ten Commandments monument is a symbol upon which the United States was founded. The protesters probably believe it necessary to demonstrate against what they see as governmental intrusion on their faith.



There is nothing better to rally a group of people then for them to feel attacked. Just look how the USA responded when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, or consider what happened in the aftermath of 9/11. The gay community was mobilized by the death of Matthew Shepard. A group perceiving an attack from the outside becomes more cohesive.



My opinion about the Ten Commandments monument is that it should be removed to maintain the separation of Church and State. The courts decide what is a violation of Church and State. The courts do not always side with "anti religion" groups. If they did side with the "anti religious" groups then the words "in God we trust" would not be on our legal tender and "under God" would not be in our pledge. "Pro religious" groups are always pushing the envelope in their favor and seek to set up Nativity scenes during the Christmas holidays or erect crosses or other religious symbols in government places. The courts examine these cases which are usually "gray" areas. They decide like a parent settling a squabble between two siblings.



There are very good reasons for keeping Church and State separate. The word theocracy means "rule by the deity." Historically, theocracies have been disastrous. They usually do not last beyond the generation that founded them. Theocracies are intolerant and tend to persecute individuals who do not accept what the person in charge says is the word of God. They are often corrupt and just flat do not work.



John Calvin was persecuted in France for religious reasons for his part in the reformation. Eventually he established a theocratic government that sentenced some 60 nonbelievers to death. In the seventeenth century the American Colonies under the Puritans were a theocracy. The witch trials resulted from Puritan rule. Muslim theocracies are evident in the Taliban's recent reign in Afghanistan and current Iranian government.



The founders of Alcoholic's Anonymous knew that to name God would be to exclude many from their program. A "Higher Power" is mentioned instead recognizing the importance of believing in something beyond self. One's higher power could be Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, or anything.



Our government allows its citizens to practice their religion. No one religion gets the upper hand or is allowed to be discriminated against.



In my opinion the protesters in support of the monument staying are wrong. Would they be protesting to keep the monument if it were a Buddha or a symbol of another religion? Probably not. They are protesting because this religious symbol happens to be one of which they approve. As a Christian myself I would encourage them to direct their energy toward the work of Christ and let God defend the faith. What is the work of Christ? To express God's love through deeds - substance not in form only. To feed the hungry, to help the poor, to heal the sick, to visit those in prison, and to help widows and orphans. How many of those did they pass on their way to the protest?



Jesus became angry whenever people placed form over substance. He called the pious religious leaders seeking to destroy him white washed tombs, clean and white on the outside, but on the inside rotting corpses. He did not protest, instead he taught and he acted. Loud talk and protest may make an individual feel like he/she has done something - but what? Have they advanced the faith they espouse? I do not believe so.



Our nation is big on protest and protesting. We choose one side and yell at the other. We gather with our like minded brethren and tell ourselves we are right and they are wrong. We know that everything they say is wrong because they are saying it. They know that everything we say is wrong because we are saying it. It is the form of discussion without substance. No listening, no compromise, no attempt to understand or to open our minds. The truth is usually somewhere between the two sides and we must walk toward the other if we are ever to find it.



Until the next time

John Strain

I See Castles

I was enrolled in a doctoral program in counseling and psychology and working as a clinical associate in a psychiatric hospital. Learning was coming from experience and in the classroom. I did extra tasks at work for learning purposes. The psychologist was all to happy to let me score MMPI's (personality test). It saved him time and all he had to do was discuss the tests and interpretations with me. One of the psychiatrists was working on some dual diagnosis research and I volunteered to do computer work for him. At the time I was getting online with a 300 baud modem and dialing into Compuserve. I was able to search Medline through a service called Paper Chase. I got him lots of abstracts and in return got to discuss different aspects of dual diagnosis research with him.



It is easy to be a star at work. Most employers are elated if someone comes in on time and does what they are supposed to do. If an employee goes the extra mile he/she is a real stand out. It paid off for me, because the doctor was leaving our hospital for another psychiatric hospital in New Orleans and he hired me as his Program Director.



I did not even know what a program director was, but I was determined to find out and be a good one. Now out of the front line work and into the corporate scene, I had a lot to learn. This was my first break. I was 31, married with a three year old son and in need of extra money.



One of the perks, at least I thought it was a perk at the time, was going to restaurants on the hospital's nickel. We were encouraged to take referral sources to marketing lunches. We had accounts at a number of restaurants so all one had to do was sign for the meal. It made me feel like I was cool. One particular meal was in the evening at one of New Orleans' finest restaurants - The Grill Room at the Windsor Court Hotel. We had drinks, appetizers, salad, entree', dessert, and coffee. We had it all. The service was exceptional as one might expect. I was eating up what I thought to be a glamorous lifestyle - at least flashes of one. Granted this was how I was experiencing it.



After our meal and business talk it came time to go. It was not that late, so I called Barbara to come pick me up. We were not rich yet and a $9 cab ride was something to avoid if Barbara could pick me up. So I waited in the lobby for a while then walked outside to admire the beautiful landscaping. The cool fall air made for a comfortable evening. The trees were illuminated with little twinkling lights. I stood there with a light buzz from the alcohol and a stomach full of expensive food. All of the stars were not in the sky that night - there were a few in my eyes as well.



After about 20 minutes, Barbara pulled up near the front door where I was standing. She was in our clunky 1978 Mustang. It's paint had lost it's shine and the right front fender was caved in where Barbara hit one of those yellow concrete poles in a parking lot. The valet started to walk toward the car, but I waved him off. I am sure he was getting ready to politely tell her to get this hunk of junk out of here.



When I opened the door to get in I saw my son in his car seat in the back. He was wide awake and looking around. He was pointing and saying, "Look daa-ee" (he did not pronounce the middle d's) "I see castles." I followed the line from his little three year old finger and he was pointing up to the trees and tall buildings I had been marveling at just moments before. "Yes" I said, "the lights are pretty huh." He kept saying it as we drove out of the hotel compound. "I see castles, big castles."



His words hit me between the eyes. He put into words what I was feeling. I was being slowly hypnotized by the allure of cool and style, but as our family drove home I knew what had real value. The lights and buildings were impressive, but my castle was a little two bedroom apartment in student housing. My treasure was driving the car and riding in the back seat. I have never looked at the glitz and glamour the same since.



Until the next time

John Strain

How Do They Know That?

When I was 18 I was ashamed of my father and how little he knew. When I became 21 I was amazed how much he had learned in three years. -Mark Twain

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I always got caught. If I did something wrong my parents knew it. I did not become paranoid, but I did give up on lying and breaking rules - because I always got caught! I was not perfect by any stretch. My honesty and rule following was more a convention than evidence of high values. How did they know? My parents were not brighter than other parents. They possessed no special skills in surveillance to which I was aware. Just let me whisper a cuss word into a pillow in a closet and I would soon be tasting ivory soap. Attempts to sneak cookies or candy beneath the radar were pointless - it was all counted and inventoried. Trying to give a BS explanation for why the knees of my jeans were grass stained was as transparent as air to my mother.



I should have caught on earlier, but I did not. Instead, I tried other more creative ways to avoid trouble and get out of it. I remember this one time I came up with an idea to end spankings. When I was coming up spankings were much more common than today. I got my share of spankings especially when I was younger than say age 10. My parents used a paddle that was once a toy. Talk about insult to injury. . . If you are familiar with the wooden paddleball toy then you are familiar with what used to smack my back side when my parents thought I needed more than words to adjust my behavior. My mom bought us the paddleball toy which I think was a predetermined method of outfitting her punishment arsenal. As soon as the little rubber band broke, the toy became an instrument of torture. I think they could have made those rubber bands with more endurance than the pitiful rubber threads they did use. They usually broke during the first play session - then the toy became mom's new discipline helper. Mom gave the paddle a name. She called it "Rosy" because "it makes your cheeks rosy," she would say proudly. She even drew a little face on it with red magic marker.



Rosy lived in the hall closet and she came out if my mom or dad ever got to the feared number three. If one of us kids was doing something wrong we got a warning in the form of counting. ONE . . .TWO (usually spoken louder and about one octave higher) . . . . .THREE!!! (spoken just a bit louder but snappier). If the dreaded "three" was uttered all talking had ended. I am having PTSD writing this. Right after "THREE!!!", were the footsteps. Bomp, bomp, bomp, bomp - hard, quick footsteps heading toward the closet to get Rosy. The closet door would open with a turn of a squeaky door handle. Then hurried rummaging sounds like a pill-head searching for some oxycontin - then the door closes and the footsteps resume. Bomp, bomp, coming toward you, bomp, bomp, they are getting louder, bomp, bomp, there is nowhere to run. Pleas of "no, no, I'll be good" fall on deaf ears - Rosy does the talking now. It was hard to follow instructions at this juncture. Often the spankee was held by one arm and instructed not to use hands to protect the target. This would begin a circular dance. In the end, Rosy would exact her pound of flesh then all would return to normal.



As I was playing one day I opened the hall closet and happened upon Rosy. She was not so tough without my parents around. I picked her up then it came to me as clear as I knew my own name. I had the thought - if you get rid of Rosy, you will be getting rid of spankings. I was a genius. Why didn't I think of this before? I walked outside and threw Rosy on our roof. To me the roof was an abyss from which nothing would ever return.



That night it rained and the wind blew but I slept comfortably in the assurance that can only come from the knowledge of a certainty that I would never be spanked again. This peace was enjoyed until the next afternoon. When I came in from school the next day my dad was reading the paper which was his normal routine. "Johnny," he said in a voice that let me know there would probably be a series of questions to follow. "What," I said having no idea what awaited. "Did you throw Rosy on the roof?" How did he know? I could not believe it - something came back from the abyss. "Yes," I said and beginning to get that feeling that comes with getting into trouble. "Why did you do that son?" he asked in a puzzled tone. "I thought I wouldn't get anymore spankings if I got rid of the paddle," I said truthfully. Well, I was wrong, because Rosy exacted her noble rights on my back side once again thus ending another great plan of mine.



I was home from college once and sat in my father's spot at the kitchen table while he sat in my traditional place. I looked to my right and noticed the window on the opened back door was like a mirror. I could see a large portion of the backyard. If I moved the door, I could have visual access of the entire backyard. I shared my discovery with my father, "Look dad, you can see the whole back yard if you move this door around - see here in the glass?" In a matter-of-fact tone my father responded, "Yes I know. How do you think I always knew what you were doing in the backyard?" I felt like the guy in the cartoons when he turns into a jackass and begins to bray - hee, haw, heeee, haw. We both had a good laugh.



I wonder what other secrets they had to keep me in line?



Until the next time

John Strain

Mr. Herman

I quickly settled into a routine as a clinical associate. I was learning quickly the reality of psychiatric care. The hospital I worked for had 36 beds separated into two units. One unit was for treating psychiatric patients both adults and adolescents, and the other unit was for treating chemical dependency.



Clinical associates were responsible for 4 to 6 patients during the shift. My responsibility was to make sure each patient got to the daily scheduled groups and activities and any other applicable appointments. I had to be aware of who was on visual contact. The medical director I mentioned in the last post Wayne was known to ask a clinical associate, "who are your patients?" You had better be able to blurt them out without having to think about it. The next question from the doctor was, "are any of them on VC (visual contact)?" You better know that one too. The last question was, "where are they?" If they were not in sight, he would fire you on the spot. I saw this happen. Wayne was a hard ass all of the time and a prick most of the time. In retrospect I do not disagree with this method of his. He was teaching us that visual contact was important. Patients were on visual contact for their safety. If the precaution was not being maintained they could be in danger. I was at one other hospital when a patient committed suicide by hanging himself with his belt. He was on visual contact, but obviously not within the sight of staff.



It was stressful being accountable for patient's behavior. The culture there was to blame the staff for the crazy behavior of patients. Other patients were work intensive. Geriatric patients often required total care. They required assistance getting out of bed, getting to the restroom, bathing, dressing, and eating. CA's (clinical associates) would try all sorts of things in hopes to avoid these difficult assignments.



I did it too. I tried coming in late, volunteering for a transport assignment, or volunteering to run an errand, hoping that the nurse would have to assign the patient to someone else while I was gone. Nothing I tried ever worked to my satisfaction. I finally tried a different approach.



We had this one difficult patient who required total care. His name was Mr. Herman and he was a tall, sturdy, African American man 77 years of age. He was a big man probably weighing 215 lbs. He had suffered a stroke and required help getting up, walking and assistance for everything else. He was gentle and did not resist or fight, but he could no longer communicate and he became aggravated easily.



It seemed like I was getting stuck with Mr. Herman a lot. Getting Mr. Herman assigned to you meant a day of hard work. Like everyone else I angled to avoid being assigned him. Usually all that did was give me a late start to take care of him. Then I had a flash of genius. Why not volunteer to be Mr. Herman's CA all the time. If I knew going in Mr. Herman was my patient I would eliminate the cat-and-mouse game I was playing and losing most of the time. My coworkers would like me more since I am taking the hardest patient. This worked too, the other CA's were glad to divide up my other work amongst themselves if it meant they did not have to deal with Mr. Herman.



I became Mr. Herman's personal attendant. I got better at helping him and my appreciation for him grew. I started seeing him as a proud man whose health had declined quickly. It was easier to understand how he must have felt. For a capable, strong, and proud man to suddenly lose his ability to move around and to communicate is a severe blow to the ego. Then if you are treated like a pain in the ass or a chore it is only further insult and injury to the ego.



One Monday afternoon, Mr. Herman taught me something else. Gail another CA who had been in this line of work for at least 20 years at this level told me, "I don't think Mr. Herman has had a bowel movement for two days." She went on to say a few choice things about the weekend shift, their uncaring and incompetence drew her ire. "We need to give him an enema," she said. I said, "OK," having no idea what I was about to experience.



Gail spoke with the charge nurse who agreed with her that Mr. Herman did indeed need an enema so after she gathered a few supplies, we entered the patient's room. I was along for the ride never having witnessed much less administered an enema. She took a little squeeze bottle full of liquid and with Mr. Herman on his side inserted it into his rectum and began to squeeze causing the warm liquid to lubricate the bowels.



Once she emptied the entire contents of liquid into Mr. Herman Gail stood back with a puzzled look on her face. "Something usually happens by now," she said in a puzzled tone. I had no experience from which to give her any further recommendations, but I began to reason the whole thing out. "I wonder if he needs his cheeks spread out a little to let things get moving," I said employing my best logic. "Maybe," Gail replied, she was in unfamiliar territory along with me. "Alright, then let me give him a hand with that." I said reaching my hands towards Mr. Herman's rear end.



Both Gail and I were wearing rubber gloves and gowns. Mr. Herman was lying on his side on the bed. I was positioned on the legs side of his rear end and Gail was facing me on the head side of Mr. Herman's rump. I then placed my right hand on the top cheek and my left hand on the lower cheek. After only spreading his cheeks a slight distance something happened and it happened fast. I can still remember the sound it made, but even more spectacular was the projectile turd that shot out of Mr. Herman's ass. With Gail and I looking at each other, the turd shot out between us and as it eclipsed us it was gaining altitude. The force to push it out must have been incredible, but the sheer weight of the turd became the greater force and gravity brought it down about one foot beyond the bed. The turd had to be at least 18" long. Mr. Herman let out a groan similar to the sound one usually only hears during childbirth. We were laughing so hard staff from outside came into the room to see if we were OK. Mr. Herman kept groaning to express his relief.



As incredible was the visual event the smell was more extreme. I had to tie a towel around my face to be able to stay in the room. Gail was tending to Mr. Herman and I was problem solving how to scoop up the large object lying on the floor next to the bed. I kept an eye on it half expecting it to move. Horror movies have started out this way I thought.



I found a plunger and a plastic bed pan. With a few clumsy moves of the plunger I had the waste material in the bed pan. I then dumped it in the toilet. It was not that simple though. The turd was so dense it would not break apart and flush. It just laid there and after the fifth or sixth flush I tried a different tact. The plunger worked well as a turd splitter. I cut it into several pieces until it finally flushed. They say black holes are dense, I bet this turd was well on its way to similar density.



We had a good laugh and even Mr. Herman chuckled a bit, but mostly he was relieved. Such are the rewards of front line work. I cannot say I miss contact with patients this intimate, but I am glad I have the experiences. I believe in learning the business from the ground up. Today I am one of those I mentioned already who can come and go as they please. I have paid my dues Mr. Herman and Gail saw to that.



Until the next time

John Strain