Warranties have saved me thousands of dollars since buying this new Florida home. We just had a pool light go out just the other day that would have cost $800 or more but was fully covered, just months short of expiration. Furnace repairs have been at a savings thanks to a maintenance agreement and warranty. We’ve had roof damage, refrigerator repairs, and the lanai screens that all were fixed for free. I also have a termite warranty and limited arrangements with other appliances. The lanai screens alone would have been more than $2,000 to repair. However, many of these agreements are beginning to pass their deadlines, so future work may not be as friendly.
The question is which warranties to buy since you can’t afford to cover everything. Our car is long past its warranty, but I still get e-mails, letters, and phone calls that it may have expired. It’s one of the great jokes of our times and certainly doesn’t help with credibility in deciding whether to buy. There are so many things that can go wrong when you have three refrigerators, washer, dryer, garage door opener, microwave, four TV’s, hot water heater, pool heater & pump, air conditioner (since we don’t have to worry much about heat), oven, dishwasher, garbage disposal, and numerous small appliances/electronics.
In the past, I’ve found that a homeowner’s warranty can be a real hassle, waiting for service work or parts because you can’t necessarily choose your repair service. I currently don’t have one and may regret this decision. Repairs can destroy a household budget, particularly those of us with fixed, retirement income. Travel and repair costs make me worry about adding a part-time job. This takes all the fun out of retirement. Insurance covers some things, if they don’t nickel and dime you with co-pays, but there’s always a concern about a major setback. The same thing applies to medical insurance, another potential for bankruptcy. I’m learning entirely too much about doctor and hospital costs as I prepare for several surgeries. I never had to worry about this previously, let alone try to budget for the worst.
I often hold my breath when I start the car or open the refrigerator door. It seems to be Murphy’s Law that the more money you have the more can go wrong, but it would be nice to have more money when things do go wrong. Will the light come on or the engine turn over? Keeping my fingers crossed! In the meantime, I continue to change lightbulbs/filters, perform minor maintenance, and worry, hoping to never get the response that there is no warranty, or it has recently expired.
The New York Times suddenly ended my Wordle streak that had exceeded 200 straight solves. It looks like all my streaks are in jeopardy. Running is now at 5,435 consecutive days and counting, as I await a date for open heart surgery. I always seem to breathe better the day after my weekly Chair Yoga session, as I use the discipline of inhaling and exhaling during my strides. I still have no idea how this heart issue is affecting my performance physically and psychologically. Logically, I should have more energy post-surgery, perhaps to the point where I can start a new streak, as is the case with Wordle. I get the opportunity to start fresh, with now a 100% solve rate after this first puzzle. I was only at 99% in just over 600 attempts.
Tonight, I join a few of the Borrego Boyz at the British Open Pub, while the wives have a book club meeting. Mine got the day off yesterday from substitute teaching but got a call early this morning to come in for work. As a result, Tally and I were up early. She is sitting in my chair hoping for a golf cart ride, but I’m waiting for a neighbor to stop by. He’s taking a box of garage clutter that holds the original two, decorative, outdoor lights that were on each side of our garage door when we moved in 2 1/2 years ago. In an effort to help distinguish our home from the surrounding, similar models, we bought new ones. We were following the lead of the folks across the street, who boldly decided to buck the strict HOA policy of getting board approval before making changes. It became the talk of the neighborhood, with one neighbor who jokingly placed an insistent phone call, impersonating a Mr. White from the homeowner’s association. We really weren’t sure if they honestly might force him to restore the original uniform lights, so I kept my lanterns just in case. I think it’s been long enough now that they are no longer an issue, so I can safely pass them down to someone else.
Tonight begins an exhausting streak of social activities that extends through the entire weekend. We’ll be dining out or entertaining each night. School is closed next week for the Thanksgiving holiday, so we’ll both get a break. Then, we’ll celebrate with a group of friends at Flynn’s in downtown Venice for a turkey dinner, kicking off the Ho-Ho-Ho season. December will tell the tale of my heart, allowing enough time to recuperate from the surgery to make the Cross-Atlantic Viking cruise in mid-March. Life goes on while streaks may not.
I Love keeping lists and have kept a diary for the last 25-years, so it’s hard to argue the accuracy of my life data. This history is admittedly all about bragging rights, but a good way to summarize my amazing life at age 72. Hopefully, I can add to my list as time goes on. It is impossible to account for all the fine dining establishments I’ve frequented or all the movies and books that I’ve read. The countdown from a million to zero starts here:
Done at least 1,000,000 lifetime pushups.
Countless Marriott Points used.
Logged over 16,000 lifetime running miles.
Achieved 5,500+ consecutive running days.
Written over 1000 poems.
Attended over 350 Sporting events.
Purchased 340 Limoges Boxes.
Saw over 300 Concerts.
Own 275 Sherm Lollar related collectables.
Watched over 200 Broadway Musicals.
Weigh 195 pounds.
Have 210 Shohei Ohtani baseball cards for sale.
Own more than 150 pairs of cuff links.
Visited over 125 wineries and a couple distilleries.
100-Plus Toastmaster Speeches given to earn DTM.
Enjoyed 72 years of life and still counting.
49 States traveled, so far.
37 Baseball Stadiums (including Minor League).
35 Countries*
Moved 32 times.
Snow Skied at 26 Resorts.
27 visits to Disney/Universal.
Over 20 Racetracks.
15 times to Vegas.
11 times to Hawaii.
Sold ads on 10 different radio stations and 4 print publications.
Attended 9 Final Fours and 2 Maui Classics.
Only 9 cars owned, plus a snowmobile and golf cart.
Bought 8 different homes in Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Texas, Oregon, and Florida.
7 Cruises (5 Ocean 2 River).
Played in 6 different organized sports but not well.
6 Continents*
6 Dogs.
5 times to Italy and France.
4 Cats.
Worked at 3 TV Stations (ran 2)
Wrote 3 Unpublished Novels.
Studied at 3 Colleges to earn Marketing B.S.
3 Grandchildren nearby.
2 Marriages.
2 Marathons.
2 Grade schools.
2 Stepdaughters.
2 Cubs World Series games.
2 White Sox World Series games.
Attended Albion College and Indiana University.
1 College World Series
Pledged 1 Fraternity (Sigma Chi)
1 Son.
0 Super Bowls.
*includes 2024 Cross-Atlantic Cruise.
When I look back on my life, there were people that I met and circumstances that I somehow avoided – choices that have shaped my life. The other night I was watching a production of NAM, an interactive musical about the Vietnam War that a neighbor produced. It included the Creedence Clearwater song, “Fortunate Son” that reminded me how much life would be different today if I had gone into the service instead of college. Many of my friends had no choice, while I had a deferment and high draft number. Some of them died, were injured, or suffered life-altering trauma. I often feel a sense of guilt when I hear war stories or as I sit while others stand to be recognized for their bravery. Those who did serve developed an enviable comradery, a brotherhood of commonality. Only they know the real truth about what happened over there.
If I had served, I would probably have had a different career, a different wife/family, different friends, and a different outlook on life. However, I realize that I could have died without having any of these things. It’s a twist of fate that I can’t help but think about. There were other forks in the road of life for me like adoption, changing schools & jobs, and meeting certain people along the way. I’m lucky to have friends that date back to childhood, grade school, high school, college, and work. Was meeting these people coincidence or fate?
In moving to Florida, I left all my friends behind, but it was fate that led us to settling in a community near my son and his family. I’ve also made many new acquaintances here in the neighborhood, but there are two examples that really stand out as being fateful. The first came at a neighborhood get together just as we moved here. The name “Foust” stood out on a nametag, and I asked if he had relatives in Indiana. “I’m from Indiana,” he replied, and we slowly put together our Hoosier connection. My birth name of Banister has ties to the Foust family, and we found to be indeed DNA relatives. I now refer to him as “cousin.”
The second recent fateful encounter came at the NAM presentation, but started months ago when I was wearing an orange, Oregon State College World Series t-shirt. A woman spotted it and said her daughter went to Oregon State. We then coincidentally ran into her and her husband at a secluded beachfront state park. All I knew about him was a Kansas City Chiefs connection but the encounter at the beach led to further conversation. While waiting for NAM to start I found out he was a Sigma Chi at Pittsburg College and had a fraternity brother coming into town for the weekend. A few days later, I decided to take them a bottle of Sigma Chi wine that I bought years ago from a Napa Valley/Russian River supplier. To make a long story short, in going into his man cave, I quickly discovered that we had a common interest in baseball and card collecting, a bond that I had with some friends in Portland that I really miss. We made plans to go together to an upcoming baseball card show that we both attended as strangers to each other last year. It will be fun to watch this new friendship grow – whether fate of coincidence?
Bosch is back on Prime with new episodes. My excitement is a product of retirement boredom. My wife is busy substitute teaching, so we’re not getting our weekly movie fix, a waste of our Regal Theater subscription that allows us to see unlimited shows or none at all. We were planning to see Killers of the Flower Moon, but that will be on Apple TV soon. Napoleon is the next big release on Thanksgiving. We also just watched All the Light We Cannot See, an excellent made-for-television production. Bosch, however, is one of my favorite books and now TV series. I also just bought the latest Michael Connelly thriller, Resurrection Walk about the Lincoln Lawyer, another favorite video series on Prime.
I pay too much for TV, especially considering that portions of my career were spent selling advertising that once made free TV possible. Now, in many cases you pay for cable and a streaming service plus still have to endure the commercials. The good old days are gone! A show like Yellowstone that gained popularity through Paramount streaming is now available on CBS, but without the foul language and nude scenes that made Beth’s role thanks to the FCC. If I wanted, I could get this censured version for free on my guest room TV that uses an antenna, but instead I watch it through Xfinity that the HOA provides. TV is much more complicated than just turning it on and choosing between the three available networks, as it was in the beginning.
I was so bored the other afternoon that I had Yellowstone running in background while spending hours sorting baseball cards. It was actually reminiscent of childhood. However, there is no bubblegum smell with the cards I buy these days. I am preparing to sell several player collections along with my coins, both lifelong pursuits. It’s time to pass these along to future generations. As my running streak inevitably comes to an end, I’ll need to find new ways to occupy my mind.
I’m bored though crazy busy, craving something that’s more constructive. I’m not yet sure what it is but recovery time after open heart surgery will give me plenty of time to think. In addition to sedentary sports and movie viewing, over just the span of just two weeks, we will have had house guests, gone to a granddaughter’s dance recital, taken two boat rides, and sat through a mediocre Carole King tribute. We’re off to a NAM musical tonight, a Duke’s of Brinkley concert tomorrow, and giving three dinner parties next week. I’ve added a Borrego Boyz pub night while my wife has her book club meeting. Once again, there won’t be time for a trip to the movie theater or even to watch Hieronymus Bosch.
To pee or not to pee? – that is the question! The answer is easy but the road to finding a solution to my prostrate problem has been frustrating. The first urologist I went to lasted only a few months, eventually closing his Elite Urology office here in Venice after losing some key members of his staff. He convinced me that the best course of action was to participate a clinical study for a device called a “butterfly.” The procedure had been perfected in Israel and they were looking for patient results that would allow them to get FDA approval here in the states. It made sense to me, plus I was to be paid. However, soon after signing me up, he abandoned the project here locally, offering the nearest option to be Advanced Urology in St. Petersburg. It was a long drive, but I was a willing subject after already wasting the first three months waiting to get involved.
I did all the testing over again, both written and clinical, encouraged that I would be accepted to participate. Many embarrassing and invasive probes were made in the process. A surgery date for tomorrow was eventually scheduled, but I would not know if I would get the actual device or a placebo, so much needed relief was not guaranteed. I’ve spent the last year with constant urges to pee all day long and annoying back-to-back-one-and-a-half hour naps each night before another trip to the john. When out and about, I never walk by a restroom without stopping. I was envious of a neighbor who now claims to “pee like a teenager” after his recent surgery.
Dribbling like I often do should only be done on the basketball court, and a painful bladder often results in only a thimble full of output. Even the possibility of getting this device kept me content these past few months, knowing that in no longer than three months later, I would get the actual surgery should I be the unlucky recipient of a caterpillar rather than a butterfly. However, late last week, I was notified that there was a .01% discrepancy in my written tests. I could not believe that these subjective answers on how often I go could possibly disqualify me from the study. As a result, no surgery and no compensation!
I can only laugh because with two strikes against this clinical test, maybe something could have gone wrong in surgery? I’m convinced that the whole thing was a sham and just not to be, maybe in my best interest. However, I’m still in bladder hell, with a need to find a new urologist and optional procedure. I’ll know more at the end of this month when I find out the status of my heart surgery. In the meantime, I will continue to suffer before, during, and after another trip to the toilet. To pee or not to pee – I wonder if Shakespeare had a similar problem? I paraphrase: Whether ’tis nobler in the prostrate to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous pressure, or to take Arms against a Sea of bladder troubles, and by opposing end them: to die, to sleep no more.
It’s hard to believe that someday my grandchildren could be my age or that I was once their age. I can barely remember being five but there are memories of a coat room in my kindergarten class where we would go collect our blankets for naptime. At thirteen, I was at Northside Junior High trying out for the track team as a hurdler because it was the shortest distance you could run. I hated running and they had eliminated the 60-yard dash that I excelled at in grade school. I had a quick, speedy start, so short distances were ideal, but I could not finish strong in the 100-yard dash. I also wasn’t flexible enough to be a hurdler and as a result didn’t make the track team.
Probably the most monumental occasion of growing up came in high school, I had just gotten my learner’s permit at 16 and began to drive. Later that year I would earn my license, completing the transition from trike, to bike, to car. It was the beginning of independence in that slow transition to manhood. Grades were my sole responsibility as I began to think about college and dating. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine any girl that might want to marry me – the kid with big ears, skinny legs, and glasses.
Do I miss these moments of my childhood? I certainly wouldn’t want to go through it again. These were awkward times for me, troubled with insecurity, lack of confidence, immaturity, and low self-esteem. In my mind, I was always just slightly above average in all the things that mattered back then – popularity, sports, and looks, wanting to be smarter, more athletic, stronger, and irresistibly handsome. I envied those who excelled around me, while enduring some bullying, name-calling, and cruelty. As I look back, I actually was in the top 10% of my class, well-liked, and somewhat good-looking, but didn’t know it at the time. It was just never good enough and maybe still isn’t!
Has my life been different than imagined? There were three unstated expectations that my parents had for me. First, was to go to college (graduated from IUSB in 1973). Second, to get married (1973 and 2001). Third, to have and hold a career (too many to mention). My folks were all about loyalty – one college, one marriage, and one workplace, a straight path to retirement. However, times had changed, and I never anticipated changing schools, wives, or jobs. Three schools, a child, two wives, and numerous jobs was much different from what I expected. I don’t regret that I strayed from the path of my parent’s initial guidance. With each fork in the road, I found a new side of me. I could have gone on and got more degrees, found a different career, and never married. Would I be happier? – probably not. It’s just that none of you would have existed to read my stories.
One of the great mysteries in owning this home are the smoke alarms. I’m not sure what they detect but tend to go off in the middle of the night, especially if we have company. It started just after we moved in, still waiting for our furniture to arrive from Portland while sleeping on an air mattress. At 2 a.m. on a weekend, when no one was around to answer the warranty hotline, they started to blare, with nothing to absorb the sound. It was ear shattering and Tally, our schnauzer, was in a panic. The best I could do was put her in the garage while I figured out how to turn them off. I did not yet have a ladder to remove the batteries and the breaker box proved futile. They eventually stopped chirping, then started again, also warning us of “fire” in an annoying mechanical voice.
After a sleepless night, I went out and bought a ladder. I then called the electrician, and they promptly changed them all out, thinking they might be defective. Two weeks later, it happened again, almost at the same time in the middle of the night. This time, I was at least able to remove the batteries and stop the madness. Neighbors advised me to put in brand-name batteries rather than rely on the cheaper ones provided by the manufacturer. They also told me to remove all the little gnats from inside that seek the tiny blinking indicator light. However, it happened again, and we had the electrician replace all of them while still under warranty.
Every once in a while, they will mysteriously go off as if haunted, always in the middle of the night, but I know the drill of removal and replacement, and mark the annual date on my calendar to perform all of this maintenance and install fresh batteries. Last night, we had guests that had just arrived from extensive travel in need of a good night’s sleep. Naturally, just after we all fell asleep, it started to blare, maybe because we had the doors open that allowed the bugs inside. Tally headed for the closet, covering her ears while I grabbed the ladder and pulled out the batteries. Everyone was naturally on edge as a result of this disturbance, so sleep came gradually, wary that the alarms might sound again. There was never any smoke to detect!
Bob Knight came to Bloomington to coach basketball just after I did, at an age only 11-years older. I watched many of the specials on his life after his death yesterday. The most touching moment was his return to Assembly Hall for the first time in twenty-years to be honored at half time of the Purdue game in 2020. I was watching from a Las Vegas Casino, just before Covid shut everything down. Otherwise, it may never have happened!
I only talked to him twice in my life. The first was a short exchange during the 1998 Maui Classic that my wife and I attended. The last was a fairly lengthy conversation at a private affair in the kitchen of a Texas politician that he supported back in 2012. It was the night that Neil Reed died, and his speech was abruptly interrupted by that urgent phone call. He quickly left the event without an explanation. A friend of mine who played for him remained close after graduation and attended several reunions with him and his teammates. He credits Coach Knight for getting his career started.
He was adamant with his players about attending classes and ultimately graduating (most did), supported the I.U. library, and numerous other educational causes. He was both tough and personally supportive of those around him. He threw a chair, supposedly head-butted a player, and was involved in previously mentioned choking incident. It was hard to defend these actions, whether true or not. The public perception was that he was a bully with a quick temper, but privately he was much loved. He expected to win, but never crossed that line of inappropriate recruiting that was too often fashionable at the time.
He was a winner and a brilliant basketball strategist and described by most as larger-than-life, although he did not appear that way at that only Assembly Hall public appearance. He looked fragile, as my father did later in life. as he tried to shake his fists to fire up the crowd. His complexion was ruddy and voice a bit hoarse, but it was still a great moment. We all knew that he wouldn’t be with us for long, and now just three years later he’s gone. He apparently made some Mike Woodson practices, spent time with Gene Keady, and began to show signs of dementia. We were lucky to see him again in Bloomington after the way he was treated during the firing. It should have been handled differently and, if so, it would already be Bob Knight Court with a statue out front that would all have been celebrated with him. Instead, it’s Simon Skjodt Arena, with videos of Knight’s numerous achievements, and the players now wearing a RMK uniform patch.
Many more Coach Knight tributes will obviously come as time passes, but the last few decades have been miserable for me without his presence. These are honors that I care more about than he probably ever did, giving all the credit to his players while drawing all the attention away from them to allow them focus on winning, as they did a lot! We’ve gone through coaches like sand through the hourglass, have lost our winning edge, and can no longer find our way in even in the BIG Ten Conference, let alone become a factor in the national picture. Hopefully, Coach Mike Woodson, one of his numerous prodigies, can channel his presence and return the Hoosiers to former glory. He’s the future – Rest in Peace Coach -Knight’s Out!
I’ve had my fill of the medical world these past few weeks. The Medical Director of Max Health, their parent corporation, stubbornly denied my referral to a Tampa surgeon, despite insistent phone calls to my physician, insurance company, and numerous support folks. I could tell they were tired of my calls when a receptionist accidentally failed to put me on hold, and I clearly heard their comments in the background. The Medical Director, concerned solely for keeping the business in their network ultimately cost them the business of both my wife and me, as I immediately switched to another Primary Care Physician and Millenium Group, despite the fact that we both liked the former doctor. I will now see if this new group will make the referral or if I have to wait until January 1 when my PPO kicks in.
The difference in professionalism between the larger hospital in Tampa and the Regional hospital in Sarasota was night and day. As a small example, I came home from the Sarasota Hospital with a crude hand-drawn sketch of the procedure they were going to perform compared to the life-size model and four-color brochure that Tampa provided. Plus, they gave me hope that the chest incision might be much smaller than the full open-heart opening that was discussed in Sarasota. This means recovery time could be quicker. The level of experience with the surgeon and staff was also much higher. I’m already grateful that my wife’s family, comprised of several Cardiovascular experts, has pushed me to the bigger city.
The only promising news here is that my Running Streak continues on, so it’s more and more likely that I will make my 15th anniversary. After the surgery, the doctor said that it will probably be twelve weeks before my broken sternum will have healed enough to withstand the jarring of jogging. Whether I will start another streak is questionable after that long of a layoff.
Depending on the insurance and related referral snafus, I will have this surgery either in December or January. The surgeon mentioned that if I were to live in Great Britian, it would be a year-and-a-half wait, easing my wife’s concerns about urgency. I’m having no symptoms, so there’s no need to rush into the process without gathering all the pertinent information. It also gives me some time to work out a new plan for my prostrate surgery that was originally scheduled for late next week but has also run into a snag. It’s part of a clinical study that after all these tests and visits that I’ve made with this my second urology group has suddenly found a discrepancy in my subjective answers to their questionnaires about the urgency of my symptoms that could exclude me from the study.
I did the first questionnaire, wasting my time on similar paperwork for my first urologist, after a two-hour drive to their office. I had to make this lengthy drive because the initial local office closed after accepting me into the study, so I had to seek another group. I felt like my bladder was going to burst as I tried to fill out the redundant forms. At that point, I was also taking medication for the condition, so the answers were probably dramatically different than those I gave on the second visit while I was off the meds. I don’t understand how this paperwork could ultimately exclude me from the surgery, considering all the other tests that they ran on me.
The whole clinical test is sounding more and more like a cruel scam. If they ultimately decide not to let me continue, it will be too late to get my prostrate problems resolved before the heart surgery. This means months and months more of uncomfortable bladder issues while lacking my current mobility. My entire rehab will consist of getting to and from the bathroom without assistance. Then, it will be time to go again… and again.
