I was one myself at one time. In fact, three times. But mostly a writer under the editor’s thumb. It’s always been a love-hate relationship.

Now a fresh incident has made me wince. And wonder.

A small matter, you might say, but not that small for me

It’s important for you to know I’m still sitting out the winter in Newport Beach, CA, a nice small city part way between Los Angeles and San Diego. Which means in one of the most pleasant year-around climate zones in the USA. Lucky me.

Now and then I get an urge to write a letter to the editor. Why? I sometimes ask myself that.

Newspapers don’t pay anything for letters, of course. It’s not a rewarding business in that sense. Editors on big papers get flooded with letters. They count on them, of course. Readers love reading letters. But space is at a premium (they say). Your odds of making the cut are bad. Sometimes you wonder why your brilliant, insightful, precious letter didn’t get in. Sometimes it defies logic. And there’s no recourse.

So why do I write letters? I’m not sure what Sigmund Freud would say about me. I have an easy answer. I find myself taking strong positions, and I like to have my say. I’ve had this itch for years. But I’ve never been a pest about it, or a nut, mind you.

This time I wrote a letter about a fellow named Jeffrey Hubbard, who is 55. It revolved around a sad and scandalous matter.

He’s the very recent school superintendent here, but before that held the same job in Beverly Hills upstate. He ran 31 schools with more than 3,000 employees. Hubbard was a top-notch administrator, a lot of people in the know say.

I wrote the letter to the Daily Pilot. It’s our local daily. It’s not a great paper, and not awful. It’s in that big gray zone in between. In fact, it’s owned by the Los Angeles Times, the giant paper hereabouts. It’s delivered to our door as a section of the LATimes.

Here’s what it was about. The School Department in Beverly Hills had hired an impressive consultant—Karen Anne Christiansen. She charged a lot but she got things done. And she was beautiful. In fact, sexy. And her regular contact in the department was its chief executive, Hubbard.

They hit if off. He thought highly of her services and rewarded her. Got her a bonus of $23,500. And increased her mileage expense account by hundreds of dollars. It all seemed on the up and up.

But then it was discovered some of their email messages were more than friendly. They were salacious—in fact, reported as “laced with sexual innuendo and double entendres.” Then it was discovered that some of the payments to her, while apparently open and above-board, had skirted some rules and regulations. In fact, had not been approved. That became a brouhaha.

The prosecution never charged a romantic relationship between the two—only “a special relationship.” But for sure many people concluded far more.

Hubbard insisted there had been absolutely no sexual relationship. He said the payments had been made through regular channels, and he assumed that they got the okay of everybody involved as they made their way through the system. Checks were cut for many suppliers. She was just another. What was the problem?

Well, charges were pressed. He and she were indicted. She went to trial first. Was found guilty. Is doing four years.

He got a leave of absence as he prepared for his date in court. But the schools paid his full salary during the five months that lasted. And one official after another, elected and appointed, came forward, spoke glowing words about Hubbard, and vouched for him. Their testimonials and solidarity were impressive.

The Daily Pilot covered the story from A to A. (Sometimes the Los Angeles Times did also. It was amusing to read an account in the Pilot, and then another in the same newspaper package delivered to us.)

The stories were good. As rich in detail as the papers could dish up. They became more frequent as the trial date arrived. Every story mentioned that this was a most serious offense, and Hubbard could get years in prison. Yes, years, just as his beautiful alleged accomplice had.

Throughout Hubbard projected a strong, confident stance. And his wife was standing by him—that was impressive. And the support from so many augured well–some community leaders were sitting in on the trial day after day.

There was speculation that he might get a short sentence. But every day the news was that California, and all its cities and towns, all its agencies and departments, right down to the local dogcatcher, were facing dire budget shortages. And here were these alleged gifts of honest taxpayers’ cash as payola in an alleged “improper relationship.”

One morning I picked up the Pilot. Its big headline at the top of the front page yelled: Hubbard guilty. Gets 60 days in jail. Ordered to pay $23,500 in restitution to Beverly Hills Unified Schools and $6,000 in fines.

I passed the Pilot to Annabelle. She read every word. People all over town were reading the story. Here it is as reported in a more detailed story:

By Lauren Williams

LOS ANGELES — Former Newport-Mesa Unified Supt. Jeffrey Hubbard was sentenced to 60 days in Los Angeles County Jail and given three years probation Thursday for misappropriating public funds.

Hubbard, 55, was not handcuffed while being taken into custody in Los Angeles County Superior Court. He showed little emotion.

Hubbard’s wife, Lupe, sobbed in the courtroom. When asked by Superior Court Judge Stephen A. Marcus whether he had anything he wanted to give his wife before he began serving his term, Hubbard replied: “Just lots of love.”

Hubbard was convicted in January of two felony counts related to a previous job as superintendent of the Beverly Hills Unified School District. He used his position there to enhance the car allowance for and make payments to a former subordinate, Karen Anne Christiansen. Hubbard was acquitted on a third count.

On Thursday, (Judge) Marcus ordered Hubbard to pay $23,500 in restitution to Beverly Hills Unified and $6,000 in fines. He was also barred from holding a position of public trust.

Marcus said he had no doubt that the jury came to the right decisions.

“It was almost a perfect crime,” Marcus said. “If anyone knew how to pull this off, it was Mr. Hubbard.”

The judge speculated that Hubbard was motivated to give Christiansen extra money based on sexually laced emails exchanged between the two.

“I think he did this to help Ms. Christiansen because he liked her,” Marcus said. “He had a yearning for this woman, and she hypnotized him.”

Hubbard told the Daily Pilot after his arrest that he did not have an affair with Christiansen. There was no evidence of a romantic relationship provided by the prosecution during the trial.

Prosecutor Max Huntsman wrote in a sentencing memo that “Dr. Hubbard’s conduct was egregious” and said that he “took advantage of a position of trust to misappropriate public tax money designated for the use of schoolchildren.”

Hubbard’s attorney, Sal Ciulla, vowed to appeal the conviction. He said in court that he would file a notice of appeal after Thursday’s sentencing.

Before the sentence was read, Ciulla said that over the course of the criminal proceedings he has gotten to know Hubbard better than any other client and said he was a man of integrity.

The judge received 41 letters supporting Hubbard, including from some Newport-Mesa Unified school board members pleading for leniency at the sentencing.

School board President Dave Brooks, trustees Martha Fluor and Walt Davenport, and Deputy Supt. and Chief Business Official Paul Reed wrote letters of support, calling Hubbard an “upstanding individual” and describing him as “transparent,” “compassionate,” “knowledgeable” and “possessing a keen sense of justice and honesty.”

Brooks submitted a nine-page packet to the court. In a two-page letter, Brooks called Hubbard an “outstanding superintendent.”

“With this conviction his career has ended. He will no longer be able to work in the arena for which he was held in high regard,” Brooks wrote. “He may or may not have been popular with a small, vocal minority, but he is effective in administrating very complicated school districts.”

One letter, which came from Beverly Hills, asked for a stringent sentence.

Ciulla said he did not know when Hubbard would be released from jail, although Marcus speculated that Hubbard would spend less than a week behind bars because of overcrowding.

“Frankly, I want him to have a taste of jail,” Marcus said. “I do want to send home the message that it was wrong.”

End of newspaper report.

And right then and there it happened. I got that awful itch again—to write a letter to the editor about it. I sat down at my computer even before I ate my breakfast. I kept it short. This is what I wrote:

“Subject: Hubbard gets six months.

Dear editor: It seems agreed that Jeffrey Hubbard was a talented and effective administrator, and that his crime is a career-buster. What a shame. At 55! A loss for him and society.

My recommendation: After his first 15 days in jail, he should be given a job. It would be tragic and stupid to spend all that time at the usual solitaire, schmoozing, and TV.

He should report on a regular schedule to the warden’s office to be a consultant on what he sees wrong with jail (any and all aspects) and advise on how to fix such things. Much needs to be fixed.

Coming from a jailbird with sharp insights, this would be a valuable public service. And could be a career re-opener for him. A win-win!

Then I signed my name and gave my address and phone number. And sent the email.

Then I waited a day. Then another. Then I got an email from the editor of the Pilot, John Carvalis. I knew him only from pieces he wrote on occasion for the paper. They were good. He told me, “I plan to publish this Wednesday.” That was about it.

But I was satisfied. After all, writers write to get read. Not to get rejected.

Then two days later, I picked up the Pilot. And right there on the front page, but with a much smaller headline, was a short story. Its headline said, “Hubbard released from jail.”

I was shocked. Stunned. Couldn’t believe it.

Immediately I thought, What does this mean? Is Carvalis going to trash my letter? After all, it was far less relevant now. Hubbard was being freed. He was in the clinker not even long enough to have a load of dirty laundry to wash. He probably hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of the warden yet. And immediately I got that itch again. I sent Carvalis another letter.

Here’s what I wrote—the first half is the same but the second half is new:

Dear Editor,

About: Your big headline on Page 1 on Feb. 24: “Hubbard gets 60 days”

I had a quick reaction to that and sent you the following letter, which is still not published. I have added on to it a bit as follows (the new part is in italic):

It seems agreed that Jeffrey Hunter was a talented and effective administrator. And that his crime is a career buster. What a shame. At 55! A loss for him and society.

My recommendation: After his first 15 days in jail, he should be given a job. Tragic and stupid to spend all that time at the usual solitaire, schmoozing, and TV. He should report on a regular schedule to the Warden’s Office–to be a consultant. On what he sees wrong with jail (any and all aspects) and advise on how to fix such things. Much needs to be fixed.

Coming from a jailbird with sharp insights, this would be a very valuable public service. And could be a career re-opener for him. A win-win!

Now today’s one-column headline, at the bottom of the page , but still on Page 1, thank goodness:

“Hubbard released from jail”

And the subhead: “Former Newport-Mesa Supt released after serving only four days of a two-month sentence for two felony charges.”

My new reaction: Only four days! Shocking! Scandalous! Every news account from the start of the sad story to its end kept saying he could get years! But: when found guilty, already an exception was made–no handcuffs as he was led off to start his sentence. Now this! Just four days in the clinker. It stinks. Impugns our whole justice system. Makes citizens smirk. Makes us scream for an inquiry.

And makes it a hundred times harder for him to salvage his career.

John Guy LaPlante

And I clicked “Send.”

How would Editor Carvalis react? I suspected he’d use my re-write, but not sure. All I could do was wonder. He had sent me a nice note the first time. Maybe he’d send me a note now. No note.

Wednesday dawned. The day Carvalis promised to print my letter. Annabelle always gets up earlier than I do, though I’m not a late-riser. I jumped out of bed the minute I woke up. Annabelle had the paper open on the table. Open to the Letters page.

There was my letter. Carvalis had printed it as promised. But … it was my original letter, not my revised letter.

How come? No idea. And as I said, no recourse. I studied the page. There were only three letters on it, I mean above the many ads that made up most of it. Mine was the last. All three fit together nicely. Maybe Carvalis felt that he did not have the space for my revised letter, which was twice as long as my first one. And I’ll never know.

As always when one of my letters gets rejected, I ask myself, Why bother? Why make this effort?

But of course I know why. I want to have my say. I believe it has value. I care.

I’m positive I’ll get that itch again. This is who I am and what I do.

And of course, this is why I write articles like this one you are now reading.

For the record: most of my dealings with editors have been pleasant by far.

I’m writing this from Newport Beach, CA. I call this neighborhood “Medical Mecca.” One big medical building after another. Hundreds of doctors. All largely feeding off federal and state medical programs and private insurance plans, of course. And everybody involved is interested in his full share. Including our good Dr. Rubinacci

Have you noticed how the practice of medicine is changing? Gosh, I have.

There’s a significant new trend. It started 10 years or so ago. It’s still small, but it’s growing. Controversial, some feel. It comes by various names.

VIP medicine. Platinum practice. Boutique medicine. Retainer medicine.  Executive health care. Concierge medicine. There’s no shortage of imaginative ways in which interested MDs have been choosing to sell it to their patients.

It even has its own professional association. AAPP. That stands for the American Academy of Private Physicians (www.aapp.org).

I heard about it via our mail carrier.  I’m in beautiful Newport Beach, California, as usual waiting out the cold and ice and snow of a Connecticut winter. Well, not too much snow this year. That’s only fair considering last winter’s incredible downfall.

Milady Annabelle showed me a letter.  “What do you think of this?” she said. It came from our esteemed primary care doctor, Thomas A. Rubinacci, M.D.

I looked at the envelope. Letters from him were very rare. Usually only his name and address appeared in the top left corner.

I spotted something very different—the label “Concierge Medical Care.”

What oh what is this, I wondered.

Inside was an attractive two-color folder on nice coated paper. It had his photo on the front. He’s a good-looking guy. But it’s the first time I was seeing him in a suit and white shirt and tie. Usually I see him in the office with slacks and a golf shirt and loafers.

I like that. Sets a tone I appreciate. Casual and relaxed. Never, never with a white jacket and a stethoscope looped around his neck à la TV–the favored style for many docs these days.

With the folder came a letter. A long letter. Single-spaced. It ran all the way down the first page and down half the second page. Dr. Rubinacci had a lot to tell us about, whatever it was. I gave it immediate attention.

By the way, Dr. Rubinacci is not his real name. I’ve changed it. (If there’s a real Dr. Rubinacci somewhere, it’s an extreme coincidence!) Before I get into all the letter’s details, let me tell you a bit about him.

Doctors, doctors everywhere. Most of them trying to maximize their practice. How to do that? Dr. Rubinacci is going about it in a very different way

He’s about 45. To me that’s the perfect age for your doctor. He’s had plenty of experience and is on top of all the marvelous new technology. But he’s not thinking yet about hanging up his stethoscope. He still has plenty of energy and enthusiasm. By the way, “he” could well be “she.” Nowadays half the students in medical school are women.

(As some of you know, two years ago I completed a full hitch in the Peace Corps. I was a university teacher in Ukraine. Ukraine was part of the Soviet world till that fell apart 20 years ago. One thing I saw was that most doctors in those countries were women, even now. Medicine was considered a women’s profession—the way we used to look at teaching school. And still do quite a bit. And it’s similarly poorly paid.)

Dr. Rubinacci has top credentials. Credentials that would be envied by many other doctors. He is a graduate of a fine California state university, and of the highly regarded medical school of another state university. More than that, in college he made Phi Beta Kappa—the prestigious fraternity honoring distinguished academic work–and he graduated summa cum laude—that’s Latin for “ with very highest honors.”

He served his residency at a top-quality hospital, and then a two-year fellowship at another. He began practicing 12 years ago and set up his office nine years ago.  Now he shares office and staff with another internist with significant credentials, Dr. Anna Kraviska. I’ve changed her name, too.

He’s a Diplomate of the American Board of Internal Medicine. “The” professional society for that specialty. It doesn’t accept doctors into its ranks until they have passed its very stiff examinations. Not all of them pass it. I saw that for myself when I checked it online. Some doctors take it again and again. He passed it on the first try, and again with top grades.

I go to Dr. Rubinacci while I’m here because Annabelle introduced me to him. She’s had him several years, referred to him by a friend. So in a sense, for several years I’ve had two doctors, one in California during the winter, and one in Connecticut the rest of the year. Truth is, a few times I’ve talked with Dr. Rubinacci while in Connecticut because I wanted his input.

We like him because he’s smart, personable, and we can really have a good chat with him. So important. Some doctors can’t afford the time to chat, I’ve found out. We consider him not only our doctor, but also a friend. Of course, we’ve noticed that his time increasingly is at a premium.

Now about his letter. First, that expression, “Concierge Medicine.” That certainly has uppity overtones. Well, it does to me. Concierge is a new word in our dictionary. (By the way, it’s a French word meaning “building superintendent.”):

What’s a concierge to us Americans? A forever smiling and bowing fellow in a spiffy suit at a mahogany desk at an expensive hotel. He’s there to give you expert advice on anything you approach him about. You may be familiar with concierges.

You go to the concierge with your needs, problems, or concerns, as a guest. He’ll take care of it. Again, maybe she. Buy you tickets to a hit play. Give you sightseeing recommendations. Make a reservation for you at a hairdresser’s. Direct you to a Spanish restaurant if that’s what you want. Do just about anything legal. No fee, but tips are definitely welcome. Fat ones preferably.

To me, “boutique medicine” has similar connotations. Upscale. Luxurious. Expensive. Exclusive.

What did all this have to do with medicine?

Dr. Rubinacci was straightforward.  He was transitioning into a new type of medical practice on March 1. Same office. Same staff. But with a much reduced number of patients. That way he would be able to give more time. He’d be more relaxed with them, and that would be nice. He would continue to accept Medicare and other usual government insurance as well as private insurance and continue to process all those forms and assume the headaches of that whole process and accept those payments.

It was clear this was a difficult decision for him, and he had given it plenty of thought.

Why was he doing this?  His letter explained it in detail. And at the bottom of it, he invited his patients to come and attend a question and answer and session.

Annabelle and I phoned that we were coming. We were four couples in his wafting room at 6 p.m., the announced hour, and to my eye not one of us was under 70.He didn’t appear till 6:20, as he escorted his last patients out—an elderly man and woman, the man leaning on a cane.

He quickly sat down, and smiled, He didn’t apologize. We understood. And he got right down to business. No white jacket. No stethoscope. Again the golf shirt and the slacks. The Dr. Rubinacci we really knew. And oh, no cookies. No soft drinks. Which is what you expect at the very least when somebody is pitching you something.

Here’s what we learned. Right now he had some 3,000 patients. More than half of them were seniors.  And the seniors were the more active patients. Many of them came to him regularly, even often. Younger ones came much less. Sometimes just once every two or three years, for a physical.

His office hours were super-charged. He felt he was running from one patient to the other. He wanted to have a relationship with each of his patients, but in many cases impossible, despite his best efforts.  He was increasingly frustrated.

Medicare and the other government programs and private insurers were making more and more demands and requiring more forms to be filled out. He felt he was running a factory, though he never used that word. And he was making less money.

At one point, he said, “My wife is a dentist. And she makes more money than I do. And far fewer forms to process.”

I had checked some things.  Internists—primary care doctors–even those with the most difficult credentials to achieve, on average make less money than most specialists—cardiologists, radiologists, dermatologists, surgeons, and so on. Their practice is more of a rat race. And I believe that all this rankles.

What was he transitioning to? Concierge medical care.  He would have 250 patients, 350 tops. And they would pay a fee: $2,000 per year for one person, $3,500 for a couple..

He would give each patient all the time required. He would do a better job of handling the inevitable phone calls and emails. Even same-day appointments. And there would be more flexibility in the appointments.

His patients would sign a contract, but they could opt out at any time. They would sign up for a year at the stated price, and pay the annual fee in advance. II necessary he would accept semi-annual and quarterly payments. He said that he had not changed his prices since the start of his practice, and he did not anticipate he’d have to increase these annual fees.

He recognized that many of his patients would drop out. He didn’t say this, but of course they would have to. One of his goals was a much smaller practice. He had lined up another fine internist or two, younger of course, and they had agreed to take on the ones who left, if these agreed to these doctors, of course. Their records would be transferred for them.  One point he made was that older patients require more and more care. That seems natural. And he said he felt a moral obligation to serve his new “members” as long as necessary, always with the same high care.

Numerous questions were asked, and he answered them generously. He said he had had the idea a long time. He had worked under a doctor who was a pioneer in this concept at the very start of his practice.

He said that in the few days since his letter had gone out, his staff had signed up 50 patients. His letter said he had an Enrollment Coordinator. Dr. Rubinacci was confident that his starting goal of 250 would be met. And 350 definitely would be the max.

His letter made a strong point, “The first to respond will be the first to get in.” That sounded ominous. If anyone dilly-dallied, they might find themselves left out.

Afterward I did more research, all of it online, of course. I typed “concierge medicine” in Google’s search window and within a minute I got dozens of hits. Wow! There was plenty to read, plenty to think about.

I found that there are now lawyers who call themselves specialists in “boutique medicine law.” And I found that doctors thinking of this do need legal advice.

Medicare sets up rigid standards for what services can be charged for, and how. Every state has rules and regulations of its own. So does every insurance company.

No way can you charge more for “better quality service,” “better lab services or procedures.” And there are no-discrimination laws. And there’s the Hippocratic Oath—an oath that used to be usual for every new doctor but seems less so now. That oath mandates that the new doctor serve everybody who needs care, and care to the best of the doctor’s ability.

How do such traditional concepts fit in with these new concepts? Frankly, I’m not sure.

Some people find a selective practice like this repulsive. Unfair. They feel everybody is entitled to the same level of care. Others say, “More money can buy you a better car, education, house, retirement. Why not better medical care?”

To realists, this is the situation already, and has always been this way.

Dr. Rubinacci letter was a big surprise to me. I read it, then read it again. I knew immediately that Annabelle and I would be sitting in the front row at his introductory session. As it turned out, not necessary. We were just a small, friendly group. It was all quite relaxed. I sensed we were all there because first and foremost we esteemed Dr. Rubinacci. He was planning a series of these get-togethers.

Later I asked to see the contract we would be asked to sign, and he showed it without hesitation. I quickly noted that the contract was with both Dr. Rubinacci and Dr. Kraviska.  I picked up details. Besides husband and wife, he would include children—between the ages of 12 and 25—for an additional fee of $500 each per year.

People would pay up front. He listed several plastic cards. I paid attention to one stipulation that had not been mentioned: he retained the option of suspending any patient, even during the term of the contract.

If he did this, he would give a pro-rated rebate. He would have no need to explain his decision. I was sure he would not do this lightly. Nevertheless, it disturbed me. Some people might consider it “being dumped.”

And I added up the numbers.  The 50 patients already in hand would provide him nearly $100,000 in fees per year (remember, a spouse would pay $500 less). With his goal of 250, the fees would bring in close to $500,000. Nearly half a million!

Plus he would collect the customary Medicare and private insurance payments plus the co-pays and full fees of any patients without coverage.  And with his significantly reduced patient roll, his office overhead might be substantially cut. Maybe his insurance premiums cut also. On the other hand, for the same reason his various sources of insurance income would be diminished.

It would be interesting to find out how all this would balance out.

One new thought popped up.  Under his present set-up, if he takes a day off for any reason, he loses that day’s “take.” With his new set-up, the collected fees would eliminate this concern.  But if he and his partner, Dr. Anna Kraviska, cover for one another when one takes time off, this would not apply.  This is undoubtedly what they intend to do.

I know that when doctors and such retire, they often find another doctor to sell their practice to.  Dr. Rubinacci would be transferring hundreds of patients to one or more other doctors. Would he collect a fee for each? Nothing wrong with this, of course. But interesting to speculate about, don’t you think?

Of course, Dr. Kraviska will be doing the same thing. In fact, I believe she’s had a head start. So whatever I say here about Dr. Rubinacci applies to her also, it seems.

If Concierge Medicine can succeed anywhere, it’s right here. This is a very affluent community, by and large. One of the most affluent in the U.S. (Also one of the most Republican, not surprisingly.)

Many people here make tons of money. Many wealthy people retire here. Driving around and seeing some of the houses—thousands of them—many built high on the landscaped slopes with gorgeous views of the Pacific, can be a startling experience. Many are in gated communities—something in Connecticut that we are not really familiar with. Yet.

And there are numerous country and yacht clubs, so the concept of paying annual membership fees for such is well accepted. What’s one more membership? Especially one that will assure you more attention from your doctor!

I have seen a lot of changes in medicine over the years. When I was a little boy, I remember our family doctor making a house call to see my ailing grandpa. He walked into his bedroom with his scuffed black doctor’s bag. He had bandages and ointments and scissors in there. He took out a thermometer and a stethoscope. And those were the two high-tech instruments of those times! Oh, yes, I believe our little hospital did have an X-ray machine.

I was still in grammar school when I had to have an operation. A small one. I think it was to have my tonsils removed. I do have a bad memory of the doctor putting a paper cone over my nose and dripping ether onto it.  What a terrible experience! That awful smell. But I didn’t get to feel any pain. That was the height of anesthesiology back then.

Forty years ago I had to have my gall bladder removed. I was in the hospital more than a week. Good experience. No complaints. Today I’d be there two or three days, if that long.

A year ago I made a frantic visit to hospital emergency. I had called Dr. Rubinacci and he commanded me to do that. I had symptoms that made me think–and him!–of a possible heart attack. That’s when I encountered my first “hospitalist” ever.

Do you know what a hospitalist is? I didn’t. A hospitalist is an MD who is a credentialed primary care doctor who works in the hospital. Just the hospital. Your doctor orders you to the hospital, and at that point he the hospitalist (or again, maybe she) takes over. Makes all the decisions. Orders everything you need. Supervises every step. All while reporting back to your own doctor. When you leave the hospital, you return to your own doctor’s care.

That’s a new trend, too, far more advanced than that of concierge care, however. But like everything else, a trend that has plus and minus features.

I thought I had a good hospitalist.  But not many years ago, it’s Dr. Rubinacci who would be visiting me in the hospital, during rounds after his hours in the office. I remember when doctors made rounds twice a day. Sometimes seven days a week. That’s something that has just about totally disappeared.

Oh, my heart problem turned out to be a false alarm. My heart seems to be fine.

With the goings-on in Washington, plus new developments in the healthcare industry, we can expect many more changes, of various kinds, despite the loud protests of many groups. And now word is that our economy is improving. Wonderful. More people will have better incomes Maybe this Concierge Medicine will really catch on.

This is all encouraged by our American free-enterprise spirit. Some people get rewarded for being innovative and taking chances. And we admire that. But it hurts others, Can leave them behind. Squeeze them out.

I know you’re wondering, “What are Annabelle and you going to decide?”

All I can tell you right now is, “We’re still mulling this over. But for sure we would hate to lose Dr. Rubinacci?”

Library of Congress

Boom! And there it has been at the top of my mind. The idea has been percolating and percolating. I feel I must tell you about it. Yes, must.

Milady Annabelle and I were there on vacation. I own a time-share. What that means is that I own a deed to a fancy apartment in a resort hotel in Myrtle Beach, SC. I own that apartment one week a year. Yes, an actual deed. But I’ve never even seen the place. I can choose the week—so long as I get the jump on the 51 other owners who can claim it one week a year.

Like so many other time-share owners, I swap it. There are numberless other resorts and hotels in the system. It’s easy through a central set-up. I do it with a call or two to an 800 number, or even online. So we can go here and go there. But you must remember: just one week a year.

I must tell you in honesty that a time-share is a lousy financial investment. I wouldn’t buy into it again. But every time we use it, I feel good about it. So it was in Washington last week. A good time!

Actually we were staying in a brand-new city (?) a 30-minute drive from downtown. It’s called Harbor National. Seems to be only 10 years old or so and is still developing. Plunk on the Potomac in Maryland just south of D.C. A total resort community. Very nice hotels along a waterfront strip with all the usual restaurants and galleries and clubs and salons and souvenir shops and apparel boutiques and so on.

A 30-minute commute sounds difficult for me, living retired in small Deep River in this tranquil corner. But it’s considered an easy commute in Washington. We did it every day. It was complicated by construction work, thoughtless drivers, and the tension of driving encircled by cars “cruising” at 75 miles an hour and even higher. Wow!

This visit of ours confirms a long belief. Washington is one of the most attractive tourist cities in the world. I’ve traveled a bit so I feel I can say this. It is so rich wonderful, memorable possibilities.

It’s our national capital, of course, and how impressive it is. So many look-see buildings, from our Congress and Supreme Court and White House right on down to the endless line-up of federal agencies in white marble. So many statues. So many monuments. Parks. Squares. Malls. Circles. Shopping centers. A gamut of restaurants beyond number. So many embassies. So many universities and colleges. So many fabulous museums. Our extraordinary Smithsonian!

When I was a kid, it was customary for high school seniors to go to Washington for a few days as part of graduation. What a good idea. Is it still the custom? I’m not sure. I hope so. Sad to say, the private school that I went to didn’t do that.

But I did get to Washington as a kid. It was a wonderful week. It happened after my sophomore year at Assumption College in Worcester. My classmate and buddy John Tormey and I thumbed there and back! Notice my exclamation point. Today thumbing is a no, no. In fact, illegal in many places. Forbidden on our Interstates—they didn’t exist back then. We were 19. I don’t remember if it was his idea or mine. I suspect mine.

We thumbed for the best reason of all. We had just a few bucks. We made it there in a day—a long day. How lucky we got: one guy carried us for a couple of hundred miles—an entomologist. He had to explain he was a bug scientist. What impressed us is that besides his fascination with insects was that he drove at a steady, relentless 50 miles an hour. Hour after hour. Like a machine.

We rented a room at the YMCA. No hostels back then. Plain but okay. Every day we’d be up and out early. We’d hoof and ride the trolleys and buses. We knew little about the city. We were total strangers. It wasn’t easy finding our way around and getting to places. We saw a lot but too little. We weren’t savvy.

Another memory: On a newsstand I spotted a nudist magazine. “Sunshine & Health” I think it was called. I didn’t know such a magazine existed. Didn’t know some men and women liked to go nude at the beach, in the sun. That was long before Playboy. Lots of photos, but very tame by today’s standards.

Late one night at the Y John caught me with it in my hands. Talk about embarrassment. He has brought it up a couple of times. Just can’t resist. But I remember he grabbed it for himself the minute he could. (In time he was the best man at my wedding, and I at his.)

Just the standing and waiting by the highway and hoping to nab a ride was a worthwhile experience. So was learning how to start and hold a conversation with complete strangers. I look back on it all as a fine and grand adventure. We grew up a lot. I learned more than I ever did in any course.

I’ve been to Washington a few times over the years, and always tried to squeeze in as much sightseeing as possible. True for Annabelle also. Yet it’s surprising how little all that has amounted to.

This time we were so lucky in one way. One gorgeous Indian Summer day after another. Could not have been better.  Our first day was daunting. As every school kid learns, Washington was built as a city planned on paper by the French architect and civil engineer Pierre L’Enfant (what a strange name his: it translates to Peter the Child!)

That was an extraordinary event in the history of great cities. Most grow hap-hazardly.

(As I write this, I think of course of our Ivoryton next door to Deep River here. It, too, was planned on paper, every aspect of it—where the factory would be, where the executives would live, where the workers, where the churches would be, where the grocery store, where the library and social club, and so on.)

He would be astounded to see the result today. In a sense the city is a monster. It is so huge. It has so many buildings. And that’s all because we have so many federal agencies and institutions and services and everything else. And so many related private groups of all kinds, each with its headquarters.

The traffic paralysis! Because all of us insist on driving our own car. Which is wonderful. But also terrible. We found the downtown traffic horrendous. This despite the marvelous Metro and remarkable bus system. The parking inadequate.  You have to circle around and search and search for a spot.  There are parking garages, but there are long queues of cars getting in and coming out, especially at rush hours. And expensive!

A blessing was my handicap-parking permit. “What a sad day,” I said to myself when I got my permit from the Connecticut DMV. “It has come to this!” But how much I have gotten to appreciate that permit in these declining years. It was a godsend in Washington.

Our priority was the museums, and particularly the fabulous museums of the Smithsonian Institution, federally supported, as we know. They line both sides of a mall, one great museum after another. All four-star museums for sure. And all free, I believe, even in these days of strained budgets.

Despite our grand intentions, we got to visit only two. One was the History Museum. The other was the Natural History Museum. We went to each on two days. And we spent hours in each.  The exhibits were amazing. So interesting. So well done. So educational. So much fun.

Annabelle and I have similar interests and different ones. That’s natural, isn’t it? So we split up in these grand buildings now and then. I’d go off to one exhibit and she to another. This was to make the most of our time.  Yet both of us got to see only a small part of each museum’s offerings. Imagine that.

When we got tired, we drove around. So much to see. We found our way to this neighborhood and that one. Cruised by the great monuments, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and others.  Experienced Dupont Circle and upscale neighborhoods. We drove bumper to bumper through charming Georgetown. We poked into the sprawling black neighborhood that starts just to one side of Congress.

A must for us there was Howard University.  I believe it is our country’s premier black university, meaning the best-known one planned and built and promoted for blacks. I’ve heard and read about it many times. Who hasn’t? A much larger campus than I expected, with bigger buildings, too, most red brick. And lots of activity. Many students (more than 10,000). And a “Harvard Square” of restaurants and bookshops nearby. I was impressed.

On our drives we spotted the Supreme Court and the Library, of course. On one day we made an attempt at visiting both. No parking spots. We did research and found there was a BIG parking garage within striking distance. It’s on one side of Union Station. And we found there a Circulator bus that could carry us close to both institutions. The Court and the Library are located practically side by side.

It was a long wait getting into the garage at 8:30 a.m. And the only spot we found was on the top floor, which I believe is the top floor. Then a long walk out and through Union Station. But what a fortuitous sight that was. What a big and magnificent building. Worth a visit even if you have no need to catch a train. Recommended!

Then a long walk to the right stop for the Circulator. The Circulator is well named. It circulates through the city. Quite new. Fine buses. Inexpensive. The $1 ride is just 50 cents for a senior. (The garage cost us $22.)

Our first stop was the Library of Congress. We got off nearby. But the Library is three big buildings! We entered the closest one, the Madison, named for James Madison, our fourth president.

Surprise. We had to go through airport-like security to get in. Putting all our possessions into our tray. Everything except having to take off our shoes. We were spared that.

Surprise No. 2. I found the Madison to be just a very large but disappointingly plain everyday working library. A research library mostly—aides doing research for representatives and senators and other officials; men and women writing books.

Our time was limited. What I hoped to see was the Periodicals Room. “I’ll bet they’ll have every American newspaper and magazine in there,” I said to Annabelle. “And from other countries, too.”

We got to the Periodicals Room down a long hallway, then down another. But we weren’t allowed in. We needed a library card! That was Surprise No. 3. And only the highest officials can check out books from the Library of Congress—Surprise No. 4.

The other “secondary” library is the John Adams, named for our sixth president. We never made it to that.

Our priority was the main library, the first of the three, the Thomas Jefferson, honoring the drafter of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution and other important documents, and our third president. In fact, it’s his personal library at his home Monticello that became the nucleus of the Library of Congress.

We got in, again after a security search. All Americans are welcomed in. The red carpet is out. Again, the security check.  Finally into that grand and monumental and magnificent building! Huge halls. Great columns. Marble aplenty. Paintings and statues and plaques. And so many visitors.

The Jefferson was designed to make a statement and it succeeds: that the Library of Congress is our national library, the repository of all our copyrighted works, the treasure house of our learning, the fount of our thinking, the finest library of the greatest democracy in the world.

We got started by joining one of the frequent tours, but hearing the leader was too difficult and quickly we set off on our own. Again the exhibits were spectacular.

There is a splendid replica of Jefferson’s library with thousands of his original books. Some were lost but there’s a huge effort to find replacements. I walked from one bookcase to another, scanning the titles.

Amazing the breadth and variety—he was interested in absolutely everything. He had books in many languages. Many in Latin (which I studied long ago). And so very many in French. This interested me. French was my first language, learned on the laps of my parents. I studied it many years, and I speak and write it.

Then the exhibits! Especially “The Founding of Our Nation.” The original documents, mind you. How impressive. I was surprised by the feelings of marvel and appreciation and  pride and gratitude that welled up in me.

We did our best to get a look at everything, but again, much too much. On to the Supreme Court down the street.

And it’s in walking out that I felt that flash of inspiration. My big idea! I’ll tell you about it in a minute. First, about the Supreme Court.

It, too, is a grand building, but on a much smaller scale. It is only 75 years old in its present building. It is so important to us because here, as we know, are pronounced the momentous decisions that at times preserve and protect our society and our lives but at other changes bring changes, some big. The Supreme Court’s decisions shape our nation.

We were directed into the great courtroom itself. At the front on the podium were the chairs for our nine justices, lined up behind the long table. We took seats. A young woman came forward, smiled, and gave us a talk about the court. She did it from memory, timed to an exact 30 minutes, but with enthusiasm and freshness. Very good. I enjoyed her.

We found our way to the cafeteria downstairs. On the way we passed corridors that were gated off. I peered down each one. Was this where Chief Justice Roberts’ office was? Justice Antonin Scalia’s? Ruth Ginsburg’s? No idea.

Nothing elaborate about this cafeteria. It was clear this is where the staff ate, too, not only the tourists. It was now close to the 4 p.m. closing time but we hadn’t had lunch and we made up for it. The food was good and the prices fair—those at the Smithsonian had been shockingly high, at least to my pocketbook. I suspected that the justices did not eat here. My bet was that they were served in their offices. And could order coq au vin or saumon aux champignons if that’s what they wanted.

Finally out we went, happy with our visits. And tired. Another Circulator back to the Union Station garage. Another long line of cars rolling out. Back to our National Harbor Hotel. Again a frustrating ride. So much traffic.

We checked out the next morning and made the long trip home to Deep River by dark.

I found our few days so interesting, so educational, so stimulating, and so important. Annabelle felt the same way. Our time in the capital made us appreciate all the more the grandeur and achievement and success of our country. That’s why that idea sprang to my mind.

I said to myself,  “Every young person should come here and experience this. They should do it as part of their college education. Not when they’re old like us. Such a visit would set them up for life.”

But how to do that?

We should develop a national program. We have thousands of them, it seems. Why not one more?

For the moment let’s call it Summer in Washington. Intended for college students, perhaps in the summer after their junior year. Not just a few days. That wouldn’t be enough. I thought, “Six weeks!”

It would be designed to cram in as much information as possible. About our history. Our democratic and federal form of government. Our guiding principles. The incredible range of our government activities and the ever-expanding role of government in our lives. The changing make-up of our country in numerous ways. Our increasing stature in world affairs. Would be designed to make clear and emphasize our national values. And our duties and responsibilities—and rights and entitlements—as Americans.

And it would have to be fun! That would be an absolute essential.

My son Mark’s summer experience in Europe in 2009 influenced me, I’m sure. He’s a professor at the University of Georgia. He took 24 students to four cities in Europe on a three-week educational tour: Frankfurt, Vienna, Bratislava, and Prague.

Each morning he gave his students a lecture on what they were going to see—a bank, a cathedral, a factory, a museum, whatever. But the emphasis was on business—all the students were business majors, as I recall it.  Then in came a guest lecturer from that city to further explain. Then off they went to look, understand, and appreciate. They also had plenty of fun. A great success.

“Summer in Washington” would be a significant summer. One that would affect the students in good ways for the rest of their lives.

They would room and board at area colleges in universities—just as in the way the wonderful Elderhostel Program started some 40 years ago. They have idle rooms and cafeteria space in the summer.

There would be a broad curriculum of lectures and tours. Every day they would visit a list of important places. The Congress, of course. The Library of Congress. The Pentagon. The National Post Office. The FBI. The Department of the Interior. The Peace Corps! On and on.

Also the Smithsonian museums and other important sites. The Washington Monument. The Lincoln Memorial. The new Martin Luther King Memorial. Arlington National Cemetery.  Ford’s Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was assassinated.

Every morning a lecture would precede the tour. The goal would be to explain, explain, explain.  From Monday to Friday, they would listen to a good lecture about what they would soon visit. They would do that visiting in the afternoon. And on the way there and back they would visit important monuments and sites. There are so many of them.

On weekends they would explore the city. Check out various neighborhoods. Drive by the embassies. And so on. Sightsee as much as possible. Rest and relax. But the overall emphasis should be on having fun.  Enjoying the whole thing. Being tourists in the finest meaning of the word. Education is easy when it’s coated with fun.

One week would not do. Much too short.  I thought six weeks would be right. Then I thought that it should be five weeks—five because that way two groups could be scheduled back to back more easily in the summer out-of-school time. With two sessions, more students could come.

It would be expensive. But it would be so worthwhile as a primal educational experience that it would justify the expense. So many students borrow their way through college nowadays. Well, they could borrow a bit more.

And there could be government assistance. After all, this would make all the students better citizens, better Americans, better voters—this at a time when the percentage of active voters year after year is less and less.

And there could be merit scholarships and fellowships.

It would be designed to have a big impact. A mind-opening, life-broadening impact.

It should be developed and publicized as a “must” for every boy and girl who wants a fine education—a liberal education in the finest meaning of the word. Even if what they’re majoring in is scientific or technical.

What I see is not a program of a few hundred students. I’m thinking of thousands every summer. A big program that would have a national dimension, bringing in students from every state and from our big cities and little towns. Not just rich kids. For every promising kid!

Well, it’s a good idea, you will say, but just an idea.

But we are surrounded with great things that were once just ideas.

It’s true of every aspect of our government, of course—our Congress, our Supreme Court, our very United States of America. Our Smithsonian Museum. Just an idea. Just a vision.

Think of our great break-through decisions and programs. The right to vote for every adult American, regardless of income, ownership of property or not. Free public education for all. Our Land-Grant universities. Women’s Suffrage. Social Security. The GI Bill. Medicare. Our Flight to the Moon. Again the Peace Corps—50 years old this year!  On and on. So many. Just an idea. Just a vision.

Every one of our great businesses—Ford, General Electric, Boeing, NBC, Microsoft, Pfizer, Google, The New York Times, Coca-Cola, Walmart, McDonald’s, Amazon.com. On and on. They were just an idea. Just a vision.

Even our tiny businesses. These newspapers without trees, Valleynewsnow.com and lymeline.com and oldsaybrooknow.com. The corner grocery store. Joe’s Barber Shop. The Whistle Stop Restaurant. Just an idea. Just a vision.

So many of our good works. Our many hospitals and  private universities and research centers. The Red Cross. A.A. Goodwill. Seeing Eye Dog. AARP. Mystic Seaport. The Connecticut River Museum. Keyboard Park. On and on and on. Just an idea. Just a vision.

True all over the world.

All started with just an idea. A vague vision.

Will my idea take off? I wish I knew. It’s a raw idea. It needs refining. It needs PR. It needs lobbying. It needs money. It needs enormous leadership. But this is the kick-off. We’ll see.

I welcome your comments, your suggestions, and your criticisms. Send them to me: johnguylaplante@yahoo.com.

“Summer in Washington!” Don’t you wish you could be 20 years old and going to that for five weeks? Wouldn’t you be delighted to have your daughter go? Your grandson?

If you like my idea, you can do your bit right now: email it to all your friends. Ask them to do the same.

Long dead and still unidentified.  But Oh! A startling development! 

It’s been more than a century since bank robber XYZ was blasted into eternity during a hold-up attempt at the old Deep River Savings Bank on Main Street. That bank is Citizens Bank now.

I’m familiar with other men widely known by their initials. JFK and FDR are just two. But that’s because these two were already famous as John F. Kennedy and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, American presidents. But XYZ? He was a nobody. Or so it seems.

That startling crime made big news way back in 1899. It’s been 11 decades and the mystery about XYZ has never been penetrated.

Who was this little guy? Where did he come from? Did he have a family? Did he have a trade besides robbery? Townspeople were fascinated about it for days on end. They still are and there’s proof of this.

He was buried in Fountain Hill cemetery. Its first burial was in 1851. For years—for decades–it was the biggest and most prestigious cemetery in these parts. People were even brought in by train and boat to get buried in Fountain Hill. This was the resting place to be laid in.

All understandable.  Those were the days when the ivory and piano industries had made Deep River the Queen of the Valley. A proud and prosperous town indeed. You can see this in Fountain Hill—so many great and fine monuments. A very beautiful final resting place. Some folks visit it just to visit it. They know none of the inhabitants.

Bob Johnson and Shawn Nelson pay their respects. The tiny stone is at Bob’s feet. Notice the bouquet.

Fountain Hill Cemetery is a scant half mile from where XYZ was shot and killed. XYZ’s grave is in the farthest corner back. It’s the very oldest section of the cemetery. It’s a trick to find his grave. Up over the hill, down and around some slopes, then around a ravine or two and some great rocky outcroppings, then along a narrow, rutted road. The worst final yards in the cemetery. A hearse doesn’t carry anybody back here any more.

Finally there it is. A cut stone, but how tiny. About half the size of a shoe box, I’d say. A plain “XYZ” engraved on it. That’s it. The reason is simple. Nobody back then knew who he was. Nobody does today. He was lucky somebody thought of calling him XYZ.

This is where he rests. There’s a small bouquet of plastic daffodils adorning it. Faded. Pathetic. Looks  like it’s been there for years.

On XYZ’s left under a much bigger monument rests Timothy Hore Cole, a World War I vet. His neighbor on his right is Josef Hnilicka, also remembered with an imposing monument. Honorable men, I’m sure. Unlike XYZ.

Other monuments grace the tranquil green slope, which on this day is mottled with sun and shade. Back a bit up the slope is a fine, giant oak. Magnificent. As old as this old cemetery, I’m sure. Its great limbs stretch wide in a loving and protective embrace over all. Tranquility. Rest. Peace. I feel these.   Then I notice that not one of these many superior monuments has even a pathetic plastic daffodil on it to show somebody cares. Interesting.

I never would have found XYZ’s grave by myself.  My friend Robert F. Johnson took me to it.  He knows dozens and dozens of the people resting here. His wife Rosalie is here. So are his father and mother. Other loved ones also. Bob has lived in Deep River his whole 86 years.

Was a real estate agent here for decades? The busiest in town, I’ve heard. Sold hundreds of houses on these little streets and avenues and lanes. In fact, is still selling houses. I’ll bet he knows more people in town even today except maybe Dick Smith, who’s been our first selectman for 22 years.

I’m in my 80’s, too, but I’ve lived here only a dozen years.  Just a newcomer, but greatly interested. Bob is priceless to me. He’s always teaching me new and wonderful things about the town.

He’s made me appreciate Deep River more than ever. Not rich. Not poor. Not much phony about it. Nothing glossy. People maintain their properties. Turn out for elections. Support good schools. Respect peace and order. Work. Yes, a good town. And so pretty by the Connecticut River.

Well, Bob and I met Cemetery Superintendent Shawn Nelson up there at Forest Hill. Right at XYZ’s grave. He’s just 34 but he’s been superintendent for 12 years. It’s a big place–90 acres. Has different sections, of course, with much of interest. XYZ’s section was the original one. Fountain Hill grew and spread out from there.

Shawn handles it all. Keeps the whole place looking good.  Shows people around who are thinking of buying a lot.  Answers their questions. Digs the graves. Re-sets monuments when time topples them. Maintains all the records of who is buried there, and who with, and when that was.  Also keeps an eye out for those coming here  maybe for improper reasons. But that doesn’t happen often.

He surprised me when he said he was in the business since he was 8 or 9. “I grew up in all this.” His dad was superintendent—still is—of Pine Grove Cemetery in Middletown. So were his grandfather and grandfather.

“I’m the fourth generation in my family to be a  cemetery superintendent.”  He smiled when he said that. I could see the pride all over his face.

We talked about XYZ, of course.

Shawn said, “It’s amazing. Nobody knows a thing about him. Except that he was a bank robber. But I see people finding their way to this grave all the time. They come and stand here. Maybe they say a prayer. Some drop a coin down there.” He pointed to the ground.

“This guy has the smallest monument in the whole place!”

He pointed to the stone. “Look at it. It’s just of those stones that paupers get when they die. In fact, I think it’s maybe the only stone like it in the cemetery.

“But! Yhere are more than 6,000 buried here. But this guy gets more visitors than anybody else here! How to explain that?”

I thought of  robber Jesse James and others of his ilk. Are they famous beause they were outlaws…or because they were so daring…  Why? Why? Unfortunately I am not a psychologist. Maybe the psychologists would be puzzled, too.
“Look,” Shawn said. He got down on his knees and pointed. Scattered in front of the tiny monument was a bunch of coins…27 of them. A couple of quarters, some dimes and nickels, some pennies. Some had been there a long, long time, for sure. A couple looked just minted.

I asked him, “Why do you think people leave money like this?”

“No idea.” He paused. He was thinking it over. “Hey, he was a robber. He wanted easy money. Well, people are giving him money!”
I glanced at the coins. They didn’t amount enough to even buy a beer at Calamari’s Tavern a 15-minute walk from here.
“And look!” he bent down and picked up what I thought was a soda-can ring. It was a silver ring. A woman’s ring. Stone missing, it seemed. Possibly an engagement ring?
“What’s that all about?” I asked him.
“No idea. But I’ve seen it there for many years. ” He thought a minute. “Maybe it ties in with the lady in black who used to come here once a year. She’d visit the grave and leave a flower. She still comes, some say.”
“Lady in black?”
“Yeah. So they said. She’d come on the train. Young. Good looking. Wore a long black cloak with a hood.  Never talked to anybody. Would leave on the train.”
“Have you ever seen her?”
Shawn laughed. “No.”

Let me tell you how XYZ got killed. I struck gold—I went online and found a wonderful account. It’s “Legendary Connecticut” by David E. Phillips, published many years ago.  I recommend it to you. But pay attention to that word in its title, “Legendary.”  My dictionary defines the word as “of a story coming down from the past—popularly accepted as historical but not verifiable.”

Bank robberies were more frequent back then. There were two banks in town. The Deep River National and the Deep River Savings. Big banks for those times. The banks had seen several hold-up attempts  on them but none successful.
The American Bankers Association sent them word that an attempt was planned.  A big one…a band of robbers! How it heard that, no idea. The Savings Bank took action. It hired a security guard, Harry Tyler, who had a reputation as resolute and fearless. And a good shot.

He stood guard every night.  He armed himself with a Winchester. It was the biggest, best rifle back then. It was called a riot gun!   The weeks went by. He maintained his vigil.  Some folks said it was all just a phony rumor.

Very late one dark night—it was December 13—he heard a dog bark and bark. He saw four men approaching “stealthily.” He reached for his big Winchester. It was said this rifle could kill two people  close together with a single shot.

He saw one holding a revolver. Tyler didn’t wait. He took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The man with the gun dropped, dead. The others fled. The  victim had part of his face blown off. Later Tyler got $500 for his valor. A huge sum back then. That dog deserved a medal. At least a nice fresh bone.

XYZ at the undertaker’s. The fatal shot hit him on the other side of his face.

The undertaker held the body a few days, hoping someone would be able to identify the man. In his early 30’s, it looked like.  A fair build.  A big wide mustache. But a mustache was common. Nobody did provide the answer.

Not a word was ever heard from his accomplices or about them. The cemetery donated the plot for XYZ. A few curious folks attended the simple ceremony.

Oh, I should mention that sharp-shooter Harry Tyler is buried here also. About a rifle shot away. I should go check what his inscription says.

A few weeks after all this, a letter came in a lady’s dainty handwriting. She asked that the robber’s grave please be marked with just XYZ. Did not give her  name. The envelope markings were fuzzy. Was she the lady in black who came once a year for many years?

A simple wooden cross was put up with XYZ on it. In time, the basic stone marker replaced it. Shawn says the records do not say when. “Maybe the wooden cross wore out. Maybe the cemetery paid for the stone….”
The stone is weathering just fine. Those deep letters are good for another century.

All that was long before the F.B.I.  Even before finger-printing. And now we have DNA testing, which is said to be infallible.  DNA testing is the  convincing evidence in more and more trials—absolute proof. DNA testing has also freed prisoners who have been locked up for years for crimes they never committed.

Is it possible that DNA testing could finally identify XYZ, resting there six feet under for more than a century? And give him the name his mom and dad chose for him in the hope, I assume, that he would make that name famous some day?  But famous rather than notorious.

Well, it was time for the three of us to leave XYZ’s grave. Surprise.  Bob dug into his pocket , bent down, and placed a coin among the others. Another surprise: Shawn did the same thing.

But why? I’m sure they had a good reason. But it beats me. I did not. Later I felt a bit guilty about that. Hard to explain.
I hope XYZ is aware that Bob and Shawn did that for him.

NOW ABOUT THE STARTLING DEVELOPMENT!

At the Deep River Public Library I happened to mention to librarian Ann Paietta that I had just finished writing this story.

Her eyes lit up. “But XYZ was identified!”

“What???”

“I’ll show you!”

In minutes she handed me a paper.  “This is a photocopy of an article published in the New Era. The New Era was the big paper here in those days.”

I scannd it eagerly. It was dated Feb. 23, 1900. That was a bit more than two months after the shooting.

A headline said, “THE BURGLAR IDENTIFIED. His name Frank Howard, and was a Deep-dyed Criminal.”

A full column of reporting followed. It said that detectives of the American Bankers Association had been working hard on the case.

He was also known as Frank Ellis and Tom Howard. In another place, as P.E. King. He was traced back to Mancelona, Michigan, and to Albany, N.Y., and to Springfield, Mass. He was described as a desperate and hardened criminal.
In one robbery he shot a man (used a revolver!). The man recovered.  In a hardware store he blew up the safe but got little. One time he was pursued by two officers. They tried to arrest him. He drew his revolver and shot one man in the back (no mention how seriously) and took off. Was arrested later in the day “after an exchange of several shots. It was thought for a time that a lynching would follow.” No mention of what happened to Howard as a result of that. I wonder if he realized he might have been lynched.

The detectives also got info about the three who escaped after the Deep River try. “The same three men were in the gang that shot the watchman in the Bridgeport affair (?) a few weeks after the killing of the burglar in this place.”

Pretty good reporting, I think, given how much more difficult news-gathering was in those days. The New Era must have had a lot of subscribers.

Now the big question: After the circulation of this sensational article, why did it continue to be said time and again that XYZ was never identified?

I am not sure. But there’s a lot of fun in keeping a mystery going.

I recently read an astonishing news story about a surgical first in the U.S. It was datelined Boston.     

Dallas Wiens, 25, a construction worker in Texas had been given a new face at Brigham and Women’s Hospital.  Not a simple face lift, which is common now. He got a total face transplant.

The surgeons had removed the face of another person—dead, of course—and sewed it onto his face.  No word what the donor had died of or who he was.  The operation was done for the best of reasons.  To give him a new life.  A better future.

Now about this man in Texas, Dallas Wiens.  He was severely burned in a power line accident in 2008.  He lost his eyesight and his face was turned into a horrendous nightmare.  He looked so awful that it’s easy to think he might have thought of ending it all.

A plastic surgeon in Boston came to his rescue.  In fact, it took a whole team.  The operation lasted 15 hours and was enormously complex.  They gave him a new nose, new lips, new eyebrows, new cheeks, new skin. They had to make everything fit right.  And they had to connect all the muscles and nerves that make facial features move and that convey sensation.

The surgeon, Dr. Bohdan Pomahac, had had to wait until a face came along that would be a good match.  Finally he located one.  The tension of it all can last long after the operation.  The body can reject the transplanted pieces.

Nothing on our body identifies us as clearly as does our face, of course.  Many of us feel it important to change it, in little ways and big ones.  Often  for good reasons.  We get a new hairdo.  We dye our hair.  Get a wig or a toupe.  Grow a beard.  Change the color of our eyes through contacts.  Get tattoos.  Re-shape our eyebrows or shave them and paint on new ones.

Tan our cheeks under the sun or under a machine.  Or we lighten our skin a shade or two to pass more easily in our race-sensitive society.  We Botox our wrinkles away or have our nose straightened or our chin pushed in or pushed out..

Sometimes for nefarious reasons.  It may get done because somebody wants a new identity to escape the clutches of the law.  Some people have their finger tips changed, for instance.  Different tips mean different fingerprints.

It’s surprising how much surgery gets done to change how we look.  We make our breasts bigger or smaller.  Have body fat sucked off.  Convert our sexual parts to male or female.

We are familiar with many transplants.  I remember the first heart transplant—in South Africa.  Sorry, I don’t remember the name of the surgeon, or the patient, a man.  Surprised that I don’t remember.  That was front-page all over the world, of course, and that was only right.

Many other transplant surgeries were developed.  Some are routine now– lung transplants, kidney  transplants, other organ transplants, hair transplants, even hand transplants.  As we know, these parts are taken from one person and placed in another or moved from one of the body to another.  Skin and fat, for instance.

Sadly nothing could be done to restore Mr. Wiens’ eyesight.

It was just a year or two ago that I read of the world’s first face transplant.  What drama!  A new face was put on a woman in France whose face had been horribly damaged.  Of course that was headlined all over the world.  Apparently she has recovered and is enjoying her new face.  Let’s hope so.

These two face transplants were done to make these two people look better.  Be more comfortable in the presence of their loved ones and families and even strangers.  Make it possible to earn a living in plain view again—not having to find a job that keeps them out of sight.

Reading this story about Mr. Wiens, I immediately flashed back to a man who could use such an operation.  A woman, too.  Honest — if I had a face like those two poor souls, l’d high-tail it to Dr. Pomanac, too.

They had truly hideous faces.  The worst faces I have ever seen.  My sister Lucie felt the same way.  She was with me.

It was an evening six years ago in Shanghai.  We were there for the wedding of a Chinese friend, Wu.  The two of us were on a Metro train heading downtown.  The rush hour was over.  There were just a few passengers on board.  Lucie and I were sitting on a bench facing the center aisle, which ran through the car.

I heard the door on the left end of the car open and I looked up.  A woman was entering from the car behind ours.  I was shocked.  She had no nose.  Just a gaping hole where it was supposed to be.  No lips. Awful.  No eyebrows.  Yes, I was shocked.  So was Lucie.  It was terrible.  Impossible to describe how bad.

As she approached, she had a cup and held it out to this passenger and that one.  She was begging.

Right behind her came a man.  Just as hideous.  No nose.  No lips.  No eyebrows.  Hideous.  He was doing the same thing, begging.

They made their way so quickly that I had no time to react.  No opportunity to dig into my pocket for money if I wanted to.  Lucie reacted the same way.  We followed them with our eyes as they moved past us.  They had good-looking bodies.  Athletic and fit.  In their 30’s, it seemed.  Appeared to have no problem.  But very few people gave.  The two disappeared into the next car.  Must have been ready to cry with disappointment.

Right away Lucie and I turned to one another.  “What was that all about?!” I said.  She shook her head. “No idea. But how awful!”

My words shot out. “I never, never saw anybody like that before.”  The awe was all over her face.  “Me, either.  Two monsters.”

The next morning we kept our appointment with Wu.  He had come from his office to have lunch with us.  He is an engineer–the international marketing director of an  electronic products company.  He and I met seven years ago in Africa.  We’ve been friends ever since.

The minute I could, I brought up the two monsters.  Yes, monsters.  It’s the word that said it best.  I told him the story.  Lucie kept supplying awful details.

I said, “What was all that about, Wu?”

He had grown up in Shanghai.  If anybody knew, he would.  I was eager to hear it all.  Lucie was all ears.

He shook his head.  “I have heard of such people.  But I have never seen any.  There are not many.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I have heard stories.”

“Please tell us!”

“There are parents who do this to their children.  When they are young.  They do it with acids.  Maybe with a knife.”

“How awful.  But why?”

“The parents need money.  They want their children to go out on the street and beg.  To become professional beggars.  People will  be horrified and will give.  Will be merciful.   But John,  you said not many gave.  Maybe it does not work.”

We were disappointed, of course.  What a story.  The parents.  The life of these children.  Their terrible life now approaching horrified people and begging.

I had it on mind all through lunch.  I’m sure that when he left, Wu passed on our story to everybody he ran across.  Such an awful story.  So incredible.

As I read Mr. Wiens’ story, I imagined what the last two years must have been for him, so disfigured.  And I imagined what these two poor folks working the Metro riders in Shanghai would go to to get a decent new face from a surgeon like Dr. Pomanac .

Can you imagine how good Dr.Pomahac and his team must feel to have accomplished a miracle like that?

Oh, one more thing. Dr.Pomahac said that Mr. Wiens would not look like he used to, and not like the unidentified donor.  He would look somewhere in between.

That’s appropriate.  His new face is giving him a new life.  A new future.  Wonderful.  Why shouldn’t he enter it happily and excitedly with a nice new—and different–face?

Maybe a clever surgeon will find a way to give him new eyesight.  Maybe by transplanting new eyes into him.  Don’t rule it out, as crazy as it sounds.

I hope so.