'Where's Bob?'—Love, loss and Lewy body dementia

     This piece has an unusual backstory. Bob Ringham was a photographer at the Sun-Times. In the mid-1990s, we took a road trip downstate to cover the Mississippi floods, and got to know each other better. Jump to late last year. He asked me to call him so we could talk about blogs—he reads this one, and thought of doing his own about his wife, who was dying of a lesser-known form of dementia. I gave him what advice I could, and then asked him if he were documenting her end, photographically. He said he really couldn't: he was the primary caregiver, and his hands were full. I asked him if he wanted me to come down, hang out for a few days, maybe take some pictures he could then use on his blog. He said he did. At that point, it struck me that there might be a story here, and I went to the paper's editor Chris Fusco, who said, "Do it." 

     Clare Ringham prepares a simple dinner: linguini with broccoli and chicken.
     She sets the table in the comfortable house she shares with her parents in a pine-studded suburb of Raleigh, North Carolina. Festive green-and-red pasta plates for herself, her father Bob and mother Peg — at Peg’s place setting, she puts special weighted silverware. Peg’s hands tremble with palsy, so the heavy silverware makes it easier for her to eat — or would, were she to use them.
     But Peg won’t be joining her family for dinner tonight. She hasn’t for over a month, and she never will again.   

      Making the bed that morning, Bob plumps Peg’s pillow, even though she does not sleep with him. She sleeps in a hospital bed in the living room where the mattress alternates pressure to avoid bedsores. With death near, she sleeps most of the time now.

     This is the Ringham household routine in late January: holding onto what they can of the past with Peg, coping with a demanding, almost overwhelming present and adjusting to a grim, inevitable future.
     “A year ago, 2017 Christmas, she went to the mall, got me a shirt,” Bob says. “This year, she didn’t even know it was Christmas, and she can’t even walk. It’s a terrible, terrible disease, a steady progression.”

      The disease is Lewy body dementia, a common though little-known brain disease like Alzheimer’s, combining the mental decline of that condition with the physical decay of Parkinson’s disease. A million people in the United States are thought to have it.
     “Alzheimer’s disease essentially takes the main stage,” says Dr. James Mastrianni, director of the Center for Comprehensive Care & Research on Memory Disorders at UChicago Medicine. “People don’t hear about a lot of the other forms.”

Peg Ringham

     Mastrianni says doctors have studied Alzheimer’s for over a century. Lewy body has been recognized for perhaps 25 years.
     “That’s a pretty short time when you think about understanding these disorders,” he says.
     Hundreds of researchers are studying Lewy body dementia, which you might think of as Alzheimer’s-plus. An Alzheimer’s patient might forget he has a family. With Lewy body, he might forget the family and also invent pets.
     “With Lewy body dementia, one of core features is hallucinations and visions,” Mastrianni says. “They will often see animals or birds flying around the house. I had one patient who put a cup on the floor with water so the dog could drink. But they don’t own a dog. Your perception is completely unreal.”        

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The Saturday Snapshot #30

     Of course the boys loved Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Easy, cheap, I would prepare it for them on the stove and maybe leave a few tablespoons for myself in the pot, a guilty pleasure craftily consumed between the stove and the sink while they were focusing on lapping up their dinners.
    Lately, Kraft Mac & Cheese has been out, in favor of other, newer, better M & Cs. Over Christmas I was dispatched to Jewel to pick up this Banza stuff—it has lots of protein and few carbs, or so I'm told. As often happens, I was dispatched on my mission thinking I was collecting one product and found myself confronting three: these blue, red and orange boxes, containing confusingly similar foodstuffs. I dutifully sent home a photo of my choices, and picked one, but forgot to buy enough. The younger kid plows through it.
     Shortly thereafter, I read of the troubles of Heinz Kraft, which lost $15 billion of valuation in one day in late February. The merger of two years earlier hadn't helped, it hurt. Of course it did. Smaller companies always come up the Next Thing, because they can make the nimble, daring choices that behemoths balk at.
    It gave me pause, to see our own little private shift, magnified 100 million times and reflected in giant economic doings. We think of there being a separation between our private sphere and the public realm. They feel separate, like fish bowls bobbing in the ocean. But the division is imaginary; the glass isn't there. It's all one big ocean.
    Banza was founded five years ago, in the Detroit apartment of Brian Rudolph, who thought, with all this gluten aversion, that pasta could be made with chick peas instead of wheat.  Why Kraft couldn't do that is a mystery. Or, more damningly, not a mystery. They introduced their Mac & Cheese in 1937. Why screw with success? (Spoiler alert: because if you don't, the world changes and you lose).
     Sometimes the world changes fast, sometimes slow. We live in a time of fast change—change is one definition of time. In theory. Yet change somehow also seems as somewhere between unexpected and shocking in practice. The bedrock keeps shifting. Small town stores vanished to big chains in malls. Then the chains started to vanish, and the malls themselves. Automobiles—cars!—are beginning to disappear. And now Heinz Kraft is in trouble. I would have bet on Kraft Mac & Cheese lasting through the ages. But who knows? Anything is possible.
   

R. Kelly was ‘guilty as hell,’ singer’s prominent lawyer from first trial says

Ed Genson

     R. Kelly is on television, saying he never did anything illegal with underage girls.
     “I didn’t do this stuff!” he told Gayle King on CBS. “This is not me!”
     Trying to reach over the head of the legal system and speak directly to those who might be in his jury pool.
     Which is his right, I suppose.
     But R. Kelly’s is not the only voice on the matter.
     There are the alleged victims. And the lawyers representing them. They will have their day in court.
     There is also the past. The 10 counts of aggravated criminal sexual abuse with four women he’s accused of now are not the first charges Kelly has faced. In 2008 he was acquitted of child pornography charges; that case was dragged out over six years by a defense team headed by Ed Genson, a well-known, even notorious Chicago criminal defense attorney.
     Genson is still around at 77, though ill, his usual candor honed by the approach of death.
     “I have bile duct cancer,” he said in the paneled study of his Deerfield home. “Terminal cancer.”
    Doctors gave him 90 days to live.
     “That was a year and a half ago,” said Genson. “They don’t know what they’re doing.”
     Perhaps this is a good moment to set the record straight.
     “I’ve been a lawyer 54 years,” he said. “Ninety-nine percent criminal cases. I’ve represented entertainers, represented people connected to organized crime, represented professional criminals. I’ve represented guilty people, I represent innocent people.”
     “I can say whatever I want, but we’ve got to do it fast,” he said. “It would be nice to get it down so somebody knows besides me.”
     His father was a bail bondsman, and we talked about the profession of posting bond in the 1950s. Then Genson brought up a certain former client.
     “When I represented Kelly in Florida, they set the bond at a $1 million,” he said. “We paid the bondsman $100,000. He was out on bond on the Florida case for three days and they made $100,000. Because he had to fly back to Chicago because they were going to arrest him here.”
     Any insights into R. Kelly, the man? Guilty as hell?
     “He was guilty as hell!” Genson said. “I don’t think he’s done anything inappropriate for years. I’ll tell you a secret: I had him go to a doctor to get shots, libido-killing shots. That’s why he didn’t get arrested for anything else.”

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$3.22

 

       Cities are proud of themselves and rightly so. They have an energy, and crackle with creativity. 
      But that doesn't mean small towns are without their excellence, their innovation. All is not sleepiness and tradition.
      I was in Danville a few weeks back, as you know, reporting on the enormous sign that Watchfire Signs is creating for Las Vegas' Fremont Street.
     Before heading to the factory, my hosts took me to a charming eatery inside what was once a private home, Charlotte's Coffee and Tea.
      Typically, I avoid salads outside cities—you tend to get iceberg lettuce and half a hard boiled egg. Usually, the cheeseburger is a better bet. But I really felt in the mood for a salad, and theirs was excellent. As was their lemon meringue pie. And their coffee—surprisingly good. Sometimes these small towns have lousy water, therefore lousy coffee. 
    But the coffee at Charlotte's Coffee and Tea was really good.
    I know, it should be, given the name. But city or countryside, an establishment dedicated to coffee and coffee you can drink do not always, or even often, go together.
    Draining my cup, I excused myself from my two table mates and returned to the counter, where an array of sandwiches and salads were offered on a chalk board. The young lady behind the counter was on the phone, but eventually accepted my glass mug and tried to fill it from a pump urn that only wheezed emptily. So she headed in the back, to what I hoped wouldn't be too long an adventure, while I gazed back up at the board.
     "Cottage cheese," I noticed, thinking of a small white curdly pile I seem to remember eating more often than I wished, as a child, and haven't tasted in years. Then the price: "3.22."
     Three dollars and 22 cents? What's that all about? And a sandwich cost $4.08. 
     I asked the clerk. Her face did that thing that the incurious do when confronted with a question of incomprehensible origin. The price? Of the cottage cheese? Why was it ...? She had no idea. The owner set the price.
     Was he around? No.
     I returned to the ladies I was lunching with, finished off my pie and second cup, we lingered in conversation, then it was time to get to the factory I had come down here to visit.
     "Just a second,"  I said, as we passed the counter, noting a different young woman now behind the country. "I have to give it another try." I put my question to her. She said that would a matter for the owner, and disappeared to find him. Nope, just stepped out. I set down my business card.
    Ask him to call me when he gets back.
    He did, not a minute later And explained the mystery like this: Charlotte's gets busy. It slows things down to fumble with change. By pricing the cottage cheese at $3.22, that comes out to be $3.50 with tax. Less fussing with coins.
      I've eaten in restaurants from Bangkok to Belize. And I've never seen an off-pricing system like that. Maybe it's common and I'm admitting to an embarrassing ignorance. But I don't think so. It struck me as clever, and worth mentioning.  Of course a place trying to make their pricing easier would also have good food—if you worry one detail, you probably worry them all.
     I don't imagine I'll be going back to Danville anytime soon—so far, 58 years of living have required a single visit. But if I do ever find myself having to make the 120 mile drive, I'll think, "At least I can stop by Charlotte's for some pie and that good coffee." 



     

Taking apart a watch is easy; putting it back together, however . . .

Eric Buth, a radiation oncologist from Grand Rapids, Michigan, disassembling a mechanical watch movement at a class recently in Chicago. The Horological Society of New York has been holding watchmaking classes in major cities to give collectors a better understanding of how watches work.

     Taking apart a watch is not difficult. You need the right tools: a magnifying eyepiece and pointed tweezers, to see and handle screws the size of mustard seeds and springs as big as eyelashes. To turn those tiny screws, three jeweler's screwdrivers. Plus a pointer to nudge parts into place, and an elevated tabletop, to lean your elbows on, to get your face close to your work. Don't forget to slip on pink rubber finger cots, to keep the oils from your fingertips from corroding delicate parts.
     There is one more tool whose purpose doesn't immediately reveal itself: a round metal tray with ten compartments. 

     To understand the role of the tray, you need to know what you are doing or, barring that, have the guidance of someone who does, such as Steve Eagle, director of education at the Horological Society of New York. A few Sundays back, Eagle led seven novices through the removal and return of most of the 78 gears, wheels and springs of a Unitas ETA 6497 watch movement.
     "Welcome to Horology 101 to 103," said Eagle. "You're in for an intense four hours of watchmaking."
     The survival of the mechanical watch half a century into the era of quartz watches — the 50th anniversary of Seiko introducing the Astron is this Christmas — is a miracle of savvy marketing.
     "We've seen this resurgence in the last 15 years where people are circling back and starting to appreciate the longevity of mechanical watches," said Eagle. "The artistry behind them, the history, these little miracles that will work under their own power. Such an analog product in such a digital world."

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Steve Eagle

"Asparagus will not bear too much winter"

 

    Asparagus. Now there's an interesting word. If I had to guess, I'd guess French. The things seem French. But no, I'd be wrong. In medieval Latin it was sparagus which the common folk in England, rather delightfully, turned into "sparrow grass," where it had currency for centuries.
     "Sparrow-grass is so general that asparagus has an air of stiffness and pedantry," John "Elocution" Walker wrote in 1791 in his "Critical Pronouncing Dictionary."
     Not that asparagus aren't big in France. They are. Asperges. Particularly the white version, grown with dirt piled on them, so the shoots are never exposed to the sun, and photosynthesis doesn't begin. Manet painted their pallid stalks, and Proust studied them in "Remembrance of Thing's Past":
     “What fascinated me would be the asparagus, tinged with ultramarine and rosy pink which ran from their heads, finely stippled in mauve and azure, through a series of imperceptible changes to their white feet, still stained a little by the soil of their garden-bed: a rainbow-loveliness that was not of this world.”    
     The word is almost unchanged by time or distance. σπαράγγι in Greek "sparangi." You don't need to know Latin to notice the citation leaping out in Juvenal's 11th satire: "...montani asparagi, posito quos legit villica fuso"—"some wild asparagus, gathered by the bailiff's wife when she is done with her spindle," part of a modest rural meal of his, along with goat and grape leaves, which he contrasts to the wretched imperial excess of the banquets of today that he isn't invited to anyway, where the deeper the flabby  and indifferent host is in debt, the richer the provisions groaning on the table to his insulted guests.
    Cato and Pliny also praise the vegetable (Pliny says that the best comes from Ravenna which, being a Dante fan, I nodded at approvingly, even though the dour Florentine wouldn't be planted there himself for another 1300 years).
     The Romans dried them, then dropped them in boiling water as needed, a quick process that led the Emperor Augustus to say, when he wanted something done fast: "Citius quam aspargi coquentur," or, "Do it quicker than you can cook asparagus." (So fond was the emperor of the vegetable he created what was known as the "Asparagus Fleet" to rush it to his table).
    There are about 3o0 varieties of asparagus, and yes, they were grown decoratively.
    "The asparagus makes the strongest appeal to our sense of the beautiful," writes Charles Ilot, in his 1901 The Book of Asparagus, noting it belongs to the same order as lilies and tulips. (True then; but even plant families have their ruptures, and asparagus stalked off and formed their own family, asparagaceae).
     Yes, there are poems about asparagus.
     "Asparagus will not bear too much winter," Greg Kuzma writes, in the opening line of his brief elegy "Asparagus Beside the Road."
     Neither will we. Not too much more winter anyway. Two below on Monday. Time for spring to rattle the bushes a little. Just to let us know it's coming.
    Oh, and finally, yes, Edie prepared them for dinner Sunday, to go with t-bone steak that I grilled outside. Broiled, with a little olive oil and kosher salt, pictured above, which struck me as prettily green. Worth taking a picture of and, having the photo, a topic I hope might be worth delving into. 

Flashback 1999: Murders in Naperville hit too close to home

Detail of "The Slaughter of the Innocents," Vatican Museum, Rome

  
   There's a lot of sorrow in the world. As a columnist, I spend a good deal of time processing it for readers, or trying to help them process it, giving voice to something that, I hope, helps somehow. 
     Today is the 20th anniversary of a notorious Naperville crime, when Marilyn Lemak killed her three children. Why? Maybe because she was depressed. That's what she said. Maybe, as prosecutors insisted, she was trying to get back at her ex-husband. I suppose it doesn't matter now. I was curious what I wrote, and this is it: notice the date: 10 days after the crime. Even then, I was a fan of  waiting. A helpful strategy not only in writing, but in life in general. Time is our friend, until it's not.

     The murder of the Lemak children is the sort of crime that echoes. It sneaks into your safe and warm home, folded into a newspaper or leaking through the television, and it stays there, for a good long time. It is an evil vapor, a poison cloud in the corner, which you strain to ignore while trying to figure out how to make it go away.
     The Naperville neighbors, of course, are shocked. But parents in general are also shocked. For all parents, this is not only a hideous crime but also a betrayal of the cause. How could one of us have done this?
     It isn't that children are never murdered. They are. But we have, in the backs of our minds, a filter, a cast of usual suspects we expect to do the deed—selfish 15-year-olds, babbling crack heads, longtime lunatics. We understand it then.  

Marilyn Lemak

    But this one just doesn't fit. Forty-one-year-old Marilyn Lemak, with her cranberry Victorian house and her active-mom schedule, doesn't seem cut out for the role. She's miscast, unqualified, which magnifies the horror of the crime she is charged with committing. So we search, as experienced processors of such terrible stories, for the key that makes this one understandable. To explain it, or rather, to explain it away. To get it out of the house.     
     We could blame the struggle over a divorce, but the evidence is mixed. In the Lemaks' house, a small knife was found plunged through a wedding photo. Yet Mrs. Lemak's attorney said it "seemed like a garden-variety type of divorce," and the couple had worked out visitation and custody.
     We could blame mental illness, though there is a circularity to that reasoning. Anyone who could do such a thing must have been mentally disturbed at the time, obviously. But what about the day before? Or the week before? Was it there all the time and nobody saw it? Or was it not even there?
     That's why this is all so extraordinarily chilling. Being a parent is hard, at times very hard. It flays you down to a single raw nerve. I remember my wife, when our second boy was a sleepless newborn, stepping into the bathroom to pound the radiator and scream, out of exhaustion and frustration. I would have done the same thing, but I was too tired.   

     This is not to say that parenthood is grim. I tell my childless friends, when they survey the wreckage of our formerly elegant lives and ask what the appeal of this intrusion could possibly be, that having a child is like giving somebody the world. Literally, the great big spinning globe, handed over free in a gift box. There are tiring times, but the reward is that you can slap your knee one morning and announce, at your whim, that today carousels will come into being. Then you head down to Navy Pier and plop the boys on a couple of gaily painted horses and take videos while they go up and down, delighted, and if you didn't actually conjure the carousel from thin air yourself, then the result is exactly the same.
     If having a child is like giving somebody the world, then killing a child is like destroying the world. It has the same finality, the same terrible tragedy. The staggering senselessness defies understanding, but we go over it again and again anyway, looking not, I believe, for understanding, but for reassurance. We want to locate a comforting fact that shows us that we ourselves are not capable of this act, that it came from some foreign, alien place, the land of the psychotic. But if a nice soccer mom could just crack, spontaneously, then what is to say that any of us—all nice, all normal—couldn't someday crack, too?
     Our view of these murders is skewed because they happened here, not in France, not in California. They loom huge in our views because they took place down the road, in that nice house, the house everybody aspires to. Proximity means something. The Internet be damned, distance is still real. Half of a sub-Saharan nation can rise up and slaughter the other half, and we don't have the energy to raise a yawn. But even an area as big as the Chicago metro region is still a community. The same identification that lets you feel pride when the Bulls win a championship forces you to feel the proximate horror of this act. As if we all lived on that street.
     Now that understanding is slow in coming, I want to suggest that, if the comforting explanation is finally revealed, we not embrace it too eagerly—that we recognize that the gulf between those who crack and those who carry on is not as wide as we might desire.

     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, March 14, 1999