The recent stories of the resurgence of tuberculosis, first in Kansas and now in my home state of North Carolina, stirred up some long forgotten memories for me.

North Carolina tuberculosis cases rising for first time in decades following one of the worst outbreaks in U.S. history | The Independent

It seems strange to recount now, but when I went to work as a prison guard in the 1980s, the unit where I worked housed a category of offender known as a health law violator. These inmates were invariably chronic street alcoholics who had contracted tuberculosis and been non-compliant when it came to taking their medication. The state of North Carolina in all of its infinite wisdom decided at some point in the distant past that the best solution to this problem was to make it a crime. They would arrest these men and send them to the prison where I worked where they would receive treatment for TB. When they were no longer contagious, they would be released.

It was a grim situation, made even grimmer by the conditions of their confinement. The men were housed in a single cell segregation unit, the same type of housing used for prisoners convicted of disciplinary offenses. The health law violators only got to come out of their cells for an hour a day, always wearing a mask. They could mix with each other, but not with anyone else from the population. They were not allowed visitors. Eventually, the law was changed and by the time I left that kind of work in 1993, the Department of Correction had gotten out of the tuberculosis treatment business.

I don't know if anyone has figured out the logic behind the recently announced cuts to medical research by the fascist government of the United States. Not only are we getting a certified lunatic who admitted that a worm had eaten part of his brain as a cabinet secretary in charge of Health and Human services in Robert Kennedy, Jr., we are apparently just giving up on cancer. Not to worry because the US has also stopped AIDS eradication in Africa and assistance with other worldwide diseases because…I don't know. Fuck all those brown people. Right?

The tuberculosis comeback should scare people. You see, the prison where I worked in the 80s was originally built to house nothing but prisoners with tuberculosis, not health law violators like I dealt with, but run-of-the-mill bank robbers and cat burglars who just happened to also have TB. There were that many of them. It was only a mile away from a gigantic sanitorium the state operated to treat regular citizens who had the disease.

I remember a time, also back in the 80s when the US government also didn't give a damn about sick Americans, specifically sick gay Americans during the early days of the AIDS epidemic. St. Ronald Ray-gun couldn't even be bothered to say the name of the illness out loud. That's what we are headed back to now, except the American fascists are uncaring about all the non-billionaires. They plan to let idiots of all stripes forego vaccinations. In the face of a pandemic, no one will have to take any precautions against spreading disease. I know this sounds like the rantings of a crazy person, and two months ago, you would have been right if you thought that. Now, I am right. We are screwed, and eggs are still expensive.

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During my year-long project to see if it was possible to manufacture happiness, one of the exercises I undertook was to make a list of my own rules to live by](https://louplummer.lol/my-rules-for-me/). One of those rules was Buy Less Stuff, Go More Places.

Studies have strongly suggested that memories are more difficult to form when your surroundings don't change. I made the same 30-mile drive to work for twenty years, and the hour and half it took out of my life each day was essentially lost time. I listened to plenty of good books and podcasts in those drives, but the landscape might as well have been a blank slate. On our recent trip to Florida for the Miami Marathon, every mile was fascinating, even if it was through a typical neighborhood. The architecture and landscaping was so different from what I am used to.

This is a hard rule to follow when you have disposable income because you're old and have paid off your bills. Yes, we go plenty of places, but the Amazon delivery mobile has us programmed into their GPS. A couple of points though - We do not have an expensive home, nor do we want one. If anything, we want simpler. I also drive an old, old car. It's not a classic, or anything close to it. It is just ancient. Those two facts alone save us a few thousand dollars a month. This year, we may not take a vacation that includes airfare. We will probably opt for some place in the Appalachian Mountains instead - one of my favorite places on earth. Among our "fly to" vacations, I've prepared heavily for Northern Ireland and Santa Fe. I'm not sure what prevented me from taking full advantage of NYC and Colorado Springs. I had a good time in both places but I left a lot on the table.

The places I like to go to are more often the places we can drive to - or places we can park and hike to. Some touristy sites are fun to visit, but I enjoy exploring a new patch of woods a lot too. Whatever I do, I want to do it with Wonder Woman. Sometimes I feel like she has a stronger sense of adventure, but I think we're actually evenly matched. Her personality is such that she is usually happier to let me pick out the next adventure (I'm not fooling myself, either. I read about why that is true in a book). When I'm feeling tired, and she expresses a desire to do something, it just seems odd, out of the ordinary. It's just that I feel tired more frequently than she does.

I do sometimes feel guilty for buying things. A decluttering spree made me less inclined to buy several types of items: clothes, pots and pans, used books, random personal care stuff. I try to be mindful about what I buy lately. I ask myself if an item will help me feel happier. Will it help me reach a goal? What triggered my desire for it?

Anyway, I think I need to let go of some of the guilt, as long as I am willing to be a good steward of our the money we have and as long as I would always rather go somewhere new, than go shopping for something flashy. I don't need flashy.

I love to track things. I have an app to bookmark places. In the past 10 years, we have visited 76 parks, stayed in 44 hotels/VRBO, visited 28 coffee shops, 14 book stores and eaten in 352 restaurants. I want to at least match that in the next 10 years!

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When you meet someone named William, and they tell you they prefer to be called Bill, almost all of us do the one rational and sane thing that the situation calls for. We call them Bill. If their name is William, and they ask to be called Chip, all the non-crazy people in their circle call them Chip. Not only is it basic human decency to call people what they want to be called, it's also the path of the least resistance. It causes exactly zero problems, and it actually prevents conflicts that would be caused by some idiot's stupid obstinacy in insisting that the only rational name to call anyone is the name on their birth certificate. It's no one else's business why any of us choose to be called by our preferred name. Whatever the reason is for your choice or mine, it is good enough.

My middle name happens to be Kimbal. When you shorten it, as most people did when that was the name I went by, it's Kim. From birth to the first couple of years of school, Kim is the name I used when introducing myself. It's what I wrote on my first and second grade spelling tests, right there at the top on the line labeled "Name". Because kids are assholes, some of them decided that my name didn't conform to the gender norms they thought were acceptable, In other words, they thought Kim was a girl's name. Since I am not a girl and have never identified as a girl and because I had that traditional social conditioning that anything that challenges one's manliness is bad, even if for a six-year-old, I was greatly offended. It made me mad enough to cry, which made me even more mad. Since I was then a pissed off, crying, immature little boy-child with poor coping skills, my next step was usually to make the socially unacceptable choice of attempting to beat someone's ass. That was frowned on, and I got lectured on how I should just ignore mean people. Well, that was bullshit then and it is bullshit now.

I eventually caved to pressure, tried a few other names and ended up going by Lou, which is a perfectly fine name, I suppose, but not the one that I was used to.

Now, you probably know where I am going with this. Most people who are going to read this most likely don't have an issue calling people what they want to be called. If they wish to be called Mary, even though the name on their birth certificate is William, most people who read the rants of this particular progressive old white guy, are cool enough to call that person Mary. If Mary asks, quite naturally that you say she and her when you refer to her, then the people I like, are going to say OK, and do exactly that. They do it because they aren't crazy and they aren't assholes. They have manners and basic human decency. They are not needlessly antagonistic, and they would rather not make another human being feel bad for absolutely no reason. Good for them!

The only reason to refuse to call someone by their preferred name, gender, and pronouns is that you are morally deficient. You are a flawed human being with untreated personality issues. You are probably cruel in other ways that make sense to no one apart from your own twisted self. You may know and be friends with some other weirdos who share your flaws, but that doesn't make any of you right. Not only that, but you are most likely still mad at six-year-old me who beat your ass back in 1971 — because you deserved it then, just like you deserve it now.

Please send this, anonymously if you have to, to anyone in your life who needs to read it.

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My Dad can be aggravating every so often. He's conservative and opinionated and not a little arrogant. He got religion about thirty years ago and that made it worse. Despite all of that, he is as entertaining as anyone I have ever known for one reason. He is a supremely skilled and captivating storyteller. Granted, most of the stories are about him, but he's lived an interesting life, and he weaves all sorts of different elements into his tales. Unlike many combat veterans, he loves to talk about his time at war. It's rarely about the ugly parts. Usually, he has funny stories about different men in his unit during his first tour in Vietnam or men he flew with during his second tour.

One of my favorite stories is the one about one of his young soldiers who Dad said was the happiest American in Vietnam. Dad was a second lieutenant in charge of a platoon on armored cavalry soldiers. He knew this private stateside, before they deployed because the kid had gone through training at Ft. Know while Dad was also stationed there. He's found the private crying one day outside the barracks and with his best fatherly attitude (he was 21 at the time), asked the kid "What's the matter son?"

"Sir," the young man answered, "My girlfriend, she's going to have a baby." My Dad assured him that he could arrange leave for him to go home and "make things right." "But sir, you don't understand. Her Mom."

Dad asked,"What about her Mom, son"

"Sir, she's pregnant too."

Dad said it took a few seconds for the situation to become clear. Yes, the answer is yes. This young draftee from Nowheresville, Oklahoma had gotten both his girlfriend and her mother in the family way at the same time and then left for the Army. So, yeah, when he ended up in the jungles of Vietnam fighting a way, he was relieved that he wasn't back home being murdered by two irate women.

Telling stories runs in the family, though. My grandfather never presented himself as a military man, although he had been on active duty before Pearl Harbor and didn't get discharged until 1946. His World War Two stories were mainly about geography and culture. The National Guard unit he joined during the depression had been activated and sent to Trinidad in the later 30s. He pronounced it Trinny-dad. There was, of course, no combat there, but he played a lot of baseball. He'd been all over the states and spent time in England before landing in mainland Europe where he proclaimed to he's gone all the way across France and Germany until he "hugged necks with the Russians at the Elbe River." Some of his stories were harrowing in their own way. His unit liberated a German POW camp holding Russian prisoners. Before running from the approaching US Army, the Nazis turned loose their Alsatian dogs on their prisoners in a final spurt of brutality. The Russians, rather than scrambling in fear, instead caught the dogs and promptly ate them. I heard that story many times and thinking about it today reinforces the "war is hell" ethos like no other I've ever heard personally.

Some of my stories also take an ironic turn like that. I was in the military during the Cold War, so I thankfully, I have no combat tales. My personal war stories are from working manhunts after prison escapes. The most surreal moment from that period was when I was sent to escort a bloodhound handler into a patch of woods, where minutes before three prisoners who'd managed to penetrate a fence fled under gunfire. Two of the prisoners were being held at the prison where I worked even though they hadn't been convicted yet. They'd escaped from jail and were being held at my unit because they were a security risk. Yeah, no shit. Since they were not yet convicted felons, the "shoot on sight" law that is supposed to keep criminals from climbing fences technically did not apply to them. Thus, my captain as he pushed me into the woods to look for then cautioned me to "Try not to shoot them." Read the whole story.

Those stories are memorable, but they aren't my favorites. I loved to listen to my grandmother's tales of cooking for her six brothers on a wood stove, trying in vain to quell their appetites after they'd spent the days plowing with mules. I also love to hear my mother recount her early hardscrabble life living in an old farmhouse without running water or adequate heat where sometimes the hot water bottle she took to bed with her would fall to the floor where she'd find it frozen in the morning when she crawled from under the quilts.

It's not just the older generation that can spin a story. My kids love to elaborate on the things they did to exasperate me when they were growing up. My oldest daughter, who I dearly love, has and has always had a slightly sharp tongue. She used it one too many times on a trip home from a friends' lake house one day back in the 90s and I turned around in the car to pop her on the leg as a warning, except I didn't. I tagged her brother, who, while not an angel, was an innocent bystander in this case. "Dad, you got me!" was his indignant response. I was doubly furious. When we finally got home, my daughter, sensing that she had pushed things too far, climbed over the other children in the back seat and took off running as fast as she could with me chasing her. Lucky for both of us, I didn't catch her. Not funny at the time but hilarious to hear then tell it now.

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