5/29/26
Fell 5’—broke 3 vertebrae—cracked 6 ribs on the left—tore rotator cuffs on the right.

Surgery was at CHI St. Vincent, Sherwood.

Rehab was in-house at St. Mary’s in Russellville. (They were [are] GREAT at what they do!

HOME! 6/24/26

Three broken vertebrae/discs in my back.

Six cracked ribs.

A torn rotator cuff.

One surgery.

Two hospitals.

One rehab center.

One back brace that apparently requires a minor engineering degree.

Today, PT got me outside.

It wasn’t a marathon. It wasn’t heroic music and slow-motion applause. It was a wheelchair, a brace, some Arkansas heat, and me sitting there on the porch of the original St. Mary’s Hospital, looking like a large, tired old man who had just won a small but very real battle.

But after 17 days of beds, alarms, tubes, pain, therapy schedules, and “please don’t get up by yourself,” outside felt pretty damn good.

Not fixed.

Not finished.

But outside.

And that counts.

Note: After one or two nights in the recliner, I decided that the damn recliner wasn’t any better for sleep than the damn bed, so I reverted back to using the bed.

After another poor night of sleep at the hospital, I finally discovered something important.

The best place to sleep in a hospital room may not be the hospital bed.

It may be the recliner sitting next to it.

Now, let’s be clear. This recliner is not a luxury suite. It does not have cup holders. It does not recline me into some perfect cloud of comfort. There is no mint on the pillow, mostly because there is no pillow worth bragging about. Nobody from room service showed up with a breakfast menu and a warm towel.

It is just a hospital recliner.

But I slept.

And after 18 days away from home since the accident on May 31, “I slept” is not a small sentence. It is practically a medical progress note.

I slept more last night than I had in that damn bed during the last two and a half weeks.

That hospital bed and I have had a complicated relationship. It has buttons. It has rails. It raises. It lowers. It bends in the middle. It hums, clicks, shifts, and makes promises it cannot keep. Somewhere, I am sure, there is a training manual explaining how a human being is supposed to find rest in it.

Unfortunately, my back, ribs, spine, hips, shoulders, and general attitude have not read that manual.

The bed seems like it was designed by a committee made up of engineers, nurses, insurance people, safety inspectors, and at least one medieval consultant. Every adjustment seems useful in theory. In practice, I end up feeling like a large, tired, old man being folded into hospital origami by a machine with buttons.

The recliner, on the other hand, had a much simpler operating procedure.

Sit down.

Lean back.

Try not to think about how long it has been since you were home.

And for a while, it worked.

Not perfectly. Let’s not get carried away. Even with 18 days of exhaustion stacked on top of three broken vertebrae, six cracked ribs, surgery, hospitals, rehab, therapy, and the general background soundtrack of institutional life, the sleep was not deep. It did not last long. It was not the kind of sleep that makes angels sing or restores your faith in mattresses.

It was hospital sleep.

Thin sleep.

Interrupted sleep.

The kind of sleep where part of your brain is still listening for hallway noises, rolling carts, door latches, beeping machines, footsteps, blood pressure cuffs, and the possibility that someone may appear at any moment to ask if you are sleeping.

But it was sleep.

And any sleep is better than no sleep.

That is one of the things a person learns in a hospital or rehab center. Standards change. Before the accident, I might have complained that a bed was too firm, too soft, too hot, too cold, or that the pillow wasn’t right. Now, I am apparently prepared to write a thank-you note to a recliner that allowed me to be unconscious for longer than the bed did.

Recovery is full of these odd little victories.

Walking a few more steps.

Sitting up a little longer.

Getting through therapy.

Trying to figure out how this damned brace is supposed to work.

Finding a position that does not make every injured part of your body call an emergency meeting.

And now, discovering that the plain old recliner beside the hospital bed may be the unsung hero of the room.

Not a miracle.

Not a luxury.

Not even particularly comfortable.

But for one exhausted patient, it did what the fancy bed could not do.

It let me sleep.

Not long.

Not deep.

But enough to count.

I think it’s gonna be quite a while before I get back to the level of posting I was doing on Pope County Majority—if I do.

For those who have been wondering why I have been absent, the answer is pretty simple. For the past couple of weeks, my attention has been focused on something a little more immediate than the local subjects I usually post about.

An accident left me with three broken vertebrae and six cracked ribs. Since then, I have undergone spinal surgery, spent time in two hospitals, and am currently participating in an inpatient rehabilitation program.

Needless to say, none of that was on my calendar.

Like most people, I expected this year to unfold in a reasonably predictable fashion. I expected to continue doing the things I normally do—posting on Pope County Majority, sharing photographs and images, commenting on local happenings, and occasionally wandering down whatever rabbit trail caught my attention.

Instead, I found myself learning far more than I ever expected to know about hospitals, surgery, rehabilitation, walkers, wheelchairs, and recovery.

The surgery was successful, and for that I am grateful.

Modern medicine is a remarkable thing. The surgeons repaired what needed repairing, and the focus quickly shifted from treatment to recovery.

That recovery process continues today.

One thing I have learned is that rehabilitation is not something that happens to you. It is something you participate in.

Every day includes exercises, walking, instruction, and activities designed to improve strength, mobility, endurance, and independence. The therapists maintain schedules for a number of patients, and when my time arrives, they make sure I have plenty to do.

I have discovered that rehabilitation professionals are generally pleasant people who smile as they assign work.

A lot of work.

Fortunately, it appears to be helping.

I am stronger today than I was immediately after the accident.

I move more easily than I did immediately after the accident.

I have more endurance than I did immediately after the accident.

Most importantly, I can clearly see progress.

Sometimes that progress is obvious.

Sometimes it is measured in smaller increments.

But it is there.

One thing that has surprised me is how quickly ordinary activities begin to feel significant. Before the accident, I never gave much thought to sitting in a chair, moving around a building in a wheelchair, or sharing a meal with family.

Now those things carry a little more meaning.

Between therapy sessions, I often spend time out of bed in a wheelchair. Sometimes I move around the rehabilitation unit. Sometimes I simply spend time in the dining room. Some of the best parts of the day are having lunch or supper with my wife or daughter instead of eating alone in a room.

Those moments may sound ordinary.

They are.

That is exactly what makes them special.

Recovery is not measured solely by medical charts, therapy goals, or test results. It is also measured by the gradual return of normal life.

A conversation.

A shared meal.

A visit with family.

The ability to move around independently.

The opportunity to participate rather than simply observe.

Those things matter.

As I have worked through this process, I have had plenty of time to think.

Hospitals are excellent places for reflection. There is a lot of time available for thinking, especially during those early morning hours when most of the world is still asleep.

One thought occurred to me around 3:30 one morning.

Perhaps the rest of life should be viewed as ongoing rehabilitation.

That idea has stayed with me.

Throughout my career in the nuclear industry, continuing training was a fact of life. Nobody ever reached a point where learning stopped. Nobody ever reached a point where improvement was no longer necessary.

Learning continued.

Training continued.

Improvement continued.

The goal was never perfection.

The goal was continual progress.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that rehabilitation may not be much different.

At some point, the formal rehabilitation program will end.

The therapists will decide that I have achieved the goals they established.

The doctors will determine that my recovery has progressed as far as they reasonably expect.

I will leave this facility and resume a more normal routine.

But I do not think that should mark the end of rehabilitation.

In fact, I think it should mark the beginning of a new phase.

My goal is not simply to recover from this accident.

My goal is to continue improving.

I want to continue building strength.

I want to continue increasing endurance.

I want to continue improving mobility.

I want to continue doing whatever I can to remain active, capable, and independent.

Those goals are worthwhile regardless of age.

At seventy-four years old, I have no illusions about getting younger. None of us are moving in that direction.

But improvement is still possible.

Progress is still possible.

Growth is still possible.

And effort is still worthwhile.

Looking back, it would be easy to focus on the accident, the injuries, the surgery, and the hospital stays.

I prefer to focus on something else.

I prefer to focus on the success that has already been achieved.

The surgery was successful.

The recovery is progressing.

The rehabilitation is working.

The future looks considerably brighter than it did immediately after the accident.

There is still work ahead.

There will undoubtedly be challenges ahead as well.

But there will also be continued progress.

So while my posting may remain lighter than usual for a while, please understand that I am still working on a project.

For the moment, that project is rehabilitation.

And unlike the formal program I am currently participating in, I do not expect that project to end anytime soon.

I intend to remain on that path for a very long time.

I am in a Little Rock-area hospital.

I don’t remember ever having any sort of party as a kid.

Apparently, there was at least one.

Guests Entertained At Halloween Party
Jo  Lynn and Michael Goad entertained 10 guests at a Halloween party on Friday.
Games were played and refreshments served.
Guests attending the party were Mike and Susan Raegers, Pam Dotson, Dean Duncan, Mike Reynolds, Mindy Trott, Glenn Taylor, Mike McClellan, Mark Davis and Rosemary Bartman.
Mrs. Marilyn Goad was in charge of the afternoons entertainment.

I came across this in the October 31, 1960, North Platte, Nebraska, Telegraph Bulletin.

A little over 65 years ago.

I was 8, JoLynn was 6, and Mom was 25, a divorcee of 5 years, living in a basement apartment in my grandparents’ house.

I really don’t remember any of the furnishings other than the old-style white refrigerator.

Given our situation, it seems odd that this would appear in the local newspaper.

Fred Trump drives a dark late-1940s Cadillac sedan through the quiet residential streets of Jamaica Estates in Queens shortly after the birth of his son, Donald Trump, in 1946. The image captures the atmosphere of upwardly mobile postwar America: manicured lawns, mature shade trees, and large Tudor-style homes reflecting the prosperity that followed World War II.

The Cadillac’s sweeping fenders, heavy chrome bumpers, hood ornament, and whitewall tires symbolize the prestige and optimism associated with luxury automobiles of the era. Unlike the chauffeur-driven limousines associated with later Manhattan wealth, this scene reflects the more hands-on style of Fred Trump’s early success as a builder and real-estate developer in outer-borough New York.

Behind the car stands the family’s substantial brick-and-stone residence in Jamaica Estates, one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Queens at the time. The photograph evokes the environment in which Donald Trump spent his earliest years — financially comfortable, image-conscious, ambitious, and deeply shaped by the culture of postwar New York expansion.

(Note: The image was generated from AI based on freely available information about the Trumps in the 1940s. It is not intended to be an accurate depiction, only a representation of the life that they led.)

The Benz Patent-Motorwagen was one of the most important mechanical inventions in human history. Built in 1885 by Karl Benz in Mannheim, Germany, it is widely recognized as the world’s first practical gasoline-powered automobile designed from the ground up as a motor vehicle rather than a modified carriage.

The machine looked fragile and almost skeletal by modern standards. It rode on three thin wire-spoke wheels and used a lightweight tubular steel frame with wooden body panels. Behind the passengers sat a single-cylinder four-stroke engine producing less than one horsepower. Even so, the vehicle could move under its own power at speeds approaching 10 miles per hour, something astonishing for the era.

Steering was accomplished through a simple tiller rather than a steering wheel, and power was transferred to the rear wheels through chains and belts. There were no enclosed body panels, windshield, roof, or modern brakes. Every mechanical component remained exposed and visible.

The Patent-Motorwagen represented far more than transportation. It marked the beginning of the automobile age and ultimately transformed industry, cities, commerce, warfare, and daily human life across the entire world.

He was 60 years old—and had to register with Selective Service!

It can stop you cold when you see it in a record: a man in his late 50s or 60s, calmly filling out a draft registration card in the middle of World War II.

At first glance, it doesn’t make sense. A 60-year-old wasn’t going to be sent into combat. So why was he registering at all?

The answer says a lot about how the United States mobilized for total war.

A Draft That Was Bigger Than the Army [continue reading…]