The Decision by Ricki T. Thues

The Decision 

by Ricki T. Thues © 2025

I love you so much, thought Sally. I always have.

Her husband was staring blankly.

“Are you OK Brian?” she said aloud.

“Of course I am,” was his terse reply.

“You were saying?” she continued.

“We were planning that trip to Hawaii. What island did you want to go to? I like Kawaii.”

“That was some time ago, dear. We were talking about going to the store just now.”

Brian’s eyes went blank again. He stared silently through her at something in the distant past.

In Brian’s mind, the planning of the Hawaii trip was moments ago. In reality, their trip to Kauai was four years ago.

Brian’s mind parsed through the planning. We will fly Hawaiian Airlines to Maui with a connection to Kauai. Our helicopter tour will take us up into Waimea Canyon to see Manawaiopuna Falls (Jurassic Park waterfall). I can see it, he thought.

“Remember the Jurassic waterfall?” asked Sally. “What fun it was to fly in the helicopter.”

“We haven’t gone yet. Our trip is next month. What are you saying?” Brian’s voice crept louder as he spoke.

“It’s OK, dear. I was just fooling. Let’s keep planning the trip.”

Brian stared blankly. “Trip to where?!” he barked.

Sally sighed and wrapped Brian in a protective hug.

Sally led Brian to the car, chauffeured him into the passenger seat, then seated herself to drive to the grocery store. It was a silent twenty-minute drive. When Sally turned left toward Ralphs, Brian said, “The freeway is straight ahead. You have to take the freeway to the airport.”

“We’re going to Ralphs for groceries,” assured Sally.

“Do we need some snacks for the trip?”

“No. Just some food for dinner tonight.”

“We can eat on the airplane. It’s a 5-hour flight. I’m sure they will feed us in first class.” He clearly remembered booking first-class seats.

“We aren’t going to Hawaii yet, Brian. Today we are going to the grocery store.”

Brian shook his head, grumbling under his breath.

The next day, Sally was playing cards with her girlfriends.

“Brian is getting worse,” Sally mused.

“My husband had severe dementia. It was harder and harder to communicate with him as he got worse,” said her friend Anne.

“How did you cope?”

“Eventually, I had to move him into a memory care facility. It is a nursing home where they watch him 24/7. He really doesn’t know me anymore.”

“Brian knows me. He just mixes up his timeline.”

“Does that make him irritable?”

“Yes. He gets confused and sometimes angry that he can’t remember things correctly.”

“Brian is a sweetheart,” said Anne. “But you have to be careful that he doesn’t turn violent.”

“He would never hurt me. Our love is too strong for that.”

Anne forced a smile and continued to deal the cards.

Two months later, Sally and Brian were sitting in the living room watching TV.

“Turn on Columbo,” said Brian.

“That show might be on Peacock. I can check,” said Sally, picking up the remote.

“What the hell is Peacock? It’s on NBC tonight,” barked Brian, grabbing the remote from Sally.

Sally’s wrist twisted painfully as Brian pulled the remote from her hand.

“Ow Brian. You hurt me,” she moaned, clutching her wrist.

Brian paused with a horrified look in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Sally. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He reached over, took her hand, and kissed it on the wrist.

“It’s OK, dear. It feels better already.”

Brian looked down at the remote and began pushing buttons randomly, looking for Columbo on TV.

Brian did not improve. He became more argumentative, insisting that his delusions were real. Sally sank farther into despair.

More time passed. Sally was driving the car, stopped at a signal. When the signal changed, she drove straight ahead through the intersection. Brian grabbed the steering wheel, pulling it hard to the right. “THIS WAY!” he yelled, causing the car to swerve toward the stopped traffic. Sally swung the wheel farther right, just missing the cars. She pulled her car into an exaggerated right turn and carefully brought the car to a stop at the curb. A sigh of relief escaped her.

“What was that?” she said angrily.

“The airport is this way,” said Brian, pointing ahead of them.

“Never touch the steering wheel when I am driving. You almost got us killed.”

“I was just helping. The airport is this way.”

“We are not going to the airport. We are not going to Hawaii. We went there years ago. I think you are going crazy.”

“I’m not crazy. I know what I’m doing. But, but…” It suddenly became clear to Brian what he had just done.

“Oh my god,” he said, shaking his head. “I did almost kill us. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry…”

“What am I going to do with you, sweetheart?” wailed Sally, hugging Brian as best she could in the seat belts.

Brian just kept shaking, head in hands.

When they returned home, Sally called Doctor Driscoll, their family physician.

“Doctor, this is Sally Smithen, Brian’s wife.”

“Yes, Sally. I know you. What can I do for you today?”

“Brian is getting worse. He seems to be stuck in the memory of our trip to Hawaii. The other day he pulled on the steering wheel and almost caused an accident. He said he was helping us get to the airport, but we weren’t going there. What do I do?”

“I’m sorry. Are you OK?”

“Yes, just shook up and a little afraid.”

“Let’s make an appointment with my colleague, Doctor Heilmann. He is an excellent psychiatrist. He can do a complete analysis of Brian.”

“Ok,” she said in sad resignation.

“Here we are Brian,” said Sally as they entered Doctor Heilmann’s office lobby.

“Why are we here?”

“Just a checkup,” she answered in a half-truth. She hated to hide the true purpose of the visit, but was afraid of his reactions.

In the examination room, Doctor Heilmann asked Brian, “Do you know where you are?”

“The doctor’s office. How have you been Doc Driscoll?”

“My name is Heilmann. Nice to meet you, Brian. I’d like to ask you a few questions. Is that OK?”

“Shoot.”

“What are the steps to making a cup of coffee.”

“Go to Starbucks,” Brian quipped.

“Funny,” said the doctor. “Who is the president of the US?”

“Jimmy Carter. That’s an odd question.”

“Repeat after me: apple, car, book.”

“Apple, car, book.”

“Good. Remember those words. What did you have for breakfast yesterday?”

“That’s easy. I made bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns.”

The doctor looked over at Sally, who shook her head. Brian had not cooked for years.

“What would you do if you witnessed an accident?”

“Call 119.”

“Have you been in a near accident recently?”

“No. Sally is a very good driver.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What are the words I asked you to remember?”

“Car…ah, um… I don’t know!” He almost yelled his answer.

“It’s OK Brian. Lots of people don’t remember.”

“I’m not lots of people,” said Brian angrily.

“Just a couple more questions. Spell the word ‘world’ backwards.”

“W-O-R-L-D.” Brian smiled. Sally frowned.

Doctor Heilmann motioned for Sally to follow him out of the room. “Wait here, Brian. We will be right back,” he said.

In the doctor’s private office Sally filled in some of the mistakes that Brian made. The doctor nodded, a grim expression spreading over his face.

Doctor Heilman looked Sally deep in the eyes and said, “Brian is experiencing confusion of time and place, his angry outbursts are increasing and the recent automobile incident is troubling. These, added to the suggestion of dementia in the cognitive test, are strong indications of probable advancing Alzheimer’s disease.”

Sally sobbed quietly. “I am so tired. I have to watch Brian constantly. I’m afraid he is going to hurt himself or someone else. I don’t know what to do.”

“I think it is time to arrange long-term care for Brian in a memory care center,” said the doctor, face still grim.

Sally’s sobs became a mournful cry.

Back at home, Sally and Brian were sitting on the couch watching TV. Sally picked up the remote and turned the TV off.

“Why did you do that?” asked Brian, startled.

“We have to talk, dear.”

Brian raised his eyebrows in that endearing gesture of his. He is sooo cute, thought Sally.

“The doctor is worried about you, and so am I. He thinks you have Alzheimer’s disease.”

“What? I feel fine. Remember when we were planning our trip to Hawaii? I made an itinerary and found out everything we will do.”

“That’s just it my dear man. We went to Hawaii four years ago.”

“I think you are right Sally. I do remember the helicopter. I’m so confused.”

Sally took a deep breath and said the hardest part. “The doctor thinks you would be happier and safer at a memory care center. Anne’s husband is at Brookdale Senior Living. Why don’t we visit him there and see what you think of the place?”

Brian’s expression changed from upset to curious to sullen to blank. The room fell into profound silence.

Sally took Brian into her arms. She rocked him like she had her babies. Brian began to cry softly. He knew she was right. 

What is the difference between a turning point and a moment that changes everything? by Don Taco

What is the difference between a turning point and a moment that changes everything?                                                                                            by Don Taco

 

 

 

   I always knew what a washtub bass was. My mother sang in a jug band that had a tub player. Because of that, I was also familiar with Jim Kweskin, and a number of older jug bands that had tubs. We grew up near Disneyland, so we went there with out-of-towners at least a few times a year, and there is a washtub bass in Bear Country Jamboree. My all-boys Catholic high school had a sister school that had a tub in the choir room. For me, there was nothing mysterious or unusual about them.

 

When I finally escaped Los Angeles and Orange County, my first stop was Isla Vista, the college student ghetto next to the  University of California at Santa Barbara. It was unique. Half a square mile of land, surrounded on three sides by University property, and the fourth bounded by the ocean. Sixteen thousand people lived there, the second-densest population center in the country. It was a party school, as so many California coast colleges are, but it was also a hotbed of political action, famous for burning down the Bank of America three times. The fourth building the bank built, all brick and stone, has gone through a number of hands, and is now a Community Center, something the activists are very proud of.

 

Both of my roommates worked for Ecology Action, a program under the umbrella of the college, which ran a recycling center. They started up the first curbside recycling collection program in the nation, which worked due to the population density and small city footprint, and proved that such a program could work, paving the way for nationwide adoption of the concept.

 

One day, someone had tossed a washtub into the metal bin, and, as it didn't appear damaged almost at all, my roommates brought it home. We put some dirt in the bottom, tossed in some seeds, and the plants weren't getting enough sun, got real skinny and tall, fell over, and died. Probably just as well. Growing marijauna at that time was a very easy way to go to jail. So then I dumped out the dirt and made it into a musical instrument. Not because I played, but because I knew how they worked.It was an experiment, with no actual plans.

 

The Ecology Action group, since the weather was turning nicer as we drifted into spring, had a serious weekly meeting at someone's apartment, and on alternate weeks, had a much better attended casual pot-luck meeting in the park. People were starting to turn up with guitars, and I knew a few of the faces, if not the names, of the musicians.

 

The day after I put the tub together, I got off the bus after work, in the early afternoon. The bus stop was a ramshackle wooden half-hexagon built and placed by the underfunded Parks and Recreation District, the only actual political entity in this unincorporated area. The shape made it perfect for the three musicians seated there, almost a half-circle, where they could see and hear each other but the blend of sound could be heard by passers-by. I recognized the mandolin and one of the guitars, ran the block home, and returned with my new toy. The mandolin sang reggae songs, but the music wasn't reggae at all. It was like a freight train barreling through, zero to sixty in no seconds, and speeding up. One of the guitars was a great lead player. I was thrashing along figuring out how to make sounds that fit as fast as I could. Harmonies were tested out. A crowd gathered.

 

We played from late afternoon until nearly midnight. As the instruments were going back into their cases, the mandolin said, nonchalantly, "So, we gonna be a band, or what?"

 

And that was the moment. From one breath to the next I was in a band. I was part of something that was cherished in that town for the next four years. I was a musician. That led me, in the long run, to being an actor, a light designer, a set designer, a sound designer, a props maker, a special effects coordinator, a director, a community theater board member, a singer, a songwriter, and a short story writer. That moment changed everything. And set me on a path that filled, and drove, my entire adult life.

 

Now that first afternoon, obviously a moment that changed everything, could or would seem like a major turning point to most folks. But I say it was the minor turning point. The major turning point in my life was the day when I got too old and tired to continue to bash away at such a physically demanding instrument, not to mention carrying around all the equipment required to match the volume of drummers and the rest of the rock and rollers and electric guitars. The day that I had to set aside the washtub bass, and just be a singer.

 

Just kidding. That never happened.

 

-------------------------------------------

 

That was the ending I had intended to write, all along, for this tale.

 

Things change.

 

Friday morning, while eating breakfast, I had a small stroke. Dizziness. Right side numbness. Loss of motor control in the right hand. 9-1-1. Ambulance ride. Emergency room. Lots of doctors and nurses. Cat scan. (I really miss the days when they used real cats, and I told the nurses that.) MRI. Many other tests with acronyms. Hospital bed. Lumpy. Hospital food. Bland. Handfuls of new pills. All firsts for me.

 

They sent me home the next day with about a pound of reading material, a batch of new prescriptions, and a list of doctor's appointments.

 

I'm fine. No impairments, no dire warnings.

 

The possibility of this being a career-ending event is real, and almost a probablility. However, tonight, the Wednesday after it occurred, I'm going to an Open Mic that I have attended almost every week for several years. I play bass behind quite a few of the regulars. Friday, I'll be at the area's premier venue, sitting in with a birthday party performance by a woman who sings backup in our rock band. And Thursday, I'd be joining a jam with an rollicking acoustic swing band, except I have to attend a meeting.

 

So, apparently, the universe cannot allow me to remain blissfully young forever, but it isn't vicious enough to take away the greatest joy in my life.

 

See you at the show!

 

 

                                                                                                      copyright 2025 by Don Taco

  

Software Can't Fix Everything by Mark Farenbaugh

                                                

                                                  Software Can’t Fix Everything

By

Mark Farenbaugh

When I first arrived at the Southern Command (SOUTHCOM) Headquarters of the military in Miami as a contracted consultant, I was already a retired military person with extensive experience in radar, command and control, and operations. I had the advantage over most new military arrivals to the Miami headquarters, having lived in Central and South America (the main area of responsibility for SOUTHCOM). That, plus my ability to speak Spanish, was why my contracted position existed. Most of the time, my work stayed squarely in the lane of technical analysis and quiet problem-solving. The kind of assignments where one writes reports, brief findings, and watches others make the weighty decisions. I frequently traveled with military members who didn’t know the Latin American, to help them, or guided them, through the Latin American traffic or the U.S. Embassy building. It was an easy job. 

However, two turning points reshaped not only my responsibilities but also gave me an (unsolicited and unforeseen) ability for input with senior leadership; something not in my job description. This was like playing a losing game of chess.

The Clearinghouse Appointment

The first turning point came quietly, with little fanfare: I was appointed as SOUTHCOM’s representative to the Obama Administration’s Clearinghouse Initiative—an effort to manage the rapid expansion of energy-producing windmills across the nation and deconflict them with the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) airways. At first, the assignment seemed like a minor adjustment to my duties. My role was to participate in the lengthy discussions examining the safety risks posed by “wind farms”—clusters of twenty or more wind turbines, each five hundred feet tall with two-hundred-foot blades—being approved for construction throughout the country.

There were hundreds of such projects in the pipeline, part of the broader national “go-green” and save us from climate change before Greta from Switzerland finds out we aren’t doing enough.  How dare we. 

However, if the FAA determined that a proposed turbine site was too close to an approach flight corridor, it could halt the entire project or require the removal of certain towers.

Meanwhile, the military seldom paid much attention to these meetings. Those few generals who did stick their necks out to protect their radar sites often received a call from the praetorians of Congress asking why the military opposed such a “nice and green” wind farm. Taking a stand against the environmental initiative, however justified, could easily have negative career consequences. Most generals didn’t want to jeopardize their promotions to another star. Likely feedback to the generals: Why not just solve it with software?

I had little to add when it came to FAA concerns. Their safety-of-flight issues easily overruled the plans for any obstructions to aircraft flight paths around airports, on approach, or departure. Thus, I had little to concern myself with and simply attended the somewhat boring meetings.

A military antenna at risk

The second turning point was sharper, more urgent. Among the many planned projects, one proposed wind farm stood out. At first, it was to have only 10-12 towers, but its location placed it only a few hundred feet from a mile-long HF receiver antenna of the Over-The-Horizon Backscatter (OTHB) radar system. 

This antenna was not just another piece of equipment—it was a linchpin in DoD long-range radar surveillance, a key detector of small aircraft (like a Cessna) flying just above sea level or drug-trafficking boats racing across the Caribbean. Of course, it can see further south. 

There were two, mile-long antennas involved: the transmit antenna located 50+ miles away and the receiver antenna, located adjacent and north of a massive low-lying waterway reserve for migrating birds. Both are in Virginia. This particular wind farm was somehow approved to be built in the environmentally protected watershed area. Imagine that, no resistance from the environmentalists. Approval was probably tied to large sums of money for the small town nearby. 

The result of a finished wind farm so close to the receiver antenna would be to distort the return signals and cause false readings. Tracks on radar would be mislocated by hundreds of miles. It wasn’t an abstract concern; it was a direct compromise to early-warning capability.

Suddenly, the number of proposed wind turbines increased to twenty-five.

My role became important: to prevent this wind farm from moving forward. But I had no direct authority to stop construction. Instead, my leverage lay in persuading the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers (also part of the Clearinghouse meetings), who managed the low-lying wetland area, not to issue the final (of three) water drainage permits to the wind farm construction company. It meant diving deep into the Clearinghouse review processes, speaking with engineers and decision-makers, and helping military stakeholders understand the operational impact on a vital DoD resource. 

As the only one arguing against the final drainage permit, I felt a surge of desperation—a need to say something sharp enough to jolt the Army COE representative awake.

Like a sudden case of Tourette's’s Disease, I blurted out: “What is the Army’s fiduciary responsibility to the military to stop this project?”  

It came out fast. No motor or phonic tics or anxiety. Just pure emotion. I didn’t even hear the response, but it wasn’t a kind one. I barely remembered the question, “Who is your supervisor?”

Within a couple of days, while I was sitting at my SOUTHCOM cubicle, I sensed someone behind me. I turned to see an officer….a Lieutenant Colonel. His uniform badge showed he was a lawyer.

Another case of Tourette's’s overcame me. “Do I need a lawyer, or are you representing me?” I think I felt my forehead twitching.  

“Neither sir.  Are you Mark Farenbaugh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You should know that sometimes pulling the pin on a hand grenade during a meeting works.  Would you please come with me, and bring your files for the OTHB and Clearinghouse meetings?”

The office Colonel I worked for and several of his staff members, who I had travelled with, fell in line behind the lawyer as we took the elevator up to the SOUTHCOM commanders’ briefing room. We took seats around the conference table. It was like musical chairs. I got the last seat at the opposing end, with a clear view of the three-star admiral’s chair.

The Admiral entered the room, sat down, and turned to the Colonel. “What’s this meeting about?”

“Well, sir, it’s about a wind farm construction proposal near the receive OTHB antenna. It seems to be too close. Virginia’s governor is really looking forward to it being built, as it will add to his economy.”

I didn’t know the governor was involved. But I did know that the Colonel wasn’t fully briefed.  Another staff officer started to explain, but he wasn’t fully briefed either. I think the admiral could sense their lack of knowledge on this problem.

The lawyer and I raised our hands at the same time. 

“Please pick me,” my Tourette's’s prompted inner voice said.

The admiral’s eyes met mine, so I lowered my hand and started talking. “Sir, please take a look at the map on the cover of my Smart Book.” The staff passed the book down to the admiral.  “You will see that a large wind farm is proposed to be built in the wetland area just south of your receiving one-mile-long antenna.  If the Corps of Engineers commanding general issues the final drainage permit to the construction company, the end result will be distortion of the incoming signals, and your ships will be chasing false counterdrug targets throughout the Caribbean.” 

“Who is this general?”

“Sir, his name and phone numbers are listed on the inside cover.”

The Admiral turned and looked at his executive officer.  “Get the general on the phone, please.”  The exec took the Smart Book and disappeared.

In the real world, even a Pawn can take down a King.

Those two experiences—the quiet expansion of responsibility through the Clearinghouse and the urgent campaign to protect the OTHB radar—shaped my time at SOUTHCOM. In both cases, what seemed at first like routine assignments became pivotal turning points. They were reminders that sometimes the job isn’t about doing more but about recognizing when you’re standing at the crossroads of mission and consequence—and having the resolve to speak up.