☕ Morning Coffee: Giving Credit Where It Is Due — Part Three

Just set right back and you’ll hear a tale. A tale of famous trips. That takes a lifetime to tell you about how they all came about!

November 10, 2026

A charming, rustic general store featuring a welcoming sign, an assortment of goods displayed, and a classic gas pump nearby, set against a backdrop of trees. The storefront includes an American flag and various decorative elements like flowers and barrels.

Good morning, my fellow coffee drinkers.

By now, most of you know about my September 27 performance across the den floor.

What you do not know is who hexed me.

That’s right. Hexed me.

My youngest sister, Tilly. She’s been at it practically my whole life. And before she demands proof, I have prepared my case.

A black and white photo of a toddler reaching up to touch the front bumper of a vintage car.

I was barely old enough to form memories when Mother gave us a simple instruction: Do not run down the hallway.

Naturally, my sister turned to me and said, “Let’s run down the hallway.”

So I did.

Please examine the photograph of me standing in front of the pickup. Does that child look dressed for a competitive sporting event? No. Yet there I was, entering a race in which, as best I remember, I was the only contestant.

I lost to a doorway.

Split my head wide open.

I remember my sister’s eyes getting enormous, as though she had just seen a ghost. Possibly mine. Judging by the blood, my spirit may have been checking for an exit.

Then I remember Mother screaming.

Mother had considerable practice at that during my childhood.

The doctor who delivered me stitched me back together. I cannot offer much firsthand testimony about either occasion. At my birth, I wasn’t taking notes. For the stitches, I was apparently unconscious.

I lived, and the story became family dinner-table entertainment until I supplied them with fresh material.

The next installment was a doozy.

I was six years old and attending first grade under protest. I had maintained that position since kindergarten. I disliked the school, the arrangement, and the expectation that I would keep showing up. I got stuck crawling out of the bathroom window twice. It was an attempt to run away. To home. We lived four miles outside of town.

The teacher’s grandson was about the only person there I took to. I had difficulty speaking the way the other children did, and he was Japanese. Perhaps we recognized something in each other about being different. Somehow, we understood one another even when the words didn’t quite cooperate.

We remain friends to this day.

Anyway, the day before my next disaster, I brought home a stack of school papers. Somewhere in that stack was a notice offering school accident insurance for one dollar.

It was the last day to enroll.

My parents didn’t think we needed it.

Neither did I.

My sister and I also had one of our brother-and-sister disagreements over television. I wanted Gilligan’s Island. She wanted The Brady Bunch.

The Bradys won.

I submit that information merely to establish a possible motive.

The next day, I was playing on the monkey bars with a girl when I took flight.

It was a short trip with a hard landing.

I came down on the concrete playground beside the hot metal slide and broke my arm in several places. In those days, apparently, playground construction began with the question, “What surface would make this fall more memorable?”

That landing began an ordeal lasting nearly a year.

I went through two hospitals before finally getting a regular cast. The doctor told my parents it was a terrible break. Then he asked whether I had a witch doctor out to get me.

I tried to explain that it was a sister.

Unfortunately, pain medication and sedatives had done very little for my ability to present evidence.

I tried telling my parents later. They didn’t understand either.

Three months afterward, the doctor announced that I needed a specialist.

My mother said turned to my dad and said “I told you he was menta!”

The Doctor – snapped.

“No, It’s his arm! he explained. “It’s healing wrong.”

A young boy making a playful gesture with his hand in a black-and-white photo, with a curtain backdrop.

It would have to be broken again, reset, and put into a special cast. He could not perform the operation himself.

Dad responded with enough language to entertain the entire waiting room. The gold fish tank in the lobby was still bubbling funny when we left the office.

Then we drove thirty miles to another doctor, with Dad providing commentary all the way.

So I told him to let my arm grow crooked or I could chop cotton that summer to help pay the bill.

I finally seen what caused him to shut up and light a cigarette. And my mother to want one.

Fast forward to now…or current day if your have just caught up.

Then, without her help—or her hex—I began finding entirely new ways to need rebuilding.

There was a fall. A broken leg and ankle. Surgery. And absolutely no applause.

After everything else, I had hoped to get a little more mileage out of the rebuilt model before returning it to the shop.

But there is something I want to say about all these repairs.

I am grateful.

UnitedHealthcare and the physicians caring for me have helped me get the treatment I needed. In my experience, I have been able to obtain my prescriptions, appointments, and surgeries without being left wondering whether help would arrive.

I know other people have different experiences. I can only tell you mine, and mine deserves an honest thank-you.

I’m not a Golden Club member or a Silver Saddle Rider. I don’t have a velvet rope waiting for me at the doctor’s office.

Steve understood benefits and helped us choose coverage that suited our needs. That has mattered enormously. So have the doctors, nurses, office staff, and other people who helped us work through each new problem.

Over more than two decades of health needs in Arizona, I have had good people in my corner.

That doesn’t mean every recovery has been easy. The nose alone deserves its own complaint department. The doctor left town.

To be honest the nose doctor moved back East to be closer to his wife’s family. We kept track of where he went. He sent Christmas cards. It was actually a bill. We sent a thank you.

Seriously, when I needed care, those people helped me get it.

If you are struggling to get answers, ask someone to help you work through the process. Take someone along who can listen, take notes, and ask the question you remember halfway home.