I retired as a teacher in 1998. After selling our Palo Alto home, we relocated to Pacific Grove, CA, about 100 miles south on Monterey Bay. I happily anticipated exploring the areas nearby, working on my golf game, and perhaps writing a memoir, even though I was doubtful that it would be salable.

I auditioned for a Pacific Repertory Theater's production of Guys and Dolls, and was delighted to get a minor role that would involve mostly just swelling the chorus in

Frank Loesser's superb musical numbers "Sit Down You're Rocking the Boat," "Luck, Be a Lady," and others. Though rehearsals and performances were numerous, I was having a ball and getting to know people in my new hometown. When the show closed, I was eager to find another production to join.

Then I suffered an ischemic stroke. I was home alone and asleep when it happened, my wife being away on business. I did everything wrong because I was in denial. Lurched about the house doing little chores, thinking I had just slept in a bad position and that normal function of my right arm and leg would return.

It was perhaps 5 or 6 hours before I called the paramedics and was whisked away to the hospital. I recall worrying most about who would let the dog in and out in my absence, and fearing that the sirens of the emergency vehicle were waking my neighbors.

I was released after four days in the hospital. Four days during which I wondered about the quality of whatever life remained for me. I was sure I'd soon be able to drive a car. I could walk unsteadily. My speech was slurred by understandable. Cuff and collar buttons
were a problem.

Knowing that friends and relatives would be concerned, I went straight to my computer to write messages of reassurance that were more confident than what I was actually feeling. The first ones were written without capital letters because my right hand and arm
were an appendage that was only about 50% functional.

Though slow and labored, the act of writing had a salutary effect on my mood and disposition. My brain still worked. I playfully compared my lower-case messaging to the writing of Don Marquis's cockroach in "The Life and Times of Archy and Mehitabel." Those of you who are close to my age will remember that cockroach Archy typed by hopping from key to key on Don Marquis's typewriter and so could not use the shift key to make capitals.

I remember telling myself that even if I could never again swing a golf club or serve a tennis ball,

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