McClellan: Thanks, taxpayers, for my new knee; I will put it to good use

Thank you, Taxpayers!

Medicare is great. Make it to 65 and you realize why these are called the Golden Years. You’ve hit the health-care jackpot.

Some of my fellow Goldies might argue, “We’ve spent years paying into Medicare. In fact, we’re still paying into Medicare. The government takes it out of our Social Security checks.”

That’s true, of course, but a single operation is probably going to eat up most of what you’ve contributed over the years. Medical science has evolved to the point where treatment is prohibitively expensive. Doctors no longer carry their equipment in little black bags. Unless you are a one-percenter, you need health insurance, and the only way health insurance companies stay afloat is by rationing care. That’s why the recent assassination of a health care insurance executive evoked such a sick response from the public.

“Deny,” “Defend” and “Depose” were written on the bullet casings.

Social media, which is so often anti-social, responded with venom. “My sympathy is out of network,” somebody wrote.

The health care executive was murdered on Dec. 4. That’s the day I got my new knee.

What was I supposed to do? Give up walking?

Walking has been a defining characteristic for me. I love to walk. When I returned home to Chicago after a stint in the Marine Corps, I decided to walk to Saugatuck, Michigan. It was about 120 miles. I convinced a friend to come with me. “Wear boots, bring a change of clothes, some sneakers to wear at night and some rain gear,” I said. “It will easily fit in a daypack.”

By the second day, my friend decided to lighten his load. He threw away his boots and his daypack. He stuffed his change of clothes in the pocket of his raincoat and hiked along the highway in his sneakers.

It was a good walk, but not a scenic one. We went through Gary, Indiana, which in those days was a bustling steel town. The air had an orange tint. It smelled like money.

Much more pleasant was a hike a friend and I took from St. Charles to Jefferson City. The state had just acquired the route for the Katy Trail. We got all the way to the bridge leading across the Missouri River into Jefferson City before the trail ended. There was no sidewalk for pedestrians. We waited until traffic seemed light. We ran across.

Almost 20 years ago, when my son, Jack, was graduating from high school, I suggested we hike the Appalachian Trial. I spent a weekend in Georgia at one of Warren Doyle’s classes. He is, or was, a strange guru of the trail. He was dismissive of water purification pills and advocated drinking out of streams. If you get sick, you can still walk, right? He was scornful of people who discussed freeze-dried food and planned their meals. This is not supposed to be a gourmet experience, he said. You just need calories. Twinkies will work, he said.

Jack eventually decided he’d rather go to college than hike the trail, so I called an old pal from the service and asked if he wanted to make the hike. Jack would rather drink beer, smoke pot and chase girls than hike with me, I said.

Does Jack need a roommate?, my buddy asked.

So I never did hike the Appalachian Trail. But I’ve walked and walked. Every family vacation includes what has become known as the Forced March. There is no better way to see a new city than to walk through it.

I live a block from Forest Park, so I’m in the park every day.

Then my knees wore out. I got the left one replaced a few years ago. I put a brace on the right knee, but that didn’t do much.

For hundreds of thousands of years, if you were fortunate enough to live long enough for your knees to break down, the predators got you.

I sort of know how that felt. I had two dogs. One died. I did not want to get a puppy to keep the surviving dog company because old dogs resent puppies. They’re too playful. So I got a cat instead. That worked. The young cat and the old dog became fast friends. When they were out in the yard together, the cat would lurk in the bushes by the door. When the dog headed toward the door, the cat would leap out at him. Every time, the dog was startled. I used to laugh.

Then the dog died, and the cat started stalking me. I was, of course, the oldest person in the family. Every cat remembers the jungle.

At any rate, you taxpayers got me a new knee. I am not taking your generosity for granted. I am doing my part to rehab that knee.

My physical therapist is Dan Kelley. He was a starting guard on the 1969 University of Missouri football team. They had a 9-1 record in the regular season. They were co-champs of the Big Eight conference. They beat Nebraska and Oklahoma and lost only to Colorado. That game was at Colorado, and it rained. Mizzou’s non-conference schedule included wins at Michigan and Illinois.

They lost to Penn State in the Orange Bowl and finished as the number six team in the country.

You would not know any of this if you went to Kelley’s office. He has a few photos of baseball players on the wall, but no photographs of himself. There is not even a team photo of that great 1969 team.

Do you think I would be that modest? Would you?

So he is helping me regain my strength. He shows me exercises. Mary makes sure I do them. She watches closely. She thinks I am averse to hard work and pain.

I am getting stronger. I wanted to let you know that. After all, as Elliott Davis used to say, “You paid for it.”

Thank you.