Forty-two years ago today, I arrived at Valley Forge Army hospital, my tour in Vietnam mercifully cut short by the timely affliction of pulmonary tuberculosis.  Having thus survived Vietnam, I have spent the years ever since contending with its aftermath in the form of a wound far more resistant to healing than the disease that once lodged in my lungs. …

Back in mid-April, the phone rang one evening.  You have a call from Bob, the woman’s voice said.  I was in end-of-day mode, not the best time for a tele-scammer to invade my home life.  I hung up, and the phone rang again almost immediately.  That dance took two more turns, before I switched to sardonic.  Bob’s not here, I …