Wine is one of Moldova's best-known exports and a tradition passed down through generations. This weekend, almost 500 people celebrated it by forming the largest human grapevine, a Guinness World Record @GWR. Thank you to everyone who took part.

Reading CMS-2567 report investigating how hospital ended up injecting what is potentially heart stopper into spine of patients. One thing hospital claims is both vials had names starting from P!! So don't pharmicists read full labels, anymore? In this case phramicst who was preparing syringes was a pharmacy tech and also a trainee on probation!! One put the wrong bottle on the table and left. Other trainee drew the syringes without reading the bottle names. And pharmacist just looked at picture of the bottle on his computer and approved. This is completely not acceptable. This is now reality in American healthcare because everywhere Insurance has made it very hard to work. Imagine hospital using trainee pharmacy techs instead of real pharmacist. And grapevine I have access to says one of the pharmacy tech was continuing night float into day shift!! I am sharing the bottles of Mepivacaine and Potassium phosphate so that everyone knows that bottles were distinguishable if they had bothered to read!! America is being driven to the ground by all this incompetence. This is why I keep writing how middlemen have infested US healthcare!!

In 1942, a California farm inspector quit his job to spend three years working eighteen-hour days on ninety acres of grapes that weren't his. He got shot at for it. He lost his marriage over it. And on the morning the owners finally came home, he was waiting in their kitchen with dinner on the table. His name was Bob Fletcher. Most Americans have never heard of him. I'm Japanese, and I hadn't either, until this year. I haven't stopped thinking about him since. In Japanese, we have an old phrase: rusu o azukaru. It means "to be entrusted with someone's absence." When a family has to go away, someone they trust keeps the house. Sweeps the step. Keeps the fire going. So that when they come back, home is still home. It is one of the deepest kinds of trust one person can give another. This is the story of an American who carried that trust for three families, when almost nobody else would. Florin, California, was a farm town near Sacramento. A man named Kuzo Tsukamoto had left Hiroshima at seventeen, worked his way across the Pacific and up the coast, and finally settled there and planted grapevines. His son Al was born in America. So was Al's little girl, Marielle. They were Americans. After Pearl Harbor, that stopped mattering. In the spring of 1942, families of Japanese descent on the West Coast were ordered to leave their homes for camps. They could take what they could carry. And if nobody paid the mortgage and taxes on their land while they were gone, they could lose it. Al Tsukamoto went to a man he knew through work. A state agricultural inspector. Tall, lean, quiet, unfailingly polite. People said he looked like Gary Cooper. Al asked him: Would you run our farm while we're gone? And our neighbors' farms too, the Nittas and the Okamotos? Pay the bills, keep the profits. Ninety acres of Tokay grapes. Bob Fletcher had never grown a grape in his life. He asked for a week to think about it. Then he said yes. He would have to quit his job, so he would need to keep some of the money. But not all of it. Half. The other half, he would save for them. On the morning of May 29, 1942, five-year-old Marielle was sent outside to find her grandmother. She found her in the rose garden, crying. Her grandfather was standing at the edge of the vineyard, looking at the vines he had planted twenty years before, wondering out loud if they would ever see this place again. That morning, Bob Fletcher loaded up the family's belongings and drove them away for safekeeping. The family got on a train. Nobody on that train knew where they were going, or for how long. Then Bob went to work. Eighteen hours a day. Three farms. Every bill paid. Every vine tended. At harvest, on good days, he and a small crew packed two or three hundred boxes of grapes. Not everyone in town approved. People called him names I won't repeat here. Someone fired a rifle into the Tsukamotos' barn. Years later, when he was asked about that, he said he'd been too busy to even think about it. Somewhere in those years, his first marriage ended. Al's wife, Mary, always believed the farms had cost him that. But he found one good thing out in those vineyards. A young woman named Teresa was hired, with her mother, to tie the vines. When Bob came by in his truck to pick up the crew, Teresa always made sure she climbed in first. So she could sit next to him. They married in June 1945. He wrote to the family in the camps. Once with bad news: their dog had run off. Once with good news: grape prices were climbing. There would be money waiting for them. On July 10, 1945, before dawn, the Tsukamotos drove back into Florin. Three years and forty-two days. The town looked like a ghost town. Boarded windows. Stripped tractors. Some houses burned to the ground. As they turned onto their own road, Al switched off the headlights. Nobody in the car said a word. Then they saw it. The house. The barn, leaning against the walnut trees. The vineyard. All of it, exactly where they had left it. They got out of the car and ran around the farm in the dark, touching everything. The walls. The posts. The vines. To make sure it was real. Then they opened the door of their own house. Bob and Teresa Fletcher were waiting inside. With hugs. And a meal on the table. Up and down the West Coast, families came home to dead vines, stolen trucks, strangers in their houses, or nothing at all. The Tsukamotos came home to dinner. For the rest of his life, whenever anyone tried to call him a hero, Bob Fletcher said some version of the same thing. "I don't think I did anything." He went on to serve as the local fire chief. He helped protect the water rights of the farmers around him. He lived to be 101. Before he died in 2013, he gave five acres of his own land to the town, for a park. Mary Tsukamoto called him one in a million. Half a century later, she said he was still their best friend. He said there was nobody he liked better than Mary. In Japanese, we needed a whole phrase for what he did. In Florin, California, it only took one man. And he was too busy to think about it.