nothings

White Men Carry Signs

2012-02-12T11:40:00.000-08:00

I read "Beyond Pelvic Politics" by Nicholas Kristof in today's New York Times. He skillfully discusses the problems with the current battle between government and the Catholic bishops over including birth control in health insurance plans offered by Catholic institutions. It affects us all, and not just "poor women of dubious morals." Read it at Newyorktimes.com.

This is not a battle over banning contraception, which one of our candidates has hinted at. Nor is it even hinting at forcing contraception on those unwilling to participate, for whatever reason. (98% of sexually active Catholic women practice birth control.) It is balancing the rights of women's health against the beliefs of a few bishops.

Bishops are, or course, of the male persuasion. As are the most outspoken anti-abortion activists. Next time you pass a womens' health facility being picketed, count the number of women carrying signs. Driving at 60 miles per hour, you won't have a problem. What's this all about, guys? I don't understand it.

Cartalk

2012-02-07T08:30:00.000-08:00

We drive an old minivan, has 130,000 miles on it. When it talks, we listen. The familiar squeaks and rattles tell us all is well. When the dashboard says "Service engine soon" it means we didn't tighten the gas cap enough. When all the idiot lights come on, it means we drove on a bumpy road. We follow our mechanic's instruction and drive on a bumpy road again until the lights go off.

Very similar approach works for raising kids. When the little ones fret, it means they are hungry, tired, or poopy. The same language works for teenagers, except you also have to listen for silence. Silence is harder to figure out, but sometimes it just goes away. Sometimes they just talk over it.

This morning I read that BMW has installed a sound device to make a pleasant, powerful roar. It seems they soundproofed their cars so well that the roar went away. How will you know if your Beemer meant to wheeze instead of roaring? It makes me uncomfortable to think my car is fibbing. On the other hand, there may be an after-market roar machine that would fit in the glove compartment of the mini-van.

Ellmer Fudd: Darwin's Assistant?

2012-01-30T13:14:00.000-08:00

These sandhill cranes were crossing the street in front of the post office, strolling along looking good. Their slightly larger cousins, the whooping cranes, were almost extinct until a heroic effort was made to re-establish them in the wild. This has involved volunteers dressing in bird suits to hand feed the babies and guiding them in light craft from Wisconsin to Florida every year so they can learn to migrate. After a dozen years, many of them are making the trip on their own.

Some sandhills also migrate, while some just stay in Florida. The migrating ones had better learn to detour around Kentucky. That state has recently legalized these birds as fair game for hunting. I never knew the people of Kentucky were that hungry. I hope our human tourists will also shun Kentucky and avoid spending a dime there.

I know some otherwise normal people who defend hunting as "good sport," even though the game is unarmed. They also justify hunting as helping nature, by getting rid of the weaker of the species. I have a mental image of Elmer Fudd and his friends squatting in the woods, waiting for the weak prey to come in range. "No, Bugs! That magnificent buck looks too strong. If we wait a few hours, we can get a sickly one." Oh, please.

Did You Misspeak, or Was That a Factoid?

2012-01-26T08:43:00.000-08:00

People, let’s say what we mean. These political commercials reek of lies of omission, quotes taken out of context, as well as big ole fibs. I wish I could talk back to those spooky-voiced announcers hinting at wrongdoing by all sorts of candidates. I would say “Where did you get that story?” and “Yeah, so’s your Mama.” Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary lists 34 synonyms for falsehood, but only two antonyms (truth, verity.) Are we so polite that we will say that someone practices sophistry or is delusional rather that calling him a liar? Mendacity is one of my favorites, implying repeat offenses of using factoids (my personal favorite synonym for lie.)

Other terms have taken over the political rhetoric and have morphed from our original common understanding. Not exactly lies, but overtones of evil. “Social mobility” used to mean the ability to better oneself, now it implies affirmative action and handouts. “Social inequality” is viewed as the opposite of socialism. “Socialism” has moved from a description of Europe’s economic system to a purely evil accusation. “Transfer of wealth” is used to criticize the graduated income tax, making it sound like a modern Robin Hood scheme. “Restore America” has become a buzzword for defeating liberals, moderates, even conservatives who aren’t quite conservative enough. Restore it to what? “Limited government” means nothing without an explanation. Limit schools, aircraft carriers, food inspectors, pothole fixers?

I would like to limit government to being run by those who value verity. (When you learn a new word, use it in a sentence.) Shun mendacity, reject the delusional and deceitful, cast aspersions on those who feed us factoids.

Goofy for President

2012-01-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

Well, we're in the midst of the Republican primary race, and it's not pretty. Usually it's the Democrats who beat each other up, leaving the Republicans to stand proudly above the fray. There being no Democratic primary this year, the right wing has the mudslinging all to itself.

Besides the usual fibs and innuendos, this season feels different. They are not only casting aspersions on each other, the candidates are competing for goofiness. Gingrich wants to do away with the judiciary, an entire branch of government. Well, it would save on bills for robes and gavels. Santorum wants to do away with homosexuals and abortion. How do you do that? No one wants to be seen as the darling of the Tea Party, not even Perry. Yet they all want to be the darling of the far right. Mitt Romney is seen as weak on immigration and health care, so the true believers don't trust him. Ron Paul is seen as goofy enough, but not electable enough.

As one of the old-time comedians said of the food in the Catskills hotel where he played, "The food stinks, and the portions are skimpy, too.'' It's predictable that Romney will carry the day, and then we can move on to the real race in November. Think Obama needs to add a touch of goofiness?

1940's memories

2012-01-09T08:12:00.000-08:00

I was an only child when I was a kid. We moved a lot. Daddy was a Georgia highway engineer so we moved to be near the road job. The three of us and all our stuff fit into our two-door 1939 Chevy. We lived in boarding houses or small furnished apartments. We never had books or many toys, or a washing machine. Mama never learned to do laundry, anyway, or cook. She would have loved TV dinners. She would find us a cook and wash lady first thing in each new town.

When World War II came, we went to live with my grandmother in Sparta. She subscribed to "The Confederate Veteran." My other grandmother lived in Dublin so we could visit. she had turkeys and chickens in the yard. Most of my cousins moved in nearby with their relatives when all our daddies went to war. It was a fun time, shooting down enemies and watching for foreign planes. We would catch a ride to town on the ox cart the vegetable man drove.

After the war we moved to Jacksonville Beach,Florida, and lived in nicer furnished apartments. The beach was our back yard. My sister Susan was born with serious birth defects. They patched her up and she thrived. We still moved a lot, but still in the neighborhood, so I got to stay in one school, Fletcher, from grades 7 through 12. I had already been in 5 or 6 schools.

Daddy died of a heart attack when I was twelve. He taught me to drive before he died. That was a good thing, because Mama was kind of a mess, and I could run errands. The Chief of Police, Jimmy Jarboe, knew I was too young to drive, but he would just tell me to be careful. He was actually the only police, and he was loved.

Maya Calendar

2012-01-07T12:20:00.000-08:00

I just read in Time magazine that there is no Mayan calendar, Maya is the correct modifier. The writer, Joel Stein, interviewed a Stetson professor who interviewed lots of Mayas and they never heard this story about the world coming to an end on December 21, 2012.

What if they really knew but were going to keep it a secret? What if they knew that really the Maya are going to take over the world and that’s why they want to keep it a secret? We still don’t know why almost their whole civilization disappeared a few centuries ago and the dregs turned up wandering around Mexico? Maybe they have a big secret hidey hole that they don’t want to share?

Okay, so everyone who has predicted the end of the world so far has been wrong. Of course, that’s everyone that we know about. Maybe those who were right just scooted out of Dodge on a big time-warp and are pulling our strings from the next galaxy, giggling.

Seriously, assume you had good insider information about this December 21st thing. What do you do? Clean out the garage? No point. Short some stocks? Silly. Eat more bacon. What’s the harm? Actually, that’s a pretty good New Year’s resolution. There was an old song that went “Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think!” If the wildest thing I can think of is bacon, I’ve got a bigger problem.

Sleep Through 2012

2012-01-01T11:04:00.000-08:00

I slept in this morning. Not because of a New Year's Eve spent carousing. We watched the PBS broadcast of the New York Philharmonic tribute to George Gershwin and Leonard Bernstein, and what a great combination and performance. Better than live, because you can watch the fingers flying and the lips pursing up close.

It was such a nice break from the snarky comments the politicians and "newsmen" and pundits (what's a pundit, anyway?) are making nonstop. Listen, if every voter or caucuser in Iowa and NewHampshire came to the Gator Bowl, there would be seats left over. If you taped all the speeches together, page by page, they would reach from the Gator Bowl to the Rose Bowl. Taping them all together instead of making the speeches would be a good idea. We already know what they say, and we know none of it matters.

What matters to us will be finding a candidate who promises to be thoughtful, smart, compassionate, and somewhat rational. We want one who will not pledge allegiance to Grover Norquist or some other god or demon of the moment, but to the flag and the nation for which it stands. That's really not much to ask.

Sleeping late may be the best way to spend the year. I'll roll over and sleep 'til 7:00 any time I want. I'll sleep through every speech and every analysis of every speech. I will put my fingers in my ears when I'm awake. If something different happens this year, please wake me up and tell me.

God and Santa Claus

2011-12-26T10:15:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or do a lot of people confuse God and Santa? Of course we did as children, big fat guy with white curly hair and a big beard, who wanted us to be good little girls and boys. He dressed up for Christmas, but he was the same guy.

Early on I learned that no matter how good I was, I would get a ratty little mesh stocking full of stale candy, a wooden paddle with a ball attached with a rubber band that broke right away, maybe a kazoo. My friend who always told fibs, sassed the teacher and said bad words, got beautiful dolls, skates, more and better stuff. I learned that life was simpler if I was good, and people were nicer to me. It just wasn't working to make God or Santa happy. God wouldn't stop at cheap presents, he would kill off your relatives. Whether they were good or not.

Now that I'm fairly well as grown up as it gets, I'm still uncomfortable at too much "Keeping Christ in Christmas." Keep Santa at the mall, keep Christ and his Dad in church. I'll be good if I feel like it, and give myself a nice piece of expensive chocolate, and play some soft carols, and hug friends and family. Because I want to. Not in hope of a reward.

Facts or Factoids

2011-12-22T14:24:00.000-08:00

We all know that our fears do not match our facts. Many people fear flying, but I never heard of anyone afraid of a cheeseburger. I never heard of anyone afraid to drive to the cheeseburger store (leaving aside the mentally ill who can't leave their house) but we all know that most auto accidents happen less than a mile from home. Moving doesn't help, either. The facts follow you.

What's got me worried now is neither irrational fears nor scary facts. It's scary non-facts, or factoids, as I call them. Factoids sound like facts, but they're not. We read that Social security is out of money. Factoid. Taxes are higher than ever, and are going up every year. Factoid. The USA is turning into a Socialist country. Factoid. Politicians tell the truth. Factoid. These should frighten us, but they don't.

That's what frightens me.

Little Old Man

2011-12-14T05:36:00.000-08:00

Now that we have reached "a certain age' some of our friends and relatives are facing serious physical and mental health issues. We are fortunate to live in a time when many of these are treatable, and for that we are grateful. Still, we know that no one gets out of this world alive.

For most of our lives, we had never heard the word "Alzheimer's", and today it pops up almost daily. It's used as a catchall phrase for what we used to call "senility." Senility is a much gentler term.

One morning, about 7:00 AM, I came home from walking the dog. An elderly man was sitting in my chair in the living room, watching TV, in his stocking feet.. He smiled and waved at me. I went through to the bedroom and asked my husband who he was. I thought maybe he was waiting for him. He assured me that he had no idea, and began to get dressed. I called 911 and waited outside. The yard man came, and he sat on the steps with me to wait for help. Just then we heard a lot of shouting, and l we could see husband and stranger tussling. My husband uses a cane to walk, which must have seemed threatening. The stranger yelled “Don’t hit me with that stick!” The yard man and I went in and broke it up before the emergency crew got there. When they did, they called him by name, and led him to the police car for a ride home. He was an Alzheimer’s patient who lived a few blocks away, and they had taken him home before. He told the police that he came over every day to rock in one of the porch chairs. He really didn’t want to go home.

When they left, I found the man's little shoes on the back porch. It made me cry.

fibbers unite!

2011-12-06T17:19:00.001-08:00

What do we do when an internet nut keeps sending us big fibs? If we ignore them, will the sender think we agree, making us complicit in the lie? There are several choices.

One, we can blast them to hell, with great gusto. Call them out, make fun of them, cast big aspersions on their character.Two, ignore them, but privately send them a link to Snopes or Politifact, or another site that shows they are damn fools.

Well, whatever you do you are not going to change their mind. Nor is it your job. Changing minds is a lot harder than changing your underwear, and not nearly as sarisfying. How about changing other people's bad habits? I yell at rude drivers, but with the windows up. I speak to line-breakers at the grocery, quietly but firmly. "I was here first." How about other rude behoavior?

If someone is talking while chewing at the next table, I try to avert my eyes. If someone is ignoring a shrill, screeching child, I try to ignore it. I want to give them advice on this child thing, but I don't. If this person in my view is reaching inside his pants to scratch his butt, or picking his nose or teeth, I have a solution

Take a picture. Show it to him/ her. Or don't. Whip out that little phone, snap, your're , done. No encounter, no road rage, just smugness. Show it, or not.

Fibber's Festival

2011-12-04T08:52:00.000-08:00

The more a lie is repeated, and the more adamant are those spreading it that it is truth...the more likely is it to be accepted as the truth. This statement is of uncertain origins, but it needs to be in our minds when we read the paper, watch news or opinions on TV, and especially when internet “factoids” come our way.

We are heading into a fibber’s festival as the presidential primaries begin next month. What is the source for the statement that the wealthy are the job creators? We have a huge number of wealthy individuals right now, so we should have a huge number of jobs being created. Right?

Another favorite fib right now is that illegal immigrants pay no taxes, but draw Social Security. Today’s paper tells us that most of our illegal immigrants have been in this country for 10 years or more. That’s plenty of time for someone to notice that their employers aren’t withholding taxes and Social Security from their paychecks. Do you know anyone who receives Social Security that hasn’t paid into it?

It’s not just the politicians who are spreading these fibs. Every time I get an e-mail that repeats them, the sender loses credibility on everything he says. If you can’t verify, don’t spread.

Too Big to Fail?

2011-11-28T12:10:00.000-08:00

Does anyone remember the political satire strip featuring a possum named Pogo? Well, one of his quotables was “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

I just finished reading an article in Bloomberg (http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2011-11-28/secret-fed-loans-undisclosed-to-congress-gave-banks-13-billion-in-income.html) that exceeds my ability to grasp. When I see a sum like 7.7 trillion dollars, I have to stop and count the zeros on my fingers. And toes. That is the amount parceled out to six banks, with no strings attached, in 2009. That sum is also more than half the value of goods produced in this country that year.

Don’t feel bad if you didn’t know about this. Neither did members of Congress. Whose money is being strewn about? Ours. Who’s doing the strewing? The Federal Reserve, or course. They were “rescuing the financial system,” and fought in the courts for two years to keep this little secret from us. While much has been criticized about the TARP handouts, those funds were intended for “healthy institutions” so they could resume lending money to get the economy rolling. These “healthy” institutions were backing their armored cars to the back of the Federal Reserve, accepting loans and guarantees, while accepting TARP funds at the front door. TARP only handed out $700 billion (11 zeros?) and has been mostly repaid. Where is the 7.7 trillion?

Remember the phrase “too big to fail?” How did they get that way? Pogo knows. Maybe OWS and TP can find a common ground here. That could form a group too big to fail.

Life Reports

2011-11-25T12:03:00.000-08:00

Along with thousands of others, I sent off a short autobiography to David Brooks, the columnist for the New York Times. The only qualification was that you had to be over 70. I made that cut.

He has started publishing them on his blog, feed://brooks.blogs.nytimes.com/feed/ and hope he publishes them as a book. They are stories of survival, of overcoming obstacles, of joy, of grief. I can identify with every one. So many saw their parents as loving but distant, even dysfunctional, as negative examples.

I wonder if they are typical of all 70-somethings, or just those who chose to write to David Brooks about their lives? I wonder if our children will write their autobiographies. I wonder how they will remember us?

Pepper Spray to Bullets

2011-11-20T13:06:00.000-08:00

Police Pepper Spraying UC Davis Students →

Some of you readers are too young to remember the Kent State Massacre. It should not be forgotten, so maybe the pepper spraying of the UC Davis students is a time for remembering.

On May 4, 1970, students at Kent State University, in Ohio, were protesting the American invasion of Cambodia. Other students were just walking by to see what was going on. None of the students were armed. The school administration called on the National Guard to put an end to the demonstration. The Guard did this by shooting 13 students, 4 of whom died. One other suffered permanent paralysis.

To put this event in perspective, demonstrations were popping up all over in the ’60’s. Protesters were cordoned off and clubbed at the Republican Convention in Chicago in 1968. Many of the protesters were objecting to the Vietnam War. Students expressed their opinions with natural exuberance; at some schools they “occupied” campus administrative offices.

Pepper spray, or mace, or batons, or fire hoses showed increasing violence by police against protesters. It also led to increased news coverage of the demonstrations. This arguably led to the end of the Vietnam war, as the government was forced to acknowledge the depth of public sentiment against it. The Kent State Massacre was a watershed event. The loss of respect for authority in general, and law enforcement in particular was the price paid for unnecessary violence. The Kent State lesson has not been learned.

That old house

2011-11-13T11:58:00.000-08:00

When we moved to our last house in 1969, it was twenty years old. Actually, the main part of the house was that old, but the family room and the two back bedrooms had been carved out of the old garage and tool shed in 1968. No heat or air conditioning. These renovations were the personal work of the dentist who sold us the house. The dentist knew nothing about home improvements, but it took us a while to figure this out. There was nothing behind the paneling, just boards at the top and bottom to nail it to. Oh, and a fuse box that controlled the heater.

The back bathroom was so small I couldn’t go all the way in it until I had a baby, which is why we needed a bigger house. It smelled very odd.

The first time the plumber came, he was amazed to find that the sink had no trap. That’s when we learned that the trap is not just to accumulate debris until it stops up, it’s to trap deadly sewer gas. It hadn’t exploded yet, but we had it changed anyway. We did not yet know how frequent the visits by the plumbers, electricians, and other repairmen would be. We once heard two of them comparing notes about service calls to our house. They would sit around at their offices and pick a number or flip a coin to see who had to come.

Memory Games

2011-11-11T11:53:00.000-08:00

A magazine article I was reading shed some light on memory. It is not a little vault in your brain where memories are stored, like I thought. It is an assortment of those little pink spongy things that make up our brain. Memory is flexible, and it changes every time we visit it. The act of visiting your memory carries bits of your present along with it.

It takes me back to "A Gift From the Sea," by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. She realizes that your point of view alters your past, present and future. Your attitude shapes your perception of all three. That is one book to read at different stages of your life.

This also makes me think of science fiction, and why I get uncomfortable with books about time travel. You can't go into the future because it's not there. You can't change the past, because it would change the future, and that's not allowed. I will not read Stephen King's new book about preventing JFK's assassination.

What Were They Thinking?

2011-11-10T11:20:00.000-08:00

Interesting double murder trial here this week. Guy is charged with shooting his ex and her boyfriend. He takes the stand, a very unusual move. A very unfortunate move. Someone called 911 and left the line open, and there is a recording of screams, a command by a male to "Get on the bed!" and then shots rang out. The prosecutor played it for the jury.

When the accused testified that he didn't do it, didn't know anything about it, wasn't there, etc. his voice sounded just like the voice on the tape. However, when his lawyer asked him to say "Get on the bed!" he spoke in a foreign accent. "Geet on zee bed?" The jury was out for about an hour.

The other trial was of a County Commissioner caught on videotape taking money from an undercover cop, counting out the cash, stuffing it in his pocket. His defense was that it was not a bribe, but a campaign contribution. Of course, such contributions must be reported, and he forgot to report this one. Didn't take that jury long, either.

Moral: if you're caught on tape you'd better have a really good story. And can the accent.

eulogy and a funeral

2011-11-06T13:00:00.000-08:00

This idea of writing a brief autobiography is getting spooky. I feel like I’m writing a modest eulogy. If my kids crib from this when the time comes for the real thing, remember I want “Joy to the World” played at the service. Not the Christmas Carol, the Three Dog Night version that opens with “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog,” played loud, and please rise when you hear Jeremiah.

Funerals are peculiar, because the guest of honor is long gone. When Mama died, she got lost on the way to the funeral. They flew her casket from Jacksonville to Atlanta for the hearse to pick her up and go to the Sparta, Georgia cemetery and family plot. When we got to the cemetery, there was no Mama, no grave, no hearse, no nothing. We called the funeral home and they said it was the 4th of July. So we all went next door to Aunt Louise’s and ate peach cobbler. They found the hearse and told them to try again the next day to find Sparta, and by then they might be able to round up some grave diggers.

Politics

2011-11-03T15:43:00.000-07:00

Herman, you aren't ready for prime time politics. Every silly thing, every little oopsie, every hasty remark, each and every one will come up and bite you in the butt when you go into politics. Didn't anybody tell you that?

They should have told you, warned you, coached you, so you didn't get blindsided. If they didn't, you need a better group of "they." I'm not very politically savvy, but even I could have coached you better. The weakest response is "I didn't do it." Even if true, it's what you would say if you did it.

Right up there with that dumb statement is "I forgot all about it." Maybe you did, or wish you had, but everybody didn't forget. Even if you didn't do it. Do what?

Come on, Herman. How about "I'm just a big flirt." Hey, it worked for Clarence Thomas. This "I didn't do it, and I forgot, and they asked for it, and my opponents made it up" are right up there with "The dog ate my homework." Used up, tired old cliches.

Life Stories

2011-11-01T11:49:00.000-07:00

David Brooks, one of my favorite columnists, is inviting us over-70 types to send him our life stories. He is desperate for column ideas. He suggests categories, such as career, family, and others, and asks us to grade ourselves on each. Wow!

I have tried writing biographical bits and pieces before. The first time I tried, I got stuck in 1944 and wrote a novelette about it. Well, David, one year down, 73 to go. How much time you got? Even if I had to pick the most memorable years, it's a formidable task. Maybe the most forgettable years? I forgot them. There must be a better way to organize my thinking, other than chronological. How about "The Size Twelve Years?" "The Year of No Dogs?"or "The Year of Five Jobs?"

Once organized, then I simply have to fill in the details. Twenty-five words, or twenty-five pages. Maybe twenty-five chapters? No one would read that, not even me. Certainly not David Brooks, because he's going to get a bunch of these. He plans to write about them. Will he name names? of family and friends?

The really hardest part will be to grade myself in each category. On a curve? Based on my life against that of another, or category against category? I get an "A" in family but a "C-" in self-actualization, maybe. If comparing myself to others, I intend to leave out Mother Theresa and Lindsay Lohan, David.

Swans

2011-10-15T10:51:00.000-07:00

Happened upon this picture, and it always takes my breath away. I marvel at how effortlessly they glide around our ponds here, leaving a lovely wake. But when they leave the water to walk around, or cross the road to visit another pond, they are a clumsy mass of waddling bird. Sort of like a teenage boy who steps off his skateboard.

We have two resident swans, both female. Every spring they build a nest by going into someone's yard and rounding up their mulch. the first year we moved here, in "02, the nest was as big as a Volkswagon. They lay a bunch of big eggs, over a dozen, They take turns sitting on the nest for about a month. then lose interest. There must not have had sex ed in swan school. Over the years they have become less enthusiastic about this next building business, but they still lay the eggs in great quantities. You can almost hear them talking, something like "Why do we do this every year? Whose idea is it? Next year, the one who brings it up has to do the work. It's boring, I tell you." This life lesson tells us not to trust hormones. Just enjoy being beautiful.

Men's brains

2011-10-13T15:34:00.000-07:00

Remember the brasciola we used to eat at the Italian restaurant around the corner and downstairs from the Tampa Maas Brothers department store? No, that was fifty years ago, and I don't remember lunch. Men's brains are wired to remember food and sports, and it lets them talk to strangers with ease. "Try the brasciola." "How 'bout Carlos Zimbawatty's double play?" This man I am married to can tell you the starting lineups of both World Series teams from 1958. But he can't remember from one day to another how to work the toaster.

I've been trying to toaster train him this week while battling a strain of flu that ignores flu shots. I must just not be a good trainer. I, on the other hand, have a perfect, female brain. It lets me down on occasion, such as this last week. Do not jump to conclusions when your refrigerator doesn't seem to be as cool as you think it ought. You may have just added a lot of foods that needed cooling. Do not crank it up to 9. There was an old, unloved, bottle of beer that had been resting way back in there for at least a year, maybe two. When beer explodes it sends millions of sticky slivers into every nook and cranny of your refrigerator and makes you take out every drawer and shelf including some you didn't know were removable.

As I surveyed the sorry mess all over the counter, I said "Remember that brasciola doggie bag?"

Stick to singing, Hank

2011-10-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

So Hank Williams, Jr. is comparing Obama to Hitler. That tells us a lot more about Hank than Barack. He's supposed to be called a socialist, not a fascist, but you wouldn't know the difference. They're both bad, and un-American, y'know.

It's not a well-kept secret that most of this country's essential services are socialized. Nobody minds when we chip in to pay for services for the common good, which is the essence of socialism. It has been said that one reason the states united in the first place was to fund a navy, too pricey for a single state. It's impractical for most of us to hire our own police or firefighters. We have our own well and septic system in the country, but try that in your condo. Nobody refuses to use our roads and highways because they are purely socialist. Public schools, Godless socialism. You can refuse to use them and home-school or pay private schools, but you still have to pay for public schools. We do want the great unwashed to be an educated electorate, don't we?

Hank, make your Daddy proud and stick to singing. Your political oratory is off-key and a bit strident.

I pledge allegiance to Grover Norquist

2011-09-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

Would somebody explain that to me?

Call Me Uninformed

2011-09-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

The other night, during a heated game of Dominoes, a friend mentioned something he had heard on Bill O'Reilly's TV show. I said I had never watched it. He looked appalled, and stated that I didn't know what was going on in the world. I may not understand what's going on in the world, but I try to stay informed. I don't watch Oprah, either, so it's not a personal aversion to O'Reilly. More of an aversion to TV, since we grew up without it and I never got the habit.

Our daughter, June, pointed out that most people don't know the difference in news and opinion. Sometimes it's hard to tell, but we need to make an effort. Our local paper is liberal, as is the New York Times. Duh. Notice what goes above the fold on the front page. Notice what gets buried at the bottom of page four. Notice what opinions it prints. Lots of clues here, so I read papers and magazines with a grain or two of salt. CJ reads a lot of history books, while I read mostly novels. Neither genre has a lock on the truth. Why write a book if you don't have an opinion?

We do watch baseball, because it's so slow we can read at the same time. I'm always asking C. J. if that play was live or a replay. I think they should run a banner for replay. Maybe TV should run a banner for "opinion." But then we might not spot the opinions that pass for news.

Call Me Simple

2011-09-18T07:20:00.000-07:00

The Sunday morning talk shows are still arguing whether taxing the wealthy is punishing the "job creators." Put an end to that issue by giving tax breaks to the job creators, whether they are wealthy or not. If they create unnecessary jobs to qualify, their businesses will suffer or fail. Incentive to act smart. I guess I think in such simple terms I don't understand the problem.

What sticks in my craw is the idea of giving tax breaks to the corporate executives who steal from the shareholders to finance their own extravagant lifestyles. Examples abound, from Enron to the financial institutions. Million dollar bonuses are being handed out to executives whose companies lose millions. The only jobs created are for makers of gold plumbing fixtures and teak decks for the yachts.

Pigeonholes

2011-09-07T13:27:00.000-07:00

I just read another lame article grouping those of us who believe in global warming with those who hate the constitution and guns and are conspiring to create unemployment, poor school performance, and starvation by Guinea worm. Now I truly don’t believe that hair spray is killing the ozone layer, but something is going on for sure. Glaciers have always shed chunks into the sea from time to time, but this time it seems a bit excessive.

Another author has implied that if I believe in evolution I must be a Godless heathen liberal Gore-hugger. I’m reaching for a connection, but it is eluding me. Neither God nor the forces of evolution or global warming gives a rat’s ass what I believe.

One thing I do believe is that if one more smarty-pants tries to pigeonhole me because of my age, my gender, my voting record, my religion, my race, or any other category, you don’t know what you’re talking about. None of those factors can predict what leaders I support. Show me someone who has character, integrity, and shows courtesy and a goal of public service and that person will get my vote.

Straight shooting

2011-09-02T06:31:00.000-07:00

Well, Mr. Perry, now that you know that Obama didn't give two billion dollars to Brazil, what are you going to do? You can't call it an exaggeration, because he didn't even give them two cents. You need to track down your source for that statement, and make a note to never trust it again. If it's an aide, fire him.

You see, trustworthiness is one of our favorite attributes in a leader. If we can't trust you to get your facts straight, how are we supposed to believe mere promises? Now you need to own up, apologize, and promise to be more careful next time. Apologies are an endearing thing. They don't make you look weak. They make you look like a straight shooter, which is a good thing for a Texan to be.

Bird wisdom

2011-09-01T12:38:00.001-07:00

You know, this old pelican sitting on a log looks wise, comfortable, and content. This is the image I want for myself. I thought that by the time I got to be 74 I would have more answers instead of more questions. I wanted to project an air of quiet dignity, wisdom, and patience. Well, it ain't happened yet.

We used to say that nobody knows more than a college sophomore. Our parents were idiots, we just knew better than anybody about anything. Maybe that was true, because I've never been so sure of anything since.

If I can't get the wisdom of an old bird on a log, could we find leaders who have it? I'm hearing too much mudslinging, name-calling snarkiness from the folks who want my vote. Calling your opponents weasels, traitors or shits doesn't make you more attractive, Mr. Politician. If you want my vote, act like a grown-up.

Wally

2011-08-29T12:09:00.000-07:00

This is a picture of Wally and CJ, taken about 10 years ago. Wally's the hairy one. He's our nephew, and if you see anyone who looks like that, tell him to call us now and then. Every ten years should be a minimum.

We don't see all of our family as often as we would like, but we call, and e-mail, and pray sometimes. It seemed like the right thing to do to pray for Cousin Sue who was right in the path of Hurricane Irene. The storm moved a little bit easterly, so maybe prayer works. However, that move put a lot of other folks in danger. Does God say "Sure were a lot of prayers for Cousin Sue, so II'll give Irene a little nudge." Or maybe "Not much praying for for Tidewater Virginia so let's wet 'em down some."

So God, if you're not too busy steering storms and earthquakes and all, would you poke Wally and get him to phone? Thanks.

Pinocchios & Fibs

2011-08-22T09:24:00.000-07:00

I am borrowing Pinocchio from Fact Checker, the Washington Post’s column that investigates statements made by politicians and others. Their fibs are graded on a scale of one to five Pinocchios, on a sliding scale of egregiousness. I began wondering how this ranking works.

Some fibs are simply innocuous. Falsely attributing statements to Yogi Berra or Mark Twain fits here. Well, they would have said that if they’d thought of it. It makes a better story than to attribute something to, say, Wendell Wilkie. These get no Pinocchios.

Other fibs are fairly harmless, usually meant to puff the teller’s ego a bit. “This is my natural hair color,” or “I still wear a size 10” fit here. These are so obviously false they don’t need a Pinocchio. I have a friend who lies about her zip code, to make her friends think she lives in a better neighborhood, I guess.

Some fibs are better than others. “The dog ate my homework” is better than “I’m not talking with my mouth full,” because the former is harder to verify. Telling your doctor that nothing hurts (when something does) is as dumb as exaggerating your income to the I.R.S, self-defeating. Poor fibbers get no respect, which is what politicians can’t understand. These merit at least one Pinocchio, even if no one believes them.

Crank it up a notch to “There is no such thing as evolution, (global warming, hard-working poor people, etc.)” and Pinocchios stack up. Even if the speaker thinks they are true, he hasn’t bothered to check available sources. He is speaking out of ignorance to influence people to trust him to tell the truth.

The worst are the real mean fibs, which deserve to be elevated to lies. They are meant to mislead others about something important. This class of whoppers is called fraud, and gets into the category of crime, not just “Oops, I must of misspoke.” Politicians who step over this line deserve to be tarred and feathered, not applauded or elected. Even Pinocchio would be appalled at what we’re hearing in the run-up to elections.

Memory tags

2011-08-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

A friend sent me a neat video of movie stars all on stage in 1974. They all look so young and glamorous. June Allyson, Jimmy Stewart, Liz Taylor. Watch this and see if you can remember that year. All I can remember is that I must have been young and glamorous, too. Memory is kind, you know.

movie stars

I looked back for pictures, and I must have been behind the camera, because I can't find many. This one was taken for publicity for a summer humanities course I taught at the Museum of Fine Arts. Where was the glamour? No plunging neckline with a stunning diamond lavalier like Liz? I wore bow blouses? No makeup, even then?

No, the mid-seventies were the hippie years, in our half-hearted, middle class way. No summer of love in San Francisco, no naked dancing at Woodstock. We had carpools. I did drive a VW bus with peace signs in the windows and flowered curtains and a bed in the back, and you could catch a whiff of dope on a warm summer evening. We were over-achievers, not slackers. Our daily carpool had 5 mothers, nine children, and stopped at three schools.

You had to take your carpool, and if you were sick you got a substitute. One of the mothers was "sick" a lot and her daughter would go to kindergarten in pajamas, slippers, and a mink stole. Her in-laws' liveried chauffeur would drive for her. Our youngest asked if he was a garbage man, because he had never seen another black man up close.

My friends and I painted, wove, made pottery, jewelry, sculpture and even macrame, and hung them at our arts center. It has morphed into the respectable Morean Arts Center, Chihuly Collection and Clay Works, and I'm sure they don't smoke anything in there now. We went to weekend art fairs and festivals and sold stuff to one another.

We spent a lot of time at our lake in Citrus County. We camped in tents, slept in hammocks, swam in the lake, peed in the woods, and the kids were all over the place. We dragged a ratty travel trailer up there and friends, Fred and Jerry, added a room and a porch. Friends and their friends stayed there from time to time, and nobody had a key. We locked the door with a piece of duct tape.

So the seventies weren't glamorous, and neither were we. Maybe we could have worked harder at it, but we did just fine. Once or twice we got dressed up in fancy clothes and went to the Yacht Club or a dance but it wasn't right for us.

Ambergris

2011-06-23T15:09:00.000-07:00

For the last few weeks, CJ and I have been glued to the TV, watching the Casey Anthony trial in Orlando. We are trying to give advice by shouting. Hasn’t worked. She is accused of murdering her little kid, stowing her body in the car trunk, and eventually dumping the body in the woods. The “smell of death” has been one of the most controversial issues.

The state’s experts and Casey’s own parents have described a distinctive odor of decomposing flesh in and around her car. The scientists even collected it and canned it. So far no one has been brave enough to open this can of stink. The defense witnesses have not been able to detect a single whiff of death from the car.

Maybe smells are entirely subjective, and both sides are right. If you have ever been trapped in an elevator with a perfumed lady, a smoker, or one of the great unwashed, did you wonder if only you noticed? Wonder if they thought they smelled sexy or manly? Wonder if they thought you smelled funny?

I heard that rubbing your dog down with dryer sheets would make him less afraid of thunder, by reducing the static electricity. Romeo turns into a shaking, whining mess when a storm is still way off, so he got the magic rubdown. It did make him smell more like Bounce than dead squirrel when he threw his shaking, whining self into our bed during the night. This morning he found the dead squirrel again, first thing. Of course, he rolled in it to get the Bounce smell off. He and I have a subjective difference of opinion about good and bad smells.

If you are a wearer of perfume, you may just think you smell good. Don’t ever look up the ingredients. Ambergris is a favorite, along with substances found in the musk glands of the civet cat. Ambergris, I still remember from junior high biology, is found in the poop and vomit of whales. If you’re wearing this stuff, don’t get on my elevator.

FAQ's

2011-05-25T06:38:00.000-07:00

FAQ’s for married people

Our newly-wed grandson, Daniel, and his lovely wife, Emily, will not understand this post. Let’s hope it will be years before they quit having genuine conversations. For the rest, however, you can use this as a wall chart to save breath. Instead of repeating the same questions and answers forever, simply use a number.

1. Where are my (socks) (library books) (teeth)?

I dunno.

2. Why don’t we ever have (gravy) (chocolate cake) (barbecue ribs)?

Have you seen the clothes in the Fat as a Pig department?

3. Why do you lock the doors when I go put out the garbage?

I didn’t do it.

4. Why don’t you call (your sister) (my nephew) (my old fraternity brother) and see how they’re doing?

Why don’t you?

5. Where do you keep the ice water?

In the microwave.

6. What is that dark stuff (around the doorknob) (on my shirt) (on the dog)?

Schmutz.

7. When are you going to (clean the ceiling) (plant a big garden) (wax the car)?

Right after I get a tattoo on my rear end.

Notice that there are many more possible questions than answers. I didn’t even list the popular “Yes,” “No,” “Maybe,” and “Soon,” which deserve their own numbers. They may all mean the same thing, depending on context and mood. For example, in response to “Are you done yet?” or “Are you ready to go?” They are polite and handy euphemisms for “When pigs fly out of my ______,” or “You’ll know when I’m damn well ready to say so.”

This list can be tailored to your individual lives. Hope you will share your favorites.

Fletcher High School

2011-05-13T14:48:00.000-07:00

This novelette was collected for our 50th high school reunion in 2004, using memories from Corky, Mike, Mayo, added to my own.

Sorry if you get five of these; I’ve been getting bounce-backs. Our fiftieth Fletcher High School class reunion is this weekend,

and I collected some stories for a handout. Thought you might enjoy.

Thanks to Corky, Mike, Mayo, June and others who have helped piece together some memories to share. Some are short, some a little longer, but each one triggers another. Hope it does that for you, too.

Crinoline petticoats, poodle skirts, and ballet slippers were everywhere in the Fifties. Some fads, though, were ours alone. Keychains chained together, dangling from purse to pavement. Penny loafers with heels removed were a local preference, and our mothers shook their heads. Were we the only ones who bleached their bangs with peroxide and ammonia, then dyed them purple or green for special occasions? Our mothers banged their fists against their heads.

Who remembers “Starlight Theater” in the Gator Bowl, where many of us sang and danced in the chorus while real show-biz people sang things like “Rose Marie, I love you!” Elsie Behnum’s Little Theater at the old U.S.O. on First Street? The plays were all about gypsies and woodland fairies.

Remember sneaking into the old dinner theater off Atlantic Boulevard, and climbing through the holes in the floor to get to the roof? Who remembers climbing into some of the houses where no one seemed to live, just to see what was there? Now we know they were vacation houses for people who never took vacations.

Remember Piggy Mullis jumping out of an upstairs window onto the roof of the covered walkway to the portables? Remember why?

Mayo remembers using "F" Club meetings to get out of the house on a school night and afterward sneaking into the Atlantic Beach pool and jumping off the Atlantic Beach Pier. Carol remembers the cheerleaders skinny-dipping in the University of Florida pool after a late night basketball tournament, and hiding under a float in the middle when the guard passed by.

After winning the state track meet our senior year, most of the team celebrated by going down on the beach (tide was out) and drinking beer out of a quart bottle. Mayo, Mike, Claude, Tommy, Ray and Dean shared. This was a big night on the town, Fletcher Style. . Mayo hopes no one will present him with the baton he dropped in the relay.

When Fletcher played Leesburg in football, the team would spend the night with players from their team or others who had volunteered to open their homes. Our junior year, Gene Coenen just mauled the tackle across the line from him, over and over. The guy was beat up and bloody and turned out to be from Gene’s host family.

THE BEACH

We were just beach kids. Not surfers, just kids who had the beach for a big back yard. We didn’t worry about skin cancer, undertows, sharks. In fact, the lifeguards raced from pier to pier one week before the annual Pier Shark Fishing Tournament. Go figure, Bob Clark. We would find blue crabs in the little tide pools behind the sandbars and take them home for our mamas to cook. (Recipe tip: don’t put too many in the pot or they climb out and run all over the kitchen, very unhappy.)

At the north end of the beaches were dunes and jetties; at the south end, bigger dunes, all the way to Saint Augustine. It never occurred to us that these were not ours to roam and explore, and to find the artesian wells that smelled like rotten eggs but did the job if you were thirsty. In between, the beaches had bulkheads, pitiful attempts to keep the Atlantic from swallowing houses. It didn’t even take a hurricane, just a good Northeaster, to knock down a section of bulkhead, suck out the sand behind it, and eat up the little houses there. The bulkheads at Atlantic Beach were bigger and curved, to turn the waves upon themselves. They lasted longer than the flat ones, but are gone today. The jetties are off limits today. Driving on the beach is off limits. Both are probably good ideas. Sunscreen is a good idea. A dab of zinc oxide was probably not enough.

Mayo and Claude made a fairly good living, for teenagers, pulling cars off the beach. Folks would drive out from Jacksonville, drive down onto the beach at, say, the 20^th Avenue south ramp, at low tide, then bob around on tubes, lay out on the sand, go to sleep, and be amazed that the tide came in. They never knew they had a problem until Mayo and Claude, or perhaps Joe and Bobby, showed up to help them out.

Mayo and Claude would arrive in Mayo’s Ford, which he didn’t want to get all salty, so they would start by letting the air out of the stuckee’s tires. They would rock the car to break the suction, give it a big heave, and try to move it. Sometimes they would put cardboard or towels under the tires to get traction. Usually the car’s owner would get into the action, as the tide rose higher. If all else failed, Mayo would hook up a rope from his Ford and give a yank, but this was the last resort. Usually a whole afternoon’s work would net four or five dollars, but that was a lot of Coke money.

One Sunday, after church and before MYF, there was a beach party up at the jetties. It was a big one, and there were even some Baptists and Episcopalians along with the Methodists. After lunch, a small group decided to climb the jetties out to the end. It was only about a mile, an easy walk. Some of the girls followed some of the older guys (older, surely wiser) and didn’t turn back when the others did. They climbed and climbed, sure that the end was in sight.

They noticed that the rocks seemed to be getting slipperier, and the waves coming higher, even splashing clear over the jetties. About that time they noticed that the sun was getting lower, and the beach party would be breaking up. The way back was completely under foamy water. They sat close together and thought they would be missed, and surely a search party, maybe a helicopter, would come. They were wrong. Everyone thought they had gotten a ride with someone else.

It was nearly dark, and the guys were just as scared as the girls, but wouldn’t admit it. A lone shrimp boat slowed on the St. Johns side, and shone lights on the group. The shrimpers yelled for them to stay put. They went back out around the end of the jetties, came in where the water was rushing south, threw out nets and shouted for them to jump. They literally pulled them in with the shrimp nets.

Back at the beach, the party was over and everyone had gone home. One of the shrimpers took the group back to town in the back of his pickup. The parents were glad to see them, but ready to kill them.

FRANK DOGGETT

Corky and Jane were walking down the hall from the cafeteria to Mr. Doggett’s office in the fall of 1953. They had been working on ideas for the National Honor Society’s annual project. One idea was a tutoring program for the members to help the junior high kids who needed a little special attention. Another idea was to send members to either Jacksonville Beach or Atlantic Beach elementary. This would combine good deeds with a half-day or so out of school, and maybe parents would loan the kids their cars for such a worthy cause. Certainly a stop by the drive-in for shakes and fries would be a worthy reward as well. They needed to get the principal’s approval, first of all.

“You’d better stop that,” said Jane, as Corky brushed his hand against hers.

“You’d better stop that!” said Corky, as Jane elbowed him in the ribs.

“You’d both better cut that lovey-dovey stuff out!” said Coach Hoye. “Next thing you know, we’ll have kids holding hands and smooching in the classroom. Borders, see me after school! King, any more of this and I call your mother.”

The pair didn’t need to be told twice. To break the unwritten rule against unseemly displays of affection was one thing. The far worse thing was to have Coach Jarrett, Hoye, or Brant humiliate the guys in front of the other guys. It was just a much better idea to save displays of affection for the later hours, after choir practice or M.Y.F., or at the drive-in movie, steaming up the windows. Corky and Jane were still blushing as they entered Mr. Doggett’s office. His secretary sent them into his private office to wait.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Corky and Jane. What brings you to my office on this fine September day? Hope we don’t get a hurricane this year. How are your classes going? Are your folks alright?” Mr. Doggett seemed to be chatting on to divert attention from the fact that he had been spending some time in his little private bathroom reading a Wallace Stevens book. He wasn’t embarrassed about revealing the fact that he did, indeed, use a toilet occasionally. He only wished he had emerged from his private room carrying Chaucer.

SCIENCE CLASS EXPERIMENT

It was 9th grade, and Mrs Duncan's Science class was about to start. Students would go into the classroom right after the previous class and drop their stuff where they wanted to sit. Then they would hang out in the hall. Frank and Mayo went in and put their books down. Lo and behold, some young lady had put her purse down in the seat of a desk and it was slightly open. "Eagle Eye Frank" spied a portion of a Kotex inside. For entertainment, he took it out and placed it on top of the desk. They waited to see the reaction. Billy Jo walked into the classroom, spied her desk from a few feet away, burst into tears and ran from the room.

“Who is responsible for this?” asked Mrs. Duncan.

There was total silence. The rest of the class filed in, and the talking stopped the minute they entered the room. They all sat as far as possible from the offending object and the desk on which it sat. No one even giggled.

“It will be much better for you to come forward now,” said Mrs. Duncan. “I may not know who did this, but you know who you are. And I will find out who you are.” The silence continued.

There was a hay ride to Mickler’s pier that weekend. When a nice fire got going and everyone was mingling around, Mrs. Duncan asked Frank and Mayo to accompany her for a walk. “You know you were responsible for embarrassing Billie Jo, and I hope you are as ashamed of yourselves as I am for you,” she began. This went on for eight or ten minutes, but seemed like an eternity.

Mayo chewed his lower lip and thought, “She’s bluffing. She can’t know who did it. There wasn’t anyone else in the room. She can’t make me confess, but if I did maybe she’d stop. I’m not ratting Frank out, even if it would shut her up.”

Frank stared at the sand, moon, ocean, thinking, “She’s bluffing. She can’t know who did it. There wasn’t anyone else in the room. If I confess, she might stop chewing us out. But then she might call my parents. Or Billie Jo’s! Now she’s telling us how sensitive girls are to this subject, like of course, that was the point!”

After the longest ten minutes the two had ever experienced, she excused them with strong warnings about future behavior. The two red faced boys rejoined the group.

THE GIDEONS

“Today we will dismiss after our regular classes at the end of fifth period. You will not leave the campus, but proceed directly to the football field. The Gideon Society will present an inspiring program during the sixth period hour. You will be expected to attend and participate in this annual event,” said Mr. Doggett over the loudspeakers.

The entire student body filed onto the football field, climbed onto the bleachers row by row, in a most orderly way. None of the usual pushing and shoving, shouting and waving happened on Gideon Day. The little guys, the seventh graders, did a little nudging, of course, because they had never been to a Gideon assembly before.

The P. A. system warmed up and Mr. Doggett announced, “I (crackle) want to (crackle) introduce our friend and neighbor Mr. Elmer Applecheek, who will lead you in prayer and praise,”

After a lengthy sermon that no one heard, Mr. Applecheek said, “You will see that my assistants are passing out pocket-sized New Testaments up and down the rows of the bleachers. These are being given to you at no cost. You will be allowed to make your donations to cover the cost of these little Bibles by dropping your offerings in the baskets containing the Bibles.”

Mr. Doggett and Mr. Applecheek took the center of the stage and led the assembled student body in a rousing rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” They led the group out of the bleachers, onto the track, and into a full lap around the track, singing the hymn and holding their little Bibles over their heads. If there were any Jews, Agnostics, or Atheists in the school, no one said a word, or failed to march and sing. They must have been uncomfortable.

MATH CLASS

Dr. Akridge arrived on the Fletcher campus as a mathematics teacher sometime in the early 50’s. Having tired of a career teaching in some college or other, he was prepared to slow down, enjoy life, join the faculty at Fletcher, pass on knowledge of mathematics to eager high school students and move toward retirement. Thinking back, he was a serious man, not given to frivolity, hoping for a few enthusiastic students and not that happy to see the sort of carefree attitude that his students exhibited as he lectured on the subtleties of geometry or college algebra. He strived mightily to help us learn and, in a few cases, was successful.

Despite his efforts in the classroom and serious demeanor (or perhaps because of this demeanor) we were always looking for ways to pester the poor man. Mostly innocent and sort of childish pranks but they all succeeded in causing his face to redden and, very likely, his blood pressure to rise. For example, lunch period fell in the middle of his class. Dr. Akridge was most careful to always lock his room as the class left for lunch. At the end of lunch, his eager students would be gathered at the door waiting for him to finish lunch, arrive, unlock the door and proceed in to continue the class.

One day it occurred to Mike Veal and other students that it would be a great trick if, instead of waiting for the good Dr. in front of his door, that they might climb in through the windows and be in their seats when he returned from lunch and unlocked the door. His classroom was on the first floor, just down the hall from the cafeteria, with large windows that faced the passageway behind the school, between the school and the portables. It was perfect. A group, mostly boys, left lunch a bit early, went down the walkway behind his classroom, opened the windows, climbed in and waited. On schedule Dr. Akridge unlocked his room after lunch and proceeded in followed by the rest of the class that were in the hall. He did a classic “double take,” blinked, blurted out “What’s going on?” fumed for a few minutes, maybe even threatened some discipline because of the breach of security. In the end he was OK, and attempted to proceed with the class despite muffled laughter and too much talking. They were all quite proud of themselves, having again disrupted class, freaked out the teacher and generated another Fletcher High School memory.

ISH BRANT

Ish Brant stood at the side of the football field on a late Spring afternoon in 1953, wearing his pith helmet, low-cut cleats, and low-riding khaki shorts. As he watched the varsity finish the second practice of the day, he scratched his head. “Jarrett,” he asked, “do you think we ought to be letting them have some water?”

“Naw,” answered Don, Ish’s assistant coach. “It’ll just make ‘em puke. Sure, they’re all cotton-mouthed now, but it just toughens ‘em up.”

Coach walked out on the field. “Alright, Candy-asses, break it up and give me a couple of laps. Move it, Choo-choo, Dickenstein. Weston, you pissant, got lead in your britches? Drop down and give me twenty. Yo, Ubangi Grimes, show some hustle. If you sorry so-and-so’s raced the cheerleaders in a 440 right now, you’d lose by a mile.”

These were among the memories that Mayo shared, along with Mrs. Brant’s lemonade, on the Brants’ front porch many years later. “Coach,” asked Mayo, “when you were swinging the paddle you called the ‘board of education’ against our backsides, did you think you’d be heading up some real boards one day?”

“No, Gabriel, but some of my employees could have benefited by a whack or two. Of course, I’d get sued or put in jail for paddling these days.”

“You quit coaching soon after our class graduated. Did our lousy last season have anything to do with that? I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, and it was all our fault, not yours, and please don’t give me one of those big noogies, but. . .”

“No, hard as it is to believe, it wasn’t long before I was County School Superintendent, Mayor, City Manager, founded Florida Community College, was Chairman of the Board of Baptist Hospital, and after about forty years nobody asked me about that losing season. I must say, though, that my favorite title was the ‘Silver Fox’. You don’t get tags like that often.”

“Nothing I did over the years gave me as much pride as seeing how you boys grew into fine men. I tried to teach you respect for authority, but also for your selves and each other. I wanted you to learn fairness, so I tried to be fair. I wanted you to learn discipline, so I had to show you some. I wanted you to be proud of hard work, so I had to show you how to work hard.”

“Well, Coach, you’ve had an incredible and long life. I consider you a really great man and great friend. Do you have any regrets?” asked Mayo.

Coach sat for a minute, looking off the porch at his azaleas. “Well, son, if I treated my flowers as rough as I treated you guys, they’d all be dead. I should have let you have a sip of water during two-a-days.”

Dust yourself off

2011-04-11T10:47:00.000-07:00

Just read an article by Mark Lachs from NPR, posted by Don Mabry on Facebook. Thanks, Don. His subject is how people live to be 100. He calls the secret "adaptive competence." That $50 phrase almost stopped me from reading it. However, now I can tie that title to one of my recurring thoughts along that line. Just another way of saying to dance with the one who brung you, or play the cards you're dealt. That doesn't mean lowering your expectations. It means, simply, deal with it.

I once worked with a secretary who seemed to be as pleasant as you'd ever want. However, scratch the surface and you found a miserable, angry, woman She kept an index card file on her desk. She made notes about every real or perceived slight, insult, or bad thing that came along, and filed them alphabetically by the name of the offending person. She explained it to me one day, and I asked her why she saved them. She looked amazed that I didn't understand that she didn't want to forget one. It made me shudder.

If you plan on living to be 100, as I do, you sure don't want all that baggage. After a few decades, you could have a lot of it. If you expect perfection in friends, success, skills, children, pets, cars, or the weather, then life is just one disappointment after another. Who would want to live so long with so much misery? No, life is not fair. Some people seem to catch all the breaks. The good die young. Crime does pay, sometimes. Get over it.

Adaptive competence is just a fancy term best said in an old song: "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again."

valets

2011-03-03T11:18:00.000-08:00

Hospitals, airports, and other places have added valet parking services in the last few years. I am a big fan. If the sign says "Free Valet Parking," it doesn't mean you shouldn't tip. I have seen many prosperous-looking people give the valet a big "Thank You" and drive away.

To really appreciate the valet service, you must have wandered around several floors of garage ramps and stairs in the sweltering summer heat, wondering where you parked. Try it on a walker. Try it pushing a wheelchair. Try it if you're sick of upset, or both.

My late friend Sally had rheumatoid arthritis for about 40 years, and had replaced most of her joints at least once. She still loved to travel. Her husband dropped her off at the airport curb one day. I guess he assumed that the baggage handler would push her wheelchair along with the luggage. She rolled down the ramp and turned over before anyone could help. Bleeding freely, she somehow caught the plane to Atlanta before stopping off an an ER to get patched up. A valet would have helped, but I'll bet her husband would have stiffed him.

My favorite valet was one at the cancer center where I went for regular chemo through 2009. When I left after my last visit, I told him I wouldn't be back for awhile. He said "Let's make a clean break of it, then. It never works to be just friends." Yes, I'm a good tipper.

Mongo

2011-02-09T10:37:00.000-08:00

Every time someone tells me what I should have done or ought to do, my inner monster arises. His name is "Mongo" and I can usually keep him on a short leash. Sometimes Mongo escapes and I have to put him back in his cage. Then I put my fingers in my ears and sing "La, la, lala," to drown out the provoking words.

Last week I tried out something new. CJ had to be rushed to the nearest ER with acute heart failure. The paramedics, the ER staff, and the intensive care people performed with peak efficiency and saved his life. Today he is in rehab, walking down the hall with a cane, flirting with his therapist.

Yesterday, one of his friends told me that I should have insisted on taking him to a different hospital. That I ought to have known which was the better heart facility, etc. I simply agreed with him. He didn't know what in the world to say next. Mongo was jumping up and down, wanting a fight. He urged me to tell the idiot friend that he didn't know what he was talking about. I should have defended the chosen hospital and raved about the wonderful care they provided. I told Mongo he should mind his own business, and the next time he told me what I "should" do I would slap him up side the head.

Bark less, wag more

2010-11-11T07:14:00.000-08:00

This popular bumper sticker is readable by dogs. Even Romeo, who is more sweet than smart, has learned it. We have lived together for over 6 months. We know that smart is highly overrated in both the canine and human world. We would all rather have someone show us they care than have them explain what we're doing wrong or how misguided our thinking may be. Our last dog, Buddy, had a huge vocabulary and was undoubtedly smart. But he would sometimes bite. Little bites, more like nips, but still unwelcome.

On our walks, Romy would get so excited when he saw a person or another dog that he would yank on the leash, lunge at them, and give those big hound barks, bays, and howls. Naturally, the person or dog would back off in a hurry. Romy wondered why he didn't have any friends. I tried and tried to explain it to him. Did you ever try to reason with a dog? It's like trying to teach a pig to dance. Doesn't work and annoys the pig.

Slowly, very slowly, he seems to be figuring it out. If he stands still and wags, they will come to him. The people will pat his head and tell him he is beautiful and sometimes give him a cookie. The dogs will sniff and be sniffed. This morning he even won over the neighbor that doesn't speak, nod or wave. She drives her car into the garage, puts the door down, and has never been seen outdoors. This morning he watched her door go up, watched her walk over and get in the car, and just kept wagging at her. She got back out of the car, walked down the driveway, smiled at him, patted him on the head and told him he is beautiful. It was nice.

Lake trip

2010-09-07T08:27:00.000-07:00

Spent a peaceful few days at the lake house, doing nothing useful. Our Good Neighbor Bob is always doing useful things. He's a semi-retired contractor, with too much time and heavy equipment on his hands. He has built docks, decks, boat ramps, a playground, fire pit, swings, rafts, and a campground with latrine and shower down by the lake in front of his house. This is about 50 feet straight down from the yard, so he uses our slope to get there. This is fine, because we enjoy the facilities, even the boats and dune buggies if we want.

Sunday I heard his kids, grandkids, nieces and nephews playing and splashing around in front of our house. I walked over to the edge of the yard and there they were, having lots of fun with a big banner that said "Now Open for Breakfast." They took turns throwing buckets of water uphill and sliding down to the lake. One had brought a bottle of dish soap to squirt at the uphill end, making the slide fast and foamy. Bob said he hoped we didn't mind, but there was no room to play over at his place.

Bored kids will find stuff to do. We've been going up there to be bored for about 40 years. We've watched ants form two lines, one toting home groceries, the other going back for more. We've watched spiders work their webs, turtles lay their eggs, dirt daubers build nests, snakes shed their skins, caught tadpoles and lightning bugs, all because we were bored.

Romeo update

2010-08-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

Romeo has now owned us for six months, and most of the rough edges are gone. We agree on most of the basics, but have agreed to disagree on others.

Dogs may not sleep on our bed. If we are in it. Unless we leave the bedroom door open. The comforter, folded on a table, is not a bed, therefore fair game.

Romeo went in his crate when we left the house or went to bed. Seemed happy as long as he had a snack jar. (6 or 8 kibbles in a jar with small opening.) Began escape planning by loosening and bending one bar at a time. Convinced us that it was dangerously compromised, made it go away.

Dogs do not eat table food. Food left too close to the edge of the kitchen counter is not table food, therefore fair game. The same goes for doggie bags left in a purse.

Dogs do not bark at friends or neighbors, or their dogs. People walking down the street are not friends or neighbors, or they would come to see us. Fair game.

Romeo must not yank on the leash and try to make Carol bounce along behind him like a rag doll. If he tries this, she squirts him with her mighty Aqua-blaster water pistol. He hates this, and gives her a big frowny face. Today we walked in a gentle rain. No yanking, but a very confused Romeo.

Lighten up

2010-07-08T11:42:00.000-07:00

I am tired of angry people. Not just mildly ticked off or grumpy, but snarly mean drooling ugly screaming mad. Every day I check my e-mail, expecting the usual prayers and dirty jokes, often from the same people. Not a day goes by that I don't get an angry rant.

People, I know who you are. You haven't missed a meal or a paycheck, but the immigrants are after you. You enjoy the lowest taxes in your lifetime, but Obama's leading us to socialism or Marxism or some other ism. Your panties are in a wad over health care or politicians in general or specific. You need to lighten up.

We liberals didn't get this way over Bush. We knew he kept invading the wrong countries, but he didn't mean to, bless his heart. He got all fwowny when we tried to tell him, so we just let him go on. Now, it's true that the parents of all those dead soldiers got real pissed, but in a polite sort of way, being patriotic and all. We still wish we weren't paying for those wars for the foreseeable future, but we aren't angry.

We still wave our little flags on the 4th of July, tear up at the fireworks when the Tchaikovsky cannons go off, and smile. We may sing a verse or two, except for the "rockets red glare" high parts. Come on, people, this too will pass.

Tell me why

2010-06-01T14:41:00.000-07:00

Little kids are forever asking “Why?” “Why do I have to go to school? Wear underwear? Eat vegetables? Do what you say?”

We lose too much of that when we grow up. We only use “why” when we’re speaking or thinking in the abstract, as in “Why do fools fall in love,” or “Why was that couple on the news keeping 261 Golden Retrievers in their double-wide?” We know we’re not getting an answer.

It would be much more constructive to ask the question when the answer is available and useful. When I whine “Why did I do that?” I’m asking myself for an answer. It might help for me to figure out so that I can repeat the action if the result is good, or avoid it if bad. If we don’t question ourselves, we are going on autopilot. “Why did I say that?” or “Why did I eat that?” may lead to constructive thinking.

Ever find yourself in the middle of a boring conversation, where someone is trying to tell you more than you want to know about his opinion on global warming? Amuse yourself, while showing rapt attention, by wondering why this person is saying these things. Why does he think you care what he thinks? The “Why” will be more entertaining than the droning monologue. Wonder if he’s trying to educate you, or to show how smart he is, or to let you know he thinks deep thoughts? How about the one that tells you about the very best cat litter, the best vacations they ever took, or the best hair dresser? Why does she think you might care? Why does she get so excited telling you these things? Maybe you’re the first audience she’s had all day. Why does she talk so much without taking a breath?

If you are waiting for a pause so that you can contribute your opinion, think again. In the first place, the wait will be long and boring. In the second place, you may just be trading places from the bored to the boring. Why would you want to do that? Besides, he or she may play the same game, analyzing why you say things. If you don’t have any interests in common worth talking about, why don’t you plan your escape? Why don't you make new friends?

coulda, woulda, shoulda, oughta

2010-04-25T12:53:00.000-07:00

I have two dear friends who are currently on the outs. One offered the other some unsolicited advice (regarding her weight) and the other responded with some of her own (regarding performance of an impossible sex act.) It's easy to understand, because none of us likes to get advice, whether we need it or not.

When someone tells me what I should do or ought to do, my hackles rise. It matters not if the advice is good, bad, or excellent, my resistance is the same. The very thought that someone thinks they know better than I about me. They are not my parent, my teacher, my boss. I even had "obey" deleted from our wedding vows 52 years ago, so CJ knew I was not one to tell what to do. I even view traffic signs as mere suggestions. Right lane MUST turn right. HAH!

Every parent knows the difference in advice, suggestions, and orders. Ever tell a muddy kid that he should take a bath? That he ought to go to bed? Doesn't work, does it? Invites a response like my friend gave the other, but not out loud. Gets a response in the "I could, but," or "I would, but." Could and would are excuses. I could lose 20 pounds, but then I would get wrinkles.

Of course, I may not like getting advice, but I love giving it. No wonder people hate lawyers. We not only give people advice, but we do it for a living. They have to pay to be insulted. Now, you really should get up from that computer, take a brisk walk, wash the dog, start dinner, and call your mother.

Love for a quarter

2010-03-11T17:04:00.000-08:00

CJ turns 73 next week. His brother, Judson, just turned 85. Judson found a yellowed note that he sent to his father on the occasion of his little brother's birth, in the depression in Missouri:

Dear Daddy,

Since the baby has come I know we are under circumstantial problems. I am provided with well enough and think I could get out the ashes and coal for nothing.

You put the extra quarter in on anything the boy would kneed.

Your son,
Judson

Human School

2010-03-06T16:32:00.000-08:00

Romeo here again. Thought I could train these new humans, CJ and Carol, like I did the others. They had already picked up some bad habits before I adopted them, so today I took them to school.

The teacher, Kristen, looks a lot like one of them. Tall, hairless, only uses two legs. But, she uses that to fool them, so she can train them better. She agrees with us that they are nothing but big Pez dispensers, but she wants them to give up more treats when we demand them.

We all got there for class, and she made them line up and sit in little plastic chairs. They were so cute. They took turns introducing us and letting us show our stuff. They paraded around and smiled at us and pretended they were already trained. We knew better. That Kristen is amazing. She had them doing tricks in no time. I even had Kristen walk around in circles backwards, showing the humans how to do it. They have a week to practice.

We worked on teaching the humans to heel, then come, then sit. They can't learn but one of these at a time. For heel, they must not tug on our leash if we tug first. They must sit, then come, then we can get them to heel. We will accept treats only if they get these right. They have these little clickers that keep them happy if they don't earn treats. They are so cute.

Romeo

2010-02-21T06:37:00.000-08:00

Romeo here. Just adopted a couple of humans yesterday. Carol and CJ will probably work out, but they need some training.

We beagles had a big adoption party in the park yesterday, so we could look over the prospects. Some of those humans were cuter, but this pair looked so needy. They were completely dogless. CJ has a red scooter that I will learn to drive.

My new house has many doors. The one I like best goes out front where the other dogs and people and birds are. I can only go out there with my human on her leash. Out back there are neighbor dogs, but no passage under the fence, yet. One door goes to a closet where the other beagle lives. He has to stay behind the mirror thing. I need someone with thumbs to help me with that door.

We will start training tomorrow. They push the good stuff way too far back on the kitchen counter and the dining room table. They shut the pantry door all the way. They put the toilet lid down. But the main thing they need to learn is that a dog belongs in their bed at night. I slept on the sofa last night, but they will learn soon.

No whining

2010-01-14T13:30:00.000-08:00

Not exactly a New Year's Resolution, just a goal fot the sake of focus. Besides, I don't want to commit to more measurable goals like weight loss. For a week of non-whining, I can report only getting caught once.

I called the heater repair company because we were cold. The outside box (compressor?) was covered in thick ice and the system was sounding unhappy. The receptionist told me "Sugar, it's 38 degrees outside, and your heater is just doing the best as it can. Go put on a sweater." She sounded like she had had a few too many calls already. And too much coffee. I noted that she hadn't taken my name or phone number, so I was not on the list for a service call. But then I hadn't asked for one either. I had just called to whine.

I put on a sweater and made some coffee, and C. J. came in and complained that he was cold. So I said "Sugar, it's 38 degrees outside, and your heater is just doing the best as it can. Here's a sweater." June came by later to drop off her space heater, which are gone from the stores. She was flying off to Texas, which might be warmer. We will sit by the heater or drag it around by its cord like a dog on a leash and hope she doesn't come home until it warms up a little here.

Mr. Teapot Head

2009-12-11T14:04:00.000-08:00

C. J. and I were eating lunch at the Shrimp Store today, when a man came in with friends and sat at the next table. He had the worst comb-over I've ever seen. A lock of hair, about one inch by twelve, had escaped and formed a graceful curve down the back of his head. He had a serious nose, and in profile he looked just like a teapot. He had violated the equator rule by parting his hair all the way around in the lower latitudes, and gravity had its way. It was hard to look away, like driving by a traffic accident. I really had the urge to stop by the table and stick it back on top with a damp finger. But I didn't.

We often see people that must not own a mirror. If you had a full length mirror by your door you would not go out with a roll of yourself hanging out between your shirt and your jeans, would you? How about the stretch knit stuff that hugs every pudge and crease? How about sandals with gnarly toes and long toenails hanging over the edge? Are these intentional but unfortunate choices? Do they stand in front of a mirror and get the look they want? I confess that I once wore pink fuzzy slippers around town for half a day before I noticed. And I'm reaching the age that such is expected. Am I old enough to confront these people and point out their flaws?

Hair?

2009-11-04T09:14:00.000-08:00

When I got out of the shower and toweled my head, it didn't look so shiny. Can't see anything, but I'm hopeful. It's been a month since the last chemo treatment, so maybe, just maybe. . .I won't have to decorate my head every morning.

Last week I had my last weekly checkup (now comes the every three month checkup) and told the valet who parks my car that I wouldn't be seeing him much. He said "Well, let's make a clean break of it. Don't ask if we can just be friends, because that never works."

I'm already dreading the three-month checkups. I guess I want this to be all behind me, when I know it's not. As dear friend Mike wrote recently, lifelong watching is just one more aspect of this disease. He quotes from Coleridge "like one who on a lonesome road, doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round walks on and turns no more his head, because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread." That is no way to live. I plan to throw back my shoulders, put on a happy face, and get on with it!

Big Thoughts

2009-09-15T13:56:00.000-07:00

...."A human being is a part of the whole, called by us, "Universe," a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest -- a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is in itself a part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security."Albert Einstein - (1879-1955) Physicist and Professor, Nobel Prize 1921=

This ties with my ponderings about our search for connectedness. We reach out for others every time we visit with the neighbors at the garbage can, call or e-mail our friends, comment on their Facebook entries, join a church or group of special interests, contribute to a cause, and it is a good thing. I enjoy sending a small check to Doctors Without Borders, the Nature Conservancy, and Heifer International because it's a way to touch millions that I will never know. Heifer lets me give a breeding pair of goats to a family far away and surprise members of my family with a pair of virtual goats. Check it out at www.heifer.org

Albert would be proud of you.

Dear United Health:

2009-09-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

You are now calling yourself Secure Horizons, among other changes that make me uncomfortable. Don’t you think the new name sounds sort of ephemeral? Like when you’re flying, the horizon is just always disappearing?

I have sent in two claims for reimbursement, both returned with a terse note from the post office: “Return to Sender; No such addressee.” Since your Florida address didn’t seem to be working, I called Customer service in Salt Lake City. I reached “Rick,” who seemed to have an accent. But then, I’ve never spoken to a Utah native, so what do I know? I asked him about the weather and he said they are having the monsoons. He suggested that I quit trying to raise Secure Horizons in Florida and send everything to United in Utah, contrary to what your notices say.

Okay, I like the old name. Reminds me of United States, United We Stand, United Fruit, real solid. However, I’m not sure it will work any better to get me my reimbursements. Want a suggestion? Give us a little more personal attention. And maybe change your name to “Aunt Bea’s Health Insurance and Guava Jelly Kitchen.”

Hey, Morons

2009-08-31T08:03:00.000-07:00

You know who you are. You send me these endless e-mails about illegal immigrants, health care nightmares and such. If you believe this stuff, you are a moron. If you don’t, you are making me think you are. You are all entitled to your own opinions, but not your own facts.

Fact: Illegal immigrants do not vote, receive Social Security or Medicare and no one is proposing that they do.

Opinion: Many of you don’t know the difference in an illegal immigrant and a doorbell. Many of our citizens are immigrants.

Fact: Most of our hospitals are required to treat anyone that comes in as an emergency. If you have appendicitis, you don’t have to show your birth certificate or naturalization papers.

Opinion: Thank God.

Fact: The government has no plans to take over health care, except for the 40% of the payments it is already making. (Not counting tax breaks for private coverage.)

Opinion: Maybe it should. We don’t get to vote the insurance executives out of office.

Fact: The public option in the House bill is to catch those whom the insurance companies kick out because they get sick or won’t insure because they may be.

Opinion: This scares the hell out of the insurance industry, and may kill the bill.

Fact: Our country went from a balanced budget at the end of the Clinton administration to a 10 trillion deficit as of 2008.

Opinion: Don’t blame Obama.

Fact: I have been a registered Republican most of my life.

Opinion: misguided youth.

Fact: The World Health Organization pegs our health care system at number 32, just above Cuba ; France is number one.

Opinion: If you hate our country so much, move to France.

Me and my wig

2009-08-24T10:56:00.001-07:00

Well, I settled on a 50's revival look. June's traveling with Grease and said I would fit right in. Well, it beats looking like Alton Brown (Good Eats) or Charlie Brown (Peanuts.) Wig and I will be inseparable for about 6 months, but a do-rag works around the house just fine. Some people go commando. I'd hate to scare the yard man.

First outing was yesterday, when I met an old friend for lunch downtown. She lost 50 pounds and got a facelift and we didn't recognize each other. A waiter finally figured it out and got us together. It helps to be well known among waiters. They all know CJ and what he eats.

He stayed home yesterday, involuntarily. He lives for lunch, a habit formed over many years of hanging out with his friends while I was working. I quit paying yacht club dues when it appeared that he was running with a bad crowd. Those bad boys drank way too much, and picked on him when he didn't drink at all. The real reason I quit paying was that they wouldn't let me eat there. Ladies were restricted to the room where they played cards. I went in with a few other lawyers of the male persuasion one day after a court appearance. They tried to seat them in the regular dining room and send me upstairs. Fortunately the guys suggested we go elsewhere. Black and Jewish men had already made the cut, long before women. Hell yeah I was pissed.

healthy habits

2009-08-19T13:46:00.000-07:00

The New York Times online lets you comment at the end of many articles. I do this a lot. Makes me feel "published." Mainly gives you the last word. Or at least the 227th word out of 430 and counting.
I posted one today, after yet another article trying to relate health habits to longevity by state, with a kicker in there for the number of doctors:
"Just maybe there is no direct correlation between lifestyle and health in many categories. If you get hit by a bus it doesn’t matter how much bacon you ate. As for life expectancy, our grandparents ate much more local, fresh food, walked to town, and never got cancer. Of course, their life expectancy was 42, so they didn’t get around to it. "
This is closely related to some moronic objections to health care reform, as expressed by the head of Whole Foods, that if we just ate right we wouldn't need so many doctors. Now don't get me wrong. I think eating right is very important. After drinking eight glasses of water, nine servings of fruits and vegetables (making sure to get 25 grams of fiber, 1500 mg of calcium and 1000 of Vitamin D) we don't have much room for Snickers. Don't even hint that I brought my health problem on myself. Unless you give me a bite of your Snickers.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

2009-08-18T12:50:00.000-07:00

Some mornings start off better than others. This morning I got up, gave my hair a couple of swooshes with the brush, and literally jumped when I saw that my brush had morphed into a big cone of cotton candy. It was as big as a wadded up T-shirt. Sure, I knew I'd lose some hair, but I thought we might have a gradual thinning. I already got my wig, had it styled to match me, and my friends have supplied me with scarves. After my shower, I poured a bucketload of Drano down the drain, and called Anita.

Anita is a retired hairdresser and my guardian angel. She came over and cut my remaining hairs into what she called a "Pixie." If you can imagine a pixie that looks a lot like Charlie Brown, that's it. Maybe this is all that will happen. Sure.

I went to the oncology clinic for blood tests and coffee hour with the nurses and other patients. The subject of euphemisms came up, and we wondered about the words like oncology, cranial prosthesis, invasive carcinoma, and found that we have adopted these terms too. One woman had been to her GP, the radiologist, and the surgeon before anyone used the word "cancer." She was shocked. She remembers telling the surgeon that it wasn't fair that she should get cancer on top of all these carcinoma problems.

2009-08-16T11:53:00.000-07:00

When you hear someone say "I hate butterbeans, country music, democrats, the color orange," or whatever, does it irritate you? It drives me nuts. I try to smile pathetically, instead of saying something like "Well, you're an idiot," or "Who the hell cares?" or "Well, they ain't so crazy about you, either."

This was the train of thought that segued, late at night, into thinking about the many worlds of people out there that I don't know, and especially those worlds that I don't know I don't know, and therefore don't think about. There are concentric circles within each of those worlds, of course. Start with a large world of, say, music. Within that are not just genres, but divisions such as listeners, performers, teachers, collectors, concertgoers, directors, producers, sellers. I belong to a small world of folk musicians that overlap the worlds of guitar, banjo, mountain dulcimer, hammered dulcimer, singing, tin whistle and kazoo. Within each of those worlds the true believers favor even smaller groups that favor more or fewer strings, frets, picks, or noters, or combinations or fractions thereof. If I'm not asleep yet, I can start over with the worlds of horses, cars, flowers, art, literature, politics, and go on until morning. Tonight I think I'll start with desserts.

Adventures in chemotherapy

2009-08-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

Tuesday is the beginning of Carol's Big Adventure in Chemotherapy. If we live long enough, there are many adventures waiting for us. Maybe someday I'll rank them from one to ten. I haven't even started this one but I think it will be low on the list of favorites.

The doctor promises that I can jump up and go to work after each three-hour session of IV poisons. I'm not planning to go to work anyhow, but I would like to drive home and jump in the pool, have a nice snack, and get on about my business. He's trying to convince me that I will not get the nausea, heart murmurs and immune disorders normally associated with chemo. This is because I am getting his special blend of poisons. He's very convincing, but then so is every snake oil salesman in the world.

The hair will go, and fairly soon. That gives me doubts about how safe and mild this special mix of poisons is. They gave me brochures of all sorts of wigs and turbans. I can't see me in a turban, unless I'm telling fortunes in a gypsy outfit at the Halloween carnival. I see a do-rag, maybe a Harley motif. Then I have to get CJ a muscle shirt to match, with a message on the back that says "If you can read this, my bitch fell off."

The main reason I'm going for this is that I'd hate myself if I didn't do all I could to prevent a recurrence. Breast cancer recurrences can show up in places like brains or bones, hard to find or treat. And at my funeral, when it is time, I want some serious weeping and wailing going on, not a bunch of biddies clucking around that Carol was worried too much about her hair.

cranial prosthesis

2009-07-20T13:48:00.000-07:00

The cancer doctor has put the chemo decision in my lap. He did, however, point me toward some research, by giving me some websites that they use. He also gave me some factors to use in my search. Not only do we consider the stage, type, and group of the cancer (small, invasive, and mean, respectively) but also some biological markers that more specifically define my problem. After following flowcharts and diagrams in three sources, the decision is made for me. I need chemo.

Then I researched the specific chemicals the doctor named, and the side effects to expect. Some of the scary ones I had heard about, like heart and immune system impacts, are not there. The nausea is expected, but they counter that as best as they can with drugs given with the chemicals. Four IV infusions given three weeks apart doesn't sound too bad.

The unavoidable side effect is hair loss. I have a (refillable) prescription for a cranial prosthesis. Yes, that is doctor-speak for a wig. Why use one syllable when you can bill for six? Small price to pay, though. Hair grows back, and life goes on.

The Tadpole

2009-07-03T10:25:00.000-07:00

The Tadpole-sized object that showed up in my routine mammogram turned out to be early breast cancer. The biopsy the next week showed that it was small but mean, so a week later I had a mastectomy. The surgery is minor if they don't have to take your armpit or do reconstruction, and I went home the next day, last Friday. Didn't even need pain meds. The doctor found lots of fluffy fat which he rearranged very artfully, so I even have cleavage.

Thirty years of mammograms have finally paid off. All this talk about self-examination is hooey without the mammo. I've been feeling around for a marble or a ping-pong ball, and no one could have felt the tadpole, even if they knew better and knew where to look.

Next week the drains and the staples will come out. I'll also meet soon with the cancer doc to plan a future course of action. After he reads the tea leaves, I'm expecting chemo. Having a little breast cancer is like being a little bit pregnant, you still have to deal with it. It's too soon to choose a wig, but I may go with Cher or Whoopie. You can vote.

Eaglets

2009-05-03T14:08:00.000-07:00

We're pretty sure our local pair of bald eagles has gone north for the summer. We never saw a baby, but we hope he went along. We looked for their nest, but you can't see it unless you're on the balcony of a nearby condo. We saw them bringing in sticks and vines, so we know where it is.

I discovered a great webcam, at http://www.wvec.com/cams/eagle.html where we can watch another eagle family raise triplets. Much of the time it's like watching paint dry, but I keep it running while I'm doing other things, like playing my dulcimer. They are just over a month old, but they grow up pretty fast. It gives us hope that our eagle chick was able to fly north with it's parents.

Today both parents were in the nest at the same time, and you can see how much bigger the female is. They were both feeding the kids. They would pull off a hunk of roadkill or whatever, and a chick would pull it from the big yellow beak. After lunch, the grownups left and the kids took a nap. They woke up and one by one started flapping their wings and jumping a little, taking turns, showing off. A big shadow appears, and Momma swoops in and sits on them. You could almost hear her saying "Don't jump on the bed." I guess she knows they're not quite ready to fly.

Flamingo

2009-02-16T13:50:00.000-08:00

Here we go, driving up 4th Street, one of the busiest in town, and a flamingo flew right in front of us. I'm sure, because they are very distinctive and hard to confuse with a dove or a seagull. Then, too, CJ also saw it.

There is no flamingo sanctuary anywhere near here, but who knows how far they might fly on a lovely day? From Busch Gardens? I'd like to think there are some nests happening in our few wildd nature spots near the bay. What makes this amazing is that he was near the bridge to Tampa, between two large cities that are wall-to-wall people. Maybe they are adapting to us.

Bald eagles and ospreys have adapted to city life. I've read abouut peregrine falcons living on New York skyscrapers so they can get a good swoop down on their food. Ospreys have built nests on several of the big light poles at the playground near us. They usually carry home a fish in their talons, but one went by the other day with a live, angry bird in its beak. The bald eagles in the neighborhood have been seen toting sticks back to fix up their old nest. They stand near the road on top of a dead tree, looking off over the ponds. Last week they started making out in front of one and all walking by. We pretty much figured out that the larger one is the female. Hope the nest is ready.

It would be nice to think the flamingo was heading for its mate, back in the salt marsh, fixing up a nest.

No more dogs

2009-01-31T09:07:00.000-08:00

Old Buddy finally joined Cappy in doggie heaven. We'd like to think it's like a big dog park where they could go meet Marvin, Andy, Snoopy, maybe Riker and some of his other relatives. But that would not be Buddy's idea of Heaven. He liked to watch the dog park action from CJ's lap. Cappy would be mixing it up with the big dogs, introducing them to each other, showing them the best gates and water bowl. Snoopy would be finding the gate of least resistance. Marvin would be making idle threats, and Andy would just wander around looking lost and bewildered.

Buddy was not just afraid of most dogs, he was afraid of anything with a face. Christmas lawn ornaments, like large Santas and snowmen, were not to be trusted. Jack-o-lanterns were scary, so it was best to cross the street. Cappy would walk right up and pee on them. Buddy was not afraid of most people, but he was never sure about Joanne or Deenie. Joanne would bring bacon in her purse, but it only worked temporarily. He actively disliked Joe Miele, and would pee on his shoe if he could. If we met him on a wallk, Joe would dance around to stay out of range.

After fifty years of dogs, occasional cats, birds, fish, hamsters and snakes, I'm done with pets. CJ wants another dog, and wants me to help him decide what kind. I said any kind is fine with me, as long as it don't poop.

Old buddy

2008-11-23T05:26:00.000-08:00

Buddy is sleeping at his food bowl because he's not sure when he will find it again. He spends a lot of time this way. He's been blind for two years, and deaf for one, but we think doggy dementia is here to stay. After the cataracts left him blind, he knew his way around the house and yard pretty good. Lately, though, he can't find the food bowl or even the door to go out.

Since he can't find the door to scratch, he barks, and I let him out. Sometimes we would do this three or four times a night. Then after he got out, he would wander around wondering why he was in the yard. My friend Anita suggested that maybe he was not asking to go out, but barking because he's lost and lonely. I fixed him a bed beside ours in a laundry basket. He's sleeping through the night.

He looks forward to his walks, a little shorter now. His tail never stops wagging. And he's looking forward to his next meal.

The rest of the Story

2008-11-20T13:49:00.000-08:00

The continuing drama of trying to get a refund of my $1670.00 from the power company has come to an end. The money is in my account, where it has been for a week or so. I never thought to look there. The company had told me that they had already deposited the payment into their bank, so they would order a check to be sent to us. Every day we wait for the mail, but no check. Today I sent off another strong letter, then made another phone call to "customer service." (What a name.)

Today I got really upset with them when they wanted to put me in touch with their check-writing company. I told them they could track it themselves, because it was their choice to farm out the job of writing checks to some off-shore shady outfit. I told him that we were weak from hunger and could not afford the long-distance charges to call their off-shore company. I told him we needed medicines and would not have a Happy Thanksgiving and I hoped he wouldn't either. I told him they hadn't answered my letters and they need not bother, just to stuff the response where the sun don't shine.

Then, on a hunch, I opened the window on my on-line account, and the money was transfered back a week ago. Now, I was impressed that the customer service rep was able to do that so soon after my threats. I just don't understand how he got the bank to pre-date the deposit to make me think it had been there for a week.

Do Sweat the Small Stuff

2008-11-16T08:43:00.000-08:00

One of the smallest things I can see is a decimal point. It is way too tiny to cause so much trouble. I was paying bills online, and one of them hopped around a bit. Instead of paying Progress Energy, (the electric company) $167.00, they actually got $1670.00. And they won't give it back.
I caught the mistake the next day, October 15th, over a month ago, and called them up. Yes, there it was, the polite lady from customer service agreed. She promised that they would order a check back to me right away. Of course I believed her, but I transferred money from savings just in case her version of right away was not the same as mine. After a strong letter and two more phone calls, all that has come in the mail is an overdue bill, including a finance charge. So they have not returned my money or used some of it to pay the bill. One more call.
This time she told me that the refund check had been ordered October 23rd from the company that actually writes their checks. That company takes several weeks to write the checks because they need to verify that there is money in the account. This strains the imagination, to think that Progress Energy's finances are so questionable that their check-writing company has to run an audit before cutting a check. And I know they have at least $1670.00.

Daylight Savings Time Hoax

2008-11-08T11:47:00.000-08:00

I always hated it, and now I know why. I always thought it was silly, without any data to support my instinct. I was right. . .according to the National bureau for Economic Research.
The history of Daylight Saving Time (DST) has been long and controversial. Throughout its implementation during World Wars I and II, the oil embargo of the 1970s, consistent practice today, and recent extensions, the primary rationale for DST has always been to promote energy conservation. Nevertheless, there is surprisingly little evidence that DST actually saves energy. This paper takes advantage of a natural experiment in the state of Indiana to provide the first empirical estimates of DST effects on electricity consumption in the United States since the mid-1970s. Focusing on residential electricity demand, we conduct the first-ever study that uses micro-data on households to estimate an overall DST effect.
The dataset consists of more than 7 million observations on monthly billing data for the vast majority of households in southern Indiana for three years. Our main finding is that—contrary to the policy's intent—DST increases residential electricity demand. Estimates of the overall increase are approximately 1 percent, but we find that the effect is not constant throughout the DST period. DST causes the greatest increase in electricity consumption in the fall, when estimates range between 2 and 4 percent. These findings are consistent with simulation results that point to a tradeoff between reducing demand for lighting and increasing demand for heating and cooling. We estimate a cost of increased electricity bills to Indiana households of $9 million per year. We also estimate social costs of increased pollution emissions that range from $1.7 to $5.5 million per year. Finally, we argue that the effect is likely to be even stronger in other regions of the United States.

War in Iraq

2008-08-14T13:15:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess that last post really was a nothing. I don't know what happened, but I suspect Cheney is monitoring this site. Creepy thought.

I just got word from my cousin Rita that her daughter is home from Iraq in one piece. We are happy, and a little surprised, because she's a bomb defuser. Many people come home in one piece, but she was there as a mercenary, paid $300,000 a year to defuse bombs. This raises many questions.

1. For that kind of money, did they send her after ones no one else would touch? She must be pretty good at her job.

2. How many people do we have on our payroll at that rate?

3. How do the ordinary soldiers feel, who work alongside these mercenaries?

Anyway, welcome home, Dawn, you had us worried.

Iraq

2008-08-14T13:13:00.000-07:00

Paula

2008-08-06T08:57:00.000-07:00

I wonder whatever became of Paula. She was a recognizable member of Clearwater's homeless group, and an old buddy of mine. When the county was getting ready to build the Bayside Bridge, she lived in the very footprints of the approach road. She had lived there since the days when she and Henry, her husband, had run a bait shop at a little dock. Actually, she didn't live in their house, because it was crammed to the rafters with stuff she had brought home from dumpsters. Her car quit running and she filled it up too, then the tent where she had lived for awhile. We condemned all that property, and paid her with a check for whatever her interests were. She wouldn't cash the check, and lived on the street.
I was there when the bulldozer flattened her little house, and her stuff went flying everywhere. A full-sized naked mannequin flew up and toward the dozer operator, who needed medical attention. The pile of dumpster treasures was easily three times as big as the house. She lived on the street, and wore a T-shirt that said "The Bayside Bridge tore down my house." On cooler days she wore a pink satin windbreaker advertising a topless bar. Her trademark was a terrycloth turban that she wore rain or shine. I'll bet she still does.

cells

2008-08-03T09:05:00.000-07:00

We have about 100 trillion cells in our bodies, made of molecules, mostly empty space, except for atoms, mostly empty space. These cells are being replaced constantly. Some regenerate every day or so, some last much longer. It's safe to say we don't have any body parts that were there a few years ago.

Trees do the same thing with their cells. Some shed their leaves all at once, some gradually, while the rest of the tree replaces its cells slowly but constantly, as we do. Flowers disappear, leaves and all, and return in the spring.

What if we shed our cells all at once? Would we disappear, or just be invisible? Notice these are not the same, because by disappearing I mean left town, maybe for a day, maybe for the season.
This is something I think about when I get a haircut or trim my nails. Try not to think about it in the middle of the night.

Garlic

2008-08-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

There are real people out there who do not eat garlic for fear of bad breath. Either pop a breath mint, or feed garlic to the group. I always cook garlic, which reduces its potency, or at least no one has offered me a breath mint after dinner. Other than key lime pie, it's hard to think of one item that can improve so many foods.

Our daughter, June, has inherited this garlic gene, and brings home great ideas. Kevin shares her enthusiasm. Saute fresh or frozen spinach in a little garlic oil, and you will never eat it plain again. Any time you have to use the oven for an hour, wrap a head of garlic in aluminum foil with a little olive oil, roast it, then squeeze out the soft cloves to eat on crackers or whatever. Even better is to put equal parts of olive oil and peeled cloves (say a cup of each) in a bowl, add a can of anchovies (or half a tube of paste) and let it bake for an hour or so. You can dip bread in it, pour some over pasta or roast some vegetables with it. Add about half as much vinegar to it, shake it up, you've got a great salad dressing. The best thing since sliced bread is the peeled garlic in a jar. And it's good for you.

It's not my fault

2008-08-01T07:36:00.000-07:00

I guess it was Anne Morrow Lindberg, in A Gift from the Sea, that introduced me to the idea that our perception of reality is based on our own filters. Thus, if we are in a foul mood, we only see the bad side of things, and filter out the good and the beautiful. Conversely, of course, Pollyanna or Carol on a good day sees only the best in everyone and everything. This may work as a philosophy, but it fails to explain a bad day.

A bad day is not catastrophic, just a day full of glitches. I needed to call a company, call it Ajax. After listening to a litany of worthless options, I got through to "Chuck" from Bosnia, who has trouble pronouncing Ajax, and is useless. Try the website for the company, try "Contact Us," and you get two options: scroll through a page of FAQ's that don't apply, or call the new number, and you're back to Chuck.

I gave up, wrote them a letter, put it with the rest of the mail, including some thoughtful cards for friends with special occasions. We sent to the mailbox at the post office, always on the passenger side, and CJ tries to mail the stack of envelopes. He gives them a little toss, they all miss the slot and land in the gutter full of swiftly flowing water. I jump out, wade after them, squeeze past the car behind us, and got some of the sopping envelopes, but not Ajax, before they went down the storm drain.

My attitude did not cause these events. It's not my fault.

speed bumps

2008-07-31T13:18:00.000-07:00

I read somewhere that if you hold a pencil between your front teeth, sideways, without letting your lips touch the pencil, you will cheer up. It makes your brain think you're smiling. If you go out in public, of course, it makes a lot of other people smile, and that's good too. The trick is not to bite the pencil in half over a speedbump.

Speedbumps drive me crazy. They do not stop speeding, except at the point of impact. I, personally, hit the horn when I hit the bump, then speed away with squealing tires to release some anger. Some people believe that they reduce speeding, but they just reduce traffic in general. In other words, they move the problem over a block, until the people on that street get their own speedbumps because of the increase in traffic and speeders. This process fuels the perception that they work.

Politicians and homeowners' association officials like them because it makes the people think they are doing something. They don't like to be accused of doing nothing. Do something, even if it doesn't work. Our neighborhood is built around a big loop, so there is no other street to use to get to your house from anywhere.

There is also a perception that they will stop or reduce crime. I guess they think that criminals prefer smooth street for getaways, maybe even in a high-speed chase. I can just picture two masked guys in an unmarked van, slowing to read the sign that says, "Slow! Speedbumps ahead!" and turning around to find a smoother neighborhood. Even the burglars in our own neighborhood will go elsewhere to work.

politics

2008-07-30T07:16:00.000-07:00

Well, we're not supposed to discuss politics or religion in polite company, but I'm talking to myself here. It's my blog and I'll say what I want to.

I want to like both candidates better than I do. Flip-flops don't bother me a lot, because new information always comes along that we hope a candidate would listen to. A wise person said that "I wouldn't want to join a club that would invite me in." A corollary is that I wouldn't trust anyone who would actually want to be a politician, particularly a successful one. You have to sell a little bit of your soul to the devil or the party or the contributors to stay pure. Maybe pure is overrated anyhow.

Confucius said something like "To know that you know what you know, and to know that you don't know what you don't know, is true wisdom." I don't know, for example, why McCain is so reluctant to put any distance between himself and George. He is giving George credit for lowering the price of oil by $3.00 a barrel by announcing his support for offshore drilling, and joining that support. What about the fact that the price of oil went from $28.00 to $143.00 in George's watch? Just being practical, support for offshore drilling may cost McCain the Florida vote, because we're nuts about our Gulf.

Another thing I don't know is why Obama doesn't do more to counter the internet chatter that "exposes" him as not just a Muslim, but a secret agent of Al-Quaida who has been on a mission since before 9/11 to take over this country and turn it over to them? Show some backbone, Barack! I dunno.

Fourth of July, 2008

2008-07-29T07:05:00.000-07:00

Kevin, June's husband, cooked burgers and brats for all the family, 34, counting cousins, and would not yield his spatula to anyone. The twins are easier to tell apart now, because Daniel is the hairy one, Jacob (shown with Doug) is the smooth one. He's on crutches following foot surgery, but will be back marching as a cadet at Texas A & M this fall. The hairy one is at Baylor, but temporarily working as an intern for McCain at the campaign headquarters in D. C.

reunions

2008-07-28T14:26:00.000-07:00

Fifty years ago, those two kids were happy to be married.

Twenty years later, CJ still looks pretty happy.

Doug and Lazara were cautiously optimistic.

June and Sarah Jean always had a lot in common.

Our 50th wedding anniversary was a big reunion of family and friends. Our "kids" planned a big dinner at Pepin's, with every detail carried out: flowers, appetizers, drinks, table arrangements, even a slide show covering more details of the past 50 years than me might have wished. I told Jason I had never seen such a slide show except at funerals, so he said I am "Ready to go." He hosted a big round table, June and Kevin took one, Doug and Lazara had another, leaving CJ and me to host the head table. I tried to make a speech, but was pretty much speechless. The others did much better, and many filled out memory squibs that went in the scrapbook Lazara made. Some of those were better read in the privacy of our home. More to come.

Cappy

2007-11-02T13:31:00.000-07:00

I guess this is the only way dogs get obituaries. Our paper is so full of ones about people, there's not much room for news. Most of them are boring, but at my age, it's a good idea to check them out.
Well, Cappy napped out a couple of days ago. He was 14, more or less, and was the happiest dog we ever had. He was so friendly to man and beast, June said he could have been an insurance salesman. She found him rummaging for garbage and wandering the streets of downtown Tampa when he was a youngster. She brought him home, so dirty and encrusted with sandspurs he had to be shaved to get a bath. That was OK with him, but so were meals, shots, car rides, the vet's office, sleeping on the sofa, escaping, it was all good. He particularly liked soft leather such as boot tongues, topsider laces, and suspender loops. Paper products were good, including library books and money. He once ate, and returned, $21.00 in small bills, which I soaked, dried, taped together and redeemed at the bank.
He started slowing down a couple of weeks ago, and Anita and Buddy and I just slowed down our morning walk a bit. One day he quit eating, the next day he quit drinking, and then he lay down on the warm bricks of the patio and quit breathing. Buddy sat with him until the end, and when I saw him walking around him in circles, I took his blanket out and wrapped him up and it was over. Cappy, you will never be replaced. We miss you.

It's hot

2007-08-18T12:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's hot again, like August in Florida. It happens every year, and every year we're surprised. I'm walking the dogs with Anita every morning, all around the little pond. It's a little less than half a mile, but we're drenched when we get back around 8:00 AM. The dogs are in their little fur coats and their tongues are dragging. Buddy is missing the scooter ride he used to get when I wasn't up to walking yet. Blind as a bat, but he could hop in board and sit between my feet. He would stick his head out when one of his friends came in range, to get a good sniff. He also enjoyed the envy of his friends who had no chauffeur.

The birds and otters are amazing. This morning we noticed about 20 mallards, one muscovy, and a few ibis lined up on the bank, watching the water. There were two or three otters, putting on a show, fishing for breakfast. We haven't seen as many this year as last, when we watched six or eight babies grow up, belonging to two or three families. We have been joined by a roseate spoonbill this year. We've seen them occasionally in the past, but this one is there every day now, eating non-stop. His name is Pinky.

I'm enjoying playing the dulcimer and guitar again. For some reason, the six months of mending didn't make me want to play. Even though I had plenty of time, it seemed like work. I was pretty weak, and that's my excuse. I'm really glad to be past that, and I retired the cane August 6th, six months after surgery. Some of the tunes rattling around in my head need to be put on paper. I just finished putting a lullaby on Tabledit, the music writing program. It was one my Daddy used to sing to me, and I found the words he had printed out on hotel stationery, from Macon, Georgia. He must have gotten lonely on a trip. The music came back when I read the words. If I can figure out how, I'll post it.

exercise is a pain

2007-06-15T14:06:00.000-07:00

I finally gained enough strength, according to the doctor, to begin physical therapy. Easy for him to say. My first session on Tuesday was to measure how well I could do certain simple things, like raise my foot off the mat, while lying on my back, then sides, then front. The therapist wrote down that I had worked up to zero. Then he told me to do 2 sets of 20 anyway. That gives me lots of room for improvement. I have eight others, such as hold a ball between your knees, ride a bike, push down with my knee, that I can do. I'm supposed to do these two or three times a day at home. I can't do the bike because I gave mine away when it got too boring.

Medicare will pay for 20 sessions at the clinic. At twice a week, that takes me through August. I am very glad I didn't know in January that I'd still be learning to walk in August. In general, we don't want to see the future, no matter what we say.

Music for mending?

2007-04-17T08:02:00.000-07:00

I had looked forward to making music to mend by, filling these long days of enforced idleness. For some reason, it's unsatisfactory, and after tuning the dulcimer and the guitar all I do is plunk around a little bit. I usually sing along with the tunes that have words, La-la-la with those without. I was even writing a few songs, saving them on Tabledit to share. I don't think I'm depressed, because I am enjoying everyday things. I get out on our little scooter and feed grain to the baby ducks down the street, I sit out in the garden and watch the birds and butterflies, I really enjoy a bowl of ice cream in the afternoon. Maybe the music will return. Hope so.

Turtle is home

2007-04-06T14:25:00.000-07:00

I made it home yesterday with my newest hip and patched up thigh, and I am enjoying being waited on by family instead of nurses. I appreciate the hard work the nurses do, bless their hearts, but home is where we live as a loved one, not a patient.

It occurred to me, after several weeks of lying on my back, unable to sit up, get up, or even roll over without help, that I was living like a turtle who got caught on its back, waving its little paws about. I could push some buttons on the bed, on the remote, and the "Call Nurse," my favorite, but still was very helpless. The message I kept hearing was loud and clear. It said "You are not in charge here." I never really thought I was, but all doubts have been removed.

I'm also realizing why we had three children. They have been super about stepping in and taking over this house, keeping their dad and now, me, fed and clean. June and Kevin took the first lap, Doug came in for a week, and wee currently have Jason and my sister Susan here, and they will do a handoff to our daughter-in-law Lazara next week. Besides us, they have helped our friend Anita walk the dogs every morning, and take turns giving one of them insulin shots twice week. Now I am giving myself shots twice a day to fight blood clots. Jason said he would do it if I would just bend over my food bowl like Buddy does.

In the spirit of the Easter Bunny, I am hopping around the house on the walker, dangling my left leg in the air. I am so happy to be hopping!

Rehab, the Sequel

2007-03-24T17:39:00.000-07:00

Another Guest Post.

Mom has moved to rehab! Yay! Out of the hospital in only 4 days this time. Into another hospital, but in the rehab unit. Much better than the nursing home route we did last time, we think.

When she arrived today, the nurse came in and said "Oh! Does your complexion always look like . . . that?" Mom, who hasn't seen a mirror in a week, said "What? What does it look like? Is something wrong?" The nurse just said "Well, you're very pale". Mom said, yes, she was pale, but hopefully, the extra blood and iron they are pumping in will help that. That, and being able to run around a bit.

I'm shipping off on Monday, as my vacation time has well and truly run out. My little brother Jason has come to stay at the ranch for a couple of weeks, and although we hope we won't need them, we've got a couple other relations lined up after that if need be. So, watch this space, and hopefully, the next post you see will contain news of Carol coming home. Again. Many thanks for everyone's continued support.

June

Surgery II

2007-03-20T15:17:00.000-07:00

Another Guest Post

Surgery went well (again). We are planning on the quick and easy no complications version this time, as we have tried the other way, and didn't care for it much. Thanks for everyone's prayers and good wishes - so far this time, they seem to be working. More news as it happens - with any luck, from the lady herself.

June

Groundhog day

2007-03-18T07:03:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is possible to break your leg while standing up on your walker. Tuesday, March 20, I go back to the hospital so they can remove my gently used hip and replace it with a newer model.
I have been unable to come up with any good reason for this (for every thing there is a reason, turn turn) and hope you will help me out here. Some of the suggestions so far:

The surgeon really likes you and doesn't want to say goodbye.

It gets all your kids to come for a visit.

It could have been the good leg.

You're using up hell-points.

Better now than six months from now.

You're really good on a walker.

Sex change

2007-03-03T12:21:00.000-08:00

No, I didn't go for that while I was in the hospital. However, I need to rant.

For those of you out of our news area, the facts. The City Manager of one of our small towns had been considering a sex-change for many years, going from Steve to Susan, and had already taken some preliminary steps. He mentioned this to a few close friends, and the mayor, but had not yet told his wife or 13-year old son. Surprise, surprise, the paper got wind of it and the cat was out of the bag. Within a week the city called a special meeting and fired him. Even though he had received rave reviews for 14 years, they insist the firing was not because of the sex change, but was a "loss of confidence." He was shocked and amazed.

This raises so many questions:

1) Did he think his secret would stay a secret?

2) Didn't he know his small-town voters and officials, after 14 years?

3) Wouldn't wife and sons be the first to know?

Takes me back to a time almost 40 years ago when CJ was representing a lesbian couple who were house painters. We hired them to paint our house. It took forever. During this time, one of them confided that she was in the process of becoming a man. (They had 9 children between them already.) We needed some carpentry, they called a friend who was going from male to female. We needed roof repairs, two friends showed up that were also changing. At one time, we had 7 workers, in all stages of their transition, part of a support group. They enjoyed telling us more than we needed to know of their life stories and medical procedures. They seemed well-adjusted, optimistic, and looked forward to being "normal." I hope things worked out for them. I would think that 40 years might have brought a little more understanding, but apparently not.

new hip

2007-02-28T09:25:00.000-08:00

Two weeks in the hospital and another two in rehab was like a trip to a
distant planet. It wasn't truly a nursing home, because most of the inmates
were there for therapy following a fall or surgery or both, but they still
made me think of Tim Conway. We had rules, and schedules, and two hours of
therapy morning and afternoon, and if you didn't clean your plate you had to
answer to Nurse Ratchid. Many of the patients and all of the doors had
alarms, which went off constantly. These were not little bells, but more
like smoke detectors. The nurses would have to shout up and down the halls
to be heard. I'm used to being bathed and pottied by nurses of either
gender, (or neither, I suspected.) My roommate accused me of stealing her
teeth. These are just a few of the reasons why I'm SO HAPPY to be home with
my family. I'm on a walker, which our blind dog thinks is like chairs gone
wild. We're having beautiful weather, and I'm going to spend as much time as
possible out in it. But first, lunch. I'm craving crunchy food!

Move to Rehab

2007-02-15T16:39:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's another guest post.

Mom has finally moved from the hospital to a rehab facility, which is good news indeed. Workouts commence in the morning, and she'll probably be at the facility for another week or ten days before she gets to come home. She'll still have therapists coming by the house for a while after that. She was bright and chipper and ready for the move when we saw her today, and although I think the move itself wore her out a little, I'm sure she'll be ready to slay dragons by the morning. I'll be around for another couple of weeks, and Dad and I are doing fine. Thanks to everyone who has called with support, we appreciate everyone's good thoughts and prayers.

June
(the Daughter)

Day after Surgery (Guest Post)

2007-02-07T13:42:00.001-08:00

Carol had her surgery Tuesday morning. She had to be there at 5:30am so the 4am alarm was a little jarring. She finished surgery about 11am and began recovery. We were told we should wait 'till sometime after 4pm for the first visit as she'd be pretty out of it. She was in fact a little out of it, but a morphine drip will do that to you.

Surgery went well and the doctor said everything was fine, although her first words to us were, "I think I got hit by a truck." We visited again today (Wednesday) and she was looking much better. She had her first "chair" excercise this morning where she had to transfer herself from the bed to the chair and back with the help of her walker. She said after a successfull completion, she promptly napped for an hour as it was the hardest thing she'd done in many a year.

At this time, we expect her to be transferred to the Rehab facility possibly Friday or Saturday of this week. We'll post more as we learn.

She says Hi to all and thanks you for your prayers and support.

Kevin (The son-in-law)

Making lists

2007-02-03T13:23:00.000-08:00

I'm going to be indisposed for a couple of weeks, so it seemed like a good idea to make lists to help friends and family who will be filling in to run this place. Try making a list of what you do every day, then weekly, then "as needed." You might be surprised. It's kind of like making a list of everything you eat, which is how you start any diet. You also must have answered those questionnaires about how much you exercise. We cheat on those, don't we?

It's not nice to cheat on this list I'm talking about. Somebody's got to give an insulin shot to the blind diabetic dog, not the other one or the husband. You have to include instructions for the microwave, the laundry, the phone answerer. Everybody must have one of these: "If the nightlight is off in the bathroom and the one in the kitchen and the light on the toothbrush charger, it means the sprinkler system is off as well. Go in the garage, reach behind the big fat plug under the sprinkler timer and push the square button with something small and non-metallic." Let me hear about yours.