Boulder, Colorado

      Obscenely early September Saturday morning.  Donning a band uniform that I will wear for the next sixteen hours.  Plenty of Kleenex in one pocket, meal money in another. 

      Join the group loading instruments and finding a seat on the waiting school bus.  The three-hour bus ride broken up by a stop at a truck stop somewhere for breakfast.

     Dismounting the bus, we grabbed instrument cases, assembled them, crammed empty cases back on the bus and assembled in some formation where we would warm up our marching skills getting to the parade starting point.  Then we waited.

      As one of the smallest bands, it was always fascinating to watch the other bands, especially the big ones who would have a drum major in a tall hat carrying a scepter, followed by a huge banner bearing school name and mascot carried by a bunch of pretty girls, with a row of twirlers, also pretty, skimpily dressed, followed by a huge band with a row of bass drums and a row of snare drums (as opposed to our one bass drum and two snare drummers). 

     Eventually, our turn to fall in line would come and we would fall into formation, spread our lines across the street to try to make us look larger than we were, and do our best to make as much noise as the bigger bands when we got the signal to play.

      One time, we left earlier than usual so we could reach Boulder before 9:10 a.m. to “maneuver”.  We were in our grand finale rotation on the field when the horn warned us we were about out of time.  Abruptly we turned as the drum majorette blew three whistle blasts and pointed her baton toward the sideline.  Our lines melted as we hurried to exit the field.  We didn’t score very well on maneuvering, I think. 

       After marching a dozen or so blocks and playing our selected march two or three times, we broke ranks and followed the college students directing our way that would send us single file through a line where we were handed a sack lunch with a sandwich, chips and an apple.  After a lunch break, once again we would be directed by college students to Folsom Field where we were seated in a group among other bands.

      CU football wasn’t all that much in those days, though we were familiar with the team from listening to John Henry call the play-by-play on KOA radio.  A band day was the first time I ever heard of the Eugene Oregon Ducks.  “Ducks?”  Really?

     At half time, all the bands seated in the stadium joined the CU Marching band on the field in playing two songs, “Glory, Glory Colorado” and “Fight CU” which Mr. Sager insisted on pronouncing “Fight Que”.  The band directors tried many strategies to get all the bands on the same tempo.  I don’t remember any of them succeeding.  Some bands always finished before the CU band, and some ended after the CU band had put down their instruments.

     After half time we were free to wander around.  We could take our instruments to the bus and not be burdened with them for the first time since arrival. Eventually, we would once again mount the bus and edge our way through the heavy traffic towards home.

    We would stop at a White Spot in Aurora or some such fashionable eatery for our supper before the final leg of our journey.  It was the custom to try to pair up with a girl for the ride home in the dark.  I was never very successful in that endeavor, but it did add spice to the end of the day, a very long day at that, by the time we reached home and removed the band uniform that had to be dry-cleaned.

      My association with Boulder would include a week at Boys’ State, but we were closely confined to campus, leaving only to be bussed to the state house in Denver for a day of mock government.  Once out of high school, I would have no association with Boulder until I was married, after which I had Aunt Yvonne.

      Aunt Yvonne lived in Boulder, so we called on her two or three times a year.  It was during this time that I got the unfavorable impression that Boulder was filled with a superior people, who knew they were superior and expected me to know they were superior.  Aunt Yvonne had nothing to do with my Boulder attitude.  She was always a gracious and interesting host.  It was a parking ticket while browsing downtown that cemented my negative feelings about the place.

    I vowed never to buy anything or support the place in any way.  Anyone who has visited the city lately will know that my one-man boycott has been devastating—devastating to the place!

     Aunt Yvonne cooperated with my embargo by moving to a small farm north of Longmont.  I would not have to set foot in the Boulder again. 

     Well, there were two slight exceptions.  We did attend a Boulder Dinner Theatre performance once.  Then I had to attend, with two fellow teachers, a one-day Advanced Placement clinic on campus when we began offering Advanced-Placement classes at our Kansas high school.  I convinced the girls, my fellow A-P faculty colleagues, to wait till we got to Broomfield before we stopped at a mall on our way back to Kansas.

      This spring, Boulder crept back into my life, the first occasion, sadly, Aunt Yvonne’s memorial service.  The parking experience brought it all back to life, finding a place to park, wrestling with the machine to get it to take our credit card so as not to get another parking ticket.  We celebrated Aunt Yvonne’s life, then left Boulder. 

     Boulder didn’t leave me.  Barbershop kept Boulder in my life.  Our quartet bass’s granddaughter runs a dance studio in that city.  For the past few years, she has put on a dance program she calls “Murmuration.”  The term seems to refer to a flock  of birds who dart, climb, dive in the same direction at the same time, like a troupe of dancers in the air.  Sara’s aim is to involve as many diverse groups as possible.     

     Two years ago, Sara did a solo routine as her grandfather’s barbershop quartet sang.  This year, Sara invited the quartet to sing again, but we would be singing for a group of nine dancers this time.

     There was a problem.  Barbershop singers are rhythmically challenged.  The time value of notes means little or nothing to the singers.  Dancing to such unrhythmic accompaniment would be possible for a solo dancer who could adapt, but for a troupe trying to stick together and follow the music?

     Sara and Rex worked out a medley of “When I’m 64”, “Aura Lee” and “Love Me Tender” for us to sing and “Backbones” to dance to.  We sent a video of us singing the medley, but we needed a live rehearsal to cement things.  So on a Sunday afternoon preceding the Saturday show, off we went to Boulder to Sara’s dance studio to rehearse.  We spent two hours watching the girls rehearse their routine. We sang as we watched them dance and both groups got a feeling for the other groups’ performance.  It was fun.

     On Sunday we arrived at the performance venue, the auditorium at Chautauqua Park at the foot of the flatirons, at 1 p.m.  As at band days, we spent the day in full regalia, white shoes, white pants, white shirts with armbands, red and white striped vests, red bow ties and flat straw hats.      

     As we left the car and headed for the auditorium, two of the Backbones, the dance troupe, ran into the street to meet us.  The two young ladies greeted us, told us how great we looked, how excited they were to be on stage with us, how good we sounded.  Their effusive greeting set the stage upon which we would tread the rest of the day and into the night.

      When we stood in front of the mic’s so the sound and light people could adjust for our appearance, the other performers cheered our warm ups.  (There were probably close to 100 performers including all the dance troupes and their accompanists, including a drum band from Montbello High School.)  Everywhere we went, we got complimented on our uniforms, our sound, for agreeing to take part in the program. 

     Between technical and dress rehearsal, we snuck off to do a little rehearsing for another upcoming performance.  Young folks (we were by far the oldest of the performers) came by and snapped pictures of us.  Others asked to have their picture taken with us!

     After dress rehearsal, we had a half an hour before the taco supper provided by Sara for all the performers (a lot of people to serve!), so we headed to the nearby restaurant for a bit of refreshment.  I thought I ordered an O’Doul’s, because I didn’t want any alcohol before I had to perform, but what I ordered was an O’Dell’s.  Oh well, I relaxed. 

     We sang two or three numbers to the restaurant patrons and were well received there, too.  It was just that kind of day. 

     After ingesting our tacos, we sang a song to Sara.  More compliments, more pictures.  We were next to last on the show, so we watched from the back seats.  During the intermission when the house lights came on, we were flattered by audience folks telling us they were looking forward to hearing us sing. 

     About three numbers before we were up, Sara took us up behind the auditorium for a group picture and a pre-performance pep talk not unlike a coach gives his players before the start of the game.   We grouped into a circle, joined hands at the circle center and shouted a “Let’s Go!” type cheer, the exact words of which I don’t remember.  We were pumped.

      The Backbones preceded us on stage and stood at attention in position as we entered.  The crowd cheered.  We sang, they danced, the crowd cheered, standing this time.  We knew it was for the dancers who had superbly followed our accompaniment.  But we knew it was for us too.

      After the show was over, we stood outside meeting Sara’s family.  We were complimented by strangers, asked to pose for pictures with some of them.  It was all overwhelming. 

       Some serious flaws were beginning to appear in my Boulder attitude.  I have sung for all kinds of audiences in my thirty years in barbershop, most of them appreciative audiences.  Never have I had this kind of adulation heaped upon me.  As our evening wound down, all four of us expressed our wonder at the day we had. 

     With the adrenalin flowing, it was hard to relax.  We had a few songs left in us.  We were hungry and thirsty again.  We needed to savor the day a little longer.

      Even the pub patrons where we stopped complimented us when we sang for them.  We waited until Longmont to stop to eat and to celebrate our jewel of a day.

Floor Project, Uninstallment I

     Here I am standing on the fourth floor.

 

    Wait, I am on the ground floor.  How can it be the fourth floor?  No, there aren’t three levels of basement below me.  Still, it’s the fourth floor.

    Well, the third floor looked like this.

         The countertops (pictured here) matched the floor.  That one didn’t last too long.

    The second floor looked like shag carpet, but it was linoleum.

    

 And the first floor looks like this:

  

     Actually, this probably isn’t the first floor, maybe the second floor.  The first floor was probably tongue and groove fir.  The old linoleum was probably installed sometime in the late forties or early fifties, after the house was moved to the present site.  I barely remember when this “first” floor was “the” floor.

      The one memory I do have is Monday morning washdays when the white-with-red-trim Maytag washer was rolled from porch into the kitchen, close enough for a hose to reach from the kitchen sink faucet to the washer and the two rinse tubs sitting on a bench adjacent to the washer.

      The washing machine ringer rotated 360 degrees so that the water rung from the clothes coming out of the washer ran back into the machine while the rung-out clothes curled down into rinse tub one.  Rotate the ringer and feed the clothes from the rinse tub into the ringer.  Keep your fingers out of it!  (There was a stick to use for feeding small stuff, socks for example, into the ringer without endangering your fingers.)

     The water would run back into rinse tub number one.  The rinsed clothes would drop into rinse tub number two.  Rotate the ringer once more, feed the clothes into the ringer once more and the thrice rung clothes dropped into the laundry basket ready for the clothesline.

     Grab the clothespin bag and head for the line.  Wipe the bird poop, dust, and rust from the clothesline with a rag.  Hang up the clothes.  When that job was done, the second load in the washing machine was about ready for the ringer.

     Mom always started with the white stuff, underwear, shirts, sheets maybe, when the wash water was freshest and hottest and full power Clorox.  She ended with the work jeans and greasiest stuff.  The same wash and rinse water was used throughout. 

     When the washing was done, a hose from the bottom of the washing machine, hanging from its hook to an eye on the machine, was connected to a garden hose, the hose run out the door, into the yard.   The drain hose was let down to the floor, the garden hose stretched out and the greasy wash water exited the machine and ran into the yard.

     A special dipper, a handle on a lard can, was used to dip the water from the rinse tubs into the washing machine until the tubs were light enough to lift and empty into the washing machine, and the rinse water followed the wash water out the door.

      The washing machine and rinse tubs were then rolled back onto the porch where the clothesbaskets would join them after the ironing, folding, and stowing of clean clothes were all done.  In those days, folks ironed the sheets and pillowcases.  Mom got a “mangle” that was 110 volts. (I’m thinking the Maytag washer must have been 32 volt and converted to 110 after the arrival of the REA.)  The first few times she used the mangle, it was up at our neighbors to the north, the Pratts, who got electricity some time before we did.  The mangle was used mainly on the sheets.

      The mangle rests in its corner in the basement waiting for someone from Antiques Roadshow to discover it.

    I remember two incidents involving washday.  One day I was standing on a chair by the washing machine playing with the hose that was spouting hot water into the washing machine.  Somehow, the hose got lose and the stream of hot water hit my bare belly.  The water was so hot it blistered my skin.  It was the first time I remember using Burn Allay.  I can still smell the greasy stuff.

     My second memory, the one that brings up floor number one, was once when a neighbor girl was hired to help with the housework and the children.  It must have been Monday.  Sue was in charge of the washing and I was helping her.  

     Somehow, something went amiss, the drain hose got knocked off its perch, something.  Water ran all over the floor before Sue saw it.  Pandemonium. The leak was corrected, and then the mopping and containment began.  I remember the water running towards the refrigerator and the door.  Sue allowed, after it was all over, that the floor wasn’t level.  That “first” floor was the one that got flooded.

     Over the years, the other three floors came and went.  Apparently, they weren’t dangerous to remove, dangerous meaning full of asbestos fiber.  Conventional wisdom says the black stuff contains asbestos and should be avoided, particularly the dust produced during the removal. 

     Standard practice calls for covering up the asbestos-laden surface with a thin underlayment, which is what the previous installers did.  The only sign left of floor number two is in the threshold between porch and kitchen.  The remnants of floor number three exist only as counter top of the cabinet and a shelf in another cabinet.

     Like many jobs, the actual work isn’t so bad once the preparation work is done.  In this case, the refrigerator and the wood-burning stove got moved to the dining room sometime in February or March.   The big gorilla, the kitchen range, oven, dishwasher succumbed without too much trouble.    

     Floor number four is now gone.  New underlayment and floor number five are in the works.  I’m not exactly in on the ground floor with this project, but these things do happen eventually, when it is too wet to farm. 

    

The Eyes Have It

      Myasthenia gravis.

      Ocular myasthenia gravis, to be more precise.  It’s what the doctor said.

     It all began a little over two years ago when I could no longer focus on close up work, like reading the fine print, over the top of my glasses.  I had to resort to the bifocals for close up work and use more light.  Well, I am getting older, I thought.

      I called on a series of doctors, starting with an optometrist.  When, after new lenses and new frames, the conditioned worsened, I called on an ophthalmologist who made monthly visits to the local hospital.  He said I was suffering a condition that many people went through in their forties.  I didn’t much believe that.  He told me to come back next year.

       I got along for a year, but by that time, I was having trouble focusing both eyes in the upper portions of my glasses.  The inability to coordinate both eyes was working its way slowly down.  I could still see very well through the bifocals.  My right eyelid was beginning to droop by this time.

     The first ophthalmologist was no longer on the staff at the local hospital, so I made an appointment with a Loveland ophthalmologist.  Except I couldn’t see him until I had seen his optometrist first.  If there was a problem, I would be referred to the big guy, the receptionist assured me.

     No problem, the optometrist said.  They could correct my double vision with pyramids in my right lens.  My ability to read, which was still good, might be screwed up by the pyramids, but I could get reading glasses. 

     I am not so concerned with correcting my vision as I am concerned about what is causing it to deteriorate, I explained.  No answer, except the hint that I was getting older.  Was I having other problems?  Yes, thyroid issues.  So he wrote a report to be sent to the endocrinologist who was dealing with the thyroid problem.  Let him know if I wanted to try the pyramid lenses.  Come back in a year. 

      One more time the endocrinologist opined that the thyroid problem was not the cause of the eye problem.  For sure, I did not have Graves’ disease, a thyroid disease which does affect the eyes.  She referred me to another ophthalmologist.

     The one she referred me to was booked for three months.  Would I accept one of his associates, also an ophthalmologist?  Yes I would.  A few hours later, the office called back advising me that they would like to change my appointment to another doctor who was more familiar with the drooping eyelid problem.

      At that visit, a pair of young folks ran me through the standard visual checks, blinded me with piercing light beams, questioned me about my condition.  They departed saying the doctor would be in soon, except they returned in about ten minutes and said they would like to change whom I was going to see.  Another doctor was available who could address the whole eye issue, not just the droopy lid problem.  Yes of course, I concurred.

      This fellow got to the root of the problem and gave the best answers to my quest for a cause of my eyesight deterioration.  He said it could be a blood vessel problem.  If so, the body would eventually restore circulation and the problem cure itself.  

       He was diplomatic with his second possible solution:  I might have celebrated too many birthdays, he said.  The third possible cause was a disruption in communication between nerve and muscle.  He wanted to wait a few weeks to see if the condition changed.   

    I made an appointment for January 11.  In the meantime, I found a date to swallow a radioactive pill to destroy the growth on my thyroid, a date where I could be outcast and unclean for five days.  I had to stay away from others for five days while the radioactive stuff left me. 

      The date was January 6.  I was cleared to be around adults, but not pregnant ladies or young kids.   I called the ophthalmologist’s office to be sure none of the caregivers was pregnant.   “Oh,” the receptionist said, “Dr. Arnold is a pediatrician.  His waiting room will be full of kids.”  We cancelled my appointment.  She didn’t offer to reschedule and I didn’t insist.

      In the meantime, I did call on our “family” doctor for my first visit.  He heard my story, examined my eye, and ordered an immediate MRI, fearing there would be a tumor somewhere in my head.  An hour later I was in the imaging chamber being entertained by a chorus of jackhammers.  Loud jackhammers.

      Two days later, in a follow up visit with the doctor, he gave me the news my dad could have told him a half-century ago:  the examination had found nothing in my head.   (Whenever we did something stupid as kids, Dad always said, “You ought to have your head examined.”  I finally did, and sure enough, they found nothing in there.)

      Dr. Prows decided we needed a neuro-ophthalmologist to get to the root of my problem.  He found only two and sent me to one in Aurora in the University of Colorado system.  I thought I had an appointment with a Doctor Bennet, but when I checked in, the receptionist told me I would be seeing Dr. Pelak.

     This time, a young man came through the double doors, called my name, escorted me to an examining room where he checked my vision, asked me questions, and recorded my answers and his impressions by tickety-tacketeying a hundred words a minute on the computer keyboard.

     Dr. Pelak turned out to be a comely young lady who said she had 17 years’ experience as an ophthalmologist.  It is hard to believe she has been out of high school 17 years.  More to the point, she knows her business. 

     She looked at the MRI images and pointed out the muscles in my right eye, the lower muscle about twice the size of the upper one or either of the left eye muscles.  She thought the swollen muscle prevented the eyeball from rolling up, thus he focus problem in the upper part of my vision.  Later, she would ascertain that the eyeball was free to move by numbing the eye, then using a big Q-tip to force the eyeball up.  After she was done, she said many ophthalmologists would use a forceps to grip the eyeball and move it.  I thanked her for using a Q-tip.    

     Dr. Pelak suspected I had myasthenia gravis.  It was Dr. Arnold’s option three, interference between nerve and muscle.  Here is how I understood her explanation.  When the brain sends a message to a muscle, the nerve uses a juice to reach the muscle.  The muscle absorbs the juice and contracts.  The brain says “open eyelid” and the nerve sends the juice.  When the brain says “relax eyelid”, the nerve stops serving the juice.  Along comes the janitorial staff which mops up the juice and sends it down the body’s waste system.

      In myasthenia gravis, the body produces antibodies probably in response to another problem elsewhere, like my thyroid hyperactivity perhaps.  The antibodies ally with or stimulate the janitorial staff.  The nerve juice gets cleaned up and shooed away before the job is done.  So the eyelid doesn’t go up.

      The condition can affect other muscles, arms, legs, diaphragm (breathing problems) and swallowing muscles.  Statistically, I have about an 85% chance of having other muscles affected.  If other muscles haven’t been affected after two years from onset, the chances of other muscles being involved drops significantly.   If left untreated, the “gravis” part can come true.  A victim can end up in the grave.  Modern medicine to the rescue.  The antibodies have to be suppressed.     

     Dr. Pelak had me try pyridostigmine taken four to six hours as needed.  It helped get my eyelid open, but didn’t do much for my focus problems.  I still have double vision.  I also had to return to the MRI for better pictures of my “orbits” and because myasthenia gravis can be caused by a growth on the thymus gland. The thymus got a clean bill of health, but the image revealed a “nodule” on my adrenal gland.  I am referred back to Dr. Prows for that problem, if it is a problem.

      Irreparable muscle damage can occur if the antibodies aren’t suppressed.  Dr. Pelak demonstrated by using her fingers to represent the muscle surface where muscle and nerve interface.  The rough muscle surface allows a lot of area where the nerve juice can contact the muscle.  Left untreated, the antibodies can result in the muscle surface smoothing over like the surface of cold gravy.  There is much less surface for the nerve to contact the muscle.  The muscle function is greatly reduced.          

     She gave me two options to try in addition to pyridostigmine.  One is Imuran.  I will probably end up taking that or something similar for life.  It is rather slow acting.  I reluctantly elected to try prednisone for a time for a faster “cure” for the double vision.  The idea is that once the double vision is fixed, I will quit prednisone and go to another drug less harmful to the rest of the body, probably Imuran.

     I can only think that now if I want to try out for the Rockies, I won’t get past the drug test.  I am on steroids!  Plus, I have seen folks who are taking prednisone.  They don’t look healthy.

     For one glorious year, I went through the day without taking any pills.  Then I took a blood test.  My calcium was low.  Start taking calcium again. 

      I am in the early stages of getting the right dosage of Synthroid.  The radioactive iodine got rid of the thyroid nodule, and the gland’s ability to produce.  Add to the Synthroid the two pills for my eye, and the Zantac for stomach upset and the selenium to counteract the steroid, and I am a walking pharmacy.

      For now, it seems I have succeeded in my quest to find the cause of my eye problem.  In the process, I nearly lost my respect for the medical profession.  With the help of a couple of good doctors, my faith is partially restored.

     Now, if you have read this far, reward yourself with a gold star for listening to yet another old goat discuss his medical problems.  A bourbon and Seven might be in order, but I think you don’t need to dig out the Tylenol PM.  You are probably half-asleep already.

          

         

Springtime on the Prairie

     It’s May.

       The yard decorates itself for a visit from Royalty, if purple is the color of Royalty.

      With some yellow thrown in.

  

      The rain gauge recorded .75”.  It didn’t capture much of the ten to sixteen inches of heavy wet snow.  Roads were nearly impassible, not with snow, but with mud.  It’s a rare year.  I can remember only one or two springs this wet.

     Now of my three score and ten, 68 will not come again, So about the yard I will go, tying to learn to enjoy yellow and purple "flowers." (With apologies to A. E. Housman)

Culvert

     This is a story of two boys.  The names have not been changed to protect the innocent.  There are no innocent.

     Jake and I were born about four days apart.  The first birthday party I can remember was probably his fourth or fifth birthday.  We visited school together pre-first grade.  We went twelve years to school together.  We rode the school bus together.

    Our first bus was a 1940’s Chevrolet panel wagon with windows.  Oliver, our bus driver, kept us separated because together we squirmed and wrestled and made life miserable for the other passengers.  One of us sat beside him in the front seat, the other in one of the back seats.

     It was our custom to “stay overnight” with a friend.  I spent a few nights with other schoolmates, but I stayed with him, or he stayed with me more than with any others.

      Jake’s dad Ed was sort of a gruff old guy.  He used a lot of forbidden cuss words in ordinary conversation.  When I was a kid, I was a little afraid of him, but as I grew, I learned his bark was worse than his bite.  He smoked Camel cigarettes.  He bought them by the carton.

      One day when a carton of Camels was about half empty, Jake lifted a pack, figuring Ed wouldn’t notice.  Jake confided in me.  We planned.  On a Friday evening, I spent the night with him.  On Saturday morning, after our fill of watching cartoons on their new television (all televisions were new in those days), we threw on overcoats and overboots and headed for the culvert.

      Jake’s place was about a hundred yards south of what is now Road 3P.  3P crossed the Lickdab just west of their driveway.  There once was a rickety bridge there.  The road made a curve there so the bridge could cross the creek at right angles.  The curve and the bridge were both road hazards.  The county replaced the bridge with a six-foot tube and straightened out the road when we were in second or third grade.

    Going to the culvert was not unusual for us.  It was a neat place that could be anything we wanted it to be, a bomber, a submarine, a cave.  This morning our game wasn’t imaginary.  Jake had stowed the Camels and a packet of matches in the culvert, ready for us.  Safely out of sight in the culvert, we opened the pack of Camels, took a cigarette apiece, and lit up.

     No, neither of us got sick.  I’m sure it was not the first encounter with tobacco for either of us.  One was enough, though.  We left the cigarettes and matches in the culvert, thinking there would be another day.  There wasn’t.  I left for home that afternoon.

     Sometime later, when I suggested we could go get another hit, Jake sadly reported that he had visited the site and the cigarette pack had slipped to the culvert floor and the cigarettes got soaked up with water and were no longer any good.  Shucks!   

     So that was that, at least so I thought.  Fast forward fifty years.  At an alumni gathering, I am visiting with Jake’s older brother Rod.  Jake always idolized Rod.  Rod was probably ten years older than we were.  He joined the navy out of high school and served on an aircraft carrier.  He went a lot of places, particularly, Japan.

      In those days, Japan was known to us as the manufacturer of cheap toys that usually broke before you could get them out of the box.  Rod changed our mind about that.  He brought from Japan a neat pair of binoculars and the first transistor radio any of us had ever seen, from Japan!  When leave was over and Rod returned to duty, the radio became Jake’s radio.

      It had an earphone.  Here was another opportunity to listen to the World Series in class without the teacher knowing. It had an FM band.  There weren’t any FM stations then.  It also had a short wave setting.  Once in awhile we could hear somebody talking over the short wave band.

        Rod and I are visiting at the alumni banquet, probably in 2011 or 2013.  He tells me he has a sort of funny story to tell me.  It’s something his dad shared with him.  That had to be an old story.  Ed died in ‘66 or ‘67.

     Ed told Rod he saw Jake and I headed for the culvert.  Nothing unusual about that.  A little later he glance that way and saw something quite unusual—smoke coming out of the end of the culvert!  Ed laughed.  Those dang kids!  In the culvert smoking cigarettes, thinking they were pulling the wool over anybody’s eyes!

     Rod laughed.  I laughed.  But I was thinking:

     Busted!  And I didn’t even know it, for fifty years.

     Here’s another Japanese import, less well-known than the high quality electronics that became Japan’s trademark in the 1960’s and beyond.

     Atama kakushite,

    Shiri kakusanu.

     Literally translated, it says, “Head covered, butt uncovered”.  There is no witticism, no Poor Richard wise saying in English for that Japanese quip.  It refers to a toddler who “hides” by covering his head with a blanket while leaving his bum exposed.

      We were beyond toddler stage, Jake and I, but we left our bums exposed in that culvert on that Saturday morning long ago.  I’d like to say it never happened to me again in my life.  Such a statement would only be one more unsuccessful attempt to pull the wool over somebody’s eyes.

       I’ll give Sir Walter Scott the last word:

      Oh what a tangled web we weave

     When first we practise to deceive.