Bureaucracy 1—Me, Nothing

    It was back last October, I believe it was, when I got notice I needed to renew my Commercial Driver’s License medical certificate.  On October 26, I got a three-month extension instead of the usual two-year certificate.  High blood pressure, the examiner said, 150 something over 80 something.

     In November, I called on the family physician.  He said three things about my blood pressure: these pills will lower it, get a blood pressure duff and check your pressure often.  Don’t take the pills unless you need to.  “And, I’m sending you for a sleep apnea test.” 

      “What?” I protested.  “I took one of those years back.  They told me I didn’t have it, that I breathed through my nose all night.  People who breathe through their nose don’t have sleep apnea.”

     Not necessarily true, he assured me.  There have been some changes since last I took it.  I had visions of packing an overnight kit, being wired up like a Howdy Doody and trying to sleep in a strange bed.  Before I could voice any further objections, he told me I didn’t have to visit a sleep lab, that now I would just take a small machine home with me, hook myself up, and sleep in my own bed, and return the machine the following morning.

     That sounded better, but still not good.  “Why am I taking this test?  Does sleep apnea cause high blood pressure?”  Very definitely, he said.

      The sleep study people were slow, as the doctor warned me.  It was nearly a month before I heard from them, even though I called them a week after my visit with the doctor, as instructed.  It was December when I reported to the sleep study office and got my “in-service” on how to use the machine. 

     It was pretty easy—put on a head strap that held small square sensor between my eyebrows and two small probes in my nostrils.  The sensor tracked brain activity and the probes my breathing.  I returned the machine to the office the next morning.  Ten days later, I got a call from my doctor’s office informing me I had severe sleep apnea.

      The consultant asked me how many times I woke up during my sleep test.  I said four or five.  He showed me a graph that showed me waking up 48 times an hour.  He said I would feel like a new man after using a CPAP machine for a while. 

      How about trying a mouthpiece instead, I asked.  He said that would get me into the moderate area at best, still below normal sleep patterns.  Once again I gave in and scheduled a date to pick up and learn how to use a CPAP machine.

      October 26 + 3 months = January 26.

      My three-month extension was drawing near.  The first week of January, I scheduled a January 20 appointment with the CDL examiner who had given me the original CDOT physical.  It took three phone calls to make the appointment.  Did I have to retake the entire physical?  No, just a follow up.  The charge?  A normal office call.

      My job was to show up with my blood pressure in control.  That was the plan.  When I got there, the person who had administered the physical wasn’t “in” on that day.  What!?  I called three weeks ago.  It took three phone calls, but I thought we had it all set up.

      The person who actually visited with me wouldn’t sign off on my physical, this time because of my eye.  But I gave them the phone number of my ophthalmologist at the first exam.  Did they call?  No record that they did, the first examiner never recorded any notes to that effect.  By now, my blood pressure had risen quite a bit.  My 120-mile trip was for naught.  I would be charged for an office call for a perfectly useless visit.

      I protested vehemently, to no avail.  I could see the original examiner on Monday or Tuesday.  I was already scheduled elsewhere for Monday and Tuesday.  Well, Wednesday then.  Wednesday was January 25.  Cutting it close.

     On Tuesday January 24, the clinic office called to say the original examiner person was out, sick, would be out for at least two days. 

     The hand writing on the wall, the one I had been glancing at (and ignoring?) for three months, began to switch from cursive to print, from Hebrew to English, in bolder font.

     Instead of a road trip, January 25 found me on the phone, first with DVM CDL physical branch.  My medical and license would expire on January 26.  I would have a ten-day grace period to get my physical up to date, however. 

      I called a clinic about thirty miles distant that did nothing but CDL physicals.  Blood pressure?  I had to be below 140 on the high end.  (Mine was right at 140 at home, probably higher in a clinical setting.)  Sleep apnea?  You have to bring a read-out from the CPAP machine.  I didn’t even get to Myasthenia Gravis.   The voice on the phone asked where I lived, then referred me to a Loveland clinic, a competitor.  Do I know when I am getting the brush-off? 

     January 26 was fully scheduled for us, a therapist appointment in Greeley for the Goodwife, an appointment with the taxman for me.  Then, to Denver to pick up Duke the dog.  No time to deal with an expiring CDL.

     Friday, January 27 arrived.  My wallet did not get destroyed by an exploding CDL at the stroke of midnight.  It did find me dealing with another section of the bureaucracy, the Driver’s License Examiner’s office.

       “Take a book,” the Goodwife advised.  I didn’t get past the front desk.  “What can I do for you?”

     “I need to trade my CDL in for a regular license.”

     “Giving up driving?”

     “Can’t pass the physical.”

     “Let’s see your license.”  I handed it over.  She studied it a few seconds.   “What’s your address?”

      “Oh, I need to change that.”  It had the farm address on it.  Slap, whap, a sheet of paper on the counter topped by my invalid CDL.

     “You need to have two documents to prove your address, like utility bill or credit card statement.  Refer to the list on this paper,” indicating the paper beneath my CDL.

     Off I went.  Well, they won again, I reflected as I headed home for the required documents.  I had to make two trips, at least, to get my business done. 

     When I returned with bank statement and utility bill in hand, the greeter was perfectly friendly and happy.  Why not?  She had fulfilled her duty, the duty of every bureaucrat, to make sure the “customer” (victim?) has to return at least once to get the business done.

    To give the devil his dues, the rest of the visit went smoothly.  I didn’t have time to read anything.  The lady who processed me informed me I had till January 26, 2018 to pass my physical and reinstate my CDL without going through the arduous test.  The photograph lady even made a joke.

      In Charles Dickens’ Little Dorrit, he spends a lot of time detailing what he terms “The Office of Circumlocution”.  It is an official government bureaucracy through which all new businesses must go before they can legally go into business.  Its number one priority is to keep itself alive and well, its operators and their families employed and well paid.  Slowing or stopping all progress, all new and productive enterprises from happening is its next priority.

      Some things don’t change very much.

     I guess I should be glad I took the physical and addressed the blood pressure issue.  I have some evidence that I might feel better having spent a few nights with my new bed partner.  (The Goodwife approves my new partner since I haven’t snored once since she (it?) moved in.)  I have three hundred and sixty-three days to retake and pass the CDOT physical.

     I probably won’t do it.  Why would I subject myself to another bruising session with the office of circumlocution?   

           

  

Homecoming

     Everyone loves a parade.

     In my youth, there were always two parades in the fall of the year, September or maybe October.  From sixth grade on, both parades found me in the marching band. 

      We were always invited to attend band day at the University of Colorado in Boulder, where the band marched in the parade, took in the football game and participated in the playing “Fight CU” with all the other bands in the stadium.

     The other parade was our school’s homecoming parade.  It was an impressive parade for a small school.  (Or maybe it is impressive in my memory while in reality it’s like Harold Hill’s first band.)  Every class was expected to field a float.  Even the three elementary classrooms had some sort of entry in the parade.

     The six elementary grades were grouped into three classrooms, first and second combined, third and fourth, and fifth and sixth grades.  When I was in first grade, there must have been 26 first and second graders.  Mrs. Boil assigned each of us a letter of the alphabet.  We had a sign hanging around our neck with our assigned letter on it.  We each carried something that began with our letter.

     My letter was “O”.  I had two oranges pierced with strings and hung around my neck bandolier style.  We marched in alphabetical order down the streets as part of the parade.  I don’t remember any of the many  floats my class built over the years. 

     I remember riding a bicycle in the parade once.  The bike had crepe paper threaded around the wheel spokes.  I had stuffed a gunnysack with rags and was sitting on it.  The dummy was supposed to represent the opposing team in the football game that afternoon.  I suppose I had some kind of sign, but I don’t remember what it was.

     I took up band in the sixth grade.   All band members were expected to march with the band in the parade.  No time for riding a float or a bicycle. 

     The week leading up to homecoming was exciting.  Every night we would gather to work on our float.  The float was usually built on a farmer’s wheat truck, or a pickup, or maybe even a tractor.  One year, our class used our old GMC truck.

    Float building was like most every other class project—three or four people did the work and the rest goofed off.  Most years, I was in the goof-off group. 

     The usual construction consisted of some kind of wood framework built over and around the truck cab.  The wood frame would be covered with chicken wire.  A similar frame would hang down from the base of the truck bed’s sides and cover the truck’s flanks, including the wheels.

     Once the chicken wire was attached, then there was plenty to do for everybody.  The chicken wire was either crocheted with proper color (purple and gold) crepe paper streamers, or was stuffed with colored paper napkins.  Crepe paper streamers could be attached to the wood frame using tape or staples without the chicken wire, but the guaranteed breeze would pretty much make a mess of such lightly secured paper.  Stuffing napkins took a lot of time.  Streamers or napkins in chicken wire were much more wind-proof than streamers on their own.

     On the back of the truck would be some scene, sometimes with live actors taking part as the float moved along the way.  There was always a slogan somewhere on the float side.  The class responsible for building the float would have their graduation year either on the front or rear of the float.  “Class of ’65.”  It was a lot of work for a fifteen or twenty minute trip through a few streets in town.

     After the parade, the floats would line up on a field adjacent to the football field, so folks could get another look at them.  Someone would judge the floats and award first, second and third place.         

     The parade usually started about ten o’clock.  Some group such as Lions or band mothers would serve lunch as a fund-raiser.  It probably took a couple of hours to line the floats up, have the parade, then line the floats up again.  Serving lunch to the crowd always took some time, but there was plenty of spare time for us to get up our own football game, or some other sport activity, maybe baseball if the parade was early enough in September and the World Series was still in the news.

     At two o’clock, the football game kicked off.  In junior high, I might have actually watched the football game, but in grade school, we were always much more interested in our own game.

      At halftime of the football game, there was a crowning ceremony for the homecoming king and queen.  The queen would be dressed up in her finery, maybe last year’s prom gown.  The king usually was dressed up in a football uniform, and was excused long enough to get his own crown and to kiss the queen out in the middle of the football field in front of God and everybody.  Then he was back to the halftime meeting with the coach and the team in the locker room.

     When the game was completed, it was time to clean up.  For the floats, that job usually fell to the family who had donated the truck.  Somehow, all those willing workers of the week before had disappeared.  All the paper had to be disposed of.  Usually the wood and chicken wire went to the dump, too.  Too much work getting the staples, tape, nails, out of the chicken wire.  Everyone was in a bit of a hurry, too.  There was more to come.

     All the folks took a three or four hour break from homecoming.  It was time to go home, do the chores, clean up and return to school.  There was the homecoming dance.  Many years, the dance was preceded by the homecoming banquet.

     In those days, homecoming really was homecoming.  The alumni held meetings, made speeches at the banquet, celebrated with the home folks. The same with the dance.  It was a community dance.  The alumni were the honored guests.

     As grade school kids, homecoming was over after the football game.  But somewhere along about the eighth grade, we were allowed to attend the dance.  That was the big time!

     Behind the scenes, parents and community members did a lot of work, preparing for, serving, and cleaning up after the banquet.  The dance was held in the same place as the banquet, the school gym, so the chairs and tables had to be removed before the dance could get rolling.  The janitor probably got stuck with cleaning up after the dance.

     As Sherwood Anderson observed in Winesburg, Ohio, the people worked pretty hard at having a good time.  Homecoming must have been the best of times.

Andy-Over

     Pigtail!

     That’s what you said when your throw was errant and you had to try again.  As the game evolved, “Pigtail!” could be a fake.  Watch out!

     The game was called “Andy-over”, or was it ”Auntie-over”? or “Anti-over”?  I never knew for sure.  Still don’t.

      It required a building, a ball and a few players.  The players divided into two teams.  The teams stood on opposite sides of the building.  One team called, “Andy-over” and threw a ball over the rooftop.  The team on the other side watched for the ball and tried to catch it before it hit the ground.

      If they caught the ball before it struck the ground, they were entitled to run around the building to try to tag opposing players with the ball.  “Tagging” included throwing the ball to hit one of the opposition.  The player(s) who were tagged or hit by the ball had to switch sides and become a member of the enemy team.  The object was to get all of the other team’s players on your side.

       The team on defense tried to avoid being tagged by the ball.  The pursued team members were safe if they reached the other side of the building without being tagged or hit by the thrown ball.  The teams have then changed sides of the building.  That is, the survivors of the attack were on the other side.  Anyone hit by the ball stayed on the same side and became a member of the opposing team.

      Once things had settled down, the offensive team had to restart the game by calling out “Andy-over” and throwing the ball over the roof to the other side.  If a throw misfired, didn’t make it over the roof, then the thrower had to notify the opposite team by saying “Pigtail.”  Then “Andy-over” and the thrower tried again to get the ball over the roof to the other side.

      Again, the receiving team tried to catch the ball before it hit the ground.  If they did so, then they were entitled to chase around the building and try to tag some of the opposition.  If the ball evaded the receivers, they had to pick up the ball, call “Andy-over” and throw the ball back to the other side.  The game was over when one team had all the players on their side.

      It was a simple but exciting game.  There was a lot of tension when the ball disappeared over the roof and the throwing team waited to see if there would be a rush around the sides of the building and the subsequent tagging attempt.   If the receiving team failed to catch the ball, they would hear “Andy-over” and all eyes watched the roofline to see where the ball would appear.

     Obviously, you had to rely on the honesty of the receiving team as to whether they caught the ball or not.  The sound of “Andy-over” meant the receiving team failed to catch the ball and they were returning it for the other team to try to catch.

     The game involved strategy.  The throwing team was obligated to get the ball over the roof.  But the thrower could do everything in his power to make the ball difficult for the receivers to catch.  You could throw the ball diagonally across the roof, throw low and slow so the ball barely got over the roof and dribbled down the other side, or depending on the building, throw it high and make it bounce on the other side of the roof.  The ball would bounce off a slanted roof unpredictably, making it difficult for the receiving team to catch.

      Thus, not every throw resulted in a catch and a pursuit around the building.  A creative thrower could make it very difficult to catch the ball before it struck the ground.  The attempts to make deceptive throws often failed.  The thrower had to acknowledge his misthrow by calling out “Pigtail”.  Then, “Andy-over” put the receivers on alert again.

     Human beings are always challenging barriers, and the unwritten rules of Andy-Over got pushed a little.  It came to pass that a creative receiving team caught a ball cleanly.  Instead of hurrying around the building immediately to try to capture some of the enemy, a would-be thrower called out “Andy-over” to divert the unsuspecting receivers to the roofline and away from the building corners.  Then the fake-throwers ran around the building and caught their opponents with their heads up (maybe their pants were down).

     In a variation of the fake strategy, one imaginative thrower actually kicked the building after calling out “Andy-over” to simulate a mis-thrown ball.  He yelled “pigtail!” as his team headed around the corner to capture the enemy.        

      Thus, a bit of deception intruded on a game that called for basic honesty—truth-in-catching, so to speak.  Defensive strategies developed, too.  If your team had the manpower, two spies could be stationed by the two corners of the building to warn the team if the opponents were on the way.  Alternatively, a single safety could be stationed a few yards away from the building to keep an eye on both sides of the building.   The remote lookout was at a greater risk of capture since she had a longer ways to run to reach the safety of the other side of the building.

      It was a good game that involved teamwork, the excitement of pursuit and the suspense of being the hunted.  Everyone got lots of exercise running around the building.  You had to trust your opponent at the same time you suspected them as the enemy.

      When we played the game, we had two buildings to use.  One was a chicken house that had a sloped roof.  The high side was maybe ten feet high, the low side maybe six or seven feet high.  It required shorter distances to run, as it was about thirty feet wide and maybe twelve feet in depth. 

      The chicken house gave the throwing team lots of options, depending on which side of the building you were on.  From the low side, you could wind up and throw it as far as you could throw it, sort of like a lob in tennis.  The other extreme was a bowling type throw where you tried to get the ball to roll up the roof and trickle off the edge of the high side.

      From the high side, the bowl type throw wasn’t successful because the team on the low side could see the ball trickling down and had time to get in position to catch it.  A good throwing strategy form the high side was to throw the ball high and get it to land on the corrugated roof.  The ball would bounce off the roof in crazy angles, making it difficult to catch.

     Our other option was the main house.  It was two-story with a steep peaked roof.  Both sides had porches, and the east side had a chimney.  The chimney had to be avoided because a ball stuck behind the chimney was game-over.  A picket fence around the perimeter made catching difficult.  Just getting a ball over the high roof was a challenge for the smaller kids.  A ball landing on either porch roof made for unpredictable bounces.

      The distance running around the main house was much farther than running around the chicken house.  There weren’t near as many catches made when using the big house, so the running wasn’t as frequent as when using the chicken house.

    It was a fair-weather game that involved kids of all ages and sizes.   I look around my neighborhood and see all the nightmarish rooflines with juts and gables galore.  A lot of time would be spent getting the ball out of the neighbor’s back yard or from under the cars parked in the street.  Many front yards are separated from backyards by landscaping or fences, making it difficult or impossible to get from back o front yard  Besides, kids today would probably find the game not nearly as exciting as a video game.    

     The game is destined to become a relic of the past.  It was a fun and exciting relic.

Ivan Schooley

     Radio.

     A habit I’ve never broken—turning on the radio the first thing in the morning.  Nowadays, I turn on NPR.  In the olden days, it was KOA.

     Morning radio in the olden days meant names like Ivan Schooley, Bob Schreiber, and Pete Smythe.  Weekends were different.  Sunday morning meant Bob Lily who had a children’s church service.  I can’t think of Bob Lily without smelling/tasting bacon and fried eggs, the usual Sunday morning menu.

     Early on, somebody (Bob Lily?) read the Denver Post Sunday funnies.  The idea was the kids could grab the Sunday paper and follow along.  Since we didn’t get the paper (it would have been a day late through the mail) we settled for listening to the funnies while we ate.

      There were other evangelists on Sunday morning, like the Armstrongs father and son, Herbert W. and Garner Ted. They spread their message as we ate breakfast and shared the one bathroom while getting ready to go to church.

      Before television, Saturdays meant Big John and Little Sparky.  I think their theme song was “Teddy Bear’s Picnic” (“If you go out in the woods today, you better not go alone. . . “)  Saturday morning cartoons on television ended a lot of radio programs.

      The television wasn’t on weekday mornings.  The radio was blaring when we got up, continued while we ate breakfast, and while we got ready to go to school or work.  Television requires you to stop, look, and listen.  You can go about your business and still be listening to the radio.

     Perhaps the most memorable name on radio was Pete Smythe.  He had a program called, I think, Pete Smythe’s General Store.  He spun a few disks, played piano, and sang a few songs including his theme song (“put the fruit to the floor and like I said before, we’re open for business at Pete Smythe’s General Store”). 

      Pete was not only the proprietor of the store.  He was the mayor of fictional East Tincup.  He had two regulars in the store, Mote Watkins and Elney Elrod.  Mote had a limited role, asking, “Hey, what time is it?” Pete would give us the correct time.  Elney had a more active role.

      Pete was popular in our area.  He made a couple of appearances, once as the host of a talent show and once as a feature at the county fair.  I don’t remember attending either appearance.  What I do remember is my disappointment when I found out, from the report of others, that he didn’t bring either Elney or Mote with him.  It was like finding out about Santa Claus when I realized Elney and Mote were Pete’s fictional creations. 

      Grandma T. got Dad and Uncle Walter to record a song, “Fifty Years from Now” on a small reel-to-reel tape.  She sent the tape to Pete.  Pete returned it with a letter, thanking her and with another polite comment or two about getting the recording on a disk.  His closing line was, “Keep tradin’ at the store.”

     Pete played the piano and sang some, but he also played records.  He played new releases.  If the record was too wild for Pete’s taste, it nearly always broke East Tincup’s rubber band regulator, which meant the record didn’t get to its end before Pete stopped it.

       Sometimes Pete played records that offended some of his audience.  One such record might have been Phil Harris’s “I know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.”   I liked the record, so I wrote a letter to Pete in support of playing the song.  I wasn’t as lucky as Grandma.  I didn’t get a reply.

      One new release I remember Pete playing was Pat Boone’s “When I Lost My Baby”.  Pete made a lot of fun of that song, especially the slurs and glissandos in the “I-almost-lost-my-mind” part.  That was the first time I ever heard Pat Boone.  It wouldn’t be the last time.  I wonder if Pete ever became a Pat Boone fan.

     Pete went to television in time.  I watched a show or two, but the actual visual couldn’t live up to the image created by the mind in response to listening to the radio.  Besides, Elney and Mote were missing.

     I don’t remember when Pete Smythe left KOA for good.  Another famous announcer’s departure was more definitive.

      I remember Ivan Schooley as a newscaster.  He must have been a disk-spinner too, as a stack of records led to his demise. 

      As part of his newscast, Schooley always listed the previous day’s traffic deaths from the state’s roadways.  A couple of times, it was to our grief that we knew personally those named in his report.  He always concluded the traffic story with the number of deaths during the year, compared to the number of deaths a year ago, and ended with the admonition, “Drive carefully.” 

     For some reason, we didn’t actually hear Ivan’s mistake, but several of the kids at school did.  They were buzzing about what the radio announcer said that morning.  Apparently, he didn’t realize the mike was live—not the last one to get caught by an open mike.  He suffered an accident with a stack of records.  He vented his frustration with a few expletives undeleted, not realizing his comments were being broadcast by 50,000 watts.

     We never heard his voice after that morning.  The FCC was much stricter in those days.  Today, the only word uttered on air that would get you canned would be the “N” word.  Some broadcasters still “bleep” out certain words, but the blanks are easily filled.  Ivan Schooley wasn’t so lucky.  His successful career with KOA was over.

       Under the old FCC rules, today’s rap song would be one continuous bleep.  Come to think of it, that would probably be an improvement.  (I’ll probably be as wrong about the future of rap as Pete Smythe was about Pat Boone.)

     Radio has survived the challenge of television.  Will it survive the onslaught of personal devices like MP3’s and smart phones?

       Long live Radio!

      

My Story

        I could have been named Tennison, but I blinked twice, and then I was Ealie Leiko.

     The doctor said I should arrive on or about January 8.  Doctors don’t know everything.  Why should I wait a whole year to see Santa Claus?

      The week leading up to Christmas was a busy one for my hostess and me.  In addition to family, work, and Christmas shopping, we were going to Loveland to drive around to look at Christmas lights.

     That was scheduled for Friday night.  Then we would have a quiet Christmas Eve with our family and my grandparents.  We would get together with my mom’s family on Monday, the 26^th.

      Then the way would be clear for me to show up any time before or after the New Year.

      They never consulted me.

      The first complication came with a late invite to a Christmas party from Amy and Lars up the road.  That was for Friday night, the night we were supposed to go looking at lights.

      There was a quick schedule change.  We went looking at lights on Thursday night.  Well, they did.  I couldn’t see much where I was.  Anyway, that freed up Friday to go to the party up the road.

     Come Friday, I was sending signals to my mom that I was ready to come out.  Lots of folks said to Mom, “Do you think you should be going further up the road in your condition?  You will be that much further away from the hospital.”

      Mom replied, “I know who’s on the guest list.  There will be three or four nurses, a retired Physician’s Assistant, maybe even an MD.  If anything happens at the party, I’ll be in pretty good hands.”  

     The MD didn’t show up.  His wife and son did, but he didn’t.  Nothing happened.  Except something unusual, I hear.  Mom said it was time to go.  Twice.  Usually, she’s not in a hurry to leave a party.  She’s not the first to say, “Let’s go home.”  That night, she was.

     The party started at 3 p.m.  We didn’t get there till after six.  Big brother, noisy big brother, was taking a nap at three.  So we didn’t get there very early, and Mom was ready to leave about 7:30.

    She asked Granddad and Obachan if they minded taking Big Brother with them when they went home.  She had his bags packed already.  She had her own bag packed, too.

     The grandparents either had to take the kid’s car seat out of Mom’s car and put in their car, or trade cars with Mom.  It was after eight when we all got to our home, so the elders opted to just trade cars.  Everybody was tired.  Everybody but me.  I was rarin’ to go.

     So the grandparents left with Big Brother and headed for their home.  That left Dad, Mom, and me.  I was getting itchy feet.

     Mom told Dad “We better go,” but he thought it wouldn’t hurt to wait a while longer.  Finally, Mom told Dad she HAD to go. 

     We all arrived at the emergency room about 1:30.  Dad didn’t want to park where the ambulances go, so he parked a little way off, and he and Mom walked into the emergency room.

     The emergency crew went hysterical.  They ran around and into each other.  “Give us a stabbing or a gunshot wound and we know what to do, but we don’t know nothin‘ about birthin’ no babies”, they said.  They grabbed a wheelchair and told Mom to sit.

     She said, “I can’t!  There’s a head in the way!”  Tee hee!  It was mine!

     Mom was trying to get out of her pants.  She was yelling, “Catch this baby!”  Then she did sort of sit on the edge of the wheel chair.  The nurses helped her out of her clothes and then I finished my entry into a noisy world of bright lights and cold air, and somebody did catch me.  Somebody looked at the clock and said it was 1:36 a.m. on December 24, 2016.  I beat Santa Claus.

     By then I was about tired out.  Being born is a lot of work.  They prodded and poked me and I don’t know what all, but I managed to get in some sleep.

     There was still the problem of my name.  Mom thought Tennison was good.  I really didn’t look like a Tennison.  Mom liked “Eelie”, but Obachan said the kids would call me slimy eel.  The conversation went on quite a while among the adults.

      We had a moment alone, just Dad, Mom, and me.  I was sort of looking around our room. Mom said, “If you like ‘Tennison’ blink once.  If you like “Eelie” blink twice.”  I blinked twice.  Both Mom and Dad saw me blink twice.  That was it.  I picked my own name.  Not many kids can say that, I bet. 

     But it wasn’t all solved yet.  How should we spell my name?  Obachan insisted “Eelie” would become “eel”.  French? “Illi”?  Then folks would say, “I lie?”  “Illie?”  “Eye-lee?”  “Elee” would be “LE”.

     It finally came down to “Ealie”, but that isn’t foolproof, either.  Someone saw it and said “Alee?” like a Canadian “Eh-Lee?”

     My Mom said it is a nice-sounding name, but there is no pretty way to spell it.  Maybe she’s right.  Maybe she should have asked me to blink three times if I wanted to wait until I was 16 to spell it.

     You have to have a birth certificate to get out of the hospital, and a birth certificate has to have a name on it, spelled out.  So I am Ealie Leiko.  And that’s where it will stand until I am old enough to change my name all by myself.

    And that’s my story, for now.