The Pasture That Has Everything

    One neighbor.  That’s all we have.  We’re like Vatican City, a neighborhood of our own surrounded by everything else.

    The “everything else” in this case is a huge pasture belonging to our neighbor.  It happened that way because our neighbor moved this house to the site back in the 70’s when he was first married. 

      When his father died, his mother moved into town, and he and his family moved to the parent’s vacated home.  His house is on the north end of the mile long pasture, our home, on the south end.

      The pasture is a source of lots of things:  like firewood, for example.

     Wild life, like pack rats (here they may collect unmolested, at least by humans or their pets),

    

     Electric power for Midwest Energy (ours comes from the local REA coop)

     Yucca (better known as soapweed in this country)

     A little running water, most years,

      And a spring,

    There’s mystery and tragedy,

       Mile makers on the road to progress,

      This benchmark shows the elevation.  The actual numbers are hard to read, but I believe they say 3000 feet above sea level.

      Our house is built on the west side of an old road bed, the former route of Kansas Highway 25.  The road bed is grassed over but the bed and the ditches remain.

    Varied scenery includes rock formations,

     An old homestead,

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     And some great views.

     When we first lived there, we rented our house.  I had time to take a Sunday afternoon walk.  Now, I spend most of my outdoor time working on the house.  Firewood provides the only excuse to make a pasture visit.  The old truck and the buzzing chainsaw dispel the notion that you have stepped back 200 years into the past.

Rat Addendum

     A private investigator showed up this week.  She found the story of the rat dissatisfyingly unfinished.

     It was planned to be just a vacation, a time for a little R & R while the bureaucrats in charge of her department were off gallivanting around.  And that’s how it started, as a vacation.

      However, her investigative nature soon overcame the need for relaxation, and she dug right in.

     The weather didn’t cooperate.  The trail was obfuscated by a lot of snow, necessitating time off for tool cleanup.

      Other impediments included the poor support staff, no investigative lab out here in the sticks, only some dullard standing around in the snow with a point and shoot.

     But eventually, the help came round, and the weather did warm up.  The investigation revealed a den of iniquity in the bushes.  With shovel, hoe, and pruning shears,

a sizable amount of evidence began to pile up.  (Don’t stand behind the PI with unbuckled overboots.  The rat’s nest will soon be keeping your shoes, socks, and pant cuffs company.)

       Shucks, dry hole.  Someone tipped the rats off and they weren’t home.  Oh well.  Time to cool off and make a snow angel or two before the snow completely disappears.   

    Back to work.  To find another lead, quite a bit of evidence had to be turned over.

      But at last, pay dirt!  His nest overturned, the rat ducked and dodged through the woodpile, a scene reminiscent of a two-legged detective pursuing a bad guy through an abandoned factory or warehouse in New York City.  (The cameraman couldn’t keep up.)

       Finally, by using a metal rod, the inept help managed to dislodge the criminal from a chink in the woodpile.  Not far, but just enough to enable Bella to make the grab.

     Unfortunately, the suspect resisted arrest and as a result suffered fatal injuries.   WARNING:  the following illustration contains graphic and gruesome details not suitable for all audiences.  Discretion is advised before scrolling further.

 The subsequent investigation cleared the PI and crew of wrongdoing. The rat clearly resisted arrest and suffered the consequences.  Any questions should be directed to the legal department, handled by the Car Guys legal firm of Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe. Counselor in charge is Helen Waite.  For more information on this investigation, go to Helen Waite.

     

Home Brewing

    “Eew!  It smells like a swimming pool in here.”

    It’s old winter’s song at our house.  Chlorine bleach sterilizes brewing equipment.

      Actually, I entertained the thought of not brewing this year, the first time in something like forty years.  It all began in the 1970’s when my sister-in-law gave me a subscription to Mother Earth News.

     I always thought Mother Earth News was a new hippie publication started in the 1960’s.  In reading the book The President and the Assassin, the story of President McKinley’s assassination, another sister-in-law gift, I find that Mother Earth News was around in the late 19^th century as a publication of anarchists.  I also discovered in reading that book that terrorism was alive and well in the late 19^th century, as some of the anarchists thought the only way to achieve the complete freedom they desired and a fair shake for the working man was to use violence.  So there were bombings and, of course, assassinations.  

      Back to brewing.  There was an ad in Mother Earth News for a complete brewing kit for something like $38 or something really cheap.  Not having learned the lesson about mail-order great deals, like the Ovaltine decoder in Christmas Story, I bit.  I got a six gallon brewing vessel complete with air tight lid and airlock, siphon tube and hose with clamp shut off, a can of malt extract, yeast, brewing sugar, plus enough brewing caps to bottle one batch. I thought the folks at home had a bottle capper, but it wasn’t to be found, so I had to spend another $14 for a capper (that had to be replaced in 2012).

      The first batch tasted quite good in comparison to the sour mash I remember from my youth when the folks brewed a batch or two.  (I think they used bread yeast, maybe.)  So I ordered a bunch more malt kits.  And I have been brewing ever since.  I have strayed to other suppliers in the intervening years, especially when the cost of shipping spiked, but I always end up ordering from Bierhaus International in Erie PA, where I started.

     For years, no one knew or cared that I brewed my own beer.  Then I had kids.  They went to school.  The word got out.

     When we first moved to this house, there was no heat in the basement.  So once I had a batch of beer bottled, I would set the bottles, usually 8 or 9 six packs, near the wood burning stove.  This warmed the beer up enough to reactivate the yeast which would carbonate the beer.

     One of the girls brought a friend home.  She asked if we were getting ready to have a party.  No, why?  Why did we have all that beer by the stove in the living room?  After a good laugh the Goodwife explained that she didn’t understand fully why, but that I brewed my own beer and I always warmed it by the stove for a week or two.  No, no party.

    It came to pass that for years after that incident, I had to answer two questions from my students, “Do you really brew your own beer?”  Stonewalling only increased the clamor, so, yes I do.  And then “When can we try some?”  Easy answer, when you turn 21.  To date, only two former students have ever shown up to collect on that promise.

     One other remarkable incident occurred some years ago.  Bierhaus always ships the cheapest way, sometime UPS, sometimes USPS.  One cold January day, we got a call from the post office.  We needed to come claim a damaged package.

     So we went one day after school to claim this damaged package.  The ladies rolled out this box that looked like it had been run over by a truck.  Leaking out of the seam of the damaged box was this fine, white powder.  Hmmmm.  “Did you call the cops?” I asked.

     They both laughed and said they thought about it, but then they looked at the addressee, and said, “No, probably not.”  So no cops. 

     Bierhaus had had a great sale on brewing sugar so I ordered 30 pounds.  When the truck ran over the box, or whatever happened, one of the ten-pound bags broke.  It turned out ok for me.  I reclaimed everything I could (cans of malt were dented but not broken) and somebody’s insurance replaced the whole order, so I got not quite double what I ordered.

      This so far mild winter led me to think I wouldn’t brew any this year.  I was keeping pretty busy outside.  Then January hit. 

     Dirt-blowing high winds finally turned to snow last week and high temperatures so far this February has been 24 degrees yesterday.  Inside sports like doing income tax and cleaning out the file cabinet, and defrosting the freezer have worn thin.  An email brought a price list; a phone call brought a box of ingredients.  So here we go.

     Clean and sterilize everything (“Eew!  It smells like a swimming pool. . . “)

                              Boil the water and mix in the syrupy malt extract, creating the wort.

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     Mix the wort, cold water, and yeast in the brewer.  Cap the brewer (the vessel, not the lad), install the airlock, wrap up and monitor for correct temperature.

 

     Just as there are all kinds of cooks and bakers, there are all kinds of home brewers.  Some brewers start from scratch, buying malted barley which they steep with a giant tea bag; malt, hops, yeast, all added at the correct time.  Other bakers crack open a Pillsbury tube of precut biscuit dough, slap them on a cookie sheet, throw them into the oven and call that baking.

      I’m in the Pillsbury school of brewers.  I buy malt in cans that is already hopped.  Boil the water, dump in the hopped malt syrup, boil a little more, and dump it in the brewing vessel.  Add the yeast when the temperature is just right—about 70 degrees.  Too hot kills the yeast, too cold and the yeast hibernates and increases the brewing time.  Thus the blanket, heating pad and thermometer.

       One week brewing time is just about right if proper temperature is maintained.  (Real brewers go by specific gravity checked with a hygrometer.)  The yeast will eat up all the sugar and give you thanks by peeing in your brewer. (Yeast secrete alcohol and CO2.)  Then the yeast will go dormant and sink to the bottom of the brewer.    

     Careful siphoning gets the beer out of the brewing vessel, leaving the dregs, and into the bottling bucket.  

  

      Meanwhile the dishwasher has been aiding and abetting by cleaning the bottles.  Then comes the hard work, filling, capping and stowing bottles.

      When the bottling is completed, clean the brewer with the same bleach used on the brewing bucket and siphoning equipment. (“Eew!  It smells like a swimming pool. . . .”) Boil up another batch.  A week later, bottle again.  Three or four batches usually provides a year’s worth of mostly good stuff.

      I was planning on trying a scratch batch using my chemical-free wheat, but the malting process is pretty involved.  You have to soak the grain until it almost sprouts, without letting any mold grow on it.  The deal-squelcher was when I read that the wheat should not have a lot of protein in it.  The protein causes problems.  This year’s crop had 14% protein, too high.

       Then you have to roast it to the right color.  Determining colors has always presented a problem for me.  Back to the Pillsbury recipe, at least for this year.     

      One of these years I will get a little barley seed, the two row or six row or whatever is the right kind for brewing, and grow some of my own.  I’ll fetch a few wild hops from the mountain property of friends.  That leaves the yeast problem.  I don’t know how to cultivate brewing yeast.  Still, it will be pretty close to totally home-grown.

Super Bowl Sunday

    The mercury (poisonous stuff) was not doing a ground hog imitation.  It wasn’t high enough to cast a shadow, even if the sun was up.  I removed an arm from under the futon and punched the snooze button on the radio.

     “. . . Super Bowl 48. . . .” the voice said.  XLVIII?  Really?  Super Bowl I wasn’t that long ago.  It doesn’t seem that long ago.  The upstart, junior American Football League challenged the old guard National Football League.

      It was one of those moments where you remember where you were and what you were doing at the time.  My brother was hauling me back to Greeley to begin winter quarter at Colorado State College.  Actually, winter quarter had begun almost ten days earlier.

       In those olden days, each quarter began with registration.  Every student stood in line to get into the building (Gunter Hall was it?) to go around to various tables to draw a key-punched card that got you into the class you wanted / needed. 

      There were lots of problems with the system.  The “good” classes with the popular or “easy” teachers, especially for general-ed classes, filled early.  Those who registered later got stuck with undesirable teachers.  Not everybody got to be first.  It was especially unfair to freshmen and sophomores who were trying to take required classes in the humanities, social studies and science.  (There were no math requirements at that time.) 

     You had a time slot during the day when you could get into try to draw your classes, based on the first letter of your last name.  To enter you had to show your student ID card.  Students, being human, tried to game the system, by sneaking in early, or borrowing someone else’s ID.  So that the Allens and Andersons didn’t always get to go first and get into all the good classes, and the Younts and Zapruders didn’t always get the hind teat, the alphabetical groupings were rotated so everyone had a chance to register first, and everyone had to suffer the consequences of going last.

     No matter.  It seemed that every student spent an hour or two standing in line, outdoors, waiting to get into register.  That was okay in September and in many Marches.  January registration was usually unokay.

      That particular year, it was bitterly cold and I stood in line in the biting cold for an hour or two.  When I got in, got my classes and returned home, I didn’t feel too well.  The next morning, I felt even worse.  When I looked in the mirror, my face was all swollen up. 

     I had the mumps.   

     I tried to tough it out for a couple of day with my brother as nurse maid.  But he had classes to go to.  Besides, who wants to be around someone with the mumps, probably contagious?  So Mom and Dad made the trip to Greeley and took me home to recover and see that I had proper care—meaning I got something to eat.  So instead of going to the first five or six meetings for all my classes, I was stretched out in bed.  The doctor warned me to remain prone as much as possible to keep the mumps from “going down.” 

     In my baby book (baby book?  I was a sophomore in college!) Mom crossed out “Mumps?” and reentered it with a correct date.  I figure now that other jaw-swelling episode was a bad tooth.  How are you to know that when you’re just a kid?

      So it came to pass that my brother came from Greeley in his old green ’52 Cadillac and we headed back to Greeley on that Sunday 48 years ago.  KOA radio was then “sports-talk” radio, and they carried important stuff then, like Broncos games and Denver Bears baseball.  And of course, the first Super Bowl.  So we listened to the Green Bay Packers, led by Bart Star and Paul Hornung, put down the upstart AFL represented by the Kansas City Chiefs with Lenny Dawson and Jan Stenereud.  I think. 

     It was 48 years ago.  I might have developed a few phantom memories in that time.  Anyway, listening to the game was little more than a way to pass the time.  What was really on my mind was the catch-up game ahead of me.  I was in a hole I never really dug out of.  I worked harder that quarter and got the worst grades of my college career. 

     I don’t remember too many other super bowls.  The one I do remember was when Denver squared off against the boastful-b******* Dallas Cowboys.  That must have been in the 70’s.  We lived in the Page Street house and I was beginning my career as a DIYer home owner.  I was wiring a light in our front door closet, one of the first electrical projects I took on by myself.

      From the closet I was working on, I could see the tv set sitting in a corner of the living room on the old “cob burner” stove that used to sit upstairs at the farm where the bathroom displaced the stove.  We struggled mightily to make the two mortgage payments in those days, and furniture was catch-as-catch-can.

      So the Broncos scored early and I thought, “Oh boy!  This is going to be easy.”  If the Broncos scored again, I don’t remember it.  I went on to finish the light and do something else (brew some beer?) after the Cowboys piled up a 30 point lead.

       I remember better times with the Broncos.  Like one Christmas Eve, we headed for Christmas Eve Church service listening to Bob Reuben (I think, or was it Bob Martin?) and Larry Zimmer bringing the fair and balanced (ha ha) description of the battle with Terry Bradshaw and his Steelers.  I remember Dad excusing himself to go have a smoke right after the service ended.  He rushed out to the blue Buick and switched on the radio to see how Charley Johnson and Riley Odoms (that might have been the right players) were faring against the Steel Curtain.  He had lots of company.  And by George, the Broncos won!  Did they go on to the Super Bowl? I don’t remember. 

      I was taking a brief nap in an easy chair in front of the tv when Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunctioned.  “Dad, you missed seeing Janet Jackson’s boob,” my college-aged daughter said.  “Garn!  Why didn’t you wake me?”

      What teams played?  Do you remember?  That was ten years ago.

      Will the Denver streets and thoroughfares be treated to an orderly and lively traffic flow tomorrow February 3?  Or will it be snarling, horn-honking, hung-over commuters clogging the I70 and I25 corridors? 

      Que sera sera.  What’re really important are all the new ads we’ll get to see for the first time.  Not.  The media has already previewed a bunch of them.  I guess if you paid a few million to play an ad during the super bowl, you don’t mind getting a little more bang for your buck by getting your ad run free on the news.  But it seems a little like opening your Christmas presents early.

     Well, I have to go now.  We can’t ever host a Super Bowl party—our tv screen isn’t big enough.  I’ll go down to town, maybe sit in the same easy chair I napped in during the Janet Jackson display.  But I do have to take my share of snacks.

     My contribution will be guacamole, chips, and jalapeno poppers.  They are all within my culinary skills.  Mash some avocados, tomatoes, onions, a little garlic together.  Add some salt, a little mayonnaise, some lemon or lime juice to keep the avocado from turning colors. Carefully stick the avocado pit in the middle (supposedly helps preserve the avocado) and cover the thing with clear plastic wrap.

     Slice the jalapenos in half the long way.  Try your best to cut right through the stem so there’s a little handle on each of the peppers to it pick up with.  Take out the seeds and membranes.  Don’t rub your eyes during or after this exercise (a long time after).  Fill the cavity with cream cheese.  Wrap a slice of bacon around the whole thing.  Put them on a baking sheet and put into a 300 degree oven (hotter if you’re in a hurry) and check them in 30 minutes or so.  Just be sure the bacon is done.  If you place the cream cheese side down when you first place them on the baking sheet, you’ll need to roll them over in about 15 minutes.  The bacon will be done a little more consistently this way.

    Bon appetite!  May your Monday morning traffic be unsnarled.  Go Broncos!

Colonoscopy

     I’ve been to the Mountain!

     Like many journeys in life, my journey began before I knew it.  The first steps were into the pharmacy, unless you want to take the long view of things.  In the long view my journey probably began years ago when I began taking Synthroid or a generic substitute.

      I had called in a prescription refill, but when I went to the desk to get it, the pharmacist said, “We can’t refill it.”

       “But it says one refill by 4/14,” I said.  The pharmacist scrolled around on the computer.

      “No.  Before 10/13,” he said.

      “You sure?”

     “Yes.”

     “Now what do I do?”

      “We called the clinic.  They’ll let you have five pills, but they want to see you.”  I took my five pills and went home.

      Jill answered when I called the clinic.  Yes, she knew all about it.  Kyle wanted to see me, but first I needed lab work, a thyroid test.  “Come by the office and pick up the lab order.  Then we’ll make you an appointment with Kyle.”

      “But I’ve already made an appointment with the county nurse to do the blood draw Tuesday.”

     “Well, whatever.”  So I counted pills.  With the ones in my old folks pill container, you know the one, long rectangular with seven compartments with lids marked S, M, T, etc. with brail, too just in case you lose your glasses, and the emergency pills in two bottles in my shaving kit, and the five new ones, I can go for eight days.  That will be five days after the county nurse’s “blood draw.”  Two or three times a year they offer blood tests, a whole bunch for $70 or less depending on what you get.

     I’ve always kept an eye on my glucose just so diabetes can’t ambush me.  At my age you want a PSA too to ward off prostate cancer, and of course the thyroid one.  Then there was the calcium one.  Premature gray guys are susceptible to osteoporosis.  I took calcium for a few years.  I quit after the last blood draw and I wanted to see if it made any difference. (It didn’t.)

     I called Karla, the county health nurse.  (Karla and Jill are both former students of mine.)

      “Karla, how long will it take to get the results from the blood tests?”

     “Sometimes we have them by Thursday, but it takes a week to get the results out to everybody.  Why?”  So I explained my predicament.

     “I don’t want to get tested twice if I don’t have to.”

    “No need to.  I’ll call you when the results come in.”  So I went in Tuesday morning and got my blood drawn.  I hadn’t heard from Karla by Friday, so on Monday I called.  Karla wasn’t in, and her secretary said they didn’t have the results yet.  I had one pill left. 

    “Will you have her call me when she gets in?”  Karla didn’t call for a couple of hours, but when she did call, she said, “Your blood test results are in.  Do you want me to send them up to the clinic, or do you want to pick them up?”

     “Why don’t I just pick them up and take them up myself.  Then they can tell me what they want me to do.”  And I did.  Jill said she would show them to Kyle.

     Later that same afternoon, Jill called back.  “We’ve called your prescription in and you can pick it up anytime.”  No rush.  I still have one pill left.  “But Kyle still wants to see you.  When would you like to come in?”

      Now the journey is on for real.  The mountain which has been below the horizon is just about to peek above it.

      I’m new at this Medicare business.  I thought the yearly checkup was optional.  Well, not if you have to have a prescription renewed.  Much later I would see where I took a wrong turn in this maze of life.  I should have said Kyle is pretty busy so why don’t I just see Doc D?  Doc would have looked at the lab reports, asked about my home brewing and then would have said, “You feeling ok?  Well, you look OK.  We’ll just renew your prescription for another year.  I really think we should start a microbrewery.”  End of exam. 

        But no, I went to see Kyle.  His physical was cursory.  The nurse had taken my vitals and recorded them.  He looked at them, listened to me breathe and to my heart beat.  Then came the questions.

      Have any problems?  Still sexually active?  Depression?  Use alcohol?  How much?

     “A beer a day.”

     “Keeps the nagging wife away?”  You have to like Kyle.

     But then the IED along the side of the road, that which caught me totally off guard, blew up right in my face.  “When did you have your last colonoscopy?”

       “Er, ahem, um.  Never had one.”

     “Never!?  You’re how old? 66?  You need to have one.”  There followed the lecture, colon cancer 100% curable if found in time, if you wait for symptoms, too late, etc.

       “Look, one shitty day in exchange for knowing you don’t have colon cancer and you’re good to go for ten years.  Do it again when you’re 76.  Ten years after that, you’ll be 86 and by then who cares?”

      Yeah, yeah.  I was weakening.  How could I have any resolve?  I was completely ambushed, taken totally by surprise.  Then came the clincher.

       “Besides, when the doctor does your colonoscopy, he’ll check your prostate and I won’t have to do it today!”

       Isn’t it completely human to avoid immediate pain by putting it off to some indefinite future time, especially when you’ve been caught so sudden-like, without time to do any serious rationalizing?  I’m sure all of you would have said, “Oh, let’s just go ahead and check my prostate today and not worry about the colonoscopy.”  Yeah right.

     Anyway, do you see that mountain now?  Do you see how we humans stumbling along through this maze of life, tying to take the path of least resistance as Nature programs us to do, get trapped into climbing a mountain while all we wanted to do was to stay in the valley or on the plain?  Or keep your thyroid going.

      Or do you only see a mole hill magnified several million times through the lens of a paranoiac, an anal paranoiac at that?

    Well, one man’s mole hill is another man’s mountain.  On with the story.  The clinic called again, Lindsay, another former student.  “We have a procedure (procedure?) scheduled for you on January 16.”

     “I have a pretty busy day scheduled for the 16^th.”  Well, we did have a clinician coming in from Denver to work with the barbershop guys.  Couldn’t miss that could I?

     “How about the 23^rd?”

     Nothing on the calendar for the 23^rd.  Darn!  Now there is.

    “23^rd is ok.”  Amazing how easily a person of conscience can break the 8^th (if you’re Lutheran) commandment.  It was anything but ok.  But there it was.  The “indefinite” in “indefinite future” was gone.

     Lindsay called again on the 16^th (just to see if I really was busy?).  I need to make an appointment to see Kyle, then see her either before or after, and be sure my insurance information is up to date.  Life?  Or health?  I didn’t ask.

      This time Kyle had only one question.  “Are you going to chicken out on me?”  I’ll bet Kyle is a great fisherman.  Hook is set, 150 pound monofilament line, heavy duty reel.  He just as well have said,  “I dare you.” 

     Off to Lindsay, fill out the usual questions (ever had this, or that? Allergic to anything?), and get a packet of instructions with the blanks filled in.  Pick up the prescription at the pharmacy on Tuesday and follow the mixing instructions.  On Wednesday you will be on a liquid diet.  You can have coffee (no cream), tea, soft drinks and Jello, etc.

      Sure enough, Tuesday got here, though I was hoping it wouldn’t.  The pharmacy gave me this big plastic bag that weighed hardly anything at all.  The lady standing at the counter with me, a rather religious lady who used to be an aide who worked with visually impaired in my classes, says, when they handed me the bag, “Whoa!  Looks like a fun time for you!”

     “What?  The plastic bag didn’t fool you?  I just as well have gone to the liquor store if you already know what’s in the sack!” 

     “I know what’s in the bag!  Ha ha ha.”   So did everybody else, apparently.  Home and read the instructions.  In the bag is a one gallon (4 liter) plastic jug with some powder and crystals in it.  Fill it with water, shake it up until everything is dissolved, put in the refrigerator.  Easily done.

      Not too much time to worry about it Tuesday.  That night we went to see “Church Basement Ladies.”   Then it became Wednesday.  No solid food.  Liquid diet.  Follow the instructions on the jug.  Drink a tall glass (8 oz.) every ten minutes.

    Out to the walk-in refrigerator, also known as the garage.  Return with jug.  Pour out a tall glassful.  Flitting through my mind, the last scene of Socrates’ life, the one where his now-friend and jailer tearfully brings him the hemlock and gives him his instructions.  “Drink this down, then walk around until your legs feel heavy.”  It was a few minutes past eight.  Here’s to Socrates.                                    

    Ten minutes later I tried another dose of the sennaic hemlock.  My stomach wasn’t big enough for that second one.  The Lindsay papers said about every 45 minutes.  Well, that would take too long.  Just drink it as fast as you can.

      Soon, my time was taken up between going to the kitchen to refill my glass and to the bathroom.  A few minutes before noon, I drained the last bumper.  I handed the empty jug to the Goodwife on her way to the recycle center.  It was number 2 plastic.  Appropriate.

     If you don’t look back, it’s hard to tell how far you’ve come up the mountain.  In retrospect, by 2 p.m. when things slowed down considerably, I had scaled the steepest cliff.  I couldn’t know that then.  I still had another 12 hours of liquid-only diet and 10 to 12 hours of nothing at all to eat or drink.

     One can of fat-free chicken broth, one can of fat-free beef broth, one packet of dehydrated soup, about a quart of grapefruit juice was what I “ate.”  I couldn’t help but sympathize with all souls in the world who were involuntarily fasting, especially kids, as I crawled into bed Wednesday night.

     Then it was Thursday, summit day.  The alarm was set for 6:45.  I awoke at 6:30, crawled into the shower and waited for 7:30.  Take one step at a time and we’ll get through this.  A look at the thermometer as we stepped out the door, 5 degrees F.

     Lindsay is at the front desk at 7:45.  Here comes Jolene, another former student, to take me to my room.  “You have a roommate.  I think you’ll recognize him,” Jolene says.  There already in backless gown, IV in left arm, waiting was my 20 year colleague, football coach, AD, PE teacher Dan.

       “I didn’t think things could get much worse,” Dan greets me.

      “Yeah, we’ve really hit bottom.”

      Jolene hands me a rag and says, “Here’s your gown.  You can change in the bathroom and put your clothes in this closet.”

      I have to walk past Dan’s lounger to get to the bathroom.  “Close the door.  I don’t want to see this,” he says.

    “Not in the mood for a strip tease?”  After trying to tie the neck string of the gown with it on, I finally took it off, tied the string and put my head through the loop.

     “Get the ties figured out?” Jolene asks as I step out of the bathroom, juggling clothes and shoes in one hand, trying with the other hand to avoid giving Dan a BA.  “Oop, nope.  Missed this one,” as she gets behind me and ties the apron string I somehow missed.

     The nurse-anesthetist arrives just as Jolene is inserting the IV.  “We’ll try this mask on.  We’ll be giving you a little oxygen.”  Mask on, mask off.  The usual questions, any allergies, any problems with anesthesia, any questions?  No.  “See you in a little while.”

      “What are you having done?” I ask Dan through the curtain.

    “Both.”

     “Both?”

     “Upper and lower.”

    “Well, tell them to do the upper first.”

      “OK.  Why?”

      “You don’t want them cramming that thing down your throat after they’ve used it on the other end.”

      “They don’t use the same one,” Jolene says.  “The one they use on your stomach is smaller.”

       Eventually, the surgeon comes in, apologizes for being late, forgot to set his alarm, asks Dan what we’re looking for, assures him it won’t take long and he’ll know the results before he leaves.

      “And what are we doing for you, just a routine exam?”

       “Yes.”

     The Goodwife chips in, “Kyle is a good salesman. He’s keeping you busy.”

      “This will be easy.  You’ll know before you leave if I find anything.  I remember you.  I don’t remember many of the people I’ve operated on, but I remember you.”

      “Yes, you’ve dug a hole in me before.”  The truth is, he saved my life by referring me first to a urologist, and then to an infectious disease doctor who both helped me get rid of staff infection in mesh used to fix my hernia.

     “I was a bet between you and Dr. B.  He bet you he could cure me with antibiotics.  You didn’t think he could.  You lost, thank goodness.”

       “No problems with it any more?”

       “Not since it dried up.”

      “What has it been, five or six years?  Well if you ever do have any problems, I’d like to know.  You are a pretty rare case.  Well, see you in a little bit.”

       Somewhere during our conversation, they’ve hauled old Dan off.  I’m reminded of the scene in Animal Farm where they load old Boxer up in the knacker’s van and haul him off to the glue factory. 

     Now nothing to do but wait.  And wait.  I should have brought something to read.  Finally, the nurse wheels Dan back into the room.  He asks me, “You OK?”

     “Yeah, I’m fine.  How about you?”

      “I’m doing ok.  Hey, there’s a lot of our former students in that room.”

     “Having any pain?  Gas pains?”  the nurse asks Dan.

     “Yeah, gas pains,” Dan agrees.

     “Well, let it go.  The truth is, we can’t let you go until we know you can pass that gas.”

     “Maybe I should leave,” says the Goodwife.  As she’s leaving, the nurse laughs and says, “Where else can you fart and the women in the room will cheer instead of chewing you out.”

     “Do I need to come over and pull your finger?” I ask.

    “Do you have someone to take you home?” the nurse asks Dan.

     “Yeah.”

     “Who?”

     “My wife.”

     “What’s her name?”

     “Sally.”

     “Where is she?”

     “Home.”

    “I’ll call her.  What’s your phone number?”

      Then the wheelchair is in front of me.  “I’ve come for you,” the nurse says.

    “They’re coming to take me away, hey hey, They’re coming to take me away,” I quote.

    “Yup, I’m coming to take you away,” echoes the nurse. 

     “What do I do with my glasses?”

     “We’ll put them right here,” says the nurse and puts them on the table.  Down the hall we go past the nurse’s station.  I say “hi” to all my former students at the station.

     Cheryl greets me at the OR door.  “Just sit on this pad.  Now roll onto your side.”  She adjusts the pad and undoes the gown draw string, throws a blanket over me.  Around the table to my front side Cheryl asks, “What are we doing today?”

     What?  What are we doing?  Climbing a mountain?  “WE are doing a colonoscopy,” I say.  Then I think.  “Wait a minute!  What if I answer that question wrong, do I get kicked out of here?”

     Cheryl laughs, “Too late, you already answered correctly.”  The nurse-anesthetist comes in, puts a mask on me.

     “I’m going to give you a little oxygen to clear your head.”  Another violation of the 8^th commandment, but this one isn’t on my soul.  “How are you doing?”

      “I’m getting a little sleepy.”

      “That’s ok.”

      That’s it.  I’ve reached the mountain top.  A bit anti-climactic, don’t you think?

      The next thing I’m aware of is sitting back in the room in the same lounge chair.  “How’d I get my glasses on?”

      “We put them on you the first thing we got you back in the room.  Can you pass gas?”

     Action speaks louder than words, so I acted.  “That’s good,” the nurse says.  I’m little surprised that old Dan is still farting around on the other side of the curtain.  But then things aren’t all that clear yet.  The surgeon comes in to tell me I’m good.  As he’s telling Dan he’s good on the lower end but he couldn’t find anything to cause his stomach pains, I’m given my clothes and shepherded into the bathroom.  Somewhere in the jumble of events I chose a muffin and a glass of water for a snack, have to return to the bathroom because the gas-passing has gone a little beyond air. Then the muffin and water are gone and the Goodwife hands me my coat and we are making our way down the hall to the front door.  I don’t remember Dan leaving or if he was there when I left.

      Sally was there.  When she saw me she said too bad Joe wasn’t there.  The three of us retired together and were honored together by the school district.  It would be a reunion of sorts.

      Outside, it has warmed up to 9 degrees and that walk to the car sobers me up pretty fast.  Hey!  I walked out that door, didn’t have to be carried!  My backside is covered.  I can eat.  The sun is shining!  I can eat!

    Home we go.  The first thing I did after taking my coat off was throw the skillet on the burner, fry some bacon, an egg and have a banana ready for dessert.  Don’t forget the acidophilus.  The real end of this will be when things are back in working order. 

      But hey!  I’m down from the mountain!  It’s great to be back on the old flat plain.  Man is it good to be able to eat.

    I may go see Kyle again someday.  When my prescription runs out.

  

    

Struldbrugs

     In Gulliver’s Travels in the land of Luggnagg, Gulliver describes immortal human beings called “Struldbrugs”.  They are normal creatures except for one thing—they never die.  After 80 years or so, they suffer all the pains, losses, and indignities of old age.  Release from their infirmities is not possible since they are immortal.

     We started this week off with a Monday morning funeral for a lady who has been in an Alzheimer’s unit for the past five years or so.  The obituary and eulogy reminded us of the gregarious fun-loving person she had been.  Thank God we are not immortal.

     Meanwhile, life went on.  The day ended with a Lions meeting.  Lions clubs do a lot of good things, working to protect people’s eyesight around the world, providing disaster relief everywhere.  When you donate to Lions Clubs International Foundation, most of your donation goes to help victims, not the fund-raiser, because administration costs are provided by Lions members’ dues.  And of course, there’s all the work Lions clubs do in the local communities.

     But the flip side of Lions is the huge bureaucracy that runs the organization.  Local clubs have to have at least three officers, president, secretary and treasurer.   The secretary has to fill out monthly reports on membership and club activities.  (I’m not sure who reads those reports.) No one wants to be secretary.

     Clubs belong to zones.  Each zone requires a zone chairman.  Zones and clubs belong to a district.  A district has to have 1000 (or more) members, with a governor.  The district governor has to visit each club at least once.  As membership has shrunk, districts have expanded geographically.  The job of visiting every club is too onerous for one person so now we have vice-district governors.     

    Like most volunteer organizations, Lions Clubs are losing members.  Many small towns have closed their Lions club and started a community organization to do what Lions used to do.  They don’t have to file all the reports or have meetings all the time.

      One sociologist suggests that people born in the 60’s and later follow a different paradigm than older generations.  The new guys aren’t willing to sit through a meeting just for the sake of sitting in a meeting.  The new guys aren’t lazy.  They will work on a project that they see will help the community or be worthwhile in some way.

     The sociologist also suggests that the newbies are looking for fulfillment of the need to be creative, and the need to develop personally.  They also want to feel needed and wanted.  Organizations that don’t appeal to those needs will fail, he says.

    Finally, time is important.  The new guys are used to having every second of their time filled up, usually with something electronic, something they have control of.  So, at a meeting or activity, when there is dead time, out comes the smart phone.  Not a minute to be wasted.

     My sociologist says that the club or organization that doesn’t adapt to the new paradigm is doomed.

     Here is our Vice-District Governor (in the yellow shirt) with some of our most devoted members.  Two guys in the picture are under 80, and one of them isn’t a member.

    Here endeth the sociology lesson.  On to the rest of the week, if you haven’t changed channels. . . .

     Much of my time this week went to the rental house in town.  It was a four door model when I started.  It’s now a three door model, with two new doors, a deadbolt added to one old door, and a couple of scars from the door-obliteration.

     I tore the door out on Tuesday.  It seemed a nice enough day.  I had the studs in when the snow began to fall.  Fortunately, it was a spring-like storm.  In five minutes, the sun was shining.  Then it snowed again.  It forced me to cut the sheetrock first and get it inside, through the hole where the door used to be.  That saved me carrying it around and through a new door, which I would have had to do if I sheeted the outside up first.

    On Thursday it was so nasty and windy, I decided to take a trip to get the siding, not available locally, rather than work outside.  The trip wasn’t a very good idea.  I passed through an area that was near-zero visibility due to blowing dust.

     As I began my return trip, a police car went whizzing around me.  Soon I saw traffic stopped, so I took an alternate route.  Later, I learned that three people died in a pile-up in the dust-blowing segment of that road.

     Back to the deck next week.

     And then there’s a colonoscopy on Thursday.  

Doldrums

     Sunrise 8:04, sunset 5:39. I figure if I ever moved to Alaska, my life expectancy would drop to less than one year.  If I went there in the spring, I would do myself in during June or July trying to remain active and productive from dawn to sunset.  If I went in October, the lack of sunlight would finish me off before Christmas.

     In The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, the ship containing the criminal who shot and killed the albatross fell into the doldrums.  There the ship stayed until the crew starved and thirsted to death.  The crew bodies would be inhabited by spirits who man the skeleton ship (all the boards shrunk until there’s nothing but frame) and return the albatross-killer, the sole survivor, and dead crew to their home port in England.

      The winter doldrums aren’t as bad as the Mariner’s, I think.  The doldrums, by the way, are (is?) the area(s?) along the equator which is a sort of DMZ for the north and south winds.  They either stay out of there completely, or have some tremendous battles there.

      The holidays are mostly to blame for the winter doldrums.  After an extended week of sumptuous sugar and fat highs coupled with fizzy beverages, there’s nowhere to go but down as in, back to work.  I think those old Puritans were on to something when they banned holidays like Christmas.  Don’t put on any midwinter celebrations.  Steer an even keel and tough out those short days and long nights.

    Easy to say this soon after emptying your stocking, eating that orange and candy cane and keeping warm with that lump of coal and you don’t have to be nice again for another 50 weeks.

     It could be worse.  You could be in customer service and have to deal with all the nasty callers who are upset because they bought it on Black Friday and the 30 days are up and you had to leave the tags attached to the garment and have the sales receipt and the gift card you got last year and never spent is being hit $2 per month for inactivity fees.

    Well, that’s almost all behind us for another year, and here’s a quick glimpse of our holidays:

      The prize for the best gift decoration goes to Josh for putter wrapping.  Included were wire nuts, stick pins, egg cartons, bubble wrap, a nose and tail. 

    Gung Hay Fat Choy!  Woops.  That’s Chinese.  Akemashite Shinnen Omedeto Go Zai Mashu!  (Word is prejudiced.  It didn’t flag Chinese for being ungrammatical, but it sure did Japanese.)

      And here’s what I’ve been doing in the New Year.

  

  Putting new wine in old skins?

      Of course, the doldrums only affect sailing ships.  One way to get out of them, put a motor in that boat.