Sleep Apnea

     Some years ago, I thought I might have sleep apnea. Brother John had been diagnosed with the condition and I shared a symptom—awakening suddenly, gasping for breath, having the feeling that I was suffocating, feeling like I had run a hundred-yard dash.

     Having reached my deductible with the insurance company, and having some funds left in my cafeteria plan (use it or lose it), I signed up for a visit to a sleep lab.  On the appointed day (or night), I drove to Hays. 

      I found some place to eat, but they didn’t serve liquor.  I ate without my usual beer.

      I pulled into the parking lot where the sleep lab was located.  A younger fellow with a ball of clothes in hand entered the building just ahead of me.  I grabbed my small bag and followed him.

       The place was a hybrid hospital-motel.  There was a front desk with a windowed office behind it.  One of the two young male attendants showed me to a room with a bed, nightstand, and a bathroom adjacent.  The bed’s headboard had a call button dangling from it.

       Instructed to try to go through my nightly ritual as close as I could, I showered and grabbed a book. I think I should have had that beer.  One of the questions they asked during the prep, was had I had any alcoholic beverage to drink.

      It was a bit early, about 9 p.m., when both guys came in with a fistful of wires, it looked like.  They put adhesive patches here and there.  One wire was glued right in front of my right nostril.  That wire and a few others were held in place by a headband.

     All those wires went into two bundles that were plugged into two receptors which led to some kind of machine under the nightstand.  Now, try to go to sleep.

      I didn’t go right to sleep.  I could hear loud snoring coming from another room, probably the young fellow who led the way in.  It went on for a while.  I could hear both guys stirring around and a conversation going on.  The snoring had stopped and didn’t start again.

       I really never went into a deep sleep.  I had to summon a guy to unplug me so I could use the bathroom sometime in the early a.m. 

      I saw the young fellow leave around 6:30 a.m.  In addition to his ball of clothes, probably dirty laundry now, he carried a small briefcase, a CPAP machine I assumed.  Then the young guys came to unwire me.

      When I asked, they told me they were college students who worked the sleep lab a few nights a week.  While the patients slept, they were free to study.  Plus they got paid to do the job.

     They informed me that I did not suffer from sleep apnea because I breathed through my nose.  Aha!  That wire in front of my nostril.

      I was a bit disappointed.  Not that I would leave without a machine.  Mainly, because self-diagnosis had been wrong.  I dressed and drove home, getting there in time to teach my afternoon classes.    

     In a follow-up, the doctor wrote me a prescription for sleep medication, but I never used it.  I have enough bad habits.  No need to add a drug-dependency.

      That was that.  Fast-forward twenty years, to when I couldn’t pass a physical to retain my Commercial Driver’s License.  (http://50farm.blogspot.com/2017/01/)   

     When I called on the doctor to address my blood pressure issue, despite my protestations, the doctor insisted I visit a sleep lab.  This time, I could stay home, sleep in my own bed.

      I had to go to a “class” where I learned how to hook up the machine, fill out preview and follow-up forms, and return everything before 9 a.m. the following day.  The machine this time was a headband with probes in each nostril and a sensor between my eyebrows.

      I slept quite normally.  Filling out the follow-up question, I was asked how many times I awoke during the night.  I wrote down four or five.  Ten days later, when I got my results, the machine recorded an average of 48 wake-ups per hour.  I had severe sleep apnea.

      I got the CPAP machine.  I have carried it to London, Germany, and Japan, anywhere that I plan to sleep.  It has made a big difference.  I have more energy.  My blood pressure is normal.

     A year or so later, the Goodwife was instructed to go to the sleep lab.  Perhaps her blood pressure problems were related to sleep apnea.

      Her “class” didn’t amount to much.  She brought home a machine.  This one clipped to her right forefinger.  No head band, no nostril probes, no patch between the eyebrows.  They have made a lot of progress in the year or so since I took the last test, not to mention the twenty years or so since I went through it the first time.

      Her test results showed “moderate” sleep apnea.  The “cure”, besides a CPAP machine, included the possibility of using a mouthpiece during sleep.  Except, this is the lady that can’t take a dental X-ray without barfing.  No mouthpiece need apply.

     She has been trying to use the CPAP for a few weeks.  It hasn’t worked out nearly as well for her as it has for me.  The problem is finding the right face mask.

      She is on her third mask style.  She started with “nostril pillows” that plug into the nose and are held in place with a headband.  The current mask has worked best, a modified nostril pillow.  The pulmonologist-lady says we will keep advancing until we find the right fit, perhaps a full mask that covers both nose and mouth.

      Whereas I average six to eight hours per night with my machine (it gives you all the statistics when you turn it off in the morning, including number of “events”—wake-ups—per hour), so far the Goodwife averages about five hours per night.  Her blood pressure is down, however, but she still takes blood pressure pills.

      Now, the nightly ritual includes both of us donning headgear and pushing the button on the machine.  It makes for a rather entangling goodnight kiss.    

     Thankfully, one great stride in the evolution of the CPAP includes nearly silent machines.      

        

      

   

    

R Project continued

      The last time the R ran was sometime in 1986 or ’87.  I was planting wheat with another tractor.  I noticed some little grass shoots coming up in the fine dirt prepared for planting.  Thinking it might be volunteer wheat (that would be ok), but fearing it could be jointed goat grass, I stopped the tractor and investigated.  It was goat grass coming up.

     Can’t have that.  So I shut down the 820 or 830 and started up the R.  I hooked it to the rod weeder and went after the goat grass. 

      Things went well for a short while.  Then the R started losing power, and began having a series of explosions where flames jumped out of the exhaust pipe.  Soon it was running on only one (of two) cylinders. 

      It was growing dark, so the explosive flames emanating from the muffler were quite colorful.  But not funny.  I unhitched the rod and limped the R back to the farmyard.  It managed to back itself into the red barn, far in the corner, where it stayed for the next 30 or so years.     http://50farm.blogspot.com/2017/11/

      Many a time I wished it were operational.  With the right combination of social schedule, weather, and good luck, I may get it off the unemployed roll.  Here it is in its homeless state of uncleanliness.

      Slowly, it sheds its parts:

     One of the hardest jobs was removing the studs that hold the exhaust/water pipes and the air intake fitting to the top of the head. Having removed the nuts retaining the pipes, it was necessary to take the studs out of the head, too.  I double nutted it, but couldn’t get the nuts tight enough to turn the stud in the head.  Add the vice grip, or adjustable locking pliers, in case you object to using a brand name for a generic tool.

     The outside ports are exhaust ports.  The next two are water jacket ports (notice the rust).  The middle one is the air intake port.  The outside ports lead to the exhaust valves.  The inside port leads to the intake valves.  The water ports connect directly to the radiator.    

      Altogether, there are 12 studs to remove in the top of the head.  All went well until number eleven came up.  Woops!

  

      “Don’t know my own strength!” to quote Bullwinkle.  Note the twisted-off stud.  I wasn’t able to do a selfie of my right arm between elbow and shoulder after the stud twisted off and my arm connected with the radiator cowling.  I was wearing a long sleeve shirt, a heavy over shirt, a hoodie, and coveralls.  Blood soaked the sleeve of my long sleeved shirt.  I wasn’t aware of the extent of the damage until the “nooning” when I removed the outer layer of clothing.  I did feel my pain, however.  It helped not to look at it.

     More studs to come, but first, off came the tappet cover.

  

     Then the rocker arms and fuel injector lines.

    Then the fuel injector pump cover.  Actually, the pump cover had to come off to get the fuel lines disconnected.

     Inside the pump compartment are four nuts connected to, you guessed it, four studs.  The nuts have to come off to get the head off.  In addition to the four nuts in the pump compartment, ten ¾” nuts hold the head to the block.  (Studs again, but they don’t have to come off.)  They should be torqued to 208-foot pounds.  This isn’t a job for the weak, as they say.  I got in plenty of upper body exercise on this day.

      Another day, another strenuous task.  The chain hoist hung on the east wall (can be seen in the background of the second picture above).  It had to be lifted up and hooked to the cross bar overhead.  I don’t remember it being such a hard job in days of old.  Or maybe it isn’t the days that are old.

    I had to remove the lower water pipes, connected to the head with four more studs.  I felt like I had in a day’s work by the time I got to this stage.

    Note the left valve, which is the exhaust valve for the left or number one cylinder.  The little “eclipse” mark at about 2 o’clock is where the flames were coming from that came out the exhaust pipe.  The valve is badly burned.  Why did it fail?  Valve springs too weak?  Tappets set too tight, so the valve never fully closed?

     Well, it won’t run that way.  Eight more studs to remove, the four that go into the pump compartment, and four holding the lower water pipes.  The four going into the pump compartment spend their life in the oil, so come out fairly easily.  The water pipe ones get rusty and stubborn.  Another twist-off.  This time, I didn’t injure myself.

      On a rainy day, the head went to Duerst Machine in Burlington.  I pointed out the two twisted-off studs.  “Yeah,” both guys said, and shrugged.  Must happen all the time.

       Next step, see if parts are available.  They are, at a healthy price.  Do I install new piston rings while I’m this close?  I have to remove the starting engine to get to the rod bearings.  If I don’t change rings and it uses oil and doesn’t have good compression, I have to go through the whole remove-the-head thing again.

     A set of rings (there are 14 of them, seven per piston) cost $300+.  A gasket set cost $200+.  One of the twisted-off studs costs $13.  The water pipe stud is only 7/16” and costs only $11.  Of course, they are all painted green for that bargain price.  Well, maybe nothing in this order is painted green, but they are green by association.  I mustn’t complain.  I can still get new parts for a sixty-year-old machine.

      The R gets a rest (as if it hasn’t had enough of one) while I get back to my social schedule.  The quartet sang two songs (national anthem, and America) at a Rotary convention in Estes Park.  Our lead is a Rotarian.  It was a long way to drive to sing two songs.  We had to go through Longmont because 34 is closed for flood repairs—for the second year.

“R” Project--Maybe

     “H-e-e-e-re we go again . . . .”  (Think Ray Charles.)

     Last fall, I reorganized the red barn’s contents so that I could work on a tractor last used in 1981 or ’82, the John Deere Model R.   http://50farm.blogspot.com/2017/11/

      I had three mechanical projects to get done this spring:  Stop an oil leak on the Ford tractor rear end, get the Dodge truck brakes fixed, and get started on the “R”.  Thanks to inclement weather, the Ford tractor got fixed first.  During a pretend mini-blizzard two or three weeks ago, I moved the Ford from its hibernation spot in the combine shed to the shop. 

      The shop has some insulation provided by lath and plaster on ceiling and walls.  Well, some plaster on the ceiling.  It has a tendency to fall off here and there.  The shop also has a big wood-coal stove that does a fairly good job of warming things enough to make mechanicing bearable in cold weather.

      Fixing the Ford required draining the oil from the rear end, removing the PTO shaft, and fishing around with a long-handled socket to find a one-inch nut.  The right one is barely visible through the opening left vacant by the PTO removal.  The left one is obscured by the large differential gear. 

      The nut is on a short shaft that also has a very accessible nut on the outside of the tractor.  The shaft provides the pivot anchor for the three-point hitch arm.  The shaft passes through a plate that serves to hold the oil in and the dirt out of the differential case. 

      When the nuts loosen, the plate comes away from the case and oil drips out.  The key is to loosen the nut up on the inside of the case enough to get the plate away from the case, without taking the nut off the shaft inside the tractor.  It would be nearly impossible to start the nut back onto the shaft without removing the left axle housing, a big job.

      Once the plate is away a half an inch or so, I could clean both surfaces, apply a healthy dose of silicone gasket-maker, and snug the nut enough to make the silicone bulge out all over.  That was one day’s work, getting the tractor moved and all.

     The next day, after the silicone had a chance to set, I put a hundred pounds of torque on the shaft nuts.  I refrained from adding oil for another day or two to give the silicone a chance to set up completely.  I hope it won’t leak again.

        The Ford had one other problem.  The starter “button” doesn’t work.  I have to short across the starter relay terminals to engage the starter.  The starter linkage has a safety feature that won’t allow the button to depress if the machine is in gear.  I should get the thing fixed.

      An internet search provided only used buttons, nothing new or rebuilt.  They looked pretty rusty, and pricey.  A little JB Weld to the rescue. 

      A washer is supposed to stay in a slot in the shaft of the starter button.  The washer contacts a wishbone-like lever which rocks down and forces another rod into another button on the starter relay.  The washer and slot on the starter button shaft is worn enough that the washer slips instead of forcing the wishbone lever down.  I glued the washer to the slot in the shaft.  It works, at least for now.

     Nice weather this week provided a window to work on the Dodge.  Having consulted U-Tube, I was ready to perform diagnostic procedures on the truck.  Protocol calls for stepping on the brake a few times with the engine off, to get all the vacuum out of the brake booster, which amplifies your leg muscle when you step on the brake.

      The first problem is to get the truck to start after its winter layover.  I spilled air-cleaner oil all over the engine top while looking down the carburetor throat to see if there was gas going into the carburetor.  I flooded the thing.  It dried out pretty well while I mopped up the spilled oil.  It started right up on the second attempt.

      The brakes had not healed themselves over the winter, so I followed the protocol.  With the engine off, I pumped the brake and held it down.  With the brake pedal held down, I started the engine.  If the vacuum boost is working correctly, the pedal should go down another two or three inches when the booster does its job correctly.

       Instead of going down, the pedal kicked back, like when you fire a gun and it kicks back.  Conclusion:  brake booster is faulty.  It seems to have rebelled.  It’s doing just the opposite of what it is supposed to be doing.

       I replaced the hydro-vac a few years ago.  Few?  Maybe ten years?  Maybe more?  That time, the brakes wouldn’t release.  I had to plug the vacuum line in order to move.  Then I had strictly mechanical brakes.  Now, I have mechanical brakes minus the brake booster working against me.

      It was a nice day, not a breath of air stirring, a very rare occurrence on the high plains.  The grass is young and tender.  It eases the job of rolling around under the truck.

      Removing the booster calls for removing three bolts, disconnecting two vacuum lines and two brake fluid lines.  I also had to remove the PTO shaft that runs the hoist so the booster could get out of its “compartment”.  No problem, except for the fluid lines, which drip fluid all over me as I lay under it. 

      I managed to get everything undone and the lines all plugged.  The booster came right out—and knocked over the jar I had used to catch the dripping fluid.

       Next problem, finding the brake-booster for a 1969 Dodge truck.  I loaded up the booster and headed for town.  NAPA didn’t have one in their system, but they may have found one through some other outfit.  Of course, it has to come from Chicago or somewhere.  I will pay freight plus the usual exorbitant fee for obsolete parts.  It may ship before the weekend.  If so, it will be available Monday or Tuesday.

     Clouds appeared and a few raindrops hit the windshield as I returned from the town trip.  There are twenty or so bushels of wheat still on the truck, left over from last fall’s seeding operation.  I had to move it back into the shed.  Can’t leave it outside for a week.  Just remember, no brakes at all, now.

      The emergency brake on this truck clamps down on the drive shaft rather than using the rear brakes.  I could rely on it.  Fortunately, I was able to get the old feller back into the shed without using any brakes.

      Well, I guess I’ll get to the “R” sometime.  Actually, I did get started on that project.  I hate to leave you in suspense, but stay tuned.  I’ll get around to it someday.       

Defence

     “Something there is that doesn’t love [barbwire]”to paraphrase Robert Frost. 

     The fence went up in something like 2010 in order to graze the CRP grass prior to breaking it out for farming purposes.  It also served to carry current from the farmyard to the fence a half-mile east, for the same purpose of grazing CRP grass.

     I removed all of the other fences as I began tilling the two plots.  For some reason, I left that fence.  I was probably thinking I might want to graze the east piece again someday, because it did have a good stand of clover.  I could use the remaining fence line to carry electricity again.

      I haven’t grazed anything for five or six years.  So last spring I began taking down that fence.  Initially, I used some of the posts to fence around some blue spruce that the deer were abusing.

     The fence became an annoyance.  It threw itself into the way of various and sundry plows.  Even a pickup mirror struck a fence post.  Just to name two things that didn’t love “a wall.”  Plus, grass and weeds find a solace on either side of the wire where neither plow nor mower can touch it.

      Time to “defence”.  The weather granted me a one-day window of opportunity this week.  It was a bit windy but warm enough to work outside comfortably.  (The window closed quickly--see above photo.)

      The real work was rolling up the wire.  They make machines to handle that chore, but I didn’t have one at hand.  So, roll it up the old-fashioned way.

      The handy-dandy post puller makes uprooting the steel posts a piece of cake.  The hardest part of post-pulling is carrying the post-puller from post to post.

  

     Then the posts have to be picked up and stowed.  Harness the 4X4.  It doesn’t respond to voice command, like a horse might.  You have to get in, drive a few yards, get out and pick up a post.  It doesn’t have to be fed on a daily basis, however.

      There was a nice neat stack, teepee style, of posts and wire from the removal of the other fences.  Something (the wind, no doubt) didn’t love that neat stack.  It went down into a heap.

       An hour got things neatened up a bit.

       It took two or three days to build that fence.  Driving a post is a lot of work and takes time.  It took less than six hours to remove the fence.    

The White Horse

      You don’t want to tell every story.  I remember one such story from my days as a referee.

     As part of being a registered referee, we had to attend two or three meetings for referees held during the season.  They held meetings twice a month or so, but we only had to attend two or three during the season.  The one we had to attend was the rules meeting held before the season started.

     The coaches also had to attend the rules meeting, so four or five of us loaded up and went.  When all the rules had been discussed and we departed, we made the mandatory visit to a local watering hole.  An hour or so later, in a much better mood, we started for home. 

      We were laughing and having a good time when a bright light zoomed across the sky seemingly right in our path.  There was a brief silence.  “Did you see that?” we all said. 

     We had had a drink or two.  Could we all be hallucinating the same hallucination?  Before we reached the lot where we had parked our cars a few hours before, we agreed not to say anything about what we saw.

     We abandoned our vows of silence a few short hours later.  Many folks had seen the same thing and were comparing notes the next morning at work.  The story even made the local news.  A piece of space junk burning up as it returned to earth’s atmosphere.  No need for us to keep mum.

     The white horse was seen by only one person, Uncle Ricky.  He wasn’t “Uncle” then.  He was my oldest brother.

     He was coming home late one night.  As usual, he was going hell-bent-for-election.  It must have been ’58 or’59.  He was driving his ’50 Ford with its three speed on the column and the overdrive lever below the dash on the left side.  It would go fast.  And usually did.

       He came up a rise in the road near an old homestead site, the only remnants being a few  bushes along the side of the road.  Suddenly, a white horse dashed out of the bushes and into the road in front of him.

     He hit the brakes and went into a skid.  He missed the horse and began to deal with straightening out the skid.  As he whizzed past, the horse turned into a woman wearing a white nightgown.

     As soon as he could divert his attention from avoiding a one-car accident, he looked back.  Nothing.

     I don’t remember when he told me the story.  The next day?  A few days later?  I just remember that he did tell me the story.  Who else did he tell?  I don’t know.

      Years past.  Somehow, at a family gathering, that incident came up in the presence of Uncle Walter.  When Ricky said the horse turned into a woman in a white nightgown, Uncle said, immediately, “Maria Ange”(MAW-rrree-uh) (AN-gee).  “Going across the road to do chores.”

      Uncle went on to reminisce about the Ange family, who would have been their close neighbors in the olden homestead days.  Otto, he said, would have been a good politician, worked hard for the Republican Party, but couldn’t run for office because he didn’t speak English well.  What else did he say that I don’t remember?

      I don’t remember the story ever coming up again after that gathering.  But something set me to thinking about it lately.

      Some stories are built, like a snowball, with a small nucleus that gets expanded layer by layer.  The time gap between layers of this story span years.  I can’t help but feel that there are more layers to be added.

      Why would Maria haunt the abandoned homestead site?  What would bring her back to a lonely place with only bushes to indicate that humans once lived there?  What was her story?  Why, after many years, would I think of this incident? 

     

A Trip to Paris

     We had been down this road before. We were returning from our Seattle trip with the Ranger loaded with packaged crates.  

     I was driving and the Goodwife was navigating.  I missed the junction.  Not much of a difference in mileage, really.  It was whether we went south along the east side of Bear Lake (we did) on the Wyoming border, or south along the west side of Bear Lake into the corner of Utah before turning east into Wyoming.  (For map, see,  https://www.google.com/maps/@42.0477867,-111.140537,10z)

        This time we stopped, really stopped, like in overnight stop, before proceeding along our chosen route.  We spent the night in Montpelier.

     I asked the friendly motel clerk lady where the junction was to go through Paris.  She pointed through the office window front where a couple of blocks away, we could see a stoplight.  “Turn right at the stoplight.  Don’t blink,” she added.  “You’ll miss it.”  She wasn’t referring to the stoplight.

     It was a lazy Saturday morning, not much traffic, not much reason to be stirring on a coolish weekend morning.  We met a couple of pickups towing stock trailers.  Sale day somewhere?

      We could slow down, pull over and snap a picture or two without worry of being rear ended by someone in a hurry to get somewhere.

 

      If you didn’t know Bear Lake lay six or seven miles away (pretty hard not to know if you read the road signs advertising local businesses), you would think Paris was a small town in the middle of nowhere, with mountain ranges in the distance, with not much to recommend it.  But it must have had something to recommend it in the olden days, enough to earn it the county seat with all the trappings that go along with that designation.

 

      There are other historical buildings and historical sight markers.

     And a city hall building where one would find the Justice of the Peace if he wanted one:

 

    Many years ago, a young couple eloped to Paris.  They could always say they got married in Paris.  No need to mention “Idaho”. 

     Like filling up the gas tank in Sinclair, seeing Paris, ID was a dimple in the bucket of my bucket list.  Paris was a bit more fulfilling than Sinclair was.  It was quite picturesque, actually.

 

     We drove around a little, mostly to view a chateau on the hill to the west, which turned out to be somewhat of a modular the closer we got.  There are lots of older houses, with “character”, I’m told. 

 

      After the last shutter snap, we proceeded down the road.  The road and the shoreline of Bear Lake drew together, but it was hard to see the lake.  Between the highway and the water are “cabins”, from modest bungalows to huge multi-story mansions.  Many homes are going up on the opposite side of the highway, too.  Most are vacant this time of year, as the place seems to be a summer refuge for those who can afford to maintain a vacant house during the winter months. 

     Somewhere near the southern tip of the lake, you cross over into Utah.  The road bends around the southern tip of the lake and leads into Wyoming.  It is a pretty drive.  It would probably be prettier going west and north (we were going south and east).  You get a better glimpse of the lake and there are mountain ranges to the north and west that you don’t really see going the way we did.

     As the sun slowly rose higher in the east, we headed to Kemmerer and our way home.

   

     

  

Ninety-Year-Olds

      The invitation came towards the end of September.  A quick glance at the calendar revealed three or four Veterans’ Day performances the week of the celebration.  We could not go.

      I thought we might get away the week following Veterans’ Day, but that week got filled in, too.  As it turned out, it would not have been a good thing.

      It was a 90^th birthday party for two, a surprise, prepared by their daughter.  The parents were both born in 1927.

    The birthday girl is the last survivor of “the cousins”, the grandchildren of Ole and Anna, my great grandparents.  She is the last connecting link to a bygone generation. 

     Last summer, we lost the last of my cousins who actually knew my paternal grandmother, Martha.  While I did visit with Barbara, I lacked a lot of getting everything she had experienced with our grandparents.  I thought of other missed opportunities.  Aunt Dell would have been six years old when the family moved from Minnesota to a homestead in the desert of Eastern Colorado.  She would have remembered that trip, but I never thought to ask her about it.

     I decided it was now or probably never, so we set off on our trip to Boise.  We could have flown.  The Goodwife found fares as low as $60 round trip.  We would have had to go on Tuesday and return Thursday.  It didn’t seem right to make a flying trip.  So we drove.

    It was a two-day trip by automobile.  We left on Tuesday and returned by the following Saturday.

     We arrived in Boise mid-afternoon Wednesday.  We found the 90-year-olds in good shape for having lived nine decades.  Both use walkers, but they get around.  Both are sharp mentally. There have been issues.  Had we visited in November, we probably would have had to visit one of the guests of honor in a hospital or rehab, recovering from spinal surgery.

      We originally intended to rent a motel room for our stay, so as not to be a burden, but they were fully prepared to have us stay with them, so we did. 

       We jumped right in to sharing what we knew about our extended family.  Out came the old suitcase with pictures that don’t see the light of day very often.  We also reviewed the family history book. 

     We dined on lasagna thoughtfully provided by daughter Mary (my second cousin).  Mary’s constant attention makes it possible for her parents to remain in their nice modern home. 

     It was midnight before we gave it up Wednesday.  Among the family “secrets”:  a bootlegger who had a hollow doorframe where pints could easily be hidden and easily removed for sale to customers. She would lie in the dark by the railroad tracks waiting for the train car that would expel a keg.   The keg’s contents would be transferred to pints, the pints hidden in the hollow doorframe.  She may have been a madam as well.  She was one of the few financial success stories in our family.

      Tragedy—the youngest brother died in the flu epidemic during WWI.

      A suicide using the gas from the lamps that provided the light in those olden days.  When the homeowner returned and struck a match to light the lamp, a mini explosion occurred.  Unfortunately, that isn’t the only suicide.  Suicide is a family plague.

      The number of violin or fiddle players in the family.  Music has been a part of the family for a long time, as Ole was the song leader at church where there were no musical instruments.  He apparently had near-perfect pitch.  Many of his children were musicians.

       The self-same Ole was somewhat of a sex fiend who mistreated his wife.  Some of his sons built a house for their mother and forbade Ole to enter therein.

      The homesteaders who ventured from Minnesota to Colorado.  My grandfather and two of his brothers made the first foray in 1907.  Carpenters all, they built a “suitable” dwelling (my older aunts referred to that house where they grew up as “the chicken coop”) and returned to Minnesota for the winter.  In the spring of 1908, the entire family moved to their home on the planes.

     Apparently, all three brothers filed homestead claims.  Two relinquished their claims and returned to Minnesota when Ole died.  They took over the Minnesota farm and cared for their widowed mother.

      A story I was able to add concerned my good Neighborly and a conversation we had one day.  He asked my Grandfather’s name.  I said John or Johannes.  No that wasn’t the right name.  Was it Joe?  No.  How about Ingeman?  That was it.

      The story Neighborly told involved his late wife and a grandson.  They were at an auction where the grandson took a liking to a framed document, which was apparently a charter for an insurance company, maybe Modern Woodsmen or something similar.  Shirley bought the thing for her grandson, who still has it today. The charter is signed by the charter members.  Among the signers was Ingeman, who apparently was around the country long enough to help start the organization.

      “Uncle” Joe, Mary’s grandfather, was a great letter-writer.  I remember a letter or two Papa got from Uncle Joe.  They were indeed entertaining.  He encouraged Papa to keep on living, as he was about to make it to one hundred.  (Papa lacked three or four years of making 100.  He always protested that he never asked to live so long.)  Uncle Joe was the last of Ole and Anna’s family.  He died in 1979.

        We spent much of the day Thursday immersed in the olden days until we all grew tired and had to take a rest.  Thursday evening, we were guests of Mary and Lance.  The evening was only slightly marred by the malfunction of the meat smoker, and for the locals, a bigger disappointment with Boise State’s defeat in the first round of the Mountain West basketball tournament.

      We took our leave on Friday morning.  Parting is always hard, particularly when you realize this may be the last time to visit each other on this earth. 

     I had hoped to visit Yellowstone on our return trip, but it would have been late afternoon Friday when we arrived.  We had no reservations and I wasn’t sure what the weekend traffic might be, so we opted for a more direct route.

       I had also hoped to find a hot springs to visit, maybe spend the night there.  My wires got crossed.  I thought Soda Springs, ID would be the place.  We went through Lava Springs on our way to Soda Springs.  No hot springs in Soda Springs.  Go back to Lava Springs, the store clerk told us.  We didn’t want to back track, so we pressed on, thinking maybe to stop in Kemmerer, WY for the night.

       We found a better solution, Montpelier, ID.  It had a nice motel at a not-too-bad-a price.  It was much quieter than the motel in Pocatello where we spent a noisy Wednesday night (a place two more than the one that keeps the light on for you).

       After a peaceful rest, we got some advice from the motel lady on which roads to take to Kemmerer.  At Kemmerer, we visited Fossil Buttes, which really took us back into the past, billions of years.  We lunched in Green River, WY, filled with gas at Sinclair, home of Sinclair gasoline refinery.  What a disappointment!  The refinery is less than a mile away, yet gas was $2.55.  (We paid $2.32 in Kemmerer.  We paid a high of $3.19 near Burley, ID.)

     We supped at our used-to-be favorite Korean place in Laramie (Goodwife says she won’t go there again).  We elected to go to Cheyenne and catch I-25 home—probably not the fastest route from Laramie to Loveland.  We arrived home about 9:30 p.m.

      We agreed this was probably the last trip for the old 2001 Chrysler.  Things are starting to fail.  The heater doesn’t work exactly right.  Everything, heat, AC, comes through the defroster now.  We had cold toes a place or two during our trip.   It’s hard to turn loose of the big old thing.  It averaged 30 MPG on our trip of 1600 miles.   But it turned over 189,000 on the odometer, or distance indicator, as we say these days.                

     We were glad we made the trip.  We were glad to be home.