Thanks, Kenny:

 "...the secret to survivin' is knowin' what to throw away and  knowing what to keep."  I'm still working  on it, still a long ways to go. I have previously eliminated probably about 70% or so of the communications related to pursuit of VA claim. A lot remains, as pictured, although the most important paperwork is in another location, not pictured. I know that I could probably get rid of all that's pictured here, but I'm so far unable to discard without reviewing all the hard-sought information needed before due process could occur. For instance, filing a NOD, Notice of Disagreement,  while a petition for review is in process violates procedure, and, though now forgotten, documented steps of correction had to be taken, amid several pleas  for  notification. This is just one paper bag of what I threw away this time; I have to go through again what is in the green bag, which at least is now light enough to lift. ***And I

did not start the fire.

P.S. While I was downstairs, I noted the furnace still leaks. Thousands of  dollars later, who cares?

  

All In A DAY

 Friday, February 27, 2026:   Auto  Incident/ Accident Report: NY---Minor,  MD---Serious, MA---Severe

Isn't It Ironic?

 I don't get very much mail anymore, but the other day I received one single letter, addressed to me from a woman in Virginia. Her name is Jessica, and the subject is Front Porch Letters, with an application to be submitted in the pre-paid envelope, which explains the reason for the mailing. 

   In the enclosed 6-page letter, Jessica explains the reason why Front Porch  Letters exists: people have been missing the personal connection that receiving letters provides. Emails, texts, advertisements, envelopes addressed to "Resident" all result in a letdown for the recipient.  But receiving a letter personally addressed that recounts the memories or thoughts of a real person in a real community, these letter writers make the reader feel more connected, valued and mentally sharp than they have in years.

   To join in this wonderful experience, to receive real letters from real people, connect with Front Porch Letters. You can even send in your own written letters which may be chosen to send on to others. 

The cost is a mere $15 a month for 1 letter or $25 for 2.

  When I read the letter from Virginia, I knew I would rather have a dental filling replaced than succumb to the pathos of looking forward to Front Porch Letters. But I thought that someone setting up this venture must have researched the reason for doing so. I'm sure the target audience is older folks who likely live alone or who have outlived those they knew who used to communicate by letters, and maybe still even have a front porch.  The thought of receiving  a letter sent to them by another human being, even if unknown to them, is a welcome alternative to loneliness and isolation. Who knows, this might well become a thriving business. The senior population is growing, the business costs would be minimal, and the members of F.P.L. may well be starved for any form of communication or potential conversation.

  When I mentioned I'd received this invitation to Front Porch Letters, the person spoken to responded with one word--"Fraud."   

  I rest my case.   (I had to write my unspoken thoughts here, O Blog.

Winter Landscapes (Still bitter-Perhaps a little

 I found this Examination Blue Book inside an old dictionary. The date is 3/17 at 2 p.m. for English 29. So probably sophomore year and I would have been 19. A lot to expect for someone that age to deal with such a crappy poem.

 The poem Winter Landscape intends to convey the author's feeling of intense loneliness as he faces the winter alone, as contrasted with the animals' closeness as they huddle together for warmth and companionship.

The poet's state of mind, his intensity of feeling, is exemplified by the irregularity of the rhyme and line lengths. He uses a tercet consisting of 2 long lines with a short line in the middle, in tetrameter. This short line serves to emphasize the theme of the poem---the wish for a warm kinship such as the animals enjoy, through repetition of key words, such as "fields, evening, alone."  There is a foreshadowing of death in man's desire to find a home. Man is lost on earth; he is alone. The abruptness of key words symbolizes man's loneness. Through the use of the cesura, there is the author's feeling of isolation. "Alone" is separated from the rest of the poem.  It stands alone, as does the author. 

  The assonance of the o's  in "come, home, across, glowing" reflects the mournful outlook of the author. The ideas are drawn together by the rhyme scheme, "Gray" in the first stanza, rhymed with "day" in the second stanza, carries over his unfulfilled longing. The choice of words contrasts the life of man with that of beasts and shows the latter to be more desirable. The birds can hide breast to breast in clefts, the sheep can huddle and press close together, but man must depend on a fire to shut out the cold. The choice of such words as bleak, tombed and the dying souls emphasizes man's lot as a dreary one indeed, whereas the descriptions relating to the animals are words are words having a more intimate sound. The repeated phrase  "breast  to breast" indicates the author's longing for such comfort. But man, for his comfort, must settle for pressing his thin dying soul against Eternity. Perhaps in Eternity will man be able to find the  warmth which the beasts already know, and which holds perhaps the potential comfort of the sea, evening and Daffodil West. 

  The winter landscape is not so much a reference to the season of the year as it is a portrayal of the  loneliness of man. The sound of the poem makes the reader feel the great loneliness and the sense of near futile desperation experienced by the author.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

 In my many years of living, and working with countless youths, I have heard hundreds of career choices:  cowboy, astronaut, stewardess (yes, at one time), professor, teacher, nurse, doctor, veterinarian, and the latest technological job titles, but I have never heard of anyone aspiring to be a Dosimetrist. I don't think I've ever heard the word.

Yet the Sunday Times Union' s Classified Ad  Employment section carries an ad that Albany Medical Center Hospital  is seeking applications for the position of Medical Dosimetrist. 

Seems like a criticlly important job. Wonder what the salary is...Anybody out there?

11:00 p.m. Crash!

 Very loud, ice falling off back of house:

Only one of those dreams:

 Mostly my dreams slip away when I wake up, even if I try to recall them. But some keep intruding into my mind, all through the day. I find the way to resolve them is to write them down, as nobody would want  to listen to my recital of them. So here goes, the cleansing of a dream, so to speak.

I am driving toward home, relieved to be on a familiar route, the road from Watervliet to Cohoes. I am returning, maybe from a  hospital visit, maybe the patient was Barbara, but I can't be sure because the dream starts with my driving. I realize the once familiar route is now different as it's been a while since I last drove it. There are new buildings. One  complex on the left stands out, a new structure spanning probably most of a city block, maybe commercial,  or maybe apartments. It sits low on complex driveways and is ivory with maroon trim.  I inadvertently drive into the grounds on one of the newly constructed roads, and in driving back onto the main road, I am in the left turn lane instead of the right. No problem as there is no traffic behind me. I quickly adjust to the right lane.A man driving by gives me a dirty look as my car is only slightly out into the roadway, but no issue. I continue driving. ****I am at a place, much like the Fairgrounds. No activity there, but I see Dave and the collie, either Cosmo or Clara. I rebuke him for not having the dog on a leash. He goes into some office to deal with some routine paperwork. The dog goes with him. Noone seems to mind. I am carrying a newspaper and when I roll it up for easy carrying, the dog sees it and takes off, but only a short distance, quickly returning. I comment that the dog must have been punished in its past with a rolled newspaper. Dave remains mellow, most likely ignoring what I say about the leash. ***

I am at Barbara's house where she is recovering from a hospital visit. One of the Overocker girls is also visiting her there. She is at first in her bedroom where there is a pure white bed, so comfortable and inviting. I ask her if she takes a nap there during the daytime, and she says she never sleeps during the day. I say I don't  either, but would be tempted to do so by that bed. I comment on her hair, which is  now black, as in her youth and is short but kind of feathered, quite attractive. I even reach out and touch it. I say, so you've had your hair styled while you've been away. She smiles and agrees. I ask her where and she says Italy. I'm not sure if that's a shop or if she's just joking, so let it ride. The weather is fine, and we walk outside, down that familiar front step. She has no trouble walking and I tell her she's doing fine. She says that's because they left her knee when they operated. I notice she is wearing the same type of ballet slipper shoes she usually wore, and the only sign of surgery is the brown mesh socks she is wearing. 

  We go back into her house and the Overocker girl say she has to leave as it's getting time to eat. I say I'll be leaving too and ask if she needs anything. She says she could use some help with the pipes in the cellar if I know anyone. I try to think and am in the process of trying to say maybe George Kagel could, but I wake up before I can get the words out. 

Thanks, Blog, for the opportuity to unload my dream. Now it can be put to rest.