Squash this.

   I think whoever made off with 250 acorn squash designated for a food pantry in Berkshire County was doing the needy a favor.    Who wants to deal with preparing squash?  You need a really sharp knife and a lot of determination, and then what do you get out of it but squash? 

Through a haze, darkly

   So Miss America is accused of severe sorority hazing.  And people are surprised?  After enduring the torture she inflicted on a viewing public?  I'd say combining "Happy" with a red Solo cup is at least as bad as an all-nighter of crafting. 

The Peripatetic Geriatric

    The Today Show's resident doctor appeared today in order to refute Dr. Emmanuel's article on wanting to die at 75.  The Today Show doctor,whose name I don't know, said he disagreed, that people are living, longer, healthier lives nowadays, no need to pack it in at 75. To illustrate his point, he cited a case of someone he'd just encountered, a man hale and healthy at the age of 92.  I was amazed---that guy sure does get around.  I know he's been at the office of the ophthalmologist I go to.  Last year, he underwent a  full joint replacement at the hands of the orthopedist who operated on me.  And his female counterpart outlived all pessimistic projections and survived way past the metastatic cancer time line.  Let's hear it for 92!

Rule that out.

  My son has a birthday coming up in about 2 weeks.  He is notoriously difficult to choose a gift for, ever since he abandoned the Intellivision games.  He just received what he ordered for himself---a 3D Printer.  So that's out as an idea.  I don't know what he plans to print........

F.U., Maybe

   Yesterday, the tech from the vet's office called to ask how Maybe was doing.  She did have anesthesia, but no surgery.  I reported that she was doing well, and was advised to call back if there were any changes.  I had surgery at St. Peter's, and I'm still waiting  for that check-up call; it's been over 2 months now......

I know it's good, but.....

   Whenever I hear the voice, Peter Coyote's, narrating "The Roosevelts,"  I get a gnawing pang in the pit of my stomach.  I know it is a well thought out and vividly presented production, as Ken Burns' programs are, but it brings back too many memories of my childhood angst.  I used to feel physically sick when I was little and heard the news presented by Gabriel Heatter. Even though he would say, "There's good news tonight," I always thought he meant the opposite.  My father would be glued to the radio; all conversation stopped.  I never spoke of my fears; children didn't back then, at least none we knew.  I knew there was a war; unlike modern times, everyone then was conscious of it, even with  only newspapers as media coverage, along with the evening  news on the  radio.  
     I used to lie in bed at night, and if I heard the sound of an airplane, I would be sure we were going to be bombed.  We never talked about it, but there were the blackouts and the sirens, and ration stamps, and a scarcity of sugar and butter, and my father driving his old car with cardboard blocking the glow of the headlights as he carried out his duties as marshal. 
     The voices emanating from our old radio conveyed doom and gloom.  You could tell bad things were in store just by the tone of the voices.  That is where the narration of "The Roosevelts" carries me---to a place of dread and sadness.  When the death of FDR was announced, my father cried.  I had never known him to cry and I was completely dismayed, as if the world were to end.  I know there are 14 hours of the Roosevelt saga, and they will be viewed in our house.  Valid and valuable historical airings as they are, I will need to find something else to do before I plunge into complete depression or develop an ulcer.  As I write, I can hear someone playing "Taps."  It might be too late.

"Hope to Die"

    Yesterday, the mail brought my October issue of "The Atlantic."  Inside is an article titled "Why I Hope to Die at 75."   The author is Ezekiel J. Emmanuel, described as an oncologist, bioethicist, and vice provost of the University of Pennsylvania, as well as the author of a number of books. 
    He asserts, in a detailed article, that he is not advocating for 75 in order to ration health care, but to try to delineate his views for a good life.  He unearths the truth that living too long is also a loss, says that, though his family thinks he is wrong, and  that he will re-evaluate his stance as he grows older, he proclaims that he will not, that he is sure of his position, at his present age of 57. He is in good health, has just climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro with family members.  He wants to die while still in his prime, specifying that his choice is for him alone, and not as an advocate of euthanasia or physician-assisted suicide.  When he reaches the age of 75, he will not actively end his own life, but will forego any screenings or preventive tests, will have no more colonoscopies, no prostate screening at all.  He will, on reaching 75, accept only palliative care if he develops cancer. 
      The article  prompts  a valid discussion in many respects: the most salient probably being that it forces us to think about the end of our own lives, and confront deep existentialist questions about what we would want to leave as a testament to why we were here, as well as debating the eternal question as to whether our contribution warrants our consumption.
      It's hardly a new idea, though.  I remember (though he probably would not)  Lucille Ball's saying essentially the same in a television interview some years before her death, and choosing the same end date as he---75.  Her statement was met with outrage and indignation at the time, but I don't think regarded as important, because she lacked the credentials that Dr. Emmanuel owns.
    The recent photograph accompanying the article shows a man who, while appearing lean and fit, looks to me to be somewhat older than his stated age of 57.  He's smiling in the photo, and  I wonder if he will continue to endure dental cleanings and tooth maintenance when he reaches 75, or if he'll just abandon that care also.  He is pictured with his hands on his hips, and appears to have manicured nails.  When will that amenity be forfeited?  If I were in a position to do so, I might mention to him that the tips of his fingers appear to be a bit clubbed, something which may bear looking into some time over the next 18 years. 
      Overall, I find something admirable about a person willing to take any kind of controversial stance, but I think Lucille Ball's* statement was more credible than his is.  He, after all, is a professional writer, who benefits from any work that is published.  Moreover, though at the outset of his article  he firmly denies he will ever veer from his position, there is  a cop-out at the end which I see as a fatal flaw in the literary value of his thought process.  Why does he weaken the entire argument?  Possibly because of some tenets of his heritage, for in closing, he says, "I retain the right to change my mind and offer a vigorous and reasoned defense of living as long as possible."  He posits  that would mean he would still have the capacity to be creative, the lack of which would be a reason not to live any longer. 
      I would not have wanted him as my oncologist.  He makes a better writer, though of the rather cowardly, commercial sort.
    
* Lucille Ball died in 1989 at the age of 78, from an aortic aneurism.
    

The Cat Came Back

   Dave retrieved Maybe from the vet's at 5:00 p.m. today, where she had been  since 7:45 this morning, on the third day of visits this week.  In addition to the exam and medical treatments, whatever they were, she was bathed and groomed, the first time in her life.  She now has a Lion Cut, and came home with a red bandana around her neck, and red bows in the hair that remains on her head.  I think it's safe to say that if she were adorned with a single-carat diamond, they still would have turned a tidy profit.  She is supposed to return next week so they can assess the effects of the medication they've prescribed, Clavamox, which evidently has  a number of dire side effects.  We also received notice of a new program---Big Pets---so we can help control her weight, which is now a mere 13.6 lbs.  She used to be several lbs. heavier, over 17, I think, but sans all that fur......

Apple Pie Order

    Back in the day, about 7 of us would pile in my car and trek to Borden's Orchard for our annual purchase of apples, cider, and whatever other goodies appealed to us at the time. Those days are gone, but I've gone there alone a few times.  A few Sundays ago, I drove to Hand Melon, and bought a melon.  While there I spotted their apples, and saw they were priced at almost $9.00 for half a peck, the small bag.  I'm not good at knowing the price of most foods, but the last I remembered I thought the full peck was about $5.00.  So I thought I'd wait.  A few days ago, I happened to be in ShopNSave and saw they had the half peck bag of McIntosh from Borden's.  I have no desire to drive to Easton anymore, so I bought the apples there. I didn't even bother to check the price.  I read the receipt when I got home and the cost was $6.53 or $1.49 a pound.  There were 11 medium sized apples.  I'd heard this was a bountiful year for apples, and I guess for apple growers too.
      So today, I'm about to make an apple pie, and decided I hated to deal with apples.  They're way too much work:  first, you wash, then you peel, and then the hard part---slicing and coring, making sure to remove the "fingernails."  All that even before the piecrust and ingredients part, and the hour-long baking.  The last time I made an apple pie, we each ate a slice, and after a few days, I threw the rest of the cold, soggy thing away.  I can't eat raw apples, and even applesauce is a lot of work.
       What was ever so tempting about a damn apple anyway? 
   

Critters

    I'm sitting on the front steps while the sun is shining, hoping to absorb enough  RDA of Vitamin D.  If not do-able now, when I am outside every day, what might befall my paltry level when winter comes.  My eye falls on the hole in the ground, no more than 3 feet from my doorstep, where the bees had been.  The hole had been excavated by some unknown creature 2 nights in a row, ever since the hole had been sprayed with bee-killer.  It had been left open since then, for several days, and I decided to fill it in.  I felt relatively safe doing so because the upturned soil was strewn with bee corpses amidst the excavated honey combs.  I grabbed my trusty little garden spade and packed all the dirt back into the hole.  I thought I would finish by putting one of the fairly large stones, which David had placed beneath the nearby barberry bushes some years ago,  on top of the hole, to discourage any more diggings.  The first stone was too heavy, or too enmeshed in the grasses for me to extract, so I tried for a smaller stone.  As I  picked it up, a garter snake, which had evidently been seeking heat along the side of the stone, emerged in the grass.  A little startled, I waited for it to slither away, as they usually do, but this snake continued to writhe around, twisting its body into spiral after spiral.  I wondered why until I looked closer and saw that my foot was on the back part of its body.  I stepped off, and gone was the snake.

Red House

     Sometimes, in the depths of a sleepless night, when I've exhausted all conscious thoughts and virtual conversations, I see the image of a house.   The house is red, and seemingly of modest construction, with front door and windows visible from the line of sight, but is too far away to see any detail more than that.   The house is set amidst an expanse of well maintained lawn, lush in its greenness.  A long driveway, bounded on each side by white board fencing, leads to the house.  But something appears amiss.  There is not the slightest sign that anyone or anything has ever entered  that driveway.  It is covered with grass, as pristine as that surrounding the house, with not the slightest track of a vehicle or even of footsteps leading down that long road to the little red house.   I wonder if I'd seen smoke coming from the chimney.  I'll try to remember to check the next time I'm in the office. 

DNR

Yes, it's true.  We've signed off on a resuscitation order for our cat, Maybe.  She has been to the vet's twice this week, for grooming issues and a possible recurring urinary tract infection.  Initially, she was prescribed an antibiotic, but she refused any of their attempts at much-needed grooming. So the word is that she will need to be anesthesized for this to be carried out. So she had to return for shots, injections, and blood tests.  Only then will she be accepted for the grooming/clipping/shearing process.  In addition  to the cost of hundreds of dollars, there is an additional fee of $500 if we choose for them to attempt to resuscitate her if she stops breathing during the procedure.  We opted to spare her from this.  
        Coincidentally, or not,  I received my statement for my July surgery, and noted there was an additional charge for special anesthesia services applied to patients under 1 year old and over 65.   I didn't notice any DNR sign above my bed. (But then, it would have been out of sight, wouldn't it?

TV

   I didn't watch a lot of TV this summer, had a few other things to do.  Now that I have absolutely nothing on my schedule, I've been catching up with some of the shows.  I watched (sort of) The View today.  It seemed contrived and boring.  I watched Whoopie  barely tolerate Rosie Perez' s input on some major issue or other, as to whether or not to humiliate a four-year-old child in order to dissuade him from bullying.  Rosie O'D. tried to make a point using personal child-rearing experiences.  She made sense, but  in a manner  totally unrelatable to most people.  BTW, she may have lost some weight, but when she said the sales rep told her she didn't need to shop for the extra-large sizes any more, I say wait a minute: if anything is to fit her in the stomach area, it better be from the XL sizing. 
    I saw Jennifer Hudson on AGT singing with a precociously annoying twelve-year-old boy, named Quintavious.  She looks like she's gained back a considerable amount of weight, but I must say her face is absolutely beautiful. On the same show, Cindi Lauper appeared to sing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" with a blonde Gwen Stefani wanna-be who for some reason was vaulted into finalist standing by the judges.  The performance was even more awkward than the Hudson/Quintavious mismatch. Cindi looked like an unfortunate blending of The Pillsbury Doughboy and a haystack.  Why wouldn't somebody clue her in; the show has hair and wardrobe, wouldn't you think. Overall, she looked like a girl who just wanted off the stage.  The blonde girl crooner ended up in second place, behind a magician.  For a show which prides itself on showcasing a variety of talent, 4 out of the 6 final acts were singers, which is hardly the makings for a  unique show.  I never thought I'd say this, but I was glad when the magician won the million.  (I would submit that the voting viewers are more swayed by Howard Stern's remarks than by any of the other judges.)
    And as for Meredith Vieira's  coming out with the sexual abuse charges----yecchh, I can't even go there.

Quotes

   His birthday is approaching in a matter of weeks.  Of course, birthdays remind me of when the kids were little and so adorable. Not that they aren't now, of course, but in a different way.  I've always found it remarkable to hear any type of opinion from a being only a few years old.  Or only a number of months old, when he told his father, "Yeah, Daddy, you're not the boss around here."   When he was 3 years old, those green parkas with the fur trim were the must-have style.  His father had one, to shovel snow, do outside winter chores, and to wear while sleigh riding and building snowmen.   I bought one each for David and Marilyn.  She willingly wore hers, as a four-year old, but David balked at his, saying "It was too sticky."  I returned it to the store and when the clerk asked the reason for return I said that the owner didn't like it, that the material was too stiff.  (I clarified the language a little.)  The clerk, looking at the Size 2 coat, said, "How old is he, that he doesn't like it??"  He had just turned 3, but I knew he really didn't want to wear it, and he had given a valid  reason why.
     An early talker, he was even younger than that when he looked up from where he was playing with his cars on the floor, and announced that he didn't like Dinah Shore because she was "too magisaw."  The meaning wasn't quite as  clear that time, but I got the gist, I think. 
     When he was 28 months old, he had the extreme misfortune to be attacked by a 140 lb. pure black  German Shepherd, and hospitalized for a number of days.  He was little, weighing only about  26 lbs., and the nurses at the hospital had put him in diapers. It was the heart of winter on  a cold day in February, and when Dorothy and Gus came to visit him, they stayed while his father and I  took a break.  Dorothy hung her black faux-fur coat on the back of a chair, and somehow this triggered a reaction from him. Dorothy said the other visitors in the 4-bed ward were spellbound when what looked to be a baby stood up in his crib and delivered, in a clear voice,  a detailed account of what had happened to him, from leaving the post office to the dog's biting him and knocking him flat on his back, while standing over him, growling and taking more bites.  He ended by saying, "It wasn't my fault." 
    When he returned home, his solution, if he were ever to be in that  situation again, was that he "would flap his wings and fly away."  

Insanity

   It's a truism that everyone is a little crazy, but I'm finding more evidence that in many, it's more than a little.  

BUG

   The bug was small, less than half an inch long, flat-sided like a sailboat, and lime green in color.  Maybe a young cicada or something like that.  It was crawling across the edge of one of the steps to the pool, probably a span of almost three feet.  Its progress was slow and painstaking; it moved almost as if it were limping. It must have had 6 legs, in order to qualify as an insect, but I could see only 4.  Maybe the others hadn't developed yet, or were concealed beneath its body, which was slightly higher than it was long.  In any case, it took a long time for the bug to crawl from one end of the step to the other.  When it reached the end, it stopped for a while, then turned around and proceeded to retrace its path, all the way back to where it was when I first saw it.  It rested there for a short time, and then turned and started its trip all over again.
      The bug was solitary, no other in sight.  I wondered what it was doing, what it was looking for, all by itself traversing back and forth for what purpose.   Then I remembered why I was sitting there on the steps of the deck, observing the activity of a little bug.  I had finished ten counts of walking up and down the 5 steps as a form of rehab therapy, now that I'm left to my own devices. I had sat to rest after my solitary session of activity.  To any observer, my activity would have appeared much the same as that of the bug.  Only difference------no one was watching me.

A Loss for Words

  Although I've used many words in my lifetime, there must be thousands of familiar words I've never written, except maybe on a spelling test, such as "sombrero"  and "notwithstanding."   Sigh! So many words, so little time....

Annex to Nothing

   When I have nothing else to do to entertain myself, a  frequent occurrence, I open up some of the inane advice or information passages on the internet.  Usually the words  of wisdom or nuggets of knowledge are numbered:   The Ten Items Lurking in Your Refrigerator Waiting to Kill You, The Seven Things You Should Never Say to Your Spouse, Twenty Film Stars Who've Ruined Their Looks, The Twelve Best Dogs to Own if You Live in the Suburbs, or the City, or the Ghetto, Fourteen Foods to Avoid Eating if You Want to Lose Weight.   
   I'm not interested in reading the articles per se, but go to the end, to the "Comments."   Evidently, the world is made up of a great many people who are frustrated editors or else  fancy themselves critics of the highest order. The haters come out in full force, armed to the teeth.  Minor grammatical or language usage faults are picked up on in the most vitriolic manner. Flaws in thinking or lack of proof of theories are broken down and torn apart. Simon Cowell would pale before them.  I wonder how many there are who read so assiduously just so they can ridicule the writers.  I notice that so-called "helpful" articles on the AARP site are almost universally subjected to a barrage of critiques.  I suspect that many, many elderly people feel bitter and unappreciated, and envious of the position of others, not to mention defensive of their status, and otherwise voiceless

Just say "Why?"

    I know there is a brand of bakery products called "Bimbo,"  associated with Sara Lee, I believe.  And I would suspect of Hispanic roots, but really?