"Rust Thou Art..."

    Okay, apologies to H.W.L.  We know it's "Dust."  But "Rust thou art, To rust returneth wasn't spoken of the soul" either.
    When the vines and bushes were cleared away, not only the rusty bones of the kids' swingset were exposed to the light of day, but also the memories of the time when it was a part of daily life,
   This was not our first swingset.  The first one was located in our front yard, near our well and some rose bushes, gifts from  my mother when our home was still new. On our first  swingset's last day, the 2 older kids had been playing on it, part of their then daily routine.  It had what my daughter called a "school bus seat," she who was fascinated with her older cousin who'd started school, a wondrous adventure that she could only imagine.
    We were just sitting down to  supper, the youngest in his Baby Butler seat, when we heard a very sharp crack, as if someone had thrown something against our living room window.  I opened the front door to see a car smashed against the front side of our neighbor's house, the people just climbing out of it.  The car had entered sideways through our driveway, straight through the very gymset which the kids had just left, and over the top of our well. The cracking sound was a stone thrown up against our window by the speeding vehicle, whose tires had also thrown up  a sheet  of gravel, shattering the rear glass window of my 1966 Chevrolet Super Sport Convertible.  
     The swing set was tossed a distance, severely mangled  including the school bus seat.  Eyeing its remains, she broke into tears, crying out, "I wish it didn't happen!"  Poor innocent child.
   So we bought another, a little bit bigger, school bus seat included, though not quite the same. We located this set further away from the road, not wanting  to tempt fate again.  It still sits in the same place.  A speeding car has never struck it, though that wasn't true for the Dogwood tree we planted on the other side of our lot, which was hit twice and destroyed.  Not true either when a driver smacked his car into the maple tree in front of our house, actually driving it partly up the trunk.  Nor true of the hit and run driver who one night sideswiped our station wagon parked in the driveway.
   The swingset escaped the devastation of traumatic injury, but now mostly has succumbed to the inevitable decay of time and rust.
    "

"Life is real. Life is earnest. And the grave is not its goal. Dust thou art, To dust returneth was not spoken of the soul."

Clearing the Land

 The overgrowth of the underbrush got to be too much. Especially the monster from Hell, those  giant multiflora rosa bushes with lethal thorns. They've threatened to overwhelm the shed at the end of our lot, and completely obscured the grape vines growing on the old swing set. Those dastards even had the temerity to attempt to smother the Hydrangea, the second one my mother gave me, the one near the shed. The Honeysuckle that Dorothy gave me years ago when she was refiguring her landscaping also fell victim to their ravages.   Every time I've attempted to prune the wicked bushes back, I've been jabbed with their spikes.
   Today some workers came and removed most of the bushes and also trimmed the yew trees in our driveway, so that it is a clear passage for even the tallest vehicles.  I neglected to take any "Before" pictures, but here are the "Afters."

Rotation (DRTL)

   MRI   3/19/2015  ( On leaving the Jordan Road Medical Office, the heavy door encountered a gust of wind  which blew the door back into my arm.  When I got to my car, I had to massage the area before driving home. It seems like it's always windy there at that office entrance.  Kind of like the wind tunnel on Albany's State Street. )
  "Full-thickness retracted tear of entire supraspinatus with retraction of bursal surface fibers and articular sided fibers
   Tear extends posteriorly to involve the infraspinatus, with full-thickness tear of the anterior 10 mm of the infraspinatus.  Posterior to this, tear extends another 10 mm posteriorly  as an articular sided tear that delaminates into an interstitial tear, extending to the myotendinous junction
   Long Head Biceps Tendon, likely full-thickness retracted tear
    Glenoid Labrum:  Superior labrum degenerated and blunted
   Glenohumeral Joint:  Mild cartilage thinning and surface irregularity Minimal superior subluxation of humeral head .  Moderate joint effusion.  Mild synovitis
     Bursae:  Moderate amount of fluid in subacromial/ subdeltoid bursa with cuff tear"
So without much help from my supraspinatus, my infraspinatus, and my biceps tendon, all of which have suffered tears, plus some bursitis,  how on earth do I do what I do?
   What I'm unable to do is comb or fix my hair with my right hand, or take a dish of any weight from a higher shelf, or reach a certain area of my back. Or sleep very well on my right side,  What's difficult and painful  but do-able is about a hundred other things.
   When I went for the lukewarmly-prescribed physical therapy, one of the exercises was what the therapist said was a motion similar to wall-washing--moving the arm in circular patterns against a wall.  So I guess I could wash the walls in my house.  They need it.
 

Prolific Lily of the Valley

 
While I was dealing with the Dubious Dahlias, I could not help but notice the burgeoning lawnful of Lillies of the Valley.  Even though about half of them were removed last year as casualties of the major tree root-removal undertaking, there must be thousands of them pushing up and promising delivery of the most fragrant flowers ever.  I love sitting on the step when they're in bloom.  I've  enjoyed doing that ever since my mother gave me some from her flower garden, about half a dozen or so.  A long time ago.

Part I Summer 2017 Doubtful Dahlias

  Today, Friday, I remembered that I had not planted my Dahlia Bulbs.  I hope it's not too late. I found them in the cellar today when I was looking for my garden hose.  Actually, that's not quite accurate.  I've been searching for the garden hose and accidentally came across it today when I went downstairs to look for the dahlia bulbs.  Anyway, I sort of recall last fall that I was considering leaving them in the ground because for the last 4 or 5 years there have been so very few blooms, even though the plants have appeared  healthy.  We tried fertilizing one year,then not, breaking the bulb clusters apart, or leaving them together, even planting them in different areas.  But the flowers were sparse regardless.  So when we had an early fall snowfall, I said to heck with digging them up.  But then the snow completely melted and I must have wanted to be outside: the date on the newspaper wrapping them is Nov.18, though I probably waited a week or so before putting the wrapped bulbs to rest.
   So today, I brought them around to the front yard, near the mailbox where for several years they presented a splendid array of red floral beauty.  The site is pictured above.  I warn myself not to get my hopes up, because in addition to their recent history of failure, these bulbs appeared quite desiccated, with only minor signals of life .  But, as my mother always said about any weak or ailing living thing, I'm "giving them a chance."
    While I was sitting on the ground, digging as deep as my poor rotator cuff will allow, I saw a dark shadow fairly close above. I looked up and a wide-spanned chicken hawk leveled down across our front yard into the area of Nellie's chicken coop.  She told me the other day, she was planning to put wire over their run.  I hope the chickens went into hiding.
One of the hazards of being outside in this beautiful weather and working the soil is the danger of being assaulted by ticks.  They say this year is even more problematic than usual.  I am finding this to be true, as witness my tick collection below.  I've been bitten only 3 of the times, as far as I know. But I'm on an antibiotic that is supposed to prevent me from contracting tick-borne disease, at least some of them, and at least as far as they know.
 
 

The Shrinking (Purple) Violet

When we were little girls and walking to school in Valley Falls, we picked violets  on the way to bring home to our mothers.  The ditches were full of purple violets, so nobody owned them  and we felt free to pick them. But, rarity of rarities at the time, was the white violet.  We discovered a few on the left bank of the Catholic Church, growing along the remains of an old wrought iron fence, no longer maintained or cared about.  We kids had no problem if the rare white flower was outside the piece of fence, but to reach inside, onto Church property, presented itself as a moral dilemma. We knew no one really cared, but we also knew God was watching.

Cross-Fit and Ironman Ironies

    Fitness  was not much of a thing then, during the years when I was growing up, and was even less addressed after the required high school and college gym classes.  Even then, the goal seemed more focused on the exercise drills themselves rather than the effect on the person performing them.   "How many deep knee bends can you do?"  Never mind that that exercise was later found to be destructive to the knee joint and dropped from the program of calisthenics. Same thing for the reverse back bends or whatever the exercise was called when the back was arched upward from a supine position.  The completion of the drills was more important than the person.  (I wonder how many back and knee problems of later life emanated from the ill-thought exercise regime of old.)
     Anyway, I think I was more active than many girls and young women of my age group. I never had much talent for or interest in the feminine pursuits of cooking or sewing or household decorating, preferring to spend time outdoors whenever possible.  I did a lot of walking, with friends, with children, family pets, and alone.  So I would say I have been fairly active for most of my life.
     An active lifestyle I may have had, but not one that ever included sustained physical labor.  Until now.  For the last year and a half I have had to do more actual lifting, tugging, pulling, and pushing than ever before.  If only I'd had CrossFit to prepare me.

Memorials and Memory

  The purpose of memorials, it must be, is to assure lasting memories after all remembrance is gone. Because after your contemporaries are gone, only the next generations of your children and grandchildren will remember who you were or that you ever existed, except for those who may pursue the arid history of genealogy.
   The memories I have of my father appear from time to time as if served up on a sheaf. He would sit on the front porch on summer evenings after supper, and be greeted by almost everyone  who walked into the store, or down the street, though only a few families lived on River Road.  He was respected as a solid, hard-working man of his time, not much different from others of his generation.
    He played the violin, the fiddle he called it. A self taught musician who went from farm boy to owning a fiddle, though how that came about I never knew. His musical talent evidently did not transfer to his heirs who had much more opportunity but no heart for a musical career.  That's how my father met my mother though, playing at the country dances she and her sister attended.
   My father had another talent that did not survive his generation: he could build a solid structure out of nothing but recycled scrap materials. The outbuildings he constructed were true and sturdy. They lasted many years after his death.I see him working on the building frame, always with a homemade plumbline--a heavy washer on a string served the purpose as well as any tool ever sold.
 He almost always wore a hat outside, a fedora.  In his earlier days, one of straw in the summer, but in later years, he wore the felt hat year round. And when he was able to afford the luxury of buying himself  an electric power drill, he delighted in using the buffer to shine his shoes.
   He read every night after supper: the newspaper of course, and True Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, and True Detective.  I think Dorothy inherited his affinity for crime solving stories.  He did the daily crossword puzzle, and later the word jumbles when they appeared in the paper.  He taught me to play checkers and I felt proud when he complimented my skills, comparing me to some of the best players who competed at the old train station. And he kept a bottle of Saratoga Vichy Water by the side of his chair, and occasionally indulged in a pint of Sealtest Maple Walnut ice cream. (Which only he liked back then.)
  My father attended church every Sunday.  He sat about 4 or 5 rows from the back of the church, always on the left side. For some reason, never explained, he decried what he called "front row Catholics."
  His sense of humor was somewhat unexpected and even more unpredictable.  He once bought a magic kit that included both a Dribble Glass and a Whoopie Cushion, and utilized both on the unsuspecting.  He enjoyed Jack Benny's radio show, kind of pleased when people said he looked like him. He admired the voice of Caruso and so Mario Lanza.  One of the very few movies we ever went to as a family was "The Great Caruso."
      We didn't own a television until the mid 1950's and he then enjoyed watching one of his favorite sports--boxing. I used to watch the Friday Night Fights with him after others had gone to bed.  They came on at 10 p.m., I recall.  And then Dragnet. That was on Thursdays and was a family must-watch show,
  Of course he was an avid and lifelong Democrat.  The party stood for the working class and he was a true proponent of labor unions, anathema then for the Republican party.  Anyone who wanted an exciting conversation had no difficulty bringing up a topic.  He was loyal to what he believed to be true.
   When the dog that was mine from when I  was 8 years old died some 11 years later, it fell to my father to bury her.  He ordinarily did not give in much to emotion or to frills of any kind, but he said he could not bear to put Lassie in the cold bare ground, so he built her what he called a "rough box."  I didn't watch but he laid her in that wooden box and buried her in my mother's flower garden. That is what I  remember.

Stroller Theft

  I just saw a story posted about how some brave young mother foiled the theft of her child's  stroller at Disney World.  I didn't open the story, (being deathly afraid of anything Faith Tap,) but it reminded me of when we visited Disney World when Danny was little.
    We had not brought our own stroller to the park, but rented one there.  I think it was in the shape of a Dolphin, and it was registered with a number when we paid the rental fee. When we entered the attractions, we of course left the stroller parked outside with all the others. (Unlike those who elect to drag theirs onto planes)
      A few attractions later, we came out to find our stroller missing.  Gone.  We hied on over to the rental concession and explained our plight.  Would we be held responsible?  Was our deposit forfeited?  Did we need to rent another stroller?
     In essence we were told not to worry.  Just take another, we were told, when we saw one sitting idle.  People do it all the time. So we did. Pass it on.  I suppose there may be someone wise enough, a return visitor most likely, who never did pay for the stroller in the first place, but for the rest of the renters, just pick any stroller you see.  They all look alike, except for the registration number.  So Disney doesn't care---at the end of the day, none of their dolphin  strollers were leaving the park.  Much ado about nothing.

Imaginary Playmates and the Fractal Personality

   I never had an imaginary playmate, or even a beloved teddy bear or other creature that I confided in. Reality was real enough, but I made no attempt to escape it by slipping into another world where my fears and doubts could be soothed.
   Until now.  I'm remembering what one of my favorite TV personalities confided one time in an interview: George Goebel said he drank before every performance because he "couldn't go out there alone."  It's too hard being in a space by yourself.
     I don't drink and don't want to, but have found myself confronting  sort of a fractal identity.  It may be true that fractals cast no shadows, but the endless feedback loops serve a real purpose.  What we call imagination loops away to enter the consciousness of another identity before it circles back.  I suspect that the consciousness entered is another version of myself: the aura has the quality of compassion and understanding too complete to  emanate from elsewhere.
     Psychiatrists may qualify such as the hallmark of a borderline personality but the concept of "I don't exist"  occurs only in the space between.  The space that offers no answers, only the consolation  of  understanding.

Billowing

  I think that's the term he used.  I called Spectrum Customer Service today for  the first time, and spoke with their representative Richard, who has to either hold or be vying for the record of friendliest and most helpful rep in the history of time. When he asked how he could be of help, I said the statement is different now and I didn't understand some of the item charges.
    Richard asked if I knew how megabytes worked, and I said um, maybe at one time, but not anymore.  So he said he'd explain and did he ever.  I learned how the Mohawk River does not flow with the  same billowing as the Hudson, and somehow the Tappan Zee Bridge came into play also.  Then, addressing my bill, he volunteered that the $50 charge for line item "Internet Services" is a waste of money if I'm the only user, and don't stream Netflex or Hulu, or do a lot of gaming.  He offered to downgrade  and save me money.  He said people think it's speed but really it's what they call billowing.  I think that's what he said.
    He said I might receive a call in a few minutes asking how the service call went.  I know Time Warner occasionally did that, but I suspect it may be more of a priority with the new ownership.  **They did call back for a rating, and I gave all the highest.  It doesn't take much to buy my good graces.

The Billy Club

Bill Cosby, Billy Bush, Bill O'Reilly
                     All caught up in bad sex and all have paid a price, in one manner or another.
                     But perhaps the worst offender and the only one who publicly bragged about his misdeeds is in the White House.

Here Today...You fill in the blank.

The last plant pictured is called Japanese Burberry.  They grow HUGE leaves, oddly after the yellow flowers die off.   They are rhizomes so they will spread. They are extremely hardy, impressive looking plants.  They like a more shaded area than I have them in.  If anyone would like any, they are free for the digging. (The idiot throwing shade in some of the pictures is the incompetent photographer.)

Work in Process, not Work in Progress 4/13/17 and 4/18/17

Work in Process is how the Veteran Administration titles the steps a compensation claim goes through.  The Claims Process has 8 distinct steps of measuring the status of a claim:
1) Claim Received
2) Under Review
3) Gathering of Evidence
4) Review of Evidence
5) Preparation for Decision
6) Pending Decision Approval
7) Preparation for Notification
8) Complete
        The frustrating part of tracking a claim is that anywhere along the route the claim can be sent back, usually, and frequently, to the Gathering of Evidence phase, in which more evidence may be requested from the veteran, or any one of the medical facilities involved in the presentation of the claim, or to one of its own departments.
        More frustrating is the knowledge that 75% of initial claims are denied. There are many vocal veterans, and  veterans' groups, who assert that the mantra of the VA is "Deny, deny until you die."
       The Claims Process is notoriously slow, though attempts are being made to  speed the process up. It can take up to a year for a simple claim to  wend its way through the process, and much longer depending on how many disabilities are being claimed.
       In light of the many, many denials, there are also many, many appeals. That is not surprising because in some cases the compensation is very substantial.
      The difficulty is that these  claims are attributing the veterans' current disabilities to having been caused or aggravated by military service. The key word here is NEXUS, and the establishing thereof.
      It appears that almost every veteran who has been in combat files a claim for PTSD.  And for one who does indeed suffer from it, the rigorous evaluation process must be a nightmare of another kind.
     Numerous law firms exist specializing solely in assisting the veteran to file his/her  claim more successfully by taking advantage of their experience and their ability to provide legal representation at hearings and such.
  Service-Connected Disability Ratings range from 0% to 100%. from no financial payments to thousands of dollars for the service connected severely disabled.
    The rating for Tinnitus, if approved, is 10% for one ear or both.  The monthly payment is about $130.
   PS: As of 4/18/17, after exactly 4 months, we did beat the odds  and were granted Service Connection, at 0% and 10%.  Encouraging because statistics say 75% of initial claims are denied, even those who have sought legal help.  Even 0% is considered a plus because it opens the door for Appeals and later consideration. But this is not the goal here; we need another new claim.  If I live long enough for it to matter.  Onward and upward.

 

Bower of Flowers 4/12/17

Artifacts

   Back in the time when I was busy  with a lot of  family, job, and community obligations, there were 2 things I kind of dreaded doing on an annual basis:  getting a mammogram and going to Confession. I still get the annual mammogram.  The procedure is assembly line, professional and efficient, and I just numb my mind and have no issues.
     Confession is a different matter.  Dorothy and I used to seek out the general confessions where absolution was granted enmasse, but for some reason those rituals fell out of favor----only to be replaced by the individual face-to-face interview with the Priest in an open area of  the church.  Recidivist that I am,  I would prefer the antiquated confessional with the closed and darkened screen meant to insure your anonymity.  The thought of standing before a priest and looking him in the eye while  I enumerate my miserable and boring litany of sinful behavior is so stressful that I imagine I may either fall to the floor or, worse,  break into laughter.
   Fortunately for the fulfillment of the obligatory Easter Duties, the last several years have worked out for me. With knee surgeries, a  kidney stone retrieval, and such, a priest (or authorized substitute) has visited my hospital room, and, after the  most routine inquiry as to my acquiescence,  granted absolution with barely a glance in my direction.  This year, I'm on my own--still have several weeks left before my grace period expires.

EmUrgent Care

   I have to say I hate their name.  I get it, but I still hate the way it looks and sounds.  My next observation  is that the reception desk area is wide and open, no shatterproof protective glass or any way for the employees to lock themselves in, unusual in this day and age.  But this is Mechanicville and not  a dangerous place to be.  Unless of course you go back to the  1976 sniper  attack on Joyce's Tavern where a dozen people were shot by the black sheep son of an influential family. Only 2 of the victims died though, so it wasn't that serious.
    The building itself is very spacious, with quite a few examining rooms. I try to figure out the location of the last time I was in a room there: I could be in the very spot where my cat had inflicted bloody scratches on the arms of the cat groomer.  But that was almost 2 years ago.  This is now, and the configuration is completely different.
   I'd  had a few hours free, so I decided to get an antibiotic for a tick bite.  I've had tick bites before with no treatment, even the times I visited a doctor, though twice I had the blood test which read negative for Lyme Disease.  The other ticks I was able to pick off or tweeze out, sometimes with the help of others, but this time the tick has burrowed deep beneath the skin of my leg, and  broke off when I tried to remove it.  I might have missed it in the shower  especially since I missed a shower the day before when the water supply was cut off due to the installation of our new Culligan softener. They say it's important that ticks don't remain on you for more than 24 hours and since I didn't go out in the rain, it's a strong possibility the tick has overstayed.
    Laura, the P.A. of the Dave and Don visits,  hobbles in, her foot enclosed in a boot cast.  Turns out she suffered a stress fracture of her foot walking on a sandy beach while on vacation.  She asks why I'm there and then if I have any ongoing conditions. She says she hasn't looked at my records, all that idiocy that we assiduously fill out. It can't be that she was too busy---I was the only patient there.  She takes a look at my tick, says the area looks inflamed,and prescribes an antibiotic which has the twofold purpose of fighting the inflammation and also Lyme Disease. So I'm covered, unless, of course I develop symptoms, and then the protocol is to  go to an emergency room.
     That's why I came, so I'm satisfied, though the charge of $265 for the visit seems pretty high, considering it was a hands-off visit. I don't care though, because I'm one of the fortunate with health insurance.
     She sees no problem with the tick's head remaining where it is, says the head is not toxic and that it will come out when the skin scabs over.
      I'm reminded of a long ago issue of LIFE Magazine.  My father, a fan of Ripley-like stories, is showing a picture of a headless chicken, which is standing up and walking around. Someone had chopped its head off for a meal, but the chicken, a rooster I think, had refused to lay down and die, so the would-be executioner had a change of heart and decided to let it live.  They poured nourishment down its open neck.  So if a chicken can live without a head, can the head of a louse live without a body?   The food source is right there.  I'm not interested in harboring any more pets so I hope the answer is no.

 
 
 

Say something, anything

   We prepay our fuel bill at John Ray.  The savings for doing so is 15 Cents off per gallon.  The ticket is printed off the delivery truck and left in our mailbox.  For our previous delivery, in December, the per-gallon price seemed high at $2.799 per gallon, so I called and asked if we had received the $.15 discount.  The rep said we had, that the full price would be $.15 more.
   Our last delivery was last week, March 31.  The per gallon price on the delivery truck ticket was $2.89.  Again, the ticket is printed from the truck and I saw no indication of a discount. So I called the office to check to see if the discount had been applied. This time the rep took a few minutes and came back to tell me that indeed it had not, and that, looking at my account, she saw that no discount had been applied for the last 3 deliveries either.  So she told me to deduct $70.17 from my bill.
    The moral would be that it all depends on who you talk to---the person who is doing their job or the person who takes the easy way and just answers off the top of their head.

Status Check

   The technician, chart in hand, entered the waiting room and called my name.  I had already registered  at the desk, and submitted all the usual pertinent information.  The wait had not been very long. A number of people had been there  ahead of me, but all seemed to go in order, right up to when my name was called.  
    We walk down the hall and turn a corner.  The tech asks me if I'd ever had a PET test before.  I say no, I'm here for an ultrasound, to track kidney stones or any other stones that are hanging around.  She says, well, the PET is combined with the ultrasound.  Then she asks if I was told that the procedure  would take 2 hours. I immediately stop walking.  "No, I can't be here for 2 hours," I tell her. "Are you sure that's for me?"
     She looks at the chart she's holding, but turns it away from  me.  "Yes," she says.  "It's written right here."  I peek over at her chart anyway, where she is focused on the script for the type of procedure. I look at the top: the name says Mary Christian.  I tell her  that is the wrong chart, it's not my name.  She looks a little flustered and states that she did call my first name.  I say yes. ( Mic drop)
    We go back to the waiting room, where Mary Christian is sitting. I tell her I'm glad I'm not to be here for 2 hours.  She seems a little amused as she follows her chart down the hall.
    It turns out that "my" technician had called her also, but stopped short when the birthday didn't match her chart.  But it seems the technician just returned her to the waiting room. I had walked quite a ways down the hall, almost to the designated testing area, and no one came after us to say there'd been a mixup.  My technician told me about it, seeming pleased that she'd caught the wrong name, but apparently had made no attempt to contact anyone else to try to rectify the situation.  I suppose the first tech was negligent because she had not asked my birthdate.  But apparently there is no one who takes any responsibility for the complete process.  Each person does his specific job in a vacuum of isolation from the reason why.  Let the patient beware.

Terror, Babies and Subterfuge

    What if?
         Atrocities against the innocents have been going on for a long time. The world is well aware;  several Popes have called for awareness and aid and compassion for the innocent victims of all ages.  There have been celebrities who have traveled to the saddest war-torn places on earth and, like John Kennedy Jr. and others, have attempted to use their public voices to draw attention to the horrors of war and terroristic tactics.  Groups such as Doctors Without Borders have risked their lives attempting to relieve the suffering of some of the victims.
    Most of us fortunate ones somehow live our lives not unaware of, but necessarily oblivious to, how terribly unfair life is.   We go out to dinner, buy stuff we don't need, play sports, discard perfectly good things, accompany our kids to extracurricular activities, and, oh, the cruises people take, and the elaborate golf courses.  All the while we know that people, yes, people with babies---babies--- are starving and dying from assaults by one rabid group or another. We know it, hate it (when we have the opportunity), but what else are we to do.  We have to live our own lives.
     Last week, I watched a British reporter's interview of a woman in Sudan, where thousands and thousands are starving.  The woman was lying under a tree, alone but for a newborn baby she was holding to her chest, trying to nurse it from her famished body.  Her husband and children had been slaughtered before her eyes, and her house burned down.  She had nothing, but on her search to find some sustenance, she had given birth in the bushes  along the way. She had followed along the path of others who had fled before her, and finally caught up with where they were encamped. They would not accept her, as they were also starving and would accept no newcomers, She looked close to death, and her baby depended on her alone.  I could only hope the reporter could offer her some hope, but there were all those others...
   If I were in a position of power, could I justify eradicating those who caused the suffering in the Sudan? Possibly, but there are so many others, too many others. We can't help them all, can we?  No, but if I had enough power, I could select a certain area to exert that power.  Maybe the area where aside from being a generous and life-saving savior, I could incidentally and egregiously help my own cause.
   So could this be true on the national scale?  Is it possible that the devastating and forbidden chemical attack, which did indeed take the lives of innocent children, came as a surprise to a man in his 70's?  Could he not possibly have realized the condition of the world. But if the attack were supported by a country with whom he had been accused of being too close to, and the  launching  of a punitive attack would diffuse that charge, may that not be an effective way to look like an outraged human being and help oneself at the same time.
   In light of all the high stakes interactions and the resultant investigations and accusations between countries, could it be impossible to rule out the complicity of the other country as well?  People are duped all the time, even smart people.

A Damaged Mind

   When he conveyed his sympathies after the horrendous chemical attack, it seemed a decent and respectable thing to do, even though some criticized it because of policy that  may have formulated the attacks.  But still, a normal reaction from him.  And then he "had to spoil it all by saying something stupid like" it was Obama's fault.

DRTL

 And so my story goes.  Only my blog records what I have to say.

Unmasking

"You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger..."

Word Entry

   New words enter our language all the time,and that's accepted and necessary.  But I sometimes wonder how old standard words take on a new connotation.  For instance, the word "grab" is now used in ways not heard before.  "My car is in the shop so if you're going to the meeting tonight could you grab me on your way?"   "The storm is coming so I'm going to the market to grab some groceries."  It's a favorite expression on the shopping channels:  "We're having a sale on QVC so be sure to grab those shoes now."  It used to be considered bad manners to grab anything, but the times they are a-changin'.

The Beholder's Eye

   Bald eagles look majestic only when they are soaring.  Back to earth, they are ungainly vulture-like carnivores.

The Sexiness of the Rogue Campaign...

.....is over now. The thrill of installing a renegade is wearing off and now grim reality sets in. There is a book titled "Too Late the Phalarope" and while the "substance" is not strictly addressed the title seems apt.