Keegan Lineage

 Mary Ann Keegan was my father's mother. My grandmother.

On and Off

   During the hospital procedure, 3 Medi-Trace pads were applied for cardio tracking. When I got home, they were still applied. I guess there was a person responsible for applying but not removing. I hope there was a person responsible for attaching them. Oh, well.

Table Talk---Dream Alert

     Joe T. had built a table in his workshop. There was new wood all over the place, the light-colored kind. The table stood alongside the wall, quite an impressive piece. It was about 6 feet long and 3 feet wide and had an elaborate system of crosspieces and I guess support beams. I offered to hold the last piece while he drilled holes somewhere on the side to hold the pieces in place. The piece I held was near the very bottom and I had to extend my arms wide to hold the final board. My arms got tired and achy and I let go of the board; that caused  the other pieces to slide down to the bottom of the piece. Well, I had tried.

     I was asked once again to rate some examination papers in Albany. I saw Barbara in the post office. She said she was going to do do also. I asked her if she wanted to go with me. She said no, without offering any reason. I felt aggrieved, especially since I was the one who had convinced her she could do this work in the first place.

    I was sitting in the conference room waiting for our Herkimer BOCES session to begin. After many years of her commuting there with me, Fran had begun riding with another employee who lived closer to her.  I had my paperwork on the table. Fran arrived late and strewed her paperwork on top of mine, scattering my carefully organized materials.  I thought it rude, but all attention was on Fran, who was playing the poor little me card for one reason or another.

  I was with my grandkids in Mass. I was trying to help the youngest with her shoes and socks, but only her mother could help her. (This actually happened about 4 or so years ago.

 There were several more event in this long night of dreams. The details are slipping away, but every one of them were tales of failure or rejection, or both. Maybe it was the after-effects of anesthesia. Or just reality.

It's the results that matter.

  The surgeon's final word to me:  "It was a lot of work."  

Successful procedure and outcome, complete report given to me. 

I think that is the gist of hospital procedures. I expect the future will be even more concentrated on the physical processes and will further eliminate the frills of the  antiquated customary deliveries of healthcare.

#3 Heck, why stop now...

    Arrival time was 10:45 for 12:00 procedure. There was a delay, so at about 12:30 with no nurse evidently assigned to my cubby hole, I rang the buzzer. A nurse appeared, and I asked to go to the bathroom. The nurse asked if I was in recovery. I told her no, waiting for the procedure.  She lowered the bed rail and asked if I could walk.  I said yes, and she said to go left out of the room, then down the hall past the nurses' station and the bathroom would be on the right. So I did.  That was it. I did not see that nurse again.  (I had the IV attached to the pole, but I managed.

Incident #2

   No ax to grind, just writing down because no one to talk to:

  The nurse who led me from the waiting room to the pre-surgery room was trying to insert the line for the IV. She was having difficulty because her light was broken. Huh? She said there is a light that helps in finding veins. But hers was broken. I asked if there was only 1 on the floor, but she didn't answer. Also in the room now was Christian, who had the computer and was asking me questions and entering responses  on that.  He looked over and saw Nurse A was having difficulty inserting the IV. He spoke to her in the front of the room. I couldn't hear.  Nurse A finally got the needle in arm. Christian said something; again they spoke. She came back and took the needle out, saying it wouldn't work. She came back, took another look, then stood up and saying, "I'll defer to Christian, " she left the room, never to return.  So Christian, he of the computer intake, came over to the other side and succeeded in inserting the IV line. 

     I think those 2 may have had previous disagreements.

Hospital Anecdote#1

   The chief anesthesiologist showed up briefly. He  named the type of drugs and said, regarding the experience, "You won't know and you won't care."  He  was in charge of  identifying the meds, would not be at the procedure, I'm sure.

    Some time later, a man entered, said he was the Assistant or maybe Assisting Anesthesiologist.  He began talking. Suddenly he stopped and said, "It was nice talking to you even though our meeting was so short."   Motioning to a woman who had just entered, he said, "Laurie will be there now." I asked if she was his equivalent. He said yes. I asked where he was going. He said to lunch. 

    Laurie had nothing much to say; she left shortly. I guess she was in the surgery room.

The Changing Face of Hospitals

     Based partly on what I've read and also from personal experiences, it seems the concept of hospital care is undergoing a complete reformation.  And maybe it's about time that we relinquish our hold on the idea that the hospital is there at our disposal to render caring aid for those who enter its premises, with attentive doctors and nurses devoted to seeing that we the patients receive nurturing, personal attention for whatever our affliction is in our time of need. 

    The hospital, first and foremost, is a business, with bills to pay, and staff who are seeking to secure their own interests. Gone are  the days when a Hospital was considered one big family, devoted to helping the sick. Forget the myths still perpetuated by television shows where doctors and nurses discuss their patients' conditions and actively advocate on their behalf. 

  Some remember the folksy atmosphere of grocery stores, shoe stores, hardware stores, which were open to the wants of their customers, and would offer advice or services on a personal level. Except for a few quaint leftovers, those shops are gone, replaced by huge department stores or such. Think Walmart's, or, even more impersonal and also more efficient, Amazon.

   Today's hospitals  exist on the premise that hospital care is predicated on the treat and release concept--- deal with  medical condition with professional care and then have the patients move on and out. Why should they remain in a building just because a surgery or procedure was performed there. 

     I have no idea, for example, what instruction today's nursing students are receiving, what their manner of interaction with patients should be. I would hazard a guess that this standard patient greeting has  gone the way of the dinosaur:  "Hello Patient, My name is Lisa. I'm your nurse and I'll be taking care of you ."

The Urge To Kill

 

Lost in Plain sight

   Last summer  when Joe strung the outside Christmas lights., I couldn't find the remote for them. It was new from the year  before and it is a handy feature. I looked where I thought I had placed it when the lights were taken down the year before.  It was not there, in the place I thought was the most logical. I could visualize the remote, a small, slender white unit. I could not find it in the most logical place, or in  the second or third plausible locations either. So I searched the house, looking in places I knew I would not  possibly have placed it. I knew I would not have wanted to store it downstairs with the Christmas ornaments, but I looked through all the boxes and bags anyway.  I asked myself where I would put the remote if I were to store it for the season. Remember it's  slender and doesn't take up much space. I told myself over and over that I would place it on the shelf in the cabinet behind the tv remotes. And I looked there repeatedly, even through all  the drawers, which I never use any more,  but of course to no avail. Joe bought  a new remote, a small black one this time, which worked fine.

    One day, weeks later,  a small box in the back corner of the tv cabinet shelf caught my eye.   "What could be in it?" I wondered. I opened it to find  the white tv remote. I'd  had a clear visual of what the remote looked like. The box, not so much.

       

    

Practice( Medical, that is) Makes Perfect: Does It?

    A major frustration  in my mind, made even worse because I know it's minor, is being unable to find something I'm looking for. I tend to keep a lot of documents, and stuff, and I have a sorta system for filing that usually serves me well. At present, I am looking for an ENT to resolve a problem in my ear. A short time ago, I visited Emurgent Care and the P.A. gave me a list of ENT's for referrals. I have uncovered just about every medical report and downloaded information from the beginning of time, but I can not find this one. I know I can call and get a copy, but darn it, it has to be somewhere in my house.

   I'm tempted to throw away a lot of old paperwork, as I did to an extent with VA materials, but find myself reluctant to do so. So I search through, read, and return to folders. As I'm facing a medical procedure shortly with a new doctor, I look through my previous interactions with my possibly former doctor, which I can track back to 1988.  I also see other once and former doctors who have referred me to other specialists  when they felt a newer procedure was a better fit with my condition; I cite Dr. Almonte  who referred me for  updated procedures several times. 

   The doctor in question now evidently does not refer patients to other practices. He has been attempting to resolve an issue now for several years with at least 4 attempts with that same issue. We have had reasonable discussions and no disagreements as I had no way of knowing if there was an alternative treatment. But my primary care doctor (who is retiring next month) suggested I contact a highly skilled practitioner in that field who had recently provided him with an  exceptional outcome. As that highly esteemed doctor is now on medical leave, I was referred to another doctor in that practice.

   The truth is that no one can ever know what will happen, if change is worth it, whether one should stick with the tried and true rather than rely on the science of innovation. I have an IRA which requires a minimum withdrawal each year based on the actuarial estimate of a 5.3 year life span. At present rate, that's at least 10 more "procedures."  Onward and Inward!  

  

  

Test of Strength

 "Drink a 10-oz. bottle," reads the instructions. But try as I might I can't twist the cap off, even with the help of the twistie pad. So I look at the bottle and see the cap part is firmly attached to the base ring.  I take a paring knife and cut along the diameter, loosening the grip of the ring. I twist the cap. It will not move, even with the help of the twistie.   I know I have at least average strength, but no luck here. I use a can opener to try to lift the cap free of the bottle, but that doesn't work either. I figure I'll have to cut the cap completely off the bottle. Time is running out---the instructions say drink by 5 o'clock. I use my faithful serrated knife this time to attempt to cut the top off the bottle. The plastic is like iron; I saw away, but can barely make a dent. I know the liquid has to leave the bottle one way or another. I resort to the deadliest weapon in the house, the ice pick. After several stabs and a lot of pressure, the plastic is breached  and I empty the contents into a cup.  I didn't even cut myself.

Gonzo Gone

     Hunter S. Thompson' s Final Written Words:

"No More Games.  No More Bombs. No More Walking.  No More Fun.  No More Swimming.  67.  That is 17 years past 50.  17 more than I needed or wanted.  Boring.  I am always bitchy.  No Fun---for anybody.  67.  You are getting Greedy.  Act your old age.  Relax---This won't hurt."   

He shot himself 4 days later.

Language Casualties of the Times

    First off, I'm not angry. Language, written or spoken, is a function of the times, and how we communicate with each other. Yet, it is of note:

    If the word black is now to be capitalized when referring to race, why not the word brown?  We hear about discrimination against the Black and brown people. Are capital letter designations based on societal injustice or slavery alone or what. 

  Words alone.  Some words or terms are banned for use by some, but allowable for others.  NAACP, United Negro College Fund

Grammar and usage. Offense to no one, but it is just grammatically wrong for a plural pronoun to refer to a singular noun. I don't mean the ambiguity afforded to collective noun usage. But the structure used to eliminate sexual designation. As in, "The person who caught the ball injured their hand."  Just so wrong.

The sometimes awkward and completely unnecessary obsolescence of words. What ever happened to the word "before." Yes, there are times when "ahead of " carries a different connotation. You want to get ahead of the crowd. That invention is ahead of its time. But the media, written newspaper accounts as well as online blurbs, almost automatically replaces before with ahead of. He will meet with reporters ahead of the  meeting. Why use 2 words when 1 will do, and even make more sense. I guess it must sound sexier, in the commercial sense.

And there have always been slangy catch phrases. But sometimes they tend to clash with time and place.   "Perfect" is an example. When you answer a question in completing a form or giving information, you don't necessarily want to hear the word perfect. What is your date of birth?  You answer and hear "Perfect." No.

But the good news is that "Perfect" is slowly being replaced. The bad news is the replacement word is "Gotcha."  Sounds like a trap, doesn't it.

And if I never hear "I love it!" again, it will be too soon.  (Maybe that started with that car ad.

But--but is it virus-free?

 A gift to Dave at the VVH:

Message from Beyond

 Found this quote on a folded and well-worn piece of paper in an old wallet of my sister's:

   "Don't withhold your approbation

     Till the pastor makes oration

     And I lie with snowy lilies on my brow.

    If you like me or you love me, tell me now.

     For no matter how you shout it,

    I wouldn't give a damn about it.

    If you like me or you love me...

         Tell me now!"

Straight From the Nurse's Mouth

     I was offered advice from an office nurse today. She said if anyone wants to know  the best choice of doctor for any procedure, they should  ask a nurse.  So I asked. Out of the 20 doctors in the practice, she named 2. One of those named is the doctor I'm seeing. So hope lives...

News Flash---

 ---to those mourning the separation from their loved ones in nursing homes:   We all die alone.

ENT Then and still Now

    Beginning when  he was not much more than a toddler, David suffered from persistent strep infections in his throat area. His excellent pediatricians prescribed the drugs of choice, switching from one to another antibiotic and extending the time of course of treatment, from the usual 30 days to 3 months, then 6 months, and finally a year, which he didn't quite reach before they were to recommend the last resort of surgery. His doctors even had the entire family, and the pets, on an antibiotic, but as soon as the drug was stopped, the child developed another severe and debilitating case of tonsillitis, attributed to strep.

  Pediatricians Grattan and Symansky were based in Cohoes, and they most often utilized the 3 Troy hospitals for their patients. But they were concerned for David, and when he was 5 years old, they recommended a tonsillectomy with a bright young phenom of a surgeon at Child's Hospital in Albany. 

    We had the interview and the surgeon concluded surgery was the best choice for the health of the child. At the time Child's Hospital, named by the way for a person and not because its patients were children, had the policy of allowing a parent to stay in the child's room during the period of hospitalization. Most of the patients on the children's floor were there for cleft palate surgery. Parents were welcome to visit but only if they could stay as the kids would cry when the parents left, thus jeopardizing the surgery. Reclining chairs were provided for nighttime sleeping for the adults.

  David was 5 and his doctors had told me about the policy, and I wanted to stay as he was not used to being away from home. But the young surgeon commented to me that he did not think it was necessary, as David was not a baby. Never mind that he at age 5 he  was old enough to be more worried. I was dismayed and told Dr. Symansky what the surgeon had said, that he didn't think I needed to stay. Here is where I received the best advice of my life and it has followed through to this day.

  Dr. Symansky was young, very capable and confident, and kind, and at that time he would talk to me in a direct and social manner; we were about the same age. He said, "What do you care what the surgeon thinks you should do. We recommended him because of his skills in surgery, not for what he thinks. This is your child. Do what you want to do."  He told me this in his usual friendly and kind of casual tone--no problem, no need to plead your case, just do what you want.

 So I stayed the 3 or so nights, before, during, and  after the surgery. The surgery was successful, and David was glad I was there, though one night Dave and Dorothy and Gus stopped by and we went to supper at, I think,  the Lark Tavern. Another mother staying with her baby in the same room agreed to watch over  David. We hurried back as soon as we could. She told me David spent the entire time under a chair. For  a long time, he never forgave me for abandoning him, possibly still harbors resentment. What's more, I was pregnant, and still slept in a chair away from home for the duration. Kids and their gratitude.

  What brought this to mind is I have been searching for an ENT for myself. I scrolled through the list of those in this area, and the name,  Dr. Lyon Greenberg, showed up. Maybe it's the son of that exceptional doctor, I thought. But no. His vitae says he has been in practice for 63 years.  He is 88 years of age. BTW, he is accepting new patients.

  

I wish they would refer to the administration of the vaccine as...

 ..something, anything besides "getting shots in arms."

Ah, Russian Literature Premonition

    In college, as an English major, one course I took was Russian Literature. It was  a 3-credit, one semester course; this meant we had 3 hours in class each week with countless hours of assigned reading, as the reading list included just about every known published work of Russian literature. And the Russian authors were not short on verbiage; even the plays were lengthy, as per Anton Chekhov's "Three Sisters."

    The somber and dreary climate of  Russian writings,  mood and temperament as well as temperature,  centered on the  themes of Change, Suffering, and The Meaning of Life. 

  It has been a very long time since I read the play. I recall the three sisters suffering through the failed pursuit of their dreams, doomed attempts finding meaningful work, going to Moscow, lost and mistaken love lives. But what sticks most in my memory is our professor's analysis of the plot:   The sisters constantly voiced their hopes and dreams of what their fortune in life could or would be, each sister desperate to communicate their desires and wishes. The professor depicted each sister as looking into  a mirror held in their hand and directing all their lifeforce into their own image.  Each sister alone in her search for identity, and blind to the existence of the angst of her sisters. 

   Imagine that---people walking around staring into an object held in their hand, oblivious to the others in their company. That professor must have had a crystal ball.

   

The Queen's and Other Gambits A Critique

    At such times I miss Rex Reed and others.

  The Netflix series has received rave reviews. You may consider them well deserved because the show is different and compelling in strange ways. It is compelling as a modern-day fairy tale if the viewer attempts to trust the story.  The heroine, if you will, is a young orphan girl blessed, or cursed as the case may be argued, with a genius and obsession for chess strategy. Most of her young life is consumed by the strictures imposed on her by the societal norms  of the 1960's, which include sexism in the form of a male dominated society as well as the lure of tranquilizer drugs, alcohol, and the smoking of cigarettes and illegal drugs.

   Some may posit that this  ideology which exists in a capitalist culture can be overcome by a person's exertion of individual freedom. Having gone through the extremes of what society had to offer at the time, and descending into the dark depths, Beth was able to surmount her problems on her own, without any collective action from society. A utopian view, if there ever was one.

 Others  would say the portrayal of Beth's life and the odds she overcame is a distortion of social reality. She was orphaned under gruesome circumstances; she said it did not bother her. Her passion was chess, and the world of chess was a man's world; she was unfazed. She faced the addictions of drugs and alcohol; she overcame them by will power. She even had to contend with  an unloving  stepfather, and an uncaring banker. Zounds.

  So a story worth telling, with a lesson to be learned from either point of view---social reality or utopia.

   I'm fine with either analysis, but I'm  confounded by the more mundane aspects of the story. In the first 6 episodes, I don't think Beth spoke more than 100 words, and then in the most detached manner possible. Yet people, mostly male chess players, were drawn to her in the most caring manner, offering to help her even after she trounced their game. There were several who kept showing up in her life, offering their advice and suggestions, even after she had rejected them. Beth had transformed from  a rather plain and dowdy schoolgirl into a beautiful and chic woman, even through her addictive years. Only in the later episode did she apply her makeup with a too-heavy hand, but her body remained that of a model. 

   Beth is the protagonist of the story, so naturally it revolves around her circumstances. But as a viewer willing to opt in to the suspension of disbelief necessary for any fiction, I can't help opting out long enough to feel a little envious of a person who is detached and unwilling to reach out yet is pursued by any number of interested would-be friends.

Afterthought:  It seems in the early episodes the chain-smoking stepmother was  being set up to be a victim of lung cancer. She had developed a troubling cough, but that apparently disappeared, and several episodes later she succumbed to hepatitis; she drank a lot too.

    

So A Woman and A Politician are sitting at a bar...

 ...when he puts an arm around her back and unhooks her bra strap. Reportedly the man is drunk. (Whether or not  the woman is drunk is inconsequential.)  An amazing feat for him to accomplish, especially in a drunken state. I have never been able to unhook with one hand, even without a shirt on. So this guy must be extremely practiced to unhook through clothing using one hand: she reports his other hand is on her thigh.  I really could have used those skills several years ago when I tore my rotator cuff.   I wasn't drinking at a bar then  though.

Should we...

 ..start spelling yellow with a capital Y?  Never mind, I guess not.

Today's Mail:

 

New Orleans

 Trying to clear out paperwork, I came across a packet from my vacation in New Orleans, which may not have been my very first vacation, but is probably destined to be my last. Thanks to our British friend and itinerary planner, I think we went to every possible tourist site, and even some venues that were not part of the typical tourist route. Pat was a remarkable person. It seems she had contacts all over this country. She was so outgoing and friendly everyone wanted to accommodate her and her friends whenever they could, even strangers we met. She also organized our trip so that we did something every minute of the day, starting out from our base at Hotel Monteleone on Bourbon Street, right in the heart of the French Quarter. We were in our 20's so that did not pose any difficulty, except perhaps when she was leading us on a walking trip around Lake Pontchartrain: after several miles, Liz and I said we wanted to turn back. It is a very big lake.

   We didn't eat at every famed restaurant, but we did our best. At The Court of Two Sisters, I ordered a game hen or such that came shooting flames and accompanied by a standing ovation from the wait staff. And there was Antoine's and then Brennan's for breakfast, and the Caribbean Room, Paddy O'Brien's and as many more as we could fit in. 

  We rode the famed streetcar route, even visiting the Streetcar Named Desire, which was not in service any more, but set up as an attraction. 

   We cruised the Mississippi on the Mark Twain, where, oddly enough, Liz ran into the neighbors of her Mom's in Greenwich.  We went to Dixieland Hall and Preservation Hall and witnessed a street funeral procession with jazz band accompaniment. I think The Checkmates performed at one of the clubs. We visited the Cathedral of St. Louis; it was Lenten season.  

   One day we took the bus to Baton Rouge, and visited the Capitol Building, which struck me as rather deserted. And we visited a plantation or two. (Pardon the word.)  Pat's contact in The States connected her with some theater performers, and they met us in our hotel and took us to Cabaret Theatre's performance of "Nobody Likes A Smart Ass." So much fun---I googled a few years ago and it's still running somewhere. Then we all went to a Playboy Club--even  more fun. We got to go upstairs to the private rooms because of their artistic status. We had a great time, all 3 of us. We probably assumed that was just the start of such times, and maybe for the others it was, but the trip will forever stand out for me.

  The only glitches:  We  arrived at The Monteleone where  we  had reservations, but were told at the desk that the hotel was full. It was late at night and we felt lost. Our cab driver must have feared for our safety; we must have seemed like babes in the woods. It was just past Mardi Gras and the streets were still full of empty glasses. Bar customers could carry their liquor containers outside with them. Enroute from the airport to our hotel, our cab driver had driven us through the back alleys where he showed us drunks slumped over against the walls or lying flat in the street. He told us to be careful.  He helped carry our bags into the hotel and when  we told him our reservations were not held, he went to the desk and told them to find us a room. And it worked. He said hotels always have extra rooms in store.

    On our way back to NYC, we somehow messed up the time zones, in the opposite direction. We had thought we might stay overnight, but instead, according to our time settings it was near morning so we decided to drive home, to Cambridge. It was dark; and starting to snow, and the road was curiously free of traffic, but Pat drove us in her aged and borrowed old antique vehicle, and we made it to her house in Cambridge. Liz drove to Greenwich and I to Valley Falls. It turned out we had set our watches the wrong way, and we had driven in the middle of the night.

  

    

"Another March"

    I haven't read Jesse Stuart's "Another April" since I taught it to my dear  seventh graders back in the early 1960's.  And it's not yet April, but the theme of the story nevertheless strikes a chord. Back then, I realized that my twelve-year old students were too young to fully understand the story, but I, from my 22-year-old viewpoint, thought I grasped the meaning completely. I did, but in an entirely different context, that being the poignancy of past times were  about someone else, not myself. 

   Stuart narrates the story from the viewpoint of himself as a young child, in his home state of Tennessee and his parents' farmhouse. His mother's father lives with them, and each year  of course grows a year older. The boy's young self doesn't fully comprehend  what is happening, or the inevitability of what is to happen. His grandfather's work days are over, so he can no longer be out and about doing farm work. Each April of late, when the long winter is coming to an end, and the snow starts to melt, the grandfather ventures out, surveying the property and the animals. The young boy accompanies him, welcomed events  to both grandfather and child. 

   The boy remembers these April outings as always being the same, walking the length of the property, visiting the animal enclosures, picking up fallen tree branches to scratch the backs of the pigs who come to the fence to greet them: he is probably  unaware that their outings may have become shorter, both in distance walked and in time spent outside.

  This April, things seem different. The boy is struck by the fact that his mother is dressing her father for the outdoors just as she does for him, buttoning his coat and tying his scarf to ward off the chill of the April weather. Even more different than from past years, the boy's mother tells him to stay inside, to let his grandfather take the April tour by himself. They watch from the window. The boy notices his grandfather is walking very slowly and does not go very far, seems to want to stay in sight of the house.

   This story used to remind me of the elderly relatives I had known. In particular, the setting seemed very like my grandmother's old homestead. I remembered when she used to walk with Helen and us through what they called the orchard, and to the gardens on the land to the side of their house, and to the nearby chicken coop. I don't remember when those walks ended during our visits there, but in her later years, I see her only sitting in her chair at the kitchen table. She died when I was twelve years old. I remembered my Uncle Joe, who lived with us when we were young. It seems we followed him around the property all day; he always seemed to have a hoe in his hand, digging trenches to let water flow out of the driveway, hacking weeds, planting lettuce and radishes.

    So I knew a thing or two about old people and the way they would welcome the arrival of spring after a long hard winter. I just came inside from a walk around the yard. The sun is trying to shine, but it's still cold and breezy. I buttoned my coat, put on a hat, and gloves. I didn't want to risk falling on slippery slopes, so did not go all the way around the house; there is still snow on the ground. I picked up a few broken winter-kill branches and flung them down the bank, but left the heavier ones, not wanting to lose my balance as I tossed them. That happened to a loved one not so very long ago. I didn't stay outside  long. In another month, there will be Another April.

  

Ya can't just plug it in...

 Thanks, Technology, and Tech.  

Miracle on Ice 1980

 The dentist we used to go to in Albany, Dr. Esmay,  had attended the Miracle on Ice hockey game in Lake Placid. He had proudly and prominently displayed in his office a picture, actually more than one, of the game, and the team picture was autographed by all the players, including Pavelich. Dr. Esmay may have served as  the on-call team dentist.  Everyone appeared so happy---and young.

Old-Time Radio

   I remember listening to The Lone Ranger. There was always Tonto and often a half-breed lying under a tavern window, posing as sleeping, but actually gathering information for the Lone Ranger. I didn't know what a half-breed was, but was aware it was a kind of inferior person. 

    My father was interested in detective stories, magazines like True Crimes and radio shows, such as The Fat Man, The Thin Man, The Shadow, though I think the last-named may have been a favorite of my brother, who would sit in a chair in front of the wooden Silvertone radio, his eyes focused on the small green lighted "eye' on the top of the dial. Don't get between his line of sight. I think my father's favorite may have been a show called Gangbusters, which simulated reality law enforcement calls.  I myself  preferred a show called  Boston Blackie.  (Oops.

Time Period B.C.U. (Before Camera Usage

    I have not traveled much but it's odd to think that even so, there are few or no pictures of my youthful trips or vacations. Two of my teaching friends and I spent a week or so in New Orleans when we were in our twenties. Not one of the three of us brought a camera. I'll never forget it because it was one of the best trips of my life, but not a single picture to prop up the memories. I think we hit every single tourist attraction and restaurant in the city, and we had "dates" besides, provided by  acquaintances of our British friend, who knew more about travel in this country than either of us natives.

Same goes for another memorable trip to meet in Lake Placid with five other teachers from my summer school experience in Oneonta. Barbara and I drove up, we joined them there, and not a camera among the seven of us.  That is another trip I'll never forget---Mt. Hovenberg Bobsled Run, Ottawa police hockey team, dancing, a time never to be forgotten. (B. indicates she'd like to forget, but I'm not sure I believe her. I think she named one of her dogs after a key player years later. Again, no pictures, but I do have a picture of a uniformed Canadian police officer sent to me later.  Ah, youth...

Here It Be

 

Everglades

   Last night one of the contestants on Jeopardy remarked they went to Florida and wanted to take a ride through the Everglades on an air boat, but his wife was afraid they might meet up with some alligators, so they took another trip instead.  A long time ago, Dave and I rode in an air boat through the Everglades, with the driver/pilot/guide alerting us to watch out for alligators. We looked and looked for them but all we saw were birds, rather colorful, but only birds. Darn...

Truth vs. Benefits

   In my storied career involving some who were acting out of desperation, I have witnessed truth taking a back seat to need, real or perceived. There were, most likely still are, certain benefits afforded to "Battered Women."  Seemingly decent women are willing to lie to get these modest benefits, low class variety. Women who are born into a higher class system are most likely not immune to lying either, and in their case, the benefit would be much higher, like maybe a cash settlement somewhere down the line.

   I listened, in no official capacity, as a woman claimed to be a victim of "spousal" abuse. (This is not a police report, but a visit to an agency that has funding dedicated to helping the unfortunate.)  She, who was extremely heavy, alleged that her significant other, who was a foot shorter than her and weighed at least a few hundred lbs. less,  beat her. He was out of the country at the time so of course there were no legal proceedings against him, but there was some reward involved, maybe Christmas presents for the kids.

  The claim was that an ex-boyfriend burned down and totally destroyed the trailer home  of a woman and her kids. She wasn't home at the time, but a neighbor had seen an unknown man pouring gasoline around the trailer and setting it ablaze. The witness could not identify the suspect and he had fled, and that was some months ago, so there was no sense in even filing a police report. I forget what the consideration was here, but some item or relief that was badly needed. It might have been a Thanksgiving Food Basket.

    I knew the truth to be that the trailer was in such bad shape and infested with trash, vermin and fleas that the landlord himself burned it down. He had no permit to do so and it was illegal to do so, but it was a very remote area where people made their own laws. And he did replace the trailer with a much nicer one. 

Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa

 Oh, the world has changed. We're so much gentler now. And careful. I've been around a very long time, and on the so-called dating scene, and I've been  to house parties and weddings and other venues. I wonder if any woman I know has ever been asked if  a guy could kiss her. The old style was to try, and either be allowed or  refused. Asking seems so un-romantic. And if the woman rejects the proffered kiss, has she still been harassed. I'd say only if the prospect of  a cash settlement and fame is involved; the word sorry carries no weight, means nothing, cannot be accepted unless accompanied by the prospect of a large check.   I wonder how any couples get together now, must be the woman has to  make the first move. And I'm no apologist for any man's behavior. But to claim that a man put his hand on the bare skin of her back ignores the fact that most likely the dress worn to the wedding had no back. Check out the pictures of Prom gowns worn by young girls----no fabric in the back area. Sexy, I guess.