Around the yard...

 Honeysuckle bush from Dorothy's reverting to the wild; Wild Phlox, I think; the Grape Arbor; many baby grapes this year, but unfortunately as of late, doomed, most likely, to be victims of some blight as they begin to ripen.

Dorothy and Mother

 

May 31, 2021

 

Since You Been Gone

365 x 4 = 1460 -60 = 1,400 Days and same number of  Nights

Countdown to Birthday #16 in 11 days

 

Front Window

 

An allegory, if you will...

     She was about seven or eight years old at the time. She announced, her voice quiet and serious, that she had found out what her father did for a living. 

  They were a young family: mother, father, and 3 young children, who lived in a  mobile home situated in a  fairly rural area. Their home was surrounded by the usual trappings of active family life. In the yard were toys, dog and kittens. The parents both worked and were attentive to their children, the father perhaps even slightly more so. He was a young man of small stature, and of friendly demeanor, a nice guy, all who knew him would say. The mother worked in some health care field and the father would don his work clothes and off they'd go to their jobs. Her work uniform was white. His was blue.  

  On this day, with all the maturity of her eight or so years of age, she said to me, without asking for sympathy or understanding, that "Daddy kills animals. Every day."  

  And it was true. He worked in a slaughterhouse not far from where they lived. This quiet-mannered family-oriented man  put aside his parental mindset of playing with his kids and their puppies and kittens, donned a uniform and went off to a place to kill animals. A man split into  two different outlooks on life, one might say. But most of us eat hamburgers and sausage and lamb chops and somebody has to do the work for that, even if they have to let their little daughter know what it is they do.

   

Catharsis

   The Draft allows me, my best audience, to  record my thoughts from the procedure on May 26. I don't even need to Publish.

A "Mighty Wind"

    A gust of over 50 mph swept through this afternoon around 4:00 P.M.   On return from this morning's procedure, I had put the trash cans out front.  As is usual, the recyclable receptacle was  almost full with newspapers, bottles, etc.  The gust blew both containers into the yard with their contents spewing out, papers blowing even int0 the neighbors' yard. I picked up what I could but it started to rain, so  I stopped midway. I went out later to collect a few more pieces and to re-position the receptacles along  the driveway for pickup in the early morning. 

   The remaining papers will have to wait for sunshine. Even though I sprayed OFF on my shoes and hat, something must have bitten

my hand because my entire arm is ITCHY.

Archive Part 2

        I tell this nurse that no--the surgeon had meant not to use the right arm for bloodwork, iv's, blood pressure readings.  Even if the chances may be less after time has passed, why take a chance on the likelihood of developing edema. There is discussion among them as to how to procced, but no one wants to get involved it seems. Elizabeth attributes the failure to the fact I was lying down, thereby making it hard to insert the line. Someone else added dehydration for the pre-procedure. Another mentioned getting a vein finder, but no one moved. It's now getting close to procedure time .

     Somewhere midst this scenario, a man in green scrubs enters the room and says he will be the anesthesiologist. He is talking, back turned, addressing the computer. Sorry, I can't hear what you're telling me, I say. His answer is "That doesn't matter, it's not important anyway."  He later says he was joking, his expression having been hidden by his mask. The  audience of nurses is  present. I also didn't respond , not knowing who he was talking to, when he said "Open jaw."  After his meaning was  established, I said I wasn't used to hearing "jaw." It's usually open your "mouth" so they can see if there's room to shove something in there if necessary. 

    The consensus seems to be this is too difficult, all the reasons why my arm is not a good candidate for an i.v. I say last time a nurse, Christian, inserted the i.v. with no difficulty. Christian was not in today.  No "vein finder"equipment.  What to do!!!

    Enter Dr. Viterbo, as the surgery time was overdue.  A nurse said, "If he can't do it, nobody can." I would disagree, I know others who have and no doubt can. But anyway, Dr. V., surrounded by a troupe of apparent groupies, aims a needle at the inside of my  wrist, where are the veins not usually explored. Blood spurts out, all atop the sheet and down my arm; somebody takes the sheet away, and somebody swabs off my wrist, later washing off my id band.  After he has succeeded , I comment to the  group of at least 4 nurses gathered at the front of the room that they should have observed him so they'd know how. Surprisingly they all laughed. 

     But as far as I know, all went as well as possible with recommended surveillance repeat in one year.

  

Not for the Faint of Heart, so Archived

 The operation was a success. And it was, though not without some bumps along the  way. I report the happenings for my own recollection  of the circumstances.

   Following the usual preparatory procedures, I was scheduled to arrive at St. Peter's at 6:15 A.M. for the procedure with the doctor at 7:30.  I was dropped off and arrived at the check-in desk about 6:25, went through the usual check-in process of presenting 1.d., insurance cards, and the signing of quite a few forms and consents, etc. before being directed to the nearby waiting room. I was told the wait would not be long because she thought I was the first patient scheduled. She was right; a young woman, Jessica,  quickly arrived and led me to the pre-surgical waiting room.  She said my nurse would soon be with me. I don't usually ask for anything, but, citing the previous difficulty of inserting my IV, I asked if someone with experience with veins could perform that duty. So far, so good. Though during my quite-short wait, I see and hear an "old" nurse, probably aged 45-50 or so, pass by in the hall, saying apparently to herself, but out loud, "I'm not going to take this any more."  

   Enter "my"  nurse, Elizabeth, a young woman bedecked with jewelry and colorful mask and hair scarf. (OK with me, Gertrude would have been shocked.)  She had the portable computer and asked a ton of questions, most of them already asked and answered. Time is passing, but it's not my problem. Looking over the list of my 1 prescribed medications, she is stumped. I tell her what HCTZ is in the big word form and she finds and enters it. THEN, a pause:  she is evidently alerted there is a meeting she must go to. She is gone about 5 or 6 minutes, and then returns to finish the rest of the questionnaire. (I later surmise she may have been called to account for some mistake or action.)  Oriented to the computer, she continues with the questions, asks what type of  bowel prep I had used. I said the usual. What did you take? Oh, and I'm trying to remember, Miralax, and Dulcolax, and oh, yeah, Citrate. Another  question is, "Do you ever feel like  hurting anybody?" I dutifully answer all her questions and when she is finally finished, she prints out a number of  pages, and evidently a page of stickers, which she detaches and places on her forearm prior to applying one to each page. 

   A few other female nurses enter the room. I can't remember who or why they are there. They seem to be checking the equipment on the left side of the room. I'm sure I could total the ages of any of the  3 and the years would be less than my age. That's good. Youth is better than old age. They have access to newer and better technology, therefore patient care

  It is now very close to 7:30 and no one has yet mentioned the IV. Elizabeth says the site will be in my hand, though last time, 2 months ago, they used the elbow area. She says that gets in the way in the operating room, with the monitoring equipment. OK with me. There are the others on the left side of   my  bed, so she goes to the right side and stretches my left arm across the bed. I would think perhaps not the best location for the arm, but that's OK, Whatever works. Her attempt is a painful and miserable failure. Someone removes the insert and tapes up the wound. When  I ask if there is someone more skilled in putting in an i.v., Elizabeth takes umbrage. She asks if that means she is not good at what she's doing. She sticks her face close to mine, looming over the bed.  Another nurse offers, in her defense,  that "Everybody  has a  bad day."  I say  that would appear to be me. 

  Another nurse enters and the 4 of them are kind of frozen. One remarks that my right arm veins look better, and I repeat the reason for my Limb Alert Band. I say it has been some time since my breast cancer surgery, with lymph node removal, but the surgeon had told me not to use that arm. DEJA VU One nurse says to me, "That seems odd. Modern teaching advises the arm should be  used after surgery," and she illustrates by swinging her arm up and around.

Flora

 Pictured from the bottom:  Single Peony, Dorothy's Peony bush,  Rhodendron, First fancy Iris, First traditional Iris, Lillies of the Valley, and my Potato Crop:

Russian Lit----Ben would get it

 A poem, this time.   By Boris Pasternak

                                       WIND

I have died, but you are still among the living,

And the wind, keening and complaining,

Makes the country house and the forest rock-----

Not each pine by itself

But all the trees as one, 

Together with the illimitable distance;

It makes them rock as the hulls of sailboats

Rock on the mirrorous waters of a boat-basin, 

And this the wind does not out of bravado

Or in a senseless rage, 

But so that in its desolation

It may find words to fashion a lullaby for you.

Earworm / Earwig

   "In the green month of May, when the cherry trees sway, I was riding my horse through the lane..." Until its present persistence,  I don't think I've heard this song or even thought about it since our third grade music teacher taught it to us. I believe the teacher was Ruth Stover, (Janet Weber's mother). Mr. Edwards was later, as I recall. For a few days now, the entire lyrics to the song  have been stuck in my mind. Along with the picture in the song book  of a man riding a black horse through an orchard. There may have been a lady pictured there, but at the time I cared only about the horse. Maybe the refrain will disappear come June.

Details

    A chance encounter, sort of. I know this about him:

     He has on his workplace windowsill a tasteful and interesting collection of small. beautifully potted plants. He recently was surprised to find that Walmart's sells LP records. He bought one because, though he has CD's, he thinks the sound is better on records. He drives an all-electric car to work, from a distance of 40 miles. He rescued a wild rabbit from the threat of foxes, brought it for veterinarian treatment,  and was finally able to locate a vet who would neuter it, so that it became more compatible with his cat. Both cat and rabbit live freely in his home, where he had built a wooden tower for them. The rabbit is litter box trained with a specially built long litter box, one end for each function. The rabbit and cat get along, though at times the cat gets a little jealous when the rabbit is sitting in the chair beside him when he's watching tv. Every night when he gets home from work, cat and rabbit are waiting for him inside the front door.

Customer Service---What's It Good For

    There are 2 schools of thought, regarding consumer purchases. I suppose you could label them the idealistic and the realistic.

   The idealistic concept is based on the optimistic and virtuous hope that the buyer appreciates being well treated and cared for. Of course the realization is that today's mercantile practices are impersonal. The friendly grocer or barber or car dealer no longer lives in your town and is considered a family friend who you choose to do business with year after year out of mutual respect and reciprocation. But let's act as if that's the case. The personal touch is not really possible any more, but let's proceed on the assumption people still like to think so, a form of delusion, but a pretty one.

    Let's take the example of a car dealership. People still buy cars. So build a large attractive facility with every feature anyone who owns or wishes to own a car could take advantage of in a central location, auto repair, used cars, new cars. And make it easy to park. Have greeters at the front entry desk who can direct you to the proper department and answer any questions. They are all friendly and apparently pleased with their assignments.

The facility is scrupulously clean, well-lighted, attractively decorated, with a comfortable waiting room equipped with large-screen TV and Wi-Fi. Sans Covid, there is a playroom for children equipped with toys and activities to keep them occupied. And there is a refreshment bar stocked with snacks and beverages for you to partake of during your wait. 

   From time to time, the dealership will send you offers apprising you of remarkable sales that may suit your interests, often accompanied by a free gift card or contest entry, just for showing up at their door. One enterprising dealer even sent a lovely fruit basket to a customer to show appreciation for past and hopefully future business. Keep the customer happy is the reasoning. 

     The other school of thought is that the above is a dying endeavor, destined to become obsolete. Such auto dealerships as well as other brick and mortar facilities will soon go the way of the dodo bird. Why would consumers resort to a salesman for information on purchasing when they can readily access all they need to know online, and research a seller who can offer a better deal without  the high overhead costs of maintaining a facility, employing a hefty sales force, and, my gosh, buying all those snacks. Reputable online businesses will even arrange delivery of your new vehicle right to your home. 

 So make your choice. Which school of thought would you enroll in. Would you willingly pay more to be treated nicely, even though you know it's a pretense at familiarity or would you choose the impersonal and sparse approach in order to save money.

    I would hazard a guess that the choice is an age related thing. Consumers who are older, more isolated, or lonely may well opt for the preferential treatment based on past mores and customs, will appreciate the human touch, so to speak. The younger segment of society, those raised on the technical, will choose to  avoid the complexities  and added expense of big open facilities staffed with welcoming human beings and the niceties of concluding a business deal. With the access of their technical devices, they have already opted out of personal interactions.

  So, farewell, to these glorious facilities. Remember what happened to Willy Loman in "Death of A Salesman."

A I Finale

 Down to the final 3 contestants, Largest Butt has just been eliminated, Leaving Heaviest Weight and Slickest Hair. I was glad to have L.B. eliminated; probably my own hearing issue, but her screaming bothered my ears. I think H.W. has the better voice, but his lifespan seems threatened by morbid obesity. So if S.H. wins, his previous addiction history may also be a threat. But who ever hears about the American Idol winner afterwards anyway, except for a few from the early years.

.Weeks in Review

    Even though the weather was not yet springlike, Memorial Day was not far off. I visited the cemetery gravesites, and cleared the remainders of last year's planting from the urn. With only several waterings, the geranium arrangement had lasted well into the fall. I removed the last vestiges of the plants from the urn, and smoothed over the remaining soil. 

   I had noticed that ShopNSave had just recently displayed their usual outdoor selections of plants and flowers, and expected to find a potted plant there. In only a few days, less than a week I'm sure, the whole display disappeared, not even close to Memorial Day. I keep meaning to ask what happened, but don't think of it when I'm in the store.

   Last week I drove to Price Chopper to try to find a suitable plant for the cemetery urn and also thought I'd take advantage of their sale on bottled water, one of the few products I still buy in advance of use. The price was 3 for $9.99.  I seldom check cash register receipts anymore, but I did, and saw the clerk had charged me for not 3, but 4 cases of water, including the deposit. I decided to forget about the $5.00 or so overcharge; I'd have to go back to Mechanicville, and besides, the clerk  appeared to be about 16 or so and probably working her first job. 

   I had ended up buying a pretty little rosebush for the cemetery;  Dorothy's favorite flower was the rose. The next day, as for the last 38 years now, I collected trowel and bottle of water and went to the cemetery to plant it in the urn, which sits on the base of the monument. But the urn was empty of the soil which was there a week before. Dirt thief!  I dug some dirt from the edge of the cemetery fence, and tried to build up the rosebush from its own potting soil level, but the result was imperfect.

  Today, embarked on a week-long fiber free diet, I went to ShopNSave for provisions. What ever happened to Puffed Rice? I rarely buy cereal nowadays, but that would fit the  guidelines, but ceases to exist. So I bought some liquid Ensure type drinks. I had 2 coupons worth $3 each, which I presented to the cashier, who looked maybe slightly older than my cat. Again I checked my receipt, still while  in the store this time. No deduction for coupons. I asked him about it. He said "For some reason they didn't ring up." Did I want them back? No, they expire today, $6.00 worth. 

   He called a young woman who seemed to be floating around the  store, maybe as some sort of supervisor/ trouble shooter for the new young cashiers, and she told him what to do, which was hand me $6.00 . All ended well, but I guess it's up to customers to participate in the training.

Project Baseline

 Results available one day later. Easy, no-cost, acceptable anywhere. Thanks for  your participation, Rite-Aid.

Lily of the Valley In Color--sorta

 The picture doesn't show, but the little blooms are pink.

The Modest Proposal

 The Art of Negotiating in government and elsewhere:  You want  25,000 so you request 50,000. By a stroke of good fortune, you receive 100, 000. You then say you need more. What you get is never enough. That's how it works.

Exaggerations, Mistruths, and Lies.

    What's the saying; "If you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you."  All the world loves a good story and no one more than the media. Here is the scenario:

    A young girl is the victim, undoubtedly true. She fought for her life and won. That is the hard truth. She had  severe odds to overcome. The stop where she waited for her schoolbus positioned her almost as bait in a trap, surrounded by roads. She was wary enough to have previously reported a suspicious driver and vehicle both to her family and to the school. But still she was waiting in the same spot all alone. No one seems to have taken her concerns seriously. Here she sits all by herself.

  A would-be kidnapper, most probably the same as she'd earlier reported, runs from his car and grabs her, as she is playing with blue slime. She struggles against him. He drops her and runs back to his car and takes off. He is quite quickly located and arrested. The  press reports the suspect has blue goo on his arm.  The girl is lauded as a hero, deservedly so. But then, the child's mind latches onto the idea that she deliberately smeared the blue stuff on him, as a clue. She's a kid, and underwent a traumatic experience. More power to her and whatever helps her cope. When asked, she says she got the idea from a popular crime show. So instant celebrity ensues. An appearance on the Ellen Show seems likely. I hope she enjoys her time in the limelight, but more importantly, I hope her mother will exercise more oversight in the future.

   Watching the video of the attempted abduction, I saw her fight him off and run for her life.  I doubt if she even had time to assess the situation and try to mark him for future identification. Her instincts prompted her to do the fight and flight strategies, and both worked well for her. The child can't be held responsible for rethinking and elaborating on what will for her be a lifelong memory. The media does love a good story, for  a brief time.

"And the same flower that blooms today..."

   This flower has shown up for several years now. I do not know  what it  is, or where it came from. I think it may have been a small potted plant a family member sent me to mark some occasion or other. It wilted and appeared to be dead.  Instead of throwing it out,  I did as my mother always said---"give it a chance."  So I planted it outside.  I remember doing that to some plant I was given, though can't say for certain it is this one. This plant is quite tall and quite pretty in its unassuming way.

A Fiery Torture

     I still had a few iffy, self-gathered flower seeds from last year, and some maybe even before that. I collect them in a bag and, if I remember to, sow them in the ground, in locations I also tend to forget. Some years ago, I planted flowers in ascribed areas, and when they grew to a certain size, some varmint or other would eat them. I suspected woodchucks, but who knows.

   This evening, seeing the plastic bag filled with random seeds, I decided to drop them in the ground, to see what happens, or not. No big deal. I scooped a little soil away by the side of the house and started to cover up the seeds I'd planted. Suddenly, and I mean suddenly, I felt a fiery itching along both my arms and my legs. I had seen no insects or felt no bite or sting.  Enough of this.

  Back in the house, I splashed cold water on my arms, and then my legs.  I couldn't see any sign of bites or even redness. Just itching for no apparent reason. I remembered a cream prescribed by my dermatologist and slathered that on. The itching continued, unabated, still no indication of why.  I took an icepack from the freezer and took turns applying it to arms and legs. To no avail. Finally, I found a package of Benadryl Allergy pills. They had expired a few years ago, but I didn't care. After about 30-40 minutes of torture, I could see welts emerge on my arms and the itching continued. I was somewhat relieved to see there was an apparent cause, that it wasn't some invasive systemic event. I tried to evaluate  myself to determine if anaphylaxis could be an issue. But I seem to have mostly recovered. Maybe I'll ask my doctor if I should carry an epi-pen. As soon as my doctor is replaced, that is.

The Baby Shark Complex----At Its Worst

     With all the instructional tools at our disposal, why has the English language taken such a hit. Remember when children were taught the correct names for animals and their young. Forget that. The Media panders to sentimentality and chooses to  refer to the young of the species as babies. A major television channel just carried the story and picture of a firefighter emerging from a fire ravaged area and holding in his arms a "baby deer" which he had rescued. Fawn would have been the term back in the old days. A while ago, a different sort of feel-good rescue story involved a "baby cow." It seems that any dog that is lost or missing is called a "puppy."  Poor pitiable thing.

 And that doesn't even rise to the level of abhorrency as does the now sadly familiar term "fur babies." Even grammatically, that is an ill conceived term. If modifying baby, the adjective would be furry. Is there a distinction between  short haired dogs or cats and the long haired breeds, or do they all deserve the term? Why not return to calling things what they are. Why resort to the virtue signaling of what goodness lies within us. 

"The Fed Explained" Or Not

     Saw this, read it, still don't quite understand it: 

       "Created in 1913, the Federal Reserve is America's central bank, responsible for managing monetary policy to optimize employment, inflation and interest rates; monitoring and promoting the health and safety of U.S. financial institutions; and protecting consumers---among many other duties.  

   Its Federal Reserve Board of governors is appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate, and it's accountable to Congress. The Fed encompasses 12 Federal Reserve banks across the country and the Federal Open Market Committee, which manages the nation's money supply."  

  ( I have no recollection of ever having heard of the Federal Open Market Committee.  Must be it's a good thing to have...

Overused Word of the Year, so far...

 Gaslight, Gaslighted, Gaslit. So popularly used and misused by celebrities or ex-celebrities, or wanna-be celebrities.   Trying to understand their intent could cause gassiness.

American Idol "est"

 A.I is down to the final 4, due to number 5 having made a bad choice some years ago. I started late to the watching this year, having tired of the show, especially the mind-numbingly drawn out praise-to-the-limits commentaries from the judges. 

 It seems the selection now is confined to the contestants with the most extreme of something. The winner is destined to be the man who is the heaviest contestant ever, the woman who has the biggest butt ever, the man with the slickest hair, or the girl with the longest hair ever on the show. I would probably vote for the slick-hair-guy, though he doesn't seem to me to be that original. 

P.S. They got rid of Longest Hair, leaving Slickest Hair, Biggest Gut and Biggest Butt.

Oriented? x3 or x4?

   I must apologize to any individuals who may have unintentionally served as a source for the following. But I'm still laughing, and my mid-night imagination takes me here:

   Orientation x3:    It is true that prior to most medical procedures, the patient is assessed for mental orientation: 1) Who are you, what is your name?  2) Where are you? 3) What day is it? And if Orientation x4, Why are you here?  (I will remark that after my latest surgical procedure, the pre-assessment, according to entries in my Patient Portal, found me "mentally competent". Based on what I don't know. Maybe it's an age-related thing.

     Of course for almost any interaction you have with anyone, anywhere, you are identified, ad nauseum, by being asked your date  of birth. 

   Beyond that, it seems the intake assistant, prior to your meeting with the esteemed doctor, paves the way via an abbreviated assessment of your orientation to your present appointment. "Why are you here?" they often ask, as they check off the boxes on their questionnaire.  Expected replies might be, Because I'm sick, It's my regularly scheduled appointment, The doctor told me to be here, etc., All of which would neatly conform to the check-off box.

  Only  rarely, I would expect, would the patient's reply take the Existentialist  view. "I don't know why I'm here. Why are any of us here?  What is the meaning of life? 

  Alas, Patient's  answer is outside the box. 

Sacs, Not Sacks

    The sacs were in the basement. That is known. One was visible on the floor of the front  wall, the other sac against the back wall. They are whitish-gray, almost colorless and rather amorphous in shape.  About the size of a standard feedbag, but each is more in shape  like a contained blob, enclosed in material resembling a membrane.  They do not look particularly heavy, but no one has tested their weight as yet. What they contain is unknown. No one has ever  accessed the container, nor is there any apparent means of doing so. It is possible, as theorized, that the sacs contain ideas or thoughts, in the form of words which are the basic components of both.

     The sacs  are available to whoever might be able to use them, but so far have been only casually considered. To those who are looking at the sacs in a rather disinterested manner, a bystander appears, a man more knowledgeable, and he offers this advisement, "Be careful," he says. "While these two sacs are benign, there is a third sac which you must watch out for. It will be seen above you. It is lethal and can throw itself down on you, actually attack you."  And there, to those who looked up to the basement rafters,  was the third sac, slightly smaller and rounder than the others.  No one moved.

Pictures Today

 

And another grotesque language construction:

   I hate it when a period is used to emphasize individual words in what is meant to be a sentence.  You. do. not. want. to. do. this.

Must try to find...

    A very long time ago, before every person on the planet was a "writer." I submitted an article to Cosmopolitan Magazine, which was considered, they told me, though  never published. I don't know why I am thinking of it after all these years, but I think I'll try to find it. I remember the title was "The Castrating Female."

Just wondering, probably inadvisedly

    It seems, from my personal observation, that most of the hate crimes directed against Asian people are carried out by Black people. But I have never seen a single comment on that connection, if such does indeed exist. I would think the association would be worth pursuing, not to lay blame, but to study why the link might exist. (There, is that benign enough.

And so it went.

      I use Blog as a diary, which I used to write in daily, sort of. Not in the usual little book with  a key, but in notebooks or on pads of paper. I started to do this in seventh grade where I would write in the margins of the spiral  notebook Mrs. Foster had us keep for the Social Studies notes which she wrote on the classroom blackboard and we would dutifully copy word for word. That was the year my grandmother  got sick and died; I wrote the updates in the margins, in pencil, as was the norm, and then would erase my notations. I would have been ashamed to have anyone read about or even know what I was thinking or feeling. 

   Later, I would jot the news and thoughts of the day in a series of  leather-bound calendar journal books Dave received each year from his work. I still have a bunch of them, which nobody else has ever read, or wanted to either.

  So for a time now, I have written my thoughts in this blog, and it is true that I often delete them, usually those written in the dead of night and  erased in the early mornings. I suppose I write in lieu of conversation, notably missing since my sister died. I like to write to straighten my thought processes, on either serious or trivial matters. And I reread at times to refresh my memory about certain events or records I might want to retrieve. 

 

Buying Time

     As an evaluation of my mental acuity, and, resultantly, as an exercise in humility, I regularly read Conservative Columnist George Will's Commentary, as syndicated  in the Troy Record. His writing is erudite, reminiscent of the essays and papers of my college years, where the assignments were to write in-depth and lengthy analyses of the works of distinguished writers of past and present. Suffering through the intricacies of their use of the English language, I would wonder why, if they wanted to be understood, they would not couch their thoughts and opinions in understandable language, simpler terminology. My hard-learned conclusion  was that these writers were directing their thoughts and experiences to a literate and educated audience, not to the uneducated, who were not readers of sophisticated tracts.  Ergo, that was part of out education, to be able to plumb the depths of greater minds.

    I assume the commentaries of George Will fall in that category. He does not write for instant popular consumption. I find it a mental exercise to grasp his meanings, made even more challenging by his historical references to people and events that are not in my recollections. But every once in a while, I am able to tease out a memorable and germane tale. Here is one:

        A king tells a convict, "I will sentence you to death, but not until two years pass, and then not if you teach my horse to talk."  The convict was pleased. When asked why, he said that in two years,  "I might die naturally, or the king might die---or the horse might talk."

   Simplistic analysis of above tale:  If, facing your future,  you want to do nothing, or opt to defer action, I guess you have about a two out of three chance that  you have thought it through.  (Or something like that...

        

Surveillance : Details Omitted, Precis Submitted

    Gearing up for Procedure #14, with first 12 performed by the same doctor,  but not as bad as it sounds, as first was in 1998.  After 4 failed or incomplete procedures in less than 2 years, I take cold comfort in the current practitioner's statement, "He (former surgeon)  was wrong in doing what he did."

Even More Rankling Language Usage

 Please don't say, "I have a pit in my stomach."    Because----the pit of your stomach is an area, in the core of your abdomen, where you feel a physical response to strong emotion. You feel the shock of bad news in the pit of your stomach.  The "pit" would be a constant.

Language Usage

      Every time I hear someone utter the words, "I appreciate you, " it strikes a wrong chord with me. While grammatically the usage can be justified, it just doesn't seem right.  I would feel better if the wording was I appreciate your help, or your kindness, or your being there for me, or for any other of your qualities. Even I appreciate your presence, or the fact that you were born. Appreciate the fact that the weather is warm, or appreciate being granted good health, or the fact that you live in a safe environment. To tell another person, "I appreciate you" sounds incomplete, or even patronizing, doesn't it?  After all, the entity of another's personage  does not exist for your edification. The recipient's proper response would have to be, "Thank you, I'm glad you are grateful I exist."

Fascinating and macabre

   The Hero Syndrome       ------       accounts for a lot in field of abnormal psychology. Not to be confused with Associative Identity Disorder

    Must have been during our senior year of high school, pre-graduation, that we all had a meeting scheduled with the building principal. Or possibly, even probably, only with those students who qualified as potentially college material.  Mr. I. was  a reserved and dour personage who seldom spoke unless required to. During the interview, when it seemed that college would not be an option because of the expense, I mentioned that my brother was presently attending college on a NYS Regents Scholarship. The response from Mr. I. was not to count on that, as those scholarships were very rare. My brother was, as I recall, the first and only student at our school to have ever been so awarded. So that was that, end of interview. No help offered there, or from Guidance  Counselor, either, a lame title tacked on to the duties of the business teacher.

  Only the English teacher, Mr. A., whose class I'd been in for my junior and senior years, offered some help and encouragement.  On his own time, after school hours, he told me he thought I belonged in college; we did used to have quite scholarly discussions, even disagreements, in class regarding  literary and other interpretations. English class was the only place I'd ever voiced my opinions, but he was a young teacher, imported from outside the district, so I felt secure in differing or agreeing, as the case may be. He suggested I might consider attending night school, the only other  option available back then. I wanted to agree and hoped it could happen, but deep down, I knew it would be impossible. How would I get there, and where would even minimal college expenses come from.  As it turned out, not long after this conversation, it was announced that both Dorothy and I had won those rare and elusive State Regents Scholarships and so were able to embark on the college journey. 

    I met Mr. A. some years later, at our 20th High School Reunion in Schaghticoke. He had long since left this area, had relocated to the City, had married and had one child, a son.  Mr. A, had left teaching English to become a Guidance Counselor. His son was given his name, with first and middle names reversed, so R.J. instead  of J.R. and I believe was enrolled in private school.

Mr. A., one of the strongest advocates for and influences on my future, is gone now, but he did have the grave misfortune to live to see that his son became one of the most prolific and notorious serial  murderers in the history of our country. Even so cited on Wikipedia. There is no accounting for some things. 

In Sickness or in Health

 It's been a long while since I've vacationed at Disney world, or anywhere else for that matter. But I have visited the exotic world of healthcare, and during the "Premiere Week" as I was informed. 

Glug and Ugh

 Looking for something refreshing to drink as an alternative to soda, I chose this Power Ade White Cherry Sports Drink.   It's probably the worst beverage I've ever tasted. I'd just as soon partake of MiraLAX

.

O, Insouciant Blog

      As I stand at the doorstep of another procedure, I turn to you to once again air my grievances, such as they are. No one in the mortal world cares to listen; You, Blog, have no choice. You are my creation. Thus:

   I will try to disregard, though will take steps to circumvent, having an IV inserted by someone who relies on a "vein-finder" to insert the needle. Especially after she says hers is broken, and she is unable to find another. And even more especially if she leaves the room in a huff when another nurse tries to give her advice. He was able to insert the IV. 

  I have no control over or explanation for the vagaries of the sedation protocol. After some time spent waiting in the cubicle, the big man appears, the chief anesthesiologist, who delivers the spiel about  sedation in a voice obscured by accent and mask. His job is done. Some time later, a younger person appears, introducing himself as Bob, Assistant Anesthesiologist, and says he will be with me during the procedure. He starts to say more. Another person enters the cubicle from the other side of the room. Bob abruptly says, "This is Lauren," says  he has enjoyed meeting me, even though our time together was very brief.  I ask if Lauren is his equivalent. He says yes, he is leaving. I ask where he is going. He says, "To get something to eat."  

Now 'Ear This

    If you've ever had your ears cleaned or "dewaxed" in a medical office, you know how unpleasant that can be, with the flushing, the scraping, and siphoning. I underwent such a procedure a few months ago, and the practitioner kindly apologized for the pain, discomfort and the resulting inflammation, for which she prescribed a course of antibiotics. She was unable to complete the process and recommended further treatment.

  So I scheduled an appointment with an ENT. First comment was, "We have better ways of doing that now."  And that was true, a quick and painless way that obviated all the discomfort. 

  Great. But in today's world of mass and fast communication, why is that knowledge not at every practitioner's fingertips. If they don't possess what appears to be a simple piece of equipment, why would they not refer the patient to a facility that does, rather than carrying out a semi-barbaric procedure. Should it be the patient's job to alert doctors to medical advances. Google it, Doc, for Pete's sake.

    I could expand the above concept to an even more crucial surgical undertaking.  I have undergone at least 4 procedures by a single doctor which he acknowledged were not successful. He admitted to me he was unable to successfully achieve the goal of the procedure, even illustrating the graphics  of the difficulty he had encountered. He said he would try again, the alternative being extensive surgery. We don't want that, do we. No! 

   On the advice of my primary doctor, I sought that oft-cited "second opinion."  What I found, right away, was "We have better ways of doing that."  And that too was true. (Although the failed attempts by the first doctor added complications to the procedure, as well as to impending  risks.

  And if I, at my place in life, am now aware of the progress of medicine in these areas, how is it possible that doctors don't know.

   

With Bated Breath...

 ...the world awaited the cause of death for 99-year-old Prince Phillip. The announcement named the cause of death as---old age. Forensics and pathology results  may have contributed to the conclusion that all living things die. Eventually.

A Past Memorial Day

    It was the day of the Memorial Day parade in Valley Falls, an exciting family event back then, in 1977. Dave had gone ahead with the two older kids and I was wheeling Danny in a baby carriage. As we started up the hill on State Street,  both sides of the street were lined with people, and I saw Ethel bringing some food to her grandson and granddaughter who were sitting on the bank. At the time Ethel and her mother lived in one apartment in the former Griggs house, and Sharon and family lived in the adjoining apartment. As I got closer to their house, I greeted them and Ethel walked over to see the baby. Sharon was standing nearby, visibly upset,   and I remember Ethel saying that Mary Ellen probably doesn't know what had happened the night before. I said I didn't and she told me Bob had been in a serious accident, wrecking his new truck on the road past the cemeteries in Troy. (The road behind where the Stewart's now stands on Oakwood.) She said he was in the hospital with life-threatening injuries. When she told me, I was completely shocked. I still have a vivid imprint of the moment. I remember focusing on what was before me: That was Danny, at three months old  dressed in an orange terrycloth suit with yellow trim. For some reason I can still see and feel the texture of that outfit and the baby wearing it.

    Ethel asked if I had a prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of difficult cases. This was at a time before copying or downloading. The original was it.  I always carried a quite well-used prayer to St. Jude card in my wallet. I didn't have it with me. I went home and got it and brought it to her house.

   Some days later, Dave and I visited Bob in the hospital, Albany Med, I think. Bob was alert in his bed, and talking with Dave, who was across from where I was standing. Suddenly a nurse asked Dave if he was all right, and she provided him a chair. Dave had been talking with Bob when he suddenly noticed that his head was being stabilized by screws that had been driven into the bone of his skull. I'd never known  Dave to be prone to fainting, but an alert nurse apparently did. 

  As we left, I heard Bob saying, "Dave, I'm going to walk to your house when I get out of here."

A Spectrum of Issues

     TV problems culminating in February with service call. Most serious was Channel 6 audio distortions. Also, unwanted switch to Spanish language on certain channels along with narrative for visually impaired, and at times lack of audio on Channel 13 and then those silent Spectrum ads, only  disturbing as a sign of some malfunction somewhere. The tech switched out the box and made other adjustments related to splitters et al.  Improvement resulted, though sounds still seemed somewhat distorted to me. Suggestions from family members were to buy a new TV set, as it may contain a problem and  for me to get my hearing checked for much the same reason. New TV set arrived and my hearing passed inspection, so all continued on for a while. (There had never been a problem with the picture.

    But then in April, all went awry again. Seriously muffled audio on Channel 6. The tech who responded said he'd never heard the variable sounds within a program, said it definitely was not my hearing. He switched out the box and made other changes as well, said we did not need the splitter another tech had installed in basement. When I told him we had just had a new box installed 2 months ago, he said no, it was not a new box and neither was this one he was presently installing. All are refurbished, he said. 

   All was okay for a while, but in a few weeks the former malfunctions resurfaced. Yesterday the audio on Channel 6 was distorted, and the audio on Channel 8 non-existent, Spanish was infiltrating some audio, and Ch. 13 displayed a silent Spectrum ad. 

   Today when a different tech arrived, the issues were not apparent. He said he couldn't say for certain they would be corrected as he couldn't compare the before and after. so he diligently went through all the possible causes and corrected what he saw as contributors to the problems. He switched out the box to a different type, a little larger and new. When I told him it had recently been replaced, he asked if it could be the same box just removed at the previous visit. He said if a tech is to replace a box and he doesn't have one in his truck, it is known that some will just bring the original box back inside. Deceptive, I said. So he did some other work and left to sit in his truck for the 10 minutes required to check in  with the company.

R. had called when the tech had arrived. I told her I would call her back when he left. I went to call and there was no dial tone. I brought the phone to the tech still in the driveway. He thought it unusual, but then the dial tone returned and I made the call to R. The call broke off, She thought her phone might be to blame. The tech drove off.  I went to use the computer and found it unusable. Troubleshooter said the connection between the access point and modem and internet was BROKEN. My cell phone also read no connection. I drove to Madigan's to report the outage and the rep said someone would call me back. There were 3 calls from Spectrum but they  broke off before any resolution or even explanation on my part.

  There was no dial tone on my phone, except that  every half hour or so, I could make or receive calls for about 20 seconds before they dropped off. I used one of those moments and asked Joe T. to call Spectrum and report the problem. He called me back and said Service Call was scheduled for tomorrow, 8-9 a.m.  OK, I'll have to wait. But a few minutes before 5p.m., Spectrum called to say tech was enroute. The same tech showed up a few minutes later, and fairly quickly diagnosed that the computer modem had died. 

He replaced it, and all seems well. But what a remarkable coincidence that perfectly working phone and internet died in exactly the same time period that the television was revived. 

  ***Spectrum rates are exorbitant, and I won't deny that. But at the same time the service is unique in that the customer does not have to pay for the repair calls or for most of the stuff they replace, like boxes and modems and cables and splitters. Rejoice!

DRIVE, crash

      I didn't get my driver's license until the age of 22. My father never had any car that was suitable for beginning drivers, so First I got a job and then bought a car, my first car a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. I bought it from Colarusso's in Troy, the owner being John Colarusso's father. 

   I don't drive very much any more, but I used to rack up quite a bit of mileage. For a time I drove to work every day in Troy and Delmar and Albany. I drove to  SUNY Albany to complete my Master's Degree; for the final credits, I would drive from my job in Cambridge straight to the Albany campus. I drove on  trips to Cape Cod, Lake Placid, Lake George and other sites. And for 15 years, I scoured the countryside in Cambridge, Salem, Greenwich, Hebron, Argyle and even throughout Rensselaer County, as well as driving to the annual conventions in Syracuse and meetings in Herkimer. And, when single, I drove to places of entertainment at least weekly. And besides ordinary travel for personal and medical care, I drove for a complete year for extensive treatments in less than ideal physical condition. 

   The point is I have driven a lot, in quite a few directions and areas, and I have had only two collisions with me driving.  Oddly enough, both occurred in Stillwater. Neither collision resulted in any physical damage. The cars were the only victims. 

   Accident #1----It was late evening and I was driving my sister to a doctor in Stillwater. She wasn't feeling well so I offered to drive. Unfortunately, the office was closed, so we started home. I stopped at the stop sign at the end of the street before intending to turn right onto Lake Avenue. A large luxury-looking  car came speeding  down the hill. I stopped, and he smacked into my driver's side front fender, kind of a glancing encounter, before stopping his car in the road. We were pretty far back in the side street, so not near his car. I recall he was an attorney returning from some event in Saratoga. We perceived him as both wealthy and inebriated. Neighbors called the police, and while they were standing in the road near his car doing what cops do, another vehicle approached headed up Lake Avenue. That driver, seeing the car stopped in the road, slowed down, but then barreled straight into the front of the car, at a slow but steady rate of speed, and pushed the accident car a distance up the road, police and bystanders and driver all caught by surprise. When that driver emerged from his car, he was visibly intoxicated; he may have been another attorney. I was not issued any citation.  I don't know how it was ever determined which collision caused more damage. I know the Lohnes brothers worked out the details, as they always did,  I was able to drive my car home though it needed parts for sure.

   Accident #2-----Occurred not far from #1.  I had finished a final paper for a summer course, and had driven it to SUNY in my convertible. Mary and Dorothy B. , youngsters at the time, had accompanied me. The radio was playing and we were enjoying the music, until we rounded a small curve which was partially obscured by a large tree. A car was stopped in the middle of the road. I applied the brake, but smacked into the rear of the car. The occupants were a young couple from out of the area who were not sure where they were and were trying to decide which way they wanted to go. She was sitting snuggled next to the driver, as girls did back then, and hit her knee on one of the controls. Dick Lohnes, later dealing with that accident, maintained that if she had been sitting in her own seat, that would not have happened. Anyway, The cop issued me a ticket for "following too close."  That was just a few months after our wedding, and Dave wanted to challenge the ticket. He was successful. It seems the Stillwater Town Justice was quite intrigued by Dave. He agreed the car should not have been stopped on the highway and that the tree would have obscured their car from being seen from a following vehicle. The last I knew, Dick Lohnes was also in debate with the other insurance company.

   

   

Good news, I guess.

    Dr. F. on the status of my vision:  if it were a glass of water, he would say the glass is 5% empty  and 95% full.  Really.

New Scam Approach?

   Twice in the last few days, I have answered the phone to hear, "I see you called my number" and "Did someone call me from your number?'   No and No. Could be a new approach or else someone is using my number to call others. I don't ask the circumstances. I are way too smart.

Bear at the Fair

    Some years ago, there was a year-round menagerie at the Schaghticoke Fair Grounds. A  row of enclosures along the left side of the grounds held several families of raccoons and another held some pheasants. Another pen was home to several deer. I remember one rare breed deer escaped, and  made it to Johnsonville where it was shot and killed. There were for a time a couple of bears and maybe even a baby bear who lived in a separate enclosure. We used to visit there with children who were in my parents' house. Fortunately no bears escaped. 

Celebrity Encounter

    If you want to call it that. I slept under the same roof as Marilyn Manson. We used to have an annual fall conference at the Hotel Syracuse. One year rumor had it that Marilyn Manson and band were staying there. Because my knees were retro at the time, I frequently took the elevator, even for one floor. One day on  entering the elevator, several members  of his entourage were in the elevator, though not M. Manson. They acted normal during the brief encounter, though they looked exactly as one might expect. A day later, we saw from our hotel window the bus, prominently labeled as the Marilyn Manson Tour,  pull up in front of the hotel. I went down to watch them board. One of our fellow members was aghast at that. She thought no attention should be paid. 

Math in the History of A House

 3+1+1=5

5-1-1-1=2

2-1=1