And So This Was Christmas

 

The bells were ringing out for Christmas Day:  

RE: 11/04/2023 Advice Heeded

 I'm writing this to myself, to remind myself not to act like a jerk. My memory may be a little hazy, due to several reasons, but this is what I recall.

    After M. joined me,  and Dr. B., cardiologist on duty, laid out the optimal procedure with M. and me, which meant a trip to the Cath. lab., M. was on her phone, talking to her brothers mainly. It seems there were  a lot of messages of love extended, and as M. was departing the scene just before the transport, she relayed another "I love you" and told me to say "I love you" in return to who was on the phone. I guess I must have felt like a character in a Hallmark movie or such, because I kind of muttered, mostly to myself, "This seems like a cliche."  

  A young nurse was on the other side of the room. I didn't know he was there and I don't think he was attending me. (It is true that whenever I am near any kind of sedation, everything seems like a mile away, so I could have been missing a connection.)  Anyway, he spoke up and in a very serious tone, said to me, "Yes, it is a cliche, to say I love you, but people like to hear it, so you should say it." So I did. Again.

December 29, 1939

    I was standing next to my brother, pressed as close as possible to the back side of the kitchen wall in our grandmother's house. Way back against the wall, next to the kitchen sink and the bucket that held potato peelings. We knew something different was going on, because the old wooden kitchen table, the one with the curved rounded legs, was the center of some kind of activity, with different items being placed on top of the table, or so it seemed to us.  So we backed up against the wall in order to be able to see what was happening, being too little to see if we were up close and also no doubt knowing to keep out of the way. 

  My grandmother's bedroom was directly off the kitchen, and that was the hub of activity. People, grownups, were going back and forth from the room. I remember feeling a little upset because I couldn't see or know what was going on. I was 18 months old, and was not used to very many people bustling about as they were.   

   Eventually, someone came out of the room holding something which they deposited on the kitchen table. And after a while Helen picked me up and carried me to the table to view  the newly placed item. And that is as far as my memory takes me. 

   I knew  that my mother had heard my grandmother  exclaim, during the process, "Jaysus, it's got red hair!"  But that must have been my mother telling me later. 

   

   

RE: E.R. FYI or TMI Read at your own risk...

 Trying to put things in perspective, I have observed that (1) the accepted term now is Emergency Department, not emergency room., and  (2) the process is more "concentrated" than previously.

  Example #1, the person seeking help walks in through the door marked Emergency, checks in at the desk along the entry wall, and then sits there in the emergency waiting room until called into the adjoining triage area, where interview and assessment are conducted. Person may then be assigned to one of the 6 or 8 rooms to await further assessment by a medical professional who determines their fate. And the wait    in that cubicle can be lengthy, determinated by availability of staff and the attention of others who may be in greater need. 

   Example #2, the person arrives by ambulance, result of call to 911. Sometimes the call is evidently more routine. I'm not aware of the entry process but do know the person is often discharged with minimal medical intervention. However, if the information about patient condition  relayed to the hospital from the responding vehicle is a significant health threat, the patient is "admitted to the floor,"  which I assume is the essential part of the Emergency Department.  Doctors and staff  in attendance there  evaluate the patient and treatment begins, surgery, infusions, whatever is required.

A Slice Of Dream

     Sometimes when I dream, the person in the dream is not me, but since I think and feel as if I am that entity, I'll use the pronoun "I." 

   I had driven my car into a large rectangular lot; there were cars in random areas, though it was not a parking lot per se.  It seems my intent was to enter the building there, probably a medical office, but I was distracted by a man walking around the lot. He was dressed in clothing of two colors, subdued shades of magenta and blue, I think. He was known as Bopper and liked to talk to people in that area. I had gotten out of my car, and talked with him for a while, until suddenly I felt threatened and wanted to get away from him. I told him I needed to get something from my car, fully intending to drive away. I reached my car, and tried to start it, but I couldn't because his hand was on top of the driver's side door. The key wouldn't turn in the ignition.   I tried slamming the door shut, thinking he would move his hand, or maybe lose it. I didn't care. I slammed the door three times, but his hand stayed there. I opened the window on the passenger side and called for help. 

    A woman with curly blonde hair came over to where I was. She looked like a medical worker in one of the offices I had recently visited. She asked what was  wrong, and I told her. I was trying to get away from that man over there. She laughed and said "Oh, that's Mopper. He's harmless, just likes to hang out here and talk."   I said, "No, his name is Bopper and he has done some bad things. I need to get away from here." She hadn't known that, and seemed inclined to believe me, but things got worse.

 The second part of the dream was even more eerie and disturbing, but in the way of dreams, all memory of it has vanished from my mind. When I woke up from the dream, I had that  feeling of terror that accompanies bad dreams. 

   I suppose the dream, nightmare that it was, reflects to some degree the events of my life at present:  watching too many Seinfeld reruns (though not recently "The Bopper" episode);  reading the psycho-drama posts  a local woman airs in detail; driving to too many medical facilities. Or maybe it could be the drugs... 

    

Move over, Jorgen Moe...

 Instead of listening to your beautiful voice  singing "Dancing in the Dark" and other songs, I have become almost obsessed with the life and works of Shane MacGowan.  If I had ever heard of the Pogues, I'd long since forgotten, and not until his death did I know of Shane MacGowan. Danny had emailed me that news, and mentioned that he had wanted one of his songs played at his wedding, but that the DJ had forgotten it. I think he said the song was "Dirty Old Town,"  which intrigued me enough to go to google and acquaint myself with Shane MacGowan and the Pogues. 

   I did learn that Fairytale of New York is considered by many, even the erudite, to be one of the greatest  Christmas songs of all time, and indeed is the most listened to "Christmas song"  in such places as Great Britain and Ireland. (That would be worth a million or more of "All I Want For Christmas."  Ugh.

The first line: "It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank."  Now some devotees of MacGowan claim to find the song both hilarious and heartbreaking as the rise and fall of a young couple in love in the city is recounted in shockingly vivid language.  "Happy Christmas, you arse, I hope it's our last."   I would agree that this song and others  is  testament to the brilliance and creativity of the writer/ singer, but, Irish as I may be, I don't get the hilarity. I see heartbreak.  "The boys of the NYPD Choir still singing Galway Bay, and the bells are ringing out for Christmas Day."

  It appears to be true, though I can't vouch for its authenticity, that Johnny Depp, longtime friend of Shane MacGowan, had interloper Megan Markle ousted from the funeral service in the cathedral. 
  

Stamp, Stamp

 Pretty much the only time I use U.S. Postage Stamps to mail anything is when I send Birthday Cards to the 5 youngest grandkids. And because those cards end up being overweight, exceeding 1 ounce, I just pay the going price at the P.O. window. Today's card was not very heavy, so in addition to the regular stamp,  I added another: Horrors---not a Forever Stamp. The card turned out to weigh just one ounce, or maybe a hair over, so it required additional postage. 

  The clerk could not tell how much the rogue stamp was worth---sorry, can't help with that. However, the man next in line said he could help. And he used his phone to quickly find out that the stamp in question has a value of 21 Cents. Good to know since I have a sheet of them, from 2007, I think he said. 

Unfortunately that man does not work for the USPS.  Maybe they could use him as a consultant.   (I figure it will now take 4 of those .21 stamps to cover the cost of a single regular weight letter, which I learned today is 66 Cents.

Love Letter

 Rather personal, but Jimmy's to Rosalynn reminded me.

Myocardial Infarction ---Edited 1/2/2024

 Remove the contents of your chest. Insert into that area an adult sized shoebox. Completely fill that shoebox with unremitting pain. There you have it.*

If the cardiologist on call at the Emergency Department is successful in persuading a cardiac surgeon trained as an Interventional Radiologist to don his Patagonia fleece vest on a Saturday morning and report to the ER to perform a PCI,Percutaneous Coronary Intervention** death or even lack of heart damage may be avoided. 

 * STEMI--ST-Segment Elevation Myocardial Infarction

**PCI---formerly known as Angioplasty with Stent. 

Willie Nelson

    Willie just performed on the Stephen Colbert show. It seems likely it may be one of his last, if not his last, performances.   His guitar playing was as usual, but he seemed to have little breath left. He stayed seated and  mostly talked his way through "I Never Cared For You.'  Sad.

October 1983

    My mother never lived alone. At the end she lived with her sister, and next door to her son and family. I was at her house almost every day, and so were many of the grandkids. On this last ordinary visit to her house on Friday, the weather was nice and she and Helen were in the garden, at the bottom end, near where the old rabbit cage was. When I got to where they were,  my mother told me she wasn't feeling that good. That was unusual for her so I said we should go to the hospital. She reminded me that she had her regularly scheduled visit with her doctor in Mechanicville the next Tuesday, just a few days away. I said, thinking it was a joke, that  we wanted to make sure she was around on Tuesday. She had been hospitalized with a heart attack in 1978, so that was always on our minds. 

   She agreed to  go and we called her doctor to advise him . But he said to bring her over to the office first to check her out. When we got to the Mechanicville office, her doctor was not there; she was to be seen by his son. My mother was disappointed because she had a good relatiobnship with the father, but she would not have said anything about it. 

     The young doctor listened to her symptoms, of most concern to her a pain in her side near the back. He attributed it to her kidney. At one time they had told her she had a third kidney. I don't know how they diagnosed that as I don't think she ever had any type of scan, which was probably not an option at the time. So he reassured her that there was no need to go to the hospital. Good news. But I remember what she said as we were about to leave his office, again unusual for her. He had told her the trouble was that "extra kidney." She turned back to him and asked, "Are you sure it's the kidney, Doctor?"  His response, meant to be comforting, was, and I vividly recall his words, "Yes, That's exactly what it is." 

   On the way home, as we neared the railroad crossing, I remember her saying that it would be an odd sight  when the snow fell on the trees, which  still had their green leaves. We didn't think she would not be around to see that happen. And I have no memory if it did or not.

   We went home that Friday afternoon, and got through Saturday. She died Sunday morning. 

Somebody better protect my real estate...

 ...from the infringement of what I'm sure are well-intentioned but grotesque memorial tributes. As the pictures, and cemetery deed measurements show, each lot is flush with the neighboring lot where the headstone is installed. So I demand my allotment of footroom. 

Our allotment for 3 graves initially was marked with 4 cornerstones. Only one remains, as the others were buried when adjoining graves were closed, with no inches to spare. Space is at a premium in cemeteries. 

Can't explain, but sad...

 

Cemetery

 Today the flowers are still in bloom:

Around the House:

 

"Heaven" on Earth

 A tale from long ago emerges now on a recurring basis:  A man (always a man back then) dies and wakes up to a scenario of absolute peace and beauty, surrounded by beautiful sights and sounds and friendly and welcoming people. All his needs are met; he has no tasks to perform or responsibilities to uphold. He feels delighted to enjoy all that the afterlife has endowed him with. But, before too much time passes, he starts to feel somewhat disillusioned, even restless. He asks his nearby neighbor if he too finds Heaven boring. "Heaven?" says the guy, "You're not in heaven. This is Hell."  

   Earthly Corollary: If you live your life abiding by life's strictures and rules, and work industriously toward the time you will not need to work but are able to comfortably retire, you may at last be admitted to that long-anticipated  place of sanctuary.  A place of peace and quiet, beautiful in its serenity where all your needs are met. No need to concern yourself with commonplace issues such as heating the house, tending the lawn, maintaining an automobile, cleaning your space, doing your laundry, and even shopping, preparing and serving your meals. Everything you need is done for you in a sociable manner. The only exception to the  perfect existence cited in the above tale is that your still mortal coil is subject to the inevitable  vagaries and ills wrought by the passage of time. So the one thing that prevents a perfect heavenly existence may be that which precludes living in a perfect Hell. 

   "What fools we mortals be."

RIP, Ryan Class

 Some years before enrolling in Veteran's benefits, Dave was in need of help negotiating our front steps, which had never had a  railing. We sought help from TRIP, a Rensselaer County agency which provided certain services for homes in Rensselaer County. *  The representative, carpenter, who showed up at our house was Ryan Class. He engaged with Dave and soon built a front entry railing, and not of  the plain ordinary sort, but one with attractive carved spindles. The railing was certainly a help, but Dave felt it could better suit his needs in some way. Ryan worked with him and atached a supplemental section to the top of the rail. Perfect now. He asked Dave if there was anything else he could  do for him and Dave admitted he also had some difficulty navigating the steps to the deck of the swimming pool. Ryan Class fashioned additional support rails atop the old. Dave really appreciated the special improvements so agreeably implemented. Ryan left Trip soon after, and we were no longer eligible for that program anyway,

but I always remembered his kindness and good nature in working with Dave.

* As I recall, the homeowner paid for the materials, and the labor was at no cost.

Lost in the translation

 Reading comprehension is eluding me. I just read a report of an accident in Pownal involving a Schaghticoke man. Police found  "two cars in a position of uncontrolled rest."  I suppose that could be a technical expression or maybe the writer aspires to be a poet. (Both cars were totaled but both drivers okay.

O, The Devastation

   I can't decide which was the greater disaster, seeing the mess in Troy, with ruptured water lines undermining the city, or watching the ACM awards honoring the award winners., and annihilating what is left of the genre of country music. 

    In truth, I missed the opening part of the show, but settled in front of the tv for the bulk of the performances. I sat through what could have been the worst song ever sung, "The Shirt."  When I was a young child, I was brought to tears whenever I heard the song, "Old Shep." Of course, that was a maudlin enough tale, of most likely fictional origin. But at least it was about a man's love for an animal, his boyhood companion. But how desperate must one be to fall in love with a shirt, recount its history, and have listeners believe it is still being worn, even after a litter of kittens was born in it, with one even dying. I tend to save things, but I would have disposed of the shirt right there and then. 

  Then there was a song called "80's Ladies" with  a youngish singer recounting a lookback at all the fun and adventures the girls experienced, from the viewpoint of being "All grown up."  No kidding.

 Nelly, renowned country star, sang something. I don't know what. Following was The War and Treaty, another famed country duo who sang--I've already forgotten, or else couldn't understand. I was hoping for maybe a more traditional closing act. That was some newcomer Barbie-inspired  cutie dressed all in pink and mouthing the words to some tuneless number. Country Music has been buried on the lone prairie.

Medical Care---Or Not

 I don't needlessly complain or harass my medical providers, and I do have a rather involved medical history. Most of the doctors who treated those fairly recent conditions are no longer practicing, or withdrew from the practices I visited:  Doctors Almonte, Agrawal, Carrozza, Constantino, Goldstein, Mastrianni, Petersen, Pietracola... All of whom provided care in a satisfactory, courteous, seemingly caring manner. 

 Of late, not so much. Dr. Gupta, gastroenterologist,  admitted he was unable to perform a necessary procedure. Dr. Bloss, gynocologist, advised, following unfounded reason for surgery he recommended, that I would not need to follow up any further. (No kidding). Dr. Bourla, nephrologist,  advised in July, that I no longer needed his services, though Dr. Ubaid, neurologist, disagrees. Dr. Shuman, urologist, advised in May, that he "unfortunately" has no further suggestions and that "The girls" in his office would contact me in future.*   (No, thanks,  to that offer.)  Primary referred me to another urologist, whose earliest appointment is February 2024. Cardiologist Papaleo has evidently negated the need for any routine testing, including eeg, and mostly addresses from his computer, which is in the back of the room, and he exits in less than 7 minutes, if that. My primary, McNeil, believes that breast cancer has been over-diagnosed, though she did consent to writing a script if I wanted, and evidently sees no need for any follow-up blood labs. 

  Gastroenterology is of most concern, and is presently at  a standstill. Lesson: After you have successful treatment at the hands of a highly rated surgeon, your follow-up care and concerns are delegated to the old farts or young morons.

  * The Girls, speaking possibly on behalf of the doctor, see no difference between a finding of "may enhance" and "is enhanced."  I maintain there is indeed a difference. As did Doctors Almonte, Marshal,  and  Amirbekian, for which I underwent surgical intervention several years ago.

 Ophthalmic care is another convoluted issue. To be resolved (or not) later.

No mas!

 Enough with the sentiment and nostalgia. The  1970's are over. My attempt at preparing the retro Sweet Potato Salad ended as one might expect. I did substitute some ingredients, walnuts for pecans, and nothing for celery, as the celery in the fridge had seen better days. I will say the blend of cubed sweet potatoes with Mandarin oranges was  quite tasty, as were the walnuts and potentially the celery. If I were ever to make this dish again, I would omit the mayonnaise. I like mayo, but it made this recipe too soupy. I guess mayo was an essential back then in pretty much everything. All in all, this was probably a more nutritious lunch than a sleeve of Chocolate Peanut Butter Oreos. On a scale of 1-5, this dish rated 2; Choc/ PB  Oreos rated 5.

Revenge of the Garden Hose

 One of the things I've never liked to do is coil up the garden hose. We had various aids for this, including the self-retractable hose. I even remember Kathy Lee Gifford exclaiming about its virtues, and demonstrating how neatly it worked. It seems she didn't like that task either. It was miraculous, she said, and so it was. I bought the same hose and it worked its magic, but to dwindling degrees. The first time, swish! The next few times, much slower, and after that, the hose just lay there, lifeless as before. We had the mobile hose cart, so you could roll out the cart and use the handle to roll or unroll the hose wherever was most convenient.  I found this tiresome, attending to the needs of a hose. So we settled on the attachment to the house itself, to neatly store the hose after use. I still avoid rolling up the hose onto its designated resting place. Ugh! So I usually just leave it lying loose, shoving it under the metal ramp. . 

   Last night as I was going to bed, I looked out the front window, part of my nightly routine. I saw that the security light was on. That indicates a presence.  I turned on the outside porch light and could see that no car or human figures were  in  the driveway or at the front of the house. I stood there, thinking. Maybe an animal was on the ramp,  but I waited and the light stayed constant. The wind might be a factor, or  a branch blown down or leaning into the driveway. But that seemed unlikely; all was relatively calm. I wracked what remains of my brain, and finally, that AHA! moment. That afternoon I had been sweeping the top of the ramp and underneath it, trying to rid it of old leaves and other junk. To get the broom under the ramp, I had looped the hose onto the rails of ramp to keep it out of the way of the broom. That heretofore unrecognized object triggered the security light. Lesson learned: I should show more respect and deal with matters  properly.  P.S. Another task I dislike is following the protocol of inserting the plastic refill bag into the kitchen garbage container. I just stick it in there and shove the lid back on, but so far the garbage can has not retaliated.

 

When Boys (Ick) Ruled the Playground Games

   Marbles was the game. You could win all the marbles  by rolling your marble closest to the fence, even knocking other marbles out of the way to do so. The other option, instead of a fence was to dig a small hole in  the ground and aim your marbles into the "pot."  The older bossy boys had most of the marbles. We younger girls could play if we had  any marbles. At one point we girls came into possession of a quantity of those dull clay marbles, which I believe used to be Uncle Matt's. So we had the means to play. But those bullying boys did not like those "inferior"  marbles and they went on a campaign to rid our world of them. When those horribly icky beings won our modest little offerings, they ruthlessly collected them and dropped them off the bridge into the river. I can still recall the brains behind this cleansing; we thought of him as cruel. (He's dead now.

Breakage

   The other day, I changed a light bulb, of the  curly CFL type. I dropped it and it shattered into countless shards, large and small. Next day, while I was vacuuming the rug,  the telephone cord interfered and a small pottery vase fell on the floor and broke in half.

   In between those days, I had one of those ordinary but vivid dreams. Dave was moving some small items in the kitchen and placed a small green vase atop another dish. The vase slid off and broke. The vase, probably of depression glass, had been in the family a long time, and I've  always liked the looks of it. I felt a little bad when it broke, as did Dave, but at this point, no big deal. It was not very important, but the dream about the  broken little green vase, ordinary as it was, seemed so real that when  morning came I had to get up and go look in the kitchen to see if it was still there.   It still is, unbroken.

The Olden College Days

 We studied then what was the clinical history of psychological classification. The various levels, as I recall answering on some test or exam, were Idiot, Imbecile, and Moron. We use the term idiot inappropriately, as an insult,  to refer to "stupid" behavior or ideas to which we're opposed. We call fools imbeciles, though clinically they probably don't fit the definition. But maybe the classification of moron is underused. It seems a number of them are posing as normal or above.

 A recent visit to a doctor resulted in her saying that many diagnoses of breast cancer are "over-diagnosed." I asked her to explain and she cited "statistics" that showed not as many deaths due to breast cancer as projected following breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, with the conclusion  being that many of those who had been treated for breast cancer did not really have it. They were over-diagnosed, inaccurately  it seems. 

   But, asked I, what if the unexpectedly low incidences of deaths from breast cancer were the result of better treatments for the disease, rather than false diagnoses.   "Hmmm"

Post Script:  I can't recall a single case of a person mis-diagnosed for breast cancer, but then if they had been treated for breast cancer and are now dead, even if from another cause, who could say they had not been breast cancer positive at some point?  And why am I hearing this in a medical office? My only sister died after an almost 15 year struggle with breast cancer, when it had spread to her brain, despite vigorous treatment. I myself had a full year of 3 surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation, followed by prescribed drugs,  for a Triple Negative horror story.  It is true each of us had to convince our doctors of our concerns, my sister too late to get early, possibly life-preserving treatment. Even back then, doctors may have been influenced by  insurance company greed to be wary of providing "unnecessary" treatment. Those entities who fund the  drivel looking into "over-diagnosing" breast cancer could do better by pouring their funding into  research and more successful treatment.  I guess it's the source of the funding that drives the final result. Those who pay have  the say.

The Early Marriage Days

 When we were first married, we both worked. I got home first so I did the cooking, most of the time. I was not an accomplished cook, but I did all right. Dave loved to eat, and never complained about the meals----except once. It was weekend lunch and the menu was hot dogs and beans.  He took one bite and actually gagged. He had never before been served Campbell's Baked Beans straight out of the can.  What could I say; that's the way my mother had served them. You heat beans!!!

Glitches Redux

 To add to the list of things that only recently quit functioning---computer chair, toaster oven, kitchen faucet spray, both  my vintage blender and electric skillet, my formerly faithful blood pressure monitor, the Window World kitchen window lowering mechanism,  a groaning dishwasher--- yesterday my favorite vintage lamp blacked out, and today, when I stopped to refuel my car at Stewart's, the gas cap fell off. I realize it can probably be re-attached, but of all the things I've taken for granted, a straying gas cap might be tops on my list. And, and and, there's more. As I was unloading my once-trusty grocery bag from my car, the same bag I've been using since the infamous plastic-bag ban, the bag the SNS employee carefully packed, much like legos, the canvas strap snapped right off, fortunately spilling only some of the contents  onto my driveway. O The Horror!

Darn you, Bil Keane

 

Such Is Life

 Today's paper carried the obits of 3 people I know, or knew: Jim Brearton, probably one of the nicest politicians, or people, who I ever met. He visited our house back in the day, working to attain some idealistic, though doomed, cause. Ron Seifert, suave and active auctioneer from Hoosick Falls, the ultimate go-to guy. Eric Delamater, Hoosic Valley student, whose sister was in M's class.

Little Known Fact?

 Gary Evans attended HVC for a while, probably about 9th or 10th grade. B. had him in her class, as I think did Mr. O. I don't think they had anything bad to say about him. BUT:

     I was substituting then, a lot, and I remember him as a scrawny newcomer sitting in the back row of study hall. I never spoke to him about anything nor he to me. BUT I can see crouching in his seat, and drawing a bead on me with his index finger next to eye , sort of aiming it as I walked across the room. No harm of course, but not usual behavior. And for  no reason either, that I was aware of.  

Devil in the Details

   In conversation with another today, the other made the comment that all politicians are alike in their dishonest  scheming rise to power. I strongly disagree because while no one is  perfect in toto, there are vast differences in what level of morality constitutes a human being. Some are depraved criminals; most are not. Meatloaf declared his limits, remember, "I would do anything for love but I won't do that."

    Now I must digress because I'm reminded that last year at the hospital when I underwent  a scan which required lying in a tube for a while, which once was accompanied by incessant roaring noises, the technician  asked me what music I would like to hear. My answer was Meatloaf, a first for that technician, and  finally, near the end of the procedure, I got to hear that song. I still don't know what it was he won't do, but that's  beside the point. 

   People have different standards of morality and some won't succumb to temptation.  Back in the day, Dave's job in personnel placement mandated a certain code of behavior. As it pertained to gifting, it was unacceptable for those hired, or placed,   to accept gifts from the hirer. Such potential persuasion was tantamount to bribery, so it seemed. But at Christmas, Dave's company wished the employees a Merry Christmas with  a gift certificate for a 12 Pound Frozen Turkey, a modest offering for sure. Yet there was one employee (job shopper) who would not accept the turkey certificate. A very honest man, I would surmise. 

    A related digression, all connected in the string of memories:  Dave would also receive a turkey certificate. We had no problem with that. I would take the certificate and present it to the butcher in the meat department, as was the store's protocol, the store being the old Grand Union in Lansingburg. One year I did so as usual, and there was a long delay. Listening, trying to discern the reason, I could hear banging and cussing and his frustrated and angry voice. A call went out for a supervisor, and the reason for his aggravation was brought to light. He had waged a battle in there, weighing all the turkeys in the  freezer and was not able to find a single one that weighed 12 pounds. The supervisor had to explain to him that the customer would have the price of  12-pounds of turkey subtracted from  the cost of the bird. The turkey did not have to weigh exactly 12 pounds. I hoped he understood

What's your number?

    I know not to give my telephone number to anyone on the internet. Those requesting have their nefarious reasons. But why the request for numbers I don't quite understand. I remember the days when just about everyone had their telephone numbers publicly listed in a thing called a phone book

How Dare You!

 The "You" in this case being "I"  

I must admit that I do use a wall calendar, retro as that may be, to write in my appointments or other significant doings. This year, it was the complimentary offering by the Hoosic Valley Volunteer  Fire Co. that I hung on my refrigerator, and charted in all my life happenings. That is, up until I wanted to add a future appointment, and found that the last month of the calendar was  October 2023. So I related this disappointment, somewhere, on some site. 

    You would think I had impugned the integrity of  firefighters in total, according to one response. He stressed how many years of his life he had dedicated, volunteered, to his work as a member of the Fire Company, explaining that the calendar ended in October because that is Fire Prevention Week. 

   Well, that is an important point to make, but it really makes no sense, does it. If the purpose of the calendar is to provide publicity for the Fire Company, and thereby elicit donations, it would be beneficial for the people who have the calendar to display  and  use it year-round, as a constant reminder of their valuable work. 

 I will not use this iteration of a calendar. I will use a calendar that has 12 month pages, from January to January. Whoever came up with the October Ending should reconsider, and add 2 more months. Why the heck not...

One Never Knows

 Once in a while, when memory calls, I try to locate people from the past. I see nothing new about Gus or his long-missing daughter Amanda. I knew his younger sister, Barbara Fredette, died several years ago. We used to see her and husband Werner and their 3 kids at camp in Cossayuna.  Werner had died and the 2 boys later  in life had health problems, but evidently still survive. The oldest child, Kim, was a year or so older than M. so they enjoyed each other's company. Kim was pretty, smart and became a Registered Nurse. She had 3 daughters, all lovely and accomplished, as I recall from past viewings.  She remarried and moved to Florida several years ago. Today I find that in January , she suffered a massive heart attack while hiking, followed by a stroke, and was near death. According to subsequent post, she recovered and is back hiking. No updates lately...

Spectrum Specter

 After a week or so of problematic television viewing, with blackouts, interruptions and countless rebooting, I finally called Spectrum. They (Albert) checked, and said there were no outages in the area. He rebooted from their end at least twice, and concluded the cable box needed replacing. The service call was set for Wednesday July 5. Tonight I received an email from Spectrum an ALERT,  advising that  "Service has been restored in your area." and I can cancel the appt. if I want to. Oh what to do, what to do. I mean if you can't rely on Spectrum, who can you trust?

Of all sad words of tongue or pen,

Ah, The Mystery of Life

 A week or so ago, I tried to print my literary masterpiece from 
CHAT GPT. I could read the brilliant words but the print feature did not work. This morning the floor by the printer is rife with pages---all those that did not print last week. An embarrassment of riches...

"The saints and poets, maybe ." Answer to Question from "Our Town"

 Does anyone understand the value of life while they live it?  Emily Webb chose to relive an ordinary day in her life after she had died. She chose her 12th birthday to revisit the past. 

  I can't exactly recall all the events from an earlier day in my past life, but this is an approximation:

  It's a warm summer day and I've driven the kids to my mother's house in the village. The back yard is like a plaza, life abounds. My mother is there and Helen and foster girls, and family next door. There is a well-used old porch swing beneath the cherry tree in the little flower garden. My mother might have been working in the garden before sitting down to rest for a while. Helen would have been watching what  the kids were doing, carefully but non-judgmentally supervising the play of the five young cousins. There was an abundance of animals, including not only dogs and cats, but chickens, rabbits, a sheep, and even ponies. The smell of homemade tomato sauce may have permeated the air. 

  After visiting for a while, I decide to take my youngest child for a walk upstreet. The stroller is kept there at the house, a newly purchased item in orange and yellow; the other strollers worn out now and discarded, after several years of being no longer needed. I pass the Valley Inn. The doors are ajar, windows open and unseen voices call out as we pass by. I smile and wave, and keep walking. Near the corner on the other side of the street, Gloria is standing and I'm sure gossiping with Bonnie and maybe Julie. We exchange greetings and keep on with our journey. When we get to the duplex house, formerly Griggs's, Emma is sitting on her front porch, joined by Sharon who lives in the other part of the house. We say hello, but Emma, as usual, wants to hold the baby. So we visit for a while. As we leave, Alma is sitting on her porch across the street and calls for me to come over, to talk for a while. She comments on the baby's hair, which I've combed in a curl on top of his head. She says she used to fix her son's hair that same way. As we cross back over to "our side" of the street, Sharon calls out, asking to join our walk. She has undergone a recent tragic accident with her husband and needs to get out of the house for  a while. So she joins us on our stroll, in pleasant and ordinary conversation.

   My memory of this resurrected day does not include the homeward path, but that does not detract from the atmosphere of the day. I'm not sure that even saints or poets could have foreseen the value of such an ordinary day.

While Still In Bloom

 

From the Archives: A Solution

     Our youngest child had somewhat of a speech delay, and then a stutter. He didn't want to have to struggle to speak and would seek out his sister, grab her hand and take her to wherever it was that he wanted, and point to it. She was always willing to help him. My mother felt for him; she said when he wanted to speak when he was at her house, he would use his fingers to try to move his mouth into a position so he could talk. We were ready to enroll him in Colleen's Pre-school , and I had informed her of his problem, and she was willing to accept him as he was. I had brought the matter to the attention of his pediatrician , and he suggested speech therapy. I was reluctant, aware of the recently released movie, Ordinary People, and guilt was in the offing. 

   Then a miracle happened in the persona of singer Mel Tillis, a gifted vocalist who stuttered. He was a guest on a late night talk show, and Tillis confided that the only time he did not stutter was when he sang. The host asked him why  that  was and Tillis said that when he sang he didn't hear his voice, as he did when he talked. Listening to that explanation, I had an epiphany. Why not have my stuttering child whisper?  Then he wouldn't hear his own voice either. Not a scientific conclusion perhaps, but worth a try.  AND IT WORKED.

May 29, 1995

 Dorothy was at our house then, as she most often spent the weekends here during that time in her life. And she would bring the recipe, ingredients, and even her favorite mixing bowl and make us the most delicious Sunday dinner. But that day was different; she knew a storm was coming. Dorothy was not afraid of much of anything she confronted, but she  had a lifelong fear of the wind. When we were little and shared a bed, she would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night screaming in terror, maybe the sound of the wind outside, maybe a bad dream. 

  We knew a storm was coming, but nobody seemed overly concerned, seriously underestimating what was to approach. But Dorothy was on edge, even before she looked out the back window and saw the eerie sight. "The trees are sideways," she told us. "Let's go."  She went into the bedroom and grabbed pillows and blankets. "We'll go down into the basement."  I told her the 2 full sized glass windows might not be safe. So we shut the doors in the hallway and settled down there with our blankets, waiting for the worst. It was nervewracking. I'd give anything to be able to repeat that time.

Calls of the Wild

 These 3 things that I must do before my time is done:

Yank up ivy. Chop down  dead tree. Put woodchuck on the run.

Pic#3 The ivy that grows through the ground, and will climb the lilac trees and bend them to the ground. Pic #4 The dead tree that serves as a ladder for the ivy vine to reach the lilacs, or any tree it wants to. I used a hacksaw so it took a while. Pic#2 The groundhog trying to burrow into the  basement. Pic#1 Ma's Hydrangea which was leveled by the last wet snowstorm, but still has some life, which houses a nest of Blue Jays. And one of the parents "attacked" me yesterday, flying right into  the back of my head---not hurtful, but startling. 

Reality or Illusion

I'm posting here to keep my ailing brain apprised of events. And no one, and I mean no one, seems to have any idea of why the mystery appt. today.  No one was prepared for my visit, for sure.

 When I was in hospital Feb. 25-27, one of the neurologists I saw there, and was assigned to follow up with  was Dr. U. At f.u. O.V. on March 9, he ordered a number of tests, procedures and referrals: Lumbar Spine MRI, Brain EEG, TEE (Trans-esophageal Electrocardiogram,  30-Day Heart Monitor,  an RX for Gabapentin, and a referral to a Neurosurgeon at A.M.C. He said Samaritan Hospital will call me to schedule the EEG and the MRI. 

   March 10, my Primary, Dr. M. called and said I should have been prescribed Plavix on release along with the Statin and Aspirin that Hospitalist  Dr. Black had prescribed. She also disagreed with Dr. U's recommendations and recommended a different neurologist. 

     Samaritan  did not call and when I called them, said they had no record of any script submitted. 

 At March 17 post hospital discharge follow up office visit with cardiologist, Dr. P. said to forget the prescribed TEE and Heart Monitor, that testing had been done in hospital. Take Statin and Plavix. Don't take aspirin along with. 

 April 17 visit with Primary Dr. M., she referred me to PT, which had been suggested by cardiologist and transition nurse, but D. M. had previously said she didn't see what good it could do. And she actively referred me to the other Neurologist. (That's another story.) I began P.T. on April 26.

April 24  After update from me on my attempts to comply,. o.v. with Dr. U.  resulted in more  referrals and tests ordered: Extensive Blood Labs, 9 tests, the brain EEG at Samaritan,  (again), ENT for Vestibular Therapy and Vestibular Balance Studies, Psychotherapy, Audiology for Hearing Test, and the referral to neurosurgeon at AMC., naming Dr.Alan Boulas (another story.

April 27 follow up with Dr. P. keep taking statin and plavix. Return visit in 2 months.

Actions:

     May 5, EEG at Samaritan

    May 10, Blood labs at Labcorps (as noted) in C.P.

    May 12, I had re-scheduled appt. with nephrologist Dr. B., as they had had a BABY!!! which meant I had to repeat my blood labs for him as time had passed. He said results were stable and I really didn't need to be a patient there any more. OK. 

Lab results posted on my Patient Portal. EEG reading was not. My F.U. appt. with Dr. U was July 24, 2023. But Monday early evening, I received call from his office saying I had an appt. very next day, May 16. I wondered(not worried)  if there was some significant findings. Today I found out. Dr. U. enters and asks if I'd had the labs and the MRI. Labs, yes, I say, but order was for EEG, not MRI. He  says the labs were all normal, but I saw a few were Flags, which I wanted to ask him about. Turns out he has only partial results from the 9 tests ordered, so he asks me to wait while he attempts to retrieve the rest. He does so, and "reassures" me the few Flags were due to the effects of the Statin, and to just keep an eye on it,  to return in 4 months. I ask about the EEG, the results he doesn't have, what was it done for? He answers for some scan of some brain abnormality or something like that. Then he says he can tell from talking to his patients, that if they use sarcasm or humor or laugh at his poor jokes, he knows there is no problem. He puts me in that category, though I can't recall instances of any of those examples. Before I leave, he says the nephrologist should NOT have released me from his care, something about creatinine. 

  P.S. Results from the EEG on May 5 were not read at the hospital until May 24. So not Dr. U's delay.

 

Kill, Kill

 You be the Judge, or Juror. Ex-Marine applied chokehold to annoying guy on the subway, held it for 15 long minutes, and the guy died. The choker said he was protecting himself and others from what he saw as a threat and didn't intend to cause death.   In another deadly happening, Kyle Rittenhouse shot and intentionally killed 2 unarmed men because he thought they were a threat to only him, and he subsequently became  an honored guest of an ex-president and a spokesperson for a faction of the Republican Party, and the NRA.

Uncanny

 

Shoot First

 Some years ago, during that notable gas shortage, word was that people were stealing gasoline. Farms often had their own gas pumps, usually at the front of their property. A respected family man and farm owner in the Cambridge area told me that if he saw anyone pull up near his gas pumps who might be contemplating theft, he would shoot them. Of course he was a gun owner, and his wife said he meant it.

Can't be me, Gotta be them.

  Just trying to stay in touch with reality, a la Boscov's. Occasionally I have used Boscov's Military Discount Shopping Pass, 15% off, with the usual exclusions. Last time was about 3 months ago and the clerk was helpful, saying it was self-renewable, and she gave me an updated pass. Yesterday I bought a few items and decided to use the Pass, as I'm contemplating a major purchase in the near future, and wanted to refresh the option of the discount. However, the clerk yesterday would not accept the Pass, first saying it didn't have the Code, which it did, and then saying the Veteran would have to be there in person. Explain I did, that the military discount  included surviving spouses. She told me I would have to have my picture on the Veteran's ID card. "Just used it a few months ago."  She said it all changed as of April 1.   April Fool's Day joke maybe, said I. No, she said. 

  So I emailed Boscov's asking how to re-apply for discount.. I received response today---nothing has changed. They sent me this: