La Mort

LA MORT

Last Sunday was one of those days that you're glad don't come around very often. It was a gray day, a sad day, a day that confirmed the fragility and brevity of life.

Let me tell you about it.

Last Sunday was the second day after Christmas. All the hurrying and scurrying and anticipation of the holiday were past and it was the last day of the Christmas holiday for both my wife and I as we were to return to work the next day. The only thing on the agenda for Sunday was a long-anticipated visit from some friends that were in town for the holidays from Arizona. These dear friends of ours were due at our house later in the day and we'd planned for some conversation, some dinner and a lot of laughing and friendly camaraderie. At least that was the plan until we received our first of three phone calls for the day. The female half of the twosome we were expecting was on the phone and she was the one to pass on the bad news to us. Apparently they'd both caught some sort of virus on the airplane while on their way back East and were really suffering from it. They both seemed to have the typical flu symptoms (which I won't go into detail about) along with the special prize of a monumental ear infection for her which required a call to Arizona to her doctor for a prescription to be picked up here in Ohio.

She sounded awful.

I offered our sympathies and told her that it was OK that they couldn't come visit. They were quite obviously sick and it'd be much better for them to just rest and try to get better. I told her that we'd get together the next time they were in town and to take good care of themselves. After hearing the news I was ashamed to say that I was relieved a bit that we wouldn't be exposed to whatever they were suffering with. I'd been fighting a respiratory problem for a couple months and really didn't relish getting ill again.

I hung up and told my wife that we weren't getting any company and the reason why. She was sad that we wouldn't be getting together but understood completely.

The second phone call came soon after the first. It was my step-sister Kathy. We usually got together with her and her side of the family sometime around Christmas for a gift exchange, a dinner and some family fellowship. This get together hadn't occurred yet this year and we'd become concerned as to the reason why. Kathy was usually so meticulous and efficient insofar as planning things and informing people about those plans. She'd called to apologize and to let us know that they'd been busy with a death and funeral of a relatives on her side of the family. This person, a cousin I believe, had died young and had interrupted their normal holiday schedule. She was now back on track and wanted us to know that she'd set up a get together at the “party” room at her mother's condo. It was scheduled for the following weekend and she'd like us to come and join in the festivities. And don't forget a covered dish! We of course said yes, and soon were marking next Sunday in our calendar.

The third call was much more serious. It was from a close friend of my wife's aunt Jeannine. She told my wife that her aunt had taken a turn for the worse in her health, she was in the emergency room of a hospital in a town about 40 miles from home and the doctors had informed her that, if Jeannine had any relatives, they ought to come quickly if they wanted to say goodbye to her.

My wife hung up the phone and informed me of what she'd learned. I looked at her stricken face and told her that it was up to her if she wanted to go see her. If she wanted to go, I'd of course go with her. She thought about it for a minute or two and agreed that we probably ought to.

I looked up the location of the hospital on the computer and made a map of how to get there. Soon we were in the car and heading south.

It was a quiet trip down the state highways toward the town where her aunt waited. We discussed Jeannine's history among ourselves as we traveled. She'd been my wife's father's youngest sister. She'd never married and had lived with her sister Norma until Norma had passed away some years ago. She then lived alone with her dogs. She was a incorrigible bingo player and that was pretty much her life for the last decade or two, home with the dogs or out playing bingo most evenings of the week. She was a lifelong smoker until emphysema forced her to quit and put her in an oxygen mask. She grew somewhat senile several years ago and had to be moved into an assisted living facility. Then it was into a nursing home when she had trouble taking care of herself even in the assisted living environment. Several trips to the emergency room for various ailments this past year had occurred and it looked like this might be her last one.

The day was typical for late December in Ohio – gray skies, cold and windy with a promise of snow to start later in the day. The trees were all bare and leafless and there was ice edging the ponds and streams we passed by. We drove through the small towns and through the countryside, each of us deep in thought about what was waiting for us when we reached our destination.

The hospital sat on the top of a hill on the northeast side of the city. Since it was a Sunday, the main entrance was open but the main information desk was unmanned. We decided to drive over to the other side of the building where the emergency room entrance was instead of trying to find it through unfamiliar hospital corridors.

We went into the emergency entrance and my wife gave the on-duty receptionist her aunt's name. We were soon met by Jeannine's friend Stacy, who tearfully led us through several automatic doors and toward one of the emergency area's treatment rooms. Before we entered we spoke to a doctor who was extremely professional and informed us that Jeannine was not expected to live much longer. She had reached that point where her body was shutting down and there was little that could be done for her except keep her comfortable and just be with her. We then entered the treatment room. My wife's aunt lay on the hospital bed. She had four IV's plugged into her, a respirator and several monitors, all of which were blinking, chirping and beeping, displaying numbers and wiggly lines, charting and displaying an old woman's last hour. Stacy's mother and daughter were in the room with her along with a nurse and another doctor.

My wife walked up to the side of the bed and gazed at her aunt. She broke down for a minute and cried, realizing that her aunt was soon to depart this world and that her last relative from her father's generation was soon to be no more. Before long the Kleenex boxes were being passed around and many a wet eye was being wiped.

Jeannine had requested that no heroic measures were to be taken at this time, so the doctor told us that they were now going to unplug her from the devices. We were ushered out of the room while this procedure was undertaken and then allowed to return. The old woman didn't seem to be suffering. She lay quietly and slowly breathed. I honestly don't think she knew we were there although we'd like to think she did. The nurses and doctors left us with her to say our goodbyes. Occasionally one of the nurses would return to the room, gently check her pulse along her neck then bend over and listen for her respiration. You could see the caring in all the hospital staff's faces. Jeannine's friends talked to her and told her she would soon be with her sister and brother and her mom and dad. The nurse returned for the second or third time and checked the pulse and respiration again. The doctor stepped in about that time and looked at the nurse. The nurse said, “She's gone.” The doctor looked at the wall clock and said, “Make it 1600.”

I looked at the body on the bed. It looked identical to what was there a minute ago except that now it was still. She was gone.

It was such a gradual thing I never did actually see when it happened.

There were more tears then and the Kleenex boxes made another couple rounds.

A hospital administrator came in after about ten minutes and took down some information as to which funeral home was taking care of Jeannine and some other facts pertaining to “arrangements”. She had take care of her own arrangements before she had died, so most of the questions were pro forma.

The five of us talked for a while about Jeannine's life and what it had meant for us. We even chuckled a bit on her eccentricities, which she had many. Before departing we exchanged some phone numbers and agreed to meet as soon as practicable for a memorial service. We hugged each other and departed.

On the drive home my wife and I reminisced a bit about our memories of Jeannine. About how her and her sister Norma would come visit us when we were camping at the lake near their home, how we'd see them in the bingo parlors when we were in their hometown playing, how Jennine always had dogs and how many times they were mean to everyone except her. She had the touch with them. That lead to more conversation about the rest of her family, especially her grandfather and grandmother. Then the conversation died out and we were left with our own thoughts on life, death and how very mortal we all were.

The snow started falling from the dark sky about 20 minutes before we arrived back home, the flakes silently drifting down through the twin cones of the headlights, whitening the roads and lightly frosting the dark trees.

And so our Sunday ended.

In retrospect it seems like a dream, or perhaps something seen on a television show a long time ago – a black and white television show. Perhaps Ben Casey or Dr. Kildare. The hospital bed. The sobbing relatives. The flatline on the monitor. The doctor with his white coat.

But it was no television show. It was real.

As real as death always is.

So I took a moment and, in my heart, I wished Jeannine well on her journey. May her reunion with her mother, father and sister and brother be as joyous as possible, may her dogs be there to greet their loving mistress, may heaven's bingo cards all be lucky and may she look kindly down upon her niece and her husband.

She will be missed.

Holiday Ramblings

Holiday Ramblings

The first H1N1 inoculation clinic that was to be held in my hometown for people without specific ailments was held today. It was advertised in the local paper where they specified the locations, times and places to receive the medicine. This first one was to be at a “learning center” about 6 blocks from where I live. I refer to the building where this particular learning center is located as the old Beall Avenue Grade School, which it is. I attended there as a youngster for the 4th, 5th and 6th grade sometime during the late '50's. After the grade school was closed, a local philanthropist purchased the property, had it renovated and it's now used for pre-school, retarded children programs and a lot of other community-related activities. The philanthropist is named Stanley Gault and you can see his name on lots of edifices around town. We're lucky to have him around.

According to the newspaper, the clinic was to begin at 9:30 in the morning and I planned on attending, along with my wife and my adult son. I wanted us to arrive there by 9:10 or thereabouts, figuring it had a high probability of being busy, but, as usual, my best-laid plans were thwarted by my family. After taking care of our dog, waking up my son, checking the newspaper, waiting for this and that, etc., etc., we finally arrived at the facility at 9:30. As I had feared, the parking lot was already full and cars were going up and down the rows hunting for spots to park. I mumbled about punctuality, preparedness and other subjects under my breath (I was lucky my family didn't hear me!), but we were lucky enough to find a parking spot on the second pass through the lot and soon we were stepping inside the building.

As an aside, stepping inside this door reminded me of my first date – kind of. It was a school dance at the grade school, possibly 5th grade, and it was to be held at that particular school. I'd asked a girl who, coincidentally had a very similar last name to my own, and we attended together. It was through that particular door that we entered the gym to where the dance was to be held. I could still remember the sweaty nervousness and awkwardness even today as I stepped across that threshold. I smiled as I paid homage to those old memories.

I really had to hand it to the planners of the clinic as the operation was well set up and had plenty of volunteers at the door and at other choke points. After filling out a quick questionnaire, we got in line and soon were baring our arms for the injection. My son, since he is younger than my wife and I, and met the criteria, was offered his choice of either a nasal vaccine administration or an injection. He opted for the nasal dose as he's not overly fond of needles. I teased him on his timidity while we were leaving the building and, before you knew it, we were back in the car and heading home. Even with our “late” arrival, we were in and out in less than 20 minutes. Not too bad. And now we are protected from this specific “bug” for this specific season. I feel so much healthier already!

***

On Sunday my wife and I took part in one of our “cherished” family traditions – decorating the house for Christmas. This is an activity that I don't look forward to with much excitement any more. Yes, I enjoy the decorated house, the lighted tree, the Christmas knick-knacks and gee-gaws strewn all around the house – the wreaths on the doors, the garland hung here and there, the festive appearance of our home after we're done. It's not something that I'd easily give up. But... That's after the fact. Doing the actual work is a bit of a chore. Hauling down the 8 – 10 tote boxes containing the goodies from the attic. Hauling down the awkward box that the dismantled tree resides in. Taking down the year-round “stuff” so there's room for the Xmas “stuff”. Moving furniture around so that there is room for the tree and other “stuff”. Assembling the tree. Lighting it, garlanding it, ornamenting it and tinseling it. Placing all the other items here and there. Hauling the newly-emptied boxes upstairs to store during the holidays.

Lots of work.

This year we were unpleasantly surprised while attending to this activity. I was starting to add the lights to the newly assembled Christmas tree when we heard a quite audible “cracking” noise that emanated from the bottom of the tree. And after each “crack”, the tree began to list a bit more to one side. I did a little look-see under the tree and saw that one of the 4 cheap plastic “legs” at the bottom of the tree had broken.

I sat back and thought to myself – Great. Just great. Now what?

I took a further look at the damages and saw that it was pretty much a goner - unrepairable. I'd have to do something about it. I would have to play handyman, which is not one of my best roles.

I think I might have whispered a few un-Christmaslike words about that time.

So we jumped into the car and ran up to Walmart, our usual destination for almost anything we needed to buy, everyday or exotic, and looked around for a new base for our artificial tree.

Have you ever tried looking for one of those? Specifically? As you might imagine, we had no luck. Apparently we were the only people in existence who ever had this problem (!?!?), so we settled for a natural tree base and I figured I could jerry-rig it to work even with the thin pole of the artificial tree's trunk instead of a thicker real one.

You can already see where this is heading, right?

After arriving home and spending about an hour fussing and adjusting the base, I realized that it just wasn't made to hold up an artificial tree with a 1 1/2 inch pole for a trunk. I'd have to add some shims and do some other adjustments. I finally did get everything attached – sort of – and stood back to look at my handiwork. It had looked about right while I was laying under the tree, but, after standing up I could see that the tree was tilting about 20 degrees starboard.

A few more un-Christmaslike words slipped out of my mouth.

So I did what any red-blooded American would have done at that time. Instead of taking apart the assortment of shims, plastic, steel bolts, chunks of wood and other assorted pieces holding up the bottom of the “tree”, I just shoved three thick magazines under one side of the tree holder, which brought the tree into some approximation of vertical, and called it OK. The tree skirt covered up all the sins of the lower portion of the tree and we were back on track. Finally.

I told the wife - “next year we get a new tree!”

***

Saturday night my wife and I attended the retirement party of a gentleman who works in my office. He'd just finished putting in 33 years with the county sanitary engineering department where we all work and had decided that was enough. Heck of a nice guy.

The party was held in a huge equipment storage building at a landscaping business north of the town where we work. I understand they have parties there fairly often. His family had decorated the room, set up tables with assortments of munchies, erected an open bar and had several kiddie pools full of various beers and sodas and bottled waters on ice. They had buffet tables set up on one side with barbecued roast pork and turkey, salads, pasta, veggies, breads and a big dessert table with the obligatory retirement cake and assorted cookies, and other pastries. A very nice spread. Quite a few of my fellow employees attended and we all had a nice time visiting, drinking, eating and watching the antics of the other employees and families, questioning why some folks came and some folks didn't, why so-and-so was with whosit and what that might portend, and didn't whats-his/her-name look good/bad/cheap/hot/drunk. After the meal, the guest of honor took the microphone and wandered around the crowd, picking out first one person, then another to get comments from. Everyone was congratulatory and enjoyed taking their last shots at him. It was fun to watch the consternation of the participants as the mike was placed in front of them, but most replied quite cogently and lost their mike-fever quickly. After this “entertainment”, the disc jockey took over and started playing music. Our only real complaint at that time was the volume setting of the disk jockey's speakers. I joked that my ears were bleeding, but that wasn't too far from the truth. He'd definitely cranked the volume knob to “11” on the 1 to 10 scale. Maybe it's because a lot of us are “older” folks, but we really didn't appreciate the über volume pumping out of the speakers. It was virtually impossible to carry on a conversation, so we bid adieu perhaps earlier than we would have if the music had been a bit more tolerable.

On the way home I mused about the party. I thought about how, when we were first married and attended parties, they were bridal showers and bachelor parties, new job parties, new baby parties, etc. Or parties just for the hell of it. Fun stuff. Now it seemed we were attending more retirements and funerals and less of the fun stuff. Didn't hardly seem fair.

And I pondered about whether there would be any retirement for my wife and I, let alone any parties. We'd taken a beating with the bad economy and were unsure of when or even if we could say adios to our jobs. I'd often said I'd continue to work as long as my health allowed me, and it looks like that will be the case.

But enough about the vicissitudes of fate and the uncertainty of the coming years.

The holiday season is now upon us and that is certainly the time for good fellowship, for decking the halls and for burning the Yule log and hoisting the wassail cup. And I intend to do just that! So, to all my dear friends and family, I wish you a Christmas full of joy, presents under your tree, a belly full of great food and someone you love to share it all with.

And may the upcoming new year bring you health, prosperity and peace.

Decisions

Decisions

I'd like to congratulate those of you who are reading these lines. Why, you might ask? Why am I being congratulated? What have I done that's so remarkable?

The reason I'm bestowing congratulations on you is because you've made a gigantic number of correct decisions before arriving at this particular moment in time. Life affirming decisions. Everything from deciding not to take a job on a high floor of the World Trade Center in 2001 to not making a left turn in front of that speeding Mack truck back in '74. Lots of good decisions. All of them resulting in your being where you are right now, heart beating, breathing and reading these ageless words. Maybe your being here was a result of something as simple as deciding to go to the doctor after you stepped on that rusty nail a while back. Or as complicated as carrying around aspirin in your car in case of heart attack. Or not petting that friendly-looking dog back when you were 8 years old. Lots and lots of decisions. Actually, everyone you see in your daily life is the result of a myriad of correct decisions.

When it comes right down to it, all our lives are nothing but series of decisions, which, when added together, all constitute the fabric of your life. Your decision to marry (or not) that guy (or girl) at that time. Your decision to work at this or that particular place, to vacation at this or that place, to eat pizza instead of green, leafy vegetables. To choose life rather than the alternative.

Some would call it a Darwinian selection process and I'd agree with them.

You can actually graph these decisions if you're of a scientific bent. It's called a decision tree chart. And as you travel down your time line, you will reach forks in the road where there are two choices confronting you, choice “A” and choice “B”. By choosing one you negate the results of the other fork. And, by doing so you open up a world of possibilities that result from your decision. What's interesting is that there are only two decisions to make at each decision tree branch. You might think that there would be multiple branching occasionally, like picking one restaurant from a group of others to go to for dinner. But what you actually do is examine each choice and compare it to the group of the other ones. Two decisions. If you choose not to dine at that first restaurant, you discard it, then examine one of the others and compare it to the group left. Still two decisions.

You're making a bunch of decisions even as you read this, don't you know. Do I continue reading this fascinating narrative? Do I finish this now or squirrel it away for later savoring? Is my opinion of this author enhanced by this piece or diminished? Do I agree with him? Or disagree?

Choices. Decisions. Options.

I started thinking about this topic while listening to an old song recently. I'd taken a lot of CD's that I'd created from some old vinyl records I've collected over the years and had ripped them to my computer as MP3 files. While doing this, I sampled some of the tunes that were being moved from one place to the other. And up popped one of my favorite singers from years ago - Cat Stevens. I have two of his albums - “Teaser and the Firecat” and “Tea for the Tillerman”. I like them. He speaks to me in some of his songs.

And I thought about decisions...

Cat Stevens converted to Islam at the height of his popularity in '77 and adopted a Muslim name of Yusuf Islam. Two years later he auctioned off all his guitars to charity and began devoting his life to philanthropic and educational causes in the Muslim community. He continued that life path for 28 years until '06, when he returned to pop music under the name Yusuf and released a new album entitled “An Other Cup”. I must check it out.

He made a decision all those years ago. For whatever reason, and I'm not going into the religious aspects of it, he chose a path that probably wasn't apparent to most of us. A path that most of us would probably not have chosen. A dramatic, life changing decision.

And that train of thought led me into an examination of the decision trees and choices we all make. And that I have made.

I think most of us, if we're being candid, can look back and point to choices that we've made that were, shall I say, less than optimal. Downright awful, probably. Decisions that sometimes wake us up at night shaking our heads and ruing our dunderheadedness. And, as counterpoint, most of us can also point to decisions that were absolutely, dead-on perfect. And, if we're anything close to normal, our super bad and super good decisions usually are close in number.

And who of us hasn't played the “if only...” game. I know I have.

If I'd only stayed in the military. I'd have retired at age 38.

If I'd only waited after college to get the RIGHT job, not the one that was available at the time. I'd be lots richer.

If I'd only worked harder at my career choice and became an executive with all the salary and perks. I'd be more satisfied with my life.

If I'd only... If I'd only... If I'd only...

But I didn't. My decision trees pointed the other way. And they have made me the man I am today. Happy about some stuff. Sad about other stuff.

Pretty much normal.

Or at least I'd like to think so. Of course that brings into question the concept of normality.

I think I'll save that for another piece.

Are you still with me, consistent reader? Have your decisions allowed you to gain this spot?

Congratulations (again).

So where does this mind game lead us?

Only that you ALWAYS have decisions to make, daily, hourly, every minute. And those choices will weave the tapestry of the rest of your life.

So choose well, my friend. Choose well.

Early October Musings

Early October Musings

In case you might be a bit curious, yes, I still have a cold. Or is it the flu? Or some other virus which will forever be unnamed? I'm sure I don't know. All I'm sure of is that I've been “less than healthy” for about the last four weeks. I guess that's pretty much the usual for me around this time of the year – bit of a cough, occasionally a brief fever, quite stuffy in the nose and the voice that sounds like it's rising from a crypt somewhere. People who know me have been seen to do a double-take when I've opened my mouth to speak recently. And to verify that it was me who was speaking. I haven't been real sick, but, then again, I haven't been real well, either. I'm kind of in the middle. Too well to actually stay home and sick enough that food has lost its taste and it's a pain in the hindquarters just crawling out of bed in the morning. One day down in the dumps, the next, feeling better, and repeated over and over.

It'll eventually go away, of course. But in the meantime it's a wearisome son-of-a-gun.

During this time period my boss at work has been hinting now and again that he was experiencing some health problems of his own. He wasn't sure exactly what the problem was, but was mightily concerned that it might be a major life-changer. I found out late last week that he was scheduled for a medical procedure this week that I had gone through a couple years ago. It's called a cystoscopy and it's an examination of the interior of your bladder with a scope. Of course the instrument is inserted, in a male, through... Well, let's say that the procedure is a subject that most men don't like to talk about, let alone have to experience. Any doctoring that needs to be done “down there” is traumatic to a man. And that trauma varies from a mild annoyance to a full-blown neurotic obsession. I'm afraid my boss veers more toward the obsessive. So I told him to not worry, the procedure is uncomfortable but not tremendously painful, and that it would be an experience that he could tell his grandchildren about in years to come. A piece of cake, actually.

And, to be truthful, what I told him was pretty much factual if, perhaps, a bit leaning more toward “not that big a deal” than “Oh my God that hurts like a...!”

He had the procedure performed on Wednesday and returned to work on Thursday. First he was grateful to tell his staff that they found no malignancy and that was the good news. He also said that I had better come to work wearing a flak jacket as he was going to give me a full-blown chewing out. He stated that my description as to the pain involved didn't even come close to what he'd experienced. After some good-natured ribbing he delivered to me as to the paucity of my descriptions of the procedure and my estimation of the pain involved (which he considered much more than considerable), we chatted about the findings and his prognosis. It was discovered he has a large kidney stone blocking one of his ureters and will have to undertake another procedure where they will bypass the stone and let the kidney drain, then another one where they'll pulverize the stone in situ and let the resulting dust just pass through him. And, of course, they'll do it all through the natural opening they used on Wednesday.

I don't envy him but am relieved that he doesn't have anything more critical in his diagnosis. He'll have some bad days, but he ought to be on his feet at almost 100 percent before too long. Whether that will be an improvement on his normal modus operandi remains to be seen.

The weather in this part of the great state of Ohio is shifting into its autumnal phase and all of us folk that reside here are starting their annual migration from a shorts-and-tee-shirts lifestyle to jeans and sweatshirts. Happens about this time every year and we still have a habit of standing around with our mouths agape at the change. Human memory is such a poor thing when it comes to cyclical events like this. It always seems to take us unawares, as if we childishly thought that summer would stay forever. Hell, we all know better than that. But I guess our knowledge is more intellectual and not visceral. Our guts are always surprised. Always. No matter how old we are or how many cycles we've experienced in this northern latitude.

My wife has already started buying Christmas presents for some of our far-flung relatives. The California crew, the Oklahoma folks, the central Ohio batch. She's quite good at starting early and getting things done in plenty of time for the holidays and for the mailing deadlines to get their gifts and cookies to them. Last year she was laid up with a gimpy leg and had some major difficulties performing these early endeavors aiming at the holiday season, but I expect she'll be quite on top of things this year. Last year was an aberration for her.

I'll probably play my oh-where-oh-where-has-the-time-gone card sometime after Thanksgiving and rush around trying to get the perfect gifts and having to settle for the alternates as I'm too late for the A-tier stuff, as usual. Guess it's hard to break with a tradition as ingrained as that one.

I've got a three-day weekend coming up starting in a couple of hours. Saturday, Sunday then Columbus Day. Columbus Day, along with Veteran's Day, Martin Luther King Day and President's Day, is one of those holidays that generally only fat-cat bankers and us government workers get to enjoy. I always consider these minor holidays as some slight compensation for the low pay, irregular hours and startlingly erratic management of being a low-echelon government worker. I suppose they really are a benefit though, but I find myself at odds as to what to do on those days off when most of the rest of the world is working. It's like I'm playing hooky and am always looking behind my shoulders for the truant officer to grab me and take me back to school or, in this case, work. It's odd how screwed up my psyche is, isn't it? But I really have no idea what I'll do on that “extra” day. Sleep in? Visit a retired friend? Watch a couple movies? Work around the house?

Guess I'll figure it out in a couple of days.

It's been over a month since I've set “pen” to “paper” and written out one of these blogs. I apologize for the lapsed time. I think I've needed some reflection time to recharge the batteries, perhaps. Or maybe the death of our dog in late July affected me more than I'd like to admit. In any event, maybe I'll try a bit harder to put one of these things together more often. Maybe I won't wait for Calliope, the muse of writers, to sit on my shoulder and whisper the words I need to type as she has done in the past. On previous expeditions down blogging lane I've been known to just listen to her whispers, type and be totally amazed at what ends up on the screen. Perhaps more amazed than the few sorry souls that occasionally do read these words. I read them and wonder “where the heck did that come from?” I have always considered myself a bit of a shallow person, but there must be a few deeper spots here and there where interesting things can be dredged up from the depths and displayed in the sunlight.

So I promise to be a bit more prolific putting these things out if I can. Perhaps I could tell you about...? Or maybe...? Oh, I know! I'll tell ya about the time I...

See you soon.

Three Boats

Three boats

I've always been a bit interested in maritime things, the oceans, the seas, the Great Lakes and the ships that sail on them. My younger brother was in the Navy and I remember envying him his travels and the far-away places he'd visited during his tour. I remember being in the U.S. Air Force and being stationed in the Panama Canal Zone back in the late 60's and how I spent many hours of my non-duty time sitting in the observation area of the Miraflores locks of the Panama Canal watching the ships lock through, some heading inland on their way to the Caribbean Sea and ports bordering the Atlantic Ocean, and the others, having just finished their transit of the “Big Ditch”, were on their way out to the Pacific and to other places with names that sounded so deliciously foreign. The big boats have always fascinated me with their foreign-sounding names, their massiveness and their appearance of having been to many intriguing ports of call all around the world. Exotic and fascinating places in countries I'd only visited in books or in flights of my imagination.

So the activities of this past weekend played right into those long-held interests.

My son had some vacation days coming up and wanted to spend them with his mom and dad doing something “interesting”. He asked if I would look around and give him some ideas of some places we could visit not too far from home, as these would be day trips and we would return home each evening. I made a list up and presented it to him and he made some selections. I was pleased to see that his choices were close to what I would have picked myself. What was a little odd about them, though, was that we were going to see three ships over the weekend and they were all, in their own way, representatives of their eras.

On Saturday we traveled to Columbus, Ohio and, after walking around the zoo for some hours, we toured the replica of Christopher Columbus's ship the Santa Maria. It's moored in the Scioto River in downtown Columbus and was presented to its namesake city on the 500th anniversary of Columbus's trip in 1492. It's an exact replica of the first one and was created using the original blueprints which were obtained from Spain by the shipbuilder. The ship is 98 feet long and 89 feet from the keel to the top of the main mast. The first Santa Maria was originally just a cargo ship and was slow and not very stable. Not really the kind of boat you'd pick for a historic ocean voyage. I found many things interesting about it when we visited. For instance, it had no ship's wheel, like you might see in a movie about pirates. It was made before ship's wheels were invented and was steered by a large tiller which controlled the rudder. During the 1492 trip, Columbus kept two journals on his voyage across the Atlantic, the real one and the one he presented to his crew. They were assured before signing on that the trip across the ocean would only take a week or two and wasn't that many miles long. He was afraid that if he told them the truth they'd become frightened at how far from home they really were and might actually consider mutiny. As you walked the decks of the reproduction ship you realized how small and primitive it actually was and marveled at the audacity of the sailors. Those men crossed an entire ocean in this crude, tiny vessel. It amazed me as to the bravery (or foolhardiness) of the sailors to have crossed that much water in such a small, primitive craft. Or maybe it was just the steadfastness (or again, foolhardiness) of Columbus that allowed them to make this historic journey.

I was impressed.

On Sunday we drove to Cleveland and visited our second ship for the weekend, a WWII submarine, the U.S.S. Cod. This boat (subs are boats, all other boats are ships) is 312 feet long and 1,525 tons in weight. She was launched in March of 1943 and commissioned in June of that year. She is credited in sinking more than 12 enemy vessels totaling more than 37,000 tons and is the only U.S. submarine to perform an international sub to sub rescue mission in history. Cod returned to her Perth, Australia base on August 13, 1945 and was met at the dock by members of the Dutch submarine she had rescued the month before who invited them to a “thank you” party. During that party they learned of the end of the war.

Today, the Cod is one of the finest restored submarines on display and is the only U.S. sub that has not had stairways and doors cut into her pressure hull for public access. Visitors use the same vertical ladders and hatches that were used by her crew when she made her war patrols.

My wife and son and I walked aboard the Cod late that morning and walked down her deck to the entrance hatch in the bow area of the boat. To enter, you have to climb down a ladder about 15 feet long through a tight hatch, kind of like being born through a steel birth canal only backward – you're going in, not out! My son and I made it, but my wife decided that she would enjoy the air on the deck much more than squeezing through that hatch and down a ladder. So my son and I toured below decks and were amazed by the cleanliness of the interior and how much work had gone into making the boat look as close to the way it was back during the war. The people who took care of this proud ship had outdone themselves in the restoring efforts and the day-to-day cleaning and polishing that it so obviously entailed. We saw the torpedo rooms, sleeping quarters, mess, engines, batteries and control room. It was quite impressive. She looked like she was only waiting for the captain to say “full steam ahead” for it to start moving out into the lake and commencing to dive. The exit, in the stern, was, of course, another ladder/hatch you had to ascend and, even though I'm not very claustrophobic, I was glad to ascend back into the open air. We learned that on later cruises in the war this boat had a crew of 97! That's not a typo – 97 sailors and officers. I was dumbfounded! It seemed crowded with a dozen or so visitors. How they did their jobs with that many men aboard is unbelievable! My hat is definitely off to the men who sailed on her.

Our second ship for the day and the third for the weekend was the Steamship William G. Mather, a retired Great Lakes bulk freighter. This ship was also docked on the Cleveland Lake Erie waterfront and is now a museum. She was built in 1925 as the flagship of the Cleveland-Cliffs Iron Company. She was active in the Cliffs fleet until the end of the 1980 navigation season. She's a straight deck bulk carrier with a 14,000 ton capacity, is 618 feet long, 62 feet wide and 32 feet deep. The Mather was one of the first commercial ships to be equipped with radar in 1946 and in 1964 she was the first American vessel to have an automated boiler system. She was donated to the Great Lakes Historical Society in 1987 to be restored and preserved as a museum ship.

What was immediately apparent when we boarded this ship was its size. Compared to the two ships we were on earlier, this guy was big! Not as big as the 1,000 foot monsters that chug across the Great Lakes nowadays, but plenty big for landlubbers like us. The self-guided tour took us all through the ship including the galley, sleeping quarters for crew, officers and guests, bridge, engines and holds. Since this was the flagship for the line, the guest quarters were quite nice, with marble fireplaces and all the luxuries expected in a steamship of that time period. I had a long conversation with a gentleman on the staff of the ship on the bridge about Great Lakes steamships in general and the Mather in particular. He told me a number of fascinating stories about them. In one he talked about how a career on steamships was actually a good choice for a young man. Everyone started at the bottom and worked their way up – there was no favoritism or nepotism – you had to work the positions and learn them before being promoted. There were extremely comprehensive examinations for each rank up so there was no question about a seaman's qualifications for their present position. He said some of the exams were 8 hours long and held for 2 days. He talked about how the big ships would flex and “work” during storms, how some of the below decks passages on the big 1,000 footers would look like the inside of a snake when you 'd look down them in a storm. He told a story about how teenagers in some of the ship's home ports liked to work as deckhands during their summer vacations and how one year, during a depression, the ships weren't hiring summer help. One of the teens “pulled some strings” and got hired anyway. The other teens were furious at his finagling. On his first voyage he got tangled up in some ropes and fell into one of the empty holds 35 feet down and killed himself. The teens that were so jealous of the other guy's luck suddenly were thankful that they didn't get the deckhand job that year. He also talked about some of the idiosyncrasies of the captains of this particular ship – how some made models of ships, some had other hobbies and how one of them, nick-named “screwdriver”, would prowl the ship with a screwdriver in hand, tightening every screw he would see. (There's a lot of screws on the Mather!) He mentioned the comparison of the Cod with the Mather – the Cod had almost 100 crewmen for a number of their cruises where the Mather never had more than 35 at any one time. I found that quite interesting also.

We finished our “maritime” weekend with a nice meal at a Mexican restaurant on our way home and some conversation about the similarities and differences in the three ships we'd toured that weekend. And I thought about the urge, over the centuries, of men to go “down to the sea in ships”. What was it that made men leave the security and stability of dry land to go on board vessels and make their living on the great waters of this planet? For some it was simply what was done – their family had done it for uncounted generations, so they did it also. For others it was the quest for reward, whether it was for treasure and booty back in the early years of wooden ships and iron men or just a rewarding career and a good paycheck in more recent days. But whatever the rationalization might be, there is definitely an urge among many men to measure their strength and mettle against the sea, to prove themselves on the oceans of the world.

The call of the sea is there in most men who've gazed upon the big waters.

Some days I wish I'd answered when I heard that call.

But then, when that urge strikes, I usually just roll over, pull the blankets a bit tighter around me, and go back to sleep.

A Good Dog

A Good Dog

My family lost a good friend and steadfast companion on Monday night. Our little dog Bailey, our four-legged buddy for the past 12 years or so and the oldest of our two dogs, died. He was 13 years old and they say that is a long life for a miniature Schnauzer.

But it seemed too short - way, way too short.

(As an aside, I hate reading dead dog stories. They always make me sad, drippy-eyed and all choked up. I avoid them like the plague. And this is, without a doubt, another one. But the dog in this story was my dog and that makes all the difference. If you want to, you can stop here and I'll not be offended. I'll understand. But if you want to hear about a fine dog, please read on.)

Bailey gave us fair warning that the end might be approaching about a week before his passing, when he stopped eating. We realized something was awry with him and we took him to his vet for a look/see. There was nothing apparent at first glance, but an x-ray soon showed a mass in his stomach which could have been food (if he was eating, which he wasn't) or could have been a tumor. The vet was unsure at that point if this was life-threatening and proceeded to give us special soft dog food to try to get him to eat. He wouldn't touch it. She then gave us some even softer dog food that we could force-feed into him using a soft plastic syringe, but it usually came right back up. After days of his refusing to eat, my wife and I talked over our options and had sadly resigned ourselves to the fact that he would have to be put to sleep, probably early the following week.

Saturday night my wife was preparing supper and Bailey was in the kitchen, staying as near to her as he could. He had always been her dog and was the happiest when he could be nearest to her. During the supper's preparation she had tossed a few small cubes of ham toward the dog, expecting him to turn away from them as he had with most food offered to him in the previous days. To our surprise, he gobbled them down! She tossed him a few more pieces and he also ate them up. We wondered about that, so I tried tempting him with some turkey slices from the refrigerator and he ate them also. We began to wonder if he might be coming out of whatever problem he had. Perhaps it wasn't as serious as we'd originally thought? The following evening for supper we grilled steaks. Bailey was very interested in begging for some of those scraps and we fed him some. He seemed to enjoy them immensely. He seemed to be almost his old self.

We began to hope.

We forgot that dying animals, humans included, usually had a period of time just before death where they seemed to be recovering and seemed to be their old selves.

Such was the case with Bailey.

On the following day, Bailey returned to his rejection of food and became quite lethargic. I tried to force feed him some of the doggy gruel with some medicine mixed in and he threw it all up about 3 hours later. He was weak, had lost a lot of weight and had a difficult time walking. It was a hot day so I left him in our bedroom with the air conditioner turned on to help him stay comfortable when I left for work at 3 pm.

My wife came home at five o'clock from her day's work, checked on him and noticed that he was panting heavily and didn't seem to be very aware of her or of our son who was also checking on him occasionally. She left him in our cool bedroom and checked in on him from time to time during the evening. He was breathing raggedly and seemed unaware of them.

We had an appointment to take him back to the vet the following morning.

I received a call at work from her around 11:30, when she tearfully told me that Bailey was gone. She'd gone up to check with him a few minutes earlier and he wasn't breathing and had started to stiffen up.

It had been about 9 days since he'd stopped eating.

I drove home immediately and hugged my wife while we cried. It's always hard when you lose a loved one and Bailey was definitely loved by all of us. I wrapped his body in a soft blanket and placed him in the trunk of my car for safe keeping during the night. I would take him to the vets the following day to make arrangements for burial.

The loss is still fresh for my wife, our son and myself. Our other Schnauzer, Barney, is a great comfort for us during this time period. He's now the number one dog in the house and he is getting a lot of attention from the three of us. He makes his partner's death seem almost bearable by being around for us to pet and to hug.

But it's still too easy to look at Barney and to wonder where Bailey's keeping himself. When you saw one you usually saw the other one somewhere close by.

Then you realize that there's only one now when there used to be two.

I still remember how Bailey came into our lives:

We'd acquired him when he was 9-months-old from Caroline, one of my wife's girlfriends. He'd joined her household some months earlier as payment for a baby-sitting fee from a couple that was strapped for cash. He wasn't much more than a puppy at that time and was having a hard time playing second fiddle to Caroline's older dog, Shelby. Poor Bailey'd try to eat some of the dog food that Caroline had available in a bowl on the floor for the dogs and Shelby'd chase him away after he'd only got a few bites. This was an everyday affair at her house. Bailey learned early on to be quick to eat and quick to take off when the older dog came into view.

My wife and I had another dog at that time named Dusty, a mixed breed, Benji look-a-like female. We definitely weren't in the market for another pooch, but Caroline was adamant that Bailey'd be a good fit for us and that we should “try him out for a weekend.” She said that if Dusty wouldn't tolerate him, she'd take him back. She had a house full of animals already (her children were always bringing more in) and would love to give one away to a good home. We'd always liked Bailey when we'd visited Caroline, so we said OK, we'd give him a shot.

Bailey and Dusty hit it off pretty well and, after a couple days in our house, we had a second dog. We'd always been dog people and Bailey was an easy dog to love.

Bailey, being a Schnauzer, had some advantages over a lot of other dogs. Schnauzers do not have fur, but hair. So they don't shed. That's good. On the flip side, since they don't shed they have to get haircuts, just like people. So we gained a groomer and a groomer's bill when we added Bailey to our household. They also, due to the hair instead of fur, don't get that intense doggy aroma if you don't bathe them often. Bailey got his share of baths, but the need for them wasn't as critical as it was for Dusty.

As time passed, Dusty grew old and her bodily functions slowly deteriorated. We had a terrible time having to clean up after her “mistakes” and we knew she was approaching her end. We were concerned about Bailey after Dusty was gone, as he had always had a canine companion in the house. So we purchased another Schnauzer pup to be his new friend. We named the new one Barney. I thought it was appropriate – Barney & Bailey/Barnum and Bailey Circus? They hit it off pretty well and, for a short period of time, we had three dogs. Soon Dusty's day came and we had her put to sleep and it was back to two dogs again. We found out from our groomer an interesting fact about that point in time. She'd told us that Bailey, from his pedigree papers, was an offspring of one of her stud Schnauzers, Rap Dancer. And after we got Barney we found out from his papers that he had the same papa also. Barney and Bailey were actually brothers! The older dog had silver and black markings where the younger one had what was called a salt-and-pepper. But in a dim room you still had a hard time telling them apart.

About two years ago the younger dog grew ill and was diagnosed with diabetes which is, unfortunately, not uncommon with Schnauzers. By the time the vet and us got his glucose under control, he'd developed cataracts in his eyes and had become almost sightless. His disease is now controlled by a strict diet and twice-daily insulin injections and he's as healthy a dog as you'll ever see, barring his blindness. And we just love Barney's independence and his feisty disposition. He's definitely his own dog and not anything like a carbon copy of his brother.

And so here we are. It's been a couple days since Bailey left us and we're still grieving some. We still find ourselves thinking of our old friend from time to time and our tears are still close to the surface. We can, if we listen closely, still hear his soft padding footsteps going up and down the stairway, his lapping at the water bowl, his contented sighs as we scratched in those special spots behind his ears. If we close our eyes we can still see the soft shine in his eyes as he gazed at his beloved masters and can still feel his warm, living body as he settled down close to us when he slept.

If there is a just and merciful God, Bailey will be waiting for us when it's time for us to bid adieu to this vale of tears. He'll be waiting to join us and be our loving companion again.

I like to think that's going to happen. I pray that it will. It gives me comfort.

But in the meantime, if you're visiting us at home and if you happen to catch a quick glimpse out of the corner of your eye of a particularly good-looking dog ducking into another room just out of sight, don't be alarmed. That's just our old pal keeping a watchful eye on all of us.

We're gonna miss him. We're gonna miss him a lot. But our memories will soften over time and the sharp ache of his absence will also fade.

But we'll remember him the rest of our lives.

He was a good, good dog.

Fire in the Sky

Fire in the Sky

It was just this past Saturday night and my wife and I were sitting in our folding chairs overlooking the field where my city shoots off its fireworks. We were watching the firemen and the shooters as they walked around the launch tubes and did mysterious things to the explosives under their care. We had quite a bit of time ahead of us to wait for the show as we'd come early, and I was sitting there thinking. Now when I start thinking, I realize that one of two results will eventually happen. The first one is that I'll probably fall asleep. That's not so bad. Especially this year as I was just starting to get over the flu and a snooze would have been welcome. (Hate that summertime flu!) The second result is that I'll remember some old-time stuff relating to the present circumstances and I'll have the unstoppable urge to share it with kith and kin. (What exactly is a kith?) So prepare yourself. It's time for a trip down memory lane with yours truly.

(Pardon the digressions in parenthesis. It's that kind of day.)

As I sat there at the end of the day contemplating the upcoming show, I came to the realization that people mark their lives by certain events. Birthdays. New Year's Eves. Births. Deaths. Vacations and Holidays. They are the inch and foot marks on the tape measures of our lives. And the passage of time for us humans doesn't go by smoothly and quietly, at least most of the time. It seems to proceed forward in jumps, spurts and twitches – first going by slowly and haltingly, then zipping by like a lightning bolt traveling from earth to sky. (Did you know that's the direction they go?) For instance, the wife and I are planning on taking a much-discussed and much-anticipated vacation next week. The time from “now” to the time we're scheduled to leave is dragging by – it's like our feet are in heavy mud and we just can h-a-r-d-l-y slog ourselves forward. But when the vacation starts? Don't blink your eyes, my friend, or it'll be over! Zip, zip, zip.

Anyhow, I was sitting at the field waiting for the fireworks to start when I started reminiscing about previous year's Independence Day celebrations in my town and how different they were in the past. How much of a difference, I wondered, was caused by time passed and not circumstances? I'll probably never know.

I used to live about five doors south of the local college's football field. I lived there for a number of years while I was a pre-teen, 8-years-old to about 13-years-old. It was a fun place to live when I was young, as most of us kids who used to live in the neighborhood would play up there by the stadium and around the college when we had a chance. Riding our bikes in the summer and our sleds in the winter, playing on the fences (they had wooden ones then, all around the field, with a ledge on the inside you could shimmy along), sneaking into during football games and watching the college players and running up and down the stadium seats when there wasn't a game.

Nobody worried about us and we, for the most part, stayed more-or-less out of trouble. Not always, of course. But let's let those memories stay quiet for the moment. I'm not sure how long the statutes of limitation are in Ohio!

They put on the local fireworks display at that stadium in those days – probably up until the late '70's or so. The crowds had increased by then so much that they had to seek another venue. I remember one year when I was about 10 or 11. Several of us kids had crawled up onto the roof of the ticket booth which served the main gate of the field. We'd procured from somewhere a fake firecracker and a number of feet of real fuse. It was a BIG sucker, too. Looked about like a half-stick of dynamite. We'd stick about 6 inches of fuse in the thing, light it and toss it down into the crowd that was waiting on the fireworks. Then we'd yell, “LOOK OUT!” And point to the huge firecracker laying on the ground who's fuse was fizzing and smoking and crackling. We'd laugh like crazy when the people would run, then one of us'd jump down, retrieve the cracker, climb back up on the ticket booth roof, wait until the crowd reformed and do it all over again.

What marvelous fun!

I would guess that those fireworks shows weren't as elaborate as they are now. Not near as many displays were launched then. But I recall the old fireworks shows as being just fine, none the less. The stadium sat in a bit of a bowl, so the echoes that bounced around multiplied the effects very nicely.

In those days they also had ground displays, something you rarely see now days. Yeah, they were a bit hokey, the “Niagara Falls”, the “Catherine's Wheels”, the red, white and blue “USA” and the faces of Washington and Lincoln. But they elongated the program and gave us all more “bang for the buck”. And, occasionally, they would give us an unexpected thrill.

I remember one year we were sitting in the grandstand watching the show. One of the ground displays was a big wheel whizzing around on a post and shooting off flames of different colors. It would spin and then go “boom”. Then spin some more and go “boom” again. Big booms! All at once that wheel became detached from the pole it was mounted on and commenced rolling toward the grandstand, flaming and hissing! Knowing that there were plenty of booms left on that wheel, you could see the crowd gasp and begin to rise to it's feet – ready to get out of the way, if possible. Fortunately (I guess) it fizzled out halfway across the field and fell over.

I still wonder what would have happened if it had rolled all the way across the field and tried to climb into the grandstand. That would have been a Fourth of July to really remember!

I recall going to the fireworks in 1976. My father had remarried that year (my mother passed in '72) and I, my brothers and my new step-brother and step-sisters attended that celebration all together. There were seven of us, plus a couple spouses by then. My younger brother had mixed up about a gallon of wine cooler and put it in a Thermos jug and we took it along. Most of us became a lot more relaxed than we might have been without the drinks, and the fireworks seemed so much better that year because of it.

So in the late '70's or early '80's they moved the fireworks to our fairgrounds and tried to display them there. It was big dud. There were too many buildings around and they blocked most of the view. Almost anywhere you sat you had an obstructed view. That experiment lasted only a couple of years.

They then moved them to their present location – a huge field in the north end of town that normally contains a couple dozen soccer fields and a marvelous walking track. They now set the launch tubes up in the center of that field and we observers crowd around in a circle a proscribed distance away. The view is unobstructed, you can sit from right up next to the yellow “do not cross” tape, clear back to some parking lots quite a long distance away to watch the display. It all depends on how close you actually want to be. My family's generally been one of the group defined as “the closer the better”. However, my wife and I have discussed this tradition (aberration?) recently and might be willing to forgo the “up front and personal” viewing position for one with a bit more distance between us and the aerial extravaganza. This discussion was initiated the last few years by the amount of ash that's been falling on us during the performances. Some years, when the wind is blowing in our faces, we've actually been covered in ashes by the end of the performance.

That's starting to seem a bit too close for us now.

As I sit here typing this I realize I'm continually amazed at how FAST the Fourth of July seems to arrive each year. It seems that we just see our last bit of snowfall, have a couple weeks of warmer weather and BANG – it's Independence Day! Summer's 1/3 over.

And I barely noticed it starting!

So, boys and girls, another milestone for the year has passed. We can now begin to mark time as before-or-after the fireworks this year. Did I read such-and-such book in June or July this year? Oh – it was before the fireworks so it had to be in June.

And so it goes. The milestones that are way, way, way up ahead through your imaginary windshield are soon dwindling rapidly in your hypothetical rear-view mirror.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone. Hang on to it as long as you can. Labor Day and the Fair will be here before you know it!

Of Earbugs, Treasures and Triumphs

Of Earbugs, Treasures and Triumphs

I made a mistake about a week ago. It wasn't a big mistake. In fact, it didn't even seem like a mistake at all at the time. But this error I made had some consequences that weren't particularly pleasant. It was sometime in the middle or late last week and I was at work. It was early evening (I work 2^nd shift) and things seemed just a bit too quiet around the empty office. As a rule I generally like things quiet. I read a lot in the evenings after performing some of my job duties and while I monitor a program that runs on the computer 24/7. I find music in the background, while I'm reading, distracting. But I had finished my reading for the night and had suddenly realized that I had some extra work to accomplish which I had forgotten. It was one of the mindless tasks I have to do occasionally. I thought that while I was doing it, a bit of music might make the boring task go by quicker. So I reached into my desk drawer, pulled out the CD's that were there and looked through the collection. Did I want to listen to some old Bob Dylan? No – he took some concentration and I'd have to pay attention, at least a little, on the upcoming task. How about some folk singing? Ian and Sylvia? Arlo Guthrie? Naw. Wasn't in the mood. OK, how about some Tommy, by the Who? Don't think so. Or some ol' Blue Eyes? Uh-huh. I ended up holding two CD's in my hands: Saturday Night Fever by the Bee Gee's and ABBA's Greatest Hits.

Looking back at my decision from this vantage point I suppose I should have gone with the Bee Gee's. But I didn't and went with ABBA.

Now if you're not familiar with ABBA (and what planet are you from if you're not), you know it's pretty mindless music – repetitive choruses, simple tunes, lots of repetition. Their songs are bouncy, catchy and easy to sing along with. So far, so good.

They're also very likely candidates for earbugs.

In case you've never heard the term, an earbug is a fragment or a line or a verse from a song that gets “stuck” in your head and you can't get rid of it. You find yourself humming it, whistling it, even singing it unconsciously. It can be funny if it lasts a day or two. It can be a bit annoying if it lasts three or four day.

I'm about ready to start my third week with this particular earbug. I hate to even type the name, as that'll probably sentence me to another week with this one swirling around in my brain. But I'll take a deep breath and do it anyway. It's their “Momma-mia” song.

“Momma-mia”, for Pete's sake.

Can't you just HEAR the doggone thing now! “Mamma mia, here I go again. My my, how can I resist you? Mamma mia, does it show again? My my, just how much I've missed you”. They say that ABBA, being Swedish, sang their English songs by syllable-sound, as they didn't know the language. So, not only was it semi-mindless music, it was just gobbley-gook to them even as they recorded it.

Trust me when I say it's been rattling around in my noggin for a LONG time. It's my alarm clock to get me up in the morning and my good-night anthem in the evening. I'm actually humming the damn thing as I type these words! I've even listened to lots of other music, trying to dislodge it. Hasn't happened yet. So... I'm stuck for the meantime with over-hyped Swedish voices in my brain perkily singing about their DAMN Momma mia!

Anyhow...

A few weeks back, before ABBA took over my brain, I was reading on the Internet about a new game that was being played all over the world. It sounded interesting, so I read some more about it. The game is called “geocaching”. The official description of the game goes like this:

“Geocaching is a high-tech treasure hunting game played throughout the world by adventure seekers equipped with GPS devices. The basic idea is to locate hidden containers, called geocaches, outdoors and then share your experiences online. Geocaching is enjoyed by people from all age groups, with a strong sense of community and support for the environment.”

When I read about it I was intrigued and that lead me to do some more reading. I found out there are over 800,000 geocaches hidden around the world. I found out there were 382 caches hidden within 20 miles of where I lived. I learned that all you needed to start playing the game was a GPS receiver. The more I read, the more it sounded like fun. I had a few dollars available for entertainment use tucked away, so I placed a bid for a GPS unit on eBay and won it. Within a week I was the proud owner of a Garmin eTrex H GPS receiver.

I went out caching the very day I received the unit. I'd looked out on the geocaching website and found that the closest cache to my home was less than a mile away in one of the parks. I jumped into the car and drove there in a couple of minutes. I entered the coordinates of the cache I was searching for, gave the GPS unit the “goto” command and saw I was about 250 feet away from the target. I followed the arrow on the unit until the distance to the target was about 5 feet. The new units can place you quite close to the target, but quite close still might be 20-30 feet away. I looked around when it said I was close. I was standing in a mowed area of the park with several large oak and maple trees not too far away, some smaller evergreens the other direction not too far away and not many other places where one could hide a cache. I wandered around, looked at the bigger trees and didn't see anyplace where something could be hidden. I examined a park bench nearby. Nada. I poked around in the smaller pine trees. Zip. I scratched my head. This might just be harder than it first appeared. I drove back home and re-checked that cache's website. I read a clue that the hider had left there and read some of the logs of the people who had found the cache before me. They gave me some ideas of the size of the cache's container and where it might be. I went back to the park and started looking around a bit closer. I finally crawled almost into one of the small pines and looked in the litter under the tree. There laid a vitamin bottle painted brown to blend in with the dropped pine needles. I hadn't seen it before.

I had found my first cache! I pulled out the container and opened it. There was the log, a pen and a couple small “trades”. A “trade” is usually a small inexpensive toy that will fit into the container. The procedure cachers generally use is to first take a prize, then leave a prize equal to or better than what you took. You trade goodies. Or you can just sign the log and forgo trading treasures. I signed the log on that first cache, replaced the container exactly where it was when I first found it and went back home. I pulled up that cache's website on the PC and logged my visit to it.

Number One was in the bag!

Over the next couple of days I found another 3 or 4 caches and had logged them. My wife was getting a bit curious about what I was doing, so I sat her down next to me by the PC and showed her what geocaching was all about. I also said that there was a cache just out of town near a small country bridge that I had not been able to find. Maybe she'd like to come out there with me and help me find it? She agreed and rode along.

We arrived at the lonely bridge and got out of the car. I showed her the GPS unit and how it indicated that the cache was near the east end of the bridge. The hint said the cache was magnetic, so I had been looking all over the bridge's steelwork and had not been able to spot the container. She helped me look and we spent the next 10 minutes or so examining the bridge. I finally found the little bugger. I showed it to her, showed the log inside and how I signed it with my geocaching “handle”.

She was intrigued.

The next weekend she tagged along while I searched for a few more caches. She even found a couple herself.

I think she got hooked around that time.

The last few weeks we've been going caching together every weekend. We've managed to bump up our found total to 70 caches. We've located them all over the place. Parks, cemeteries, empty fields, parking lots, private home's front yards, hiking/biking trails, along rivers and in deep woods. They've ranged in size from .50 caliber ammo boxes or largish Rubbermaid tubs to small metal tubes the size of your pinky finger plus every size in-between. And they've been hidden in the most ingenious and diabolical of places. You really have to be observant to find some of the more clever hides. The rules of the game stated that they should NOT be buried and should NOT be placed near locations or structures where someone might think a cache was a bomb. Also, no railroad tracks. No National Parks. No private land unless authorized.

My wife has purchased her own collection of “trades” now and thoroughly enjoys “taking and giving” from her goodie bag when we hit a new cache. I sign the log and she looks at the toys.

And do you know what's the nicest part of it all? We're doing it together. We've been married for almost 38 years now and have begun, over the years, to go our own way a lot. She had her own pastimes and interests and I had a lot of my own. We'd be together for family stuff, vacations and what not, but a lot of the time we'd be apart, doing our own thing.

Now it's quite different. We're talking about the hobby, planning where we're going next and traveling here and there hunting the caches. We're good-naturedly arguing about where a cache should be and where it might be. And it's lots more fun and easier to find the toughies when there's four eyeballs looking instead of just two. Sometimes a clue can be interpreted several different ways and one person might not see the true answer where another would. That's happened also.

She's still not ready to go for the tougher ones, the ones down steep hillsides in dense woods or a long ways down a trail. She started a diet with Weight Watchers earlier this year and has lost around 30 pounds. She's become much more able to move around physically than she did last year, but still has a way to go before she returns to a more comfortable weight and can attempt to find the more physical caches. But she's getting there, and the results, even now, are amazing. Losing the weight has made her more able to accomplish physical tasks that were difficult or impossible for her only just last year. She's more mentally alert and her attitude has improved dramatically. She's a much happier lady! And the enthusiasm she's showing for our new hobby also affirms her return to a more active lifestyle.

All in all, the past month or two has been an interesting period in our lives.

I just wish I could look at her without humming, “Mamma mia, here we go again!”