A Late January Thaw

A Late January Thaw

The long-anticipated January thaw has at last arrived in my neck of the woods. It was late this year, sliding in from it's “normal” appearance in the middle of January into the end of the first week of February. I know that I, my family and most of my friends were thankful to see it come, even if it was a bit late. There had been, what seemed to us, an extraordinarily long stretch of sub-freezing days with lots of snow in the weeks and weeks before this thaw. Even a lot of days of below-zero wind chills and actual temperatures in the single digits for significant stretches of time. The kind of temperatures that make your nose hairs freeze when you breath and make your old cars wheeze and groan when you call upon them to take you somewhere.

Of course, during those snowy, windy days my “trusty” snowblower had decided it didn't want to run.

Lemme tell you the story about the old Toro sitting in my garage.

I had an older Toro quite a few years ago that I'd originally bought new which had totally given up the ghost. I was cleaning the garage one day and had noticed it hanging on the wall. So I had placed it on the curb on trash pickup day where either the trash collectors or some mechanically-inclined neighbor had picked it up. I hadn't needed a blower for a number of years as we had been scant on snowfall for quite a while in those days and figured I probably wouldn't need another one for a while.

Of course, the mere fact of tossing your snowblower away positively guaranteed that the next winter would be snowy. And, of course that's what occurred. You could have made book on that.

I survived that winter using only a shovel and it was miserable. The following spring I passed on the word to anyone who would listen that I was in the market for a snowblower sometime before the next winter. I really didn't want to buy new. First, because new snowblowers are doggone expensive. And secondly because I don't have that much territory that needs cleared when it snows. So lo and behold, a dear friend of mine showed up one day with a snowblower for me! He'd found it on a curb somewhere up near where he lived and he “rescued” it. He's got magic in his fingers as far as fixing things and he had checked it out and made sure that it ran. He'd also done a few things to it to keep it running. He warned me that the machine was an electric start, but that function was broken – probably the reason why it was originally pitched. He told me that the pull cord still worked, so it was usable, and that I could take it to a shop and they could fix the electric start. I thanked him profusely, said that I would just pull the cord when I needed to use it and not worry about the electric start. I hung the “new” machine on my garage wall in anticipation of the next snowfall.

I used that blower for the next year or two and it worked... kind of. It was a bit weak in power and was reluctant to start. And it took a LOT of pulls to make it go. I wasn't real satisfied, so I took it to a small engine repair shop a year ago and had them give it an overhaul. After that it worked marginally better but I was still unsatisfied.

That brings us to this winter.

After the first heavy snowfall I pulled the machine off the wall, added some gas/oil mixture (it's a 2-cycle) and commenced pulling. After a large number of jerks I found myself winded and tuckered out and looking at a dead snowblower. I've recently had to accept that I've gotten somewhat older over the years and pulling on a recalcitrant snowblower cord in the bitter cold probably wasn't doing me any good. I had visions of me dropping over with a coronary and not being found for hours and hours. So I packed old Betsy up and took her to another small engine repair shop, this one specializing in Toros, and instructed them to add the electric start piece and to tune 'er up again. I explained the machine's history and they assured me they could get it running like new.

To make this long story shorter, the repair to the snowblower and the new tune up really brought the ol' girl back to life! She's got plenty of zip and starting her is a breeze now. Just plug in an extension cord, couple pumps on the primer bulb, pull out the choke and hit the start button. Shazam! She cranks and sputters, then starts to roar. Then unplug her and we're off to the races! Huzzahs! I'm back in business!

Naturally, you could count the days on one hand between the fixing of my old snowblower and the beginning of the “January” thaw. I guess it's like washing your car knowing that will usually bring rain. So fixing a snowblower will bring a thaw? Guess so.

The good parts of a thaw, even a late one like we're experiencing now are: warmer temperatures to do some chores outside you've been putting off while the thermometer was in the basement, less fuel used to warm your house, bidding farewell to the icky, dirty snow and a chance to wash your heavy winter coat and put on something slightly less heavy for a couple of days. The bad parts of a thaw: seeing the dirty white snow disappear and being left with dirty brown mud and rising water in all the rivers and streams, the obvious need to wash the salt off your vehicles, the suddenly bare side yard where the dogs do their duty (yechhh) and the depressing realization that this is just a respite, and the snow, ice and cold weather will return before you know it. Our local forecast has already imparted this knowledge by informing us that we'll be returning to more “seasonal” weather ( translate that to cold, ice, snow) within a day or two. After high winds and possible thunderstorms in between.

Lovely.

But it is nice to realize that we are on the downward side of the hill now and that winter is eventually going to bid us adieu. The groundhog in Puxuntawney Pennsylvania, by seeing his shadow last week, told us we'll have six weeks more of winter. Hell, I didn't need a large, fat, bucktoothed rodent to tell me that. We live in northern Ohio and winter is often very reluctant to release it's grasp of us most years. We figure on seeing snow well into March most of the time and once in a while a touch in early April, too. But winter's back is mostly broken by mid-March, so we'll slog forward with that in mind.

We could have it worse. I don't mean Minnesota worse or Saskatchewan worse. I tip my hat to the people that live there. They experience winter with a capital “W”. Bitter cold, unending snow and howling winds. I was talking about just up the road right here in Ohio. My state is blessed with a great big lake to its north called Lake Erie. And that lake, along with the other Great Lakes, produces weather patterns that are unique to those areas adjacent and downwind from them. They're called “lake effect snows”. They occur when the lake is unfrozen and a westerly or northwesterly wind blows across it in the wintertime. The air picks up moisture from its fetch over the lake water, freezes it and dumps it on the land as snowfall. The local forecasters call ours the “Lake Erie Snow Machine”. The toughest hit counties are Lake, Geauga and Ashtabula in the northeast portion of the state where it snows almost every day. They get a LOT of snow. Feet upon feet of it.

Every winter.

I'm glad I live where I do. We get hammered by big snowfalls a couple times a year when the winds are south to southwest and bring the moisture up from the Gulf of Mexico. Those are what're called synoptic snows and they fall on most of the state. Those are the guys that give my hometown it's heavier winter blankets of the white stuff.

I hate to admit it but there are times when I do really enjoy the winter. (Don't tell anyone!) I work second shift and generally leave my workplace sometime between midnight and 12:30. My drive home is 25 miles in length on a state highway through mostly rural areas. If it had snowed that evening while I was at work I know my drive home will be a challenge some nights, demanding most nights but almost always beautiful. The traffic on that state highway is usually minimal during the wee hours of the morning and there are some nights when it's almost nonexistent. It's just you and the white-covered highway stretching away through the cornfields and pasture lands shining in the moonlight or veiled by softly falling snow. You steer your car in approximations – a little to the right, a smidge to the left, forward and onward toward home, your hands tight on the wheel. Your body listens intently to the language of the tires beneath you either rolling confidently or having the inconstancy of ice beneath their treads. You look out over the moonstruck fields and see the shine of the frosty snowcover as the lunar light makes it all ghostly and glittery and slick.

But mostly it's a chore, slogging through the miles, driving slowly and carefully to make sure you arrive home without making a detour into a ditch or a tree.

So winter's choke-hold on my part of the world was loosened a bit recently and for that I'm grateful. It was time for one to take a deep breath, relax a bit and gird your loins for the next onslaught that's bound to be just around the corner.

Please excuse me while I go and give ol' Betsy a pat on her red carapace and tell her we'll be back in business soon.

Preserve, Protect and Defend

Preserve, Protect and Defend

It wasn't a high priority for me on Tuesday. I had other things to do. For example, I was behind in answering my email and knew I had a few letters I had to reply to. I also had to run to the store for a few things – milk, orange juice, bread – stuff like that. So when I got around to turning on the TV it was already 10:30 or a little after. Sure, I remembered that Tuesday was Inauguration Day. Sure, I knew it was going to be historic. I'd have been deaf and blind to not know the significance of this particular Tuesday in January. The TV and the radio had also been reminding me about it for weeks. Most of the media that I saw or listened to were responding to the upcoming Inauguration with rabid anticipation. The liberal press, that is. The righties weren't all that enthusiastic. The event wasn't probably as anticipated as, say, the second coming of Christ would be, but I'll bet it wasn't too far behind, at least to my eyes. Breathless expectation was the byword on TV and radio.

Anyhow, there it was, a little past 10:30 on Tuesday morning and I'd finally clicked on the TV. The commentators, anchorpersons and media functionaries were there, all bundled up in their warm winter finery, their breath steaming in the frosty air, their eyes and their apple cheeks glowing in the clear light of a bright Washington morning. Their words described the activities that had already occurred and which would occur later this day. Very little that the incoming President's family would do on this Tuesday would go unscrutinized.

Then the picture changed and you saw a limo pull up under the portico of the White House. Barack and Michelle Obama got out and were greeted at the door by George and Laura Bush. After hugs, kisses and back slaps, the two couples made their way into the building. It was time for a cup of coffee and some conversation before they would ride to the capitol for the ceremonies. They looked like old and dear friends.

I'd venture to say they were not.

I took a sip of my own hot coffee and watched some more.

Here are some of the images that have stuck in my mind from that day:

The politicians and dignitaries wending their way through the Capitol, walking through areas that my family and I had also trod. Many of the faces were familiar. Some I could put names to, some not. Others were totally unknown to me but undoubtedly important people .

I watched the former presidents and their spouses as they walked by – number 39, Jimmie Carter and Rosalynn; number 41, George H. W. Bush and Barbara; number 42, Bill Clinton and Hillary; number 43, George W. Bush and Laura. I missed the smiling face of number 40, Ronald Regan and his Nancy. They would have liked to have been among that company, I'm sure.

How calm was the face of the man who would be number 44, Barack Obama. How he looked like a man who was sure of what he was doing and had gained comfort from that realization. I'm sure he could NOT have been as calm as he appeared, but he definitely gave the appearance of calm confident determination.

His charisma had never been more self evident.

Michelle Obama and the girls coming in and sitting down. How happy and proud they looked.

Watching all the people descend the stairs to the podium's seating area and how they ALL were schmoozing, laughing and playing at politics as they made their way to their seats. I realized then that the majority of the people I was seeing in that area WERE politicians and schmoozing, shaking hands, backslapping and kissing babies is, for a politician, like breathing for the rest of us.

It's the ocean in which those fish swim.

How the oath of office was botched by the Chief Justice of the United States, John Roberts. Thirty-five words. I guess it was nerves. I guess even a Chief Justice can feel the enormity of the moment. But Barack Obama, who's hand rested on Abraham Lincoln's Bible, knew exactly what the words were supposed to be and waited for the Justice to begin anew before repeating after him. There would be no mistakes from this man.

Not now.

(And to make sure, they did it all again the next day.)

The glory of the classical music from Itzhak Perlman, Yo-yo Ma, Anthony McGill and Gabriella Montero and how composed and comfortable they looked playing their marvelous music together on that frosty forenoon.

Aretha Franklin. Her sublime voice and her amazing hat.

Obama's stirring inaugural speech displaying his astonishing speech-giving prowess. How you felt your head nodding “yes, yes” as his powerful voice gave his words importance and weight. How he made you feel that anything was possible.

The sense of demarcation, of endings and beginnings. The old guard passing the torch to the new guy. A feeling of a pivot point being reached that divided that which was from that which is to be.

How quickly President Bush left the city after the ceremony – helicopter from the Capitol grounds, then the jet that used to be Air Force One to his old stomping grounds in Texas. And how abruptly the Bush era ended.

I wondered how many people across the world gave a sigh of relief at that moment.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't get too involved in the ceremonies, wouldn't get too involved in the solemnity of the occasion and then went ahead and got involved anyway. I felt the staggering weight of history as this young man raised his right hand and placed his left on the Bible – I saw the long hazy line of presidents before him who had gathered there to do the same, felt the spirits of those men looking down and lending their support to the man who was to continue their line, who was to shoulder the burdens they had carried, who was to walk in their footprints for a while. I saw a man who would leave his imprint in the sands of history no less than did Washington and Grant, Jefferson and Truman, Adams and Eisenhower.

I could hear the scratching of the pens as the scribes began a new chapter in the history books.

I watched the ceremonies on my television until 1:30 or thereabouts when I had to stop and get ready to go to work. I was going to miss the parade, but that was OK. I'd seen the important bits, the historical stuff. I didn't need to see the bands and the military groups marching down Pennsylvania Avenue. I didn't need to see any of the fancy balls being thrown all across the city. I didn't need to see the Obama's in their formal dress, dancing and celebrating. I'd seen the 44^th president of the United States start his term. I'd seen the first black man be sworn in as President of the United States.

I bore witness to history.

But I also felt a sense of the surreal qualities of what I'd seen. The ceremonies of the day seemed to have had the qualities of a dream or a fantasy, something from which I would soon awaken. I'd shake my head upon arising and wonder at the inventiveness of the sleeping human brain, how it could take the most unlikely set of circumstances and make a whole history out of them. My goodness, what would I dream up next?

But it was not a dream and it was not a fantasy. A 48-year-old black man is now my president, the leader of my nation and, in essence if not in fact, the world. He was duly elected in November and duly sworn in on Tuesday. The facts are the facts and reality is reality.

And how do I feel about it?

OK, I guess. He wasn't my choice, but I'm OK with that now. I'm a bit nervous about his politics. I'm a bit nervous about his age. I'm a bit nervous about his history.

But will he be saint or scoundrel?

History will judge the greatness of this man. The fullness of time will pare away the inconsequentialities of his presidency and will leave only the acts upon which he will be known. Will they be the acts of a great and wise statesman, another Jefferson or Lincoln? Or will he be simply known as the first black United States president with no distinguishing characteristics in his presidency? A political hack of the right color in the right place at the right time.

I guess time will tell.

But until then I'm going to wish him all the luck in the world. I don't think he really needs it but I'm going to wish it for him anyway.

I think this guy just might surprise all of us!

A River of Friends

A River of Friends

Tonight is a quiet night at my workplace. I work as a computer operator for a county municipal water department. I monitor a program that displays the real-time status of the water towers, pumps, valves and chemical feeds for the county. Some nights the work is demanding and takes a lot of concentration and skill to perform. On other nights the system pretty much runs itself with only the occasional tweaking necessary. Tonight was one of the quiet ones. I'd accomplished the additional clerical tasks that were my duty for the evening and had settled into an observant monitor mode, watching the system as it and I moved through the hours, moved through the night.

And as I sat there watching the display screen, my mind drifted a bit and began returning to a question I'd been puzzling over for some time. The question was, “What constitutes a friend?”

I don't believe there's an easy answer to this, even if you might think there was at first glance. Perhaps you could begin your determinations by formulating a list of what characteristics or qualities would define a friend.

Maybe it's someone you've known a very long time, most of your life even. Someone whom you're very familiar with. Someone who you're fond of or attached to in some way. And then there are the various degrees of relationships or friendships to consider – acquaintances, friendly acquaintances, people you are friendly with but not friends, near-friends, people who you are friends with but not close friends, just friends, close friends and best friends.

The sex of the friend is generally immaterial unless the friendship evolves into love but, even then, lovers can be friends, too.

One dictionary I looked at primarily defines a friend as, “a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.” I think that's about right.

The question then becomes “how do we obtain friends and can you lose one?”

On obtaining friends it seems obvious, at least to me, that you have to be a friend to get a friend. But losing friends? That's a toughie. I'm not sure it's even possible.

I've got friends I was almost immediately friends with the same day I met them, but that's not generally the case. It usually takes a period of time to move from the acquaintance, friendly acquaintance, etc., etc. before they slip neatly into one of the “friends” categories – near, just friends, close or best. And sometimes that progression falters at one step and the person stays at one of the lower levels.

An old joke states, “A friend will help you move. A best friend will help you move a body.” I think that puts it quite succinctly.

It really wouldn't take a genius to figure out why my head was full of these questions at this period of time. Some old friends had come back into my life over the past year and I was enjoying listening to the story of their lives. And, in return, telling some of my story back to them.

And I had reached a difficult period with one of my best friends.

In the first instance, I'd lost contact with a lady whom I'd been close friends with in the '70's and '80's. I didn't even know her address or her last name. I'd heard through the grapevine that she'd divorced, remarried and had moved to Arizona. That was about it. She returned around a year ago to her (and my) hometown for her father's funeral and I saw her again after a separation of many years. It took about one minute after again seeing her to rediscover our friendship and to carry on from where it was paused all those years ago.

I'd also restarted a friendship with a couple of guys I'd served with in the military. We'd spent the better part of a year and a half at an Air Force base in the Panama Canal Zone and had grown quite close. When the tour in Central America had ended we'd gone our separate ways – Joe stayed in the service, saw the world and retired to eventual college and a librarian position a stone's throw away from the Pacific Ocean in California. Al went back to the farm in northern Iowa for a while, moved around a lot, stuck his fingers into a lot of pies and eventually settled in a small town in southwestern Missouri. Ernie returned to his beloved Oregon, raised kids and dogs and eventually retired. And Tony ended up in West Virginia, divorced and dating again in his early 60's. Me? I went back to my Ohio birth town, married, had a son and worked with computers.

I've recently got reacquainted with these gentlemen (and lady) and am deep in the process of assimilating their life stories and annexing them with my own. It's an exhilarating process and I'm enjoying the hell out of it!

The second instance, the difficult period with one of my best friends, is occurring as I write. He had unthinkingly done something recently that may have some negative implications to my career. I know it wasn't done with animosity, but the action may end up hurting me in the long run. And in these uncertain economic times you have to be extra careful with your words, actions and thoughts.

I'm still trying to cope with my feelings regarding this action. I know that this man will always be my friend, even if we never pass another friendly word to each other again. Too much water has passed under the bridge for that to change. And he's been a lifeboat for me on too many occasions, pulling me from the fire, rescuing my bacon, being there for me when I needed someone. That will never be dismissed or forgotten.

So I sit here in my quiet office and watch the computers, listening to their digital words as they tell me what's happening in their world. “All is well with me,” one water tower whispers. “Me too, me too,” others say. Two pumps chatter with their messages also, “I'm pumping this much water a minute!” one of them excitedly says. “My chlorine is this much!” another one proudly displays. And through the long, quiet shift the tower levels move upward and downward, the pumps hum and the water wends its way down long, dark pipes to sit a while and wait. Soon a faucet opens for a thirsty child, a toilet flushes, a shower starts providing hot, steamy water for a thankful user on this cold evening. And the life-giving water flows some more.

My friends are out there somewhere on this dark, winter night in their different parts of America, going about their business right this very minute. Maybe they're sitting in their home with their feet up by the fireplace, watching a favorite TV show. Or sitting at a familiar desk, smiling at a well-turned phrase and writing their letters, stories and poetry. Or perhaps playing on the floor with their old dog, their furry friend and companion of many good years. Or maybe quietly watching a beloved husband as he naps on the couch under a window open to the warm, desert air. Perhaps even sitting in a nighttime meeting where the good works of the world are accomplished quietly, unobtrusively and with dignity.

And this river of my friends flows around me and through me, touching me and returning my touch to them. I am refreshed and revitalized.

I wish you well tonight, my friends.

Tummy Troubles

TUMMY TROUBLES

I could see it coming a long time ago. I knew that the possibility existed and that it would become more and more likely as time went on and the situation didn't improve. So when my doctor recommended a certain course of action, I guess I had to agree with him.

Even if I didn't really want to.

Let's cut to the chase:

I'd been having some occasional stomach problems for a very long time, years and years, actually. Most of the time it was usually something minor – some light pains, some off-and-on nausea, some low-grade discomfort a lot of the time. My family doctor had tried a few remedies out on me but none of them had seemed to do the trick. Nexium and Prevacid were two of the medications that were tried and eliminated. Nothing really seemed to hit the spot. And the discomfort was becoming more and more prevalent. So on my latest trip to see the family doctor I asked if there was anything else he might recommend. He said that it was probably time to see a specialist and he set up an appointment for me with a gastroenterologist. I agreed with him and marked the appointment on my calendar.

Maybe I'd start making some progress now.

The “tummy” doctor was a nice guy. I don't think I've ever met a medical doctor who didn't strike me as a nice guy (or lady!) They must teach them that in medical school. He was very personable and we talked for a considerable period of time going over my history and my current complaints. He wrote a lot of it down, nodded a lot and gave me assurances that we'd definitely be able to figure out what the problem was and be able to do something about it.

That was very encouraging.

I was waiting for his next words, though, knowing what they would be. I held my breath, hoping I was wrong.

I winced a bit as the doctor then spoke them, “Let's schedule you for an endoscopy – I'll take a little look around in there and then we'll see where to go after that. OK?”

I grimaced and nodded my head. “Sure. Guess that's the best course.”

So another appointment was made for me, this time at the local hospital where the good doctor would “scope” my stomach and “see what he would see.” I marked this date in my calendar also. I eyed the circled date with a critical eye. January 6. Hmmm... Anything portentous happen on that date? Let's see... Ted Turner purchased the Atlanta Braves, “Wheel of Fortune” debuted on TV, the last “Milton Berle” show aired, “Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom” debuted, Elvis Presley's final appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, Merrill Lynch was founded, New Mexico became the 47^th state, George Washington married Martha Custis. All on different years, of course, but nothing too momentous. Guess I'll have to add “I get an endoscope exam” to the list of major occurrences on that date now.

One thing you probably should know about me. When I get nervous, the first place that it affects is my stomach. Guess you could probably figure that one out without too much help. And I have a vivid imagination that likes to conjure up horrific scenarios. So as the day for the “procedure” approached and my anxiety increased, the condition of my tummy deteriorated. When the night before the appointment rolled around my stomach felt like Muhammad Ali had walloped me a good one. Sore, queasy and nauseous. Sounds like a law firm specializing in medical malpractice, doesn't it? My sleep that night was almost nonexistent, with tossing, turning and colorful, terrifying nightmares, most of which consisted of my choking on rubber tubes being jammed down my throat by maniacal, wild-eyed Frankenstein doctors.

The morning of January 6 was overcast, gray and dismal with light flurries in the pre-noon forecast. I showered and dressed, trying to keep my mind off my upcoming appointment and on something light and inconsequential. Of course that didn't work. My fickle brain would constantly return to the looming procedure. Try not to think about elephants for the next 30 seconds and you'll see how much control you have over your own brain. My eyes would flicker to the clock almost every minute, calculating how many of them I could hold on to before I had to leave for the hospital. The minutes evaporated like smoke in a hurricane. Too soon the moment arrived when I must leave. I grabbed my son, who was to accompany me, and we were off.

I checked into the hospital at the main reception area and was told to go down the hall to the the elevator, go to the second floor, turn right and go to the end of the hallway to the endoscopy section. Our local hospital has grown immense during my lifetime and it was very easy to get lost in. We got into the elevator, rode up one story, turned right and went to the end of that hallway, where we found ourself at an exit door. No endoscopy department, nothing. We then realized that the floor we'd started on was the GROUND floor, not the first. So the first floor up from it was the FIRST. You confused yet? I was. We retraced our steps, rode the elevator up one more floor, which was the second floor this time, and walked the long hallway to where my destiny awaited me.

As a side note, have you ever noticed the demeanor of the people who work in health services? They are, with few exceptions, upbeat and happy. They really do seem to want to help you. At least they give that impression when you see them. I guess a lot of that is due to the fact that its you that's the patient, not them. The people I met at the endoscopy department were shining examples of the type – almost to a fault. I and my aching stomach were assured at every step of the way that the upcoming procedure was “a piece of cake” and that I should relax. They told me that almost no one even remembers what goes on there and they even asked a patient in my room who had just come out of the same procedure if he'd remembered anything.

“Very little”, was the answer.

So I was put on a hospital bed, my vitals were taken, some sheets of permissions were signed and an IV was started in my right hand. That was where the “twilight sleep” medications would be injected into me at the appropriate time. They then left me to my own devices for a while. I chit-chatted with my son for a bit and then I realized something. This was going to be my third “-oscopy”. I had previously had a Colonoscopy where they examined my innards from the rear. Then I had had a Cystoscopy where they had examined my innards from the front. Now I was going to have an Endoscopy where they were going to examine my innards from the top. I had just about run out of orifices to probe and innards to examine! This was to be my third of the series!

What a lucky boy I was!

Very soon a nice nurse (where do they find these people?) arrived and wheeled me down the hallway to the procedure room. I waved at my son as I went by and said I'd see him in a bit. I figured the odds were somewhat better than 50/50.

The procedure room was filled with lots of medical equipment of various sorts, most of which I had no clue as to their purpose. I didn't notice any long rubber tubes hanging around, so it appeared that my nightmares weren't to be repeated in actuality. Thank goodness!

I was hooked up to a pulse/blood pressure machine and had one of those annoying oxygen tube things stuck up my nose. I was told to roll onto my right side. Somewhere about that time my smiling gastroenterologist entered the room, like a lead actor stepping upon the stage, and asked if I was ready. I considered my options for a moment then, accepting my fate, said yes. He squirted a strawberry/banana-flavored liquid into the back of my throat to numb my gag reflex then inserted a rubber block with a hole in the middle of it into my mouth. That was supposed to keep my jaw open during the procedure.

I thought to myself, “Oh boy! Here we go!”

One of the nurses then injected the “sleepy” juice into my IV and...

And...

I could remember the nurses and the doctor talking together while the procedure was going on. I could remember burping a lot. I assume air was pumped into my stomach to open things up and I was expelling some of it. But as to the procedure itself?

Nothing. Zippo. Nada. Zilch. The “sleepy” juice had done its trick.

The first thing I remember for sure after the procedure was being wheeled into the recovery room where I lay in a marvelously delicious state of being half-awake and half-asleep. No pain, no concerns, everything comfy and cozy.

Sometime later my bed was wheeled back to the room where I'd started and I was given some juice, some Lorna Doone cookies and reunited with my son. My throat was a tiny bit raw, but the “happy” juice was still buzzing around in my veins so I could have cared less.

It was over! My appointment with the unknown had been accomplished and I was, once again, a man free from any upcoming terrors. Hurrah!

At least until the next time.

The doctor came in a bit later, showed me pictures of my innards and explained what he'd done. There was nothing of real concern he'd said, but he'd taken a couple samples to have analyzed just to make sure. The IV was removed from my hand not long after that and I was free to go.

The ride home was uneventful. It was still a gray, snowy day outside, but inside this old body it was blue skies, sunshine and tropical breezes blowing. (I just love that medical-grade happy juice!)

I suppose if I had to draw any conclusions from this experience they would have to include:

Do what's right for your body even if it scares you silly.

Trust in the expertise of the specialists.

Heed the wisdom of the knowledgeable.

And don't be such a ninny worrying about the small stuff!

I'll try to remember all this the next time.

But probably not.

Christmas, Redux

Christmas, Redux

The wife and I had agreed to limit our spending on Christmas presents to each other this year. The economy was suffering, everyone was a little scared about the future and we were reluctant to spend a wad on gifts when we might feel a bit more comfortable hanging on to some of the dough instead. So here I was wandering around the local K Mart, comparing prices and sizes and making a selection or two when the numbers and her needs coincided. She'd definitely have some gifts to open on this coming Christmas morning – maybe a few less than last year, but enough to warrant getting out of bed that morning. Some would be expected – she'd given me a list of items to consider that she'd like to have along with sizes, colors, etc. Others might be a bit of a surprise to her. I hate to be predictable all of the time. I then drove to Walmart and perused their shelves also. A few more items looked like good bets, so I tossed them into the cart. I checked my pockets for the cash I'd alloted for her gifts – not too much left. I then had an idea, so I drove to another store nearby. They had exactly what I was looking for and it ended up being the last gift I'd have to buy.

It was 4 days before Christmas. Probably the latest I'd ever gone gift shopping. But, then again, this year was a bit different.

My wife had injured one of her legs mid-November and it had taken her a long while to recover. There had been over a week of bed rest involved with a lot of heating-pad duty, then a rented walker utilized for a while, finally the purchase of a walking cane to aid her perambulations. I had to take on some of her household duties while she was laid up and they took up time that would have normally been utilized for Yuletide prep. She was coming along quite nicely now, thank goodness, but her convalescence had thrown our holiday timetable off by quite a while. She'd mostly recovered in time to do some abbreviated Christmas cookie baking for a few of our closer relatives using a stool in the kitchen as an aid where she could sit and rest her leg between batches. She had also done some of her gift shopping from the seat of an electric cart in a couple of our local big box stores.

When I was a youngster I used to smile when my folks would remark on how fast Christmas was approaching, how it seemed to sneak up on them when they weren't looking. I knew it surely wasn't that way with us kids! Oh, no! To my brothers and I, Christmas was a stubborn mule, a holiday that dug its recalcitrant hooves into the ground and took its sweet jolly old time coming around. It seemed like a lifetime from Halloween to Christmas and, totally against logic, even longer than that from Thanksgiving to Christmas.

And the last week before the holiday? Excruciating!

'Tain't that way no more, McGee. Uh-uh! Now we can understand what our folks used to tell us about Christmas coming fast. Holy smoke, does it ever come fast now! You seem to barely have time to clear your throat and holler “slow down!” between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Doesn't do any good, though. It still comes at ya like a bolt of lightning.

I can still recall the scratchy red wool blankets that were on the bed that my brother and I shared when we were kids. On Christmas Eve we'd lay there in the dark, waiting, poking each other, giggling and bouncing around on the bed. I suppose we would eventually go to sleep, but that didn't actually occur until we'd been warned a number of times from downstairs that if we didn't “knock it off up there and go to sleep” there'd be NO Christmas for us. We'd finally quiet down and drift off sometime in the wee hours.

I can still remember one Christmas Eve night when I distinctly heard sleigh bells outside the window of our bedroom. No doubt in my mind, then or now – doggone sleigh bells. Neighbors? Our folks? A jolly old elf? I was open to all possibilities then and definitely leaning toward the Santa option.

And who really knows what I'd heard?

My brother'd usually wake up first. He was always more excitable than I and a much lighter sleeper. My folks would make us wait in our bedroom before allowing us to come downstairs. During this unbearable quarantine, my father would drive over to my grandmother's house and bring her back to ours. She always shared Christmas morning with us as my grandfather had passed away when I was six and mom wouldn't think of leaving her alone.

That was just the way it was in those days.

When all was ready we were allowed to come downstairs and open our gifts.

My family didn't have a lot of money, but mom always believed in a big Christmas, so dad had little choice in the matter. I wonder, now that I'm an adult, how long it took him to pay off our Christmas bills in those years. Probably into the late spring, I'd guess.

Us kids would whoop and holler as we opened gift after gift, the wrapping paper, ribbons and bows making drifts and windrows along the furniture as the unopened gift pile dwindled. Each unopened gift that lay in our laps was a universe of possibilities. Was it another toy? A game? Something else to play with? Or the clothes that our parents thought were so important. Soon the unwrapping was completed and we sat back and contemplated our haul. It was always too much, of course. Mom wanted it that way. And we kids didn't know any better – we thought it was that way everywhere. Mom and Gram and Dad quietly exchanged gifts then and exclaimed their surprise and satisfaction as each one was opened.

Those were good years.

Nowadays things are a bit smaller and a bit quieter. Its just my wife, my adult son and myself. My only sadness about Christmas is that my mom never got a chance to be a Gram to my boy. She never had the chance to come over to our house on bright Christmas mornings to share the day with us. She never saw the joy in my son's eyes as he opened his gifts or the joy in my wife and my eyes as he did so.

She passed away almost a decade before he was born and that's a real shame. She'd have been a good Grandma to him. I do like to think that she's here with us in spirit occasionally.

Especially at Christmastime.

So I sit here tonight and contemplate the Christmas's past and look forward to the one we'll celebrate in a couple of days. And I think about Charles Dicken's “A Christmas Carol”.

I've never been visited by a ghost on Christmas Eve, let alone by three of them, as was the esteemed Ebenezer Scrooge. But if I had been visited, I wonder what they would have shown me? Would the ghosts have shown me disappointment in my past, greed and stinginess in my present and, ultimately a miserable, desolate end? Or would my ghosts have been more compassionate and proffered up a more loving past, a dignified present and a long, admirable future filled with friends and family?

Who knows?

I only hope its more of the latter than of the former.

So perhaps its high time to buy the fat goose, to call the Cratchits over to the house for a Christmas feast. Time to put Tiny Tim on my knee and to be thankful for all the past Christmas's that have led me to this place rather than the place that was being prepared for Mr. Scrooge.

High time indeed!

So Merry Christmas to you all – my friends, my family and to all the friends I've yet to meet. A very merry Christmas to all!

And God bless us every one!

Things Change

Things Change

I looked at the calendar today and saw that it's been almost a month since the election.

Four weeks.

28 days since I and millions of my fellow Americans walked into our voting booths and made our selections for whom we wanted to lead us in the upcoming years. We voted for mayors, councilmen, governors, representatives and senators. We voted on money issues, societal issues, school bond issues and who would preside over the courts in our districts. We opted for sheriffs, state congressional members and other officials of low, middle and high rank. But most memorable during this election, as it is every four years in our country, we voted for the person who would be our president. We voted for the individual who would be our national leader and who would become the veritable face of the United States throughout the world.

And at eleven o'clock that evening, the 4th of November in 2008, the projected and ultimately final winner was announced.

It was Barack Obama.

I recall seeing the faces of the people on television when the news of his election was announced. The tears and cheers. The frowns and glum looks. The hands raised in triumph and the red-rimmed eyes of frustration, anger and disappointment.

For better or worse we had a new president.

The voice of the people had been heard and their choice was as very, very clear. We want different. We want new. We do not want the status quo.

We want change. We want change. We want change.

I remember his opponent and his magnanimous concession speech, the heartfelt congratulations to his opponent, the tears standing in the eyes of his vice-presidential running mate. I was humbled and awed by his calm composure and steadiness. My heart bled a little for him as he was my choice, my guy.

I remember the sight of the new president-elect striding across the stage with his pretty wife and two beautiful daughters to the exuberant cheers and joyful shouts of the Democratic faithful in Chicago, his acceptance speech and his calm acceptance of his upcoming duty.

I even kind of liked him at that time.

It wasn't all hearts and flowers during the campaign, of course. A LOT of nasty things were said about each candidate, enough so that you wondered if either of the men could possibly be presidential material. Every flaw that the politicos could come up with was brought forth and shoved in the electorate's face. Every word or phrase that could be misconstrued was misconstrued. Their histories were examined from birth until five minutes ago. Their wins and losses in life were tallied and their lives were so minutely examined as to be ludicrous.

If you believed even half of the stories you heard or read or saw concerning these men generated by the opposing side you were convinced of the monumental inappropriateness of their becoming president. And these stories were brought forth by both sides during the campaign.

Barack Obama was not a citizen, was fast friends with killers and terrorists, was a Muslim, had shady business dealings, was never a leader, was an über liberal, a black nationalist and a drug addict. John McCain was doddering old fool – likely to die at any moment, a computer illiterate, a closet tyrant with a monumental temper and an idiot in his choice of vice president. Neither of them was worth two hoots in hell and if you voted for the wrong one you were sixteen kinds of idiot.

If you believed the ads. If you believed the whispers. If you believed the hype.

I have to admit I got caught up in some of the rhetoric. My man was the ostensible conservative, at least compared to his rival, and therefore I listened to the conservative voices on television and radio. I joined the choir that was being preached to. I don't know as I believed everything I heard from them but I was greatly influenced. Their arguments were persuasive and chilling. I was prepared to shoulder my load, do my duty and vote my man in. But I do have liberal friends and I do respect their judgment. I listened to them and I pondered their words. I thought about what they had said and tried to see their side of things. The world was very different from their viewpoint. They showed me things I hadn't considered or even imagined. They gave me much food for thought.

I won't say I suffered the agonies of indecision in the weeks leading up to the election, but I will say I was swayed in my earlier determination to vote McCain. I was honestly trying to weigh each man and vote my mind and my heart. I was torn and the feeling was mighty uncomfortable.

It wasn't a pleasant time period in America. The mud-slinging ads on the television and the radio became more and more intense, more and more derisive of one candidate, then the other. The money spent on political ads was inconceivable. My mind swirled with suppositions, innuendos, claims, hazy facts, wild accusations and much more indecision.

And the vitriol intensified daily.

I was physically, mentally and emotionally so ready for the election to be over. Over and done with. It seemed the campaign had been going on for years and years and I was so tremendously sick of politics at that time.

We have touch screen voting in the town where I live. You slide an access card similar to a credit card into a slot and you touch the screen at the appropriate spots to make your selections. Your fingertip generates an “x” in a box next to the name of your choice. Very simple and very easy. I believe the first choice on the ballot was for president of the United States. I looked at the choices. I seem to be always surprised that there are more than two. A substantial number of “fringe” candidates are always there – the socialist, the libertarian, maybe a communist or a green or some other peripheral candidate. But the biggies were there. Oh yeah. They might as well have been highlighted. Obama and McCain. There's where the money was. My finger wavered and my vision blurred a bit. You'd have thought that it was I alone who was going to elect the winner. Then my finger settled and hit the box next to McCain. The rest of the ballot, although important, seemed trivial by comparison to the first selection.

When I walked out of the polling place and back to my car I queried myself as to exactly why I'd pulled the trigger for the Republican. How had I arrived at the choice I had made? What process of distillation had occurred to finally condense into a selection? Had one side finally pounded enough ads through my television and into my ears and eyes that I was “conditioned” to make that choice? Had the scare tactics of the right frightened me enough to pull the trigger for the conservative side? Was I influenced by my almost all-white upbringing to bypass the black candidate?

Could I, even now, logically justify my choice?

I have to honestly say that I do not know. More than likely it was a combination of all these influences tempered with as much cold logic as I could muster. At least I hope there was some logic involved. And I hope more earnestly that it was a vote for someone and not against someone.

I think my candidate would have made a good president. I honestly do. I think John McCain is an honorable man, a proven leader and would have made a fine president. And a superb commander-in-chief of the military. I'm not, however, convinced that his choice for vice president was sound. I think he chose with his heart and not his mind. I also think that Ms. Palin, who was the darling of the conservative right, lost McCain a lot of his center-residing constituencies. I liked her. I liked her a lot. I liked her freshness, her confidence and her ability to confront the wrong in her own party as well as her opponents. I liked her down-home accent, her fearlessness and her beauty. I like a whole lot about her. But I didn't agree with all her beliefs. Some of them butted heads with my opinions. Fiercely. But, then again, I disagreed with some of the beliefs of all the people running.

So - there it is.

On January 20, Barack Obama is going to be president of the United States. He's going to have to be the president for all the people in the country, not just the ones who voted for him. All the neocons, the bigots and the rednecks as well as his loyal followers. And all the rest of us just plain ol' Americans.

He's got a lot of work to do and I do not envy him.

I wish him health to perform the duties of his office, I wish him vision to select the right path for the nation and I wish him courage to face whatever challenges that will beset him. And they will.

He was a hell of a candidate.

Let's hope he's a hell of a president.

Homebody

Homebody

So there I stood with the capful of liquid laundry detergent in my hand and wondered if I was supposed to use a full cap of the stuff or whether I was supposed to use just part of it. One half? A quarter? Three quarters? I pondered, then dumped the whole capful into the removable soap-holder thingee on the top of the washer's agitator. The liquid was thick and it slowly started seeping down through the little screen holes onto the clothes I'd put in the washer's tub. I also wondered if I'd put too many clothes into the washer. Or if I could have put in some more. I looked at the bottles and containers of cleaning stuff setting on the table next to the washing machine. Spot cleaners. Oxygen bleach. Colorfast bleach. Regular bleach. Other detergents. And more plastic bottles of various detergents, cleaners and uncategorized “stuff”. My brow wrinkled in thought - I believe the wife had said to also put in some bleach. I grabbed the colorfast stuff and looked again at the washing machine. A-ha! There was a little reservoir that was labeled “bleach”. I'll bet that's where the stuff goes! I poured some into the hole until it was full. It just sat there. I guess it'll pull it in when it wants to, I thought. Now, what's next? I looked at the plastic ball laying there with the funny lid. Ah, I thought. That's for softener, isn't it? I picked the ball up and looked at it a bit closer. It was labeled “Downey”. I knew Downey was a softener, so I guess I was to put softener into it. So I did. And threw it into the pile of clothes. I then looked at the control panel on the washing machine. The machine wasn't new, so I thought I ought to be able to figure it out. Let's see - what did she say exactly? Cold-cold? Nope. Warm, warm? Nope. It was... oh yes, warm-cold. That's where the little dial was already positioned, so I left it there. I closed the lid and spun the timer dial to “dirty” and pulled on it. I could hear the water start to enter the machine.

Hurrah, I thought. It's working!

I looked over at the pile of dirty clothes that I'd have to do the same (or similar) to. Gonna be a long project, I thought.

I knew I'd have some time before the washing machine would need my attention again, so I went back upstairs. I looked around, seeing things that needed done. I sighed and began to prioritize the tasks ahead of me.

A bit later I went back to the basement and checked on the wash. Yes, it was completed. I gathered up the damp clothes and chucked them into the dryer. I saw some softener sheets on top of the machine, so I chucked one of those in also. I set the time for an hour and pressed the start button. The dryer started normally and then started making the most appalling thumping noises. Thump. Thump. Crump. Rattle, rattle, rattle. Thump again. I shook my head. What the dickens? I opened the door and looked in. Just clothes. I closed the door and started it again. Thump, thump, thump. It sounded like I was trying to dry coconuts. I shook my head and looked inside once more. Oh – yeah. I recognized the Downey softener ball laying on the clothes. Nope, don't need that in there. I removed the ball and restarted the dryer. Smooth. Quiet.

What a numskull I was!

All this unaccustomed work on my behalf was thrust upon me by a series of unfortunate occurrences concerning my wife and her almost uncanny propensity for accumulating bad luck. And the likelihood of all that bad luck manifesting itself in one fell swoop.

It started a couple weeks ago.

She had taken a Friday off to go visit her sister and mother in their hometown about 30 miles away from where we lived. She'd spent an enjoyable day with them doing this and that but began to notice an ache starting in one of her teeth. She assumed that she had a tooth needing attention and she promised herself to call the dentist soon and schedule an appointment. She came home early as the tooth was really starting to make itself known to her. She took some ibuprofen and went to bed early that night. She had a miserable, pain-filled night and got very little sleep. When she awoke on Saturday she informed me she had to see a dentist as soon as possible. Her face was showing signs of swelling on her left side and it gave her an oddly asymmetrical appearance, like looking at her in a fun-house mirror. We made an emergency appointment and she was seen by a dentist before noon. He informed us that yes, she had an infected tooth (that was pretty obvious) and that it would either need to be extracted or a root canal done to it. Because of the infection he was unable to do any work on it at that time, so he gave her prescriptions for pain medications and an antibiotic. We went back home after getting the medicines and she settled into her recliner with an ice bag on her face. She remained in that position throughout the rest of the day.

Sunday morning when she awoke and I looked at her, I was shocked. Her face had swollen a LOT more overnight and she looked to be in very bad shape. Think of the elephant man on steroids. I made some phone calls to several doctors and dentists (before I got one to talk to on a Sunday) and was informed that the antibiotic she was taking would require 24 to 48 hours to take effect and that she should continue with the ice-to-the-face therapy. Which she did for the rest of the day. Again. By Monday the antibiotic was taking effect and the swelling had decreased by about half.

On Wednesday she returned to the dentist and he did the first portion of the root canal. He was unable to complete it as there was still some infection in the canal, so he applied a temporary filling to the tooth to get her through until her next appointment, where he would complete the procedure.

The day before the root canal, on Tuesday, she apparently had pulled a muscle in her right leg stepping out of the shower. It was sore and she was limping when she saw the dentist.

Her miseries were beginning to overlap but we didn't quite realize that yet.

She worked Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday that week. On Friday morning, which was a day off for both of us, she informed me that there was another, much more painful problem in her right knee. We got on the phone and called a doctor. Again. Luckily we got a quick appointment with one of our family doctor's partners, who had a slot open at 11:00. After examining her he said he thought she'd pulled a tendon on the side of her knee and gave her a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. We had tickets to a food show in Cleveland that afternoon and we attended it so not to waste the tickets. I pushed her around in a rented wheelchair to help keep her off her feet during our sojourn there. We had a wedding the following day (Saturday) that we attended and she remained seated throughout that. She rested Sunday and Monday with a heating pad on her knee as she had been doing since the pains started. On Tuesday I drove her to an earlier scheduled appointment with our family doctor who had her knee x-rayed as it was swollen at that time. No break. The original diagnoses of a pulled tendon was probably correct. He put her on bed rest for the remainder of that week and the weekend, then another week of slowly increasing physical activity as the knee allowed. He wrote her a doctor's excuse to remain off work for that time period. She spent the first six days in bed and only arose to use the facilities. I'd rented a walker and she used it for those trips.

So... During this time while the wife was being hammered by her miserable luck, things were not being attended to in our house. Cooking. Cleaning. Dishes. Proper meals. Laundry. Dog care. And a thousand other things that the wife normally did that I never really noticed. I was totally blown away by the things that needed done that she normally handled. And to think I used to complain about how she didn't do enough around the house. Holy cow was I wrong! Hence the crash course in laundry, dish washing, etc.

I think she's on the mend now, however. She got up from the bed and came downstairs on Sunday and has been gradually increasing her activity around the house since then. We've accepted an invitation to go to her brother's house for Thanksgiving and we've accepted.

We're looking forward to it.

There have been some setbacks, of course. For instance, she called me on Tuesday night while I was at work (I work 2^nd shift) and told me that she had a new, quite intense pain along the outside of her thigh. She was scared and concerned about this new possible setback. I told her to call the doctor, explain what was happening and to get his feedback. This was around 9:00 at night and during a fairly intense snow shower in the area. I was not relishing the thought of leaving work and driving home, bundling her up and taking her to a doctor, if necessary. She called me back a little later and said the pain had subsided quite a lot and she was postponing the call to the doctor. We both believe she experienced a thigh cramp – probably due to her inactivity the previous week and maybe overextending herself these last couple days.

We found out the following day, after another trip to the doctor, that the pain she felt was bursitis. This time she got an injection and some pain pills for later.

We're just taking it one day at a time now. She's got five days left on her doctor's excuse to remain off work before she needs to either go back to work or to get the excuse lengthened. We both hope that will not be necessary.

In the meantime I've learned a whole bunch of facts during this time period.

For instance:

There's a large amount of stuff to do after the laundry's been carried to the basement and before it's clean and ready to be carried upstairs. There's detergents, bleaches and softeners to consider. There's sorting into piles of darks, coloreds and whites. (Some of the doggone stuff is ambiguous at best as to it's coloration.) Then there's the timing from the washer and the dryer, the folding and the putting in baskets to consider.

Unfortunately, dishes do NOT wash themselves. You have to put 'em in the dishwasher. You have to make sure they're placed in the dishwasher correctly or they won't get clean. You have to add the correct kind of soap in the correct places. Then you have to unload it after they're cleaned and put the buggers away.

The dogs get certain amounts of food at certain times. They also need their medications at appropriate intervals. They need to be let out frequently. They are NOT happy if these procedures aren't followed. They have ways to indicate their disapproval and you don't want to have to deal with that disapproval. Believe me.

Grocery shopping needs to be performed bi-weekly whether all shopping participants are available or not. Lists need to be made and thought has to be given to who eats what and when. Bought food needs to be carried into the house by yourself and put away. Also by yourself.

Meals have to be either prepared and served or bought and carried in. Leftovers have to be put in containers to be eaten later or tossed. Dishes need to be done. Again.

Garbage and trash has to be gathered on the correct day and put on the curb for pickup at the appropriate times.

And I have to go to work at 3 o'clock every weekday, so almost all these things have to be done before that.

My son has been a help during this time period, filling in for me as he could while I was at work.

So what have I learned in the past few weeks? What lessons have been taught to me and hopefully retained by this often crabby old reprobate?

Just because things are good now doesn't mean they'll be good forever.

The work that goes on “behind the scenes” is still work and has to be performed by someone.

Don't complain about something until you're damn sure there's something to complain about.

We all need a hand once in a while. Even us supposedly stoic dudes.

Running a household as a couple is a breeze. By yourself it ain't.

People get hurt, get sick and get lazy from time to time. Prepare for it.

I guess I'd better get back to work and to think about what needs to be done tomorrow at home. She isn't 100% yet and I need to be prepared.

Wish us luck...