Snowfall and Crummy Coins

Snowfall and Crummy Coins

This week the main story around this part of the neighborhood is snow. It's February – go figure. A storm lashed its way through our Buckeye State last Friday night (and elsewhere, if you recall) and dumped many inches of the white stuff on this land between the river and the lake. We, in my hometown, shared in its bounty during that storm, counting anywhere from 10 to 14 inches of snow on our yards and streets and sidewalks. Other areas of the state had varying amounts also, from not-too-much to way-way-too-much. I guess our foot, give or take an inch or two, was about average. If you want to know the truth, I'd have enjoyed being less than average this time around.

I'm sort of ambivalent about snow. (I love that sentence.) Of course I've lived with it all my life. I've seen old black and white photos that were taken by my father, when I was a baby, of monster snows that occurred during those years. People were stranded for days and days during those snows. I understand I caught pneumonia during one of those onslaughts and spent some time in the hospital. I don't really remember. Just stories.

Were the snows actually bigger in the “old” days, or are our memories getting more easily revised as the years go by?

I have to drive quite a ways to work these days and am not terribly fond of having to make my way through the mess that a substantial snowfall entails. It almost invariably leads to slow travel and apprehension as to the safety of being on the road. And it's always more time consuming, having to clean off the car, having to warm the car, having to make sure the car has its safety equipment, perhaps even having to clean the driveway to get out, etc., etc. A 10-minute drive to the store can become a 30-minute endeavor that can tire you out for an afternoon.

But, to look at the obverse of that coin, the beauty of a snowfall is something awesome to behold in itself. I recalled this aspect of the white stuff when I left work last night at midnight and walked to the car. The snow piles around the parking lot where I work glistened in the lights from the high light poles as if they contained thousands and thousands of glittering diamonds embedded in them. The night was quiet and frosty and my breath steamed in the cold air as my boots crunched their way to the car. On the drive home I marveled at the moon-drenched snowscapes on either side of the car as I drove through the rural countryside.

So I again sit here at work and watch another storm wend its way through the area. The work is light tonight and I have time to ponder various topics as they occur to my questing mind.

Such as pennies.

For instance, did you know that United States cents are now biodegradable? I'm pretty sure that they aren't supposed to be. But I've discovered that they are. Here's how I discovered that fact: One of my hobbies is metal detecting, the pursuit of which, as my faithful readers may recall, entails my retrieving lost coins from the ground. Generally nickels, dimes, quarters and cents. Occasionally a half might appear or one of the newer US dollar coins. Rarely silver, but it's not unheard of.

But it's usually a pocketful of common coins when the day's done.

Now I suppose it's time for a history lesson. In the “old” days, cents were made out of primarily copper. Here's how they evolved over time. Let's just go back to World War II for simplicity sake. 1944-1946 the cent was made of 95% copper and 5% zinc. This composition is better known as brass. 1946-1962 the cent was composed of 95% copper and 5% tin and zinc, better known as bronze. 1962-1982 it was made of brass again, the same as the '44-'46 ones. But during 1982 the composition was changed again and not for the better. It became 97.5% zinc and 2.5% copper plating. This was ostensibly because the value of the copper in the cent began to rise above one cent.

Let's look at what Wikipedia says about the “new” zinc cents. “It should be noted that the post-1982 cents, since copper and zinc form a galvanic cell in the presence of electrolytes, are much more susceptible to corrosion and pitting than the bronze cents made prior to 1982. Many collectors lament that even perfectly preserved post-1982 cents protected in Mint sets have begun tarnishing, developing bubbles beneath the copper coating's surface, or even corroding.”

If the zinc cents are deteriorating even in sealed mint sets, you can imagine what they do when they're buried in the ground! I estimate that about half of the cents that I've recovered from the ground recently have been of the zinc variety and half of those cents are pitted and corroded so badly as to make them unspendable. I recently cleaned a number of dirty coins I'd dug the past year or two and it was sad to see the way the zinc ones looked. They appeared as if they'd been exposed to hydrochloric or sulfuric acid or possibly some other highly corrosive media. The pre-1982 ones are, almost without an exception, in decent shape and only need a bit of cleaning before placing them directly back into circulation after cleaning. I ended up picking out the bad ones and keeping them for novelty sake. When the final tally is taken it's only going to result in the loss of a couple of dollars, but when I think of the effort that went into retrieving those cents, the hours of bending and digging, it's sad to see the end result being veritably worthless.

Out of curiosity I've checked out the Internet to see if I could trade in the bad cents for good ones. I knew you could do this with ripped and mutilated paper currency. And I found out you can. But you have to either send them or carry them to the US Mint in Washington to do so. Hardly worth the effort.

Another big downside to the zinc cent is this, and I again quote from Wikipedia: “Zinc, a major component of post-1982 US pennies, is toxic in large quantities. Swallowing such a penny, which is 97.5% zinc, can cause damage to the stomach lining due to the high solubility of the zinc ion in the acidic stomach. Zinc toxicity, mostly in the form of the ingestion of US pennies minted after 1982, is commonly fatal in dogs where it causes a severe hemolytic anemia. It is also highly toxic in pet parrots and can often be fatal.”

And so it goes.

I suppose a conspiracy theorist might surmise that the change was a government plot to poison our children, our dogs, our parrots and to devalue the currency. I hardly think that. I believe a mistake was made when the composition of the cents was changed and that it's now high time to rectify that error.

So, from this day forth let your battle cry be “Bring Back the Copper Cents!” Or “Let's Pitch the Pathetic Pennies and Bring Back the Old Time Cents!”

The coin collectors will thank you. The handful of us treasure hunters will thank you. And you'll again be content that the cents in your pocket will last almost forever and are worth at least a cent again.

Even if you can't buy anything with them.

Tumbler Troubles

Tumbler Troubles

As some of my faithful readers may remember from previous blogs, I've been an active devotee of the hobby of metal detecting for quite a number of years. I've used a half-dozen machines of various makes and models in the course of this hobby, the latest of which I purchased last year. The aim of the hobby is, of course, to acquire “treasures” from the ground. As you might imagine, the gold rings, gold coins, silver dollars, jewelry and other goodies are the most sought after. But the normal acquisitions that the ground yields up to the metal detectorist are usually common, everyday coins – cents, nickels, dimes and quarters – or rarely a half dollar. Occasionally a dollar coin is uncovered or some other rarity, but the vast majority of finds are quite simply pocket change.

What you have to understand about coins lost in the ground is this: they change color and get tarnished during their sojourn in the soil. I'm not sure of the chemistry, but the various metals in modern coinage react to the soil by darkening and tarnishing. So the coins you bring home at the end of your day digging them out of the ground will eventually need cleaning before any even semi-observant store will accept them. Or the banks. Or anyone.

I haven't cleaned any of my finds for a number of years. I've just been tossing them into a big jug in the basement and figuring I'd “get around” to cleaning them “one day”.

So the jug of dirty money sat in the basement.

Upstairs, in the extra bedroom we use for our library/computer room/file storage room we have two big jars which we also use for coins. They were originally the depository of pretzel rods. Now they hold pocket change. One is for cents only, the other has mixed nickels, dimes and quarters. There's LOTS of coins in them, about forty pounds worth in each one nowadays.

I've been looking at them for some time now, wondering what I was going to do with that money when I cashed it in. I wanted it to be used for something special, not just household expenses. The last time we had an accumulation of a magnitude near this size we bought a nice digital camera with the proceeds. But we had no need for a new camera at the moment, so what would we do with it?

As my faithful readers may also remember, my wife and I got into a new hobby last year – geocaching. That's where you get the coordinates of a hidden “treasure” on the Internet and, using a GPS receiver, go and find the target. When found, you sign a logbook, exchange small tokens if you like, and log the find on the Internet. We'd been using one of the more inexpensive GPS receivers last year and had talked a bit about getting a better one.

Aha! A reason to break the two “piggy banks”! A new GPS!

But, if I was going to do that, why not add the dug coins from the basement stash to the two big jars upstairs?

All I had to do was clean the dirty ones.

As you may or may not know, there are several ways to clean dirty coins. I've tried most of them. The easiest way is with a rock tumbler.

Let me explain.

A rock tumbler is a machine who's original purpose is to tumble semi-precious rocks in and, by tumbling with various grades of grit, smooth and polish those rocks until they became like gems and could be used to make jewelry of various sorts. You've probably seen them in rock shops or souvenir stands in bins with hundreds of smooth, colorful pieces of various minerals.

The rotary rock tumbler (the kind I have) is quite simple. It's just a soft rubber barrel into which you load whatever rocks you want to tumble to smooth and polish along with some grit. You seal the barrel and place it in a metal box where a motor turns the barrel. The load of rocks and grit in the barrel tumble against themselves and, by doing so, wear themselves smooth and rounded and, depending on the grit, highly polished.

The rock tumbler is also a dandy way to clean dirty coins. I have an old rotary tumbler which I purchased at a garage sale many, many years ago. It's given good service, but was definitely showing the signs of age. I'd taken the cover off the drive machinery (it didn't fit well anymore and rubbed the barrel) and had to doctor up the drive shaft (that turns the barrel) so it would grip the barrel better. Along with other tweaks. The barrel itself was old and the rubber was showing a lot of wear and dryness.

Last Saturday I sat down and sorted through the “treasures” in the basement jug. I separated the pennies from the clad coins and those from the other “stuff” in the jug. I ended up with two piles of dirty coins. I loaded up the rubber barrel from my tumbler with the pile of clad coins along with some sand, some aquarium gravel, some water and a dash of dish soap. I sealed the lid on the barrel and started it tumbling. I had to wrap some masking tape on the drive shaft to give it some “bite” so it would turn the barrel. It was running fine.

I left it running for three days which is what I usually did for a load of coins.

They came out fine. I rinsed the gravel, sand and slurry off the cleaned coins and let them air dry. They were plenty clean enough to spend, so I carted them upstairs and dumped them into the “silver” jug.

I then loaded up the cents into the barrel. You don't want to mix the cents with the clad coins as your result will all look coppery, even the clad ones. I started them tumbling three days ago.

They were doing fine yesterday afternoon which was the last time I checked them.

But as I descended the basement steps this morning, planning on emptying the barrel and rinsing the cleaned cents, I subconsciously noted a change in the sound from the workshop where the tumbler was running. Instead of the light grinding and grumbling a loaded barrel made when it was rotating, I just heard a humming. The humming of a rock tumbler motor without a load.

I grit my teeth, took a deep breath, walked into the workshop and turned on the light.

Sometime between yesterday afternoon and this morning, disaster had occurred on my workbench. One of two things had to have happened. The first possibility was that the idler shaft that kept the barrel square while the drive shaft turned it, had slipped out of it's bearings and dumped the barrel, thus knocking off the lid and dumping the contents on the bench top. The other possibility is that the barrel itself had succumbed to dry rot and had popped the lid off itself, dumping the contents onto the idler shaft and knocking it off.

Whatever the mechanism of the failure, the gray-black slurry that was in the barrel was suddenly ejected onto the motor's fan which, in turn, then splashed the glop onto the walls and everything within six feet of the motor. It was a mess, with gray splatter seemingly everywhere, dumped cents all over the machine with the dark slurry hardening into a stone-like mass over everything.

And the coins weren't even clean! They needed another day or so tumbling.

So...

I cleaned up the cents as well as possible, rinsing the gravel, sand and slurry off them, and put them on some paper towels to dry.

Tomorrow I'll start cleaning the workshop. Or else I may just paint the rest of the room in polka dots to match the slurry splatter that's there already.

I'll have to think about that.

In the meantime I've given the wrecked tumbler the old heave ho and have ordered a new one from a company on the Internet. It should be here later this week.

Then I can finish tumbling my pennies.

And what did I learn from this coin catastrophe?

I guess you could say I've got a cents about needing some change in my life.

Yeah, that one hurt...

The Miraculous Medicinal Properties of the Humble Bean Burrito

The Miraculous Medicinal Properties of the Humble Bean Burrito

As some of my loyal readers may remember from previous blogs, I've been a bit “under the weather” in recent months. Flu-ish symptoms evolving into bronchitis which, in turn, further descended into pneumonia. To combat these diseases I've taken several prescriptions for various antibiotics, the result of which were almost worse than the diseases themselves. I've been inching my way back from that dark period of my life over the past month or a bit longer and the miserable results of the diseases and the necessary cures have been easing. But it's been a l-o-n-g process that I'm sure I haven't quite seen the end of yet.

On Monday this week I decided I'd recovered enough that I'd be able to resume my bi- (or tri-) weekly visits to a local gym. My wife pays a certain amount of money out of each of her paychecks which enable us to use this local gym's facilities as we see fit. I actually used to like popping in there a few times a week to exercise a bit and raise a sweat. I know it's good for me and most of the time it's enjoyable. Some days are easier than others, however. Some days the time spent exercising passes quickly, the body sweats appropriately and the work seems virtually effortless. Other days it's like trudging through thick mud and the minutes drag like anchors embedded in a heavy clay sea bottom.

So I ended up at the gym on Monday after several months of not feeling well enough to go. I found it enjoyable to work muscles that had been ignored for so long and I performed my normal exercises with a sense of enjoyment and contentment of doing something good for myself for a change. I felt good afterwards albeit a bit sore. I also knew I'd be much more sore the next day if the normal course of events happened.

Tuesday I woke up feeling not so good. I'd had a headache around 2:30 in the morning and had arisen to take some ibuprofen for relief. When I finally crawled out of bed later in the morning, the headache was a distant memory, but I was sick to my stomach and felt generally blah, out of sorts, icky. My muscles were also barking at me for their unexpected usage the previous day, but I was expecting that reaction. I dragged myself through the day, feeling fairly miserable but not quite bad enough to stay home sick from work that afternoon. But I thought about calling in. A lot. I instead worked my normal shift that evening and the nausea and miserable feeling kept me company through the long nighttime hours.

On my way home after work Tuesday night I decided that I was kinda hungry and figured I'd stop at Taco Bell and get a bean burrito on the way home. Now that might not seem like a good idea, with the way my stomach had been queasy all day, but I thought, “What the hell. In for a dime, in for a dollar.” So I stopped at the restaurant's drive through around 12:45 in the morning and bought my yummy treat.

I got home, sat down in a chair and opened up the warm paper wrapper, inhaling the distinctive odor of the burrito. My mouth began to water and I suddenly couldn't wait to start devouring the burrito. I popped open a fire sauce packet and squeezed a healthy dollop of the hot sauce on the end of the burrito and slowly sank my teeth into it, savoring the delightful experience of the first bite. It was perfect! The soft mashed beans with their slightly crunchy hint of onions and the bite of the shredded cheddar cheese, along with the slightly grainy taste of the flour tortilla were a symphony in my mouth. The fire sauce added piquancy and heat to the luscious mouthful and, before you knew it, I was finished and sliding into my warm bed next to my sleeping wife. I worried a little about how my stomach might react to its unaccustomed snack, but I was soon asleep and worried no longer.

I woke up this morning and actually felt good! I was a bit surprised. I'd anticipated the continuation of the malaise from the previous day but... It was gone! I was still a smidge sore from the gym workout two days previous, but the stomach? Fine as a fiddle. Right as rain. Happy as a clam. Etc.

And so what do I attribute this small semi-miracle to?

To my strong intestinal constitution? To my usually iron-clad stomach? To the various pills and nostrums that I took the previous day for stomach distress? To the healing aspects of time?

Nay, my friends. I sincerely believe that it was none of the above mentioned things.

Some people claim to see Jesus in a toasted cheese sandwich and it brings them solace. Some see salvation in a mildew stain on the side of a barn and it relieves them of worry. Others believe in the healing power of pills, capsules, syrups, drops, inhalants and other substances which are swallowed, injected, breathed in or placed in body cavities.

But for me, I'd humbly like to profess that the answer lies in the simple bean burrito. For a mere 99 cents you can stop a belly ache, gain a night's pleasant slumber and satisfy an unconscious craving for Mexican food.

And, perhaps, achieve satori at the same time.

So, my faithful reader, what glimmer of wisdom have we gained today?

To wit: When in doubt, try a bean burrito. The results might be astonishing!

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.