I started September 8, 2009 by getting up at 6:18 am for a 9:00 am appointment in Houston, 50 miles away, on the first day of school, first day after a long weekend. Traffic wasn't too bad. Of course I tried to sleep on the way in. I remembered all the things I was supposed to bring. Got there on time (!). The guy remembered me from 3 years ago when I had the DBS installed in the first place. It was reassuring.
The intake nurse came at me with a device and started wiping the business end of it around my forehead. "What's that?" I asked. and when she identified it as a device for taking my temperature, I commented that I thought she was measuring my brain. She had me look in her eyes while she shined a light in them, so I went goggle-eyed and looked her in the eye.
Then she produced some panty-less hose for me and proceeded to put them on. I remarked that I should have brought the ones from last time and saved a a few bucks. She said that would have been an idea and why I didn't. I said I was using them. When she asked what for, I said I was using them for fishing and did she have any in a fishnet style this time. She worked them to nearly my crotch and asked me to run them the rest of the way up. It is physically impossible to put them the rest of the way up without flashing somebody but I tried.
My pre-op room nurse was Hispanic-looking and I checked her knowledge of old-timey Mexican mariachi songs and artists. She tried to put in an IV line and I tried to tell her that the back of my hand was bloodless. She popped it and I clenched my fist while she put on a rubber band. She dug a needle in and gave up. Another nurse came over and got into the act. I steered her to the vein they usually use when you give blood. I spent most of the time in that room ruing the decision not to make one last trip to the WC before beginning my journey thru the bowels of the hospital. Luckily I didn't have to go until after the surgery.
There was a representative from ANS there and I got to talk to her about their product. She checked my IPG's and confirmed the one that controlled the side I had the tremors on was in need of replacement. I told her the other one didn't matter and was a part of a BOGO deal. For all I cared, she could hook it up as an in-place spare we could switch to when the other one died next time. She wasn't impressed with my idea of installing a USB port. Dr Simpson said they were working on rechargeable ones and ones that could communicate over the phone.
As I laid there waiting for the ride down the hall from the pre-op room, I pulled my surgery cap down over my eyes and tried to relax. Then I heard some laughing and someone say, "Who put his cap on? Did you put it on that way?" Then a hand peek-a-booed me to the sight of Dr Simpson standing there. We discussed what was about to happen. Everyone was surprised that one of my IPG's was in my abdomen. They hadn't witnessed one put in there before and they commented on the ANS pig-tail being shorter than the Medtronic and were surprised that it reached so far. They all seemed in agreement that it had fallen in the range of normal battery expiration.
When we got to the OR, I commented that the last time I was out of it by the time I got this far. I assisted them by scooting onto the operating table. And that's the last thing I remember. Apparently they sent a messenger to the waiting room during the surgery to let the vigil know I was doing fine and again when it was over to let them know I passed with flying colors and was singing in the operating room. Since I don't remember this part I can only shudder at the thought of me serenading anybody. I really don't remember coming out of the anesthesia.
After I demonstrated the ability to walk and sit up, I got discharged, making it about 6+ hours from walking to riding out. I looked like Hans Christian Anderson in lederhosen except I didn't have the funny little hat with a feather in it.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Life Goes On
Sunday I was taking a shower and getting ready for church. I felt a little groggy/spacey from still being half asleep. Like there was a gyro in my head and it made me "feel funny." Well, as I was washing my hair, my right arm "lit up." It went to tingling and felt like an electric charge was going thru it. Then the right side of my face "lit up" and it went to tingling, feeling like a charge was going thru it. And then my eyes started acting up and began to roll back, and I felt weak-kneed. I put my back to the wall and slid down to sit.
Any way, my wife hadn't left for church yet and came back into the bathroom and asked if I was alright. I said yeah but she didn't like me sitting there so I got up and after a little help drying off I went and brushed my hair and she went on to church. After a few minutes on the computer I felt sleepy and tired so I got on the sofa and went back to sleep for 2-3-hrs.
Upon waking up, I went to the computer and looked up me symptoms. They were close to those of a stroke. .Next stop was my favorite chat room and I found a room full of buddies there. I told them what happened and several of them suggested I call my GP and report the symptoms and see what he says.
The next day I piddled around and by 11 a.m. called my doctor's office and spoke to the nurse. She'd get back to me and called me within minutes and told me to go to the ER at St Luke's because they had the right equipment. I questioned her about the location, slipped on my clothes and took off at once.
As I crossed over Loop 242, I noticed St Luke's, but she said it was south of there and I kept on to the mentioned street. I passed Memorial Hermann and knew that wasn't it even though the street was as she said. After asking directions to St Luke's it was determined I had passed it as suspected and I took route #2 to get back to it and parked near what I thought to be the entrance. It turned out to two blocks away but I hobbled over there. My right leg was dragging its feet, er, foot.
I walked up to the station and she told me to fill out a paper and they'd put me on the list. Even though it looked like it was filled out by a demented chimp, I turned it in and proceeded to crank up my MP3 player. She called me back to the desk for my ID card so it wouldn't take as long. I handed her my DL and insurance card.
I settled in for the long wait and someone came and got me for a blood pressure check and I dealt them 185/100. That was high for me. Much later, a nurse took some blood and put in a line for future use and I sat back down. Much, much later, a technician came and took me for a cat scan and brought me back. As I stood their I heard someone calling and it was another lady to check me in. Luckily I had remembered my bag for dr visits and let her copy my 'rap' card with surgeries etc on it.
Back to waiting I went. The wife called and decided she would come get involved. Just as she was driven up, they called me back to a 'room.' It looked like a converted storeroom, but at least it didn't have a slot to pass me bread and water. We sat in the darkness until a nurse came in and proceeded to wheel in an EKG machine and pull out the leads. "are you going to take an EKG?" I asked. When she said yes, then I said, "Well, I'll have to turn off my brain, then." "What do you mean?" she asked. My wife was already getting out my remote for my DBS IPG's. "I'll have to take that garage door opener and turn my IPG's off." She laughed and proceeded to feel me up as she pasted on my EKG pasties without removing my shirt. I showed her the one in my abdomen as she remarked that she'd never seen such a thing. As she continued to feel me up under my shirt, I remarked that I'd have to educate her even though I was too late to advise her not to get a tattoo.
I said for her to turn on the EKG and she would see what I meant and then I'd turn it off. She seemed surprised that all she got was static and then a nice clean graph after I turned them off. For myself, I could feel them turn off. They got their answer and left, saying Dr Panini or Panera would be in shortly. He came in and spent considerable time, for a dr, explaining his findings, the options and answering our queries. He assured me we were good to go. But I was still hooked up.
Ob La Di Ob La Dah. I had to pee. Knowing they wanted a sample, I unplugged the leads and danced out to the nurses' station. I announced my need to have a sample container, saying to the disbelieving crowd at the ready that I had to go NOW. A nurse hustled up me a container and I scrambled into the lone bathroom and proceeded to unscrew the lid, knowing I was an eye-blink from screwed myself. I managed to get the leads out of the way, pull my faucet out my pant leg and pulling my pants out of the way with one hand while I steadied the cup with the other. Then to my chagrin, I saw the seat was down. I sidled over to the commode. Unlike those times I had to struggle for a decent sized sample, this time I was fully loaded and was going to exceed the acceptable level in the container.
Dropping the leads to the 'wet' floor, I lifted the seat so I could finish going in the commode. This required yet another contortion and a hand I didn't have free and before I could set down the container, I peed on my pant leg. Silently cursing, I stood there the requisite (it seemed) hour and a half while I dribbled out another cupful into the potty as I looked dismayingly at the leads on the 'wet' floor. Finished, I screwed the cap on, washed my hands and the toilet seat and dragged my leads out of there. (I wasn't gonna touch them.) An oriental nurse called me down and finally conveyed to me that I was gonna fall dragging the leads like that, and draped them over my shoulder.
To wind this up, I signed away our first born child and she said I was free to go. (The laugh was on them: My wife'd had a hysterectomy and I'd had a vasectomy.) I waved as we strode out of the maze, almost like General Douglas Mc Arthur. We waved goodbye to the admitting lady and headed out the door. At the last minute, I turned back to get someone to snip off the myriad of bands on my wrist. That was when they reminded me I wasn't FREE to go and I paid them $100 co-pay for the privilege of their learning what a DBS is. Remember, the number to call is BR549.
Any way, my wife hadn't left for church yet and came back into the bathroom and asked if I was alright. I said yeah but she didn't like me sitting there so I got up and after a little help drying off I went and brushed my hair and she went on to church. After a few minutes on the computer I felt sleepy and tired so I got on the sofa and went back to sleep for 2-3-hrs.
Upon waking up, I went to the computer and looked up me symptoms. They were close to those of a stroke. .Next stop was my favorite chat room and I found a room full of buddies there. I told them what happened and several of them suggested I call my GP and report the symptoms and see what he says.
The next day I piddled around and by 11 a.m. called my doctor's office and spoke to the nurse. She'd get back to me and called me within minutes and told me to go to the ER at St Luke's because they had the right equipment. I questioned her about the location, slipped on my clothes and took off at once.
As I crossed over Loop 242, I noticed St Luke's, but she said it was south of there and I kept on to the mentioned street. I passed Memorial Hermann and knew that wasn't it even though the street was as she said. After asking directions to St Luke's it was determined I had passed it as suspected and I took route #2 to get back to it and parked near what I thought to be the entrance. It turned out to two blocks away but I hobbled over there. My right leg was dragging its feet, er, foot.
I walked up to the station and she told me to fill out a paper and they'd put me on the list. Even though it looked like it was filled out by a demented chimp, I turned it in and proceeded to crank up my MP3 player. She called me back to the desk for my ID card so it wouldn't take as long. I handed her my DL and insurance card.
I settled in for the long wait and someone came and got me for a blood pressure check and I dealt them 185/100. That was high for me. Much later, a nurse took some blood and put in a line for future use and I sat back down. Much, much later, a technician came and took me for a cat scan and brought me back. As I stood their I heard someone calling and it was another lady to check me in. Luckily I had remembered my bag for dr visits and let her copy my 'rap' card with surgeries etc on it.
Back to waiting I went. The wife called and decided she would come get involved. Just as she was driven up, they called me back to a 'room.' It looked like a converted storeroom, but at least it didn't have a slot to pass me bread and water. We sat in the darkness until a nurse came in and proceeded to wheel in an EKG machine and pull out the leads. "are you going to take an EKG?" I asked. When she said yes, then I said, "Well, I'll have to turn off my brain, then." "What do you mean?" she asked. My wife was already getting out my remote for my DBS IPG's. "I'll have to take that garage door opener and turn my IPG's off." She laughed and proceeded to feel me up as she pasted on my EKG pasties without removing my shirt. I showed her the one in my abdomen as she remarked that she'd never seen such a thing. As she continued to feel me up under my shirt, I remarked that I'd have to educate her even though I was too late to advise her not to get a tattoo.
I said for her to turn on the EKG and she would see what I meant and then I'd turn it off. She seemed surprised that all she got was static and then a nice clean graph after I turned them off. For myself, I could feel them turn off. They got their answer and left, saying Dr Panini or Panera would be in shortly. He came in and spent considerable time, for a dr, explaining his findings, the options and answering our queries. He assured me we were good to go. But I was still hooked up.
Ob La Di Ob La Dah. I had to pee. Knowing they wanted a sample, I unplugged the leads and danced out to the nurses' station. I announced my need to have a sample container, saying to the disbelieving crowd at the ready that I had to go NOW. A nurse hustled up me a container and I scrambled into the lone bathroom and proceeded to unscrew the lid, knowing I was an eye-blink from screwed myself. I managed to get the leads out of the way, pull my faucet out my pant leg and pulling my pants out of the way with one hand while I steadied the cup with the other. Then to my chagrin, I saw the seat was down. I sidled over to the commode. Unlike those times I had to struggle for a decent sized sample, this time I was fully loaded and was going to exceed the acceptable level in the container.
Dropping the leads to the 'wet' floor, I lifted the seat so I could finish going in the commode. This required yet another contortion and a hand I didn't have free and before I could set down the container, I peed on my pant leg. Silently cursing, I stood there the requisite (it seemed) hour and a half while I dribbled out another cupful into the potty as I looked dismayingly at the leads on the 'wet' floor. Finished, I screwed the cap on, washed my hands and the toilet seat and dragged my leads out of there. (I wasn't gonna touch them.) An oriental nurse called me down and finally conveyed to me that I was gonna fall dragging the leads like that, and draped them over my shoulder.
To wind this up, I signed away our first born child and she said I was free to go. (The laugh was on them: My wife'd had a hysterectomy and I'd had a vasectomy.) I waved as we strode out of the maze, almost like General Douglas Mc Arthur. We waved goodbye to the admitting lady and headed out the door. At the last minute, I turned back to get someone to snip off the myriad of bands on my wrist. That was when they reminded me I wasn't FREE to go and I paid them $100 co-pay for the privilege of their learning what a DBS is. Remember, the number to call is BR549.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Our First
My first, a daughter, missed February 29th (leap-year-day) by 20 hrs about. I timed my wife when she first told me she was having contractions (a little belated I found out later) and they were 2 minutes apart at 10pm. At a little before 2 am they were still 2 minutes apart. I kept looking for the classic narrowing down of the frequency. We didn't have a phone, and she finally said that was enough timing, call the doctor. So I went to the quik-e-mart next door almost and used the payphone outside. The doctor said, like he was a relative I asked for advice, "Oh my goodness, you better get her to the hospital!" I went back to the apartment, bundled her up into our VW Bug, and proceeded to the hospital. Now, I'd been driving it for only 6 months and a stick shift the same amount of time (I only had my diver's license for 6 months too), so I was still a tentative driver. I thought we were driving recklessly when I got up to 35, 5 mph over the speed limit. We crossed a railroad track on the way and it was top-of-car higher than the street, so you did a roller-coaster ride over it. I usually went over it kind of slow but that night I took it at the limit, 30 MPH, and she nearly had the baby when we came down the other side! I rolled up to the emergency entrance and we checked in at 2:30 am. Robin came at 3:50 am, weighing 8 lbs 2 oz. I was happy cause only 6 months before we hand started the 8 to 5 grind for the first time (she didn't work, I did) only 6 months before with $200 to our name, and as a pre-existing pregnancy it wasn't covered and they made me pay cash when we checked out. It was normally a 3 day stay in those days and due to our arrival time, she got credit for 3 day stay but we only had to pay for 2, about $175 and the doctor was $150! We were going to name the baby Christopher Robin but she turned out to be a girl so we beat a hasty retreat to Robin Gail.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Rap Sheets
The very first time I was at my neuro's 11 years ago, I mentioned to one of his trainee residency type dr's about his "henchmen" coming in and got a laugh. My file is now two folders thick. Reminds me of my dog, Bandit. When he died I asked for his file from the vet. They hemmed and hawed cause no one had ever asked before. I wanted it as a memento of his place with us. They marked out their fees and gave me his "rap" sheet. I got a kick out of it: Hit by car, run over by garbage truck, shot by shotgun and pellet gun, mange, heartworm treatment he almost died from, snake bit by copperhead, dislocated hip, cataracts, dragging his rear across the driveway, dog fight, fixed, you name it. Maybe Whoever's pet I am will review my file one day and it'll read like Bandit's.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
History Lesson
Yesterday I found a fork in the road (actually parking lot), so I took it......over to the trash and discarded it. Really!
History story: My grandfather initially road with Pancho Villa and my father told the story how after a day's ride, they ended up in a barn, resting. They were passing around a jug of tequila, sipping away. My grandfather related that he noticed something tickling his lip every time he tipped it up. Out of curiosity he peered into the jug to see what it was. No doubt the others were too boracho to notice that there was a dead mouse in it!
Until next time, neighbors
History story: My grandfather initially road with Pancho Villa and my father told the story how after a day's ride, they ended up in a barn, resting. They were passing around a jug of tequila, sipping away. My grandfather related that he noticed something tickling his lip every time he tipped it up. Out of curiosity he peered into the jug to see what it was. No doubt the others were too boracho to notice that there was a dead mouse in it!
Until next time, neighbors
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Long Voyage Home
It's been hectic but let me tell you the story of our first summer vacation to Iran. My folks and half the 6 kids lived in Agha Jai, Iran and we older brothers (3) were in boarding school at OMA, Claremore, OK. My oldest brother was elected to get us vaccinated, passported etc and lead us to Abadan, Iran. It was a 45 minute flight on a twin-engine DeHaviland "Dove" 8-passenger prop plane from Abadan to Agha Jari (owned by IOEP&C). We left Tulsa on a Friday morning, flying to Chicago. Then on to La Guardia and then by helicopter to JFK. Our plane was supposed to leave by 9 pm from JFK but was delayed till midnight.
This precipitated missed connections all the way through our itinerary. Since it was SAS, we arrived in Copenhagen the next morning. After frantic efforts by my oldest brother, we secured new connections and flew to Rome, then to Beirut, Lebanon. They got water in the plane's fuel tanks and had to flush them out.
Meanwhile, the airline took us to the Beirut Riviera beach but it was a mixed blessing as we were in travel clothes and our bags were still on the plane. Then they took us to a museum (forgettable) and to lunch atop some hotel. Hors d'œuvre were served but wary of what animal they came from or what middle eastern weed, we turned up our nose.
The last leg was to Abadan as I recall. We arrived at the airport at a late hour Sunday night, a FULL 24 hours late. No one met us at the airport and their English was as good as our Farsi. My brother secured us a taxi to the hostel along with our bags. We arrived at the hostel about 10 pm and while signing in, the desk clerk remarked that there was another person by the same name registered there. We grabbed the registration book and looked to see who. Lopez is not a common name in Iran. It was mom. She was already in bed when we burst into her room. Our father had had to take a flight home already to go back to work.
If that wasn't enough, when we stepped off the DeHaviland Dove in Agha Jari they pulled the old you-are-lucky-to-be-arriving-on-a-cooler-day-than-usual comment. It was WAY over 100 F. And when we got to the house, they had a man-servant (women were forbidden to hold jobs) who met us when we pulled up. As was local custom, he bore down on us to honor us with a kiss! No man was gonna kiss us! We took off running around the house and a rabbit cage until he finally cornered us. He happily smooched us on both cheeks. His English was limited and he uttered the phrase that was to become part of our family lore for eternity, "You good boy."
More later
This precipitated missed connections all the way through our itinerary. Since it was SAS, we arrived in Copenhagen the next morning. After frantic efforts by my oldest brother, we secured new connections and flew to Rome, then to Beirut, Lebanon. They got water in the plane's fuel tanks and had to flush them out.
Meanwhile, the airline took us to the Beirut Riviera beach but it was a mixed blessing as we were in travel clothes and our bags were still on the plane. Then they took us to a museum (forgettable) and to lunch atop some hotel. Hors d'œuvre were served but wary of what animal they came from or what middle eastern weed, we turned up our nose.
The last leg was to Abadan as I recall. We arrived at the airport at a late hour Sunday night, a FULL 24 hours late. No one met us at the airport and their English was as good as our Farsi. My brother secured us a taxi to the hostel along with our bags. We arrived at the hostel about 10 pm and while signing in, the desk clerk remarked that there was another person by the same name registered there. We grabbed the registration book and looked to see who. Lopez is not a common name in Iran. It was mom. She was already in bed when we burst into her room. Our father had had to take a flight home already to go back to work.
If that wasn't enough, when we stepped off the DeHaviland Dove in Agha Jari they pulled the old you-are-lucky-to-be-arriving-on-a-cooler-day-than-usual comment. It was WAY over 100 F. And when we got to the house, they had a man-servant (women were forbidden to hold jobs) who met us when we pulled up. As was local custom, he bore down on us to honor us with a kiss! No man was gonna kiss us! We took off running around the house and a rabbit cage until he finally cornered us. He happily smooched us on both cheeks. His English was limited and he uttered the phrase that was to become part of our family lore for eternity, "You good boy."
More later
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Day My Mom Knew I Wasn't a Kid Anymore
In the summer if 1964 I went home for the summer to visit my parents and my younger brother and sister. You do the math, I was 19 years old. After 18, my father's company policy was to pay transportation "home" for college students twice before the age of 23. I went home twice: 1964 and 1966.
In 1964 they lived in Torremolinos, Spain. Legend had it that Frank Sinatra had once been asked to leave there after some indescretion. It was a Spanish equivalent of Galveston with it's granite sand (black) beaches and tourist trade.
After I had been there a short while, a girl struck up a friendship with me as she had known of me and pined for me since when her family was on assignment to Cartagena, Colombia when mine was in Barrancabermeja, Colombia. We got real chummy, pub crawling, swimming at the beach, riding paddle boats, dancing the night away in general. Focus, I gotta stay focused as this reminded me of another story.
One morning I was at her house visiting (what else was there to do? We had no TV, few friends and no places like YMCA or that.) and we were sitting on the sofa in the living room. Her mother could be seen through a doorway as she bustled about with loads of clothes to be washed.
At one point, for some unexplained reason, as I held her hand in mine I smelled something good, like perfume. I sniffed her hand and was sniffing my way up her arm to her shoulder when her mother walked by. She came back by and asked her daughter to come in the other room. As I innocently waited on the sofa she left and came back a few moments later, only to sit in a parlor chair. Taken aback as there was no room to sit beside her, I asked her why she didn't sit by me on the sofa.
She allowed as how her mother told her she mustn't sit on the sofa with me any more. We passed the time awkwardly until lunchtime when I walked home. When I got there, my mother took me aside to tell me that this girl's mother had called her to complain that I was at her house, in broad daylight, sitting on the sofa with her daughter and like a Lothario, I was kissing up her arm. I laughed my head off, just a-cackling at the mental image she must of had. I explained I was just sniffing up her arm, but the damage was done and it was to no avail. She looked at me differently thereafter. A week or 2 later another girl was visiting me and ma had to go out. She kicked us both out before she left so I wouldn't subject another flower of feminine pulchritude to brazen acts of wild affection. No amount of 'xplaining would suffice to keep us there while she left. It was a rueful laugh I laughed this time.
In 1964 they lived in Torremolinos, Spain. Legend had it that Frank Sinatra had once been asked to leave there after some indescretion. It was a Spanish equivalent of Galveston with it's granite sand (black) beaches and tourist trade.
After I had been there a short while, a girl struck up a friendship with me as she had known of me and pined for me since when her family was on assignment to Cartagena, Colombia when mine was in Barrancabermeja, Colombia. We got real chummy, pub crawling, swimming at the beach, riding paddle boats, dancing the night away in general. Focus, I gotta stay focused as this reminded me of another story.
One morning I was at her house visiting (what else was there to do? We had no TV, few friends and no places like YMCA or that.) and we were sitting on the sofa in the living room. Her mother could be seen through a doorway as she bustled about with loads of clothes to be washed.
At one point, for some unexplained reason, as I held her hand in mine I smelled something good, like perfume. I sniffed her hand and was sniffing my way up her arm to her shoulder when her mother walked by. She came back by and asked her daughter to come in the other room. As I innocently waited on the sofa she left and came back a few moments later, only to sit in a parlor chair. Taken aback as there was no room to sit beside her, I asked her why she didn't sit by me on the sofa.
She allowed as how her mother told her she mustn't sit on the sofa with me any more. We passed the time awkwardly until lunchtime when I walked home. When I got there, my mother took me aside to tell me that this girl's mother had called her to complain that I was at her house, in broad daylight, sitting on the sofa with her daughter and like a Lothario, I was kissing up her arm. I laughed my head off, just a-cackling at the mental image she must of had. I explained I was just sniffing up her arm, but the damage was done and it was to no avail. She looked at me differently thereafter. A week or 2 later another girl was visiting me and ma had to go out. She kicked us both out before she left so I wouldn't subject another flower of feminine pulchritude to brazen acts of wild affection. No amount of 'xplaining would suffice to keep us there while she left. It was a rueful laugh I laughed this time.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Some little stories
In another forum, I told a story about extending recess one time during elementary school by sneaking off and hiding in a cave. Our mothers had to be called to school to help find us and return us to school. We also were talking about jacks, marbles and other games involving rhymes passed down for the ages. Like: Betty and Johnny sitting in a tree/ K - I - S - S - I - N - G/ First comes love, then comes marriage/ Then comes Betty pushing a baby carriage.
We also played with tops. The kind where you wrapped a string around the top, whipped them out of your hand just-so and they spun like a top. Naturally we turned it into a macho thing by modifying our tops. We'd drill holes in them to make them howl threateningly or add burrs to rip up other tops when they got close (like on Ben Hur's chariot). If you sharpened your point that the top spins on and threw it right at another top, you could destroy that other top.
We didn't play marbles with a circle, we played marbles with a hole. You had to hit someone else's marble from the hole to claim it. That is, if you were playing "keepsies' in which case you had to lay down the rules about "lagging" and "blowsies" and the use of "steelies." Steelies were employed if you got into the hole at the same time as somebodyelse. Since getting into the hole gave you anoter shot, just like hitting somebody else's marble gave you another shot, if you knocked his marble out of the hole, you could claim it. Yu would switch to a bigger marble for this move or a steelie if you had one. A steelie was a steel ball bearing about 1 to 1.5" diameter. Thrown hard enough, you could dislodge a hippopotamus with a steelie. If your opponent was caught in the hole without HIS steelie, its likely you would crush his marble at the least. You didn't use a steelie all the time in case someone hit it and they claimed it, or because it was so heavy and not suitable for a shooter marble. If the ground was particularly hard, like an asphalt street, for example, you'd use a ball peen hammer to make the hole. A few good whacks and you're done.
Enough for this post. Have a nice day, my friends!
We also played with tops. The kind where you wrapped a string around the top, whipped them out of your hand just-so and they spun like a top. Naturally we turned it into a macho thing by modifying our tops. We'd drill holes in them to make them howl threateningly or add burrs to rip up other tops when they got close (like on Ben Hur's chariot). If you sharpened your point that the top spins on and threw it right at another top, you could destroy that other top.
We didn't play marbles with a circle, we played marbles with a hole. You had to hit someone else's marble from the hole to claim it. That is, if you were playing "keepsies' in which case you had to lay down the rules about "lagging" and "blowsies" and the use of "steelies." Steelies were employed if you got into the hole at the same time as somebodyelse. Since getting into the hole gave you anoter shot, just like hitting somebody else's marble gave you another shot, if you knocked his marble out of the hole, you could claim it. Yu would switch to a bigger marble for this move or a steelie if you had one. A steelie was a steel ball bearing about 1 to 1.5" diameter. Thrown hard enough, you could dislodge a hippopotamus with a steelie. If your opponent was caught in the hole without HIS steelie, its likely you would crush his marble at the least. You didn't use a steelie all the time in case someone hit it and they claimed it, or because it was so heavy and not suitable for a shooter marble. If the ground was particularly hard, like an asphalt street, for example, you'd use a ball peen hammer to make the hole. A few good whacks and you're done.
Enough for this post. Have a nice day, my friends!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Hiatus
Hello, my fellow bloggers. I have been suffering because my repiratory system thinks it's spring. I know that's a weak excuse. For those of you who missed it here is a poem from February, 2008. As a preface I wrote it to my wife. I was in a state of
Delight
You know we don’t agree on so many things
You like your ice cream frozen; I like mine softer
You like your music heavenly, softer and low
You like lights on; I like it a little darker
You like a mausoleum; I think of a simple marker
You don’t like my driving; I don’t like yours
You like open blinds and open doors
What a delight then when our likes are alike
Something we both embrace, like our Savior
Like grandkids’ precocious behavior
You like to get up early; I get up late
You like outfits; I’m happy if my socks mate
That’s why I chuckled today with glee:
The Giants won and Eli is MVP.
Would you believe I went fishing yesterday and amidst the coughing and hacking, I caught 17 fish and threw them all back? 6 of them were 18" and over! The big ones were blue cats and channel cats. But my bad hand and my lack of dexterity makes it a crime how I butcher the filets, so I quit keeping anything below several pounds in size. But it was fun.
A couple of days ago, I was fishing at the docks at McDonalds and a mallard flew through my line, entangling himself. Lucky I didn't lose my pole. He squawked and squawked and two big old swan looking things came to his rescue. I didn't understand at first because they grabbbed him by the back of the head like when they're "doing it" and forced him under. Two of them. I just wanted my line back!
I pulled him free of the two gay-bashing swans and lifted him up on the docks where he proceeded to sqawk louder and thrash about and jump back in whereupon the swans jumped on him again.
Now I could figure out he was saying, "Help, help! Some one's got me. I'm being snatched up. Help!" And the swans were saying, "Hold still you big sissy, we're trying to save your beautiful....{unintelligible}...and we'll use our peckers to get you free." So they pecked, and I watched, and they skirmished and I pulled him loose back on the dock. Every time I moved to grab him, he scooted back to the edge of the dock and I'd drag him back.
I just wanted my line back! Finally, he was held down long enough to get pecked loose. I watched in de(web)feat as he struggled away. "Wait, honey!" they called after him. "Get away from me, you big bullies!" he hollered over his shoulder as he tried to fly away. "Come back, handsome!" they screeched as they chased after him. Disgusted with losing my line, laughing at the spectacle I just created (Some guy watching came running, saying "Hold on I want to see him. Oh, it's a duck. I thought it was big fish."), I gave up and put everyting back in the car and left.
Did I mention the guy who sat and commisserated with me while I was fishing, before I went duck hunting? Did I mention it was raining and we were sitting under a cabana? My legs stretched out into the drip line of the canopy. "Did you know your pants leg is getting wet?" he asked me. "I'm fishing. How's it gonna look if I come home bone dry?" I replied. "Honey, I'm home. Boy, it's pouring cats and dogs out there," I mimicked. He laughed.
Well, dear hearts and gentle people, I've meandered enough for one entry.
Delight
You know we don’t agree on so many things
You like your ice cream frozen; I like mine softer
You like your music heavenly, softer and low
You like lights on; I like it a little darker
You like a mausoleum; I think of a simple marker
You don’t like my driving; I don’t like yours
You like open blinds and open doors
What a delight then when our likes are alike
Something we both embrace, like our Savior
Like grandkids’ precocious behavior
You like to get up early; I get up late
You like outfits; I’m happy if my socks mate
That’s why I chuckled today with glee:
The Giants won and Eli is MVP.
Would you believe I went fishing yesterday and amidst the coughing and hacking, I caught 17 fish and threw them all back? 6 of them were 18" and over! The big ones were blue cats and channel cats. But my bad hand and my lack of dexterity makes it a crime how I butcher the filets, so I quit keeping anything below several pounds in size. But it was fun.
A couple of days ago, I was fishing at the docks at McDonalds and a mallard flew through my line, entangling himself. Lucky I didn't lose my pole. He squawked and squawked and two big old swan looking things came to his rescue. I didn't understand at first because they grabbbed him by the back of the head like when they're "doing it" and forced him under. Two of them. I just wanted my line back!
I pulled him free of the two gay-bashing swans and lifted him up on the docks where he proceeded to sqawk louder and thrash about and jump back in whereupon the swans jumped on him again.
Now I could figure out he was saying, "Help, help! Some one's got me. I'm being snatched up. Help!" And the swans were saying, "Hold still you big sissy, we're trying to save your beautiful....{unintelligible}...and we'll use our peckers to get you free." So they pecked, and I watched, and they skirmished and I pulled him loose back on the dock. Every time I moved to grab him, he scooted back to the edge of the dock and I'd drag him back.
I just wanted my line back! Finally, he was held down long enough to get pecked loose. I watched in de(web)feat as he struggled away. "Wait, honey!" they called after him. "Get away from me, you big bullies!" he hollered over his shoulder as he tried to fly away. "Come back, handsome!" they screeched as they chased after him. Disgusted with losing my line, laughing at the spectacle I just created (Some guy watching came running, saying "Hold on I want to see him. Oh, it's a duck. I thought it was big fish."), I gave up and put everyting back in the car and left.
Did I mention the guy who sat and commisserated with me while I was fishing, before I went duck hunting? Did I mention it was raining and we were sitting under a cabana? My legs stretched out into the drip line of the canopy. "Did you know your pants leg is getting wet?" he asked me. "I'm fishing. How's it gonna look if I come home bone dry?" I replied. "Honey, I'm home. Boy, it's pouring cats and dogs out there," I mimicked. He laughed.
Well, dear hearts and gentle people, I've meandered enough for one entry.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Our family '67 VW Bug
We had a lot of stories about that '67 Bug. One time we were on I-45 heading home and a Toyota Corolla pulled up alongside us with some suspicious-looking characters and glared at us as we zoomed along. They sped up to pass us and we sped up. Then they sped up. Mind you this is two old cars without much muscle when they were new. We floored it and were going as fast as traffic would allow, keeping them from cutting in, when suddenly they dropped back precipitously. We looked back to see them pulled over with smoke coming from under the hood: They had blown the head gasket! We laughed our heads off.
Once I was driving in the subdivision in my '67 bug when a rabbit crossed the road. I aimed behind him but he changed his mind at the last minute. He went between the front wheels and just cleared the back wheel. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw he hadn't completely cleared my bumper and his tail was laying in the road! I took it home to substantiate my story.
Another time in that famous '67 bug I was passing a truck when I discovered a dog in the middle of the road, running alongside the truck, nipping at his hubcaps. With no time to react, I rolled him under the car but between the wheels. When I came by on the way home at the end of the day, he was at his usual place by the mailbox, but he declined to chase me.
Our neighborhood dog, Bullet, used to chase me every day on the way to work. I maneuvered to the right spot on the road and surprised him with a monstrous splash from a roadside puddle just before he ran into an empty trashcan. He earned because he never hit that trashcan again.
Then there was the time I took my daughter and some of her friends and cousins to the Galveston Beach, a three hour drive South of us. We crammed her and seven of her closest friends into the Bug and away we went. We had a great time.
Once when our oldest, the daughter, was just a baby we went on one of our weekend visits to Tulsa: I'd get off work Friday at 4:15 pm and we'd head out on the 10-12 hour drive. We'd come back Sunday. This particular time I got as far as Atoka, a normal gas stop. Seeing as how there was still a quarter-tank of gas left, even though it was close to midnight, I decided to use up some more before I stopped for gas. It soon became midnight, the gas gage was on "R" and there wasn't much sign of life on the road.
I was getting worried, in the middle of nowhere with a wife and young baby and nearly out of gas. Did I say it was a little cool, too? Figuring that 60 mph was the optimum speed/mpg reading, we cruised along as we surveyed the road-map. We picked the biggest nearest dot on the map: Holdenville OK. They would have an all-night gas station. We left US 69-75, and proceeded to Holdenville. The sidewalks were rolled up, the town looked deserted.
What, ho? What light breaks through yonder blanket of darkness? It is the city hall/police station and there are cars outside. I heaved to, rushed inside and asked if anyone as any gas I could have. No, they said, but they were "purty shure" there was an all-night truck-stop in Wewoka. I only had to drive to the first stop sign, turn left, take state highway... Well, you get the picture.
In no time we were lost in the black hills of Oklahoma, past midnight, with nary a sign of civilization, save an occasional farm light on a distant (black) hill. Wewoka was a memory of the past. Up on the road ahead appeared a simple clap-board building with a chat driveway and two Deep Rock gas pumps. Lit by a single bare bulb, it stood lonely next to a darkened country house with a car pulled asleep next to it in the shadows. Eureka! I pulled over, went up to the porch and knocked on the door.
A sleepy voice called from the dark, "Whattayouwant?" "I want some gas," I said plaintively. "How much?" he responded, warily. "Well, all of it," I announced impatiently. There was a stirring from the inside and a figure emerged cautiously from within the dark house and a man's voice apologized by saying, "I have some buddies who wake me up for $2 worth of gas." Parked by the "regular" pump, I proudly announced, "Fill her up with regular." Looking over his shoulder I could see the bottom of the near-empty gas tank: I was operating on fumes and the drops of gas collecting in the dents on the bottom of the tank! When the pump finished dinging, the little vane in the clear globe finished whirling around and the man hung up the nozzle, I had taken on 10.6 gallons. Now, if you don't know, a Bug holds 10.8 gallons. I was happy to pay a premium price of 32 cents a gallon at this point. Happily refueled and lucky to have no need for the facilities, off we went.
Once I was driving in the subdivision in my '67 bug when a rabbit crossed the road. I aimed behind him but he changed his mind at the last minute. He went between the front wheels and just cleared the back wheel. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw he hadn't completely cleared my bumper and his tail was laying in the road! I took it home to substantiate my story.
Another time in that famous '67 bug I was passing a truck when I discovered a dog in the middle of the road, running alongside the truck, nipping at his hubcaps. With no time to react, I rolled him under the car but between the wheels. When I came by on the way home at the end of the day, he was at his usual place by the mailbox, but he declined to chase me.
Our neighborhood dog, Bullet, used to chase me every day on the way to work. I maneuvered to the right spot on the road and surprised him with a monstrous splash from a roadside puddle just before he ran into an empty trashcan. He earned because he never hit that trashcan again.
Then there was the time I took my daughter and some of her friends and cousins to the Galveston Beach, a three hour drive South of us. We crammed her and seven of her closest friends into the Bug and away we went. We had a great time.
Once when our oldest, the daughter, was just a baby we went on one of our weekend visits to Tulsa: I'd get off work Friday at 4:15 pm and we'd head out on the 10-12 hour drive. We'd come back Sunday. This particular time I got as far as Atoka, a normal gas stop. Seeing as how there was still a quarter-tank of gas left, even though it was close to midnight, I decided to use up some more before I stopped for gas. It soon became midnight, the gas gage was on "R" and there wasn't much sign of life on the road.
I was getting worried, in the middle of nowhere with a wife and young baby and nearly out of gas. Did I say it was a little cool, too? Figuring that 60 mph was the optimum speed/mpg reading, we cruised along as we surveyed the road-map. We picked the biggest nearest dot on the map: Holdenville OK. They would have an all-night gas station. We left US 69-75, and proceeded to Holdenville. The sidewalks were rolled up, the town looked deserted.
What, ho? What light breaks through yonder blanket of darkness? It is the city hall/police station and there are cars outside. I heaved to, rushed inside and asked if anyone as any gas I could have. No, they said, but they were "purty shure" there was an all-night truck-stop in Wewoka. I only had to drive to the first stop sign, turn left, take state highway... Well, you get the picture.
In no time we were lost in the black hills of Oklahoma, past midnight, with nary a sign of civilization, save an occasional farm light on a distant (black) hill. Wewoka was a memory of the past. Up on the road ahead appeared a simple clap-board building with a chat driveway and two Deep Rock gas pumps. Lit by a single bare bulb, it stood lonely next to a darkened country house with a car pulled asleep next to it in the shadows. Eureka! I pulled over, went up to the porch and knocked on the door.
A sleepy voice called from the dark, "Whattayouwant?" "I want some gas," I said plaintively. "How much?" he responded, warily. "Well, all of it," I announced impatiently. There was a stirring from the inside and a figure emerged cautiously from within the dark house and a man's voice apologized by saying, "I have some buddies who wake me up for $2 worth of gas." Parked by the "regular" pump, I proudly announced, "Fill her up with regular." Looking over his shoulder I could see the bottom of the near-empty gas tank: I was operating on fumes and the drops of gas collecting in the dents on the bottom of the tank! When the pump finished dinging, the little vane in the clear globe finished whirling around and the man hung up the nozzle, I had taken on 10.6 gallons. Now, if you don't know, a Bug holds 10.8 gallons. I was happy to pay a premium price of 32 cents a gallon at this point. Happily refueled and lucky to have no need for the facilities, off we went.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Progress (not mine nor PD nor medical)
I can't believe it! After only 34 years my telephone is history, darn it. I am relegated to looking at Bart Simpson's butt to dial out. And it is so old it has a switch to change from pulse to tone. Problem is they discontinued my party line 16 years ago and rendered it obsolete at that time.
I complained. In steps monolithic ConTel. I can't keep my party line. Rats! And if I move to the wrong place, I can't keep my number. But I can keep my green phone: My trusty, faithful, ever-loud, rotary dial, Stromberg-Carlson, green phone. But for you neophytes, it is wired for party lines and now won't ring on a private line. Rats!
Once ConTel told me I could bring phones to the office to be "wired" for party line use. Can they re-wire my trusty green phone to go back the other way? No. It's mine. Do I rent it? No. It's mine. Didn't buy it from ConTel? No, I guess they gave it to me, it's mine, my problem. What a gyp. Rats
Well, by hook or crook or crock, I managed to rewire it for a private line. Another blissful 16 years went by and one day I tried to dial out and couldn't. I wanted to keep my old phone number when I moved 16 yrs ago. It is similar to Sacred Heart Church in Conroe and the Flagship Hotel in Galveston. We finally became like answering service to Sacred Heart. It was; easier to answer questions than to redirect calls. But, I told Father Dave, there is no truth to the rumor that I heard confessions over the phone. We did make some appointments for him, though, and I hoped he showed up. Now, I could still get calls for Sacred Heart but I couldn't call there myself. I guess the Flagship Hotel in Galveston tangled with Ike and sunk. Enter my ever-omnipotent son and he checked it after we finished fishing. It seems Consolidated Communications, nee ConTel, changed me over to tone dialing only. Rats, foiled again.
Now I have to have a Bart Simpson phone I can't hear (but his eyes light up!) so I can dial out. I have to sniff his butt every call. Oh, the ignominy of it all. (At least my spell checker didn't squiggle me on ignominy.)
I complained. In steps monolithic ConTel. I can't keep my party line. Rats! And if I move to the wrong place, I can't keep my number. But I can keep my green phone: My trusty, faithful, ever-loud, rotary dial, Stromberg-Carlson, green phone. But for you neophytes, it is wired for party lines and now won't ring on a private line. Rats!
Once ConTel told me I could bring phones to the office to be "wired" for party line use. Can they re-wire my trusty green phone to go back the other way? No. It's mine. Do I rent it? No. It's mine. Didn't buy it from ConTel? No, I guess they gave it to me, it's mine, my problem. What a gyp. Rats
Well, by hook or crook or crock, I managed to rewire it for a private line. Another blissful 16 years went by and one day I tried to dial out and couldn't. I wanted to keep my old phone number when I moved 16 yrs ago. It is similar to Sacred Heart Church in Conroe and the Flagship Hotel in Galveston. We finally became like answering service to Sacred Heart. It was; easier to answer questions than to redirect calls. But, I told Father Dave, there is no truth to the rumor that I heard confessions over the phone. We did make some appointments for him, though, and I hoped he showed up. Now, I could still get calls for Sacred Heart but I couldn't call there myself. I guess the Flagship Hotel in Galveston tangled with Ike and sunk. Enter my ever-omnipotent son and he checked it after we finished fishing. It seems Consolidated Communications, nee ConTel, changed me over to tone dialing only. Rats, foiled again.
Now I have to have a Bart Simpson phone I can't hear (but his eyes light up!) so I can dial out. I have to sniff his butt every call. Oh, the ignominy of it all. (At least my spell checker didn't squiggle me on ignominy.)
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Telephones and photographs
Here I sit with a blank mind. I agreed to start a music chatroom group, I decided to scan my old Instamatic and Brownie pictures into digital form, I decided to fix the leaks in my boat before I bottom-fished from the bottom of the lake, we finally finished with grandchildren-based travels for the season and my hand is shaking like a leaf. My wife is coughing like crazy and my son is due sometime this morning.
Maybe he can fix my 70's model Stromberg-Carlson phone. It can be answered, it just won't dial anymore. I discovered it is an antique now and worth $10 (if it worked), but no one has parts for a chartreuse phone anymore. The truth be told (shhh, no one knows this but me) it is really the case of the old chartreuse phone moved to the old red phone. The old red phone cratered on the outside and the chartreuse one cratered on the inside. Why keep it at all? Because it goes ringgggggggg loud enough to wake the dead. I can't hear those cricket-chirping newfangled things. I may have to resurrect the Bart Simpson phone because while he chirps like a cricket, his eyes light up too. Then I would answer one of the real phones so I wouldn't have to talk to his butt.
I put in a bid on eBay on a replacement for the Stromberg-Carlson to at least use for parts. Another phone died too. It is an old 70's phone too and now you can only hear on it, you can't be heard.
The scanning has been fun though. Those blurry, speckled, pixilated,, faded and splotched photos really come alive with a few well-chosen clicks. They go WAY back to when my 40 yr old daughter was born and a haircut I once had that was so good it lasted for six months. Stay tuned.
Maybe he can fix my 70's model Stromberg-Carlson phone. It can be answered, it just won't dial anymore. I discovered it is an antique now and worth $10 (if it worked), but no one has parts for a chartreuse phone anymore. The truth be told (shhh, no one knows this but me) it is really the case of the old chartreuse phone moved to the old red phone. The old red phone cratered on the outside and the chartreuse one cratered on the inside. Why keep it at all? Because it goes ringgggggggg loud enough to wake the dead. I can't hear those cricket-chirping newfangled things. I may have to resurrect the Bart Simpson phone because while he chirps like a cricket, his eyes light up too. Then I would answer one of the real phones so I wouldn't have to talk to his butt.
I put in a bid on eBay on a replacement for the Stromberg-Carlson to at least use for parts. Another phone died too. It is an old 70's phone too and now you can only hear on it, you can't be heard.
The scanning has been fun though. Those blurry, speckled, pixilated,, faded and splotched photos really come alive with a few well-chosen clicks. They go WAY back to when my 40 yr old daughter was born and a haircut I once had that was so good it lasted for six months. Stay tuned.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
New Year and New Decorations
Well, the big switch is on to move the Christmas stuff back to the caverns
and bring out the day-to-day stuff.
And I have this entry for the days after Christmas:
'Twas a few nights after Christmas
when not a creature was stirring on PLM
nor could I remember what comes next.
The stockings were hung like clearance items at Macy's
in hopes they would again nestle safely till next year
along with 136 Santas and a herd of tiny reindeer.
I, in an egg-nog stupor gurgled and wheezed
as I settled in for endless ordinary days
The grandkids had all gone home with the kids
all that was left were the cribs where they slept
Out on the lawn there arose such language
as a sailor ever heard
while I fought with the lights on the eaves
and turned off the power
that aired up the big Santa and allowed him to wave.
Styrofoam peanuts flew like snow in the wind
as BFI trucks leaked some of their loads
and I broke out in a smile
at the memories we made
the laughter we shared
all the bowl games we saw played
As we committed this scene to make way for the next
we thought of our family and our friends
and sat down to put to paper
the Christmas letter for 2005 we send.
and bring out the day-to-day stuff.
And I have this entry for the days after Christmas:
'Twas a few nights after Christmas
when not a creature was stirring on PLM
nor could I remember what comes next.
The stockings were hung like clearance items at Macy's
in hopes they would again nestle safely till next year
along with 136 Santas and a herd of tiny reindeer.
I, in an egg-nog stupor gurgled and wheezed
as I settled in for endless ordinary days
The grandkids had all gone home with the kids
all that was left were the cribs where they slept
Out on the lawn there arose such language
as a sailor ever heard
while I fought with the lights on the eaves
and turned off the power
that aired up the big Santa and allowed him to wave.
Styrofoam peanuts flew like snow in the wind
as BFI trucks leaked some of their loads
and I broke out in a smile
at the memories we made
the laughter we shared
all the bowl games we saw played
As we committed this scene to make way for the next
we thought of our family and our friends
and sat down to put to paper
the Christmas letter for 2005 we send.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Parkie in the darkie
A Parkie in the Darkie
10-4-08
we had to have a new printer
we had to have it now
so we did
"That's good," they say
now here I am at the creak of night with USB in USA
waiting for the NCAA
"LOL" they said
parallel and 2.0 what to do?
I can parallel park
and hold my sweetie too
only now my sweetie is a Tootsie Roll
and she won't let me drive
so how can I?
parkie o parkie here I am in the darkie
at the gandy dancers ball
"Are your drugs out of wack?" they asked
oh, those little floaters in my eye
why can't I forget about loss of memory
why can't I shake this shaking
needles and pins
"It's time to go to bed," they said
and, Poof! I'm left alone in the glow
of the dark and I know
I'm just another parkie in the darkie.
10-4-08
we had to have a new printer
we had to have it now
so we did
"That's good," they say
now here I am at the creak of night with USB in USA
waiting for the NCAA
"LOL" they said
parallel and 2.0 what to do?
I can parallel park
and hold my sweetie too
only now my sweetie is a Tootsie Roll
and she won't let me drive
so how can I?
parkie o parkie here I am in the darkie
at the gandy dancers ball
"Are your drugs out of wack?" they asked
oh, those little floaters in my eye
why can't I forget about loss of memory
why can't I shake this shaking
needles and pins
"It's time to go to bed," they said
and, Poof! I'm left alone in the glow
of the dark and I know
I'm just another parkie in the darkie.
Friday, January 2, 2009
New Year's and me
Here I am at 2 a.m. writing a blog entry. I liked some of my PD friends' blogs. They are good reading; funny and poignant. Everyone else has given up the ghost for January 1, 2009, but I'm still here. I can't seem to spend time relaxing when something may be happening that I might miss. I got to talk shop with a young lady from Clear Lake who works at a refinery in Houston area. We got to talk about what is known on one end of the totem pole as "management operations" and "strike breaking" on the other end. Both sides can be so obstinate.
When I garduated from college, I went to work at a refinery in the Golden Triangle, also known as the cancer belt of the USA. The custom each day was the first time you saw someone for the day, you shook their hand. It made for camraderie. But come time to renegotiate the contract, they would cross the street to avoid you. They wouldn't even speak to you. I was hurt. I didn't understand the protocol. Finally a peon of the union class took me, the peon of the management class, aside and said, "Look, it's nothing personal. You've got a job to do and I've got a job to do. I'll train you to take my place but I can't be fraternizing with you."
Funny, but I was raised to respect my elders and call people older than me "sir." I got a bad arting for being so formal and unsociable for referring to one of the electricians as Mr Nelson instead of "Nelly" like all his contemporaries. That was easy to correct. But it still rubs me the wrong way when a younger person calls me by my first name. They do but now that I had to opt for a moniker befitting a grandpa but not "grandpa," things are reaching an equilibrium. Now everyone is calling me Pop or Pops. PawPaw was already taken, Grumps and PeePaw as well. Luck I wasn't Pop2008. And with that I'll pull the curtain on this amateur hour.
When I garduated from college, I went to work at a refinery in the Golden Triangle, also known as the cancer belt of the USA. The custom each day was the first time you saw someone for the day, you shook their hand. It made for camraderie. But come time to renegotiate the contract, they would cross the street to avoid you. They wouldn't even speak to you. I was hurt. I didn't understand the protocol. Finally a peon of the union class took me, the peon of the management class, aside and said, "Look, it's nothing personal. You've got a job to do and I've got a job to do. I'll train you to take my place but I can't be fraternizing with you."
Funny, but I was raised to respect my elders and call people older than me "sir." I got a bad arting for being so formal and unsociable for referring to one of the electricians as Mr Nelson instead of "Nelly" like all his contemporaries. That was easy to correct. But it still rubs me the wrong way when a younger person calls me by my first name. They do but now that I had to opt for a moniker befitting a grandpa but not "grandpa," things are reaching an equilibrium. Now everyone is calling me Pop or Pops. PawPaw was already taken, Grumps and PeePaw as well. Luck I wasn't Pop2008. And with that I'll pull the curtain on this amateur hour.
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