Back in Bed at the Hospital - 2010

Well, my fellow inmates, I have written an entry it to say I now have sick sinus syndrome, antiphospholipid anitibody syndrome and my blood is too thick to go home for a few more days. Did I mention my new pacemaker? Did I mention going up a floor and sleeping in a bed in the hall because it was too cold in my room? Did I mention that while these nurses are dedicated, some are not even close to Florence Nightengale, not even Florence Henderson?

I checked into ER at 6 pm January 12, Tuesday, after spending the day with my urologist scanning and probing for a stone. None. I was in great pain so I went to the ER and spent a couple hours with babies shrieking. Or was it me? About 10 pm they were going to cut me loose with no diagnosis when I commented we were headed to Baltimore that day. Then he asked questions about long plane trips and recent surgery. The doc suspected a blood clot and ordered a blood test for the likelihood of having one. It came up positive and the CT scan revealed a clot on the lungs. I was passed on to nurse Ricky Nelson (well, he looked like a young Ricky). After awhile I was admitted and moved to my new home.

Once inside the system, they inspected me like bug in a jar, I was just a redneck in a rock and roll bar. I now qualify as Pepe, the Human Pincushion. Along about Saturday I agreed that it was cold in my room (only) and that night I excaped and found a bed in the hall upstairs by one floor where I coiled up a tried to catch a few winks. Little did I know I fell off their monitoring grid. When I came back a nurse asked me if it was still cold in my room. I stated while I didn't know how cold it was but a chef from the cafeteria asked if he could hang some meat in there. My unit got fixed Sunday.

Some of my '42' domino playing buddies decided to meet at the hospital cafeteria and play dominos with me. I told the tech where I was going and what I was doing. We played away and after two hours one of the nurses, the tech I had told, came to get me. It seems they had been looking for me. My wife came and took a verbal report from a doctor and my meds stacked up and they sent 2 nurses looking for me. Head bowed, I came back to the music. Chastised, I sought permission thereafter and check out with the charge nurse.

I got one nurse banned from my room in mid-shift. She traumatized me. I mentioned that my IV line was un-taped and that subsequent efforts to reinforce it had only taped the tape to the tape. I said we need a nurse to check it out. She said she could do it and put on gloves to remove the old tape. In no time I had to help her extricate herself from the tape and she proceeded to remove the gloves and do it. At one point I looked over and she had pulled the IV out accidentally. "no, don't put it back in that hole," I said, reading her mind. I could hear the wheels turning. Mind you, I was getting perforated in the gut with stroganoff (blood thinner) and was taking Coumadin. My eyes must have been as big as saucers. She then proceeded to make a gauze pad by folding over one and taped it on with a 'water-proof' clear bandage tape. Only the tape was only 1/8" bigger than the pad. "I'm bleeding," I said when a big magenta spot appeared on the gauze. She proceeded to make an identical gauze bandage on top of the other one which hid the blood. The damage was done. I checked out of the unit for a short walk, hiding my shocked look.

When I checked back in, I proceeded to formulate a passive-aggressive plan of response. I made a sign that said "NO: Visitors, shots, needles, nurses, techs or aides" and posted it on my door and closed it. No one bothered me from 10 pm to 4 am. Knowing the vampires came at 4 am plus, and thinking of an angry mob gathered outside my door with torches, I amended my note to say it was okay and went back to sleep. No more nurse Igor. I got a new nurse and after my wife asked that that nurse not see me again, her wish was granted.

Some little Nigerian nurse phlebotomist came to take my blood one morning. Three sticks in various places later, she gave up. I told her my veins rolled!? A replacement was sent in and after 2 sticks she drew my blood.

I would have been disappointed if you hadn't dubbed me PFH but to many it meant Heaven, not hell. I was the one who taught them what 1 dssp meant. Look it up. I introduced them to good music (and bad), got up at 4 am and told them jokes, entertained them and generally didn't ask for anything in return. When I needed someone or something, I went and got it or them. My MD, resident, had nothing but good things to say. When he reviewed my cheat sheet of surgeries/medications/diseases/etc he remarked, "Hmm, you've had a lot of surgeries and birth defects." To which I replied, "As many defects and surgeries as I've got, you'd think I was made by Chrysler."

Back to the IV line, the nurse who replaced Abby Normal, found I was staying over some more and needed a new IV line. She enlisted Nurse Jim to do it as he was "good." His bedside manner was confidence and steadfastness throughout the number of sticks he tried before he got one to stick. And that was after I persuaded him to let me turn on my DBS long enough to let him find it easily. I proceeded to educate him on DBS systems and how they worked and he was successful.

With regards to hitting veins, I learned about valves in veins from Jim. He stuck me once, commented it felt like he struck a valve and pulled it out. The other two blood suckers nailed it every time on the first try. I complimented them both profusely. I know when I'm treated right!

As for the blood thinners, they perforated my stomach from hip to hip and back again trying to thin my blood to handle the antiphospholipid antibody syndrome when they noted my sinus rhythm was screwed up and my pulse was low (34-47 bpm) and they felt a pacemaker was in order. So they backed off the coumadin and stroganoff (loganoff) until they were happy with it and one afternoon they put in a pacemaker. I got to experience the OR while I was awake for the first time, noting how they shaved my pect for implantation. Since my right superior vena cava was actually on the left, that necessitated the pacemaker on the right, where the coast was clear. But I still, apparently, had a surprise up my sleeve as they encountered a small right vena cava that actually dumped into the wrongly-placed left one! This required an additional lead but they handled it. I'm still quite sore.

One nurse was named Leslie and my sister's name was Leslie. I told her we brothers called her Les Hag and still do. I said I dubbed her Madame Juicy ( m sister) in a fit of genius one day when we were aggravating each other. It made her madder than a hornet and caused my grandpa to laugh his head off. The nurse asked me why I called her that and I said it made her mad. It disappointed the nurse when she came back and I couldn't remember her name. The third time, I said "Hey, Les Hag!" and she left the room as my wife came in. My wife said, "She was really worried about Madame Juicy and muttered she was going to look it up?"

By the way, 1 dssp is 1 dessert spoonful, a British measurement half-way between a teaspoonful and a tablespoonful. Now you who didn't look it up know. And so do all the nurses in that pod.

Funny you should mention fatigue along with low pulse rate. The shortness of breath and fatigue began to make sense in that context.

The blood clot I went in for originally turned out to be an autoimmune disease related to, but not exactly, lupus. It was antiphospholipid antibody syndrome. Dr. said I was just getting old and things were wearing out. This resulted in coumadin for life and no more fishing alone in my boat. Especially I shouldn't fish for catfish. Rats. It also delayed my pacemaker because operations require you quit coumadin, then the effects of thick-blood delayed my release. I went in for an "idiot" light and came out with a new alternator and a set of points, so to speak. They didn't even run me thru a carwash.

It was all in all a humbling experience for us all. Me having so many people a party to my most personal of activities and feelings.

My Battery Day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

Christmas Stories

First of all, let me say this: Don't in a moment of weakness try something you don't want to continue as a family tradition. I did. One Christmas we bought the two oldest ones new bikes. Up till then they'd had garage sale rejects.

I bought them well before Christmas and needed a place to hide them. So I thought and thought: Well, they never clean under there beds or even look under there for missing items so I hid them under their beds. When Christmas came it was a tradition to go midnight mass. Well, by the time we got home and began wrapping and playing Santa, I didn't feel like dragging them out from under their beds and putting them together at 2 a.m. Cristmas Day. Instead I came up with an ingenious plan to hide clues to their locations and leave them about the house. It was a hit! The scrambling for clues the next day was so much fun and they ejoyed it so much I had to continue to hide presents and clues for years there-after until they grew up and left home.

Second of all, let me say that we were mighty cheap in those days. No bow wasn't a recycled bow. No ribbon was thrown away until it was good and ragged. And I insisted we keep the 'to and from' tags after the ripping and tearing was all done. They only lasted a minute functionally and then we were supposed to throw them away? No way! So we saved them and those Christmas mornings at 2.m. we would ask eachother "You got one from mom to Louis? Do you have one from Louis to Patrick?" It struck me as odd they never noticed our handwriting on the tags or tat the same tags came up over and over. Until they would whisper to me in November, "Tell Santa I want a _." Little did they know the effort we put in to bring thme uniform happiness, one where everyone had a BIG present of equal stature.

Holiday Traditions Part 2

Everyone must come at the same time is the rule. We open presents at the same time: Only thing is that we open one each, one at a time. One Christmas came together at midnight Christmas Eve. We have also gone from mealtime to mealtime, opening gifts. Piles are established as one of the young or most out-going youngsters is dubbed the go-fer. Some younger ones strangely don't get very far before an older one takes over their unwrapping.. There are designated used-wrap points. Don't get to close to one and get wrapped up. You must also designate the one to chronicle who gave who what so that theoretically thankyou's are sent after-the-fact.

It's like one of those I Love Lucy and the conveyor belt things: The gifts seem to magically replicate themselves under the tree. Just like they did outside the front door every day as delivery vans pulled up and on the count of three they knocked on your door, scurried back to their trucks and drove off before you could get to the door. Some how they received extra credit if they made a clean get-a-way. Rain or shine or dark of night couldn't deter them from there appointed targets. One envisions night-vision goggles, earphones and a self-destructing tape.

When the last gift-wrapping is shredded, the random camera flashes will be replaced with a grand finale of flashes reminiscent of 4th of July as every combination of siblings, heritages, creed, religious affiliation and national origin is photographed and documented for next year's Christmas letter.

Everyone also had to participate in the formal sit down dinner complete with genuine tea gasses (the tea had to be brewed); good china that has to be washed before using; the requisite silver place settings that have to be polished before using (The Brasso taste is necessary to some recipes) and include every known specialty knife, fork, spoon or serving utensil; napkin holders; real cloth Christmas napkins; real butter you can't spread on concrete without damaging the concrete, much less a roll; decorative salt & pepper shakers that hold 4 grains of salt and 6 grains of pepper; pepper grinders stout enough to clean golf balls; and the polished, solid wood dining table that you're allowed to touch two days a year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. All this must be ceremoniously blessed like the fishing fleet with a hub-bub of humanity presided over with a soliloquy only a couple words shy of King Lear with lots of "Father's", "Jesus's", and "Almighty's" punctuated with the word "blessings." No fidgeting allowed and you better keep your eyes closed because the Pope can see thru his/her eyelids.

When everyone has exceeded their limits of tolerance, naps, inane parlor games and family feuds just before it becomes the dreaded Day After Christmas, the last one leaves the scene of the tumult.

Now every thing reverses except the loot piles which must remain untouched for 3 months before they can be assimilated into the vortex we cal our milieu. Grandma can then stencil an image of Santa on the door frame or her sewing basket. Amen.

Holiday Traditions- part 1

Another Christmas was looming on the horizon. We called the movers early to reserve a spot on their under-manned work order list. It was necessary at this time of year to move the larger part of our surplus household goods like my boat; my mounted deer trophy head with the prized nine-point rack; my favorite footstool that hid many cherished heirlooms like my squiggly pencils collection in its gut; a couple of phones we didn't use every day; any book that didn't have Christmas or Santa in its title; any figurine that didn't resemble Jesus, an angel, a shepherd or a snowman; any stuffed toy that didn't appear brand-spanking new or resemble some wintry, cuddly creature; anything that couldn't be categorized loosely as an ornament; any greeting card that didn't have a spectacular seasonal scene on ir or fold out into a diorama; any memorabilia that wasn't a fugitive from a White-elephant Christmas gift exchange; or any school paper or art class memento "drawn" by some angelic grandchild or child in our lifetimes.

All this emptied the house considerably but was replaced by seasonal knick knacks that also replaced the crocheted pumpkins, curled up and once typical fall leaves, witches and goblins once deserving of homage. Pretty post cards, pretty paper and lights twinkling incessantly (just the lights twinkling, the other stuff kept us busy re-tacking them up as they fell with every passing day). Santa took his rightful place on the front door with his annoying "Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!" followed by a jangling rendition of Jingle Bells. Out came an assortment of red, white and green cookie dishes and objects for displaying fattening sweets proudly boasting 0 grams of trans-fat. For you probies, that's fat about to be transformed into blubber on your body.

Emails and frantic phone calls emitted from HQ, asking for wish-lists for the big exchange (between gift-givers, not stores). Every immediate family member angled for a coveted time-slot on Christmas Day: Poor kids and melded families were torn between new traditions trying to form and old ones trying to survive. Traditions were cherished by all, just not the same ones. My son would spend Christmas out of town for the crucial time slot for the first time in 38 years. The tangy taste it left was not due to being shot at in Iraq, being low man on the totem pole at a workplace or indigence/pennilessness, but merely a choice of doing something different. Such family gatherings had endured from the days of bright-eyed parents and cooing babies until the melee required uniformed crowd control and traffic cops mixed with parking attendants. The latter also required coordination with neighbors to avoid parking confrontations and lawn signs warning of dire consequences for blocking views of Youtubular lighting displays whose prerequisite audio renditions vied with revelers.

The kitchen was maintained at an uncomfortable 90 degrees as the perfume of real (cheap) vanilla extract from Mexico and sacrificial Pillsbury Dough-boys filled the air. Each batch was carefully saran-wrapped onto a special decorative plate. Oops, that one looks defective. Mmmmm!

stay tuned for continuation of this narrative of Christmas..

Incident at the end of Cowboys-Giants

This is the story of the lemon squares incident. It happened in the waning moments of the Giants-Cowboys game tonight.

Flashback to this afternoon. I watched the Texans eke out a victory over Tennessee. I began my cough again. I coughed until I thought I would expire. I saw spots in front of my eyes, things were getting darker and I was beginning to reflect on my childhood. I couldn't breathe, I was short of breath. I think I found Cher's stomach.

With three dots showing on the gas gauge, I went to pick my wife up at the airport. I circled the airport 8 times and parked anyway. She was standing there when I walked up to passenger pickup. While she had made her connection, her bag didn't. (Like the helpful hubby I am, I'm waiting up for them to deliver it to the door while she sleeps.)

Strike one. I stayed up last night til after midnight to try and get her Christmas present at the all-night Wal-Mart. I missed one or two doses a day of medication while she was gone. Strike two and foul tip.

Going into the parking lot, the arm lifted w/o me getting a ticket so I didn't get one. Broken-bat foul screamer at the coach's head. Luckily, the EZ-tag was the reason, so she only had to back out of the Visa lane against traffic swerving and honking to get far enuf back to go thru the EZ-tag line. A vicious cut resulting in a foul-tip that went off my bare ankle.

We started back with two dots on the gas gauge. It started to sprinkle. Ful-tip into thecatcher's mit. We had to go str8 home and whip up a salad for church supper we then went str8 to where no one touched her salad. Back home we got to watch a nice(?) Lifetime Channel Christmas show. Instant replay review in booth restored me back to only 2 strikes.

She headed for the bathtub when the Lifetime show was over while I turned (trumpet flourish worthy of 20th Century Fox movie intro) to the waning moments of the Giants-Cowboys game. I coughed a fit and up-chucked. With the footrest up, and no rag handy, I swallowed down (Ugh) most of it, spitting a handful on my shirt. With action befitting a non-Parkie, I dammed it up within the folds of my shirt and waited for it to dry enough to get up and continued to watch the Giants knock on Dallas' door. A few passes and I went into a second or third, I forget which, coughing fit. I up-chucked a stomach-full right smack in the mdddle of the remote, filling my lap. Squeezing my legs together, now sacrificing my slacks, I held the puke from the chair. Clamping my legs until they cramped, I began yet another coughing fit. Yes, I upchucked another mouthful of vile, er bile. Since my lap was full, I searched frantically for something within reach, spying my half-finished mug of a drink. I spit it up into the mug. Dallas won.

"Help!" I called frantically, unheard over the roar of the jacuzzi. I sounded as pitiful as I felt. No reply. I called out some more. I called home from the cell phone in my pocket, letting it ring loudly. It too fell on deaf ears with her wondering why I didn't answer the damn phone. I called again to no avail. I turned up the TV until my brain rattled, again to no avail. The bedroom door opened a sliver and a voice from inside said something about the phone.

"Help!" I again pleaded with more confidence. She stepped thru the door asking who was on the phone. Me, I replied, could she please help by getting something to sop up the vomit so I could get up from the chair. I explained what happened, she curled up her nose., making a face. Strike three I muttered. She handed me my towel and I handed her the mug of Pepsi Puke. Rescued at last! Rising I went to Febreeze the remote and clean it, nay, detail it with Q-tips. As you envision me here with a pukey shirt and slacks, what, pray do tell, you ask, does this have to do with lemon squares? The vomit looked like Chinese Lemon Square broth, clear, barely yellow, with bits of lemon square. Yccck, too much info I know. Now I wait, struck out, gift-less, coughing, fuming up the joint, waiting for the errant suitcase. Molotov!