Out with the Old, In with the New

Dear Readers:

Tonight, New Year's Eve descends upon us -- the ushering in of a new era. I heard someone say to take it easy and to avoid the party scene. I've not been into party activity for years, but I do like to take note of the previous year with some reflection and private celebration. I've mixed feelings about this past year. It certainly has been a stressful one. Job transitions and family health issues predominated, punctuated by brief respites. Today is my last day at this work location; I've been here for eight years. They were mostly good years, but many of the people I knew before aren't here anymore. The culture of the place has changed to something foreign to me. It's time to move on.

Moving on takes resolve to navigate the grieving process. I'm ready to leave, but am sad at the same time. Especially so, when considering some of my patients aren't going to be seeing me any more. They'll find new doctors, but I'll miss them. Oh well, c'est la vie, right? I'll just have to make the best of it. Taking down the pictures in my office was hard. I'm not sure where I'll put them, but I'm taking them with me. Hopefully better days lie ahead. Some people have pulled me aside to wish me well and say goodbye. I'll miss them. At least new work awaits me -- I'll be at a new location this week. Though I'm glad to be employed, new starts are stressful, and I'm anxious to get over that newbie hump.

Hopefully this new year carries some good news. I'd like to see my book get picked up by an agent or editor. So far -- nada. There's a lot of hype about persevering in writing, but let's get real -- getting fiction published is difficult, and I don't want to be counted among the throngs of writers who never get their works off the ground. I saw an article from a publisher who wants writers to be authors and not marketing moguls. I liked what I read. As for other good news in 2008, I'd like to see my mother stay off the injured list. That certainly would calm my fears. She's unstable on her feet and has fallen frequently. Walkers, canes, and her "roadster" don't stop the falls (most of the time she won't use them). Last week she had to go to Urgent Care after falling; she needed eleven sutures in her hand.

I try to navigate each day one day at a time AND plan for the future. You never know what the future holds, but much can be anticipated. Hey, I'm a boy scout. The boy scout motto is be prepared. But, trying to anticipate the future is like trying to forecast the weather. The odds of hitting the mark are highest a few days into the future; nobody really knows what's going to happen further down the road. Surprises happen -- like the deer that collided into my brand new car a few months ago. That wasn't exactly something I anticipated. Also, eight years ago when I took this job, I could see myself staying here forever, but it didn't come to pass -- another surprise. So being prepared is mostly about being flexible enough to find your niche in a changing world.

I once told someone that I've gotten use to living on an ice flow: You stay put for as long as there's solid ice under your feet, but when it starts to melt, you relocate to a different one nearby. (Yes, I know -- the polar bears haven't been making it with this effort, but I said these words before I knew about the plight of melting ice caps and polar bears.) Mostly, I said this in regard to an unstable job market, but the principle of being flexible helps navigate many of life's obstacles thrown in your path. Being flexible involves pain. Today I said goodbye to friends and coworkers, and that was hard. We had good times and often engaged in good natured banter with each other. I remember when one nurse reached for papers on the floor as I walked past her.

"You step on me and you're dead meat," she warned.

"Oh, don't worry," I said. "I never step on road kill."

We laughed then and had many other friendly jests. It was a hectic and busy job, but we could still take time out for levity. I'll miss those days.

Until later.

Christmas Musings

Dear Readers:

It's five in the morning, and we're at Marty's Market for the fifty percent, Christmas Clearance Sale. Okay. . . get ready . . . get set . . . GO! And they're off. Mrs. Scuttles makes a giant leap with her specially toned quads and springs into action. Super action toys, aisle five; hoodies for sweet, little pumpkin heads, aisle ten. Yes! Three hoodies still there -- two green, one pink. What? It can't be true. Not that snotty, little Randy, the nosey neighbor two houses down the street.

He races up aisle ten and snatches Mrs. Scuttles's pink hoodie.

"Hey!" she protests. "Give that back."

"It's Christmas ma'am," he says, and tips his hat. "Season of good tidings and cheer. You just gave me some good cheer, so shut your trap." He snickers and races down the next aisle.

Mrs. Scuttles fumes and musters her powerful quads. She cuts Randy off at the checkout line. "Excuse me young man, I believe you have something of mine." She lunges for the pink hoodie and plucks it from his cart.

"Over my dead body! God is my witness," he snarls, and yanks it back.

"Oh, far be it from me to argue with our Lord, Randy. If dead is what our heavenly father wants, then his will be done." She kicks him in the groin, grabs the hoodie, and heads for the exit.

Two more feet to freedom. She collides into the store manager, Scott. He notices her distress. "Good day, Mrs. Scuttles. Is there something wrong?"

"Oh, thank goodness it's you, Scott," she says. "Randy over there looks a bit ill. He might need your help." She winks at him and smiles.

"Why sure, Mrs. Scuttles. I'll be glad to assist him in the same manner you chose. Far be it from me to argue with our Lord."

Merry Christmas to all.

Until later.

Are You a Hamster or a Gerbil?

Dear Readers:

You may think a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but it's not true. Hamsters and gerbils are distinct and not the same. I know this to be a fact because I am an expert on both. For a time, my family residence was graced with the very likes of both hamsters and gerbils who called our house their home. My children dutifully cared for their needs, while I, an astute psychiatrist, carefully observed their behavior. I noticed several things about their behavior that reminded me of human beings. First of all, they get in fights a lot, just like us. Sometimes the fights were downright nasty and divorce arraignments had to be made quickly. Occasionally this required returning the offending "hammy" or gerbil to the store for a refund.

Hamsters and gerbils also like to celebrate family time. One time we were blessed to discover middle daughter's hamster had given birth on Christmas morning. What a beautiful present -- baby hamsters on our Lord's birthday. We cooed as we watched the little babies wiggle in their nest. Then, a few minutes later all hell broke loose, as I learned for the first time hamsters waged war against their kids. We discovered baby hamster parts scattered about the cage. I'll leave some of the gory details to your imagination. I guess Mommy had a violent streak. All I can say is, I'm glad she wasn't my mom. After that incident, I'm not sure if my kids will ever be normal. Middle daughter still has that glazed look in her eye.

Finally, did you know gerbils and hamsters have distinct personalities? Hamsters are lazy bums that sleep all day and run on the wheel at night. You'll be up all night listening to squeaking, moving parts. Gerbils are nervous Nellie explorers who are always on the move. Their different behaviors relate to my indoor workouts at the gym. If I'm in the mood to be a gerbil, I hit the gerbil track -- some teeny-weeny track that circles the upper floor of the recreation center. I can pretend I'm exploring this new and novel place. If I'm in the mood to be a hamster, I stand on the treadmill and zone out and let the machine move my feet. All I have to do is make a few corrective movements with my lower extremities to keep from falling off the back end.

Until later.

Runner's High

Dear Readers:

People talk about endorphins that kick in from jogging -- the runner's high. For me, it's not really true. Running just clears my mind and mostly invigorates me, but no high. It's enjoyable in its own right and offers a good stress buster when you need one. Trouble is, try to keep up with the motivation to hit the trails year round. This time of year in Ohio isn't the most conducive to running, unless you like being cold; wintry weather leaves one's teeth chattering. Spring and early Fall are good times; the cool weather motivates you, but doesn't freeze your hands and toes.

Today, my legs weren't so willing to run. So I gave them a rest and took them to a movie instead. I think I burned a few calories walking from my car to the theater, so that should count for something, right? Oh yes, I forgot -- I also walked back to my car after the movie. Anyhow, I'm tired from all this exercise. I think I'll call it a night after this post is done and hit the sack. Maybe tomorrow I'll tackle the indoor gerbil track and get in some laps. It does help to know I've got a marathon scheduled in February next year. Knowing I have to remain fit or risk "hitting the wall" in a marathon spurs me on to get in the daily runs.

So, enough with the runner's high. Getting high isn't all it's cranked out to be. It takes work to get off one's butt and pound the pavement. Sort of like on Monday mornings, when it takes all you've got to roll out of bed and head toward your place of employment. It takes a lot of effort, right? Runners differ in the time of day they like to put their effort to work. I'm definitely not a morning person, but one time I got out at five in the morning to lace up my shoes and go for a spin. Some runner guy who looked fully awake greeted me with a cheery hello. I felt like telling him to keep his thoughts to himself.

Until later.

Factoid

Dear Readers:

There you have it -- this story is a factual one. Okay, I have this problem -- telling tall tales. Don't get me wrong, I like telling goofy stories. It's just, I forget other people can't always recognize when I'm venturing from the truth. It's not dishonesty -- I'm as "painfully honest" (my mother would say) as they come. But as long as I can remember, I'll start to tell a tale, and then then my story takes off on its own, not necessarily in reliable fashion. Hence, the title of this post: FACTOID. Now you know I'm telling the truth.

This venturing from the facts goes back a long way. Remember grade school and SHOW AND TELL? I loved that part of elementary school. Doing homework and sitting all day attached to my desk was boring, but I looked forward to story time. One day, in second or third grade, my time for SHOW AND TELL had arrived. I had lots to say. My story was about a family vacation. I told how our family went on vacation and found this interesting house to explore. Next thing you know, we were finding secret passageways, walking in dark, scary corridors, and falling through hidden trap doors. I was really enjoying this yarn, when all of a sudden, my teacher interrupted my storytelling.


Teacher Lady: "Now, you know that really didn't happen, right?"

Student Master Story Teller: "Yes, it did happen," I said, alarmed my credibility was being attacked. (My honor was at stake. I had to say something.)


Teacher Lady gave me a stern look. I crawled back to my desk and slunk into the chair, feeling somewhat ashamed for telling tall tales. I should have proclaimed my innocence. I really wasn't trying to lie. I just got carried away by my story, is all. Let that be a lesson to all us old fogies -- embrace our inner child! Stand up and be heard. Revolt, I say, in the name of justice! Well then, protest if not revolt -- at least stand by our stories. There are too many constraints placed on childlike wonder and excitement these days. Let us not distance ourselves from our creative pasts. Open up our sandboxes and play, play, play. (Do you think I'm losing my marbles?)

My middle daughter's artistic ability was cramped by a nice teacher. She was coloring an animal, and the teacher noticed her crayon marks strayed outside of the outline. She was told to "draw within the lines." I asked middle daughter why she didn't do as the teacher instructed. She told me that she was drawing the dog or cat's fur and that fur "doesn't look like that" (the line drawing). I think her teacher needed to be taught a thing or two. Well, I'm done talking about this -- moving on. Now, it's time for stories from Father Funny.

This past Sunday I listened to a visiting priest tell a few jokes. I actually remembered what he said. Usually I'm clueless what happens in Mass because I zone out. The pews are too comfortable, and I'm never awake. This was a visiting priest, and he was fun to listen to. Here are two of his humorous stories.


Funny number one:


An Irish man's parents immigrated to Texas, hoping for a better life after living in poverty and hardship in Ireland. Their son became a wealthy man, and he planned a return trip to Ireland to survey the land of his fathers and to show off his wealth. He arrived in Ireland, and his chauffeur drove him around the island in a luxury sedan. He came upon a small plot of land and eyed a poor farmer chewing on a piece of straw. The rich Texan stopped his car and walked toward the farmer.

Texas Money Bags: "Say fella. How big is your spread here?"

Irish Farmer: "Oh, she runs to the tree over there, to that boulder and back," he said, pointing to a small pittance of land.

Texas Money Bags: "You know friend, where I come from, I can start my car on a Saturday, and it takes me until Wednesday to circle my property."

Irish Farmer: "Oh, I know what you mean," he said, pointing to the Texan's luxury vehicle. "I used to have a car like that. Had to get rid of it."


Funny number two:


A Irish priest gave a spirited homily one Sunday morning. He was banging on the pulpit and screaming and hollering at the congregation, when all of a sudden he looked out over the parishioners and shook his finger. "Which of ye wants to go to heaven? If so, stand up now!" He looked and saw nary a soul sitting -- all were standing. Then he proceeded to preach some more, and his face flushed from all the enthusiasm. He banged the pulpit some more and stretched out his hand again and shook his finger. "Now, declare your allegiance. Which of ye wishes to go to hell. Stand, if it be your desire to go to hell." All immediately sat down, save one.

A hush swept over the congregation, and all eyes were on the lone man.

"So, Sean Flanagan," the priest said, seeing Sean standing in the last pew of the church and trembling a bit. "I have it, you want to go to hell?"

"No Father," Sean replied, his voice quaking. "I just didn't feel right seeing you standing there all by yourself."

Until later.

Cold Nights

Dear Readers:

Yikes! It's cold here. Fetch me my hot chocolate and blanky now. I'm still in that summertime, breezy mood; you know -- find a little downtime, take a walk, jog outside under a warm sun. Today that changed. I could tell something was wrong as soon as I arrived at the recreation center and stepped outside the car to face an icy gust of wind. There's a running track inside the building (I think a thousand or so loops make a mile). My goal was to stay fit and get in some running. But then, I thought about how cold I'd feel once I was done and had to go outside to find my car. That image was disturbing, so I wimped out, retreated, and passed on the running opportunity. That's really lame, don' t you think?

A few years ago, I braved any weather, hot or cold, and ran outside under all kinds of conditions -- the indoor gerbil track was not for me. Others seemed inspired by this old guy who kept up the effort. One time it was fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. All the runners were blowing icy breath-clouds and jumping up and down just to keep warm. We all ran and sloshed through snow and water, and slipped on ice. It was fun. Now, I'm ashamed to say I've become domesticated. Give me a bone and a warm hearth, and I'll be happy. Just don't make me go outdoors where it's cold. There must be something that can shock me out of this stupor.

Until later.

The Angel, the Witch and the Clown

Dear Readers:

'Tis my dream to wake up some day and behold an angel. It's never happened, but I'm holding out for the right moment. Several decades ago I talked to a man who told me he saw the wing of an angel. Maybe I need to pray and work on my holiness, and then one will appear. Today I ordered a chocolate chip cookie that I really didn't need; I should have fasted and done without it -- shown some humility for Pete's sake. Well, I'll let you know when an angel appears. I figure it won't happen for some time, but my heart quickened recently after my daughter talked to my wife. She called my wife to tell her she bought Halloween outfits for our three dogs. One was slated to be the angel. Maybe that's as close as I'll ever get to seeing one.

I could go on. The dogs' costumes befit their personalities quite nicely. Allie is white, cute, and cuddly, so she gets to be the angel. Sandy is black and lurks in the shadows, so she gets to be the witch (Sandy's offended). Maggie is yellow and dumber than a door nail, so she's targeted to be the clown (She doesn't know enough to complain and will probably savor the moment). I don't get to dress up like anything, because I'm not costume-worthy. (I'm working on that.) Give it time, and before you know it, an angel in heaven will notice our devotion to otherworldly things and grant my request to see the real thing. Allie doesn't quite cut it for me. She licks everything she touches, and her wings don't move. Besides, angels don't have tails.

Until later.

Grandma's Sports Car

Dear Readers:

Grandma needed a new mode of transportation, so we bought her one of those four-wheeler jobs; not the kind with a motor, but the kind older folks push around in grocery stores and at church. She's not too excited about her new roadster, and if it were up to her, I think she'd throw it out with next week's garbage. I've tried to highlight its positive attributes: It's blue, her favorite color; it's economical (she pushes it, so there's no sticker shock at the gas pump); she can sit on it and pretend it's a rumble seat; it keeps her from falling on her proboscis. My efforts to convince her of its desirability haven't worked so far.

A week ago some two-year-old kid in a stroller whizzed by her on the bike trail, and I think Mom felt usurped. (That kid's father must have been using non-regulation tires.) I'm wondering if I should put some racing stripes on her four-wheeler to make it look more serious; an attached, collapsible beach umbrella for hot, sunny days might also be a nice addition. Anyhow, I'm still working different angles to see if I can get Grandma to smile and not sneer. I'm impressed with the speeds she can attain with her new vehicle -- especially downhill. Sometimes she charges down the hills so fast, I'm afraid she might become airborne.

Until later.

I'm Back

Dear Readers:

I haven't been myself lately. Some virus-from-hell took up residence in my brain cells for the past two weeks, and I've finally kicked it out. It was either me or it -- one of us had to go. Man, that was some bugger. I got tired of being brain dead, headachy, irritable, foggy, and stuck in that zombie state. It didn't seem like I could enjoy anything -- I stopped running, food lost its taste, and my mind was mush. All I was good for was coughing and sneezing. Trouble was, I couldn't drum up any sympathy for my recent plight (except from other family members similarly accursed). People don't stop to register others afflicted with colds on the list of things to pray for.

When is someone going to find a cure for the common cold? Yes, I'd rather have a cold than some serious illness, but it's amazing how such a common malady can steal your vigor, initiative, and peace of mind. When I was an intern, my body seemed to have an uncanny ability to get sick on my vacations. I felt like getting back at the sick bug for ruining my time off, but how do you punch a virus in the nose? Needless to say, I'm on the mend now and feeling much better. As I told a colleague who asked how I was doing: "It feels good when you stop hitting yourself with a brick." Even though it's Monday, I can celebrate because that big bad virus is gone.

Until later.

Big Bad Bart

Yeah, you heard right -- Big Bad Bart. Triple B for short. Since you're my homeys, you can call me Bart. I decided on the name change after returning from the western range. On the plane ride home, I read stories of bad guys, desperadoes, soiled doves (prostitutes), cigar smoking ladies, gunslingers, and lawmen. I also read Native American stories -- tales from the First People. All those stories got me to reminiscing. For several weeks in my last year of medical school I lived on an Indian Reservation and worked in an Indian hospital. The generous spirit of the people was obvious, and I was fortunate they invited me into their lives.

I tried to learn some of the Assiniboine and Gros Ventre language. Many Indians didn't know their native language, but I found an elderly Gros Ventre woman who did. She agreed to talk to me. She was in her eighties and shared some of her early childhood experiences. When very young, she was taken from her parents and forced to stay at a missionary boarding school to learn English; she wasn't allowed to speak her native tongue. She also had to wear hook and button shoes, adopt the White way of life, and take a "Christian" name. Normally, an Indian child was given a single, descriptive name, but not a first and last name.

Names like Lame Bull and Cut the Rope I still remember. George Lame Bull and Donna Cut the Rope would have been the Anglicized versions (I made up the first names). This elderly woman was proud, but probably unrecognized, for her golden stories from a time gone past. I don't know what came of her, or if she mattered to anyone else, or if she had surviving family, but I do remember some of the Indian words she taught me -- so her story lives on. Sadly, many of the young people didn't know their native language, or show interest in Indian ways. Hopefully, they've since rediscovered their roots.

Years ago I looked into my own roots, trampling around cemeteries to find old gravestone inscriptions, and checking out census records. I discovered my surname is Celtic in origin, likely Irish or Scot. Three hundred years ago my ancestors probably changed their last name to an English sounding one so they wouldn't be persecuted. Name picking took some serious thinking. Did you know Doc Holliday was a dentist? I guess that explains the Doc part. Anyhow, back to my new name. I've decided to pick a mean and ornery one like Big Bad Bart so I won't be persecuted. Wonder what will happen at work when I show up wearing my chaps and spurs?

Billy's Blog

Dear Readin' folk:

Hi. M' name's Billy. Some call me The Kid. I know what yer thinkin' -- How'd a sheep get himself tacked to a goat's name? Welp, that's a long story, and one best suited fer tellin' at 'nother time. Thang is, it ain't always proper to call a feller by his birth name. In my case, I was raised by a pack of goats, so I think my name fits me fine. (I know what yer thinkin' again -- goats don't run in packs, they run in flocks; but that don't do justice to a goat's dignity, making it kin to flocks that ain't even related, like geese.) 'Nough said. M' daddy's a Billy, and my posse runs in packs, which makes us square even. I'll butt heads with anyone who sees different.

Anyhoo, I'm writing fer a specific reason. Folks tell fancy tales these days, but none makes fer as good a butt slappin' as the one I'm 'bout to tell you. It's 'bout that feller Doctor Rick. Somethin's strange 'bout him. He's not right in the head, if you know what I mean. The other day, I was minding my own business, chewing bear grass on Logan Pass, when I seed this feller climbing toward me. He looked like one of them city slicker types. You know, the ones who carry their cell on a belt clip and think they're somethin' cool. He was hollering for help, coz he got himself stuck. I guess he twarnt sure-footed enough to keep himself from fallin' off the side of the mountain.

Welp, I didn't take kindly to some greenhorn botherin' me on my break, but the wife said to help him, so's I did. From the looks of that Doctor Rick feller, you'd had thought he'd been drinking too much huckleberry squeez'ns, staggerin' like he did. He was some sight -- screamin' and hollerin' like a polecat steppin' on a cactus. Seems curiosity got the best of him, so'd he took to walkin' till the trail got smaller and smaller, and higher and higher -- then he seed how high he got and turned scared. Losin' his grip and crazy thinkin's what got him in this fix in the first place. I shook my head, disqusted with the sight, but made toward him straightaway. When he saw me comin', he grabbed his britches and stared at me like he was sunstroke. I moseyed past him to show him the way, and he followed after me -- didn't hear him speak one word the whole time.

We made it best we could down the mountain, and that feller thanked me fer my helpin'. He asked to repay me fer the kindness. It got me to thinkin'. What, with the weather turning cold pretty soon, and vittles running scarce, I thought a small tip would be kindly -- you know, some token of appreciation. My wife needed the money; she's been nagging me for months to buy her some of that newfangled sheep scent (I think it smells like a whorey marmot, but don't tell her I said so). Well, do you think Doctor Rick was ready to offer some token of thanks? Hell no! I even posed for him through his car window, and that no-good, spiny-assed lowlife turned his back on me and sped off -- didn't even drop a dime.

I recken some folks don't take to be'n nice to every feller that passes their way. Why, I'll even admit, I was tempted to let him slip off the slope, fer all I cared, but the wife wouldn't let me. Still, you woulda thought saving his backside counted fer somethin', right? I felt like tellin' him, "Go back to yer rat-invested life in Tenbuckstwo, Doctor Rick," but I figured he twarnt schooled in English well 'nough to possess the necessary understandin', so's I let 'er pass. Still, it torqued my shorts, thinkin' 'bout the injustice of it all. I guess I'll just head back to my bear grass and ferget 'bout it. Thanks fer takin' time to listen. The way I figure, somewheres along the way, every ram gets his just due. While yer at it, teach that lowlander some manners.

Moose Tales

Dear Readers:

Ah, yes. Back to the real world. It's Monday and I'm wearing my work clothes, so my vacation must be over. Two days ago my wife and I were living in the land of moose and honey. We breathed clean air and walked on pristine mountainsides. Today I'm fighting traffic, dirty air, and brain pain. Wouldn't it be great if you could live off the land in a natural environment without going broke, looking like Sasquatch, or having your blood sucked dry by giant mosquitoes? Of course, to survive, you'd need to have adequate provisions.

As for me, I'd only plan on taking the necessary essentials: soap, toothpaste, dried food, and a hot tub. My wife would probably add eyeliner and mascara to the list. We realize it's only a spartan list (oh, yeah -- add a cell phone), but we're trying to be frugal. Wild animals live minimalist lives and don't complain; we could stand to learn from them. Last week I came in contact with one of those fellows in its natural habitat. We were lodging near a lake in the mountains of Western Montana and took a morning stroll to the shore. Our hike stopped abruptly as we neared the open water. A rattling sound, like sticks clattering against each other, alerted me. If I took another step, I'd be ten feet away from a huge set of antlers rising above the rushes. Suddenly, I heard a loud grunt and snort; fear froze me in my tracks. Some giant animal was on the other side of that shrubbery. I didn't believe the beast knew I was there, but if I got any closer, it'd be looking me in the eye. If it charged, I'd be a goner. Just what was on the other side of those bushes? Finally, a flick of the antlers revealed it was a bull moose. I've never seen one before, and he was really huge.

I wasn't able to find a spot to take a good picture; the moose, for sure, would've detected my movements. I knew enough to stay out of his way, so I just stood motionless. Some lucky guy who already positioned his camera nearby was getting perfect head shots of my moose. Still, I was enthralled. I had arrived at this serene lake early in the morning to find myself in spitting distance of a large wild animal. The moose grunted loudly every time it breathed (my wife said like a galloping horse). Finally, he sauntered over to the other side of the lake, so I was free to step out into the open and watch from a safe distance. More drama followed. A doe and her fawn pranced across the shallow waters of the lake in front of the moose, occasionally glancing toward him. He didn't like their approach and snorted loudly at them. Then he charged after the deer, causing them to pick up their pace; water splashed in their wake as they double-timed it to the other side, and the fawn's tail stood up like a white flag as it stared nervously at the moose. My wife managed to snap this picture for you to see. How fortunate to be in such a wild place at this opportune moment. The air smelled of fragrant pine, and the scene was surreal.

Until later.

Gone Fishing

I'm vacationing in a land that's hostile to phones, computers, and cell phones. So I'm leaving mine here. See you in a couple weeks.

I've Finished My Novel

Sure you have, Doctor Rick. You've been saying that a lot lately. You finished your novel six months ago. Then, you finished it last month; and two weeks ago; and you tweaked it a bit this week. When are you going to learn? Your job is not to finish, but to write. Think of it like running on a treadmill; you're never going anywhere, but at least you're getting in shape. That's what finishing a book is like; never finishing, but at least it's taking shape.

Okay, uncle. I give up. I know that already. What I really mean is, I'm tired of editing my writing over and over again. It feels like I'm going around the house, looking for tiny bits of lint hiding in nooks, crannies, and corners. Not the most exciting job in the world. No sooner do I make a clean sweep of the area, but there's more lint to be found. I have a deep respect for editors who do this sort of thing every day. It's really tedious. Thank goodness, I'm graced with the determination to get the job done.

At least, my novel is completed. It feels good to have finished a marathon literary work. Maybe long distance running has something in common with endurance writing. Or being a doctor might help; physicians always talk about being "experts in delayed gratification." Who knows? The important thing is, I'm done. Now, for the next part of my journey. Time to look for a literary agent who likes my story. Pray for me, keep me in your thoughts, and don't send me anything to edit.

Until later.

Pin Toes

Dear Readers:

Okay, it's hot off the press, and I'm sharing it with the cool crowd -- you cyberspace fans out there. My daughter gave me permission to share this newsworthy event. She has pin toes. It all started when she was shadowboxing at her momma's home. My phone rings at the bewitching hour of three a.m., and I hear loud noises in the background. Middle daughter is whooping and hollering after spearing her big toe on a needle.

She's busy doing the drama dance, so is indisposed. Little brother jumps on the phone and takes command. He tells me she's having a meltdown. I tell him to tell her to pull out the needle. Tactical failure -- little brother resists fatherly advise. He tells Big Daddy to come over and take it out. Big Daddy resists. "It's three in the morning," he says. Little brother resists. "It won't come out. It's bent." Big Daddy calls a time out, then regroups. Action resumes: "So tell her to go to the emergency room and get it pulled out."

Little brother still resists. "You're awake, why don't you come over? You're her dad." Big Daddy's feeling the heat and comes up with lame excuses. Finally he hangs up and all is silent, but he's unable to sleep. He calls little brother. "Tell middle daughter to come to my house, and I'll look at it." Too late. Middle daughter's momma already took her to hospital. At the hospital, a nice doctor x-rays her toe to make sure the needle didn't hit the toe bone. Then he pulls out the needle, and all is well.

Now, little brother goes to sleep, middle daughter goes to sleep, momma goes to sleep, and Big Daddy stays awake. His mind's racing from all the drama, and his eyes won't close. Never mind the fact he's been working long hours and really needs his rest. Big Daddy asks himself this question, "How come my kids say shrinks aren't real doctors, but when they need a thorn taken out, I'm supposed to make house calls?"

Until later.

What the Sam Hill?

Dear Readers:

Something mysterious and strange happened to me recently. More strange than the look on my face after I've chugged a glass of milk and realized it was buttermilk. Nah, this was even better. My wife and I were taking in the sights at a Florida state park when, behold, she spotted it -- the rare thing! Our conversation went something like this:

Wife: "Get the camera! I can't believe it! It's a Sand Hill Crane."

Me: "What crane?"

Wife: "It's over there. Hurry! They're really rare."

Me: "What crane?"

Then I started to grow more excited after I realized she used the "rare" word. Something's riveting about rare things: steak, spare ribs(rhymes with rare), or"I rarely see you anymore; rare have you been?" Anyhow, because it was a rare bird, I was excited. Looking more closely, we saw there were two -- probably a mommy and daddy bird making rare baby birdies. We managed to sneak up close to snap the picture on the bottom left -- the crane's in the middle. We moved on and continued our nature hike until we started to melt from the Florida sun and had to head back. Sure enough, our birds were still there. My wife snuck up really close, to within five feet. It amazed us they didn't fly away. I felt for a minute God was in our midst, granting us this special glimpse of his glorious creation. It was a rare moment.

My wife took more pictures, and I waited by the picnic shelter when, behold, a second miracle! One of the birds moved ever so slowly in my direction. It was obviously under some sort of spell, because it continued in a straight line toward me. I've always loved nature's little creatures, and wondered for a moment if it knew I was safe to be around -- like it could trust me. I imagined how Dr. Dolittle must have felt, having all his feathery and furry friends snuggle up to him. I was deeply touched.

Years ago, I'd saved a raccoon from certain death. It was lying on the road at night when I drove by and saw it's eyes flash gold in the headlights. It unnerved me, so I turned around and pulled alongside. Sure enough, it was alive. A throw rug in the car served as the stretcher and papoose, and I nestled the raccoon somewhere in the back seat. To my amazement it started wandering around the inside of my car before sauntering up front and laying on my feet. (Now that was some ride. Try to drive a car while a racoon's snoozing on your feet.) By the time I got him to the after-hours crisis center, he was fully awake, snarling at the technician who reached at him with gloved hands. I found out later the little guy made it; a car struck, but only dazed him. I felt good.

Well, back to the bird miracle. Seeing this rare bird walk toward me also felt good. That is, until my wife broke the spell:

Me: "Look! He's coming toward me. I think it trusts me."

Wife: "I doubt it. It's probably just looking for handouts."

Great. Bubble pops. Duh, Doctor Rick . . . who's the bird brain here? Picnic shelter? . . . people food? . . . hungry munchkins dropping fries on the floor and shouting, "Mommy, can I feed the birds?" Oh well, it's still a special bird to me. So what if he's lost a bit of his wild edge and has become a couch potato. This was still one rare bird.

Until later.

The Fly in the Ointment

Dear Readers:

Ever heard that phrase tossed around? I like it; it aptly explains those minor obstacles in our lives we try to overcome. Another one is "burr in the saddle," for you cowpokes out there. Or how about "needle in a hay stack," for you farmers (Wait, that might mean something else). Anyhow, "fly in the ointment" is a good phrase and captures a lot in one pithy statement.

But what if you were the fly? Then your perspective would have to change. Landing on ointment is a major event in a fly's life. Flies try to avoid such things, like we try to avoid tornadoes. The little feller stuck in such a situation likely faced certain death; stuck for life, never to see his mommy or daddy again, only to become a fossil, and maybe end up in a museum here in Columbus. It was especially bad if he were stuck in a jar of petroleum jelly, or even worse, used petroleum jelly. That'd be like a human being falling into a giant tar pit that doubled as an outhouse -- not a pretty picture.

So before you say, "Oh, that was the fly in the ointment," to describe some minor obstacle in your life, be sensitive to the fact, that somewhere, unbeknownst to you, a fly lay marooned in a foreign place, hidden from his family in some petroleum jelly jar, never to see the light of day. The gravity of that situation alone, should give us pause. We need to think before we speak next time we've had a bad day, and be considerate to the little ones who might be listening.

Until later.

House Sparrows

Dear Readers:

They get a bad rap, house sparrows, that is; little birds that came from England, or thereabouts, and took over our planet. Well, not quite. But they do threaten local bluebird populations, and I've heard naturalists talk of the need to destroy baby sparrows if found in bluebird nesting boxes.

I don't have a heart for such treatment, even if they are aggressive buggers. It's true, they are aggressive. I'll often find one or two fleeing from my garage if I forgot to close the door. You'll never see bluebirds venture that close. I had fond memories of bluebirds flying overhead when I was a kid. We lived closed to a wooded area and a field, and they were plentiful.

House sparrows are cute in their own way. There's one in front of me right now. It's a male, looking for a handout. I happen to be sitting on a picnic bench, so he's probably learned to find good fixings here. It isn't his fault he's pushy, so leave him alone.

Until later.

Ginormous Deal

So ginormous is now an acceptable word. Big deal. I've been using unacceptable words for years, and no one ever noticed. Aren't new innovations often ignored until the passing of an age? Only years later, after some child genius bites the dust, are such gems discovered.

"Cootie" is an example of child genius never given its just due. My whole first grade class knew what it meant: some yucky thing on girls that rubbed off on boys. We knew enough to run away from girls who had them. But adults never learned the word. Look in a dictionary and it says a cootie is a body louse. Maybe first grade girls did have body lice, I don't know, but my point is the true meaning of cootie hasn't been recognized. Modern definitions simply lack the intimate connection of cooties to girls, and boys running away from them. If first graders can invent words, why can't we? Think of something that will make you famous, then write it down:

Snargle (verb):
1) to express disturbing feelings (She snargled at her husband all day long)
2) to trip over one's feet on the way to the bathroom at nighttime (Why don't you put your shoes in the closet where they belong, so I won't snargle all the time?)
Synonyms: dunkdraggle.

Until later.

I Don't Like it When . . .

A . . . a person lies to your face -- and pulls it off.

B . . . someone tells you the brutal truth -- just to be brutal.

C . . . a pastor acts holy -- but is holey.

D . . . someone smiles in your face -- and pees on your leg.

Add your own comments; be bold, be ruthless. Might as well get it off your chest.

What Is Your Life Song?

Dear Readers:

Last night I finished this, only to find it wouldn't post. So goes life; we all navigate minor obstacles every day and, occasionally, major stressors. Currently, my wife and I are exploring new job opportunities. Though hopeful for better times, we are nevertheless stressed-out. At least, now, we have time to reassess what's important in our lives. It's such a rat race out there; I'm often left with little time to reflect on where I've been, and where I'm going.

This was not my concern as a high school student, until my senior year. I was at a loss to know what I'd do after graduation. Then a friend told me he was going to be a veterinarian, and I thought I'd found my future. I've always loved animals. Only thing is, I didn't become a vet; it wasn't in the cards. Instead, I went to medical school and became an ophthalmologist; then I went to theological seminary and became a minister; then I trained to become a psychiatrist. After all this training, you'd think I'd had figured out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Not so. It's a work in progress; I'm a work in progress. Not everyone finds one vocation to settle on forever.

Happiness is another issue to navigate. Chasing after your vocation is one thing, but the pursuit of happiness is even more elusive. My grandfather was a postal worker for forty years. When he wasn't delivering mail, he took lead roles in community theater. He was a happy man and found balance in his life. Everyone's different. Community theater wasn't my lot. It took me quite a long time to realize happiness came not only from pursuing a vocation, but from being with my family, loving, and being loved.

Money can't buy happiness. Celebrity status, getting rich, and flash in the pan experiences are newsworthy events, but pursuing such things only distance us from the most important life-giving aspects of our lives. Jesus said it best: "Where you heart is, there your treasure lies also." So my faith sustains me and keeps me centered on the most important things in life. Trying to live by Jesus's code is easier said than done, however. Work , family conflicts, and unwanted intrusions into our lives occur constantly.

I'll say this in closing. When I was a teenager, I took a job as a busboy. Low pay, bossy waitresses, and a lazy assistant manager (who also bossed me around) were highlights of that experience. What struck me as the most memorable occurred when, after work, I thumbed a ride home. An elderly man pulled over and let me in on that grey, rainy day. I remarked, "Lousy weather, huh?" His answer still haunts me: "Oh, I'm just glad to be alive another day." A poignant reminder of what's most important. A life well lived is a happy one.

Until later.

I'm Feeling Really Blue

Dear Readers:

Which story is true? You decide.

For many years I'd asked myself this question: "Where, oh where, is Wonder Bird?" Finally, I located him (picture enclosed). Wonder Bird had control issues. As soon as I discovered him, he demanded we duel. So we squared off and stared at each other. Sometimes I crossed my eyes to gain advantage. He won of course (that's why they call him Wonder Bird), and I had to look away. But I did manage to give him something to remember me by. During our staring contest, the strain got to him, and he started to shake (I can cross my eyes for a long time). His veins were popping out all over his body, and he turned blue. I guess our fight did something permanent to his feet, because the blue never changed back.

Some people tell this story differently. They'd like you to believe my brother-in-law snapped this picture of a Blue-Footed Booby in the Galapagos Islands. That's one explanation, but it doesn't explain why his feet are blue. I think you'll agree my version is superior. My observations were studied under strictly controlled conditions and should pass muster with the scientific community. Also, my mine is the more pleasant one to read.

Until later.

Don't Tell Anybody

Dear Readers:

Today I decided to expose three of my childhood secrets:

According to Mom, I was "painfully honest" as a child. But truth is a relative concept. I remember playing with my younger brother in the neighbor's barn. A large metal tank was sitting in the middle of the dirt floor with a faucet at one end. I turned on the spigot, tasting the nastiest water imaginable. I told my brother to try it, which he vigorously attended to, taking in several gulps. Then he started to have a nose bleed, and I think he vomited blood. We were scared and made a break for home. The secret is this: I tried to run faster than him to get to Mom first. I knew I'd be in serious trouble if he got there before me and told his version. My legs moved like egg beaters, and I huffed and puffed while trying to think of an alibi. I flew into the house announcing: "Something's wrong with Middle-Brother." I tried to look perplexed to cover my anguish. The perplexed part was to demonstrate my innocence. The anguished part was the guilty Catholic knowing he was going to Hell; I had poisoned my poor brother.

I never liked trouble, but somehow it always found me. That's the second secret. Like the time that snotty little punk-of-a-friend Freddie (with his stupid pet turtle, Bubbles) ratted on me for starting fires. I was minding my own business, trying to focus the sun's light through my magnifying glass. The dried leaf started to smoke and a hole began to form when what should appear on the horizon but Eddie and both of our moms. My mother had told Freddie's mom her son "would never" start fires. I guess she wasn't a good judge of character. At least in this instance, I didn't have to tell the truth. Since I was caught red-handed, truth-telling wasn't necessary.

My last secret is more personal. I can cross my eyes, one at a time, and without looking at the end of my nose. You heard me correctly. My habit has been a long standing one, and I've become quite famous for this phenomenon. It must be genetic, because my son and oldest daughter can do it too. When my son was four he announced, "I see two Daddies," and I knew our family was double crossed. My mother used to tell me, "Stop crossing your eyes or they'll get stuck." I'd get back at her by crossing them some more, and it usually worked. She couldn't look at me when I'd to the eye thing -- her face would cringe and she'd look away. Now that three of us possess this gift, we have the power to strike simultaneously.

Until later.

Remember Y2K?

I remember it very well. Our family's toast to the new millennium never happened. My siblings brought out the champagne and stemware. Then, they remembered Doctor Rick was a teetotaler. They put away their glasses, and New Year's Eve passed without imbibing. We soberly watched the TV screen while the world celebrated with fireworks, lanterns and beach parties. I guess my brother and sister didn't want to drink alone. It made sense. When I was in college, I expected my friends to chugalug with me. (Someday, remind me to tell you about my high school buddy who saw a leprechaun in the bottom of his glass. He was Irish.)

My teetotaler status stemmed from an incident years ago at a local pizza joint. I was enjoying my usual beer and pizza when one of my kids remarked, "Dad, do you realize alcohol kills brain cells?" I thought for a moment how that only applied to "excessive" consumption, and I readied for my beer's defense. Instead, I relented and joined hands with elementary school children and my kids' classmates who'd made a pledge to the D.A.R.E. officer to abstain from alcohol and drugs for life. Plus, I didn't have many brain cells left, so the death-to-brain-cells theory helped persuade me. There was no point in arguing against the collective wisdom of an entire elementary school class. Besides, I worried they might hurt me if I resisted.

Now my kids have grown into young adults. They say "it doesn't matter anymore" if I drink or don't drink. "That's when we were little, Dad," is the familiar refrain. My absolution came just in time. Temptation reared it's ugly head last weekend. It was family reunion time and middle brother brought his usual stash of booze. One of those moments occurred during happy hour when my brother offered me some wine. I hesitated, but before I could resist, he told me he'd give me just a "splash." Indeed, it was a small amount; like the splash of wine we get in church every Sunday, right? Anyhow, I can't recall how many splashes I got that evening, but I'm sure I've killed some brain cells. (No wonder my brother is in sales. He's good at it.)

Until later.

The Scarlet Tanager

I know. How random is this? My last story profiled five-legged slugs and primordial soup, but now I'm bird watching? It seems that blogging has revealed something of myself. I like variety and get bored with monotony, sameness, routines. Don't get me wrong -- I'd lose my sanity if there weren't any predictable schedules and ways of managing life. Chaos is just too much to handle. But on an every day level, the cycle of work, sleep and work, doesn't cut it. Too mundane. Watch me cut the grass and you'll notice I never cut it the same way. It isn't planned, but it happens every time. I'd hate mowing if I were forced to travel the same circles every time. Such an endeavor requires a little spicing up, variety. (My kids would say I rarely cut the grass, so I shouldn't be talking like this. Well, maybe they're right, but they get paid.)

Not everyone's the same. My neighbor's more neurotic (I mean disciplined) than me. He cuts and trims his yard with clockwork timing and precision accuracy. His yard has more curb appeal, and I have more weeds. So we both have something to brag about.

Anyhow, on to the Scarlet Tanager. It's a beautiful bird. Bright scarlet body with black wings and tail, it's something to behold. I've rarely seen one, but sure enough, my wife and I sighted one last week. We were sitting in our car, and it lit on a branch close by. It stayed for only a few minutes before it left its perch, but we were awed. When we headed home, the rat race of work and errands took over, and the peace we experienced faded. It was back to the grindstone -- work, sleep, work. Maybe I should juggle my schedule a bit to spice things up. How about work, sleep, vacation and take up a hobby? Or call in sick and run a marathon? Or call in "really sick" and finish my novel? Or say I was kidnapped and travel the world ?

Until later.

The Big Bang Theory

Bang! Our universe came into existence. The explosion rained water and ashes upon the earth and clogged the sewer drains. Out of this slurry wiggled the first slug. It was a creepy, crawly thing that slid on its belly. Later, it mutated and grew five legs. Legs enabled it to pole-vault over sticks on the ground, and it could move fast. It multiplied, and soon the earth was covered with little land rovers that could go zero to sixty in . . . well, no one's really sure.

Finally, two-legged, upright slugs won out. They ate less, and because they stood upright, reached the tomatoes high on the vine that the short, stubby, five-legged ones couldn't. Since they ate less, they didn't spend as much time foraging for food, and their schedules allowed for more discretionary time. So they took off Saturdays and Sundays and became our first human beings.

So there you have it. I can vouch for the authenticity and credibility of this account because I learned about it in college, and believe it to be true. It explains why we're fascinated with Fourth of July fireworks. We are wired to look to the sky, to the source of our being, when a long time ago, the first explosion shook the firmament of the earth and showered us with primordial soup.

Until later.

Smoky Mirrors and Everything Dear

Dear Readers:

Well, hey. I solved the mystery. Mom visited her internist a few days ago to check out her blood pressure and her sore knee. The nurse asked if she needed any refills on her thyroid medication. My mother smiled, politely informing her she quit it because she took "too many pills." What was she thinking! No wonder she felt weak and had trouble walking. Low thyroid levels probably had something to do with her recent fall. I urged her to not quit medication again unless her physician advised her to do so. The bland expression on her face told me she needed convincing. It wasn't going to be easy.

Later she had an appointment with her orthopedic surgeon. No broken bones, but he told her to use the walker for the next three weeks -- no exceptions. So far, she's complied, sort of. My daughter caught her pulling the walker behind her while she galloped ahead. I also caught her walking backward with it. I pointed out the error of using a walker in such a manner. She had to use it properly, or she could fall again. Catchers wore face masks to keep flying objects from squashing their noses, right? But the masks had to be worn properly to protect them. Mom listened, but her face remained blank. I think she imagined a muzzle covering my nose.

Until later.

Dog Tales

This weekend was for the dogs. They had fun; I didn't. I intended to work on my novel and have it finished by Monday. Saturday morning, my wife and I decided to kick-start the day with a fun run for our dogs, then we'd busy ourselves tackling our goals. She'd clean the house, and I'd write. We decided to take our dogs to Dog Park. Dog Park is like heaven on earth for dogs. Canines come from everywhere to run, swim, and smell each other's butts. My wife leashed our three dogs while Mom climbed in the car. Everything was fine until my mother tried to sit down. Her attempt to seat herself failed, and she fell out of the car, landing on her back. I jumped out of the driver's seat and ran to the other side. There she lay, stretched out on the driveway, staring at the clear blue sky. With my wife's help, we lifted Mom to her feet. She couldn't walk because her knee hurt, but otherwise felt fine. After we arrived at the park, I helped her hobble to a bench. She had to sit down and watch the dogs from a distance.

Later, her knee still hurt, so we drove to an urgent care facility. The doctor thought her knee was sprained or fractured. She showed me the X-ray and said she wasn't sure about the fracture part. We'd have to wait a few days for the radiologist to make that determination. Meanwhile, someone had to stay with Mom twenty-four hours a day to assist her. My wife and I could manage the weekend, but what about during the work week? I looked to my kids for their assistance and they jumped at the opportunity. Offering them money also helped. Somehow, my wife and I got through the weekend, tired, yet showing few scars. Watching your mother sounds easy, but it's not. It's a draining experience. Mothers who taught their children how to take their first steps, aren't very good at listening to their adult children tell them how to walk. Our talking was bold, imaginative and incessant: "You're not supposed to walk without your walker;" "the doctor said to stay off your knees;" "you need to eat more food;" "why didn't you ask for help?" When we'd catch Mom walking on her own, she'd smile at us. That's her way of letting us know who's boss. Needless to say, it's Monday morning and my wife and I are whipped. I'll let you know how this progresses. As for my plans to finish my novel? Catching up on sleep sounds better.

Until later.

Between Two Worlds

My mind's swirling. Two of my children graduated, one from high school and the other, college. There's little time for me to take it all in. I wish life would slow down, so I could stop to savor important events. Instead, the weekends race by, Monday shows up, and it's time for work again. My schedule's too hectic, and there' s little time to reflect; only enough time to wish for more.

Nevertheless, I feel fortunate to have good memories to hold and cherish. My kids won't always be with me, and their recent graduations reminded me of that fact. When they were little, they looked forward to "special time." I'd take them on day trips, to the movies, or we'd eat desserts. Being at their graduation was just as special for me.

Until later.

How to be a Dork

Today I woke up at the crack of dawn and decided to get in a morning run. I drove to the fitness center, laced up my running shoes and set out the door for a five mile loop. The morning air was fresh, and a pleasant breeze coursed over my hair.

Then it happened. As I was making my way down a tree-lined road, someone shouted from a passing car, "HEY, DORK!" It took a few seconds for the words to register. I didn't like being the target of a joke. Besides, it was early morning and not a time to be humorous. I channeled my anger into faster running. At the finish I checked out my watch and noticed I had a fast run. At least my time was good.

Until later.

Marathon Facts

Dear Readers:

Yesterday I ran a marathon. You can tell, because today, I move very slowly and ache in a lot of places. It was one of my slower races and humbled me, again. Running 26.2 miles is really a challenge. Most of the time, no matter how much preparation you give it, something goes wrong, either before or during the race. Usually it's minor, like aches and pains, but sometimes it's more substantial, like no strength, no stamina. The stamina part is the hardest for me to figure out. Sometimes you have it, and other times you don't. This was one time I didn't have it.

My wife said I looked exhausted halfway through the race, and had bags under my eyes. Truth is, I felt like I had bags under my eyes, and I was tempted to quit after the first ten miles. It was a small marathon in Buffalo, New York. I've run there before, and usually do very well. Yesterday seemed like any other race day morning. Runners collected around the announcer, a singer belted out the Canadian and United States national anthems, the horn sounded and we were off. I spent the next 26.2 miles huffing, puffing and plodding along, and had to resort to many walking periods in the latter part of the race. I think what kept me going was knowing how bad I'd feel if I didn't finish. Finish I did, but with difficulty.

Ironically, I ran the Boston Marathon a few years ago and "quit" two times during that race. It was a hot day, and I was light-headed and beat. I remember standing in a gas station watching all the runners go by, while I waited for someone to pick me up. Minutes passed and no one came to get me, so I got back in the race and ran some more. I eventually finished the race in under four hours. Yesterday, the weather was cool and I ran a much easier course, but it took longer than Boston to complete, and I was tired the whole time. Go figure. At least I finished, so I got a medal to take home.

Until later.

Thar She Blows

Okay, so I didn't see any whales. But my car did blow a gasket. At least, that's what the mechanic figured. He couldn't be sure, unless I forked out twenty-five hundred dollars, so he could take the engine apart to see what ailed it.

I was on my way home, when all of a sudden the car died. It coasted to the side of the road. When I restarted it, a rattle could be heard under the hood when I drove off. It died again and hobbled to the side of the road. This time I got out, popped up the hood and looked inside. Some steam, but no other clues.

The wise physician engaged his mental faculties. I'd just wait for my car to get over it's hissy fit, then restart the car and slowly drive it to the nearest service station. Even a wimpy engine could make it if I was easy on it. This strategy worked for about one minute before the car died a third time. Now the dial on the dash indicated it was running a fever; Damn! I pushed it too hard. Now my car was really sick, and I was the reason. An hour later I was sitting in the cab of a tow truck next to the driver. My old car dragged along till she found a place to rest at a car hospital nearby. The mechanic said her condition was terminal, and I had to let her go. It was difficult, but I managed.

Until later.

Pick Your Pain

Dear Readers:

Today I'm having a good day. That's because last week and the week before it are behind me. The dreaded visit at the dentist's office is over, and I've finished my maiden voyage in the underground world visited by proctologists.

The dentist was bad enough. No matter how much anesthetic is given, I can always count on an uncomfortable experience. Usually, I get reassuring words like, "The shot will take the pain away," and I'm left with a drooling lip, but a partially anesthetized tooth. Halfway through the procedure I'm likely to be in a suspended state of animation, levitated several inches above the dentist's chair, my hands firmly gripping both arm rests. Somehow, the dentist got it right this time, and there wasn't any pain. But it was too late. The mental stress from years of dental work had taken its toll. I felt like I was sitting next to a guy trying to reassure me I was safe, while he defused a bomb.

The dentist was followed by another trauma -- the colonoscopy. I'm over fifty, so I'm supposed to get one to make sure I don't have colon cancer. I asked my family doctor to schedule one, since I've put it off for so long. The worst part of the procedure wasn't the colonoscopy, but the preparation; a liquid diet and laxative the day before, and no liquids the day of the procedure. That worked out to about thirty hours of no real food. By the time my scheduled colonoscopy arrived, I was feeling crummy and listless. The nurse noticed my haggard appearance and asked if I was okay. I said I wasn't. She asked if I did anything unusual. I told her I ran 10 miles, because I felt lousy. Then I knew I was in trouble. She told me I was a doctor and should have "known better" than to run on a empty stomach and dehydrate myself. I told her I felt just as lousy before the run, but no matter how much I tried to convince her, she stood her ground. Then she rounded up the troops and told more nurses. I tried a lame joke: "Hey, I'm a child psychiatrist. I never grew up." But they didn't look amused. Then I tried another one, "You know, doctors make horrible patients." They still weren't amused.

Well, the colonoscopy wasn't a big deal. No pain and I can't remember anything except telling the doctor, "Don't put this on the Internet." I was really thirsty when I got home, so I downed a milk shake, a slushy, an iced tea and some other drink. Then it all came up later when I ate dinner.

Yep, today's a good day.

Until later.

Flying Turtles

Dear Readers:

My wife and I traveled to Lake Erie this weekend for some R & R, and we checked out a bird sanctuary in a nearby marsh. It was migrating season, and warblers, some a brilliant yellow, flitted from branch to branch, high in the trees. They were hard to see with the naked eye, but my wife's binoculars brought them right up to my nose. Imagine perfectly-formed yellow balls of fluff. We saw other birds also: several eagles, an owl, and a whip-poor-will, to name a few. Serious birders were everywhere, clutching cameras and tripods, and wearing khaki outfits and broad brimmed hats. We quickly discovered if birders grouped together and pointed their cameras in the same direction, it meant there were good sightings ahead.

As I walked along the wooden walkway, I noticed something moving on the ground. A turtle, her head sticking high and sporting a bright yellow throat, was navigating over twigs and leaves. I stopped and watched her while people walked past me. They seemed disinterested in her and were focused on the air-borne creatures. But I stayed longer. Finally, a male birder walked up, and I pointed toward the turtle. He became excited and invited others to take a look. It was a Blanding's Turtle, an unusual find, and considered threatened or endangered in several states. Another man, a naturalist, stopped to give his commentary. He took some pictures and talked into a recorder. People collected around him and lingered. Soon, a crowd formed and telescopic camera lenses and tripods were all around me. I had to move away to allow a camera man a better angle for his turtle picture.

At last, my turtle found her moment of glory and her honor was restored. If only she had wings.

Until later.

Dog's Best Friend?

Why do dogs stay with their owners? And who's really in charge? Think about it. Dogs are using us. We are the ones that do all the work. Dogs don't have to take their humans out for a walk, yet we have to be their chauffeur every day. And when is the last time you saw a dog work an honest 40 hour week? They lie around every day of the year, but we only get two weeks vacation. Dogs are smarter than we might imagine. In fact, I think it's all part of some kind of dog propaganda to have us believe we're in charge. Truth be told, they hire us to take care of them. We're just a bunch of lackeys.

First we had to pay money to get one. No honest dog would cohabit with a human for free. Secondly, they make sure we promise them a lifetime supply of food and toys, before they sign on. They have a dog union, Dog Society, to make sure we get it right. If we don't, the police come and free them. Dogs pretend they're dumb just to keep us unsuspecting and under their control. They tolerate orders like, "Sit," "Bark," and "Rollover," just so they can get free treats. I heard a dog talking over Puppy Chunks one day. He was a back-alley mutt who was frustrated that his human took three weeks to learn how to give a treat. He started to miss his life on the streets and almost left, but he hung on until his master finally got it. After that I guess things worked out okay.

See you next week.

Racing Grandmas

Dear Readers:

Today, I’m at Grandma’s house. I’m helping her with leaky basement issues, bills and the like. She just came back from church and looked disgusted, waving a piece of paper. Turned out she was speeding, and the police officer awarded her a ticket. It was the first time she ever got one. I told her it was like winning the lottery, except someone else won, and she’d have to give them her money. Then I got to be the parent for a bit, and discussed the virtues of safe driving habits, all the gas money she blew, and other important lessons to learn -- sort of like what I’d heard her say when I was a teenager. I encouraged my other siblings to call her and congratulate her for reaching a major milestone and winning her first ticket. I’m tired from all the hard work and phone calls, but it was worth it.

Today, I’m going to be very careful. She might try to swat me with the paper when I’m not looking.

Juicy Lips

Dear Readers:

Another day, and what should come to mind but a man called Juicy Lips. No, this isn't X-rated stuff. More like greasy pimple-faced teenager stuff. Juicy Lips was a name the waitresses gave to a testy patron at a local restaurant. I worked one summer as a bus boy (I was the pimply teenager). This man showed up for coffee and donuts and always left a ten cent tip. He was demanding and often barked orders at the waitresses. I think what really ticked them off was the chump change he left on the table for their efforts to please him.

So the waitresses decided to organize one day. A plan to neutralize him galvanized out of thin air. Juicy Lips, a large, rotund man, so named because he had thick, round lips, shouted out his order one day for more coffee. A waitress promptly showed up and "accidentally" spilled coffee on his lap. She apologized profusely, but I could see her smiling as she headed back for more coffee. All the other waitresses hid behind a counter to watch the scene unfold. They couldn't stop laughing. I got to see it too -- that experience was worth more than ten cents.

Later gator.

Her Brain Wasn't Awake

Dear Readers:

Last night I got to bed too late. I accidentally deleted my posting and had to recreate it from memory. It came out all right, but the light by my computer woke up my wife. She asked me why I was up so late. Our conversation went something like this:

"Why is the light on?"

"Oh, I had to chase away some monkeys that broke into our bedroom."

"What monkeys?"

"The monkeys that broke into our bathroom window. They jumped on your legs -- that's why your legs are sore -- and I had to chase them away with a stick. Go back to bed."

"Are you looking at bad web sites?"

"No."

"Okay. Goodnight."

That was our conversation. If only more couples enjoyed such intellectually stimulating discourse.

Until tomorrow.

My Brain Isn't Awake

Hello first-time readers:

This is my first entry and I have no idea what to write about. How about hippos? I know it's somewhat random, but it was the word that came to mind when I was searching for a blog address. Sadly, it's taken. My inspiration for hippo came from a nature documentary that showcased hippos having a veggie feast on the Nile River, while fishy friends ate the gross stuff between their toes. As for me, I'll take the hippo food over the fish food.

Anyhow, hippos are really cool. When they're happy, they look like giant bobbers floating on the water. All they do is eat all day, while fish-servants give them pedicures. When they're angry, it's time to clear out. They bare their teeth, their mouths gape open, and they turn into fast-moving snap dragons with poor dental hygiene. If I tried to open my mouth that wide, I'd probably end up with temporomandibular joint pain.

Well, it's time to go. We'll talk later.