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.