Dear Readers:
I've started my own Web site and you're invited. I'm retiring this blog to focus on writing novels. I'll use my new Web site to tell stories, write about writing, and to promote future works. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I hope to become a published author.
My web address: http://www.ricblack.com/
Until later.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
I'm Alive
Dear Readers:
It's been a long time since my last post. In fact, curiosity prompted me to check to see if this post still floated in cyberspace. Sort of spooky, seeing your work standing and not collecting dust. Anyhow, I haven't decided what to do with this blog. Maybe I'll keep it, maybe not. I'm planning to put up a new web site that showcases some of my planned novels. I'll keep you updated when I know more.
Until later.
It's been a long time since my last post. In fact, curiosity prompted me to check to see if this post still floated in cyberspace. Sort of spooky, seeing your work standing and not collecting dust. Anyhow, I haven't decided what to do with this blog. Maybe I'll keep it, maybe not. I'm planning to put up a new web site that showcases some of my planned novels. I'll keep you updated when I know more.
Until later.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Sandwiched
Dear Readers:
As you may know, I've written humorous anecdotes about my mom in the past. Unfortunately, she's not well lately, and I'm busy trying to help her stay afloat (she has frequent falls and doesn't eat enough). It's taking a lot of my family's time, and every day of the week, so I've been unable to find time to post on this blog. I've decided I'm going to take a writing sabbatical for an indefinite period until I regain my mojo. Thanks for your support and keep in touch.
Until later.
As you may know, I've written humorous anecdotes about my mom in the past. Unfortunately, she's not well lately, and I'm busy trying to help her stay afloat (she has frequent falls and doesn't eat enough). It's taking a lot of my family's time, and every day of the week, so I've been unable to find time to post on this blog. I've decided I'm going to take a writing sabbatical for an indefinite period until I regain my mojo. Thanks for your support and keep in touch.
Until later.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Snow Days
Dear Readers:
Today should have been a snow day -- it didn't happen. Even though the weather was cold, crappy, and the driving hazardous, I had to go to work. I'm disappointed. In grade school, that kind of freebie offered welcome relief from winter doldrums and homework. How come, now that I'm a veteran in the work force, I'm not able to claim my rightful place in history and grab my snow day. Hey! It's cold outside, traffic's scary, and I'm too old to take the bus. (And running a marathon doesn't count against me because that was on MY time and wasn't work related.)
Things just aren't the same anymore. Look around. Do you think we get our due respect? Time was, you could count on someone else going to work for you, like my parents. When I was a kid, I could rely on them bringing home the bacon and braving the weather to leave for work. You'd had thought my kids would have picked up their very fine habits and carried on the family tradition, but they haven't. They still expect me to act like my parents. I have to help with the dishes, take out the garbage, fix broken things, spend money for fixing something I broke, and worst of all, go to work on a snow day.
It just isn't fair.
Until later.
Today should have been a snow day -- it didn't happen. Even though the weather was cold, crappy, and the driving hazardous, I had to go to work. I'm disappointed. In grade school, that kind of freebie offered welcome relief from winter doldrums and homework. How come, now that I'm a veteran in the work force, I'm not able to claim my rightful place in history and grab my snow day. Hey! It's cold outside, traffic's scary, and I'm too old to take the bus. (And running a marathon doesn't count against me because that was on MY time and wasn't work related.)
Things just aren't the same anymore. Look around. Do you think we get our due respect? Time was, you could count on someone else going to work for you, like my parents. When I was a kid, I could rely on them bringing home the bacon and braving the weather to leave for work. You'd had thought my kids would have picked up their very fine habits and carried on the family tradition, but they haven't. They still expect me to act like my parents. I have to help with the dishes, take out the garbage, fix broken things, spend money for fixing something I broke, and worst of all, go to work on a snow day.
It just isn't fair.
Until later.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Badwater
Dear Readers:
The title says it all. One hundred years ago a mule refused to drink the water here. The white color is from salts crystallizing on the surface of the ground and forming hard deposits.
The title says it all. One hundred years ago a mule refused to drink the water here. The white color is from salts crystallizing on the surface of the ground and forming hard deposits.
Death Valley Marathon Pix
Dear Readers:
I thought I'd share this photo from Death Valley Marathon. We ran on the Titus Canyon jeep trail; the runners are leaving Red Pass (5000 feet elevation). Click the picture to enlarge it.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Hardly Moving
Dear Readers:
Well, I finished my marathon. Things didn't look too promising before the start; the course had closed due to bad trail conditions, but the day before the race it opened for use. Yes! So I showed up in high-thirties weather at 3000 feet elevation, climbed to 5000 feet elevation till my legs cramped to a crawl, and huffed and puffed my way to the top. It was easy to tell the other runners were used to this kind of running. One by one, they kept passing me, and they seemed to be breathing easier.
But I had fun. After hitting the top of the first mountain pass, we headed down the trail to a low point, then walked back up to 5000 feet before running the rest of the marathon downhill. It seemed like I was staring at the ground a lot to avoid twisting my ankle on a rock and ending up face down in the dirt. My wife told me one guy did sprain his ankle; his friend was shopping for plumbers tape to wrap the ankle. Anyhow, this race was some experience and well worth the trip and effort. It took me two days, though, before I could sleep without sore legs waking me up.
Until later.
Well, I finished my marathon. Things didn't look too promising before the start; the course had closed due to bad trail conditions, but the day before the race it opened for use. Yes! So I showed up in high-thirties weather at 3000 feet elevation, climbed to 5000 feet elevation till my legs cramped to a crawl, and huffed and puffed my way to the top. It was easy to tell the other runners were used to this kind of running. One by one, they kept passing me, and they seemed to be breathing easier.
But I had fun. After hitting the top of the first mountain pass, we headed down the trail to a low point, then walked back up to 5000 feet before running the rest of the marathon downhill. It seemed like I was staring at the ground a lot to avoid twisting my ankle on a rock and ending up face down in the dirt. My wife told me one guy did sprain his ankle; his friend was shopping for plumbers tape to wrap the ankle. Anyhow, this race was some experience and well worth the trip and effort. It took me two days, though, before I could sleep without sore legs waking me up.
Until later.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Why Don't He Write?
Dear Readers:
One week to go and I'm off to Death Valley for my first trail marathon. What if I get lost in the desert and have to live off tarantulas? Or worse, what if I'm thirsty, and I end up guzzling water from a poisonous pond? Or my face could blister from the scorching sun and my lips fall off. What if my rubber soles melt? Well, not to fear -- Dr. Rick is here; the good doctor will take care of things. Yeah, right -- I've heard that one before.
Anyhow, I'm getting psyched for the race and planning to take pictures. My wife is going with me, but the race directors won't let her on the course; spectators have to stay behind. She'll see me when I limp over the finish line. I'm sure there will be stories to tell. This event is the kind of thing that gets me to telling tall tales. I'll try to keep in touch, but if you don't hear from me, it's probably because I'm lost somewhere in a desert canyon.
Until later.
One week to go and I'm off to Death Valley for my first trail marathon. What if I get lost in the desert and have to live off tarantulas? Or worse, what if I'm thirsty, and I end up guzzling water from a poisonous pond? Or my face could blister from the scorching sun and my lips fall off. What if my rubber soles melt? Well, not to fear -- Dr. Rick is here; the good doctor will take care of things. Yeah, right -- I've heard that one before.
Anyhow, I'm getting psyched for the race and planning to take pictures. My wife is going with me, but the race directors won't let her on the course; spectators have to stay behind. She'll see me when I limp over the finish line. I'm sure there will be stories to tell. This event is the kind of thing that gets me to telling tall tales. I'll try to keep in touch, but if you don't hear from me, it's probably because I'm lost somewhere in a desert canyon.
Until later.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Secret Memos to Myself
Dear Readers:
I've got a marathon coming up in a few weeks. As part of the twelve week training schedule, a 20 mile run needs to happen two to three weeks prior to the race. I like to string in four such runs before the real marathon -- it gives me a psychological boost, and lets me know I'm ready for the real deal. Yesterday I ran 24.5 miles and fretted over the distance the entire time. I thought I'd let you in on my mind's stirrings.
Memos to Myself
I've got a marathon coming up in a few weeks. As part of the twelve week training schedule, a 20 mile run needs to happen two to three weeks prior to the race. I like to string in four such runs before the real marathon -- it gives me a psychological boost, and lets me know I'm ready for the real deal. Yesterday I ran 24.5 miles and fretted over the distance the entire time. I thought I'd let you in on my mind's stirrings.
Memos to Myself
Friday evening.
I'm tired. I wish I didn't have to do a long run this weekend. My wife said I don't have to, but I do have to, if I'm going to be physically fit for the marathon. The forecast calls for mid-forties on Saturday, then colder and snowy on Sunday. Looks like I'll have to pick Saturday for the run. I pull out my park map and string together all kinds of routes that end up totalling at least 24 miles. Finally, I drive to the park and measure the distance on the main park road using the odometer; I can run a complete loop on the road, and it's 3.5 miles per loop. Ah ha! I'll run four loops to total 14 miles, then add 10 miles of hiking trails in the park to make 24.
Saturday morning, nine a.m.
I try to remain in bed. The realization it's still cold outside helps me stall for a few more hours. I'll plan to run at noon when it warms up a bit. If I run under five hours, it'll still be light outside (gets dark around five thirty).
Eleven a.m.
Drat. It's time to prepare. I gulp down my chilled coffee drink and extra water, eat three bananas and a bagel. A new hydration back pack gets filled with sixty ounces of sport drink. Three carbohydrate gels are strapped to my waist. My trail shoes' laces are tied, a few stretches follow, and I'm off to the great outdoors. I feel tense, like I'm facing my final exams in college.
Twelve noon.
My car motors into the park. I know it's time to get going, but I decide to procrastinate. I'll take another drive down the main park road and measure the distance again, just to make sure I got it right. Yep, 3.5 miles. The parking lot is to the right. My car pulls in and comes to a stop. It idles there a few more minutes as I try to put off the inevitable. No time to waste. I better get my butt outside and GET ER DONE.
Twelve-ten p.m. -- time to run.
I strap on my hydration pack, check my gels, and leave the car. A few shuffles and I make it to the edge of the parking lot, then I slowly make my way downhill. It doesn't feel too bad, but I feel a bit sluggish. On the way back up the road I realize I don't feel in shape. No way do I want to run this boring 3.5 loop four times. I complete the loop once, then head onto a park trail. I'm prepared to think of a new strategy for my run. I veer to the right onto "dog path." It's grassy and level for the most part. A nice pleasant run. Peace enters my soul as soon as I saunter into a wooded glen. Civilization seems remote and I'm in my own world. Now, I turn left into more woodland trails and pass a giant dog before opening into two miles of grassy trails. I glance at the dog to make sure it's on a tight leash.
It must have rained a lot in previous days, because the ground is soggy. I jump puddles, run around the edges of the trail, and splash in dirty, cold water. My shoes look muddy, and the trail only gets more slippery on the way back. I make a special effort to avoid a stump that has tripped me before, but am unsuccessful. Some stump artist must have applied camouflage to the thing -- I can never see it. Finally, I've completed the loop, determined not to run it again -- too wet and soggy. So far, 7 miles completed and 14 left to go. Next stage, a dry woodland trail totalling 5 miles. I plan to run around it twice to total 10 miles. At mile 2 the trail stops. A sign signals DANGER, TRAIL CLOSED. Probably some tree fell down, who knows. I detour off the path, find the park road, and head parallel to the trail until I see it again. Then I follow a lightly-flattened, grass path off the side of the road and pick up the trail. I continue running on it some more.
Up and down, up and down. It seems endless. Fifty minutes later I've finished a 5 mile loop. At this rate, I'll be running for five hours! I decide enough of trail running for the day. I'll finish the rest on asphalt paths. There's a 1.5 mile loop at the bottom of the park road. So far I've run twelve miles. I'll do one more of those boring 3.5 mile loops and six of the 1.5 mile asphalt path loops, then I'll have my 24.5 miles.
Three p.m.
Two loops completed on the 1.5 mile asphalt and I'm dying. I've got to do something to spice things up. Maybe I'll run the last four loops different directions. This strategy works. For some reason, running the loop one direction, then turning around and running the opposite way seems to make the distance feel shorter. I empty a gel into my mouth every two loops. The first loop takes thirteen minutes; the last loop takes fourteen minutes. My fatigue is showing. I want to be environmentally friendly and drop the discarded gel packets in a garbage can en route. An empty packet falls to the ground. I strain to pick it up and my back cramps momentarily.
Four p.m.
Finally, I complete six loops on the asphalt. Then it's up the same hill that dogged me when I started this run, and I finish at the parking lot. Ironically, my legs feel stronger going up hill than after plodding along on level asphalt for the last hour and ten minutes. I arrive at the car four hours, two minutes, and twenty-four seconds later. My walk is slow, pained, and awkward. I move like someone stuck a board up my butt. After walking around the parking lot two times to wind down, I open the car door and slowly make my way inside. I pick up my legs to put them inside the car because my hamstrings are ouchy and I want to avoid sudden cramping.
Saturday evening.
I'm zoned out, but it feels good to know I finished my last twenty mile run. I'm chilled to the bone, so I take a very long, hot shower. Then I gulp down three giant glasses of milk and a full can of peaches and fruity syrup. (I really crave fruity drinks after a marathon or long run.) Later that night I heat up like a furnace, and I throw off the covers to cool down.
Sunday morning.
Yeah! I did it. Today I get to eat without guilt. My back's still sore, but the ache clears up as the day progresses. Three more weeks to race time. I'm ready.
Until later.
I'm tired. I wish I didn't have to do a long run this weekend. My wife said I don't have to, but I do have to, if I'm going to be physically fit for the marathon. The forecast calls for mid-forties on Saturday, then colder and snowy on Sunday. Looks like I'll have to pick Saturday for the run. I pull out my park map and string together all kinds of routes that end up totalling at least 24 miles. Finally, I drive to the park and measure the distance on the main park road using the odometer; I can run a complete loop on the road, and it's 3.5 miles per loop. Ah ha! I'll run four loops to total 14 miles, then add 10 miles of hiking trails in the park to make 24.
Saturday morning, nine a.m.
I try to remain in bed. The realization it's still cold outside helps me stall for a few more hours. I'll plan to run at noon when it warms up a bit. If I run under five hours, it'll still be light outside (gets dark around five thirty).
Eleven a.m.
Drat. It's time to prepare. I gulp down my chilled coffee drink and extra water, eat three bananas and a bagel. A new hydration back pack gets filled with sixty ounces of sport drink. Three carbohydrate gels are strapped to my waist. My trail shoes' laces are tied, a few stretches follow, and I'm off to the great outdoors. I feel tense, like I'm facing my final exams in college.
Twelve noon.
My car motors into the park. I know it's time to get going, but I decide to procrastinate. I'll take another drive down the main park road and measure the distance again, just to make sure I got it right. Yep, 3.5 miles. The parking lot is to the right. My car pulls in and comes to a stop. It idles there a few more minutes as I try to put off the inevitable. No time to waste. I better get my butt outside and GET ER DONE.
Twelve-ten p.m. -- time to run.
I strap on my hydration pack, check my gels, and leave the car. A few shuffles and I make it to the edge of the parking lot, then I slowly make my way downhill. It doesn't feel too bad, but I feel a bit sluggish. On the way back up the road I realize I don't feel in shape. No way do I want to run this boring 3.5 loop four times. I complete the loop once, then head onto a park trail. I'm prepared to think of a new strategy for my run. I veer to the right onto "dog path." It's grassy and level for the most part. A nice pleasant run. Peace enters my soul as soon as I saunter into a wooded glen. Civilization seems remote and I'm in my own world. Now, I turn left into more woodland trails and pass a giant dog before opening into two miles of grassy trails. I glance at the dog to make sure it's on a tight leash.
It must have rained a lot in previous days, because the ground is soggy. I jump puddles, run around the edges of the trail, and splash in dirty, cold water. My shoes look muddy, and the trail only gets more slippery on the way back. I make a special effort to avoid a stump that has tripped me before, but am unsuccessful. Some stump artist must have applied camouflage to the thing -- I can never see it. Finally, I've completed the loop, determined not to run it again -- too wet and soggy. So far, 7 miles completed and 14 left to go. Next stage, a dry woodland trail totalling 5 miles. I plan to run around it twice to total 10 miles. At mile 2 the trail stops. A sign signals DANGER, TRAIL CLOSED. Probably some tree fell down, who knows. I detour off the path, find the park road, and head parallel to the trail until I see it again. Then I follow a lightly-flattened, grass path off the side of the road and pick up the trail. I continue running on it some more.
Up and down, up and down. It seems endless. Fifty minutes later I've finished a 5 mile loop. At this rate, I'll be running for five hours! I decide enough of trail running for the day. I'll finish the rest on asphalt paths. There's a 1.5 mile loop at the bottom of the park road. So far I've run twelve miles. I'll do one more of those boring 3.5 mile loops and six of the 1.5 mile asphalt path loops, then I'll have my 24.5 miles.
Three p.m.
Two loops completed on the 1.5 mile asphalt and I'm dying. I've got to do something to spice things up. Maybe I'll run the last four loops different directions. This strategy works. For some reason, running the loop one direction, then turning around and running the opposite way seems to make the distance feel shorter. I empty a gel into my mouth every two loops. The first loop takes thirteen minutes; the last loop takes fourteen minutes. My fatigue is showing. I want to be environmentally friendly and drop the discarded gel packets in a garbage can en route. An empty packet falls to the ground. I strain to pick it up and my back cramps momentarily.
Four p.m.
Finally, I complete six loops on the asphalt. Then it's up the same hill that dogged me when I started this run, and I finish at the parking lot. Ironically, my legs feel stronger going up hill than after plodding along on level asphalt for the last hour and ten minutes. I arrive at the car four hours, two minutes, and twenty-four seconds later. My walk is slow, pained, and awkward. I move like someone stuck a board up my butt. After walking around the parking lot two times to wind down, I open the car door and slowly make my way inside. I pick up my legs to put them inside the car because my hamstrings are ouchy and I want to avoid sudden cramping.
Saturday evening.
I'm zoned out, but it feels good to know I finished my last twenty mile run. I'm chilled to the bone, so I take a very long, hot shower. Then I gulp down three giant glasses of milk and a full can of peaches and fruity syrup. (I really crave fruity drinks after a marathon or long run.) Later that night I heat up like a furnace, and I throw off the covers to cool down.
Sunday morning.
Yeah! I did it. Today I get to eat without guilt. My back's still sore, but the ache clears up as the day progresses. Three more weeks to race time. I'm ready.
Until later.
Monday, December 31, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, December 21, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, December 3, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
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.
'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.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 8, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, September 20, 2007
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.
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