Christmas Wrap-up

For me, most holidays start with apprehension- I worry about people being able to make it home, and if they'll make it home safely. In the case of Christmas, this underlying current usually starts about the time Thanksgiving ends and it lasts up until the point where everyone is safely under one roof- usually the day or the days right before Christmas.

If someone has to run out for some reason, a forgotten gift maybe, or to meet a friend, then I take an intermission from the calm and comfort and worry about them making it back safely.

I'm not really sure why this is. It seems it's gotten worse as I've gotten older. But then again, there are more people living further away- which I guess is an indirect consequence of age, though not age itself. It's probably a little of both.

With all of that said, the holiday was wonderful. I like nothing better than to have everyone home. The best times for me have always been the visiting and the listening and sometimes just the sharing of space.

I hate to always be going back to when the kids were small, but...

When the kids were small, a typical Saturday was spent running errands and spending time together. It would usually start with going over to Grandma and Grandpa's house early in the morning, then maybe to the post office. Later, we would go to the outlet store before heading home for lunch.

When they were real young, I might put them down for naps, after which we might go feed the ducks or do a little grocery shopping or go to the video store where they would each pick out a tape to watch. Usually, it was all three.

Back at home, I would get dinner ready while the kids negotiated with each other in the living room over who's tape they were going to watch first. As I made dinner, they would talk and laugh and play.  I would listen from the kitchen and watch as the golden, late afternoon sun would stream through the window, hitting a crystal which would cast a bright rainbow that stretched into the dining room.

After dinner was a time to relax and catch up and wind down before bed. Then we would head upstairs where the kids would take their showers and then pick out a bedtime story and they would negotiate once again over who's story would be read first.

It was great.

Except for the showers and the bedtime stories, that's what this Christmas was- making dinner while hearing laughter coming from the other room, sharing time in the car and at the grocery store, hearing about what was going on in their lives, catching up and sharing time together.

And now that Christmas is over, and everyone has gone in their different directions, all that's left to do is to put away the ornaments and the decorations and then begin my worrying about the new year ahead.

A Birthday Message

Today is Mom's 90th birthday. I'm thinking of giving her the afternoon off. I figure there's no rush on my driveway. She can finish shoveling it tomorrow since I'm probably just going to be hanging around today anyway.

Besides, she was saying something about her back hurting her or something like that- I can't remember exactly, I wasn't really listening.

So, Happy Birthday, Mom! Enjoy your afternoon off! And by the way, last night's dinner could have used a little more salt. No big deal- I took care of it, but you might want to keep it in mind for next time.

Hope your back or your knee or whatever it was that you were going on about, feels better!

P.S. If you could be here extra early tomorrow to finish the shoveling, that would be great. I may want to get out to the comic book store later on. (If the porch light is off when you get here, try to be a little quiet when you shovel. I'm probably still sleeping.)

Happy birthday and thanks again! And don't forget- a little more salt next time.

Happy Holidays

The spirit of Christmas.

Almost Forgot!

It wouldn't be Christmas without this holiday classic...

Merry Christmas

On the Hunt

I'm not a hunter but I've worked with many people who were. Years ago, I worked with a guy named Dan. Dan was a big time hunter. There was a point where Dan was going to be going on some hunting trip out west somewhere and he was looking forward to it the way most kids look forward to Christmas. As the trip got closer, it was all he could talk about. This went on for quite some time.

When the day finally came, off he flew to where ever it was. He was picked up at the airport by the tour guide or whatever they call them, and as he and his group were driven through the thick woods up to the hunting lodge, unsuspecting animals frolicked in abundance all around them.

That first night, Dan called home to tell his wife and kids how awesome the trip was going to be and he apparently did a lot of preliminary bragging over the almost guaranteed feast and footwear that he was going to be bringing home. The way he later told it, he hung up the phone just in time to hear the first clap of thunder announcing what turned out to be a week long deluge from which it seems, only the animals were smart enough to take refuge.

Whatever dreams Dan left home with, they had pretty much dissolved by sitting day after day in a cold, blinding rain where the only other living creatures in the woods were the other hunters.

When the day came to finally pack up and leave, Dan and his fellow soggy warriors climbed into the bus to head back to the airport. It was only then that the sun, and the once again frolicking animals, returned. Apparently the animals, at least, were well rested.

Dan was not a happy guy when he got back.

I was reminded of all of this the other day because I tried to get in touch with a guy named Jeff. I sent Jeff an email but I never got a response. Then I remembered that he was also a hunter. He wasn’t the borderline fanatic that Dan was, but I remember in years past, that he had been looking forward to his week off at hunting season, so maybe that’s the reason he couldn't get back to me.

I could have called Jeff to find out what was going on, but that’s not my style. My style is to go online and look up the dates for hunting season and figure it out from there.

When I surfed around, I came across a two page document from the state’s Fish and Wildlife Department. It’s full of various animals and the dates as to when the State allows you to hunt them. Seeing animals on there like bears or deer didn’t surprise me, but there were some animals on there that I didn’t expect.

For instance, I never knew our state had a hunting season for squirrels. This seems kind of weird to me. I’m not sure why anybody would want to waste their time hunting squirrels. I can’t imagine that people would do it for the thrill of the hunt. It must be more like revenge killings. I for one, have a bunch of squirrels hanging around my bird feeders that I wouldn’t mind seeing gone. But other than that, what would be the reason?

Assuming you are big on squirrel hunting, according to this chart, you can hunt squirrels in zones 1-9, wherever those are, on September 8th and keep on shooting all the way through January 2nd. But if you want to hunt them in zones 10-14, you’ll have to wait until October 18th before you can begin. I don’t know if this is because there are already fewer squirrels in zones 10-14 or what the reason is, but if you want to get the most out of your squirrel shooting, you’ll have to figure out where zones 1 through 9 are.

Another animal I’m surprised to see on that chart are bullfrogs. Who hunts bullfrogs? How do you even do it? You can’t shoot them with a gun or there won't be anything left. Do people get up in the early morning hours, put on their camo and then sit out in the reeds and brush all day with a sharp stick?

What is the value in this? Are bullfrogs worth something? Is there some vast, underground bullfrog market? All I can think of is that "hunters" might be selling them to those souvenir places that shellac them and stick little hats on them and make them hold little banjos. But even then, how much of a demand for those are there? I’ve never really been sure who would buy something like that anyway, except maybe the people that hunt them in the first place.

Another thing I don’t get is, how do they enforce the these laws? Does the state seriously send people around to brooks and ponds to see if there are people out there catching any illegal squirrels or bullfrogs? If you’ve got a deer lashed to the hood of your car, it’s pretty obvious what you’ve been up to. But with squirrels or bullfrogs, you could almost get away with stuffing them into your pockets.

Maybe all of this is old news to anyone that hunts, but as I said, I’m not a hunter. It never held any appeal to me and that's when I thought it only involved bears or deer or other large animals. It holds even less appeal to me now that I know it involves animals like bullfrogs. Squirrels are another matter.

One More Video

Well, it's been well over a month. Time for another depressing, but lovely song from Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris...

A Brief Update

I don't know why I'm so exhausted lately. It's not like anybody's around or I'm doing anything... well, other than feeding the ducks with Sam. But that shouldn't be what's causing it...

Today's Bargain

As I have frequently noted here in the past, I like to peruse the so called "Lightning Deals" at Amazon. If it's something I want, it can often be had for a real bargain. Sometimes, it may be something I never knew I wanted, but the price was so cheap, how could I not need it? Such is not the case with the item below:

Who buys something like this? Maybe more importantly, why? I this a joke gift? What am I missing here?

So, you buy a kit to make a plaster cast of a pregnant belly, and then... what? What do you do with it? Do you spray paint it and hang it on the wall, maybe make it into a clock?

I guess you could make it into a giant-sized ashtray. Then, at some point in the future, you could reflect back on the lifetime of other poor decisions that you'll inevitably have made as you sit alone in the dark, stubbing out yet another cigarette butt, wondering where it all started.

Another One on My List

I’ve noticed that the company that makes the so called “Deluxe” frozen french bread pizza has reduced their allotment of pepperoni slices. It is now down from a generous four slices of pepperoni per pizza to a less generous three slices of pepperoni.

Not only that, but the bread itself seems to be narrower. I used to struggle to fit two pieces of pizza on the toaster oven tray. Now they fit in with no problem.

These people are walking all over me.

Newsflash

Apparently Charlene, who's working at the Walmart "Site to Store" counter, has just called her mom to tell her that she is NOT going to the gym today! She has been "running my ass off all day long in this damn store!" To make matters worse, "it doesn't help that Brian is taking his damn sweet time going out back, every time he has to get a package."

Brian counters that it's not his fault because he's "never worked in this department before. I don't even know how I got stuck here, anyway."

This concludes today's update. You may now resume your life...

Thanksgiving Rundown

A storm had been predicted for Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. This is the day that the newscasters incessantly remind us that it is “the most traveled day of the year”. As the predicted storm approached, so did the panic in voices of the increasingly frenetic weather forecasters (i.e. it was going to be Armageddon). Since those in my family that had to travel (Jake and Rachael) were due to come home on Tuesday, I didn't see this as my problem. I decided I would save my compassion for Christmas. Maybe.

On Tuesday, Jake made it home by dinner, taking close to an hour longer than the normal three hour drive. Helaina had gone to pick up Rachael at the bus station and Rachael ended up stumbling in around eight o’clock- taking close to four hours longer than her normal four hour bus ride. Shortly thereafter, Helaina left for her boyfriend’s and everyone but Jake headed off to bed.

On Wednesday, I left for work, arriving a little before seven in the morning and there wasn't any snow in sight. By ten o'clock, the snow had started, or rather, the snow and sleet had started. By eleven o’clock, it was coming down pretty good and I was thinking about heading home. By noon, I was heading home.

After a slippery hour and a half drive, I arrived home and soon everyone else in the family was home too.

The plan for the holiday was that we were going to have Thanksgiving at Grandma’s on Thursday, an informal Thanksgiving for our family at lunchtime on Friday, and then Rachael would have to head back on Friday, late afternoon. Since we wouldn't see Rachael again until Christmas, and since it was in the middle of a blizzard and the driving conditions were treacherous, it seemed like a pretty good time to head out to the tree farm to get our Christmas tree.

I called the tree farm and asked if they were open and after a long pause, they said that yes, they were. So, we bundled up and headed off in the van. Amazingly, when we arrived, we were the only ones there.

Normally, we would walk around to the back field where we would search for the perfect tree. Since it was a blizzard, and since I had a bad knee and the idea of kneeling in rapidly piling up snow and not being able to stand up again didn't appeal to me, we headed to the barn where the owners keep their pre-cut trees. This would normally be heresy.

Going to a tree farm to pick out a pre-cut tree is one step shy of driving through the trees in your car and pointing at the tree you want someone else to cut down. But the snow wasn't letting up and neither was my knee.

In no time at all, a tree was selected, paid for, and slung on the roof of the van. We headed home at a brisk fifteen miles per hour.

Due to the weather, we brought the tree right into the house- wet snow and all, and trimmed it for the tree stand. Normally I have to do some judicious pruning of some of the lower branches in order to get the tree to sit correctly. This can be risky. More than once, I have reduced a full and natural looking tree to one that looked like it was an artificial tree put on clearance due to it’s missing parts. More than once, I've heard, “Don’t worry, we can fill it in with tinsel.”

But this tree was in pretty good shape. After squaring of the once proud trunk and clipping only a few minor branches, it was in the stand and shoved into the corner. Later that evening when the tree had dried enough to reduce the risk of electrocution, we strung the lights.

Sam asked about decorating the tree and I told him that we would either decorate it after Grandma's tomorrow or we would decorate it Friday morning after I got the turkey into the oven. I couldn't say for sure because I didn't know how tired everyone would be, plus we were on a tight schedule.

Snow continued to fall, heavy and wet, into the evening. The trees in our front yard draped precariously over the power lines. I watched out the front door, thinking of a few years back when we lost power for days. Back then, I worried about the pork butt going bad. Now, I was worrying about the turkey. It’s always something.

We made out pretty well. While many in the surrounding area lost power, some for days as it turned out, we survived with little more than several very brief flickers. This proved to be little more than an annoyance for most of us- me resetting clocks continually and Rachael being interrupted in her pie-a-thon, for example. But such was not the case for Sam.

Sam was watching his usual videos on the computer and every time the power would flicker off, the computer would shut down. This caused no end of frustration for Sam, and therefore for the rest of us- until it boiled over and Sam muttered to himself, “This is stupid.”

Things fell silent. If there were crickets this time of year, this is the point where they would have been cricketing.

Sam rarely gets upset and saying “stupid” is about as vulgar as he gets. Luckily, Sam had the family around to support him and tell him he was wrong and to knock it off. He went upstairs to take a shower, leaving the rest of us in utter shock over his disturbing emotional outburst.

When he came back downstairs, Sam duly, though completely unnecessarily, apologized, and spent the little time left before bedtime, watching the videos he tried to watch earlier.

The snow had stopped by Thursday morning and though it was heavy, I had a lot of help shoveling. When it was cleared, Rachael and I went out to get gas in the van before we headed to Grandma’s.

After filling up at the gas station, we pulled out, only to hear a scraping sound coming from under the van. Clearly, something was dragging along the road. I was worried it was the muffler or the tailpipe, so I pulled off on a nearby side street and climbed under to take a look.

It turned out that it wasn't the muffler, as I had feared. But instead, it was only the bracket that was supposed to hold up the fuel tank. Apparently the weight of the gas was enough to break the mostly rotted bracket off on one end, while the other end was still attached somewhere underneath the van. I figured I better twist it off completely, since metal sparks shooting at a precariously hanging, full tank of gasoline didn't seem like a good idea to me. Especially on Thanksgiving.

We made it back home and Helaina and I drove everyone to Grandma’s while the van sat in the backyard for the rest of the weekend.

We had Thanksgiving dinner, or rather, Thanksgiving lunch at Grandma’s retirement community, in a building affectionately referred to as “The Inn.” The Inn is about the only place big enough to accommodate all of us, even though the size of this gang was probably about half of what it is at most Christmases- what with my brother’s family not being there and one of my sister’s family family not being there and at least one additional niece not being there. Still, it was a big enough group.

We squeezed into a semi-private room, around tables set up, oddly, in a “U” shape. At first it felt a little strange. I imagined that those sitting inside the “U” must have felt a little like they were on a stage. I was glad to be sitting in the audience. But it turned out that this arrangement was not only plenty accommodating, it had the added advantage of me not having to look at everyone else all at the same time.

After lunch, we went back to Grandma’s where we set up her fake mini Christmas tree and we complained about how full we were as we ate the pie that Rachael had made the night before. My sister Laura dragged out some bizarre concoction that she claimed she made from beets and some other weird fruits and as if to prove that it was at least non-toxic, Rachael took a swig with no visible side effects. Still, despite this brave display, there were no additional takers. The bottle was set in the kitchen where it will presumably stay until sometime next summer, when someone decides to strip some furniture.

We ended the family get together the same way we end all our family get togethers- by trying to figure out who drew who’s name for Christmas. This has become a family tradition- whether it’s at the summer gathering or pretty much any other time of the year. And just like every other time the question comes up, there was a lot of discussion but nothing got resolved. It's almost like some kind of a game show, but I think it would enhance the game play if blindfolds were involved.

Back at home, Sam asked again about decorating the tree and he seemed almost relieved when I told him that it would have to wait until the next day. He went to bed at his usual time. Helaina, exhausted, went to bed about then, too. Jake went to bed a little later and then got up again to talk with his girlfriend, and Rachael went out to visit with an old friend. I stayed up until she got home.

I had set my alarm for six o’clock in the morning and unfortunately it went off without a glitch. I went downstairs and did my usual turkey prep- which traditionally includes ignoring all advice on how to properly stuff a turkey and instead cramming in as much stuffing as physically possible- just shy of making the turkey burst. Every year, as I’m shoving in the stuffing, I wonder if the turkey could ever have imagined ending up in this situation. And every year, with each fistful of stuffing, I give my own silent thanks that I am not the turkey.

Once the turkey was in the oven and everyone was awake, we set about decorating our tree. Since the tree was a little smaller this year and since we were on a tight schedule, we used about half the ornaments that we usually do, but we all agreed that it looked just fine- which is to say, no one was complaining.

While the tree was getting decorated I popped in and out of the kitchen to check on the turkey. When it comes to cooking a turkey that has to be done by a specific time, my skills are limited. I find that as dinner gets closer, I’m constantly adjusting the oven temperature.

In years past, the turkey would get done too quickly and I would have to slow it down because the kids would be at the high school football game. Or I might have slowed it down too much and it wasn’t going to be ready when everything else was ready so I would be twisting the temperature back up.

The process always feels a little like I’m trying to land a small airplane during a blinding snowstorm. I know the destination is out there somewhere, and with a little luck we may land somewhere nearby- but there’s no guarantee about what our final condition will be when it’s all over.

Everything seemed to go reasonably well and all the food got done somewhere close to the same time. We all squeezed around our large dining room table which sits in our tiny dining room and we each gave thanks and had our “informal” Thanksgiving dinner- which meant having pretty much everything we normally have, minus a couple of dishes, and eating it all faster.

After dinner, Jake took off to the college to watch the football game and to spend time with his girlfriend (not necessarily in that order), and Helaina and I drove Rachael to Northampton to catch her bus back to The Big City. We arrived too early and decided to hit up a couple of stores, even though it was “Black Friday”. In reality, the town didn't seem any different to me than any other day- the same pleasant crowds as always.

After going to one or two stores, it was getting late and we walked back to the car to wait for the bus. The breeze had picked up and the air was dry in that biting winter kind of way, and by the time the bus showed up, it had started to get dark. All of this seemed very appropriate to me. Rachael climbed on the bus and Helaina and I headed back home.

Back home, Helaina took off for her boyfriend’s, Sam watched his videos, and I sat and stared at the tree and listened to the quiet.

On Saturday, Sam and I did our usual late-morning errands, which includes going to two grocery stores- even though the last thing we needed was more food. But it always gives me the chance to spend time with Sam and it gives Sam the chance to get free samples.

Saturday afternoon was spent doing some more baking- for some God unknown reason. I had no idea why I was doing it, because we clearly had too much food already. To make matters worse, on Sunday, I noticed we had some bananas starting to turn brown and I remembered that I had some leftover buttermilk in the refrigerator. In my mind, this was an opportunity to free up a quart-sized space in the refrigerator. In reality, I ended up having to deal with four loaves of banana bread.

On top of this, I decided to make fudge. Many years ago, this began as a semi-tradition around Christmas time- but that was back when there were people around to eat it. Even though I like fudge, I eat maybe two pieces of fudge a year. I do not eat two, nine inch square pans worth of anything, let alone fudge.

So by Sunday afternoon, in addition to all of the food left over from Thanksgiving, I had now had to deal with four loaves of banana bread, about 6 pounds of Chex mix and a couple of pounds of fudge- and that’s not to mention the big pot of turkey parts that had been boiling away on the stove.

By Sunday night, I had pretty much had it. All of the food had been stored or stuffed in various places around the house. I put away all of the now dry dishes that I washed earlier in the day, and I washed all of the dirty dishes and all of the dirty pans that had filled the sink.

All that was left was to drop off the van at the mechanic’s. And to figure out what to make for dinner.

Addendum

For anyone interested (and who wouldn’t be?), I am amending my “Things I Hate to do Around the House” list as follows (in no particular order):

-Storm Windows

-Defrosting the Freezer

-Cleaning the Oven

***New Item: Pulling Wet Leaves From the Second Story Gutter While Reaching Over the Power Lines and Standing on a Rickety Ladder With a Knee That’s About to Give Out.

More items to follow as conditions warrant.

2 PM on a Cold and Grey Saturday Afternoon

... is a good time to listen to some Ray Davies.

A Close Call

Ok, let's have a little diversion. Nothing like a comedy classic to lift your spirits.

So We Beat On...

I’m struggling to find the words.

I had a bizarre discourse a while back that was really about everything and nothing- all rolled together. During the course of everything under the sun, a friend I haven’t seen in years was mentioned in passing, but like most of the discourse, it was brought up in a warped, broken mirror kind of way. I was thinking about all of this over the week that followed.

It’s strange how over the years there’s been this particular comfort, however occasional, in knowing that a friend is out there somewhere, particularly when waters seem dark and rough. Someone who found value in who you are. I’m well aware that a fog of nostalgia blankets the reality of old memories but the brief respite it sometimes offered became an island of refuge or a green light across the bay.

I thought about this off and on as the events of the week tumbled along, until eventually I searched the name, reaching to see what was out there. I found that that my long lost friend had passed away just days earlier.

It’s been over twenty years since I've had any contact, but I feel a profound sense of loss.

---

Today, I read the obituary and it is so sad to me on so many different levels. 

All That Jazz

I was listening to a talk radio program on the way home the other day and they were doing a segment about some jazz performer. I wish I were smart enough to like jazz, but I’m not. I get some of it, kind of. Just not a lot of it. It’s especially frustrating because I know the problem is me, not the music. This is obvious to me because when I hear it, everyone involved seems like they’re having a great time. But I just don’t get it.

When I was young, Dad had a friend who was a musician, along with being an artist.This guy loved jazz but he hated impressionist paintings. Dad’s friend always felt that impressionist paintings looked unfinished.

I remember thinking that this was a little strange. It seemed to me, in my vast knowledge of both art and jazz (ie: none at all), that there was a similar relationship within music and jazz as there was within visual art and impressionism- that a large part of it involved conveying emotion. I liked impressionism and figured at the time that my not yet fully matured brain hadn’t been given enough time for the jazz appreciation areas to develop. I figured those areas would develop over time.

But after all of these years, I guess I’m in a similar boat with jazz as Dad’s friend was with impressionism. Except with me, it’s not so much that jazz doesn’t sound finished exactly. With me, it’s pretty much the whole process. The musicians seem plenty talented. It’s just that all too often, it seems like they have trouble playing together.

On the particular radio program I was listening to, they played a “song” and it had the quality that I hear in a lot of performances - it started off with a bass player, presumably sitting off in some dark corner, who began plucking away. So far, everything was good. But then the drummer came in and things started to turn south. He was playing at a completely different tempo, seemingly oblivious to the bass player, and then one by one, more musicians joined in- each doing their own “thing”, which in this case meant trying to figure out what the other guys were playing.

This rambling struggle went on for a while until eventually, the sax player came up with the idea of blasting out a note that sounded a lot like a goose getting hit by a two by four- which apparently he liked because he kept repeating it, a little louder and a little more painfully with each rhythmic blow. The others in the band heard this, and they began to circle around, searching for notes and a rhythm somewhere in the vicinity of what the sax player was belting out- weaving higher and lower as they tried to zero in on the same general theme.

Finally, the whole thing coalesced into something that vaguely resembled a melody. I believe the term for this is “finding their groove”. And when it seemed that they were pretty much all on the same page, the audience began applauding- whether out of relief or what, I’m not exactly sure. Then everything thing wrapped up in a loud crescendo of instruments along with whooping and whistling from the audience.

The whole thing reminded me, in an odd way, of feeding the ducks with Sam (and not because of the goose-like sounds).

When Sam and I go to the duck pond, one or two of the more outgoing ducks start honking and they come up to Sam, while all of the others are scattered around in the background- occasionally squawking but pretty much ignoring us and doing their own thing. As Sam starts tossing bread to the ducks closest to him, they develop a certain rhythm to their squawking. A few of the other ducks look over and think (presumably), “Hey, those guys have something going on over there.” So those ducks start squawking a little louder and a little faster and they come over to get in on the action. Before too long, all the other ducks have joined in, each still squawking, but somehow, as they form their mob, they seem like they’re squawking in a slightly less disorganized fashion.

To me, jazz- at least the piece that I was listening to, seems to be a lot like this.

This could all go back to the original problem that I suspected years ago, which is that the jazz portion of my brain hasn't fully developed. God knows the rest of it is pretty immature.

Weekends with Sam

Sam and I spend a lot of time together on the weekends. Actually, we spend a lot of time together all week long. But on weekends, we get out more.

Saturdays are usually spent running errands- which includes writing a grocery list, grocery shopping and Sam making the rounds to the now familiar folks that hand out free samples at BJ’s and the grocery store. Sometimes we fit in an afternoon visit to the comic book store.

Sundays might be doing a few chores, going for a walk, feeding the ducks or visiting his Grandma. Sometimes, we just hang out.

It’s not unusual for it to be pretty quiet when it’s just the two of us, and each of us has remarked at times how much we enjoy sharing the quiet together.

It’s also not unusual for me to say on occasion, something like, “What would I do without you, Sammy?”, to which Sam usually replies some variation of, “Umm… I don’t know...”. The other day, as we’re driving around, I said, “What would we do without each other, Sam?”, to which Sam responded, “It sure would be a lot less exciting.”

I felt pretty good about this but I was thinking afterwards, “Boy, I’m about the dullest person in the world. If he thinks spending time with me is exciting, that’s almost kind of sad.”

But then again, maybe he was thinking about it from my perspective- in which case, he’s exactly right.

Friday Night Video

I don't have any story tonight. Let's just listen to some music instead. I don't think it's supposed to be, but it sounds really sad to me right now- especially the interplay with the violin in the end.

Then again, maybe it's just a good excuse to listen to Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris.

"It's here and then it's gone..."

Today's Minor Observation

Apparently, the local B.J.'s has relaxed their "No Hickey" policy for the cashiers.

Quote for The Day

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Today's Brief Comment

Screen capture from the Walmart website.

Everything about this screams "America".

Friday Night Video

I bought some old postcards when I visited Jake last weekend. He took me to a used bookstore that had a bunch of them in the back. It’s hard to say what attracts me to certain cards. Sometimes it can be something as simple as the message on the back, or the look of the handwriting. Usually, there’s some sentimental attachment.

One of the cards I bought was of an old Howard Johnson’s restaurant. I would say that this particular restaurant is the one that used to be in the town I live in, but I kind of doubt it. It almost doesn’t matter though, they all looked pretty much the same.

I have fond memories of these restaurants. It’s not like we ate at them a lot. Far from it. But they represented landmarks along the way of several of our family trips.

Once upon a time, they were the only place you could stop to eat while traveling on many turnpikes and highways. This was back in the day when families on long trips would actually stop and sit down to eat. This would give the kids a break from annoying each other in the station wagon, by allowing them to get out of the car and stretch their legs, before annoying each other while sitting in vinyl covered booths.

One of the the things I liked best was seeing these restaurants at night. They often had a bright neon sign out front, many of which had the Pie man, leaning over, offering a pie to a boy whom I assumed to be Simple Simon. The boy’s dog sat by his side and drooled. These signs were pretty huge and I remember the neon being especially bright.

Here’s a photo I scarfed from the Internet. Enjoy it now because if I get threatened with a lawsuit, it’s coming down.

There was one Howard Johnson’s on Cape Cod that had a sign like this and it was animated, which made it even more impressive. Along with the neon sign, this particular restaurant had a cupola on the roof which had glass windows and was lit up at night with a bright white light. It always reminded me of a light house.

These bright lights always added to the magical feeling I had when I was a kid and we would be riding around on our vacation at nighttime.

I had an aunt who worked at a Howard Johnson’s. She was a hostess- which always seemed like a perfect fit to me in a particular kind of way that’s too hard to explain here. This was the same aunt that I wrote about somewhere in here. Once in a while, she would give us a big block of frozen Howard Johnson’s hot dogs, which we kept in the tall freezer in the back entry niche. To this day, I think those were the best tasting hot dogs I’ve ever had.

Here’s a video- more of a slide show really, that someone named Alan put together.

Going...Going...

Continuing with my inexplicable fixation on this place, it looks like the curtain has finally come down- hard. This was no surprise,of course- especially when I passed by a couple of months ago.

It's like seeing one of those rare, old drive-in movie places- abandoned long ago, over-run with vines and left to decay.

The foliage was pretty though.

One More Follow-up

I had my follow-up to my follow-up thumb appointment on Monday. I will withhold judgement on the quality of the doctor for at least another week.

The way it stands right now is that I will be going to the hospital sometime on Tuesday to have my hand injected in at least two places and then have the growth sliced off. Whatever remains will be stitched up and I'll be sent home.

I am hoping to leave in better shape than whoever owned the hand that was on display in the doctor's office.

His latest trophy.

Dinner Time!

Tonight, Sam and I made apple pancakes with some of the apples we picked a couple of weekends ago...

BEFORE

AFTER

Day Trip

Sam and I visited Jake at URI yesterday...

Yet Another Visit to the Doctor

In what is becoming a fascinating ongoing series on the health of my thumb (you can read all about it here and here... you've been warned), I now have the referral from my regular doctor and have called to make an appointment with the Thumb Specialist.

I looked him up online and he has a stellar two and a half star rating. Not only that, he has an opening today!

I picture him pacing back and forth in his office, chain smoking, stopping periodically to either look through the widow blinds to see if anyone is pulling up or picking up the phone, which sits by a nicotine stained ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts- checking to see if there's still a dial tone.

This is going to go great!

Another Visit to the Doctor

I made a follow up appointment for my disgusting thumb on Wednesday. It went about as well as I expected. When I called to make the appointment, the receptionist made the appointment with a doctor I’ve never seen before and made it for the middle of the day. I have to travel close to an hour to get to the doctor’s office from work, so I asked if they had anything later in the day. “That’s all we have”, came the curt response. I knew right away whom I was talking to.

I had a run-in with this particular receptionist a couple of years ago. For the sake for this digression, let’s call her "Grumble".

When you enter my doctor’s office, you face a desk big enough to accommodate three receptionists. It’s basically one long desk but their stations are separated from each other by narrow, plexiglass walls. These walls are meant to give the illusion of privacy, but in fact you can hear any conversation taking place at the reception desk pretty much anywhere in the waiting room. About six feet in front of this desk is a rope which you have to stand behind until one of the receptionists decides to grant you an audience.

Anyway, a couple of years ago, I had to go in for an appointment and when I was allowed to approach the reception desk, a different receptionist, who was actually pleasant and is therefore not there anymore, checked me in and mentioned that I was overdue for my lab. This surprised me and I said something outrageous like, “Oh, I wish I had known”.

Well, Grumble was sitting next to her and this apparently rubbed her the wrong way. “Oh no!”, she said, breaking the highly secure privacy barrier. “I’ve left multiple messages at your house and even talked to you directly!”

Normally, I’d take the blame for something like this- not just because I don’t like confrontations, which I don’t- especially when it’s about something so stupid. But also because I just don’t want to waste my time arguing with someone who is of no consequence to me. But this just didn't sit right with me.

I looked over at Grumble, who stared back at me with an expression like she was biting on an acorn. Finally, I said, “Our answering machine is always on and I’ve never had a message or a conversation about this- with you or anyone else”. She bit down harder on the invisible acorn and glared at me for a solid minute. Then she said, “Oh, and are you the only male in your household?”

I’m not really sure of the sex of the answering machine, but I told her that no, I wasn’t the "only male in my household", that I had a special needs son at home and that first of all, she shouldn’t be leaving messages with him, she should be talking directly to me. And second of all, if she had left a message with him, he’s great about giving messages to me- which he never did. So either she never called, or she’s been calling the wrong house.

She glared at me some more and then muttered something to herself which I either didn’t hear or choose not to remember.

We’ve been enemies ever since.

That’s why I end up with appointments in the middle of the day with doctors I’ve never seen before.

So anyway, I check in for my 1:10pm appointment. Grumble asks for my date of birth and then my name, just like when I called to make the appointment. Apparently I answered correctly and she told me to hand over my co-payment and to go take a seat. Grumble and I didn’t acknowledge our mutual hatred. I took a seat by the door.

After the standard wait time, a nurse called me in. I never get the same nurse twice. They either have a huge rotating staff, or they have an enormous turnover. Whichever it is, I’m guessing this nurse was new because she seemed pretty happy.

She weighed me again- for the third time in less than a week, and then led me into the doctor’s office where she stared at her laptop and asked for my date of birth and my name. I’m guessing this was all part of the vast security measures they have in place to prevent any non-insured interloper from getting a free thumb exam. I gave her the information and, oddly, I felt a little proud that I answered it correctly.

The nurse asked me what the problem was and I explained it all over again.

I couldn’t help but wonder why everyone in the office has those laptops that supposedly has all my information on there, but no one ever seems to know what’s going on.

So I explained it all over again to the nurse and she’s laughing like this is some big joke. And then I showed her my thumb, and she stopped laughing. Happy Nurse got up and told me that the Doctor would be right in. She left and less than a minute later she was back with someone else, whom I later learned was the doctor, who was also carrying a laptop.

Apparently the doctor was on her way to see another patient but just had to see this thumb first. I’m thinking that Happy Nurse must have filled her in when she rushed out of the room and the doctor, having had more years of medical training, didn’t believe what she was hearing. They both hovered over my thumb with expressions like they were examining a new life form. Then, less than a minute later, they abruptly left without a word.

Happy Nurse came rushing back in with an arm full of stuff that she dropped on the counter and then said, “This isn’t going to hurt a bit”, which of course means that it’s going to hurt a lot more than a bit. Then she started to laugh again as she left.

The actual "Won't Hurt a Bit" buffet.

This time it was several minutes before both Happy Nurse and New Doctor came back in together. New Doctor asked me how this happened, and I went through it all over again. The doctor listened, then explained that they were going to numb my thumb and try to drain it and that I might feel a little pinch when they injected the numbing agent into my thumb. Then they unrolled a disposable pad on the desk and Happy Nurse held down my arm as the doctor went for the needle. The Doctor advised me not to look, which was completely unnecessary as I had no intention of looking. And then came the “little pinch”.

This “little pinch” hit the same point in my nostril that the knife did on my previous visit, but this time, my hand jerked involuntarily and apparently knocked the needle out of the doctor’s hand. I could feel the “numbing agent” running all over my arm. “Whoops! We’ll have to give that one more try!”, said the doctor. I immediately broke out in one of those full body sweats that you get with something like food poisoning, right before you begin vomiting for a week.

Happy Nurse gripped my hand tighter. The second stab of the needle was slightly more successful.

After testing my thumb for numbness, the doctor went at it with the knife. I couldn't feel pain exactly, just the pressure and pulling like someone was using a dull knife to try to saw through a fibrous piece of gristle, while pressing on my thumb. Then, everything stopped.

After a few seconds of silence, the doctor says, “Huh, that’s weird.” I’m not sure who she was saying this to since I still wasn’t looking, but I think she was saying it to herself. After a few more minutes of silence, the doctor and nurse went off to huddle in the corner. I couldn’t hear what they were whispering, but I’m pretty sure it was something along the lines of, “That didn’t work. I’m out of ideas, do you have any ideas?”.

After formulating their game plan, they cheerfully broke up their huddle and the doctor told me she was going to prescribe me three days worth of antibiotics. I didn’t bother to mention that Doctor Number One had specifically told me that antibiotics wouldn’t do me any good, but at this point, it was pretty clear that nobody knew what was going on.

“And if the antibiotics don’t work”, she said, “Call back on Friday and I’ll write a referral”, which is another way of saying, “Go bother someone else”.

So, I left and filled my prescription which, judging by the size of the pills, is the same type of medication used by veterinarians that specialize in Large Animals.

And after three days of taking these horse pills- nothing has changed..

I can hardly wait to call Grumble and get the referral. That should go pretty well.

Weekend Memories

What you see above are some of the physical mementos from this past weekend- some from my birthday, some not.

The cool photos are from Helaina, along with the awesome map underneath, which she got at the flea market on Sunday.

The DVD is from Rachael, which is great for a couple of reasons. First, I love the movie (at least as I remember it) and didn't even know it was on DVD. And second, because apparently she sometimes reads this blog and found out about it here.

The postcards are from Jake, which he found at an antique store down by where he's going to school. I bought the Hot Wheels at the flea market with Jake when he brought me back to show me what I had missed.

The lovely pumpkin decoration is something Sam bought at his School Store with money he earned during the week.

And the apples speak for themselves.

This Past Weekend

Sam and I brought Rachael to the bus station Sunday evening for her long ride back to The Big City. The feel of the bus station and the smell of diesel reminded me of the sad goodbyes from when I was young. My family and I would leave North Carolina and the summer behind as we climbed on the train for the long ride home. We would wave from the train as my Grandmother and Aunt waved back from the platform, until we each disappeared from each others view.

On Sunday though, it was just Sam and Rachael and I, each saying our goodbyes before a part of my life got on the bus and Sam and I headed back home.

There’s a kind of a fog that moves in with a loss and it obscures the joy from the hours before, and it gets hard to see things clearly. It gets hard to put things in perspective. But it slowly lifts over the hours and the days that follow, and the sense of loss, while still there, dissipates enough to allow for some reflection.

We were lucky to be able share time together, however fragmented, and because we were together, even the things that others might foolishly view as mundane, were instead, events.

Friday night was spent grocery shopping with Jake and Rachael and was a time to explore, but more importantly, it was an opportunity to catch up with each other’s lives and enjoy time together- which is what it has always has been.

Saturday morning offered the opportunity to fulfill a promise to Sam, which was to walk over to the doughnut shop for breakfast- just the two of us. The doughnut shop is just steps away, but in all of the time we've lived here, I've rarely visited and I've never gone inside to eat. This was an adventure for both of us.

On the short walk back, it started to rain.

There are times when it rains where it feels almost comforting, and I don’t always know why this is. This was one of those rains.

As everyone but Sam slept, Rachael and I went to the Farmers Market. Barely covered by a shared umbrella, we explored the offerings from the various vendors who were camped under their own tents, protected from the slow but now steady rain. Rachael bought some vegetables. I bought some mushrooms and a couple of loaves of homemade bread- more as a reward to the brave and lonely baker than out of any perceived need for bread at home. But as it turned out, sharing homemade bread on a rainy fall morning only added to the sense of comfort.

We were going to go apple picking on Saturday but the rain was still coming down, slow and steady and I was thinking that even if we couldn't go, if it meant we would all be stuck inside together, it would still be fine with me. But time was possibly running short with Rachael not knowing whether she would have to leave in the afternoon for work the following day.

So as we waited for the rain to offer some kind of resolution to our afternoon plans, Sam and Helaina and I went grocery shopping again. As with the previous night and the previous years, it was really just an excuse to be together.

These Saturday visits to the grocery stores have become something of a ritual for Sam. As I strolled around the stores with a list which he helped me write, Sam strolled around for samples and conversations- each time going a little further away; each time getting a little more independent.

The three of us returned home with the groceries, Sam’s pizza and the rain that had greeted us in the morning had now given way to blue skies. In the mean time, Rachael found that she would not have to return to work until a day later. We all headed out to go apple picking under the bright autumn sun.

Walking the orchard was, as usual, a semi-organized adventure. We rode a covered wagon pulled along by a tractor to a spot where the driver felt it was safe to release us. As we disembarked, we headed in different directions to wander through the trees like cattle searching for the best places to graze. One by one, we eventually herded together and, lugging the bags of treasures we had pulled from the trees, we walked the path back to the car, plucking a few more trophies along our way before heading home again.

Later Saturday, Helaina, Rachael , Jake and I walked up to local landmark which overlooks the town. It was one more chance to stretch out the day before evening, and my fatigue set in.

Somewhere, among all of this activity, we celebrated my birthday with presents and later, pie.

On Sunday morning, we made what may have been a final trip for the season to the flea market. When we got there, we found it to be somewhat sparse. This was probably due to the heavy, early morning fog that presented itself as threatening weather but by the time we had arrived, it had burned off to reveal another bright blue sky.

Most of us scattered as we scoured for treasures, sometimes meeting along the way. One by one, people arrived back at the van where there was the usual reevaluation of what we had just bought along with the usual questions of what we passed up. Some of us went back for one last purchase before it was time for Jake to leave with his girlfriend, and for the rest of us to head home.

Back at home, Helaina would run some errands before leaving to spend most of the week with her boyfriend. Rachael got down to the difficult business of mining the stored boxes on the back porch and going through the process of weighing what she could manage to carry, against what she needed to bring back.

Evaluating necessities can be a tricky thing, particularly when you feel you’re under pressure. Some necessities are obvious- things like food or clothing. But there are other things that add to your life in ways that anchor you emotionally and make you feel a little more grounded when you’re home- wherever home may be at that particular moment. Maybe it’s photos or books. Maybe it’s a blanket or a record player. Whatever these things are, they are things that can only be defined by you and they are often the things that are left behind for expediency’s sake. But more often than not, I think a life ends up poorer because of it.

So Rachael packed all she could and with Helaina leaving and Jake already gone, Sam and I drove her to the bus station where we said our goodbyes. Then a part of my life climbed onto the bus and Sam and I drove back home on a bright and sunny late autumn afternoon, and I fought the fog that was slowly rolling in.

Low Energy

Last spring, I replaced my old oil burning furnace with a new, natural gas furnace. You can therefore thank me for the recent decline in home heating oil prices.


You’re welcome.

A Stunning Defeat

I see that I have once again lost out on the Sexiest Woman of the Year award.

A Visit to the Doctor

My already abnormal thumb decided to get infected when I picked at a hangnail a couple of weeks back. This is not something I do often and after this experience, it’s not something I’m likely to do again. Since then, it looks like my thumb is trying to grow another thumb next to the nail. I would take a picture of this but I can’t stand looking at it- through a camera or otherwise. That’s part of the reason why I keep it wrapped in a band-aid. The other reason is because it just about launches me into space when I touch it.

This infection finally got bad enough that last week, I decided to go to the doctor and have it looked at- even though I knew what the end result was going to be. But I went anyway- my second visit to the doctor’s in as many days.

After waiting the standard nineteen and a half minutes in the waiting room, I was led into the doctor’s office by someone I assumed to a nurse. She weighed me (overweight), took my blood pressure (too high) and led me into the closet they call “The Doctor’s Office”. She asked me what the problem was and I explained to her about my thumb. It was clear from her expresion, or lack thereof, she wasn’t grasping the full impact of my ailment. This changed when I pulled away the shroud of tape and gauze and held up the specimen for her perusal.

I don’t know what they teach these alleged nurses in medical school but apparently they aren’t exposed to anything quite as hideous as my infected thumb. When I unveiled this aberration, she recoiled in barely concealed horror. All she could do was avert her eyes, stand up, inform me the the doctor would be right in and then make a beeline out of the office for the the nurses station, where I can only assume she spent the remainder of the day disinfecting both her hands and her eyes before heading home to face a night of restless sleep and feverish dreams.

The doctor must have been prepped on what to expect because when she entered, she had an almost unnatural calm about her- the kind a person gets when mentally repeating things like, “Think happy thoughts…think happy thoughts.” Then again, I’ve heard that she's been having personal problems.

She took one look at my thumb and said, “Oh yeah, that’s…” and then she said some long medical term that meant absolutely nothing to me. Still, I nodded knowingly, just like I do when my mechanic tells me what’s wrong with my car and I have no idea what he’s talking about. I made a mental note to try to remember the term she used for the infection in the unlikely event that I would look it up when I got home.

The doctor got up and went over to the medicine cabinet where she got out what looked like an X-Acto knife and a little packet of what turned out to be ointment. She gripped my thumb about as far away as possible from the festering mass, told me not to look, and sliced into the part of my thumb that is apparently somehow connected to the area a little above my right nostril but just below my right eye- which is where it felt like the tip of the Exacto knife was trying to poke through. This was about the point where I forgot the term she used for the infection.

The doctor slathered some ointment on the wound and wrapped a bandage around my now quivering thumb and told me to spend the next couple of days soaking it in warm water. I left the office pretty confident that we both knew that I would be back. But I was pretty proud of the fact that I neither screamed, cried, or wet myself- at least until I got back to my car.

Over the next several days, I spent an inordinate amount of time with my thumb stuck in an old pill bottle that I filled with warm water. The only discernible effect this seemed to have had was to make my thumb even more pale and wrinkled than it was before, and thus, make it even more hideous (think: old, wrinkly Elephant Man).

So, I’m sitting here, nearly a week after the doctor's appointment and nearly two weeks after the infection first appeared, trying to figure out what to do. My thumb is still masked from view and while that’s not quite half the battle, it accounts for something. I think about that X-Acto knife and I’m thinking that I might just give the pill bottle and warm water one more day.

News Flash

I don't usually link to news stories because a) they're pretty much old news as soon as I post them, and b) I see the story everywhere afterwards and it makes me feel like I've jumped on the bandwagon (which I hate).

With that said, I felt that this story was just too important not to pass along.

Morning Commute

There are few things more depressing than leaving for work on a dark, rainy morning.

I kind of like it.

Working Class

Sam had his first day of work yesterday. He’s taken over a job that Helaina held until a year or so ago- sweeping and maybe eventually helping Bob- a local woodworker that I had known from years ago.

I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out for Sam or Bob. Sam will work hard when he knows what to do, but sometimes that takes a fair amount of repetition for him to get the details of what you want. It can require a lot of patience. Thankfully, Bob is the ideal person for this kind of requirement.

So the deal was that Sam had to call Bob before going to school in the morning to remind Bob that he would have to pick Sam up at home when Sam got back from school at 3:00. I would then pick Sam up from Bob’s shop at 5:00. This would be his two hours of work for the week.

I stopped home first to get dinner going for Sam (he had requested mashed potatoes), and then headed over to Bob’s to get him. When I pulled up to the shop, Bob was standing outside, talking on his cellphone. As I pulled up and got out of the car, Bob finished his call and went over and poked his head in the shop door, calling over to Sam, “Sam, you can wrap it up. Your Dad’s here.”

I asked Bob how it went. “Great.”, he said. “He’s a sweeper.” I asked him if there was any problem knowing what to do; if he seemed to get it. Bob looked at me with that patented Bob "What do you mean" type look, and asked what I was talking about.

He reminded me, “Don’t forget, he came in with Helaina a couple of times and she showed him exactly what to do.” I hadn’t forgotten. I wondered if Sam knew how lucky he was to have, like I have, a big sister who looks out for him. I’m pretty sure he knows.

Bob and I went into the shop. Sam was wrapping it up. He looked like one big ball of sweat- with his tee shirt clinging to him and his hair all matted down. But he was happy- and he got paid.

When we got home, Sam washed up and I got him dinner- a pork chop, some apple sauce and a big plate of mashed potatoes. All in all, a pretty good beginning for his working career and a pretty good end for his first day of work.

Friday Evening Video

There are three movies that I remember seeing with Dad when I was young. I’m not talking about movies where the whole family went together. I’m talking about the movies where it was just him and me.
One move was “2001- A Space Odyssey”. This is still one of my all time favorite movies, which Jake long ago labeled “The Most Boring Movie in the World” (as he has also done with several other movies that I like). Dad and I saw this movie when it first came out back in 1968.

Another movie we went to see, also in 1968, was the original “Planet of the Apes”.

A few years later, we saw a movie called “Cold Turkey”. Out of the three movies, I have no clear recollection of how we ended up going to see this one. Since it didn't involve space or science fiction, it was not exactly the type of movie that I would go to see, and I don’t remember Dad ever bringing it up either. I suspect it may have been for one of two reasons.

It’s possible that my brother Steve had gone to the movies with his friends and I was feeling left out. If I was moping around the house (one of my hobbies), normally (if that’s the right word for it), Steve would have been the one who was forced to spend some time with me. Sometimes this would include dragging me to a movie, sometimes this would include dumping sugar packets on my head as we walked the train tracks with Peter King. But that was when I was younger.

We were a little older at this point. By this time in our lives, Steve was popular and had a lot of friends. I was not and did not. And while both of us seemed to be more than fine with our different lifestyles, it did leave those occasional lulls where I didn’t know what to do with myself. Which leads me to the other possibility...

It's equally possible that I knew exactly what to do with myself- which would have meant picking on my little sister (another one of my hobbies). It’s not like she didn’t deserve it, having had the nerve to be born and all. But on those rare occasions when the others in the family didn’t find my "good-natured" teasing as entertaining as I did, it would have been the general consensus that I was the one that needed to get out of the house- even though there were two of us involved (a grudge I still hold today, by the way).

Most likely, it was some combination of these two.

So, this movie was a comedy about a town that entered a contest to quit smoking for thirty days. And, as I recall, it was pretty funny. It had a few swears and maybe one or two implied “adult situations” but they were minor and I doubt they would even be noticed by today's standards. Back then, those were the kinds of things I that would have laughed at hysterically if I was with a friend, but where I was with Dad, I remember feeling a little embarrassed. I think Dad sensed this because at one point, he looked at me to see how I was reacting. Most of the time though, he was too busy laughing.

Maybe it was his idea.

Friday Night Video

It's been a long time since I posted a Friday Night Video, so to make up for it, here's a very special musical number!

Enjoy!

A Day at the Fair

Speaking of the Fair, we managed to go again this year, but there was a spark missing. It wasn't just that our group was smaller- we were without Rachael and Jacob. And it wasn't just the weather- which was threatening to the point of having tornado warnings later that evening. No, the spark that was missing was the one in my car’s engine- which now sat in a parking lot a couple of towns over, having died on Jake the night before.

This, like the threatening weather, hung over me while we went to the fair. It weighed on me so much so that even the sight of the racing pigs would only lift my foul mood for a moment.

We walked the fairgrounds for a while, but the fair seemed more sparse than usual. This was partly because it was so early and partly because it was threatening to rain. It didn't help that there were vendors from past fairs that were missing- like the guy that sold rocks, who was pretty much the only vendor I would go to.

But even the displays seemed thinner than usual. We wandered through the buildings, avoiding the heating oils salesmen and the bathtub re-finishers and the “Choose Life” people and newspaper vendors- which basically means we avoided everyone. Once outside, we sat down with our usual tub of french fries. And even that felt more low key than usual.

Afterwards, we continued to wander down past the rides- and since it was still so early and it was still so sparse, many of the rides weren't running yet. Neither Sam nor Helaina seemed particularly keen to go on any rides anyway, so we stopped at the snack shacks on our way out. Sam opted for a pretzel this year, Helaina for a bag of cotton candy- a small bag.

After stopping at home, I went to get my car.

I found my car sitting in the farthest reaches of a parking lot, where Jake had left it the night before. I figured it wouldn't start, but I tried anyway and I wasn't disappointed. I turned the key and the engine cranked, but it wouldn't turn over. This is the extent of my ability to diagnose car problems, which I guess isn’t really diagnosing, it’s just describing. It is also almost verbatim what I told the AAA people when I called to get towed.

Unlike my experience earlier in the week, this tow truck outfit didn't arrive within ten minutes of my calling. This time it was close to an hour. And unlike my experience earlier in the week, this tow truck company didn't bring me straight to my mechanic. No, first this guy had to stop to get gas.

When we got to the gas station, the driver, for some reason, kept having to go in and out of the attached coffee shop several times before he was able to start pumping. I was getting the impression that his credit card wasn't clearing.

Twenty short minutes later, we- meaning Driver Dan (not his real name), the truck and my teeth, were rattling on down the road toward my mechanic’s garage- but not before we had to make yet another stop- this time at Driver Dan’s “headquarters”. It seemed his cell phone wasn't working and he needed to exchange it. Obviously this was of major importance and couldn't wait until after he dropped off both me and my car. And since it hadn't been quite two full hours since this whole adventure began, I was perfectly fine with it.

So it was another short wait- this time only ten minutes or so, then we were off once again to our final destination- my mechanic's garage- this time for real! As we pulled up, I mentioned for Driver Dan to stop, but he either didn't hear me or was ignoring me. Perhaps he was thinking about all of those texts he kept getting on his newly exchanged phone.

Driver Dan finally asked me where I wanted to leave my car and when I told him, he stopped and looked at me, slack jawed- with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. This surprised me for two reasons. First, it was exactly where I left the other car earlier in the week and the other guy had no problem with it.

But second and more importantly, I felt that after all of this time, Driver Dan and I had bonded in a some special way. Apparently I was wrong. Apparently this was one of those “one way” relationships where it’s fine for “someone” to take their sweet time to come and get me and then stop several times along the way to take care of their needs, but then when it comes to what I want, it’s some big problem. Why even ask me, Driver Dan? Why?

After what seemed like several minutes of stone cold silence, Driver Dan let out a loud sigh, which I know was supposed to be directed at me- and then he pulled what seemed like a ninety-eight point turn, which included at least one u-turn, and with several grunts, he situated the truck right in front of the garage. I wanted to point out to Driver Dan that this would have been right where we ended up if he stopped when I had told him to, but I felt that it would probably be counterproductive to mention it at this point.

Driver Dan off-loaded my car and helped me roll it in front of the garage door. Then, without so much as a goodbye, Driver Dan sped away, leaving me nothing more than a broken-down car and close to two full hours of fond memories.

That two hours, by the way, does not include the morning at the fair.

Time Marches On

The fair was in town the other day. It began as it always does- with a parade a few days before. Over the years, the parade has stretched longer and longer to the point where this year, it lasted about an hour and a half. Last year, it was close to this, but in years past, it managed to hold to a more reasonable hour or so.

I don’t think I would have as much of a problem with this if the kids were still little. Like so many things, including the fair itself, my enjoyment of it comes from a) being with the kids, and b) watching their excitement. But as this aspect has diminished over the years, so has my enjoyment of it. But even then, it seems to me that it stretches to a point of overstaying it's welcome.

The last few years, Sam has been the only one of the kids to regularly go to the parade. I have no problem with this at all, but I’m not sure whether he’s going because he wants to, or because he thinks it’s expected of him. Last year, we left before the parade even was over. It worked out pretty well as it allowed us to beat the traffic.

This year when I asked him he seemed eager to go, which surprised me, and so, we went.

We got there a little later than usual, due to my longer commute from work, but we managed to wedge ourselves in along our usual “spot”. And we waited.

Like usual, the parade started late. Not unreasonably late, considering all of which had to be coordinated, but late enough to question what was going on. After waiting a while, the flash of the police lights were spotted up the road, which signaled the start of the progression.

The first part of the parade is packed with floats of various themes and quality. Don’t picture folded paper flowers blanketing some indiscernible vehicle hidden beneath. Picture instead a flatbed pulling what is likely a hay truck in it’s day job. There’s nothing wrong with this, of course. In fact, I kind of like it. It’s part of the “charm” of living in a rural area. 

Some of these floats carry the elderly, some the very young. In each case there often seems to be one portion of the group that looks almost overly thrilled to be there, while the other portion looks like they might have been forced into it. There seems to be very little in between.

These floats are interspersed with politicians walking or driving along, waving like they’re glad to see all these people who came out just for them. I don't know most of these people, and that's the way I prefer it. I've never looked back on a parade and thought, "Boy, didn't that Selectman seem friendly?"

And there are marching bands. In years past, I might have recognized a face or two as they marched along. This year, I didn't even recognize the adults. Sam recognized a few kids from his school, so that was pretty good.

There were the usual Shriners squeezed into their little mini cars. These guys have been coming for as long as I can remember and it's usually a highlight- as it was this year. Every year it also gives me the chance to point out their yellow Jeepster and tell one of the kids how their Grandma had one just like it, except it wasn't yellow. This would often lead to me reminiscing about the pathetic windshield wipers or the plastic side windows or freezing by the heater on the way to or from school. This year, I managed to refrain from telling these stories. So far, there's been no indication from Sam on whether he's missed hearing theses stories or not. 

I noticed that some of the regulars were missing. I didn't see the street sweeper that followed along behind the horses with some sign about keeping our town clean- a long running joke for at least the previous twenty years or so. In fact, I don’t remember even seeing the horses. I assume that budget cuts are involved.

I also didn't see the usual clowns this year. There were always at least two clowns that you could count on. One was the “Clown for Jesus”. I don’t think that was his real name. This clown was affiliated with some alleged church and he would march along with a small group of people, presumably his congregation, waving and handing out stickers as he went. I never got a sticker from him. I assume he felt, correctly, that I was a waste of time.

The other missing clown was the one that protested the local nuclear power plant. This jolly fellow would stroll along and throw Atomic Fireballs at the crowd (Get it? "Atomic"?). Unlike the stickers, I usually managed to get hit by a few of those fireballs. 

I’m pretty sure Atomic Clown wasn't there because the local power plant is in the process of shutting down- thanks in no small part of his brave performances at years worth of these parades. I picture this clown now sitting inside his dingy living room, parked in an old, frayed recliner- the walls covered in yellowing anti-nuke posters. He sits in the dim light, squinting intently at a newspaper, looking for another worthy cause in need of a clown.

The parade has always had it’s share of advertising, and this year was no different. What was different was the amount of advertising. I guess every person and every float is, in it’s own way, some kind of advertisement. But at least with the floats and the people, and the bands, and even the now absent clowns, there’s always been an attempt to mix in an amount of entertainment.

What's happened over the years is that more and more heavy trucks have entered the mix. In years past, there would always be one or two large trucks rumbling along, float-less, occasionally blasting their horn, scaring the crap out of any little kid and me that happened to be nearby. But now, there’s a ton of them. In fact, I think that last third of the parade is nothing but a progression of trucks- heavy and otherwise. I’m not talking Monster Trucks or something weird. I’m talking gasoline tankers and milk tankers. I’m talking oil delivery trucks- the kind that go to your house. There’s even one or two soda delivery trucks mixed in. Why am I sitting there watching this? It’s become little more than watching heavy traffic slowly going by. They could cut a lot of this out and make the parade a lot more interesting.

So, this year, like last year, we got up and left as the trucks started to rumble by- just as the parade was presumably winding down. We weaved through the crowd, making our way back to the van, just in time to beat the traffic.

Old Friends

I’ve wanted to say something about the blood test Sam had a few weeks back, but it was pretty uneventful. Probably the biggest surprise to me was that the relief Sam felt was even more profound than I had expected. I knew there was some nervousness there but I didn't appreciate the depths of it. Unlike me, who would have let everyone know of my displeasure over the situation, Sam keeps things pretty much to himself. In the end, his relief was pretty evident. I've never seen someone walking on air, but Sam came as close as I've ever seen

Looking back on it all, I realized that outside of his regular check-ups, this was the first non-pediatrician appointment he’s had since the days of his MRIs and the follow-ups. Until the morning of the lab work, the full impact of it all kind of escaped me.

The lab was a “walk-in”, which meant first come, first served. As I think I mentioned here before, this also meant that I was putting off doing anything about it. But the end of summer and the beginning of school was on the horizon, so I figured I better get in gear.

I told Sam what I was planning and I wanted to give him some notice so he had time to digest the idea- but not too much time. I figured a week’s notice would be about right.

As I expected, Sam was not particularly happy about it, but also as I expected, he didn't complain. Instead, he spent the week asking the occasional question and developing that strained, almost grimace-like look on his face. This, in typical fashion, was accompanied by him whispering off and on to himself. At times he would sit on the couch, arms folded while he whispered, hoping he wasn't being noticed. At night, I would put him to bed and attempt to alternately encourage or comfort him- and I would see that look and see those lips moving and I would know what was on his mind.

So I knew he was worried, but I didn't appreciate how much until that morning. The morning of the lab, Sam came downstairs with Brownie. This used to be pretty common, but as Sam has gotten older, Brownie’s visits downstairs are pretty infrequent- infrequent, but not unheard of. What was really unusual was that when we left, Sam took Brownie in the car with him. That hadn't happened in many, many years.

I bought Brownie for Sam when Sam was about a year old. It was on one of our walks into town. Sam was still in a stroller.

Brownie in younger days.

I’m not sure what it is that makes kids latch onto certain stuffed animals over others- whether it’s the look or the feel or the smell. It’s probably some combination that just feels right to them. Helaina had her panda, Rachael has her red bear, and Jake, his Goodnight Moon bunny. All of these friends were, at one time or another, constant companions to each of the kids, and at times, their best friend.

I think about all of the raw and intimate emotions, both public and private, that these little pieces of foam and cloth have seen over the years- happiness and tears shared with nobody else but them. These friends that were always there for them, always listening, always comforting- sometimes when it felt like no one else was.

In Sam’s case, Brownie shared Sam’s hospital bed, and he was there for every follow-up doctor’s appointment. On evenings and weekends, he would come downstairs with Sam.

A typical Saturday morning.

Brownie would watch as Sam played video games or went on the computer. Brownie was there when he had his wisdom teeth pulled.

But both Brownie and Sam have gotten older and now Brownie spends most of his days upstairs in Sam’s room- though he still occupies a place of prominence in the sea of Sam’s other stuffed animals.

On this particular Friday, Brownie came in the car with us, and he waited in the car while Sam and I made the long, slow walk into the blood lab.

Christmas Eve

The small waiting room was crowded with an odd assortment of people- including some guy who looked to be in his twenties. He had greasy hair which was pulled back by a sweatband and he was wearing what looked like a velour ninja outfit. If this guy was trying to intimidate, it wasn't working. If he was trying to impress, he was doing a good job of it- though probably not in the way he intended. While Sam sat there with arms folded, and still whispering to himself, he kept nonchalantly glancing over at this guy. I wasn't quite sure what he was thinking, but at least it was a distraction.

After the wisdom teeth.

Eventually, Ninja Guy gets called into the office. Nobody in the waiting room moves their head, but all eyes follow him in. Five minutes later, he comes out and an older woman whom I had assumed to be another patient, gets up when he says, “Let’s go, Mom”. Now it was Sam’s turn.

 The clinician called Sam in and Sam jumped up and walked across the room. He stopped at the doorway and turned and looked over at me. I was still in my chair. Sam said, “Aren't you coming in, Dad?”. Sometimes it’s hard to know whether you’ll be more supportive by being involved or by being out of the way. I got up and went in with him.

We’re in the little room and the clinician had Sam sit down and he put the band around his arm and he tapped around looking for a vein. Unlike me whose veins are almost on the outside of the skin, Sam’s are way down deep. This has presented problems in the past. The guy continued to tap and Sam was asking questions and making comments. The guy was pretty good with him, but he talked too fast for Sam to absorb most of the answers- which was probably a good thing. Sam didn't catch the story about how when these clinicians were getting trained, they had to practice on each other and this guy was repeatedly get jabbed by someone else who insisted on plunging the needle all the way into his arm.

The clinician in turn, missed Sam’s story about how when Jake and I had both told him that it wouldn't hurt a lot, and that it would mostly feel like a strong pinch, Sam had been spending a good portion of the week pinching himself to try to get used to it.

I thought back on all of the whispering he had been doing and I realized that he wasn't just crossing his arms for comfort. While his arms were crossed, he had been pinching himself. It surprised me and at first, it made me a little bit sad to hear this. But with some distance, I've come to see it as being pretty clever. He found a way to prepare himself, and if he had told me what he was doing, I probably would have stopped him.

By this time, the clinician had switched to tapping Sam’s other arm. Finally finding something that was satisfactory, he told Sam, “Here we go…”. Sam turned away, and took a deep breath- so deep he looked like he was going to try and blow up the worlds biggest balloon. I had to tell Sam to take a breath. I was afraid he was going to pass out.

The clinician poked the needle into Sam and filled up two or three vials. After twenty seconds or so, he covered the needle with a gauze and slid the needle out of Sam’s arm. “You’re all set”, he said. “That’s it?”, Sam asked.

It was hard to keep up with Sam as we walked through the waiting room. He wasn't running really, it was more like skipping, more like walking on air. I followed Sam out the door and without turning around, he said to me, “Well what do you know Dad, you were right! That hardly hurt at all!”. This came as a surprise to both of us and we were both relieved.

Back in the car, Sam gave Brownie a few tosses in the air and we headed to the doughnut shop, which is how Sam chose to break his twelve hours of fasting.

At home, I hung around a little longer before I finally had to leave for work. Later, when I got back, I noticed Brownie was still downstairs. And when I put Sam to bed that night, Brownie was still at his side. Sam and I talked briefly about the day and I told him I was proud of him and I kissed him goodnight, shut off the light and left his room.

Walking across the hall into my room, I heard Sam’s whispering start again, and I hesitated. I stood there, trying not to make a sound as I strained to listen. After a few minutes I turned, but before I could take another step, I heard Sam’s whispering turn into a chuckle.

I didn't bother to interrupt.