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| Screen capture from the Walmart website. |
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Today's Brief Comment
Friday, October 24, 2014
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.
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.
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.
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| 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.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
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.
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.
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| His latest trophy. |
Monday, October 20, 2014
Dinner Time!
Tonight, Sam and I made apple pancakes with some of the apples we picked a couple of weekends ago...
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| BEFORE |
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| AFTER |
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!
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!
Friday, October 17, 2014
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.
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.
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.
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| 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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
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.
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.
You’re welcome.
Monday, October 13, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, October 3, 2014
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.
With that said, I felt that this story was just too important not to pass along.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Morning Commute
There are few things more depressing than leaving for work on a dark, rainy morning.
I kind of like it.
I kind of like it.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
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.
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.
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