The Check Up

 

Time to be put back up on the rack for a 3-month check. In other words, it was time for another visit to the doctor’s office. I know all you kind loyal readers want to read this, but what else you got to do?

Since the last visit I’d taken all my meds, ate the proper substances and avoided the evil drink just so when I showed up for my latest review, I’d be tip top primetime.

After my normal 3-hour naps I substitute for ‘sleep’ I counted the hours before attending the showdown.

I checked ‘my chart’ that was produced by the hospital as a digital connection to patients. It is very up-to-date current information in medical language but doesn’t substitute for person-to-person speak.

As the meeting hour approached, I combed my hair, put on some smelly stuff as not to offend, laced up my shoes that still fit, and prepared for my venture into the world of medicine.

The doctor’s office had called and said they offer ‘virtual’ office appointments. I’m sure it is for those of us who are scared to leave the front door but I feel that a doctor’s visit requires a person wearing a white lab coat looking into your eyes, taking your temperature, checking wounds and listening to complaints without email on the other side of the screen. I prefer a one-on-one interaction with a teacher, preacher, police, lover and doctors rather than a Zoom meeting.

The construction to the middle school continued as a sign of constant changes to a familiar past. Peddling up the hills didn’t seem so bad but it was probably due to the chilly dew.

After locking up my pony and passing the TSA, I looked for the elevators that would deliver me to Room 102. Somehow I got turned around and wandered aimlessly through corridors with no numbers on the doors and bad directions. After several futile attempts through the maze, I attempted to contact a human to direct me.

A volunteer was frantically trying to help another so after a few minutes I ventured on. How hard could it be to find Room 102?

My boy scouts instincts directed me toward an area that seemed familiar though I’d only been there once. Eureka! I found the Room 102 without a compass.

The door was locked. The window was covered. I pressed a door bell and waited.

A nice lady in her nurse like uniform and mask welcomed me in and direct me to her window where I’d have to scribble my name or some sort of similar duplication of my handwriting on a digital pad giving my permission for these strangers to poke and stroke me and ask personal questions. It also releases them from any responsibility if I croak on their floor.

Then she directed me to an empty room and closed the door.

Nurse Nancy came in and with comfortable conversation confirmed I was whom I said I was and I’d not been in contact with anyone who had THE COOTIES or had ridden my bike overseas or had attended a UVA keg party recently. Take my blood pressure, and then leave.

Again I was left alone until the ‘real’ doctor came in.

A knock on the door and there she was.

Symone Hopkins with her sidekick Mary Baker, NP. They are ganging up on me.

 Symone is a certified Nurse Practitioner by the American Academy of Nurse Practitioners. She received her Bachelors in Nursing degree from Hampton University and her Master of Science in nursing, with a concentration as a Family Nurse Practitioner at Virginia Commonwealth University. Before joining Monument Internal Medicine, Symone worked inpatient within St. Mary’s Hospital. She has experience as a medical surgical nurse and has seen patients in oncology, and hospice. She has worked for Bon Secours since the age of 16. Symone is a member of the American Association of Nurse Practitioners and Sigma Theta Tau Honors Society. During her spare time she enjoys time with family, friends and participating in community work.

I guess qualifies her? Besides she is wearing the medical uniform and knows the password to the computer so she must be legit.

She asks me the doctor’s question, “How do you feel?”

After listing a history of the past three months, with details of movement, pains, diet and personal diagnosis, she nods her head.

She persuades me to continue some meds (amLODIPine, lisinopriL and metFORMIN for you medical junkies) that I tried to avoid, but only for the next six months. We agree the others can be avoided for now, but may be reviewed later. There is no reason for me to put chemistry in my body if I don’t need it. Remember she is only a medical professional practicing the art of wellness and there are no guarantees.

This experience revels what medicine is to me.

Doctors and hospitals are the places you go for a vacation when you don’t feel good. Once inside you have no choice but to do whatever anyone wearing scrubs tells you.

First they take away your clothes so you can’t run away naked. Then they wire you up to these rolling computers to monitor your every breath. They poke your arms with needles taking blood out and replacing it with some sort of liquid in a plastic bag. They never tell you what they are doing or why they are doing it or what the procedure is for. There is no deadline to escape the repetitive questions or lack of rubber gloves.

Even at checkout, you have to sign another form to admit you were not tortured or harmed in any way to your limited knowledge of what these strangers have done to you.

If you listen closely to their huddles, you can try to decipher how they are describing your bodily functions in ‘doctor talk’ using words that are a mash-up between a Greek tragedy and a sci-fi movie sequel.

At the end of the session, they cut the cord, give you back your clothing and hand you a pile of papers describing your procedures (in ‘doctor talk’) and agreed upon recommendations until a follow-up can be arranged for more test and calculations of estimated breathing time on this planet.

Most of the common categories like diabetes, hepatitis, cholesterol, blood pressure, heart and gastro-intestinal functions. They take a sample of blood, listen to respiration, take a pulse, temperature and declare you are fat.

If you have the time and effort to search the Internet to try and figure out what these ‘doctor talk’ words mean, how you compare with what current science measures as ‘acceptable’. If one of these categories go array, there is no explanation of what causes the inconsistency or how to get your numbers back in line without taking a pill.

Remember the doctor doesn’t get paid if you are well.

Without constant probing and prodding, the doctor may not find a brain aneurism or allergy or depression or the big score Cancer? Beyond the physical ailments, who delves into the mental idiosyncrasies we all have.

There are still plenty of cooties out there like Tuberculoses, Mononucleosis, Conjunctivitis, Human Immunodeficiency Virus, Multiple Sclerosis… the list goes on and on. Polio is still around.

Every cough, sneeze, runny nose and headache could be a sign of some life threatening disease. Even this Covid-19 is still being figured out with new symptoms everyday.

 

To make a short story even longer, I didn’t have to strip down or get a hose up my butt. I showed my leg and said it had a slight flare-up but moistening lotion took care of it. Symone took notes. I took all my pills but did not get refills. Symone took notes. I didn’t have a follow up with the liver doctor because he had no cure. Symone took notes. I rejected all the shots they offered. Symone took notes. I compromised and said I would refill three pills for blood pressure and blood sugar. Symone took notes and said come back in 6 months and we’ll run some more test.

I agreed.

Once home, I compared my original doctor visit numbers with my new three month later number and they looked pretty similar for whatever that means.

I appreciate doctors and nurses. They are there to patch you up if you fall and have the goods to reduce pain. No one likes pain. They are also the ones we train to cut you open and take out bad things to keep you living longer.

Seymone and I discussed my feeling about longevity and expectations of what she or any other medical professional could do for me (or to me).

In six months I will return to the labyrinth of catacombs to find Room 102. I will take my pills on time as directed and stay away from the evil hooch (unless there is another debate) and mind my pees and cues. I’ll wake up with my ever-increasing aches and moans but old age beats the alternative. If life proceeds the way it does, I’ll be fine.

Next week will be another birthday. Many more than ever anticipated.

See you in six months Symone. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.

Symone sans mask

 

 

Oops!

 

Why did I do that? Boredom? Stupidity?

Whatever reason, I was cruising the Internet for answers to silly questions and came across the term “Credit Score”.

I never knew (and still don’t know) my “Credit Score”.

I figured at one time I had a “Credit Score” when I barely had two coins to rub together but somehow I got a mortgage, loans and credit cards.

I figured now I must have a good “Credit Score” because all my loans are paid off, all my credit cards are paid off and my mortgage is paid off.

I figure when I get mail and phone calls to increase my credit amount or get an additional credit card or request for home equity or second mortgage loans that my “Credit Score” must be OK.

Still curiosity won over my common sense.

As I recalled there were 3 sites that gave your “Credit Score” for free. I found one and clicked on the link.

I read through all the information and there was no cost indicated so I started filling out the forms. Name, address, email, phone and then it asked for social security number.

They have to have some reference to check your “Credit Score” against some universal database, but I don’t give out my social security number. I don’t give out my bank account number or my credit card pin number either.

The federal and state government knows where to deposit my tax returns and I suppose all the companies I mail my checks to have a copy of my bank account number. Amazon knows my credit card number but it is only the one will a small line of credit and the balance is paid off immediately and not used for several months to maintain a 0 balance.

My better mind kicked in and I backed out of the questionnaire and moved on. I didn’t need to know my “Credit Score” anyway.

Oops!

Almost immediately the phone started to ring. There was that robo-call pause before a voice came on giving the spiel. First I couldn’t understand what the person was saying and then realized it was Spanish. No te entiendo.

Click.

Then the phone rang again. It was a different number but the same message.

Click.

Then the phone rang again.

Click.

Ring.

Click.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Text message.

No comprendo. I can’t read Spanish either.

There was a pause and then my number came up again.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

You have a voice mail message.

Call my account, plug in my password, press #1 to hear my message and there he was again mumbling into my ear.

Erase.

Then wait.

I check the email account I listed and sure enough, there was a pile of credit offers.

Like all the calls I get for window replacement offers for my brand new windows or extended warranty on my none existent car, they will stop.

I’ve been lucky to avoid all the political calls and the mailings can be easily torn up, but this reminds me not to follow the trail of seeds.

Turn this box off and go pick up a book. It may tempt you but it won’t call you at 8 o’clock in the morning.

Before the next debate

 

We learned a few lessons from the last debates, but we should consider some changes for the next ones.

The stage appears rather blank; an empty floor with just a podium for each contestant. They stand in front of a wall of an enlarged section of the Constitution or some diner’s menu if you try to read it. Who chooses which section of the Constitution should be displayed? Should this be the contestant’s propaganda instead? Let’s keep it jazzy. You want the view to pay attention.

If the debaters wear dark clothing against a dark background even under the spotlights they will become floating heads and hands. Maybe a green screen would spice things up. Lighting colors that change with the intensity of the verbiage would raise the ratings. Save the fireworks for the ending.

The big old Eagle overhead doesn’t do much to say “America”. How about a wall of flags? The flag is used in parades and every press conference. It is the symbol that shows being a patriot. Maybe like every state flag since this is about uniting the country.

Let’s start this thing off with a bang. Instead of two (or more) folks coming out on the stage waving at an invisible crowd of reporter and technical stage hands, how about some music to start things off and keep everyone awake?

Next instead of some repetitive introduction in a two-minute time limit how about a pledge of alliance to the flag(s)? We used to do that in the classroom before school went digital.

A rousing National Anthem would be a good start. We start ballgames this way to bring opposing teams together. The public might find who has the best voice? They might also learn who knows the words?

The next request would be a biggie! The Supreme Court chief justice would have each candidate to swear on a bible that they would…”Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help them God!” No fact checking required.

The two-minute mute is a good but needs to be automatic so the moderator doesn’t let them ramble on to finish a thought with a scolding reminder. They have a clock. Cut them off mid sentence. If they can’t follow these rules, how will they run a country?

Some sound affects might be fun to add to the serious nature of this contest. A whoopee whistle or a Bronx cheer now and then would tell the debater they’d flubbed up before it hit the nightly news opinion makers. Add the sound of a squeaky shoe or the occasional puff of flatulence would keep the audience attention.

Instead of these two showing their physical stamina by standing for almost two hours, give them a chair (or stool) so they can rest between mouthing the words they’ve been repeating over and over again. Maybe while one is talking the other can just kind of wander aimlessly around the stage. That would be distracting unless they decided to try out the ramp?

An over powering blast of music and fireworks and applause sound recorded earlier by real people would lead to a fast bow from each and a fade out. No one needs to see their significant other climb up on the stage to show support and keep the kids home. No confetti for they will go ablaze with the fireworks and the morning news will report the survivors of the building burning down.

These are just a few ideas. Perhaps a marching band to play the National Anthem? Some cheerleaders shaking their pom-poms between questions might clear the palate. No civil handshakes for these are opponents.

Add your thoughts and suggestions in the comments below.

 

78 Days

 

Today is dreary and wet. Piddle around the house but it is too dark to get motivated. Wash some dishes and turn on the spin cycle to the dryer while getting high on the Clorox fumes in the bathroom.

Put on some dance music to avoid the increasing constant flow of death and dying. Now the talk is maybe…maybe a vaccine might be ready the middle of next year…or later. Already the paper towels are flying off the shelves as in preparation for the long dark winter.

Maybe this will end at this time next year and we can go back to normal? Maybe it won’t and will go into another year after another year for this is a global pandemic and it will be a long time to give everyone in the world a dose. Maybe we will forget what normal was?

We may all die before this shutdown is over so get your affairs in order.

If fires and hurricanes and overbooked hospitals and closed restaurants aren’t bad enough, now we have the ‘murder hornet’.

Here is something else to think about…

What happens between November 3, 2020 and January 20, 2021?

There are 78 days between when the final ballots are voted to the oath of office at the presidential inauguration.

Normally this is the time the former president packs up and moves out of the white house, but these are not normal times.

On November 3^rd the final votes are cast but it will take some time to tally all the numbers to verify the outcome. In the meantime, the current President is still ‘The President’.

The president has another two months to finish up the legacy of the tenure of office. The president has 78 days to make right for the last four years or put a period on promises made.

Anything could happen.

Thanksgiving and Christmas fall in this time period but this White House has never seemed very thankful or fond of holidays. When you are President, everyday is a holiday. Will Santa bring Barron a puppy?

The season for family gatherings won’t be this year due to the (and I quote) “The Plague”, but all of the President’s family are living with him and working for him. Every meal has all the family at the table dining on taxpayers’ money.

Even with the astounding incomparable numbers, this President seemed to get infected and bounce back over a weekend? He seems to be in that ‘high risk’ over 70 elderly; slightly rotund physique, a questionable diet and I don’t believe riding in a golf cart is exercise group. A bunch of white guys in white mask and white lab coats give the report that the leader of the free world is doing fine and will be released soon, after having oxygen and a cocktail of two experimental therapies, the antiviral drug Remdesivir and Regeneron’s anti-SARs-CoV-2 monoclonal antibodies, in combination with vitamin D, Famotidine (pepcid), Zinc, and Melatonin with a dash of Dexamethasone, a steroid, thrown for good measure. Do they serve that at your hospital?

Who were those guys? Anyone can wear a white lab coat? They must be good because soon enough the President was walking up steps at the White House for a prepared photo-op looking fit as a fiddle with nary a cough or a whimper.

Not having rallies to attend or updates from the Task Force on the Warp Speed solution coming around the corner any minute, what is a president to do? Congress is on recess and the Supreme Court is full. Golf is always an option.

Still this president likes excitement. Maybe he can stir up some of the faithful so he can have that parade of tanks in the streets? Maybe he can push the red button to see if it really works? That would be a firework to start the New Year.

What if the President-elect is too sick to take the oath of office on the 20^th? Does the Vice President-elect take the oath and the reins? Does the former President just stay in office until…?

This president has already been building a case for voter fraud so a recount is not beyond imagination. All sorts of weird scenarios and legal suites could be presented to the confused awaiting constituents. What if all the early drop box or mail-in voting equals all the voters before November 3^rd? Are they bonus votes?

There are all sorts of contingent plans or we could just flip a coin. Maybe we could just start all over again?

Every day has been a new revelation of the bizarre and unbelievable so what is another 78 days? We’ve got nothing else to do but watch in amazement of what the future might hold.

Integration

 

An act or instance of combining into an integral whole is integration. An act or instance of integrating a racial, religious, or ethnic group is integration. The operation of finding the integral of a function or equation, especially solving a differential equation is integration. Behavior, as of an individual, that is in harmony with the environment.

 

 

Like every other Caucasian male growing up in the 50’s, solders that looked like you and your friends were the ones who won the previous war and the victory over tyranny. These were the fellows who stormed the beaches and flew the fighters and made the newsreels and movies.

In 1940 the U.S. population was about 131 million, 12.6 million of which was African American, or about 10 percent of the total population. During World War II, the Army had become the nation’s largest minority employer. Of the 2.5 million African Americans males who registered for the draft through December 31, 1945, more than one million were inducted into the armed forces.

African Americans, who constituted approximately 11 per cent of all registrants liable for service, furnished approximately this proportion of the inductees in all branches of the service except the Marine Corps.

Along with thousands of black women, these inductees served in all branches of service and in all Theaters of Operations during World War II.

During World War II, President Roosevelt had responded to complaints about discrimination at home against African Americans by issuing Executive Order 8802 in June 1941, directing that blacks be accepted into job-training programs in defense plants, forbidding discrimination by defense contractors, and establishing a Fair Employment Practices Commission (FEPC).

After the war, President Harry Truman, Roosevelt’s successor, faced a multitude of problems and allowed Congress to terminate the FEPC. However, in December 1946, Truman appointed a distinguished panel to serve as the President's Commission on Civil Rights, which recommended “more adequate means and procedures for the protection of the civil rights of the people of the United States.” When the commission issued its report, “To Secure These Rights,” in October 1947, among its proposals were anti-lynching and anti-poll tax laws, a permanent FEPC, and strengthening the civil rights division of the Department of Justice.

In February 1948 President Truman called on Congress to enact all of these recommendations. When Southern Senators immediately threatened a filibuster, Truman moved ahead on civil rights by using his executive powers.

Among other things, Truman bolstered the civil rights division, appointed the first African American judge to the Federal bench, named several other African Americans to high-ranking administration positions, and most important, on July 26, 1948, he issued an executive order abolishing segregation in the armed forces and ordering full integration of all the services.

Executive Order 9981 stated “there shall be equality of treatment and opportunity for all persons in the armed forces without regard to race, color, religion, or national origin.” The order also established an advisory committee to examine the rules, practices, and procedures of the armed services and recommend ways to make desegregation a reality. There was considerable resistance to the executive order from the military, but the end of the Korean conflict integrated almost all the military.

 

To continue I’ll use the vernacular of the day. Rather than Africana American or Black or People of Color, I call ‘these’ people Negros.

 

If you know anything about armies or battles or wars, the one with more bodies to sacrifice than the other wins. For eons men (and some badass women) would go toe-to-toe banging and slicing each other up until the last standing wins. Gunpowder raised the bar but still the one with the most bullets won.

Why were only white men carrying the guns and shooting at each other? Where was the Negros?

An army travels on its stomach. While soldiers are out on the battleground murdering each other, someone has to feed the horses and bring up the ammunition and haul the cannons and cook the food and those chores were designated to the Negros.

The culture of Jim Crow carried over into the military.

So why did Harry Truman declare Executive Order 9981?

World War II had just ended and the boys were coming home when suddenly the Commies started messing with Korea. Like many other spoils of war, Korea had been divided into North and South. The Allies would oversee the south and the north would be influenced by Russia and China.

You can read the history of the Korean War and all of its nuances, but the American army was sent to stop the brouhaha.

Like any army, when a soldier is put out of action, another soldier needs to take his place. The white army had many holes in it without time to procreate new soldiers or draft younger inductees, so the president turned to the Negro soldier to join the fight.

While in WWII there were Negro soldiers, they were segregated. Photos of fighting companies showed the faces.

Now the president was forcing barracks, mess halls, latrines and foxholes are filled with black and white soldiers. Imagine the culture shift on both sides to be thrown together?

Take a step back to Emancipation.

After decades of accepting the original sin, with a few words, slavery was over and the oppressed were free. What did that mean?

Did the people who had grown up working for another in subservience suddenly claim a plot of land, build a shelter, raise a family and make a subsistence living? How long will it take for the cultural ideal of a second-class citizen change?

Back to the Korean War and as you can see from the photo at the beginning, when soldiers were captured there was diversity. No longer was the Negro to carry the boxes, drive the trucks, cook the meals, construct the camps, carry the stretchers, but also shed the blood.

When the Negro soldier was discharged from battle, they returned to the culture that did not obey Executive Order 9981.

As a Caucasian growing up in the 50’s was involved in the desegregation of schools, watching the marches on Washington and the assassinations, seeing the riots and reading the legislature, questioning the bigotry while carrying an ancestry of bias now hears the same chants for equality.

 

Integration is the reverse of differentiation. The integral of 2 is 2x + c, where c is a constant. An “S” shaped symbol is used to mean the integral of, and dx is written at the end of the terms to be integrated, meaning “with respect to x”. This is the same “dx” that appears in dy/dx.

Skeptical Times

 

A person who questions the validity or authenticity of something purporting to be factual is a skeptic.

 

A person who maintains a doubting attitude, as toward values, plans, statements, or the character of others is a skeptic.

 

A person who doubts the truth of a religion, especially Christianity, or of important elements of it is a skeptic.

 

In these times of doubtful resources, fact checks, dubious statements and fake news, one cannot be sure what is real and what is not.

 

A Cynic is a person whose outlook is scornfully and often habitually negative. I’m not that person.

 

I research stories on several sources then decide if I wish to believe it. I try to avoid opinion reviews but it is unavoidable. I seek the origin of the story or watch the video live, but even that maybe manipulated.

 

I don’t believe I have any strong beliefs that would get me to walk the streets or even sign a petition. The upcoming vote is still a crap-shoot but I will place my X in the box of who I feel might be the best. Time will tell.

 

I will ask questions. The answers will be considered but not always accepted. Perhaps working in advertising has numbed me to propaganda and persuaded promises.

 

Tomorrow night will be the final debate with the winner running the country for four years. There is no winner for they don’t get scores and have a referee raise one hand. People have to listen and decide for themselves, with preconceived conclusions or amazed wonderment.

 

Debate is a process that involves formal discussion on a particular topic. In a debate, opposing arguments are put forward to argue for opposing viewpoints. Debate occurs in public meetings, academic institutions, and legislative assemblies. It is a formal type of discussion, often with a moderator and an audience, in addition to the debate participants.

Logical consistency, factual accuracy and some degree of emotional appeal to the audience are elements in debating, where one side often prevails over the other party by presenting a superior “context” or framework of the issue. In a formal debating contest, there are rules for participants to discuss and decide on differences, within a framework defining how they will do it.

 

Don’t expect anything like a William F. Buckley vs. Gore Vidal debate.
Debaters in court must have their facts and have full capacity to answer any question in a calm and respectful manner.

 

Not sure tomorrow nights ‘Donnie and Joey’s Show’ will be anything but loquacious fodder for the pundits to spin the next day, but I’ll watch from beginning to end.

 

Who knows? I might learn something?

36-24-36

 

Remember when numbers categorized you?

Height and weight are still requirements on job applications. They don’t check your teeth or look at your feet.

If you are tall, you may be announced like a basketball player.

If you are heavy, you may be announced like a wrestler.

If you are short, you don’t want to be identified by your height.

If you are a woman, you don’t want to state your weight.

There was a time when women were measured by bust – waist – hips.

Clothing was selected to accentuate the best number.

Boys would give catcalls as girls’ sashay by.

Barbie dolls were designed on numbers for little girls to emulate.

As we grow older, the numbers change.

Sleeping with other people

 

Being a reflective sort of old fella, I tried to fit myself into this puzzle.

I can still remember being a teenager. I remember when girls started to get my attention and I worked hard to attract their attention. Once I did I had no idea of what to do next.

Perhaps the most famous aspect of Amish social life is “Rumspringa,” which means "running around" in the Pennsylvania German dialect. According to the Young Center, it is the time, beginning at about age 16, when youth socialize with their friends on weekends. Rumspringa ends with marriage. Apart from introducing young men and women to one another, this period is an important time when Amish youth need to decide if they will be baptized and join the church, which usually occurs between 18 and 21, or leave the Amish community.

This reminds me of those African rituals shown on B&W newsreels of young guys having to go out into the bush and kill some sort of creature and bring it back to the elders to prove ‘manhood’.

Still that period called ‘puberty’ was my Rumspringa.

There was that time between parental rules that declared who you could associate with and how late you could stay out. There was that time when proper behavior between two people of opposite genders (when there were only two) was acceptable. There was that time when the weekly preaching of a horrible fate that awaits those who sway from the abstinence rules until the church approves the union.

Just looking.

This was the time when you tried out different models knowing if this one wasn’t right, there were more on the lot. Give a test drive, kick the tires, and then see how your friends react. Getting approval is important to your dynamics of becoming a couple.

Not making light of relationships, particularly when the bodies are full of hormones trying to escape. From what I’ve witnessed there are those who meet early in life and continue to this day. Congratulations. Seems they are still dating each other. There are those who bounce around the romantic pinball machine looking for ‘Mister or Misses Right’ but many times wins up with a tilt.

I lack some of the nuances of the adventure for I never had a ‘girlfriend’. I had girl friends but no one to wear my letter sweater and put wax in my school ring. That meant to go to a dance or a concert or a party, I had to find a date. Too young to go to pickup bars and no Tinder yet, there was lots of phone calls. Someone might know someone who might want to or have a friend coming into town for the weekend or can’t because the parents would be out of town. There was no guarantee that the person you took would be the same person you came home with.

While some encounters may have been brief, guys would (and I imagine girls did too) pass around just enough information about the person who allowed you to become intimate. Whether the stories were true or make-believe gossip and looks would fill the halls and reputations were made.

A few emotional connections (as shown in a previous 10/16 story) went from local to long distance and that doesn’t work.

Still the numbers of ‘partners’, like notches on the bedpost, survive. Some may have been in the heat of the moment, some may have been revealing nights of wonder, some may have needed to be repeated and some were soon forgotten. The act of sleeping with several people is supposed to help the experience to make the right selection, but usually you are not the first chosen.

How we act when we are in a social occasion with our stated significant other is different when we are alone. Human nature is always looking. Like hunting for that next meal, we may hide our glances and possible sweet romances; it is easier to retreat to what you know than take the leap.

Until marriage, ‘one night stands’ were the norm and neither expected more. Nothing was promised but a few costly consequences had to be dealt with. Marriage vows were made to stop the wandering eye.

Between marriages, the game was revived. With a bit more wisdom or not as drunk as before, there were boundaries of how far to go. By now I was old enough to watch closing time selections. People having had ‘relationships’ also had history and some baggage.

The 50’s blissful ideal of marriage was he or she would be the first (and vice versa). Having no experience is a difficult way to start. There were no classes in school or drivers ed films or anyone you could watch to see how it was done. Some made it work. Some had to have something to compare it too.

While making a friend is difficult enough, one who might become an intimate partner takes the task to a different level.

If the game is played for the body count, the titillation or remarkable prowess, we all play the game different.   

Here is another take…

https://www.thisamericanlife.org/720/the-moment-after-this-moment/act-three-0

What happens if Santa gets Covid-19?

 

Christmas has always been the time to end the year and cheer up. Family and friends gather, good food and drink, presents for the kids and snow to make everyone happy.

In this time of uncertainty, what happens if Santa is quarantined?

Santa isn’t Superman. He is just a jolly old elf living in self isolation until he and his magical sled covers the globe in one night bringing gifts to good little girls and boys.

He wears gloves but the beard pokes out from under the mask. He hangs around at the factory with those little elves and who knows where they’ve been? Mrs. Clause could have picked something up at Trader’s Joes or Rudolph could have been a bit too cheerful and close down at the Elk’s Lodge getting his nose all shiny and bright?

This is a strange virus and we don’t know everything about it (as if we did about any other) so the fat man in the red suit might not be showing any signs of symptoms…. Yet!

Do you want your kid to crawl up on his lap and whisper in his ear? Do you want him to hug your kid? Do you want him to invade your home, coughing and choking on fireplace ashes? Would you leave him a plate of cookies and milk so he can lower his mask?

With the mail being overwhelmed with voting ballots, Santa’s letters might never make it anyway. Santa has let his phone service drop due to all the extended car insurance robo calls and there is no visitation allowed in the North Pole Scientific Research and Medical Center.

UPS, Amazon Prime, GrubHub and all the other couriers are working their tail feathers off trying to satisfy our boredom of not working, not commuting, not dining out, not going to the game, not hanging out at the local brewery or traveling to another town to do the same.

Looks like Little Timmy might not get that shiny new bike (even if you could find one) and Sally’s doll collection will not include a Judge Ginsburg for they are all sold out. Don’t worry if the new iPhone isn’t here because neither is 5G.

We still have the election, Halloween and Thanksgiving to worry about before Christmas and if there is no Santa this year?

Sorry kids but he is a made-up character just like the Easter bunny and Jesus.

Haunting Tales from the Tummy Temple

 

After another dreary dark day of rain it was time to embrace the chill in the sunshine and visit my favorite place – the Tummy Temple.

Seems like forever I’ve wandered the aisles, viewing the holy Cola water and the exotic oils that no one can pronounce.

The cathedral was rather packed today so other parishioners must have felt the call. Once I found a zip cart to place my donations and finding a working remote control barcode scanner, I was off to explore the hidden wonders in the catacombs of consumption.

There is never a list or scripture passage I follow, but being insulated in the never-ending variety of soy sauce or sugar cereal I know the way. Most is like window shopping for things I’ll never bring home, but it fulfills my soul that so many spent so much of their time and effort to concoct a method that is new, buttery, sweet, long lasting, great tasting, family size, low fat, low price item that has it’s little notch on a shelf with all of it’s cousins.

I had an idea of what I wanted to eat and I knew where the items were, but it is never that easy. While the overhead choir sang, “Don’t stop believing”, I turned to the deli atrium. I do not intermingle with the carvers of cheese and kosher meat for special orders but rather pick up the pre-package preparations. Today was going to be the Ukrop’s Chicken Salad. (*Note: There is no Ukrop’s anymore but slap a name on it, raise the price and it will sell just on memories. Someone is missing out on the Thalhimer’s chocolate cake or the Miller & Rhoades tea rolls. How about some Clover Room ice cream or Bill’s Barbecue limeade?)

Don’t know what it is like in your Tummy Temple but the deli area is a section for gathering and telling stories while the disillusioned or culinary dyslexic have a ‘Come To Jesus’ meeting. Since the second phase of the Temple Tummy daily visits are to add steps to my walk or die heart chart, I scoot around the mass and wander to the bananas or shrimp on ice or wrapped cow pieces or a sundry of cans, bottles, boxes and bags to temp the taste buds until the deli crowd disbands.

If you don’t realize it, the more time you spend in the Tummy Temple, the more you donate. You didn’t want those chips but while you were waiting for the confused telephone conversation to verify sour cream or cheese, a bag wound up in your basket.

I try to make a quick jog around to the spots of places where my regulars are placed but when it is packed, as it was today, the pace slows down. Rather than road rage and a speed up crashing into the bumper cars or knocking over the lost in the wilderness, I detour to another passage and proceed slowly. Should I get another container of butter? Why don’t they have coffee ice cream? Better get another bottle of hot sauce because there is always a need for more hot sauce.

Even the checkout stalls are full so another venture around the walls of winery without stopping. Finally I wheel into my slot, more numbers show up on my list (how long have I been in here?) and I walk back into the sunshine stuffed with anticipation of filling my tummy with all these yummy while still in stretch pants.

I’ll be back tomorrow for another session in studying society without interaction and excuse for exercise. Besides I’m getting low on blueberries and peanut tithing to the woodland worshipers.

Let us pray for another day.

Amen.

Radio in the kitchen

 

Today I put a radio in the kitchen.

It was raining all day so I was stuck inside. I have plenty of projects to work on, but raining days don’t bring out inspiration.

I’ve got lots of these boom boxes and moved one on top of the refrigerator. Plugged it in, turned it on and found the usual channel then looked around for something to eat.

It made a difference I didn’t realize.

Growing up there was a radio on top of the refrigerator. The kitchen was my mother’s room and the radio was always on. It was a simple box with a 3” speaker and no FM. I think it was on the same station and it was the source of news and weather. It told us if we could stay home or have to trudge through the snow to go to school. Paul Harvey told us how to live along with Alden Aaroe who was a local DJ. They were only voices until I met Harvey Hudson (local media celebrity) on my back porch watching television with dad.

The television would be on early but the fuzzy black and white images were not appealing. The news came on during dinner so the TV tables came out to avoid conversation but it was the radio that was the background voice.

We got a little portable transistor radio I would try to listen to but kept losing the signal. I purchased a multi-band long-wave radio that would waste hours of my searching signals from all over the world. Someone told me about this music coming out of Europe. Then I found a station in Boston that was playing this music that the local stations bypassed.

The local stations were still playing big bands or grand old opry bluegrass and the occasional Negro dance music but none of the signals were strong enough to stay connected in the car. Then WLEE came out and started playing these teen tunes, but I had moved on to the phonograph.

The is the history of the radio, until…

 When my wife died, so did the desire to watch television. Finding a CD or vinyl or cassette to play lost interest so I turned to the radio.

The public radio station played classical music without commercials with a five-minute news update every hour. It was very calming and got me through some lonely nights. Now all my radios are tuned to NPR to keep me entertained and informed.

Most people I know also have some sort of background noise going through the house (for a silent house is spooky). Some have the house wired with speakers in the walls and remotes to increase or lower the volume.

I’ve just got these little boom boxes placed in every room and now the kitchen. What surprised me was the kitchen suddenly sounded like my childhood.

I don’t hang around in the kitchen. I grab a microwave meal from the fridge and then eat in another room. I leave the dishes in the sink until I run out and have to do my chores. I dump a load of clothing in the washer, switch it on and then go outside to the radio out there.

But today was raining so I turned on the new kitchen radio. Suddenly the kitchen wasn’t such a forgotten room. I cooked some eggs and toast and a nice hot cup of coffee while listening to the radio. The sound filled the void of a missing conversation.

I loved you both; he loved me back

I don’t know if it was an original statement or a picked up quote, but it stopped me. What a great title for a book.

The person who said these words to me was someone I knew in high school. We were not ‘boyfriend girlfriend’. We didn’t share classes or even schools. We didn’t pass and forth sweaters or rings or memorabilia. We didn’t attend movies or dances or concerts together. We never went out to eat dinner together. We did have certain chemistry.

Lost track of her decades ago, when I got married to another. The last I heard she was dating a friend of mine but I never saw them together. She was never spoken of.

Fast forward to the Internet and stumbling on a high school reference, I saw her name. I click on it to see if there was any information but instead the screen said, “You’ve just sent a message”. Oops!

She responded and we had silly emails trying to find out details but not prying. Like everyone you lose track of, everyone has another life and 1966 was a long time ago.

At about the same time, I had reconnected with another friend. The friend I’d heard was dating her.

Being a snoop, I would question each on their relationship. Each filled in certain details that a detective could connect the dots. There seemed to be more than they were telling me so that was their mystery.

He was in my wedding. I heard years later she was dating him at the time but didn’t attend.

He moved out of town so the story ended until the Internet connection.

Then I got the news she was coming to town. Her mother still lived in town and she was coming home for a visit.

She arranged for a time and place that the three of us could meet.

The memory of a distant time came back with more questions than answers.

There is another point to this story.

Even though we were not ‘officially’ dating or a couple, there was an emotional connection. While I kept trying to be aloof, we kept finding ways to meet for a tryst.

The rumor was when I got engaged it broke her heart.

There was never a breakup because, to me, there was never ‘up’. Still I became the bad guy through history.

Then the time came for a lunch together.

How would he and she act in front of me? How was I to act to her and him? Did she still hold a grudge and was going to scream at me or shoot me? Were they going to relive a former passion and I was just a third wheel.

Maybe she had forgotten all about me?

I sat at the bar watching the door in the mirror. I didn’t have any idea what she looked like. My only reference was 40 years ago so it was a shot in the dark I’d recognize her.

She walked in. We grabbed a booth and placed drink orders. She told me that he couldn’t join us because he was sick. That left possible reasons but was glad to have her undivided attention.

We walked through the neighborhood releasing some chatter that was neither revealing nor controversial. It was meeting someone new, yet familiar. We had spent hours walking the streets back in the day because we had nowhere to go. We never talked about family or school or each other (that I can remember) but it was just comfortable to spend time with each other.

We met for drinks a few more times bobbing and weaving around the topic we didn’t want to discuss. The possibility presented itself, but we didn’t go there.

Before she left town, she told me the phrase, “I loved you both; he loved me back”. I had no response.

The next time I saw him, I made a point of repeating that phrase. I wanted to make sure he heard it.

I’ve lost track of both of them since then. The experience was just another blip in history, but as you can tell by me writing this, it was memorable.

I fell in love with her; at least a fantasy of her. It was a love that was a combination of teenage kisses and old age romantic wishes.

It was puppy love all over again. A love would never come to fruition, but could be appreciated in its fantasy.

mis·con·cep·tion

 

 

1. a view or opinion that is incorrect because based on faulty thinking or understanding.

2. a wrong or inaccurate idea or conception a common/popular misconception

3. a delusion,  error,  fallacy,  falsehood,  falsity,  hallucination,  illusion,  misbelieve,  myth,  old wives’ tale,  untruth

 

We read, hear, and watch lots of different sources with lots of different statements, opinions, analyst, history, recipes, etc. Everyone from family to friends to teachers to preachers to politicians to scientist to reporters to social media has something to say.

 

How we decipher what is worth remembering and what is worth forgetting is up to us. If it is an ole family tale told by your grandfather, it may be true or just a hand-me-down fantasy. Some stories that seem logical and will create bias in our beliefs could just be a myth. A myth worth believing sculptures your personality.

 

Wonderful discussions can be had when two misconceptions do not align. Hours of fact checking, reference verifications and multiple sources may not find a conclusion to satisfy all.

 

In these days of blatant falsehoods and crackpot beliefs cannot be fact checked fast enough before the next tide of wise cracks and tall tales.

 

Good luck with political advertising.