That Time Of Year

OK, not Halloween specifically, though it's also a time when a lot of people come around with their hands out and some container to fill. But I'm specifically talking about the mail, both physical and email. 

"Hi, we're so-and so, we do good things (or so we try to convince you), and we'd love to have you give us some money."  I could bore you with a very long list of supplicants. 

Some I've gifted in previous years, and if things were more stable right now, would love to do so again. Others I've never heard of, can't judge from the begging proffered, and am left totally unmoved by, independent of what's happening in the country. 

Oh sure, if I won a large lottery prize, somewhere on the top of my list would be huge donations to food shelves to help those suddenly with no incomes and no SNAP benefits. I have my own memories of being food assistance dependent while raising kids. But it doesn't matter how much I promise to the winds blowing past about my good intentions. I rarely win as much as my dollar back.  I seldom invest that dollar in the next lottery ticket.

I just hope some of you reading this have better situations, more hope for your futures, and can help pick up the slack that our government has created.

Late Fall Journey To Crex

 Last weekend was peak colors here at home, but it was also busy - too busy to spend half a day up north. Plus I was waiting to go with a friend, and our schedules just weren't meshing. Yesterday was the day, finally scheduled... until she had a health issue and had to cancel at the last minute. I decided to go anyway. I need to every once in a while. Whether it's a good shooting day or not, wildlife abundant or scarce, it's a good place to be, out in nature, taking all the photos you can just because you can, especially now that they're digital, and see what you can get for your permanent memory box. Even if the fall colors are disappearing, the sandhills are collecting, getting ready to head south in the thousands, around three weeks or so from now.

Since I had just recently "discovered" Fish Lake late in the summer, I decided to start there. The best view is from the boat launch, looking east over the lake and catching sky reflections however you can. Early in the afternoon, clouds hadn't dispersed yet, so lots of white in the view south.

The north view had side-lit clouds, catching and reflecting back some of the reds from the many oaks below. They almost looked lavender.

Once I'd shot all I wanted there, I headed into Grantsburg and through to the visitor center. Because restrooms, of course, but also there was a trail out the back door which has a bridge over a bit of moving water that produces some colors I'd been waiting for fall to shoot. In high summer much of the water was covered by leaves from water plants. Not much reflecting happening.

If you note the blur on the far side of the far side of the water, it became more interesting without the rest of the background. A current rippled through it, formerly hidden under the leaves.

It just goes to prove - repeatedly - that some of the best shots are the happy accidents.
 

I'd barely started my tour. There was a whole lot of color everywhere. Mostly the birches, which are very abundant with all the designed waterways, had dropped their golden leaves and were now collections of white branches. but a variety of evergreens lived up to their names, and oaks  still held their colors as late as possible.

Near the many lakes there were still pictures demanding to be shot.

With little wind the grasses along the roadside showed clearly, even if it took multiple shots to convince the camera to put everything in focus.

Pockets of islands near the shore still retained enough warmth to retain color, even if flowers had disappeared from the lily pads. Many branches formerly hidden suddenly showed their true forms.

By this time I had been gifted with my first sighting (of two) of a bald eagle. Of course it flew right over the car and across the lake so quickly there was no time for the camera, either time. But it (or possibly they) were not the only birds still hanging out in the area. There was a family of trumpeters swans which obligingly swam close to the road, allowing for some shots.

These were not the only swans in the area, but the others were either just white dots on the far side of the lakes, or so close to the banks any shot was impossible for all the grasses they tucked themselves under while foraging. In the case of trumpeters, the only swans I've had the opportunity for long observations of, they feed by basically turning upside down, feet up, and scarfing weeds off the lake bottoms. Over the years I've caught shots of them with long strings of vegetation dangling from their beaks down into the water. It never seemed to bother them.

As it came closer to suppertime, it was also time to work on locating a viewpoint for watching the flocks of sandhill cranes fly in. You hear them first, that primeval call from these living dinosaurs. The spot I picked was where two other early cars had pulled over. It's always to be assumed that the first ones stopped might have a good reason for their choice, as in there was something special to see there, and not just it was their supper time. I didn't crowd them, but stayed back and rolled down the window. Yes, off in the distance I could hear a few cranes, squabbling over a spot they'd flown into earlier to claim for themselves. The squabbling would continue till the last of the thousands had arrived for the night after a day foraging in surrounding fields. I watched a couple small flocks fly over, before noticing movement along the edge of a narrow waterway. 

Heads bobbed, disappeared, popped up a few feet away. These were the likely reason the other two cars had stopped. As they gradually moved out of sight upstream along the bank, I counted fifteen. I probably missed some, being distracted by trying to video landing flocks. A hour later it would likely have been nonstop flyovers and landings, but I didn't want to stay out that late this evening. I did, however, catch one shot of a flock flying over the last cranes along the stream bank.

The six airborne ones are easy to spot. So is left one on the bank, but the other one is just to its right, and partly behind a moving clump of dead leaves in my foreground, blurring it a bit. It doesn't help that it's not as white as the one it follows. It's the only shot of both grounded and flying cranes that presented itself in the half hour I sat there.

I decided to head out, having gotten everything it was possible to shoot while I was still there, plus being able to listen to the cranes as they called. I just didn't realize I wasn't quite done shooting. Do you remember that swan family?

They were now up on the road, stubbornly doing their own thing, which included a combination of posing and crossing the road and back again, stopping traffic, because of course. There's a bend in the road there so I shot through the windshield. The grey car's driver slowly stepped out and set up his tripod off his car's back bumper, so I imagine my car is in his shots as his is in mine. It was that or don't bother to shoot. I was third on the scene and nobody moved for the full ten minutes I was there. A fourth car rolled up behind me and we slowly eased around the swans who still took very little notice of us, so somebody else got a turn.

Not all cars are as thoughtful of photographers when they drive around Crex. Many just zoom past creating clouds of dust. By the time it settles the creature you wanted is long gone, and all that remains is resentment of somebody else's rudeness.

As I was exiting the way I entered (which you might have guessed from the same swan family) I saw three sandhill cranes land on the road up ahead. It was a ways, but I took a shot over the steering wheel, knowing if it was good I could seriously crop it. Then I slowly rolled foreward, took another, and carefully repeated the act. They did notice me, but each time they paid attention, nothing was moving. They went back to scouring the roadside for something. Sand for their crops? A bug catching the last bit of warmth before the sun set?

I heard it before I saw the car. Its driver paid no attention to why I might be stopped or what was ahead on the road, just plowed through as fast as was safe on the gravel. Of course they scattered. People were more considerate elsewhere, and there was plenty of "elsewhere" in the 30,000 acres of Crex. I'll be back, though I don't know if it will be before next spring or not. My last winter shot from years past was a deer skeleton, well worked over by wolves, sitting about 10 feet back from the road. I think the shot actually predates my owning a digital camera!
 

Another Reason Our Mail Is Late

I actually had to drive two towns away yesterday to pick up a package for Steve. Luckily it was sent with a tracking number, so we knew exactly where it was when it was supposed to have been delivered.

He had ordered a bunch of bag clips, the kind that hold a food bag closed after you open it and remove a small portion to eat. It happens mostly in frozen foods for some reason. The tops never tear or cut straight, or the little divot on the side doesn't tear off cleanly, or the plastic bulge-and-groove don't fit together like those name brand storage bags do. You know, the ones which have the ZIPper that LOCks?

We had a single bag clip in the house, and since I was currently going through small frozen fish fillets three-at-a-time, nuke and add lemon pepper,  it was going to be in use for a while. It was doing a good job, so we decided we needed more. A twistie just won't work on one of those opened bags.

The first issue was making sure the place we ordered from actually had some domestically and didn't need to import any. I still have a clock 4 months overdue, and some bathroom rugs 1 month overdue.  (OK, I confess: slow learning curve!) The store still says two days from order to delivery in their online ordering system. It actually used to be true. Now it only works when the desired item is actually in the store, so it says it can be picked up with the grocery order or delivered today. (For an extra price on the latter.) We've been arguing with the store on the clock and they refuse any responsibility, no refund or store credit will be given. They also haven't changed how they list items so you can tell you'll have to wait indefinitely for nothing, you're SOL Baby!

These weren't postal problems, however, just filling in how complicated it's been getting to order things. Because of those issues, Steve went over to eBay to place his order. Due to the strong feedback factor there, the vendors usually work extra hard to be sure everything is done as promised. His clips were promptly mailed out and had a postal tracking number he could follow. They were to arrive yesterday, and as he started to check their progress he'd reminded me of his need for me to go retrieve them once delivered. He really was in a hurry!

But wait! The tracking number said they had been rejected by the local post office... two towns over!

Say what! Why there?  I looked up their local phone number, not the 800 one, and he gave them a call. Was our package really on their premises? He gave the tracking number, and she both looked online and physically located the package. Yes it was, along with two postal bins of other misdirected mail that would be put back in the system tomorrow. In other words, a couple more days till actually delivery.

Hey, could I drive over and pick it up from them?

Now this is where you gotta love small towns for helpfulness. She said yes, and over I went to get it. We chatted briefly, and I mentioned we'd been having a number of problems getting our mail in this other town. She told me not to blame our little local post office. Apparently this happens regularly, that in the big sorting facility in St. Paul they often put the wrong tubs of packages into the truck which drops things in this location instead. Yes, most of it is actually theirs, but just today there wasn't one wrong tub but two wrong tubs of mail that had to be rejected... after the truck drove away and they went through their own sorting of packages.

Hey, St. Paul regional sorting facility, anybody there reading this?

On my way out I thanked her, both for her help and the information. Steve has his bag clips, and is happy with how tightly they can pinch his fingers. (Presumably the bags as well.) Good feedback was given to the seller, so all should be happy. I think next time I'm in our own post office I'll have a chat and see if they are aware  of what's happening.

Oh, and I would have been happy to pick up both tubs of our local mail and bring them to the our post office. I know I'm not authorized, of course, even though I would have taken the task more seriously than the folks who were authorized to get it on the right truck were. So I didn't even offer. Sorry, all the rest of my neighbors who are still waiting for their packages. I know how that feels.

"No Kings" In A Small Minnesota Town

I had to prep for this. A folding chair went in the car, just like it would have back in Arizona when the demonstrations were for Grandmothers for Peace. This time there wasn't a car full of pre-made signs to pick from so I needed to prepare my own.

Cardboard! I'd recently broken down a bunch of boxes which had been taking up space in the living room. Metal fasteners had been removed for regular garbage, and side panels separated to fit in the recycle bin. I located the spray can of glossy white paint I'd previously used to touch up dings on the car to prevent rust starting. I had a larger square of plastic to spread across the front porch deck, and set the selected cardboard on it to get sprayed on both sides... three times to get good coverage.

After it dried overnight and was no longer tacky, I used magic marker to lay out the letters and words. They were filled out more than thin lines in order to be visible from passing cars, except for the middle line of text. I'd planned on red but that marker quietly gave up the ghost months before. More trash. Plan B, then: cut the Duck Tape (yes, that's spelled right for the brand)  I'd bought weeks before into narrow strips and arrange them over the written letters to fill and contrast. Now the huge middle word said "EPSTEIN" in hot pink, with fattened black letters above and below that to demand "RELEASE" and FILES", surrounding that too-familiar name. Other signs could say what they wanted, have nice formalized professional graphics. I just wanted to remind anybody who read my sign of another reason we were out here messaging to traffic. Just for variety I also wrote on the reverse side in black marker "NO KINGS" and "ANTI FASCIST". Some times you gotta flip the sign.

Amazing once I got to the protest how many other signs mentioned the need to release those files as well.

I was early. That was planned. I wanted to find close parking, which I did. I also wanted to find a spot for my chair near the curb where I could sit and let taller demonstrators stand and fill in behind me. We were quite spread out. Not sparsely, since most of us were 4 or 5 deep, tallest and largest signs in back. There were four large sections of us. A central commercial block divider split the town highway in half. We lined up in the middle, facing traffic both ways, and along both outer (residential) sides. I noticed a woman with her walker there, the kind one can sit on, and decided next to her was a good place. We chatted off and on during the two hours I was there. Others filled in on the other side, mostly standing and walking around, and the crowd came and went through the middle. Some people brought children, others brought dogs on leashes. Attention veered away from the street when our first inflated chicken costumed demonstrator arrived. It happened a second time when a caped super-hero  walked in - so much for that flying cape, uh? - and once more when the inflated unicorn showed up. There may have been other costumes, but I spent most of my time facing the street. No green frogs however. Apparently those were long sold out.

Of every dozen vehicles passing by, from cars to large rigs and huge trailers towed behind, probably 9 of them honked and gave friendly waves. Windows were often rolled down to very visible smiles, waves and thumbs-up signs. Many shouted encouragement, cheered, waved their own flags, even applauded if they weren't driving. At least two were noted to have gone around and around circling us, honking loudly and repeatedly. Somebody must have known one of them since I heard a name called out.

Some people did their best to ignore us. One woman really stood out, hugging her steering wheel for dear life as though we might have jumped out into her path to ... What? Hand her a free mini flag? Hitch a ride? Try to get run over? Who could tell what was in her mind besides obvious nervousness. She did leave an impression however. I hope wherever she was bound she made it safely... and was glad to be there instead of at our party.

The third category was the opposition. They'd yell out Trump's name in a friendly (deluded) way. Or mocking us. We saw thumbs down, and middle fingers raised. Loud expletives were mostly drowned out by the high traffic level.  Loud engines were revved as if being obnoxious would change our opinions of anything except whether we ever wanted to get acquainted with those individuals. Some draped large Trump flags or banners over their trucks, circling us repeatedly in case we missed them the first 18 times. (When I left 4 of them were pulled over further down the road in their own mini demonstration. Very mini. At this point I figure our group was somewhere well over 300 people, nicely crowding the small space we had and the outer sidewalks. I'd be interested in an actual count, though people were always moving in and out and back.

A stoplight paused traffic passing periodically, which helped when one blind demonstrator had to be escorted safely across to where the bulk of us were. The pauses also gave us chances to chat, share stories of other demonstrations, commiserate about the upcoming ending of SNAP or rise in health insurance rates. It wasn't all politics of course. Fall colors had decorated the world overnight. A particularly spectacular orange maple tree had gaps between leaves allowing peeks of blue sky above and blue lake below. What a day to forget the camera! As we were discussing leaves, another person pointed out how skewed up the seasons were this year. Across the street, below that magnificent maple, a couple clumps of purple lilac bushes were back in full bloom! That usually happens once, near Mother's Day, not again shortly before Halloween! Apparently the person pointing them out had noticed other oddities recently. I tried to listen but her words got drowned out by traffic and honking again.When next I looked she had moved. 

But the chicken was back! And now talking to the Unicorn!

Maybe they were also wondering where those huge Soros checks were, eh?

I Just Don't Understand This About Physics

 Don't get me wrong, I do understand parts of it. Those things make perfect sense. But other parts are a puzzle. Today was a splendid example.

I tripped. It happens. I landed on one knee, in a paved parking lot next to my car. So far, no mystery yet. But once inside the building I had driven to, and sitting in a chair killing some time, I started feeling my knee complain. Nothing major, just a quiet whimper.

It wasn't serious. In fact, I'd checked the knee of my knit slacks once I got up, and there was not a thread mussed up, not a spot or stain, not a ravel. The pants bore testimony to it never having happened. I'd have expected some dirt, even though it had been raining much of two days but with minimal accumulation, like under 1/3 inch in the rain gauge. Hardly enough to clean a fairly level parking lot.

Of course, it wasn't true that nothing had happened. My memory works perfectly, recording the fall. Even my knee had started to send out little reminders that I hadn't just been bouncing on the bed or something. It was just a little tender. At a moment when there was no audience around I pulled the pant leg up to look at my knee. I expected a small bruise. Just a little thing, since it had been over a decade since I was on blood thinners and a tiny bump turned into an issue. By which I mean a huge bruise covering the front of that leg down to the foot. In the right light, the skin over that piece of me still shows a shadow. It's a souvenir just to remind me.

Today there was no bruise. My knee looked more like a grill had been scraped over the (nonexistant) kneecap, alternating parallel stripes of red and skin from top to bottom. It wasn't bleeding, just somehow scraped and raw. There was no indication of skin strips or blood or grit or anything on the inside of the pant leg either. No bits of gravel had forced their way through the weave, sticking to me. Absolutely no indication anywhere of an encounter with some asphalt.

Except the missing skin bits declared somehing had happened. So did a few nerve endings. And maybe a slightly pulled muscle on the back side of that knee, which has rapidly lessened with modest walking as the afternoon spent itself.

So the physics question I have is this: how does the force transfer itself into marking my skin, after going through a knit fabric, and leave no other evidence of its passage? Not one single broken fiber!

I just don't get it.

I bet crawling into bed tonight is going to be interesting however. I'm still off all painkillers these days, till the doc says otherwise. Maybe not even then.

I Know That Smile!

We watched High Potential last night. It's fast becoming a favorite TV show. I'm hoping they continue with what they're doing and the character development. Too many shows  take a wrong turn, as far as we are concerned, and lose us. We no longer care about the characters. But this one is doing well, so far. She's crazy-smart, cares about her kids, and gains the respect of the cops around her, especially those who wanted to dis her for how she dresses.

There's a long standing mystery behind the weekly crime solving, in case you haven't watched it yet. Our main character's husband and father of her oldest disappeared one night on an errand to go buy diapers. That baby is now a teenager who has believed for years that her father never cared about her. But we are getting clues that something else happened to cause his disappearance, that it wasn't voluntary, and he may even be alive.

Enter a new character, a middle aged black man with a landscaping business who may have some knowledge of what's going on. Last night there was a scene in a restaurant booth where we got close ups of his face while he was in conversation. He'd never looked at all familiar to me until that moment. I knew that smile! I've seen it before. The face is older, heavier, and otherwise unrecognizable. But that smile haunted me all night. Who was he? Where did I know him from?

Sometimes when you start a search with minimal information, you ask Google some really stupid questions. OK, the program name and.... Well, I erased our recording once we finished watching it. So what else do I fill in to identify the character I wanted? Do I ask who's in the restaurant? Who knows what happened to the dad? How about his most significant contribution in the episode: who brought the backpack? Because that has some kind of important clue inside that we'll find out about next week. 

Maybe.

So I googled that and got a name of the actor. OK, not helpful, I don't recognize it, nor the plethora of small headshots  that accompanied it. Apparently he's been in a whole host of movies... that I've never seen, and many I've never heard of. There's a musical background, equally useless for me. I don't pay attention to the latest hits. Let's check further.... OK, TV stuff. 

Wait, there's a young face, along with the smile that I recognized. He was a doctor on ER! Got it! I watched that show without fail for the years it was on, recognized an actress who became Dr. Who's wife later on that show once I started following that for a few years, and when I had the opportunity to follow ER again in reruns on another network, watched those again. 

I knew it! With all the other facial changes, that smile stayed the same! Mekhi Phifer, now a character named Arthur, used to be Dr. Pratt on ER. 

OK, now I can get some sleep.

Why Are You Wearing That...?

 It's been another week of doctor stuff. I had to visit my Primary, get lab work done, go to my last (for now) PT session and have a long talk with the therapist about how to maintain in the interim before rescheduling that consultation with a shoulder surgeon. Later this week I was in the hospital for an endoscopy to try to answer questions about the why behind some of the side effects I'm having. It was scheduled the same day/time as the surgery consult, so that got cancelled and will be redone. If I can't even get my fall flu and (newest) covid shots right now, no way I'm getting surgery.

I woke up from that endoscopy procedure with a very runny, sneezy nose. It continued, and still does. I went to a pharmacy next day to check out what kind of cold medications OTC will be OK with my diagnosis. The obvious answer was expected, though I had to be sure I wasn't overlooking anything: avoid any having NSAIDS on the ingredients list. He didn't bat an eyelash at my conjecture that the NSAIDS were the primary culprit for my pancreatitis. I expect he's heard that before. (The doctors all concentrate on my alcohol use. Have they never met a teetotaler before?)

Just in case, I wore one of my old covid masks into the pharmacy. One doesn't get a cold from a medical procedure, especially not as quickly as waking up out of a lovely "nap" from propofol, otherwise known as "milk of amnesia". Exposure was likely two to three days earlier, meaning it was at my primary doc's office. PT operates off the same lobby. I hadn't been anywhere else in the time frame. I haven't even been working.

From there I drove to our community mailroom, parking outside the door, saving myself a longer walk from the house. I popped the mask back on that I'd removed while driving. We're all seniors here and who knows what other issues my neighbors might have? As I left my car, one woman exited the mailroom with a piece of mail, and her tiny dog on a leash.

"Why are you wearing that mask?" I was startled, not just at the question I've never heard from anyone  before, but from detecting a bit of hostility in her tone. I first assumed she was one of those die-hard MAGA folks who are suspicious of all kinds of common sense, medically based practices that came out of the pandemic. I chose not to get into that with her. Too little energy.

I figured she likely couldn't catch the hint of a smile on my face as I chose my answer. It didn't deter me.

"I picked up something. I didn't want to share it. I'm selfish."

She aimed a quick up/down look at me, then said, "Good. You keep that mask on!" It came as an order.

I didn't crowd her as she strode past and down the street. I had been thinking about a quick offer of a petting to her dog as we met in passing, but decided to leave her dog unfriended. I'll probably not recognize her next time we meet, but I'll likely know the dog... and remember. There was no "How are you doing?" No "Are you OK?" No "I hope you get better soon."

Meanwhile the fastest moving thing in the house these last days has been my nose. I refer to myself as Drippy, Runny, and Sneezy, three of the Seven Dwarfs. I don't have the energy to add Sleepy and Dopey in there, even as they occur to me now. The tissues are running low, but we have a huge pack of rolls of those paper towels that tear at the half size and soak up a whole lot. I can even set one aside while I fill the next and go back later to find the first usable again.

Meanwhile about two weeks wait for results on the biopsies they took.

"Interesting" Financial Policy

 I have a good relationship with my one credit card company. Only one, that is, unless you count the debit card that comes from my credit union. Technically they're different.

I've had that credit card for a long time. It kept me going in the lean years, and they managed to get their modest share of interest from me along the way. Once I got to the point where I didn't have to leave a balance on the card, I got fussy about paying off the monthly balance before the deadline. They were handling my money for free nearly all the time.  

Apparently they noticed. I'm used to getting my bill just past the first of the month, with a date to pay it off  without compiling interest for before the next month end to avoid interest. 

A few days ago I made an extra payment since I'd been spending a bit extra. I have no problem making double payments in a month, since I keep a fluid balance in my checking account that I don't blow past. Since it was well past the 1st, I got an automatic "warning" that this would not count towards the monthly bill.

Huh?  I've already paid twice since the first of the month.  Just to keep the balance down, you know. But their first of the month bill hadn't gone out yet, unlike other months. They've been holding it, again unlike other months. So maybe they figure that I think I've paid it already. Both of the recent payments were after paying the minimum after the last bill went out.  I've brought it down to zero each time, a favorite pastime of mine. Then I ordered groceries for something under $60. Just after their new billing date. So I still need to make another payment before the end of this month.

So-o-o-o not a problem. I could do it as soon as I finish this, but I'll let a bit more accumulate first. It was just interesting to me since they changed their timing. I can only conclude they're looking for more ways to acquire extra interest. It's not like I've been sending them any, and that's part of my agreement with them, that nothing is owed if all is paid off before the next bill. These last few years, occasionally something happens and I owe them a bit of interest about once a year. Just a bit, since I note that however tiny, it still is more than I'd get leaving my money where it is in a different institution earning interest.

The question I do keep asking myself is whether, after all these years of being a good reliable customer, they want to keep me or trick me into being driven away? There are other institutions who used to have my business, and either got sloppy or greedy. I refuse to use them to this day. One was so bad that even when I received a check to cash at their bank, coming from one of their customers at that precise branch, they tried to force me to give them my credit card number - or open an account there - before I could get my money. I had ID but that wasn't good enough for them. Eventually I figured out something different and got my money owed without compromising.  

Just saying I can get pretty stubborn with greedy characters. I'll be keeping a close eye on the credit card company.

About Those Supposed Hospital Food Restrictions

One of the  first things you hear once pancreatitis is diagnosed is that you have to give your pancreas a rest. It might just repair itself. In practical terms, first thing that means is no "real" food. Especially no fats, and only low fats for well afterwards. You get clear liquids only, most of which are being fed to you though a vein in your arm. (See "Dancing With Miss Ivy" from last month.) Considering the pain, mess, and inconvenience that led me to this point, I was reasonably OK with not putting into my body anything that might bring any of it back. I was getting all the things my body needed at that point, and had no hunger or thirst waiting to sabotage everybody's good intentions.

Oops, did I say "everybody's"?

My first morning the staff wheeled in a  full, standard breakfast tray. I knew perfectly well it wasn't for me. It couldn't be, right? I informed the staff I was restricted and they offered it to Steve, since he'd spent the night, and there were common sense rules against returning it to the cafeteria.  He enjoyed most of it, especially since otherwise he'd have to leave to go buy something. There was no cafeteria in the hospital.

 He was gone before they brought in another tray, but I had not heard yet that I could eat anything but clear liquids. My initial conversation while still in the ER was "for several days", and I was still hooked up to Miss Ivy.

Cue next morning's breakfast tray.

OK, this one had a small can of lemon/lime soda - I guess that qualifies as clear, but I seemed to remember no carbonated stuff. I set that aside for Steve, since he'd had a similar one the day before. This also had a couple tiny containers of colored jello - no insult to the brand by that name, but to me all gelatin is jello like all tissues are kleenex. These were both flavor free and rubbery. I tried, honest.  Then I noticed some actual fruit juice. A purist would claim the bit of pulp clouding them defied the qualification of "clear" but I didn't care. Wet, flavor, I'd take it. The surprise on the tray was some cream of wheat. I suppose Superman could see though that, but I have never claimed that talent.  However.....

I decided to hope that the cafeteria staff had some justification for calling it "clear". Right next to it on the tray was a packet of honey to pour over it. No question that was clear, right? Next to the honey was some brown sugar. Now, when that gets wet, as it surely would do inside of me, it became clear. So... justified, right? I made sure every grain of sugar and drop of honey coated my breakfast before I had my first bite... and all the way through to the last. Next were the cut strawberries. Hmmm, clear? Not clear? I knew if I chomped them well, the juice would be clear and very tasty. OK, tasty was slightly overrated. The season was long over, after all. I decided that the fiber in the berries was simply unavoidable, and maybe one of my docs had talked to the cafeteria staff about what was OK, so I wasn't taking my health for the rest of my days in my hands... or stomach, as it were.

Yeah, I know. No lectures!

The next trays that day were more of the same, without the cereal. Jello got set aside for the trash. Two kinds of (now clear) fruit juices were consumed, along with more strawberries, though this time with a dollop of whipped cream. No fat there, amiright? Another can of soda, same brand, different flavor, saved. I did give a stray thought to how much sugar they were putting into this (known) diabetic, but morning pokes didn't seem to give them any concern during my stay, despite continuous IVs dripping in calories along with their electrolytes and meds. Can't go completely without. My numbers hovered around 90, and the only energy I used was with Miss Ivy.

Without any communication or fanfare, and no changes in IVs, the next breakfast was a huge frosted sweet roll among the standard fare. Sitting demurely in the tray corner were two pats of butter to smother it with. I drew the line at the butter. Honest! Just like at supper I drew the line at the sour cream for the pat of potatoes on the tray. Just kidding - that sour cream was delightful! Otherwise the trays were pretty repetitious, jello, juice, soda, and once sliced bananas instead of strawberries. At least the potatoes came with a formed hunk of chicken breast next to it, and its seasoning was great.

On the 4th day I got discharged. Steve and his daughter came up to get me, and we all went to Betty's pies. I needed to buy a pie - but rest assured it's still in the freezer until I get the OK. Takes up way too much space, but I do my best not to notice.  Their lunch menu had a lovely salad which I felt I could eat without guilt, or at least part of it. They have to-go boxes, and we were driving straight back. Steve ordered chicken and onion rings. Being the generous love he is, he offered me onion rings. I held the line at a single one-inch section of one. Yummmm.....! I consoled myself with the repeated experience from years past of ordering a full serving and having the flavor vanish by about the 5th ring. That's such a disappointment! So at least I escaped that "misery". 

By the way, if you're wondering, all the cans I saved got packed and consumed -not by me - later. When I was ready for beverages other than water, I ordered a  bunch of V8, for veggies without the chopping. It's tolerable. That apple pie.....   Nope, still in the freezer. It's been clearing its throat lately, getting ready to start singing when I open the door.

Where Did Those Pounds Go?

Well, obviously, down the drain, where all pounds go.  They went in one of two ways, and very little imagination is required to pick which two, nor description needed of what the process was like.

That wasn't really the question, though. I suppose the real question should have been about just where they disappeared from. My balance is a bit off. I'm walking just fine, thank you, no need for that concern. It's just that I have this particular knack for getting up from my recliner - or any chair - that involves a bit of leaning forward before standing. I learned it while recovering from knee replacements years ago. Certain things just aren't connected exactly the same way any more. No more showing off charm school lessons for me! (OK, that hasn't been a thing for me for decades. In fact, probably not since the week after I graduated. So lots of decades!) I'm still gonna blame the knees.

I've learned to tell people who persist in standing right in front of me when I'm about to get up and they are aware of that fact but don't move, that they need to move a bit away or risk getting painfully headbutted. Yes, it seems mostly guys who risk such. They seem perfectly capable of either total indifference to their surroundings, or of expecting this "delicate female" to gracefully levitate upwards into a fully erect stance within the exact same space only the chair occupied seconds before.

Come to think of it, the temptation to do some "accidental" headbutting is growing. But it would be rude, I do admit.

I haven't been out in polite company for a bit now, being pretty much confined to home or doctors while I'm recovering. So when I get ready to leave my recliner in the family room, nobody is in my way. I find I need to lean a bit more forward before standing, while not far enough to topple onto my head. (That would be embarrassing.)  Since the technique was habit with my old body, the one 10 pounds heavier a couple weeks ago, it must be that my balance has somewhat shifted. That weight must have come off someplace  where my muscles need to learn to adjust to. 

No, I haven't stood in front of the mirror to concentrate on what has changed. I didn't stand in front of the mirror to memorize every nuance of shape before I got sick either, so what would be the point? I'm not noticing where clothes are fitting differently either, since part of being sick is wearing sloppy old stuff that can get messed without any damage being done. A new stain? Which one of these did you mean? More baggy here? Just more comfy, right? It only counts if something tends to fall off when you walk, don't you know. If it's still otherwise decent, it's just time to sew in a tuck, or move the diaper pin making up for decaying elastic. No need to buy more clothes with every hanger occupied. Once something is so-o-o not fit for public view, it gets turned into PJs if it's soft and comfy. If not, the rag box in over in that corner.

All this is my long way of explaining why I don't have a "before" to compare to "now", except on the scale.

All I really have is a need to practice more again, into and out of the chair, get the muscles and balance adjusted to the new... and hope the new is stable of course! It's a good thing. My recent blood sugar levels have been fantastic! Just note that I'm not recommending my way as a method to achieve that. If you try it, you deserve to go fall on your own head!

Stopping Autism?

First: Let me say I will not condemn autism. I love a relative with it as it's defined these days, and  respect and admire their accomplishments. I've also corresponded with at least a dozen people with autism, self identified, online. Several of them have given me great insight on various things, including unique contributions to our world or challenges we provide them for surviving and thriving in it.

However, RFK Jr has made preventing autism the core of his intended contribution to health in this country, and he's willing to not just ignore all kinds of other health needs, but actively stop lots of research to learn more ways to understand and improve the overall health of people. I was going to add "in this country" at the end of that sentence, but America had been responsible for a lot of advances in that area that don't stop at our borders. Well, till now, anyway. At least research in other countries of all kinds continues, but top level research needs all of us contributing. No one country is magic, though one can be terribly destructive.

Junior has been spouting weird and wild quarter-baked ideas about how to prevent autism, or whom to blame for it (because blame is easier than actual research and facts), loudly and long enough that people without the time to look into actual facts, but full of time to yield to irrational fears, are willing to accept each daily new spew of nonsense. Most of his version of blame falls on the women, specifically pregnant ones. In his worldview, they must have done something wrong to cause it in their offspring.

Are any of you old enough to remember when homosexuality was blamed on "cold mothers"? Same idiotic mindset. We now know that people are born with the sense of who they are attracted to, their own gender or opposite. Just like we are born with the idea of our personal gender, whatever attachments our body manifests. The only things we actually know about mothers doing harm to developing children in utero comes from then taking drugs like narcotics, alcohol, or smoking. Or back when, thalidomide. None of those results are homosexuality or autism. No "new" substance like a specific pain reliever is the cause because they haven't been on the planet long and autism has. So has homosexuality, and gender identity.

The only hypothesis I've heard that makes any kind of sense is that it tends to be genetic in some way as yet unspecified, just that it often shows in previous generations, possibly at different levels, often with different names applied as diagnoses, as our knowledge grows.

Given that we only know for sure one cause, and if, despite their contributions, we decide as a species that we need to somehow prevent more autistic people from being born, there is only one method that could be proof positive as a way to achieve that questionable goal:

STOP HAVING SEX!  EVERYBODY !!!!!!!!

The Ever-ending Symphony

I'm tired of fighting with the pancreatic issues, so I decided on a change of pace. There was a very long delay to pick up the grocery order, and I had time to listen to Classical MPR radio. I instantly recognized the piece.

You might also. Beethoven wrote 9 symphonies, of which two are almost universally recognized by those with any familiarity with his music, his 5th and his 9th. The latter is his choral symphony, and contains what I recognized as a hymn I used to sing before I paid any attention to its origin. The fifth is the one with the repeating rhythm, a musical version of Morse  code's letter V, dit-dit-dit-daaahhh.  For victory, of course.

Beethoven was my first musical love, and still my favorite, much as I love a lot of other pieces. My first record set was his 9 symphonies, put out boxed by Readers Digest. Yep, about 1960. My favorites included the 5th and 9th, but my very favorite, full of angst matching that stage of my teenage years, was the 7th.

Many years ago I listened to a lot of classical MPR while I was out in the car all day, working. Occasionally the hosts of various programs would drop gems of information about the piece next to be played, something to be sure you paid attention, sticking around for what they called a "driveway moment" for those who just had to listen to the end instead of going into the house.

The most memorable one I heard was about the ending to the Fifth. As it was described, it was a combination joke and an eff-you to his critics. The endings on his pieces lasted longer than had been customary for a very long time, and the critics hated it. He had an answer for them, the finale to his 5th.

Take a few minutes some time and just listen to the ending. Or should I say endings? Over, and over, and over he builds it up to a finish... and then keeps going. You think it's time to applaud... and a new theme picks up and runs away with it, or an old theme with new instruments, or new variations, or it backs up to just before a previous long road to a climax... but it still isn't over. By the time it does, you're just not quite sure if the game is over for real. When it finally is, I find it a disappointment. The fun should keep going.

It makes this one unique, a joy for those who don't want it to end, a chuckle for those in on the joke. It's definitely a victory over the critics because it's possibly his best beloved, most recognized work.

Putting A Little Vacation In Your Hospital Stay

 It wasn't the vacation we wanted, of course. But it wasn't entirely bad either. There was the driving north and the driving back south, punctuated by periodic stops in locations begging for a camera.

Which of course I had along.

The first time was at a roadside rest stop partway north. Nature called, however one defines that phrase. For me it meant taking out the camera... first. Early leaf colors lined the drive in.

After parking, a little exploring caught a bee flitting around wild asters, the flower being one of favorite signs of September. So what if it took ten shots and heavy cropping to find the bee?

On the drive through Duluth, a peek at whitecaps on the lake required another pullout to catch some of the action. The  first public opening was just past the city.

Shortly after that I started not feeling well. The camera was shelved for 4 days. Even though the hospital was named "Lakeview", I had no indication from inside the walls whether that was real or fantasy.

But eventually I was sprung, and well enough to grab a few shots at a scenic overlook. Having visited that spot in the past, I can vouch that it really is... until the fog rolls in.

 

 Even then, a careful and lucky aim can make the stop worthwhile.

I have no idea what that fisherman thought he could catch from his location, but I give him points for ambition.

Eventually we made a second stop at the rest area overlooking Duluth. Fall colors abounded, especially among the rocks laid out to hold the hillside.

When we first arrived, one could see the harbor with its bridges, buildings, and a low roll of fog approaching from the northeast.

In the other direction you could see the river emptying into the lake, amid fluffy clouds overhead.

 

 

In a short time, however, clouds thickened and fog hid lower detail. 

It was time to head home.
 

If You Haven't Had A Cat Scan

I have to laugh at Google some times. Nearly two weeks after getting one in the ER, I was reading all the lists of questions people supposedly ask about CT scans and Google's answers to them. After a bit they keep repeating, especially the questions which ask why something happens a certain way when, in fact, it doesn't. Like "Why can't I drive after?" is answered by "You can drive home afterwards." Every time. Hey, you can wear deodorant too. This isn't a mammogram. It doesn't care what your insides smell like. If you have the choice, be kind to the staff though, and use it. (That last is me, not Google.)

I came into the ER with severe pain under my bottom right ribcage. I'd had no accident or any kind of impact injury. My gallbladder was gone 37 years before. The only thing I could come up within my limited experience was the fact that I have a herniated diaphragm on that side. It got diagnosed after a camping trip in the mountains where suddenly breathing became an issue, or at least getting the feeling of not having enough O2 from the process, emphasized by light-headedness. It hadn't been painful at all, unless one counts the disappointment of having to leave days before seeing the full eclipse of the sun we'd traveled to see after several years of planning.

The pulmologist I saw when we got back home diagnosed it for me, and when I asked if that meant needing surgery, he informed me they don't operate on that. It doesn't heal by itself either. And I no longer tolerate high altitudes like Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park like I had before. Anyway, with no future issues from it, and his input, I presume I still have it. My resulting thought as I entered the ER was my pain came from something trying to push its way through the hole and into my lung. 

Pretty sure it wasn't one of Sigourney Weaver's aliens.

A few other things I'd told the folks in the ER led them in a different direction, but just to be sure, they ordered a CT scan, or Cat Scan. With dye. Did I agree? 

My only comment was to clarify it wasn't an MRI. I can't have one of those, now that I wear a pacemaker. I'd had one MRI a dozen years before, after being rear-ended by a school bus, long before any cardiac issues. It cleared my resulting neck pain as a mere sprain. Having no other reason to object, I OKed it.

It didn't take them long to get me prepped for it, as I was already in a hospital gown and hooked up to my first IV line, with multiple fluids being piped into me for some time already. Blood draws for other lab tests had hinted at the problem, but they wanted something more definitive.

A very helpful lady rolled me down the hall on my gurney. My first issue was my shoulders. I explained to her they weren't just painful from arthritis, but when my arms were raised over my head these last couple years, they tended to self-dislocate. It does tend to settle a lot of issues in the "do I have to do that?" category. She was already familiar with patients with reasons not to raise their arms, despite it being standard procedure during the test. She had me do a trial run in the machine to see if my arms would clear the inside of the "donut" and still be enough apart from my sides.

They were. The organs needing inspection were clearly visible.

She explained what else I could expect. One of the things I now found out that Google disagrees with, which I find mildly humorous. Google says I have to remove jewelry and metals.While she did take my glasses, my wedding ring and medic-alert bracelet stayed on. I suspect that was part of the could-my-arms-stay-down test, if Google is correct about removing metals. Besides I have both a pacemaker and a Watchman inside my chest on the other side, so if their metals mess up the imaging, good effing luck! They're not coming out!

There would be short times where I would have to inhale and hold my breath, while lying very still. She said it would be about 13 seconds. In my estimation it lasted about 5 seconds, both times. The first was the practice run, both to see if my arms were in the way, and to see if I was lined up exactly for the part of me they wanted to see.

I was told I'd likely feel some tingling and smell/taste a metallic sensation in my mouth. Maybe others can smell/taste it, but my version of long covid precluded that. The tingling I felt was very gentle, limited to finger tips and toes, over in a few seconds.

The last thing I should expect got a more lengthy explanation. During the time I was being scanned with the dye in me, I would feel like I was actually peeing on the bed I was being moved on, but I wouldn't actually be peeing (especially if pre-warned.) She informed me she'd had this scan when she was a very young teenager. Nobody had warned her so she believed the feeling was real. As she exited the machine she was very upset, totally mortified. The staff had to spend some time trying to reassure her, so now she is sure to tell people before the procedure, especially with children.

I had no problem with feeling trapped inside the donut, spending my few seconds each time looking at the lights spinning so fast around me that they turned into lines about two inches long chasing each other. Hmm, mildly interesting, no biggie, it just started, then quickly stopped before I could see more.

Oh well.

The results were back shortly, confirming several things. First, my gall bladder was indeed missing, as I'd said. (Uhhh, do people lie about that?) Gall stones were not the culprit. No mention was made of the herniated diaphragm, and I forgot to ask if it (still) showed. I was hearing that the scan confirmed what the lab tests showed. I had an inflamed pancreas. I was being admitted.

The liver wasn't mentioned at that time, though subsequent labs showed its enzymes were out of whack even as the pancreas was starting to settle down. I would get no food at all for a while so the pancreas could get a rest. If not rested, it had a tendency to start attacking it own self.  Yikes!

I'd been quizzed several times on the usual suspects for cause. I get that some patients try to hide the stereotypical cause, which is heavy alcohol use. However often they asked, it still had been over 40 years since my last drink. I'm one of those oddballs who simple doesn't like the taste of the stuff, and where taste is concerned, I'm quite the hedonist. After having tried it several times in several mixes over the years previously, and never liking it nor seeing the point to it, it wasn't like stopping because of AA either. Find another  cause, folks.

I was going to be there for a while.