Broken hip

This Christmas season was anything but normal. I spent almost the entire month of December in Mansfield MedCentral Hospital and Oak Grove Manor nursing home.

On Friday, December 7, I was walking down the slippery lane toward the mailbox, rather hurriedly and unthinking, and I fell and landed on my left side. A neighbor with a tractor and scoop was right there and helped me up but as I walked I started to pass out, so I sat down on the scoop and called 911. No way was I going to be able to walk back to the house. Something must be broken.

The ambulance came in a few minutes and backed into the lane and I was hauled off to three weeks of recuperation after having surgery on Sunday, December 9. In the ambulance, the paramedic noticed that my foot lay over to the left. Moving it slightly brought pain. They took me to MedCentral in Mansfield and put me in the ER in a small room, and there I waited, and waited. Once in awhile someone came in to ask questions. One orderly came in and asked, "Does it hurt when I move this?" and he moved my foot to my right. "YES," I screamed. He left without apology. Every time someone came near that foot I cautioned them to not touch it. The foot didn't hurt, but the leg that it was attached to. For the next few days I was in "shell-shock" from being bumped and handled.

A nurse gave me morphine and they promptly took me to Radiology. I insisted on holding my leg while they transferred me over to the xray table. It was the only way to relieve the pain slightly. Sometimes morphine is overrated.

I was admitted and transferred to the bed and that's where I stayed. Sunday I was taken to the OR where they did the surgery. The surgeon, whom I saw only once before surgery, told me that the fracture was in the upper part of the femur. He put in a plate and pins. I was now ready for further recuperation.

It wasn't long before Rehab came along and rousted me out of bed and I gingerly walked a few paces with a walker--more and more each day. I was also given an intravenous painkiller which worked a lot faster than that morphine I had at the beginning.

But Insurance usually dictates the rules and I was finally shipped to Oak Grove Manor nursing home for further rehabilitation. It was back to where I had been before when I broke my leg the last time (see HARRY). Jeff, the physical trainer, put me through the paces and told me I was doing great; I should be improving pretty quickly.

But the nursing home environment was rather depressing to me at times. Minerva, Lucy's niece, brought in a radio which helped brighten things up for me. This being Christmas season I was able to listen to Christmas music at all hours. No one to bother me, and I spent time in prayer and meditation and thinking about everything that transpired. I felt even better when I found that a piano was in the Dining Room. In the evening, I opened the double doors and wheelchaired my way to the piano and started playing Christmas songs, among other tunes. Someone opened the doors and let the sound out into the hall. A few workers came around and one young lady stood by me with a look of rapture on her face. I don't remember what I was playing at the time but I felt good about the tune I was playing and the sound of the well-tuned piano. I asked her if she knew any songs and she said, "O Come All Ye Faithful." I played it as she sang. All this was meant to cheer myself up, and anyone else within earshot who would appreciate it. And by the comments afterward, they did appreciate it. But I was not about to entertain an audience. I'm more of a closet piano player, although I play in church a few minutes before church starts, at Mennonite Christian Assembly in Fredericksburg, Ohio.

I had a few visitors during my stay at Oak Grove. One evening, Shirley, a Toastmasters speech coach, came for a visit, carrying a rather large wedge of cake. It was her last meeting with our Toastmasters Club since she was going to California to live, and she was given a good send-off with a party, which I couldn't attend. The cake was made by Nancy, one of the other attendees of the bi-weekly Toastmasters meetings. Nancy and Jerry, and their son Steve, came to my room a couple days later. Steve had had surgery on his legs so he was in a cast. We had a nice visit together and I tried to encourage Steve to keep a positive attitude. He'll eventually be up and running. It was only because I myself attempt to keep a positive attitude in a potentially discouraging situation. You think healthy, and you'll get back to better health faster.

I was scheduled to go home on Christmas Eve. I packed up some of my belongings. The walker that Jeff ordered came and I signed the papers for ownership, paid by Medicare. But Dr. Athmaram came by and felt that my leg should be checked. I was sent back to MedCentral for a ultrasound. I was in a wheelchair supplied by Oak Grove and was transported by their vehicle to MedCentral. I never returned to Oak Grove. They found a blood clot and I was immediately readmitted to MedCentral and there I stayed for the next four days--over Christmas, no less! I was not happy about that. They put me on a heperin drip for a couple of days, and Coumadin, a blood thinner.

On Christmas Day the nurses were on half-shift and one commented about her empathy for my stay in the hospital over Christmas. One nice part was that I had prime rib for lunch. The hospital food was quite tasty. Also, Joe and Esther, (Esther is Lucy's sister), along with Jonathan and Rachel, came with a couple of Christmas presents, so the season was not completely lost to me.

The next day, however, I started really getting antsy. I wanted to go home. Everyone thinks I went home on Christmas Eve. I spotted the business card of the social worker who dropped it off in my absence, and in desperation I dialed her number. Just then I saw Pastor Bill Detweiler walk through the door, and I quickly hung up the phone. He had gone to Oak Grove and found I wasn't there and came to the hospital. After I gave him an update, he gave me some encouraging words, and prayed a heart-felt prayer. I felt better.

The last night at the hospital was quite interesting. I had a new nurse, Mary, and she doted on me like none other. She wanted to make sure I was comfortable. She noticed the hospital socks I was wearing were rather tight so she took a scissors and snipped the top to relieve the pressure on my ankles. She put a pillow under my left arm since it still had a Heploc needle inserted, but I was finally off the IV. She spread two blankets over me so I could be warm. She finally left the room and I settled down to sleep, but she returned later and told me that my heartbeat was irregular and my pulse was over 100. She connected me to the oxygen line which I ended up breathing all night. I didn't mind the oxygen, but I felt that she had me confused with another patient. It came to a head later when she came back, exclaiming that one of the leads was disconnected. I was about to say something but she opened my gown and found that I was not even attached to a monitor. She told me my name was on one of them at the console. (I had been on a heart monitor during my first visit.) She left and didn't come back until morning. She must have gotten it all straightened out. It was the best night's sleep I had during my stay at MedCentral and Oak Grove.

I insisted that I wanted to go straight home after being released from the hospital. They obliged since I was reasonably ambulatory and didn't need further rehab. I was scheduled to have some home therapy anyway.

Minerva came before I was even dressed and I rang for the nurse and got dressed. After all the paperwork I finally was able to leave. They pushed me out in the wheelchair and, for the first time I was on my way home. Minerva stowed the wheelchair in back of the van. We would take it back to Oak Grove. But first I had to have a prescription filled for Coumadin so we stopped at Walgreens. I settled for the generic: Warfarin. It's cheaper. Then we delivered the wheelchair back to Oak Grove and we finally arrived home. I walked in with the walker and was met with Nathan (age 5) and Nolan (age 2). They were glad to see me. I sat down in a chair and gave them both a big hug. I really love those kids. They are Minerva's (Lucy's niece) two boys and Lucy babysits them every weekday. They are the next best thing to children we don't have.

Nolan brought a book for me to read and as I read the abbreviated versions of Hansel and Gretel, Beauty and the Beast, and Cinderella, Nathan stood by and listened. I was finally home again!

During the three weeks in stir, I was able to reminisce about events in my life. This leg has been under attack, broken and traumatized ever since I was eight years old. I felt a twinge of pain in my left hip when I landed after falling 30 feet down the silo chute that time; I had the fibula and tibia fractured in a spiral fracture in 2005, and now in 2007 the upper femur bone was fractured. And it was odd to remember that when I landed on the slippery lane I was facing east, the same direction I landed when I fell down the silo chute in 1952; whatever significance that might have. We experience things for a reason. It often brings to our attention the need for spiritual growth because we are eternal beings. God is Spirit and so are we. We cannot stay stagnant but constantly growing to become more aware of our place in the universe.

To get a good grip on the day, you can say this prayer every morning:

Let this day be one of blessing;
Let this day be one of joy;
Let my heart, with love possessing,
Guide the work that I employ.

Harry

I mentioned in my October 28 blog entry that I broke my leg in January 2005. What I didn’t mention was when I was put into the Oak Grove Convalescent Center to recover in February. I was on kidney dialysis and did not have a way of going to Kidney Center from home. Sending me to the Convalescent Center gave me the opportunity to go to dialysis by way of their own vehicle, since it was covered by insurance. There were other dialysis patients who also went to the Kidney Center every other day.

When I was wheelchaired to my room at Oak Grove, I began to feel rather depressed about the situation I was in. It was a small room, rather devoid of excitement or interest, and I guess I began to feel a little sorry for myself. I am not old enough to be in a Nursing Home, or so I thought. Later I found people younger than me.

I noticed my room mate which I later learned was Harry. He was a 74 year old man who didn’t seem to have a very good outlook. And for good reason. He was there for several months, and had been in another nursing home for several months. It would be enough to drive me to distraction too. Furthermore, he had had colon surgery before and the resulting situation was not conducive to positive optimism. He was not a happy man, and the nurses were not very cordial to him either. They had to come to his assistance several times a day.

Because of my own perceived plight, I began to pay attention to him. He was on the other side of the curtain and I started talking to him, introducing myself. He was pleasant enough to me, but did not have anything good to say about the plight he was in, and the attitude of the nurses and caretakers. I began to talk to him about Universal Law, like begets like, in as simple terms as I understood it. What you put out returns to you in like manner.

Late that night, nurses woke us up to give us medication, probably sleeping pills. Two nurses were arguing with Harry. I asked my nurse, “Why are they arguing with him?” She replied, “Oh, he’s quite a difficult patient.”

I saw my opportunity to make my stay worthwhile. In the morning I continued to tell him about how to relate to people you don’t like, or don’t seem to like you. I told him that thoughts have power, and that our thoughts can create the reality we find ourselves in. You put out negative thoughts, negative thoughts and situations will return. Like begets like. You put out positive thoughts, and they will return in kind.

I suggested that when a nurse or caretaker comes to his assistance, think about something he likes about that person, no matter how he feels about that person. Turn the tables on the continuing situation. It will work.

I hoped it would work. I never coached a person like that before, especially a man older than I was and probably set in his ways. But throughout the weekend he gradually seemed to be more acquiescent. There was not as much commotion, although his needs were the same. You could justify his attitude by what he had to deal with. He could not run to the restroom and he often had to be cleaned up, is the plain description of his plight. He didn’t like it and the nurses had to constantly come to his aid, and his attitude had put them on the offensive sometimes.

But by Sunday he was a saint. The nurses exclaimed about his about-face attitude. It was something entirely different from the way they had to handle him before. He was actually pleasant. One nurse exclaimed, “Wes, what did you do to him?” I replied, “Nothing, he had it within him all the time.”

I had ordered an accordion and it happened to arrive at my home while I was in the nursing home. I asked that it be brought to me. Jim and Bonnie visited with me and brought it along. I started playing it, and patients from other rooms came around to see who was originating the music. And they had smiles on their faces. At one moment, when we were alone, a song came to me, with the words, and I played it for Harry. It had to do with our mutual confinement in this place. It was a bit bawdy, but fit the situation we were in, with words you should not repeat in Sunday School. It was the first time I saw him laugh.

Occasionally there was someone playing the piano. I took the opportunity to wheelchair myself over to the piano room, close the double doors, and play to my heart’s content. A nurse came and opened the doors wide. She explained that the patients want to hear. I’m not an accomplished piano player, but I tried to play songs that were uplifting for all the sorry people who needed to hear it. If it cheered me up, it most likely cheered others also.

Meanwhile, Lucy called the local radio station, WMAN and, by telephone, broadcast to the whole listening area the need for a driver for a patient who needs to go to dialysis three times a week. Four people responded and I picked one of them and signed myself out of the nursing home to finally go home. After a couple of weeks or so, I realized I could drive myself in spite of my full cast. It was on the left leg, and with an automatic drive there was no need to have to use it. It all worked out OK.

Quite a number of months passed. I had Harry’s home phone number and I called up his wife and asked about Harry. I was taken aback when she told me he had passed away.

My reasoning is that he needed to find a way to love in an unlovely situation, to come to terms with his own feelings, to make it easier to pass on without fear. God is in control of our lives when we allow it—and we can allow it in order to fulfill the reason for our existence. We have free will but God will answer us when we ask. God bless you, Harry, wherever you are.

Almost . . .

It was around 1965 I believe. A few years after the picture at the right was taken. I had my newfound freedom off the farm. I was old enough to drive, although I didn’t have a car, and independent enough to go a distance to visit my relatives. I used Dad’s car.

It was early afternoon when I drove about 40 miles to Philadelphia to visit my second-cousins somewhere near Second Street and Girard Avenue, if I remember right. On that day I was nicely dressed in a suit and tie. Anyway, I drove toward the waterfront not far from the Delaware River. I was on a street in a quiet part of town, and I got thirsty. I saw a small grocery store and parked a couple car lengths beyond it. I carefully locked the passenger side door. You never know what could happen in a strange neighborhood. I had in mind to get something to drink, like orange juice. I entered the small store and bought a small container of orange juice and engaged in conversation with the proprietors as I drank it. They were a Russian husband and wife who had this store for years. They did not especially like the city but it was a living for them to have the small neighborhood convenience store.

I finally stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk. Suddenly the door of a bar opened across the street and a woman stumbled out and toward me. I watched as she came close and then she fell down just a couple yards from me. A man rushed out and came up to her exclaiming, “Mama!”, and carefully helped her up. He brought her over to me and asked if I would please take her home, just a few blocks down the street. She was ill, he said.

I was not exactly naïve but I was in a quandary—doing a good deed, or possibly getting into a trap. I was not the kind of person to be used to the strange activities of strangers in a big city. As I hesitated, the woman walked over to the car and tried the door on the passenger's side. She stood waiting as the man explained her illness and the need for someone to take her home. In my hesitancy I was almost ready to help them out as I slowly wandered toward the car.

Suddenly, from the store came a call, “Mister…Mister…you forgot something!” The Russian lady was outside the store and waving a handkerchief in my direction. “You forgot something!” I answered to the ruse and walked back to the safety of the store. Both proprietors gave me an orientation lesson on the devious misadventures that occasionally occurred in the neighborhood. “It’s a bum city,” they said. “They have already stolen from people... and killed people. They would do just what they tried to do to you. It’s a bum city!” As I waited inside the store, both the would-be thieves went back into the bar.

I thanked the Russian couple profusely, and when the street was empty once again, I left, chastened by the experience.

Psalm 91:11 Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

That’s not to say I’m treated with any particular favor more than anyone else could. It apparently was to be a lesson learned—learning to be careful in a city of strangers, even if it is called The City of Brotherly Love. I thank God that it was not a worse experience. After all, I don't exactly lack for bad experiences, but that's another story or two.

Both in hospital

In July 2003 Lucy and I discussed the idea of moving. We lived in what used to be an old school house in Shenandoah, Ohio, about six miles north of Mansfield. Her niece, suggested that we could all buy a house together, she with her husband and new-born son, and we could all live in the same house. I had in mind a house that would be out of town but near the main interstates somewhere. Lucy’s niece found a house and we investigated, and then gave $500 to hold the sale.

That night I dreamt I was in the back seat of a car and saying, “Why am I in the back seat? Why am I in the back seat?” I knew I was dreaming, and I was sure that what I was seeing meant something significant.

In the front seat were three figures; a young man in the driver’s seat, a woman close beside him and a boy of what I thought to be three or four years old, sitting in the seat on the passenger side. I did not see their faces.

Then the scene changed. A man and woman were in the front seat, in the driver’s seat. Suddenly we came to an intersection, and crashed. I knew that the people in the dream represented the five of us. There were no faces, but the back of the head of the boy, Nathan, was plainly seen from my vantage point.

I woke up and was depressed for days. Do I take a dream seriously? Do I forget the whole thing? Do I abandon buying the house? What does it mean to be in the back seat? Actually, I knew what it meant, but what about the crash? These all played on my mind for days and I didn’t feel too good about it. Based on my estimated age of the boy in the dream, I figured nothing would happen for awhile. Nathan was now eight months old.

Meanwhile, we bought the house. It was at the intersection of two major highways outside of town. Lucy and I were on one side of the house. The others on the other side which they would renovate.

Later, when both parents were working, Nathan was our responsibility to babysit. Once in awhile when I noticed the back of his head, I remembered the dream. And he grew rather tall for his age.

The year 2004 rolled around. I was developing a soreness in my ankle that wouldn’t go away. When I went to work it was often difficult walking. In April, it became so difficult that I went to my boss and told him I was going to the ER, I might not be back for awhile, or ever. I called my family doctor and told him what I was going to do, and then went to the Emergency Room.

The hospital kept me for three days. They determined I had cellulitis and a rash and gave me intravenous antiobiotics. Then they sent me home with prescriptions and told me to take it easy—keep my foot elevated. I took it easy enough to go on Disability.

Instead of getting better, my ankle developed an infection. I bandaged and changed it every day. Lucy often helped.

On May 18, 2004, our world crashed around us. Lucy was in the process of bandaging my ankle when she had a stroke. At first I didn’t know what happened. She was conscious but unable to move. Then it dawned on me. I quickly called 9-1-1. They soon came and took her to the hospital.

What was I going to do? I could hardly walk. Things were not really getting any better—so I admitted myself also. We were both in hospital. Evidently the crash I saw nine months before.

This time the nephrologist, Dr. Pawar, suggested that I go on kidney dialysis since I had prepped for it about a year before. He knew that I was having difficulty most likely related to my diminished kidney function. I resignedly signed the necessary papers, and had second thoughts later. But when I started feeling better I knew I had made the right decision.

Dr. Fulginiti excised the infection I had, and then I really was confined to my bed while a nurse changed the bandages every day. As I lay in hospital, with Lucy recovering in Rehab, I did a bit of soul searching. This time I had my Bible with me and opened it randomly to Ecclesiastes 3:1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

That made me sit up and take notice. I randomly opened it again to Psalm 132:1-5 A Song of degrees. LORD, remember David, and all his afflictions: How he sware unto the LORD, and vowed unto the mighty God of Jacob; Surely I will not come into the tabernacle of my house, nor go up into my bed; I will not give sleep to mine eyes, or slumber to mine eyelids, Until I find out a place for the LORD, an habitation for the mighty God of Jacob.

That’s when it all went straight to the heart. I began to feel a purpose manifesting itself in this stay at the hospital for Lucy and me; indeed, the whole series of events that had recently occurred. From then on I watched as it unfolded.

It was the second hospitalization that I was started on kidney dialysis. Later, I had to be readmitted, and that was when I really got the opportunity to face myself and come to terms. That’s a story in itself but may eventually be told. Some of these stories may be a little off the charts for some people, but the incidents were real enough to me. It changed my life. Whatever was within was driving the circumstances for change. I truly believe that.

All that we need can be gotten by looking within ourselves, our true self. That is where we will find the truth for ourselves, from a true heart. Dire circumstances can bring about the need to find the answer. You don’t have to go anywhere else but within your own spiritual self. Luke 17:20-21 The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you. See also Deuteronomy 30:11-14.

During this second stay at the hospital I felt particularly depressed at one point and I needed an outlet to drive it out of me. I prayed for relief from the dreadful feelings. A nurse offered to bring Lucy for a visit and I consented. As I waited I went through the throes of anguish enough that I buried my head in a pillow and screamed. That was enough to change my whole outlook. I don't know if anyone heard me but I felt so much better. Lucy soon came and we had a nice visit for awhile until the nurse took her back to her room.

These kinds of experiences help one to realize that you are not alone in these lonely times. It almost forces you to look within to the spiritual, for the assistance that you desire. And you eventually find a whole universe of possibilities at your beck and call, but it takes an almost interminable amount of patience. Such patience is bound to be rewarded sooner or later.

As I look back over the past 3 1/2 years, I remember the experiences and see where I am now. I am still on dialysis but my outlook is not depressing at all. And this morning I woke up with a song I learned years ago:

Lord, thou has searched and seen me through.
Thine eye commands with piercing view.
Awake, asleep, at home, abroad--
I am surrounded still with God.

Lucy

It came a time in my life, as I grew older, when I started thinking of looking for companionship. I knew that one of my best friends got married although he had hemophilia, so I figured I had a chance too, in spite of my frequent illnesses. I had been born and raised Mennonite but left the church for quite a number of years. Even so, I thought that I would find someone who was Mennonite or Amish. I lived in New Jersey at the time; just across the river from Philadelphia, PA.

But there were circumstances about my health that needed medical attention. I heard of Dr. Robert Jeffs in Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, so I wrote a lengthy letter outlining my health history and the need to find a solution for some ongoing problems. He answered the letter, inviting me to come down to Baltimore to discuss the options.

Since I had a problem with kidney stones, he suggested that they first be removed surgically, or with lithotripsy. He assigned Dr. Ballentine Carter to the task of removing the kidney stones. I spent a few weeks at the hospital and then was sent home to further recuperate.

My cousin called me and said she was going to write a get-well shower in the Budget, a Mennonite/Amish newspaper which is the communications medium to these conservative peoples, who are spread nationwide, and often related to one another, or at least know each other by previously being in the neighborhood.

Soon I got some letters of encouragement, 12 in all, and one in particular stood out. She was Amish, had polio as a child, presently had a bakery and lived alone, and she was 2 years younger than me. She also had to use crutches. She described her family of 10 brothers and sisters. And she included a $5 bill! There was no recourse but to answer the informative letter. In a subsequent letter she included her phone number. Since she had a bakery she had a telephone in the house. When her family visited, she would shut off the ringer and cover it up. Right away you could tell she was her own boss. She’s a Taurus, I’m a Pisces.

I must have waited a few weeks before I dared call her, and one boring Saturday I ventured to call her. We had a nice conversation. Her voice was pleasant and we agreed to stay in touch. She would call me around 6 p.m. almost every day or so. The following year I was to have the major surgery. When I was at the hospital, I called her and gave her my contact number. Every other day she would call and we would talk and talk…about cooking mostly. I was in a situation where I didn’t have food for weeks. Dr. Jeffs assigned his understudy, Dr. John Gearhart, to perform the surgery. He is a pediatric surgeon but he is familiar with the similar problems in adults so was assigned the task to augment the internal plumbing.

Finally, after a month in the hospital, I was sent home and in a few more weeks I would go back to work. I felt that I needed to get out, travel a bit, before going back to the daily toil of my job. Lucy invited me out to Ohio, and a good friend of mine, Elisabeth, volunteered to take me.

So on a holiday weekend, Elisabeth and I traveled to Ohio. Lucy and I did not know what each looked like. We only recognized each other’s voice. We pulled into the lane. Lucy was standing on the porch but hidden by an evergreen tree…until I rounded the tree and finally came face to face with the person I had talked with for months and months. We liked what we saw in each other.

Lucy had a horse and buggy so we went to visit her parents in Elisabeth’s car. Her Dad had a leather shop and he made leather flyswatters. He has quite a sense of humor. He showed me a small bird cage with a sign on it, “Florida Red Bats.” He encouraged me to look down inside. He burst out laughing when I saw that they were tiny red baseball bats. He told me someone from Florida had sent it to him.

We stayed for a couple days. When Lucy and I engaged in conversation, Elisabeth stayed away. She knew what would probably happen and she encouraged it. That evening Lucy asked me to read some verses of Scripture and offer a prayer. That happened each evening we where there.

When Elisabeth and I returned home, Lucy called at the usual 6 p.m. hour. She would like me to come out again. I told her I would have to wait for a three-day holiday weekend. I ended up flying out that weekend, from Philadelphia to Cleveland, and rented a red car to the 80 miles trip south.

I was traveling down Interstate 71 when I inadvertently passed the car in front of me before realizing that a car was almost beside me in passing position. She quickly backed off and I passed but it developed into a classic case of road rage. She tailgated me, so I took off at 90 miles an hour for several miles—and she caught up with me! It must have been the red car. At one point she passed me and I glanced at her. Her mouth was furiously chewing gum and she was hell bent on something. Suddenly I saw my exit, gunned the engine, and dove in front of her and off the freeway. If she intended to follow, it was too late.

I spent the weekend with Lucy. We had a nice time traveling around the neighborhood. We took a walk in Fowler Woods not far from her place. There was a boardwalk through the woods and we made our way, trying to avoid the damp spots on the boardwalk. Suddenly Lucy fell, which she very seldom did before. I’m not a strong guy and I was unable to lift her. For some reason, I went ahead to look for…something. That gave her the opportunity to get up gracefully by herself. When I returned she was up and walking. It happened once more. That set me thinking. Could I live with someone in this condition. I reasoned that I had my own conditions to deal with, why not have empathy for someone else. After all, she was a hard worker. She was able to accomplish a lot in spite of her limitations. She would be good for me.

A few days later I got a letter from her, deploring her situation and suggested that I would not want to see her again. But I did see her again. I started going to Ohio from New Jersey on regular weekends--all of 472 miles, one way. I would pack my car with travel belongings and after work head through Philadelphia on Interstate 76, into Ohio, through Akron, and on to Interstate 71 and south. I would get there by around 2 a.m. and sneak into the guest room and sleep until 11 a.m. and we spent the rest of the weekend visiting with some of her relatives.

In February, on my 50^th birthday, I waited until after 6 p.m. and then suggested that we could get married. She agreed. As I was driving home, I suddenly realized my mistake, “Ohmagod! I didn’t really do that right!” When I arrived home I called her up, and told her about my mistake and said, “Will you marry me?” It meant all the world to me when she said, “Yes.”

The next time I went to Ohio there was the Mast Homecoming that Sunday afternoon. Mast is her grandmother’s family name. While we were there we announced our engagement to the cousins who were there and they immediately started planning how they could help us out. Lucy knew that her brothers and sisters would probably not attend the wedding, let alone plan it. There were a few at the Homecoming who were Amish but the cousins who had left the Amish were more apt to help us out.

Sometime later Lucy called me and told me about a date to have the wedding, July 23, 1994. I was still working in Cherry Hill, New Jersey and I would soon have to make plans to move to Ohio.

I took a week off around the wedding. We invited various and sundry relatives and friends. I invited all six of my double cousins who were from Missouri, Illinois, Pennsylvania, and New York. They said it was the first time in 15 years that they were all together as a family. Others of the church group I belonged to came to Ohio to witness the proceedings. It was a beautiful day and we had the wedding near Sugar Creek, Ohio, in Walnut Creek, at Light in the Valley Chapel. My parents, brothers and sisters where there, but Lucy’s family did not attend. I’m sure they would have liked to, since they loved their daughter and sister, but Amish protocol precludes mingling with the non-Amish under those circumstances. We did take some leftovers from the reception afterwards, which they appreciated. Lucy’s father had suggested that the Amish could marry us…if I would become Amish. At least it showed that they liked me. I declined. I’m not used to hard work, and they are hard workers. And I don’t know much of their language. I suggested that Lucy teach me, but her reasoning is, just open your mouth and talk. Huh-uh!

We got married in July. I didn’t move out until October 1. By October 10 I had a job at the News Journal in Mansfield. I worked at building ads. We were the department that made the money for the company. I worked there for 10 years and then my health took a dive again, and I’ve been on disability ever since. C’est la vie!

There's more to the story about my first contact with the Amish but that will have to wait until another day.

Penny

Picture at left: My brother David playing with Penny.

Back in the early 60s, I used to have a dog. Penny was her name. She was a small dog, the runt of the litter. She was given to me by a neighbor for helping them during one summer’s haying season.

Penny was a mongrel. Her mother was a pure-bred standard Manchester; those dogs who look a little like miniature Dobermans. Her father was from a friendly neighborhood. Penny’s brothers and sisters were all black with a tan spot above each eye, a tan underbelly and tan feet, just like their mother. Penny didn’t have a stitch of black on her; she was tan all over, about the color of a penny.

I was happy to be given a pet, but was concerned about taking her from her mother—and training her. But I didn’t need to worry. We got along just fine, and she learned right away what newspapers spread on the floor meant. Pretty soon she learned to ask us to let her outside to take care of her own necessities.

She was one smart dog all right. If she wanted to go outside, she’d reach up with both paws to turn the handle. She never could open the door, but she attracted our attention and we opened it for her. If we were too busy to notice, she would give a short bark. If we were still too preoccupied to get the message, she would run to one of us and bark her way out the door.

She was always a pleasant dog. She played Fetch with my kid brother—or me. She helped run the bases for us when we played baseball in the back yard. She worried the cats on occasion. She alerted us to visitors, but kept quiet when ordered. Rabbits in the garden fled in fright when she appeared, but she wouldn’t harm anyone or anything.

She grew to maturity as a dog well-trained and was allowed the run of the place. Her nocturnal haven was a corner box in the family room. If she needed to go outside at night, she’d trot into my room, her toenails clicking on the linoleum floor. Sometimes she’d come into my room just to have a soft place to lay on my bed. In the darkness I’d wake up to hear her footsteps trotting toward me, then a pause as she leapt, then a sleep-disturbing bounce as she landed on top. In the wintertime she sought the warmth of my bed more often, my personal foot-warmer.

As she grew up she also started dating canine suitors who came calling. She was rather serious about one in particular and it soon became obvious that she was in a family way. We had to wait for about two months for the blessed event.

Her time finally arrived one cold winter evening. It was evident by her restless behavior. It was quite noticeable when the rest of the family retired for the night. I was left to look after her welfare. She didn’t stay in her box. She didn’t stay put anywhere. She was in labor and I didn’t really know what to do about it but to let nature take its course.

I solved the problem by coaxing her to the warmest place in the house, the bathroom. I placed Mom’s best towels on the floor for a soft place for Penny, right by the radiator. I convinced her to stay and she finally was in such a strait that she had no choice but to yield to her newfound instincts in giving birth.

I was fascinated by the whole process. She didn’t know what was going on—only that she was in pain. I had often seen tiny puppies and kittens, and even tinier mice. I had watched calves being born on several occasions. But I never saw the miracle of birth at such an intimate range before. I didn’t want to upset her by my presence but I didn’t want to leave either. I talked to her in reassuring tones and she soon paid no attention to me. Her attention was drawn to an emerging pup; a black pup with a tan spot above each eye, a tan underbelly and tan feet, just like its grandmother. Soon another emerged, same color. Then another, another, another and another. Six identical-looking puppies—four boys and two girls. Six squirming little puppies ravenously hungry. Their eyes were tightly closed but they soon found their way to the dinner table. Soon they were feeding contentedly at mother’s ample bosom while she cleaned them dry, nuzzling each of them in turn. I picked one up and she nervously but politely objected. I let her watch what I was doing and she soon paid no attention as I checked each one out.

The next morning everyone was greeted by the sight of one proud mother dog with her litter of six healthy puppies. However, she would not allow anyone near them but me. She didn’t trust anyone else.

Penny eventually gave birth to another litter of pups. She was still the playful dog and she romped with her offspring. She even had time for us like she used to.

One day, while I was at work, tragedy struck. I came home to the sad news that Penny had been hit by a motorcycle. She was across the road with my parents and, hearing a motorcycle speeding up the hill; she headed for the safety of the house, and ran right into the motorcycle. It had happened just shortly before and she lay dying in the little cottage near the house. I was heartbroken, and she couldn’t even acknowledge my attempts to comfort her.

She soon passed away and we gave her a decent burial. I laid her gently in a nice cardboard box, said a prayer, and buried her near the garden. A bright spot in our lives was dimmed by her passing.

But that’s not quite the end of the story. About a month later during the night, I was startled awake by the sound of trotting footsteps coming toward me in the darkness, a pause, and then a bounce on my bed. I saw nothing but I was not afraid. I lay there wondering whether I was dreaming, and gradually drifted off again, content that Penny had come to bid her final farewell. I woke up later to a beautiful sunny morning, and happy for the experience.

This is a true story.

Zachery

I believe it was in 1982 that a group of us from Mt. Laurel, NJ went to Great Adventure in Jackson, NJ for…a great adventure. It all started when a young couple with their five-year-old son, Nuno, visited the States from the Azores. Nuno had trouble with his eyes and he was scheduled for surgery. My role in the excursion was to take pictures of Nuno and his parents as they went through the park, enjoying the rides and everything that the theme park had to offer. The pictures would be given to them to take back home as a memento of their trip.

It was a beautiful day as we wandered through the park. At most of the attractions, I snapped pictures and couldn’t help noticing the interaction between Nuno and his parents. They were having fun, and it was evident that the parents were doting on their small son. It started to affect me emotionally.

I was the kind of guy who was a bit of a loner. Being ill too often, hospitalized occasionally, having a rather depressing outlook for myself, I stayed pretty much to myself. I participated in the church activities in music, I had my hobbies, but I didn’t have an optimistic outlook about a normal future, such as personal companionship. I had my reasons, but to others they might not have been valid reasons. But that was my way of looking at things and I didn’t really let anyone know my deep feelings about anything.

Watching Nuno and his parents awakened a sense of needing to belong to the status quo, to participate in the normal routine of life, to have companionship with its accompanying sense of enjoying life together with someone special. After all, I was in my 30s. It was about time to leave my rather immature outlook and milquetoast disposition.

There were others in the group that day, including a couple of Portuguese ladies. We were attracted to the Haunted House exhibit, but there was quite a line, but we all queued up and slowly made our way toward the entrance. Small groups were periodically separated from the line to enter the Haunted House.

While we were waiting, a boy of about nine years old was also waiting in front of me. He appeared to be alone and he started to engage me in conversation. To be polite, I asked him questions in the process. He had been through the Haunted House before but he wanted to go again. His parents were in the park but they didn’t want to go through the line again. He was quite energetic and continued his chatter all the way through the line, mostly directed at me.

When we came to the front of the line, the park attendant separated a group out of the line, including the Mt. Laurel group I was with. The boy was forced to stay behind for the next group and the barrier was closed. Suddenly, the boy crowded through the barrier, came up to me, and standing tall and courageous, said, “Mister, do you mind if I hold your hand?” The audience around us chuckled in amusement. I was a little uncomfortable at the sudden personal attention, but I gamely replied, “Sure,” and I took him by the hand as we filed into the Haunted House. It’s good to know who you’re holding hands with so I asked him his name. “Zachery,” he replied. The Portuguese ladies smiled at the familiar name. “Zachariash,” they repeated in Portuguese.

The Haunted House was dark and intentionally forbidding. Witches and monsters, ghouls and goblins were situated at certain areas of the path attempting to thrill the passersby with scare tactics. Zachery knew where they all were. When we came to a monster, he’d switch to my right or left, opposite from it, taking my hand each time. He wasn’t scared now, he had someone with him!

We went through the rather dark hallways. There were recorded noises to add to the spooky atmosphere. One room was lit by strobe lights which flashed repeatedly. The whole walk through the house was quite exciting.

But there was something that horrified me for a few seconds as we walked through. It looked like a fire trap. Someone could light a match or lighter and it looked like it could ignite pretty fast.

When we came to the exit, Zachery spotted his parents close by in the crowd. They were smiling as I said, “This kid is one brave fellow.” My one disappointment about the incident was that I never took his picture.

This whole incident with Zachery gave me a certain confidence that I didn’t need to be the loner I thought myself to be. I can be sociable. I had made one little fellow happy for just being there for support. People like me. I should just like myself more. There are a lot of good things to enjoy in life besides keeping to one’s sorry self. Get out and look around at the possibilities.

Years later I found someone special. But that’s another story.

About two years later, it happened. On May 11, 1984, the Haunted House at Great Adventure in Jackson, New Jersey, was destroyed…and eight teenagers with it. There was a witness that said that a 14-year-old boy had used a lighter to go down a hallway where the strobe lights had malfunctioned and bumped into the wall, which ignited. The story can be seen here.

At the Laundromat

On the way home from visiting with Lucy’s Dad, Lucy and I passed by the Mulberry Laundromat in Mansfield. It brought back memories of a number of years ago. We lived in an old house in Shenandoah at the time, about 15 miles from where we live now.

The old house used to be a school building. It didn’t have a basement and we didn’t have facilities for a washroom, so we took our laundry to the Laundromat on a weekly basis. It was a chore we both participated in.

During that time I had a growing difficulty in walking. On this particular day we put the dirty clothes in plastic bags and baskets and I carried them out to the car. The sacks were rather heavy and I felt more pain than usual, and there were more sacks than usual. As I struggled in pain, dragging a sack of clothes, I suddenly emitted a whispered but heartfelt “God, I need help!”.

Unaware at the time, that whisper wended its way at lightning speed to the Universe.

We drove the six miles to town and I stopped near the entrance of the Laundromat to take the bags of clothes inside. I was resigned to the task at hand. Lucy was on crutches (she had polio as a child) so essentially I had the lone task of taking the clothes inside.

But a young man of color happened to be there and, seeing me start to unload, came up and offered to help. Often a person has too much pride to allow someone to perform a task he feels he can do himself alone, but I immediately took the cue and allowed him to carry the sacks of clothes inside. He was a rather cheerful young man and he knew several of the patrons in the Laundromat. While we busied ourselves in washing the clothes, he chatted with a number of them as they waited for their clothes to wash and dry. We loaded several washers and eventually the driers, then spent the time folding the clothes and preparing to go back home again.

When we finished gathering up the clean clothes and laying them in baskets, the young man came over and helped me put them back into the car. He was still his cheerful self, and when the car was loaded, I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. All he heard was, “Thank you very, very much.” He replied, “You’re welcome,” and then walked away, down the street and into the neighborhood where he came from. I knew that my prayer had been answered.

It set me thinking. The unexpected assistance assuredly came from an order that went out in spirit, sparked by a heartfelt plea in spirit for assistance. When one asks for help, the Universe is there to assist. Things fall into place because the Universe moves in response. It is not something one can do on his own; it’s too vast and complicated to accomplish by one’s self, and we do not have the ability of consciously communicating with someone unseen and unknown in another part of the world without a cellphone, but Spirit does.

The Universe is made up of everything there is, spiritual and material, and it has the intelligence to know what to do, even if you don’t. When one talks to God from the heart, the whole Universe is at one’s beck and call, and things start to move toward the completion of the task. And these tasks can be large or small, but it often takes time for things to fall into place.

Did you ever try to find a parking place? You go around the block several times and even then there may be no place available. But breathe a prayer to the universe, or visualize a parking place ahead of time, and often you’ll find one available. Why? Because a request went forth and Spirit carried it to the appropriate parties who were unaware they were then prompted to leave for their car in time to leave a parking place for the person who needed it. I know, it just sounds too simple, and doesn’t happen. Or doesn't it? When you’re sincere about it, and understand the concept, and try it several times, you’ll eventually realize that certainly there is something dynamic going on.

Thoughts are things. They affect us in some way. Come into a roomful of negative and angry people. Even if they don’t show it, you may feel the negativity if you are sensitive enough to become aware of it. In the same way, a positive and upbeat atmosphere can be felt, if not seen.

Some time ago I was rather new at the concept when my wife and I were sitting in a restaurant waiting for our order. At another booth was a young man with his daughter, about four years old, who was raising a little fuss, about the wait I suppose. It went on for quite awhile and it gradually drew the attention of others in the room. But then I had an idea. In spite of the irritation, I sent her thoughts of love and encouragement. I had to suspend my own irritated reaction to the fuss and change it to a positive and calm spirit, sending it out on her behalf.

Less than a minute later my wife remarked, “The little girl quieted down.” I then told her what I did. “Oh no,” she replied, “I’ll never believe that one.”

No, you don’t have to believe it, but I do, and I see the results. The true test is if it happens often enough in your life to realize that there is truth in it. It may not happen every time for you, but the dynamic is there for the asking. And results manifest most when your heart is what is doing the asking, not idle words.

In late December 2004, we were invited, along with other of my wife's circle-letter friends, to a reunion in Holmes County on January 14, 2005. The weather was quite unsettled and during this time of the year there was no guarantee of good weather, with ice and snow too much in abundance. She told me about the invitation and expressed concern that the weather would not be good enough to travel. She’s on a wheelchair and inclement weather would preclude such plans.

I had a thought, “Why don’t you tell the Universe about it?” The common response is, maybe what we ask for in not in someone else’s best interest. Still, the desire was there and we can get an answer to our desires from an intelligent God. Anyway, most people are sure to love good traveling weather.

On January 11, 2005, I broke my leg. I was sitting on Lucy’s power wheelchair, wheeling it into position for her. I started to get off the chair in a rush and I got my foot caught in the footrest. My leg gave a twist and the momentum carried me to the floor, and I heard my leg break. Stunned, Lucy suggested I stand up, but I knew my leg was broken and I immediately realized there would be weeks of recovery. (See October 28 story, Broken Leg--Growing Up Label).

Because of circumstances, I didn’t get my leg put into a cast until Friday, Jan. 14. I watched out the window from my hospital room to see the weather doing its wintry deeds on the countryside until then.

On Friday, after I woke up in recovery with a full leg cast, I was wheeled back into my room. As I entered the room I looked out the window and saw that the sun was shining with fair weather clouds scudding across the sky. It looked like good traveling weather. I told my wife, “Look, we could have gone down to Holmes County today. “Yes, but you’re stuck in the hospital,” she replied. “Yes, but our prayer was answered.”

One truth that you need to learn in why I call God the Universe. God the Creator is Spirit, pure spirit. There is only one Spirit. We are also spirit. Part of the same Spirit. But the part of us that differs and feels distance at times from spirit is our Ego. As important as the ego is to our character and well-being, the ego does not care to recognize the true spiritual part of us. It likes to cater to our material needs and desires. But it is often through our difficulties that we learn to turn to Spirit and believe the dynamics to become manifest.

God has given us free will so we are free to revel in our material needs and desires if we so choose. But there is a part of us that is His and that is the eternal part, the Spirit. We experience the material, but along with that are lessons to be learned, because we need to find our way back to, and experience the God part of us. Many have gone on into spirit and are no longer with us in body, but they are able to be with us in spirit, and they can also assist in the process, but only when we desire it—we have free will, we can do what we want. When we want too much of the material things, there can befall things to help wake us up to a loving God. We can fall asleep too easily, asleep in the material things.

Collectively, we are of the entire Universe. If you consider God as a crotchety old man who is angry all the time, you need to rethink your idea. God is Spirit. God is Love. We are spirit. We are love. Where did the resources to make the cosmos come from? From the Creator Itself. Where does our spirit come from? From the Creator. We and the universe are all part of God. Believe it, or not.

God that made the world and all things therein, seeing that he is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands; Neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though he needed any thing, seeing he giveth to all life, and breath, and all things; And hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation; That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far from every one of us: For in him we live, and move, and have our being; as certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also his offspring. Act 17:26-28

There is much to say on the subject but this is only a miniscule part of what can be said about who God is, how God works, and the potential we have to do and be as Jesus demonstrated. God truly does answer prayer. Our thoughts make a dynamic difference; with God and with each other.

Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto my Father. And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask any thing in my name, I will do it. John 14:12-14

Kidney dialysis

Ever since May 2004 I have been on kidney hemodialysis. I usually go Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, but this time it was yesterday, Saturday. I was sick on Friday so I called up the Charge Nurse at the Kidney Center and she found another slot open; the next day, Saturday at 11 a.m. That gave me a chance to possibly recover. I stayed in bed most of the day.

You see, my wife was ill so I made chicken soup. I boiled a whole chicken, deboned it and threw all the meat back in the pot after straining it with a fork to get out the stalks of thyme. After adding the sauteed celery, carrots and onions according to the recipe, I cooked it together for another 10 minutes or so at a boil. I made the mistake of eating a bowl of soup myself before letting it cool and skimming the fat off the top. My innards apparently couldn’t take it. It also could have been more flavorful. I don’t make chicken soup that often. I can still add spices to round off the taste. It’s not bad with more salt and pepper and whatever is good to put in chicken soup. Fortunately, my wife didn’t sample it yet. I finally brought it to another boil and put it in jars. It cooled overnight.

I tried to eat a small bowl of cereal in the morning but my digestion rebelled so I fed the rest to 2-year-old Nolan Michael. Let Mikey eat it, he eats anything. Later in the morning I had a bowl of my chicken soup sans the fat. Yes, it could use a little help in the seasoning. But I felt better.

But that incident brought me to dialysis a day later than normal, but the routine was the same. I came in, got weighed and assigned to a chair. My dry weight is 86 kilos (189.2 lbs.). Since my kidneys are on the fritz the fluid buildup in my system usually increases to as high as 6 to 9 lbs. over, to about 90 kilos, a couple times it was even higher. Dialysis will bring the weight down to the dry weight. By experience I can’t take more than 4 kilos off so if I weigh more than that I’ll have the rest taken off next treatment. Lately I haven’t even gained that much, and yesterday was a rarity. Since I hadn’t eaten all day Friday I didn’t gain an ounce. In fact, I came under my dry weight by almost a pound. They compensated for that by giving me extra fluid, but I ended up well under my dry weight anyway at the end of the treatment. That’s not too good if it goes too low. Dialysis is by default a weight gain/weight loss exercise, in addition to taking out toxins and other impurities from your blood.

After you’re weighed, and they take your temperature, you sit in a nice comfortable chair for the next few hours—four in my case. The nurse checks your breathing, sometimes checks your legs for signs of swelling, and asks if you had any falls or bleeding. If so, they change the procedure a little (they'll avoid giving you a dose of blood thinner), but normally a technician will cannulate (stick with a dialysis needle--a cannula) with two needles, an arterial and a venous needle and lines, and hook them to the machine and start it up. Then you just relax, fall asleep if you’re so inclined, watch television, read a book, talk with any friend within talking distance, or just stare into space. The choice is yours. If you have questions there are nurses and technicians to answer them, and a doctor in charge who examines the lab reports on a regular basis.

There’s one serious caveat in the whole procedure. Make sure you’re dressed about the same every time when you’re weighed. Early on I was ignorant of some of the procedure and it was a cold day. I was dressed in long underwear and a vest jacket, and got weighed in that way. Big mistake! And nobody caught it. About an hour before the end of my treatment I suddenly felt ill and I started getting these awful leg cramps. I told the nurse and while they were discussing it I felt faint. Between cramps and fainting I would vote for fainting. Before they were able to put saline fluid back into my system I did faint—at least for a few seconds. I revived and everything gradually came back to normal. I felt absolutely wonderful, but oh the hell of it while it was happening! My weight had been heavier than normal due to the extra clothes and they were attempting to bring me down to the posted dry weight. The body can’t take that much fluid loss without ill effects—not for me anyway. That’s one lesson you learn in dialysis. Later I weighed the clothes that I put on for colder weather and found it to be .7 kilos or 1.54 lbs. Not much, but enough to make a big difference.

The initial fear of dialysis can be alleviated by talking to doctors and nurses. They give you a whole gamut of material on the subject. But first you have to be prepped ahead of time. It was almost a year before that I had a fistula put into my arm. That’s how long it took for my kidneys to fail to the point of the need for dialysis. A surgeon surgically joins a vein and artery together and the result is an access that can last quite a while with care, even years. It’s the only working kidney you got at that point.

This information is meant to educate from my own experience. If you don’t want the experience, make sure you take good care of your kidneys. Drink plenty of water, eat proper food, stay away from alcohol—you know the routine. It will most likely save your life. Dialysis saves mine. I’m on fluid restriction. I shouldn’t ingest too much calcium, potassium, or phosphorus which restricts my food intake too. There are renal diets to follow. After all, in this life you can’t do everything you darn please and hope to get away with it. Things don’t always work that way.

I was born with a condition which compromised the kidneys with chronic pyelonephritis, reflux, kidney stones, surgeries and lithotripsies. The kidneys can only take so much abuse.

Prison correspondence

A hobby of mine is writing to penfriends. I used to write to people all over the world, mostly to women. They were more apt to find time writing, and they had interesting things to say. I really didn't have any romantic interest in writing but there was one lady in Taiwan who did, and it took a few letters to get it all straightened out. One problem, I didn't have the finances to travel to Taiwan. Another was, at that time I was not in the market for romance. I had other things on my mind. Maybe it would have been nice to follow through, but it was years later that I finally did find a gal in Ohio, when I lived in New Jersey. We got married in July and I moved to Ohio in October. As you can imagine, it was a heck of a commute almost every weekend--475 miles one way. I'll have to tell that story sometime.

Right now, I have a few prisoner penfriends on my mailing list. I rented a post office box and generally write about everyday things, and some of my viewpoints on Scripture and our spiritual self.

Most prisoners may deserve their incarceration but there are quite a few who are wrongfully accused. No matter why they are in prison, it would help to see and understand the spiritual side of themselves. They need to understand that they need not continue in the same path that got them into trouble in the first place.

One gentleman in Louisiana has continued to write for over 2 years. Maybe it's because he's closer to my age, but there are other inmates a lot younger who have been writing for awhile. My first letter reveals my age so some have not answered my letter. When you write to a fellow 40 years younger than you are, you might not get an answer. That's OK, there are a lot of inmates who would like to find someone to correspond with, for any reason, at any age. Some may ask for money, which I don't answer to. One fellow asked for money, and the next letter he apologized.

I wrote to one prisoner and he sent me a xeroxed copy of a 24-page brief that he had written for his lawyer. It told about his prison life and how much of a hell it is. That is one person who needs to write to someone. He never wrote to me again. Win some, lose some.

But there are plenty of guys and gals out there who want letters. You can find them on websites that advertise their need for correspondence. These websites also give instruction on how to write to prisoners.

One inmate in Oregon asked me why I choose to write to prisoners. I outlined some of my reasons:
1. They’re a captive audience.
2. They are more apt to have time writing in continual correspondence.
3. I need an outlet for my writing experience.
4. I don’t think prison is the real answer for a lot of people who are incarcerated although it can be tactfully viewed as a stepping stone in a learning experience. Some sentences are way too lengthy for the crime. No wonder there is prison overcrowding.
5. I have found a view of life that transcends race, creed, religion, and am willing to share it with those interested.
6. I have stories to tell of my own life experiences and I don’t mind telling them.

I believe society has some responsibility for many of those who end up in prison. We need to be kinder to one another, understand one another, feel an empathy for the other person. Engage in more friendly conversation with one another. Think about what you would do in the other person's shoes. You might never get to that point, but how would you feel if you did?

Yes, prisoners may learn how to be more devious among other inmates, but not all. If you were in their situation, you would act the same way.

The point is: these folks need someone to be a good friend. They most likely had the wrong kind of friends that got them into trouble. They may have anger problems, a penchant for stealing which most likely initially stemmed from desperation, or being around the wrong people, or they may think and act only for themselves. The best way to act is to be courteous to others at all times. So many people need to learn that.

I'm looking at it from a viewpoint of a middle income society so I don't have all the answers for the poor. Maybe I'm in the poor slot, I'm on disability and fixed income, which gives me time to write these articles. I understand some of the poor lot of people. I find them to be normal people, even happy. It's the people who get themselves into trouble with the law who need understanding, and they aren't necessarily poor. Incarceration covers all elements of society.

To engage in such correspondence you only need to use your head and your heart.

Some websites:
Prison Penpals
Prison Penpal Directory
Convict Penpals

Alvin's dilemma

I was in a one-room schoolhouse in first and second grade. One day, in second grade, the teacher had a reading class at the fifth grade level. The fifth-graders stood on the stage and read their lesson aloud for the teacher, Miss Stauffer. Everything was going smoothly until Alvin's turn came. He kept stumbling over the words. The teacher was sitting at the back of the room in one of the student desks and she exclaimed, "Alvin, you're doing very poorly today," and looking over toward the second grade row, she said, "Even a second grader could read what you're stumbling over." Everyone in the room was at attention, and Miss Stauffer singled me out, "Wesley, come here and read this sentence for Alvin."

Fleetingly, I had in mind to sabotage the teacher's efforts. I was small for my age, and Alvin was the tallest in the whole schoolroom, but I meekly walked over and read the sentence...and paid for it at recess. Well, being called a Teacher's Pet isn't the worst that could happen so I didn't fare too badly.

That night I dreamed that Alvin and I were out on the school porch and he was trying the hardest to talk but couldn't. He struggled with it until his throat literally blew out, and then I woke up. It was quite a nightmarish dream to have for an eight-year-old but I remembered it years later when I met his sister Dora at a reunion. I described the incident, and the dream in our conversation.

She had a perturbed look on her face as she opined that the teacher was out of place to treat a student like that, and then described what her brother had to deal with. Alvin was a stutterer and he was rather slow at home and his father was not very kind to him. Finally at the age of 20 Alvin had a nervous breakdown and had to be treated for mental illness.

I was disturbed from hearing that and I later cried for Alvin while thinking about it. He did not deserve the treatment that his sister described to me. He needed to have a reprieve from his difficulties somehow. But what was done was done, and one cannot change the past, can one?

A few months later I talked to Dora on the telephone, and she explained further some of her previous family situations. In course of conversation, it was suggested I could call Alvin, just to talk--to help him to feel better perhaps. She gave me his phone number.

It was months later, after thinking about Alvin once in awhile, that I decided to give him a call. I didn't know if he would remember me, but I thought I'd give it a try anyway. What can one lose? And maybe one could gain a friend.

It was Sunday afternoon and I called. His wife answered and I told her who I was...a former classmate of Alvin's. I didn't know if he would remember me. He came to the phone and we started talking, and he did remember me. In fact, he said he contacted a number of classmates to apologize for his behavior during the school years. Apparently, he was a bit of a bully and after all these years wanted to institute redress for what he perceived to be being mean toward his classmates. He told me he wanted to contact me and my brother but didn't know where to find us.

I told him, "Alvin, I don't remember you ever being mean to me." There was silence and then he said, almost crying, "Wesley, you're such a great encourager." Then I almost cried. I'm emotional too, you know. We had a nice conversation and then promised to keep in touch.

Just today, after several months, I called him again and we had a 20-minute conversation. He was glad I called. I feel spiritually obligated to stay in touch with him. He needs our prayers. And I need his.

We need to stay in touch with the spiritual side of ourselves because that is the eternal part of us. Get as much straightened as you can, and then there will be nothing to make retribution for. People helping people is a spiritual mandate for peace and contentment--our salvation. We can only do as occasion serves and we will be blessed for it. We do it out of love, for love is of God.

I John 4:7 Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. I didn't say it, the writer of I John did, but we all could say that, if we understand it. Charity toward one another will take us far.

The names in this story have been mostly changed, out of respect for the situation. On a certain level, the past can be changed, when it is revisited in mind, and allowed to gain a new and broader perspective, coupled with forgiveness.

Singing

This is about Nathan again. I love to write about a child who is going through the throes of growing up with his innocent and sometimes exasperating ways. Lucy and I don't have children of our own, but in a way we do. Lucy has the job of babysitting for her niece. Both she and her husband work so we have four-year-old Nathan and two-year-old Nolan over on our side of the house five or six days a week.

When Nathan was two years old he was interested in my piano when I played it. I carefully went over Twinkle Twinkle Little Star whenever he was around, among other children's songs. He watched intently as I played and I even sang it to him. He was at the age where he wasn't talking yet and I hoped to teach him to sing someday. Sometimes he would get rambunctious and I would sit him on my lap at the piano and play the song. The Twinkle Star song would be the main song to quiet him down.

One evening I was reading in the living room. All was quiet and Nathan was upstairs on his side of the house in bed for the night. Suddenly I heard singing...ba ba ba ba ba ba .... Nathan was singing the Twinkle Star Song in perfect melody.

When he was three years old he learned the A B C song to the same tune. This time I recorded him. And when my cousins came from out of state, I had him sing it to them. The only way he would do it then was when he hid behind a chair.

Parenthood is different these days than it was years ago. When two parents work it is difficult giving the proper attention to a child, and the parent/child relationship can suffer.

When I was young I was in the midst of a similar problem. I was away from home for weeks at a time (in hospital) and I did not get the closeness to my parents like my siblings did. Maybe that is why I pay attention to these kids in a parental way like I do. It helps to bring closure to some traumatic experiences in my past. And it gives me a chance for Lucy and I to experience parenthood. But let me tell you, being parents is for younger couples! We're glad when the boys' parents come home from work and take them off our hands.

The Dentist

I was just a few months out of the hospital in those days, after major surgery; I believe it was April 1948. It was Spring and I had a toothache. Even at four years old Dad suggested I be taken to the dentist to have it checked out. So he took me in his 1939 Nash and we entered the dentist's office. When my turn came I was seated in the chair and the dentist made preparations to examine my teeth. I still had my deciduous teeth and I don't remember what he wanted to do, or what he said he would do, but I became terrified with what he was doing. I was sure he was going to put me to sleep, and he probably was. But he never got that far. Hell would have to freeze over before I was going to go through it again, although I didn't consciously remember the episodes of the months before when I was in the hospital.

I put up a panic-stricken fight heard throughout the building, if not the whole neighborhood, and the dentist gave up. He told Dad to take me home--he wasn't able to do anything. At home I was still musing about the incident, especially when Dad berated me for not allowing the dentist to do what he had to do. "You're four years old and you're just a big baby!" he stormed. And I remember thinking to myself, "Yes, I guess I am a big baby" and I didn't feel guilty about it. I don't remember anything about what happened to my toothache, but I know I never went back to that dentist.

Years later, when I lived in New Jersey, I had a kinder disposition toward dentists. I was an adult this time, and this particular dentist checked my teeth every several months. He had the habit of asking questions when you had your mouth wide open. It happened every time. I'm sure it was intentional.

Then one day I had a tooth problem and got a dentist appointment. I wrote up questions and answers on 3x5 cards and put them in my shirt pocket. It was about the time when two of my sisters got married in a double wedding and I knew he would ask about them, so I also wrote down the names of their spouses. I wrote answers to other questions I thought he would ask. There were at least a half dozen cards in my pocket. I also wrote down the location of the tooth problem I had and put it on top. I was ready to sabotage his efforts.

As I sat in the chair I explained to him where the problem was, and after some small talk he told me to open my mouth. He took his mirror and looked all around inside and said, "Hmm, upper left, I don't see anything." I whipped out my cards and handed him the first one--"lower right." His expression didn't change perceptibly but he said, "Let me see those cards," and he took them out of my hand and looked through them, reading each one. I guess he had all his questions answered--he didn't say much after that.

One more scary story: This time I was in Ohio. I had had a few kidney surgeries and lithotripsies because of kidney stones so I was prepared for anything. I went to the dentist and he had to drill out an infected tooth. I told him I didn't want novacaine. I felt I could handle it. I had been in hospital and withstood a lot of excruciating situations so I felt rather invincible. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm sure," I replied. He started drilling...and drilling... I gripped the chair handles and took it stoicly. Finally he stopped, "I don't believe it," he told his assistants, "I'm hitting a nerve and he's not even flinching." Well, I had tears in my eyes and they almost had to pry my hands off the arm rests but it wasn't as bad as what I had experienced a few times in hospital. And I'm not a masochist.

The younger assistant asked incredibly, "Are you from the CIA?"

I replied jokingly, "Just don't mention it to anybody." They looked at each other. You could have heard a pin drop. She had to have taken me seriously because she reacted with a guilty look on her face. She treated me almost like royalty on my way out of the office. I felt rather bad that I didn't clarify the humor. Was she that naive?

Today I don't mind dentists. Techniques have improved and it's not as threatening as it seemed to be years ago.