These little angels put on a show for the local Mifflin School parents, relatives, and friends in the Mansfield area. Over 100 people showed up. This is the first Christmas program featuring the kindergarten students. Lucy and Wes attended because Nathan (third from right, top row) was in the program. His brother Nolan also came with us.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Visit from Elisabeth
Every time Nolan sees this video, he insists that she is his girlfriend. Elisabeth visited with us recently in October 2008. Nolan is three years old.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thanksgiving Day
Thanksgiving Day, November 27, was a day to give thanks. It was a beautiful sunny day.
Lucy and I were invited by her niece Miriam and husband Irvin to their house for a nice feast of turkey and all the trimmings. Lucy brought her homemade pecan pie and I brought my homemade cranberry sauce. The cranberry recipe consisted of two packs of cranberries, one peeled orange, and 1-1/2 cups of sugar. I ground up the cranberries, orange juice and pulp. Since the recipe was no longer on the package I didn't remember the exact amount of ingredients so I mixed in about 3/4 cup of sugar and put it in two pint jars. Later, while I was watching the news my mind went idly to what I did earlier and realized that I didn't put enough sugar in it. I recalled the two jars, dumped the cranberry sauce into a bowl and added another 3/4 cup of sugar. Whew! Saved by a little dose of inspiration.
The next time I make cranberry sauce, I'll try brown sugar instead. There are other recipes where you cook the cranberries. I haven't had cooked cranberry sauce for years. I just grind up the raw cranberries, put in an orange and sugar, put it in jars and refrigerate.
The following day would have been Iva Hackman's birthday (my Mom). She would have been 87 years old. She passed away in 2006. God bless you Mom.
Lucy and I were invited by her niece Miriam and husband Irvin to their house for a nice feast of turkey and all the trimmings. Lucy brought her homemade pecan pie and I brought my homemade cranberry sauce. The cranberry recipe consisted of two packs of cranberries, one peeled orange, and 1-1/2 cups of sugar. I ground up the cranberries, orange juice and pulp. Since the recipe was no longer on the package I didn't remember the exact amount of ingredients so I mixed in about 3/4 cup of sugar and put it in two pint jars. Later, while I was watching the news my mind went idly to what I did earlier and realized that I didn't put enough sugar in it. I recalled the two jars, dumped the cranberry sauce into a bowl and added another 3/4 cup of sugar. Whew! Saved by a little dose of inspiration.
The next time I make cranberry sauce, I'll try brown sugar instead. There are other recipes where you cook the cranberries. I haven't had cooked cranberry sauce for years. I just grind up the raw cranberries, put in an orange and sugar, put it in jars and refrigerate.
The following day would have been Iva Hackman's birthday (my Mom). She would have been 87 years old. She passed away in 2006. God bless you Mom.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Fix up time
Then there were signs of the roof beginning to leak. The house was only 20 years old, but how long do roofs last?Finances were short to satisfy another expense so we waited, and wondered. Insurance would not pay for patches. If there was a single event that created the problem, they would get involved.
But the answer came on September 14, 2008. Hurricane Ike made its presence strongly felt like the big bad wolf that it was. It huffed and puffed and made mincemeat of the roof. I took a couple pictures while the wind was blowing. Nothing else was touched. I called insurance the next day.
The insurance agent told me they do not go out to make estimates. We would have to get our own. I left it in Jason's capable hands and he found some estimates and I faxed them. The weather after that Sunday storm was admirable but how long will it last until rains come? Jason put plastic that was available over part of the roof.
A few days later a couple of insurance adjusters came to check it out. They saw the plastic on the roof but I told them I had taken pictures so I went down to my office and made hard copies of a couple pictures and they were good enough to be used to evidence.
The estimates were to cover the damage over half the whole building. When the insurance adjuster climbed onto the roof, he said we should have the whole roof done, down to the boards. He would add enough to cover the cost, based on the estimate submitted, and see if insurance would agree.
The damaged part of the whole building was on the two-story side. Lucy and I live in the one-story side. There was evidence of a leak beginning but we were relatively dry on our side of the house. Still, the adjuster commented that there were a couple of different types of shingles and it would be better if the whole roof was done at the same time. He would try to rush the estimate but it could take up to 10 days. 10 days! It could rain by then. There were still parts of the roof at the mercy of the elements. In fact, Lucy commented that if we got rain from the south, the plastic wouldn't be very effective.
I went to a men's fellowship seminar at Berean Baptist one evening. It was dark when I returned. Soon the rain started. Uh-oh! The roof! I tried to convince myself that everything was OK. God is in His heaven and all is right with the world. But the feeling of despair was beginning to manifest and I didn't sleep well all night. I had a mind to let Jason know but I mentally argued the point that I'm sure he heard the rain more than I did, and if he's not worried, why should I be?
The next morning I woke up, after a fitful short night's sleep. I commented to Lucy that it rained but what is happening to the roof? Her response, although irritated, was soothing to my ears. "Oh, Jason put on plastic last night."
A couple of days later the check came, for the full amount suggested by the insurance adjuster. I put it in the bank and told Jason to get the roofers working, we're in business. He would have liked to help out but he had a job himself and he got a couple of good roofers to work for several days. It was a blessing all around.
Lucy, being former Amish, suggested that it would be nice to have a frolic to get the roof done. A frolic in the Amish culture is a gathering of a group of people to work on the project at hand. As it was, however, a couple of ex-Amish roofers worked on the roof for a few days, tearing off the shingles and matting, and replacing it all. We watched their progress and I took pictures.
Why do we worry sometimes? Maybe it's because we don't exercise our faith enough. We do what we can but when we believe in something a little beyond the practical, often things happen that go beyond what we may expect. This was an answer to our desires and we thank God for it all.
Of course, we weren't the only ones to have damage. Trees went down at many places, buildings were damaged by falling trees, as well as cars. Roofs were blown off. The whole state of Ohio experienced the fierce wind which at times reached hurricane strength in some areas. It may have been a record. We don't get the full brunt of hurricanes around here, usually the rain. But there was no rain with this wind storm until a few fine splatters toward the end. It was an unusual storm for this part of Ohio; and it came all the way from the Gulf Coast and beyond.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Keys to music
Sometimes you may get the inclination to let the piano keys create their own inventions. After all, they have the tone, the rhythm that you supply, and the practical need to offer something new, however simple or complex. It comes from imagination.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Midwest Trips
This is from a letter I wrote in early December 1991. It was to a penfriend who is a retired school teacher who is now almost 81 years old in 2008. Writing to him has induced me to write more eloquently, or better than just scribbling out a few thoughts. But, practice makes perfect, hopefully.
Thanksgiving Day came and went and I'm stuffed. I had two turkey dinners in one day. I ate a bit frugally at the first meal at my brother's house, then in the evening I went to visit my cousins in Lancaster and Lebanon counties for the weekend. My cousin Kathryn and her husband, who own a pretzel bakery, drove a Mennonite family to Florida to pck up a flight from Miami to Paraguay so they weren't home yet on Thanksgiving Day for the big feed. So their kids made the supper. Well, they weren't kids. The oldest is 26 years old and the youngest is 19; three boys and three girls. But that doesn't stop them from being kids once in awhile, especially the boys--young me, I should say.
Yes, we had the traditional turkey, with filling, corn, mashed potatoes, and an assortment of other delectables. And a couple of the fellows just had smother their plateful of vittles with ketchup.
I often stay with my cousin Warren at his home in a small rural community of Heidelberg, PA, and I visit Martin's Pretzel Bakery in Akron, Lancaster County quite often, owned and operated by Clarence and Kathryn Martin. Kathryn is Warren's sister. There is also a Martin's Pretzel Bakery in upstate New York owned by Lloyd and Maryann Martin. Kathryn and Maryann are sisters. Clarence and Lloyd are brothers.
Warren and I sometimes make plans to travel over the holidays and we were tossing around the idea of visiting his sister and family in Memphis, Missouri, a brother in Woodstock, Illinois, or another sister near Watertown, New York on this Thanksgiving weekend. But those plans didn't work out.
Last year we did make the trip over Thanksgiving. Neither of us can afford to take off on vacations. I need to pinch my pennies and Warren runs an asphalt paving business which keeps him busy, even into the Fall. The reason we travel so well together is because I love to drive and he and I like to visit his folks. They're my double cousins; their father and my father were brothers, their mother and my mother were sisters. Their mother died in 1951.
The Midwest is a great place to travel. The interstates take you pretty quickly to any location, except that we get off the interstate to travel about 200 miles into Keokuk, Iowa; then a couple miles to the Missouri border, and another 50 miles or so to Memphis. We've made the trip several times.
We travel through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Missouri; and last year we went to Wisconsin, all in five days.
I like to visit with them. They are Mennonite people who exist as a practical society.
I enjoyed watching the children at the Thanksgiving dinner we had at cousin Florence's in Missouri. She has 24 grandchildren, and many of them were at the get-together. Afterwards, the women cleaned up the kitchen and the men retired to the sitting room where we spent all evening conversing with each other. No radio, no TV. It is the kind of rapport I like to have with people, without distractions.
The only minor distractions were the children who were playing nearby. But it was tolerated, for children must be children while they're children. Siblings and their cousins were playing together in harmony, most of the time. One of the boys, five-year-old Calvin, one of the oldest children there, was particularly rambunctious and running around with his playmates. He is hyperactive and once in awhile his father would hold him still just to quiet him down. One time he ran by me, patted me on the knee and muttered something I didn't catch, but Warren burst into laughter. "What's so funny?" I asked. Calvin had said I was a "nice old man." I may seem old to him but the gesture gave me a sense of camaraderie with these kids.
We spent only one day in Missouri and then we headed for Wisconsin, traveling all night. I like to travel at night. Where the clear sky is darkest the whole universe is awash with stars. I even spotted a couple of meteorites along the way.
By early morning we arrived at Colby, Wisconsin to visit another one of Florence's sons and his family. He has three children who were a little timid with us, until Warren spoke to them in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then they were more open to us.
About 8 years previously, Warren and I had visited another family, the Aaron Hoovers, who also live in Colby, Wisconsin. I called up Aaron to let him know we were in the area again. He insisted we come on over, so Warren and I had a pleasant afternoon visit which turned into an overnight stayover.
Aaron's family had multiplied from two children to six. The baby boy we saw eight years ago was an energetic eight-year-old who could do the work of a boy almost twice his age. They too speak Pennsylvania Dutch. My own parents speak the language but they never taught us so I'm not fluent in the language.
At milking time the children helped their father with the chores, 11-year-old Mabel, eight-year-old Martin, six-year-old Harvey, four-year-old Aaron. Even two-year-old Martha tagged along. They were busy gathering around Warren as they talked to him in mostly Dutch and I felt a little left out...until little Aaron came over to me and said, "Wid du de pony tsagooka? (Do you want to look at the pony?). I understood that, and he led me over to the horse stall where a horse stood. He made some other comments which I didn't understand. The other children came over and started talking to me. When they realized I didn't understand much of what they said, they all switched to English and, spotting my camera, insisted I take pictures--of a bale of hay, a colt, the horse, the heifers, and they themselves hammed it up in front of the camera. Martin was keeping count of the pictures I was taking, since he learned that I would send the pictures to them after they were developed. Earlier, they had shown me a photo album where I spotted pictures I took there eight years before.
They were a delight to entertain. They were easily amused. They don't have a radio or TV to play havoc on their fertile minds. They may be in a relatively closed society, but they weren't missing anything important. Their education is limited to an eighth grade education but that doesn't often stop them from learning a trade which is advanced beyond that. They learn from their parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
In addition to the farmwork, Aaron Sr. makes maple syrup in the Spring from the many maple trees on his farm, which he cooks down to 2% thicker than standard maple syrup, he said. On our first visit (where I had met him for the first time), and Warren the second time--Warren had his two sons, Steve and Greg, along at that time) he had given Warren and me each a pint of maple syrup "because we enjoyed your visit so much." They refused any monetary compensation for our visit. "We're just glad to have you stop in," they said.
Some more has come to mind about that memorable first trip eight years before:
It was my first trip to Illinois. We visited my cousin John (Warren's brother). We then intended to head southwest to Missouri to visit his sister Florence. It was August and the weather was balmy. I dressed in summer clothes and we were off on a nice long trip. Steve and Greg were also along. (In case you were wondering, Warren raised his two sons alone since they were three or four years old.)
Before I left, our Aunt Lydia (my Dad's sister) asked if we would look up Sim (Simon) Landis, her brother-in-law, while we were in Illinois. They live in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Woodstock, Illinois is only a few miles from Wisconsin.
So, while in Woodstock, we were ready to retire for the night, Warren and I made plans for the next leg of the trip for the next day: to Missouri or to Wisconsin? We found that Eau Claire was not just over the border, but almost 200 miles away. It was either Missouri or Wisconsin; not both places.
The decision was made when Warren mentioned that he knew a family somewhere halfway to Eau Claire. They are Wenger Mennonites, originally from Lancaster County, PA. They are very hospitable and would take us in overnight if we needed a place to stay. If they couldn't accommodate us, another member of the community could.
So we left for Wisconsin the next day. It took a number of hours to drive to Colby, Wisconsin, and I studied the countryside as we traveled along, noting how straight the roads ran. When we came into town, Warren called up Aaron Hoover. Although Aaron had met him for the first time the year before, he knew Warren's voice right away. He told us how to find his farm.
Aaron and Edna had two children, Mabel and Martin. He showed us the maple syrup cookers. We visited his brothers and sisters, and parents, riding in our car, since they drive only horse and buggy. Steve and Greg, ages 10 and 12, had a great time. In the evening of the second day, they wanted a chance to ride in a horse-pulled wagon. We got our chance when a neighboring farmer needed help unloading a couple wagon loads of hay bales. He had heard about all the potential help visiting at the Hoover place.
Aaron hooked up the horse and wagon and we were off. He told me to sit up beside him. As we traveled, he demonstrated his "cruise control". As the horse trotted along, he gave a barely perceptible click with his tongue and the horse trotted faster; another click and the horse went faster yet. Another one, and faster yet. Then a slight tug on the reins and the horse slowed down again.
Because the horse often travels that way, Aaron didn't need to pull on the reins to turn right, and left into the lane, "automatic drive". If he had wanted to go straight he would tug gently on the opposite side rein to keep the horse from turning. The horse was cheaper to run than a car, he said. He eats what the cows eat and the cost of shoes is about $25 a year. I was convinced of the practical nature of their lifestyle.
The neighbor had a number of young children who were too young to carry bales of hay, but with the four of us, plus the neighbor himself, we had the couple of wagonloads done in short order. The evening being so clear, nice and cool, the Mrs. brought out the potato salad, pretzels, potato chips, and ice cream, and thereby made new friends. We all enjoyed it immensely.
We stayed the night again, and the next morning there was frost on the ground. It was 30 degrees, which was awful early in the season. I had my camera along and I just needed to get a picture of the sunrise. I didn't have any sweater, but just a summer shirt so I chanced to take a tride down the road a piece to snap a few pictures as the sun rose.
The upper limb of the sun was at ground level when I composed the shot. A silo was standing off in the distance and I lined it up to partially eclipse the sun. Strangely, I had to keep moving sideways to keep it in line. I then realized that the sun does not come up straight out of the horizon, but at an angle, which was more acute than farther south, for I never noticed it before.
Anyway, we had plans for the day and after breakfast we headed for Eau Claire. We had never met Simon Landis before, not that we remembered. I had his address and phone number but that was the only lead, which was enough anyway.
As soon as we came to the outskirts of Eau Claire I called his number. No answer. We'd have to go to his address.
The address turned out to be an apartment complex. Now what? We were still a couple blocks away and we saw a man standing behind a car with the trunk open. Warren exclaimed, "That's Sim Landis." Yeah, right, I thought; he had never met him either. We pulled into the parking lot, wondering what to do next. I casually walked over to the man, who was apparently taking inventory of some items in the trunk of his car. To make conversation, I said, "So you're the Fuller brush man."
"No", he replied, "I'm just taking inventory of these brooms and things. I'm trying to get rid of them." I studied him for a minute and for a fleeting instant compared him to my uncle Paul Landis, Lydia's husband. No real resemblance. I asked him how much he wanted for, say, that pushbroom there. "Oh, I sell that for $14 but you can have it for $11."
Warren then walked up and he said, "I have an asphalt business, I could use all those brooms." The man's face brightened. But then we realized that the brooms just would not fit in our Volkwagen, which was loaded to the gills with all we had acquired on the trip.
Not to lose a sale, the man said, "Well, I could send them to you. Who do you know around here?"
Warren spoke up, "Well, we came to look up a man by the name of Sim Landis."
The man's eyes widened. "Sim Landis," he exclaimed, "why, that's me! I'm Sim Landis." He was absolutely ecstatic. And in short order he threw his carefully laid out inventory unceremoniously back into the trunk and slammed the lid. "Come along, I'll show you around town."
We found he was 83 years old. He was very spry for a man his age, still the salesman he was for years. He enquired after our families, many of whom he knew. We told him his sister-in-law suggested we visit.
He was so enthused about our visit he had to tell all his friends we visited and how we met. Our itinerary took us to his favorite restaurant in town where he ate breakfast every morning, Howard Johnsons. He took us to the church he attended, and to the nursing home where his wife stayed as an invalid, whom he visited every day. And he showed us his apartment in the complex where he had first arrived. And then we ate at McDonald's as he treated us to loaves and fishes--fish sandwiches, french fries, and cokes.
The fame of our visit preceded us home. He just had to tell Aunt Lydia how we met and a number of other relatives heard about it from there.
Meanwhile, on our way home, as soon as we crossed the Pennsylvania line, I came down with the worst cold which a frost-bitten morning in Wisconsin could dish out to a guy who wanted to chance the weather in his shirt sleeves. It took over two weeks to recover.
So, last year's visit was a get-reacquainted visit. Sim Landis died in September 1990 at the age of 92. His wife preceded him by a couple of years.
This year there was just too much work to go for a long haul in little time. There'll be other occasions. Florence called on Thankgiving Day while we were fressing on turkey and filling. She invited us to come out anytime. Probably not this year anymore.
People often wonder what to call the breaded mixture that is usually served with the turkey. I found out that it is called dressing when it is passed around the first time, filling the second time around, and stuffing, the third.
You mentioned (as a teacher) about parents wanting their own way. I received a letter from another teacher penfriend who wrote:
"Have you ever received a letter from a walking, talking medical treatment before? Last week a certified medical doctor declared me to be a healing treatment for a certain 5th grade girl. She was one of nine students who was transferred from my homeroom to the new 5th grade teacher's class. The new teacher was added to relieve overcrowding. Like most of the other students involved, she didn't want to go. Her mother took her to a doctor who wrote a prescription which said the girl would be better off emotionally if she were transferred back to my room. The parents of the student who transferred out of my room did most complaining and protesting. Many come from divorced homes and the mothers wanted their kids to have a male image."
Anyway, I'm glad for your letters. They give me the impetus to try to write eloquently. Reading helps. Right now I'm reading The Power Game by Hedrick Smith. I also read much of his book, The Russians and he has written another called The New Russians. Perhaps you know, he worked as a correspondent for The New York Times. His writing is a bit heavy for me, but it is quite interesting, especially when he writes a human interest anecdote.
Thanksgiving Day came and went and I'm stuffed. I had two turkey dinners in one day. I ate a bit frugally at the first meal at my brother's house, then in the evening I went to visit my cousins in Lancaster and Lebanon counties for the weekend. My cousin Kathryn and her husband, who own a pretzel bakery, drove a Mennonite family to Florida to pck up a flight from Miami to Paraguay so they weren't home yet on Thanksgiving Day for the big feed. So their kids made the supper. Well, they weren't kids. The oldest is 26 years old and the youngest is 19; three boys and three girls. But that doesn't stop them from being kids once in awhile, especially the boys--young me, I should say.
Yes, we had the traditional turkey, with filling, corn, mashed potatoes, and an assortment of other delectables. And a couple of the fellows just had smother their plateful of vittles with ketchup.
I often stay with my cousin Warren at his home in a small rural community of Heidelberg, PA, and I visit Martin's Pretzel Bakery in Akron, Lancaster County quite often, owned and operated by Clarence and Kathryn Martin. Kathryn is Warren's sister. There is also a Martin's Pretzel Bakery in upstate New York owned by Lloyd and Maryann Martin. Kathryn and Maryann are sisters. Clarence and Lloyd are brothers.
Warren and I sometimes make plans to travel over the holidays and we were tossing around the idea of visiting his sister and family in Memphis, Missouri, a brother in Woodstock, Illinois, or another sister near Watertown, New York on this Thanksgiving weekend. But those plans didn't work out.
Last year we did make the trip over Thanksgiving. Neither of us can afford to take off on vacations. I need to pinch my pennies and Warren runs an asphalt paving business which keeps him busy, even into the Fall. The reason we travel so well together is because I love to drive and he and I like to visit his folks. They're my double cousins; their father and my father were brothers, their mother and my mother were sisters. Their mother died in 1951.
The Midwest is a great place to travel. The interstates take you pretty quickly to any location, except that we get off the interstate to travel about 200 miles into Keokuk, Iowa; then a couple miles to the Missouri border, and another 50 miles or so to Memphis. We've made the trip several times.
We travel through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Missouri; and last year we went to Wisconsin, all in five days.
I like to visit with them. They are Mennonite people who exist as a practical society.
I enjoyed watching the children at the Thanksgiving dinner we had at cousin Florence's in Missouri. She has 24 grandchildren, and many of them were at the get-together. Afterwards, the women cleaned up the kitchen and the men retired to the sitting room where we spent all evening conversing with each other. No radio, no TV. It is the kind of rapport I like to have with people, without distractions.
The only minor distractions were the children who were playing nearby. But it was tolerated, for children must be children while they're children. Siblings and their cousins were playing together in harmony, most of the time. One of the boys, five-year-old Calvin, one of the oldest children there, was particularly rambunctious and running around with his playmates. He is hyperactive and once in awhile his father would hold him still just to quiet him down. One time he ran by me, patted me on the knee and muttered something I didn't catch, but Warren burst into laughter. "What's so funny?" I asked. Calvin had said I was a "nice old man." I may seem old to him but the gesture gave me a sense of camaraderie with these kids.
We spent only one day in Missouri and then we headed for Wisconsin, traveling all night. I like to travel at night. Where the clear sky is darkest the whole universe is awash with stars. I even spotted a couple of meteorites along the way.
By early morning we arrived at Colby, Wisconsin to visit another one of Florence's sons and his family. He has three children who were a little timid with us, until Warren spoke to them in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then they were more open to us.
About 8 years previously, Warren and I had visited another family, the Aaron Hoovers, who also live in Colby, Wisconsin. I called up Aaron to let him know we were in the area again. He insisted we come on over, so Warren and I had a pleasant afternoon visit which turned into an overnight stayover.
Aaron's family had multiplied from two children to six. The baby boy we saw eight years ago was an energetic eight-year-old who could do the work of a boy almost twice his age. They too speak Pennsylvania Dutch. My own parents speak the language but they never taught us so I'm not fluent in the language.
At milking time the children helped their father with the chores, 11-year-old Mabel, eight-year-old Martin, six-year-old Harvey, four-year-old Aaron. Even two-year-old Martha tagged along. They were busy gathering around Warren as they talked to him in mostly Dutch and I felt a little left out...until little Aaron came over to me and said, "Wid du de pony tsagooka? (Do you want to look at the pony?). I understood that, and he led me over to the horse stall where a horse stood. He made some other comments which I didn't understand. The other children came over and started talking to me. When they realized I didn't understand much of what they said, they all switched to English and, spotting my camera, insisted I take pictures--of a bale of hay, a colt, the horse, the heifers, and they themselves hammed it up in front of the camera. Martin was keeping count of the pictures I was taking, since he learned that I would send the pictures to them after they were developed. Earlier, they had shown me a photo album where I spotted pictures I took there eight years before.
They were a delight to entertain. They were easily amused. They don't have a radio or TV to play havoc on their fertile minds. They may be in a relatively closed society, but they weren't missing anything important. Their education is limited to an eighth grade education but that doesn't often stop them from learning a trade which is advanced beyond that. They learn from their parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
In addition to the farmwork, Aaron Sr. makes maple syrup in the Spring from the many maple trees on his farm, which he cooks down to 2% thicker than standard maple syrup, he said. On our first visit (where I had met him for the first time), and Warren the second time--Warren had his two sons, Steve and Greg, along at that time) he had given Warren and me each a pint of maple syrup "because we enjoyed your visit so much." They refused any monetary compensation for our visit. "We're just glad to have you stop in," they said.
Some more has come to mind about that memorable first trip eight years before:
It was my first trip to Illinois. We visited my cousin John (Warren's brother). We then intended to head southwest to Missouri to visit his sister Florence. It was August and the weather was balmy. I dressed in summer clothes and we were off on a nice long trip. Steve and Greg were also along. (In case you were wondering, Warren raised his two sons alone since they were three or four years old.)
Before I left, our Aunt Lydia (my Dad's sister) asked if we would look up Sim (Simon) Landis, her brother-in-law, while we were in Illinois. They live in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Woodstock, Illinois is only a few miles from Wisconsin.
So, while in Woodstock, we were ready to retire for the night, Warren and I made plans for the next leg of the trip for the next day: to Missouri or to Wisconsin? We found that Eau Claire was not just over the border, but almost 200 miles away. It was either Missouri or Wisconsin; not both places.
The decision was made when Warren mentioned that he knew a family somewhere halfway to Eau Claire. They are Wenger Mennonites, originally from Lancaster County, PA. They are very hospitable and would take us in overnight if we needed a place to stay. If they couldn't accommodate us, another member of the community could.
So we left for Wisconsin the next day. It took a number of hours to drive to Colby, Wisconsin, and I studied the countryside as we traveled along, noting how straight the roads ran. When we came into town, Warren called up Aaron Hoover. Although Aaron had met him for the first time the year before, he knew Warren's voice right away. He told us how to find his farm.
Aaron and Edna had two children, Mabel and Martin. He showed us the maple syrup cookers. We visited his brothers and sisters, and parents, riding in our car, since they drive only horse and buggy. Steve and Greg, ages 10 and 12, had a great time. In the evening of the second day, they wanted a chance to ride in a horse-pulled wagon. We got our chance when a neighboring farmer needed help unloading a couple wagon loads of hay bales. He had heard about all the potential help visiting at the Hoover place.
Aaron hooked up the horse and wagon and we were off. He told me to sit up beside him. As we traveled, he demonstrated his "cruise control". As the horse trotted along, he gave a barely perceptible click with his tongue and the horse trotted faster; another click and the horse went faster yet. Another one, and faster yet. Then a slight tug on the reins and the horse slowed down again.
Because the horse often travels that way, Aaron didn't need to pull on the reins to turn right, and left into the lane, "automatic drive". If he had wanted to go straight he would tug gently on the opposite side rein to keep the horse from turning. The horse was cheaper to run than a car, he said. He eats what the cows eat and the cost of shoes is about $25 a year. I was convinced of the practical nature of their lifestyle.
The neighbor had a number of young children who were too young to carry bales of hay, but with the four of us, plus the neighbor himself, we had the couple of wagonloads done in short order. The evening being so clear, nice and cool, the Mrs. brought out the potato salad, pretzels, potato chips, and ice cream, and thereby made new friends. We all enjoyed it immensely.
We stayed the night again, and the next morning there was frost on the ground. It was 30 degrees, which was awful early in the season. I had my camera along and I just needed to get a picture of the sunrise. I didn't have any sweater, but just a summer shirt so I chanced to take a tride down the road a piece to snap a few pictures as the sun rose.
The upper limb of the sun was at ground level when I composed the shot. A silo was standing off in the distance and I lined it up to partially eclipse the sun. Strangely, I had to keep moving sideways to keep it in line. I then realized that the sun does not come up straight out of the horizon, but at an angle, which was more acute than farther south, for I never noticed it before.
Anyway, we had plans for the day and after breakfast we headed for Eau Claire. We had never met Simon Landis before, not that we remembered. I had his address and phone number but that was the only lead, which was enough anyway.
As soon as we came to the outskirts of Eau Claire I called his number. No answer. We'd have to go to his address.
The address turned out to be an apartment complex. Now what? We were still a couple blocks away and we saw a man standing behind a car with the trunk open. Warren exclaimed, "That's Sim Landis." Yeah, right, I thought; he had never met him either. We pulled into the parking lot, wondering what to do next. I casually walked over to the man, who was apparently taking inventory of some items in the trunk of his car. To make conversation, I said, "So you're the Fuller brush man."
"No", he replied, "I'm just taking inventory of these brooms and things. I'm trying to get rid of them." I studied him for a minute and for a fleeting instant compared him to my uncle Paul Landis, Lydia's husband. No real resemblance. I asked him how much he wanted for, say, that pushbroom there. "Oh, I sell that for $14 but you can have it for $11."
Warren then walked up and he said, "I have an asphalt business, I could use all those brooms." The man's face brightened. But then we realized that the brooms just would not fit in our Volkwagen, which was loaded to the gills with all we had acquired on the trip.
Not to lose a sale, the man said, "Well, I could send them to you. Who do you know around here?"
Warren spoke up, "Well, we came to look up a man by the name of Sim Landis."
The man's eyes widened. "Sim Landis," he exclaimed, "why, that's me! I'm Sim Landis." He was absolutely ecstatic. And in short order he threw his carefully laid out inventory unceremoniously back into the trunk and slammed the lid. "Come along, I'll show you around town."
We found he was 83 years old. He was very spry for a man his age, still the salesman he was for years. He enquired after our families, many of whom he knew. We told him his sister-in-law suggested we visit.
He was so enthused about our visit he had to tell all his friends we visited and how we met. Our itinerary took us to his favorite restaurant in town where he ate breakfast every morning, Howard Johnsons. He took us to the church he attended, and to the nursing home where his wife stayed as an invalid, whom he visited every day. And he showed us his apartment in the complex where he had first arrived. And then we ate at McDonald's as he treated us to loaves and fishes--fish sandwiches, french fries, and cokes.
The fame of our visit preceded us home. He just had to tell Aunt Lydia how we met and a number of other relatives heard about it from there.
Meanwhile, on our way home, as soon as we crossed the Pennsylvania line, I came down with the worst cold which a frost-bitten morning in Wisconsin could dish out to a guy who wanted to chance the weather in his shirt sleeves. It took over two weeks to recover.
So, last year's visit was a get-reacquainted visit. Sim Landis died in September 1990 at the age of 92. His wife preceded him by a couple of years.
This year there was just too much work to go for a long haul in little time. There'll be other occasions. Florence called on Thankgiving Day while we were fressing on turkey and filling. She invited us to come out anytime. Probably not this year anymore.
People often wonder what to call the breaded mixture that is usually served with the turkey. I found out that it is called dressing when it is passed around the first time, filling the second time around, and stuffing, the third.
You mentioned (as a teacher) about parents wanting their own way. I received a letter from another teacher penfriend who wrote:
"Have you ever received a letter from a walking, talking medical treatment before? Last week a certified medical doctor declared me to be a healing treatment for a certain 5th grade girl. She was one of nine students who was transferred from my homeroom to the new 5th grade teacher's class. The new teacher was added to relieve overcrowding. Like most of the other students involved, she didn't want to go. Her mother took her to a doctor who wrote a prescription which said the girl would be better off emotionally if she were transferred back to my room. The parents of the student who transferred out of my room did most complaining and protesting. Many come from divorced homes and the mothers wanted their kids to have a male image."
Anyway, I'm glad for your letters. They give me the impetus to try to write eloquently. Reading helps. Right now I'm reading The Power Game by Hedrick Smith. I also read much of his book, The Russians and he has written another called The New Russians. Perhaps you know, he worked as a correspondent for The New York Times. His writing is a bit heavy for me, but it is quite interesting, especially when he writes a human interest anecdote.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Hospital...again!
OK, so I'm on kidney hemodialysis. It is now August 29 and I've been on it since April 2004, getting dialysis treatments three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, year in and year out, on holidays and all, except Christmas and Thanksgiving when they juggle the schedule around a bit. I went through two fistulas and I just had a third one installed last Tuesday. The two failed, and I'm currently being treated with a set of catheters placed in my chest. It's not too bad. It's not convenient when you want to take a shower but you just have to work around it.
On Tuesday, August 19, I was scheduled to have a fistula placed again. Since I already went through two of them, I knew what to expect. I would probably be on conscious sedation and half asleep through the whole procedure. The procedure is to connect an artery and a vein which will eventually develop into a arterial vein where blood will be able to be cleansed by running through a dialyzer, taking out the impurities, toxins...and vitamins. Take your vitamins or meds after dialysis.
I was put into short term care since I would be going home the same day, or the day after. I undressed and dressed into a gown, with a heating unit no less! The nurse took my medical history, from the time I was born, in my case. During the questioning we heard a baby cry. The nurse said she didn't see any baby in the rooms. To be humorous I suggested that one could have been born while waiting.
Since I was a little cool she hooked an air hose to the gown and a stream of warm air made it all nice and cozy. It would be cold in the operating room, she said.
She took me to the holding room, and on the way we saw the source of the cries. It was a woman who was perhaps frightened at the suspense of waiting. Others around her were trying to console her. It reminded me of my own fright years and years ago, but I was only three years old at the time. This woman was at least 60.
I waited in the holding room until it was my turn. I still get a rather sinister feeling whenever I enter an operating room, and even the holding area threatened to intimidate me. But I'm a big boy now and I intellectually rose above it, if not entirely emotionally.
A nurse came around and, in the quietness I suggested that they should have music playing. Mozart would be nice. She thought it was a good idea; it would relieve any anxiety patients might have.
There were a couple of other patients in the room and they gradually disappeared as their turn came up. Then it was my turn.
I was wheeled into the operating room proper where it was decidedly cold. They had given me warm blankets so I was cozy enough, but I remembered from my government inspector days that bacteria slows down at 40 degrees. It wasn't 40 degrees but I was glad for the blankets.
It's amazing what medicine can do these days. I had an IV placed on the back of my hand earlier which would administer the anesthesia. When I lay on the table an anesthesiologist administered the medicine and the next thing I knew I was back in recovery. I don't even remember falling asleep, if I even was asleep.
I had a bandage wrapped around my left arm, a little above the elbow and I was told to keep my arm straight for awhile. They gave me a pillow for my arm to rest on.
Since this was a "creation" operation (new fistula), the doctor ordered an overnight stay. I was given an antibiotic, as is the usual procedure, and I waited for everything to heal. And tomorrow the hospital would give me a dialysis treatment.
The hospital has a new procedure now for ordering lunch. You are given a menu and you dial a number and order off of it, and the food comes to your room in about a half hour.
The second meal I ordered was lasagna. I was told they couldn't give it to me. I'm on a renal diet and the tomato sauce is not good for me--too much potassium.
Potassium is one of the elements that can increase to dangerous levels because of the lack of proper kidney function. Phosphorus is another element that can be harmful, and processed foods are loaded with it. There are not a whole lot of options in a renal diet. There's enough, but the real good tasting stuff is off-limits. Or you can take binders to keep the phosphorus from assimilating into your system.
I settled for tilapia. I like fish. A couple vegetables, a cup of fruit, a dessert, a cold drink, and I was all set. Some hospital food is not bad at all.
I was there overnight, and I thought I would be scheduled for an early dialysis, but I ended up waiting until 2 p.m., which did not sit well with me at all. But I had not choice but to wait. Meanwhile they gave me IV antibiotics.
In the course of time I saw that part of my body was turning red, bright red. It was mainly on my upper legs and on my lower back. This happened a few months before and I had an awful time with skin peeling at the time. This looked like the same thing, but this time I spotted it earlier. The nurse checked it out and found the extent of it. I suggested it could be the antibiotics they gave me. So now I put another allergic reaction on the list. They didn't give me any more, and she told the doctor. He said it shouldn't be the antibiotics because it didn't happen before. She told him it did happen before. She listed it as an allergen.
Finally I was wheelchaired down to the dialysis room. I sat in a recliner chair and waited for my treatment. There were other patients whom I had seen before at the dialysis center. I was just another one of them.
They hooked up the lines after administering a dose of blood thinner to avoid clotting, and started the machine, and I was set for the duration.
Because of all the waiting around I was not in a very good mood. On top of it, a nurse started teasing me about the length of time I was going to be in treatment. It was not a professional approach to nurse/patient care and I was not amused. Apparently, she has a habit that way so when I made a remark in return, the others knew she had met her match.
When you're waiting four hours for treatment to be completed, you need to have something to do, unless you just sit there watching what is going on, or sleeping, or watching television. I had all three options going.
I had asked a friend, Mel to take me to the hospital but I didn't know how long I would be there. Since I was there overnight I called him up and asked he could pick me up. He was going to pick his brother up at six but he said he could be at the hospital at 5:45. I noted how much time I had left and started thinking about the logistics of being done on time, and not having Mel wait too long, and letting him pick his brother up on time. Sometimes I just need to take the bull by the horns and create my own reality. I asked the technician if she could let me off early. I could sign papers. She said they don't sign papers here, they would have to call the doctor. I was not about ready to have bureacracy take over so I just waved my hand in resignation and hoped for the best.
She took me off a little early, bless her. She also told my nurse that I wanted to leave as soon as dialysis was finished. So it was all ready except...the IV loc that was still in my hand had to be removed by the nurse. Rats!
I called Mel, who was waiting outside, and told him there would be a delay. He was gracious enough to wait.
It all worked out OK at my side of things. Mel took me home and it was well after 6 p.m. but at least I had a ride home. I wasn't allowed to drive for 24-48 hours because of the anesthesia I was given.
But I had an appointment with a doctor at OSU in Columbus on Thursday so I drove the 7o miles, had the interview, and came home again without incident. It was close though. I didn' feel good part of the time. Medicine takes it time to wear off, and it can be tricky driving. I felt comfortable enough behind the wheel, but when I got out and walked a short distance it was not the best feeling. When I got a bite to eat at Wendy's I felt a little better.
I know I have a sense of adventure in dealing with a lot of this but it can get old sometimes when you have to go through the paces every couple of days. Dialysis is a growing necessity for a lot of people these days. It has increased exponentially over the past decade and there are dialysis centers all over the country, plus the world. Kidney disease is a symptom of many factors in the scheme of things. Check it out here.
I don't know if you cared to read all this mundane stuff but this is just an inkling of what hospital patients have to deal with, and dialysis patients in particular.
On Tuesday, August 19, I was scheduled to have a fistula placed again. Since I already went through two of them, I knew what to expect. I would probably be on conscious sedation and half asleep through the whole procedure. The procedure is to connect an artery and a vein which will eventually develop into a arterial vein where blood will be able to be cleansed by running through a dialyzer, taking out the impurities, toxins...and vitamins. Take your vitamins or meds after dialysis.
I was put into short term care since I would be going home the same day, or the day after. I undressed and dressed into a gown, with a heating unit no less! The nurse took my medical history, from the time I was born, in my case. During the questioning we heard a baby cry. The nurse said she didn't see any baby in the rooms. To be humorous I suggested that one could have been born while waiting.
Since I was a little cool she hooked an air hose to the gown and a stream of warm air made it all nice and cozy. It would be cold in the operating room, she said.
She took me to the holding room, and on the way we saw the source of the cries. It was a woman who was perhaps frightened at the suspense of waiting. Others around her were trying to console her. It reminded me of my own fright years and years ago, but I was only three years old at the time. This woman was at least 60.
I waited in the holding room until it was my turn. I still get a rather sinister feeling whenever I enter an operating room, and even the holding area threatened to intimidate me. But I'm a big boy now and I intellectually rose above it, if not entirely emotionally.
A nurse came around and, in the quietness I suggested that they should have music playing. Mozart would be nice. She thought it was a good idea; it would relieve any anxiety patients might have.
There were a couple of other patients in the room and they gradually disappeared as their turn came up. Then it was my turn.
I was wheeled into the operating room proper where it was decidedly cold. They had given me warm blankets so I was cozy enough, but I remembered from my government inspector days that bacteria slows down at 40 degrees. It wasn't 40 degrees but I was glad for the blankets.
It's amazing what medicine can do these days. I had an IV placed on the back of my hand earlier which would administer the anesthesia. When I lay on the table an anesthesiologist administered the medicine and the next thing I knew I was back in recovery. I don't even remember falling asleep, if I even was asleep.
I had a bandage wrapped around my left arm, a little above the elbow and I was told to keep my arm straight for awhile. They gave me a pillow for my arm to rest on.
Since this was a "creation" operation (new fistula), the doctor ordered an overnight stay. I was given an antibiotic, as is the usual procedure, and I waited for everything to heal. And tomorrow the hospital would give me a dialysis treatment.
The hospital has a new procedure now for ordering lunch. You are given a menu and you dial a number and order off of it, and the food comes to your room in about a half hour.
The second meal I ordered was lasagna. I was told they couldn't give it to me. I'm on a renal diet and the tomato sauce is not good for me--too much potassium.
Potassium is one of the elements that can increase to dangerous levels because of the lack of proper kidney function. Phosphorus is another element that can be harmful, and processed foods are loaded with it. There are not a whole lot of options in a renal diet. There's enough, but the real good tasting stuff is off-limits. Or you can take binders to keep the phosphorus from assimilating into your system.
I settled for tilapia. I like fish. A couple vegetables, a cup of fruit, a dessert, a cold drink, and I was all set. Some hospital food is not bad at all.
I was there overnight, and I thought I would be scheduled for an early dialysis, but I ended up waiting until 2 p.m., which did not sit well with me at all. But I had not choice but to wait. Meanwhile they gave me IV antibiotics.
In the course of time I saw that part of my body was turning red, bright red. It was mainly on my upper legs and on my lower back. This happened a few months before and I had an awful time with skin peeling at the time. This looked like the same thing, but this time I spotted it earlier. The nurse checked it out and found the extent of it. I suggested it could be the antibiotics they gave me. So now I put another allergic reaction on the list. They didn't give me any more, and she told the doctor. He said it shouldn't be the antibiotics because it didn't happen before. She told him it did happen before. She listed it as an allergen.
Finally I was wheelchaired down to the dialysis room. I sat in a recliner chair and waited for my treatment. There were other patients whom I had seen before at the dialysis center. I was just another one of them.
They hooked up the lines after administering a dose of blood thinner to avoid clotting, and started the machine, and I was set for the duration.
Because of all the waiting around I was not in a very good mood. On top of it, a nurse started teasing me about the length of time I was going to be in treatment. It was not a professional approach to nurse/patient care and I was not amused. Apparently, she has a habit that way so when I made a remark in return, the others knew she had met her match.
When you're waiting four hours for treatment to be completed, you need to have something to do, unless you just sit there watching what is going on, or sleeping, or watching television. I had all three options going.
I had asked a friend, Mel to take me to the hospital but I didn't know how long I would be there. Since I was there overnight I called him up and asked he could pick me up. He was going to pick his brother up at six but he said he could be at the hospital at 5:45. I noted how much time I had left and started thinking about the logistics of being done on time, and not having Mel wait too long, and letting him pick his brother up on time. Sometimes I just need to take the bull by the horns and create my own reality. I asked the technician if she could let me off early. I could sign papers. She said they don't sign papers here, they would have to call the doctor. I was not about ready to have bureacracy take over so I just waved my hand in resignation and hoped for the best.
She took me off a little early, bless her. She also told my nurse that I wanted to leave as soon as dialysis was finished. So it was all ready except...the IV loc that was still in my hand had to be removed by the nurse. Rats!
I called Mel, who was waiting outside, and told him there would be a delay. He was gracious enough to wait.
It all worked out OK at my side of things. Mel took me home and it was well after 6 p.m. but at least I had a ride home. I wasn't allowed to drive for 24-48 hours because of the anesthesia I was given.
But I had an appointment with a doctor at OSU in Columbus on Thursday so I drove the 7o miles, had the interview, and came home again without incident. It was close though. I didn' feel good part of the time. Medicine takes it time to wear off, and it can be tricky driving. I felt comfortable enough behind the wheel, but when I got out and walked a short distance it was not the best feeling. When I got a bite to eat at Wendy's I felt a little better.
I know I have a sense of adventure in dealing with a lot of this but it can get old sometimes when you have to go through the paces every couple of days. Dialysis is a growing necessity for a lot of people these days. It has increased exponentially over the past decade and there are dialysis centers all over the country, plus the world. Kidney disease is a symptom of many factors in the scheme of things. Check it out here.
I don't know if you cared to read all this mundane stuff but this is just an inkling of what hospital patients have to deal with, and dialysis patients in particular.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Sally Ann
I was born in 1944, and I am the oldest of eight in our family. John Wesley, Ronald, Sallie Ann, Joyce, Arlene, Jane, Marge, and David. Ron and I were always praying for a baby brother to wrestle with, but five sisters in a row persistently came along to thwart our ecclesiastical efforts. It was not to be. It was not until 1958 that David finally came along.There is a story behind that that I can share at some other time. One story that I must tell is about Sallie Ann. (The picture above is a picture of Sally in her younger years.) Sally was born in 1946 and the third child in the family, our first sister. I remember back in those days that Dad ordered from a Rice Krispies cereal promotion—Snap, Crackle, and Pop dolls. They came in the mail and Ron had Snap, I had Crackle, and Sally had Pop. I would rather have had Snap because it looked more debonair than the rest, but I had to settle for Crackle.
As we all grew up I noticed that Sally had certain fears that, in retrospect, seemed to be more pronounced than in the rest of us. I remember about 1953 when I, Ronny, Sally, Joyce and maybe Arlene were in the barnyard at the Spring City farm when a fighter jet flew overhead. The Willow Grove Air Base was a few miles away. We all waved, which was evidently spotted by the pilot. He made a long loop around and flew low over us. When he came alongside he accelerated and flames shot out the afterburner and he took off with a deafening roar. Sally was the only one that screamed and ran and we helped quiet her down.
Another time a light plane, which was maybe piloted by Graybill Souder, flew over the barn and silo and may have clipped the lightning rod on top of the silo, according to Dad. The plane flew low over our garden where Dad was working and we were pulling weeds. As the plane flew over, Dad reached up with his hoe and the plane was only a few feet above that. It was low enough that it had to climb to get over our house. The resulting roar created such a din that Sally ran screaming toward the house.
I had my own problems. I had surgery as a child and I had problems with staying dry. It was a problem that affected me well into my teenage years. Sometimes we children didn’t get along with each other, as children are wont to do, and Sally chose to tease me about bedwetting, something which I did not appreciate. The result was that I stopped talking to her in a civil manner for a number of years. I really don’t know when it started. It may have been at the Norman Souder Farm. We moved to the Ellis Mack Farm years later, and then we moved to the Tuschinsky Chicken Farm which Dad bought—the fifth and last farm we ever lived on.
I was maybe 17 or 18 when Mom came to me one day and asked if I could be a big brother to Sally. (Sally was 15 or 16 at the time.) She was quite depressed and Mom said it would be nice if I could let bygones be bygones. I don’t remember telling Mom about the continuous rift Sally and I had, but she apparently noticed it all along.
I went up to the room where Sally was and, as I stood in the doorway, said, “Sally, I guess it’s time to let bygones be bygones.” I don’t know what else I said in the way of apology, but that ended the rift, right then and there.
In the beginning I was more hesitant to communicate but Sally came to me with the need to talk, and I gradually warmed up to her with big brother advice. Maybe I had more of an optimistic outlook which she needed to relate to; I had my own occasional depressions. With what I had to deal with I forced some of that optimism on myself.
We as a family eventually left the Mennonite Church and joined up with a Fellowship that had a more spiritual emphasis. I joined it in 1965 when it was on 2027 Spring Garden Street in Philadelphia, and it eventually moved to Mt. Laurel, New Jersey—Mt. Laurel Chapel. The group was quite musical and we eventually had public concerts twice a year, for over 20 years.Over the years a number of young people were taken on trips to Switzerland, Hawaii, and in the States. One day Sally and I went to Lancaster County to visit with our cousins. Cousin Maryann was a close friend of hers. On the way home Sally seemed to be rather gloomy and I told her to tell me what her concern was. Why was she so despondent so often? She should talk it out. She answered, “I would like to go on those trips once in awhile too. Arlene, Jane, and Margie all are able to go on trips to Switzerland, Hawaii...I don’t go anywhere!
“Sally, I don't either.”
The Elder of the church introduced Sally to a young man in the congregation, a Chinese-American, John Lee, and in course of time they got married, to the surprise of a lot of people who knew her. Sally was the type of person to be on the depressed side at times and it was not expected that she would find someone to share her life with. John did not know what her entire disposition was and did not find out until afterwards. His parents owned a restaurant and they had a wedding feast for the young couple, and it was afterwards that John found out her schizophrenic side. Still, he stayed by her.
I believe Sally may have been intimidated by the apparent success of her husband. He was a college graduate, a chemistry major, and he had a job at a prestigious laboratory. They had two children and there were times that she needed to get away, which worried John. I worked at Spectracolor at the time and Sally called me once in awhile to talk. There was a payphone for employees to use for personal calls.
One day I answered the phone and I asked how she was doing.
“I did something bad,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“What did you do?”
“I cut myself.”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes…”
I told her, “What I want you to do is unlock the front door and wait for whoever is coming to help.”
I went to the office and told them what happened and then called the police and told them. I felt a little faint when I overheard the dispatch order an ambulance for an “attempted suicide.
I told my co-workers I was leaving for awhile and I traveled the eight miles to where Sally lived. When I arrived, the ambulance was already there. I came into the room and Sally was sitting quietly with a bandage over her wrist. “Oh Sally,” and I gave her a hug. A police officer was in the kitchen examining the evidence. He showed it to me. I did not feel good. I called John but when he answered I couldn’t tell him the details until he said, “Just spit it out.” So I told him what happened. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly.
They took Sally to the hospital and I stayed awhile. I went to the piano and played a rather melancholy tune that came to me, a tune of sadness. John picked Sally up at the hospital later and brought her home. They invited me over occasionally. John and Sally’s two girls, Samra and Sharon, grew up into fine young ladies bound for college.
Meanwhile, I married Lucy Yoder and moved to Ohio, and Sally would call me occasionally. She still needed someone to talk to. One day she called me and said, “Do you think the Lord has anything for me to do?” How does one answer a question like that? But without thinking I blurted out, “No...but you can enjoy your children and eventually grandchildren. Enjoy life. Don’t worry about everything. Your children need you. Your eventual grandchildren will need their grandma.” Later I felt a little guilty for the initial choice of words, but it was eventually apparent that her destiny had been set, by her own choice.
On November 23, 1996 I got a call from Jane, “Wes, Sally finally . . . she took her own life.” I was devastated. Lucy was in the other room and wondered why I was crying like I was so she came out to investigate. When I told her what happened Lucy had a look of sadness but she was not the emotional type like I am. Sally was 50 years old.
It was at that same time that I had been appointed a juror on jury duty and we had just started deliberation on the case after the trial. I called the courthouse and told them what happened and someone got on the line to give me leave to attend the funeral. The rest of the deliberation would have to wait until I got back. I called the airline and told them I had to attend a funeral, "are there any tickets available?"
“Yes, there is, it is $600. It’s a guaranteed flight," she said. It’s only a 40 minute flight between Cleveland and Philadelphia. I couldn’t afford to pay the price. “That’s too much,” I said, “I’ll get back later.” I was tempted to ask if that came with a coffin.
I called my brother Dave. Debbie answered and she said she would look for a less expensive ticket. An hour or so later she called back and said there was one for $200. I gave her my credit card number and waited for another hour. She called back and said the card didn’t go through. That happened twice. I finally looked at the address on one of the credit card bills and noticed that it did not exactly match my address, so I gave them the bill's address and it finally went through.
The trip from Cleveland to Philadelphia was uneventful and Dave picked me up at the airport. I arrived at the funeral home in New Jersey and soon the immediate family was ushered into the viewing room before the public would attend the service. John didn’t feel comfortable having an open casket for the general public so we were the only ones to see Sally. I believe cousin Kathryn was invited in also.
Sally looked as beautiful in death as she was in life. I don’t believe Sally ever realized how nice-looking she was during her life. In the coffin she wore a Mennonite prayer covering on her head and held a Bible in her hand. It may have been a struggle to leave the faith she grew up with. It is difficult for a lot of people. She apparently never really left it in spirit, however. Later people from Mt. Laurel and other friends and well-wishers filed past to greet us, the family. Her remains are interred in the Cherry Hill cemetery.
But that’s not the end of the story for me. When I finally got home I went back to jury deliberation and we unanimously pronounced the perpetrator guilty. When he heard the verdict his shoulders sagged and his head went down. Then the lawyers involved explained to us, the jury, all the details we were not privy to during the trial. Our verdict was justified. It was not his first offense. The rest of the jury could have legally given the verdict without me, except that he insisted on having all jurors present. I felt a little cheated out of a longer time off to be with family when I heard that.
Over the next months I mourned for my sister, and over the years thought about her occasionally. She was a person who didn’t realize her own potential it seemed. I would occasionally dream about her; sometimes she was in a sad mood, and sometimes happy, as she was during her life. Then one night I dreamed I was at the Uncle Warren Hackman farm in Myerstown, PA and Sally walked to a car waiting with others in the car, opened the door, and I approached her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She got into the back seat and they drove away. Knowing I was dreaming, I said to myself, “Wow! It felt real!” In reflection, it may have been a gesture that she needed. The reader must understand that we never die; our soul lives on and we only leave our earthly body behind.
It was the last time I dreamt about her. But it didn’t end there. In January 2006 I was lying in bed reminiscing on nothing in particular while Lucy was sitting up reading a book. Suddenly I saw Sally plain as day. It was like a cameo picture with trees and a house in the background. She looked at me and smiled, and then she turned her head a little and I thought, that’s Sally all right. I exclaimed to Lucy, “I just saw Sally!” Lucy kept on reading.
Five months later in June I got a phone call from Joyce in Georgia, saying that Mom was quite ill and she might not last the week. I was pondering what to do when I went to sleep that night, and while sleeping, I dreamt that I was hard at work, and then I lay down to rest for awhile. Dad came along and said, “Wesley, get up, you have work to do.” Then I woke up to a bright sunny day and the inclination to take the trip to New Jersey to help out with Mom. I had to leave Lucy behind because I didn’t trust the van to go the distance, and Lucy gave me her blessing to take the trip alone. I rented a car and drove the almost 500 miles to Jane’s house and stayed a week, going to dialysis a couple times. Mom steadily improved by the time I went back home.
In early July I got a phone call that Mom had passed away. Again, I went alone to the funeral. I kept in touch with Lucy while I was away and it would have been nice if she would have been able to go along. At the funeral Jane, who organized a lot of it, said she couldn’t get anyone to lead singing, would I do it? I led the congregation in a couple of songs, the audience singing in beautiful four-part harmony. Most of our family had something to say about Mom in eulogy. It was a beautiful funeral. As Dave said before he played a tune on the piano, “Funerals are for the living.”
During the fellowship meal afterward, I told Mom’s sister Sadie about Sally. I told her I saw her in a vision. Sadie replied, “Now you know she’s OK, now you can concentrate on someone else.”
I was a little hesitant to tell this story at the risk of putting my sister Sally in an unfavorable light. But that is not what I feel. I feel it an honor that she was my sister, and I am still saddened that her life could have not been more joyful, and that she chose to leave us under these circumstances. I don't believe she wanted to but she could not withstand the pain she was in at the time. She didn't realize it but she was a beautiful person, and maybe we took it for granted. That's what we often do. You appreciate the memories but the source is gone.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Indiana Jones
This past Tuesday I was all set to have a day out on the town. I didn't have any dialysis scheduled for the day since it's only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. With such a regimen one needs to have a reprieve once in awhile. Dave M. from New Jersey had contacted me about going to the movies to see the latest movie of Indiana Jones. With his enthusiasm, it is evident that he is an expert on the subject.
He had told me about it almost a year before it came out. If you liked Raiders of the Lost Ark, you're sure to appreciate this movie. Indiana Jones first appeared in the 1981 film Raiders of the Lost Ark. The film was followed by Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in 1984, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in 1989, The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles from 1992 to 1996, and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in 2008. In addition to his film and television appearances, the character has been featured in novels, comics, video games, and other media.
The movie, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, opened on May 22. We saw it just this past Tuesday, June 24. That was over a month from the start. I asked him if it would still be playing when he came to Ohio. "Are you kidding? This movie is going to play for a long time!"
He told me he went to the opening at midnight on May 22 and the place was packed with hero worshippers. I'm not that ambitious, but I do like a good adventure and I was not disappointed.
On Tuesday Dave showed up at around 10:30 a.m. on his Harley and left it parked at our place while we drove to the Mansfield Cinemark Theater, a first-run theater. (Lucy and I always go to the dollar theater in town.) Lucy wasn't too happy that I spend a lot of money for a movie, but when we got there for the 11:00 a.m. showing, it was only $4.50. After a month of Indiana Jones feeding frenzy the fervor had died down and there were only two other people in the theater.
Since I'm walking with a crutch I sat in the handicap section, which was a bit too close; the previews were wild enough to make you want to sit farther back. I told Dave I'm going back a few rows, so we sat back not far from one of the other patrons.
Dave had told me he was going to get an Indiana Jones fedora from the same person who made them for the movie. Sure enough, he drove his trusty Harley all the way to Mississippi and back in time to attend the movie with me. And he wore the hat to the movie.
When he had told me about getting the hat, I told him that he would certainly be sleeping during the movie. He didn't think so. A few minutes into the movie the excitement grew loud and fierce. I turned to Dave to make a comment about it, in time to see him quickly raise his bowed head to attention, agreeing with me. A person can get mesmerized into oblivion from sheer monotony. And a lot of constant excitement can turn out to be monotonous. Look Dave, no one can expect to stay awake after traveling hundreds of miles, especially when this was the 7th time you saw the movie.
The movie was worth going to see. It was the old Harrison Ford character at its finest. I hadn't seen a movie like that for a long time. Well, I admit that I don't watch many new movies these days.
After the movie, we dined at Olive Garden Restaurant. That's one place Lucy and I frequent on occasion. Lucy doesn't really mind when I don't include her in some of my social escapades; she has her own Ladies' Day Out with her sister and nieces.
Dave spent a little time with us when we got back home, but he had appointments to keep and had to get back to his neck of the woods. With the day being sunny and warm, it was a good time had by all.
By the way, Dave can be seen on his own website. Click here.
He had told me about it almost a year before it came out. If you liked Raiders of the Lost Ark, you're sure to appreciate this movie. Indiana Jones first appeared in the 1981 film Raiders of the Lost Ark. The film was followed by Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in 1984, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in 1989, The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles from 1992 to 1996, and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in 2008. In addition to his film and television appearances, the character has been featured in novels, comics, video games, and other media.
The movie, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, opened on May 22. We saw it just this past Tuesday, June 24. That was over a month from the start. I asked him if it would still be playing when he came to Ohio. "Are you kidding? This movie is going to play for a long time!"
He told me he went to the opening at midnight on May 22 and the place was packed with hero worshippers. I'm not that ambitious, but I do like a good adventure and I was not disappointed.
On Tuesday Dave showed up at around 10:30 a.m. on his Harley and left it parked at our place while we drove to the Mansfield Cinemark Theater, a first-run theater. (Lucy and I always go to the dollar theater in town.) Lucy wasn't too happy that I spend a lot of money for a movie, but when we got there for the 11:00 a.m. showing, it was only $4.50. After a month of Indiana Jones feeding frenzy the fervor had died down and there were only two other people in the theater.
Since I'm walking with a crutch I sat in the handicap section, which was a bit too close; the previews were wild enough to make you want to sit farther back. I told Dave I'm going back a few rows, so we sat back not far from one of the other patrons.
Dave had told me he was going to get an Indiana Jones fedora from the same person who made them for the movie. Sure enough, he drove his trusty Harley all the way to Mississippi and back in time to attend the movie with me. And he wore the hat to the movie.
When he had told me about getting the hat, I told him that he would certainly be sleeping during the movie. He didn't think so. A few minutes into the movie the excitement grew loud and fierce. I turned to Dave to make a comment about it, in time to see him quickly raise his bowed head to attention, agreeing with me. A person can get mesmerized into oblivion from sheer monotony. And a lot of constant excitement can turn out to be monotonous. Look Dave, no one can expect to stay awake after traveling hundreds of miles, especially when this was the 7th time you saw the movie.
The movie was worth going to see. It was the old Harrison Ford character at its finest. I hadn't seen a movie like that for a long time. Well, I admit that I don't watch many new movies these days.
After the movie, we dined at Olive Garden Restaurant. That's one place Lucy and I frequent on occasion. Lucy doesn't really mind when I don't include her in some of my social escapades; she has her own Ladies' Day Out with her sister and nieces.
Dave spent a little time with us when we got back home, but he had appointments to keep and had to get back to his neck of the woods. With the day being sunny and warm, it was a good time had by all.
By the way, Dave can be seen on his own website. Click here.
Friday, June 20, 2008
After Hospitalization ... finally
This letter was written in December 1989. Sequence of these letters start with the trip to England blogged in May 2008.
I'm finally back to work after four months on State Disability Pay (New Jersey). I was in the hospital (Philadelphia, PA) five times in those four months, had surgery several times and now it looks like everything is all tuned up and shipshape.
A number of doctors wrote off what Insurance wouldn't pay. In fact, I didn't even have to ask my doctor. The billing secretary said she would write off the remainder as soon as Insurance, Blue Cross/Blue Shield and Major Medical, paid. And he isn't even a participating member of Blue Cross. I thought that was mighty thoughtful of them.
Last August I got bills from Anesthesia, from four doctors, for several surgical sessions in which they were involved. They had sent the bills to Insurance and asked only that insurance moneys be forwarded to Anesthesia Associates. Finally, Insurance started paying but they didn't pay the entire bill. I kept getting bills from Anesthesia for the remainder. I called up Insurance and said they didn't pay the entire amount, was I obligated to pay the remainder? They told me that they paid what was fair and equitable. Indeed, I would not have to be made to pay the rest. So I called up Anesthesia and asked about reducing or eliminating the remainder of the bills since Insurance paid their part. They told me to write a letter to the doctors involved, which I did. A few weeks later I was still getting periodic bills for the remainders so I called Anesthesia again. I asked what my balance was on the four bills outstanding. She looked it up on her computer. Doctor One, zero; Doctor Two, zero; Doctor Three, zero; Dr. Four...$75.00...no, she would write that off too. The total write-off amounted to almost $700. Believe me, I was elated.
It reminds me of the time when my Dad got a dentist bill he disagreed with. He either called up or wrote a letter to the dentist and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he objected to the bill and would pay only part of it. I was too young at the time to tell Dad that you just don't do it that way. Tact and diplomacy go far in such matters. Needless to say, he got another bill from the dentist demanding payment in full immediately.
In course of the several conversations I had with Insurance and the various medical billing offices, I have come to the conclusion that they intentionally inflate the bills to ensure receiving as much as Insurance will pay. I'm sure not all doctors write off the remainders—I had to ask Anesthesia for their consideration. I didn't have to ask Dr. Bagley, even though he is not a participating physician. Participating physicians are not supposed to receive any more than what Insurance pays them.
I went to the hospital again after I had settled everything with Anesthesia and now I got another bill from Anesthesia from the surgery since then—$540. Insurance already sent in their portion—Blue Shield sent $315 and Major Medical sent $99. That leaves a $126 remainder to haggle with with Anesthesia. I guess I'll just wait to see if they write it off before I put on my diplomatic hat again.
These bills are very confusing too. Fortunately, there's a date of service to orient one to when, where and how that bill was generated. I started keeping track of my medical escapades since September which was a little late to document all the doctor appointments, xrays, examinations, and in-patient medical services performed. I received an insurance check for $125 for Jefferson Associates. There are several Associates at Jefferson—Urology, Radiology, Nuclear Medicine. And some of those bills are from outside service vendors who do consulations, analyses, or evaluations. I called one number and it was an Associate office outside the city in Bala Cynwyd. She wrote off the bill—bless her!
All this free time I've had over the past months has allowed me to come to grips with my own financial situation. I could easily declare bankruptcy. I've been beholden to the credit card craze for years and now I find that I've been as bad as the federal government, living on a deficit. Now I've stopped using credit cards, and I've set up a budget to live within my means. No, it's not a sickness, as people like to make excuse for their bad spending habits. It's just a habit one gets into. Now I'm keeping track of all my pennies. I'm holding on to only a couple of vices—buying stamps and stationery to write these letters.
I had had two Thanksgiving dinners, Thursday and Saturday, which eased the budget tremendously. My sister Jane invites me to dinner occasionally. I don't eat out anymore. I've discovered rice, although I wish it was tastier. Frozen corn heats up in minutes in the microwave. Potatoes take about 8 minutes to bake in the microwave. The Acme sells cooked chickens for about $5, which is enough for a couple meals; and just the other day one chicken was marked down to $1.99, and it was still warm. My brother and I had a nice inexpensive meal that evening—chicken, rice, corn and applesauce. He and I live together. He's watching his budget too. And fortunately he likes my cooking.
So how did your vacation go? Anything exciting? I took my vacation in April, to London. I don't know what I'll do this coming year. I don't want to spend any money for awhile, so maybe I'll just stay home and read...read library books.
We had a bit of excitement the other day. But first, on November 16 we had a rip-roaring windstorm go through here. The south wind had been blowing all night and around noon a north wind came through like gangbusters, knocking down trees, power lines; and in Philadelphia a high-rise under construction was damaged by flying sheetrock panels. They flew into the air and knocked out about 40 windows in the adjacent high-rise office building. I remember because I was admitted to the hospital that day—after the storm had passed by. The high-rise was just a couple blocks from Jefferson Hospital.
Then less than a week later I was sitting here reading in the evening when the wind rose again. I didn't pay much attention to it until I heard a loud metallic clatter outside. I'm on the fifth floor of an eight-story building and I saw bricks, wood and debris all over the ground by the front entrance. I don't think any cars were hit although there were about 100 parked nearby.
Soon firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars came barreling in. Searchlights played over the whole building, and firemen went up to the roof to survey the damage. A piece of roofing was still dangling over the edge of the roof and they didn't allow anyone to leave the front entrance. The wind was still high.
Soon there was a knock on the apartment door. A fireman told us to leave our apartment and stay out in the hall or go down to the lobby. They wanted to remove the roofing on the edge and they didn't want any stray pieces to fall and shatter a window. We stayed in the hall for about a half hour.
The next day the episode was in the paper, complete with pictures. I guess the media had been out there among the fire trucks to add to the confusion. Nobody was hurt though.
Well, I have more letters to write. I didn't feel like writing lately because I was still worried about my health. But this past Monday everything turned out OK when I went to the hospital for the last time to see whether everything was functioning properly. So I'm free once again, and quite happy about it.
This letter was written on December 2, 1989. I would have never remembered the details I described if I hadn't written them down. That's the value of writing letters—a virtual diary.
I'm finally back to work after four months on State Disability Pay (New Jersey). I was in the hospital (Philadelphia, PA) five times in those four months, had surgery several times and now it looks like everything is all tuned up and shipshape.
A number of doctors wrote off what Insurance wouldn't pay. In fact, I didn't even have to ask my doctor. The billing secretary said she would write off the remainder as soon as Insurance, Blue Cross/Blue Shield and Major Medical, paid. And he isn't even a participating member of Blue Cross. I thought that was mighty thoughtful of them.
Last August I got bills from Anesthesia, from four doctors, for several surgical sessions in which they were involved. They had sent the bills to Insurance and asked only that insurance moneys be forwarded to Anesthesia Associates. Finally, Insurance started paying but they didn't pay the entire bill. I kept getting bills from Anesthesia for the remainder. I called up Insurance and said they didn't pay the entire amount, was I obligated to pay the remainder? They told me that they paid what was fair and equitable. Indeed, I would not have to be made to pay the rest. So I called up Anesthesia and asked about reducing or eliminating the remainder of the bills since Insurance paid their part. They told me to write a letter to the doctors involved, which I did. A few weeks later I was still getting periodic bills for the remainders so I called Anesthesia again. I asked what my balance was on the four bills outstanding. She looked it up on her computer. Doctor One, zero; Doctor Two, zero; Doctor Three, zero; Dr. Four...$75.00...no, she would write that off too. The total write-off amounted to almost $700. Believe me, I was elated.
It reminds me of the time when my Dad got a dentist bill he disagreed with. He either called up or wrote a letter to the dentist and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he objected to the bill and would pay only part of it. I was too young at the time to tell Dad that you just don't do it that way. Tact and diplomacy go far in such matters. Needless to say, he got another bill from the dentist demanding payment in full immediately.
In course of the several conversations I had with Insurance and the various medical billing offices, I have come to the conclusion that they intentionally inflate the bills to ensure receiving as much as Insurance will pay. I'm sure not all doctors write off the remainders—I had to ask Anesthesia for their consideration. I didn't have to ask Dr. Bagley, even though he is not a participating physician. Participating physicians are not supposed to receive any more than what Insurance pays them.
I went to the hospital again after I had settled everything with Anesthesia and now I got another bill from Anesthesia from the surgery since then—$540. Insurance already sent in their portion—Blue Shield sent $315 and Major Medical sent $99. That leaves a $126 remainder to haggle with with Anesthesia. I guess I'll just wait to see if they write it off before I put on my diplomatic hat again.
These bills are very confusing too. Fortunately, there's a date of service to orient one to when, where and how that bill was generated. I started keeping track of my medical escapades since September which was a little late to document all the doctor appointments, xrays, examinations, and in-patient medical services performed. I received an insurance check for $125 for Jefferson Associates. There are several Associates at Jefferson—Urology, Radiology, Nuclear Medicine. And some of those bills are from outside service vendors who do consulations, analyses, or evaluations. I called one number and it was an Associate office outside the city in Bala Cynwyd. She wrote off the bill—bless her!
All this free time I've had over the past months has allowed me to come to grips with my own financial situation. I could easily declare bankruptcy. I've been beholden to the credit card craze for years and now I find that I've been as bad as the federal government, living on a deficit. Now I've stopped using credit cards, and I've set up a budget to live within my means. No, it's not a sickness, as people like to make excuse for their bad spending habits. It's just a habit one gets into. Now I'm keeping track of all my pennies. I'm holding on to only a couple of vices—buying stamps and stationery to write these letters.
I had had two Thanksgiving dinners, Thursday and Saturday, which eased the budget tremendously. My sister Jane invites me to dinner occasionally. I don't eat out anymore. I've discovered rice, although I wish it was tastier. Frozen corn heats up in minutes in the microwave. Potatoes take about 8 minutes to bake in the microwave. The Acme sells cooked chickens for about $5, which is enough for a couple meals; and just the other day one chicken was marked down to $1.99, and it was still warm. My brother and I had a nice inexpensive meal that evening—chicken, rice, corn and applesauce. He and I live together. He's watching his budget too. And fortunately he likes my cooking.
So how did your vacation go? Anything exciting? I took my vacation in April, to London. I don't know what I'll do this coming year. I don't want to spend any money for awhile, so maybe I'll just stay home and read...read library books.
We had a bit of excitement the other day. But first, on November 16 we had a rip-roaring windstorm go through here. The south wind had been blowing all night and around noon a north wind came through like gangbusters, knocking down trees, power lines; and in Philadelphia a high-rise under construction was damaged by flying sheetrock panels. They flew into the air and knocked out about 40 windows in the adjacent high-rise office building. I remember because I was admitted to the hospital that day—after the storm had passed by. The high-rise was just a couple blocks from Jefferson Hospital.
Then less than a week later I was sitting here reading in the evening when the wind rose again. I didn't pay much attention to it until I heard a loud metallic clatter outside. I'm on the fifth floor of an eight-story building and I saw bricks, wood and debris all over the ground by the front entrance. I don't think any cars were hit although there were about 100 parked nearby.
Soon firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars came barreling in. Searchlights played over the whole building, and firemen went up to the roof to survey the damage. A piece of roofing was still dangling over the edge of the roof and they didn't allow anyone to leave the front entrance. The wind was still high.
Soon there was a knock on the apartment door. A fireman told us to leave our apartment and stay out in the hall or go down to the lobby. They wanted to remove the roofing on the edge and they didn't want any stray pieces to fall and shatter a window. We stayed in the hall for about a half hour.
The next day the episode was in the paper, complete with pictures. I guess the media had been out there among the fire trucks to add to the confusion. Nobody was hurt though.
Well, I have more letters to write. I didn't feel like writing lately because I was still worried about my health. But this past Monday everything turned out OK when I went to the hospital for the last time to see whether everything was functioning properly. So I'm free once again, and quite happy about it.
This letter was written on December 2, 1989. I would have never remembered the details I described if I hadn't written them down. That's the value of writing letters—a virtual diary.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Hospital yet again.
The following letter was written in October 1989 to a penfriend in Cottage Hills, Illinois. It outlines some of the exasperation in dealing with the medical business world. This sequence of letters begins in previous blog entries.
I'm still not back to work, but I feel pretty good right now. I was scheduled to go to the hospital last Monday and they cancelled. I didn't find out until I got there. I had a plastic bag with a robe, books and other things and all was for naught. I was rather miffed because State Disability (New Jersey) doesn't pay full salary and I'll have to wait another two weeks before they check out my other kidney.
Dr. Grasso, a four-year resident, was in surgery at the time, so I waited until I got home to call him. He was very apologetic but explained that Peggy, Dr. Bagley's secretary, had failed to schedule a perc tube surgery, whatever that means, and it threw everything out of whack. They won't be able to do it for another two weeks. I'd like to take the insurance money they're supposed to get, and run off with it! As it was, I already sent them a hefty sum, relaying it to them from Insurance.
They charge an arm and a leg for these surgeries: Nephroscopy $2400, Lithotripsy $2400. Blue Cross/Blue Shield paid $1410 of the $2400 bill and Major Medical paid $212. That leaves a pretty big chunk for me to work on.
To make matters a little more exasperating, I gave the Disability form to the doctor's office for them to fill out. A secretary (not Peggy) took it, telling me that both Dr. Grasso and Dr. Bagley were out of the country; they'd be back Tuesday. So the following week I called Peggy about the form. She looked high and low and couldn't find it. I had given it to Cass but still it was not found. I always thought Cass was a bit confused at her job. Great! Now I'll have to get a delayed payment sometime! I wasn't too happy.
As it happened, I had an appointment with another doctor in the same hospital so I went to Urology to find out about the disability form. Maybe I'd jog a couple memories if I'd show my face. As soon as I came in the door someone, without explanation, told me to go see Camille in the Billing Office just down the hall. After finding out who Camille was, I told her I gave a disability form to Cass at the front desk and no one knows hide nor hair of its whereabouts. I explained to Camille that I gave it on a Friday and both doctors were not available at the time—they'd be back on Tuesday. Her face brightened and she said, "I'll bet they put it on Dr. Bagley's desk," and she disappeared down the hall. She came back with the elusive paper in her hand. Bless her!
I found out SHE is the one who is supposed to fill them out, and she filled it out on the spot. I noticed my file was up on the computer and the two $2400 bills were on the screen. I told Camille that she already should have received $1410. She asked if Major Medical paid yet, and I said yes, about $200, and I had just sent it that day. She told me then that when they get it they'll make an adjustment on the bill.
I am convinced that doctors purposely inflate their bills to make sure they can get all that's due them from Insurance. I got that distinct impression when talking to Anesthesia Billing. Insurance told me that they pay the going price for doctors' services but they can't be paying the entire bill, no matter how good the insurance policy is. I brought up the subject with Anesthesia and they said I could write a letter and they'd send it to each doctor involved. There are four Anesthesia bills.
Now today I was told to go to Dr. Bagley's office. I had already had pre-admission testing done last Friday, so I didn't know what they were going to do now. A medical student went over my present condition rather thoroughly. He said my medical history read like a novel. Dr. Grasso had said the same thing when I first met him.
Afterwards there was a discussion with Peggy and Dr. Grasso whether I should have SMA-6 or 12 lab work done. Radiology wanted my blood but Pre-Admission already took some last week. I waited around for the medical student to finish writing the results of his examination so Peggy could give me a lab order.
When they finally finished, Peggy gave me an envelope and told me to go down to Pre-Admission Testing. I didn't know what the heck was going on but I went. I told Pre- that I had had testing done the week before. Then it was their turn to wonder what was going on. Finally, I was called to the desk and told that I could go now—everything was in order. Wait a minute, I said. I was under the impression I was supposed to have blood drawn. I called Peggy. Peggy told me to have them call 6440. Bewildered, they did. They found out Radiology wanted me to come there to the fifth floor. I then went to Radiology and they took three vials of blood. I asked if they had vampires somewhere they needed to feed.
That finished, I headed for the door. They stopped me with instructions. "You are scheduled for surgery the same day you are admitted, October 23. We want you here in Radiology at 8:00 sharp—no matter what the hospital tells you. Even if Central Scheduling doesn't call, be here. We'll have a bed available by the time you need it. If they do tell you to come in at any certain time, ignore it. Be here at 8:00." She was rather adamant about it. I believe Dr. Grasso had rolled a few heads at the mistake of the previous week and she was just repeating his demands to clarify intent.
After I left I went back to Urology. I spoke to Peggy, "Is there anything else while I'm here?" She just smiled and shook her head, "No, that's all." She seemed to be on the edge of weariness. That department is awful busy and even Dr. Grasso had been making wise-crack remarks, a sign that he was tired.
I'm sorry to hear about your sister. Achalasia is nothing to trifle with. Our former music director had it and he had to go through grueling procedures to keep his esophagus open. Apparently it wasn't at the dysphagia stage yet. He found a doctor at Zurbrugg Hospital in Burlington County (NJ) who was familiar with the disease. I read an article a few years ago which pointed out that one of the causes may be nervous tension, and he certainly was the type of person to have nervous tension.
In deference to your sister's condition, there are so many causes for diseases. However, I am convinced that many illness are induced by a person's frame of mind. The mind is a powerful and mysterious part of a person's makeup, and so may incidences can create a change in a person just by thought, attitude, or demeanor. My cousin lost her daughter in a boating accident and she got cancer from the stress. The same thing happened to another acquaintence of mine.
Do you ever wonder how faith healers can be apparently successful? Psychosomatic illnesses induced by the mind and are so common that the trust a person has in what that faith healer says can bring about a change in that person on a wide scale. A feeling of hope and trust works wonders. However, I don't take stock in everything faith healers claim. Stretching the facts is easy when you have a following that would believe in every word you say.
Jim Bakker is a case in point. His defense attorney gathered as many character witnesses as he could to ascertain the justification of Bakker's actions. According to them, he could walk on water. It was evident that these people saw nothing wrong in spite of what the media had spelled out. And Bakker did have the power to persuade. He is gifted that way. Even on the witness stand he confidently pointed out his heavenly calling to the jury. They being of the Christian faith, came to the conclusion that indeed Bakker may have been called by God to this minstry, but the ready availability of all that wealth that was accumulated clouded his direction.
In a way, there is some redeeming side to the whole affair. People felt good watching the show. They loved Jim and Tammy. No doubt about it, there was a certain aura of good feeling that gave people hope in their perhaps-dismal circumstances, and therefore they trusted them. Swaggart, Falwell, Roberts, Robertson, and a host of others have a large following because they know how to manipulate, whether for good or bad. People trust them. But some betrayed that trust: Bakker fell, Swaggart fell, Roberts became a little outlandish in his claims, Robertson made a fool of himself, and skeletons in the closet popped up all over the place. Religion is too sensitive an issue to be used as a forum for power and wealth.
Just recently [in 1989] there was an article in the Philadelphia Inquirer about a Soviet TV personality who has an apparent power to heal—Anatoly Kashpirovsky. He is idolized by millions and he performs miracles for people via television. I have a tendency to believe much of that. Like I said, the power of the mind can alter a person's outlook, and even health. It is a God-given ability of man to heal himself under countless circumstances.
However, there are also cases where people get better from illnesses that cannot be cured. FOr some reason the malady disappears. Chalk it up to prayer, faith, believing, or direct intervention from God, such happenings puzzle doctors, families and friends alike.
As a kid I had surgery several times by the time I was four years old. I developed a deadly fear of ether. In fact, one time I was put to sleep and my throat constricted that I couldn't breathe. The doctors had to give me a tracheotomy to save my life. After that, I went into sheer panic every time I smelled ether or alcohol, all the way to the age of 21. For some reason, the phobia left me and now I am not bother by it anymore. The only reason I can think of is that I finally came to a greater realization and purpose in my life and such things didn't have a hold on me anymore. Now if I can get rid of some other phobias...
I used to take pictures of fall foliage. Some pictures turn out pretty nice and one day someone asked me to come up to northern Maine and to bring my camera. He even paid the airfare from Philadelphia to Presque Isle, Maine via Boston. I then went all over Aroostook County, taking pictures of trees and potato farms. I saw only a few pictures but I don't know what he did with them. I never kept any of them.
Another year I drove 1300 miles in four day, all over New England, looking for the fall foliage. It was late in coming that year. Massachusetts was as green as summer and Connecticut was a bit disappointing, except for the pumpkin patches. I visited Mark Twain's house in Hartford, Connecticut before I went farther north. The autumn line ws around Franconia Notch, New Hampshire. I was traveling through there during the week hours of the morning before the sun came up so I just kept going—all the way into Canada. By that time I was too high in latitude for fall foliage so I went to visit a friend of mine in Lacolle, Quebec, and he wasn't even home, so I came back. I found the best foliage shots in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania, practically in my back yard!
I hope to be back to work by November [1989]. This "vacation" isn't helping me any. I should go down to the beach, to the casinos, or to Pennsylvania Dutch country, but I'm low in funds right now. I just took stock of my financial situation. If my outgo keeps exceeding my income, the upkeep could be my downfall. Fortunately, I'm living with my kid brother [David] right now. He has a better job than I do. He pitches in his share and then some at times. His computer helps marvelously in figuring out where I stand.
I'm still not back to work, but I feel pretty good right now. I was scheduled to go to the hospital last Monday and they cancelled. I didn't find out until I got there. I had a plastic bag with a robe, books and other things and all was for naught. I was rather miffed because State Disability (New Jersey) doesn't pay full salary and I'll have to wait another two weeks before they check out my other kidney.
Dr. Grasso, a four-year resident, was in surgery at the time, so I waited until I got home to call him. He was very apologetic but explained that Peggy, Dr. Bagley's secretary, had failed to schedule a perc tube surgery, whatever that means, and it threw everything out of whack. They won't be able to do it for another two weeks. I'd like to take the insurance money they're supposed to get, and run off with it! As it was, I already sent them a hefty sum, relaying it to them from Insurance.
They charge an arm and a leg for these surgeries: Nephroscopy $2400, Lithotripsy $2400. Blue Cross/Blue Shield paid $1410 of the $2400 bill and Major Medical paid $212. That leaves a pretty big chunk for me to work on.
To make matters a little more exasperating, I gave the Disability form to the doctor's office for them to fill out. A secretary (not Peggy) took it, telling me that both Dr. Grasso and Dr. Bagley were out of the country; they'd be back Tuesday. So the following week I called Peggy about the form. She looked high and low and couldn't find it. I had given it to Cass but still it was not found. I always thought Cass was a bit confused at her job. Great! Now I'll have to get a delayed payment sometime! I wasn't too happy.
As it happened, I had an appointment with another doctor in the same hospital so I went to Urology to find out about the disability form. Maybe I'd jog a couple memories if I'd show my face. As soon as I came in the door someone, without explanation, told me to go see Camille in the Billing Office just down the hall. After finding out who Camille was, I told her I gave a disability form to Cass at the front desk and no one knows hide nor hair of its whereabouts. I explained to Camille that I gave it on a Friday and both doctors were not available at the time—they'd be back on Tuesday. Her face brightened and she said, "I'll bet they put it on Dr. Bagley's desk," and she disappeared down the hall. She came back with the elusive paper in her hand. Bless her!
I found out SHE is the one who is supposed to fill them out, and she filled it out on the spot. I noticed my file was up on the computer and the two $2400 bills were on the screen. I told Camille that she already should have received $1410. She asked if Major Medical paid yet, and I said yes, about $200, and I had just sent it that day. She told me then that when they get it they'll make an adjustment on the bill.
I am convinced that doctors purposely inflate their bills to make sure they can get all that's due them from Insurance. I got that distinct impression when talking to Anesthesia Billing. Insurance told me that they pay the going price for doctors' services but they can't be paying the entire bill, no matter how good the insurance policy is. I brought up the subject with Anesthesia and they said I could write a letter and they'd send it to each doctor involved. There are four Anesthesia bills.
Now today I was told to go to Dr. Bagley's office. I had already had pre-admission testing done last Friday, so I didn't know what they were going to do now. A medical student went over my present condition rather thoroughly. He said my medical history read like a novel. Dr. Grasso had said the same thing when I first met him.
Afterwards there was a discussion with Peggy and Dr. Grasso whether I should have SMA-6 or 12 lab work done. Radiology wanted my blood but Pre-Admission already took some last week. I waited around for the medical student to finish writing the results of his examination so Peggy could give me a lab order.
When they finally finished, Peggy gave me an envelope and told me to go down to Pre-Admission Testing. I didn't know what the heck was going on but I went. I told Pre- that I had had testing done the week before. Then it was their turn to wonder what was going on. Finally, I was called to the desk and told that I could go now—everything was in order. Wait a minute, I said. I was under the impression I was supposed to have blood drawn. I called Peggy. Peggy told me to have them call 6440. Bewildered, they did. They found out Radiology wanted me to come there to the fifth floor. I then went to Radiology and they took three vials of blood. I asked if they had vampires somewhere they needed to feed.
That finished, I headed for the door. They stopped me with instructions. "You are scheduled for surgery the same day you are admitted, October 23. We want you here in Radiology at 8:00 sharp—no matter what the hospital tells you. Even if Central Scheduling doesn't call, be here. We'll have a bed available by the time you need it. If they do tell you to come in at any certain time, ignore it. Be here at 8:00." She was rather adamant about it. I believe Dr. Grasso had rolled a few heads at the mistake of the previous week and she was just repeating his demands to clarify intent.
After I left I went back to Urology. I spoke to Peggy, "Is there anything else while I'm here?" She just smiled and shook her head, "No, that's all." She seemed to be on the edge of weariness. That department is awful busy and even Dr. Grasso had been making wise-crack remarks, a sign that he was tired.
I'm sorry to hear about your sister. Achalasia is nothing to trifle with. Our former music director had it and he had to go through grueling procedures to keep his esophagus open. Apparently it wasn't at the dysphagia stage yet. He found a doctor at Zurbrugg Hospital in Burlington County (NJ) who was familiar with the disease. I read an article a few years ago which pointed out that one of the causes may be nervous tension, and he certainly was the type of person to have nervous tension.
In deference to your sister's condition, there are so many causes for diseases. However, I am convinced that many illness are induced by a person's frame of mind. The mind is a powerful and mysterious part of a person's makeup, and so may incidences can create a change in a person just by thought, attitude, or demeanor. My cousin lost her daughter in a boating accident and she got cancer from the stress. The same thing happened to another acquaintence of mine.
Do you ever wonder how faith healers can be apparently successful? Psychosomatic illnesses induced by the mind and are so common that the trust a person has in what that faith healer says can bring about a change in that person on a wide scale. A feeling of hope and trust works wonders. However, I don't take stock in everything faith healers claim. Stretching the facts is easy when you have a following that would believe in every word you say.
Jim Bakker is a case in point. His defense attorney gathered as many character witnesses as he could to ascertain the justification of Bakker's actions. According to them, he could walk on water. It was evident that these people saw nothing wrong in spite of what the media had spelled out. And Bakker did have the power to persuade. He is gifted that way. Even on the witness stand he confidently pointed out his heavenly calling to the jury. They being of the Christian faith, came to the conclusion that indeed Bakker may have been called by God to this minstry, but the ready availability of all that wealth that was accumulated clouded his direction.
In a way, there is some redeeming side to the whole affair. People felt good watching the show. They loved Jim and Tammy. No doubt about it, there was a certain aura of good feeling that gave people hope in their perhaps-dismal circumstances, and therefore they trusted them. Swaggart, Falwell, Roberts, Robertson, and a host of others have a large following because they know how to manipulate, whether for good or bad. People trust them. But some betrayed that trust: Bakker fell, Swaggart fell, Roberts became a little outlandish in his claims, Robertson made a fool of himself, and skeletons in the closet popped up all over the place. Religion is too sensitive an issue to be used as a forum for power and wealth.
Just recently [in 1989] there was an article in the Philadelphia Inquirer about a Soviet TV personality who has an apparent power to heal—Anatoly Kashpirovsky. He is idolized by millions and he performs miracles for people via television. I have a tendency to believe much of that. Like I said, the power of the mind can alter a person's outlook, and even health. It is a God-given ability of man to heal himself under countless circumstances.
However, there are also cases where people get better from illnesses that cannot be cured. FOr some reason the malady disappears. Chalk it up to prayer, faith, believing, or direct intervention from God, such happenings puzzle doctors, families and friends alike.
As a kid I had surgery several times by the time I was four years old. I developed a deadly fear of ether. In fact, one time I was put to sleep and my throat constricted that I couldn't breathe. The doctors had to give me a tracheotomy to save my life. After that, I went into sheer panic every time I smelled ether or alcohol, all the way to the age of 21. For some reason, the phobia left me and now I am not bother by it anymore. The only reason I can think of is that I finally came to a greater realization and purpose in my life and such things didn't have a hold on me anymore. Now if I can get rid of some other phobias...
I used to take pictures of fall foliage. Some pictures turn out pretty nice and one day someone asked me to come up to northern Maine and to bring my camera. He even paid the airfare from Philadelphia to Presque Isle, Maine via Boston. I then went all over Aroostook County, taking pictures of trees and potato farms. I saw only a few pictures but I don't know what he did with them. I never kept any of them.
Another year I drove 1300 miles in four day, all over New England, looking for the fall foliage. It was late in coming that year. Massachusetts was as green as summer and Connecticut was a bit disappointing, except for the pumpkin patches. I visited Mark Twain's house in Hartford, Connecticut before I went farther north. The autumn line ws around Franconia Notch, New Hampshire. I was traveling through there during the week hours of the morning before the sun came up so I just kept going—all the way into Canada. By that time I was too high in latitude for fall foliage so I went to visit a friend of mine in Lacolle, Quebec, and he wasn't even home, so I came back. I found the best foliage shots in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania, practically in my back yard!
I hope to be back to work by November [1989]. This "vacation" isn't helping me any. I should go down to the beach, to the casinos, or to Pennsylvania Dutch country, but I'm low in funds right now. I just took stock of my financial situation. If my outgo keeps exceeding my income, the upkeep could be my downfall. Fortunately, I'm living with my kid brother [David] right now. He has a better job than I do. He pitches in his share and then some at times. His computer helps marvelously in figuring out where I stand.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Hospital again
This is another letter that was written on August 18, 1989 to someone in Cottage Hills, IL.
Well, it finally happened. I landed in the hospital. I didn't feel so bad at the time but Dr. Bagley had a look of concern on his face when kidney x-rays showed one of my kidneys was blocked. I spent almost two weeks in the hospital being poked, prodded, sticked, x-rayed, ultrasounded, EKG'd, stabbed, sliced and lithotripsied. I had five or six kidney stones. I had a follow-up x-ray a week ago and the doctor was relieved to see that there was quite an improvement, but one more stone left. Then I went yesterday for another round of lithotripsy to pulverize it. I stayed there overnight. Now I'm on the mend and taking it easy like I've been doing for the past month.
Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia is said to be the largest privately-owned teaching hospital in the country. Believe me, I saw enough students making rounds with their professors. The doctors and nurses do a pretty good job with all kinds of emergencies and ailments. It was interesting enough to me to almost wish I had studied medicine. As it is, I've learned thing while there, and the medical personnel were helpful when I asked questions. The human body in an intriguing machine. I have to go back for another x-ray on September 5 to see if this round was effective.
But then, I guess you don't really care to hear all the graphic details, do you? Actually, I didn't mind the hospital so much. But it was b-o-r-i-n-g. Each bed has a small TV and I rented it for nearly $4 a day and now I almost hate television. This last time I didn't even bother renting it, I just read a book, Speaking Out, by Larry Speakes, press secretary to the Reagan Administration, a very interesting book, if you like politics. He explains the Administration's side of so many issues, incidences and crises that came up in the Reagan Administration. He even worked in the Nixon Administration and went to bat for Nixon in the Watergate scandal until he realized that Nixon was guilty but covered it up. Speakes thought it would have been better for everyone if Nixon would have owned up to it and apologized. It would have kept him in the Presidency.
Reading is certainly better for a person than watching TV. I remember when I first became aware of reading. I was about five years old when I wished with all my heart that I could read. I'd pore over Look magazine and try to decipher those letters and groups of letters. But my parents were not the type to teach a kid more than potty training and good manners. Yes, Mom would read to us kids at bedtime, but it was more the droning voice that put one to sleep than the story. I was just itching to go to school to learn.
Because I was a sickly kid I was held back a year to wait for my brother Ron to be eligible for first grade. We marched in to education together and quickly learned our ABCs, and we shortly got our first softbound reading book and learned to read our first words: "Oh look! See Sally run!"
When we finally got hardbound books we proudly marched up to the stage to read aloud in turn, for the teacher. And by the end of the school year we could look a second grader in the eye as almost equals. But like in all groups of children, there have to be some who dominate and bully themselves through school. I was picked on at times so I quickly learned whom to avoid and who was work making friends with.
But kids are survivors. I survived. I lived to read more and more. My favorite pastime over the years was to peruse the shelves at the school library and read, read, read. No, I didn't read the entire book very often, but I checked out an awful lot of books while I was in Junior High. When a book was well written, I read it through. I picked on adventure books. Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Bomba, the Jungle Boy, stories of the famous cowboys, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, the Lone Ranger. Tales of cowboys and Indians, undersea exploration, submarines, ships, airplanes—the list was endless and my imagination thrived on these tales. In the first few years of my life I never even saw a television set.
Radio did its part as an alternative to reading. It abounded in imaginative stories: Amos & Andy, The Shadow, the Lone Ranger, Gildersleeves, and a host of others. The sound effects and well spoken scripts took our imaginations into lofty heights.
Then along came television. I was enthralled. Now I could see Tarzan, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, and the Lone Ranger in action, in living black-and-white. And there were countless other stories to titillate the mind, if not the imagination: Lassie, Cochise, Broken Arrow, Tales of Wells Fargo, Gunsmoke, Zorro, Amos & Andy, Kraft Theater, Sally Starr, cartoons and movies of all kinds. We didn't have a TV so we kids would sneak over to the neighbors for a steady diet of adventure, mystery, and intrigue—after the farm chores.
Now, in listening to some of the radio classics, I am amazed how well written the scripts were, designed to capture the imagination; writing which was quite eloquent compared to today's. Now that television has dominated people's lives, it appears that situations are more captivating than verbal content. Indeed, television is replete with badly constructed language.
So I still enjoy a well-written book. I still dapple in books, not always reading one through. Larry Speakes' book is one that I'll probably read through, it is that well written, although I did catch a lot of typographical errors.
Another book I read through was the biography of Gloria Swanson, which was extremely well written. Gloria Swanson? Yes, the movie actress back in the 20s and 30s. She was the major star of that time and she was Joseph Kennedy's mistress for awhile, Ted Kennedy's father, the rum-runner of the Prohibition period. Her story takes you from the silent era of movies to the talkies. A fascinating book.
As dry a book as it may seem, I read Rachel Carson's Silent Spring through when I was about 18 years old. It was not an adventure story, but it captured my interest in the way it was written.
I haven't read many of the classics of literature. I don't seem to have the patience to read like I'd like to. You may develop an appreciation for books after watching a movie like Fahrenheit 451, a futuristic story in which books were banned.
Talking about education, here's a joke I just read: The personnel department of a large supermarket chain hired a young man to work in one of its stores. He reported to work and the manager greeted him warmly and handed him a broom.
"Your first job is to sweep out this store," he told the young man.
"But I'm a college graduate," the man replied.
"Sorry, I didn't know that," said the manager. "Here, give me that broom and I'll demonstrate."
Well, I guess I've rambled on enough for now. I hope to go back to work soon. I miss it. The doctor said to not expect to go back to work until the middle of September.
Reminder, this letter was written in 1989.
Well, it finally happened. I landed in the hospital. I didn't feel so bad at the time but Dr. Bagley had a look of concern on his face when kidney x-rays showed one of my kidneys was blocked. I spent almost two weeks in the hospital being poked, prodded, sticked, x-rayed, ultrasounded, EKG'd, stabbed, sliced and lithotripsied. I had five or six kidney stones. I had a follow-up x-ray a week ago and the doctor was relieved to see that there was quite an improvement, but one more stone left. Then I went yesterday for another round of lithotripsy to pulverize it. I stayed there overnight. Now I'm on the mend and taking it easy like I've been doing for the past month.
Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia is said to be the largest privately-owned teaching hospital in the country. Believe me, I saw enough students making rounds with their professors. The doctors and nurses do a pretty good job with all kinds of emergencies and ailments. It was interesting enough to me to almost wish I had studied medicine. As it is, I've learned thing while there, and the medical personnel were helpful when I asked questions. The human body in an intriguing machine. I have to go back for another x-ray on September 5 to see if this round was effective.
But then, I guess you don't really care to hear all the graphic details, do you? Actually, I didn't mind the hospital so much. But it was b-o-r-i-n-g. Each bed has a small TV and I rented it for nearly $4 a day and now I almost hate television. This last time I didn't even bother renting it, I just read a book, Speaking Out, by Larry Speakes, press secretary to the Reagan Administration, a very interesting book, if you like politics. He explains the Administration's side of so many issues, incidences and crises that came up in the Reagan Administration. He even worked in the Nixon Administration and went to bat for Nixon in the Watergate scandal until he realized that Nixon was guilty but covered it up. Speakes thought it would have been better for everyone if Nixon would have owned up to it and apologized. It would have kept him in the Presidency.
Reading is certainly better for a person than watching TV. I remember when I first became aware of reading. I was about five years old when I wished with all my heart that I could read. I'd pore over Look magazine and try to decipher those letters and groups of letters. But my parents were not the type to teach a kid more than potty training and good manners. Yes, Mom would read to us kids at bedtime, but it was more the droning voice that put one to sleep than the story. I was just itching to go to school to learn.
Because I was a sickly kid I was held back a year to wait for my brother Ron to be eligible for first grade. We marched in to education together and quickly learned our ABCs, and we shortly got our first softbound reading book and learned to read our first words: "Oh look! See Sally run!"
When we finally got hardbound books we proudly marched up to the stage to read aloud in turn, for the teacher. And by the end of the school year we could look a second grader in the eye as almost equals. But like in all groups of children, there have to be some who dominate and bully themselves through school. I was picked on at times so I quickly learned whom to avoid and who was work making friends with.
But kids are survivors. I survived. I lived to read more and more. My favorite pastime over the years was to peruse the shelves at the school library and read, read, read. No, I didn't read the entire book very often, but I checked out an awful lot of books while I was in Junior High. When a book was well written, I read it through. I picked on adventure books. Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Bomba, the Jungle Boy, stories of the famous cowboys, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, the Lone Ranger. Tales of cowboys and Indians, undersea exploration, submarines, ships, airplanes—the list was endless and my imagination thrived on these tales. In the first few years of my life I never even saw a television set.
Radio did its part as an alternative to reading. It abounded in imaginative stories: Amos & Andy, The Shadow, the Lone Ranger, Gildersleeves, and a host of others. The sound effects and well spoken scripts took our imaginations into lofty heights.
Then along came television. I was enthralled. Now I could see Tarzan, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, and the Lone Ranger in action, in living black-and-white. And there were countless other stories to titillate the mind, if not the imagination: Lassie, Cochise, Broken Arrow, Tales of Wells Fargo, Gunsmoke, Zorro, Amos & Andy, Kraft Theater, Sally Starr, cartoons and movies of all kinds. We didn't have a TV so we kids would sneak over to the neighbors for a steady diet of adventure, mystery, and intrigue—after the farm chores.
Now, in listening to some of the radio classics, I am amazed how well written the scripts were, designed to capture the imagination; writing which was quite eloquent compared to today's. Now that television has dominated people's lives, it appears that situations are more captivating than verbal content. Indeed, television is replete with badly constructed language.
So I still enjoy a well-written book. I still dapple in books, not always reading one through. Larry Speakes' book is one that I'll probably read through, it is that well written, although I did catch a lot of typographical errors.
Another book I read through was the biography of Gloria Swanson, which was extremely well written. Gloria Swanson? Yes, the movie actress back in the 20s and 30s. She was the major star of that time and she was Joseph Kennedy's mistress for awhile, Ted Kennedy's father, the rum-runner of the Prohibition period. Her story takes you from the silent era of movies to the talkies. A fascinating book.
As dry a book as it may seem, I read Rachel Carson's Silent Spring through when I was about 18 years old. It was not an adventure story, but it captured my interest in the way it was written.
I haven't read many of the classics of literature. I don't seem to have the patience to read like I'd like to. You may develop an appreciation for books after watching a movie like Fahrenheit 451, a futuristic story in which books were banned.
Talking about education, here's a joke I just read: The personnel department of a large supermarket chain hired a young man to work in one of its stores. He reported to work and the manager greeted him warmly and handed him a broom.
"Your first job is to sweep out this store," he told the young man.
"But I'm a college graduate," the man replied.
"Sorry, I didn't know that," said the manager. "Here, give me that broom and I'll demonstrate."
Well, I guess I've rambled on enough for now. I hope to go back to work soon. I miss it. The doctor said to not expect to go back to work until the middle of September.
Reminder, this letter was written in 1989.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Trip to England
I found a letter I wrote on April 22, 1989 which I'll share with the world, whoever reads this blog. This was written to a penfriend in Cottage Hills, Illinois. I lived in New Jersey at the time and worked at Spectracolor in Cherry Hill. (Part of this trip was described on a blog entry on October 22, 2007.)Above is Driscoll House in London where I stayed for a week.
My boss's daughter, Jo-el was to get married on April 15 and it wasn't until a week or two before that that I was invited to attend the wedding. It was to be held in Northampton, England, so some serious arrangements had to be made fast. Some of my friends were going too and travel arrangements had already been made, so it was up to me to find a ride overseas for a decent price. Priscilla, the mother of the bride, called up a couple airlines but the price was more than I could pay, almost $800 roundtrip.
Then I heard about Virgin-Atlantic. They had some pretty decent prices. In fact, they were downright inexpensive. The price was $149 one way. The only catch: I had to wait until the day before I wanted to leave to find out of there was a ride available. It's called Confirmed Standby. If a ride is available, I can pay for it by credit card over the phone. I don't have to be present to take a ride that someone had canceled at the last minute.
I was game and had nothing to lose but time if I couldn't catch a ride out on the first try. It wasn't the high season yet and the wedding was days away. I would only have to wait until the next day to try for a ride again. As good fortune would have it, I bought a one-way ticket on the first try and eagerly anticipated my first overseas trip.
Meanwhile, there had been a small matter of obtaining a passport to attend to. With some finagling and good timing, I brought my photos and application to the State Department Office in Philadelphia and, after informing the agent what day I had to leave, I obtained the passport in only two days, well in advance of the trip. After a few more days, I was all set, packed, and raring to go.
The flight was to leave on Monday, April 10, at 10:20 p.m. My brother, Dave, lives not far from the Newark Airport, so I drove up to his place the night before and spent the day there until flight time. I was getting pretty nervous. I had been on a plane before but not for such a long flight: seven hours flying time! Would I get airsick? Would the plane crash? Believe me, I had a few disturbing dreams about the whole thing, but I pushed them aside and when we were finally on the way to the airport, I relaxed.
After a wait of over three hours, I and 400 other passengers boarded the huge Boeing 747. The flight had been delayed over 45 minutes, leaving after 11 p.m., so everyone was a bit edgy to finally get started. Then we were off.
We were in a 747-200, called Scarlet Lady. It carries more than 400 passengers as fast as 600 miles an hour. It also transports cargo: vegetables, flowers, and industrial parts which need to go across the Atlantic in a hurry. Flight time is usually about 7 hours. We were given an amenity pack, which included an electromagnetic headset. We were also given a plug to plug our headset into a channel selector at each of our seats. We had a choice of listening to classical music, rock-and-roll, oldies, humor, or business related topics, or we could stay with Channel One when films were running. Seven hours is quite a long time to sit staring at the walls, especially at night when you can't see outside, and even during the day there's nothing to see but clouds below most of the time.
Flight at night is a cinch. At first you see the lights of the city as you're taking off, but they gradually fade from view. Then there is complete darkness as we climb to our assigned altitude of 33,000 feet. The pilot assured us that, in spite of the late departure, we would arrive in London pretty well on time, thanks to a strong tail wind. There was hardly a sense of motion and only once were we told to fasten our seat belts when we encountered turbulence.
I didn't know exactly what to expect on such a flight. The time was taken up by film clips, a movie, and food. In spite of a bad rap given to airline food, this stuff tasted pretty good. Maybe I was just hungry.
After a few hours, dawn broke. So soon? We were jumping five time zones and flying right into Tuesday. The pilot amended our ETA to 10:20 a.m. GMT. But the weather was bad, and there was air traffic to contend with; we might have to lose time we gained by circling over London. We gradually descended through the clouds and then, at a few hundred feet, I saw my first glimpse of England–wet and rainy.
We touched down at exactly 10 a.m., well away from the terminal at Gatwick Airport and when we disembarked, it was right into the teeth of a driving rainstorm, and only five minutes late, according to the schedule. And my umbrella was in my suitcase deep in the bowels of the baggage section of the 747. Now was the time to test the seaworthiness of my Campus Classics sports jacket I was wearing. Fortunately, shuttle buses were waiting within 50 yards and we all scrambled aboard for the ride into the terminal. I didn't know where I was going but at least I knew to follow everyone else.
Next stop, Immigration. I fingered my passport to ensure that it was safe and stood in line (oops! I mean queue, I'm in England now). The queue moved fairly rapidly. There were several agents available and there were only brief questions asked of each of us: How long are you staying in England? What are you here for? When my turn came, there was a choice of two agents. I picked the one who looked more pleasant. It was a friendly and rather eloquent introduction to my first contact in a new country. I loved his British accent.
Next, there was baggage to claim. I followed the signs and it wasn't long before I had my two pieces of luggage and I then went through customs. There was nothing to declare so I entered the designated queue and walked right through without being stopped. Others weren't so fortunate; they were arbitrarily singled out for questioning and possible search. Well, maybe not so arbitrarily–one couple had a whole load of baggage in rather small containers, which raised the suspicions of the customs officials. I didn't wait around, I just kept walking–right into the haven of safety of the crowds in the airport terminal.
Now what? I had two pieces of luggage plus a shoulder bag, passport, and money burning a hole in my pocket with nowhere to use it. That's it! Change your money! I went to the Bureau de Change kiosk and changed $300. The rate was 1.7 U.S. to pounds sterling. $300 changed into a paltry £163.
Now I had money to spend but I had not made any prior arrangements for a place to stay. All I had was a booklet with suggested places, and there were places in the terminal where I could ask about lodging. I finally found out the going rate was £20 a night. The only way to get anywhere was to go to Victoria Station in London, a half-hour train ride.
I enquired at the ticket window. Yes, there was the Gatwick Express which ran every half hour to Victoria Station. Did I want a round-trip? When I knew that the return ticket wolud be valid a week later, I paid the round-trip fare. I gave the man a £20 note. He gave me a five and four coins and I walked away. Wait a minute! The round-trip was £11. I was to get £9 in change. I went back to the ticket office and the ticketmaster gave me a crash course in change recognition. There were no £1 notes. Those small thick brass nickel-size coins were £1 coins. He showed me other nickel-size coins which were 15 pence, and the large half-dollar size coins were 10 pence. It took a while to sink in.
I entered the area where the train was waiting. A gateman checked my ticket and told me where to go. I dragged my luggage along and boarded the train. There was plenty of room for all kinds of luggage. I was beginning to get a healthy picture of British practicality. I sat down and waited. I felt rather tired but sleep was the last thing on my mind. I was in a far-off country for the first time in my life!
Exactly at the appointed time, the train departed. And soon we were breezing through the countryside. It didn't look much different than Pennsylvania where I was born and raised. Meadows with stands of trees here and there. And then we came to the outskirts of London and the row houses appeared. A half-hour ride isn't long at all when everything is new, strange and wonderful to you.
Victoria Station is a huge place. It is one of the centers of the rail, coach, and Underground systems. At any given moment there are hundreds of people filing through, whether to shop, dine, or travel. I was still traveling because uppermost in my mind was to find a place to stay. The places some of the others were at were rather expensive. Furthermore, I didn't know where most of them were in the city. Since I had opted to be on my own, I just played it by ear and kept looking. I asked quite a lot of questions. I didn't mind asking because I enjoyed hearing their answers in all kinds of British accents. And they didn't seem to mind answering, although I noticed that these hordes of people seldom spoke to each other, even in close quarters.
I had a copy of a travel booklet my boss have given me. I found a promising place to stay, complete with phone number. I called up Driscoll Hotel in Southwark and asked if there were any rooms available, and at what price. Yes, there were rooms available and the price was £100 a week. I didn't know if I'd stay a week at the same place so I told her I'd ring her back when I decide.
It didn't take long to decide. I was getting desperate for a place to dump this pesky luggage. And knowing that £20 a day was average for a room, I decided that the Driscoll Hotel wasn't a bad deal at all, even if I'd stay the whole week. The booklet said the place was a five-minute walk from the Elephant and Castle tube station, three stops from Charing Cross. That didn't mean much to me, except for the fact I could take the Underground. I followed the signs to the Underground. They led to a wide stairway which led under the street. My arthritis was beginning to bother me and I didn't know where I could pick up a ticket. A couple of policemen were walking along and I asked if I could get tickets to the Underground by going down those stairs (maybe a dumb question). Yes, the tickets could be obtained down the stairs and to the left.
There were ticket machines everywhere, and a couple of manned ticket windows open. I consulted a list of stops listed alphabetically and found that it would cost 60p (pence) to get to Elephant and Castle from there. I realized I was playing Sherlock Holmes with all the strangeness around me, and things were quite confusing, but gradually they became more straightforward. Signs pointed the way to the Victoria Line, District Line, and Circle Line. Which one to take! I spotted a huge wall map of the Underground and looked for Elephant and Castle. I spotted it, but it wasn't part of the Victoria, District or Circle Lines, but the Bakerloo Line. Someone else was perusing the same map and I asked him how I could get to Elephant and Castle from here. He obligingly pointed out the route. "You'll have to take the Circle Line to Embankment and change trains there on the Bakerloo Line." In studying the logic of the map, it all began to make sense. There are 250 miles of subway with 11 subway lines traversing the entire city. To get there from here you only have to determine which Line is at your station and which stations the Line travels through, and then find which Lines travel to where you want to go, and which stations they travel through. You change trains at the intersecting Lines. Simple enough.
I deposited 60p in one of the machines and got my ticket and headed for the District Line, through an underground hallway, down a long escalator and into another tunnel. Parts of the map were neatly drawn on boards which stood on the floor at the entranceway of a corresponding tunnel. It wasn't hard to find out where to go–north or south, east or west; directions really didn't matter–not to me anyway. All I needed to see was my destination printed on the board. My destination this time–Embankment.
The train was there in short order. Aboard the train there was the entire Circle Line imprinted along the wall. You need only consult the stretched-out chart to find out when yoru stop came along. Embankment was only a couple stops away. Then I alighted and followed the signs to the Bakerloo Line. After a few minutes wait, the train came along and I was on my way to the end of the Line.
I had to surrender my ticket at the end, either by turnstiles or give it to the attendant. Because I was carrying luggage, he opened the gate and let me pass through. Another commuter was stopped because the turnstile wouldn't accept his ticket. He hadn't paid enough for the fare. He had to pay the attendant the remainder to be allowed through. I emerged from the Underground straight into a windy rainstorm. This time I had my umbrella but I soon found out it was useless. Three pieces of luggage and trying to hold an umbrella!? And the wind was trying to shatter it!
Now I had to find New Kent Road. I stopped at a newspaper stand and asked the proprietor. He pointed out a street far across the intersection. He was friendly enough. My American accent must have appealed to his sense of sympathy for a traveler braving a rainstorm.
The booklet said it was a 5-minute walk from Elephant and Castle. It took more than 20. Twenty long, struggling, exhausting, wet, windy, and almost-god-forsaken minutes. But at last I saw my destination: Driscoll Hotel. I struggled up to the door and rang the bell. A lady let me in. I told her I had called earlier but instead of calling back I had come to obtain a room. She was stern about the fact that I didn't call back first, but pleasant enough to let me stay. I paid cash for a week's stay and she then showed me around.
The hotel had four floors and no elevator. During the past 75 years 40,000 guests had stayed there from 174 different countries. She showed me my room. Just one door among many down the hall on the second floor. The room was cozy enough and there was a bed, two desks, and a clothes closet, rather tiny, but fine for someone who had come to London to see the sights, not just to stay in one room all the time.
The main building has 212 well furnished, centrally heated single rooms each fitted with hot and cold water basins. Shower, baths and toilets at the end of all corridors. It has a shop, sitting rooms, four television rooms, table tennis room, library, laundry, and there is space to park cars within the Hotel gates, at owner's risk.
Meals were served over long hours. Breakfast served 7 till 9:30, lunch 1 to 2, dinner from 5:30 till 7. The nice part about it is that the meals came with the price of the room. I paid 25p for the key to Room 90, which would be returned at the end of my stay–the key to them and the fee back to me. I could borrow the daily newspapers from the office and I could buy tea, sodas, cookies and crackers for tea at any time day or night in the office, which was open 24 hours a day.
After I became confusingly acquainted with all the house rules, I was left to go to my room, unpack, and do whatever my little heart desired. Right now, all I wanted to do was get rid of this jet lag. I had crossed five time zones, and I had not slept since I had napped at my brother's house in New Jersey over 10 hours before. I slept for the rest of the afternoon until the evening meal and then I started to plan for the next day out on the town.
After a good night's rest I went down the several flights of stairs to the dining room. There was a good variety to the breakfast menu. The toast and marmalade appealed to my sense of appetite, with a couple pads of butter, scrambled eggs, and, to the gentleman ladling out the food, I told him I'd take some oatmeal, pointing to what looked like I should like it. "Oh yes, porridge," he replied, and dished out a glop of the stuff. As soon as he said it I suspected trouble. That is the stuff British horror novels are made of–little orphans forced to eat their ration of porridge under the stern gaze of the matron on duty. In front of me it didn't look at all like oatmeal, but a warm gray mass of whatever. I tasted it–rather bland. I walked over to the stash of marmalade and grabbed a couple packs. A little fruitiness on the porridge wouldn't hurt. It tasted better, but too much is too much and I couldn't finished the whole bowlful. I decided the taste for English cuisine had to be acquired. After eating as much as I could, I dutifully took the tray, plates, dishes and silverware to the kitchen and sorted them out to be washed by the kitchen help. The dishpan for discarded food scraps bespoke the culinary tastes of the rest of the diners. It was half full already.
New Kent Road is a heavily traveled street and there appeared to be no speed limit. I spent the day exploring the city. There was a hefty pile of information at my fingertips to find my way around the city and I resolved to just be a Londoner for awhile. Armed with a camera and shoulder bag I hit the streets almost midmorning. Those red doubledecker buses came along one right after the other but I wanted to save my money and take the subway back to Victoria Station. There was no sign of the rain of yesterday for the sun was shining on a city which stood the test of time. Even thou London is centuries old I came to realize that this city had been one of the major targets of World War II and much of what I was seeing may not be as old as many of the landmarks back in the States.
I walked back to the Elephant and Castle tube station. It would cost–what did I say?–60p, and I couldn't afford to ride the system too much unless I had a Travelpass. So I traveled to Victoria Station, took a quite unflattering picture of myself at one of the photo booths and bought a Travelpass good for a week for £17.50. That's about $30. My picture was on it and the zones I could travel in (all five of them). I didn't know how far I'd go in London but the Pass was good only in the city; the entire city. I could ride the Underground, the surface trains as far as Zone 5, and those ubiquitous red doubledecker buses. I wasn't about to rent a car. It was mentally confusing to just watch the Londoners drive–all on the left. And they don't spare the horses either. Like I said, there didn't seem to be any speed limit.
London Regional Transport (LRT) runs the Underground and bus services. The Underground has 272 stations and covers 250 miles. Nearly 5,000 buses on 360 routes carry 3.5 million passengers a day.
So, with the Travelpass in my possession, I hoofed it back to the Underground. After studying the map I went to Piccadilly Circus. Victoria Station has three Lines running through it, the District Line, the Circle Line, and the Victoria Line. The only Line I could find that traveled toward Piccadilly Circus from Victoria Station was the Victoria Line, which went to Green Park. I would then have to change trains there and take the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus.
You must understand that I was new to the city. I never traveled it before. Indeed, I never even saw the place before. How did I know that much of what I saw was only a few blocks apart. But then, several things I wanted to see were miles apart. The most organized way at the time was to stick to the Underground. It was the best thing I could have done, health wise. I lost 10 pounds (bodyweight) in the process of climbing and descending all those stairs and traipsing through the tunnels to the Underground stations.
I crept out of the Underground into the brilliant sunshine at Piccadilly Circus. A circus is an intersection of several streets, and Piccadilly is only a few blocks from Oxford Circus. Down the street was the Guinness Museum. It wasn't open yet so I made a mental note to come back to see it later. Across the street was Burger King, a block from Aberdeen Steak House. The porridge wasn't setting too well with me but I was still a bit hungry–and thirsty. I wanted to see how the British treated the American dietary staple. I ordered a cheeseburger and a Pepsi. They slathered on the ketchup and mustard and handed it to me. I took one bite and decided then and there that British culinary cuisine is still to be modified. I ended up with a nice drink of Pepsi, the same the world over, and furtively tossed the rest of the cheeseburger into the dustbin (wastebasket).
I had several days to myself. I tried to contact some of the others but, since I have learned to be independent, I didn't try too hard. I called Jo-el in Northampton to see how she was getting along. She was OK, if only a bit homesick–quite a bit, I'd say. She had been in England for only a couple weeks now and still had to get used to things.
The second evening of dinner at the Driscoll Hotel I met another traveler from Toronto, Canada. She struck up a conversation with me and we talked at length about politics, political science, politicians, political history, current events, and the future of the world. She was quite versed in it all and opinionated to boot. She had traveled extensively, lived in Indonesia for several years as a teacher, knew of some of the same people I knew of in the Toronto area, and she never once told me her name. And I didn't ask.
We discussed the Middle East, Nicaragua, the Iran-Contra affair. "I don't like how you handled the Nicaragua situation, and the Middle East...", and she'd point an accusing finger at me in her emotion of the moment. Yes, she was quite opinionated and got carried away sometimes. The way she talked, you'd think she thought I represented the U.S. government. I chuckled at her accusations, and she then noticed the humor in what she was saying so seriously, so she changed into a kinder demeanor, realizing how she was coming across. I had to agree with her on many points and I also realized I was in a country where I could say anything treasonous about the U.S. I cared to, and get away with it. Of course, in the U.S. you can get away with it too. Freedom of speech.
But there really was nothing detrimental to say about U.S. involvement. England itself had its day in the sun and was involved with much bloodshed over the centuries. Admittedly though, many of the countries they occupied during the glory days of the British Empire, fell to ruin when the British left them when they declared independence.
She subsequently invited me to her table in the other dining room where she had other acquaintances whom she befriended while staying there: one from Cornwall, another from Ireland, one from Australia, another from Portugal. Together we had some interesting conversation going, with "Toronto" presiding. It was a pleasant way to spend each evening, and even over the breakast meal.
I wandered the streets, taking in the sights. I went to Covent Garden several times a day, mostly to watch the street entertainers. Some were good, others average. One impersonated Michael Jackson, another was a mime who confronted unsuspecting passersby, to the delight of the watching audience. Toward the end of a certain entertainer's performance, the hat was passed around for donations. One couple of young men sang in the style of the Everly Brothers, and sang some of the Everly Brothers songs. There were jugglers, magicians, and belly-dancers. Covent Garden also has its share of shops and food vendors, and behind the main thoroughfare was the Transport Museum.
Early on I was finding that my American accent was not being understood by many although I'm a rather clear speaker, so I resorted to their own accent. I then found that there were fewer occasions where people asked me to repeat myself. The colorful way people expressed themselves n the various accents was not lost on me; I appreciated it immensely. It is no wonder that they are natural actors and actresses in theatre, radio and TV. It wasn’t so much the accent as the choice of words they used. Listen to the BBC and you get an idea of what you’d hear on the street in many cases. If you watch Eastenders on TV you get another accent entirely, the cockney dialect which is quite different.
The exit from the Underground to Covent Garden was about five stories below the street. There were automatic elevators which brought commuters to the surface and around the corner was another set of elevators which took commuters down to the Underground.
There seemed to be some problems with train service for a few days—maybe all the time since I was only there for a few days. The train would stop in the middle of a run and we passengers had to wait sometimes for five minutes for the train to start again. Word was that some vandals had tinkered with the electrical systems on some Lines and it was acting unreliably. On the Piccadilly Line there was a strong odor of smoke at some stations, but no one seemed to be alarmed.
One time I was heading down a long tunnel from Hyde Park Corner as a faint smell of smoke manifested itself. All at once a couple of firemen with portable tanks brushed past me and headed for the same station I was going to.
True to British aplomb, no one batted an eye, so I didn’t either. They ran to the side of a train which was stopped at the southbound station, doors open with people inside as the unperturbed commuters waited for the train to continue. It was not the train I was taking anyway, but the one on the other side of the tunnel, northbound.
England is rather cool but a couple of days were quite warm; ‘hot’ to the British. I love cool weather so I was enjoying it immensely in that regard.
Along the Thames River, the Tower of London was magnificent. What I was seeing was 900 years old. And I was walking on the same walkways and paths, and exploring the same rooms where such notables as Sir Thomas More, Sir Walter Raleigh, King Henry VI, William Penn and a host of others, were held prisoner, and some of them executed.
From the Tower of London I took a boat ride up to Westminster. Every quarter-hour Big Ben would peal forth its famous chimes. Souvenir shops across the street attracted shoppers and tourists—I being one of them. I bought a red T-shirt with the inscription blazoned on the front, “Some idiot went to London and all I got was this lousy T-shirt”—I’ll give it to my brother. A sweatshirt I bought said, “I walked all over London”—with a pair of walking shoes crunching down on the words ‘London’.
I found out that the 63 bus would take me right to my hotel from Westminster, so for several days I ended the day by going to Westminster to catch the double-decker back. I was beginning to find my way around the city pretty well.
Every day I trudged the streets of London. I even went to 221b Baker Street of Sherlock Holmes fame. There was a plaque on the building at 221 Baker Street designating it as the fictional address of the fictional Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Yes, fictional. Don’t tell me you thought he was a real person! Some people already have!
I finally got to visit the Guinness Museum at the Trocadero, and also see “The London Experience”, a 35-minute multi-screen atmospheric entertainment introducing London through its history by way of Elizabeth I, the Plague, the Great Fire, Sir Christopher Wren and the building of St. Paul’s, the Blitz and London in the 1980, complete with special effects.
Friday came, and I knew that Saturday would be the wedding day for Jo-el. I only knew that it would be held at the Town Hall in Northampton at 11:00 a.m. My job was to get there. I went to Victoria Station and asked about a ticket to Northampton for Saturday morning. Thanks to my Travelpass, I was able to get a cheaper ticket. I was told I would have to catch the train at Euston Station. That was a place I wasn’t familiar with so I knew I should get an early start in the morning in case I misjudged the time and distance.
Saturday morning came and I spiffied myself up in my Sunday go-to-meetin’ finest and went to the bus stop. The first double-decker read “Euston Station” on the front. Talk about timing!
Euston Station is a fascinating place. All trains traveling north out of London travel from Euston Station—to Scotland and to points toward Ireland. I only had to go to Northampton, about 70 miles north. It didn’t take long before I had to board at Track 10.
As I walked along the train at Track 10 I wanted to find a non-smoking car. I wasn’t sure which ones they would be so I asked a group of English commuters who were approaching, where the smoking car was. Being young, I guess they through they’d have a little fun and one of them pointed to the car I just passed.
“There it is, that’s the smoking car, the only car where smoking is allowed.”
He noticed I was not walking toward it, so he gestured more emphatically and repeated, “This is the smoking car.”
In reply I said, “Oh, I don’t want the smoking car, I want to avoid it.”
“Oh,” and he walked by rather sheepishly I thought, a little miffed at being upstaged in front of his fellows.
I went on board one of the cars. The clock was right by the door of the train, and at only about 10 seconds past the published time of departure, the doors shut and we were off. The City of London was soon left behind and I watched the bright sun-lit countryside flow past. It was going to be a fine, fine day—hardly a cloud in the sky.
There were two times I could have left the station, each about an hour apart. I’m glad I took the 9:00 instead of the 10:00. I understood that it would take about 45 minutes to get there. Instead, it took about an hour and 30 minutes.
I disembarked at the Northampton station and, after asking directions to the town hall a couple of times, I arrived there right on time, about a mile from the station, walking. But this time I was quite used to walking. I finally saw familiar faces for the first time in several days—my American friends and relatives.
The wedding ceremony was short and sweet. It was performed by a town official in elegant British English and then we were off to the celebratory feast. It was agreed by both families that a township wedding would be OK, instead of a church wedding. Doug, a pharmacist friend of mine, had rented a car and he was getting quite used to the British roadway system. Jo-el, I learned, had had an accident a couple of days before, which totaled the rented car. She wasn’t hurt, but her sister was slightly. The other two girls in the car weren’t hurt either.
It is quite confusing to drive in England. The driver sits on the right, and drives on the left, opposite most of the rest of the world. On roundabouts—and there are plenty of them—you have to remember to enter the circle from the left. Doug had it down pat after several days of driving in England and Wales. He had tried to contact me at my hotel but he didn’t leave a message because he didn’t know where he’d be if I tried to answer.
The wedding feast took place in a nice out-of-the-way country place in the finest weather England had to offer. I made fast friends with strangers I never knew before, and the food and fellowship were excellent. My second cousin, Dr. Clarence Freed, was also there with his family. He had married one of my boss’s other daughters years before and he attended the wedding with his wife and two children. Since I seldom see him, it was a surprise to meet him in England. He’s a plastic surgeon. He was so glad to be out of the range of on-call status and that beepers that he refused to talk shop, even with Doug. He was there to enjoy a nice vacation. I didn’t blame him at all.
After all was said and done, it was time to leave. I had a return ticket to London and asked if someone would take me back to Northampton. Doug said he was going back to Heathrow to return the car and stay in a hotel near London, I could travel back with him. Great! I had someone to travel with for a change, after all these days. And it was another chance to see the countryside, other than from a train window.
There was no speed limit; there were no police signals flashing like I was so used to seeing in New Jersey. It was quite pleasant to drive. We consulted a map to guide us and eventually we arrived at Heathrow. After returning the car, Doug went to the hotel to take a room, and he showed me where I could travel to the Underground station by taking a free shuttle bus from the hotel. It was dark by the time I left. Doug was just settling in as I set out for my own quarters far across the city. We settled on a time to meet the next day—the last full day in London for him; he would leave on Monday. I would leave on Tuesday and I hadn’t bought my return ticket yet. I would have to wait until Monday morning for that.
The Underground at night is what you might expect. I never traveled a subway at night, in London or in Philadelphia, but it wasn’t far from what I expected. On the way to the Underground I walked along with a man who started talking about a catastrophe at a soccer match just that day—over 90 people perished. I hadn’t heard about it. Then we parted ways and I showed my Travelpass to the gateman and he let me pass. The other man stopped to buy a ticket. I walked to the waiting train and sat down. After a few minutes we were off. At each stop people boarded and disembarked. A door would open, a small group of people would clamor on board, and the odor of beer would waft around the interior of the train car. Occasionally, the owner of a loud radio would board for awhile. I just minded my own business and read off the stops to where I would eventually get off. It was getting late; approaching 11:00 and the Underground shuts down after midnight.
I didn’t have a map, and the wall chart did not indicate a stop I was familiar with so I asked another passenger for his pocket chart I had spotted earlier. He obliged and I figured out where I had to change trains…to Westminster. I was on the Piccadilly Line which ran by Gloucester and South Kensington. I would have to disembark at South Kensington if I wanted to take the District and Circle Lines to Westminster. It was simple really…and again I stopped at Westminster to take the 63 double-decker bus to New Kent Road. I didn’t want to take the Bakerloo Line to Elephant and Castle because I would have to walk a couple of blocks through tunnels on the way to New Kent Road. As friendly and obliging as the pedestrians were during the day, it was a new breed of cat that traveled at night and I would do well not to set myself up as bait.
Fortunately, there were other pedestrians waiting for the 63 at Westminster. I didn’t feel so alone and vulnerable. The ride back over the bridge across the Thames was uneventful and I kept a weather eye peeled for my stop near Driscoll Hotel. I was quite relieved that everything came to a satisfactory conclusion. It was approaching midnight when I unlocked the front door of the hotel, climbed the 50+ steps and sank gratefully onto my bed, none the worse for the full day of adventure. Tomorrow would certainly be another eventful day, and I would now have a companion to travel with.
Sunday was a bit rainy and getting worse. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and boiled bacon, toast and jam, and a glass of grapefruit juice, I went back to my room to get dressed for the day on the town. My name came over the loudspeaker in the hall. I scurried down the 50+ steps and poked my head into the office.
“Telephone call for me?”
Mr. Driscoll peered over his newspaper and replied, “Yes, the telephone is right over there.”
It was Doug, he would be delayed a half hour. We can meet at Hyde Park. I forgot to tell him that it took me an hour and a half to get to Southwark, and Hyde Park would take longer than he thought. But he found that our later, and as I expected, he had not known the time it would take to get there. I stayed Underground next to where he would surface and waited. My arthritis was kicking me in the shins so I bought a Pepsi and took a long drink of water in the public washroom down the street to keep any ulcers at bay, and fortified it with some Kentucky Friend Chicken later.
Hyde Park is a large place. One one corner—Speakers’ Corner—is a favorite spot for political activists and religious fanatics, and decent folks with something cogent to say to anyone who would listen. It was drizzly so the crowds weren’t there, but there were people there with something to say, mostly preachers and evangelists. Doug and I found each other and we approached the Corner and had our say too, discussing politics and religion with some of the speakers. Arguing would be a more accurate term.
We both had Travelpasses and we then headed for Harrods, the famous department store for tourists. It was closed! I was hungry in spite of the boiled bacon I ingested for breakfast. I heard Harrods had splendid things to eat, they had to be closed! So we opted for Kentucky Fried Chicken just down the street. In spite of earlier habitually disappointing culinary trends in the City of London, this chicken was downright delicious. Or did I detect a change in my taste for British cooking? … Nah! (I had problems with anyone's cooking for awhile after I left home at the age of 21 in the States, away from Mom's excellent cooking.)
We explored other parts of the city and then we decided to go to Charing Cross. Pizza Hut was there. So was a theater which Doug said he attended earlier in the week where “Me and My Girl” was playing. I noted the place and endeavored to remember it for tomorrow. It was dark by this time and we were hungry again. We saw Rain Man and then we searched for a place to eat—Pizza Hut! I seldom go to Pizza Hut, although New Jersey and Pennsylvania is lousy with them, so we bought a medium pizza with all the trimmings, two Cokes, and I had an extra Coke for the grand total of £9.85—let’s see…£9.85 x 1.70 = … ouch! … $16.75!
Afterwards Doug and I parted ways. He had to leave on the morrow and I still had a full day to explore what I hadn’t seen yet . . . and again alone. I walked downhill to the train station. It was Embankment, a place I had been to before. I realized why the name . . . it was at the foot of a large embankment . . . again British logic. Embankment was only one step away from Westminster and I then took the 63 to New Kent Road.
Monday dawned a bit dreary. Something was going wrong . . . I could feel it. I wasn’t very hungry so I just had toast with butter and jam, and a glass of grapefruit juice. Today was the day I had to call the airline for a ride back to the States. The office opens at 7:30 and I had its phone number. There were only payphones available so I changed as much money into 10p coins as I could muster for what might be a long wait on the phone, what with making reservations, verifications, and credit card information. (The 10p coins were as large as American fifty cent coins, and often a payphone was too full to accept more coins, which rendered them unusable.)
I need not have bothered to go to all that trouble. On the first ring someone answered (instead of a recording) and I asked the lady if she would ring me back to the payphone I was calling from, I needed a ride to the States tomorrow and I didn’t know if I had enough change to stay online.
She apologetically informed me that she could not call out on her phone but she was equal to the task and I gave her my destination, credit card information, name and address, in return for her verification number, for only 30p, that’s about 8 minutes on the telephone. And the return trip cost only £99, about $170. That last hurdle accomplished, I then set out on the city for the last time. I took the double-decker marked “Kings Cross” to check out a section of town I hadn’t been to before. I climbed the steps to the swaying top deck and sat down. After a couple of blocks it hit me. I was getting carsick, and I never get carsick. I quickly went down to the first deck and rode out the rest of the ride to Kings Cross. I saw Fleet Street and near Kings Cross there was an outdoor flea market, and a fish stand with cockles and mussels for sale.
Not seeing much there and not feeling too chipper, I headed for Charing Cross again to check out the theatre. It was early afternoon by that time and I bought a ticket for £12.50 ($21.25) for the evening show. I would surely feel better by then. But as the afternoon worse on, I felt worse and I headed back to the hotel. On the way I stopped at a payphone and called my brother by prearrangement, his answering machine answered. I spoke as clearly as I could into the mouthpiece: “This is London calling . . . Dave, meet me at the airport at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday. Arrival time is 6:45 but by the time baggage is collected and I go through Customs it about 7:30.” I went back to the hotel to sleep off my discomfort.
The ticket in my pocket was bringing me fresh memories of just two months before when I had taken ill in the Forrest Theater in Philadelphia during Les Miserables, passed out at Intermission, and was sent by ambulance to the hospital. I was beginning to regret having bought this ticket. I wasn’t feeling any better. In fact, I felt sure I had a fever.
I forgot that I had packed some acetaminophen in my suitcase so I went down to the office to ask for aspirin. The lady in charge asked what was wrong. I told her I had a stomach ache.
“An aspirin will not help a stomach ache,” she said.
Along came Mr. Driscoll. She asked, “Do we have any medicine for a stomach ache here?”
Mr. Driscoll replied, “Nothing that is reliable, but we do have aspirin.”
“Aspirin?!”
“Oh yes, but you must drink it down with plenty of water.”
So she gave me a couple of aspirin and I went off to search for plenty of water. Then I went back to bed and slept some more.
Showtime was at 7:30. I woke up about 7:15, checked my watch, turned over, and went back to sleep. Memories of Les Miserables loomed like a spectre. I wasn’t going to risk another go at being trundled off in an ambulance to some strange London hospital if the worst-case scenario would present itself, $21.25 notwithstanding. I slept fitfully for half the night and then I started to feel better and slept rather well for the rest of the night. I was ready to make the trip home. Departure time was not until about 4:30 p.m. London time. I had plenty to do to pack everything away again for the trip back. I had had a rather pleasant time in the city, and in the country. I had met some interesting people in the hotel where I stayed. Some of the food was quite good but my tastes for English cuisine have yet to be acquired. I had passing conversations with all sorts of people on the street and my horizons were broadened considerably.
It would take at least six hours to fly back, so I napped until noon and then packed up all my belongings, souvenirs, and tallied the cost of what I had purchased in England to bring to the States. Customs just might be interested.
I carried my suitcase, garment bag and shoulder bag down the 50+ steps, stopped in at the office to return the towel and keys, and strode out into the bright sunshine. This time I would take a taxi. I hailed a cab and he took me straight to Victoria Station for £8.50—that’s $14.45, and a tip on top of that. No, it isn’t a cheap place to stay—London. I still had the ticket for the Gatwick Express I had purchased a week earlier. At last I took the train to the Gatwick Airport to await the departure of Flight 002.
I really didn’t know how to go about doing all I had to do to get to there I had to go, so I let instinct guide me. I spotted some carts and placed my luggage on it. I saw the Virgin Airlines kiosk and approached the attendant. “I phoned in my reservation yesterday.” After asking my name, he leafed through a sheaf of envelopes and gave one to me. It was my ticket to home.
It was three hours until flight time so I had to wait another hour for my boarding pass. A loudspeaker boomed out in English, German, French and Spanish to all those with suitcases to not let them out of your sight. Do not leave them unattended. About every 15 or 20 minutes the same announcement would blare forth.
The Gatwick Airport is a major air terminal to all foreign points, Europe, Asia, Africa, and the U.S. There are no boarding announcements. There are TV monitors throughout the complex to visually announce arrivals and departures. Two hours before a departure, the name of the airline would be posted on the screen, along with gate number and departure time. One need only watch the screens.
Eventually we queued up to obtain our boarding passes. It was still over two hours until boarding time but we could browse through shops and buy food at food stands to bide our time. When my turn came, my luggage was weighed and ticketed. I was asked some security questions: “Did you leave your luggage unattended at any time while in the terminal?”, “Did you pack you suitcases yourself or did someone pack them for you?”. If any questions would be answered unsatisfactorily, or if a person did not show up at flight time, and his luggage did, the luggage would be taken off the plane.
After I obtained my boarding pass, I sat in the lounge to wait, watching the monitors. Occasionally I walked around to browse at the shop, buying several newspapers about the soccer tragedy.
When the monitor registered “Now Boarding”, I headed for the gate number indicated and took the long walk to the plane. It really wasn’t as long a walking distance as it looked because the walkway was a large conveyer belt moving you right along as you stood there. When I arrived at the correct gate I showed my boarding pass to the attendant, and she took it—took the stub on which my baggage numbers were located—and left me with the pass itself. But I didn’t find that out until later.
Finally I got on the plane, 42C was my seat—an end seat. I sat down and waited. 42A was already occupied by a young man from Ireland. Then along came a man of color who would sit in the same row—42B. I got up to let him pass. Looking a little upset, he explained to the stewardess that he couldn’t sit in the middle seat, he always takes an end seat. She instantly had that harried look on her face and started looking around for an empty seat. I told her it didn’t matter to me, I could take 42B. She was quite relieved and the man had his end seat, I had a seat, and the stewardess was free to be put upon by some other passenger.
I told you that I just loved the airline food on the way over, if you remember. Well, this time it was different. I still had a hangover from the day before and my otherwise healthy appetite just up and kicked the bucket. I tried to eat but was less than joyful about it. Drink, yes—Pepsi. The Irish fellow beside me ordered a beer. He slept practically all the way over. How can he do that? I didn’t sleep a wink! I even tried. Maybe I should have had a glass of beer too. Maybe two or three.
The flight was uneventful. The movie was rather nice: Working Girl. I was glad to see New York state again, and finally Newark, New Jersey. We landed right on schedule and disembarked into a hot evening climate—74 degrees . . . at least hot by English standards. I was just getting used to British weather and now I had to succumb to London broil in the States.
This time I lined up at Immigration. We were asked a couple of questions and then we went off for our luggage. It was then I realized my baggage numbers had been retained back in England, so I kept my eye peeled for instant recognition of my own suitcase and garment bag. Then I carted everything along to stand in line at Customs. I was, but this time, feeling fidgety and a bit out of sorts. My fever was kicking up again and I watched the couple several points down the line being interrogated at length by a customs official. I noticed that some officials came to people in line and asked them a couple of questions and let them go through. When an official came nearby I called him over and told him I had nothing to declare, unless a couple boxes of soap were to be declared. I told him I didn’t feel too good standing there. “No, soap is OK,” then he walked away. Rats! But then he soon came back, escorted me up to the empty counter, checked my customs slip and told me I was free to go. I didn’t need a second reminder. I lit out through the door and out to the International Arrivals point. I looked at my watch, 7:30. David was nowhere in sight.
But after about 15 minutes I spotted him driving by. “HEY!” I shouted, suddenly realizing it was almost in the ear of a passenger waiting for her ride. I apologized for the shout and watched as he came by again. He had heard me. I was soon on my way to his house, and then I’d go home.
Dave's home is 70 miles from my home. It’s fortunate I like to drive because 6 or 7 hours in the air, plus another couple of hours on the road is a bit much. But I made it. I drove into my driveway, parked the car, dragged the luggage into the house and collapsed on the sofa in relief.
PS: The fever I had in London didn’t go away for two weeks. I called my doctor about the problem and he ordered a blood chemistry taken. It registered a higher white cell count—but not enough to worry about, but a sign that I had an internal infection. I’m glad I heeded my own warning and didn’t push my luck by going to that theatre play in London. However, later an xray was taken and I was found to have a staghorn calculus (kidney stone) which was partially blocking one of my kidneys. But that's another story.
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