Adventures beyond . . .

As you get older . . .

2011-10-22T10:32:00.005-04:00

What’s a good remedy for mental confusion, or whatever you call it when you lose track of what you’re doing? It happens too often to suit me.

I went to a seminar last week and took my digital recorder along; a nifty little gadget that can record hundreds of hours of music and speeches in reasonable quality. I recorded the meeting. I always put it into my shirt pocket, along with my small cell phone.

This week I wanted to do the same thing but I couldn’t find the recorder. It’s a tiny thing, about 4 inches high and an inch wide. The last time I remember seeing it was on the stand beside my bed.

It was Trash Day at our place and I dragged the kitchen trash bag around to the various waste baskets and dumped trash into it, including some from the waste basket right by the bed stand. I tightly knotted the trash bag closed and carried it outside by the lane—in the wind and rain. Then I checked all over for the recorder.

My wife Lucy helpfully suggested that it could have fallen into the waste basket. It gave me pause. The trash bag was already outside, ready to be picked up but I went out into the wind and rain again and retrieved it, brought it back to the kitchen and systematically emptied the contents of the trash bag into another, checking thoroughly through all the dust, hair, cardboard, papers, wires, a broken flower pot, wrappings, egg shells, plastic, and other nondescript flotsam, ad nauseam. It took some time. There was no sign of what I was looking for.

I went back down to the basement to look around my computer to see if I missed any spot it could be. As I thoughtfully went back upstairs, I reached into my trouser pocket . . .

The meeting went well. I recorded the whole thing in an effort to refresh my ailing memory ... if I don't lose it again—my mind or the machine.

Don't believe anything they say!

2011-09-05T12:20:00.005-04:00

The caller, "Dave Foster" stated that I won $1,500,000 and a 2011 Mercedes. He asked if I was an American citizen and he noted that I had no criminal record. Married or widowed? I told him married. (He didn't ask if I was single.) I stayed with him and he helpfully described that I go to a Western Union payment center, like at Walmart, and send $1,850.00 to Rosalind Hawthorne at Carencro, LA 70520. I checked on the internet while he was talking. Then I hung up. I would have liked to follow through with getting as much information as I could but I guess I should let well enough alone. He tried to call back twice and I didn't answer. He may try to call again. He spoke careful English but sometimes his accent momentarily indicated possibly Chinese or Japanese.

This is about the fifth or sixth call from supposed sweepstakes companies in two weeks. I believe the total winnings was up to $15,000,000 and three Mercedes Benz.--and all the signs pointed to Scam Central Unlimited!

I followed up on one call, however. It was from a John Anderson who said that I won $2,000,000 and it was a legitimate win. I definitely would receive the money. I listened to what he had to say, and then he said that all I had to do was send them $385 to defray the cost of sending it through customs, etc. I played along just to see how much information I could get from them without me supplying any personal information.

He asked me if I had any credit cards. Yes, Mastercard and Visa. When I told him I didn't have any money he asked what my credit limit was on the cards. I knew one was $12,000 so I told him. He said he would send me a check for $12,000 and I could pay the money out of that and keep the rest, "just spend the money wisely," he said.

The next day a man with an accent called and asked if I received the check yet. I told him it was only a day later, the mail doesn't normally travel that fast. He called again a couple days later and when I told him I hadn't received the check yet he suggested I could use my credit card, or take a loan out with my car as collateral. I told him I don't work that way.

A day or so later he called again and, again, I had not received the check. He then said he would send it to me himself. What is my address? Well, parting from the caution to not give out information I gave him my home address anyway. That would be the only way I could get solid evidence. At one point he had asked where I banked and I gave him a fictitious name.

It was at that point that I called the local police and got more information about how scam artists operate. The detective told me if I received a check it may be legitimate but somewhere along the line the money would disappear to some secret account somewhere and the bank would not get the money and would hold me liable for the loss.

Finally a check came. It was in a small handwritten envelope, and the check was filled out with my name and signed by one of the parties listed on the check, but there was no amount. When the caller called again and asked, I told him I got the check but there is no dollar amount on it! He informed me that they did not know how much the government would charge for the distribution of funds and he would check now. In a few seconds he told me to make the check out for $9,500.00 and then I can put the money in the bank. He didn't say anything about paying the $385 that was mentioned earlier but he asked me if I was going to go to the bank NOW. I told him I'm working on it. I then gave the check with the envelope to the detective after making a copy of it in case the caller would call again.

The detective meanwhile checked it out. The check was drawn from a bank in Louisiana. The names printed on the check were legitimate, but the man had died, and his wife was now in a nursing home. The bank stated that there was trouble with that account and they closed it.

It was about this time that I was determined to have no more involvement with any more questionable phone calls. It was hassle enough to deal with this one in the attempt to garner evidence for the sake of diminishing the gene pool of telephone scammers. It was giving me a headache. The names of the persons involved were most likely to be fake too. And all this throughout the fact that we're on the DO NOT CALL LIST.

Sometime later I got a call which was evident to be a plea for a donation. I told him I was not interested, but he continued to ask so I asked where he was calling from. He told me an area which was over 50 miles away although the donation for within the county I live in. I then told him that I'm actually on the DO NOT CALL LIST. He replied that it did not apply to charities. I told him it did not seem to apply to anyone because I keep getting phone calls from everybody, foreign and domestic, and I then hung up.

With all the technology around, scamming is definitely out of control, and the ones most affected are the elderly who do not have the capacity to say NO, or just hang up.

Christmas 1996 ancient history

2011-04-06T14:56:00.003-04:00

This is an article I wrote years ago, and I realize it has been a long time since I contributed to this blog so I'll continue with this past history. Much of what I wrote has changed, my parents are deceased, the pastor of the church we joined has continued on to another pastorate, we no longer travel like we used to. Other than that, this is a piece of history in our life that bears remembering.

CHRISTMAS 1996

This year has been an interesting one. We started out with a cold, wet spring, and summer was relatively cool. Fall turned to winter weather pretty fast though but the cold snaps are interspersed with warm sunny weather, which is a little unusual for this time of year. Ohio usually starts seriously bedding down for the winter in November already. Personally, Lucy and I would like to fly south for the winter, or go into hibernation.

Early in the spring I had the idea to plant morning glories. Someone from work gave me a whole handful of morning glory seeds and we sprouted them and then planted them at every fence post along the driveway, and in back of the grape arbor, and by the telephone pole, and at the south end of the porch. Because we started late, they didn't take off right away but by July and August they were all blooming all over the place ... the ones our resident wild rabbit left alone.

We had a strawberry bed that was too old to bear much fruit so the plants were pulled and I started digging up the garden. The part I dug up was planted in tomatoes. We settled for pick-your-own strawberries at some nearby berry patches in the neighborhood.

This is corn and soybean country but they got a late start due to wet fields. In the spring you see a lot of plowing done with horses since there are quite a few Amish in the area. Plows pulled by five or six horses. The horse-and-buggy Mennonites just down the road use their steel-wheel tractors for plowing and planting.

In April, our Sunday School class gave a surprise 50th birthday party for Lucy. I kept the secret for two weeks or so and she was quite surprised because it was held at the church a week after her birthday. My 50th had gone by without fanfare a couple years before, but I do remember one thing--that was the day (in February) that I proposed to Lucy!

In June, Lucy and I became members of the Mennonite Christian Assembly congregation in Fredericksburg, Ohio. Scott Hochstetler is pastor there. The Hochstetler family got a newborn recently so Lucy and I catered a Fellowship Lunch to them on Nov. 24th. She spent all day in the kitchen on Saturday of that week baking bread, pecan pies, making candy, and preparing the main dish, Shepherd's Pie, letting me in the kitchen only to make the cranberry relish. On Sunday morning we transported it all to Fredericksburg and someone fired up the oven in the kitchen to warm up the food in time for lunch after church. We also invited a couple of widows and other friends to the lunch--15 in all.

Around August we attended the Jerry Yoder (Lucy's great-grandfather) reunion near Berne, Indiana on the Roman Schwartz farm. Lucy was the only one to represent Michael Yoder (her grandfather) at the reunion. Everyone brought a covered dish, and for the whole afternoon we feasted on casseroles and desserts of all kinds. It was a hot day but there was a nice breeze. I wore myself out pitching horseshoes for a couple hours. I didn't feel it until the next day; by then I could hardly walk. On the way home we visited with Lucy's cousin Eli Troyer's in Hicksville, Ohio.

Lucy and I took two week-long trips this year. In June we stayed in Medford Lakes, New Jersey at sister Jane's house while they were on vacation. My parents also live there. We took them for an overnight trip to the Souderton Retirement Community in Pennsylvania to visit with Mom's,sister Tilly Freed and dad's sister, Lydia Landis; and other friends and acquaintenances of years gone by. Dad is 86 this year and Mom is 75. They celebrate their 54th wedding anniversary on December 24. After we spent a few days with my parents we traveled to Myerstown, Pa. at the invitation of cousin Warren Hackman, Jr., who treated his employees to a chicken dinner at Kauffman's. We then stayed at his place and took him along to Wellsboro, Pa. where we attended his niece's wedding, Willard Hackman's daughter, Lorraine. On the way back to Ohio we traveled through the beautiful mountains of Pennsylvania, stopping in Belleville, Saturday evening, to visit the John L. Zook family. Ten o'clock p.m. is almost too late for a surprise visit so we stayed at a nearby motel for the night. The next morning I called them and they were delighted to hear from us and invited us to church. It's the first time we ever attended a Beachy Amish church. We then stayed for the noon meal, and then left around 3 p.m. for Ohio.

The second big trip we took was in September, going to Canada by way of Kentucky. We took a 6-hour drive south and stayed a couple nights at the Galilean Children's Home near Liberty, Kentucky. On Saturday afternoon we went with a group of the children and Jerry and Sandy Tucker on their bus where they put on a program near Guthrie, Kentucky, not far from the Tennessee border. Then we traveled toward Watertown, New York where we would attend the wedding of Maryann and Lloyd Martin's Loyal's wedding. We had a few days to travel and we stopped in Berea, Kentucky and had a pleasant visit with Levi and Miriam Yoder.

We stopped in Winchester, KY for the night and it was during that time that the tone of the trip changed drastically. I was saddled with a bad case of indigestion for a couple days. I drove 310 miles on an upset stomach all the way to Morgantown, WV where we stayed the night (Thursday night). If I didn't get better by morning, we'd execute Plan A, travel west to Ohio and home. Plan B, we'd continue on, taking I-68 east through Maryland to I-81 north through Pennsylvania to Watertown, New York. As it turned out, I nursed myself carefully sipping ice water every hour or so to alleviate nausea. At 4 a.m. I finally slept solid until 7:30, waking up hungry and in no pain whatsoever. We happily went with Plan B, arriving in Watertown in the evening. The next day was the wedding. We stayed overnight at Lloyd and Maryann's and then headed into Canada in heavy rainfall. We spent the next night at Niagara Falls and after some sightseeing the next day we headed for Ohio and home.

On a sad note, maybe most of you know, my dear sister Sally (Hackman) Lee passed away suddenly on November 23. leaving behind her husband, John, and her two daughters, Samra and Sharon.

We wish everyone a nice holiday season and a blessed New Year.

Wes and Lucy Hackman

The long arm of the law

2010-07-30T10:16:00.010-04:00

On the 10th of May, 2010 I made a deal with “Jeff Heinz” who wanted to buy my red 2000 Ford Focus. He agreed to $2000 for the car, and gave me $200 down, saying that he will give $500 in two weeks, and another $500 two weeks later, etc. Because I was so anxious to sell the car I didn't see any signs, or didn't care to see, larceny in the deal. Like a dummy I signed over the title (without it being notarized, and without full payment) and they took off. There were three people involved. Two weeks later I tried to call and found out all the information he gave was false.

I went to the police, taking along as much info as I could find; pictures of the car, the VIN number and the note that Jeff wrote. Detective Metcalf checked it out and found that, now two weeks later, the car was still in my name, but it was sold to someone named Steve. Shawn was also mentioned. He was one I had talked to but he never got out of his car during the incident. The whole deal was done by Jeff, not the Jeff Heinz that he indicated on the slip of paper with his information. I should have asked for his driver’s license.

After getting no follow-up after the initial interview, I tried to call Detective Metcalf and even left a message but I didn’t get an answer either way. I finally called the sheriff’s department and told the person there about it and she looked it up, but also said that Metcalf just retired. They assigned the case to Detective Mack who, after I left a phone message, called me back the next day and clarified some details about what was recorded.

He called me Thursday morning and indicated he found the car but it will have to be towed. I told him I have a spare key, could I go with him? He called back later and agreed for me to go with him to Perrysville to hopefully retrieve the car. He would pick me up. On the way he asked a unit from the Ashland Police Department for assistance. He came at a designated spot until the police unit arrived and we drove to each place where the perpetrators lived. At that hour of the day none of them were home but there was enough information gathered to ascertain where the car actually was. It was now owned by Steve who worked in Mansfield. Det. Mack took me home and asked me to go with him the next day to the work place in Mansfield, “and bring your key along”.

But a half hour later I got a phone call from him. Steve himself will be coming to the police station in 20 minutes, could I catch a ride to the police station, second floor? Someone took me to the police station just 3 miles down the road and I waited in Det. Mack’s office and when my car came in it did not have the original license plates, but I was told it was still officially in my name.

Steve was escorted into the office and Det. Mack asked for details about how he got the car, and introduced me as the rightful owner of the vehicle. He had a legitimate reason to not suspect any illegality in the deal and Det. Mack took a statement from him while I was there.

Then word came that Shawn was also arriving. Det. Mack told me to go into the room across the hall and then Shawn came in. He’s a young man around 20 years old, tall, blond hair. Det. Mack had a preliminary interview with him and then had me come into the office. Since he had a lengthy discussion with the detective, Shawn profusely apologized to me for his part in the whole deal, of which he really did not have active part. He was not aware that Jeff, whom I dealt with, did not pay the rest of the money. Then Det. Mack had me go back across the hall again while he took a statement from Shawn. Steve and I waited in the other room.

Det. Mack told Steve that the car would have to be confiscated. He was willing to comply. Shawn, whom he knew for years, would take him home. (It was found that Jeff bought the car, had the title put in Shawn’s name, and then Shawn sold the car to Steve to relieve some debt Shawn owed Steve—so apparently Shawn was victim to Jeff’s scheme too. There was no profit made because they paid me $200 and Steve paid Shawn $200. So there is still a puzzlement in the whole transaction. Maybe a deal that Jeff made with someone else fell through, I don’t know.) Det. Mack said he would find Jeff and charge him for several counts. One of which was taking advantage of the elderly (me) since I’m over 65. (whimper)

We finished in the office and we all went to the parking lot. Det. Mack gave Steve a box and he retrieved all his belongings in the car and I now have my car back. Steve said that the car had a tune-up just a couple weeks ago. When it disappeared it had a little over 100,000 miles on it. It now has 107,000 miles. Det. Mack told me how to handle getting a duplicate title and he would look for the license plates which I originally had. Meanwhile, I am to take off the existing plates and they will be given back to Steve.

When I got home Lucy told me that Shawn had come to the house to ask where the police station was, and he had apologized to her for what happened, which was apparently out of his control.

There were a few God moments in the whole thing and it was marvelous seeing it all come together like it did.

Now, the job is to find the real culprit--Jeff. It may take some doing but Jeff had bragged to others about how he fleeced the owner of the vehicle. Loose lips will eventually sink a ship.

Another problem presented itself. I took the report of theft to Auto Title and it wasn't good enough. I would have to obtain the title of the car from the last owner, Steve. Since I was not really on close terms with him I would have to have Det. Mack work it out.

He had the title which Steve gave him and then he called Steve to come to police headquarters to sign the title over to me. I had an appointment for Tuesday and I called him up to alert him that I would not be available at the transfer. He thought it was OK, all he needed was the mileage on the car. It turned out to be 107,118 miles. As it turned out, I should have gone to the transfer meeting.

The next day I went to the police station to retrieve the title which was notarized but without my signature. Det. Mack witnessed my signature and then I was free to go to Auto Title to get a new title.

At Auto Title in downtown Mansfield, the agent noticed that the seller had put his name and address where the buyer's should be. Another bureaucratic fumble. She gave me a sheet of paper indicating that an error was made on the title and that the owner would have to have a notarized signature to indicate it. I was not a happy camper. I called the Records Department at the police station and complained about it. Bonnie suggested I call Det. Mack but I said he was probably not in his office. I called his number anyway. He was not in his office but he said I should take the title back and he would take care of it. I went to the police station again and gave the papers to Bonnie, and left. I was rather bewildered by the complications of it. I should have mentioned, why don't they just white out the address and put my address in its place.

Anyway, a few days later I called up Mack and he had it ready for me. I took the papers to Auto Title again and the agent made up another title. But she gave me two receipts. She had to do it over because of a mistake she made on the title. As I went out the door I looked it over and found F. as the middle initial. I don't use a middle initial in my name. I went back and showed it to her and she to out the offending letter and everything was back to normal. She charged me $16.00 for the title.

The car sat in the lawn for awhile again. Finally someone came along and offered to buy the car. I asked $1500 for it. Maybe it was too low, but I have a karmic conscience about selling cars with high mileage so I ended up selling it for $1200. With the $200 the first "buyer" gave me, plus the $1200, I received $1400 for it and felt happy that it was finally gone. Now, when my ship comes in I'll be sure to get a brand new vehicle. Meanwhile, I have a 2004 Dodge Grand Caravan which suits our traveling purposes. It is a RampVan. Lucy needs a wheelchair accessible vehicle and that's what we have.

I must admit, I learned my lesson in leaving the car go. I went to the bank to get the title notarized, filling out my part, and when the buyer came for the car, we sat down at my kitchen table and she started to fill out the title. I quickly said, "Would you first write out the check please." She obliged and I felt better that I didn't have to say to anyone that the car was hers before she paid for it.

Second Kidney Transplant 2010

2010-05-27T20:49:00.002-04:00

At the end of March 2010 I took a trip East to Pennsylvania and New Jersey to visit with my brothers and sisters for a week. Lucy didn’t want to go on the 500-mile trip so I went by myself. It was a trip that had many God moments, as I call it. Visiting people and even having my dialysis time changed to make things easier for the rest of the trip.

My dialysis times were Saturday and Tuesday but on Monday I called early in the morning and they had a vacancy so I had dialysis that day which let me freely visit for the rest of the day and then go home on Wednesday. It was a worthwhile trip and I felt that God was with me many times throughout.

The trip home was at night so there was not much traffic. I got home around 8 o’clock Wednesday morning.

A week later, on Saturday, April 10, I got a phone call at 7:30 a.m. from Diane, a nurse at OSU Medical Center in Columbus. There was a kidney available and Dr. Rajab says it’s a perfect match, would I be interested?

I hesitated, and Diane noticed it. I told her I was still stinging from last year’s experience when I had a transplant which failed due to complications. I was in the hospital for four months. I don’t know if I’m ready for another go.

But by the end of the conversation I agreed to have them go through with it. She didn’t know all the particulars about it but would let us know when she got more information. She called later and gave us more info and then I gave her my cell phone number.

Later that evening, around 6:30, she called again and said that the surgery would be at 8:00 a.m. Sunday, and I was to come to OSU tonight. It just so happened that Minerva, Lucy’s niece, had some business in Columbus and she took me down to the hospital, a 75 mile trip.

I checked in and soon got a room. Doctors, nurses, technicians, and aides came to get my medical history, which is extensive, and get vials of blood.

I had a Permcath placed a couple months ago which was used for dialysis and they used it to take blood from my system. I did not have a needle stick throughout my stay at the hospital.

Lucy wanted to be with me before surgery but didn’t know if she would be able to be there before 8:00 a.m. but then I got word that there was a delay until 10:30 and I relayed the news to her. She was on her way and relieved that she could be here to be with me, and then there was another delay, until noon. We just waited.
Dr. Rajab’s assistant came to tell me about the latest delay and I asked him about the kidney. He said he wasn’t at liberty to talk about it but he did say that it was from a young man about a third my age, and it was a perfect match. The kidney was coming from Florida and would be at the airport at 11:30 and a helicopter would bring it to the hospital.

Finally, I was taken down to the OR. Dr. Rajab was asked what the delay was and he commented about red tape. Where did that kidney come from? I never found out but later he did tell me it was imported. From where, he wouldn’t or couldn’t say.
I was wheeled into the OR and I don’t remember falling asleep but I woke up over three hours later and then was taken to the “Presidential Suite”, actually two rooms where one had the bed and the other had a cabinet with a large TV, a sofa and side table with a telephone. I was taken into the second room to the hospital bed. I don’t know if there are any other suites like that in the hospital.

The next step was administering the immuno suppressant medicine—intravenously. During the process my whole body contracted and I had almost excruciating pain, which they said is common during the first dose. There were three doses over the day and by that time there was no pain during the process. The next step would be to take pills for the rest of my life in order to keep the kidney from being rejected.
A nurse coordinator told me that, since the kidney is a perfect match, in a year I should be able to have the immuno suppressant medicine reduced quite a bit.

I met a number of nurses that I had seen the year before and they were glad to see me. To them, I am a model patient, their favorite, some said. They were quite pleased with the progress I was making and by Friday I was ready to go home. They took the Permcath out of my left shoulder, and then holding the site for a half hour to prevent bleeding, placed a bandage over where it had been.

On Friday they got a wheelchair to take me down to the lobby to go home and as I passed by the nurses’ station, they all—all 10 of them—stood up and wished me well. I almost cried.

Lucy was waiting with Minerva, her niece, who was driving, and I finally was home and starting a new life, as it were. Retired, no dialysis, and trying to find how to handle it all.

Trip East

2010-04-24T14:01:00.010-04:00

I had a hankering to visit family sometime in March or April. My brothers and sisters are in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Georgia. Traveling east I could at least accomplish two out of three. Since I was on dialysis it meant I had to have arrangements for dialysis in New Jersey. I could have opted for Pennsylvania at Grandview Hospital in Sellersville, PA, where I was born, but I settled for two treatments in New Jersey. My usual treatments are on Monday, Wednesday, Friday but the Social Worker told me that there was only room on Saturday and Tuesday. It was OK with me. I had initially asked for a Friday morning treatment because I wanted to attend a Passover commemoration at the church I used to belong to before I came to Ohio.

On March 31 I took off. Since Lucy didn't really want to go that far I rented a car, a 2009 Mazda, and took off around noon Wednesday. I had had dialysis in the morning that day so I was ready to travel. The next treatment would be Saturday, rather far away from Wednesday for a dialysis patient but I did it before. I just have to watch my fluid intake.

My wife Lucy had given me a GPS unit for Christmas and I took it along. It was great to just put in the address to which I wanted to go and it would take me right there. I traveled east from my place on Park Avenue East and took Koogle Road toward I-71 and it took me all the way to I-76 to the Pennsylvania border. I wanted to take Route 80 so I wondered what the GPS would say. When I arrived at the junction of 80 and 76 it told me to continue I-76. I ignored it and took Route 80. Route 80 has no tolls, I-76 had loads of tolls.

But at the next exit it told me to take it. Curious, I took the exit and then realized it wanted me to turn around. I got back onto 80 and ignored its pleas to turn off at several exits I passed. I then called my cousin Warren and asked what exit I should take off of 80. It was a couple hundred miles away. I told him I should be there by 8 p.m.

It was a long drive and I came to the exit indicated and traveled another 100 miles through towns and over hill and dale. It was quite scenic but I grew a little tired of driving but I kept going. I stopped for a bite to eat at a drive-through.

At long last, as it was almost dark, I arrived at my destination, Hackman Paving, and looked at the clock. It was 8:00 o'clock. Warren told me he was going to be in church so I made myself comfortable in his house and waited for him to arrive, and fell asleep. It had been a long day.

He finally showed up around 10 p.m. and we sat and talked until midnight. I then slept in the guest room and had a good night's sleep. My itinerary was to visit a couple places while in Lancaster County, but first Warren got his crews off to their asphalt paving jobs and then we went out for a leisurely breakfast.

The Martin's Pretzel Bakery in Akron is owned by Warren's brother-in-law and sister and I went there to visit with cousin Kathryn. We had a nice conversation and then I took off to visit with another family before heading for New Jersey by way of I-76 which is the toll road.

I don't know what time of day would have been best but when I got off the Turnpike I had bumper-to-bumper traffic for miles to the Ben Franklin Bridge to New Jersey. My brother-in-law told me later that the Schuylkill Expressway is always crowded. I don't wonder, there are more cars on the road than ever before and the existing roadways just can't take the volume.

I finally arrived at my sister Jane's house and settled in. My parents had lived there before they passed on and the rooms were about the same as what I remembered when I had visited with them.

This was Thursday and one thing I wanted to do was to have a haircut. Years ago I got the best haircut in Maple Shade and I looked in the phone book for barbers and hair dressers and found one that had been near the place where I had the haircut before.

I was not disappointed. I finally looked decent, with the hair dresser trimming my hair not too short. I would look better for the get-together Friday evening. I spent the rest of the day visiting with friends. One was in a retirement home and she was so glad to see me. I believe it was about 25 years since I saw her last and I didn't recognize her anymore, but she said I looked familiar and when I said my name she gave me a hug, glad to see me. My sister Jane had visited with her a few times.

The next evening we attended the Passover commemoration at a resort and I met more friends I hadn't seen for years. I was rather popular with them when I had the kidney transplant last year and they were quite supportive with their prayers and best wishes in spite of the outcome, which was kidney failure due to a huge blood clot that could have done me in.

The dialysis was scheduled for 11 a.m. I woke up at around 6:30 and thought about the plans for the day. Then I noticed the cell phone blinking. It was a voicemail wondering where I was. I had an appointment at 6:00 a.m. and I was nowhere to be seen, he said.

Six a.m.?! I quickly got everything together and, thanks to my GPS found the place pretty quickly. I stopped at a 7/11 for a sandwich and figured to have breakfast during the treatment. I sat in the waiting room and took a couple bites of my sandwich; and that's all I was able to have until after the treatment.

I was escorted to my place in a large room where there were dozens of chairs and dialysis units, with people having their treatment. I was hooked up and then given papers to fill out for insurance. I asked if I could eat the rest of my sandwich and the answer was no, and he explained. One time a woman was eating something and she passed out during treatment. They had quite a time clearing things out so she would not choke and they made the rule, no more eating during treatment. I figured I could live with it.

When treatment was finished I weighed myself and found that I lost about 10 pounds! That must have been a record. I usually get cramps if too much fluid is taken out. But I did not feel any ill effects and I left feeling pretty good.

The rest of the trip was a series of events, God moments, and one bedeviled moment when I was tinkering with my camera at my brother Ron's house in Harleysville, PA and all the pictures I took in New Jersey disappeared...forever. (sigh)

After visiting with Ron I left for home, stopping at Newmanstown to stay overnight at cousin Warren's place. I left there around 1:30 in the morning and the trip was pleasantly uneventful. Little traffic. Good weather. And by around 8 a.m. I arrived at home safe and sound.

I told Lucy I would like to make these trips twice a year. She does not wish to travel so far but I can always rent a car.

Kidney Transplant 3

2009-12-15T20:36:00.002-05:00

This is the third installment of the story of my hospital stays between January and May. If you're sensitive to medical stories, read it at your own gustatory peril. I eventually recovered. One of my body parts didn't.

I finally had a kidney transplant which worked fine. I had asked the doctor if I could have the same setup I had since I was three years old but he told me it was not feasible; I would be subject to infection since I was taking immunosuppressant medication to keep the kidney from being rejected.

I settled down to getting used to the new setup—a urinary pouch. It filled up pretty quickly and sometimes it was so full I thought it would burst. I emptied it in time though and continued to recover from the operation. At times I forgot to shut the pouch spigot off and I would find my gown wet, and also my own bathrobe. A nurse obligingly cleaned it for me—twice! This was something I had to get used to. When I was made aware that a lot of people have this setup, it made me more empathetic toward that lifestyle. You can get used to it and nobody notices. However, the pouches last only so long and every few days—maybe up to a week—it has to be changed. There was a wound nurse who changed it and I watched her so I could get the technique down pat.

But there was another problem that was presenting itself. I was getting a sore on my abdomen, about where the surgical procedure had been. It developed into a larger sore but I was sent home and in the care of Home Healthcare nurses. Lucy helped to change the pouch every few days.

The nurse would take blood samples to send to the lab for checking my condition every couple of days. It was difficult lying in bed so I sat on the armchair in the living room overnight. I still had a ways to go to feel comfortable.

Then one day I decided to go down in the basement to my computer. It was a mistake. When I went back up the stairs I was extremely out of breath and needed to sit down quickly. Something was definitely wrong. Lab tests showed I was low in hemoglobin so I was ordered back to the hospital—a 70 mile trek. They wanted to check if I had internal bleeding.

This was in February and there was snow on the ground—lots of it. We found an ambulance that would take patients more than to local hospitals. It got stuck in our lane. Fortunately, our neighbor on the other side of the street had a tractor with a snowplow and he graciously moved snow around to let them drive about 100 feet into the lane. The EMTs asked if I could step up onto the ambulance. I couldn't, so they put the gurney on the ground and I lay on it and they hoisted me in. It was a long ride to Columbus.

At the hospital again I was given blood transfusions and bed rest to recover. Meanwhile, the sore on my abdomen was getting more pronounced and when one of the residents came around I pointed it out to him. When a whole team of doctors and attendants came around again the resident pointed it out to the nephrologist in charge. The doctor said that it should be kept moist with ointment, and they left the room. I was sitting in a chair just then and I stood up and suddenly noticed a wet spot on my gown. I checked and the wound in question was leaking.

This is not a nice story to tell, and don't bother eating lunch while you read this, unless you not too sensitive about it. I was not happy about this new development. A nurse was still in the room and she called the team back and she was instructed to put on a pouch. That would be two pouches I would have to deal with. I was not happy. As she put it on I asked her if she saw a lot of this kind of wound. She said it was not too common but she did see quite a few of them in over 30 years of nursing. Arrangements would have to be made to deal with it. It was apparently a leak in the intestinal wall where they had taken a portion to create the diversion. It was fortunate that it leaked to the outside. A leak toward the inside would have been disastrous.

How they dealt with it was to put me on intravenous TPN, a protein fluid (it looked like milk) that would be my breakfast, lunch and dinner (breakfast, dinner and supper) for over two months. I was hooked to the IV machine for almost four months.

Meanwhile, I kept myself in pretty good spirits; especially when people came around—doctors, nurses, and nurses aides. They took my vital signs at all hours of the day and night. They wanted to make sure the kidney was functioning OK, and they could ascertain the condition by the numerous lab draws. I developed fits of coughing and a nurse would come in, mostly at night, and give me respiratory therapy. I felt I was gradually getting worse from something and I soon noticed that my urinary output was less and less.

I also developed dry heaves, gagging. The nurse would give me medicine for it but I often had these spells. Fortunately, that's all they were. I was the only one in the room, but sometimes at night I felt that there was someone else there, "No Never Alone". One time I did get into a depressed state and I cried like a baby, until I felt a hand on my shoulder. No one was there.

My legs started to swell. I had exercised every day by taking walks but then I suddenly couldn't walk. I lay in bed for weeks. They told me I had a huge blood clot, from my right leg to the liver, via the vena cava. The vena cava is a major vein to the heart. and that seemed to be the reason the kidney was not functioning as well. They took me to the OR and tried to put a filter in to keep blood clots from getting to the heart. They couldn't do it; it was clotted in that area. What would they do next?

One day, when the team made its daily rounds, the nephrologist explained everything to me. The whole room was full of his team and a couple of nurses. He went into detail about everything that was happening to me. He spoke with a foreign accent so I couldn't follow everything he said, but what he was saying became overwhelming and I started to get a little emotional, enough for the whole room to tense up but everyone was empathetic. After they left one of the nurses stayed behind and asked if I understood everything. She spent some time explaining everything he had said and I felt better for it. The doctor had said that I was one of his healthier patients.

Every day for a week they took me to the OR and systematically dissolved the blood clots. The mantra throughout the whole ordeal was "this is going to sting and burn." It would sting for a few seconds and I sort of got used to it by the seventh day. Maybe I was sedated a little—maybe—but I was awake through the whole process. Besides that pain, it was painful for me to be transferred to and from the operating table, which also lasted only a few seconds. I told them I would have to hold my leg while they transferred and it wouldn't be so painful. I had broken my left leg twice, in 2005 and 2007, and that was partly the reason. I also have a bad hip. Why me, Lord?! I had been walking with a crutch since the first break. Now I couldn't even walk. My legs were swelled up to huge proportions and I eventually noticed that there was very little urinary output. I knew I was in for the long haul.

I had to deal with the pouches. One day there were five pouch changes because of leaks, and when your digestive juices hit your skin, you can get a hellavu rash—witness diaper rash on babies butts; the same principle.

The doctor was sympathetic to my plight and he ordered that I could have juices to drink, to counter the monotony of eating nothing. Of course, it meant emptying the pouch oftener. I was not in a good situation, but I kept my spirits up and sought to learn all the facets of my medical anomalies and recovery. The nurses and aides liked me a lot.

I'll continue the story in the next writing. There's only so much you can remember about being four months in the hospital. That was in Ohio State University Medical Center in Columbus, Ohio in early 2009. What a way to start out the year!

Sunday School class

2009-10-10T16:38:00.011-04:00

An interesting event happened on September 27. In our Sunday School at Mennonite Christian Assembly in Fredericksburg, OH we belong to the Lamplighter Class, ages 55 and above. Once a month we have a social time, mostly at the church on a Sunday evening, where Lamplighters bring their favorite foods, and games, and we have fellowship together.

A couple weeks before, Lucy invited the class to come to our place on Sunday evening. She suggested we’d have a hot dog roast and people could bring food. A couple of people offered to bring firewood for the campfire.

Saturday, we were invited to a wedding and we woke up to a light rain. What a day for a wedding! We traveled about 40 miles to our destination, being soaked by passing trucks and tractor trailers who stirred up wetness of the roads, and we had to deal with rain which made me put on the windshield wipers to fast speed.

But a few miles from our destination the rains stopped. It was heavily cloudy but we arrived at the farm where the wedding was held. During the whole ceremony and reception there was no rain although the weather was so heavy that it became almost foggy at 2 p.m.

On the way home we encountered rain again. We wondered what it would be like tomorrow (Sunday) when we would have the Sunday School class at our place. I chose not to worry about it. We never had the Sunday School class at our place and it would be nice if the weather would cooperate so we could have a good time. If the whole class would show up we might not have room for them although the house is rather spacious. But it will be a nice day. The Universe will make sure of that. I felt rather confident, and chased away any little doubts that would crop up. You remember what it says in Scripture: For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith. Mark 11:23

Sunday morning we went to church in a light rain—a 37 mile trip. While we were in Sunday School Lucy pointed out to me that it was still raining. So? . . . When it was asked who would be coming to the Hackmans, there was show of hands which represented a little less than half the class, but it was a good number. When someone wondered if we would indeed have them come rain or shine, I said, “Yes, come—you’re all invited.” They noticed the rain, but anything can happen in a few hours.

It was raining a little when we set out for home around noon. Lucy wanted to stop at Walmart for hot dogs. It’s a 37 mile trip home and we traveled on Route 30. Pretty soon I saw a glimmer of light in the clouds which showed that the weather might be breaking up. And it stopped raining!

We drove to the Walmart in Ashland. The clouds were continuing to break up as the sun started to peek through. We shopped for awhile and when we came out the sun was shining and it was quite windy. The clouds still looked threatening in a couple of directions but it was mostly sunny by this time. And the clouds were moving fast!

We arrived home and Lucy did some more preparation. The outdoor picnic would be at 5 p.m. I had asked Jason about mowing the back acreage during the week and he got a young man with a Bush Hog mower that chopped down the tall weeds and grass, a couple of acres in size. I also had suggested that the burn pile be cleaned up but they didn’t have the time or the equipment so that was left undone. When I asked Lucy about having a campfire she told me she knew where it would be. She was in control of the whole thing, and she wouldn't tell me. "Yes, dear." (I always have the last word.)

At 4 p.m. Sunday, Eli and Clara Mast showed up with firewood and he started the fire right where Lucy had placed a marker. It was at a stony part of the lawn just southwest of the house. By this time the wind was not as brisk but still a little stiff to try to build a fire. I suggested that he park his car on the windward side.

Because of the wind, the grass and everything dried off, making it nice for an outdoor picnic. More people came and I was still watching Eli tend to the fire when I saw a couple of women carrying the picnic table and chairs onto the cement parking area where I usually park our vehicles. The ladies set up the eating area, laid out the food, and by 5 p.m. we were ready for the picnic. A couple of men roasted the hot dogs over the now hot fire. Three-year-0ld Nolan was there to watch and supervise and roast a hotdog or two. I don't know where his brother Nathan was.

It was amazing to see how the weather changed to a suitable atmosphere for a nice time at our place. I should have chronicled the weather change with my camera. Everything came together in what you could call a miraculous way. And twenty-two people showed up.

We had hot dogs, casseroles, salads, cheese, nuts, sodas, desserts. We were not disappointed in anything. After we ate, we all gathered around the fire and talked until almost dark.

The group started to break up and they remarked about the good weather, the good time, and that they finally know where we live. Some of the ladies took it upon themselves to clean everything up. Men and women put chairs back in their customary places, whether they were brought by some, or taken from the house.

Lucy was able to connect some of the families she knew with the people that were there, many of them being ex-Amish. It was a nice time for a private conversation with some. It was really her day. We’ll have to do it again.

Lost in the Shuffle

2009-08-18T14:47:00.007-04:00

The other day I got an unsolicited phone call which turned out to be from a company that sells family videos. Lucy tries to keep me from buying or donating over the phone, and this episode clinches it.

I didn’t exactly trust the salesman’s sales pitch. It sounded almost like a computer voice; friendly enough but not warm. He said they owed us a refund of $5.00 and mentioned a film we would be interested in, especially when I told him there are children in the house.

I asked about the cost, and he said an amount which was around $12.00. I asked about VHS format, and he said it was DVD. I told him we don’t have a DVD working, could he send it VHS format. He agreed.

When I got the package, there were two DVDs and the cost was $25.75. They were cartoons, which were OK but I had expected something else. I decided to send them back. I included a letter stating that the salesman may have been trying to just make a sale by the way his sales pitch was presented. What was sent was not what I expected.

Well, the envelope was already opened and not in condition to send it back so I finally found a bubble envelope that everything would fit in. I was going to take it to the post office and I laid it on the Amish-made electric stove in the living room. It was there over the weekend.

I left the envelope open so Lucy could read the letter I wrote to them. On Monday she finally read it, but said that the DVDs were not in the envelope.

What?! I was not happy about that at all. In addition the envelope was ripped a little. Of course, these kinds of things could be a temptation to little boys, and I had thought about that, but I figured they would leave it alone. There are four boys in the house. I usually place letters to mail at that same spot and nobody touches them.

I was in a dither. Three-year-old Nolan was sitting on the couch and I mentioned about someone taking them. He responded in his defense, “I didn’t take them." The look on his face suggested indignation.

I had to go to hemodialysis but before I went I breathed a prayer in a similar line as “thank you Lord for taking care of the problem” and I tried to put it out of my mind.

But the depressed feeling would crop up again once in awhile and I kept suppressing it, knowing that God hears our prayers. I didn’t want to openly accuse anyone, I made sure the right people knew about it, especially their mother.

At bedtime I couldn’t sleep. Who could it have been—Nolan had said he didn’t do it and I believed him. I tried not to be accusatory even in my mind. At one point I got up late at night and looked to see if the DVDs had dropped out of the envelope onto the floor or under the furniture. But I remembered that I had prayed and endeavored to keep it out of my mind as best I could. Let the love in the Universe take care of it. But even under those circumstances, it is difficult to get a good night’s rest. I actually felt sick at heart at unguarded moments.

In the morning I got up and told Lucy, “How are we going to find out where the DVDs are?” Lucy asked me where the envelope was. I told her it was on my nightstand.

She got the envelope and gently talked to Nolan. When she mentioned the rip in the envelope he said that he tried to get the bubbles. Then he confessed that he hid the DVDs under the steps because he didn’t want his older brothers to get them. “They’re mine,” he said emphatically. Apparently, when he saw the cartoon characters on the packages he took possession, but he voluntarily gave them back to Lucy when he was found out.

So that was a major problem solved. I was glad that it did not have to escalate to bad feelings all around. I taped up the rip and sealed the envelope with the DVDs safely inside and took it to the post office.

The children in the house are good kids, if rather rambunctious at times.

So what about Nolan? The little fibber! I would not discipline him for something that he did in innocence. It wasn't my place anyway; we only take care of him when his parents are at work. It can be a good learning experience for him in the way it turned out. Like I said, such things are an attraction to little boys. It was my fault that it happened in the first place. Nevertheless, I breathed a prayer of thanks. We'll just have to work on helping him to tell things like it is.

Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
Proverbs 3:5 & 6

Happy Anniversary!

2009-07-24T20:43:00.007-04:00

During our 10th anniversary, Lucy and I were recovering from hospital stays which had lasted several weeks. This time we endeavored to celebrate in a better fashion.

This Thursday (July 23) we were all set to celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. It was raining overnight, which was sorely needed, but I anticipated a great day anyway. I got up at 5 a.m. and went into the basement to my computer because I couldn’t sleep. Lucy didn’t stir. At 7 a.m. I went back upstairs and found her getting up and asked when we’d leave. It was still raining a little. We should leave around 9 a.m.

Finally, we got into the van. Lucy went up the ramp in her wheelchair, and I got into the driver's seat. I offered a prayer saying, “...Let this be a good day for everyone.”

We traveled east on Route 30 to 250, took Mt. Hope Road through Mt. Hope, and came to Route 39 east of Berlin. We stopped at a flea market east of Walnut Creek and drove in. Amish Flea Market. A parking lot attendant had a map of the layout of the market, and he pointed out the handicap parking space, without us asking.

It was an ideal parking place, at the end where I could let out the ramp without someone parking in that spot. I remembered the little prayer we had started out with and I thought, this is a good day!

We went into one of the entrances and checked it out. I didn’t want to walk too far because it was rather painful but I was curious enough to keep going. There was a booth with rugs of all kinds and sizes. Over there was a Tupperware booth. I checked the prices and found a $15 price tag for a couple of small items. Too expensive! An Amish lady attended the booth. Farther on was an area with numerous tubs of goods, with items mostly for $1 or $2—calculators, tools, batteries, beauty and diet items, the list is endless. I bought an old-fashioned rubber jar opener for $1.

There was one booth which sold bags of pork cracklins, and pork rinds and “cracklins” made out of potatoes. There was a row of bags with tongs which invited you to sample them. I went down the row, sampling each one. When I came to the pork cracklings I sampled one that was pepper-hot. Suddenly I couldn’t swallow. I started coughing and my nose started running. I was in trouble; something was sticking in my throat. At least I could breathe. I wandered down the hall looking for a water fountain. I asked an Amish lady, coughing in the process, and she directed me farther down the hall. I took a long draught but something was still sticking in my throat, but it was a little better. It was apparently a reaction to what I had been sampling. I needed a handkerchief. Lucy was shopping somewhere else. I wandered farther down the hall and finally sat down to rest. I was hurting from walking and feeling a little desperate. I watched the pedestrians go by and one woman with a large purse caught my eye. She smiled. On an impulse I asked her if she had any paper tissue. She obliged, searched through her purse, and gave me what looked like a napkin. It was perfect. It is a good day.

I eventually found Lucy and she told me about a book shop around the corner. I bought a paperback book about the end of the era of bush pilots in the Arctic for $2.00. I then told Lucy that I'm going out to the van, I was tired of walking.

Apparently there had been a downpour at one point. I went outside but then it was only drizzling when I went to the van. I sat in there reading until Lucy finally came. She told me she heard someone singing and went to investigate nearby. I did too and took a picture of two men singing country songs.

Our next destination was another flea market, which was closer to Berlin. Holmes County Flea Market. We entered the parking lot. We right away noticed a handicap parking place, but the parking attendant noticed our handicap tag and asked if we wanted to park on concrete. He also asked for $1 parking fee. He directed us to go around both buildings and there would be a place to park on pavement right by the back entrance. This is a good day.

It was close to noon so we looked for food booths. There was a “Cheese Nook” where they sold Amish-made cheese of all kinds, along with crackers, and jars of dipping sauces. There were samples available and there was a bowl of apparently locally made potato chips where we could dip in small bowls of salsas and other flavorful dipping sauces.

Auntie Annie’s pretzels were sold at one booth and we bought one that had pepperoni on it. And a hot dog wrapped in pastry—pigs in blanket. There was also a cafeteria nearby.

We sat down in the cafeteria and eventually noticed a man whom Lucy recognized as her aunt’s husband who is a widower, Ed , who was with a lady .They were dining at a table across the room. I told her it looks like him but probably isn’t. So many people look alike. I noticed he looked in our direction at one point.

Later I was seated on one of the benches in another part of the market and Lucy came along, in conversation with the man. He was Ed. We talked awhile. He introduced his friend, Joyce, and found she knew people that Lucy knew, from back in their grade school days. Ed said that they had spotted us in the cafeteria and had the same reaction I did—it looks like Lucy but probably isn’t. Of course, when you see two people together you’re usually verified that is indeed the persons you think it is, even when you see them where you don’t expect them to be.

While I was seated on the bench—built by Keim Lumber—waiting for Lucy to quit shopping, a gentleman sat down on the same bench and we engaged in conversation. When he found out that I was on dialysis he said that his daughter-in-law is manager at the Kidney Center on Trimble Road in Mansfield. I told him that’s where I go for dialysis. I’ll have to tell Dee I met her father-in-law. I do see her once in awhile.

I told him I was 65 and he said I don’t look it. He said people say the same thing to him; he was 80. He looks more like 60. He was the kind of person who talks easily with strangers like me. He told me he lives near Butler, Ohio, which is only about 20 miles from our place. The flea market we were at is about 50 miles from home.

After a little more shopping—and Lucy disappeared somewhere again—I went to the Gourmet Ice Cream booth and got a dip of black raspberry ice cream in a Styrofoam cup. One dip—$1.50. It seemed a little expensive but when the Amish lady dipped it out it was enough ice cream for my estimation of three dips at least! It put me at risk with my renal diet but I ate it all, but not before Lucy came along and got a dish ice cream of her own and sat beside me.

I realized that with what we were eating, I should be taking my pills, pills that reduce the amount of phosphorus I was ingesting. The Kidney Center administers lab tests twice a month and it recently indicated I am high in phosphorus, which can create heart problems and hardening of the arteries. I take two pills before I eat anything and it keeps the phosphorus from absorbing into my system.

Phosphorus is high in canned goods, lunch meats and cheeses, carbonated sodas and all sorts of processed foods. Since my kidneys are not functioning too well, the phosphorus can build up to dangerous levels.

With all the walking, I was really hurting and we agreed to leave. I slowly limped out to the parking lot, assisted by my crutch. Lucy noticed a bus that was parked and commented about all the people that were there, coming by the busloads. And then another bus came with another stream of flea market shoppers. In spite of the rain the place was humming with activity, although outdoor vendors were sparse today.

There was one more place Lucy wanted to visit and we went to a used goods shop in Berlin. I went in, bought a couple of cassettes for 10¢ apiece and waited out in the van.

Soon, along came two Amish ladies who came up to the van and engaged me in conversation, asking how I was doing. They were Esther Miller, a former classmate of Lucy’s in grade school; and her sister Mattie Hershberger, a friend we had taken along to Florida a few years ago. In the shop Lucy had told them that we were celebrating our wedding anniversary. They also asked me how I was doing after being in the hospital. They knew about the kidney transplant failure and wondered how I was faring after all that.

Mattie told me that she didn’t have a job because she had to take care of her sister Betty, who is mentally challenged. Esther said that Mattie calls her up sometimes because she’s bored. (The Amish in this area have telephones). It’s a shame that Mattie has to be the only person responsible for Betty. Such is the path of some people in life.

Lucy finally came out and engaged in conversation with them. I wanted to take their picture but Esther said they’re not supposed to have their picture taken. I was tempted to just walk a little distance and take their picture without them knowing, but I chickened out. It wouldn’t have mattered but I’m the kind of person that respects people’s ideals. (I took a picture of Lucy’s stepmother before she died, but that was an act of need—my family never saw her in person; except my mother.)

We finally arrived home. It was finally sunny and warm and I said, “With all that happened, it was a good day!” Thank you God!

Kidney Transplant 2

2009-06-22T11:05:00.009-04:00

I was oblivious of everything that transpired as the doctors worked on me during the operation. I finally woke up in the ICU unit. Lucy was there, and her sister Esther. I was gagging as I felt I was in a cage--or worse yet, in an iron mask. It was not a good feeling at all. At least I could breathe. Then I heard a voice telling me to relax, which helped the situation as I relaxed. I had a gastric tube down my throat, and I also had a breathing tube still placed. I couldn't talk.

They tied my hands, which upset Lucy. It was for my own safety, and the safety of the monitors around me. Lucy and Esther soon left. I couldn't communicate but I gradually woke up more. I became concerned about the breathing tube because I was afraid of choking. I became more concerned, especially when I felt that it was moving and could get in the way of being comfortable.

I motioned to the nurse to take it out. She insisted that I relax. As time went on I became more adamant about removing the tube and I became more insistent. She said that the monitors said everything was OK. But I was not OK. I was not to be quieted so she tied my hands, turned out the lights and walked away.

But I was not finished yet. I had a finger pulse oximeter on my finger to keep track of my oxygen level and I shamelessly tapped on the frame of my gurney to get attention. She came back and scolded me for it, but I kept insisting that I needed attention and I was not just a fussy patient. In the struggle that she precipitated, she got unintentionally scratched. She walked away and shouted, "He scratched me, he scratched me!"

Finally...someone with common sense came along to see what the fuss was all about. He reiterated the concern my caretaker had but I needed to bring them to the attention I needed. I motioned for a pencil and paper. I wrote down my concerns and as I wrote he asked questions. I told him that I felt something was not right and I needed more stability in the setup I had to deal with. He said that he would have to retape it. I wrote, "Retape it then!" He proceeded to retape whatever was needed. It turned out to be more than I expected, but when he finished, I felt it was more stable.

I motioned for the pencil and paper again. I wrote, "I am not a mean person. I did not scratch her on purpose. I was concerned about what was happening and needed it to be corrected."

As I wrote he realized that I was serious about my situation. He took the papers and walked back to the group of people and one by one they came and apologized, including my nurse. A half hour later they removed the breathing tube and I could talk again.

Months later I told the story to a nurse and she was horrified, "You shouldn't have remembered that!" she exclaimed. I was not medicated enough.

I was finally sent to my room from the ICU and then began the recovery. And I had a new setup to deal with; the urinary diversion. It was working fine but I had to get used to it.

Kidney transplant 1

2009-06-21T19:10:00.014-04:00

January 16 of this year I had a kidney transplant. Sometime in February it failed, for reasons that will be explained. During the next days I'll write about some of the things that happened during the few months I was in the hospitals (plural). I was at OSU Medical Center in Columbus, Ohio and that was where I stayed for a few weeks.

I was all set for the day, Friday. I had been checked out for eligibility for a transplant. I had found a donor, or a donor found me. I had written a Christmas letter and explained my need for a kidney and my wife's cousin Esther finally answered, took the required tests, and we were found compatible. So far so good.

Admittedly, I had a few reservations about going through with the process, but since I had a donor, and everything was a go, I figured it all would work out. So early in the morning of the 16th, I was prepped and ready for the big day. I had been on dialysis since May 2004 and this would finally end it.

Lucy and I talked with the surgeon and he explained the details of the operation. I asked if he could keep the same setup that I had since the age of three. He explained that I would be at risk of infection since I would be taking immunosupressant medication to keep the kidney from being rejected.

I hesitate to explain the details of my own medical history but there are readers who would understand. At the age of three my bladder was taken away and the ureters were attached to the sigmoid colon. It was something I was used to after all these years. When the doctor nixed the idea of keeping the same setup I told him to do what he felt was best. It meant creating a urinary diversion for the new kidney.

My wife Lucy was planning to be with me in the early morning of the surgery. I was due to go to the operating room sometime around 6:30 or 7 a.m. As the hour approached, I grew apprehensive about it and wished my wife were here to give me support. I found out later that she was on her way but not quick enough to be with me at the crucial time. I was going for a major overhaul and I realized that I would probably go there alone, something I was rather used to because I usually was alone quite often in my numerous hospital stays. But I grew apprehensive enough to question whether I should go through with it at all. I developed feelings of depression at the prospect, but I reasoned that the donor was gracious enough to come forward, why disappoint her. That logic may be weak under the circumstances but I certainly had ambivalent feelings which almost unnerved me.

I had my cellphone with me and I suddenly noticed it had a recent voicemail. I checked it out. It was Elisabeth, a friend of ours, saying that there was a song which was in her mind all day and she even played it on the piano and thought of me. The song--No Never Alone. I knew the song and as I was taken to the Operating Room I sang it in my mind all the way to the table.

I was transferred over and the medical staff prepared me. I lay on the table and they stretched out my arms onto two narrow boards and tied them fast. They explained that they needed to fasten them because they could fall when I lost consciousness. My initial thoughts were "Oh no, I'm being crucified!" But I also kept thinking, No Never Alone, which was a comforting thought. I breathed a fervent prayer for further reassurance as a technician injected medicine into the IV that had been placed in my arm. I soon blissfully relaxed into oblivion.

My Grandfather

2009-01-01T07:05:00.013-05:00

I never met my grandfather, John M. Hackman, my Dad's father. In fact, my Dad was 7 years old when his Dad passed away from typhoid fever in 1917. But an interesting story came about in his relatively short life. There was a contract to dig a well on the property. A couple of well-diggers who were brothers from Hatfield, PA or thereabouts were contracted to dig the well. It took a long time, with intermittent frustrations but finally they announced that they found water. However, some neighbors reported that they saw the well-diggers carrying water in the middle of the night and pouring it down the well.

When it came time to pay for the work, John apparently mentioned it and an argument ensued. Finally, John said he would go into the house to get the money. He went into the house and locked the door. He went to the opposite side of the house and crawled out a window, and reported it to the police.

Meanwhile, one of the contractors waited and waited, and then realized that something was afoot. He went up to the door and pulled out a knife saying, "This knife has seen blood before!" Grammy was frightened and exclaimed, in Pennsylvania German, "Next he'll kill us all!"

What was not realized at the time was that three-year-old John Jr. was outside on the porch with the man but he was not harmed.

But a neighbor saw John Sr. leave the house by way of the window, and later found out he had gone to the police. Members of the Mennonite Church do not usually go to the police, and when it was known in the community, he had to make confession in church.

John M. Hackman was born on August 10, 1879 and died on November 14, 1917. The Gospel Herald published his obituary:

GOSPEL HERALD - February 14, 1918 - Pages 846, 847 HACKMAN. - John M. Hackman, a faithful brother in the Franconia, Pa. congregation, passed away peacefully Nov. 14, 1917, after five weeks illness of typhoid fever. He endured his portion of suffering very patiently, offering many short prayers. He leaves a sorrowing widow and five children. This happy Christian family and their beautiful home is broken up. His voice is stilled, his smiles are past, his presence remains to be remembered as a dear loving husband and a kind father. O what a change in so short a time, but we know it was the Lord's will. Age, 38y. 3m. 4d. "Beloved husband, Father of my five He left us all too soon. He longed to stay, and longed to go, But God claimed him His own. We watched him breathing through the night, His breathing soft and low, As in his breast the tide of life Kept heaving to and fro."

His children were: Henry, Warren, John (my Dad), Willis (passed away in 1918 at the age of six), and Lydia. Their mother, who was born July 21, 1880, never married again and died in June 1959.

Henry S. Hackman - December 29, 1905 - December 3, 1992. I usually had quite a few conversations with Uncle Henry and he told me that he remembers his grandfather, John O. Hackman (Feb. 21, 1849-May 30, 1912). The scene he remembers was a snowy day and he was driving into the lane with horse and wagon with a rather dour look on his face. Henry was around six or seven years old. Uncle Henry had a lot of of memories about people and places and I regret not writing it all down. He was a goldmine of local and family history.

Warren S. Hackman - July 21, 1908 - September 2, 1995. Warren's first wife was Mary Godshall who was my mother's sister. Her children are my double cousins.

John S. Hackman - July 25, 1910 - June 30, 1999.

Willis S. Hackman - October 10, 1912 - October 18, 1918. Lydia told me that Willis was a sickly child. He frequently suffered from boils which his mother treated by lancing. He was glad to finally attend school in the first grade. He attended for one day, and then became too ill to continue, and died before being able to go back to school.

Lydia S. Hackman Landis - March 10, 1916 - October 25, 2005.

Christmas at school

2008-12-20T17:05:00.007-05:00

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.

Visit from Elisabeth

2008-12-17T14:09:00.005-05:00

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.

Thanksgiving Day

2008-11-30T06:02:00.002-05:00

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.

Fix up time

2008-10-30T19:22:00.007-04:00

We bought our house in 2003 and have lived in it ever since. As houses go, it was not the fanciest house but it was liveable. Jason, a co-owner, renovated the inside of his side of the house, and gradually made a nice cozy living space out of it. He also made a couple rooms on our side in the basement. Things were gradually working out.

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.

Keys to music

2008-10-11T19:44:00.005-04:00

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.

Midwest Trips

2008-09-23T08:00:00.007-04:00

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.

Hospital...again!

2008-08-29T19:48:00.008-04:00

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.

Sally Ann

2008-07-17T11:31:00.007-04:00

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 hestitant 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.

Indiana Jones

2008-06-27T17:20:00.006-04:00

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.

After Hospitalization ... finally

2008-06-20T15:03:00.002-04:00

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.

Hospital yet again.

2008-06-19T15:25:00.004-04:00

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.

Hospital again

2008-06-06T15:09:00.004-04:00

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.

Trip to England

2008-05-25T09:42:00.014-04:00

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.

Losing it?

2008-05-12T20:46:00.008-04:00

Saturday, May 10, Lucy and I went into town to do some shopping. We were all set to get a bite to eat at Cici's Pizza and then go to Meijer to shop for groceries.

As soon as we stepped up to the counter to order the Cici's buffet I reached into my pocket. No wallet! I told Lucy that I didn’t have my wallet. The look on her face bespoke her disappointment. She got out her small change purse and paid for the buffet. Nothing was said after the obligatory apology and bowing and scraping on my part. I picked a few items from the salad bar; lettuce, carrots, onions, broccoli, red beets, black olives, ranch dressing, and then selected from an assortment of pizza slices on down the line. It was a good meal, all in all. I don’t know how much pizza I can eat when one has kidney problems, but I didn’t want to deprive myself.

As we finished, Lucy, being on a power wheelchair, exclaimed that she would like to drive up to Meijer herself. It was only about 200 yards away. So she took off and I drove the van to park in a handicap spot right by Meijer.

Suddenly, I remembered that I didn’t have my wallet and hurried to find Lucy before she went into the building. She was stopping at the outside garden center, admiring the flowers, and I caught up to her. “Honey,” I said, “Remember, I don’t have my wallet.”

She registered dismay and exclaimed, “I don’t believe this!” She was next to livid. Well, not really. But she was not happy.

“I could go home and get it,” I offered.

“With the price of gas? . . . Oh, do whatever you want!” And she rode off toward the store. She wanted to look for a couple items.

I called after her, “I’ll wait right here.” It would be a 25 mile round trip. At 16 miles per gallon and $3.74 a gallon, it was better to go shopping another day. I found a parking place and turned on the radio to a soothing classical music station. It was a nice sunny day and I opened the windows for the fresh air. I sat there wondering where my wallet was. I always put it in the right side pocket of my trousers. It had money in it, one credit card, and two debit cards, my driver’s license, among other things. I reasoned that it might be on the night stand by the bed, where I usually put it. Or maybe I left it in the car.

I don’t often get these lapses of memory…well, yes I guess I do, but not when it concerns my wallet. I’m pretty conscientious about it and kept track of it faithfully, until now.

I had an imaginary conversation with Lucy. “This is a chance to practice forgiveness and forbearance,” I said to no one in particular. I was getting a little bit upset by the turn of events but there was nothing I could do about it, I thought.

Somewhere in the parking lot a car alarm went off. I counted the beeps. It stopped at 81.

I called my brother in New Jersey just to chat. His wife Debbie answered. I asked if Dave was there and she said he wasn’t home yet. I asked her how he was doing, and she said he was OK. She asked me how I was doing and I told her, “I’m OK except that Lucy is upset with me. We’re here at the store to do some grocery shopping and I forgot my wallet.” I don’t know what her reaction was. She didn't say anything. She might have been commiserating with Lucy for all I knew. She then offered to tell Dave I called and he could return my call.

I called my brother Ron in Pennsylvania and we had a nice conversation. It’s good to keep in touch with family.

Just then Lucy came back with a couple small items she had purchased and we were off again. We had to go home because, without my wallet . . .

She casually wondered to whom I was talking. I told her “I was talking to Ron, and I also wanted to talk with Dave but he wasn’t home. I talked to Debbie and told her my wife was upset with me for losing my wallet. You know, hon,” I ventured to suggest, “now is a good time to practice forgiveness and forbearance.” I don’t think she was amused. She didn’t respond.

When we arrived at home I started to look for my wallet. I looked on the night stand, looked in the car, went down to my office, no wallet. I came back upstairs and wondered aloud where I could have put it. Lucy offered her opinion, belaboring my penchant for losing things. I suddenly got an inspiration. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. I had it all the time! (whimper)

This actually unnerves me a little.

I always used to put my wallet in my back pocket, until the chiropractor suggested that it would be better if I had the wallet in another pocket, it’s better for the spine if you refrain from putting anything in the back pocket.

A few years ago, something similar happened. While at the doctor’s office (nephrologist—kidney specialist) on July 29, 2003 I offered to pay the co-pay with a check. I wrote it out and gave it to the secretary. She wrote up a receipt and gave it to me. I put everything in my shirt pocket and left for home. At home I emptied my shirt pocket and found I had brought the check back too! I thought I remembered giving it to the secretary, and here I find it in my own pocket, along with the receipt! I called up their office and left a voice mail.

I decided to send the check by mail so I took it to the post office in Mansfield. They should get it the same day or so. I was working at the News Journal at the time. I got a call from the doctor's secretary at work asking me if she had given me my check back my mistake. Yes, I told her, and I mailed it this morning. It seems everyone was being absent minded.

That is not the end of the story—about the absentmindedness, I mean. I took the checkbook and a savings account bank book to work in my shirt pocket and put it in my desk. At the end of the day I took it out of the desk just before I was to leave for home. I distractedly tried putting it back in my shirt pocket again. It didn’t want to fit in. I had a sweater on (air conditioning was too efficient where I worked) and that was in the way. I must have put it in enough to concentrate on something else and I later gathered my lunch box and a newspaper and headed for the exit. Just then my checkbook dropped to the floor. I noticed I didn’t have the bank book in my hand either and I wracked my brain where I could have put it. I retraced the few steps I took since I last had it in my possession. Then I just sat down and waited—for inspiration, I guess. Co-worker Melonie was working right there and noticed my dilemma and asked if I was still looking for it. I explained that I looked everywhere—at all the places I walked, and searched all my pockets. She asked if I had it in my sweater. I shook my head but lifted up my sweater—and the bank book fell to the floor, amid laughter at my expense. I fled to the parking lot.

In the parking lot I have a habit of taking off my sweater since it’s usually an oven outside and on high broil inside the car. I took my glasses off and put them on the roof of the car and pulled the sweater off over my head. I got into the car and realized I didn’t have my glasses on. Shucks, I must have left them on my desk at work.

I coasted the car into the other parking lot which was closer to the entrance. Just then it dawned on me. I sheepishly retrieved the glasses from off the car roof. It wasn’t my day. Clearly I had things on my mind. I guess one can take only so much confusion!

Maybe a little justification is in order. I was diagnosed in 2003 with end stage renal disease. Some symptoms of kidney disease are headaches, numbness in the feet and hands (peripheral neuropathy), altered mental status (encephalopathy from the accumulation of waste products or uremic poisons), and restless legs syndrome. I've had the headaches in the recent past, bad headaches, and have occasional memory loss, which I described in this blog. Sometimes, I think my wife doesn't believe it, so I'm rather alone in this.

Actually, I have a great memory. I remember when I was 2 years old, maybe earlier. It's the short term present memory that can elude me sometimes. Believe me, I take my B vitamins and supplements which are approved by the kidney specialist, so I'm not dying on the vine here.

PSALM 139:1-18 O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me. 2 Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off. 3 Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. 4 For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, thou knowest it altogether. 5 Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. 6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it.
7 Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? 8 If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. 9 If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; 10 Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. 11 If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. 12 Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee. 13 For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother's womb. 14 I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well. 15 My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. 16 Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them.
17 How precious also are thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them! 18 If I should count them, they are more in number than the sand: when I awake, I am still with thee...

ONE MORE STORY: In the late afternoon of May 5, 2008 I told Lucy I was going to the Toastmasters' Meeting at Ashland University. I hadn't been to a meeting in 5 months since I broke my leg on December 7. It was a beautiful evening and I drove the 12 miles to the University and parked in the parking lot across from the Student Center. I was on crutches and carrying a briefcase and I slowly made my way into the Student Center, down the hall, into the elevator, and arrived at Room C on the second floor. It was 6:05 and no one was there! In 10 minutes the meeting would start.

I sat down to think. I tried to remember the email that Steve sent, whether they had changed location. I had Shirley's phone number in my cell phone so I ventured to call her, although she had moved away a few months ago. She had been our coach in the art of public speaking during Toastmasters' meetings. Maybe she kept in touch with someone here and knew what was going on.

She was glad for my call but she didn't know what the situation was. "Do you realize I'm in California?" she asked. "Yes I do," I replied, "but I'm at a loss here. No one showed up for the meeting." She told me that she had misplaced her address book before she moved so she couldn't give me any phone numbers. After some more talk, she wished me well and we disconnected.

There were two other people on my cell phone and I tried to call them, but no answer. I didn't bother leaving a voice mail.

I resignedly went back downstairs and, seeing the Safety Office with the window open into the hall, and a person sitting at a desk, I asked, "Do you know anything about a Toastmasters' Meeting tonight?"

"In this building?" she asked.

"Yes, there's usually a Toastmasters' Meeting here, but I haven't been here for several months so I don't know if they changed the meeting place."

She looked at the activities list. "There's a Toastmasters' Meeting on Tuesday, " she said.

I said, "Yes, Tuesday . . . tonight."

She smiled apologetically and broke it to me gently: "This is Monday."

O God, help us all!!

Caught!

2008-05-05T15:24:00.003-04:00

On August 31, 2006 I got caught speeding. The resulting fine could have been worse, much worse.

I had been on kidney dialysis and complained to Dr. Pawar that I had trouble sleeping at night. It had gone on for quite awhile and I just wanted to see what was available. It gets a little tiring to lay around and think half the night, or all night. Why couldn’t I just have a good full night’s sleep!

He suggested a medication which should work: Remeron. Between him and the charge nurse it was suggested that I take only half a pill. It might be too strong to take a whole one. So I took his prescription to the pharmacy and got the generic version which was less expensive: Mirtazapine 15 mg.

I’m the kind of person who doesn’t care to rely on drug medications so I waited awhile before I even tried it. It must have been a couple of weeks later when I was tossing and turning and generally feeling a little miserable about it. Suddenly I remembered the pills which were sitting in the bathroom medicine cabinet. In a burst of insight, or foolishness, I reasoned that it was the first time I took it, it might take awhile to kick in, why don’t I take the whole pill. I swallowed one and went back to bed again.

It wasn’t long before I saw the results, tiny flashes of light that bespoke a high dose of something. But I soon fell into a nice reasonably restful sleep until morning.

When I got up in the morning I felt a little groggy, which is often normal. I planned to go into town to do an errand and headed that way in my trusty red Ford Focus, all the way to Lexington Avenue in Mansfield. There the traffic was a little slow; a little too slow for me. I passed it all and then spotted a police car waiting on the sidelines. I didn’t bother slowing down. I wanted to get to my destination.

Sure enough. He took off with overheads blazing and caught up to me. Maybe it was the red car. I pulled over and he sauntered over and asked for my license and insurance. It just so happened that I had just bought the car a month or so before and the updated insurance was still at home in my desk drawer. I had the outdated insurance but he insisted on the current version.

He started talking, telling me what I have to do, but for some reason I hardly understood a word he said. Later I ascertained that he was telling me to go to the Municipal Building and pay the fine there, after verifying that I had the correct insurance. I was to call my insurance company and have them fax a copy of the updated insurance to them, and then I would pay my fine there.

Everything he was saying did not make sense to me. I couldn’t get it together in my mind what he was talking about. I asked him a question to make clear what he was saying. Apparently my question was rather garbled to him and he laughed. Fortunately, that’s all he did. I was in the throes of DUI (driving under the influence) and he didn’t catch it, or didn’t care to pursue it. Noticing that the fine was not posted on the ticket, I asked him how much it was. He repeated the indiscernible instructions, which I started to vaguely understand, and then let me go. At least I found out where I had to go to pay the fine.

The effects of the medicine gradually wore off. I went home to get my checkbook and then went to the Municipal Building office and presented the ticket. The clerk told me to call my insurance company to fax my proof of insurance. When she received it she presented me with the bill for the fine: $90.

Rather shaken by the experience I laid off the medication for awhile and when another bout of sleeplessness took over, I dared to take another dose. This time I cut the pill in half. I slept pretty good on a half ration but I took care not to drive, or at least drive conscientiously. I found that it was still too large a dose. So I cut the halves in half and took a quarter pill from then on. But I didn’t bother taking them after awhile. Now, almost 2 years later, I still have some left, all cut into quarters, which I’ll probably discard.

Usually you flush them down the toilet but that is frowned on these days. Recently there have been news items with information about the danger of discarding medicines in that fashion.

How to Dispose of Unwanted Medicines

DON’T FLUSH UNUSED MEDICINES Why? Because they can end up in our rivers and streams. To help protect our environment, throw unused, unwanted or expired over-the-counter and prescription medicines in the trash. Don’t flush medicines — except when specifically instructed by the label.

DO THROW IN THE TRASH The American Pharmacists Association recommends steps for safely disposing of pills and liquids. These steps will help prevent their misuse or accidental ingestion by children or pets.

Keep the medicines in their original container. This will help identify the contents if they are accidentally ingested.
Cross out your name and prescription number for safety.
For pills: add some salt water to start dissolving them. For liquids: add something inedible like cat litter, dirt or ash.
Seal the container and secure with duct or packing tape.
Put the container in the trash as close to pickup time as possible. Do not put in the recycle bin.

I now live with the problem of sleeplessness in my own way. When I engage in prayer and meditation before retiring I am apt to be able to sleep. There are not as many bouts of sleeplessness to deal with. And you don't have to be religious to engage in meditation; it relaxes the mind and body, among other benefits.

Adventures in Town

2008-04-20T20:14:00.005-04:00

Saturday, April 19 was a day to remember. And I had mixed feelings about it all day. First of all, I had this pesky cold for the last few days which produced coughing at unexpected intervals and I planned to wait out the day in blessed bed rest, intermingled with the torture of watching the news ad nauseum about Barak and Hillary and their frivolous arguments about who is better at leading the country. But it seems to be turning out to be a series of explanations on gaffes they each had in their speeches. What does that have to do with anything? When a person talks and talks, he/she’s apt to say something off the wall at times.

But my best laid plans were interrupted around 11 a.m. when Lucy asked me if I was getting ready to go.

“Go where?”

“To RSVP—for lunch.”

“Oh yes, I forgot.” I really didn’t want to go. Lucy had intercepted the invite a week ago so it was not in my planned itinerary. I was the only way for Lucy to go, and I am on the list of volunteers too so it was mandatory to oblige.

Even though I inwardly objected, I dressed and we took off around 11:30 and arrived at the Union Hall (UAW) in Ontario just west of Mansfield. The room was almost full of the many volunteers who help out, already sitting at rows of tables and talking among themselves.

RSVP is an organization that organizes volunteers for various duties around a few counties. Lucy and I had done mailings for the Red Cross on occasion, and in 2005 there was an ice storm which produced a lot of local damage. The township had suggested writing to them about damages but then the order was given to call FEMA at an 800 number. Lucy and I spent all morning at the Municipal Office calling people who had written in to let them know they have to call FEMA to list their structural damages—and they would not be reimbursed for lost refrigerator or freezer food. (The electricity had been off for quite awhile at the time.) It was an interesting job. Since it started early in the morning some people answered by getting out of the shower, or even getting out of bed. Everyone was cordial about it though. They appreciated the information.

So now we were attending the annual awards luncheon, which was a bit of a departure from having it in the evening. They wanted to try a noon meeting for a change.

We found a place to sit. Kathie Cutlip, the RSVP Director, had already put a setting for us. One place had room for Lucy’s wheelchair.

One woman spotted me and asked if I work at the News Journal. I told her I used to; I stopped working there in April 2004. She had spotted my name on the list and knew it was familiar but now she had a face to put to it when I showed up. She had worked in the office of the News Journal before and had often seen me there. Her name was Susan Schuller and she was the RSVP Volunteer Coordinator. She told me she had left the News Journal in 2005.

I felt better about being there and we had a nice catered luncheon. Since I was on crutches one of the dining staff brought my tray to the table. Lucy put hers on the wheelchair foot deck to carry it to the table. She insists on helping herself.

After the luncheon Kathie Cutlip introduced the Honorable Donald Culliver, Mayor of Mansfield; the Honorable Gene Parkison, Mayor of Lexington (south of Mansfield); and the Honorable Ken Bender, Mayor of Ontario (west of Mansfield); along with Richland County Commissioner Gary Utt. They thanked the audience of volunteers for the service we rendered, noting how much of a financial burden was lifted by our voluntary service. They indicated how many hours were logged by our service and the benefits they did for the various organizations that used our services.

Afterward the names of people winning door prizes were called out. Lucy got a $5 discount for a meal at Mansfield Restaurants. There are two of them in Mansfield. I didn't get anything.

All in all we had a good time. I had a couple short sessions of coughing which I stifled with drinks of water or punch, and lemonade. We left before the main body of people left.

There was also another invite we had that day. We got word that Independent Living had two tickets to see The Barber of Seville at the Renaissance Theater in town at 8 p.m. I love Rossini’s music and we went off to the theater around 7:30. It was starting to rain and I told Lucy I could drop her off in front of the theater, but she insisted I just continue on to the parking lot. It wasn't raining that hard.

I pulled into the parking lot and there were two spaces left. I pulled into the space, knowing that I could open the side doors to let Lucy out into the other space available. I was about ready to open the doors when a car sailed into the space beside me and parked. Fortunately, I did not let my immediate feelings unnerve me. I just slowly backed up to allow our doors to be opened behind the offending vehicle. Someone behind me blew the horn as I was backing but I didn’t see them, and didn’t care at the time, as long as they didn’t hit me. I wasn't going to back very far. I just wanted to let Lucy off the van.

The driver beside us got out and realized what he did and stood there in apparent consternation to make sure we were OK as Lucy descended in her wheelchair. He repeatedly asked if everything was OK. We told him we were all right. To make conversation, Lucy told him we were fortunate to find parking spaces. He looked at me to make sure I was OK. I nodded and smiled (I think).

Something like that happened before at another shopping area, and the lady driver acknowledged that she understood what she did, as a sort of apology although she was in an awful hurry at the time. It doesn’t happen too often. I decide to take such things in stride, knowing that other drivers are often not living in our handicap world.

So…it wasn’t raining very much as I walked about a block to the theater. Lucy took off and disappeared and I caught up with her in the theater lobby. She was already in line to retrieve the tickets. I sat down in a nearby seat to wait.

We finally got into the theater itself. Our seats were in the back row but because Lucy was on a wheelchair we sat behind the last row and I sat in a chair they provided for me. It was a good spot to see the opera.

This is the first time I remember hearing the Mansfield Symphony. I was enthralled with the music. The vocals were in Italian and there was a small screen at the top which gave the audience the translations.

Lucy fell asleep at one point. She’s not an opera fan. I was getting bored with some of it too but I was mainly listening to the orchestra.

Then in the middle of it all all hell broke loose. I started getting into a fit of coughing. I tried to suppress it and I suppose the few rows in front of me thought I was strangling. A couple of people gave a cough in sympathy—or warning, and I was finally able to stop. Lucy gave me a stick of gum and that helped for the rest of the program. I had the idea to head out the door during the episode but I didn't know if they would let me back in during the performance.

Before Act II there was an intermission and we chose to leave at that point. I didn’t want another seizure of coughing. We went home and went to bed, and I stayed there through Sunday morning.

Another factor that got me in a bit of a snit on the weekend was that the Friday dialysis treatment did not go well. I was taken off treatment before the first hour, so I didn’t really have a treatment. (Treatments last four hours.) The machine didn’t work maybe because something was clogged in the access catheters in my chest. The nurse put in Activade which would sit in the lines until next treatment to dissolve any obstruction.

Monday was my next treatment. In the waiting room were a few people who asked me if I got a new catheter. I realized they had been discussing my leaving early on Friday among themselves. They were concerned. I told them what happened, and when the Monday treatment was over I told a couple who were still there that everything went OK, except that I didn’t tell them that I got into a nasty fit of coughing during treatment. I asked for water, which helped it somewhat, but I can’t wait for this session of spring health challenge to dissolve into oblivion. I had refused a flu shot a month ago. This isn't really the flu; it has to be a change-in-the-weather cold.

Lucy had the same thing a couple weeks ago. You can blame her for my misery—not really!

So, these are some of our adventures and misadventures that happen on an occasional basis. I guess you can call it a birthday present for Lucy. Her birthday is on April 22.

1994 Ford Econoline

2008-04-08T08:12:00.008-04:00

Sunday, March 30, was a nice day for a change. The weather was finally warming up after a winter of rain, snow and cold. The beginning of Spring had sneaked by on the calendar and we were waiting for more physical evidence of it. So the sun was shining on Sunday. Lucy and I were at church in Fredericksburg, Ohio which is 37 miles from home. I felt good about the day.

I have a 1994 Ford Econoline E150 van with a wheelchair lift (for picture see October 21, 2007)and I started turning it around to let Lucy get on in her power wheelchair. Something snapped in the van's steering mechanism and when I straightened out the steering wheel it snapped again. So what happened?

Not knowing too much about the details of some parts of the auto mechanics I went by what was happening after that—I could still steer, but there was something different about it while driving. There was more play in the steering wheel so I drove slower to the next destination—the Farmer Boy Restaurant in Wooster, about 10 miles away. When we arrived there, I looked underneath at all the grime and rust on the front axle but didn’t know what I was looking for, so after a nice meal of pork and sauerkraut for me, and a large salad for Lucy, we continued on home, another 40 miles. Route 30 west is a fairly straight run so I wasn’t worried about turning any sharp corners. I just didn’t want to lose the ability to steer and I drove slower, taking my time to get home in one piece. (Slower meant driving 55 mph. I usually drive 65.) After all, if I broke down, Lucy wouldn’t be able to ride in just any car—unless she abandoned her wheelchair. I also noticed that the steering wheel was not in the same position while driving on a straight run. God help us.

We finally arrived home and I breathed a sigh of relief. I would definitely have to get the van checked out in a day or two.

On Tuesday I got up early and planned to drive it to Monro auto mechanics. I had a fleeting thought that I would meet someone rather significant there. I drove it into town about 10 miles away to get serviced. This time there were turns to negotiate and I was careful to take it slowly. I thought there was even more play in the steering wheel, which was not good. I arrived at the service station and went straight into the parking lot and carefully parked it in front of the service bays.

I got out and headed for the service area and waiting room. A man inside, who later introduced himself as Gary, saw me approaching on crutches and he opened the door for me. He was quite conversational and we introduced ourselves to each other. He was also a customer and waiting for service on his car. Jim, the service tech, had already been alerted about my problem and he told me he would look at the van soon.

Gary and I talked meanwhile. I had never met him before but we had a lot to talk about. At one point I glanced out the window and noticed that they were moving my van and I idly wondered why it was just sitting in the middle between where I parked it, and the building. I couldn't see the whole scene so I didn't pay any more attention.

Later Jim walked in from the service area and, placing his hands on the service desk said, “Wes, you are blessed! The steering is gone completely. It took a couple of us to bring the van into the building. There are four bolts on the gear box and three of them are sheared off. The only way you had the ability to steer was by the one bolt left on and now that is broken too.” Later on he told me he couldn’t see how I was able to steer at all with the damage that had been done. He never saw anything like that before.

I would have loved to just junk the van and get another one, or at least trade it in for another one but, financially it was not feasible at this point. It would have to be fixed if possible. I called Lucy and told her the news and she was agreeable to getting it fixed. There had been a few problems with it recently but I had put quite a bit of money into getting it fixed up so we can try to get a few more hundred miles (or thousands) out of it. Jim gave an estimate on it; at least it was a lot cheaper than getting a new vehicle. Gary, sitting by and waiting for his own car to be worked on, told me it couldn’t be fixed in a day and offered to take me home. I gratefully agreed and he told Jim to not bother working on his car today, he would take me home.

Gary was retired and had been a faithful customer for years because he trusted Jim to do a good job on his vehicles. He didn’t have any emergency need for repair and was willing to accommodate me in my need for a ride home. We had a lot to talk about because of our similar backgrounds and it was a godsend all around for the circumstances to play out as they did.

Thank you God for the protection you afforded us.

Roman

2008-03-06T16:13:00.009-05:00

I first met Roman Yoder in 1993 when I came from New Jersey to Ohio to visit with Lucy, his oldest daughter. She had sent me a get well card and letter over a year before. It was after a period of hospitalization and recovery that I just needed to stretch my wings and take a vacation before going back to work. Lucy invited me to visit with her. Elisabeth, a good friend, offered to take me. I had been in correspondence with Lucy for about a year and it was about time I met her in person.

Roman was in his leather shop patching leather harnesses and other leather goods, and making leather fly swatters for businesses that sell Amish-made goods. He was very cordial and showed me around the shop. He also showed me a bird cage sitting on one of the tables with a sign "Florida Red Bats" fastened on it. He told me to look in the cage. I was rather hesitant until I spotted the bats in the bottom of the cage—tiny red baseball bats. He was amused at my reaction. He said someone sent it from Florida some time ago. It's a good conversation piece.

It wasn't long before I was seeing Lucy on a regular basis, driving 475 miles from New Jersey to north central Ohio alone on a Friday after work, and heading back on Sunday, arriving home in time to get a good night's rest and going to work on Monday.

On Christmas weekend I met almost the entire family and that's when I took the opportunity to let Lucy's mother (step-mother) know who I was and what my background was. I was born and raised Mennonite and my parents spoke Pennsylvania German, and I was never married before. We lived in an area of Pennsylvania where most parents did not teach a second language to the next generation.

Over the course of a few months it was evident that we had a lasting interest in each other and we got engaged on February 27, my birthday. Of course, Lucy's Amish family heard about it but didn't seem to object, especially her parents. She was old enough to make her own decisions. One day when Roman and I were alone, he suggested we could get married in the Amish church. And there would be a lot of food to eat afterward . . . of course, if I become Amish. I politely declined. I didn't know the language that well. I was not a strong person and the Amish work pretty hard. And another reason I didn't voice; I could not give up my piano and accordion. The Amish can be musical but having a piano would be too much, especially for the more conservative Ashland, Ohio Amish. Beside vocal singing, harmonicas are about their limit in musical expression, mainly among the young people. But I didn't see that either.

It was also evident that Lucy would have to leave the Amish; she would be banned from returning unless she chose to rejoin the group. Roman was most likely trying to avoid the inevitable. Although I declined the invitation to join their ranks, it was evident that he liked me.

After we got married we still took liberties to visit with her parents, Roman and Emma. One day I took my accordion and played a few tunes for them. Another time we came in time for dinner (lunch) and they gave us each a plate of food. Lucy, respectfully adhering to the edict of not sitting at the same table with the church members when "you have departed from the faithful", sat on a chair away from the table. Roman obligingly invited her to sit at the table. There were no other Amish around to be critical of the arrangement. The gesture spoke of Roman's generosity and practicality.

Often when we visited, Roman was in his shop so I would take Lucy up to the house to visit with her mother, and then I'd visit with Roman. He'd often stop what he was doing and invite me to sit in the chair by his desk and we'd talk for an hour or more. The subjects? Current events, historical events, church history. I made it clear that Menno Simons (1496-1561) and Jacob Amman (1644-before 1730) were not contemporaries of each other. We discussed some Biblical events and I gave some of my more progressive views of my own experiences. He listened politely. Who's to say if he agreed with me. Some of what I said is written elsewhere in this blog.

One day I delivered a death notice of someone who had passed away. The Amish don't have ready access to a telephone so we have to deliver important messages in person. I talked about things afterward until another Amishman came into the shop. Roman immediately explained my presence; maybe to avoid criticism of associating with the "English" too much. Nonetheless, he ignored me and they talked their own language. It was a cue for me to leave and I went up to the house and visited with Lucy and Emma for awhile and then we soon went home.

On the early morning of June 30, 2007 I was sleeping on an armchair in the living room and, half asleep and half awake, I saw a group of black triangles appear up at the ceiling and group together into a larger triangle. Then the whole ceiling was decked in black squares like a checkerboard. Then on the wall there appeared a shape like a plaque and writing started to form. My thought at the time was that perhaps someone died or was in the process. I tried to read it, suspecting a name or something, but then the writing stopped, and reversed and then everything disappeared, and I fully woke up. What was it?

We had a party that day with quite a few ex-Amish young people. It was a birthday party for one of Lucy's nephews who had just left the Amish. A couple of ABC producers from New York were there with a TV camera to interview some of them for an upcoming documentary to be aired perhaps sometime during 2008. Lucy got a phone call to say that her father had a stroke or seizure of some kind. With what I had experienced that morning I ventured to tell her that he is OK. We visited with him a few days later and he didn't seem to be the worse for the experience, but there was something different about him.

As we were leaving he stood on the porch and watched us go. I waved and he waved back. It seems that he had the habit of seeing us off like that—a certain measure of respect for us. I'm sure he loved his daughter. He had spent a lot of time with her in her childhood, helping her recover from the effects of polio which overtook a lot of children in the 1950s. It was necessary to help her exercise to gain strength for her limbs after returning home from months in an Akron children's hospital.

In August 2007 Emma passed away. His first wife, Lizzie, Lucy's mother, had passed away in 1952 and now he was a widower again. He started to go downhill gradually, and in February 2008 he showed signs of deteriorating more. He became bedridden and his family came to his aid and made him as comfortable as possible, with advice from the family doctor. His son Melvin and wife, came from Wisconsin, and his other son Danny and wife, and his daughter Verba and husband came from southern Ohio to tend to him. Others of the family came to tend to him in turn. He evidently was not suffering but they kept him comfortable, putting him in a chair for awhile every day. A hospice nurse came to check on him now and then.

On Saturday, March 1, we visited with Roman and he had changed drastically; lost a lot of weight. They told us he wasn't eating anymore and they hardly could give him sips of water. They at least moistened his lips. We visited for a couple of hours and then Lucy approached him and told him we were leaving. It was evident that he understood but he never spoke; he just nodded his head. That was the last we saw of him alive.

The next day I was playing the piano at home with a beautiful tune, Light A Candle, Light the World, I had just learned. Lucy got the phone call from her brother-in-law Andy. Lucy's Dad had passed away Sunday around noon. The funeral would be on March 5.

On March 4 there was an ice storm but we went shopping, and Lucy had a doctor appointment. There was ice to scrape off at each stop but we got home before it rained even harder, and froze into sheets of ice. At 9:30 p.m. we lost our electricity and it stayed lost all night. In the morning we headed for the Roman Yoder farm to attend the funeral.

Lucy is on a power wheelchair but I was able to park right near the house and someone helped her into the house, which was full of Amish people, and a few ex-Amish and "English". I took a little longer to get out of the van and I walked with crutches, being careful not to slip on the ice. I had broken my leg in December and was still on the mend.

They led me to a room where other ex-Amish were placed. The Ashland Amish are quite conservative and they seem to take pains to keep the Amish separated from us English, although they are nice about it for the most part.

At 9 a.m. a preacher started talking but I didn't understand much of what he said. He was speaking Pennsylvania German, or Amish as some call it. He droned on for maybe 45 minutes. At one point he was speaking in a rather eloquent tone. I leaned over to my brother-in-law Joe and said, "I wish I knew what he just said." Joe whispered back, "If you knew that God was coming to your house, you would dress in your best clothes, gather your family around you, and wait." It was a good admonition for those who would be more spiritually minded but how many really believe such a sentiment.

We all had a chance to go by the coffin to pay last respects to the deceased. Then it was taken to the cemetery while others stayed behind and prepared for the noon meal. We didn't go to the cemetery due to the after-effects of the inclement experienced in the region the day before.

The next few hours were a bedlam of conversation among friends and strangers alike. An Amish pastime is talking. Many come from adjoining States and it was a mixture of catching up on the local news of familiar friends and relatives, to making new friends, although most of the Amish know each other. Lucy was in her element, talking to many whom she hadn't seen for a long time. They were cordial to her and she was able to catch up on the whatever the Amish talking about. I, meanwhile, sat and waited for people to talk to me. I'm not much of a conversation starter.

One man, Dan Miller, a former bishop, engaged in a conversation about his collection of purple martin houses which were soon going to be filled with migrating martins who come every year to his property. They fly to South America later in the year and in the spring they come back and often occupy the same house they were born in.

I met another Amishman whose wife recently had a kidney transplant. He talked about it to me since Lucy had told him that I was eligible for a kidney transplant.

I was eventually ready to go home—admittedly before Lucy was ready—but we went back home and had another get-together of ex-Amish who went through the same process; talking about old times, new events, and eating pizza, among other things.

I asked Lucy what her father was like when growing up. She said he was one who didn't mind being alone, and he usually was the last to come to the table, but was rather perturbed if he had to be kept waiting for anything. She said she doesn't remember him ever disciplining the children. He left that up to Mom. His kind-heartedness left a great legacy of a generous and kind man who will be missed for awhile.

Roman Yoder is missed but it is the honorable way of life to leave this world after a period of time and join back to where we came from in the first place, ready to evaluate the life we had experienced and continue with life in spirit . . . until the next round, if we so choose.

Moosonee, Ontario

2008-03-01T09:27:00.004-05:00

In the days when I was single, the first week of July 1990, I took a long drive to Moononee, Ontario, a small settlement along the Moose River near James Bay in the sub-arctic. Ninety percent of the inhabitants of the village were Cree .

I picked the first week in July because I would have only four days vacation taken off of my two-week allotment because of the Independence Day holiday on July 4. I picked Canada because it is my favorite vacation spot, and an excellent chance to escape the infernal New Jersey heat we had at the time. And I had a road-worthy 1983 Honda to galavant around in. Judging by the distance to my destination, I was destined for a l-o-o-n-g ride—or rather, rides. I would drive to Cochran and then take the train to Moosonee, via the Polar Bear Express.

Elisabeth, a friend of mine, needed to go to the Kennedy Airport in New York so I offered to take her on my way to Canada on June 30. She and her daughter Malia were going to Switzerland.

It was a 100-mile drive and the traffice on the Beltway in New York was horrendous. Her flight was scheduled to leave at 7 p.m. but we left extra early in case there was an earlier flight. I dropped them off and left the airport at 5 p.m. The 7 o'clock flight was cancelled so they had to take the next flight—at 1 a.m. I wasn't about to wait that long to see her off. If they were going to miss that flight too, some of our mutual friends would just have to pick her up if a worst-case scenario presented itself.

Meanwhile, I traveled back toward New York City via the jam-packed Beltway and eventually got out of its sweltering environs and headed north toward Albany. I didn't know how long the trip would take on this leg of the journey but my intentions were to arrive Lloyd's and Maryann's house that evening, about 15 miles from the Canadian border. Maryann is my first cousin—a double cousin, our fathers were brothers, our mothers were sisters. I had called her up before I left home, told her I would stop in and she invited me to stay a day or two with her family.

Before I left New Jersey, I had bought three nice-looking watermelons at Produce Junction, figuring a family of 10 kids could make short work of one in a hurry. I was conscious of the heat with the watermelons in back of the car, but they grew up in hot weather, so what's the risk?

I traveled west toward Syracuse via Interstate 90, a toll road. Hours passed and at midnight I decided to stop at a motel. I had warned Maryann that I might show up pretty late, perhaps even at two in the morning and she said she didn't mind, she was used to it. But I was too tired to travel for another 2-1/2 hours so I stopped at Utica, NY, and stayed at a motel.

I called her up in the morning and apologized. Being Sunday, she invited me to church if I could get there before the service was over. I would have to leave right away in that case, so I gathered everything together and reached in my pocket for the car keys. No keys anywhere. I'm not one to habitually lock my keys in the car but I meekly sneaked out to look and spotted them in the back, behind the back seat where I had opened the trunk the evening before. And the doors were locked.

Triple-A came within 20 minutes and had the door open in 25 seconds. But I decided to take my good old time to head north so I stopped at McDonald's for a leisurely breakfast. It wouldn't do any good to starve for the next couple of hours. At 11:45 I arrived at my destination and decided not to go over to the church. It was probably over anyway. Anyway, I could use a nap after all that driving. I went into the house and I napped for over a half hour on the couch until they arrived—Maryann, Lloyd and their 10 children: Keturah, Loyal, Hannah, Victor, James, Justus, Nathan, Micah, Joshua, and little Lloyd, Jr.

I spent the next two days there. I had my camera and would have just loved to take all their pictures, but I made do with just a few shots of the family and a double rainbow which was displayed after a rainstorm. Almost everyone went outside to see the rainbow; even the little children in their bare feet. One of the children had picked flowers for his mother some time before and I noticed them on the table. Three-year-old Lloyd decided to pick flowers for his mother also. He proudly walked into the house with one of his Mom's prize marigolds clutched in his hand, with the roots dangling and dirt littering the floor. Maryann almost screamed, but just couldn't scold the generous boy. It was such an endearing gesture so she took the flower and suggested to him that they plant it outside. "But aren't you going to put it in a jar?" he replied.

At the dinner table I told them a joke: "There are three kinds of people in the world—those who can count, and those who can't." The children laughed uproarously. Maryann looked puzzled, "But that's two," which was even funnier to the kids. For dessert we had watermelon, the ripest and most luscious watermelon I saw yet! I was glad I brought them.

Fortified with Maryann's excellent cooking and everyone's hospitality, I left on Tuesday morning to travel to Ottawa, the Canadian federal capital, to visit the Science and Technology Museum. I just wanted to spend a couple of hours there before going to Cochran. I did some hasty calculations and studied the map for the route to Cochran where I would meet the train.

Route 17 follows the border between Ontario and Quebec provinces so some of the road signs are in French: Garde la droite sauf pour dèpasser—Keep to the right except to pass. Near large towns, which were very few and far between, I listened to an occasional radio station. But for the most part, the airwaves were ominously quiet. I was mostly driving through wilderness devoid of inhabitants.

You never realize how big the earth is until you travel over a good portion of it. Ontario is huge at 70% the size of Alaska and 150% the size of Texas. Over half of it is wild wilderness only accessible by airplane or canoe. Ordinary tour maps don't bother to show the whole province. There are many provincial parks and fish and game abound, although I didn't see so much as a moose during the entire trip.

I traveled for the rest of the day. I had left Ottawa at round 2 p.m. Tuesday and I began to realize how far Cochran was as the day wore on. It was nice and warm and the humidity was low; ideal travel weather. I drove with my lights on like I saw many other drivers do. The cars are easier to see at long distances and easier to gauge if you want to pass some slow-poke in front of you. No one traveled at 55 mph. Sixty-five seemed to be the standard speed and I was often passed even then—even by tractor trailers.

I turned due north at North Bay following Route 11 which would take me into Cochran. At 10 p.m. it was still light enough to see without lights but then it grew dark and started to rain. And I mean rain! The lightning flashed all around but I don't remember hearing any thunder. Strange! I kept up to speed though—65 mph. With a tractor-trailer behind you, you don't want to let him pass if you can help it. It gets awful nasty following one in the rain.

I was getting pretty close to my destination when I noticed my fuel gauge approaching empty. I can travel over 400 miles on a tank of gas but I had done almost twice that today. At Iroquois Falls I was about ready to pull into a Texaco station when another rainstorm sent blinding sheets of rain. A car ahead of me was traveling at high speed and for some reason I decided to keep following, forgetting the concern about fuel. It was easier to see the road farther ahead when there were tail lights to follow. Cochran was only about 50 miles or less and I took the chance to get there by 11 a.m. if I kept moving. So, rain or not, I continued on. The tail lights disappeared occasionally and a flash of lightning would reveal the road ahead. It was rather dangerous I admit, but I was a daring kind of guy.

At long last, Cochran hove into view. I stopped at a garage by a darkened motel and asked if there were any other motels in town. Yes they were, but they were probably all booked up. I went to a lighted motel and enquired. I asked if there were any available motels in the vicinity of Cochran. She called a number. Yes, there was a vacancy about a half hour back down Route 11 at Iroquois Falls. I wasn't about to spend the night in the car when there was a chance to get a motel, so I hightailed it back to Iroquois Falls, keeping a weather eye on the fuel gauge. It was getting precariously low but I was heading back for the Texaco station and could fill up there...if it didn't close by the time I got there.

I had a few scary moments though, because I didn't see any lighted station where I thought the gas station should be. I even turned around to double check its whereabouts but it was too dark to see clearly. Yikes! If I run out of gas, I'd kick myself.

As it happened, I still had another 10 miles to go. And with a sigh of relief I belly-landed by the gas pumps at the Texaco station, filled it up with $29 worth of gas (Canadian dollars were 15% above American) and sped off into Iroquois Falls to the Glendale Motel.

Yech, the room smelled of stale cigarette smoke. In spite of the nice cool weather, I turned on the air conditioner fan to air out the place. I wasn't about to lose sleep over a few odd odors; I wanted to leave at 7 a.m. to travel back to Cochran to catch the 8:30 train to Moosonee. I hadn't bought a ticket yet. Last week I had reserved a room at the Polar Bear Lodge in Moosonee and the lady had told me there would be plenty of room on the train without reservations.

The next morning dawned bright and early. In fact, the day dawned some time well before 5 a.m. It was refreshingly cool outside as I traveled the next 40 miles to Cochran, flying low all the way.

People were staring to gather at the train station to take the Polar Bear Express. Tourists, railroad personnel, Cree Indians, and me. I bought a ticket and waited.

At about 8:45 we were off for the 4-1/2 hour trip to the end of the lnie on Ontario Northland Rail, 186 miles to the north at Moosonee.

There wasn't much scenic variety to see on the trip. There were pine trees all the way that gradually diminished to scrub pines and muskeg. Thousands of miles around was wild wilderness which was inhabited only by hardy people such as the Cree Indians, seasoned trappers and hunters, and farther to the north, the Inuits, or Eskimos.

I had often read of the Arctic and this was the closest I had come to it so far. It is a harsh and lonely land, but it is quite tolerable in the summer, especially here in the southern edge of the sub-arctic. The mosquitoes were practically gone so there wasn't much need for mosquito repellent this time of year.

We finally stepped off the train into the cool, sunny climate of northeastern Ontario. Even in early July, I was glad I had my sweater on. It was nice and warm in the sun when the breeze wasn't blowing, but the air had an arctic chill to it. I loved it.

A bus from the Polar Bear Lodge transported us to the motel and I checked in. It was quite cool in my room but I didn't see any switch on the heating unit along the wall. But at least it wasn't too cold. I came here to escape the heat. Outside, the streets were dusty and some streets were watered down to keep the dust down. It looked like a little shanty down with a school, grocery store, post office, churches, and other business places.

New Jersey was quite hot when I left it, but this was a cold 50ish kind of weather. I was afraid the cold would create problems for me so I had a nice soak in the bathtub, took a nap, and then went out to invade the town. The Wilderness Tour would wait until the next day. In the confusion of things, I missed the notice that a boat would leave for Fossil Island at 5 p.m. There are fossils along the Moose River and tourists are free to pick up whatever they find. The fossils are of sea life indigenous to tropical waters which gives one pause as to what really happened to earth for millions of years.

In the evening I was sitting on a bench, looking out over the Moose River as another tourist stood there, filming it with his video camera. The wind chill factor was intensifying as the sun was setting and the coat I was wearing was a little too light, but it felt good. The tourist ambled over and I commented, "This doesn't feel like July, does it?"

"No, it certainly doesn't, but it's a dry cold."

"Where are you from?" I asked.

He hesitated. "Bermuda."

"That's a switch. Everyone likes to go there for vacation."

"Well," he replied, "when you live in a tourist spot, you don't necessarily tour it. In Bermuda, the humidity is so high there it's downright uncomfortable. The temperature may go up to 86 during the day, and drop to 84 at night. During the winter it's cold if it goes down to 60."

It was certainly below 60 as we spoke, maybe even in the 40s and after awhile I went back to the motel. I wanted to wait up to see if the aurora borealis displayed itself in the night sky, but I figured I'd have to wait pretty long for that. The sun was still above the horizon at 9:30, but I went to bed anyway. I heard later that it didn't get dark until almost 11 o'clock.

There was a radio in my room and I listened to the Moosonee station for awhile and heard the weather forecast. The temperature is measured in Celsius and it was supposed to go down to 2 to 5 degrees, which translates to 35 to 41 degrees F. I opened the window slightly anyway. I wanted to take advantage of all the fresh air I could get while I was here. However, during the night the room got quite cold and the heater kicked in. I shut the window.

Checkout time was 10 o'clock but I wanted to take the Wilderness Tour at 9 a.m. so I gathered up all my belongings and took the suitcase to the front desk. They stowed it in their office until I would leave at 5 p.m. Then I purchased a ticket for the boat ride to James Bay and a tour of Moose Factory Island.

The overnight weather was true to the forecast. I took my sweater, light jacket, and medium jacket to ensure that I wasn't going to be a victim of hypothermia. The boat ride was uneventful but interesting, if you like history. The Hudson Bay Company did a lot of business with the Indians in this part of the world during the 17th to 20th centuries. Fur trading was lively, but so were occasional territorial disputes. The British traded with the hunters and trappers, and the French tried to get a foothold in the region. Battles ensued, but the worst killer of all was the weather. Extreme temperatures played havoc on new settlers, and they were no match for prolonged sub-zero weather and icy winds. But the Hudson Bay Company thrived, thanks to the rich and fertile region of beaver, caribou, lynx, fox, marten, moose, bear, seal, walrus, and whale. They traded furs to the European market in return for supplies.

The Moose River also told tales. The banks of the river were gouged and scarred with trees toppled at some points. The river freezes up in the winter and the spring breakup of ice does its fair share of trying to widen the river by the sheer quantity of ice which can be as thick as four feet. Toward the mouth of the river the boat captain pointed out some ice along the banks in the distance which still hadn't melted.

We turned around when we came to James Bay. The next part of the trip was a tour of Moose Factory Island in the middle of the Moose River. It was the site of the Hudson Bay Company for years and now there were museums and craft shops where tourists could buy handmade trinkets, furs, bead necklaces, artist's drawings and knickknacks. I managed to take a picture of a group of Cree children selling trinkets, spontaneously posing for me when I asked (picture at beginning of article).

All in all, the trip was a very interesting experience for me. The train left around 5 p.m. and we tourists arrived back in Cochran at almost 10 o'clock. It was almost light outside and I drove another three hours before calling it quits. I stayed at a nice motel in the middle of nowhere and the next morning I started out again at 8 a.m. I arrived in Kitchen, Ontario at around 3:30.

I usually visit the Haldemann goat farm when in the area and they were glad to see me. They told me to stay as long as I wanted to. I stayed overnight an went to the Ontario Farmers Market in Waterloo before going home. I found what I wanted and got back to the farm laden down with fruit drink powder—flavor crystals—which I wanted to take back to the States. Mrs. Haldemann asked when I was leaving. "Right away," I said. But first she wanted to give me "supper." It was more like lunch, being only 1 o'clock, and I sat down for a generous helping of meat, potatoes, and salad. Goat meat, that is. Delicious!

I then took off and traveled south for about 10 hours, and got home after midnight. The trusty Honda did itself proud. And my horizons were broadened by the experience.

Leap Year

2008-02-29T19:13:00.002-05:00

I was born on a leap year, which doesn't mean much unless you're born on February 29. I was born on the 27th. I often wondered if there were many people who were born on the 29th. I found one in Lancaster County, PA over 30 years ago who was a fellow USDA poultry inspector who worked across from me. Sorry, I don't remember his name. He told me he celebrated his birthday on March 1 in the off years.

Then I met another one at the Center the other day. John is on dialysis like I am and when February 29th rolled around we found out about it. He told us he celebrated his birthday every four years. He is 15 leap years old.

When I was 25 my brother Dave and a couple sisters and their spouses took me to a dinner theater in Philadelphia, PA for my birthday where a delightful comic opera, The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan, was playing. Frederic was an apprentice, born on February 29th and apprenticed to a life of piracy and then he was asked to change his career. But because he was technically only 5 leap years old he was told he had to wait out the apprenticeship until age 21 which would be 84 regular years.

There is an Honor Society of Leap Year Babies on the internet.

And don't forget Anthony, Texas, "the Leap Capital of the World."

Mall of America

2008-02-26T13:06:00.003-05:00

I did some traveling in July 1993 where I flew alone to Minneapolis and spent a long weekend in Minnesota. I stayed at the Wasie Center of the Abbott Northwestern Hospital for two nights. On Saturday, I attended a conference at the Minneapolis Children’s Medical Center. It was a conference dealing with children born with medical conditions similar to what I had to deal with. When I arrived, someone asked me about my child. I said, "I'm the child." I was the then the center of attention to a few people who met me, who realized I was a survivor. There were a few speakers and when they asked for questions or comments from the audience, I had a few suggestions to offer.

My flight back home wouldn’t leave until Monday evening so I had two days to kill. I rented a car so on Sunday morning I headed north. The Mississippi River was overflowing its banks in nearby St. Paul, and roads were flooded here and there in southern Minnesota, so northbound was the best bet for a decent addendum to my vacation. I headed for Duluth. I would visit the Mall of America on my way back.

Duluth is right on the tip of Lake Superior. A small city of ships, granaries, and ore docks. I toured the S.S. William A. Irvin, a 610-foot steam ship. Then I took a cruise on a tour boat on to Lake Superior for a trip to Superior, Wisconsin, past the docks and factories, being narrated all the way. It was refreshingly cold for July, temps in the 50s or 60s.

At the end of the day I stayed at a motel in town and headed south to Minneapolis in the morning. It was 42 degrees and cloudless. You could see for miles and miles. I stopped at a small restaurant along the way for breakfast for beef hash, scrambled eggs, and sourdough bread. Pure heaven! I even stopped at the Grand Casino in Hinkley, Minnesota, prepared to lose $10, which I did. I escaped before I would go to the next $10. I’m not much of a gambler.

On the way I listened to Talk Radio which discussed the bombing of Baghdad in retaliation for the plot against President Bush. Most thought it was a bad move on President Clinton’s part. If we want to have a reputation as a peace-loving nation, we shouldn’t resort to aggression like that. One caller suggested that they should have taken the Kuwaiti policemen that discovered the plot, brought them to the U.S. and gave them well-publicized commendations, to show to the Iraqi people, and the world, that we indeed are an honorable country. But maybe we’re not so honorable these days.

I just had to visit the famed Mall of America, the largest shopping mall in the country. It wasn’t far from where I had rented the car so I traveled the 150+ miles back to Minneapolis and Bloomington and parked on one of the decks of the huge parking garage. I locked the car and headed inside. I walked all over the place—stopped here and there to buy something, but just mostly looked around. It is an interesting place. There were a few courtesy desks here and there.

About three hours before flight time I got tired of walking and headed back to the car. I put my hand in my pocket for the keys…and they weren’t there! I searched all my pockets for the keys…at least twice! I didn’t really panic for I could probably contact the rental agency who might have another set, but I wanted to find those keys.

I went into the men’s room. Not there. To Camp Snoopy, the adventure park, and the place I bought a taco salad. Not there. To the place I bought some post cards. The manager said there was a Lost and Found but he was rather cynical about it. “You better hope they don’t have them, you’ll have to sign your life away to retrieve them.” I really didn’t understand his logic.

I went to one of the courtesy and asked if anyone turned in any car keys. A lady showed me a set. They weren’t the ones. It would be only one key. The lady asked the supervisor who came along. She said she remembered seeing a key at one of the other stations. She called and checked. By golly, they were there! On the other side of the mall. She told the person someone would be along to claim them. I walked over to the south side and got the keys. I didn’t have to sign anything. You can believe I held onto those keys tightly as I headed for the car.

The 6:15 flight was delayed, wouldn’t you know! The announcer told us four flight attendants for this flight were still coming in on another flight. We would depart as soon as they got here. Later, it was announced that a couple of airline managers were aboard the flight and agreed to help in boarding the passengers, which would then take off as soon as the attendants arrived. Then we sat about 10 minutes in the plane until the flight attendants scrambled aboard and we were off.

As soon as we took off and leveled off at 37,000 feet, the Captain announced that that there would be some heavy weather enroute to Philadelphia so they were taking a more northerly tack over Wisconsin, Michigan, and then south over Harrisburg and southeast to Philadelphia. We can expect a bumpy ride here and there. And bumpy it was. I could feel the plane crabbing a little (being pushed a little sideways) when hit by a crosswind. It took only 2 hours flying time but it was after 10 p.m. when we arrived in Philadelphia safe and sound. I was glad when I finally got home at 11 p.m.

Bicycling

2008-02-20T14:08:00.001-05:00

It was May 1993. I lived in Merchantville, New Jersey at the time. I endeavored to take a bicycle journey—going a longer distance than ever before. Friday was a perfect day—quite warm, and Saturday promised to be the same. In the middle of the night sometime, I promised myself I’d get an early start in the morning and ride as far as I could. Maybe even down to the shore. This was about 60 miles away.

I arose at 5 a.m. and by 5:20 I was out the door into the cool morning air. It was just light enough to see and be seen but the sun wasn’t up yet.

The birds were warming up their vocal chords for their daily songfest, and it was a bit brisk as one traveled along. I was dressed in a green long-sleeved sweater, assured that later I would have to shed it n the exertion of pedaling.

I knew the route I wanted to take; the only question was if I could take it for the whole day or fade along the way. Route 38, just a mile away, runs east for about 18 miles to Route 72, which goes to points south all the way to the shore—to Ship Bottom if I crossed the bay to the outer island. Would I be able to make it? I had traveled to 72 before but had turned around from the growing exhaustion. It was almost halfway to the seashore. The distance from Merchantville to Ship Bottom is about 56 miles.

I had 10 gears to keep me occupied on the grades and levels of the route. My idea was to stop here and there along the way for some refreshment. About 4 miles along the way, I came upon a Texaco station and had a meager breakfast of a bologna and cheese sandwich and cranberry juice. I was becoming more aware of unused muscles that hadn’t seen much action for quite awhile but the refreshment and short relaxation gave me new strength. I continued on toward Mt. Holly. Traffic was light and I was able to speed along at 10 miles per hour or more.

I became pleasantly aware of the fragrance of the air. The fresh clean smell of grass, of newly plowed fields, was in itself invigorating. On the other side of Mt. Holly the fragrance decayed to the faint odor of a landfill. On my left was a huge mound that spread over half a mile well outside of town. In the middle was a power station that supplies electricity from within the bowels of the thousands of tons of refuse that lies buried. The landfill is closed and sealed.

The road was rather smooth traveling. The shoulder was wide enough to travel without fear of being sideswiped by a passing car. I kept my ears open and the rearview mirror was useful for analyzing the situation behind. One had to be careful.

Although New Jersey is relatively flat, you could easily sense the lay of the land by the upgrades and downgrades. The gentle slope of the route by Mt. Holly attested to the fact that surely Mt. Holly is indeed a mountain. You could tell I was not too used to long rides yet; my second wind hadn’t kicked in yet. But I had 10 gears to choose from, like I said, and I therefore was able to continue the cadence without difficulty.

It must have been at the 12-mile mark when I came to a Cumberland Farms mini-market. I needed more refreshment to sustain myself. But when I got off the bike I really felt the strain of the miles I had already traveled. My legs felt rubbery. Clearly I was not going to be able to accomplish what I thought I might set out to do. Every 100 feet I traveled was another 100 feet I would have to retrace so I became more conscious of how far I was going.

Route 38 ended at a turnoff to points toward the seashore, and Route 72. I had traveled this route before but I didn’t remember how many miles it was to Route 72. However, the route was quite pleasant and I passed a blueberry field with bushes ablaze with blossoms in the morning sunlight. Somewhere to my right a bobwhite called. I imitated it and it answered back. I was fast becoming attuned to nature.

Farther on was a swamp and as I passed by, from somewhere within came the unmistakable resonant sound of bullfrogs. Maybe they were answered the mating call of my bicycle chain softly clicking in the sprockets.

But I was beginning to tire. I had more second thoughts about going too far. I would have to retrace the whole route back so it would not do to travel too far. Then it hit me! Breakfast! I hadn’t had a substantial breakfast! I probably had long ago drained out all the nutrition (if indeed there was any) from the bologna and cheese sandwich I had earlier. I hoped there’d be a place to stop along the way now, but I was getting into no-man’s land. The state forest was all around me—the Pine Barrens, they call it.

But I eventually came upon a restaurant in the middle of the forest. Not having a lock for my bike, I parked it by a window to keep it in view from inside. It was a rather small place, made of logs. It was now about 9 a.m.

Another couple was also entering the restaurant and another couple was contentedly feasting on their breakfast—but not a waitress in sight. It was small dining room with a decided frontier atmosphere. We waited.

A couple of waitresses finally appeared. “My goodness, there are more people here!” Typical of country humor, someone remarked in return, “That’s what happens when you keep the door unlocked.”

They hurriedly distributed the menus and poured the coffee. It’s surprising (maybe not so surprising) how much addiction is prevalent in society. Most people need—no, demand—a cup of coffee to get started in the morning. I declined. I don’t drink coffee and that was the time I didn’t drink caffeinated sodas. The last time I was in the hospital, I went cold turkey off of caffeine. It was a miserable couple of days of withdrawal but I hadn’t drunk any Pepsi or Coke since about seven months before, which is a record. I remember drinking Pepsi years before, sometimes a 6-pack a day.

The menu prices were quite reasonable. I picked the eggs-over-medium with sausage for $3.75 and orange juice and waited. Every once in a while I glanced out the window at my bicycle.

Waiting for the order, I took advantage of the time. I got up to use the restroom and was chagrined to find out I could hardly lift myself off the chair. I wasn’t sore, but almost paralyzed it seemed. Hurry up with that breakfast!

By the time breakfast was over, I was more relaxed. I could feel my legs returning to normal. And it wasn’t long before I was out the door again. But my mind was made up. I would take Route 70 west toward home as soon as I came to the Route 72 circle.

By this time the day was quite warm. The sky was cloudless and flowers were in full bloom here and there. The Pine Barrens was on either side of me, the Red Lion Circle (New Jersey still has circles at many intersections). I was approaching Medford Lakes where my sister lives.

I could not envision finishing the final 15-20 miles of the run so at the Evergreen Dairy Bar just outside Medford I called my sister Jane. She borrowed Dad’s station wagon to pick me up and we went to her place. I had traveled 34 miles. Later Dad took me home to Merchantville. Everything was still intact—I wasn’t the worse for wear.

I felt good after that…more invigorated. I had ridden my bike before in the mornings before going to work and it always set the tone for the day, full of energy, even after a 5- to 10-mile run. I never did ride bike to the shore.

Jonathan

2008-02-19T08:04:00.001-05:00

It was around 1989 or 1990 when I attended my niece’s high school graduation in Souderton, PA. And afterwards we had a party at my brother Ron’s house. One of their neighbors was invited over and the party didn’t really liven up until they got there. They brought their son Jonathan, an inquisitive, talkative five-year-old who was smartly dressed up in suit and tie. The first comment he made when he walked in the door was, as he looked around the room, “Mom, thewe awe no othew childwen hewe.”

“No,” his mother replied, “this is a graduation party. Just behave yourself.”

Jonathan did have the run of the house and yard, but his mother kept a constant vigil on his whereabouts. “Jonathan, what are you doing?” … “Jonathan, don’t spill it on your clothes.” … “Jonathan, don’t go beyond the fence.” … “Jonathan, didn’t I tell you not to go beyond the fence?” … “Jonathan, come here. Now look into my eyes and promise you won’t go farther than the fence. It’s dark out there.”

Thanks to Jonathan’s nature, he apparently wasn’t too intimidated by his mother—he obediently complied, and promptly forgot. The exuberance of his own curiosity and outlook on life won out. But his mother began to realize the scenes she was creating for the rest of the group. Even her husband had a look of chagrin on his face. She was becoming the center of attraction although we were sitting out on the patio away from the main group. So she explained it to me.

She married late, is over forty, and Jonathan is her only child. And frankly she wasn’t accustomed to how to raise a child. She felt he was so fragile, and didn’t really know his limits, or what limits to set for him.

I then decided to help her with my own perspective. I told her that I remember when I was six years old, and Ron was five. We climbed 50-foot silos, whether empty or full—in the dark, to catch pigeons. As I described it to her (quite descriptively, I admit) she began to be affected by my story. I could see her getting a little pale as she listened transfixed.

She exclaimed at one point, “Weren’t you afraid of falling?” I told her we were conscious of the danger, but we were careful.

“Did you ever fall?”

“Yes,” I replied, “when I was eight years old I climbed the silo to throw silage down for a herd of 40 cows. In the process of checking how much I had thrown down, I slipped on a rung just as I was starting to climb down and fell hind-end-to all the way to the bottom—about 30 feet I’d say. Fortunately, I wasn’t hurt.”

It was too much for her sensibilities and she bolted to another topic of discussion.

Trip to Columbus

2008-02-09T07:19:00.000-05:00

On Monday, February 4, Lucy and I went for a scheduled trip to OSU Medical in Columbus. I was being re-evaluated for a kidney transplant. It was not a pleasant trip.I had some misgivings about the trip, mainly because the 1994 Ford Econoline E-150 van started acting up. It started out by making extraneous noises which I couldn't place. Lucy also heard it and commented on it. I hoped it wasn't the transmission but I don't know enough about cars and trucks to make an educated guess. There was one point where I thought of taking it to Monro to get checked out, but I didn't feel good so I didn't follow through. It would have been better if I had made the effort.

Anyway, going out the door, at 6 a.m. it was risky because I was walking with crutches and there was slick ice everywhere, and dark. I gingerly walked out to the van and backed it around closer to the house so Lucy could get on on her wheelchair. Going out the lane, there was a little noise in the direction of the transmission but it wasn't too pronounced and soon went away as the van warmed up. We took off and headed for Route 30 East and then south on Interstate 71. The Route 71 entrance is only a couple miles from our place. According to Mapquest, our destination was 71 miles away. Our appointment was at 8 a.m. The van was running OK.

We arrived early and waited about 20 minutes for the doors to open. Others had arrived early too, and waited in the lobby. When the doors opened I signed in and waited. When my name was called I gave them needed information and was told to go to Room 135. It would be a full day.

There were a few other kidney recipients and donors, and I had my own donor, who arrived a few minutes after the office was opened. Esther is Lucy's cousin and she offered to donate a kidney after she saw my plea for a kidney donation in a Christmas letter over a year ago. I had been to Columbus in October 2005 for an evaluation and was encouraged to try to get friends or relatives to donate. It's not easy to ask for someone's kidney, but there are kind people around who are willing to go through the process to aid a friend. Otherwise, you can wait several years for one--from someone who passed on.

I started getting severe headaches as the process went on. Chalk it up to tension, or in need of chiropractic treatment, but I did not feel good because of it. I didn't have a chiropractic treatment for several weeks, ever since I broke my leg on December 7. But I slogged through the day and was glad we were finished around 12:30 instead of the 3 p.m. that they forecast.

We went scouting for lunch afterwards. We found ourselves onto Northwest Boulevard and then came to a mall which had a cafeteria. MCL Restaurant which we never saw before but decided to investigate. It was worth it because we had the best food you could eat at a restaurant since it was touted to be homemade. The display was magnificent. We spent more than we intended to but we learned that there are value meals which are less expensive. Most of it was sold ala carte.

I got a little lost on the way of out Columbus but eventually found Route 315 and the Interstate 71 north. It was then that I started feeling the vibrations and the sluggish driving. I thought maybe a tire was low so I stopped at a rest stop and checked. All the tires were OK.

But I was starting to get worried. I don't know that much about vehicles. I have a 69 Datsun years ago and worked on it, but now cars are too complicated and I let the mechanics work them over--at a price.

As we drove north it started to get foggy, and at 2:30 in the afternoon! Unusual. It added to the anxiety I experienced and I prayed to get home safe and sound. I kept it on 60 mph which helped assuage the added noise, but it was slow progress anyway. Every time I was climbing a hill the noise increased somewhere.

Lucy, meanwhile, didn't say anything. She sensed that I was not keen on entertaining a back seat driver this time. I don't know if she was reading or sleeping, or having enough sense to not add to my concern. We finally made it home and was I relieved! No breakdowns; of me or the van.

A couple days later I mentioned it to Jason and he took it for a test drive, and determined that it might be the universal joint. And a couple of days later I drove it to Monro in Mansfield and they also took it for a test drive, and determined that it was the universal joint, which was a relief because I was half afraid it was the transmission.

Another client asked if they had any coupons to deduct from the bill, so when my bill came I asked if they had any coupons or AAA discounts. He deducted 10% off my bill for the AAA discount. It pays to ask.

So all my worry was half needless. I should have taken the opportunity to get it checked out when I thought of it before the trip. It might not have saved me a headache but I would have had a nicer drive. My headache disappeared when I had an overdue chiropractic treatment a couple days later.

Two Doves

2008-02-02T10:48:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you wonder why things happen when they happen. You think you're trying your best and suddenly the bottom unexpectedly drops out. We had that experience a few years ago when Lucy had a stroke, after I had my own dilemma of needing medical care. We were both in hospital at the same time in May and June 2004. (see Nov. 27, 2007)

We spent our 10th wedding anniversary recovering at home from our ailments and glad we got that far. But it is rather lonely to reminisce over the past and wonder why. But I already knew why. It was part of our lot to sit back and review things for spiritual growth. That's the way I take it, and the way things can turn out to be true, once one validates the experience.

One night, not long afterward, I woke up and saw a pinpoint of light up near the wall on the other side of the room. The room was dark and as I watched, the light grew larger and closer. Intrigued, I sat up in bed. The light came real close and suddenly blossomed into two beautiful doves of light, with their wings fluttering in flight, as if to land. By their light I could see my hand, and I moved it toward them. One of the doves landed on my finger. I even felt it as it touched. The spot I offered was a small scar on my forefinger that I acquired in the line of duty over 30 years before. The other dove suddenly changed course and flew over and landed on my wife, who was sleeping soundly by my side.

I was astounded and enthralled, and thinking about the meaning of it all. It happened so fast, and they stayed only a few seconds, but enough for me to feel blessed by the experience, and determined to take the experience to heart as an elegant response to the afflictions we had to go through months before.

Such experiences are more and more prevalent these days. In spite of the apparent worsening conditions of weather, politics, domestic upheavals, there is more light being shed on those who stay the course, stick to the path they were set out to take, and endeavor to spread the light of truth to others. In spite of seeming failures, there are recompenses which make life worth the struggle. We can only keep those things which we experience, go ever onward, and ignore the skeptics.

Growing up

2008-01-23T15:32:00.000-05:00

I remember living on four farms in my life. Actually, it was five, but I don't remember living on the first one. Dad was a hired hand until he bought the last farm...a chicken farm.

The first farm I remember was on the W. W. Benner farm near Coatesville, Pa. (A pharmaceutical laboratory is there now. The house we lived in was torn down where the parking lot now stands.) Mr. Benner was a gentleman farmer, you might say, who had a herd of pure-bred registered Guernseys which Dad took care of, along with a couple of other hired hands. I'm the oldest in the family but I don't remember life without any brothers or sisters because Ronald was born 14 months later, then my sister Sallie, and then Joyce, all about a year or so apart. You can believe we were a handful for Mom and Dad. But being on a farm had its advantages. After we developed our toddling skills we soon had the run of the place. I remember when the next one was born; Arlene. Then there were five of us.

I remember that time distinctly. I was five years old, and Ronny was four. Dad took Mom away and told us that she was going to get us a baby brother or sister. Ronny and I asked for a baby brother. In fact, we prayed for one in our bedtime prayers. We had two sisters already, and with another one we would be crowded with girls. Would you know it, we got another baby sister! I remember thinking, why didn't they just wait until a brother was available? But we doted on our baby sister Arlene. We were about old enough to lend a helping hand sometimes.

Mom must have been a blonde in her day. Dad's hair was almost black. We kids were a mixture of blonde and brown. Ron, Joyce and Arlene were blondes, while Sallie and I had brown hair. Later Jane and Marge came as blondes.

As children we developed somewhat of an affinity to some of the cows that were in the barn on the Benner farm. They all had names; and two that come to mind are Hester and Hector. They all gave the richest milk and during the summer Dad would get out the ice cream freezer and whip up a batch of homemade ice cream. Mom would cook up the recipe and pour it into the container; Dad would pack the wooden bucket with ice and salt and the youngest would start turning the crank, then an older and stronger one would continue, and Dad would finish it up. The results were delectable, to say the least.

Dad always had a garden. He grew everything there was to grow in a temperate climate: corn, string beans, lima beans, pole beans, wax beans, peas, carrots, celery, kohlrabi, white potatoes, sweet potatoes, rhubarb, cantaloupe, melons, cucumbers, radishes, even peanuts occasionally. Invariably,, he'd find wild groundcherries which he'd transplant into rows and later harvest for use in ground cherry pies. Ground cherry pie was a staple in our family when they were in season.

Life for us kids on the Benner farm was rather idylic as I remember it. We had our share of sadness and happiness, but for the most part they were pleasant memories. I do remember the first time I went to the dentist though, which was a sheer terror to me. I had been in hospita at 3 years old with major surgery and it wasn't many months later that I had an infected tooth. Off to the dentist I went, with Dad. But when I saw what the dentist was doing, I was struck with sheer panic and I let everyone know it. He was going to put me to sleep. I knew the procedure from what I experienced in the hospital. I still have the scars of a tracheotomy that was necessary a couple years before in the hospital, that attested to the degree of reaction, whether allergic or panic, that ether gas afforded me. It's not easy to convey one's feelings in a calm, rational manner when you're a small child, but a few hefty screams of terror did the trick. The dentist gave up. I did not get my tooth pulled.

We finally moved to another farm near Phoenixville, Pa. where Dad had the task of milking 40 cows. That too was quite a place to remember. I was about five or six then and sometime later I started school. I was kept back a year until Ron was old enough to go to school "to keep an eye on you", meaning me.

After a short number of years, Dad finally saw an ad in the paper for a hired hand needed to help run a farm. Instead of calling the number and asking about the particulars, he had us kids look up the number in the phone book. A to M is a long way to look for a name but we found it under Mack. Dad happened to know them and he then called them up. We moved

That was where Ron and I raised rabbits, and trapped for muskrat. The first victim of trapping season was a mallard duck which was caught by the tip of the foot. We let it go...no fur!

Then one day Dad bought a chicken farm; Pine Top Farm it was called. There were flocks of hens already in progress and we spent our time learning to gather, wash and grade eggs. The transition meant that we stayed in a cottage on the premises, while the owners, the Tuchinski's showed us how to go about the work. That was in 1956. I was 12 years old. Jane and Marge had come along by this time, and Ron and I were rather frantic. No more brothers? We had five sisters now.

The novelty of chicken farming wore rather thin over time, what with all the young hens that literally almost raised the roof as soon as you entered their pen. They were a flighty bunch and one had to be rather quiet; no sudden moves or the whole chicken house would explode with dust and feathers. And there were two other buildings full of chickens too. The older flocks were more reasonable.

Two years later, in February 1958, we finally got our prayers answered. We got a baby brother, David. I now had two brothers and five sisters. We were quite proud of the kid.

But tragedy almost struck. Ron and I were away at the neighbors a couple of miles away and when we returned on our bicycles we found the sunporch, Mom and Dad's bedroom, was entirely gutted out by fire. It was March and a heavy snow had knocked out the electricity for a few days. The bedroom was kept warm for the baby by a kerosene stove. It was knocked over and flames caught onto the diapers stacked by the bassinette. Mom leaped over the flames, snatched month-old David and ran for safety. Dad ran in, called the fire company, and shut everything tight. The flames came within about 3 feet of the staircase, otherwise the whole house could have gone up.

Kind neighbors took us in for awhile. The Mennonites built a two-story renovation, which enlarged the house considerably. For a family of eight kids, it was a godsend.

Dad gave up chicken farming years before he finally sold the place. However, he continued with truck gardening. One year he planted five acres of sweet corn, and lost count of the harvest at 25,000 ears. One year he disked down the remnants of the corn crop and sowed a quarter-pound of turnip seed over the acreage. We had turnips you wouldn't believe! Tons of them. We sold them to neighbors, and to my Mom's sister's supermarket--Landis Supermarket in Telford.

One day there was another fire. The largest chicken house on the place burned down. Spontaneous combustion, they said. The chicken house wasn't cleaned out after the last flock of chickens years before. The resulting insurance claim helped Dad on his feet financially, and when he sold the farm, he was on Easy Street. Dad and Mom moved to New Jersey in retirement.

You can thank Jack and Jane (my sister) Hobson for the care they gave to our parents in the last years. Dad passed away in 1999 and Mom went in 2006.

Children and animals

2008-01-19T07:18:00.000-05:00

In 1995 Lucy and I lived in Shenandoah, Ohio in an old former schoolhouse, and we decided to invest in a couple of young beef cows, a Jersey and a Holstein. One day I was sitting by the fence when my brother-in-law Joe arrived with his family. Five-year-old Jonathan and three-year-old Rachel spotted the animals. Jonathan called out, “Do the cows have names?” “Yes,” I answered, deliberately solicitous, wondering what he would say, and pointing to the Jersey, “that one is Brisket…and that one is Rump Roast.” Jonathan thought for a moment, “Did you name them, or did Lucy?” (We weren’t going to name them but when a neighbor visited and asked the same question, I blurted out a couple of choices I had in mind, just for the humor of it, and the names stuck.)

Kids can be little divils at times, for no apparent reason. I lived in an apartment in a five story building in Maple Shade, New Jersey in 1993. I was coming home Sunday evening and found the elevator door open, as sometimes is the case, but I automatically checked the on/off switch above the button panel. This time it was off. I flipped it on. A 10- to 12-year-old boyI never saw before, carrying roller skates, followed me onto the elevator. I pressed 5; he pressed 3, and the elevator moved upward. Not a word was exchanged. He stood by the button panel and I thought he acted a little strange. He looked like he was leaning against the wall but I saw his hand was over the elevator switch. He was apparently bent on a little mischief at my expense. Just as the elevator stopped at his floor, he gave a cough and headed for the open door. The switch was off. Just before stepping out he patronizingly exclaimed, “Fifth floor, right?” as he pressed the number 5 button. He stepped outside and I replied, “Right,” as I stepped forward and flipped the switch back on. The last scene before the door closed was he staring at me with a rather wide-eyed and not-so-innocent expression on his face—and I with a benign expression on my face I’m sure, staring back at him. I almost took it personally…a real live Tom Sawyer.

I wrote the above to a penfriend of mine, Paul, who is a retired schoolteacher. He wrote about his experiences with children:

"You mentioned about the youngster playing a prank on you on the elevator. This is typical of children and I must say I enjoyed all the children who tried to outsmart me in the classroom or on the playground, wherever they thought they had a chance to best me. It was such a hard task to keep a straight face when knowing what they intended to do to me, that I was there waiting for them when they were about to pull the string which would bring something down on me. I looked innocent and unaware of what they planned, but noted out of the corner of my eye the surprise on their faces when caught in their own mischief! I never got angry at their pranks, but loved them for trying to get me in any sort of trick. Some teachers would blow their gasket. I merely played it cool and laughed myself to tears at times when they found out I had caught them."I always felt they were thinking when they tried to outsmart me, and since most of their pranks were harmless, I didn't mind. They knew my temperament and knew that I could give as good as I got, so they had to be careful, for I would hand things back to the Tom Sawyers of the room, and look so innocent while in the process."

I lived in Maple Shade, NJ, in the 90s, like I said earlier. Along came school time and the bus driver picked up young people from the apartments to take to school. The problem was that she chose to park the bus right at the exit to take on the numerous children. Of course, many of us had to go to work at the same time and we were forced to wait for the straggling kids to get onto the bus. And they were sure to take their time. Several of us auto drivers had to wait, but then I had an idea. I knew the others were not happy about being forced to wait for the bus to leave. In a burst of temperamental inspiration, I got out of line, darting down a row of parked cars, taking a long way around away from the bus, to leave for work. A couple of others followed. The bus driver blew her horn. It worked! The next school day saw the bus at the far end of the parking lot taking on the regular load of kids. For the rest of the school year we had no problem.

In 2003 Lucy and I moved to our present location, along with Jason and Minerva, Lucy’s niece. They bought a boxer pup and named it Bruno. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t want a pet anymore (see PENNY, Nov. 19, 2007), but Bruno was a dog I doted on, and he appreciated the attention. He was locked up at night to keep him from wandering. Then one morning, before dawn, there was a knock on the door. A woman, rather distraught, asked if we had a dog. “Yes, we have a boxer.” She said she hit a dog and it was lying by the road. I investigated and found Bruno lying on the grass, unable to get up, but conscious. I called Jason and he came with his pickup truck and took it to the house. I told the woman that Bruno was supposed to be inside during the night and this was one time when that rule was forgotten. Later in the morning they took Bruno to the vet. The xrays showed him to have numerous broken bones and it was merciful to put him to sleep. I was saddened by it although he was not my dog. That is one reason I don’t care to have a pet.

The first pet I had was Tuffy, in 1954, and my brother Ron had a dog named Fluffy. They were playful dogs, but Tuffy was more rambunctious, being a male dog. In the barn Tuffy got into mischief so often that Dad was finally fed up with it. While I was elsewhere he gave it the death penalty and I saw Tuffy no more. Dad was not a cruel person but it was rather ignoble of him to have someone carry out the sentence for him, leaving me without a pet. Meanwhile, Fluffy carried on, until one day Dorothy Weaver, who lived in the house below ours, was driving down the lane toward her house and I crossed the lane with Fluffy following me, and she got run over right in front of me. I was sick at heart and pronounced guilty by my family of causing her demise. Is it any wonder I don’t want a pet anymore? Years later I was given a puppy in reward for the summer work I performed on our neighbor’s farm. Penny was an intelligent dog and I was happy to have her as a pet. But, as seems to be my lot, she died unexpectedly when a motorcycle came roaring by our place. Penny was across the road with my parents and, frightened, she ran back for the safety of the house, and ran into the motorcycle. My cousin Arvin later apologized to me, but that was the end of my keeping any pet.

These are rather sad stories but it is advantageous to understand that we will most likely meet our pets when we finish our own time here on earth. That is a thought a lot of people like to believe, because so many pets are loved and treated like loving children.

Teaching Bible School

2008-01-15T06:22:00.000-05:00

This article replaces the one I wrote on October 30, which I now deleted. It is from a letter I wrote in 1992 and is more detailed about my trip to Tennessee in 1963.

I remember when I was lot younger and afraid life was passing me by without the benefit of traveling beyond the local environs in rural Montgomery County, PA. I lived on a chicken farm in Franconia Twp. with my parents, two brothers and five sisters and we had our daily routines all set, and at the age of 19 life can get pretty humdrum. I was almost an adult and hadn’t seen the world yet!

Then one day someone asked me if I wanted to teach Bible School in a little Mennonite community church near Knoxville, Tennessee. I was, perhaps, a little reticent about getting involved in something I wasn’t used to, like teaching little kids, but my desire to spread my wings won out and I agreed.

The day came when I made preparations to take the long drive. The plan was to stay the night at the home of the Landes family, some who were leaving for Tennessee and we would take off sometime in the wee hours. I anticipated an interesting trip and I dozed off with the sound of mockingbirds serenading outside in the warm moonlit night.

Very early in the morning we took off—I was the only fellow, as I remember, with three or four girls. We would be picking up another volunteer, John Paul H. near Harrisonburg, VA. I volunteered to drive. Ever since I got my license at the age of 17 I had driven the family car most of the time, putting on thousands of miles and enjoying it. This was now my chance to drive a long, long way.

We were only a few miles on the road when I spotted a possum crossing the road. I was barreling along at 60 mph and didn’t have much time to stop with a fully-loaded car. The possum changed its mind and retreated back across the road, then changed direction again. The last sight of it was he facing me with feet spread and teeth bared for a fight. Discretion dictates a merciful omission of the details of the outcome.

I drove most of the way. I had a splitting headache which felt better while I was driving. The South was intriguing to me. Here I was, a young Yankee, visiting the South for the first time, and I was anticipating a cultural change, something which I looked forward to. As soon as we hit the Mason/Dixon line we were in another world. I believe it was somewhere in Maryland or Virginia where we stopped for breakfast. Everyone within earshot was speaking in a southern accent and, unknown to us, we were being observed. The waitress walked over to the juke box and put in a dime. “You Ain’t Our Kind, But We Love You Anyway” started playing as she took our orders. I wanted to try the grits, “and a Pepsi,” I told her.

“A whut?”

“A Pepsi…you know, a Coke…Pepsi.”

“Oh, a PAYepsi. Awraht, ah gotcha!”

So we dined on some southern vittles; I finished the grits, the Payepsi, and whatever else I ordered, and we were on our way again, deeper into the South. Toward the southern end of Virginia we picked up JP, another candidate to teach Bible school. He was about my age and more reserved than I was—from quite conservative Mennonite stock. A quiet fellow. We roomed together during our stay in Tennessee and I noticed how quiet he always was, while I tossed and turned most of the night. I guess I’m a fidgety guy by nature—always was.

I took notice of some of the trees in Tennessee, which I learned later were mimosa trees. Their delicate feathery flowers had an oriental appearance, and made me more aware that I was far from home—for the first time in my life. I reveled in what was to me an exciting adventure. The weather was quite warm and sunny, and we spent the first day resting. On Monday we would exercise our labor of love in the art of teaching fertile little minds something which might prove valuable to them. It was a rural community with plenty of kids around.

I was assigned to third graders—cute kids. Some were barefooted. They all had a delightful southern accent, and I was quite conscious of the difference between mine and theirs. In fact, my accent was a little distracting to them…and I gradually slipped into their manner of speech and made more progress in teaching them Bible stories. By the end of two weeks I was practically a Confederate.

We didn’t just teach Bible School. On the first weekend we attended a Saturday evening Southern Baptist song service. Being a strait-laced Mennonite and rather wide-eyed about cultural differences, I drank in the feeling of euphoria I felt. The music sounded wonderful and free. Yes, sometimes the music sounded more like a jamboree or hoedown but it was beautiful to me, even when sung in a church. They were all religious songs…sung in country style, complete with guitars and piano.

One of the girls, Betty, had brought her accordion along and over the free time I learned how to play it, to a limited degree. I had played some piano over the years so all I really had to do was to figure out the bass part of the accordion. It didn’t take long. Then on this particular evening we were asked to sing as a Mennonite group. Betty asked if I would play the accordion. I declined. I wasn’t used to playing in front of a group and the skills I learned were too new to stand up under the stress of public scrutiny. So we sang without instrumental music.

During one particular enthusiastic vocal/instrumental number, the song was so uplifting that one rather dignified middle-aged lady jumped up from her seat and in a fit of high emotion, danced around a couple of times, until she apparently realized what she was doing and—sheepishly, I thought—sat down again.

All this was a new experience for me. Here people were not enduring their religion; they were enjoying it. It set me to thinking…and I got to think a lot about some of these things over the next couple of years.

In comparison, we attended a Southern Methodist revival meeting—the following weekend. It was an open-air building in the old camp-meeting style. An American Indian sat on the stage with the evangelist. During one part of the service, he was the focus of some of the bad history between the early settlers and the tribes that were mistreated in their day. The singing was energetic and the hallelujahs and amens ran rampant. This clearly was not a Mennonite revival meeting.

When the evangelist had the pulpit, he didn’t mince words. He spoke straight to the heart of the people. He hit where they were most vulnerable. He was going to win converts tonight.
“You who are holding back from giving you heart to the Lord tonight may truly regret it,” was the gist of part of his message. “The Lord is calling you—heed His call. You may not get another chance. God could surely repay you for not heeding His call…tonight. Those of you who have children, take heed. That innocent little baby sitting on your lap could be snatched from you and you would live to regret it for the rest of your life. You could have a car accident on the way home, for not heeding His call…tonight.”

The altar call was awash with weeping treble voices. There were also a few men in the throng. One man was on his knees his face to the ground, loudly beseeching the Almighty for mercy.
I was rather dumbstruck, puzzled, and a little angry. There seemed to be something a little diabolical in all of this. There may be a place to be coerced into a meaningful spirit-filled relationship with God, but not in an emotion-packed arena such as this seemed to be. But I added this to the list of rounded experiences as a young man trying to find a clear road in life.
I love peace and quiet. I’m a country-boy at heart, and perhaps always will be. One Friday night we camped in a field under the stars. I had never slept outdoors before. Someone gave me a sleeping bag and we were scattered in a field wherein grazed and horse and her colt. They paid us no mind. Around us were steep hills typical of the Tennessee countryside. Throughout the night I watched the stars slowly drift toward the west. Mockingbirds (the state bird of Tennessee) warbled and sang in the late-night jamboree of their own. I slept fitfully, as I often do in new surroundings. I dozed off and awakened as the eastern sky started to lighten. I dozed off again, until I was suddenly awakened by a firm tug on the top of my head, pulling my hair. Startled, I rolled around to see what it was—in time to watch the colt scamper off. I guess he now knows what Brilcreme tastes like.

One neighbor lady often visited the house where we stayed. She always had something in her mouth, her lower lip bulging. Curious, I asked one of my friends what she was chewing on. “Snuff,” I was told. “She’s chewing snuff. It is quite common.”

I borrowed a bicycle and toured the rural neighborhood. The houses were few and far between and at one house where were people in rocking chairs on the porch. I waved a greeting and one of them called out, “Yu frum Paynsyllvaynia?”

I said, “Yes, how did you know?”

“Bah yor aksaynt,” was the reply.

I hadn’t said a word to them before, so I realized that the whole neighborhood had us pegged. We were Yankees in Confederate hillbilly country. We had been cautioned: Don’t you surprise anybody in these hills, they’re likely to shoot first and ask questions later.

The second week went like the first in the two-week Bible school. I got more comfortable teaching those darling kids. And I even got to lead the whole group in singing. I had learned how to handle a pitch-pipe adequately, although I had difficulty naming the keys of a sing.

During one weekend we traveled down to the southern corner of Tennessee to Chattanooga, of Civil War fame. High atop a bluff we could see Moccasin Bend far below. (Some years later I saw it from an airliner traveling from Alabama to Pennsylvania.)

We picked up a brochure that advertised Ruby Falls. “The highest underground waterfall in the country,” it said. Of course, since we were right nearby, we just had to go see it. We waited in a long line to be taken below-ground by elevator. We paid about $3.00 each for a ticket. While we waited I noticed that when the elevator brought tourists to the top, they were all laughing and smiling, and apparently having a great time. You couldn’t help but notice it, since it happened every time.

We were finally in front of the line and then taken below-ground. A guide gave us a little history of the area and a lay of the cavern. We walked back about a quarter-mile to the falls, stopping to gaze at the stalactites and stalagmites and other odd stone formations along the way.

The falls were a disappointment, however. We didn’t expect Niagara Falls but the pitifully small stream cascading down from 180 feet did not give one any great feeling of wonderment. We ambled back to the elevator in silence.

On the elevator again, we were still rather subdued…until just before we reached the top, when our guide cracked a joke. It was our turn to laugh and smile, apparently having a great time as we exited the elevator.

It took a couple weeks to change back to my normal accent. I was a little embarrassed when I had to give a little talk at the youth meeting at the Bridgeport (PA) Mennonite Church which I regularly attended. It was difficult losing what I had consciously tried to gain for convenience, and now found that it was an oddity in a Pennsylvania Dutch setting. No one objected, however. In fact, some said they liked it. But it gradually faded way into distant memory.

That trip was an eye-opener for me. I had been a little unsettled, as many teenagers are, but this opened my eyes to a broader view, a less confining view. I realized that there are good people outside of my own restricted environment. I became more tolerant of other views. And through subsequent informal discussions with fellow members of the church who had changing views, I felt more free to eventually leave the environment I was in an spread my wings even more. And it felt good to leave the nest gracefully.

I realize anew how much a broader perspective I have than many of those I meet. I don’t know if it’s all good. There are some experiences that one doesn’t like to reminisce over. It taints man’s faith in his fellow man sometimes. But I value the perspective I have gained, for it gives me a better understanding of why people are the way they are.

This was written years ago when I had just left the Mennonite Church and joined a group whose emphasis was in glorifying God through a music ministry. Music was a big part of our endeavors and we had public concerts twice a year for almost 20 years. During that time young people were trained in instrumental and vocal music and we eventually had a 60-voice choir, children’s choir singing in several languages, and a full orchestra. Good things take time.