Working for the Federal Government in 1970 was a personal accomplishment for me, but also it brought me close to situations I wasn’t used to, coming from a Mennonite background. Bad language and salacious stories were some of them. One man, Jenkins, regaled the roomful of inspectors, of which I was one, with his sexploits of the weekend. No one really cared for his forwardness and some even left the room at times.
One Friday in March I brought in a $6 book from home on ways to save on income taxes. Jenkins eyed it several times during the day and finally asked me if he could borrow it over the weekend. I felt I would never see the book again so I helpfully suggested that if he gave me $6 he could keep it, to the amusement of everyone in the room. A scowl crossed his face and he got up and stalked out of the room, muttering something derogatory about my character.
I had come into the service of the U.S. Department of Agriculture not really knowing what to expect. I was fresh off the farm, not much into the world’s way of seeing things, but eager to learn more about life outside my plane of awareness. Dr. Barsh was my supervisor, a GS-11 government veterinarian. He had been a feisty government worker in his day but now his demeanor was tempered by declining health and many years of service in the agricultural industry, a fact which I was apprised of by other inspectors who knew him in his younger days. Dr. Barsh, I was told, was a real terror then. If his demands for cleanliness and proper procedures in the workplace were not met, he would sometimes snatch off his hard hat and slam it to the floor, exhibiting a temperament generally expected of spoiled brats.
Fortunately, he liked me and we got along fine—except for one day early on when I rubbed his feathers the wrong way. In an unthinking moment I made a rather stupid remark after which he exploded and sent me to the office for reflection, or further reprimand.
At the time I had very keen eyesight. One of the diseases chickens are cursed with is leukosis, which is manifested during post-mortem examination by spots on the spleen or liver, or anywhere else. A single spot, no matter how small, would determine the chicken go be inedible by the rules of government regulation. I happened to see a tiny spot, so I hanged the chicken back on the rack for Dr. Barsh to make a determination as he made his rounds of the inspectors’ stations. He questioned me about it and I remarked that maybe he couldn’t see the spot, it was pretty small. Well, Dr. Barsh exploded, fairly shouting at me and said if he could not see it, it isn’t there, and ordered me off the floor.
It was the first (and last) harsh reprimand I got, but I didn’t know what consequences awaited me as I waited in the government office. He sound just like my Dad. After awhile he came in, sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulder and apologized for his outburst, something my father really never did. By that demonstration of compassion, I saw a side of Dr. Barsh that appealed to my sense of fairness and found it was not so difficult to stay on his good side.
As I worked on the eviscerating line, inspecting thousands of chickens per day, I also had my duty to study government regulations and procedures of proper inspection of the premises and of the products which were manufactured in the plant: chicken parts, batter-dipped chicken, chicken roll. I had to learn the necessary details of avian anatomy, systemic and local diseases, biophysics, and what my job description as a Career Conditional GS-5 government inspector entailed.
I was initially assigned to government inspection at Victor Weaver’s poultry processing plant in New Holland, PA. That was to be my home station. But I was told to report to the Bird-in-Hand Food Company in Bird-in-Hand in lower Lancaster County across the mountains from New Holland.
Occasionally Dr. Barsh’s boss would come in from Harrisburg to check on us. In meeting him, he informed me that I was entitled to a mileage and per diem allowance since I was actually not working at the station I was assigned to. Ordinarily, mileage is calculated from the home station to the station temporarily assigned. Since I had never been to my home station, I was allowed mileage from home where I lived to Bird-in-Hand, a distance of 110 miles per day roundtrip. This was mentioned a few weeks after I started and fortunately I had logged the miles on my brand-new 1969 Datsun, only for the novelty of keeping track of the use and abuse of a new car—my very first car.
The other inspectors told me I probably wouldn’t get the money. They had filed mileage allowances and often didn’t get a penny, thanks to government bureaucracy. But after Dr. Barsh learned I had kept a log of my driving record, he asked for the booklet for over the weekend and he filled out the necessary papers for me. He told me I could travel back and forth from home if I wanted to but he would like me to stay in a motel for one night, being sure to get a receipt to establish the per diem rate.
We had lots of paperwork to fill out every day and I signed lots of documents in the course of my work. Dr. Barsh was a stickler for detail and proper procedure, and any paperwork that required his signature had to be filled out properly before he even touched it. Apparently his signature meant something—he had that kind of reputation. I got the money, to the tune of over $300 allowance per month for the next two months, until I “graduated” from preliminary training under Dr. Barsh and was transferred to my originally assigned station in New Holland.
The day I began in New Holland was the day I met new faces in a new environment. The crew of seven or eight inspectors wanted to know what qualifications I had, who trained me, etc. When I told them Dr. Barsh trained me, they expressed their confidence in me.
But I had some misgivings about my own expertise, or my own enthusiasm for the job. Often I discarded chickens which were determined to be diseased but other inspectors weren’t as particular. Was I being too discriminatory? According to the regulations, I was apparently on target. Leukosis is a disease which is not known to be transmittable to humans, yet a spot on the spleen, and especially the liver results in condemning the whole bird. The reasoning is that if the liver shows signs of leukosis, the whole bird could be infected. I’ve seen some pretty ugly stuff during my tenure as inspector.
There are a few privileges in being a federal government inspector. One of them is having a plant employee do all the dirty work for you. Insurance regulations do not allow an inspector to handle a knife, so an inspector’s trimmer is required to do the job for him. He/she cuts off a broken wing here, a bruised leg there, picks condemned birds off the line, and is useful to allow inspectors to concentrate on making a 3- to 5-second decision about the fate of each eviscerated carcass passing before him on a moving line.
One day a GS-18 came by—a top-level government official, Dr. Youn. I was alerted about his presence and cautioned that he would be checking out the whole crew as we worked. I made sure I went according to the book. And sometime during the day I spotted him out of the corner of my eye, watching me intently. It was easier inspecting chickens in my own way, rather than by the book, but when I caught sight of him, I switched to the book method. Later we all got the results, and a lecture from our supervisor. (If I remember right, Dr. Barsh was temporarily assigned to New Holland at the time.) He expressed the importance of going by the book, and mentioned that Dr. Youn was disappointed that only one of the whole crew was inspecting properly. Later, he affirmed to me that I had indeed gone through proper inspection procedures. He told me that he was going to recommend I be sent to Gainesville, FL for full training once I passed the Career Conditional status.
Career Conditional status is a probationary period of one year where a trainee familiarizes with government regulations and inspection procedures. After that period, if the trainee wishes to continue in government service, he is given further tests and training and given a hefty GS-7 promotion. The first day of work Dr. Barsh told me to read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, a book which was instrumental in passing the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. It was fascinating reading to me, if rather gruesome.
There are a whole host of ailments a chicken can acquire in its short lifespan: leukosis, airsaculitis, synovitis, and rarely, tuberculosis, being a few of them. Discarded chickens are recycled in some plants, at least at the time I was inspector. They were sent to the cookers where they were rendered into a mass of protein, the tallow (fat) removed and the remainder sent to the grinder where it was pulverized to a high-quality dry fat-free high-protein chicken feed. And it smelled just like regular feed, not oily at all. The tallow was shipped to some soap company.
Another trainee who entered government service at the same time was a Puerto Rican woman, Maria. She was of a different status than the other Puerto Rican people I had met and worked with over the years. She was white and had a cultured bearing about her. Over the several years I had previously worked in a poultry processing plant, I had picked up a handful of Spanish words and phrases. When I mentioned them, she remarked that some of them were street language and not good Spanish. She helped me refine some phrases.
Meanwhile, the Spanish workers found I knew some Spanish, and so did Management. One day the foreman asked me if I would be able to use a trimmer who spoke only Spanish; he wanted to train her to be an inspector’s helper. I told him I was not fluent in Spanish…I would give it a try but if there’s any problem I would have to stop the line oftener if I couldn’t convey the orders, or discontinue using her. So I tried it…until Dr. Barsh got wind of it. He took Maria and me aside and, in no uncertain terms, demanded that government regulations did not permit anything other than English spoken in the service of the U.S. government and we were not to converse in Spanish to any of the employees while working. Maria was dumbstruck. It was her native language. Whether she followed his orders is a matter of conjecture. I told the foreman to switch to an English-speaking trimmer and nothing more was said about it.
I alternated between New Holland and Bird-in-Hand during the course of the year and had a number of experiences which helped me acquire a more aggressive demeanor than what I was taught at home. I was gradually losing some of my timidity, which I was glad to get rid of.
Every several weeks I had the duty to report very early in the morning for an inspection of the premises before startup, leaving home at 4:30 a.m. On the first morning, bleary-eyed, but equal to the task, I inspected the equipment and environment at the Bird-in-Hand plant. It was quite dirty and I pointed out the offending spots to the foreman on duty, noting each of the areas on paper. He politely nodded but generally ignored the orders. I was just a trainee, what clout did I have? My supervisor was not yet on duty. Some of the equipment was dirty. The giblets from the day before were not cleaned properly. Even whole tanksful of chickens, stored in ice, were found to be less than standard. And there was really nothing I could do about it.
But…without warning, a few USDA government officials from Washington came to the plant that morning before startup. They made the same inspection I did, and they had the clout, and boy did they use it! Three hours after normal startup the plant was once again permitted to begin, after cleaning up much of the previous day’s run of carcasses in those tanks, and the giblets, and the equipment. I was not called into account for Management’s failure. They knew I had inspected the premises but they also knew I had no real authority to enforce anything, being just a trainee.
But one day I did enforce an order, authority or not. I had to stay after the main plant was finished. There were still workers working in the cut-up department where they were cutting up chickens and putting the parts in 60-pound wooden boxes lined with paper. Their habit was to stack several boxes full before sending them to the cooler. The room they were working in was hardly cool and my sense of culinary propriety came into play.
Bacteria thrives in temperatures above 40 degrees; below 40 it is diminished considerably. Much of the problem with processed food is that it is not often dealt with properly; it loses quality and often becomes unhealthy if not sped along its course. My supervisor was not around so I ordered them—politely—to put the boxes in the refrigerator as soon as each was filled. They grumbled but complied.
The premises are always to be “kitchen-clean.” New Holland was one plant that was closest to that designation. But when my turn came to pull early morning inspection, I found something that had been neglected for months, if not years. In the cut-up department there were metal benches about 4-6 inches high whereon stood the workers as they cut up the poultry product. I happened to look underneath one of them and found it filthy. I found this on the Friday before, and alerted the foreman about it, telling him the entire lot of benches where to be steam-cleaned by Monday.
Monday morning I came in and found them untouched. I overturned each one, and told the foreman. The result was that the plant was delayed in startup and Management was not too pleased. Dr. Barsh heard about it and asked me for the details. He told me I should have written down the orders to remind those in charge. It would have saved a headache. Hundreds of dollars per hour are lost when startup is delayed. Employees are paid during the time, etc., etc. It was Dr. Barsh’s responsibility and was part of my training, but the plant was at the mercy of some of our shortsightedness.
One day at New Holland, when I was under the supervision of another supervisor, Dr. Youn returned to interrogate the supervisor in charge (I forget his name) who was allegedly failing in his duties as a supervisor. I often noticed he was the type of person to walk about, disappear for awhile, and generally not be available when some crucial decisions had to be made. Perhaps one of us inspectors complained.
During breaks we, of course, overheard some of the interrogation and were glad we were not in the supervisor’s shoes. The questions were on procedures, where certain government manuals were located, what his duties were. He sat there answering some and unable to answer others. I was a little keyed up by what I was overhearing and during one question on the location of a certain manual, and noting that he was unable to answer, I went over to the bookcase and pulled out the manual and showed it to them. Embarrassed, I quickly put the book back and generally minded my own business. Later Dr. Youn gave him a reprimand, stating that he did not know answers to questions as a GS-11 that a GS-5 trainee could answer. Later, he was transferred to another job in a lesser capacity.
I valued what I learned in all these experiences, but I could not see inspecting chickens for the rest of my life and I started taking leaves of absence more frequently.
Dr. Barsh came back to supervise and one day he became ill. As cantankerous as he was, he refused medical leave. He may have been having a heart attack or something but he did not leave. It would pass, he said. He stayed in the office sweating profusely and dressed down to his undershirt.
He was in no shape to refuse medical attention. He was a four-pack-a-day smoker and his lungs were about shot. He often had coughing fits until he lit up a cigarette. But we each baby-sat him that day. One inspector relieved each of us in turn for a break and we stayed with Dr. Barsh in case he collapsed or something. Yes, it was rather wild.
When my break came, we talked. I told him, “Doc, you ought to see a doctor.” Dr. Barsh gave me a heart-to-heart talk about my increasing absenteeism. He pointed out the benefits of government work, but encouraged me to make a decision either way, whether I wanted to continue in government service. If I continued and got promoted, it would be difficult to quit if I wanted to later on. Now in Career Conditional status I had the option to resign without any marks against me.
As he spoke he idly reached into his pocket for a match, and lit it, putting it toward his lips, until he realized what he was doing. He glanced at me sheepishly and hurriedly distinguished it with a flick of his hand. Then he pulled out a cigarette and started over. A fleeting smile must have crossed my face, but my restraint was admirable. He was not in a humorous mood today.
I took his advice. I had previously been offered a job in the graphic arts industry if I ever wanted to switch careers. I weighed the evidence, the consequences, the opportunities, and resigned from the service of the United States Department of Agriculture, richer for the experience.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Ski Trip
Some years ago, maybe it was in the 1970s, I got a chance to ski in the heart of the Pocono Mountains in
The ski lift to the top was a moving rope which you hold onto while you ski to the top. I managed to slide along in a straight line while enroute to the top but then it dawned on me that I didn’t know any of the elementary moves, such as turning and side-stepping. A couple of fellows in the group were from
The view from the top was awe-inspiring. You could see for miles and all you saw were evergreen trees. Here and there the solid mat of trees was interrupted by the white run of other ski slopes. I settled down to the task at hand, trying to get down to the bottom of the slope without attracting too much attention to any of my less-than-graceful endeavors.
I first started with the small attempts—sliding for a short distance, turning as I went along, zigzagging down the slope in short runs. I didn’t care if it took hours. I had all day. I was at least going to learn how to turn in these uncontrollable sticks. At one point I zigged right into a thicket. Embarrassed, I struggled to right myself as inconspicuously as possible. Someone spied me anyway and helped me to my feet. It’s not easy for a beginner to stand up from a sprawled-out position, with skis wedged in the bushes while they (the skis) are attached to your feet. I think the bushes were attached to my feet too. I brushed off the snow and my discomfiture and resumed my self-instruction.
At last I made it to the bottom. My turns were adequate and I could stay upright for longer stretches. I was now ready to ski. I nonchalantly took the lift to the top again and positioned myself for takeoff. This time I decided to go straight to the bottom; no turns, no hesitation, no sense.
A hefty push with the ski-poles propelled me forward. The wind almost whistled through my jacket as I gained speed. It felt good to be able to stand upright while moving along at a good clip, knees bent slightly, balanced perfectly as the bottom of the slope loomed ahead. This is neat! I can ski!
Then I was struck with a terrible realization. I had not paid attention on how to stop! I had spent all my time with turns and recovering from falls that I didn’t know how to stop gracefully at a high rate of speed. To make matters worse, there was a line of people across my path, waiting to get on the ski lift. I hollered “Gangway!” and the line parted. I missed everyone but I had no choice but to deliberately fall down, just beyond the crowd of 30 or more. This time my skis were all tangled up in themselves and I had to unhook them off my feet to get out of my awkward pretzel position. The crowd politely ignored me.
My self confidence was beginning to dwindle, but I went back up the slope again and later tried for the more difficult stretch. I was now more at ease on skis and I practiced stops and continued with turns. Falls were less frequent. After a few runs down the intermediate slope I felt daring enough to try the difficult run. There was an additional ski lift which took you to the top high up on the mountain. Here was a decided drop in population on this slope. In fact, there were only a couple of skiers now and then.
As soon as I saw the slope from the top, all the faith and confidence I had in myself, all the learned discipline I had acquired on the gentler slopes, left me. I could turn back, but whoever heard of anyone going down a ski lift. I resignedly set to work. It was no longer play for me. This time I was rather worried. The slope was a steep, twisting furrow which seasoned skiers took on with ease; skiing from side to side down the slope, out of sight around a few turns to the bottom. Here and there were turns which were next to a steep mountain slope. If you overshot the turn you could easily catapult over the edge into the trees below.
It took me a long time to get down. Luckily, very few people used that slope. I didn’t have to save face. But my ambition to go farther was abated and I limped to the ski lodge, turned in my skis, and sat down to nurse wounds, real and imagined, over a cup of hot chocolate.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Balloon ride
In September of 1986 I went for the ultimate in adventure—a hot air balloon ride. Two friends of mine, Walter and his wife Theresa, wanted to do something to commemorate the ninth anniversary of living in
The weather was perfect; you could see for miles and miles. We arrived early at the Quakertown,
Below you could see the gathered onlookers getting smaller and smaller as our vista expanded. We were on top of the world. There was absolute silence when the flame wasn’t lit. Occasionally you could hear dogs barking, or the murmur of human conversation when we briefly descended. The pilot said he used to belong to a club of balloonists where they had leaf-picking contests—to see who could pick the most kinds of leaves on a single trip. We hovered among the tree tops for awhile. Higher up we could see the skyline of
It was crowded in the basket, standing room only, but each of us had an exclusive view. There were no windows and the top of the basket came up to about chest-height. I leaned out of the basket and looked underneath to the ground 2,000 feet below. My knees felt kind of quivery. I was relieved to hear the pilot’s explanations of the strength of the ropes and balloon, and the dependability of the flame. The temperature in the basket was a pleasant 67 degrees. The sun was setting and the outside air was cooling down. The temperature inside at the top of the balloon was around 215 degrees. The difference in temperature kept us aloft.
The flight normally takes about an hour. However, this flight was anything but normal as we found out later. We started looking for a place to land the craft. There below us was the parking lot of the
With a burst of flame we again soared skyward to look for another landing spot. As we descended once again the air movement along the ridge of trees shifted and we drifted in the opposite direction. I was getting a little apprehensive, but the pilot was calm about it; he knew what he was doing—everything was under control, except for the finicky wind direction. He always allowed enough fuel as reserve. What if we landed in the trees? No problem. In a case like that we would only have to descend through the trees to the ground.
Oh joy! There up ahead was a large open clearing below. We descended as rapidly as possible, about four feet per second. We were also drifting forward and—rats!—we overshot the clearing. We were now in the woods and up the creek! Literally in the woods, just skimming the tops of the trees. The pilot gave a few bursts of flame to gain altitude. The sun was setting now and the air was too cool and the flame was feeding on emptying fuel tanks which produced a flame too cool to heat the balloon to lifting capacity. We stayed at a constant altitude for a short while but it was below the tops of the trees. I reached and pushed on a hefty branch. We lifted right over the tree, the entire craft! But we just went deeper into the woods. The pilot gave repeated bursts of flame to lighten the craft and we still settled gently earthward, right on top of a tall…dead…tree!
I could hardly believe what was happening; things like this happen only to other people, but the pilot calmly instructed us to keep our hands inside the basket so we wouldn’t get pinched as we descended farther. We had only to settle down to the ground. But would you know it!, the balloon snagged on an upper branch and held fast. The basket, with us in it, was still a good 40 feet off the ground, and there we stayed.
When we realized we could descend no farther, the pilot dismantled the burner and took out ropes to fasten the basket to the tree. The balloon rapidly cooled down and after a few minutes it collapsed, draping protectively over us like a canopy; the snag holding fast high above. It was around 6:45 p.m. and the sun was down.
The woods is a nice place to be in the evening as the sun beds down for the night. There is hardly a whisper of a breeze and the air is cool and smells like…like the woods—a clean fresh fragrance. We called and whistled to attract attention. We attracted attention all right! About all the dogs in the adjoining neighborhood must have answered us.
About a half hour later we heard a booming voice in the distance, shouting the pilot’s name. It was the chase crew. We answered but they didn’t hear us. We just waited, knowing that eventually we would be rescued. I volunteered to climb out of the basket and shinny down the tree but the pilot thought it would be safer to stay put until help arrived. Anyway, there was a long distance from the lowest branch to the ground.
The most alarming part of the problem was the fact that we were in a dying tree and didn’t know how strong the limbs were. We were sitting right on top of what appeared to be a strong limb and the limb above us appeared quite strong but occasionally we were startled when the basket shifted with a jolt! But there was no panic, which amazed the pilot—our attitude toward the whole ordeal. I told him this was our first time in a balloon and we were too inexperienced to be scared. But we weren’t perfectly calm either.
The conversation shifted away from the immediate problem. We asked the pilot his name and where he came from. He spoke with a decided British and German accent. Asbjørn Damhus came from
Another hour or so passed and we suddenly heard voices and saw the glimmer of flashlights through the trees. In the darkness we guided them to our spot by calling to them. They were startled to hear our voices coming from high above them and they then realized what kind of predicament we were in. They tramped back through the woods for help, guided the the occasionally barking dogs. They gave the rescuers a sense of direction.
Another hour passed by and the woods then came alive with the chatter of voices and the beams of bright lights. To the rescue came the East Rockhill Police Department and the Perkasie Fire Department and Rescue Squad. They had rappelling gear (the kind mountaineers use) and they carefully instructed us on how to use it. Asbjørn was vaguely familiar with the tangle of harnesses, ropes and carabiners and her helped us put on the equipment. There were no nearby roadways or paths into in the woods for the fire truck to bring its ladder so we had to rappel down by rope.
Theresa was the only woman aboard the flight and they sent up a jump-suit for her to put on, a gentlemanly consideration—she was wearing a dress. They told us to let the lady go first, a not-so-gentlemanly gesture under the circumstances—we did not know if the branch would hold properly. And she never rappelled down a rope in her life. Furthermore, it was quite crowded to put on a jumpsuit. Someone else had to go first.
I volunteered. I was single with no one to mourn my passing if a worst-case scenario would present itself, except for my parents, five sisters, two brothers, about 10 aunts and uncles and over 50 cousins. Oh well. I just have to be careful. I proceeded to put on the harness around my chest and another around my waist and it was connected by the huge buckle, or carabiner. Asbjørn assured us how much weight these ropes and harnesses could hold so we didn’t have to have any qualms about it. But it was rather unnerving to get out of the basket and step out into open space with nothing else to hinder a free fall. It wasn’t like we were in orbit or anything, but we did have the force of gravity to contend with. The speed of a falling body increases 32 feet per second per second. I could hit the ground before I could say, “I hope this thing is safe.”
I legged over out of the basket, entrusted all my weight to the ropes and rappelled down the tree trunk. Rescue was holding the other end of the rope and they played it out as I guided myself down. When Theresa saw that I landed unscathed, she was relieved, knowing what to expect; and there was now room in the basket to don the jumpsuit. I didn’t watch the rest of the rescue; I was escorted out by the ambulance crew and given a checkup (required by law) and we were none the worse for the experience. I checked my watch. It was 10:30 p.m.
I found out that they had videotaped the rescue operation. It is rare to extricate people from tall trees so this taping was requested for documentation for training purposes. One of the flight team told me we were in good hands with Asbjørn. He was an experienced balloonist and he was also a sailor—having sailed as crew with Thor Heyerdahl about eight years before. Whether or not he mishandled the flight is up to the balloon flight team to determine. I wrote them a letter of appreciation and commendation on his behalf on the way he handled us as his passengers. Asbjørn wrote me a letter describing his task of mending the torn balloon fabric and encouraging me not to write off the incident as a bad adventure.
The part of
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Letter Writing
I had been writing to penfriends ever since I was a young teenager, in the 1950s and 60s. I remember Sammy Quayne Lartey from
It was in the 1980s I engaged in letter writing in earnest, especially after I had written letters to a lady in
That correspondence gradually died and it was almost a year when I became aware of it. Since our correspondence had been quite interesting I felt that something must have happened. I didn’t know what would be wrong, but since her husband had leukemia, I felt that there might be something that changed for her.
I wrote a letter, aimed at the idea of something needing prayerful attention. I included the words of a song we used to sing at our church:
A couple weeks later I got a letter from her, written in shaky handwriting. She informed me that her granddaughter had died, and her husband had passed away. She also said that, when she was in the waiting room at the hospital, when her husband was in ICU, friends tried to console her, but all she could think of was “Be still and know that I am God” taken from Psalm 46:10.Be still and know that I am God,
Be still and know I’m He;
On mountaintop, in valley green, above the sky and sea.
Exalted I shall ever be, between the cherubim and thee;
I’ll guide thee, and keep thee, eternally.
I wrote back words of condolence. She wrote back and said that she would no longer be involved with the shut-in list, and that she would not write letters anymore, but that she would count me as one of her dear friends.
This interchange inspired me to keep writing letters to others around the world. I found penpal lists, subscribed to The Letter Exchange, and generally found people all over the world with varying interests.
A woman in
Back in the early pioneering days Pennsylvania was populated with mostly German immigrants and English was hardly heard anywhere. One day a Dutchman was hunting deer in the Lebanon County hills when he grew tired and lay down to rest awhile. He dozed off but suddenly awoke to see an Indian there by him with bow drawn and the arrow pointed at his heart. The Dutchman raised his hands in fright and exclaimed, "Sheess net, sheess net!" (don't shoot). Surprised, the Indian lowered his bow and replied, "O, kennst du aw deitch?" (do you also know German). My cousin told me this joke.
One lady from
My motive for writing was to gain more understanding of the world around me. I had been alone much of the time, and was interested in spreading my wings a bit, to be more sociable. What better way than to launch out into the world by writing to others who may have the same interests, or gain more knowledge by letting them describe their different points of view.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Broken hip
This Christmas season was anything but normal. I spent almost the entire month of December in Mansfield MedCentral Hospital and Oak Grove Manor nursing home.
On Friday, December 7, I was walking down the slippery lane toward the mailbox, rather hurriedly and unthinking, and I fell and landed on my left side. A neighbor with a tractor and scoop was right there and helped me up but as I walked I started to pass out, so I sat down on the scoop and called 911. No way was I going to be able to walk back to the house. Something must be broken.
The ambulance came in a few minutes and backed into the lane and I was hauled off to three weeks of recuperation after having surgery on Sunday, December 9. In the ambulance, the paramedic noticed that my foot lay over to the left. Moving it slightly brought pain. They took me to MedCentral in Mansfield and put me in the ER in a small room, and there I waited, and waited. Once in awhile someone came in to ask questions. One orderly came in and asked, "Does it hurt when I move this?" and he moved my foot to my right. "YES," I screamed. He left without apology. Every time someone came near that foot I cautioned them to not touch it. The foot didn't hurt, but the leg that it was attached to. For the next few days I was in "shell-shock" from being bumped and handled.
A nurse gave me morphine and they promptly took me to Radiology. I insisted on holding my leg while they transferred me over to the xray table. It was the only way to relieve the pain slightly. Sometimes morphine is overrated.
I was admitted and transferred to the bed and that's where I stayed. Sunday I was taken to the OR where they did the surgery. The surgeon, whom I saw only once before surgery, told me that the fracture was in the upper part of the femur. He put in a plate and pins. I was now ready for further recuperation.
It wasn't long before Rehab came along and rousted me out of bed and I gingerly walked a few paces with a walker--more and more each day. I was also given an intravenous painkiller which worked a lot faster than that morphine I had at the beginning.
But Insurance usually dictates the rules and I was finally shipped to Oak Grove Manor nursing home for further rehabilitation. It was back to where I had been before when I broke my leg the last time (see HARRY). Jeff, the physical trainer, put me through the paces and told me I was doing great; I should be improving pretty quickly.
But the nursing home environment was rather depressing to me at times. Minerva, Lucy's niece, brought in a radio which helped brighten things up for me. This being Christmas season I was able to listen to Christmas music at all hours. No one to bother me, and I spent time in prayer and meditation and thinking about everything that transpired. I felt even better when I found that a piano was in the Dining Room. In the evening, I opened the double doors and wheelchaired my way to the piano and started playing Christmas songs, among other tunes. Someone opened the doors and let the sound out into the hall. A few workers came around and one young lady stood by me with a look of rapture on her face. I don't remember what I was playing at the time but I felt good about the tune I was playing and the sound of the well-tuned piano. I asked her if she knew any songs and she said, "O Come All Ye Faithful." I played it as she sang. All this was meant to cheer myself up, and anyone else within earshot who would appreciate it. And by the comments afterward, they did appreciate it. But I was not about to entertain an audience. I'm more of a closet piano player, although I play in church a few minutes before church starts, at Mennonite Christian Assembly in Fredericksburg, Ohio.
I had a few visitors during my stay at Oak Grove. One evening, Shirley, a Toastmasters speech coach, came for a visit, carrying a rather large wedge of cake. It was her last meeting with our Toastmasters Club since she was going to California to live, and she was given a good send-off with a party, which I couldn't attend. The cake was made by Nancy, one of the other attendees of the bi-weekly Toastmasters meetings. Nancy and Jerry, and their son Steve, came to my room a couple days later. Steve had had surgery on his legs so he was in a cast. We had a nice visit together and I tried to encourage Steve to keep a positive attitude. He'll eventually be up and running. It was only because I myself attempt to keep a positive attitude in a potentially discouraging situation. You think healthy, and you'll get back to better health faster.
I was scheduled to go home on Christmas Eve. I packed up some of my belongings. The walker that Jeff ordered came and I signed the papers for ownership, paid by Medicare. But Dr. Athmaram came by and felt that my leg should be checked. I was sent back to MedCentral for a ultrasound. I was in a wheelchair supplied by Oak Grove and was transported by their vehicle to MedCentral. I never returned to Oak Grove. They found a blood clot and I was immediately readmitted to MedCentral and there I stayed for the next four days--over Christmas, no less! I was not happy about that. They put me on a heperin drip for a couple of days, and Coumadin, a blood thinner.
On Christmas Day the nurses were on half-shift and one commented about her empathy for my stay in the hospital over Christmas. One nice part was that I had prime rib for lunch. The hospital food was quite tasty. Also, Joe and Esther, (Esther is Lucy's sister), along with Jonathan and Rachel, came with a couple of Christmas presents, so the season was not completely lost to me.
The next day, however, I started really getting antsy. I wanted to go home. Everyone thinks I went home on Christmas Eve. I spotted the business card of the social worker who dropped it off in my absence, and in desperation I dialed her number. Just then I saw Pastor Bill Detweiler walk through the door, and I quickly hung up the phone. He had gone to Oak Grove and found I wasn't there and came to the hospital. After I gave him an update, he gave me some encouraging words, and prayed a heart-felt prayer. I felt better.
The last night at the hospital was quite interesting. I had a new nurse, Mary, and she doted on me like none other. She wanted to make sure I was comfortable. She noticed the hospital socks I was wearing were rather tight so she took a scissors and snipped the top to relieve the pressure on my ankles. She put a pillow under my left arm since it still had a Heploc needle inserted, but I was finally off the IV. She spread two blankets over me so I could be warm. She finally left the room and I settled down to sleep, but she returned later and told me that my heartbeat was irregular and my pulse was over 100. She connected me to the oxygen line which I ended up breathing all night. I didn't mind the oxygen, but I felt that she had me confused with another patient. It came to a head later when she came back, exclaiming that one of the leads was disconnected. I was about to say something but she opened my gown and found that I was not even attached to a monitor. She told me my name was on one of them at the console. (I had been on a heart monitor during my first visit.) She left and didn't come back until morning. She must have gotten it all straightened out. It was the best night's sleep I had during my stay at MedCentral and Oak Grove.
I insisted that I wanted to go straight home after being released from the hospital. They obliged since I was reasonably ambulatory and didn't need further rehab. I was scheduled to have some home therapy anyway.
Minerva came before I was even dressed and I rang for the nurse and got dressed. After all the paperwork I finally was able to leave. They pushed me out in the wheelchair and, for the first time I was on my way home. Minerva stowed the wheelchair in back of the van. We would take it back to Oak Grove. But first I had to have a prescription filled for Coumadin so we stopped at Walgreens. I settled for the generic: Warfarin. It's cheaper. Then we delivered the wheelchair back to Oak Grove and we finally arrived home. I walked in with the walker and was met with Nathan (age 5) and Nolan (age 2). They were glad to see me. I sat down in a chair and gave them both a big hug. I really love those kids. They are Minerva's (Lucy's niece) two boys and Lucy babysits them every weekday. They are the next best thing to children we don't have.
Nolan brought a book for me to read and as I read the abbreviated versions of Hansel and Gretel, Beauty and the Beast, and Cinderella, Nathan stood by and listened. I was finally home again!
During the three weeks in stir, I was able to reminisce about events in my life. This leg has been under attack, broken and traumatized ever since I was eight years old. I felt a twinge of pain in my left hip when I landed after falling 30 feet down the silo chute that time; I had the fibula and tibia fractured in a spiral fracture in 2005, and now in 2007 the upper femur bone was fractured. And it was odd to remember that when I landed on the slippery lane I was facing east, the same direction I landed when I fell down the silo chute in 1952; whatever significance that might have. We experience things for a reason. It often brings to our attention the need for spiritual growth because we are eternal beings. God is Spirit and so are we. We cannot stay stagnant but constantly growing to become more aware of our place in the universe.
To get a good grip on the day, you can say this prayer every morning:
Let this day be one of blessing;
Let this day be one of joy;
Let my heart, with love possessing,
Guide the work that I employ.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Harry
I mentioned in my October 28 blog entry that I broke my leg in January 2005. What I didn’t mention was when I was put into the
When I was wheelchaired to my room at Oak Grove, I began to feel rather depressed about the situation I was in. It was a small room, rather devoid of excitement or interest, and I guess I began to feel a little sorry for myself. I am not old enough to be in a Nursing Home, or so I thought. Later I found people younger than me.
I noticed my room mate which I later learned was Harry. He was a 74 year old man who didn’t seem to have a very good outlook. And for good reason. He was there for several months, and had been in another nursing home for several months. It would be enough to drive me to distraction too. Furthermore, he had had colon surgery before and the resulting situation was not conducive to positive optimism. He was not a happy man, and the nurses were not very cordial to him either. They had to come to his assistance several times a day.
Because of my own perceived plight, I began to pay attention to him. He was on the other side of the curtain and I started talking to him, introducing myself. He was pleasant enough to me, but did not have anything good to say about the plight he was in, and the attitude of the nurses and caretakers. I began to talk to him about Universal Law, like begets like, in as simple terms as I understood it. What you put out returns to you in like manner.
Late that night, nurses woke us up to give us medication, probably sleeping pills. Two nurses were arguing with Harry. I asked my nurse, “Why are they arguing with him?” She replied, “Oh, he’s quite a difficult patient.”
I saw my opportunity to make my stay worthwhile. In the morning I continued to tell him about how to relate to people you don’t like, or don’t seem to like you. I told him that thoughts have power, and that our thoughts can create the reality we find ourselves in. You put out negative thoughts, negative thoughts and situations will return. Like begets like. You put out positive thoughts, and they will return in kind.
I suggested that when a nurse or caretaker comes to his assistance, think about something he likes about that person, no matter how he feels about that person. Turn the tables on the continuing situation. It will work.
I hoped it would work. I never coached a person like that before, especially a man older than I was and probably set in his ways. But throughout the weekend he gradually seemed to be more acquiescent. There was not as much commotion, although his needs were the same. You could justify his attitude by what he had to deal with. He could not run to the restroom and he often had to be cleaned up, is the plain description of his plight. He didn’t like it and the nurses had to constantly come to his aid, and his attitude had put them on the offensive sometimes.
But by Sunday he was a saint. The nurses exclaimed about his about-face attitude. It was something entirely different from the way they had to handle him before. He was actually pleasant. One nurse exclaimed, “Wes, what did you do to him?” I replied, “Nothing, he had it within him all the time.”
I had ordered an accordion and it happened to arrive at my home while I was in the nursing home. I asked that it be brought to me. Jim and Bonnie visited with me and brought it along. I started playing it, and patients from other rooms came around to see who was originating the music. And they had smiles on their faces. At one moment, when we were alone, a song came to me, with the words, and I played it for Harry. It had to do with our mutual confinement in this place. It was a bit bawdy, but fit the situation we were in, with words you should not repeat in Sunday School. It was the first time I saw him laugh.
Occasionally there was someone playing the piano. I took the opportunity to wheelchair myself over to the piano room, close the double doors, and play to my heart’s content. A nurse came and opened the doors wide. She explained that the patients want to hear. I’m not an accomplished piano player, but I tried to play songs that were uplifting for all the sorry people who needed to hear it. If it cheered me up, it most likely cheered others also.
Meanwhile, Lucy called the local radio station, WMAN and, by telephone, broadcast to the whole listening area the need for a driver for a patient who needs to go to dialysis three times a week. Four people responded and I picked one of them and signed myself out of the nursing home to finally go home. After a couple of weeks or so, I realized I could drive myself in spite of my full cast. It was on the left leg, and with an automatic drive there was no need to have to use it. It all worked out OK.
Quite a number of months passed. I had Harry’s home phone number and I called up his wife and asked about Harry. I was taken aback when she told me he had passed away.
My reasoning is that he needed to find a way to love in an unlovely situation, to come to terms with his own feelings, to make it easier to pass on without fear. God is in control of our lives when we allow it—and we can allow it in order to fulfill the reason for our existence. We have free will but God will answer us when we ask. God bless you, Harry, wherever you are.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Almost . . .
It was around 1965 I believe. A few years after the picture at the right was taken. I had my newfound freedom off the farm. I was old enough to drive, although I didn’t have a car, and independent enough to go a distance to visit my relatives. I used Dad’s car.It was early afternoon when I drove about 40 miles to
I finally stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk. Suddenly the door of a bar opened across the street and a woman stumbled out and toward me. I watched as she came close and then she fell down just a couple yards from me. A man rushed out and came up to her exclaiming, “Mama!”, and carefully helped her up. He brought her over to me and asked if I would please take her home, just a few blocks down the street. She was ill, he said.
I was not exactly naïve but I was in a quandary—doing a good deed, or possibly getting into a trap. I was not the kind of person to be used to the strange activities of strangers in a big city. As I hesitated, the woman walked over to the car and tried the door on the passenger's side. She stood waiting as the man explained her illness and the need for someone to take her home. In my hesitancy I was almost ready to help them out as I slowly wandered toward the car.
Suddenly, from the store came a call, “Mister…Mister…you forgot something!” The Russian lady was outside the store and waving a handkerchief in my direction. “You forgot something!” I answered to the ruse and walked back to the safety of the store. Both proprietors gave me an orientation lesson on the devious misadventures that occasionally occurred in the neighborhood. “It’s a bum city,” they said. “They have already stolen from people... and killed people. They would do just what they tried to do to you. It’s a bum city!” As I waited inside the store, both the would-be thieves went back into the bar.
I thanked the Russian couple profusely, and when the street was empty once again, I left, chastened by the experience.
Psalm 91:11 Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.
That’s not to say I’m treated with any particular favor more than anyone else could. It apparently was to be a lesson learned—learning to be careful in a city of strangers, even if it is called The City of Brotherly Love. I thank God that it was not a worse experience. After all, I don't exactly lack for bad experiences, but that's another story or two.
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