Fix up time

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

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

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!

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

I was born in 1944, and I am the oldest of eight in our family. John Wesley, Ronald, Sallie Ann, Joyce, Arlene, Jane, Marge, and David. Ron and I were always praying for a baby brother to wrestle with, but five sisters in a row persistently came along to thwart our ecclesiastical efforts. It was not to be. It was not until 1958 that David finally came along.

There is a story behind that that I can share at some other time. One story that I must tell is about Sallie Ann. (The picture above is a picture of Sally in her younger years.) Sally was born in 1946 and the third child in the family, our first sister. I remember back in those days that Dad ordered from a Rice Krispies cereal promotion—Snap, Crackle, and Pop dolls. They came in the mail and Ron had Snap, I had Crackle, and Sally had Pop. I would rather have had Snap because it looked more debonair than the rest, but I had to settle for Crackle.

As we all grew up I noticed that Sally had certain fears that, in retrospect, seemed to be more pronounced than in the rest of us. I remember about 1953 when I, Ronny, Sally, Joyce and maybe Arlene were in the barnyard at the Spring City farm when a fighter jet flew overhead. The Willow Grove Air Base was a few miles away. We all waved, which was evidently spotted by the pilot. He made a long loop around and flew low over us. When he came alongside he accelerated and flames shot out the afterburner and he took off with a deafening roar. Sally was the only one that screamed and ran and we helped quiet her down.

Another time a light plane, which was maybe piloted by Graybill Souder, flew over the barn and silo and may have clipped the lightning rod on top of the silo, according to Dad. The plane flew low over our garden where Dad was working and we were pulling weeds. As the plane flew over, Dad reached up with his hoe and the plane was only a few feet above that. It was low enough that it had to climb to get over our house. The resulting roar created such a din that Sally ran screaming toward the house.

I had my own problems. I had surgery as a child and I had problems with staying dry. It was a problem that affected me well into my teenage years. Sometimes we children didn’t get along with each other, as children are wont to do, and Sally chose to tease me about bedwetting, something which I did not appreciate. The result was that I stopped talking to her in a civil manner for a number of years. I really don’t know when it started. It may have been at the Norman Souder Farm. We moved to the Ellis Mack Farm years later, and then we moved to the Tuschinsky Chicken Farm which Dad bought—the fifth and last farm we ever lived on.

I was maybe 17 or 18 when Mom came to me one day and asked if I could be a big brother to Sally. (Sally was 15 or 16 at the time.) She was quite depressed and Mom said it would be nice if I could let bygones be bygones. I don’t remember telling Mom about the continuous rift Sally and I had, but she apparently noticed it all along.

I went up to the room where Sally was and, as I stood in the doorway, said, “Sally, I guess it’s time to let bygones be bygones.” I don’t know what else I said in the way of apology, but that ended the rift, right then and there.

In the beginning I was more hesitant to communicate but Sally came to me with the need to talk, and I gradually warmed up to her with big brother advice. Maybe I had more of an optimistic outlook which she needed to relate to; I had my own occasional depressions. With what I had to deal with I forced some of that optimism on myself.

We as a family eventually left the Mennonite Church and joined up with a Fellowship that had a more spiritual emphasis. I joined it in 1965 when it was on 2027 Spring Garden Street in Philadelphia, and it eventually moved to Mt. Laurel, New Jersey—Mt. Laurel Chapel. The group was quite musical and we eventually had public concerts twice a year, for over 20 years.Over the years a number of young people were taken on trips to Switzerland, Hawaii, and in the States. One day Sally and I went to Lancaster County to visit with our cousins. Cousin Maryann was a close friend of hers. On the way home Sally seemed to be rather gloomy and I told her to tell me what her concern was. Why was she so despondent so often? She should talk it out. She answered, “I would like to go on those trips once in awhile too. Arlene, Jane, and Margie all are able to go on trips to Switzerland, Hawaii...I don’t go anywhere!

“Sally, I don't either.”

The Elder of the church introduced Sally to a young man in the congregation, a Chinese-American, John Lee, and in course of time they got married, to the surprise of a lot of people who knew her. Sally was the type of person to be on the depressed side at times and it was not expected that she would find someone to share her life with. John did not know what her entire disposition was and did not find out until afterwards. His parents owned a restaurant and they had a wedding feast for the young couple, and it was afterwards that John found out her schizophrenic side. Still, he stayed by her.

I believe Sally may have been intimidated by the apparent success of her husband. He was a college graduate, a chemistry major, and he had a job at a prestigious laboratory. They had two children and there were times that she needed to get away, which worried John. I worked at Spectracolor at the time and Sally called me once in awhile to talk. There was a payphone for employees to use for personal calls.

One day I answered the phone and I asked how she was doing.

“I did something bad,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“What did you do?”

“I cut myself.”

“Is it bad?”

“Yes…”

I told her, “What I want you to do is unlock the front door and wait for whoever is coming to help.”

I went to the office and told them what happened and then called the police and told them. I felt a little faint when I overheard the dispatch order an ambulance for an “attempted suicide.

I told my co-workers I was leaving for awhile and I traveled the eight miles to where Sally lived. When I arrived, the ambulance was already there. I came into the room and Sally was sitting quietly with a bandage over her wrist. “Oh Sally,” and I gave her a hug. A police officer was in the kitchen examining the evidence. He showed it to me. I did not feel good. I called John but when he answered I couldn’t tell him the details until he said, “Just spit it out.” So I told him what happened. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly.

They took Sally to the hospital and I stayed awhile. I went to the piano and played a rather melancholy tune that came to me, a tune of sadness. John picked Sally up at the hospital later and brought her home. They invited me over occasionally. John and Sally’s two girls, Samra and Sharon, grew up into fine young ladies bound for college.

Meanwhile, I married Lucy Yoder and moved to Ohio, and Sally would call me occasionally. She still needed someone to talk to. One day she called me and said, “Do you think the Lord has anything for me to do?” How does one answer a question like that? But without thinking I blurted out, “No...but you can enjoy your children and eventually grandchildren. Enjoy life. Don’t worry about everything. Your children need you. Your eventual grandchildren will need their grandma.” Later I felt a little guilty for the initial choice of words, but it was eventually apparent that her destiny had been set, by her own choice.

On November 23, 1996 I got a call from Jane, “Wes, Sally finally . . . she took her own life.” I was devastated. Lucy was in the other room and wondered why I was crying like I was so she came out to investigate. When I told her what happened Lucy had a look of sadness but she was not the emotional type like I am. Sally was 50 years old.

It was at that same time that I had been appointed a juror on jury duty and we had just started deliberation on the case after the trial. I called the courthouse and told them what happened and someone got on the line to give me leave to attend the funeral. The rest of the deliberation would have to wait until I got back. I called the airline and told them I had to attend a funeral, "are there any tickets available?"

“Yes, there is, it is $600. It’s a guaranteed flight," she said. It’s only a 40 minute flight between Cleveland and Philadelphia. I couldn’t afford to pay the price. “That’s too much,” I said, “I’ll get back later.” I was tempted to ask if that came with a coffin.

I called my brother Dave. Debbie answered and she said she would look for a less expensive ticket. An hour or so later she called back and said there was one for $200. I gave her my credit card number and waited for another hour. She called back and said the card didn’t go through. That happened twice. I finally looked at the address on one of the credit card bills and noticed that it did not exactly match my address, so I gave them the bill's address and it finally went through.

The trip from Cleveland to Philadelphia was uneventful and Dave picked me up at the airport. I arrived at the funeral home in New Jersey and soon the immediate family was ushered into the viewing room before the public would attend the service. John didn’t feel comfortable having an open casket for the general public so we were the only ones to see Sally. I believe cousin Kathryn was invited in also.

Sally looked as beautiful in death as she was in life. I don’t believe Sally ever realized how nice-looking she was during her life. In the coffin she wore a Mennonite prayer covering on her head and held a Bible in her hand. It may have been a struggle to leave the faith she grew up with. It is difficult for a lot of people. She apparently never really left it in spirit, however. Later people from Mt. Laurel and other friends and well-wishers filed past to greet us, the family. Her remains are interred in the Cherry Hill cemetery.

But that’s not the end of the story for me. When I finally got home I went back to jury deliberation and we unanimously pronounced the perpetrator guilty. When he heard the verdict his shoulders sagged and his head went down. Then the lawyers involved explained to us, the jury, all the details we were not privy to during the trial. Our verdict was justified. It was not his first offense. The rest of the jury could have legally given the verdict without me, except that he insisted on having all jurors present. I felt a little cheated out of a longer time off to be with family when I heard that.

Over the next months I mourned for my sister, and over the years thought about her occasionally. She was a person who didn’t realize her own potential it seemed. I would occasionally dream about her; sometimes she was in a sad mood, and sometimes happy, as she was during her life. Then one night I dreamed I was at the Uncle Warren Hackman farm in Myerstown, PA and Sally walked to a car waiting with others in the car, opened the door, and I approached her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She got into the back seat and they drove away. Knowing I was dreaming, I said to myself, “Wow! It felt real!” In reflection, it may have been a gesture that she needed. The reader must understand that we never die; our soul lives on and we only leave our earthly body behind.

It was the last time I dreamt about her. But it didn’t end there. In January 2006 I was lying in bed reminiscing on nothing in particular while Lucy was sitting up reading a book. Suddenly I saw Sally plain as day. It was like a cameo picture with trees and a house in the background. She looked at me and smiled, and then she turned her head a little and I thought, that’s Sally all right. I exclaimed to Lucy, “I just saw Sally!” Lucy kept on reading.

Five months later in June I got a phone call from Joyce in Georgia, saying that Mom was quite ill and she might not last the week. I was pondering what to do when I went to sleep that night, and while sleeping, I dreamt that I was hard at work, and then I lay down to rest for awhile. Dad came along and said, “Wesley, get up, you have work to do.” Then I woke up to a bright sunny day and the inclination to take the trip to New Jersey to help out with Mom. I had to leave Lucy behind because I didn’t trust the van to go the distance, and Lucy gave me her blessing to take the trip alone. I rented a car and drove the almost 500 miles to Jane’s house and stayed a week, going to dialysis a couple times. Mom steadily improved by the time I went back home.

In early July I got a phone call that Mom had passed away. Again, I went alone to the funeral. I kept in touch with Lucy while I was away and it would have been nice if she would have been able to go along. At the funeral Jane, who organized a lot of it, said she couldn’t get anyone to lead singing, would I do it? I led the congregation in a couple of songs, the audience singing in beautiful four-part harmony. Most of our family had something to say about Mom in eulogy. It was a beautiful funeral. As Dave said before he played a tune on the piano, “Funerals are for the living.”

During the fellowship meal afterward, I told Mom’s sister Sadie about Sally. I told her I saw her in a vision. Sadie replied, “Now you know she’s OK, now you can concentrate on someone else.”

I was a little hesitant to tell this story at the risk of putting my sister Sally in an unfavorable light. But that is not what I feel. I feel it an honor that she was my sister, and I am still saddened that her life could have not been more joyful, and that she chose to leave us under these circumstances. I don't believe she wanted to but she could not withstand the pain she was in at the time. She didn't realize it but she was a beautiful person, and maybe we took it for granted. That's what we often do. You appreciate the memories but the source is gone.

Indiana Jones

This past Tuesday I was all set to have a day out on the town. I didn't have any dialysis scheduled for the day since it's only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. With such a regimen one needs to have a reprieve once in awhile. Dave M. from New Jersey had contacted me about going to the movies to see the latest movie of Indiana Jones. With his enthusiasm, it is evident that he is an expert on the subject.

He had told me about it almost a year before it came out. If you liked Raiders of the Lost Ark, you're sure to appreciate this movie. Indiana Jones first appeared in the 1981 film Raiders of the Lost Ark. The film was followed by Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in 1984, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in 1989, The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles from 1992 to 1996, and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in 2008. In addition to his film and television appearances, the character has been featured in novels, comics, video games, and other media.

The movie, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, opened on May 22. We saw it just this past Tuesday, June 24. That was over a month from the start. I asked him if it would still be playing when he came to Ohio. "Are you kidding? This movie is going to play for a long time!"

He told me he went to the opening at midnight on May 22 and the place was packed with hero worshippers. I'm not that ambitious, but I do like a good adventure and I was not disappointed.

On Tuesday Dave showed up at around 10:30 a.m. on his Harley and left it parked at our place while we drove to the Mansfield Cinemark Theater, a first-run theater. (Lucy and I always go to the dollar theater in town.) Lucy wasn't too happy that I spend a lot of money for a movie, but when we got there for the 11:00 a.m. showing, it was only $4.50. After a month of Indiana Jones feeding frenzy the fervor had died down and there were only two other people in the theater.

Since I'm walking with a crutch I sat in the handicap section, which was a bit too close; the previews were wild enough to make you want to sit farther back. I told Dave I'm going back a few rows, so we sat back not far from one of the other patrons.

Dave had told me he was going to get an Indiana Jones fedora from the same person who made them for the movie. Sure enough, he drove his trusty Harley all the way to Mississippi and back in time to attend the movie with me. And he wore the hat to the movie.

When he had told me about getting the hat, I told him that he would certainly be sleeping during the movie. He didn't think so. A few minutes into the movie the excitement grew loud and fierce. I turned to Dave to make a comment about it, in time to see him quickly raise his bowed head to attention, agreeing with me. A person can get mesmerized into oblivion from sheer monotony. And a lot of constant excitement can turn out to be monotonous. Look Dave, no one can expect to stay awake after traveling hundreds of miles, especially when this was the 7th time you saw the movie.

The movie was worth going to see. It was the old Harrison Ford character at its finest. I hadn't seen a movie like that for a long time. Well, I admit that I don't watch many new movies these days.

After the movie, we dined at Olive Garden Restaurant. That's one place Lucy and I frequent on occasion. Lucy doesn't really mind when I don't include her in some of my social escapades; she has her own Ladies' Day Out with her sister and nieces.

Dave spent a little time with us when we got back home, but he had appointments to keep and had to get back to his neck of the woods. With the day being sunny and warm, it was a good time had by all.

By the way, Dave can be seen on his own website. Click here.

After Hospitalization ... finally

This letter was written in December 1989. Sequence of these letters start with the trip to England blogged in May 2008.

I'm finally back to work after four months on State Disability Pay (New Jersey). I was in the hospital (Philadelphia, PA) five times in those four months, had surgery several times and now it looks like everything is all tuned up and shipshape.

A number of doctors wrote off what Insurance wouldn't pay. In fact, I didn't even have to ask my doctor. The billing secretary said she would write off the remainder as soon as Insurance, Blue Cross/Blue Shield and Major Medical, paid. And he isn't even a participating member of Blue Cross. I thought that was mighty thoughtful of them.

Last August I got bills from Anesthesia, from four doctors, for several surgical sessions in which they were involved. They had sent the bills to Insurance and asked only that insurance moneys be forwarded to Anesthesia Associates. Finally, Insurance started paying but they didn't pay the entire bill. I kept getting bills from Anesthesia for the remainder. I called up Insurance and said they didn't pay the entire amount, was I obligated to pay the remainder? They told me that they paid what was fair and equitable. Indeed, I would not have to be made to pay the rest. So I called up Anesthesia and asked about reducing or eliminating the remainder of the bills since Insurance paid their part. They told me to write a letter to the doctors involved, which I did. A few weeks later I was still getting periodic bills for the remainders so I called Anesthesia again. I asked what my balance was on the four bills outstanding. She looked it up on her computer. Doctor One, zero; Doctor Two, zero; Doctor Three, zero; Dr. Four...$75.00...no, she would write that off too. The total write-off amounted to almost $700. Believe me, I was elated.

It reminds me of the time when my Dad got a dentist bill he disagreed with. He either called up or wrote a letter to the dentist and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he objected to the bill and would pay only part of it. I was too young at the time to tell Dad that you just don't do it that way. Tact and diplomacy go far in such matters. Needless to say, he got another bill from the dentist demanding payment in full immediately.

In course of the several conversations I had with Insurance and the various medical billing offices, I have come to the conclusion that they intentionally inflate the bills to ensure receiving as much as Insurance will pay. I'm sure not all doctors write off the remainders—I had to ask Anesthesia for their consideration. I didn't have to ask Dr. Bagley, even though he is not a participating physician. Participating physicians are not supposed to receive any more than what Insurance pays them.

I went to the hospital again after I had settled everything with Anesthesia and now I got another bill from Anesthesia from the surgery since then—$540. Insurance already sent in their portion—Blue Shield sent $315 and Major Medical sent $99. That leaves a $126 remainder to haggle with with Anesthesia. I guess I'll just wait to see if they write it off before I put on my diplomatic hat again.

These bills are very confusing too. Fortunately, there's a date of service to orient one to when, where and how that bill was generated. I started keeping track of my medical escapades since September which was a little late to document all the doctor appointments, xrays, examinations, and in-patient medical services performed. I received an insurance check for $125 for Jefferson Associates. There are several Associates at Jefferson—Urology, Radiology, Nuclear Medicine. And some of those bills are from outside service vendors who do consulations, analyses, or evaluations. I called one number and it was an Associate office outside the city in Bala Cynwyd. She wrote off the bill—bless her!

All this free time I've had over the past months has allowed me to come to grips with my own financial situation. I could easily declare bankruptcy. I've been beholden to the credit card craze for years and now I find that I've been as bad as the federal government, living on a deficit. Now I've stopped using credit cards, and I've set up a budget to live within my means. No, it's not a sickness, as people like to make excuse for their bad spending habits. It's just a habit one gets into. Now I'm keeping track of all my pennies. I'm holding on to only a couple of vices—buying stamps and stationery to write these letters.

I had had two Thanksgiving dinners, Thursday and Saturday, which eased the budget tremendously. My sister Jane invites me to dinner occasionally. I don't eat out anymore. I've discovered rice, although I wish it was tastier. Frozen corn heats up in minutes in the microwave. Potatoes take about 8 minutes to bake in the microwave. The Acme sells cooked chickens for about $5, which is enough for a couple meals; and just the other day one chicken was marked down to $1.99, and it was still warm. My brother and I had a nice inexpensive meal that evening—chicken, rice, corn and applesauce. He and I live together. He's watching his budget too. And fortunately he likes my cooking.

So how did your vacation go? Anything exciting? I took my vacation in April, to London. I don't know what I'll do this coming year. I don't want to spend any money for awhile, so maybe I'll just stay home and read...read library books.

We had a bit of excitement the other day. But first, on November 16 we had a rip-roaring windstorm go through here. The south wind had been blowing all night and around noon a north wind came through like gangbusters, knocking down trees, power lines; and in Philadelphia a high-rise under construction was damaged by flying sheetrock panels. They flew into the air and knocked out about 40 windows in the adjacent high-rise office building. I remember because I was admitted to the hospital that day—after the storm had passed by. The high-rise was just a couple blocks from Jefferson Hospital.

Then less than a week later I was sitting here reading in the evening when the wind rose again. I didn't pay much attention to it until I heard a loud metallic clatter outside. I'm on the fifth floor of an eight-story building and I saw bricks, wood and debris all over the ground by the front entrance. I don't think any cars were hit although there were about 100 parked nearby.

Soon firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars came barreling in. Searchlights played over the whole building, and firemen went up to the roof to survey the damage. A piece of roofing was still dangling over the edge of the roof and they didn't allow anyone to leave the front entrance. The wind was still high.

Soon there was a knock on the apartment door. A fireman told us to leave our apartment and stay out in the hall or go down to the lobby. They wanted to remove the roofing on the edge and they didn't want any stray pieces to fall and shatter a window. We stayed in the hall for about a half hour.

The next day the episode was in the paper, complete with pictures. I guess the media had been out there among the fire trucks to add to the confusion. Nobody was hurt though.

Well, I have more letters to write. I didn't feel like writing lately because I was still worried about my health. But this past Monday everything turned out OK when I went to the hospital for the last time to see whether everything was functioning properly. So I'm free once again, and quite happy about it.

This letter was written on December 2, 1989. I would have never remembered the details I described if I hadn't written them down. That's the value of writing letters—a virtual diary.