Losing it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This actually unnerves me a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In this building?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

O God, help us all!!

Caught!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Dispose of Unwanted Medicines

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

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

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

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

Adventures in Town

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

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

“Go where?”

“To RSVP—for lunch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1994 Ford Econoline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you God for the protection you afforded us.

Roman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moosonee, Ontario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are you from?" I asked.

He hesitated. "Bermuda."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leap Year

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

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

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

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

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