The Great Thanksgiving Lie

"I Like Left-Over Turkey"

As I write this, it is twenty minutes prior to the half-hour before the afternoon of Thanksgiving Eve. Tomorrow is a day for overindulgence. Like most Americans, I will eat too much, take a nap and watch a ton of football. I will gather with the same people as last year and the year before that and the year before that. I like it that way. Everything will be just right. My greatest pleasure will come later in the day.

Somewhere along the way we will deep fry a few smaller turkeys and someone will say how much they like leftovers. (some recipes) Suddenly, as if on cue, the trap has sprung. It tastes as sugary-sweet to me as that first bite of yams and marshmallows. That comment is my opportunity to launch into my usual rant. I like to expose the lie.

My controversial proposition is that nobody really wants left-over turkey, they just think they do. I could only find a few people who agreed with me. God have mercy on any newcomer that might suggest otherwise. My unsuspecting victim will predictably defend the common belief and say something like, “I have always liked left over turkey sandwiches.” Then I circle my prey and move in for the kill. He is “my” turkey for the day.

I probe, “Have you ever cooked a turkey and then put it in the frig for a couple of days so that it could age a bit, like a side of beef, before you ate it?” It is at this time that the victim realizes he is waist-deep in some sort of Turkey-day quicksand. As he attempts to gather his day-old thoughts I notice his enlarged eyes nearly pleading for mercy.

It is at that moment that my dupe becomes a tasty side dish to me: his primary purpose is to appease my insatiable argumentative appetite. Before he gets a chance to gather his giblets, I hit him with my cranberry clincher, “Have you ever gone to a restaurant and told them you don’t want today’s fresh turkey, and to bring you yesterday’s left-over turkey instead?” I feel so naughty because it is woefully unfair to lure those of inferior intellect into my menacing trap. Ha, ha, ha, ha. I know the answer to my cleverly worded question and the dressing-headed victim knows that I know he is my slice of pumpkin pie. Yum!

Naturally, he has never done anything to seek out left-over turkey. The truth of the matter is it takes a lot of work to prepare a thanksgiving feast and after it is over there is a natural desire to kick back. Since there is a pile of the dead bird hanging around and there is a carcass that can be converted into some turkey noodle soup or a casserole, it just makes sense to use it. In some families they eat leftover turkey for nearly a week. By then, they must hate it. So, I contend that we tolerate left-over turkey but we don’t like it enough to pursue it.

If you buy into my basic point I suggest from now on you buy 3 or 4 small turkeys (say 10-12 pounds or so) when they are on sale and freeze them. Then when you bake a turkey invite a friend over and finish it off in one meal or two. That way you won’t tire of it and you will enjoy fresh turkey rather than that day-old, leftover, dried out, old-hat, I wish I wouldn’t have bought this monster fowl kind of turkey. I rest my case.

ps. It was Bob

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Thanksgiving Tradition: Xtreme Gluttony

Several decades ago Patty and I began sharing Turkey day with her parents, at their mountain home, along with Patty’s sister, Mary Ann, and her husband, Dusty. Ordinarily the six of us were accompanied by a canine or two and a wonderful tradition was underway.

Over the years, a few new kids showed up; five in fact. Once in a while a stray friend or relative would join in, but the core group repeated that pattern or a reasonable facsimile of it nearly every year.

Patty’s parents actually built the home themselves, and they included a floor-to-ceiling moss-rock fireplace in the living room. We stuffed it with firewood from their own land, and enjoyed a most-comfy setting. Like most other families, we feasted to the belt-bustin’ stage. Throw in a few football games and all of that added up to my favorite holiday.

A typical meal would include a turkey the size of a VW bug, (see 22 footer) as well as all of the trimmin’s, which included several favorite family recopies, much like those at Serious Eats. Oh yeah, there was also two or three different pies and enough whip cream to fulfill all of the fantasies of every man woman and child on the planet. (Insert your fantasy in comments section below) Ah, the good ol’ days.

Naturally, that meal did not just materialize out of thin air. Somebody had to do a lot of work and I will admit that I did not quite do my fair share. Oh hell, let’s be honest here: The women did it all!!!... I just showed up and enjoyed the fruits of their labor.

As the family grew, so did the demands. Sometimes new dishes were introduced, and on other occasions the women just made more of the old favorites. Either way was fine with me. Once in a while I waddled over to the wood pile and retrieved a log to add to the fire, or I might have strained myself by changing channels on the TV from one game to another, but overall, I was one of several kings in that splendid little mountain home.

Eventually, some of the working-class folks came to their collective senses. I actually overheard one of the more boisterous complainers suggest that it would be nice to have a little extra help from some of the lazy people (who could that be?) who seemed to be unable to locate the kitchen when there was work to do. However, and fortunately for me, the kitchen in that humble home was not designed for a herd of cooks so the comment was more of a feigned complaint than a practical solution to a legitimate problem. Still, the sentiment of the remark could not be ignored, even by the most selfish among us: Me.

Since I had been the beneficiary of other people’s efforts for quite a few years, some pent-up guilt grabbed my ill-prepared tongue. Without sufficient forethought I quipped, “I will be happy to take care of the entire dinner next year.” A shock wave that surely measured a solid seven on the Richter Scale, enveloped the ears of those who knew that my chance of pulling that off was about as likely as me becoming the first pregnant male. Unable to hide the sarcasm, one of the usual chefs demanded to know just how I would propose to accomplish such a monumental task.

Finding myself backed into a self-imposed corner, I demanded of my mind that it quickly make up something credible that would get me out of my most uncomfortable predicament. Suddenly the great Turkey God sent me a special blessing for which I have been forever grateful ever since. Without so much as missing one swirl in a bowl of mashed potatoes I said, “Simple, I will just go to Boston Market and buy enough food for all of us and nobody will have to do much of anything.” Ah what a stroke of brilliance!

The complainer, so very proud of all of her favorite T-Day dishes, promptly retorted that the holiday would not be the same with “store-bought love”. Whew! That declaration revealed a weakness in my adversary’s game-plan: Namely, the tradition was more important to her than escaping the work-load.

Knowing her weakness, and realizing that my next comment might determine the format of all future feasts, I hit her with my knock-out punch, “Look, nobody said we have to have all of those specific dishes or that anybody in particular has to take responsibility for the ordeal. I never tell you how to do it, but if you want me to do it, at least let me do it my way.”

“That just wouldn’t be the same.”

And that guaranteed that things would go on “as usual” until further notice.

As the years ticked by, Patty’s dad passed on and her mom could not keep up with the lifestyle of living in the mountains. Most of the grandkids got married and a new generation of youngins has joined the mix. That means a few more friends get invited and there is still a pack of dogs to attend.

For the last few years we have moved the gathering to Adam’s home, which is much better suited to a clan of this size. The good news is we have changed one primary tradition. I buy an entire flock of small turkeys and the fellows deep-fry them, along with any other crazy concoctions they dream up. But I am happy to report that tradition, gluttony, pumpkin pie with lots of whip cream, and football still play a prominent role.

I love Thanksgiving.

What about you?

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Your Role in the Health Care Crisis

In my most recent article (scroll down, below this one), we explored whether the recent recommendations that women cut back on mammograms and pap smears make sense; and, if that philosophical shift is the beginning of healthcare rationing. On the first matter, I interviewed an expert on the topic and sided with her when she suggested that women take too many unnecessary tests. Regarding the issue about rationing, it is easy to be suspicious, but it is too early to make that assertion without some hard evidence.

Following that post, I received several emails on the topic and other people left interesting “comments” at the end of the main article. There was a broad range of ideas among the group, but the underlying theme is we are all dissatisfied. The most fascinating fact is there was never any discussion of the Obama healthcare bill currently on the table. The collective silence about that matter was deafening.

What I gathered from all of this is everybody dislikes something about the healthcare system. Let’s see who the biggest culprits are.

Doctors: One hundred years ago doctors did not have to go to college, just medical school. They made house calls, they accepted chickens and other insignificant items as payment for their services, and they were considered to be ordinary members of the community: certainly not entitled to a life of luxury.

All of that changed over time, but especially beginning in the 80’s as health insurance became common. When that happened, the public stopped worrying about the cost of their doctor’s bills because they believed that somebody else was paying the freight. Once the shackles were removed from the public’s ability to pay for medical treatments, the doctors were free to charge as much as the deeper pockets of the insurance companies would pay.

Now waiting rooms are packed and it seems like the employees at the doctors’ offices are more concerned with who our insurance company is than what our ailments are.

This concept has worked so well for physicians that other professionals such as dentists, veterinarians and chiropractors have employed similar concepts

Hospitals and other care givers: Naturally, the hospitals have jumped on the insurance band wagon. Their employees, along with suppliers of drugs and other goods and services have also ended up on-board. They are all able to make a better living because of the insurance arrangement than they would in a more competitive system where consumers pay for services themselves.

Insurance companies: Color this industry paradoxical. While it may seem like they are doing us a big favor as they pay our expensive medical bills, the truth is they are actually stealing even more money out of our purses. Their feigned attempts to control medical costs are nothing more than sophisticated distraction from the reality that the higher prices climb, the more they make. While insurance industry profit margins may be only 6%, would you imagine they would rather make 6% of two-million dollars or 6% of one-million dollars? So in the short term they may put on a dog and pony show about cutting costs, but in the bigger picture, quite the opposite is true.

Finally, consider this. The insurance companies have to take in more money than they pay out in claims, and all other expenses, or they could not stay in business. Therefore, we pay more for premiums than all of the actual costs of medical services combined. We would be better off financially without the insurance companies, even if prices stayed the same. But if there were no insurance companies then prices would drop because doctors, care givers, suppliers and all of the others would have to compete for the business.

Seniors: We all feel compassion for seniors and we want them to enjoy a dignified life style in their later years, but there is a dirty little secret. The seniors of today (65 and over) have been exploiting the kindness of others for years. They have lived through the most prosperous decades known to man kind but far too few of them prepared financially for their golden years. Regardless of their irresponsible behavior, they have played on the sympathy of the rest of us and managed to obtain generally comparable medical care to what we buy for ourselves. According to The Commonwealth Fund, Medicare was a fairly successful program in 2005 and the Obama Administration says they are committed to making it even better. The sentiment cannot be denied.

Since most seniors are retired, they have the time to write their Representatives and make demands. Those are not empty threats either, because a high percentage of seniors also vote. All of that could have been avoided if seniors had done a better job preparing for retirement, or if they relied upon their families or charities to help them, rather than the government. That way most of the waste would be cut out of their spending.

Illegal immigrants: It is no secret that millions of these people have come to this country just to have babies. Unsurprisingly, very few of them have the resources to pay their own medical expenses for child birth or anything else. Therefore, the services are provided and the expenses are passed along to the rest of us in the form of higher health insurance premiums. The problem is both widespread and local.California alone spends nine-billion dollars per year on this group and we all know where that has gotten them. We could explore the other financial implications of their visits, but that is a topic for another day.

Congress: Since most national politicians are more interested in getting reelected than they are in doing what is right, they keep stealing Other People’s Money in various ways and throwing it at the seniors’ medical needs, in exchange for their votes. Together these “entitlement” programs have cost us trillions of dollars.

Furthermore, the Congress lends little more than lip service to the illegal immigrant issues, which could be resolved in a responsible way without hurting anybody who is willing to take some responsibility. Even I can come up with a sensible way to address the matter. (More on this in a future article.) But in the mean time an irresponsible congress turns a blind eye to a problem the rest of us see so clearly.

The public: While we, the people, are the screwees in all of this, we are not without our share of the blame. For starters, we don’t have the backbone to stand up to any of the folks who are exploiting the system. Furthermore, many of us invade the doctor’s office at the first hint of a sore throat or a headache. We rationalize our behavior by telling ourselves that we might as well get some value out of all of those high insurance premiums we pay. Most members of group-plans are not exempt from this discussion (this too is for a future article.) As expected, the doctors don’t do anything to discourage us from visiting them for such minor issues. We rarely question the bill because it gets passed on to the insurance company, from whom any resistance is insincere for reasons previously mentioned.

When we take an overview like this, we can see that our health care system and the related insurance programs, both private and public, are fraught with dubious motives. There are so many people sticking their fingers in the “I care about you” pie, that we are flushing away valuable resources, which could provide these services in a much more cost-effective way: Namely the free enterprise system. But, since too few of us plan ahead, and newspapers love to exploit sad stories about those who are left out, soft-hearted do-gooders will always be willing to subsidize the irresponsible behavior with tax payer’s money.

To their credit, the Obama Administration has recognized these problems and they have embarked on a journey to do something about it. Good for them! The problem is they are doing the exact wrong thing. The last thing the bloated pig needs is more government waste. I might lend them the benefit of the doubt if they fixed the Social Security System, Medicare and Medicaid first. At least then they would have credibility. But only a moron would believe that we can insure another fifty-million people without cutting back on services and raising expenses on those of us who actually pay the bill.

What say you?

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Suggestion to Reduce Pap Smears and Mammograms Suspious

I have been asked by Pam, a Facebook buddy, what I think about the timing of the revised attitudes regarding breast exams and pap smears, and does it relate to the health care bill which is taking shape. Naturally, I don’t have any personal knowledge of those procedures, but I think we can use them as a symbol and discuss the broader issue: How is health care going to change?

To begin with, I am not an Obama fan. I occasionally agree with him about what constitutes a problem, but I rarely approve of his solutions. I think he is a caring man, but naïve. Many Americans and National Governments agree with me. He recognizes the plight of the downtrodden, but he seems oblivious to what makes an economy work. Billionaire Rupert Murdoch also agrees. Worse yet, he gets pushed around by the tag-team duo of Pelosi/Reid, who have done more to destroy the once-wonderful Democratic Party than any other democrats I can think of.

I tell you all of this political stuff so that you will not think of me as a homer when I say the new recommendations for the procedures mentioned seem on the right track to me.

My wife’s sister is a very seasoned intellectual-type midwife. Mary Ann has delivered thousands of babies and has been writing for text books and journals plus speaking at seminars for years. One of her studies, and pet peeves, has to do with all of the urine samples and tests that pregnant women undergo. She has been arguing that the information gleaned from such tests is available through the other tests they perform; therefore, gathering all of those urine samples is redundant. Many doctors are following her recommendations and cutting back.

I serve this up as another example of a test-crazed medical industry. It seems to me that doctors tend to fear getting sued, so they deflect responsibility from themselves by recommending, and even pushing, all sorts of tests. “Tis better to error on the safe side.”

I asked Mary Ann what she thinks about the suggestion to cut back on the two tests which Pam mentioned. Mary Ann said there was ample fact-based evidence supporting the suggestion to reduce the number of pap smears, but she was slightly dubious about the mammogram.She said she had not read enough to form an opinion but she did say that women in general do a lot better job of self-examines these days so cutting back on mammograms will probably also be prudent.

We all like to hear that our medical tests came back with positive results, but do we really give sufficient thought to all of the dynamics that went into obtaining the tests in the first place, or the consequences thereof? This, “test the bedickens out of everything” mentality we tend to embrace has to be running up our collective health costs unnecessarily, and I am all for cutting out some of the waste.

On a side topic, I am a devout capitalist, but I have to say that the insurance companies play an unseemly role in all of this. I think they love high prices. Every time there is a new expense they get to add on 10% for themselves. The more doctors who get sued the better; more tests mean more expenses and more expenses mean they can raise their premiums. After all, if you were an insurance company would you rather make a 10% profit on a million dollars or a 10% profit on two-million dollars? So as long as they can pass along the expenses to somebody, anybody, why would they want the medical industry to cut back on tests or anything else?

So all of this brings me to Pam’s question: Does the philosophical shift in the frequency of the tests that she mentioned coincide in any way with Obama’s health care program?

There is plenty of room for cutting back on unnecessary medical overhead, but I am woefully unqualified to know how often a woman should subject herself to the crunching, the exploring or the weekly pee-in-a-cup ritual of pregnancy. On the other hand, Mary Ann knows this stuff inside and out. I think I will take her word for it and conclude that the reports are legitimate, whether the timing is suspicious or not.

In the mean time, we can all “hope” (to use Obama’s term) that this is not the first sign of dangerous health care rationing.

Your ideas are wanted.

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Women Are Observant

Women are more observant than men. They “gather” information.

Perhaps it comes from having children and being in charge of so many things.

Or, they might just be more vain or self-conscious or they might be trying to avoid mistakes.

I don’t really know why they are that way, but believe me they are. Most of the people in this informal survey agree.

According to Blorge, 8% of us have blogs. Furthermore, more women than men visit Blogs to get information and more women actually have their own Blogs.

Their observant tendencies might explain why women give directions the way they do. They are not merely tuned into go left or turn right; they also pay attention to the landmarks like the picket fences and the color of buildings.

My wife can walk into most stores and quickly realize where most things are. It is much deeper than just reading the signs hanging from the ceiling. She just “senses” where things are kept. This is all a result of her paying close attention in all of the previous stores which she has visited.

On the other hand, I can go into a store that I have been in before and get lost. It is all because I am usually a destination shopper. When I go to a store I just want to get what I came for and get out. I just don’t bother to gather information for some theoretical next time that I might return.

I tried to think of circumstances in which men are more observant than women and the most obvious one was when they observe women, but the more I think about it, it seems to me that women probably also do a better job of paying attention to each other than the men do. Nicole and her readers tend to agree with me. Women notice when another woman streaks her hair or cuts it or if she wears a nice outfit or loses weight or gets a breast implant or wears a new outfit, but men don’t usually pay much attention to things like that.

Can you imagine one fellow saying to another, “Gosh, George, I really like your hair that way”?

I have been looking at my wife for 40 years. You would think that after all that time, I would notice any such changes but I usually don’t unless the changes are drastic. The truth is I am oblivious to the occasional things Patty does to doll herself up. I try to tell her that her natural beauty is so obvious that I just don’t care about the insignificant window dressing, but we both know that is just a pathetic attempt to win her favor.

I might as well just face the facts: women are more observant than men.

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Stuffed Animal Lifts Head & Yawns

Stuffed Animal Lifts Head, Yawns

If you think taking six months to buy a used dog is ridiculous, you haven’t met Gracie.

It has been 35 years since we acquired our first dog.Fred was a puppy; half St Bernard and half German Sheppard. Since we were Barely in our 20’s, we were naïve about nearly all adult issues, including how to properly care for pets. We could have done much better if we knew the Ten Commandments of Pets.

Fred befuddled us right from the beginning. When we went to work, we put her in the back yard for the day, but she hated that. When we got home we found clawing damage to the back door and several slats missing from our cedar fence. I bought replacement slats by the dozens. A neighbor told us that Fred began chewing on the fencing as soon as we left home. She was so powerful she could chew through a weak slat in ten minutes or so then she got another and another until she opened up a section big enough to squeeze through. Then she ran out to the front yard for a few minutes then she returned to the back yard through the same hole. Naturally, her habit was very hard on her teeth and gums.

When I discovered new damage, I tried to discipline Fred, not knowing that she was incapable of remembering that she had misbehaved 8 hours earlier. We tried everything we could think of, including putting Tobasco sauce on the slats and tying her to a tree instead, but she just barked all day. This went on for a couple of months.

Then the people at the local Dumb Friends League (Humane Society) said Fred was just lonely. They recommended we get a companion dog and let both canines stay in the house when we stepped out. I remember being very apprehensive about letting Fred stay indoors because she was so destructive, but we loved our dog and we were willing to try their recommendation.

We found a large but very gentle Newfoundland, who filled the bill perfectly. Check out these puppies. After that, we let the dogs stay indoors as suggested and found out they were both content. Fred proved to be a 70 pound lap dog and Sabbath was even bigger. They both lived with us for another 12 years.

If we knew then, what we know now, we would have considered finding a ‘”friend” for Fred, perhaps on Craig’s List. Another option might be Doggie Day Care,

After that, our kids dominated our lives and we started to travel so we never felt like we were in the right position to own another dog, until this year. In the late spring, we sold an out-of-state property so, that allowed us to expand the family again. There are some stories in the Archive section below about selling the property and some other articles about our early efforts to find a new-to-us dog.

After several months of investigating various breeds and checking out some of the local shelters (Pet Finders has several hundred thousand animals) we zeroed in on a range of possibilities. We visited a handful of rescue facilities and each trip tugged at our hearts. We met Maxum, Sebastian, Sarge and Teddy Bear among others. They all pleaded with Patty to scratch their bellies; but for reasons unknown, perhaps divine intervention, none of those worked out.

Then we met Gracie. In an ironic twist, there is a shelter in Golden that specializes in Golden Retrievers and Golden Labs. The oft sought combination is called Glabs. We contacted the shelter with a preference list and a couple days later Gracie rolled into town. She came from a shelter in Kansas and spent a couple nights at a foster home.

She took to us right away, which is no surprise because she likes everybody including kids, seniors, other pets and a couple toys. Gracie is about three years old, 65 pounds, very loving and EXTREMELY calm. In fact, she is so at easy that I have suggested she is just one notch above a stuffed animal.

To give you an idea how unusual she is, let me share how Gracie deals with some typical dog matters: Just to be clear, she was this way when we got her, so do not wrongly assume that somehow Patty and I are dog whisperers because we are not.

Now, meet Gracie.

1) When Gracie goes for a ride in the car she immediately lays down, without being told. She does not even try to look out the window.

2) When we gave her a bath, she willingly climbed into the tub herself, then she waited patiently while we scrubbed her down, and rinsed her off. No shivering, no trying to get out, no anxiety.

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3) When a knock comes to the door, she calmly walks over to it to see who came to visit. No Barking, no protecting, no hostility.

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4) When a stranger walks in the room, no growling, no jumping, no running around. She waits for them to offer a hand and then she wags her tail and says hello.

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5) When we eat, there is usually no begging. She calmly lies down nearby. She gets a small treat in her bowl when we are finished.

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6) Gracie is very good on a leash. Naturally, she likes to sniff things as we move along, but she is basically content to stay within a few feet, always on our right side. She is a tireless jogger.

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7) She has two shoe-sized stuffed animal pets of her own. She walks around with them gently cradled in her mouth. If you try to take them away, she lets you have them. She does not chew on them or tug on them. They are more like pacifiers than tennis balls.

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8) When on a walk and the neighbors’ dogs engage in the usual territorial barking, Gracie ignores them. No conflicts ensue. She is not interested in responding to them.

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9) If she gets off her leash, she sits down and waits for you to tell her what to do. So far she has not bolted or even shown any interest in running around.

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10) She has shown no interest in checking out the top of the counters. She could easily get stuff off of thAere if she wanted to, but she is either too dumb, too lazy or too well behaved to show any interest.

Some of the above would suggest that there is no “dog” in Gracie and that has an element of truth. We are playing tag with her and trying to liven her up a bit, but mostly she is peaceful and generally speaking passive dogs don’t change much so why fight it?.

Her name before we adopted her was Li Lo. Some people were saying Lee Low; others said Lie Low; but we changed it to something that is easier to remember and does not sound like answering the phone.

Our son is putting in a nice fence and a doggy door so she can enjoy the outdoors, but for another 10 days or so we have to take her on walks. That is yet another way she has enriched us. We need the exercise.

Nobody knows much about Gracie’s past, but we are guessing she was well treated because she is not afraid, just calm. She responds to whistles and she has a rather wild tail that she cannot always contain. She is happy to meet you and she wants you to know it.

There is no doubt Gracie is special in certain ways. It is odd that nobody has attempted to claim her because Gracie is not the kind of dog that most people would willingly surrender. She is just too loveable.

We have some great plans for Gracie. More on that at a later time.

whaddya think?

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Is He Really Talking About Peeing?

Peeing in a cup is an abnormal experience, especially for men.

When males have a “full tank” there is a lot of pressure in there and it is difficult to turn the faucet on and off at will. If you want some medical evidence go here. Trying to gracefully dispense a half-ounce of fluid from a pressure-packed human spigot into a shot glass-sized paper cup is comparable to asking a fireman to hook up his hose to the fire hydrant and dribble the precise amount of water onto your prize-winning tulips: You’re asking for a miracle.

Toilet seat splatter is nothing compared to the potential disaster of peeing for a physical. One time I really screwed it up. The sinister nurse gave me two test tubes and a tiny cup, to fill. What a challenge! She must have known that she did not provide a holder for the test tubes so they had to be capped and laid on their sides after each one was filled.

That does not seem particularly difficult until you realize that it takes at least four hands to perform the basic procedure: The first hand has to hold two pair of pants and a zipper or the entire work area can get messy; the second hand needs to attend the dispenser itself, which is no simple task in that situation; the third hand is for holding the test tubes; and the fourth hand is for putting the caps on the little containers after they are filled. As I took the collection of receptacles, I was disappointed to realize nobody was going to lend me a hand.

First, I tried to empty my reservoir a bit to relieve some of the pressure, but I didn’t want to run out of fluid so a confusing game of stop and start ensued. Drip, squirt, dibble, splash, squeeze! Then the real fun began.

The next thing to do was figure out which hand was going to do what. Since there were so many jobs to do, and only two hands to perform them all, there were several possibilities; but, none of them makes sense unless you happen to be a juggler. Eventually, a half-baked strategy was adopted. Then it was time to assume “the position.”

I stood there, nearly-straddling a porcelain God, in an attempt to prevent any overflow from flooding the floor and creating yet another embarrassing problem. I thought about magicians who tell us that the hand is faster than the eye, and I was hoping they are correct. I summoned all of the concentration I could generate and began the impractical mission.

Once the process was underway, it was nearly impossible to dispense the proper quantity of liquid into the shot glass-sized cup. If you release the pressure too suddenly, your cup might runneth over and produce a big mess. On the other hand, it is equally difficult for men to ooze on demand, unless they have a prostate problem, but that is a different matter.

I grabbed one of the test tubes and filled it completely; too completely. Just then I thought I heard giggling out in the hall. I wondered if I was the subject of one of those TV shows that takes pleasure in catching people off guard.

Somehow, I eventually accomplished the goal, but I “had to” wash my hands and clean off that first test tube. I examined my clothes, and all was well, so I handed the containers to the nurse. I wanted to wash my hands again. I wondered how often she washes hers.

I did learn one important lesson from all of this: The next time I have to perform this unseemly ritual, I will take a feminine approach and sit down.

Contrary to what you might think, I tell you all of this for a reason. Prior to today, I would have never guessed that I would have a weirder story about peeing than the one I just shared. But today my wife and I actually attended a joint-venture peeing party…with somebody else.

Our job was to observe our third partner while she was in the act and upon the predetermined signal we converged on our victim. I held her still and Patty made her pee…you guessed it in a cup.

You see we have just adopted a beautiful Golden Lab/Golden Retriever mix named Gracie. We took the 3-year old young lady to the vet to make certain that there are no heart worms or other hidden problems. The first thing the vet needed was a urine sample.

So there we were, the three of us: A golden dog on a very short leash, a fat old dude following her around the yard and the old dude’s favorite female…cup in hand, poised and ready. Our little exercise would have won the grand prize on America’s Funniest Home Video. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long. The unsuspecting canine assumed the position and Patty seized the opportunity.

A couple hours later all of the necessary samples were delivered to the vet and it appears a new phase in our lives has begun. More about Gracie to follow.

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91 and a Prisoner in His Own Home

The feeble old man reached out his thin and quivering hand; black and blue from his tired and ailing circulation system of 91 years. He is confined to a wheelchair now because his right leg was amputated just above the knee following a recent incident with a blood clot. The worn out old-timer has few pleasures anymore. Weak and somber, he has outlived two wives, eight brothers and sisters and one of his own children. His body and mind are so tired they belie the man he once was.

Decades earlier, a dozen talented men worked for the old timer and they were happy to do so because he treated them with respect. He was their leader, their provider, their friend. After work his crew and their families gathered at the boss’s home to wash down a few beers. Occasionally they would fetch pizzas from their favorite neighborhood eatery, but more often than not, the old man’s wife cooked Italian food or burritos for them all. They talked and laughed away many fun-filled evenings. The following morning the men would return to begin another day’s work and the pattern would be repeated. This went on for at least a generation, and so, without even trying the old man and his wife created a lifetime of memories for a parade of grateful followers.

The Colorado Mountains provided many opportunities for the old man, his wife and their friends to enjoy ice-cold streams, natural lakes and man-made reservoirs. On most weekends a caravan of campers and used motor-homes followed the old man and his wife to their favorite fishing holes. The old timer was a skilled fisherman, but rumor has it, the old man’s wife was even better. After a day of Extreme Trout Fishing, the hodgepodge of characters gathered around the campfire for marshmallows, hot dogs and trout that were so fresh they nearly flopped around in the skillet. After dinner, a friendly game of penny-ante poker, near a campfire, provided the entertainment. Naturally, the old man and his wife provided a few beers to anybody who wanted them.

Even as the passing years stole pieces of the old timer’s youth, he could still pitch horseshoes like the city champ he once was. Nobody could beat him, except the kids for some strange reason. Occasionally, the old man or his friends would rent a boat or ride motor bikes, but mostly their greatest pleasures came from collecting friends like a powerful spring storm accumulates rain drops.

We all know that all good things come to an end and so it is with the “good ol’ days” of the old-timer and his wife. Now those wonderful decades are nothing more than a faded memory in the idle mind of one old man. He is the last one standing, or should I say sitting – in his cold, leathery wheel chair.

A long time ago the old man and his friends enclosed a long porch, with a tall ceiling, that was attached to the old man’s home. They had no idea that simple project would provide the receptacle for the December of the old-timer’s life. Now, he resides, if you want to call it that, backed into a corner of the elongated room.

A sturdy, custom-made wheel-chair ramp has been constructed in the middle of the room to provide access to the remainder of his old brick home. But, the narrow room and the landing at the top of the ramp are too small for the ill-fitted contraption, so it is clumsy and painfully ineffective. To compound matters, the old man lacks sufficient strength to negotiate the pitch of the ramp or the impossible left-turn into the kitchen that is necessary at the top of the climb. So, in an ironic twist, both he and his chair are held hostage by the very ramp that was intended to provide access to a life outside of what has become his personal prison not unlike that of real senior prisoners.

That damn ramp is much like an unfriendly drunk: Obnoxious and in the way. Surly and mean, it seems to take pleasure in tripping the old man’s guests. On several occasions unsuspecting victims have fallen off of its menacing sides and cursed it as new bruises laid claim to various parts of their bodies. Whenever somebody introduces the idea of removing the defiant ramp, the old man rejects the idea as if it might rise from its own grave to haunt those who played a role in its demise. So it stays there, in the way, provoking the sane.

Since he has no real freedom, he depends on others for any mobility. The old one has gathered a brass bell which he rings whenever he needs assistance. He looks upon his phone and his bed-pan as company. He has not taken a shower or a traditional bath in over a year; those being replaced by sponge baths in his hospital-type bed. There is an electric fireplace just a few feet away. He wears layers of mismatched, but warm, clothes and backs up to the fireplace because he is always cold due to his poor circulation, which is yet another deficiency, which he and many seniors cannot escape.

The primary entry door to the enclosed back porch is at the opposite end of the old man’s quarters. There is also a nearly-antique heat-stove that the old man installed when he and his friends enclosed the space. To this day that reliable old cast-iron stove works so well it could chase Satan himself away. The old man has always enjoyed throwing logs in that old wood burner. It had become a sort of entertainment and comfort for him, especially after the death of his wife.

Like so many other innate objects, that old stove has replaced the human friends in the old timer’s life: friends that the old man once gathered like dust on a windowsill…but, the evil ramp has ruined that too. It separates him from his pot-bellied buddy and prevents him from feeding it the firewood it very much craves. In desperation, the old one prods his visitors to stuff it for him as if it will die like a house-plant that is deprived of life-giving water.

But clearer minds realize that it gets so hot in that room it seems unsafe, so they will not always accommodate his wishes. Eventually, somebody always ends up uncomfortable: The old man cannot get warm enough and the visitors are at risk of succumbing to heat stroke. In the end, the old stove has also let him down.

Sometimes family members will assist the old-timer so that he can temporarily visit the rest of his home for a few minutes, but the worthless ramp is nearly as difficult for them to ascend as it is for him. The upstairs, which is the destiny of the climb, is barely worth the trip. The home has not been remodeled, or even painted, for nearly two decades. Old fixtures, knickknacks and mementos fill outdated tables and walls. The curtains are both too dirty and too old. The living room carpeting was tired long before the old man’s wife died, which was nearly eight years ago. The bedroom in which they once slept is lonely, sterile, and dark. The bathroom, once colorful, bright and cheery, has become sadly gaudy.

Each time the old timer takes that short trip he is confronted with sad disappointment. Once upon a time, the upstairs area of his home was filled with the hustle of activities but now it is like an old train station that once escorted the masses to-and-fro, but has become nothing more than a faded ghost of its former purpose. Realizing there is no joy to be had upstairs, the old man hangs his head and resigns himself to the fact he must return to that cold enclosed porch back down the ramp; his cell.

The old-timer does not like the television or radio and his eyesight makes it impossible to read. He just sits there behind the menacing ramp, staring. Nobody knows what he is thinking. Is it the glorious past, the dubious present or is he secretly yearning to join “his people” in the afterlife? Or, is his tired old mind just floating aimlessly on cruise control? Whatever his thoughts, there can be no doubt: He is hopelessly bored and lonely like so many others like him. Naturally, his family has offered to relocate him to friendlier surroundings, but he would rather cling to the uncomfortable remnants of his past than face the uncertainty of a new enviornment.

Sadly, the old man’s story is not unique. It is the journey of many seniors. They either die or become lonely as all of their friends disappear around them, one by one. Where eyes once sparkled, sadness takes over. Aches and pains and doctor’s appointments have replaced the pleasant activities of their former lives. Worse yet, they have forfeited their future.

They like to talk about the good old days because that allows them to take temporary refuge both from their bleak present moments and their scarier future. And so it is with this particular old man. He sits there, confined and lonely, yearning for the good ol’ days.

About all that matters to him now are the occasional visits from his younger family members and keeping that fire going. These are among the few things that still give him a hint of pleasure.

As I shook his quivering hand all of these things raced through my mind as they do most times when I visit him. I tried to act cheerful because it seems to perk him up.

I know the above to be true because I have been bringing this man his firewood for many years. I do not charge him for the wood because I owe him a great debt. Besides, I love him. For you see, the old man is my step-father. Not surprisingly, he has always treated me much better than he has to, just like he treated everybody else.

His wife was my mother.

I am forever indebted to them both.

Comments Welcomed

This Is Hannah

My wife, Patty, and a small group of her high-school buddies have formed a quilting club. They have been getting together once per month for several years. Sometimes they compare what they have been working on, other times they all work on one project. Occasionally they each make a baby quilt which they give away to needy families, and sometimes they just enjoy each other’s company.

About a year ago, one of the women read a book about Hanna, who was an infant in a concentration camp during WWII. Many years later, Hannah had lived a remarkable life that has proved a great inspiration for others. The book was about her marvelous journey.

One of Patty’s quilting pals got a copy of the book and discovered that Hannah lived in a nearby Colorado town. After a little research and effort the group made contact with the elder Hannah. A meeting was set up between them and a fh was antastic idea was hatched. The quilters wanted to make a memory quilt which would identify all of the fascinating experiences she had. Naturally they wanted to give Hannah the quilt as a symbol of their respect.

Once that was agreed, the quilters wanted to know everything about Hannah. They were honored to take her to lunch to discuss the details. Once the story was clear the gifted quilters went to work, each one taking on a different role and a different part of the project. One of Hannah’s primary homes was a common theme depicted.

Eventually, the one-of-a-king piece of art was completed and the ladies entered it ina quilting contest about quilts with a story. They all gathered to share the glory of their combined efforts. Hannah had a brand new hand-made quilt as a symbol of her life and the new friends that she had made.

A few months later, a weird phone call was received. It revealed that the charming Hannah had accomplished a lot more than the ladies ever knew, but not the particular things they thought. She was even a a part of the activities at Holocaust Week at the Universit of Colorado. (April 22) She had been convicted of fraud. She never was in a concentration camp and her whole story was a giant lie. Before anybody could catch up to her, she packed up her bags and disappeared into the night with a brand new quilt - a quilt created by truly extraordinary women.

Hannah’s real name is Rosemarie Pence. The writer of the book, Jean M., can’t help but feel partially responsible for perpetuation the lies about the 71 year old con woman: but Jean is just one of many who followed the string of lies. For more details visit the story as told in the Longmont newspaper, the Times Call.

whaddya think?