I will do my best to avoid being tiresome about this.
I fear the recent flap over the H1N1 virus provides an early sample of federal healthcare reform. Even though we have a new administration and a new majority in both houses of Congress, the H1N1 epidemic looks more like the aftermath of Katrina than an efficient response to a public health problem. Just check out the news reports showing frightened mothers standing in long lines only to be turned away at the end of the day.
We are lucky the virus was no more lethal than it was. The government response, as promoted by the national media, created widespread fear, shortages of vaccine and resulted in the disappointment of the entire population.
Now that the virus is in retreat, I am sure spin-doctors will claim success for their points-of-view. I believe there are many Americans who recognize the government’s role for what it was, a magnifier of fear and deliverer of despair.
The federal management of H1N1 provides one more reason to dread federal healthcare reform.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Weekend at Grandfather's
[Monday, Nov. 23, 2009] My lovely daughter and her husband just left with their two delightful children. Thank goodness. I watched over the two angels since last Friday afternoon and I am completely whipped.
A few weeks ago one of my loyal readers suggested I have a “massive sleepover” for my grandchildren. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as madness. Don’t get me wrong. I love the grandchildren with all my heart. I am also fond of nights of uninterrupted sleep, violent TV programs, spicy food and adult beverages. I also enjoy intervals of silence lasting more than ten seconds. In short, all the things that are good for grandfather are anathema to the children. Imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to keep my daughter’s two babies over a long weekend. I found myself saying “Sure.” when I expected to say “Oh, Hell no!”
It is too late to cry over spilled milk. The children dribbled, sprayed and splashed more than a quart of the stuff about the house over the weekend. It won’t help to cry over the chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese, apples, juice, chocolate kisses, popcorn or any other foodstuff, either. They simply disappeared. The ants who come in to clean will find them, eventually.
When they arrived, a sense of excitement over the upcoming adventure filled their little hearts. “They’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Said Mommy. Looking back, maybe the parents should have brought Rhinoceros grade tranquilizer darts as part of the kit. I would have shot myself almost immediately after their departure, if only I had them available.
When it was time for mom and dad to leave, all bets were off. The sense of adventure vanished and a sense of abandonment and terror set in. I have seldom heard such wailing and pleading in my life. Somehow, mom and dad bore up under the emotional assault and fled for a romantic escape to the snowy slopes of Utah. Me? I continued to wail and plead for some time after they drove away.
My daughter furnished manuals describing bedtime and other essential rituals. It said, “Bedtime is between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m.” At the appropriate time, I jammied the two urchins and brushed their tiny teeth. Then I popped them in bed where they continued howling for mommy for the next few hours. When mommy did not appear, they wept as if I murdered a puppy before their innocent little eyes. I began feeling panic and depression. At dawn, the little ones capitulated and slept the rest of the night.
“That went well.” I lied.
Ultimately, I abandoned hope and devoted myself to getting through ten-minute intervals, one after the other. My life became a predictable series of chicken strips, apple juice, clean-ups, diapers, oatmeal, lost toys, clean-ups, boo-boos, snits, spats, clean-ups, bribes, heart-warming smiles and loving hugs.
When the parents returned on Monday afternoon, I noticed some remarkable changes. First, I learned some people are born mothers and others have motherhood thrust upon them. Even though it almost [?] cost me my sanity, I became a mom (or dad), pro tempore. Even the grandchildren slipped up and called me “Mommy” or “Daddy” a couple of times. We shall disregard the other names.
Second, I am certain I shall need a vacation in the immediate future. I am thinking of snowy Utah, or perhaps Banff, Canada. In six weeks, I could be as good as new. Almost. Mothers are certainly made of stern stuff.
Eva, how can I ever repay you?
A few weeks ago one of my loyal readers suggested I have a “massive sleepover” for my grandchildren. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as madness. Don’t get me wrong. I love the grandchildren with all my heart. I am also fond of nights of uninterrupted sleep, violent TV programs, spicy food and adult beverages. I also enjoy intervals of silence lasting more than ten seconds. In short, all the things that are good for grandfather are anathema to the children. Imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to keep my daughter’s two babies over a long weekend. I found myself saying “Sure.” when I expected to say “Oh, Hell no!”
It is too late to cry over spilled milk. The children dribbled, sprayed and splashed more than a quart of the stuff about the house over the weekend. It won’t help to cry over the chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese, apples, juice, chocolate kisses, popcorn or any other foodstuff, either. They simply disappeared. The ants who come in to clean will find them, eventually.
When they arrived, a sense of excitement over the upcoming adventure filled their little hearts. “They’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Said Mommy. Looking back, maybe the parents should have brought Rhinoceros grade tranquilizer darts as part of the kit. I would have shot myself almost immediately after their departure, if only I had them available.
My daughter furnished manuals describing bedtime and other essential rituals. It said, “Bedtime is between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m.” At the appropriate time, I jammied the two urchins and brushed their tiny teeth. Then I popped them in bed where they continued howling for mommy for the next few hours. When mommy did not appear, they wept as if I murdered a puppy before their innocent little eyes. I began feeling panic and depression. At dawn, the little ones capitulated and slept the rest of the night.
“That went well.” I lied.
Ultimately, I abandoned hope and devoted myself to getting through ten-minute intervals, one after the other. My life became a predictable series of chicken strips, apple juice, clean-ups, diapers, oatmeal, lost toys, clean-ups, boo-boos, snits, spats, clean-ups, bribes, heart-warming smiles and loving hugs.
When the parents returned on Monday afternoon, I noticed some remarkable changes. First, I learned some people are born mothers and others have motherhood thrust upon them. Even though it almost [?] cost me my sanity, I became a mom (or dad), pro tempore. Even the grandchildren slipped up and called me “Mommy” or “Daddy” a couple of times. We shall disregard the other names.
Second, I am certain I shall need a vacation in the immediate future. I am thinking of snowy Utah, or perhaps Banff, Canada. In six weeks, I could be as good as new. Almost. Mothers are certainly made of stern stuff.
Eva, how can I ever repay you?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Political Rant #11: Corruption in Afganistan? Oh My!
Does it strike anyone out there as odd that our government has discovered "corruption" in Afghanistan? It seems like a long way to go for such a discovery. What's more, unless the Afghans clean up their act, we may not fight the Al Qaeda-sheltering Taliban any more. I do not know how this situation affects you, but I feel a sick headache coming on. A fist full of Valium washed down with a tumbler of good whiskey might help.
I am what they call "Too Small to Notice," but I believe a massive search might reveal a trace of corruption right here at home. Oh, wait. I got that backwards. Make that a "trace of a search" and "massive corruption." We are two elections away from Congressmen wearing price tags on their sleeves and we will not do business with Afghanistan because THEY are corrupt.
At least we have plenty of native experts in the subject on whom we may rely.
Hey, Sam. Pour me another!
I am what they call "Too Small to Notice," but I believe a massive search might reveal a trace of corruption right here at home. Oh, wait. I got that backwards. Make that a "trace of a search" and "massive corruption." We are two elections away from Congressmen wearing price tags on their sleeves and we will not do business with Afghanistan because THEY are corrupt.
At least we have plenty of native experts in the subject on whom we may rely.
Hey, Sam. Pour me another!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Ride Goeth Before A Fall
Devoted readers may recall my Sunday deer hunting adventure. I was almost as good as new on Monday morning. In fact, when I stepped outdoors the weather was perfect. Clear skies, balmy temperature and zero wind were too much to ignore. In moments, I was relishing life from the saddle of my trusty mountain bike.
I was at the top of my game, pedaling as fast as my exuberance would carry me. After weeks of flooding, the pavement was dry at last. Wind rushed through my hair, or at least what is left of it, and my MP3 player pumped my favorite Rock ‘n Roll tunes into my head. Sunshine lit my path and warmed my skin as I swooshed around curves and downhill.
In retrospect, that was the problem. I was enjoying the ride too much. I offended the bicycle and trail gods with my hubris. Retribution was at hand.
I sped down a particularly steep hill toward a curve. This curve was under water until recently. The water left a deposit of dust fine enough to lubricate a clock.
I entered the curve as master of all I surveyed. I exited it as a puzzled soul feeling the great weight of mortality. My concern stemmed from the fact I was seeing sky where pavement ought to be. My brain formed the thought “Uh…” WHAM! “Oh,” The brain finished. The full mass of planet Earth landed on me. I skidded to a stop, surprised and dazed. I lay inert for a time, contemplating various philosophical ideas like “If a cyclist gets creamed on the trail will help arrive before the vultures?” Seconds later, all my thoughts turned to the list of body parts filing damage reports. I began an inventory. Hands? Stinging. Head? Not functioning. Torso? Aching. Legs? One bleeding and the other afraid to move.
As I lay inert, feeling began to return to my parts. These were not good feelings, either. I tried to get up. Ugh. Nope. After a while, I discovered a way to get on my feet. I leaned on the bike and began shuffling toward the nearest trail exit. By the time I reached civilized pavement, more parts were working. I gingerly eased a leg over the bike and tried pedaling. It worked. Slowly, I rode toward home.
Today, I celebrated one week of recovery. I have only three bandages left and they are tiny compared to the gauze wraps I needed during the early days. I limp a bit, but I can use my hands to hold a fork without wincing. That is real progress.
In a few more days, I will be back in the saddle, only more cautious than before. No pictures this episode. Too gruesome for young eyes, like mine.
I was at the top of my game, pedaling as fast as my exuberance would carry me. After weeks of flooding, the pavement was dry at last. Wind rushed through my hair, or at least what is left of it, and my MP3 player pumped my favorite Rock ‘n Roll tunes into my head. Sunshine lit my path and warmed my skin as I swooshed around curves and downhill.
In retrospect, that was the problem. I was enjoying the ride too much. I offended the bicycle and trail gods with my hubris. Retribution was at hand.
I sped down a particularly steep hill toward a curve. This curve was under water until recently. The water left a deposit of dust fine enough to lubricate a clock.
I entered the curve as master of all I surveyed. I exited it as a puzzled soul feeling the great weight of mortality. My concern stemmed from the fact I was seeing sky where pavement ought to be. My brain formed the thought “Uh…” WHAM! “Oh,” The brain finished. The full mass of planet Earth landed on me. I skidded to a stop, surprised and dazed. I lay inert for a time, contemplating various philosophical ideas like “If a cyclist gets creamed on the trail will help arrive before the vultures?” Seconds later, all my thoughts turned to the list of body parts filing damage reports. I began an inventory. Hands? Stinging. Head? Not functioning. Torso? Aching. Legs? One bleeding and the other afraid to move.
As I lay inert, feeling began to return to my parts. These were not good feelings, either. I tried to get up. Ugh. Nope. After a while, I discovered a way to get on my feet. I leaned on the bike and began shuffling toward the nearest trail exit. By the time I reached civilized pavement, more parts were working. I gingerly eased a leg over the bike and tried pedaling. It worked. Slowly, I rode toward home.
Today, I celebrated one week of recovery. I have only three bandages left and they are tiny compared to the gauze wraps I needed during the early days. I limp a bit, but I can use my hands to hold a fork without wincing. That is real progress.
In a few more days, I will be back in the saddle, only more cautious than before. No pictures this episode. Too gruesome for young eyes, like mine.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Hunt
I would like to say at the outset, I do not suffer from blood lust, particularly when it comes to deer. In my youth, I hunted like the character Will Muny in the movie Unforgiven. I shot nearly everything that walked, crawled or flew. Now, I am all murdered out. The thought of killing a deer, or any game for that matter, immediately brings to mind the unmaking of the beast. Then, my conscience reminds me of the delicious and inexpensive meats available at my local Costco. Such thoughts can sap anyone’s enthusiasm for harvesting fresh meat.
We arose early Sunday morning. I cooked a hot breakfast to sustain us through the day. Had I known what was in store, I might have dipped into something a bit stronger, say crack cocaine. We made the drive to the ranch (In these parts, they say “Rainch.”), arriving an hour before dawn. (I took a photo of the Somervell County Courthouse at about 0530!) We silently donned rifles, binoculars, skinning knives, pistols, hats, grenades, MP3 players and other paraphernalia necessary for our primitive adventure. Then, dressed as Redneck insurgents, we trudged through the darkness toward our hunting stands. After six weeks of rain, the earth squished as we walked.
Climbing into a ten-foot tall, wobbly and leaning deer stand in the pitch darkness is no mean feat. If I fell, I would land in the center of a collection of sharp, explosive gear and on top of a cactus. No good could come of that. We reached our perches without incident and began the long wait for Bambi’s father.
As I waited, I discovered my stand was next to the tree home to fifty thousand starving mosquitoes. Batting at them took my mind off the fact that one leg of my stand was sinking into the earth a little faster than the other two. If the list increased, I would eventually topple onto that earth.
No deer were available for shooting. We decided to visit a few local sites, including an old (1886) Norwegian church, St. Olaf’s Kirk. We stretched our legs and I took a few photos. Once refreshed, we returned to the hunt. Still, there were no deer. Part of me was disappointed, maybe insulted, the deer did not show. The rest of me was glad I would not be field dressing a carcass in the mud. I could live with that.
When we had enough empty silence, we walked back to the truck. Deer hunting without deer is very boring and even a little stressful. I found myself thinking “C’mon, you. Show up!” At the truck, we disarmed, disrobed and disinfected ourselves back to civilian configuration. Now, all we needed to do was drive home to hot showers, warm meals and early-to-bed. It was going to be a perfect day, after all.
When we arrived, I parked the truck at the end of a 200-foot road in the pasture. We kept close to the county road and away from the remote pastures for fear of sinking in the muddy earth.
It turned out we were a tad short on fear. I nudged the Toyota toward the gate and the hard surface road just beyond. After a hundred feet, I felt a sinking sensation and the truck seemed to get closer to the earth. Much closer. We were stuck. We were within sight of safety and solid earth less than 100 feet away. Reflexively, I gunned the engine. No progress. I slammed the transmission into reverse and revved the engine. The truck moved inches. Then I slammed the shifter into second gear and crushed the accelerator to the floor. We gained inches. A nearby debris pile provided wood, which we stuffed under the tires.
Did I mention black, gooey mud covered me from head to foot? Did I mention grass and twigs covered the mud? No? I was quite a sight. The truck fared no better and I wondered how the car wash people would react to a truck apparently made of mud, twigs and grass.
After a long struggle, the truck managed to wallow out of the mud and onto the county road. We drove home in silence, too exhausted to either laugh or cry. Still, I reckon it was a successful trip because I did not have to field dress a carcass and THEN be stuck in the mud.
When we arrived, I parked the truck at the end of a 200-foot road in the pasture. We kept close to the county road and away from the remote pastures for fear of sinking in the muddy earth.
Did I mention black, gooey mud covered me from head to foot? Did I mention grass and twigs covered the mud? No? I was quite a sight. The truck fared no better and I wondered how the car wash people would react to a truck apparently made of mud, twigs and grass.
After a long struggle, the truck managed to wallow out of the mud and onto the county road. We drove home in silence, too exhausted to either laugh or cry. Still, I reckon it was a successful trip because I did not have to field dress a carcass and THEN be stuck in the mud.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth!
First, some important announcements:
On December 6, 2009, I shall exhibit a collection of amazing photographs here:
Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council
204 River North Boulevard
Stephenville, Texas 76401
(254) 965-6190
The open house will occur between 1:00 and 5:00 pm, CST. Mention my name, and admission is free. Do not be left out. There is still time to buy a cheap airline ticket, if needed. Stephenville is 80 miles south of Ft. Worth, Texas on U.S. Hwy 377. I am looking forward to seeing you there. (Bring your checkbook and an assortment of credit cards.)
The T-or-T took place in my daughter’s neighborhood. I was encouraged to see swarms of small children in every sort of costume covering the streets. Residents went all out, too. My favorite house offered an ice chest filled with frosty refreshments for the weary parent on the front lawn. Several adults in my party took full advantage of the hospitality. In fact, there was a considerable delay getting to the next house as I recall. Many homeowners set up shop on the porch (they have those in Ft. Worth, Texas) and doled out treats from there. Jack-o-Lanterns, scary spiders with webs, skeletons and witches decorated almost every home. What fun! My son costumed as “Old Ben” from Star Wars. His son, Augie, made a great Pad wan (Apprentice). William became a muscular Spiderman, his current greatest hero while his sister, Sophia, was a heartbreakingly sweet princess. Me? I got into the spirit of the evening as Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth. Wait, wasn’t that supposed to be Lord of the Sith? Oh well. Maybe next year.
Once we returned to my daughter’s house, I was able to sample some of the evening’s loot. It is just as good as I remember it. My son-in-law broke out a large flask of “back medicine,” passing it around among the list of casualties. Soon, the wounded were feeling chipper enough to return home, but not so chipper as to need a cab. We quit while we were ahead.
On December 6, 2009, I shall exhibit a collection of amazing photographs here:
Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council204 River North Boulevard
Stephenville, Texas 76401
(254) 965-6190
The open house will occur between 1:00 and 5:00 pm, CST. Mention my name, and admission is free. Do not be left out. There is still time to buy a cheap airline ticket, if needed. Stephenville is 80 miles south of Ft. Worth, Texas on U.S. Hwy 377. I am looking forward to seeing you there. (Bring your checkbook and an assortment of credit cards.)
As long as you are planning a trip to Stephenville, you might be interested in arriving early to enjoy THE MOSCOW BALLET’s performance on November 19. I can hardly believe it myself. General Admission Tickets are $20. I have long admired Stephenville, but I never expected this level of cultural achievement. I am impressed. If you attend, you will be impressed, too. You will also save a fortune in airfare not having to fly to Moscow to see the ballet, or to the Louvre to see my photographs!
Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth!
I had the good fortune to travel to Ft. Worth on Halloween for “Trick or Treating” with all four grandchildren. It was a blast. The eldest g’child is four, so trudging a block or two in costume was real work for all of them. Trudging that same distance while carrying one or two superheroes or princesses was more work than I remember, too. The weather cooperated. Temperatures were mild, there was no wind and the clear sky sported an enormous full moon. It was perfect for the task-at-hand.
The T-or-T took place in my daughter’s neighborhood. I was encouraged to see swarms of small children in every sort of costume covering the streets. Residents went all out, too. My favorite house offered an ice chest filled with frosty refreshments for the weary parent on the front lawn. Several adults in my party took full advantage of the hospitality. In fact, there was a considerable delay getting to the next house as I recall. Many homeowners set up shop on the porch (they have those in Ft. Worth, Texas) and doled out treats from there. Jack-o-Lanterns, scary spiders with webs, skeletons and witches decorated almost every home. What fun! My son costumed as “Old Ben” from Star Wars. His son, Augie, made a great Pad wan (Apprentice). William became a muscular Spiderman, his current greatest hero while his sister, Sophia, was a heartbreakingly sweet princess. Me? I got into the spirit of the evening as Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth. Wait, wasn’t that supposed to be Lord of the Sith? Oh well. Maybe next year.
Once we returned to my daughter’s house, I was able to sample some of the evening’s loot. It is just as good as I remember it. My son-in-law broke out a large flask of “back medicine,” passing it around among the list of casualties. Soon, the wounded were feeling chipper enough to return home, but not so chipper as to need a cab. We quit while we were ahead.
I can hardly wait for next year!
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