The Crawdad

The Wikipedia on-line Dictionary defines an Eating Disorder as follows:

An eating disorder is a compulsion to eat in a way which disturbs physical health. The eating may be excessive (compulsive over-eating); too limited (restricting); may include normal eating punctuated with episodes of purging; may include cycles of binging and purging; or may encompass the ingesting of non-foods----. ----There are numerous theories as to the causes and mechanisms leading to eating disorders.

            One day this summer while on a short trip to see the Talimena Drive, my daughter, her two sons, and I stayed over night in a Motel in Mena, Arkansas called the Lime Tree Inn.  This town in Arkansas is at the Eastern end of this beautiful drive across the Winding Stair Mountains in Western Arkansas and Eastern Oklahoma.

            While checking in at this Motel I asked whether there was a restaurant on premises.  The clerk said there was.  It was late in the afternoon, so after finding our room and unloading our baggage, and resting a few minutes we decided to go for dinner.  The choices as I recall were Pizza Hut, McDonalds, Sonic, etc., but I wanted to see if the Lime Tree Restaurant prices were reasonable; and, surprisingly, in this day of inflated values they seemed acceptable.  It was Friday and they had, that evening, a seafood buffet, which I enjoy eating, and also is one of the few things which her youngest will eat with alacrity so we decided to eat there and to have the buffet.

            One of the facets of life in which he seems to take the least pleasure is eating.  Even when he is very hungry he will quite often turn down even the most succulent morsel if it is not something which suits his palate.  He is quite fond of sweets and will almost always eat chocolate—at Braums his favorite is the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.  Naturally his Mother prefers that he eat his supper first or he will not have any desert; and often he goes to bed without his sweet.  Some time ago during the children’s sermon at church the Pastor asked the group what they wished for.  His answer was that he wished he would get desert.  One food that he enjoys is crab legs; this is probably his favorite meal; along with other sorts of seafood.  I suspect he also would like lobster, but perhaps because of the expense it is better not to find that out.

            So it seemed to me that the seafood buffet was probably a good idea because my Grandson would probably enjoy his dinner that evening.  We sat down and ordered our drinks; then began filling our plates at the buffet.  Her eldest, as usual, filled his plate quickly and began eating.  My daughter selected mashed potatoes and corn.  I served myself catfish, shrimp, and a vegetable.  I did not observe closely what her youngest son  took to eat—he was sitting across the table from me—but he seemed to be eating what was on his plate and liking it.  Soon he said he was going back for another serving, because he had seen crawdads on the buffet. My daughter then began explaining elaborately to her sons her experience in catching crawdads.  She had just gotten through explaining to them just how you go about catching a crawdad using a piece of bacon tied on the end of a string when he got up to refill his plate. 

            This is the sort of creature that was on his plate when he arrived back at the table.  His Mother had recently eaten crawfish pie somewhere, didn’t really care for it, and I think she thought her son had found some of that dish.  She was very surprised, I think, at what was on his plate when he returned, averted her eyes, and looked disgusted.  She said something to the effect that if you are going to eat that do it quickly and get it over with.

            I’m sure most of you have eaten shrimp; as I have.  I have had it breaded and fried, grilled in olive oil, served on ice, and even boiled whole.  I did not really care for boiled shrimp.  They are messy little things which look much like the picture above.  When I eat them I pull off the legs, peel off the shell, remove any other unsavory looking pieces, and pop them in my mouth.

            This boy, not being very perceptive—what 13 year old is--, and being very curious about what he was probably beginning to think seriously about not eating, picked it up in his hands, turned it this way and that, pulled on the legs, and looking at some other part said, “What’s that”.  My daughter, becoming more and more upset, said, “Put it down and eat it if you are going to”.  She continued to look in any direction other than at what he was fingering.  I think she was beginning to feel ill at ease.

            Paying little attention to his Mother or anyone else, he continued to toy with the crawdad.  He said, “How do you eat it”, and “What part do you eat”.  I think his brother told him you only eat the tail.  My daughter told him, “Put that thing down, get another plate, and get yourself something else to eat”.  Her youngest, blithely unaware of the tension he was causing, continued manipulating the crayfish in his hands.

            I, of course, watched this whole scenario with internal amusement, careful not to interfere in my daughter’s parenting of her son, silently wondered how this would all turn out.

            She finally told him, “Put that thing down on your plate, and cover it up with a napkin!”  “But why Mom”, he asked?  “I was going to eat it”.  I think by then she had become a little sick at her stomach.  “Give it to me”, she ordered!  She then took the offending crustacean, wrapped it up in a napkin, out of sight, and placated him by sending him for some desert.

            My daughter was finally able to relax and finish her dinner, although she placed the napkin covered crayfish off to the side where it was least visible, and ensured the waitress picked up the plate and removed it.

            Would I have eaten the crawdad if I had noticed it on the buffet?  I probably would not have.  Would my Grandson have eaten the crawdad on his plate if his Mother had not objected?  I don’t know, but I don’t think so.  Will my daughter ever again tell her sons her tale of catching crawdads in a ditch?  She probably will, but I suspect she will add the caveat I did not eat them.  Did I enjoy my dinner?  Yes, I did.

A New Friend

Hi!  This is BUU again—you remember don’t you.  I’m a fish.  I live in Kisstrina’s fish tank.  I wanted to tell you about a new friend I have met.  One day while I was swimming around in my wonderful fish tank, being careful to avoid the ugly green Billfrog who is constantly going up to the air at the top of the tank, and then kicking down to the rocks at the bottom, over and over again, I happened to go very near the hard stuff which is not water or air, but I can see through it, over at the edge of the tank when I noticed something moving around slowly in another fishbowl.  If you look at the picture here you can just barely see the other fishbowl, and maybe just a little bit of my new friend.

  I pressed my nose up real close to the hard stuff and squinted my eyes and looked and looked.  There is another fish in there I thought, but a really strange looking fish.  I watched and watched him, but he did not seem to see me.  I even tried bumping my nose and flapping my tail against the hard stuff trying to make a noise so he would notice me, but he just kept moving around real slow.  I guess maybe I can not make enough noise that way, or something.  I was so, so curious.  How did the strange looking fish get in the other fish bowl.  How is it possible for there to be two fish bowls.  The water in his bowl looked just the same as mine.  Day after day I watched him.  The Billfrog said it was just another fish.  What was so interesting about it?  I couldn’t explain well enough to make him understand.  He just doesn’t think like a fish.

One day the guppy and the Billfrog were talking while I was looking at the other fish.  The guppy told the Billfrog if BUU likes the new fish so much why doesn’t he go over there and live with him.  I think the guppy was upset because I was not paying as much attention to him as I used to—I really think the guppy is in love with me.  I was not listening to them very much, but then the Billfrog said something that made me think.  The Billfrog said I don’t know why BUU doesn’t just jump over in the other tank if he likes the new fish so much.

Quickly I swam back down to the other end of the tank while I was thinking about what the Billfrog said.  My goodness, I thought.  I know I can swim fast, why almost every time Kisstrinas hand brings the food to drop in the tank, I am the first fish up there to grab a bite.  What if I just didn’t stop, but swam really hard to the top of the water, and leaped up in the air—some fish do that you know.  What if I swam really, really fast, jumped up in the air, and landed in the other fish tank.  Could I do it?  Would I land on the floor instead of the water in the other tank—it did not seem to have a very large top?  I decided to practice and swam over and over again to the top of the water, jumped up in the air a little bit.

Finally I was ready.  One night when Kisstrina was laying in her bed with her eyes closed being very still I decided I was ready.

  I told the Billfrog I was going.  He laughed at me.  He told me that the other fish was a mean old kind of fish that would eat me up if I made it into his fish tank.  I didn’t think so.  When I looked at him he looked like a really nice fish friend.  So I went all the way down to the bottom of the opposite end of my fish tank, swam around and around until I was going really fast and shot up toward the air at the other end of the tank.  Out of the water I flew, up into the cold, cold air.  I had calculated just exactly right so that I landed right in the other fish tank.  I did scrape my left fin just a little going in.  Plop!  I landed in the water by my new friend.    He was startled.  He swam all the way to the other side of his fish bowl and looked at me.  He asked me who are you, and where did you come from.  He said that he had heard of it raining cats and dogs, but never fishes.  I told him my name, that I lived in the other fish tank, that I had been watching him.  He was surprised.  He had not been looking around very much.  He had not seen me in the other fish tank.  We really had a nice visit, played around and swam together.  Finally I noticed that it was getting lighter outside in the air, so I needed to get back home before Kisstrina began moving around.  I swam real fast to the top of the fish bowl, jumped up in the air, but landed right back in the fish bowl.  I tried it again, and again but I could not get up enough speed in the shallow water.  I had not thought that there was less water in the fish bowl than there was in my tank.  My friend wondered what I would do, and finally said maybe I could make it if he helped me.  He held me in his fins while we both swam as fast as we could to the top of the fish bowl.  He jumped up in the air holding me, and just before he began to fall back in his water, pushed me up as hard as he could.  I just barely made it back into my fish tank, and do you know what happened.  I landed right on top of the Billfrog who was coming up for air.  Ouch, I said!  Get off me, the Billfrog said!

So that is how I met my new friend in the other fish bowl.  Now, when I go over to the side of my fish tank and look at him, he swims to the side of his fish bowl and looks at me.  The Billfrog thinks I am going crazy, and the guppy is mad at me, but I don’t care.  I have a new friend.

A Fishy Story

Ouch!  I bumped my nose again!  I wish I knew what that hard stuff at the edge of my tank is.  I know it isn’t water.  I can move around in water.  The BillFrog says it isn’t air either.  Gosh, I’m sorry!  I began to talk to you without introducing myself.  I’m a fish.  I bet you’ve never talked to a fish before.  You probably don’t think we fish can talk.  Well, I can talk, but not to you, although I would really like to do so.  My name is Beed-Ubbl-You.  I’m a fish.  I live in Kisstrinas fish tank.  Some people call me a Dalmatian Fish, but I know that is wrong.  Why?  Because Dalmatians are dogs, silly.  Everyone knows that. 

   

So, anyway, I’m a fish.  Like I said my name is Beed-Ubbl-You.  That is a long name and hard to pronounce.  It will be alright if you just use my nickname, though.  My short name is BUU.  You can pronounce it boo.  I live in Kisstrina’s fish tank.  This is my picture.  You can see me down there at the bottom by the blackish rock if you look closely.  Kisstrina is my person.  She belongs to me.  I live here in the water with some other fish:  The blackfin family, the Orangetail twins, and a Guppy who follows me everywhere.  Oh, and there is the BillFrog too.

The BillFrog says I have my person’s name wrong; that it isn’t Kisstrina, but Kristina.  He says he knows how to pronounce it because he goes up to the air at the top of the tank—in fact that seems to be all he does all day—up and down, up and down.  He says he hears people talking and that they call her Kristina.  He might be right about it, but I don’t think so.  I’ve never heard anyone talking.  I do see Kisstrina moving her mouth sometimes.  It must be really strange to live in air as she does.  I just know I would fall right down on the ground if I tried it.  The BillFrog thinks he could walk around in air, but I think that is just a bunch of bragging, but I have to admit he does have legs instead of fins as a proper fish should have.

Oh, and you know what else the BillFrog says.  He says I’m a white fish with black spots.  He is so-o wrong.  I know for an absolute fact that I’m a black fish with white spots.  Ha!  What does a green BillFrog know about colors anyway?  He looks just like a plant.  That’s what I tell him when he begins telling me what it is like to be up in the air, and how to pronounce Kisstrinas name.  I tell him you’re just an ugly green frog.

Oh, I’ve got to go now.  Kisstrina is here to drop some food in the tank, and I don’t want to miss a chance to look up to the air above the water and see her hand as she drops in the fish food.  I have to be careful too, because sometimes the Guppy grabs the best pieces before I can get to them.

Bye for now.

SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT CLONING

          The reproduction of an animal clone from DNA has already been demonstrated.  Dolly, the sheep in Scotland is, apparently, a duplicate of the animal from which she was cloned.  I have heard also that in Japan an experiment is under way to clone a cow.  Obviously, if it is possible to clone an animal, it should also be possible to duplicate a human being.  It appears, at present, that the only reason this has not yet been done, is the moral force of society.  Humanity, up to now, does not seem to believe it is a good idea.  Suppose, for the sake of argument, we somehow come to believe in our society that cloning is acceptable. what would be the answers to the following questions:

WHAT INDIVIDUALS SHOULD BE CLONED?

          Obviously, it would be prohibitively expensive to provide a duplicate for everyone.  The clones would at the very least require food and shelter, effectively doubling those requirements worldwide.  It does not seem possible that supplies of world food and shelter could be doubled rapidly enough to support this increase.  If only affluent people could afford to have a clone, this would cause a severe division in society, but that is probably the most practical method of deciding.  Throughout history, there has always been a division between the haves and have-nots.  Certainly defective persons, mongoloids, imbeciles, those born with less than complete bodies, dwarfs, and others with similar defects should not be cloned.  It also seems obvious that very intelligent individuals whose existence enhances society should definitely be preserved by this method.  Imagine having another Einstein, Oppenheimer, or Billy Graham to continue on after their deaths.  An argument could also be made that there would be little value in cloning very poor people—those with income below a certain level.  There is a much smaller chance that a very poor family might produce a genius compared to that of the middle or upper class.  There are also some countries in the world where it would be less worthwhile than others to perform cloning.  Those countries where people barely subsist, and are a drain on world food supplies would only become more of a glut by increasing the number of people in their populations.  Cloning of Aleut Indians, Eskimos, Laplanders, and similar societies would also seem to be unnecessary.

WHEN WOULD CLONING BE ACCOMPLISHED?

          Should it be an automatic occurrence when a woman becomes pregnant to draw fetal tissue for cloning, and to begin the procedure so the individual and the duplicate would have the same chronological age?  Then in case of a miscarriage or an abortion the clone also might be destroyed, or with nurturing, could take the place of the lost child.  In this circumstance, perhaps the clone itself should be cloned to replace the lost baby.  Maybe the cloning should wait until the baby is born and seen to be healthy at the normal six-week check up.  Unless somehow accelerated growth can occur, no one would want to wait until, at the age of 65 years they develop lung cancer, to have themselves cloned, and then wait 10 to 20 years for the cloned lungs to develop well enough for installation.  Maybe it would be  best to wait until each child is perhaps 16 years old to begin the cloning process.  If this course were followed, required body parts at some future date would always have a chronological age of 16 years less than the prime persons age. A sixteen-year-old could easily be assigned the responsibility of caring and feeding for their clone as they grow into adulthood.

WHO WOULD BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CARE AND FEEDING?

Surely, cloned people would be responsible for their own double—after all, who should be the most concerned and interested in the clone’s well being.  This responsibility of course, could not be forced upon the very young.  They would have to be provided for just as children are today.  The clone would have to be treated as a fraternal twin; although it would be best to mark the clone with a tattoo, by crimping its ear, or through some other permanent method to prevent mix-ups and to ensure the primary person receives priority.  It would be extremely critical in this circumstance, for the prime individual to understand that the clones only purpose is to provide spare parts when they are needed, or to perform labor and tasks which the prime person finds too onerous or dangerous to accomplish.  If this is not carefully done, it might be very difficult when time comes to use the clone for a purpose that ends its life, for the prime person to assent.  The trauma might be compared to that of ending the life of an aged dog.

On the other hand, if the clones are kept isolated from the prime individuals in some facility maintained for that purpose this would surely be cheaper for society.  In this facility they could all be fed the same simple food, and could be treated in a unisex manner.  If the environmental temperature were controlled, it might not even be necessary to provide clothing.  No education would be needed, and it would not matter even whether the beings learned to speak.  Toilet training could be accomplished with punishment and reward.  The attendants who operated this facility would have to be carefully trained and monitored.  Physical or sexual abuse, if it occurred, would have to be severely punished.  The attendant who sexually abused the clones would be banished from the facility, and the clone destroyed.  It might be possible in a unisex environment, for the clones to be raised without knowledge of sex.  Obviously, a pregnant female clone would have to be destroyed, and probably the male impregnator should be euthanised.

FOR WHAT PURPOSE WOULD THE CLONES BE USED?

          Probably the most important reason for cloning oneself is to have available spare body parts if they are ever needed—a heart which could be transplanted with no possibility of rejection because the body cells would recognize the tissue as part of itself.  The clone of a person who lives to old age and dies would be euthanised and buried with the person. 

Another purpose for the clones might be to perform some very dangerous task for the prime person, e.g., to perform military combat, or perhaps to perform work in a high radiation environment.  The clone might be used for any dangerous task that the primary person prefers not to be engaged in.  Mature clones probably could be allowed to perform independent functions, but it would always be necessary for any prime person to immediately through a recognition device, a bracelet or necklace maybe, be able to discern whether a person they are dealing with is or is not a clone. 

WHEN A CLONE DIES?

          Would there be a funeral at the death of a clone?  Should they be mourned?  Assuming there is an accident resulting in the clone’s death, or that it grows sick and dies, the prime person obviously would show some regret at the loss of their spare parts, but, if a careful separation were maintained, the death could be treated similarly to the death of a pet.

          On the other hand, when it is necessary to euthanize the clone in order to obtain some vital part, the death would be treated similarly to the manner in which a military commander treats the deaths of subordinates on a vital mission: Costly and regrettable, but they were expendable.

DOES A CLONE HAVE A SOUL?

          Certainly not!  The status of a clone in society would be only a little higher than that of a pet dog or cat.  Clones would not be created as were Adam and Eve.  They also would not be Man born of Woman.

          This is a ‘thinking piece’ only.  What I have written is intended only to cause those who read it to consider the subject of Cloning of Human Beings if somehow our society should change and begin to allow it to be done; and to attempt to demonstrate the foolishness of such a change.  The purpose is actually to argue against these actions.  I have done so, in some cases, with absurdities; and in others with erroneous logic.  I do not believe cloning of humans should ever occur.

Honest Matthew

            I have forgotten why they called President Lincoln ‘Honest Abe’; although it may have involved walking a long walk to return some money to a neighbor.  I don’t remember that President Washington was called ‘Honest George’; but I do remember that he said something like, “I cannot tell a lie.  I chopped down the cherry tree”.  My Mother told me that her Father, John Samuel Pettus, was known as ‘Honest John’.

            We also have an honest person who lives in our house.  He is ‘Honest Matt’.

            At our church, as in other churches I have attended, in an interlude between the beginning of worship and the sermon we have what is called the ‘Children’s Sermon’.  During this time the young children go forward and sit at the altar while the Pastor or the Vicar sits with them and tells them a story which will illustrate either the theme of the day or the scripture lesson, teaching them about Jesus and teaching them to pray.  Usually some artifact is brought to help tell the story and to catch the children’s attention.  This morning the Children’s Sermon was conducted by the Vicar, and he brought out a case with a heavy object concealed within which he said was a bowling ball.  The scripture he was using for the story was Matthew 11:28:  where the Lord Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light”, NIV.

            The Vicar’s method was to show how heavy the bowling bag was for one person to lift, and that it was easier for two together.  First he had Matthew lift the bag, and asked him if it was heavy, and could he carry it all the way home.  Then another boy named Ryan did the same.  After this the Vicar had them lift the bag together, one on each side, to show that it is easier for two together, the idea being that life is easier with the Lord Jesus in your heart sharing the burdens.

            The Vicar then asked a few questions such as what does it mean to be burdened, and do you ever get tired, but the pertinent question, the one in which Matthew excelled, was, “Do you worry?  What do you worry about?  The Vicar asked this of all the children and what answers would you imagine could be expected?

            I worry about getting lost in a store where there are big crowds.

            I worry when my daddy is gone on a business trip that he might not return.

            I worry about …..

            The Vicar then turned to Matthew and asked him directly what he worried about, and those of you who know Matthew and how difficult it is to get him to eat his supper can imagine his answer.  What does Honest Matthew worry about?

            “I worry about not getting dessert”, Matthew said.

The Widow’s Mite

               On the third Sunday of each month I serve as an Usher at St. John’s Lutheran Church, the church I attend regularly.  Part of the Usher’s duty is to stand at the door of the sanctuary, greet members as they arrive, and pass out the bulletins.  As the time for the Divine Service arrives we watch as the Acolyte walks in to light the candles, followed by the Pastor; then, reminiscent of Noah and the Ark, we close the doors to the sanctuary and the Service begins.  Then the Usher’s job is to count the members to make a record of attendance.  We do this by standing in the balcony looking over the rail at the congregation.

               Ushers then enter the Sanctuary to participate in the Service.  Usually there are two to four of us along with the Elder of the Month sitting in the chairs on the back wall.

               Not long ago on a Sunday I arrived a little early, was gathering up my handful of bulletins, and preparing to be an Usher when one of the Elders noticed an elderly lady standing outside the church.  As the lady entered the Narthex I saw that she had not previously attended, so I welcomed her and handed her a bulletin.  She hesitated before entering the Sanctuary; told me that her husband was recently deceased, and then asked me if I knew of someone who could help her.  I had difficulty understanding exactly what she needed, but thought immediately of a group in the church who might be able to assist; told her to go in and find a seat and I would send someone to talk with her.

               I continued with my Ushering duties until a person who is a member of the group which I thought might help the lady came in.  I pointed her out to this man, asked him to speak with her and he did.  I heard later that she was illiterate; the help she needed was to learn to read and write; and that teaching was arranged.

               Another of the Ushers duties is to pass the plates to collect the offering.  When the time in the service arrived for that to occur we Ushers divided up the plates and determined which aisle each of us would work.  The aisle to which I was assigned turned out to be the one where the visiting lady was sitting.  This was the early service with many empty pews; and the lady was sitting alone.  As I walked slowly up the aisle passing the plates to the left and right, I considered whether I should extend the offering plate to her.  She was sitting in a pew alone; I wished not to embarrass her, and I doubted if she had an offering to give.  I almost bypassed her, but I noticed that she was fumbling with a coin purse she had gotten out, so I stopped and waited while she slowly counted out a few coins to put in the plate.  It seemed to take forever.  I could not help but notice a few silver, and some copper coins.  I was immediately thankful that I had given her the opportunity, and spared her the chagrin of being bypassed.  I also was reminded of the words of the Lord Jesus quoted in Luke 21:  “This poor widow has given more than all the others”.

               I do not know the amount others contributed as we Lutherans usually put our offering in an envelope.  I’m sure their contributions were substantial; but it may well be that on that Sunday this poor widow gave more than all the rest.

The Correct Dosage

            When I was a boy Doctors and Doctoring was much different than it is now.  Today, when I need medical attention I go to the clinic where I am treated, explain my symptoms to the Doctor, who listens closely, checks my heart, lungs, blood pressure and pulse, and then prescribes whatever medicine will cure me, writes a prescription which I take to the Pharmacy, receive the medicine, return home, take it twice or four times per day as directed, and usually by the next day feel much better.

            There was a time about a half century ago when the Doctor came to you rather than you going to the clinic.  At that time, when I was a teen-ager and became ill, my Mother or Father would either make a telephone call or go see the Doctor and make an appointment for the Doctor to make a house call.  The Doctor would then come to the house carrying his black bag and perform much the same way as modern Doctors do in the clinic.  Often the Doctor would have the required medicine in the black bag, and would also act as the Pharmacist.

            In even earlier times in my family all the Doctoring was performed by my Mother with my Father assisting and advising her.  I do not know whether this was because we were too poor to call the Doctor to us, or if perhaps there were no Doctors close enough to call.  We lived in very small towns and villages in Eastern Oklahoma.  When I or my sisters were sick my parents would get out their green medical book, look up our symptoms, and apply whatever home remedy seemed applicable.  They were apparently successful, because we all survived, and I cannot remember ever seeing a real Doctor until I was a freshman in High School.

            My Mother also practiced preventive medicine.  She would say such aphorisms as ‘An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away’ often.  Unfortunately, in that time during World War II apples were scarce where we lived.  Usually at Christmas a relative would send us a crate of oranges, but the rest of the year was rather fruitless.  One preventive medicine which Mother used was cod liver oil—awful stuff.  On a regular basis, probably just before our Saturday night bath in the wash tub, Mother would get out the bottle of cod liver oil, and each of us children would take a spoonful.  I never knew what it was for, or what crippling disease it warded off.  I just knew—ugh, it was not to be avoided. Cod liver oil was not as awful though as the dreaded castor oil.  Nothing tasted as terrible as castor oil, but, if you were stopped up, and Mother always knew, it was time for some castor oil.  It was also believed by many in those times that it was a good idea once a year in the spring to clean your system out, and how was this done:  castor oil.  I don’t know what this prevented, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t cure anything.

            Eventually my Mother or perhaps my Father worked out a method of self-dosage for us children.  Rather than forcing down the castor oil over our strenuous objections, they worked out a system where we could self-medicate.  It was only many years later that I understood how this was accomplished. It was done with Hershey Bars and milk chocolate.  My Mother loved chocolate.  After the war ended occasionally my Father would bring her a Hershey Bar home from the store.  She would always share some of it with us children. It was really, really good in those sugar starved times, and I’ll never forget how it looked covered in aluminum foil in the brown wrapper—yum.  I, and my sisters, always asked for one more piece.

            If you are familiar with an over the counter medicine called Ex-Lax you may know that sixty years ago it looked quite similar to a Hershey Bar—dark chocolate wrapped in aluminum foil in a brown package.  I must have been constipated.  One of my parents—I have always wondered which, and I intend to ask when I see them in Heaven--conceived this clever scheme.  Remembering how much I enjoyed milk chocolate, they placed the Ex-Lax/Hershey Bar in the ice box on a shelf at child’s eye level.  They also opened the end of the package so the chocolate was visible and tempting.  The next time I went to the ice box for a drink of water there it was.  I could see that only one piece had been broken off and eaten.  Remember how the Hershey Bars were segmented? Iershey Bars were H thought that no one would notice if there was just one more segment missing. I took a piece.  I stole my medicine that day, and it tasted just as I remembered.  It was so-o good. I told my sister Joann about it and I think she had some also.  My younger sister Mary Kay informs me that she also fell for the Ex-Lax ploy.

            Apparently the Hershey Bar had the desired result.  The ‘Doctor’ must have been well satisfied, because when I went back for another piece the next day the ‘Hershey Bar’ was gone.  One piece must have been the correct dosage. 

My New Life

            Early mornings are very enjoyable.  Since I was 18 years old and enlisted in the US Army I have always been up early, usually before dawn, sometimes at the proverbial hour of 0:dark:30, and off to work at whatever job I was doing.  For the last decade I have risen at 5:00 AM in order to arrive at my usual parking space at Tinker Air Force Base by about 6:00 AM.  After that hour my spot would have been taken and I would have had to walk additional steps.  I was used to this routine, but as I got older the 10 minute walk from my parking place became more and more difficult.

            On Friday May 13, 2011 I resigned from my job and retired for about the third time.  My first retirement was from the US Air Force on November 30, 1979.  I then was hired as a Metrology Technician by the Raytheon Service Company and worked for various divisions of that corporation on US Government contracts until I resigned from that job in January 2001.  This was my second retirement.  I found that I was not yet quite ready to kick back and relax, so I went to work part-time for various companies which had the contract at the Tinker Air Force Base Precision Measurement Laboratory.

            I am only just now beginning to start my new life as a retired person.  My wife made a joke about it.  She said, “Come over here and sit on the couch and practice”.  “Practice what”, I asked.  She then said, “Practice doing nothing”.  I am not yet ready to be a couch potato, although perhaps I resemble one, so I am searching for ideas and things to occupy my time.  This blog was suggested to me by a lady friend, and will, I hope provide an outlet for my thinking.  The only other scheduled daily event to date is coffee with the birds just after the morning dawns sitting on the patio.  It is early summer here in Oklahoma; the sun gets pretty hot by about 9 or 9:30 in the morning.  I sit on the patio drinking my coffee and eat a small breakfast listening to the birds call and watching them eat until about 7.  For about 2 hours afterward I do some light yard work.  How do I know when to stop?  When it gets hot enough to cause perspiration I put my tools away and go in the air-conditioned house and rest.  Occasionally at this time I also take a ‘power nap’ in order to prepare myself for the remainder of the day.

An Interesting Question

The Shoe Search

               As you all know I only work part time now, and have done so for several years.  Because I always have Monday as a day off, and for a couple of other reasons I have been driving one of my grandsons to school on Mondays.  I did so this morning, October 30^th 2010.  While waiting for him to get ready I usually check my email and diddle.  An unusual thing happened this morning while I was diddling; I heard him call, “Mom.  I can’t find my shoes”.  It struck me while hearing this plaintive cry for help that it has been some time since I last heard him have this problem.  I don’t know how long it has been since he couldn’t find his shoes last, but I am certain the interval has increased.  I can remember, I think, a time when almost every morning he could not find his shoes.  In fact, sad as it may seem, I was often amused by the perennial shoe search.

               It has caused me to wonder whether ‘being able to find your shoes’ has some sort of biological cause, i.e., perhaps there is an enabling ‘shoe search’ DNA sequence which clocks on at a particular moment in your growth, so that from that moment on and forever afterward you will be able to find your shoes. 

We all know that puberty causes some dramatic changes in boys and girls.  It is quite evident to me that, if there is an enabling ‘shoe search’ DNA sequence, it must click on later for girls than it does for boys.  It is not completely unusual for this boy’s Mom to have to do a shoe search, although most of the time her search is quite short.  This might also explain why women have so many pairs of shoes in their closets, i.e., if you can’t find one pair you can always put on another.  I’m sure you’ll all remember Imelda Marcos in this regard.  My ‘shoe search’ DNA sequence has been on for many years.  I can always find my shoes, because I know exactly where every pair has been placed.  His older brother seems now to be able to find his shoes every morning.  Once in a blue moon my wife has to do a shoe search, but not as often as does my daughter.

So my conclusion from this small sample of the population is that the enabling ‘shoe search’ DNA sequence kicks on somewhere between 17 and 21 for boys.  It must be approximately the same for girls, but must not always make a complete connection.

              

A Helicopter Ride

Fifteen Miles on a Chopper

            Part of my duty while I was assigned in Vietnam was to serve as a sort of a troubleshooter to correct problems which occurred with Air Traffic Control radio communications systems at about 10 different American Air Bases in the country.  Ground transportation to most of these places was either nonexistent, unsafe for Americans, or too lengthy; so most of the time this duty required air travel to the problem location through the extensive passenger and cargo service provided by the US Air Force.  On one occasion, however, I was ordered to go from Tan Son Nhut Air Base at Saigon to Bien Hoa Air Base about 15 miles north to troubleshoot a problem with the radio transmissions from their Mobile Radar Approach Control facility to aircraft on final approach.  They were losing contact with aircraft within about 10 miles of the runway.  Bien Hoa Air Base was the one destination to which I had taken ground transportation previously.  In this case my transportation choices were to take an Air Force bus or to fly on a passenger aircraft.  The bus was easily arranged but sort of mundane, and there was always the chance it would be attacked.  The air passenger service required waiting in line at the passenger terminal and for the airplane longer than I wished.  I knew of an Air Force organization on the flight line which flew helicopters.  I had not previously flown in this type of aircraft, and thought it would be sort of a novel experience; so I contacted their Operations Office and found they had a scheduled trip to Bien Hoa.  The Operations Officer said all I needed was my TDY orders and I could travel on their helicopter; so I packed my bags and arranged for our pickup truck to take me over to their office.  Upon arrival the paperwork was completed, and, since the aircraft was to depart soon, I rode a bus out to the place on the airport where it was parked.

            The helicopter was parked in a revetment at the side of an airport taxiway.  Because of the possibility of rocket and mortar fire these revetments had been constructed to protect the combat aircraft on the base.  The revetment was a steel and concrete-walled enclosure large enough to park an aircraft in.  The walls were about 15 to 20 feet high.  It was not roofed.

            Exiting the bus I saw the blue Air Force helicopter, I think its designation was UH-1, parked there in the center of the revetment.  It was attached by a power cable to the only other item in the parking area which was a ground power unit.  The power unit was behind the helicopter and off to the left side.  The crew chief slid the side doors open for the passenger compartment, and I got in and sat down on the web seats and fastened my safety belt.  I sat on the left side.  The pilot and copilot got into their seats in the front.  In this helicopter the only division between the passenger compartment and the cockpit was a low canvas rail, so I was able to watch as the pilots went through their checklist and set the switches and controls.  Soon the crew chief had the power unit running; the pilots started the jet engine, and almost immediately the rotor blades began to turn slowly, then faster and faster, and then became blurred as the RPM was increased.  The crew chief shut down and disconnected the power unit, and got into his seat after closing the doors.  So far I thought this to be a really neat experience which I was enjoying.

            Very soon the pilot increased the power and, using the controls raised the machine about 2 feet off the ground.  He stabilized in this position for a moment and then began moving very slowly forward out to the taxiway.  When he had moved far enough forward that he could see past the end of the revetment wall, he looked to the left where a C-130 Aircraft was moving in our direction down the taxiway.  The pilot then stopped the forward movement, and began moving backward to be sure he was out of the way of the larger aircraft.  My uneasiness with helicopter flying began at this point.  Although I am sure the pilot was completely aware of it, all I could think of was that he might be backing the tail rotor into the power unit which was still sitting in the revetment.  I craned my neck, but could not see whether or not we were close to it.  Within a few moments the C-130 taxied by, and after a short delay we began moving out to the taxiway.  The C-130 had already reached the end of the taxiway and turned on to the runway.

            At this point, as an experienced air passenger, I expected the helicopter to move down the taxiway and turn on to the runway and take off after the C-130 had departed.  Still moving at a fast walk the pilot lifted us higher to perhaps 10 feet off the ground.  Then suddenly the helicopter tilted forward at such a steep angle that I was looking right down through the windshield at the concrete, and began to accelerate rapidly.  It seemed to me that the angle was so steep that surely the tips of the rotor blades in front would hit the surface.  If I had not fastened my safety belt, I think I would have landed on the instrument panel between the pilots.  Because I was not expecting this change it startled me, and I began thinking that maybe choosing this mode of transportation was a big, big mistake.  Almost immediately as flying speed was reached the machine leveled and we were speeding down the taxiway.  As we passed over the airfield fence our height was about 50 feet, and we were moving very fast.

            My apprehension was relieved, and I began to think this was sort of fun.  We flew on for a short time dodging around obstructions, and lifting over farm houses, until we were clear of the final approach path and other aircraft.  The pilot then climbed to 1500 feet and turned north to Bien Hoa Air Base.  At this point the flight seemed similar to that of a fixed wing aircraft, and I began to relax in my seat.  Suddenly I heard:  Whop, whop, whop, whop, whop.  The sound dissipated, and returned:  Whop, whop, whop.  My first thought was that we were being machine gunned.  We were in a war zone; rifle and cannon fire and the explosion of bombs were heard quite often, so my thinking was understandable.  It was not unusual for the Viet Cong enemy to fire on aircraft approaching or departing the air field.  Because the crew members did not seem concerned, and since no bullet holes appeared in the airframe I considered and realized the repetitive noise was the same as that heard when a helicopter was passing overhead, that it was caused by the rotor blades.  It had not previously occurred to me that the same sound would be heard inside the helicopter.  I have since read that the advancing rotor blade causes the noise by exceeding the speed of sound in some conditions, that the noise is sort of a mini-sonic boom.  Obviously it is normal.

            We didn’t get shot down and fifteen miles in a chopper does not take very long.  Soon my experience was over, and we descended and landed at the helicopter pad at Bien Hoa Air Base.  I got out of the helicopter and began my troubleshooting work.  This was my first helicopter ride, and probably my last.  When my work was completed I returned to my home base on the bus.

           

Wedding Anniversary Remembered

Rueful

            Today is Wednesday, the 14^th of January, 2004.  Last Sunday, January 11^th, my son and his wife came over after church.  As an anniversary gift, they presented us with a gift certificate for a meal at Red Lobster.  One of the things which Ann and I both enjoy is dining out and Red Lobster is one of the restaurants we enjoy the most.  I especially like eating lobster.  We thanked them and I thought to myself that perhaps on our anniversary, the 13^th, we would go out for supper and spend the certificate.

            Monday evening, the 12^th, I drove up to Mar Dels, a Christian book store, to purchase a cover for my Bible.  While there I looked at the anniversary cards and purchased one I thought appropriate.  At home I put it on my night stand to keep until the 13^th.

Tuesday morning, the 13^th, I arose at my usual 5:00 AM and prepared for work.  I carefully carried the card into the bathroom and placed it on top of my eyeglasses to be absolutely sure I would not forget it.  Then with my teeth (what are left of them) brushed, and my hair (I still have some) combed, I signed the card and carried it into the dining room and placed it on the table where Ann would see it when she sat down to read the paper.  It really gave me a good feeling, and I was pleased with myself.  At break time at work talking to a colleague, Les Shively, who I have known for more than 20 years, I said, “Well Les, I’ve been married 40 years today”.  He congratulated me and told me that his anniversary was 2 days ago, the 11^th, and that it was his 48^th.  Les and I have worked together at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma and at Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas for several years, and while he was telling me this I had sort of a twinge of non-deja-vu, i.e., I thought to myself, since our anniversaries were so close, that surely in the years we have worked together, we must have had that conversation before.

There was also this peculiar thought way in the back of my mind:  Why don’t I ever remember having our wedding anniversary on Friday the 13^th.  I can’t remember for certain what day we were married, but I think it was on a Sunday.  I was wondering what the probability was in 40 years that January 13^th would be on Friday at least once.

Home from work about noon, I parked my pick-up truck and walked in.  I’ve gotten old enough that an afternoon nap is nice.  On my way to my nap I asked Ann, “Did you find your card”?   She told me she had and it was a nice card.  Satisfied with myself, I sat down in my rocking chair and rested for about an hour.

After napping I checked my email and finished the crossword puzzle.  Later I went to the library and checked out some books.  Soon it was supper time.  We all sat down at the table, I said Grace, and we began eating.  I can’t remember much of the conversation until suddenly, out of the blue, with no preliminary words Ann said, “Today is Mama and Daddy’s wedding anniversary”.  She was speaking of her Mother and Father.  Now this was one of those world shaking moments for me:  I felt a little bit like you feel just before you sign your name to some important document, a mortgage or a car loan—just an inner tenseness or apprehensiveness.  Something was wrong.  Now a real fast thinking guy would have contemplated those words carefully, and considered what response to make.  He would perhaps have said to himself, why is she telling me right now about her parent’s anniversary, or maybe thought back to see what conversation developed into that thought.  A good response might have been something like, “Hmm”, or “How long ago were they married”, or “That’s nice”.  A real fast thinking guy might have thought to himself something like:  If their anniversary is the same as ours, why don’t I remember that it is.  Why don’t I remember celebrating together at least once in the past?

I was just thunderstruck by the thought that their anniversary was the same day as ours and that no one had ever told me.  I guess I am a typical male in that I remember my birthday, my wife’s birthday, my children’s birthdays, and my anniversary.  Other dates are just not in my memory bank.

I blurted out, “Do you mean their anniversary is the same day as ours”?  I was ready to go further with statements such as:  Why don’t I remember that, and You have never told me that before when Ann responded, “No.  Our anniversary was the 11^th, 2 days ago.  Theirs is the 13^th.

As they said in Rome, “Mea Culpa”.  I couldn’t even plead nolo contendre.  I am plumb guilty.  Of course there are degrees of guilt.  I am not as guilty as a guy who forgot about his anniversary completely—I just got the day wrong.  After all, I got it right 39 times—that’s 97.5% of the time.

I know you guys are laughing as you read this, thinking what an idiot I am, but be warned:  It can happen to you too, and then you will be just as rueful as I am.