Leaping Lizards

Several years ago (actually about fifteen or maybe eighteen!) our son Don called and asked me if I wanted to go Crawdadding on the following Saturday. “It's Beachcomber Days,” I said, “but I'd rather be catching Crawdads than watching a dumb parade with a few fire engines, log trucks and the 4-H club!”

“Yeah, it's a good day to stay out of town anyway,” he said, “The parades at noon so lets go before the madhouse starts.”

The following Saturday he pulled into our driveway about eleven. “Let's take our pickup,” I said, as we grabbed a couple Crawdad nets and a burlap sack. “The truck needs gas but we can get it upriver at Tidewater.”

We hopped in and headed up Highway 34 towards our destination; the junction of Lobster Creek and Five Rivers. “I hear there are tons of Crawdads there,” Don said, “we should really clean up!”

“Oh oh” I said as we pulled into Tidewater. “The gas station's closed!”

“That means we have to go back to town for gas. Crap!”

“They probably closed so they could go to Waldport for Beachcomber Days,” Don said, looking at his watch. “We'd better hurry or we'll get stopped by the parade.”

When we reached town we could see the ambulances, fire engines, and log trucks all lined up on a side street, waiting to start on their way through town, and we could see that the sidewalks were lined with spectators.

“Good! They haven't started yet, let's gas up and get out of here,” Don said.

There were a few cars ahead of us at the pump and we impatiently waited while they filled up. When we finally got to the pump I told the attendant, “We're in kind of a hurry, we want to get out of here before the parade starts.”

“I think you're too late!” he said. He was right, we could hear the fire trucks and ambulances demonstrating all the siren noises they could make with their WOOP WOOPs and WAH WAHs, a sure sign the world famous Beachcomber Days parade was underway. Our route out of town was blocked so we sat and watched the parade slowly crawl by.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it ended and we worked our way through the jammed up traffic and got underway again. We made good time to Five Rivers Road and a few minutes later we parked on a wide spot near the junction of Lobster Creek and Five Rivers.

“I can see Crawdads from here!” Don yelled as he piled out of the truck and started unloading our gear. Sure enough, there were Crawdads everywhere, and we waded in after them. Don would lift a rock and I'd hold the net downstream to catch them as they tried to escape. Then we'd chase after the ones we missed, splashing and sliding on the mossy rocks. I was wearing a loose fitting pair of Levis which soon became soaked and waterlogged along with every thing else. I was having a lot of trouble keeping them up they got so heavy. I was stumbling, sliding and splashing along, holding my pants up with one hand, carrying a burlap bag half full of Crawdads and a net in the other when I told Don,”Let's take a break, I'm pooped!”

We waded back down toward the truck, climbed out into the hot sunshine and sat on on a big rock to warm up. “Wow!' I said,”This feels great!” I squatted down on the stream side of the rock, my pants still at half mast with a lot of “plumbers butt” showing. On the other side of the rock I heard Don yell, “Hey Dad, I caught a lizard!” I looked over my shoulder just in time to see it flying though the air as he tossed it to me.

Unfortunately, since I had my back turned, I didn't try to catch it, and it landed perfectly in the crack of my plumbers butt. Being used to hiding in cracks it scrambled deeper. Now, I'm not much of a dancer, but much to Don's amusement I went through my whole repertoire. Starting with the River Dance, followed with lively versions of the Bunny Hop and the Funky Chicken, then some steps I made up on the spot.

Don was laughing so hard he was crying when I finally pulled the little guy out of my pants, his claws digging in all the way. I frantically tossed him out into the river and the last I saw he was swimming for the far bank, no doubt to find another crack to hide in.

We caught a lot of Crawdads and had a lot of laughs. It was a good trip.

I fell down...and did a magic trick!

I guess getting clumsy comes with getting old, and having Parkinson's disease doesn't help much.

Yesterday I was going into the dining room, sipping my lunchtime can of Pabst Blue Ribbon when I accidentally tripped over Taz and Squeak, our two constantly under foot, constantly shedding, growling, or barking to get in or out, fuzzy, funny, lovable (to us) dogs.

I did a not very graceful pirouette, stuck my other foot in a basket full of dog toys,and promptly threw the half full beer across the room where it bounced off a heavy brass lamp and disappeared behind an overstuffed chair. I landed in a pile of yipping dogs, squeaking bears, alligators, pandas and other unidentifiable stuffed animals .

Carol, who was on the phone talking to our son Brad, came running in to see what happened.

“Are you OK?” she asked as she helped me get up. I was more humiliated than hurt and the dogs looked kind of embarrassed too. Carol checked the three of us out, and after I hobbled around for a few minutes and the dogs returned to their normal exuberance she declared us “fit for duty.”

“Oh shit!”I said, “My beer.”

I peered behind the chair where I had seen it ricochet and there it was; sitting upright as though someone had put it there for safekeeping. I looked for spillage but there weren't any wet spots to be found – anywhere. I picked up the can and was amazed to find that it was still a half full!

I held my can of PBR high and said, “Ta-Daa! And now for my next trick...”

My Space ship

Over thirty years ago Carl Sagan hosted a TV show on PBS called Cosmos. One of the visual devices he used to transport his audience out into the billions and billions of galaxies, nebulae and star systems was what he called a “Star ship of the Imagination.” To me it was absolutely riveting television, even though his voice, and the soothing background music were mesmerizing. Watching the reruns years later I still find it spellbinding, piquing my imagination and conversely causing me to nod off into dreamland.

A few days ago I realized that I have my own “Star ship of the Imagination” and it disguises itself as an old, threadbare, beat up recliner. Carol picked it up at a local garage sale 20 years ago, with a broken foot rest and a dire need for some TLC.

“It looks pretty lumpy,” I said, thinking that maybe it really should have gone to the dump. After fixing the foot rest mechanism with a bit of wire, I sat down, pulled the handle up, and leaned back. With a series of clicks the chair enfolded and accepted me.

“Hmm, this is comfortable!” I said, as I realized that all of the lumps and grooves were in just the right places. It has been my favorite reading, napping, TV watching, and napping places ever since.

It's also been a favorite lap spot for 20 years of faithful dogs. Lady, a pound dog Cocker Spaniel, Chewy, our Lhasa Apso, and now Squeak and Taz come into the den when they hear the clicking of the foot rest and sit in front of it, waiting for me to give them permission to jump up onto my lap. Together we nod off into our separate dreams, happily snoring, growling, barking in falsetto and drooling as we travel on mysterious journeys in the “Star ship of Our Imagination.”

How Much?!!!!

Our old, (1992) Chevy pickup has been having problems lately. Like it's owners, they're mostly age related problems. It sits in the driveway rusting away most of the time these days, only getting used to haul trash to the dump or to move things too large or too dirty or smelly for our little Toyota wagon.

On the last dump trip, after unloading the recycled items and dumping the rest, the shift lever refused to go into Drive. I cussed and pushed on it until it finally clunked in to gear. When we got home I found that I couldn't shut the ignition switch off. I turned the key toward the Start position and was rewarded with a grinding noise as the starter tried to engage an already running engine, but at least then it let me turn it off.

The same problem came and went over several weeks while I tried to find out how to fix it. The consensus I arrived at, mostly from the Internet, was that the ignition lock cylinder needed to be replaced and that required removing the steering wheel with a special wheel puller and delving into the turn signal, windshield wiper and washer, cruise control, headlight dimmer, and turn signal wiring just to get at the thing. “A job for a Chevrolet mechanic, not me!” I reasoned.

The last straw happened at JC's house when no matter how I jiggled or wiggled the key the engine just kept running. I finally opened the hood, climbed up on the radiator shroud, removed the air cleaner and pulled the coil wire to shut it off. When I climbed down off of the engine compartment, JC asked me, “Why don't you get that damned thing fixed?”

“I guess you're right,” I said, “I'm afraid the Chevy dealer will rip me off, but I'm pretty sure from what I read on the Internet, that's where I should take it. The thing is, I think that they charge thirty or forty dollars an hour!”

“Get it fixed, I've got a lot off stuff to haul to the dump!” he said, “I'll even pay for it!”

The next morning I called the Chevy dealer in Newport, told the service manager the problem and made an appointment for the following day at 9 am.

JC followed me to Newport and we dropped the truck off. The mechanic showed me which fuse to pull, a much easier way to shut it off. We did some shopping and drove home. I'd just walked in the door when the phone rang and Carol handed it to me. It was the service manager who told me,”We found your problem. You need a new ignition cylinder and the canceling cam was completely crumbled. It will run about $400.00. Do you want us to go ahead and fix it?

I started to say OK, but then the $400 sunk in. “How much?” I sputtered. He repeated the amount. “Holy Crap!” I said.

He waited in silence while I thought about how much the truck saves us in monthly trash pickup charges and how handy it is for hauling stuff, but on the other hand is it really worth fixing...and what the hell is a crumbled canceling cam?

Reluctantly I said, “Yeah, go ahead.” I told him I'd pick it up in the morning and hung up, shaking my head.

“What's the matter? Carol asked from the kitchen.

“$400.00!” I replied.

“Holy Crap!” she said.

The next morning I asked the service manager for an explanation of the bill. He used his pen to point out the charges.

“Well, it needed a new lock cylinder, and that was $46.70. The canceling cam, which was crumbled, was $13.98 and it took the mechanic over three hours to do the repairs. He looked at me as if that explained everything. I'm not good at math, but as the wheels in my head slowly ground away, I finally spurted “But that's a hundred dollars an hour!”

I suffered through a detailed explanation about rising costs, yadda, yadda, yadda, reluctantly signed the bottom of the statement and left, poorer budweiser.

JCs Bad Day

Bad Day for JC

I think JC knew it wasn't going to go well when the usually competent nurse got distracted while draining his catheter and filled up one of his tennis shoes. Then after sending his blood draw to the lab the results came back horribly bad. Really, horribly bad!

A hemoglobin count of 9 calls for a one unit (about a pint) transfusion of good old type o+ which he usually gets a couple times a month, but this lab result showed a hemoglobin count of below 5! They immediately started pumping two units of blood into him and scheduled him for another unit in the morning.

The nurses were shocked and amazed that he was getting around as well as he was and that he had driven himself to the clinic with such a lousy blood count. (I couldn't drive him because I was in Corvallis seeing my doctor.)

I can't imagine how discouraged JC was driving home that afternoon with insufficient hemoglobin and a pee soaked tennis shoe, but it had to be bad.

Thankfully, later that evening a nurse from the hospital called, apologized and explained that the lab had made a terrible error and that JC didn't need to come in for another transfusion. Much relieved he went to bed.

He awoke realizing that he had rolled over on the remote for his adjustable bed and was being folded into a very uncomfortable position. With his free arm he fumbled for the remote and knocked it onto the floor where it came apart letting the batteries fall out.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Later that night his catheter bag broke and soaked his bedding.

It was just one of those days (and nights!)

Everyone who has, or has a loved one with, a fatal disease, hopes and prays for a “miracle” cure. Usually, promising new drugs are announced by the media with big headlines, but then at the bottom of the article is the disclaimer stating that it won't be out of the testing stage for ten years or so. That's not very helpful, or hopeful to someone who's doctor has told them that they only have months to live.

Recently though, several articles about a new cancer drug,”Zytiga” give hope to patients of prostate cancer that has metastasized into bone cancer;

1,088 prostate cancer patients in 12 countries participated in the trial. Each man received the standard low-dose prednisone treatment, with half also getting Zytiga and the other receiving a placebo. Researchers almost immediately discovered that, in the Zytiga group, the cancer progressed at only half the speed as the control group, with patients reporting significantly less pain and a noticeable delay before they had to undertake chemo. The results are so stupendous that the trial was canceled to allow every patient access to the drug.

Read the entire article at:http://www.impactlab.net/2012/06/03/science-may-have-just-beaten-prostate-cancer/

http://www.impactlab.net/2012/06/03/science-may-have-just-beaten-prostate-cancer/

My brother's doctor wanted him to try a “new” drug, but it was very expensive. (Four pills a day at $80 per pill!) He also suggested that sometimes the drug companies would cover this expense in return for patient feedback. John, (JC ) applied for this and was approved. Johnson and Johnson promptly began sending Zytiga.

Over the past several weeks, after at first undergoing painful and debilitating side effects, JC has improved astonishingly. The change in his appearance alone has amazed us, he went from a gray ghost sitting in his living room covered with blankets to being able to get up and work on projects around the house. He has color in his face and a little spring in his hobble!

JC's friend's and family are hoping and praying that Zytiga truly is a “miracle drug!”

Revenge of the Morning Glorys

Our greenhouse has been invaded by wild Morning Glory vines or “Bindweed” as it's sometimes called. We've sprayed it, dug it up, and pulled it out by the roots, but like “Arnold” it just keeps coming back.

The amazingly fast growing roots are long, white tubes that can reach the size of a pencil and sometimes you can pull three or four feet out of the soil before they break off and start growing again. Any broken pieces will regenerate into a new vine and every day new sprouts appear, giving us the daily chore of pulling them out.

Several days ago I spied some new vines creeping out from behind a piece of plywood leaning against the greenhouse wall. I pried the board out a bit so I could see what was behind it, and Eureka! There was a bonanza of tangled Morning Glory roots hiding there.

I pried the plywood out some more, slid my hand down and started pulling out fist full after fist full. I couldn't believe how many of the ropey things I was yanking out of their hiding place. I had a 5 gallon bucket half full of roots before I was almost done. I saw one more, way back in the narrow crevice and I jammed my hand in, grabbed it and pulled it out.

Imagine my surprise when it curled around my wrist, opened it's mouth and hissed at me. On second thought, “surprise” is too mild a word for what I felt. Maybe “terror” or “horror” would be closer, but I don't think there's a word in the dictionary that has the definition “almost crapping your pants!” (At least I couldn't find it.)

Now, most folks would say, “That was just a harmless little garden snake!” but they haven't seen the bruises I received while I was flailing my arms like an out of control windmill, trying to get rid of the damned snake and get out through the green house door.

It's been two days now and I think my pulse rate has dropped back to nearly normal. It's occurred to me that a temporary cure for the slowness of movement that happens to older people like me with Parkinson's Disease might be to surprise them with an occasional snake. But count me out!

Blue Ribbon Bacon Pancakes

Blue Ribbon Bacon Pancakes

I've just discovered my new favorite breakfast!

After much experimenting with a wide variety of recipes, this is my hands down favorite;

1 cup Krustease pancake mix. (Not white flour)

1 sprinkle of bacon bits. (Preferably not the dog treat kind.)

½ can of Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR) beer. Stir well.

Fry in a cast iron skillet, add butter, and top off with 2 over easy eggs and 2 slices of bacon..

Wash it down with the rest of the PBR.

Enjoy!

Rubber Hash Browns

This morning when I was getting ready to fix my breakfast, I was pleased to find a plastic bowl of grated potatoes that Carol had evidently left for me to make hash browns with. I started heating a small egg pan, and put on a larger cast iron skillet for a sausage patty and the hash browns. I put a couple of pieces of Rye bread in the toaster, cracked the eggs in the little pan and started the sausage frying.
   When the sausage started sizzling I dumped the hash browns in with it and grabbed a jug of milk out of the fridge. While I was pouring a glass of milk I noticed that the hash browns looked kin of weird. I tried to slide a fork under them to flip them over but it stuck like they were fastened  down with Gorilla glue. Oh oh, I thought, those weren't hash browns!
   Realizing that I had a pile of cheese melting in a hot skillet I began scraping under the molten glob with a kitchen knife, which kind of freed up the fork, except that both the knife and fork were still attached to the gooey cheese.
   Wait! I thought, I can save this by putting the melted cheese on the eggs! It'll be good! I stretched the stringy mess out over the egg pan but no matter what I did I couldn't get it loose from the knife, the fork or the now smoking glob in the cast iron skillet. If I just had a pair of scissors and another hand!!
I had my arms spread as far as I could but it just kept stretching out like rubber spaghetti.
   I finally got most of it on top of my surprised looking eggs, and after cleaning the stove top, I managed to scrape the remainder out of the skillet, into the trash without setting off the smoke alarm.
   ( I did that later while I was lighting a fire in the fireplace.)

The Quest For The Golden Hummingbird

One fine spring day three years ago, JC and I were sitting on his deck sipping a glass of wine when we heard the familiar humming vibration of a Hummingbird. We looked up and saw an amazingly beautiful, golden bronze hummer hovering in front of a red plastic tip on an aluminum ladder leaning against the wall.

“Wow!” I said, “Did you see that?”

“That was incredible! I'm going to grab my camera.”

JC refilled one of his Hummingbird feeders with fresh sugar water and hung it from the corner of the awning near the ladder. Then he brought out his Canon SLR digital camera and got it ready, pre-focused on the feeder. Naturally the little guy was a no-show for the rest of the afternoon.

The next day I brought my little Fuji camera along and JC had his Canon mounted on a tripod so he could get a steady shot. We were deep into a discussion about who knows what, when the golden hummer darted in for a quick sip of sugar water. By the time we fumbled around to our cameras he was gone. From then on it became a game of when we had our cameras ready he wouldn't show up. If we left the cameras inside he would take his time and tease us by posing on the lip of the feeder. Once when JC went inside for something the little guy flew over the table and hovered there over JC's camera. JC even purchased a remote shutter release so all he would have to do to take a picture was move his finger. By the end of summer I had one fuzzy picture that almost showed his colors in the sunlight and JC had a decent one taken on a cloudy day, but neither showed what he really looked like.

Although a lot of Hummingbirds came to the feeders, and some even got their pictures taken, we didn't see the Golden bird for several years and we assumed that he was one of a kind and long gone.

Yesterday, almost exactly three years later, while we were enjoying a rare sunny day on the deck, the Golden Hummingbird, or probably one of his progeny, returned in all his glory. We are getting the cameras ready.

Let the games begin!