Frog Song

1997 was the year of the frogs.

That summer our little backyard pond seemed to be a magnet for Bullfrogs. They'd come hopping in at night, establish their territory on a rock or a lily pad, the big ones sometimes eating the smaller ones, along with anything else they could get their mouth around.

They provided us with hours of entertainment and we even named some of them. “Bud” eventually became the biggest and he hibernated through two winters in the bottom of the pond. In the spring when I cleaned out the debris and leaves I'd find him dark skinned and lethargic, but after a little sun and a few bugs he was his old self for another summer.

After that first year, the frog population thinned out, I think Bud ate most of them.

I had taken hours of video with a hand held, shaky camcorder, and when I came across it yesterday I decided to edit it down to a little over four minutes of ribbiting video.

I call it “Frog Song.”

Grief

They say that everyone expresses grief in their own way, and that there are stages that most people go through.

    When my mom died of cancer I didn't cry. When my dad died in a car wreck I didn't cry. Oh, I teared up a little but I didn't really break down and bawl. I loved them both and I felt guilty that I couldn't show my grief like everyone else. It wasn't a macho thing, I wanted to let loose and wail but I just couldn't.

    When our youngest son Rick died I felt as though I'd had a part ripped from my body, but when I looked down everything was still there. The pain was unbearable but I still didn't cry. Then we lost Fred that same year, and despite more pain and grief I remained mostly dry eyed.

    The next summer I was at work doing my job as a maintenance man. I came to work at 3am when the restaurant was empty, cleaning and repairing broken equipment. I always set the radio to come on at 5am when NPR began broadcasting. I listened to the usual intro and then they played a melody that I remembered from my youth; Happy trails to you, until we meet again... Roy Rogers and Dale Evans used to sing that song at the end of their old radio show, and somehow I just knew that Roy Rogers had died.

    Sure enough, in a few minutes the announcer declared, “Last night the 'Singing Cowboy,' Roy Rogers died peacefully at his ranch in Wyoming.”

    I remembered going to the Saturday matinee movies with my little brother John to watch Roy and Trigger the wonder horse catch black hatted bad guys.

    The tears started running down my face and I had to sit down. I bawled for a half an hour. I knew I wasn't crying for Roy, I guess it was just some kind of delayed reaction. Grief had finally caught up with me.

    I was in the middle of writing this when our nephew Kelly called, and from his voice we knew that after a long battle with cancer, John had died.

    I wonder how long it will take to catch me this time.

My Ass Fell Off

Since my ass fell off quite a few years ago I've been in an ever increasing battle to keep my pants from falling down. My first solution was to just take up another notch in my belt, but eventually that proved to be painful - my belly didn't desert me, my butt did.

I found an elastic, stretchable belt that I could cinch up without too much discomfort and that helped, but I still was constantly hitching up my trousers, which it seemed were trying to demonstrate the law of gravity to me.

I pared down the items in my pockets, took unneeded keys off of my key ring, shelved my trusty pocket knife, cleaned out my wallet and put all of my change in a coin box. My pants still slowly worked their way down, especially if I was carrying something heavy, and didn't have a free hand to pull them up.

Carol suggested getting some suspenders, but I cringed at the thought of yet another consession to becoming an old fart. “You want me to look like Larry King?” I asked.

Finally after years of fighting a losing battle, I gave in and bought a pair of suspenders at Walmart.

“Hey, honey, give me a hand hooking these damn things up.” “I got the front OK but if you'll just clip on the back ones...”

Carol hooked the two rear clips up and I tightened the front straps. “Don't get them too tight!” she warned. I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “God, am I always this stooped over?” Besides being bent over like the hunchback of Notre Dame, there also was considerable tightness in my crotch area.

“Maybe you're right!,” I squeaked,” I think they might be too tight!.” Actually, if anything had given way, I think I would have been shot like an arrow from a compound bow right into the ceiling. Or the floor, I'm not sure which.

I've since learned to live with them, although a few problems arise now and then; like inadvertently standing on a shoulder strap while trying to pull my pants up, or trying to take my shirt off without shucking the suspenders first.

I loaded my pockets back up with a full key ring, my trusty pocket knife and a wallet full of useless junk. I'm still kind of stooped over, but that's probably just gravity.

God forbid, I am starting to look like Larry King!

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!