Click it or Kick it-in the Vegetable Ward

Click it or Kick it-in the Vegetable Ward

I frequently find topics of interest from the innocuous postings from FaceBook.  The other day, someone commented that he had gotten a ticket for not wearing a seatbelt.  His take on the whole thing was that he never wore seatbelts and he wasn’t about to start now.

I immediately thought of helmets for motorcyclists, and how much resistance was mounted when the mandatory helmet laws, were first proposed.  The argument was that people resented ongoing government attempts to exert influence over the details of people’s lives.

Seriously, though, how valid is this point of view?  Is it aesthetics? After all, wearing a helmet or a seatbelt might limit my flair or style.  Is it just immaturity?  Why does the government have to get involved in my personal business?  Is it laziness?  I just hate to take the time to put on my helmet or belt up, to go around the block.

I would argue that certain protective measures, employed while traveling high rates of speed, or engaged in potentially risky behavior, supersede the notion of freedom of choice.  In other words, common sense should prevail over whimsy.  For someone to take the juvenile approach, that he or she resents being told to do something, even if it makes perfect sense, is unacceptable.  Why unacceptable?

We all have a responsibility to ourselves and to the people in our lives, to take rudimentary precautions to protect ourselves.  In yesterday’s FaceBook post, a reader gently commented that the person who made the original post, should remember that a few weeks ago, he had proudly announced that he was soon to be a father.  By keeping the big picture firmly in place, it would make sense that even if seatbelts were perceived as unnecessary in an earlier time, maybe that notion needed to be replaced with a more relevant one.

Another reader mentioned that the nieces and nephews of the original poster, routinely wore seatbelts, and maybe he should take note of that fact.  After all, if someone does not see the practical value of self-protection, maybe he should look at the bigger picture.  In behaving with callous disregard to his own safety, he puts the potential burden of his actions on someone else, should an accident occur.

If a person is involved in an accident while not wearing a seatbelt, and is thrown through the windshield, causing trauma to the head, and putting him into intensive care at the emergency hospital, who should assume liability?  Should there be no insurance, or if there is a prolonged period of recovery, or even if recovery to normalcy is impossible, who ultimately shoulders financial responsibility?  

Neither morally, nor legally, can a hospital pull the plug, nor would it desire to do so.  But the fact remains, that by not employing basic safety measures, a person’s life can be permanently, and irrevocably changed for the worse, and thus it is paramount that efforts be made to regulate the behavior of those who are unwilling to take basic precautions on their own.

I think with all of the emphasis on bicycle helmets for cyclists and skateboarders, which requires that even the very youngest wear them, that the next logical step would be to embrace other safety features of the motorcycle helmet and the seatbelt.  To get to the point in one’s life, where he is responsible enough to drive a motorized vehicle, I think would bring about a natural progression to a higher need for safety.

If not, as was obviously the case in yesterday’s post, I think the comment of still another reader should be employed:  Maybe the original poster should spend 24 hours in an emergency room setting, observing all that goes on within that facility, and possibly observing the differences between someone involved in an accident, who chose not to wear a seatbelt, and someone who was smart enough to do so.

Then the whole issue would probably become a moot point.  The saying goes, “Click it or ticket.”  Maybe it should read, “Click it or kick it-[in the vegetable ward]. 

Only Ten Pounds

Only Ten Pounds

I have been on picnics and I have been on adventures, but I have never been on a diet.  I am not saying I couldn’t stand to lose ten pounds, but I am not unhealthily overweight, and furthermore, I am actually in pretty good physical condition, jenky knees notwithstanding.

The concept of “dieting” is a foreign one to me, partially because I am a grazer to begin with, preferring to eat smaller meals, more frequently, rather than three conventional meals, with nothing in between.  Low blood-sugar is one explanation, but I’m not too sure about that.  I just know that all of the years I was teaching, there was no way I could have gone from morning breakfast, to lunchtime, without some fortification at morning break.

In the fall, it was easy because of the cukes, tomatoes and apples coming from the back yard.  But all year long, rice crackers and some celery, or carrots, or baby corn-anything to bridge the gap between morning meal and lunchtime-sufficed.

Then there was the after-school popcorn, microwaved, filling the air around the quad with its fragrant scent.  It was the perfect snack, as long as salt was not a factor.  How on earth would being on a diet affect either of these snacks?  OK, remove the butter from the popcorn, I guess, or switch the dressing I dip my carrots and celery in, to a diet ranch dressing.

But dieting?  Limiting the amount of food I take in, so as to lose ten pounds?  I don’t think so.  That sounds so painful to me as to be excruciating.  I know that countless books have been written, extolling the virtues of this diet or that one.  One year it seemed as though all of the teachers on staff were following the diet which required that participants eat nothing but meat, and lo and behold her who was foolish enough to take in any carbs.   

But I can’t do it.  I love to eat too much.  I don’t eat rich food, and I rarely eat dairy products, like ice cream or cream cheese.  But I prefer to eat as much as I like of salad, or tomatoes, or a rice dish and assorted vegetables, without having to stop when I am still hungry.  I am just too physically active, and I require a lot of fuel to keep me in full-wheel drive.

I still walk most mornings with Annie up to Blue Rock and back, about a forty-five minute stint, so I do not lack for exercise.  If I do not walk, it is because I worked the previous day, and my knees are swollen.  Between working on my construction project, and at least an hour or more, out back in the garden, each day, I get a substantial amount of credit for being an active guy.  

That’s why I maintain that I am in good physical condition, even if I pack a few extra pounds.  Being heavier than the perfect weight is not necessarily good, but it need not be bad either.  And feeling compelled to “go on a diet” remains in the background for me.  

I also recognize that if I were seriously over my optimum weight, I would not be able take such a cavalier attitude about the whole thing.  But unlike the days when I used to walk into Pompeii Pizza after a shift at Sunrize Market, and consume not only a large combination pizza, but a meatball sandwich, at the same sitting, I no longer need quite as much fuel.  Moreover, the kind of food I am more inclined to pig out on is grown in the backyard.  

It all adds up to me being able to thumb my nose at the concept of dieting, simply because I maintain a life style that allows me to do so, and because I live on a road with a lot of dips and hills on it, so that I manage to keep from packing it on in the first place.  By luck or by design, I seem to be doing just fine, so long as my knees hold out.

Spanking: Love or Abuse?

Spanking: Love or Abuse?

“I’m afraid of a world run by adults who were never spanked as kids and got trophies just for participating.”

This post appeared on FaceBook the other day, and it piqued my interest.  I responded by commenting, initially, “I’m OK with the never having been spanked.  I have never thought that hitting a kid taught him or her to do anything but express anger in a similar manner.”

The person who originally posted the saying, let’s call him Fred, replied with a long anecdote, about having done a babysitting job, back when he was a teenager.  He was responsible for children, among whom was a young boy who kept hitting his sister.  He had tried everything he could think of to change the behavior; finally, he resorted to spanking the young boy.  He said that after the spanking had been administered, he’d hugged the boy.

I appreciated that he had tried alternative methods, but what I really wanted to ask him was, how effective he thought it would be, to teach that hitting children was inappropriate, by hitting this young boy.  The fact that he did not see the irony, made me cautious of offending him, so I responded by writing, 

“Everyone should apply the disciplinarian elements, as he or she deems appropriate; I only mention that spanking seems so unnecessary.  A time-out, and some basic expectations for behavior are all that I found necessary to make it happen.”  This seemed like a good start, but I decided to elaborate.  

I continued, “In my household, if you hit your brother, then you probably had a great deal of pent-up energy, and needed to fill the woodbox, or stack some firewood, or wash the truck, or gather kindling, or do the dishes, or clean your room, or sweep the leaves off the deck, or any one of a hundred other chores.  There are some who think my sons are reasonably responsible and respectful community contributors.  I don’t know too much about that.  You can ask them, though, if they feel not being spanked helped them to their current status, or not.  Consequences can be taught in other manners than by physical violence...It’s just my opinion.”

My stance on spanking is not the result of having been spanked excessively myself.  I can only remember being spanked by my father a half-dozen or so times, and all resulted from unsafe actions on my part, like running into the street, without stopping and looking both ways.  No, I simply believe that violence in all forms, should be avoided.

On the middle school campus, at one point in the late nineties, we had a spate of increased violence on our little campus of 120 students.  I was responsible for student council at the time, so we brainstormed ways of dealing with this issue.  The kids decided to try and raise awareness, by doing a survey, to be filled out during homeroom, with no names, and focused on different types of violence.  One question asked, “Did you know that yelling at someone is an act of violence?”  Another inquired, “Were you aware that calling someone a name, or cussing at someone, is also violence?”

The results of the survey were unpredictably successful, with a great deal of discussion being conducted, and a corresponding drop in discipline referrals occurring.  Student Council was as amazed as I was, and that survey came into play for the rest of the school year, with kids reminding others of various elements, as they arose on campus.

Ultimately, spanking results when tempers flare, and judgment fails to produce reason.  For me instant fear produces instant anger.  Hearing a kid storming down the stairs, unsafely, followed by a tremendous thump/bang/crash, produces one on the heals of the other: first fear, and then anger, when it is determined that no one is hurt.  The rule is no running on the stairs because one can get hurt.  With a steadfast rule about no spanking, it simply is not an option.

I found it far better to have the expectations for my own behavior, clearly evident, than to leave it up to chance.  Knowing that to hit one of my sons, was to send the message that hitting was acceptable behavior, I avoided it at all costs.  I could thus use the line, when appropriate, “When I start hitting you, then you can hit your brother; until then, knock it off.”

Of course, I know that my decree did not stop all the violence among the three of them, but I also know that they learned something from the whole experience that I hope they apply in their own families, when the time arrives.  They learned that violence was unacceptable, and that three boys could make it out of kid-dom, alive and well, without having been spanked.  It’s up to them to determine which method works best.  I have a sneaking suspicion I know which route they’ll take: the one that’s most familiar and has worked so well so far.  Then they can borrow my line which worked so effectively for them, “When I start hitting you...”

The Blender

The Blender

A few weeks ago I wrote a piece called DD214, which described the process I went through to obtain copies of my discharge papers from the military, for the purpose of applying for health benefits.  Because our school district insurance was due to elapse this August, both Annie and I have known for years now that we were going to hit our “old age,” without being covered.  I am still unclear how it all came down, except that this is an unfortunate time to find ourselves insurance-less.

The first thing that comes to mind, is that the Veterans Administration might not promote a lot of confidence.  I try not to focus on that aspect of the whole package, because I do not know what to expect, and I do not like to resort to catastrophizing.  I do know that the individual who has been facilitating my paperwork, is an advocate, and that my psychologist is also an advocate for veterans, so I am withholding judgment.  Beggars can’t be choosers.

When I first heard that the Veterans Administration provides health benefits for veterans, I was very skeptical.  How can they do that?  There are a lot of veterans.  However, I did not know that this was an option, and am still not all that confident, but am stuck between a rock and a boulder.  Besides, I had insurance for many years, and expected that it would remain in place.  Just having to shell out almost a hundred dollars per session at the shrink’s place, is enough to investigate this other avenue.

I must confess, however, I have mixed feelings.  Though I served honorably for twenty-one months, I was not a happy soldier.  On the exterior, I presented one face; on the interior, I harbored quite a different one, one that was bitter, resentful and depressed.  I know that I was depressed while in the military, now, even if I was unaware of it during the experience.  I was smart enough to take seriously, the battery of tests that we had to take multiple times during my induction, so that I ended up working in a personnel service company while overseas.  That was infinitely better than many of the other available options.

When I say I have mixed feelings, it’s more like my feelings have just been put through the blender.  I have been cogitating for the past forty years (I entered the service in 1972), over the unfairness of it all.  I was inducted the last year that a draft was in place, I was the only guy in my circle of friends who got caught up in it, and my time in the military irrevocably changed my life.  Sour grapes?  Probably, but two years of one’s lifetime is a lot to give, when conscripted.  Many of my brothers in the service also hated it, but had no one to blame but themselves.  There’s just something about me, which has always rebelled when told I have to do something.  I like to be asked.

I used to liken my time in the military to a prison sentence, only I did nothing to deserve it.  In a perfect world, I would have fled to Canada, like my friend Michael.  The truth is that I did not have the cojones.  It takes a lot more courage to flee to another country, because of your principles, than it does to simply go along with the program, even if you hate what you are doing. I was scared silly of the drill instructors, even though some were only two or three years older than me.  It all added up to two years of torture.

I know that does not sound very patriotic, but when you have walked the walk, you do not have to talk the talk.  I would rather have been an unpatriotic schmuck, and paid my taxes, and not gone to school on the GI Bill, and not bought a house through the Veterans Administration, and not have medical coverage now, a month away from my sixtieth birthday.

Be that all as it may.  I AM turning sixty, I DO need medical coverage, and I earned it.  So I am waiting for my name to appear on the “list,” so that I can schedule an orientation with a VA-sanctioned physician in Ukiah, and commence to draw health benefits.  It’s better than drawing a blank, which is what I’d been fearing, once our district insurance ran out.  Who would have thought that I would have ended up relying on the military for health coverage, after a twenty-one month stint, rather than on the school district, after a seventeen-year run?  

When I figure it out, and know the answer, I will remove my feelings from the blender, and replace them with something more geared to happy times than to hard times, something that goes well with salt on the rim.  It’s time to replace the salty attitude with a salty rim. I’ll have some guacamole and chips with that, please. 

Pluses and Wishes

Pluses and Wishes

I used to do an exercise in the classroom called “pluses and wishes.”  I would ask students to give me feedback on something we had done as a class, such as a field trip, but to try and couch the negative aspects in terms of wishes, rather than in dislikes.  Thus, when referring to food, instead of saying the food was bad, a student might say the she wished the food were better.

The idea was to foster on ongoing positive attitude, rather than focusing on the negative.  I am ready to do the same with mood spectrum disorder, now that I am entering the sixth month since my diagnosis began.  I can only assure you that I have come a fair distance to be able to look for the silver lining in my illness.  

I will begin with a plus: Annie and I are on the same page, she being the coach and mentor, I being the athlete in the long-distance marathon, with baggage.  But at least I am beginning to sort out the baggage, so as to be able to access the tools I need to contend with the ebb and flow of my illness.

I wish there was a manual.  There is much written about mood spectrum disorder, but the very nature of the illness, means that no two cases are alike.  Each has its own peculiar patterns of manifesting bipolar characteristics.  In reading any of the guides involving MSD, I must wade through many examples of extreme behavior, which at this time, are irrelevant.   Meanwhile, I try to identify what behaviors relate to MSD, and which relate to life in general.

Another significant plus is my regained closeness with my sons.  Prior to being diagnosed, I felt very misunderstood.  Regardless of the irony involved, at least the murky haze that has enveloped our relationship for the past couple of years, has cleared, allowing us to reform bonds that have been stretched, over the past year or so.

I wish I knew what others were thinking.  Even recognizing that I do not know what others are thinking, is a huge forward stride.  Because I cannot read minds, I know it is critical that I not attempt to do so.  That allows others to think anything they want, without me making any assumptions.  When I make arbitrary assumptions, they are inevitably negative; I want to emphasize the positive.

Taking charge of my own illness, as opposed to allowing someone else to direct me, has had an empowering effect.  From the first visit to Dr. Garratt, when Annie and I concluded that the side-effects of the prescribed atypical, antipsychotic medication, were terrifying, I have been able to direct the events associated with my therapy.  This is a huge plus, because I no longer feel as though I am being propelled by forces that are greater than myself.  My illness may have ramifications that I cannot foresee, but at least I have a thorough understanding of why these characteristics occur, so as to be able to better contend with them as they present themselves.

Though I wish I did not have to go to Ukiah every two weeks for therapy, I am finding that this need to be down in our county seat, has allowed me to address other issues that are arising, so I see it as a plus.  A curious result is that I no longer dread the daylong trips, but actually look forward to them, and pack the day with stops to address a myriad of needs.

Another plus is that as time goes on, I increasingly make connections between past behavior, and my new-found knowledge.  They say the key to understanding history, is an awareness of what has occurred, to try and avoid repeating the same mistakes.  Without knowing that I was ill, this was not possible.  By becoming aware of the effect of my illness on my actions, I have learned how important it is that I monitor the critical areas of sleep, exercise and diet.  By doing so, I hope to avoid having to employ medication to regulate my illness.

Though I wish I could have just foregone all of the angst involved in coming to grips with my illness, I recognize that the saying about no pain resulting in no gain, has never been more relevant.  But all good things must end, so let the pain wane.

Smile When You Refer to me as Moody

Smile When You Refer to me as Moody

Saying that a person who is bipolar is moody, is like saying a person with an IQ of 161 is smart.  You think?  Being bipolar, or having a mood spectrum disorder, certainly involves walking a tight rope that bridges the chasm between being manically exuberant, and deadly depressive.  But it also encompasses a range of emotions that are normally not associated with mood.

Take irritability, please.  I wish someone would.  Everyone gets annoyed upon occasion, because of the traffic, or the whining of the mosquitoes, or the incessant questions of a toddler.  “Patience is a virtue-have it if you can; found seldom in a woman-never in a man...”  Or, you may reverse it and express the same sentiment from the male perspective.  Either way, the saying acknowledges that trying to remain patient in the light of adversity, can be challenging.

For mood spectrum disorder sufferers, irritability is an emotion that is often infamously referred to as the “bipolar rage.”  I believe that many of the road rage incidents are caused by people with mood spectrum disorder, because of this rapid onset of irritability, coupled with the possible ability to counter perceived slights with a powerful automobile, is just too much to resist.

The other day, at some point mid-afternoon, I experienced a relatively short period of irritability, that would make the term moody, as used to describe my mood, ludicrous.  It began with a chicken.  I have written-humorously-about the challenge of existing anywhere within range of the raucous din of hens, but there is nothing funny about the way that aural pollution penetrates to the core of my psyche.

Use any analogy that applies: it’s like having someone kick you in the shin bone, and then, for good measure, doing it again in the same place; it’s like having the tea kettle go off, with the person who put it on, nowhere to be found; it’s like listening to that wood pecker, hammering away on the siding of your house, knowing the damage that was being done, with no way to stop it.   

This chicken repeated the same discordant note, with alarming regularity, and the sound permeated my very soul.  I had the radio blasting KWNE, the generator going in the immediate vicinity, and unless I wanted to maintain my Skill-Saw cut indefinitely, I was still subjected to the continuous din of this chicken.  Fortunately for the hen, I have managed to plan ahead, having a spray bottle of plain water, readily stationed just outside the house of horrors, for my sadistic pleasure.  

Not once, not twice, but three times (“...Three civil brawls...have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets...”) that bird went off, and I followed suit.  The third time I patiently-but methodically-herded that hen, and her sixteen sisters, all the way to the other side of the orchard, firing my water pistol, with consistent, if inaccurate, streams of water.  Predictably, when I ran out of water, they beat me back to the hen house.  But it did result in five minutes of quiet, after each visit to the scene.

Then I decided it was time for lunch.  Where was that lettuce?  I knew it was in the refrigerator somewhere, but I had already ransacked the frosty interior, with no success.  No problem.  I’ll just empty the contents of the lowest shelf, out onto the floor, and proceed from there. Fortunately, as misguided as the extreme may have been, I lucked out before I had created chaos, and retired with my lettuce to the counter.

The calm was short-lived.  In attempting to close the broiler door of the oven, I found it would not cooperate.  There is a little trick to it, that I thought I had mastered, but not on this occasion.  The door would still be wide open, if Annie hadn’t closed it, the first time she entered the kitchen afterwards.  She is so talented.

Whether I am experiencing mania, depression, or a “normal” mood, irritability can have me walking a tight rope, until the feelings pass.  Other times, that hen can be joined by multiple members of the chorus, and it will not phase me.  

So, I guess if you are going to refer to me as moody, you had better be willing to back that up.  Otherwise, I’ll be chasing after you with my squirt bottle, at least until I run out of water.

My Dog's Better than Yours

My Dog’s Better than Yours

I have never attempted to discus politics, having been born with what little amount of common sense I possess, and having been wise enough to recognize that waxing on about my favorite candidate, or more likely, dissing on his opponent, is not going to accomplish anything other than stirring up the stuff.  Folks just get so emotional about the whole thing.

As you may know, emotion is a slippery slope for me these days, because of my diagnosis of mood spectrum disorder.  I try to keep the emotional roller coaster at bay, by avoiding topics likely to evoke passion or dissension.  That being said, I want to try and navigate around the carnival that comprises the national political scene, possibly shedding a little light for my own self, as to exactly why people get so bent out of shape.

Beginning with political parties, I see them as big clubs, which are open for anyone to join-or not.  Based on my own upbringing, Papa was a Democrat, because he was a working man, who spent his life laboring with his hands, eschewing formal education, even though he was a very intelligent man.  His nine kids all have college degrees because it was always expected that they would.  He presented the perfect application of the “Do as I say-not as I do” motif.

Mama never declared anything openly, but her father was a Republican, being a businessman, and adhering to the less is best philosophy, when it came to government intervention in business affairs. Consequently, a healthy dichotomy existed, with my father being open and jovial about the whole process, and my mother simply allowing him to enjoy his light-hearted banter, without getting drawn into any debates.  She only smiled knowingly, when Papa named the new sow he had acquired, Mamie, after President Eisenhower’s wife, way back in the fifties.  It was all the same to me.

I have always worked paycheck-to-paycheck; Annie and I have always been satisfied with that.  Money has never held any attraction to me, and I have never had to contend with the challenges of the business world.  I am, therefore, a registered Democrat.  I see the Democratic Party as representing the common man, the regular old Joes of the country, who work in the service industry and produce the goods and homes, that any nation requires to continue to grow and flourish.  That does not make me a bad guy.

I perceive the Republican party as being a collection of people who see big government as meddling and demanding.  I comprehend that sense of indignation, that some politician in Washington DC, should have so much influence over a small businessperson, say, here in California.  So I understand why the Republican Party would be the natural result of this desire to avoid government interference in business.  This is a very simplistic view of the Republican Party.  Feel free to insert your own respective definitions as to what constitutes the two parties.

So far, all is good: in my universe, we have two sides, made up of like-minded folks, and both sides have admirable reasons for existing.  Where it all goes wrong is when the human element gets involved.  As long as it is principles we are talking about, everyone stays mellow.  Introduce a specific personality into the process, and then present an alternative, and it riles folks up. 

I remember the television commercials that pursued the theme, “My dog’s better than your dog,” in pushing a popular dog food brand.  I see the political process as being no more or less than this basic concept: My guy is better than yours.  The only difficulty is, that in modern politics, that translates to, “Your guy is worse than my guy.” 

Republicans are indignant that the sitting President wants to assure that all people have health care; Democrats are affronted that the opposing candidate has so much money, he can’t even find adequate banking within the confines of his own country, but must employ the services of banks overseas.  

There are one or two other things that might be lumped into the mix, but to start mentioning those specific items, is to raise the hackles of everyone still reading this piece.  And that’s the central point: as long as we keep it general and focused on issues, everything is good.  As soon as we start tossing in the human factor, people get perturbed.  

What’s the alternative?  Your computer versus ours?  Is it good that the big issues are so well-defined, or would it be better to be comparing candidates based on looks, or personality, or degree of intellectual capability, or sexual appeal, or any other measurement device?  These have all been used in the past.

I sure do not have the answer, but I do have a suggestion.  Can we all just let everyone root for his guy, and not make it personal?  Can I wonder to myself, how it is that Whosie could possibly like the candidate he does, without thinking bad of Whosie?

Can others listen to me prattle on about my guy, without thinking to themselves, “This guy is so full of blarney, his eyes are brown”?  That is the big question.  Like the dog food commercial, each of us is going to think that “my dog is better than yours.”  Isn’t that OK?  People have to be able to think what they want, without others getting their collective panties in a bunch.  Otherwise, why have two political parties?  Oh, yeah.  I forgot, we have lots of choices: a monarchy, a dictatorship, communism, anarchy...did I leave any out?

When the day after the election arrives, and we have a new President, we are still going to have to hit the shower, and trudge off to work, with next Sunday’s football game newly replacing politics on the front burner.  After all, in this area, if you start dissing on the Raiders, you better have good health insurance.  People just seem to take these things so seriously.

May the candidate who antagonizes the fewest voters, be the next President of the United States.  Besides, ultimately, if I get stuck, and can’t decide, I am just going to vote for Buster Posey.  Can’t go wrong with Buster, and no one will yell at me, except for maybe Dodger fans, and everyone knows that they don’t count.

Shoot.  Did I just write that?  I am such a slow learner.