Varmints Anonymous

I am doing the A-Z challenge; today’s letter is V  for varmints.

Varmints Anonymous

Varmints: we got ‘em.  Yes, we have more than our fair share.  In order of size, with largest coming first, I will share just a few of them with you.  I was at Casey’s the other day, and Unc Matt was talking about that pesky bear.  Probably the same one Bro Thomas was talking about, a while ago, the one which went through the fence at Mama’s house, and had a penchant for apples.  Matt said the bear had gone into his workshop, upended and opened his chest freezer, and spilled the contents out onto the floor.  It seems it was interested in the frozen chicken broth, stored in zip-locks.  Didn’t care for the frozen berries.  On second thought, it probably wasn’t the same bear. 

One of the closest encounters with a big cat we have ever had, came one early, pitch-black morning, while walking up on Bell Springs Road.  For many years Annie and I used to walk out the door at 4:15, in order to take the forty-five minute trek up to Blue Rock and back.  We were about a football field past the ranch house, where the right side of the road has a sloping bank to it, walking without a flashlight, which was in my left-hand jacket pocket, when we heard the sound of something hitting the road to our right, and racing past, just in front of us.  Whipping out that flashlight, while flicking it on, we caught a glimpse of a long tail, and the unmistakable form of a mountain lion, as it dashed into a thicket on the left.  Afterwards, we surmised it was a juvenile, who didn’t know who or what we were, until literally on top of us.  It took the course of least resistance, and weren’t we glad for it?

We lost another chicken the other day.  It never happens at night, while they are safely stowed within the coop; no, we lose them in broad daylight, while they are out in the orchard.  A few weeks ago, I saw a fox doing its best to gnaw though the wire of the range fence, and high-tailed it out there to chase the varmint away.  What we actually think is responsible for the missing chickens, (four at last count) is a lynx.  Folks to the left of us and folks to the right, have been having trouble with chickens disappearing, and have come to the conclusion that a big cat is responsible.

There was some conjecture the other day, as to whether it is a bobcat or a California lynx.  There have been numerous sightings of what appears to be a bobcat, but others maintain we are seeing lynxes.  I lean toward what we have, being lynxes.  The lynx has long ear tufts; the bobcat has shorter ear tufts.  The bobcat has a longer tail, but the lynx has longer legs.  Annie and I have sighted them on our walks on Bell Springs Road, several times, and Annie saw one lurking just outside the chicken coop, one day last summer.  She believes what she saw to be a lynx.  The information on the Net indicates that lynxes are to be found in the northern part of the United States.  NorCal does not necessarily fit that bill, but the rugged nature of Northern Mendocino County, does match the lynx’s natural habitat to a tee.

I’ve mentioned seeing the fox, so I will move on to rabbits, who are not a threat to us, except in the indirect manner of mowing down a row of freshly planted [anything] to put a damper on our spirits.  If we cover the new cabbages or kale with re-may, that white/light water permeable cloth, then there is no problem.  But to do that, we need to have the rounded/plastic pipes along the length of the box, over which the re-may is draped.

Shall I talk about rattlesnakes?  If I encounter a rattler on Bell Springs Road, I give it a wide berth.  If I encounter one in my yard, or on a well-traveled path, it’s “Adios, pelota!” as Jon Miller would say on the Giants broadcast, when talking about a home run.  I must dispose of it, the most efficient manner being a shovel.  I do not own a weapon, nor have I ever.  A shovel brought down on the head of a snake, coiled or not, will stun it long enough to turn the shovel into a guillotine.  Nothing personal, Mr. Snake.

I will lump black widow spiders and scorpions into the same category; again, unless they are in the house (yes, I have found both in the house) I ignore them.  Well, not entirely.  When the boys were still in grade school, I found a widow of immense proportions, and captured her in a jar.  We obtained one of those plastic enclosures, and kept her on the kitchen counter, for more than two years, feeding her with flies and other little creep critters.  We named her Molly.  

We have our share of wasps, yellow jackets, and hornets, but except for the ones which literally come out of the woodwork when it heats up, they usually leave us alone. Nothing like flipping the pillow over, to get to the cool side, and having a yellow jacket waiting.  I found a paper wasps’ nest in the pear tree on winter, when the leaves had blown off, and it was the most incredible dwelling I think I have ever seen.  

Finally, I am going to mention ticks.  There was a time when I don’t know if I would even have considered them varmints, but with the onset of Lyme’s disease, I now classify them a serious varmint.  I pick enough of them off of the dogs, to know they are plentiful, but have not found one on me for years.  

 So  I could talk about mice, bats, skeeters, flies and a host of other creepy/crawly things, but I think I I've covered the bases.  Yes, we have our share of varmints, but as Annie likes to remind us, they were here first, and we invaded their home.  What are we going to do?  For the most part, we avoid them; when they pose a threat, I remove them.  Otherwise we ignore them, and hope they disappear.  And pray like the dickens, that the bear gives us a free pass.  It’s hard to ignore it, and I don’t want to think about removing it.  It could be hazardous to my health.

Do You Know the Way to...Ukiah?

I am doing the A-Z challenge; today’s letter is U  for Ukiah.

Do You Know the Way to...Ukiah?

I am the most directionally-challenged individual, I or the universe, has ever encountered.  Therefore, I am the most astonished fellow, indeed, to discover that I have mastered the art of being able to drive the streets of our county seat, Ukiah, with the confidence of a taxi driver.

When did this all take place?  After all, I have lived in Mendocino County for almost thirty-one years, and I certainly spent the first thirty of those years, being chauffeured about by my sweetest of apple blossoms, partly because I am directionally challenged, but more because Annie gets car-sick (or at least she used to) when she rides shot-gun.

In any case I have been making weekly sojourns down to Ukiah, for quite some time now, and have made three forays there this week alone.  One thing about aging is that one often has to seek medical care, or provide support for someone else.  All those years of being ferried about, happily ensconced behind the daily newspaper, left me no more familiar with the highway-or the byways-of Ukiah, than those of Timbuktu.

Then came Dr. Mark, my therapist, and the need for me to see him on my own, last September.  Actually, I was not forced to see him; rather, I chose to see him in my first step to gain the favorable attention of my sweetest of apple blossoms, back in September, when I was busy stepping on my-well, never mind.  Let us just say that I thought it wise, beyond my years, that I attempt to gain some modicum of independence, if I ever wanted to be viewed in a favorable light again.

My initial efforts, though not overwhelmingly successful, certainly led to other baby steps, and eventually to great success.  It was acknowledged, early on, that efforts to achieve a more independent status, would indeed be viewed favorably, and that incited my efforts.  I began to request the pleasure of driving, every time we went anywhere together.  This included trips to Eureka, Santa Rosa, and even the queen of all jewels, San Francisco.

So now, when we venture to Ukiah, I can not only find Dr. Mark’s office, but the Veterans Affairs clinic as well.  If we wish to dine at El Taco Loco, or Star’s, or even Ellie’s, as we did on Tuesday, last, I am able to find our way there, without assistance.  If I find it advantageous to pay the AAA insurance bills, or even the B of A bill, I can also find my way to either of those two worthy establishments.  I can get to Raley’s Grocery Store, infinitely preferable to either Low-Bucks or Safeway; I know right where it is.

Who would have ever thought it?  And after this week, I can add Ukiah’s hospital to the list, Annie having had to see to a couple of minor procedures this week.  And did I mention, that if I want to stop in at U.S. Cellular, or Comcast, that I eminently qualified to accomplish this as well? Now, you may be thinking to yourself, I don’t remember wanting to visit a single one of the aforementioned establishments.  That is beside the point, and neither here nor there.  I can.  And what’s more, I can do it effortlessly.

So if you are in the neighborhood, and need a handy guide to get around in Ukiah, do look me up.  I would love to show off my skills.  And if you decide on Ellie’s, be sure and try the veggie sandwich.  Simply delightful!

Testing...1...2...3

I am doing the A-Z challenge; today’s letter is T  for testing.

Testing...1...2...3

This is a tough topic to tackle, but I feel up to the test...er...task.  I feel I have as much right as anyone to comment, since the standardized testing scheme in California, is the primary reason I took an early retirement.  I used to say “they” would drag me from my classroom, kicking and screaming.  Indeed, I was kicking and screaming all right, but only in frustration at the emphasis placed on a testing system implemented by a man who was incapable of making the most mundane statement, without tripping over his tongue. 

I have railed against California’s STAR testing mechanism quite a lot, in the past couple of years, but not for a while.  *  However, so much surfaces on a regular basis that pertains to the inane attempts by W to whip our school kids into academic shape, that it’s time to put it back on the front burner.

I was talking to a long-term elementary sub recently, who was expressing frustration at the fact that he was required by his employer to focus the entire day in the classroom on reading, language and math.  Gone were the days of social studies and science; gone were the arts, and  long-gone was any emphasis on self-esteem or other social issues.  It was all about the test.

Before the STAR tests were implemented, we still did the standardized testing in our district, but it was for internal examination only.  As teachers and administrators, we were interested in finding our weaknesses and strengths.  If my classes demonstrated a lack of proficiency in language structure, then it was up to me to reinforce my instruction in that area, to ensure that kids going to the high school were able to continue their studies, without having to have holes filled at the high school level.

After my first year of teaching, I teamed with another instructor, and we implemented a program utilizing project-based learning, along with literature and theme-based education, in a multi-graded setting.  We had sixth, seventh and eighth graders in the same classroom, where they learned to think of each other as classmates, instead of in the artificial class status, found only on our school campuses.  For instance, we orchestrated an annual, full-length Shakespeare dramatization, in which all students in our program had to participate. If a student did not wish to act, then he/she could work on sets, do the music, work the light system, do backstage directing, or even sew the costumes, the two years we included that element.

It was a class endeavor, and though much of the grunt work took place during elective, as we neared the dates of the performance, it invariably overflowed into the regular classroom period.  Today, that would not be possible.  I have talked to many former students who have commented that the performances were the main thing that they remembered about their time in the middle school-that, and the trip to Yosemite.

I would ask them, “You mean you don’t remember the time spent diagraming sentences?” in mock horror, and then watch their eyes glaze over.  My teaming partner and I tried everything we could to keep all students engaged in their education, in order to deliver them to the high school staff, with their spark for education alive and well.  If we were required to focus every minute of our time, teaching to a test, especially a test with the most unrealistic goals imaginable (all students attaining proficiency, at the risk of garnering state-mandated sanctions) we would have quit on the spot.  (And eventually, I did, after our staff meetings were given over to instruction by the county, which sent in a person to do exactly that-teach to the almighty test.)

For years, during the week of STAR testing,  I used to take the students’ answer sheets home, grade them (using a key that I constructed by taking the test myself) and give them immediate feedback on how they had done, instead of waiting six months for the results to come back from the state, long after they had any remembrance for the test itself.

Ironically, after my teaming partner had taken on the role of principal for our middle school, I found out that what I had been doing, was highly illegal, though I never could understand the rationale for that.  I guess there was just the fear that indiscretions would occur, though long before W implemented the ridiculous-and repulsive-No Child Left Behind, my students’ test scores resided amongst the highest in the district.  

Now, when I hear of a district instructing its teachers, to throw out all that was well within the fabric of the educational system, and teach solely to THE TEST, I am further repelled by what is being done to the kids in today’s schools.  How can the spark for learning be kept alive, when it is ground into the mud, at the first grade level?  

The spark can’t be kept alive, even though I feel that the state is playing with fire, by limiting the instruction in our schools in such a primitive and narrow manner.   

*  I posted  No Circular Library Books  on October 10, 2011.

Sunrize Market or I'll Buy, if You Fly

I am doing the A-Z challenge; today’s letter is S  for Sunrize Market.

Sunrize Market

or

I’ll Buy, if You Fly

When my family first moved to La Puente, on Fellowship Street, in 1955, the nearest grocery store was twenty miles away in El Monte.  There was Stassi’s across from St. Joseph’s, a mom and pop outfit; there was another mom and pop on Maplegrove Street and there was a third on Francisquito, which we had to pass on the way to the Vine St. library.  But if Mama wanted to really shop, she had to travel to El Monte.  

So when construction started on Sunrize Market, in the late fifties, it was a great success.  I remember the cinder-block building being built, because we had to pass it on our way to St. Martha’s church, which had just been built.  Sunrize was only two long blocks up the street from our place, so it meant that it was only a seven-minute walk or a two-minute bike ride.  I remember many a trip up to Sunrize, minutes before dinner, to get a last-minute ingredient for dinner.  

Don’t ask me why Sunrize Market was misspelled.  I never thought about it as a kid, only after I started to write about it.  I only knew that I must have made a million trips up to Sunrize, as I was growing up.  My older brother Eric used to love 26 ounce Pepsis, and he used to be able to convince me to go up and get him one.  “I’ll buy, if you fly,” was his favorite saying.  (Mine, too, because I always benefited.)

I have written about Sunrize Market, Augie, the manager, and my experiences working there. *  What I never talked about is how much I grew as a person, as a result of my experiences at Sunrize.  One reason I was hired in the beginning is because my older brother Brian was already working there.  Originally, it was supposed to be Eric who got the job, but when an opening finally materialized, Eric was due to head off to Chicago, to go to school, so Brian got the job.

Brian made his reputation, by hustling and being the best box-boy that Augie had ever managed.  Augie used to say, “If it’s a Kennedy, vote for him; if it’s an O’Neill, hire him.”  As a twelve-year-old, I used to hang around, and eventually landed a job as a bottle-boy, back in the days when customers still had to pay a deposit on soda and beer bottles.  I got paid a dollar an hour, and never charged Augie as much as I should have, simply because I thought of it as an investment.  

When I was exactly one week past my fifteenth birthday, I was hired as a box-boy.  I had to lie about my age, because you had to be sixteen to join the Retail Clerks Union.  I wore tennis shoes, and hustled my backside off, in the best of traditions, established by my brother Brian.  Just like clockwork, I went from being box-boy, to journeyman clerk, to clerk.  When I was a senior in high school, I was making $5.75 an hour, which was a fortune back in 1969.

When I started working at Sunrize, I was a very sheltered kid, the fourth child in a lineup of nine.  I was great in the context of my brothers and sisters, but a wall-flower when on my own.  Working at the market and establishing myself as a force in the work-field, gave me confidence beyond my wildest of expectations.  Despite the disagreements that I had with both Augie, and my brother Brian, who was by now the assistant manager, over the length of my hair, or the presence of facial hair, I was still given great respect for my ability to work hard and efficiently.

As time went by and I began to stock shelves and run a check-stand, I started to attract a certain amount of attention from the fairer gender, which certainly contributed to my desire to attain success.  I relished my role in the store, and may have continued to work there until I was of retirement age, if it weren’t for the fact that I got drafted in January of 1972.  When I got out of the army, I wanted to go back to work, part-time, so that I could attend Cal Poly, Pomona, full-time.  

Augie wouldn’t have it; he wanted me on forty hours a week.  When I threatened to not go back to work at all, if I couldn’t have my way, he called my bluff, figuring I would capitulate.  Well, with the G.I. Bill helping to supplement my education, I thumbed my nose at Augie, moved up to San Jose, and began attending San Jose State, as we looked around for property in NorCal.

And that was that; the rest is history.  I found our land up here in Mendocino County; I forgot all about Sunrize Market, and Augie;  and I made my $67.00 monthly payment for thirteen years, until my twenty acres was paid off.  The last time I went down to La Puente, in 1983, Sunrize Market was still there, but it was a shell of the busy market it had been in the late sixties/early seventies.

I have always appreciated the growth I made while hustling around Sunrize Market.  Not only did I learn the grocery business, I learned how to talk to girls. And I got paid to do it.  Isn’t life grand?

 Sunrize Market, posted on my blog, in June of 2011.  

Restaurants Are Us

I am doing the A-Z challenge; today’s letter is R  for restaurant.

Restaurants Are Us

I was twelve years old before I ever ate a meal at a restaurant.  I was invited to Coffee Dan’s, by a classmate, whose dad took us all out for lunch.  It was an incredible experience, and it paved the way for many more like it.  Prior to this occasion, my only experience with eating out, was to trek a half-hour from home, plunk down fifteen cents for a burger, a dime for fries, and a nickel for a coke at McDonald’s.  Of course, this was in the late fifties/early sixties, when the sign outside of Mickey D’s still read, something million burgers sold. 

In the last thirty years, I have been to McDog’s outfit twice: once on Highway Five, about halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles, and once in Willits, where I ordered a portion of “chicken arrangements,” not having the wherewithal-or the desire, to order them by their given name.  Besides, I was so embarrassed, that someone I knew would see me at this establishment, I was hunkered down in my seat in the car, and mumbling somewhat incoherently.  My sons thought it quite comical.

All of the years I taught, Annie and I rarely made it to restaurants, the exceptions being our once-a-month trip to the Laytonville Inn, on payday evening (pay-evening?), and our twice-a-year sojourns up to Eureka, which began in 1985, and have continued ever since, though now more frequently than twice a year.

The fascinating thing to me, is how much these restaurant visits have changed in the past few years.  It used to be that it seemed I had the worst of luck, when it came to both service, and quality of food.  I remember once, walking into Mazzotti’s, an Italian place in Eureka, and waiting to be assigned a table.  And waiting, and waiting, until Annie and I both decided to get the heck pout of there, our logic being that if it took this long just to be seated, it would be an eternity before we actually saw a meal in front of us.

It used to seem as though every time I ordered, they messed it up.  When I was not eating meat or dairy products, I would always get bacon in my omelet, or cheese over my hash-browns.  Then great unhappiness would abound.  If I ordered regular fries, I would get the zesty kind.  I could not win for losing.  I was very cautious when it came to trying new places, preferring to go where I was comfortable, and where I had experienced goodness in the past.

Now, it is a whole new ballgame.  I am not sure when the transformation began, but I assume it was after I rid myself of panic-attack syndrome.  I used to have anxiety issues, and it must have been reflected in my face.  I expected something to go amiss, and I was rarely disappointed.  A self-fulfilling prophecy, if ever there was one.

Now I enter the restaurant of choice, beaming happily at the thought of scrumptious cuisine (and at the thought of no washing dishes) , and I am never disappointed.  Or if something does go amiss, I am more than happy to either overlook it, or ignore it completely-just pretend it didn’t happen.  Again, the self-fulfilling prophecy is in always in effect.  We get superior service and the food is always on target.  

We do not do the dinner thing that much, except in Eureka, but we do lunch a lot, because of all the appointments down in Ukiah, and we do breakfast much more than we used to, because of Ardella’s.  Ardella’s is this little place in Willits, that serves the best breakfasts in the county, with pleasant wait-people, and food that can’t be beat.  The best thing is that we end up walking past it, every morning that we walk, because it is on the 101, and that just happens to be the way our route takes  us.  Otherwise, in Willits, the only other viable restaurants all serve Mexican food.  The first of these, which opened more than twenty years ago, is also on the 101, and we used to patronize it regularly.  Then, over the course of time, others began opening up, until now there are five.  We have settled on one, almost right across the street from that original one, called El Taco Rio Brava, and we like it a lot, because it has authentic cuisine, rather than food for the gringos.

We don’t do dessert, and we don’t do alcohol, unless we are within walking distance of our motel in Eureka, so it is not that terribly expensive.  But it is an enjoyable diversion from the day-to-day need to eat three squares a day.  We have had great success at such mundane eateries as Denny’s and we have had great success at more fancy establishments as Seamus T. Bones, in Eureka.  Call me easy-to-please; call me what-you-will; just call me in time for dinner! 

Quinoa

I am doing the A-Z challenge; today’s letter is Q  for quinoa. 

Quinoa

I looked up the definition of quinoa, (pronounced keen-wah) before starting this post, and found the following: “a goosefoot widely cultivated in the Andes where it was known for its edible starchy seeds before the introduction of Old World grains.”  The key phrase for me was “before the introduction of Old World grains.”  So much has changed in the world, in the past one hundred years, that has brought on the demise of food as we once knew it.

Back when farming was the mainstay of civilization, before the big corporations got into the act, food was much simpler and infinitely more healthy, not to mention tasty.  Most of what people ate, came directly from the fields, and was prepared for the table by people who did not have the means nor the desire to buy food at the store in town.  As people began to live in communities, banding together for an infinite number of reasons, food production became less feasible, and companies became more involved in the industry of providing food for for the masses.  In order to accomplish this, preservatives were added to the food, and thus one of the biggest problems began to surface.

Food was no longer the simple, healthy substance it once was, when it went from field to table.  I watched a ten-minute film on U-Tube the other day, in which a number of modern substances, all hideously damaging to anyone who consumes them, were discussed.  All of these substances have been approved by the FDA, and all of them were designed with the idea of mass-producing food and drink for human-consumption.  And all are designed with the thought of increasing revenue for corporate America, and all are as toxic as anything could be.

Some are well-known, such as MSG or food dyes, but some are still lingering in the background, as people attempt to adjust their diets to food which has secondary purposes to that of healthy existence.  Take aspartame, for instance.  Please take it, as far away as possible.  Don’t even ask what it is made from; it will make you gag.  The purpose of aspartame is to replace sugar in diet foods and beverages, so as to reduce the chance of gaining weight.  Instead, a person who ingests aspartame, takes in a toxic substance, that has horrible long-term effects, and makes up much of the reason for the plethora of different cancers, which are always viewed as evil.  

Cancer is evil, but it frequently results form the chemicals that are contained in the food we eat, and the beverages we drink.  How can these substances be approved by the FDA?  Isn’t the FDA supposed to be on our side?  I think yes, but the reality is, the FDA is also on the side of big business, and forward progress.  Just as the Old World grains, took over the role that quinoa used to have, aspartame has taken over the role-for many-that sugar used to have.  

Even white, processed sugar has been proven to have a detrimental role in an infinite number of situations, dealing with the way our bodies assimilate this substance.  Processing anything, takes away any of the original goodness that was available to our bodies’ metabolism. Ultimately, what is the answer?  The answer is to go backwards in time, to a place and an era, when food was produced without additives, and grown without pesticides, so that we can better ensure that what we put in our bodies is healthy and will not result in the growth of the cancerous cells, that all of us possess.

Is it easy?  Is it cheap?  No to both questions, because eating organically is not as easy to do as eating what is available in huge quantities.  You pay to play.  Food grown organically takes more care and time, and therefore cannot be produced in the same quantity as the huge conglomerates can produce it, and therefore costs more.  But in the long run, organically grown food is not only better tasting, it is better for you.

What about quinoa?  Now quinoa is making a resurgence in the world, available at all whole foods stores, and even in many mainstreamed grocery store chains.   It is a substance that many people are preferring over other foods, such as white rice, or conventional pastas, both of which are processed so as to better be able to be manufactured in huge quantities.  Quinoa is tasty and it is becoming more recognized as a replacement for Old World grains.  Kind of ironic: What goes around comes around.

Double Island Pedicle

I am doing the A-Z challenge; today’s letter is P  for Pedicle.

Double Island Pedicle

I was the center of attention, in the dermatology wing of the San Francisco Veterans Affairs Clinic the other day, having a double island pedicle performed for my benefit.  Normally that would not be my first choice, because I hate the spotlight, but under the circumstances, I was more than delighted to afford medical personnel the opportunity to see this particular procedure in action.

I had no idea, when I embarked for San Francisco, with Annie, what having a Mohs surgical operation was all about.  The way it was explained to me, was that the doctor would remove a small segment of infected skin from the center of my chest, to examine it under a microscope, to see whether all of the cancerous tissue had been removed.  It sounded pretty basic to me.

However, as the procedure progressed, it turned out that the area in question was a lot bigger than what I thought, more than two inches in diameter.  Additionally, after waiting for two and a half hours (we had been advised it would take at least that long) it turned out that more tissue had to be removed for further perusal, under that trusty ‘scope.

That is what the term Mohs Surgery alludes to: a procedure in which cancerous tissue is closely examined under a microscope, bit-by-bit, until it is deemed that all of the infected area has been removed.  I thought only the nickel-sized red spot would be removed, but there was a lot more around this area, that had to be examined.

Several times, the term “island pedicle” was bandied about, to the point where I asked the surgeon to spell it for me.  The anesthesia was a local one, so I was not asleep; rather, I had a front-row seat, albeit with my eyes closed, while a team of medical personnel worked on my chest.

This is where the interesting part comes into play.  Not all medical personnel are warm and fuzzy.  Years ago I had reconstructive shoulder surgery performed by a man who certainly knew what he was doing; it’s just that he had the bedside manner of a blood-sucking, saber-toothed, clam.  He was a mean, nasty, uncommunicative banana slug of a doctor.

On Tuesday, I was surrounded by professional, considerate individuals, who made it clear that they were there for my benefit, and that my welfare was uppermost in their collective minds.  They were happy to permit Annie to be in the operating arena with me; they were happy to give me information and answer my questions; and they were happy to take on a challenging procedure, because it was deemed the best course of action.

Because I had a gaping hole in my chest, there was a need to cover this crater with new skin.  Since I was the handiest candidate, from whom to get the skin, they did this very cool procedure which involved cutting skin from both sides of the crater, and reattaching it over the hole, while leaving the tip of each flap of skin attached to the rest of my chest.  This was possible, because the skin from my chest was reasonably flexible, and in the end, they stitched the two triangular sections together, over the crater, making it all flow together as only surgeons can do.

I have simplified matters considerably, but the end result is no gaping hole, and the potential for a very cool scar.  Lord knows, when one hits sixty, it’s important to have some very cool scars on your body.  Actually, one reason the procedure attracted so much interest, is because it is usually performed on one’s leg, or maybe an arm.  But a chest?  Big things going on!

Dr. Sarah Aaron was the head doctor, but Dr. Berliner did the bulk of the work.  They began the closure together, but Dr. Aaron soon departed, because she had other surgical procedures to which she had to attend.  Dr. Berliner worked methodically, with a nurse practitioner always in attendance, and she was awesome.  Dr. Goughia stopped in several times, in a consulting capacity, and several other individuals dropped by to see how things were going.

The whole scene was very mesmerizing to me; I listened to the conversations going on around me, and asked questions or made editorial comments, in the most comfortable manner imaginable.  I felt relaxed, and most importantly, I felt I was in the best hands possible.  After the team had been working close to three hours to stitch me up, I asked how many stitches were being required.  Dr. Goughia did a quick count and announced, “seventy-five,” while chuckling and adding that it was very important to have that piece of information, “for bragging rights.”  They definitely got it.

Now, three days later, the worst of the discomfort is over, there is no sign of infection, and I am going to leave the comfort of our Willits duplex, for the more rigorous site up on the mountain.  I have followed all of the rules set down by Annie, not varying in any way, because even I see the precarious nature of taking unnecessary risks.  All I want to say is that I continue to be astonished at the quality of the care the Veterans Affairs facilities provide for me.  

These facilities are staffed by conscientious and caring individuals, and I need to acknowledge that.  I did write a letter of appreciation to the director of the San Francisco VA, to express my feelings, and I did thank the folks in the operating arena.  

Since I do not have any tattoos, I at least have a snazzy new scar to show off.  I can tell everyone it’s a war-wound; I got attacked by a vicious typewriter, running amok...