I got around as a kid. Shortly after I was born, I was on a "road trip" with my mom and sisters, to Steubenville, Ohio while my dad went to sea. His boat would pull in close to shore, and my dad (a Torpedoman's Mate) would go and disarm mines on a beach the Marines would hit the following day. We went to stay with my mom's family, and went to Chicago to visit my dad's mom and aunt. I remember none of this, although I've found some pictures of the time.
When Dad's boat got back, it was stationed at Pearl Harbor, and we traveled from Ohio to California, to board a sea plane for the flight to Honolulu. I remember images from those times (I was 3 when we first arrived), and a couple of things are pretty complete, memory-wise. Like I can remember riding around on my dad's Cushman scooter, and getting "dish packs" (a cardboard barrel that they would pack dishes in for moving), and rolling down the long, sloping front lawn, inside the barrel. Every time someone moved into the neighborhood, the kids would scramble to get the dish pack(s), and we'd spend a whole day out running up the lawn, and rolling back down. I liked Hawaii, but Dad got a little claustrophobic on an island, so he got orders to a boat out of San Diego.
I was 4 when we got to San Diego, I remember we lived in a house on the edge of a canyon, and a big, friendly boxer (dog) I would wrestle with, but not much else. We were only there for 18 months, just long enough for me to get registered in Kindergarten, and actually start school. After two or three months, I was pulled out, and we moved to Hunter's Point Naval Shipyard, while my dad's boat underwent an overhaul. We were there a month, and Dad got orders to the Naval Reserve Training Center, in Vallejo, so we moved into a Quonset hut until Dad found us a house in town. I went to school on Mare Island for 6 weeks, and moved to John Davidson Elementary. Dad had a 1 year lease on the house on Ladera Drive, and by the time the lease expired, we moved again, and I started at another new school, Pennycook Elementary.
We spent 8 years in that house. Longer than anyplace, but Dad had retired from the Navy, and took a job at the California Medical Facility (CMF), in Vacaville, some 30 minutes drive each way... Dad did well, and made Correctional Sargent, a promotion that my mom had promised to move, yet again, to Vacaville, so he wouldn't have to commute an hour every day. I "graduated" from Pennycook Elementary, and was going to Springstown Junior High... right at the end of my 8th grade year, when I was supposed to be an "almighty Ninth Grader," I ended up as a freshman at Vacaville High School. As much as I bitched and moaned about moving again, and despite the fact that the town had 14,000 people, one movie theater, and the Nut Tree, in retrospect, I needed to move here... If I hadn't, I'd have never met Mary, and would probably be dead right now.
One of the guys I used to hang out with, in Vallejo, ended up as an inmate at CMF, and was re-assigned to Chino by my dad. When Dad got home that night, he asked, "Do you know a guy named Such And Such?" I said I did, and he told me he was a prisoner, in for an armed robbery, and attempted murder of his accomplice. I've always wondered, if I'd have stayed in Vallejo, would I have been that accomplice? Dad said he had no choice but to send him to Chino, since there was a loose connection between inmate and officer through me. I shudder every time I think about it.
We lived in an upstairs, 3br, 2ba, apartment when we first moved to Vacaville. We had a balcony that overlooked the pool, and a downstairs neighbor who was an Air Force pilot, and was hardly ever around. It was Summer, and the only kid in the complex that was "around" my age was a girl who was going into the 7th grade. She had an abundance of baby fat, and just acted weird (at least to a guy who was used to Vallejo). If I went for a swim, she'd come to the pool and hang out, and we talked some, but there was nothing going from my perspective.
We were in the apartment from July 1965 until February 1966, moving into a newly constructed house just in time for Mom's 40th birthday. It was cool, I didn't have to change schools, Pat (my middle sister) had gotten married, so Mom made a "guest" room, and a "study" out of the extra rooms in the house, and I was allowed to sound-proof my room, so I could play my stereo without bothering anyone. In the "study," Dad constructed a big table out of a door blank. It turned out really great, and had a lot of room to put stuff on. I did most of my homework (when I actually DID my homework) at that desk. I lived in that house for 6 years, my folks spent 8 in that house, and bought a "cluster home" in '73.
Sometimes I think I've spent my entire life moving. Navy transfers aside, I've moved a lot. Especially after getting married. We were always trying to find a "nice" place for a low rent, and lived in several different places in San Diego over the years. We end up back in Vacaville, but moved a number of times while we've been here. Currently, we've been in this house for 8 years, equaling the longest period of time I've ever lived in one house. I'm not sure when we moved out of the house on Ladera Dr. I know it was during school, but we moved out in July of 1965, so it was sometime in 1957. I want to say it was in March, or April of '57, so that would be 8 years, 4 months in Vallejo, and we're on 8 years, 3 months on the 23rd of February. That means, that in addition to our celebrating our 43rd Wedding Anniversary, we will also be celebrating the longest period of time I've spent in one house, EVER. That may not be exciting to many people, but it's really a milestone in my life.
Monday, February 20, 2017
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
"Because I said so."
I think that was one of my dad's favorite sayings. I know it was the one I hated the most. It got to the point where I swore an oath to myself, never to use that phrase with my children. That lasted an entire two years after Tyffany was born.
I remember it like it was fairly recent, I don't think I can ever forget it, as it stands as the day I realized that children can really be annoying, particularly when they get to the, "Why?" stage. After answering a number of "Why?" questions, that phrase popped out. The weirdest thing was, it was my dad's voice, coming out of my mouth... After a few moments of stunned silence, I started to laugh...
I am one who believes that everyone can be an example, as even a bad example is still an example. There was much that I wanted to change when I started my own family. For one, my family was never really affectionate. Mom and Dad would simply say, "Good night." No "Love you's," or "Sweet dreams," just Good night. I don't ever remember being "tucked in," or getting read bedtime stories, just a "Good night," after which I was expected to go to sleep. I'm not calling my parents "bad examples," but their parenting could have been better, so the answer to "What would Dad do?" was often the opposite of what I would do.
For one thing, my family never hugged each other. Growing up in a non-demonstrative home, you don't realize how important it is to be hugged. After Tyffany was born, it was "hugs and kisses" at bedtime, when I came home from work, as well as any number of other occasions. I told my kids, every day, that I loved them, and was proud of them. My dad waited until I was 50 before he told me he was proud of me. I spent my entire life trying to make my dad proud of me, and would have killed to hear those words. When he finally got around to it, it didn't mean as much to me as it would have when I was young. By the time he said it, I had retired from the Navy, gone to college and got my Bachelor's, and was teaching. Hell, I was pretty proud of myself, and really didn't need validation from anyone.
I never did get any respect from my sisters, who felt it their business to tell me how to raise my family, despite the fact that one sister refused to see that one of her kids had learning disabilities and needed help, and the other was a meth-head. I've been vindicated, however, as my kids are all serving in positions that help people, and animals. I am extremely proud of my children, and the people they've become, even if one hasn't talked to me in four years, and one has rejected my beliefs. Other than not being able to see my two granddaughters, there are no regrets. We taught them to stand up for themselves, and they have. It doesn't mean I've stopped loving them, or praying for them. It also doesn't mean that I plan to make any changes to accommodate them. Mary and I get along just fine, since I'm married to her, and have completed my obligations to my kids, I am pretty happy with my life. Happy, not complacent...
I know there are things in my life that need work... I also know that, at the present time, I lack the knowledge to make these changes, but I trust that that knowledge will be made available to me in the future. We either keep growing, or we start dying, and at 65, I'm not quite ready to go. I'm not ready to claim omniscience quite yet, either.
In the Book of Mormon, the prophet Nephi tells us that, "... man is that he might have joy." A latter-day prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley tells us that there is great joy in obeying the commandments of God, doing His will, and honoring the covenants we make with him. That we should, "Be happy. Don't get discouraged, [because] [t]hings will work out."
I remember it like it was fairly recent, I don't think I can ever forget it, as it stands as the day I realized that children can really be annoying, particularly when they get to the, "Why?" stage. After answering a number of "Why?" questions, that phrase popped out. The weirdest thing was, it was my dad's voice, coming out of my mouth... After a few moments of stunned silence, I started to laugh...
I am one who believes that everyone can be an example, as even a bad example is still an example. There was much that I wanted to change when I started my own family. For one, my family was never really affectionate. Mom and Dad would simply say, "Good night." No "Love you's," or "Sweet dreams," just Good night. I don't ever remember being "tucked in," or getting read bedtime stories, just a "Good night," after which I was expected to go to sleep. I'm not calling my parents "bad examples," but their parenting could have been better, so the answer to "What would Dad do?" was often the opposite of what I would do.
For one thing, my family never hugged each other. Growing up in a non-demonstrative home, you don't realize how important it is to be hugged. After Tyffany was born, it was "hugs and kisses" at bedtime, when I came home from work, as well as any number of other occasions. I told my kids, every day, that I loved them, and was proud of them. My dad waited until I was 50 before he told me he was proud of me. I spent my entire life trying to make my dad proud of me, and would have killed to hear those words. When he finally got around to it, it didn't mean as much to me as it would have when I was young. By the time he said it, I had retired from the Navy, gone to college and got my Bachelor's, and was teaching. Hell, I was pretty proud of myself, and really didn't need validation from anyone.
I never did get any respect from my sisters, who felt it their business to tell me how to raise my family, despite the fact that one sister refused to see that one of her kids had learning disabilities and needed help, and the other was a meth-head. I've been vindicated, however, as my kids are all serving in positions that help people, and animals. I am extremely proud of my children, and the people they've become, even if one hasn't talked to me in four years, and one has rejected my beliefs. Other than not being able to see my two granddaughters, there are no regrets. We taught them to stand up for themselves, and they have. It doesn't mean I've stopped loving them, or praying for them. It also doesn't mean that I plan to make any changes to accommodate them. Mary and I get along just fine, since I'm married to her, and have completed my obligations to my kids, I am pretty happy with my life. Happy, not complacent...
I know there are things in my life that need work... I also know that, at the present time, I lack the knowledge to make these changes, but I trust that that knowledge will be made available to me in the future. We either keep growing, or we start dying, and at 65, I'm not quite ready to go. I'm not ready to claim omniscience quite yet, either.
In the Book of Mormon, the prophet Nephi tells us that, "... man is that he might have joy." A latter-day prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley tells us that there is great joy in obeying the commandments of God, doing His will, and honoring the covenants we make with him. That we should, "Be happy. Don't get discouraged, [because] [t]hings will work out."
Friday, January 20, 2017
A Return to Sanity...?
The deed is done, the oath has been administered, and witnessed world-wide, so if your are an American, Donald Trump is your president. Never, in the 240 years of our history have people gone to such extremes to attempt to invalidate a Presidential election. Such whining and sniveling I have not witnessed in my lifetime, and hope to heck I never have to live through another... and that's just the Network media... Some a-hole actually immolated himself in the entry of Trump Towers... The only thing accomplished was a little less stupid in the gene pool.
Okay, enough on political crap.
I have taken on the Calling to teach two lessons a month to the men over 50, second and third Sundays, every month. This year, the lesson material is in The Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Gordon B. Hinkley. President Hinkley was a major reason I decided to become a better Latter-day Saint. Whenever he would speak, or write articles for the Church magazine, even before he became President, I felt like he was reading from my life history, and giving me, personally, directions on how to do it. Reading through the book, I can hear him speaking the words in my mind, and I miss him all the more.
We are approaching the 44th Anniversary of my baptism and Membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and though I have written on parts of my experience as a Mormon, I have never put it together in one piece. To tell the whole story, I have to go back a little further, however. I will try to be as brief as possible, but it goes back to the 1950's, when I was a kid in Vallejo...
Dad was retiring from the Navy, we were living in a house that wasn't a rental, or on-base, and I started going to St. Paul's Lutheran Church, with my mom, on Sundays. The Pastor was a former Russian Orthodox Priest, who turned Lutheran after the Russian Religious purges in the early 20th Century. The movie Fiddler on the Roof illustrates what happened from the Jewish perspective, but Christians, as well, were being exiled from Soviet Russia. Pastor John Zeltin had a thick Russian accent, which required me to pay extra attention, to understand what he was saying. Since everything he said (ok, a little hyperbole, here) was interesting, I paid a lot of attention to him. Our relationship was good enough that I could ask him about things in the liturgy, church tenants, or even something he said in a sermon, and we would talk about it. To make a long story short, I have been a religious person since boyhood. I have grown up as a Christian, so my downfall was a hard one.
When we moved to Vacaville in 1965, we tried making the drive into Vallejo on Sundays, but tired of it pretty quickly. We started going to the various Lutheran Churches in Vacaville, but never got "hooked" by any of the Pastors or congregations. As a kid, I had planned to go to Pacific Lutheran University, in Pullman, WA, and take theology classes to become a Lutheran Minister. Now, spiritually adrift, it didn't take me long to find trouble. Anyone who says that Evil doesn't exist has his/her head so far up their rear, they can't hear the screaming...
Shortening more, I went into the Navy after graduation, and identified myself as a Lutheran, but took an almost instant dislike for the Lutheran chaplain, and only went once. Since it was either go to church, or work in the barracks, during Boot Camp, I began my search for "The True Church". I think I made every Christian church service available, and when I moved on, I put my search on hold.
Finally, a combination of drug and alcohol abuse had me seriously considering suicide, and I caught my first break. I got 10 days of leave, and was told that I didn't have to go home, but I wasn't to be on the ship. During the 10 days, I got reconnected to an old girlfriend, Mary Gardner, and realized that the happiest moments of my last six years all involved her. I had loved her before, and found that I still felt the same way. Two months passed, and I convinced her to marry me, with just one catch... our wedding would be in an LDS Temple.
I won't try to hide the fact that everything I did, up to my baptism, was to try to make that happen, and that I was doing it all for her. Okay, maybe not all... As I learned about the Church, I started praying again, for the first time in years. The more I prayed, the more I began to believe, I read the Book of Mormon in a week, I didn't understand it all, but I believed it to be scripture... I knew that my life depended upon this choice, either I would join the Church, or I would lose Mary... I knew I couldn't lose her, every really happy memory I had had her in it... was I going to go back to what I was before, drunk, stoned, and suicidal? I was baptized on April 20, 1973.
Shortly after, the family that offered their house for meetings with the Missionaries, and played host to Mary and one of her BYU roommates, Marja, moved to Utah so Jim could go to UofU and get an electronics degree, and become an officer. Mary and Marja left on April 25, to go back to school, and my friends left on the first of May. I suddenly felt very lonely. Jim was the only other LDS guy in my Division (I thought), so when he departed, I had to take busses to Church, and it seemed like, since I'd already been baptized, the people in the Ward weren't all that friendly. I never put the "Norfolk hates the Navy" thing together until years later, but I was, pretty much, left alone. I had a ton of questions about my new religion, and not a soul who could answer them. The closest I could get was a "Born Again," who hated Mormons.
Just before we left on a six-month deployment, an LDS Group Leader was called for each of the ships in our Task Group that had more than a handful of LDS sailors. Ours was a Lieutenant from one of the Squadrons assigned to the INDEPENDENCE, a "spook," and intelligence analyst who worked in the IOIC (Integrated Operational Intelligence Center). I was pretty amped about that, finally someone I could talk to, and learn from. I waited until he had unpacked, and set up his cubicle in Mission Planning, and was going to introduce myself to him, and ask when and where Sacrament Meeting would be. I suppose I was wrong, but I came up behind him, and saw an open porn catalogue, and him writing numbers on an order form. He must have sensed my presence, because he covered the catalogue, and gave me one of those, "Can I help you?"
I wanted to, with all my might, answer, "Hi. DP2 Martin, I understand you're my LDS Group Leader..." I didn't, though, I just said, "Hi Lieutenant, got any S & R requests?" S & R were Storage and Retrieval requests, parameters for a computer, microfiche, microfilm search in 1973. We would go to a list, find a 1/2 inch magnetic tape that had the information, and we would print 11.5 by 14 inch pages with the information they requested. I didn't go to any of the LDS meetings on the ship for the remaining 5 1/2 months. Fortunately, I met the Branch President of the Athens, Greece Branch, during our time in the Mediterranean, and we got pretty close. Close enough that he played host to my parents for a week, when they came out to visit me. I learned a lot about Service from him.
For most of the first 12 years of my membership in the Church, I felt like I didn't quite belong. I'd get a calling, get no help on how to do it, and fail. I would go to Church, then I wouldn't go, then I'd go... I kept finding faults in the Church... stuff like, if I smoke, I'm not living the Word of Wisdom, but if I keep stuffing my face, weigh 340 pounds, I'm OK, despite the urging to use moderation in the use of foods. Stuff like that still baffles me, but I don't think about it much anymore. Once I figured out that I was as guilty of judging people as the jerks who were (in my mind) judging me, I really stopped doing it. That and a year in a Bishopric convinced me that a smoking habit was way, way, way down the list of sins.
Through most of my growth in the Church, President Hinkley was there, telling me how to be a better me. Just before he passed away, Mary and I got to attend a General Conference, which turned out to be his last. He spoke in each of the three meetings I attended, and it was like he could see into my heart, and knew everything about me. He talked of the Church moving ahead, and made me feel a desire to be a part of it. He talked about Repentance, stressing that it wasn't a one-time deal, and outlining how the process works. He helped me understand what it felt like to be forgiven for my sins, bringing great calm to my life.
My point? I am grateful to a loving Heavenly Father for allowing me to focus on one of the truly great men this world has known, and to be able to pass that on to the group.
Okay, enough on political crap.
I have taken on the Calling to teach two lessons a month to the men over 50, second and third Sundays, every month. This year, the lesson material is in The Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Gordon B. Hinkley. President Hinkley was a major reason I decided to become a better Latter-day Saint. Whenever he would speak, or write articles for the Church magazine, even before he became President, I felt like he was reading from my life history, and giving me, personally, directions on how to do it. Reading through the book, I can hear him speaking the words in my mind, and I miss him all the more.
We are approaching the 44th Anniversary of my baptism and Membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and though I have written on parts of my experience as a Mormon, I have never put it together in one piece. To tell the whole story, I have to go back a little further, however. I will try to be as brief as possible, but it goes back to the 1950's, when I was a kid in Vallejo...
Dad was retiring from the Navy, we were living in a house that wasn't a rental, or on-base, and I started going to St. Paul's Lutheran Church, with my mom, on Sundays. The Pastor was a former Russian Orthodox Priest, who turned Lutheran after the Russian Religious purges in the early 20th Century. The movie Fiddler on the Roof illustrates what happened from the Jewish perspective, but Christians, as well, were being exiled from Soviet Russia. Pastor John Zeltin had a thick Russian accent, which required me to pay extra attention, to understand what he was saying. Since everything he said (ok, a little hyperbole, here) was interesting, I paid a lot of attention to him. Our relationship was good enough that I could ask him about things in the liturgy, church tenants, or even something he said in a sermon, and we would talk about it. To make a long story short, I have been a religious person since boyhood. I have grown up as a Christian, so my downfall was a hard one.
When we moved to Vacaville in 1965, we tried making the drive into Vallejo on Sundays, but tired of it pretty quickly. We started going to the various Lutheran Churches in Vacaville, but never got "hooked" by any of the Pastors or congregations. As a kid, I had planned to go to Pacific Lutheran University, in Pullman, WA, and take theology classes to become a Lutheran Minister. Now, spiritually adrift, it didn't take me long to find trouble. Anyone who says that Evil doesn't exist has his/her head so far up their rear, they can't hear the screaming...
Shortening more, I went into the Navy after graduation, and identified myself as a Lutheran, but took an almost instant dislike for the Lutheran chaplain, and only went once. Since it was either go to church, or work in the barracks, during Boot Camp, I began my search for "The True Church". I think I made every Christian church service available, and when I moved on, I put my search on hold.
Finally, a combination of drug and alcohol abuse had me seriously considering suicide, and I caught my first break. I got 10 days of leave, and was told that I didn't have to go home, but I wasn't to be on the ship. During the 10 days, I got reconnected to an old girlfriend, Mary Gardner, and realized that the happiest moments of my last six years all involved her. I had loved her before, and found that I still felt the same way. Two months passed, and I convinced her to marry me, with just one catch... our wedding would be in an LDS Temple.
I won't try to hide the fact that everything I did, up to my baptism, was to try to make that happen, and that I was doing it all for her. Okay, maybe not all... As I learned about the Church, I started praying again, for the first time in years. The more I prayed, the more I began to believe, I read the Book of Mormon in a week, I didn't understand it all, but I believed it to be scripture... I knew that my life depended upon this choice, either I would join the Church, or I would lose Mary... I knew I couldn't lose her, every really happy memory I had had her in it... was I going to go back to what I was before, drunk, stoned, and suicidal? I was baptized on April 20, 1973.
Shortly after, the family that offered their house for meetings with the Missionaries, and played host to Mary and one of her BYU roommates, Marja, moved to Utah so Jim could go to UofU and get an electronics degree, and become an officer. Mary and Marja left on April 25, to go back to school, and my friends left on the first of May. I suddenly felt very lonely. Jim was the only other LDS guy in my Division (I thought), so when he departed, I had to take busses to Church, and it seemed like, since I'd already been baptized, the people in the Ward weren't all that friendly. I never put the "Norfolk hates the Navy" thing together until years later, but I was, pretty much, left alone. I had a ton of questions about my new religion, and not a soul who could answer them. The closest I could get was a "Born Again," who hated Mormons.
Just before we left on a six-month deployment, an LDS Group Leader was called for each of the ships in our Task Group that had more than a handful of LDS sailors. Ours was a Lieutenant from one of the Squadrons assigned to the INDEPENDENCE, a "spook," and intelligence analyst who worked in the IOIC (Integrated Operational Intelligence Center). I was pretty amped about that, finally someone I could talk to, and learn from. I waited until he had unpacked, and set up his cubicle in Mission Planning, and was going to introduce myself to him, and ask when and where Sacrament Meeting would be. I suppose I was wrong, but I came up behind him, and saw an open porn catalogue, and him writing numbers on an order form. He must have sensed my presence, because he covered the catalogue, and gave me one of those, "Can I help you?"
I wanted to, with all my might, answer, "Hi. DP2 Martin, I understand you're my LDS Group Leader..." I didn't, though, I just said, "Hi Lieutenant, got any S & R requests?" S & R were Storage and Retrieval requests, parameters for a computer, microfiche, microfilm search in 1973. We would go to a list, find a 1/2 inch magnetic tape that had the information, and we would print 11.5 by 14 inch pages with the information they requested. I didn't go to any of the LDS meetings on the ship for the remaining 5 1/2 months. Fortunately, I met the Branch President of the Athens, Greece Branch, during our time in the Mediterranean, and we got pretty close. Close enough that he played host to my parents for a week, when they came out to visit me. I learned a lot about Service from him.
For most of the first 12 years of my membership in the Church, I felt like I didn't quite belong. I'd get a calling, get no help on how to do it, and fail. I would go to Church, then I wouldn't go, then I'd go... I kept finding faults in the Church... stuff like, if I smoke, I'm not living the Word of Wisdom, but if I keep stuffing my face, weigh 340 pounds, I'm OK, despite the urging to use moderation in the use of foods. Stuff like that still baffles me, but I don't think about it much anymore. Once I figured out that I was as guilty of judging people as the jerks who were (in my mind) judging me, I really stopped doing it. That and a year in a Bishopric convinced me that a smoking habit was way, way, way down the list of sins.
Through most of my growth in the Church, President Hinkley was there, telling me how to be a better me. Just before he passed away, Mary and I got to attend a General Conference, which turned out to be his last. He spoke in each of the three meetings I attended, and it was like he could see into my heart, and knew everything about me. He talked of the Church moving ahead, and made me feel a desire to be a part of it. He talked about Repentance, stressing that it wasn't a one-time deal, and outlining how the process works. He helped me understand what it felt like to be forgiven for my sins, bringing great calm to my life.
My point? I am grateful to a loving Heavenly Father for allowing me to focus on one of the truly great men this world has known, and to be able to pass that on to the group.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
A Rough Couple of Weeks to Start a New Year
I'll start with the latest... A lady I've known since I was a teenager, one I've called "Ma" for the past 25 years, or so, got sick with a UTI on Christmas Day, and passed away this week. Her name was Dorothy Case, mother to Gene and Bill, loving wife to Thurle for close to 70 years. I met her when Bill asked me over to watch a KC/OAK football game, a clash of two AFL power houses. Bill introduced me to her, and I took an instant liking to her, and over the years, we developed a relationship that I don't think Bill or Thurle were aware of... mostly due to my friendship with Billy. She asked me, a long time ago, to not forget about Bill, and to stay friends with him, something that has changed me significantly.
Billy is a great guy, and I've never gotten any special favors, or money, for being friends with Bill Case. Sometimes it isn't easy, as he's a bit of a worry wart, and can fret on command. He's a technological Neanderthal, doesn't own a computer, laptop, tablet, just a cell phone, and while it has a browser function, he doesn't go near it. Add to that, the complete lack of any desire to learn or have one, and you can begin to see where it can occasionally be a frustrating friendship. Of course, he gets just as frustrated with me, because I keep offering him one of my older (but functional) computer systems, and he's running out of reasons to refuse.
In amongst all of that, I tried to switch medications for Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS), since about 2005, I had been taking a Parkinson's medication called "klonopin," or Clonazepam, in the Valium family, and while it has worked just fine for the past 11 years, the FDA has clamped down on prescriptions for controlled substances (which includes klonopin), allowing a doctor to prescribe only 30 days at a time, and requires a face-to-face meeting to get a renewal for another 30 days... A doctor in Pain Management took control of all my controlled meds (Norco and klonopin at the time), and he's a hard SOB to track down sometimes. I had had a reaction to Requip the first time I took it, but it turned out to be Lipitor that caused the problems, so I decided to try it again, just so I wouldn't have to make appointments every 30 days...
Ropinrol, the generic Requip has a side-effect that can be made worse if taken with Benadryl, and I've taken Benadryl every night since I can't remember, as a sleep aid (if you need a sleep aid, diphenhydramine - generic Benadryl - is in all of the "Night Time" versions of cold/flu/fever medications you can buy OTC). It is, perhaps, the least toxic form of sleep aids, too, as it is often given to children, for the aforementioned conditions... With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I screwed up by not taking Benadryl with the Requip. I was so concerned about the side-effect that was mentioned.
According to the Patient Information, ropinrol can cause Narcoleptic-esque episodes, where the person taking the drug can go to sleep, never feeling tired, not knowing, and not remembering. After 11 days, I had a little "episode" with the med.
I was playing an EA Sports golf game on my PS4, and was just about to start a new game. I looked up at the TV; then scooted up to the edge of the couch for a better playing posture. I was interested in how long it would take me to play a full 18 holes, so I looked at the clock, it was 3:07pm, I looked back at the image on the screen, moved my thumbs into playing position, looked back at the clock, and it was 5:19. I don't think I played; I can't remember. I was still poised on the edge of the couch in "attack position," but two hours had passed, and I have no idea what happened.
I didn't tell Mary. I was supposed to drive our son-in-law to the airport on Sunday, in the worst rainstorm to hit the area in decades. I knew I'd be OK going to the airport, but had serious concerns about being alone on the return. The fact that it's a Tuesday, and I'm writing this is proof that miracles happen. As soon as I got home, I took a Benadryl, and passed out on the couch. I've stopped taking Requip, and gone back to klonopin and Benadryl.
Billy is a great guy, and I've never gotten any special favors, or money, for being friends with Bill Case. Sometimes it isn't easy, as he's a bit of a worry wart, and can fret on command. He's a technological Neanderthal, doesn't own a computer, laptop, tablet, just a cell phone, and while it has a browser function, he doesn't go near it. Add to that, the complete lack of any desire to learn or have one, and you can begin to see where it can occasionally be a frustrating friendship. Of course, he gets just as frustrated with me, because I keep offering him one of my older (but functional) computer systems, and he's running out of reasons to refuse.
In amongst all of that, I tried to switch medications for Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS), since about 2005, I had been taking a Parkinson's medication called "klonopin," or Clonazepam, in the Valium family, and while it has worked just fine for the past 11 years, the FDA has clamped down on prescriptions for controlled substances (which includes klonopin), allowing a doctor to prescribe only 30 days at a time, and requires a face-to-face meeting to get a renewal for another 30 days... A doctor in Pain Management took control of all my controlled meds (Norco and klonopin at the time), and he's a hard SOB to track down sometimes. I had had a reaction to Requip the first time I took it, but it turned out to be Lipitor that caused the problems, so I decided to try it again, just so I wouldn't have to make appointments every 30 days...
Ropinrol, the generic Requip has a side-effect that can be made worse if taken with Benadryl, and I've taken Benadryl every night since I can't remember, as a sleep aid (if you need a sleep aid, diphenhydramine - generic Benadryl - is in all of the "Night Time" versions of cold/flu/fever medications you can buy OTC). It is, perhaps, the least toxic form of sleep aids, too, as it is often given to children, for the aforementioned conditions... With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I screwed up by not taking Benadryl with the Requip. I was so concerned about the side-effect that was mentioned.
According to the Patient Information, ropinrol can cause Narcoleptic-esque episodes, where the person taking the drug can go to sleep, never feeling tired, not knowing, and not remembering. After 11 days, I had a little "episode" with the med.
I was playing an EA Sports golf game on my PS4, and was just about to start a new game. I looked up at the TV; then scooted up to the edge of the couch for a better playing posture. I was interested in how long it would take me to play a full 18 holes, so I looked at the clock, it was 3:07pm, I looked back at the image on the screen, moved my thumbs into playing position, looked back at the clock, and it was 5:19. I don't think I played; I can't remember. I was still poised on the edge of the couch in "attack position," but two hours had passed, and I have no idea what happened.
I didn't tell Mary. I was supposed to drive our son-in-law to the airport on Sunday, in the worst rainstorm to hit the area in decades. I knew I'd be OK going to the airport, but had serious concerns about being alone on the return. The fact that it's a Tuesday, and I'm writing this is proof that miracles happen. As soon as I got home, I took a Benadryl, and passed out on the couch. I've stopped taking Requip, and gone back to klonopin and Benadryl.
Friday, January 6, 2017
A Joke... and Only a Joke...
Many years ago, when America was "going electric," the last group to receive power were the Native American reservations, which was nothing new... The tribe had a smart young buck named Many Hands, who was a kind of handyman for the tribe, and who had a Liberal Arts degree from the community college. Before the power lines were installed, the tribe wanted to know what they could do with this new technology, so the elders chose Many Hands to go into the city, and find out all he could. Many Hands accepted this assignment, and set out...
Four months later, Many Hands returns home, and the tribe is gathered together to hear his report. As he extolls the wonders of electricity, he gets out a battery, some wire, a switch, and a battery powered light, setting up a simple circuit... When he completes it, he connects the switch, the light goes on, and the tribe goes, "Ooooh. Ahhhh."
Old White Feather gets up and says, "It's magic!"
Many Hands says, "Not magic. Science."
White Feather asks, "How light work?"
Many Hands says, "Me not know, only that Many Hands make light work..."
Thank you. Thank you. I'll be here all week...
Oh, but that's not the end...
As the power company was putting up the poles, and stringing the wires, the tribal council had a decision to make, which place to wire first... They decided to first, put a light on the old out house, because people got disoriented in the dark, and sometimes wandered off...
Many Hands proudly accepted this task, thus becoming the first person to ever wire a head for a reservation...
Thanks again.
Four months later, Many Hands returns home, and the tribe is gathered together to hear his report. As he extolls the wonders of electricity, he gets out a battery, some wire, a switch, and a battery powered light, setting up a simple circuit... When he completes it, he connects the switch, the light goes on, and the tribe goes, "Ooooh. Ahhhh."
Old White Feather gets up and says, "It's magic!"
Many Hands says, "Not magic. Science."
White Feather asks, "How light work?"
Many Hands says, "Me not know, only that Many Hands make light work..."
Thank you. Thank you. I'll be here all week...
Oh, but that's not the end...
As the power company was putting up the poles, and stringing the wires, the tribal council had a decision to make, which place to wire first... They decided to first, put a light on the old out house, because people got disoriented in the dark, and sometimes wandered off...
Many Hands proudly accepted this task, thus becoming the first person to ever wire a head for a reservation...
Thanks again.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
A Post-Season Ramble on Baseball
One of my Facebook Friends posted a picture of an old transistor radio, and asked how many used one of them. I had one, eerily similar to the one in the picture, but mine had an ear-phone, that plugged in to it. I mentioned that I used to listen to Giant's games after my bedtime, and recalled the names, Russ Hodges and Lon Simmons, of the Giant's announcing team back in the 1960's. Going back -- in my memory -- I could hear their voices, and remembered how vividly they made images in my mind with their words. I also remembered getting "in trouble" for listening to the games after bedtime, because I'd get so involved in a game, that I'd forget I was in bed, and supposed to be quiet. My dad would open my door, lay a couple-of-dozen Anglo-Saxon favorites on me, and tell me to get to sleep. As I'm typing this, I'm thinking that he just wanted me to shut-the-heck-up, because he never did the obvious punishment of taking my radio away...
Hodges and Simmons are, in a way, one of the reasons I decided to study English. Another was my Great-Uncle Henry, who used to like to play word games, and always had a pun to share. Sometimes the puns were real "groaners," but others were extremely funny, and others very thought provoking, but that's beside the point... I didn't mention that I have a list of "All-Time Favorite Baseball Announcers," and that they are on the top of the pile, as far as I'm concerned.
I started listening to the games in 1961, when most TV's were Black and White, and you might be able to watch a game on the weekend, but never during the week (before the decade was out, Channel 2, KTVU, Oakland/San Francisco, started to televise games in mid-week, particularly with the Dodgers). Russ and Lon made me feel like I was sitting between them, watching the game unfold in front of me. On TV, you may have gotten a picture (in Black and White), but Russ and Lon made you see the green grass, the reddish dirt, and crisp, clean white lines, in your mind, something I'm not sure that today's kids could do that, anymore...
Yes, I've been a Giants fan since I was a kid, I used to, kinda, liked the Dodgers for a time, but with the team they had? Koufax, Drysdale, Maury Wills, John Roseborough, Duke Snyder... and the play-by-play announcing of Vin Scully? That was back before we moved to the Bay Area, and I got to see the Giants. My first game was a Pirates/Giants game at Candlestick Park, in 1961. My dad, and his friend from work, Alex, took me in Alex's new Cadillac, we sat in the upper deck, and darned near froze to death as the sun set. There was a guy in the next section, a couple of rows down, pulled out a "Mummy Bag" (a sleeping bag that covers everything but your face), it was that bad...
It wasn't long after that, that I bought that transistor radio, so I could at least listen to the games... My dad didn't like the Giants (he really didn't like the Pirates, either, but they were close to where he grew up), and used to gripe about the "two big niggers," referring to Willie Mays and Willie McCovey. As ugly as that sounds, it's pretty indicative of my dad's attitude on race, and it's how I was raised, I'm sad to admit... I was fortunate to have my dad around for 18 years after I retired from the Navy, and had time to spend with him as an adult. I asked him why he persisted in calling black people by that insulting word, and he explained it to me in such a way, that I understood... I had made it my goal not to use such words, especially around my children. Even at age 10, I knew my dad was wrong to use such language regarding other people, and out of rebellion, more than probably anything, I became a full-fledged Giants fan.
Of the current crop of Giants announcers, I only have good things to say. It's hard to bad-mouth a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame, and besides, Jon Miller and I probably listened to a lot of the same games (we're the same age). Dave Flemming is also making a name for himself, and working beside a Hall of Famer can only make him better.
Kruk and Kype? They have to be the best of the current best, and I could be a little biased, here... I HATE it when the Giants games are on FOX or ESPN. The Network Guys are always biased towards the teams from the East, and know very little about players from the West, probably because the games out here are after their bedtimes? Whatever... Duane and Mike make the games fun to watch. Being former Giants themselves, the are able to develop a rapport with the guys on the team that the Network Guys can't, and pretty much don't even try.
While I'm on the subject of Baseball Announcers, let me be clear, Joe Buck isn't worth the sweat from a dead camel's testicle. He is, without a doubt, THE WORST BASEBALL ANNOUNCER IN THE GAME! There, I've said it.
Hodges and Simmons are, in a way, one of the reasons I decided to study English. Another was my Great-Uncle Henry, who used to like to play word games, and always had a pun to share. Sometimes the puns were real "groaners," but others were extremely funny, and others very thought provoking, but that's beside the point... I didn't mention that I have a list of "All-Time Favorite Baseball Announcers," and that they are on the top of the pile, as far as I'm concerned.
I started listening to the games in 1961, when most TV's were Black and White, and you might be able to watch a game on the weekend, but never during the week (before the decade was out, Channel 2, KTVU, Oakland/San Francisco, started to televise games in mid-week, particularly with the Dodgers). Russ and Lon made me feel like I was sitting between them, watching the game unfold in front of me. On TV, you may have gotten a picture (in Black and White), but Russ and Lon made you see the green grass, the reddish dirt, and crisp, clean white lines, in your mind, something I'm not sure that today's kids could do that, anymore...
Yes, I've been a Giants fan since I was a kid, I used to, kinda, liked the Dodgers for a time, but with the team they had? Koufax, Drysdale, Maury Wills, John Roseborough, Duke Snyder... and the play-by-play announcing of Vin Scully? That was back before we moved to the Bay Area, and I got to see the Giants. My first game was a Pirates/Giants game at Candlestick Park, in 1961. My dad, and his friend from work, Alex, took me in Alex's new Cadillac, we sat in the upper deck, and darned near froze to death as the sun set. There was a guy in the next section, a couple of rows down, pulled out a "Mummy Bag" (a sleeping bag that covers everything but your face), it was that bad...
It wasn't long after that, that I bought that transistor radio, so I could at least listen to the games... My dad didn't like the Giants (he really didn't like the Pirates, either, but they were close to where he grew up), and used to gripe about the "two big niggers," referring to Willie Mays and Willie McCovey. As ugly as that sounds, it's pretty indicative of my dad's attitude on race, and it's how I was raised, I'm sad to admit... I was fortunate to have my dad around for 18 years after I retired from the Navy, and had time to spend with him as an adult. I asked him why he persisted in calling black people by that insulting word, and he explained it to me in such a way, that I understood... I had made it my goal not to use such words, especially around my children. Even at age 10, I knew my dad was wrong to use such language regarding other people, and out of rebellion, more than probably anything, I became a full-fledged Giants fan.
Of the current crop of Giants announcers, I only have good things to say. It's hard to bad-mouth a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame, and besides, Jon Miller and I probably listened to a lot of the same games (we're the same age). Dave Flemming is also making a name for himself, and working beside a Hall of Famer can only make him better.
Kruk and Kype? They have to be the best of the current best, and I could be a little biased, here... I HATE it when the Giants games are on FOX or ESPN. The Network Guys are always biased towards the teams from the East, and know very little about players from the West, probably because the games out here are after their bedtimes? Whatever... Duane and Mike make the games fun to watch. Being former Giants themselves, the are able to develop a rapport with the guys on the team that the Network Guys can't, and pretty much don't even try.
While I'm on the subject of Baseball Announcers, let me be clear, Joe Buck isn't worth the sweat from a dead camel's testicle. He is, without a doubt, THE WORST BASEBALL ANNOUNCER IN THE GAME! There, I've said it.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Some Rather Large Improvements
I tried to write about my most recent hospital stay, September 20 - 23, 2016, but I was doing more rambling than actually stating what it was I started out to say... Yes, I am aware that I can't tell a story straight through without a bunch of diversions, that's why I named my blog RamblingWithSteve (Duh.)... but whenever I catch myself going "away," I stop, save whatever I've written, and keep it as a Draft. I've posted a number of things, over the years, but my library of Drafts has a lot more...
Why, you might ask? Any number of reasons, but mostly because I've gone too personal, or I just can't find any relevance in what I've written. I keep them because they contain something (a reference, turn of phrase, etc.) that I might want to return to someday. The same as I've kept a Word copy of a manuscript I've worked on for a bunch of years... I wrote it, and hopefully someday, someone will actually read what I've written...
See, rambling already... I mentioned some large improvements, and since my hospital stay, I've been making a bunch. I'm getting stronger every day. My physical therapist asked how I would rate my physical condition, and I told her, "Not dead... Yet"... My heart rate is still high (low 90's sitting, low 100's standing), but I did seven and a half minutes on a "HiStep" machine (a stepper, except you're seated). I was at 94 when I first started, I took a reading on the HiStep sensors, to check how close they were to the "finger trap" pulse-ox device, and they were very close. I proceeded to take HR readings every minute, at the request of my physical therapist. I started easy, a steady 55 - 65 steps per minute, and had readings of 98, 98, 97, 96, 97, and 98 through the first six minutes. I tried pumping it up a little, and did 90 -95 steps per minute for the last minute and a half, pulse went to 104, but backed off to 94 as we watched it for a minute or two... at one point, during some flexibility measurements, my HR went down to 92 (but I was seated)... as soon as I stood up, it went to 104, but backed off to an even 100 really quickly... after some walking/stepping drills, it went back to the mid 90's...
If you consider that a few weeks ago I was pumping 148, laying on a gurney in the Emergency Department (no more ER, and I have trouble saying I was in ED, think about it...), that I stayed in the 110's through most of my stay, and that I've been tracking in the 100 - 115 area, while at rest, it seems that the little things I have been doing are bringing my heart rate back down... I used to track upper 70's before, so I have some work ahead of me.
Fortunately, my Primary Care doctor (Dr. John Vogel) had no problems writing a referral for physical conditioning, and in a week, or so, I'll be back at the therapist, working on improving upon, "Not dead... Yet"...
Why, you might ask? Any number of reasons, but mostly because I've gone too personal, or I just can't find any relevance in what I've written. I keep them because they contain something (a reference, turn of phrase, etc.) that I might want to return to someday. The same as I've kept a Word copy of a manuscript I've worked on for a bunch of years... I wrote it, and hopefully someday, someone will actually read what I've written...
See, rambling already... I mentioned some large improvements, and since my hospital stay, I've been making a bunch. I'm getting stronger every day. My physical therapist asked how I would rate my physical condition, and I told her, "Not dead... Yet"... My heart rate is still high (low 90's sitting, low 100's standing), but I did seven and a half minutes on a "HiStep" machine (a stepper, except you're seated). I was at 94 when I first started, I took a reading on the HiStep sensors, to check how close they were to the "finger trap" pulse-ox device, and they were very close. I proceeded to take HR readings every minute, at the request of my physical therapist. I started easy, a steady 55 - 65 steps per minute, and had readings of 98, 98, 97, 96, 97, and 98 through the first six minutes. I tried pumping it up a little, and did 90 -95 steps per minute for the last minute and a half, pulse went to 104, but backed off to 94 as we watched it for a minute or two... at one point, during some flexibility measurements, my HR went down to 92 (but I was seated)... as soon as I stood up, it went to 104, but backed off to an even 100 really quickly... after some walking/stepping drills, it went back to the mid 90's...
If you consider that a few weeks ago I was pumping 148, laying on a gurney in the Emergency Department (no more ER, and I have trouble saying I was in ED, think about it...), that I stayed in the 110's through most of my stay, and that I've been tracking in the 100 - 115 area, while at rest, it seems that the little things I have been doing are bringing my heart rate back down... I used to track upper 70's before, so I have some work ahead of me.
Fortunately, my Primary Care doctor (Dr. John Vogel) had no problems writing a referral for physical conditioning, and in a week, or so, I'll be back at the therapist, working on improving upon, "Not dead... Yet"...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)