I’m a mountaineer. I didn’t realize it, which seems a little odd because I think most mountaineers do, but it is still a fine thing to be. I feel I am in the company of Sir Edmund Hillary and George Mallory. I think I can smoke a pipe at parties now and not get yelled at. I can say Deep Things like, “the mountain is a cold mistress”, and “death is forever one bad step away”. Best of all, when people ask what I do, I can tell them I am a mountaineer.

It all came up rather suddenly. I was putting on my hiking boots when I noticed a problem. These are not cheap boots. These are, in fact, the MOST expensive boots in the COOLEST outdoor shop in a town of VERY cool people. I have bought more than one car for less than I spent on these boots.

I bought these boots a couple of years ago and they are simply great. But, I looked at them as I pulled them on and there was a deep crack in the sole running from side to side under the ball of my foot. The other boot was the same. I was horrified!

I went back to the store today to ask about it. They took pictures and emailed them to the factory to see if it is a warranty issue. They asked me what kind of hiking I did. I told them that I sometimes hiked very steep ground and traveled cross-country a lot. They asked if I walked in slash or rocks. I confessed that I did. They wanted to know if I walked straight up steep hills or if I walked side slope. I didn’t ask them what kind of feeble sissy walks sideways across a moiuntain when they want to go up, but all I said was that I went up.

This is how I came to be a mountaineer. Come to find out, hiking boots are made for hiking, which is what I thought I did, but was mistaken. Hiking is where you take a step and your whole foot contacts the trail. When you are going straight up a steep slope using only the toe of your boot, that is mountaineering. They said what I needed are mountaineering boots.

I have a difficult time convincing my wife that I am walking in a responsible manner. I don’t help my own case much by returning in the shape that I often do. It is important for her peace of mind to know that even if I am going stupid places and doing stupid things, at least I am doing it within the bounds of hiking. She is not going to like the mountaineering thing. It will add credence to what she already suspects. I am going to need some time to figure out how to put it so that I can actually go out and mountaineer. And I need to buy a pipe.

 

I have a problem with January. The months leading up to it are too busy to be morose. The months following have at least some hint of spring. Even February is better because the buzzards return, the robins show up, and the days start becoming noticeably longer. Everything beyond January is just dandy. January is not.

This Monday, Blue Monday as it is called, is acknowledged as being the most depressing day of the year. The reasons cited are what you would expect, bills, lousy weather, Christmas candy withdrawal, the lack of any prospect for a monstrously high calorie meal until Easter, it is easy to justify the assertion.

Sometimes various cures are offered. They too are what you would expect. Avoid liquid and chemical diversions, drink a lot of water, eat well, extricate yourself from the mountain of potato chip bags and beer containers that has piled up since New Years and go out to be with people (bathe first). To this should added “spend more time with your unicorn and think happy, happy thoughts” because they are just as likely to happen as any of the above.

As I have previously mentioned, I do not handle boredom well. Neither do I handle depression particularly well. Casting about for anything to do while bits and snatches of Edgar Allen Poe drift through one’s head is not a good mix. When added to all the other cures for January which are not good mixes, it becomes substantially worse than “blue”.

After the search for your unicorn has been called off and you can’t get that damned Lenore out of your head, here are some things you might want to remember:

It is dark inside. It is light outside, but it is cold. A nice, cheery fire is the obvious fix. Do not burn anything that cannot be repaired or hidden such as car paint, major structures, skin, or clothing. Use accelerants with caution (gasoline balloons are safer then pouring straight from the can).

Basic safety – Throw the breaker, turn off the water, put down a cover cloth, wear long sleeves, don’t tease your unicorn, and leave plenty of time for evidence mitigation.

Instead of going for happy, happy thoughts, shoot for no thoughts at all.

Avoid shooting.

There is ample evidence that January can be survived, even if not happily. The goal is to survive it well with a minimal amount of damage. On Blue Monday, don’t concentrate on there only being eight days until February. The words “only” and “eight days” do not go together in January. Consider instead that there are at least 300 days without Christmas music ahead. Think of the upbeat Emmylou Harris song where she proclaims, “it’s alright because it’s midnight and I have two more bottles of wine”. Caution - stock up first or it won’t work.

 

A fun thing happened. Besides having a record flood, which was fun as well, but this was more comfortable. A friend asked me to write a piece for their widely distributed newsletter. It illustrates how desperate for contributors she must be because she is familiar with my writing and surely must know what will follow. Her instructions were clear as to subject, but she left the rest up to me.

I haven’t tried to write anything lucid for years. I am not convinced that I was ever capable of it at all. I would not choose to try in any event, so it doesn’t really matter. The point is, this is as good as it is likely to get.

My strong suit is doing something stupid and then writing about it. The subject of the piece I am working on is “Leave no trace”, which is key to preserving National Parks. I am a big adherent of the philosophy and feel strongly about it. But, the case remains that I often perform this advocacy while in physical danger. The two are not irreconcilable, but perhaps you can see the difficulty.



This is a Lime-Green Waxy Cap (Hygrocybe virescens). It is quite uncommon. My discovery of this individual led the eventual discovery of several more by people acting upon my observation. I saw it while looking down. I am well-practiced at looking down because you can’t walk 20 steps in any direction in this country without tripping. I have decided to write about that.

I took the image above in the rain while lying prone on a sponge-like bed of redwood forest ground cover. This is a common occurrence. I am perpetually soaking wet in forty degree weather. One must remain cognizant in this situation because it is hazardous, and I do not. This leads to more writing material.



This is a common Scarlet Waxy Cap. I took that image in the rain while lying prone on a sponge-like bed of redwood forest ground cover clinging to a fern covered cliff. This is a common occurrence as well.

I was very careful to avoid damaging the hillside or the vegetation in both cases, and I guess that is what I will write about: How to avoid being killed and leave no trace doing it. I’m not going to think about it too hard because that would also a futile effort. I guess this is a “fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly” situation. I can’t be anything other than what I am (I take medication for that). I guess I will write a piece in my usual manner, edit out most of the idiocy, and see whether or not there is anything left. My guess is not.

 

Today marks the return to normalcy (if you can call it that). I went to the surgeon yesterday and he gave me a green light. As I expected, my wife listed the exceptions and the doctor agreed to them, so I won’t be doing anything that is too much fun.

He felt obliged to go into more detail than I would have liked. He said that it was “a very large hernia”. That later elicited the comment that if I had any sense, I would go to the doctor before a problem became a world-class problem. I wanted to tell her that if I had flying monkeys, I would be the wicked witch of the west, which is just as likely. At least I had enough sense to avoid doing that.

She has left for work and I am considering the greatly expanded list of things I can do. A walk is certainly on the list for today. In the spirit of being a conscientious patient, I am gathering information on what is recommended for my situation.

Herniaonline.com says to “hike sensibly”. No problem. Dr. Simon Dodds says, “Common sense tells you that a good diet, plenty of rest and a sensible amount of exercise will allow the natural healing process do its job properly.” Check. Stomadata.com cautions that, “exercise with a hernia repair is potentially a venture into uncharted territory, and as already explained, must be undertaken with unremitting caution.” Got it.

Hiking sensibly employing common sense with unremitting caution. If they had added “keep broomstick free of splinters”, it would be me all over. I feel liberated, free to enjoy the forest, and only somewhat dismayed at the sloppy snow on the ground and temperatures in the low thirties. I don’t feel the weather falls outside the bounds as I will use unremitting caution while hiking sensibly in it. I will have to wait until later to find out if I had used common sense, that is always a hard one.

 

Being required to do nothing is no fun. The difficulty is that “nothing” is very restrictive. I can work with terms such as “moderate exercise”, or “light lifting”, but my wife is well acquainted with my work and listens for phrases such as those. When a doctor is giving instructions such as “moderate exercise”, she stops him and has him rephrase the statement. Then I end up with something like “non-aerobic, low-impact, weights under two pounds, duration less than twenty minutes, walking less than 1 mile”. I can’t work with that.

Some people desperately need inactivity. God bless mothers of young children. Myself, I don’t know how the majority of children achieve adulthood without being strangled by their mothers. It is a testament to the superior nature of women that the race survives at all. They deserve periods when they can do absolutely nothing.

I know a number of men who can sit through an entire game of football, or worse yet, baseball. I honestly don’t know how (or why) they do it. When it comes to sporting events, I prefer something slightly humorous such as curling or synchronized swimming. One where the skill and abilities of the athletes may be admired and still produces a chuckle or two.

I am not very good at vacationing. I have seen people lying on a beach while a tropical ocean is just feet away. Why anyone would lie around on a hot, sandy beach when they could be out exploring a reef or enjoying a slight risk of serious injury is beyond me.

I was snorkeling in the Ahihi Kinau Natural Area Reserve on Maui. I was frustrated because there wasn’t any safe place to get in the water (that wasn’t covered with people). I picked the best place I could find and tried with some success to avoid getting pummeled. After just a few minutes I decided I had crossed the line separating dangerous from crazy. As I was trying to thread my way back through the coral, a needle fish swam by right in front of me. The needlefish appears on the Dangerous and Venomous Ocean Organisms list. When I got out, I was bleeding from being bounced across the coral, I had urchin spines in my fingertips, and I was shaking from what could have been a fatal encounter. Now THAT is fun, lying on a beach is not.

My wife is escorting me to the doctor’s office for a follow-up appointment on Monday. I will report that I can’t remember ever having felt better. My wife will interpret that for the doctor stressing the importance of the word “remember”. The doctor will finish with a new set of instructions. If I am lucky, my wife will be daydreaming and I will get something I can work with.

 

Today is Friday the 13th, and it is my lucky day. I tell people I adopted it as my lucky day because there was almost no demand for it. I do it just to see if I can get a reaction; the truth is I don’t believe that it is different than any other day. It is Ji-Yin(Tiger) (12th month), 20, 4709 on the Chinese calendar and there is nothing cited about it being unlucky.

I would make the claim that I am not very superstitious, but that is probably not true. I say that because there are most likely a few things tucked away that were planted there a long time ago and forgotten.

My mother, whose mother was Apache, used to freak out when she heard an owl in the day time. Consequently, I get nervous when I hear one also. I discount it, but that is reason speaking to a superstition that already exists. That is different than not having the superstition at all.

Some people would say that believing in ghosts is superstitious, but they haven’t lived with one. We did for several years. I didn’t either before that. The experience made me wonder about all the other things I didn’t believe. Bigfoot, alien encounters, conspiracy theories, the question remains – what the hell do I know?

There is one very notable thing that I count as superstitious, but I don’t talk about it to people I don’t know well. To those many people who share this superstition, I would say you are well entitled to believe anything you like. I would ask, however, that you leave me out of it and not cite the documentation as a justification for doing some pretty abhorrent things.

This being my lucky day, it is a good time to try out some risky things that I might not do on a day of low to moderate luck. I might try turning chop sticks on my lathe, something which would require extreme luck as turning long skinny things is very difficult. Tuning my piano requires a good deal of luck because I don’t posses the skill and I rely on luck to get it right.

I may go out and look for Bigfoot and aliens because it would certainly require quite a bit of luck to find them. I suppose one could take the view that not finding them would better. Alright then, I am going to go out and NOT find Bigfoot or aliens because this is my lucky day.


 

I am making headway on my recovery. I solved the coughing problem mentioned in the previous post with a baking project. Quality testing resulted in a 3-hour nap. I think a more conservative set of metrics is required. I will try again later.

The east wind is supposed to blow today. That direction is away from the power lines so a home made kite is in order. I’m glad I saved all those old fishing poles, they will work great for kite frames. I have 2,000 feet of draw string used for pulling computer cables through conduit. It has a tensile strength of 250 pounds(!) That should handle it.

A web search of rubber band powered paper airplanes turned up a number of possibilities. A rubber band powered helicopter is “doable”. I also have surgical tubing, which shouldn’t come as a surprise considering my history. Surgical tubing is a rubber band on steroids. I could construct a “high lift” version of the airplane but it would require some shop work so caution will be required. That puts it on the “B” list.

I have a bunch of electrical components. There are an assortment of LEDs, resisters, capacitors, printed circuit board blanks, and miscellanea. Working with electricity will completely eradicate any trace of boredom and replace it with apprehension. I might try building my own LED light bulb. It would be great if I could put it into a glass vessel so it looked a bit more like a light bulb. My wife is not going to approve of any do-it-yourself electrical appliances if the past holds true.

That should pretty much take care of today. I’ll work on ideas for tomorrow after quality testing is underway.

 

I am very lucky in that I heal quickly. I felt terrible the day of the operation and the next. I was able to stretch out the time between medication on Sunday, and on Monday I got up and made my wife lunch. Today I feel about the same as I would have after an excessive hike. That means I have 5 ½ weeks of feeling fine while being limited to doing almost nothing.

I make a very bad bored person. I have enough trouble with the noise in my head without sitting around waiting for it to take over. I feel compelled to get up and do something. The trouble is that my wife has long since lost her sense of humor regarding my medical condition. If I so much as rip one stitch, I may be told to leave forthwith because while it is inappropriate to beat injured people, you can sure as hell kick them out. That leaves me in the familiar position of considering what things I might do without risking homelessness.

I could burn things. It is a nasty cold and foggy day, which is a good thing or walking might make the list. A nice bonfire would cheer things up. If I burned only those things that fall within the absurdly restrictive weight lifting limitations I am under, that would kill a couple of hours nicely.

I could work in the shop. I went down there yesterday for a test run and made it back out OK. Surely there is some little thing I can fix. I came across and entry for Don’t Do This while I was down there: After having abdominal surgery, don’t do anything that will make you cough even if it seems like a good way to relieve boredom.

My options are limited because my daughter took my truck and hasn’t returned it. I think her mother put her up to it. I didn’t ask the doctor specifically about driving, but I found a web site that says it isn’t wise to drive for a week after the surgery. I take that as an “OK”, with the proviso in that it isn’t wise. I am profoundly experienced with being unwise so I feel safe in doing it. The site cautioned that pedal pressure is the issue and I seldom use the brakes on the dirt road anyway.

Whatever I come up with must appear safe. So far, the acceptable activities have been limited to, “none”. I am committed to not putting my wife in the position of having to make her own lunch and negotiate meal times with the dogs after having thrown me out, so a conservative approach is warranted (if not likely). On the plus side, I have plenty of time to think about it. That is a big part of the problem.

 

I am resting in relative comfort and consciousness after another visit to see my friends in the OR. It was a minor affair, but the festivities took place near a very delicate area. Consequently, I am putting ice packs where I would never have chosen to and having a good deal of trouble sitting down. Other than that and a few other minor objections, I am fine.

I honestly think that surgery is the least amount of fun you can have. In fact, I recommend you avoid it if you can. I don’t seem to be able to, but after 15 years of it, I am resigned to having some kind of surgery every 16 months. Remembering pain doesn’t cause pain, happily, so I will be left with nothing more than some unpleasant memories pretty soon.

There is a problem area that I continually struggle with. If an idle mind is the devil’s playground then mine is an amusement park. Surgical recoveries are a boring affair. Additionally, they are accomplished in a less than sober manner. When one has the restraint and judgment of a rabid cat, this is a recipe for trouble.

My wife goes back to work tomorrow. I have fully explored every entertainment opportunity available on the ground floor of our house. That leaves the upstairs and my shop. I would describe my ambulatory abilities at present as “poor”. Projecting the trajectory of my recovery along with abilities needed to climb the stairs or descend into the basement is going to be challenging as mistakes only come to light after they are committed. I can tell you from experience that being stuck in the basement is bad.

I have had a lot of time to develop the skills required to recover from a surgery. I am getting better at it as time goes along. Maybe I can get through this one without falling.

 

I have a surgery tomorrow morning. Nothing huge, just a hernia repair. I have my own scale for measuring how bad a surgery is. I think the hernia is going to be a 2 on the Richter Scale of Surgeries, which is not bad. If I don’t hurt myself at least that badly during any month, it is a good month.

I have had a lot of experience in the surgery game and I have become a bit complacent about it. The first 6 or 8 are troubling, but it becomes routine after that. When I went to the general surgeon’s office, they remembered me because he had removed my gall bladder two years prior. After consulting the doctor and catching up, the surgical coordinator handed me a wad of papers and sent me on my way.

Then came Christmas. With all the Christmas activities and the medication change I had just made, I forgot to check the wad of papers the woman in the office had given me until last Monday night. The instructions said to get a blood test by 12/23.

I got the blood test (and an EKG they hadn’t mentioned) the next day. I called the office to report my lapse. The nurse said that the surgery might have to be cancelled because it was too late to get the results. I apologized profusely and told her I would call her today to see if it was a go.

She called me today to change the check in time to later in the morning. When I asked her about the EKG, it jogged her memory and she said she would call back when she found out if the surgery was still on. She called back in a couple of minutes and said that they didn’t have the test results, but would proceed with the surgery anyway because they have a lot of historical data on me.

I am conflicted. I am very happy about being able to have the surgery, which I really need, but it is pathetic that I have done this so much that they don’t even need to test me anymore. I probably won’t have to do anything the next time (and history suggests there will be a next time). I will check in the day of the surgery, put on a gown, draw an X where they should cut, and attach a sticky note saying to call my wife when it is over. I wonder if they have a frequent flyer program?

 

I don’t know about this last medication change. The jury is still out, and that is part of the problem. They can’t be found. They have become disoriented and are wandering around unable to form a consensus.

As a group, they are becoming unstable. Some are longing for the good old days, which isn’t rational because there weren’t that many. Several are trying to manage things but they don’t agree on how. Others are considering what methods might be employed to reduce the building anxiety. There are a lot of options, but none are sanctioned by anyone except the less restrained members of the jury. They are an influential group, however, and are ready to step up in a moment’s notice.

There is some fool in the back of the room ranting about God knows what. Twelve Angry Men is a great movie, but not one you want playing out inside your head. It takes a lot of effort to get them to calm down. Maybe if there was a woman on the jury it might help, but the only one nearby is hardly impartial. She has weighed in with opinions anyway and they haven’t been entirely positive.

I am close to declaring a mistrial and returning to the doctor to confess. I am going to wait until after the upcoming hernia operation to see if things level out after that. This hasn’t been a good time to form an opinion. Evaluating something as tricky as a medication change during the holidays while looking forward to yet another operation (11 in 14 years) won’t produce reliable results.

Waiting until after the operation is a tough call because things will get worse, at least temporarily. Speaking from no small amount of experience, I can tell you that recovering from an operation while less than stable is not something you should try at home. Severe pain is not a stabilizing influence. You might want to pencil that in as a margin note in your copy of Don’t Do This.

On the plus side, having the restraint and judgment of a rabid cat is less disruptive when one can’t move well. The most optimistic of the jury believes the enforced down time might have a calming effect. I’m hoping all the jurors can be rounded up later in the month and that they will produce a verdict that is coherent enough for the doctor to understand. Otherwise, the twelve lunatics on the jury will be expelled and replaced by another dozen, and God only knows what they will do.

 

I love those “year in review” pieces that are run at the end of the year. They are always full of surprises for me. My wife gets frustrated at my almost complete memory loss regarding the prior year, but I forget those episodes just shortly after they happen also. I remember bits and snatches of events, but to say I remember them is stretching it.

I have good, honest excuses for my terrible memory. First, I am crazy. Being crazy isn’t known for its beneficial effects regarding memory. Secondly, the remedies for the above would be better suited for creating zombies than improving memory. Thirdly, I have had ten operations. I had one this year, one the year before that, and one coming up in a week. Some were minor, others were notably less so, but all required general anesthesia. Also not known for its restorative effects.

As a person who remembers virtually nothing except what they read, I feel I am well qualified to offer some valuable free advice (the best advice) for living without the benefit of memory.

1) You have nothing to lose by trying to fake it. Your spouse already knows all about your regrettable mental condition so they won’t be surprised if you are wrong.

2) Try saying, “I remember like it was yesterday” without adding that you don’t remember that either.

3) Buy a nice gift suitable for birthdays and anniversaries and keep it hidden until that inevitable day when you forget one or the other. Try to remember that you have it and where you put it.

4) If you find yourself in a room and don’t remember how or why, go to the kitchen and grab a snack. That is probably where you were going anyway.

5) When you hide things, you are hiding them from yourself. Make it easy on yourself and put them in an obvious place. If it actually needs to be hidden, give it to a younger friend and ask them to remind you in a few weeks.

Forgetting some things is normal, having a really bad memory is not uncommon, but there are a few things that transcend forgetfulness. Not remembering how you came to be in the living room is one thing. Not remembering how you came to be in Toronto is another. Forgetting your neighbor’s name is embarrassing. Forgetting your own is worse. If you find you have inadvertently driven to the next town, go to a restaurant. They won’t be serving very good food where you are going next.

 

With the holidays over and Christmas put to bed for another year, my wife and I were casting about for something to do. We settled on a favorite rainy-day tradition – going to the dump.

When we moved to Oregon in 1988, we were amazed by the park-like atmosphere of the dump. There were grassy hills, a sweeping vista of the Willamette Valley, and a relaxed atmosphere. The dump in Oregon was more like a post-apocalyptic park. We enjoyed going to the dump just because of how strange it was.

Here’s the thing: During the approximately 60 days of sunshine we get here, the last thing one wants to do is go to the dump. That in turn means that one will always go to the dump in the rain.

We were helping out in a family project to clean out a storage locker. The skies were overcast at 10: AM, but heavy rain wasn’t forecast until later in the afternoon. By the time we left with a truck load of trash, it was raining. When we got to the dump it was pouring.

There doesn’t appear to be any way of accomplishing a dump run without becoming filthy. The things being disposed of are dirty. In addition to that, one must lean up against my truck to put heavy things in it and my truck is dirtier than anything you could put in it. We had some large items for the scrap metal bin and getting those out of the truck looked like a Summo match. By the time we were done, we were done.

The rain stopped as we approached our house and hasn’t started again. My wife and I later remarked that the experience had all the elements of a classic dump run. Terrible weather, but nice ambiance, and we got to spend a hour together. I chatted with the fellow in line in front of me. He said that he wanted to take his wife on a dump date also but she wouldn’t go. I am a lucky man to have a wife who can appreciate a good dump.

 

There two things that I can be depended upon to screw up. One is doing the taxes. The other is Christmas. Not all of it, just one specific and important part of it. The part where I give my wife presents.

My wife has always been a kid when it comes to Christmas. She shakes and pokes the presents under the tree until they make noise even if they weren’t supposed to. She wheedles information out of me by employing her feminine wiles (such as asking). Any slightest clue will have her sniffing out leads like Christmas bloodhound.

Consequently, I have had to resort to subterfuge and guile in order to surprise her on Christmas morning with a gift she hasn’t already figured out. The trouble is I am completely incapable of subterfuge and guile.

Every Christmas I have either 1) hidden a present and forgot about it, 2) wrapped a present and forgotten what it was, or 3) lost the present. Last year my wife opened a present and I commented that it was a nice present. I asked who it was from. She said, “You.” The year before that, I had placed a jewelry box in the tree and forgotten about it. Seeing it fall onto the floor when we took the tree down didn’t jog my memory at all. I didn’t remember what it was until she opened the box. By then, the “wow” factor of the present had been somewhat diminished.

A ploy I have used is to buy a Christmas stocking and keep it in my shop until Christmas morning. I don’t know what it would take to get my wife down to my shop, but it would be a lot more than the promise of a Christmas stocking, so the loot is safe down there (mostly). This year I stuffed the stocking with a few little things plus several CDs.

I was up very early Christmas morning, just as I am most mornings. I retrieved the stocking from my shop and hung it in the front room. My wife awoke before our guests, so she and I had a cup of coffee and I gave her the stocking. There were no CDs.

Everybody was up not long after and I wasn’t able to look for the CDs. I knew there were only a few places they could be, so that is where I looked first. I didn’t find them, of course. It wasn’t until almost dark that I inspected my shop again and found them lying on the bench almost in plain sight.

I have no remedy for this. It is hard to make a process less complicated than, A - take item out of bag, and B – put item into stocking. We are going to take the tree down tomorrow. I don’t think there is anything in there but I have been wrong before. Maybe I will get lucky and find a chocolate bar I was going to give her and forgot. We enjoy the wonder of Christmas here, but I don’t think my wife is wondering any longer. I think she has made up her mind.

 

We had our traditional family Solstice celebration last night. It was brief because it was freezing and there was a four-year old that thought she should light all the candles. We left the ten candles burning. I can well imagine that ten candles burning on the sidewalk during the Solstice didn’t go unnoticed by my well-dressed friends who are concerned for my salvation.

I enjoy engaging them and reading their literature, if not for the reason they would prefer. I haven’t shared the reason I find the pamphlets so entertaining because I appreciate their sincerity and don’t want to insult them. But, it may not last much longer. They called in the big guns yesterday.

This is a familiar pattern. I make small talk with the ground troops and take the literature, and eventually they send in the closer to seal the deal and bring me into the fold. I used to have them back several times but I don’t do that anymore out of fairness. After all, these are family people who could be spending their time playing with the kids instead of debating the philosophy behind their faith with someone who is interested only in an intellectual sense.

Most of the population of our small community belongs to the same church. It is no secret that my wife keeps an alter on the front porch and a goddess symbol in the garden. I can imagine I am a tantalizing prospect having shown some interest and living amidst unapologetic heathens.

Yesterday two well-dressed gentlemen arrived at the door while I was away. They asked for me straight away because it is also no secret that my wife is not as sympathetic as myself. When they learned I wasn’t home, they gave my wife a small pamphlet and left. When they return, I am going to have to tell them that as much as I enjoy learning about their beliefs, I do not want to discuss articles of faith with them. I imagine the door-to-door folks will keep at it because they don’t give up on a person who shows interest.

I consider myself to be somewhat well read in religion. I have read their bible cover to cover, as well as the Book of Mormon, and the King James, plus selected portions of the New World translation. I have read the Koran and a few secular and non-secular texts about Mohammadism. I have studied Taoism, Hinduism, Budhism, and Judaism. I have been around the block with the major religions. Why? Because I consider placing faith over reason to be the single most interesting and significant facet of human behavior. I would prefer to not say why.

 

The mind is a fascinating thing. It is so complex and versatile that you can get it to do almost anything. And darned fun to tinker with as well. Mine has always needed a bit of adjusting. A turn of a screw here, and twist of a nut there, it is a finicky contraption which runs rough when it runs at all. I probably haven’t helped my own case by tossing in a handful of chemicals now and then just for fun. Still, a mind is a terrible thing to waste, as they say, so it shouldn’t just sit there doing nothing. Flip the switch and turn it up.

Mine was running very rough a few years ago so I turned it off. By doing that, I almost rid myself of bipolar symptoms. That was all well and fine, but not as much fun as it could have been. I eventually needed a tune up and my doctor determined I could turn things up a bit. That was a week ago. Now it is like a reunion tour, me with my old self.

Things could be going better. I am having some trouble adjusting to the level of mental activity I am experiencing. Prior to becoming well, I was troubled with an over-active mind. There was so much going on in there that I had trouble speaking sometimes. It was far too much. That is why turning it off was such a relief. I haven’t reached that stage yet, but I am having enough of it that I can remember what it was like.

Two months ago I sat at the computer almost devoid of any thoughts worthy of writing down. Two days ago I sat down and knocked out ten pages of a new story. I couldn’t think of anything to say before. Now I have the plot and theme laid out. It is a story about self discovery through the complete loss of identity. It is so great to be able to do that again.

Time will tell if I can keep it up. It may be that I am just not cut out for thinking. Some things cannot be finessed. There may be no magic formula which will allow for creativity but not lunacy. A little might be too much when it comes to thinking. If that is the case, I will return to the mental neuter I had been and try to be happy with it.

Until then, I think I will turn it up and see what happens.

 

Preserving dignity becomes more difficult as time passes. Repeated medical exams are performed by minor children who have somehow managed to obtain a medical license. What would have been an ordinary stumble just a few years prior is deemed old-age infirmity. And, momentary lapses of lucidity are taken as proof of advancing senility. That is a good thing.

When I was younger, mental incompetence in a store was correctly assumed to be evidence of mental instability. Such things would be met with concerned looks and scowls. Now, however, they are met with understanding smiles and attempts at patience. That is much better.

A distinction needs to be made here between senility and dementia. Practically everyone will become senile to a degree with age, but not all will suffer dementia. Two different things. I have a start on dementia also but I’m trying to pass it off as senility.

I was born to be senile. I have grown pretty good at it what with all the practice. I feel it qualifies me as an expert in the field. This being Christmas, I thought I would devote this piece to Surviving Senility in Stores.

Difficult moments often arise in stores. Being confused is ok, perhaps even expected, but don’t do this:

-Don’t pay with coins. You know you can’t sort coins quickly enough to avoid hostility and that you will drop them if you try. Give your coins to children instead.

-Don’t quibble over prices. The chances of you being right do not exceed the statistical margin of error. Pay for your things and then go back and check the price. In the outlandishly remote event that you were right, go to the customer service desk. Tip: be gracious when you are shown to have been wrong anyway.

-Don’t be unpleasant. People love quirky, pleasant old people. People do not like cranky old crazy people. It may make the difference between being helped to your car and being tripped.

-Don’t act like you know what you are talking about when discussing electronics with sales people. You will be humiliated and will buy the most expensive thing there in an attempt to cover up you incompetence.

The holiday season can be challenging to those who typically speak to a dozen people a week for most of the year. Grammar school children who have jimmied-up a fake ID to become a sales clerk speak indecipherable languages at 100 WPM. Once familiar haunts become a disorienting swamp of lights and decorations. Shopping aisles are full-contact blood sport arenas. If any of this sounds familiar, you may have been acting senile and not realized it. I recommend that you begin following the recommendations above and start shopping at stores where they don’t know you.

 

I am pretty darned excited. I went to the doctor today to report on the results of the last medication change. Because of the glowing report I gave myself, I have been directed to reduce the amount of the medication that had turned me into the idiot you almost see before you now. Even though the medication rendered me senseless, it was an improvement over what I had been before, so I settled for “idiot”. I was really good at it for quite a while. That was three years ago.

Lately I have begun to “wobble”. That is my doctor’s term for becoming unstable. I call it “having a beer emergency”. I became wobbly enough that interested parties had begun to gently suggest I was off kilter. People of a certain age should remain on kilter because if they fall off kilter, they might not be able to get up. That was enough of an incentive to get me to the doctor.

The waiting room of the mental health building is calming. There are big overstuffed couches, subdued colors, a big aquarium, and soft music. The music is pointedly not soft for that one month of the year that they play Christmas music. After a half-hour of waiting as the most perfectly saccharine and cliché-ridden Christmas music blared overhead, I was considering ripping the speakers from the wall.

A word here about Christmas music. I like Christmas music for the first week I hear it. Then it becomes tedious, and then tortuous. It is as if there is a radio station that plays the same twenty songs over and over, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, and that station is played in every single store, restaurant, and waiting room on the planet. A dirge such as Silent Night sung by 100 malevolent children may cause a sensitive person such as me to experience a beer emergency. Those can take unpleasant turns.

If I had destroyed the entire waiting room, no jury of my piers would have found me guilty. It is a mental health facility, people aren’t there for in-grown toenails. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to know you can’t jam a dozen crazy people in a small room and play Christmas music, for God’s sake. It would have become a scene from “One Flew Over the Coocoo’s Nest” with just one more playing of Little Drummer Boy.

I was one of the lucky ones. I got out and now I’m home waiting to see what happens with the medication change. I am eager to see the effects of the change because they can sometimes be thrilling. Whatever the change, it should be a lot of fun what with it being Christmas and all. I had better buy more beer in case of an emergency.

 

I have a new keyboard so I’m writing even though I am a complete blank. That is not a bad thing. I prefer being completely blank when there isn’t anything that might be improved by thinking. There aren’t many things here that may be improved by thinking so I have a good bit of time during which I don’t need to think.

The problem with that, and I am sure it is one many of you are familiar with, is that if you stop thinking past a certain age, it is Herculean to start again. I can’t be sure that I ever did. Worsening matters is that when I can form a thought, it is a real crap shoot as to whether it will be of any use.

Being old and confused is hard on people. Other people. I am not bothered by it, but it seems to drive sales clerks crazy. I like to avoid that when I can because they will know the awful truth soon enough, there is no use in showing them their future now. To that end, I have developed my own form of facial recognition as a guide to how well I am functioning.

Eyes drooping, mouth slack. I have said something so overwhelmingly stupid that the checkout person has checked out themselves. Pick up whatever is within reach and leave.

Eyes wide, mouth agape. I have said something so heinously inappropriate that I have shocked a young person who probably sends images of themselves naked to social networking sites. Just leave.

Eyes narrow, mouth tight. I have said something so rude and offensive that the listener is contemplating violence. Leave quicker.

Eyes n/a, mouth n/a, holding beer. I have said the right thing. Take beer.

I have observed that being confused in a store is looked down upon unless you are old, then it is expected. Store employees will flock to help out because, God knows, you don‘t want one the crazy old birds going off in the store. In my case, it really is much better for everyone if that is avoided.

We were out of soy sauce. I went to three stores and forgot it every time. As frustrating as it was, I knew that I would remember it soon. The reason is that my short-term memory threshold seems to be ten minutes. Then it goes to long-term memory, and long-term memory is what old people do best. So, if you find you aren’t able to remember where you are or what you were doing, wait a day and it will come back to you.

 

Choosing a Christmas present for my wife’s step-father is difficult. He is a serious-minded man with few interests and no vices. He enjoys hunting elk, but there are a limited number of hunting related items a man who hunts two weeks out of the year can use. When we cleaned the house upon the death of my mother-in-law, we discovered gifts of his that had gone unopened for several years. He, on the other hand, is very generous and gives everyone in our large family a sizable cash gift.

He requires supervision these days and is seen to by our step-sister. She posted a note with gift suggestions, which is very helpful. One of the item listed was chocolate. I know about chocolate. I consider it to be a major food item right up there with beer. I went to town and headed for my favorite chocolate haunts.

He really doesn’t seem like someone who would be the dark chocolate fan that I am. I feel safe in saying that I am a “hard core” chocolate junkie. When having a withdrawal, I will dip unsweetened dark baking chocolate into honey and eat it like a candy bar. My father-in-law seems more like the milk chocolate type.

I picked out a dozen of my favorite items and wrapped half for my wife. I narrowly saved it by noticing the dog skulking around the tree and put it up upon a shelf. I left the other items out in case my wife wanted to add some things to the box. That was three days ago.

I will be going to town again to replace the now devoured candy. I knew it would happen. The evil little voice that so often gains my attention would not be satisfied until it was gone. It sure does like chocolate (and beer).

I am told I am a challenge to shop for. I can’t imagine how that could possibly be. It is well known that my idea of happiness is consuming the darkest chocolate with the darkest beer. Next to that is any chocolate with any beer. All one needs to do is go to a place that carries real chocolate and buy something with the consistency and color of charcoal. Then buy beer that looks like shoe polish. How hard is that?