Painkillers and other ‘problems’

I have a problem (and,) my problem is pain.  What do you suppose I should do about it?  Well, the obvious answer, to me at least, is I should take my problem to my doctor and see what he might be able to do about it:  And therein lies the rub:  My doctor does not want to prescribe pain killers.  So--why is this?

It seems pain killers are now a popular issue of choice for our lawmakers.  All of them (the lawmakers, not the pain killers) are jumping on this bandwagon lest they be seen as promoting the use of these addictive substances, mostly the oxycodons, or hydrocodons (each has various commercial names) and the problems (addiction, overdose, death) that may accompany their misuse.  And, while our legislators’ injecting their (questionable) opinions, bills, and votes into this issue may make them seem responsive and give them an issue that may increase their popularity in some quarters, it does nothing for the person who may benefit from using the medications in question—the person in pain.

Our legislators need to examine problems and issues that relate to the public.  Our doctors need to deal with problems and issues that relate to the needs of each individual patient.  While some time the twain will meet, when the legislators interject themselves between the doctors and their patients, they are making public decisions on issues that should be kept between two individuals—the doctor and his patient.  Public solutions are not solutions that may be tailored to the needs of individuals, as the decisions of doctors for and with their patients must of necessity be tailored to each individual situation. 

If our legislators insist on inserting themselves between us and our doctors, I think we need to insert ourselves between our legislators and their jobs. 

Correcting my pain is not a public matter.  My legislator needs to remove himself from interfering with my relationship with my doctor.

My pain is not a public problem.  

What, or where, is Ninety Six?

Watching CBS this morning, January 2, 2017, I found Conor Knighton’s clip on “Visiting all of the National Parks” interesting.  (http://www.cbsnews.com/videos/on-the-trail-years-end/  If you choose to call up this address, sorry about the leading commercial—guess CBS has to pay their bills some way.)  In any case, Ric Nipper, a friend of mine from Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, and I have been taking annual trips to various Georgia and South Carolina sites for several years.  This year, we ended up in Ninety Six.

I had a dear French teacher in High School, who told her students she had grown up in Ninety Six.  Now, I have had occasion, over the past quite a few years, to drive down one or more of our state roads near Ninety Six, and I had noticed highway signs pointing “To Ninety Six,” but, until Ric and I set out on our annual pilgrimage to wherever, I had never even given consideration to visiting Mme. Butler’s home town.  Nor did Ric, or I, give any consideration to going there when we left Aiken this year just before Thanksgiving.   Guess we just gravitated in that direction.  So, you say, why bring this up now?  Well, it seems this year, we inadvertently went to a South Carolina National Park Service site—the one in Ninety Six.

And, should you need a reason to try this site, maybe the fact that it is one National Park site you might be able to visit and see in just one day might provide that reason: https://www.nps.gov/nisi/index.htm.  Now, before I go any further, let me quibble just a bit.  The National Park Service calls the Ninety Six site a “National Historic Site,” making it one of nine sites in the state on its list of places you might like to visit:  (https://www.nps.gov/state/sc/index.htm) .   In any case, if you are anywhere near it (it is close to Greenwood, SC,) I recommend it to you, whether or not it qualifies as a “National Park,” proper.

I would also recommend the other eight sites on the NPS’s above list (most of which I have had the pleasure to visit in the past) as being worth your time.  Maybe, next Thanksgiving, I might be able to convince my friend Ric to come a day or so early so we can show our wives this little bit of history, just down the road from Aiken, in Ninety Six, South Carolina.  As road trips go, this is a “good 'un.”

Politics, Politicians, and Prevaricators...say what?

Here I go again (to paraphrase RR,) "Morningbrain" has struck, and sleep is no longer an option.  Writing seems to work, though.  Problem is, by the time it works, it’s usually too late to return to sleep.  No matter, at least I feel the papers left by the process may, occasionally, have some value, if to no one but myself.

Facebook can be a waste of time.  Then, again, so is television, but, at this point in life, I’m not willing to totally give up either.  Politics has resulted in strange photo-fellows, it seems, and the picture of Trump alongside of Hillary is rife on both screens: Which  brings to mind the phrase, “I don’t know how to love him,” (followed by) “He’s a man, he’s just a man…and I’ve known so many men before, in so very, many ways, he’s just one more,” and while the first part definitely does not apply to this pairing, the second does, especially when you consider they are both genuine “superstars” in their own right, even though neither could appropriately be compared with the “Superstar” the quotation originally applied to.  (Can the election come soon enough?)

Which brings to mind a Facebook “friend” who I choose to call “Chad.”  Chad is an ornery sort,  one who majors in negativity.  He reminds me of a stanza from a Limelighter’s album:

            “The whole world is festering with unhappy souls:

              The French hate the Germans, the Germans hate the Poles;

              The Poles hate the Yugoslavs; South Africans hate the Dutch;

              And I don’t like anybody very much!”

He hates Hillary, and professes to not like Trump much either (but of the two, Trump is his stated choice, and if you disagree with that, YOU’RE a “DA.”  (And, for those who might seek clarification, as “Fred G. Sanford” might once have said, “And the ‘D’ is for ‘Dumb,’ dummy!”  Hope that gets the point across, ‘cause Ah ain’t a’clarifyin’ “Chad” any further.)

We are two days beyond the third, and final (thank God,) “debate”  of this pitiful political season.  Truth of the matter is, I knew “debate,” and this, my friend, was no “debate.” (Apologies are in order, I’m sure.)  Four years from now, hopefully, our talking heads will see the need to settle on the term “debacle” to define the process with an added degree of clarity.  Debaters everywhere need to rise up and see that this is done to preserve the sanctity of their time honored process. 

What went on the last three times we have seen a “Presidential Candidates Debate” would have been much more interesting, and just as informative, if the Candidates’ Podia had been placed about one foot apart from each other.  That would have given us a real spittin’ contest, with real spit, I’m sure.  At least we the audience would have had something to smile about if this had been the case.

Now, I have just enough time to make myself a cuppa and get back to my other tube for the six o’clock news.  Whatta way to go!  And to all of you, won’t you please have yourself a “Good Morning,” unless, of course, you’ve already decided not so to do.

(And, of course, that last was for you, “Chad.”)

Anyone else have any suggestions?  Comments are allowed.

Addiction: Can anyone help?

Truth of the matter is, only one person can help an addict; the addict hemself  (i.e., herself or himself, etc.)  And, by the time that drug of choice has gained the upper hand in the addict’s life, permanent changes in the brain and liver chemistries will have occurred, making the attainment of a life of sobriety much more difficult than just the making of a mental choice.  It is, at that point in time, too late for the addict to simply make a decision and stick with it:  It is a problem of living with an addicted body long enough for the body’s continual need for the addicting substance to subside to the point where that constant physical craving no longer stands in the way of the addict’s decision.  This is why medically supervised withdrawal is suggested (if at all possible,) and it is why the tendency to relapse remains strong even after the body has rid itself of the drug.

What we were taught about that “weak-willed” alcoholic—or drug addict, for that matter—just is not the case.  Anyone who has tried to get an addict in their family to give up that addiction will attest to this truth.  No, “weak-willed” has nothing to do with it at all.  By the time the “experimenter” turns into the “user” and the “user” turns into the “addict,” the body and brain have teamed up to conspire against any flights of reason that may from time to time rail against the results of the disease. 

If you have an addict in your family, the best thing you might do for them is ask them to read two articles. 

First is a commentary from “Nora’s blog, “Addiction is a disease of free will” in one of the National Institute of Health’s web sites: 

https://www.drugabuse.gov/about-nida/noras-blog/2015/06/addiction-disease-free-will.

Second is a personal description of addiction found in this writer’s blog: “My AA Story” something I wrote in response to a fellow AA’s request that I give “my story” to his group:  http://stephenvgeddes.blogspot.com/2015/02/my-aa-story.html.

Should your addict have that “moment of clarity” and give consideration to a life away from drugs and/or alcohol, you might first help hem find a detox facility.  In Aiken, SC, that facility is Aurora Pavilion, https://www.aikenregional.com/community-outreach/aurora-pavilion-behavioral-health-services, a division of the Aiken Regional Medical System.  Alternatively,  the Veteran’s Administration, Augusta Health, or possibly Augusta’s University Hospital may have similar, reasonably close, facilities. 

Following detox (usually a five day medically assisted treatment period,) a good second step would be a two week to one month stay at a rehab facility.  I took this second step twice (actually, three times.)  The first time was at a place called St. Simons by the Sea on St. Simons Island, Georgia.  The second time was at the Veterans Administration facility in Augusta, Georgia.  I would recommend either to your addict, if hem qualifies.  Had I known, I might have skipped the 5 day local detox and gone directly to the VA or St. Simons facility.  Both places also are more than able to provide the medically assisted detox if they have the beds when your addict becomes ready and willing.

Should this second step be out of reach (it often is quite expensive,)  a daily dose of Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous is, at a minimum, what I would recommend.  If you can, though, augment this with a weekly trip to a qualified psychologist.  Your addict needs all the help hem can get.

My third time was a bit more demanding.  Being an addict, I had finished my most current year in AA by picking up one more “blue chip,” AA’s way of saying “congratulations on having a year (or another year) in sobriety.”  I was in my current “first year away from my drug of choice” following my most recent relapse (relapse is a fact of life for addicts, you see,) and, several weeks later, when some friends came to visit for Thanksgiving, I had the thought:  “It will be different this time.”   Well, that’s the same thought I’d had prior to several previous relapses, but did I “remember” this?  Nooooooo!

Thanksgiving day, following an evening of drinking with our friends, I awoke to blue lights in the street in front of my house.  No more need be said here, though:  It’s in that second reference, the one to “My AA Story” in “blogspot.com” (above.)  Was it different, though?  Yes....  Quite.

In any case, I think I finally figured it out.  If you have an addict in your family, my hopes are that he or she (my “hem”) figures it out, too.

And the sooner, the better.

Politics, politics, don’t we all love politics.

My wife is, on occasion, an active Facebooker.  She also is currently being barraged (as are we all) by the current crop of political wannabes and “their” PAC’s and she has developed (as have we all) a certain amount of opinion from the experience.  Not too very long ago she decided she is not a “Republican,” nor is she a “Democrat.”  Nor is she (as am I) an “Independent.”  It seems she has done a good bit of reading about the “Libertarians,” probably due to my Cousin Joe’s posts, and that, so she says, fits her to a Tee. 

Fine.  Who knows, with the current selectees-apparent of the two “major” “parties, I could find myself on board with her too. 

By current “selectees,” I am counting on the opinions of the two so-called “leading” candidates, i.e., T. rump for the Reps and Hillary (Good Wife) for the Dems.  I guess one might ask why I have negative feelings about both these sterling candidates.  Well, no particular reasons—other than, perhaps, the following:

Let’s start with GW Hillary.  In spite of her long list of political qualifications, some of which the Reps may point out as being as much a negative as a positive for her, I just can’t understand why, in a country of 300 million people, anyone would think we would need not one, but two “Clinton” Presidencies.  The first “Clinton” Presidency will best be remembered by the phrase “I did not have sex with that woman!”  Now, the current Clinton candidacy  gives us: "I did not email any classified material to anyone on my email."  Why, oh why, would anyone want to bring that kind of “stuff” back to our oval office?  Who do you suppose might be invited to inspect the underside of our Presidential desk the next time we might invite a “Clinton” to occupy it?  Is there not a single person in the 200,000,000 (a WAG) or so eligible Americans who might be able to do as good a job as she?  I suspect there is at least one other—maybe a few thousand—who might do as good a job.  Maybe even T. rump (then maybe not.)  The Reps agreed we did not need another “Bush.”  What is taking the Dems so long to come to a similar decision?  We need a President—not a “Good Wife.”

Now—as to T. rump—you may have noticed how I have taken the liberty of slightly modifying The Donald’s last name to fit my own nefarious purposes.  In his own way, he is sort of a Tyrannosaurus, is he not?  He tried to eat a couple of lovely Ms’s early in the campaign, alienating quite a few of their sisters.  He tried to eat one of our two closest neighbors, wanting them to build a fence (“and they will pay for it.”)  He’s trying to eat quite a few of us when he singled out a religion for his Islamiphobic purposes, un-American though that may be.  The only question is: Who or what will he be setting his sights on next?  Is this presidential behavior?  Well, while it might be appropriate for the “Boss,” it is not and never will be “Presidential” behavior.  (My thoughts, “T. rump, ‘you’re fired!’”)

Candidates:  Zero for two so far.  How about those “Libertarians?”  My choice would have been Dr. Joseph G. Buchman.    Since, for some reason they selected a guy who’s already been dismissed by the voting public once, I’ll have to do some serious thinking here.  Dr. Buchman’s recommendation will probably carry the day, in this case, mainly because I happen to know just a bit about him (the good Ph.D.,) and he is one good judge of character.   And, as for that “Boss” business, if you want an interesting take on it, one you might have heard before, but one that seems to apply, you might go to: http://stephenvgeddes.blogspot.com/2012/12/oldie-but-goodie-what-it-takes-to-be.html .

Morningbrain, one more time.

Morningbrain, one more time.

God works in mysterious ways, or so it is said, and this morning he has given me thoughts from the day before to keep me from my sleep.  This isn’t the first time this has happened.  What to do?  Write, of course.

Yesterday, I had just finished collecting the various items we thought we needed that were defined on the 3x5 pad on the refrigerator.  I had been in Walmart and was in its parking lot, proceeding to unload my shopping cart into the trunk of my trusted steed, our Mitsubishi, when a man walked up and asked if I had a few dollars I could spare that he could use to buy something to eat.  This has happened before, and I said “sure.” 

Pulling my wallet from my back pocket, opening it to help him with his request, I told him if he had the nerve to ask, I certainly would not say no.  What’s the point?  Well, the credit cards were all there, but there was not a single one, two, five, ten, or twenty there, only that folded up hundred that I may or may not even have noticed at the time.  Sorry, I said, nothing but cards.  The guy wandered off.  I watched him as I finished up my business and sat down before the steering wheel.  Then I remembered the change that was always in the pocket of one of the doors.  Yep, enough there, I thought.  I started the car.  I could still see the man.

What happened next?  Well, perhaps this is where God took over.  The cars in the parking lot did not seem to want to cooperate with my need to drive to where I had last seen the man.  While I waited for a couple of them to move, I saw him walking towards Whiskey Road.  Still time, I thought.  The cars had other ideas.  He walked through some bushes at the edge of the lot.  I drove to the stop light near where he had gone.  Another car, turning right, was in front of me.  Not much traffic, but the car just sat there.  It did turn, after another minute, and I followed.  No man.  No man anywhere.  I put the change back in the door pocket and proceeded to drive home.  He would not get his couple of bucks, and I would have to be satisfied with knowing I had tried.

I’ve often thought I never would have to worry about having to worry about how to get a camel through the eye of a needle.  While my wife and I aren’t exactly rich, neither of us has missed a meal, or gone to bed hungry, (or wondered if we going to find a place to sleep that night, for that matter,) in a long, long time.  Maybe I do need to think about how I might get that camel through the eye of that needle.  “Rich,” like everything else, is relative.  So now I am up at 4:30, typing, instead of sleeping.

Thank you Lord.

Hope your man got some supper.

A little autobiography, perhaps?

May 31, 2016—Morningbrain, again.  I’ve been lying in bed (laying in bed?) (both?) for, I really don’t know, an hour or so, thinking, as I am wont to do from time to time, thinking about that little creation I’ve been working on called my “Autobiographical Trust.”  Finally I got up and made my way to the living room to engage my trusty companion from HP in the hope that I might remember enough of what I’ve just been thinking to come up with something interesting and useful.  First, though, some coffee?

Water’s heating up.  My thoughts are ranging from what to do next with the AT to how and where to include my “Last will and testament” in it.  Guess, in fairness to my wife and kids, the will should come first.  Then, maybe as a co-conspirator, the AT should be written along with copious notes to use in preparing the eventual autobiography that hopefully will follow.  Completion of the AT will enable its commercialization by providing a needed demonstration of the book’s usefulness to those who would consider buying it, as well as to those who I want to give it to, to allow them to get a start on their own works for their children (my grandchildren.)  I wish my dad and mom had written one of these (way too late for that, though.)  Guess I’d better get started before this old body goes the way of all bodies and makes my kids think the same thing about me.  Also guess I’d better clue Jennie in on what we need to be doing--ASAP, at that.

Water’s ready.  How anyone ever starts drinking coffee is a mystery.  Must be a lot of social pressure at work here.  Like the first person to try an oyster, that first coffee drinker must have been some determined SOB.  Still, after all these years, while recognizing the stuff really doesn’t taste all that good, it does smell and taste good. To me, anyway.  Ahhhh!

Now, where was I?  The AT.  I guess I need to do two things.  First, I need to write my AT (and, of course, that needed “Will.”)  Ah, here comes Tobi.  He just realized I’m not coming back to bed.  He’s now joining me in the living room, just not at the keyboard. 

The AT is the key, I suspect, to more than a few things.  First, it will give me something to sell that will be useful to John Q.  JQ is no different from me, even though he thinks he is.  JQ needs this, and writing mine will give him the demonstration he needs to know he needs an AT too.  Thoughts follow:

My AT will begin in Talladega, Alabama, on July 11, 1944.  Fitting, wouldn’t you say, for my “Book about Me?”  (Need to google that to find an author and pub date.)  Mom and Dad will be pretty big on that first page, since I have absolutely no memory of my own birth and first year or two.  Still, what the fledgling family was doing in the waning years of WWII in South Alabama is something that I must discuss.  The trick I will need to discover is what to put in my written comments and what to include as items on the adjoining page for eventual use in crafting the autobiography.  The written comments should be very readable, if obviously incomplete.  The reader will be able to see the adjoining items to know what will be addressed in the book proper, in any case, and the hand-written comments will give hem an idea of what he/she, her/him (the “hem”) will want to leave for hem’s progeny. 

After South Alabama, I need to go to Clarksville, Indiana.  Will need to check with Unkle Stu (since Marshall passed, just Unkle will do) to get some timing here.  Also need to see if he can remember where we went after Clarksville.  I’m thinking that was when we went to Richmond, VA, where I remember going behind the lunch counter in the Howard Johnston’s we were staying at and being shooed out by the friendly short-order cook.  Hmmm—it’s getting light outside, and the coffee cup’s empty.  Drinking too fast?  Writing too slow?  No nevermind—open blinds and refill cup.

Birds are getting their start on our feeders.  Guess the wild cats would appreciate a handful of dry food.  Need to fix and set the trap to start taking them to the SPCA for their neutering.  Can’t continue to raise this cat pack much longer.  Two “little greys” already out there.  Whole family is Grey, Mom (a mostly grey calico,) and three “little greys” from last season.  SPCA says they will neuter and return.  OK by me, but I have to do the catching. 

Somewhere about this time I ought to include a passage about “little Stevie” and his recital of “the Night Before Christmas.”   Also should talk about the stone blocks at Grandma Newbanks’ house.  Then on to Orangeburg—Lawrence, “fishing” for sticks, house beside the railroad tracks, Mary Sally, “eggs a la…,” Bro, broken leg, on to Ellis Ave Extension. 

So much for this “Morningbrain” write-up.  Time for AM news, eggs, and getting ready for the day.  Yikes!  What’s that?   Ahhhh…the morning wake-up from AT&T.  6:30 and time to call Jennie at Stash and Christy’s house to be sure her alarm went off too.  (It did.)  All is well in the world.  She’s taking care of the kids while S&C have a minivacation at Edisto (they’ll be back to get the kids on Wednesday, or so.)  Tamam.

      

ETV and my friend, Carl Brown

I just finished watching a SCETV program about “Idaho’s trial of the century,” a trial of a man named Haley who had been accused of murdering a governor or recent ex-governor (I’m not sure which is right) of Idaho in the late 1800’s or early 1900’s.  When I finished watching this program, I thought of an old friend named Carl Brown. 

Carl is an Aiken County farmer of note.  I have seen him on occasion on ETV(?) when questions about farming were being investigated.  Other than that, I have not seen Carl in over 50 years.  Still, I would consider him to be a friend.  We were friends when last we met and nothing has changed between us. 

As a boy and young adult (teenager,) Carl was good looking, fit, and stuck with a smile that never seemed to quit.  His hair was always in place (well, almost always,) precisely parted on one side, and just the right shade of brown to make even a Hollywood starlet forget any thought of hair dye.  He was taller than average, but not so tall as to be seen as a threat by any basketballer.  In short, he could be described with the phrase, “what’s not to like?”

Carl had a personality that was hard to criticize.  If he was ever angry, he kept it to himself.  He could listen without jumping in with an opinion even though he undoubtedly had opinions and would, I suspect, share them if asked.  As a fellow Scout, I’m sure when Carl repeated the Scout Law, he meant it, as did I.  If you know the Scout Law, you know that covers a lot of territory.

My father was an Explorer Advisor to both of us.  Dad liked Carl. 

Recollections, like a two-edged sword, can bring happiness, or regret.  In this case, I’m sure you know which edge is in play.

As to the story that got me thinking—it is a worthwhile tale, true tale at that, of a famous trial that happened in 1907 in Idaho.  The lawyers were preeminent in their day, the judge was without equal, and the jury was fearless.  The verdict may or may not have saved an innocent man from execution.  It was a penultimate example of American justice, though, and will remain so for as long as American justice is considered something of value.

Why did this program make me think of Carl Brown?  Simple—it was the jury.  The seven men on that Idaho jury were described as being Idaho farmers.  They were depicted as being concerned people intent on following the law and in rendering a correct verdict.  Which, according to the program, is what they did, in spite of their having to render a decision that they knew would be unpopular and, in the early twentieth century, not all that far away (especially in Idaho,) from America’s frontier days, one that would possibly put them in personal jeopardy.  Still, they followed the letter of the law and rendered the correct, if unpopular verdict.  

Carl could have been the chairman of that jury—and the result would have been the same.

Stephen V. Geddes, Aiken, SC, February 6, 2016.

Anyone with an interest in watching a really good PBS program (from Idaho PBS) should go to idahoptv.org/trial.  I don’t know how long a program it is, I began watching sometime after it began.  In any case, I suspect I’ll watch it again.  Just checked out the link:  It will give you a good description of the program and give you a chance to buy a DVD—which I just might do.  (It really is that good.)

Orangeburg et. seq. thoughts

Once, as a very young boy, I spent as much of my time as my mother could make me spend outside in the yard.  I remember doing this in Orangeburg on Ellis Avenue Extension and, later, in Aiken, at 1912 George Street, in Crosland Park.  The rest here will (mostly) be about my experiences in Orangeburg.

While in Orangeburg, Mama and Daddy (that’s what I called ‘em) had two houses (first one, then the other.)  The first one, a small white house with a lot of glass in the front, was on a busy city street (the main down town street, I think) right next to a railroad track.  I’m not sure how long we were at that first house.  I remember a couple of things about that stay, though.  Right across the tracks was a small old wooden house with maybe two or three rooms.  Two ladies lived there—the younger was named Mary Sally and the elder was her mother.  They may or may not have had electricity. I definitely remember a kerosene lantern on top of a table in the middle of the main room.   I can’t say if there were any other houses around or not.  The two houses on either side of the tracks was all there was in my world at that time. While I didn’t go to her house often, Mary Sally came to our house a good bit, mainly to be my babysitter.  I’m sure we were there when I was five years old since that was when my brother Jimmy was born and Mary Sally spent a good bit of time with me while Daddy was at the hospital.  I think she even taught me how to scramble eggs. 

I still make them the way she did, and when I do, I call them “Eggs à la Mary Sally,” scrambled in the pan with bacon drippings, heavy on the pepper, salted to taste. 

Mary Sally was mid-range in the melanin department, something that wasn’t something that made any difference to me or my parents.  New Albany, Indiana, where both my parents grew up, apparently did not have many blacks and I was never taught any customs requiring that they be treated any differently than anybody else.  This wasn’t the case in Orangeburg in the 1950’s, though, and I suspect my dad got a quick course by his boss, Mr. Strange, at the meat-packing plant.  None of that filtered down to me, though, and Mary Sally was just Mary Sally with no thoughts of race (or even a knowledge of what race was or that it should make any difference) ever occurring.  She was sweet, and I loved her. 

We left that house before my kindergarten year and went to an all-white neighborhood.  I think it was before I started kindergarten.  I’m really not sure.  Also, there was the time we were in an old home, or an attached cottage, near the downtown area, on the same street, I think, as that first white house by the railroad tracks, where we stayed for a short time when we first arrived in Orangeburg.  I think the owners’ were named “Cable.”  They had a yard man named “Lawrence” who liked to fish.  One day shortly after we arrived, Lawrence brought some live fish (could be they were eels) to the house and put them in a large tin coated wash tub under one of the trees in the yard.  I remember him trying to teach me how to fish using a cane pole.  By “how to fish,” I mean how to catch some small pine branchlets using the string on the end of my pole to wrap around the branches, “catching” them.   I don’t remember if I was any good at it, but I did enjoy trying.  At the time I was having a hard time walking.  Everyone was afraid it was polio.  Turns out, it was probably just me sitting on my legs in our not so old Chevy as we drove from wherever, maybe New Albany, Indiana to Orangeburg to start dad’s job.  After a few days’ pampering, I was up and running.  Close call—luckily not a horse shoe thing, though.

But enough early Orangeburg thoughts:  Moving on to Ellis Avenue Extension (how I remember that I really can’t say,) we were really moving up in the world.  Our house was an old farm house, I think, two storied, sitting in the middle of a one-time pecan grove.  It was owned by the Metts.  Mr. Metts, a jeweler, and his wife lived in a new brick house behind the house we rented from them.  They had two children, Hugo and his sister Annis (both much older than I.)  Annis was old enough to babysit, which she did on occasion. 

My best friend, Frankie, lived one fence climb away to the side of our house.  That fence got climbed a lot.  Frankie was a native born Orangeburger, and he spoke the language well.  One day he taught me a new word—“nigger,” as in “my nigger maid said…” something or other.  I, of course, took the word with me and used it in front of my parents as if it were nothing special (which was exactly what it was—until I used it.)  For some reason my parents took offense at the word.  Which was unfortunate for me since Daddy’s taking offense meant Stevie got a spanking.  I also got the explanation that I was not to use that word, period.  The spanking was just for emphasis, a point well taken, at that. 

Interestingly enough, I had one race-relations experience while living in Orangeburg.  There was a big pecan orchard between our houses and the houses in the next subdivision, which was, apparently, a black subdivision.  One day, while playing in that orchard, another kid came walking up.  We got to know each other and had a good play time (I don’t remember what we were doing, but we both had fun and agreed to meet the next day.)    

A woman who lived in one of the houses next to the Metts’ house noticed us and called my mom.  Seems little black boys and little white boys did not play together in Orangeburg in the early 1950’s.  I was counseled that night.  Still, I went to meet my new friend the next day.  I told him we couldn’t play together.  He told me his parents had told him the same thing.  Getting to know people of another color was something I did not have the opportunity to do until I became an “Airman.”  What a shame.  Sometimes heritage sucks. 

Frankie had his good points and his not so good points.  His speech patterns (of yore) were definitely, for me, one of his not so good points.  One thing I liked about Frankie was the fact that he had a BB gun.  He showed me how to use it, and I killed my first bird.  Seems I had a bit of a bloodthirsty streak in me at that time of my life. (I suspect this is normal for we “hunter/gatherers.”)  I didn’t get to use his gun much after that.  Don’t know why.  Maybe Mama and Daddy had a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Farnum.

I had a couple of other friends who lived next to Frankie and next to the Metts.  Phillip was one of these boys’ names.  They had a bicycle that they taught me how to use.  After riding that bicycle around their back yard for an hour or so, I got pretty good at it.  I did find out running a bicycle headlong into a pecan tree was not a good idea, though. 

There were two houses in front of ours, between our house and the road, one on each side of our driveway (the extension?)  Wicky Staib was an older boy who lived in one of the houses.  Wicky took a shine to me and showed me his BB pistol.  Actually, it was not quite a BB pistol.  It shot small lead shot smaller than a BB.  Wicky had a trap with spinning things in it that he used for practice.  It was fun.

**Warning to parents—the next paragraph should, perhaps, be X-rated.

The Clarks lived in the house on the other side of the driveway.  Patty was a year or two older than I was.  Patty got some cowboy boots one year and liked wearing them.  One day I made her mad, apparently (I don’t remember too much about the “why” here, just the “what.”)  Patty kicked me with one of her cowboy boots.  I wish I hadn’t had to learn just what is meant by the term “kick him in the balls,” but I did.  Guess I learned that lesson well, though, since that was definitely the one and only time for me.  Guess, since then, I’ve always been a bit protective of that area of my physique, especially around gals wearing cowboy boots. 

On the other side of Wicky’s (away from the Clarks) was a house with a couple of nice people (no children, though.)  They knew my dad; I think the man, a veterinarian, knew him from work.  She was a pretty lady who, I guess, had a day job.  Their name was Eberhard, I think.  

But enough about the neighbors.  I remember once playing in a sandbox we had.  I was “driving” a little plastic jeep, kind of a precursor to today’s’ SUVs.  I had a sand road and a sand hill built.  So much for that memory—guess it says I was OK with playing alone. 

Halloween was big in those days.  I remember going around the neighborhood.  I don’t know if I had adult escorts (suspect I should have had.)  I knew about soaping screens, and once saw a house with darkened windows with soaped screens.  Can’t say I ever laid my hand on a piece of soap on Halloween, though.

There was a creek that ran down a property line a couple of houses down on Ellis Avenue.  We explored the creek and learned we could find “mud puppies” by turning over a few rocks.  I took a couple home once.  I think they stayed a few days in a bowl and then were returned to the creek. 

We kids liked playing in empty lots.  We played baseball in one lot (and we played a lot!)  One summer part of the lot had a lot of broom straw.  We got together and built a mound of the stuff and the guy who had found some matches lit it.  The fire spread quickly (something we had not anticipated.)  We all ran home.  The local fire department came quickly and took care of the problem.  The kid who had found some of his parents’ matches found out one reason to not take those matches again.  I think it was one of my most memorable spankings.  By the way—the “sand lot baseball” we played served me well when we moved to Aiken.  My first year in “little league” saw me hit eight homers.  I could slap the fool out of that ball, and the field did not have a little-league fence.  If the ball went between two outfielders, it was a race—mine for home plate, theirs for the ball. 

The next year we played in a newly constructed little league ballpark.  Try as I might, I just couldn’t loft the ball out of it. Towards the end of the season, I’d just about given up.  The pitcher threw a fast ball, and I took a gentle swing, meeting the ball perfectly.  That was my one and only homer that year.  I still have the ball.

Oh, well—so much for Orangeburg, almost.  Memories of the first three grades boil down to painting--tempra painting, that is.  Lillith (or Lilly?) was the best artist in my class.  She did a painting that filled up her sheet with color.  I liked it so much, my next painting was a good copy of hers, style-wise, that is.  She may not have appreciated my compliment, if that was what it was, but I liked it. 

One other thing I should mention was my experience with electricity.  My parents and I went to the Metts’ house one night for dinner.  I guess I should describe the fare, and I would if it weren’t for the electricity part (actually, I have no idea what they were serving.)  That electricity part had to do with a lamp cord and a razor blade.  Seems if a lamp cord is caressed by a razor blade in just the right way, a “pop” may be heard and the room lights would go out.  This was my first overt experience involving electricity.  I wonder if that may have been one reason I decided to learn something more about it when I enlisted in the Air Force.  Guess it was a valuable experience, having served 26 years as an electronics technician in the Air Force and Air National Guard—most of which was free of the “pop” I had heard that night at the Metts’ house.

That’s about it for this topic.  Funny how things come back to you when you take the time to try to remember.

SVG  05 August, 2015-08-05

Politics--ours and our Iranian friends'

Morningbrain, sometimes, comes late.  Today it happened while watching George Stephanopoulos interview Rick Perry about his candidacy for the Republican presidential nomination.  Governor Perry, in addition to providing a great example of the “uh count,” also continued to astound with his mastery of the essentials of speech.  Now, here in South Carolina, we do have a Norway and a Denmark, and can speak of them proudly.  Gov. Perry, in discussing some point, the details of which escape my mind, blown away, perhaps, by his subsequent blunder, began his explanation (of something) by stating, “In Texas, from the Alamo to Afghanistan….”  Really, Gov?  Is there really an Afghanistan, Texas, or are you simply expanding your borders, perhaps to try to unseat Alaska as the largest state in the union?   While neither of these explanations rings true, what is obvious is Gov. Perry, following Donald Trump’s lead, is demonstrating how the Republican field will be winnowed away to a reasonable number by the demonstration of their lack of one definitive political skill.  That is, the current plethora of politicians will reduce themselves via the oral route.  (Two down, Chris Christy, and quite a few more, to go.) 

Another topic George aired was the negotiations over Iran’s nuclear program.  Our public needs to understand one thing (and we need to point out our understanding to our Representatives and our President and his team.)  Iran is a country run by a small group of politicized, religious despots.  These despots replaced a secular despot that the U. S. Government supported.  Hence, using “the friend of my enemy is my enemy” doctrine, the current despots despise “the great Satan,” America.  Iranians have one choice.  If they want the benefits of the great society they could have, they have to get rid of the despots.  The current ones, like the former one, will only leave under a great threat or actuality of force.  The heads of Iran are the very definition of the word despot, and their religious status should not give them cover.  

The Ayatollahs’ funneling public funds into warships, missiles, a non-peaceful nuclear program, and foreign surrogates, while giving no heed to the needs of their people, must be corrected.  The people of Iran need to take care of their problem if they wish to regain their status as a leader of their part of the world.