My AA Story

In Alcoholics Anonymous, anonymity is important.  Still, sometime it can't be maintained completely while using various opportunities to pass on the message.  That's what is happening here.  Dear readers:  Please accept this thinly veiled attempt to formally maintain an anonymous position, while passing on to my posterity an address that an AA member, Steve G, presented at an open speaker meeting in Aiken, S.C. early in 2015.  Be assured, that being an AA member does not convey to any individual the right to speak for the organization.  All any of us can do is to speak about our own "experience, strength, and hope."

February 16, 2015

First Christian Church

Aiken Central Group

Aiken SC

6:30 PM

My AA Story

The formula for an any AA's story is to tell 'em how it was, then tell 'em what happened, and, finally, tell 'em what it's like now--which is the formula for the following. 

First, though, I'd like to thank Golfer John for inviting me here tonight.  And I'd like to thank you, my first ever AA group, the Linden Streeters, the Aiken Central Group now known far and wide as the Honeybaked Hammers, or so I'm told.  Thank you for giving me this opportunity. 

And, oh yes, if anyone forgot to check their hammer at the door, please do so now.  (Rotten tomatos are bad enough.)

While I wasn't exactly an alcoholic at the time (although I did have the requisite genetic makeup,) I began my life journey in July of 1944 in Talladega, Alabama.  My parents were there with my dad working for DuPont making smokeless powder for the war effort, and they brought me with them, so to speak.  I'm not sure how long we stayed, but with the surrender of Japan in September 1945, the need for smokeless powder became much more limited than it had been during the war and, sometime after that, I suspect, we moved to southern Indiana, mom and dad bought (or rented) a house in Clarksville, Indiana, a town a short drive away from New Albany, the town where they both grew up.  For the record, although my memory fails me on this, I suspect I was not Alcoholic at the time.  Milk was my main nutrient and personal growth was the name of the game--by personal growth, I mean progressing from an initial seven plus pounds to whatever I could gain during that first year or so of life. 

Somewhere along the line my mom and dad had a party.  New Albany and Clarksville are both just across the Ohio River from Louisville, Kentucky, which once a year becomes the horse racing capital of the world with the running of the Kentucky Derby.  My dad was always something of an organizer, and a socialite, so the occasion of a Kentucky Derby was always to be a family occasion for a Kentucky Derby party. 

The highlight of the party was the race itself, and when it was happening, all the adults converged around the radio in one of the rooms to listen.  Unbeknownst to them, "little Stevie" at two or three years of age, took the opportunity to help his mother clean up by drinking whatever he wanted of the various libations that had been left around in one of the other rooms.  Needless to say, my memory of this incident isn't exactly precise.  I do think I can report I probably did not drink alcoholically on that, my first opportunity to imbibe, and the opportunity to do so again did not recur for a good many years (my parents were fast learners.)  Which is to say, my drinking days came to a swift halt.  "Little Stevie" was now a "teetotaler."

We moved.  Our address went from Clarksville to somewhere in the mid-west, I can't say where, but it was some place where there was a meat-packing plant.  Dad got a promotion and we moved again, I think to Richmond, Virginia.  To get that next promotion, dad had to change companies.  The company he went to work for, still a meat-packing plant, was in Orangeburg, South Carolina.  We stayed in Orangeburg while I grew as I became a kindergartner, then a first-grader, then a second-grader, then a third-grader.   My best friend, Frankie Farnum, lived a fence climb away to the Southeast.  That fence was climbed every day.  I learned to ride a bike, shoot a bb gun, catch "mud puppies" and build straw fires.  I probably shouldn't have learned that last skill since what I didn't learn first was how to keep the fire where I wanted it.  We burned up a quarter acre of broom sage straw one day, and since I was the one who struck the match, I was the one who caught hell.  (Catching hell wasn't exactly how I expressed it at that time, though--I was a good Methodist, you see, and the only one who was allowed to use that word, Hell, was the preacher.)  Also, as a good Methodist, my teetotaler needs were protected by my church since its official position at that time was a good Methodist did not drink. 

Times were different, then.  There was a large pecan orchard a street away from the house and we kids used it as a playground.  One day a black kid from the other side of the orchard was playing there too.  We got to know each other and met several times.  A lady from one of the adjoining houses noticed this and found out where I lived.  She contacted my mother, and I was told I was not to play with him.  I told him this the next day.  He said his mother had told him the same thing. 

The next time I had a chance to learn any race-relation skills was when I went into the Air Force in 1965.  Segregation in the South was total in those days, you see, and I was protected by the community.  Had this not been the case, who knows, maybe my friend could have turned me on to some shine. 

Towards the end of my third grade, dad moved again.  Seems they were building a new plant near Aiken, SC, and dad's DuPont experience was just the ticket.  He rented a house in Crosland Park and boy was that great.  There were kids everywhere!  The City was building a new elementary school just up the road, and Crosland Park kids were almost numerous enough to fill it up.  Somehow I was able to maintain my abstinence during this time, and still get along with the other kids.  For some reason, I never seemed to have problems with interpersonal relations despite the absence of alcohol during the rest (or almost the rest) of my public school days.  Why was that, I wonder?  The only problem I had in interpersonal relations was a lack of dating skills. 

As a matter of fact, even though I had that lack, I did my share of dating.  I just did not relate as well as many of the guys did, if you know what I mean.  (The girls' nickname for me was "the fog."  I never asked why.)  My loss, I guess, but, again, maybe not.  Drink, though, was able to punch a hole in my abstinence during my senior year.  A girl friend (two words) had parents who, apparently never had the problem my parents had with "little Stevie" and a rather substantial liquor cabinet was left unguarded during a couple of parties my girl friend and her girl friends threw towards the end of the school year.  Interestingly enough, my capacity for alcohol was considerable, giving me the drive home duties for my group.  One alcoholic genetic omen, I'd say. 

Also, luckily, or so I thought, for me, my church had changed its stand, now saying drinking was a matter of individual determination (so I determined.)  And, perhaps unluckily enough, was the fact that my other 12 step program did not discuss the problem.  Few scouts, at that time, were in need of alcohol abuse counseling.  I've since wondered, though, if I had stuck with that 12 step program (A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent--count 'em) would I have had the need for my current 12 step program.  Who knows? 

High school ended, and I headed to Atlanta to take a few engineering classes.  I didn't drink, though, it just wasn't convenient.  I also didn't work very well in an academic setting, and after a few years my school's group of Deans decided they could do without my questionable contributions.  It was 1965, Vietnam and the draft were in full force, and my student deferment was more than in danger.  I checked out all the services and the Air Force seemed to give me the best deal.  At that point in time, the Air Force was a good place to go to get a drink.  Honest!

After basic training, I was sent to Biloxi to take electronics training.  In addition to our studies, my group excelled in after hours beer drinking.  I definitely did my share.  How I managed to graduate with honors is anybody's guess.  I guess that alcoholic capacity began to shift into high.  In any case, after a little less than a year I was sent packing to Istanbul to provide communications for a diplomatic consulate that we had there in Turkey's largest and most cosmopolitan city.  Drinking in this Moslem country was nevertheless an option.  Our "NCO club" was a short elevator ride away from my room.  I drank daily, but not excessively.  I could go to the bar and drink two beers and leave.  Which is what I generally did.  The only time I remember getting drunk while there was when I was taking a sociology class.  I wondered how I might do on my tests after having had "a few."  One drink--no problem.  Next test, two drinks--still no problem--if anything, I did fairly well on the various discussion problems.  Three drinks didn't seem to help, but I was still passing.  Four shots on the forth test got me a visit to the professor.  Seems I started off all right but towards the end of the test he had difficulty reading my answers.  I passed, anyway.  I never repeated the experiment.  This wasn't alcoholic drinking, but it was a long way from my teetotaler days.

From Istanbul I traveled to Saigon.  The atmosphere was a good bit different from my previous assignment, to say the least.  I was shot at twice, once with rockets that missed the aircraft "charley" was trying to hit and killed a guy two barracks over from me, and once during "Tet" of '68 when "Uncle Ho" decided to show the world he could hit us anywhere and anytime he wanted.  We were "showed."  He could!  Drinking was a major pass time, and I definitely did my share.  Still, although I was drunk my share of the time, and in any other place one might have given alcoholism a thought or two, when I returned stateside I did not continue with the drink.  I still had no need for AA, and I still was able to drink like "normal" people.

Out of the service, and back from Vietnam, after begging my way back into Ga. Tech., I turned into a pretty good student.  I made the Dean's list a couple of times and graduated with a degree in chemistry.  Whoop-te-doo!  I drank moderately the whole time (three more years) with a couple of major exceptions.  One time I went to sleep in the hallway of an apartment building I managed, only waking up when one of Atlanta's finest asked me what the problem was (a resident had called him.)  Being the manager got me off that time.

 

The next time was when I was helping a drunk I had met at the "Stein Club" on Peachtree get to his home near Tenth Street close to what was called the "hippie district."   This time I got to see the inside of one of the City's "drunk tanks."  No real biggie, I'd say, my roommate bailed me out the next morning.  Still not an alcoholic, I'd say; still the progression was there.  

After graduation, I looked for a job in South Carolina.  I went to whatever Job Service was called at the time and the counselor there said they only had one thing that I might be suited for, a "chemist-bacteriologist" for the City of Columbia.  I told them I guess I should check it out (did I tell you while at Tech I took virtually all of my non-requisite course work at the "applied biology" department?)  I worked for Columbia at their newly constructed wastewater treatment plant off of Bluff Road.  I married during the first year and my wife Jennie and I began putting a family together, starting with twins (all my good planning, of course.) 

After three years I obtained a job with the City of Sumter as their wastewater treatment superintendent.  Jennie and I had another child while there.  Heavy drinking really was not an option, but I drank carefully.  After three years there, a job came open with the Oconee County Sewer Commission and we again moved.  I should have stayed there.  Instead, we made one more move.  Having been in Oconee (beautiful country up there) we went to south Mississippi to head a three-county sewage commission.  We managed four years down there and while I did my part to get the required facilities constructed, I began to drink less moderately and more often.  Of course I wasn't an alcoholic (I read everything the local library had on the subject.)  How could I be an alcoholic and be able to take off from drinking every lenten season?  Of course I had a beer in hand every Easter morning. 

Consequently, I got myself fired.  We moved back to my hometown, Aiken, and both of us went to work.  The one good thing that came from this was bringing our kids to a school district that would give them the training they needed to succeed at life.  Southern Mississippi was, after all Southern Mississippi.  If South Carolina was 49th in some parameter, Mississippi was 50th.  Unfortunately my drinking was becoming alcoholic, and that made work difficult, at best. 

We worked to support ourselves and our children.  Pell grants helped a lot with their educational needs.  The children, now young adults, all did well.  I drank more.  Why?  Well, let me quote a fellow Linden Streeter:  "I'm an alcoholic, that's what we do."  (Thanks, Mike.)

Jennie and I separated (her choice.)  Drinking was the reason.  Luckily, I had a place to go.  You've heard of 40 something men living with their mothers?  Well, I tried it.  After a while my mother figured out what the problem was with me.  She had a man from the church come by and talk with me.  I stumbled up the stairs at 123 Linden Street. 

They told me to read the first 164 pages of the Big Book.  I did.  They told me to come to 90 meetings in 90 days.  I did, and then some.  They told me to get a sponsor.  I asked a guy I knew would make a good sponsor and he agreed.  He said, give me a call.  I never did.  Guess I thought I knew everything I needed to know.  I read more literature.  I kept coming to meetings and picking up chips.  They gave me a blue chip.

I drank.

Actually, what I did was to pronounce myself cured.  And, being cured, I knew it would be OK to drink.  After all, I had been sober for 365 days, had I not?   Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, and Jack Daniels could no longer have their way with me!  I was cured!   Riiiiiiiiiiiiight............

It took me a year to get back to AA.  This time I would do things a bit differently.  The main thing was the problem with having a sponsor but not using the services of a sponsor.  I tried again.  It worked.  My sponsor and I attended the same meeting daily.  Paul M. and I talked, at length, at least once a week.  He filled in the blanks and answered questions I didn't even know I had.  He heard my fifth step.  I joined the group. 

And that was it, right?  Well, not exactly.  You see, that term "hard headed alcoholic" does not just apply to that guy who always used to use it to describe himself.  It applies to many, many, many of us.  I don't remember if I stayed sober three or four years after that second start, all I know is I stopped going to meetings and went back out. 

Some time later, I came back in again.  That has happened at least five times since I first walked up those stairs at 123 Linden Street, and every time I went back out something else happened to drive me back in that was worse than anything that had ever happened before. 

My last "bottom" happened six years and several months ago.  You may remember seeing my mug shot on the front page of the "AikenStandard."  It seems I drank, blacked out, and ended the evening by pointing a .380 at my long suffering wife.  She did the right thing and summoned help.  The combination of the act and a publisher of a paper that did not particularly appreciate the suggestions I used to make from time to time, concerning deficiencies of his paper and its reporting, resulted in his taking the opportunity to criticize my actions on his paper's front page.  What could be worse? 

Every time I went back out I had one thought:  "It will be different this time."  If I ever have this thought again, I will call any or all of a dozen AAs I know and drop in on the first of them who will have me.  I will go to a meeting, and then to another meeting.  I will go to a church, or possibly many churches.  I will check into a detox facility.  My thought "It will be different this time" was true every time I had it:  It was always different:  It was always worse.  And, what can be worse than my last?  Well, I could have pulled the trigger. 

It took me 30 days, or more precisely, it took my brother 30 days to convince my wife I did not belong in the Aiken County Detention Center--that it would be all right to put our house up as collateral for my bond.  When I got out I spent a week in Hotel Aiken while I looked for a place to stay.  Christmas came and I had my Christmas turkey out of a 6 ounce can.  Was I going to meetings?  You bet!  As often as I could, I went to those meetings.  I found a place to stay (a long-time friend, Dick S. was instrumental in this.)  I got a vehicle from a grandfather-in-law.  I invested in a local lawyer (he would call it a "retainer") and began the work of making a defense of my actions.  

I found out not only the alcohol but also a prescribed medication, simvastatin, could have caused the blackout and behavior I was charged with.  A double chemical whammy, I'd say.  I've taken neither since my arrest (the alcohol) or a couple of months after the arrest (the statin.)  I talked with my children.  I talked with my wife.  I still have no memory of what happened that night.  I hope I never remember it.   

Eventually, my wife decided to give me one more chance.  I'd have to say one last chance would be a better statement of fact.  We are back together, somewhat comfortably retired with social security and a small military retirement (20 plus years with the South Carolina Air National Guard.)  Had we divorced we would be like some I know, uncomfortably retired with insufficient funds to maintain the two residences we would require. 

Like my wife, the court system also decided to give me one last chance.  While my actions could have resulted in five years' interment in the state prison system, the lack of a witness willing to testify along with my personal admission of guilt, in spite of having no memory to back up that admission, and a judge's realization that my "record" was virtually nonexistent resulted in time served plus five years' probation, which time is or shortly will be up.  

My wife and I have a dog she found at Molly's Militia.  He weighed two pounds when we got him. He's more like thirty today.  We call him our menopause dog.  We also have a sweet old puddy tat we call K-2 that walked up one day as a kitten and stayed.  We have several goldfish that we protect from the neighborhood raccoons with an electric wire around their pool.  A 'possum calls our front porch walkup home, and a feral cat drops by twice a day for handouts as do numerous seed or suet eating birds and a troop of the prettiest squirrels anyone would ever need.  Our kids are all prosperous, our grandchildren are well, and life is good.  Of course, I know how to change all that, and I pray God will help me remember what I have to remember and do what I have to do to not bring to bear any such change.

My personal program for sobriety today goes something like this:  First, I begin each day with a reading from the “Daily Reflections.”  This reminds me of my alcoholism and my need to maintain my contact with the program.  Next, I continue to work the program of Alcoholics Anonymous.  Using a second AA book, the "Twelve and Twelve," and many hours of my one-time sponsor's time, I have worked through all the steps and continue to actively utilize steps 10, 11, and 12 for maintenance.  I go to two meetings a week with the New Ellenton group.  I like to think we are a small but distinguished family.  I talk with other AAs and emailingly correspond with them daily. 

12th step work, too, is important to me.  You can find me at Aurora Pavilion twice a week, something I have been blessed to do ever since Frank G. invited me to drop in when he was leading those meetings.  I have seen people pass through Aurora and join our various AA groups to begin to grow as only an AA member can.  The several of us who go to Aurora today know those we are serving will not all find success for themselves, but they will provide those of us who use them as an opportunity to give back to the program one vehicle we need for our success. 

Do I experience cravings?  No.  I once did, but that, thankfully, was many 24 hours ago.  Do I want to drink?  No way.  The only thing I miss about drinking is the taste of the various elixirs I used to use.  I can do without those tastes, though.  That's a small price to pay for serenity.  Do I give much thought to my sobriety?  Other than when someone does something like ask me to be somewhere and do something like Golfer John asked me the other day, no.  And why do I say that? 

Well, I've thought myself out of my sobriety at least five times in the last twenty-one years and I'm not willing to risk doing it one more time.  There are a lot of reasons out there to drink.  Take resveratrol for example.  Some scientists say that would be good for my heart.  It would take just a little cabernet sauvignon with my evening meal for me to get all the resveratrol I might need, I suspect.  Big deal. 

If I really need resveratrol, I can get it in purified form in pills.  Why should I bother giving any consideration to this or any other so called reason to do what I have already, too many times, proven is something that is critically bad for me?  Spending time on any so-called "reason to drink" is, for me, a waste of time, and a dangerous one, at that.  If and when I want to think about something useful, though, I start with the serenity prayer.

I use the serenity prayer along with our paragraph on acceptance as my own personal mantras and repeat them whenever I feel the need.  Acceptance really is the answer to all my problems today.  It is my vehicle to serenity in my day-to-day life and it provides me with the answer to questions that have no answers. 

I watch my thoughts for that phrase "it will be different this time" and pass this knowledge on whenever and wherever I can, yes, it will be different--and if you're thinking about returning to drink, just know it will always get worse. 

And I remember daily to reaffirm my commitment to sobriety, a commitment that makes me say I am again a teetotaler, just as I was when I began life.  It's funny:  While "teetotaler” was once a dirty word in my lexicon, it's now something I'm proud of.  In becoming a teetotaler, again, and in making that commitment, I first must remember that I once made a commitment to drinking, a strong, enduring commitment that made me a stalwart defender of my disease and almost placed me in line with many of my cohorts to assure for myself a permanent place in a mental institution, or jail, or death.  I personally know people who have chosen each of these for themselves. 

Death, of course, comes to virtually all of God's creatures and must be accepted, sometimes with joy, when God brings it to us.  The other two ends, though, I, personally, have already had more than enough of.  Two weeks at “Focus by the Sea” is something I enjoyed, but would not wish to have to repeat, especially at 700 year 2006 dollars a day, and to spend another 30 days in Aiken County’s Wire Road Detention Center would be a total waste of time for anyone who wasn’t totally hooked on turkey baloney sandwiches. 

My commitment today to sobriety is a commitment that, God willing, this "hard headed alcoholic" will maintain above all others till, hopefully, I join my humble friend (one of many) Tom C. who, during my early days in AA, reminded me daily and without fail to just "keep coming back."

Humility, acceptance, serenity, and service--these are keys that must be learned, used and always remembered and observed.  When I add to this a personal absolute commitment to sobriety and the knowledge that I can, and must "keep coming back," I believe I will be able to own the assurance that this time, it will indeed, be different.

And thanks to all of you for your service, your AA service, of course.  Every meeting you attend is your opportunity to 12th step someone, and sometimes you will do it without even realizing what you are doing.  Thanks.  Today you have helped me.

SVG

   

Colonoscopy Notes

Colonoscopy is an  AmericanCancer Society recommended procedure for men and women over the age of 50 who have an average risk of developing colorectal cancer.  The results of one such procedure are documented below:  Apparently all is not particularly rosy in South Carolina when it comes to a patient's ability, under state law, to obtain damages for mistakes, or accidents resulting from the Doctor's failure to follow that most basic of all requirements of the Hippocratic Oath, "above all, do no harm."  Harm seems to be acceptable in South Carolina so long as it may be defined as a "known complication" of a given medical procedure.

Of course traffic accidents are a "known complication" of driving, are they not? Still, if someone T-bones you at an intersection while you are proceeding to negotiate a green light, you will have the opportunity to seek legal recompense.  Of course you are not a protected species as is, say, a colonoscopist whose actions in performing his task may be enabled and made sacrosanct by our state legislature under its legislation covering doctors and their insurers in malpractice situations. 

The following "Colonoscopy notes" describe a procedure done 10 September, 2012, at Aiken Surgical Center, in Aiken SC by Dr. Afsar Waraich the physician; Stephen V. Geddes the patient and writer.

 

                                    Colonoscopy notes 

I arrived at Aiken Surgical Center at 1:45 PM, a bit more than one hour (per instructions) early to fill out needed paperwork.

At 3 PM I was taken to preop.

A short time later I was taken to the procedure room.  Dr. Waraich and his anaesthesiologist were there.  They administered a general anaesthetic and I went "under."

Things happened.

About 4:00 to 4:45, I estimate, I was returned to preop, now the recovery area.  When asked how I felt, having no pain, I said fine.  I may have mentioned bloating--I don't really remember.  If I was asked about it, I would have answered to the best of my ability, I'm sure.

About 5 PM, the closing time for the Center, I was wheeled to my car.  The nurse asked me how I felt.  I told her I felt a bit bloated.  She said "That's the gas.  It will pass."  My wife then drove the two of us home.

After two hours with no passage of gas, feeling, essentially, as I did when I left the Surgery Center, I called Dr. Waraich.  He told me to give myself an enema.  This I did, sitting on a commode.  The only problem was the water ran out of me as fast as I squeezed it in.  I have given enemas before, and this never was a problem.

I called Dr. Waraich, about 8PM, and explained the problem.  He told me to give myself another enema, but this time to lie on my side as I was giving it.  He also said if I felt nauseous or feverish, to go to the ER.

As my wife prepared a bed, laying down plastic and towel material, I tried to push the gas out, sitting on the commode.  I "pushed" extremely hard.  I was finally successful (I really did not want to give myself an enema on my bed.)

I called Dr. Waraich back and told him of my success.  I told him I was now "farting like a racehorse" (somewhat something of a mixed metaphor, but I think he knew what I meant.)

I sat back down on the couch and continued to vent gas while watching television.

About 10 PM I got up to urinate.  I found out as long as I sat on the couch fairly quiet, I felt fine.  Getting up changed that.  My innards definitely felt bad.  I told Jennie we needed to go to the ER.

About 10:20 we were at the ER at Aiken Regional Medical Center.  Vitals were taken, and I told them I needed to lie down (less pain.)  Trish, a friend, was on duty as nurse assistant(?)  ER Doc Garrett listened to my symptoms--very full gut (still full of gas?), crampy, right shoulder hurting.  He said that might be from gas in the body cavity.  He ordered a CT scan, a morphine shot, a quart of gatoraid with iodide.  Got the scan, through the donut hole.

Maybe the morphine took over.  In any case, I met my surgeon, Dr. Chase.  He is not sure where the problem is and needs to take a look.  He will go in laparoscopically, and find and fix the problem that way if possible.  He may need to make a larger incision.

Midway through the surgery, his findings were  passed to wife Jennie.  The larger incision was needed.  A 2 to 3 inch tear was found in the caecum (cecum.)  Repair was effected by removal of the cecum with the attached appendix, and the ileocecal valve, and a bit of large intestine.  The small and large intestines were then joined together.

I was taken to room 402 where my stay was uneventful.  Dr. Waraich came by a couple of times--we didn't discuss the problem.  Dr. Muniz, my GP, came by at my request, as did Dr. Chase.

I was discharged on 15 Sep.

Thoughts on the above:

1)  At Aiken Surgical Center, I was the last patient of the day.  My leaving coincided with the center's closing time.  If degassing was attempted at all, perhaps it was not done with much care since the need to close the facility was one concern and the discharge of the "room gas" was apparently expected to be something that would occur as a matter of course.  Why CO2 was not used for the procedure, a state of the art method used as a matter of course in many facilities to minimize post-procedure difficulties for the patient, is not known.  It was never discussed with me as an option, and the use of CO2 was something I learned about much later.

2)  I never told anyone at the Surgical Center I had any pain because there was none.  I did feel the bloating, though, in my gut.  I experienced no pain until after I had forced some gas out of my body by pushing--the same thing I would have done had I had a recalcitrant, too dry fecal discharge due to some unavoidable delay in being able to access or use a restroom coupled perhaps with a too-high-in-fiber diet the day before.  Never before had I had any difficulty discharging any gas that may have accumulated in my intestine--probably because I had never before had my gut pumped full of air and a sigmoid volvulus generated by the combination of the gas and, perhaps, a rather thoughtless, perhaps hasty withdrawal of the colonoscopy instrument.  Why a sigmoid volvulus?  Well, some sort of obstruction was keeping the air in, and there was no significant fecal material there--it had all been cleaned out by the pre-colonoscopy diet and purging requirement.  What else, but a twist of the sigmoid, the last stage of the large intestine prior to the rectum and anus, would have prevented the enema from going in while preventing the gas from going out?

3)  If I had been told not to try to force the gas out, to let it come out on its own accord, that is what I would have done (of course, it wouldn't have worked.)  If I had been directed to go to the ER for intubation to get the gas out, that is what I would have done.  Lacking instruction, I did what I knew how to do--I pushed.  While everyone I have told this to has thought it was improbable, I think I blew a hole in my cecum trying to get Dr. Waraich's gas out.  Dr. Chase's notes say the cecum appeared to be beat up and the wound he found was described as a 3 inch longitudinal serosal tear with no definite penetration and a mucosa that appeared beat up. He also states there was pneumatosis of the cecum.  Could the colonoscopist have done this and been unaware of the damage he caused? Doubtful.  As a matter of fact, there was a picture of the cecum in Dr. Waraich's report on the procedure.  Was the problem my fault?  Truth of the matter is this:  Dr. Waraich put the gas in there, and, in retrospect there appears to be no doubt he should have removed it as part of the procedure. The Doctor's  "informed decision (or guess)" that it would be OK to discharge me without deflating the gut (what apparently happened,) perhaps to avoid overtime payments to the Surgical Center (I left at "quitting time"), was an informed mistake.  Had he left a glove in there, or a piece of the colonoscopy instrument, there would be no question as to his culpability.  The fact that the material he left there was in the gaseous as opposed to a solid state should not relieve him of his responsibility for what happened as a result of his "informed decision." The fact that I worked hard to push the gas out is immaterial, since I received no instructions to the contrary--I was only told, "it will pass."

What damage was really done?  None, some would say, unless you count having to take a dump several times a day instead of the usual once.  Unless you find yourself walking a trail and have to take a dump but cannot due to the nearness of civilization.  Unless you are in the middle of a Walmart when the need happens and you find all the stalls in use.  The looseness of my bowel material due to the lack of a cecum, the place where much of the water is  removed (it has the least thickness of all of the bowel, about 1mm) is something I have had every day for the last two years and it is something I will have till the day I die.  I have "messed my pants" more than a few times.  I consider this a major inconvenience, and feel some sort of compensation is due.  Put yourself in my place.  What would you expect.  The Doc was paid for his work, defective though it may have proved to be.  His insurance should pay for my inconvenience and disability, just as certainly as his automobile insurance would pay if he had accidentally caused a vehicular incident that left me in this condition.  The fact that I am not dead or dismembered should not relieve Dr. Waraich and his insurance company of any responsibility to pay whatever the legal system might consider reasonable--be it a dollar or the maximum allowable amount per our state legislature's highly lobbied law limiting payments for malpractice. 

Given the relatively small amount of compensation available per the law, and the costs for filing such a lawsuit, it seems to me that the legislature should be notified that their law is unfair to the person having what should be a small settlement and having little means to pay, up front, the relatively large amounts required to obtain legal and medical counsel in order to be able to simply file and prosecute a claim.  Justice should not be something that must be bought.  It is, though, or at least it was for me, under the terms of the state law on malpractice suits. The legislature lost sight of this when they wrote their law.  I experienced more than just difficulty in finding a lawyer to take my case because it was not a slam-dunk, and they do not find the legal potential for profit to justify their participation.  What I experienced was a total inability to find a lawyer willing to take the case. 

Because of these considerations, I feel, instead of no consideration at all, I should have been compensated with the maximum amount available by law--$375,000 (and expenses) to: 1) Notify the legislature they should re-examine this law for reasonability understanding the difficulty the average person will experience should he need to try to obtain justice given the current constraints of the law and; 2) notify insurance companies, especially Marsh, Inc. of JUA, that they are in a position to determine liability and should so do and not simply deny potential claimants a settlement--their stated position--knowing the economics of filing would cause many of them to dry up and go away regardless of the justness of their claim;  and, 3) while I know the economic costs of buying supplies to use in dealing with my disability is relatively small, the fact that almost anyone would totally dislike the added need to deal with their bodily elimination function, the wiping and the washing, etc., as often as I am forced so to do is not something I would wish on you or on myself, or even on our legislators.  My condition makes everything I do more difficult:  shopping, traveling, enjoying our parks, going to meetings, e.g., everything I might do is liable to be interrupted in order that I deal with the problem Dr. Waraich has "given" me.

Well, as I said, I was unable to obtain legal representation.  Specifically, I contacted at least five legal firms specializing in malpractice cases and none would take my case.  I contacted several "expert witnesses" and found they would only speak with a plaintiff's legal representatives.  I had two years to file a complaint, under the terms of our state law, and was unable to so do.  So, I guess I must bear the burden of my condition with no compensation.  Is this fair?  Our current state legislature thinks so.  I think they all should be fired for their lackluster performance in crafting this law (of course they probably did little to craft anything.  They seem to have passed a law that was provided by legal lobbyists for the doctors' insurance firms.)  I guess what we had when this was passed was a medical-legislative alliance, something akin to the industrial-military complex President Eisenhower warned us about.  Goodness--where do you go to find a good President (or, on the state level, a good Governor) when you need one.  

Oh, well--guess I've gotta stop.  I need to go take a "waraich" (sorry, Mr. Craps, my condition requires a slight redefinition of the vernacular, for me if for nobody else.)  And, Doctor, should the term catch on, you have only yourself and your insurance company to blame.  Think it'll catch on?  Well, strange things do occasionally happen, but in this case probably not--the four letter term seems to be the norm for material such as this. 

One note (that is probably obvious to the reader, but that should be made completely clear at this point.) This has not been written by a Doctor, or by an Attorney, and no inference should be made other than what one might make by understanding it was written by a patient, and one who has experienced uncompensated loss from a local doctor.  To express my feelings in another way, one easily understood in our "horsey community," I feel I have been "rode hard and put up wet."  And, if you don't want to find yourself in the same situation, maybe you should be very careful about what colonoscopist you choose if you elect to have this procedure (a recommended one, for sure) done to yourself.

   

Conservatism, or regressivism?

June 30, 2014, 3:43 AM.  Morningbrain time, without a doubt.  I've been lying in bed for an hour, now, and my brain has been running over thinking about a number of things that I've done (or half-done) over the last few years.  Forty-five minutes ago, I took an antihistamine.  A few minutes ago I took a dose of valerian root.  Maybe the combination of the two will convince my brain and body there are better things to be doing at this particular time of day--at least that's my hope. 

In any case, here I am trying to get my fingers and keyboard to collaborate a bit over one of the ideas that seem to be running through my head.  That thought has to do with the political "conservative." 

In the true sense of the word, as I understand it, I would have to call myself a conservative.  In any case, I am at a point in life where change is not a friendly concept.  Keeping up with what is, or has been the case is about my speed these days, and changes only seem to complicate matters.  Still, I'm sure many political "conservatives" these days would want to label me as a "liberal" since my inclinations seem to move in directions that mirror those thusly stigmatized.  Global warming seems, to me, to be a fact, at least in the lives of the polar bears who are losing habitat in the north, and in the decline of the Antarctic ice cap that seems to be in danger of floating off towards who knows where.  Public education seems to need all the help it can get.  If the kids aren't getting what they need to be good citizens at home, they sure need to get the training somewhere.   The "middle class" seems to be dwindling and along with it our moral values.   And, along with that "middle class," American centrism seems to be becoming a thing of the past. 

I guess my kind of conservatism would require a redefinition of those who now consider themselves to be political conservatives.  These individuals are the ones who have contributed so much to our current "do nothing Congress."  Really, the "do nothing-ers" are not living up to that moniker.  They are doing quite a lot. 

Just let our President present a proposal to the Congress.  What happens?  At that moment (or milliseconds after the proposal goes public,) the do nothing-ers proceed to trip over one another trying to point out exactly what is wrong with the proposal and why it should be quashed.  And are these responsive thoughts particularly well thought-out?  To the extent that the Presidential proposal was well thought-out, the do nothing-ers' proposal is also well thought-out, in a 180-degree out sort of way.

Should the proposal be, for example, to dye the national mall reflecting pond green for St. Patrick's day, the do nothing-ers would say "no way.  Dye would not be in our national interest."  Of course, some might say, "OK, if dye it we must, dye it, but dye it red.  Green is too close to blue, you see, and red would be a nice touch, wouldn't you think?" (This would come from those who do not want to be seen as being "do nothing-ers.")  In either case, the President would receive his criticism from those whose raison d'etre is criticism, and all would proceed in the town that recently has made the term "snails pace" look like a fast race.

Maybe if the "do nothing-ers" were called "regressionists" those of us who feel like conservatives but then find ourselves in poor company would begin to fit the classification again.    "Conservative" really should not imply turning back the hands of time.  But turning back the hands of time seems to be what the current batch of political conservatives seem to want to do. 

"Regressionists" seems to fit the bill nicely.  Perhaps, if this term may be put into play, we can leave it to the new "regressionists" to determine what, if any, difference there might be between the new "regressionists" and the new "true regressionists."  This just may give them something constructive (?) to do and give our President a needed break. Who knows--maybe, just maybe, a useful bill might even eke its way through the Congress, while all this redefinition is taking place, and find itself on the President's desk for signature. 

Now, if only he is able to remember where he put that pen.

Mom's vacation--a family thing

Somewhere in the Geddes archives, I found a small, black book, one quarter inch thick by three and a quarter inches high and two inches wide.  In it, on blue scribed, quarter inch rulings, I found my Mother’s handwriting.  I have very little material of this nature, so, for the family’s posterity, I’m transcribing the writing she made in this small black journal, it having the identifying marking “National 1369 ½,” with a hand written “.20” (probably it’s cost) at the top, on the back of the front cover.  The divisions are by page.

It was written by Elizabeth Ann Newbanks (I recognize her hand.) The following is quoted directly from her journal in its entirety:

Sun – July 5, 1936  Left home 7 a.m. in new Ford V-8.   Ran into some rain and thus had to discover window wiper.  Stopped at Kirkland and got a chocolate soda.  Went straight through to Michigan City,

arriving there at 1:30 p.m.  Ate lunch at Milner Hotel.  Went with Bill and Luckman boys to the lake but was too cold to go in.  Monday night went to show with Julia Kramer.  Tues. July 7, 1936.  Started at 8:30 a.m. on trip to Charlevoix.  

Beautiful scenery—along lake most of time.  Stopped at Holland Mich. for lunch.  Dutch waitresses, etc.  Stopped at Charlevoix over night at Hoover’s Inn.  Nothing but resort town.  Pretty harbor right across street from Inn.

Wed. July 8^th, 1936  Started for Mackimaw City at about 9 o’clock.  Arrived there at about ten thirty.  Stopped and got a drink at an attractive Indian lunch & souvenir place.  Took the Algonquin II over to Mackinac Island (which is only

called Mackinac because of mailing convenience—really Mackinaw Island.  Ate at Toms Restaurant and then found two very nice rooms at St. Cloud Place large 3 story house about 2 blocks from town.  Took a 9 mile sight-seeing tour

around  or all over the island and through the state park on the island by horse and buggy.  Autos are not allowed on the island.  We left our car right on the dock they put it right on the steamer.  It was on the island that the

war of 1812 was supposed to have been fought.  We saw the Sugar Lump, a huge stone standing up high in the middle of a forest.  Fort Holmes, on the top of the island; the devils kitchen; and several other historical points.

Almost the whole down town is made up of souvenir places.  A lot of bicycles are used here also.  The buggys are all lined up (about 30 of them) on the main street ready to receive passengers from the numerous large boats that dock

at the island.  I met a couple of girls from Detroit who were rooming at the same place.  We walked down to the Grand Hotel ($20 a day minimum charges) that night and looked into the exclusive shops in the lobby.  Of course

we stayed there and listened to the music of Billy Baer coming from the Blue Room in the hotel.  It also has a large swimming pool but I didn’t get to see it.  We went in the drug store and then came home at about

12 o’clock.  Thursday July 9^th ’36.  After breakfast Henrietta and I went to see the fort on the top of the hill.  It sure is some climb.  There is a museum inside and a large display of guns and other old relics.  We wanted to go

speed boat riding around the island but the man couldn’t find enough passengers—so we missed out on that trip.  The Octmara was an hour late so we didn’t leave until 5 o’clock.  My the meals on the boat.

You can have anything and everything you want—mostly more than you want!  We got our costume (gypsy women) and got ready for the big mascarade held that night.  Had a grand march and then voted

on the cleverest & most beautiful & funniest costume.  A lot were original.  The cleverest was a lady dressed like justice with a white sheet wrapped around her and two balanced weights in her hand.

the most beautiful was a little girl dressed in a chimeee deamona to represent a Chinese girl.  The funniest was “Romeo” a fat man dressed in a suit of newspapers with a tri-comf hat made of the same.  Really funny!

We danced for awhile then changed our clothes and went up on top deck to watch the ship go through the Soo Canal.  There were so many lights on the St. Mary’s river that I got all mixed up.  I thought

a boat in front of us was the locks for a long time  It took us a long time to even get to the lock.  We had to stop for a while by the Soo Canal before we entered.  Some small kids were down on the

docks yelling “Flip a Coin.”  (At 1:30 in the morning.)  Several people would through down money and they’d all scramble for it.  The little boy about 4 years old even sang a song for us.  At about 2 o’clock we passed through the Soo

locks.  Then I scrambled for my berth.  I believe if the waves were splashing over the deck I would have slept anyway, I was so sleepy.  Oh yes, all during the trip there wasn’t even a wave  Just as calm or

calmer than the river.  Quite unusual for any lake especially Superior.  So—I did not get sea sick.  Friday., July 10^th.  Had breakfast at about 9 o’clock.  Biggest breakfast I’ve had in my life.  Henrietta and I

walked 8 laps around the boat to kind of walk the meal down.  8 laps is one mile on the Octnara.  Played ping-pong and hosed around the recreation room for a while.  Ate a big fish dinner

The best fish on earth.  A lady read Henrietta’s & my palm—telling me that I would always be well taken cared of and waited on !   Have a couple of love affairs and so on!  Went to bingo party and won $2 on       

last hand.  I even surprised myself.  Went up on top deck and watched us go through another river which cut up the penninsula.  Ate supper and then went to Stunt night and song festival

We all gathered together and sang old songs.  Mazo, the Master of Ceremony picked out three men and they had a race of drinking milk through a nipple.  A scream Romeo said that if it would have

Been beer he could have won but, unfortunately, it wasn’t!  Had a game with representatives from different states in it (I was for Indiana).  Mazo would point to (for example) his nose and say

this is my eyes—1,2,: etc.  By ten you were supposed to reverse it and point to your eye and say “this is my nose”  A lot of fun.  Ohio won.  After all the stunts we danced.  All the boys I danced with were grand

dancers.  Mazo danced a couple of dances with me—and has he got personality!  I’m going back next year and be his secretary for the ships’ paper!  (Oh yeah!)  Went to bed earlier because we had

to be up by seven.  Saturday, July 11^th   Docked at Duluth at about 7:30 a.m.  Ate breakfast on the boat and then went on a sight-seeing tour of Duluth.  It is all built on a hill and every block you either

have to walk up away from the town or down into the town which is a couple of blocks from the lake.  Duluth is a big country use town.  Left Duluth at about 11 o’clock and started for

Minneapolis.  Ate lunch at Monse Lake.  A cute little place by the side of the lake.  It was a 109 in the shade at a little town we stopped in to get a drink.  Sure was hot.  Arrived in Minneapolis at

about 5:30.  Stopped at Hastings Hotel.  Ate nice dinner and went in town to the show, Minnesota.  Some show.  Saw Clark Gable and Janette McDonald in “San Francisco.”  Grand picture.  They also had

Lew Forbes and his orchestra on the stage.  They sure were good.  Sunday, July 12^th  Ate breakfast at about 9 o’clock.  Took a sight seeing bus and went through both Minneapolis and St. Paul. 

Minneapolis is the most beautiful because of its numerous lakes.  All twelve (in the city) are natural lakes where they have swimming and boating.  Around each lake is a nice park which

makes it even more beautiful.  At 12 o’clock before going through St. Paul we had our dinner at the Lowry Hotel in St. Paul.  There was a convention going on there and were those old farmers, or whoever

 they were having a big time!  We continued our tour and went through St. Paul.  Of course, the capital and everything is there.  The University of Minnesota is also in St. Paul.  Got back to the

hotel at 3 o’clock.

(That’s all—the rest of the journal is blank. She was 5 pages shy of reaching the exact middle of the book.)  I remember some talk about Mom being in a ship wreck.  Perhaps that happened on this cruise, interrupting her journal.  I wish I had found this book while Mom was still with us.  I would have gotten the rest of the story, I’m sure.  She would have been 19 when she wrote this, out of high school for a year, and working as a secretary in Louisville, I suspect.  Maybe this was her first vacation (who knows, Unkle Stu, perhaps?)

Something definitely interrupted her.  I can just see her referring to this small journal as she elaborated on her story, typing it after-hours at her job back in Louisville.  Just imagine what we might have today if she had taken her lap-top with her on the cruise!  Hah!  Of course, she took several lap-tops with her.  They called them “skirts” at that time.  Thanks anyway, mom.  What you left was appreciated.

Steve   22 April 2014

Encore une fois, 29 Mar 2014

Well, it's happened again.  It's 4:30, this time, and here I am at the computer.  I could have been here at 3:00, but that was just when Tobi got me up for one of his nightly walk-arounds (that's right--I'm talking AM, friend.)  My usual response in these cases is to get up, let him out the front door, and set up a folding chair in front of the door to await, in semi-consciousness, his return in a few minutes.  I then let him in, secure the door, and stumble back to bed.  If all goes well, I'm back in la-la land in short order.  If it doesn't, I often lapse into an inescapable period of semi-wakeful musings that end up with me sitting up, like tonight (now,) awaiting the kick-in of a few valerian root capsules.   This usually takes about 30 minutes. 

What happened?  Late yesterday wife Jennie asked me if I had seen son Ed's latest UTube event .  I hadn't, and since my trusty laptop is so loaded down with startup stuff that it works verrry slooowly except when I use it in "Safe Mode," and since "Safe Mode" does not provide audio, I sat down to watch Ed's "Happy Birthday Amy" with wife Jennie on her computer.  We then moved on to "Making cups" from niece-in-law Nell (For a really unique coffee cup for your work desk, check this one out.)  Another good watch.  with all this UTube (make that YouTube) activity, it was only natural that at 3:?? in the morning, my thoughts again turned to UTube.  It seems a couple of things I would like to preserve there have been put off and put off until they became fodder for a morningbrain episode.  

Usually when the muse attacks at this time of day, I make a notation of the offending thought and do a roll-over.  This didn't work today, and after an hour and a half of semiconscious ramblings, seeing both paperpersons (one of the AikenStandard and one of the Augusta Chronicle persuasion) drive by leaving their headlight tracks on my window shades, I ended up here waiting on my chemical solution to the problem to kick in. 

I look at my note paper and find "UTube," "Shark Teethers," "Dumdrop song," "Police prep to shoot" and "Scars."   All of these remind me of my sleep-depriving ramblings except "Scars."  I remember writing it down, but, other than its being the title of a CD from wife's bronco-busting cousin, Jon Luse (try it, you'll like it), it now brings nothing to mind.  

Well--here comes Tobi again.  Guess I'll go out with him and pick up the paper.  When I come back in, I'll try the bed again.  Three more hours would help.  More on this later, maybe.  If you share my early-morning ailment, good luck.  If you find a good cure, I'd like to hear from you.  Morningbrain does give me an opportunity to express myself in ways I probably would not do in the dead of day, but I guess there always can be too much of a good thing.  I know during these times I often feel I'm getting too much of a good thing--especially when I have something important to do the next day. 

And, by the way, it is the "next day" now, 5 hours later than when the above was written, and I remember my "Scars" refers to the condition of our Hitchcock Woods following last month's ice storm and the subsequent work done by the Hitchcock Woods staff to restore the trails.  I guess I'll have to schedule some time out there to see how things are.  I always enjoy taking the time to Take a walk in the woods . There will be time for UTube later.

Big Bang Theory

Big Bang Theory

Quite a few years before CBS came up with its "Big Bang Theory," scientists came up with The Big Bang Theory to describe the beginning of the universe as we know it.  It seems all, or virtually all the mass (material) in the universe came together in one relatively small place and exploded.  The explosion sent this mass in all directions.  As it flew outward, it came together forming stars, planets, and all the known stellar bodies and organizations of same.  Our earth and sun are a part of a celestial grouping of stars and other bodies of mass known to us as the "milky way." 

Various groups would tell you the age of this universe to be from something over 6,000 (+/-) years to several billion years.  Each group having a number to pose as the age of this universe has their reasons, I'm sure.  I don't particularly care what number you wish to choose--that's your business.  What I'd like to do is describe how that "big bang" came about. 

Call this "Steve's Big Bang Initiation Theory," which I will shorten to SBBIT in the following discussion.  Since I wasn't actually there (unlike some others?), I can't swear to my version's accuracy or sufficiency.  I can only claim my version to be just as likely as anyone else's.

My SBBIT assumes the existence of a creator.  This is done using the assumption that if there is a "creation," there must be a "creator."  Furthermore, I will call my "creator" "God."  If that causes you major problems, you can stop reading now. 

I will also use some of the notions that were passed along to me by various undisputable sources--my mother, father, and preschool Sunday school teachers.  Again, if that causes you major problems....

The SBBIT goes something like this:

One day there were two young angels-in-training (AITs) who were taking the day off from their school (cutting) to try out a few things.  One thing they wanted to try out was this substance they had received from one of the elder angels, a guy known as Satan.  Ole Sate knew a few things, you see, and he was always sharing with the AITs in the hope that they would look up to him just like they looked up to the old guy, God.

Our AITs went down to the Park-by-the-Sea in Heaven (Heaven is what God called their world,) and went back next to the trees at the edge of the park where the outhouses were kept.  Behind the outhouses was a drop off and nobody ever went there--except for the AITs.  Our AITs took their substance (called "tobacco") and a package of what Sate called "rolling papers," and sat down with their backs to one of the older outhouses that had been taken out of service awaiting work by the celestial sanitary engineers.  Rolling a "joint" the way Sate explained, our AITs were ready to try "smoking."

Taking a match he had stolen from his celestial mother, the older AIT began to light his "joint." 

Then, to use an overworked metaphor of the mortals, "All hell broke loose."  The old outhouse was, you see, full of celestial crap.  This celestial crap had been fermenting and the outhouse was full of celestial methane, some of which was blowing out a celestial nail hole right at our two AITs.  There was a celestial explosion.  Pieces of the outhouse went everywhere.  The celestial crap, thanks to a celestial bubble at the bottom of the hole, went straight up towards the blackness of God's celestial ceiling. 

Now, celestial crap is a good bit different from the crap we are used to here on earth.  It is heavy and full of every element "under the sun" (hah!)  As a matter of fact, most items in God's heaven being spiritual in nature, there wasn't much of anything there with any mass at all with the exception of the material God had been storing in that one, neglected, outhouse.  Of course, God knew exactly what he was doing, and those two AITs were just doing what they were destined to do in God's scheme of things.  They both rolled down the hill, astonished, if unhurt.  They went to God and explained things.  God granted them absolution (what else, for doing what he planned) and sent them off to class, where they went gladly.  Satan lost one more of his seventy times seven forgivenesses, which really didn't matter since he was determined to use 'em all up anyway.

The celestial pile of crap, once it hit the ceiling, barreled on through and kept on flying.  After it passed through the ceiling, a considerable bit of it in the middle went "critical" exploding into suns, causing the mass to fly apart in all directions.  Some became planets, some asteroids, and some just interstellar "crap."  As this all moved apart (at warp speed?) something called gravity began to take over organizing the various bits into some things we now call "galaxies." God looked up at his new sky and was pleased.  The little twinkling lights were an improvement over the original blackness.  He decided to take a bit of well-deserved time off and then get back to work on one small piece of material that would be called "earth."  All was (and still is) well.   

Talk to your physicists if you must, but I doubt they will be able to disprove one single word of this explanation of their "big bang."  Thank you mother; thank you father, and thank you, Mrs. Robinson, et al., in Sunday schools from Indiana to Alabama, and quite a few points in between.

One little bit of explanation must be made, though.  I "believe" I substantially wrote this several years and several crashed computers ago.  That being said, it's possible I just "read" it several years ago and liked it so much that I wished it were my own.  If anyone out there knows which of these scenarios is true, and can prove it, I would be more than appreciative to know where "truth" lies in the matter of this little tale.

'Tis two weeks before Christmas

A little under two years ago (in the middle of the night, New Year's Eve, to be exact,) I waxed poetic musing on a brief poem about "Arturo the mouse" that accompanied a bag of cookies I had picked up at our local BiLo, my select grocery store.  Amused at my parody of Clement Clarke Moore's immortal work, I emailed a few verses to a few buds, attempting to enlist them in a little competition.  No one bit, however, and I was left holding my own bag.  Oh, well, though greatness eludes me, the work remains, and, since the Christmas season has again encroached upon all that is holy I find the need to resurrect little Arturo.  Maybe this will be his year.  SVG, December 2012

A Visit from Arturo

Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house,

The kids were all hunting for Arturo the mouse.

We parents were, likewise, all consumed with the thought

That this Christmas might pass with our wits still uncaught.

If you wonder what's happening, you won't be alone,

For this ditty's been sent to many a crone

And,  if you choose, you can take up your pen

And write out your verses from beginning to end.

Just stay hale and merry, don't be a retreater,

And copy the rhythm and attend to the meter,

And soon you will see your pen will have written

Your own Christmas verse (with a smile you'll be smitten.)

Fifty-six lines is the name of the game,

If you've not fifty-six, it just won't be the same;

And so, here it is, you've been issued the call

And you may respond or not answer at all.

Whatever you do, you know I don't care,

You may type out your verses or just sit there and stare.

More rapid than eagles, the verses they came,

If you're working on yours, you have no one to blame.

Come line! Come verse! Now meter, be merry;

If you don't like my offing, 'tis your right: Be contrary.

To the top of the page, to the top of the folder,

Now run with the ink like a looney-tunes bolder.

As old friends, when smitten, get a glint in the eye,

When they meet an assignment, and put on the try;

So up to our keyboards we all soon drew,

With dictionary, thesaurus, and St. Nicholas, too.

And when with that help we searched high and low,

To find thoughts that would cause our assignment to grow,

While we hiked up our night shirts and were just sitting down,

Across the floor rushed Arturo, to the kitchen he's bound:

He was brown, like I thought, from his head to his foot,

His demeanor was more than this writer could put,

(down on paper, I mean,) but back to the question:

Just who is Arturo, and what is his lesson?

His eyes--two brown orbs! His whiskers, were hairy?

His feet were in motion like a feather-weight's parry;

His mouth carried two teeth set right at the front,

And that's all that I saw, he was ready to punt.

From somewhere in the background, I heard a ref's whistle,

And away went Arturo like a latter-day missile.

Away to the kitchen, he flew like a flash,

Made his way to our cupboard and then to the trash--

It was then that I saw, sitting out on a shelf,

A bag of small cookies from our furry, small elf.

Chocolate chip, they were, and that's only right,

For a gift from the small guy in which all could delight.

And now that I know why Arturo was sent,

I now can go back to the quest that's my bent:

While eating what cookies the kids left behind,

I'll end up this work with a satisfied mind.

Away to my task chair while the tea-kettle whistled,

And soon stacks of paper to my out-box had bristled;

And for you, my good friends, all in internet sight,

Be it Christmas or New Years, God bless you this night.

---Sven

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