SHOULDER WORK AHEAD

CAUTION: SHOULDER WORK AHEAD

From the beginning, it has to be clearly said, "...It was inevitable". Yes, it was entirely predictable that with my history of life-long reckless behavior... it was only a matter of time before this shoulder of mine would need to be medically addressed with a surgeons knife.

After dealing with ever-increasing pain in my shoulder for several months, a decision was eventually made to seek medical attention. Although my internist had his own well-founded suspicion what my problem was, he quickly referred me to one of the best orthopedic surgeons in town. It seemed like sheer torture that there was to be more pain-filled delays for me while time-consuming tests were being performed. Nothing seems to move quick enough when one is in pain and when a competent physician wants to be certain of their ultimate diagnosis. Finally, the day arrives when the surgeon was able to confirm his original suspicions and relay the dreaded diagnosis of torn rotator cuff to me.

Repeatedly, the surgeon questioned me as to which event, which injury, caused this particular problem which was now going to require surgical intervention. At first, my mind drew a blank ...but then given a little time, my mind starting reeling as to the possibilities. Instinctively, my then-functioning left hand started scratching my head, trying to activate the memory chips implanted in the ole databanks for the one, singular event which could have possibly been the cause of this affliction. In the final analysis, one was left to conclude that my ending up in this medical predicament was just plain inevitable. The cause just might not be limited to one, single, injurious incident ...but, more than likely, the result of a life filled with careless behavior and lived with reckless abandon.

Imagine this... being able to avoid breaking any bones in my body for six (6) decades! All things considered ...it sounds like somebody had an overworked guardian angel for sixty years. Even though a torn rotator cuff did not technically constitute breaking one of my bones... fixing it was going to require surgery and some substantial (...highly unusual) “down time” for me. Incidentally, this particular assault to my body is not to be confused with another incident which occurred last month as a result of tripping while walking backward ...ending up breaking bones in my (then good) left arm. That painful experience happened *after* this dreaded diagnosis was delivered but *before* the actual promised surgical repair. One could be led to believe that the ole guardian angel must have thrown up his hands in the air several months ago and finally declared, "You're on your own now... buddy". So, as stated earlier... both of these recent incidents seemed to be pretty predictable, based on my reckless lifestyle over the past sixty years. It was all inevitable ...just a matter of time.

In my preteen years, there were many acts of sheer recklessness whenever my bicycle was mounted without first donning a helmet. In my defense, not too many bicycle helmets were even manufactured during the 1950's. Nevertheless, there were too many incidents where caution was thrown to the wind and (consequentially) my body ending up being catapulted over the handlebars. Though my skull could have easily been split in half... as long as there was no blood evident at the scene, there were always assurances that, “No blood ...you're okay!”. Miraculously, not a broken bone was recorded during those careless years. "Look Ma, No Hands... Look Ma, No Bike!"

Then, in my teen years, fate seemed to be challenged on the football field, on the wrestling mat and in the school yard. Through all of this, my body suffered numerous black-eyes, bloody noses, torn tendons, sprained ankles and wrenched knees, yet somehow... in spite of all of these assaults to the body ...trips to the hospital for broken bones were somehow miraculously averted.

As a parent and a pet owner there were several painful tumbles down flights of stairs, stumbling over the toys of children or of pets, usually resulting in bruises, bleeding and spraining (and... of course ...untold number of splitting headaches) ...but Mister Ripley... believe it or not... never resulting in a recorded broken bone. 

By now, you may be sensing a pattern here that it was only going to be a matter of time before some event would become dramatic enough to require stitches, or a cast ... or maybe even surgical intervention. If nothing else, the constant wear and tear on the body was leading up to an eventual breaking point. The odds were against me. It was a only a matter of time ...unless my lifestyle changed drastically.

As an adult, there were a myriad of other occasions when my careless, reckless spirit could have easily resulted in broken bones or at least required surgical repair. Some of these injurious incidents are too still too painful (and embarrassing) to recount in words (verbal or written)... but none of the outcomes ever ended with a broken bone during this time.

There is another incident that can be shared... that had to do with a ladder slipping out from underneath me and landing on my head. Due to the intensity of the subsequent headache... (this fall was obviously "broken" by my thankfully-thick skull) ...for the record ...no bones could be noted as being broken ...but that just might be because there was no follow-up trip to the hospital. Since it is highly unlikely that the hospital staff would have put my whole head in a cast ...it seemed pointless of going to the E.R..  Nothing else in my body hurt quite like my head.  With my luck, someone at the E.R. probably would have just said, "No blood, you're okay!" Since the pain in my head was so overwhelming, it is doubtful that this shoulder of mine was critically assaulted that day. Every other bone in my body could have been shattered that day ...but NOTHING was going to equal the pain in my head. Alas, this is just another confession of my continued reckless behavior.

It should be said that we are grateful for this genetically-perfected Carver-Jones skull which has served me well so far. Though some might equate the thickness of my hard head with being stubborn, suffice it to say that this attribute has served me well thus far in several respects. Obviously, the day is coming when x-rays series will need to be taken of this cranium and then scientists around the globe will be amazed how this unique, highly-developed feature of mine has miraculously managed to hold all of my brain matter together for this length of time.

If truth be known, most of my most memorable injuries have involved trauma to the head. With each of these head injuries, it seems that a new levels of pain were defined for me ...but none of these were comparable to the pain encountered with the torn rotator cuff. (It should be noted though that the subsequent fall on my left elbow last month redefined what a "pain level of 10" would mean for me). So, maybe all of the previous exposures to various pain events and ever-increasing pain levels was simply some sort of grand plan to build up my tolerance for these most recent injurious events.

Though the worst of the previously-recalled injuries seemed to involve assaults principally to my head, only one injury could be remembered which actually involved my right shoulder ...though it took place several years ago. That particular incident occurred in the hills of Tennessee. We had already been camping with our travel trailer for a week in the Great Smoky Mountains when it came time for me to break camp and head home to Ohio.

One of the last tasks in preparing the camping trailer for travel is the stowing of the retractable awning which extends the length of our long trailer. Up until this day, this has always been a fairly simple process. On this occasion, for some unknown reason, the tension bar was not operating properly and was not retracting. Maybe it was my haste to get on the road that caused me to lose my patience and lose my focus meaning that a struggle ensued with the mechanism of the awning.

Even to this day, it still baffles me to understand how it all happened. It comes down to this... carelessness ... recklessness. In an instant, the previously-stuck awning suddenly became "unstuck"... and in a flash, "BAMMMMM" the whole awning retracted like a hastily released window shade. As a result, my upper right arm was suddenly and violently smashed against the side of the trailer ...trapped there between the siding and the heavy metal spring arm of the awning now in a locked position.

Instantaneously, the blood supply to the lower two-thirds of my arm was cut off as if some huge tortuous tourniquet had been rapidly applied. There is no shame for me to say that ...from the split second of that painfully loud "snap", there came from my innermost being... the loudest, most soulful, primal scream ever heard in those Tennessee hills.

Reason would usually advise against panicking in situations such as this ...but with no one seemingly answering my calls for help and my wife unable to assist me with this predicament, panic quickly started to overtake my better judgment. The vision of trapped animals gnawing off their limbs to escape the jaws of the fur hunter's trap became my focus for the longest time. My free left arm could not move the metal bar even a fraction of an inch ...so the possibility of extracting my right arm seemed highly unlikely. All seemed completely hopeless. It was probably only moments away from me losing consciousness when a prayer escaped my lips. In answer to that plea, our good God sent ...not one... but two ...earthbound angels to my aid.

My tear-filled eyes began to focus on the outlines of two large figures quickly approaching from a long distance. These two runners were huge mountain men, the size of the best-fed lumberjacks ...yet they seemed to literally float through the air like a couple of ballerinas as they leaped across a fairly wide stream to come to my assistance.

Though each one of these rescuers could have been twice my amble size, right then and there... these two giants became the most beautiful creatures on earth ...to me. Whether it was their sheer mountain men strength ...or some sort of adrenaline-induced power... (encouraged by my bleating like a sheep stuck in some sort of bear trap), these men were miraculously able to bend that thick spring-loaded metal arm from its locked position against the camping trailer wall and then somehow manage to extricate my right arm. Though the metal awning arm was now permanently bent beyond repair, it was truly a beautiful sight... especially when now viewed from a distance.

Every ounce of my being wanted to hug these giant rescuers at that moment but my already bruising, throbbing right arm could only hang limply to my side. Hugging with two arms was out of the question but sincere profound thanks to these men and God were repeatedly expressed.

Now, a smarter man would have immediately had himself transported to the nearest medical facility for evaluation ...but instead... this reckless camper decided to drive several hundred miles to his home using mostly his left arm ...trying to quickly put considerable distance between him and the site of this regrettable incident. (This lack of clear judgment probably had something to do with the aforementioned head injuries).

So, whether it was this particular incident ...or some other injurious event that caused the condition which was going to require surgical intervention for a torn rotator cuff, it can only be said (once again) that all of this was predictable... it was clearly inevitable, ...it was only a matter of time.

In my quiet reflections during these post-surgical days, these reckless behaviors of my past are now being continually reviewed and a conscious resolution is being made to begin acting with considerable more care. Consideration is also being given to try to do a better job of protecting this precious head of mine before the inevitable follows suit with it too.

THE DAY THE GROUND SHOOK

THE DAY THE GROUND SHOOK

It was late afternoon on the 29^th of May 2011 when the earth actually shook. Though the tremor with its epicenter in Columbus, Ohio might not have quite registered on the Richter scale, the ground on that day actually shuddered for a moment and that has had devastating effects. Before detailing the actual episode and its consequences, it is important for you to know the events leading up to and following this seismic event.

It was one of the most beautiful Spring days. The kind of day that young couples pray that they will be able to enjoy on the day when they pledge their undying love to one another... for all eternity. The air was fresh, filled with the scent of flowers in bloom. Yes, this was a perfect day for a wedding.

The bridal party and their designated photographer had migrated from the church to a nearby park for additional photo opportunities of the happy couple and their entourage. This was truly a “picture perfect” day. The cars belonging to the bridal party were parked and the grand march began... parading the beautiful couple to an appropriate spot amongst the flowers and the trees. Many park visitors would stop ...and with rediscovered smiles watch the wedding party parade past them.

The march of the wedding party was led by the pied-piper photographer, followed closely by the groom who was grinning from ear to ear and his blushing bride who struggled to keep her snow white dress from being stained of the grass. Every now and then, the photographer would stop short, turn quickly around and attempt to digitally capture a spontaneous moment with the newly-weds or other individuals in the wedding party.

Whenever the parade discovered what was agreed to be a good photo location, several dozen photos were snapped and then the parade would moved forward again, looking for the next perfect site. After several of these march-stop-pose-march episodes the wedding party finally reached an area with a large expanse of concrete with a huge stainless steel sculpture in the center. This modernistic sculpture was supposed to represent the sails of the three ships of Christopher Columbus. This particular site was used in a photo shoot of another wedding party so the photographer was fairly familiar with the “lay of the land” as well as the photo possibilities with this site.

The first dozen camera clicks at this site were fairly uneventful, other than the fact that the photographer had difficulty framing shots without including other park visitors in the background. Since it was such a beautiful Spring day, the park had an inordinate number of visitors that day and many of them wanted to get a closer look at our radiant couple. So, the photographer with his face pressed against the camera and his right eye glued on the eyepiece began the now infamous “Dance of the Photographer” to get just the right shot properly framed. This particular dance might be defined as a cross between a slow-moving waltz and a fast-paced tango. Forward one step, backward two steps, then slide once to the right, then slide twice to the left ...and after that... start the process again. After several runs through this dance routine without managing to properly frame the photo, that the photographer decided to extemporaneously modify the designated dance steps. Instead of one step backward..., the dance was suddenly changed to three steps backward ...and it was at that precise moment in time when the spirits of the great Arthur Murray and Jimmy Rawlins were heard to be shouting from their graves, “Careful... Cuidado... Watch out!”. Taking that third step backward found the heel of the photographer’s shoe against the bottom of one of Christopher’s sails and so the slow-motion backward descent of the photographer began.

Most photographers will instinctively protect their cameras and photographic equipment in case of a fall. Though that did enter into this photographer’s calculation, a more important factor took precedence. If you are aware of the pain associated with a torn rotator cuff, you will understand why the photographer knew that he needed to avoid falling in such a way as to further injure his right shoulder. Amazingly, the photographer managed to perform one of those twist you see in the high dive competitions at the Olympics. Success! He landed it! Body had fully twisted mid air to the left side... but unfortunately that was the photographer's good side due to the excruciating pain in the other shoulder.

The reader should know that this photographer is a fairly large man and so when he fell backward and even though he was able to perform the amazing acrobatic twisting feat before he landed, the sudden impact was still strongly felt by both man ...and earth. The ground shook and shook again. One might have easily feared that the resulting shaking of the earth would cause the giant stainless steel sculpture to fall and crush the fallen photographer as well as a multitude of park visitors that afternoon.

From his vantage point on the ground, the photographer could see the shocked look on the young bride's face... even though she had covered most of it with her hands. Then and there the guy flat on his back decided that he was not going to let something like this ruin an otherwise perfect wedding day. Though the pain in the left arm from wrist to shoulder was quite intense, the photographer heard a motherly voice calmly stating, “No blood... you will be fine.” So after a quick check to make sure that no ragged bone fragments were protruding from his skin, the man with the cameras decided to minimize the whole event. At first he attempted to quickly get back on his feet but found that he could not brace himself with either the left or the right arm. Almost instantaneously, a half dozen macho men from the bridal party lurched forward promising to assist the photographer to his feet. Now which arm to offer? The left was in excruciating pain so did not want to further injure that one ...and if he offered his right arm to them they might inadvertently pull the painful right shoulder out of its socket. Neither choice was acceptable so the downed photographer insisted that he could manage on his own. With a prayer on his lips and while biting his tongue, his adrenalin kicked in and the photographer's new-found strength helped him to get back on his feet.

So, the camera man brushed himself off, noting that everything was fine and then he struggled to take a few more shots at that site. He knew though that he would need to quickly move to a new site so that he would have more time to shake off the pain and better compose himself. The party moved a couple dozen yards and the photographer managed to squeeze off a few more shots. A few more locations and scores of snapshots later and then it was announced that it was time for everyone to get back in the cars and head to the reception. The photographer was truly grateful for the time it took to return to the cars and drive to the reception hall which is located on the other end of the city.

As the wedding celebration progressed into the evening, each shot of the camera became a little more painful. Most of the camera work was done using the right arm and even though it was somewhat painful... it was nothing compared to the pain in the other arm. Consequently, the left arm was left to just hang to its side unless the zoom lens needed to be adjusted. When the camera man could no longer adjust the zoom with his left hand, he knew that something was seriously wrong. After the cake-cutting, the bouquet tossing and all of the other wedding reception rituals were completed and photographed the camera man quietly packed up his equipment and exited the reception hall without even saying goodbyes to the wedding party. The dancing would continue for several more hours but the photographer knew that he would not be able to enjoy it or take too many more photos.

In the parking lot, the wedding photographer found himself struggling to lift his camera bag into the car trunk. He knew the time had come when he would need to have a doctor look at the arm. Once the gear was safely stowed, he managed to drive to the hospital emergency room. Upon entering the ER he was pleased to find only a half-dozen people in the waiting room. He had feared that it might have been a 3 – 4 hour wait. In short order, the wedding photographer went from triage to x-ray and then to a bed behind a pulled curtain, waiting for a doctor to make the official pronouncement. As anticipated, the doctor advised that indeed a bone in the elbow was broken and most likely some tendons on the left arm were also torn. The arm would need to be splinted and placed in a sling. Thankfully, pain medication was administered and later prescribed. A favorite long sleeved dress shirt, as well as an undershirt, had to be cut with scissors to apply the splint. After that, the tired and sore photographer managed to drive himself home with left arm hanging out the window. Since the shirts had already been cut away it was not a huge problem undressing since gravity took care of the slacks and socks were removed by placing heel of one over toe of other and then pulling put out of sock. Within minutes, not only was he undressed but he was also sound asleep in his own bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he murmured, “Tomorrow is definitely going to be a better day.

A Photobook of godson Carlos' First Holy Communion

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A Photobook of goddaughter Patricia's First Holy Communion

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Old Fashioned vs New Fashioned Oatmeal

Old Fashioned vs. New Fashioned Oatmeal

New and Improved Oatmeal

One of the early morning rituals performed religiously in our home every day entails dad and oldest son breaking the fast with a bowl of steaming-hot oatmeal. This is a cherished time for father and son to build a bond through a common act of sharing the same food. (One has to hold onto all possible bonding moments with their children, regardless how minor and insignificant those moments might seem). Dad cooks the cereal and then father and son enjoy this meal together while the rest of the family continue their slumber.

Lest you be led to deduce that each morning father and son engage in some sort of sparkling breakfast conversation, let me paint the real "Norman Rockwell moment" for you. As tradition goes, our oldest son takes the sports page each morning and stares at pictures of baseball players, obviously dreaming of the next time he will get to attend a game. Meanwhile, Dad tries to focus his eyes on the rest of the paper. Though words are rarely spoken between the two, a bond between father and son develops.

It would be an understatement to say that our oldest son is pretty finicky over his breakfast of choice. Ninety percent or more of the mornings he just wants regular old-fashioned hot oatmeal. He is fairly emphatic that he does not want any substitutions. So, do not bother trying to tempt him with a bowl of hot “Cream of Wheat”, or “Cream of Rice”,... or Malt-O-Meal, or even cornmeal mush. And do not attempt to substitute Quick Oats or even microwaveable instant oatmeal... Number 1 Son just wants good ole old-fashioned oatmeal. There must be something about the particular texture of old fashioned oatmeal in his mouth because he even disapproves of cooked steel-cut oats. Since it is not like he is asking for some high-priced cereal, soaked in sugar... his request is usually granted as long as we have oats in the pantry. For this reason, we have to make a conscientious effort to assure that there is always a sufficient supply of Old Fashioned Oatmeal.

" Plain and simple " oatmeal.

Additionally, it should be noted that our oldest son always wants his oatmeal “plain and simple” (i.e. unadulterated). It is what we commonly refer to as, “the vanilla approach”. Nothing creative ...and please,... nothing out of the usual. No raisins, no jams, no bananas,  no honey, no cinnamon. Nothing. Not on “his” oatmeal. Though this son has been repeatedly tempted with offers of adding something like raisins or cranberries to his breakfast cereal-of-choice, he has consistently and strongly declined such offers of "doctoring up" his morning tradition. He does not want any additives ...except (maybe) a splash of milk and a teaspoon of brown sugar. For years he did not even want the brown sugar. If truth be told, it was only after his father discontinued putting brown sugar on top of his own cereal did the son decide it was time to give it a try.

A few times a year, as our son is giving his nightly ration of a kiss to his Mom and Dad and saying “Goodnight”, he will quietly advise me, “Tomorrow... regular cereal”. This temporary change in his preference for cereal-of-choice usually indicates that sometime earlier that day he had spied a new variety of store bought cereal being placed in the cupboard. He will then usually eat a bowl of that cold cereal each day until the supply is exhausted. Only then will he again approach me and in the same manner will advise me, “Tomorrow … oatmeal”. Obviously, our oldest son is a man of few words.

One would think that after making countless pans of oatmeal over the years that the process would become second nature ...but invariably the resulting product sometimes resembles more of a gruel than what oatmeal was designed to be. Maybe there is an art to making the perfect oatmeal but a more scientific approach seems to be warranted after concocting something of a glue-like mess. It was discovered that one must first of all be precise in the cooking times of old fashioned oatmeal. For exactness, one should even use a timer.  There is a timer on our under-the-cupboard / over-the-stove microwave but on the morning in question this particular timekeeper seemed to be "on the blink". 

Experience has shown that the best way to solve the microwave-clock-on-the-blink syndrome is a good ole reboot of the microwave's computer. Experience has also taught that when this is necessary the best thing to do is to unplug the microwave cord from the electrical outlet, then wait five seconds and plug it in again. Unfortunately, the outlet is in the cupboard above the stove.  One might think that this location would be convenient for such purposes but nothing could be further from the truth.

Among other things notable about that particular cupboard is that it is also the repository for all of the baking and cake decorating supplies. To get to that particular electrical outlet in that cupboard, one must reach over an assortment of spices, food colorings, flavorings and extracts.This could be considered quite a feat while one stands on their toes and tries to feel the end of the cord before pulling it out for the reboot.


Imagine reaching over all of those jars of spices and bottles of flavoring and extracts in a made-for-winter long-sleeved bathrobe. Maybe it was the steam rising from the pan and enveloping my outstretched arm that made me react in haste. It was (obviously) destiny that the sleeve of the bathrobe ended up catching the top of one of the bottles reserved for baking purposes and pulled it out towards the edge of the cupboard ...and after a brief second of teetering on the edge, the bottled tumbled end-over-end into the bubbling vat of boiling oatmeal. Instinct took over and had me trying to extract that small bottle from the boiling mass by grabbing the top of the bottle.  Mistake! The immortal words of my own father escaped my lips at that exact moment. "Ayyy ....Chihuahua!" (Never understood why he screamed out the name of that particular state in Mexico in moments like that). Anyway, after a few moments of rehearsing several new dance steps with one hand wildly waving in the air, composure was restored enough to frantically fish the bottle from the gooey mess now splattered all over the kitchen.

The retrieved treasure turned out to be a bottle of Pure Almond Extract.  The bottle was covered with oatmeal residue and once again instinct took over and this time dictated that the bottle must be cleaned with the right index finger.  In an instant, without any thought whatsoever, the oatmeal-covered finger was inserted into the mouth. Hmm...., Mmmmm... interesting!  Very interesting. Just a "hint" of almond was sensed in that oatmeal which had previously be clinging to the side of that bottle. Temptation overtook any rational sense and so a measure of almond extract was mixed into the oatmeal remaining in the pan on the stove.  Nervously a spoon was dipped into the mixture and then pressed to the lips.  Eureka! I found it! Not only did the concoction not taste bad ...it actually enhanced the taste of the oatmeal. 

It has been said that some of the greatest discoveries and inventions are unintentionally stumbled upon. Now wondering if this could possibly be one of the greatest culinary discoveries of all time. Or maybe this historical accident might even surpass that time when the guy's chocolate bar fell into that girl's jar of peanut butter.  Who knows?  Maybe this series of events was Providential.  Maybe "He" wanted this to happen (for me).

Besides the bottle of almond extract in that cupboard, there were extracts of vanilla, orange, lemon, and peppermint. Why couldn't it have easily been one of them? That question got the whole thought process going.... What if one or more of these other extracts might be as good, if not better, than the almond? Maybe this was only supposed to be the beginning. Of course, this now meant considerable scientific research would be required.  

What about all of the other extracts such as; lemon, pineapple, mint and anise?  They too would have to be considered ...even though none of these were readily available to sample this morning. Wait! In the back of the cupboard there is an outdated bottle of maple flavoring. That would have to be a good mix for oatmeal since we already have seen packaged instant oatmeal with maple flavoring in the stores and, of course, some of us may have heard of Maypo (maple-flavored oatmeal). Hmmmm.... I wonder ... if they call that combination "Maypo" should I call this Almoat? Nah... that just not trip off the tongue as nicely as "Maypo". Might as well stick to "New and Improved Old Fashioned Oatmeal, Now With a Hint of Almond". But the question now becomes, "has some equally clever person already marketed oatmeal with almond flavoring?" Though oatmeal has been seen on several restaurant menus with almond slivers garnishing the top, none has been encountered thus far with just almond flavoring. Brief research into the crevasses of that memory chip implanted deep within my skull could not find evidence that anyone in history has ever tried to enhance the flavor of oatmeal with just the essence of almond.

With a "Hint " of Almonds

If cinnamon “works” on oatmeal ...and cinnamon is a spice, I wonder what other spice might be used to “spice up” this oatmeal. Let’s see… Allspice (…Don’t think so!), Alum (…Definitely Not!), Anise Seed (…Maybe), Apple Pie Spice (…Hmmmm… Possibilities!), Pumpkin Pie Spice (…Mmmmmm …More possibilities!). This analysis continued through the bulk of the spices while the oatmeal was cooling. Some experiments actually got the "wet finger" taste test, others were eliminated through a quick “sniff test”. What else is hiding in this cupboard... waiting to be discovered?

Wait! Here is some honey.  Lots of folks put honey on their oatmeal.  What else...? Hey, why not blueberry syrup ...or better yet... boysenberry syrup! Wasn't there some of that in the fridge?  Wait... no boysenberry syrup... but lo... there is a jar of boysenberry jam. That might do just fine! The possibilities for oatmeal enhancements are simply mind-boggling.  

Isn't it truly amazing how the mind of an inventor or innovator really works? Though this venturing into the mind of an inventor might seem a little scary... you are probably really thinking, "Why hasn't someone thought of this before?"  Sheer genius! 

How boring daily life would be if we did not "wonder" what something might be like without a dash of this, a splash of that ...or a smidgen of something else. The possibilities are endless and yet ...these two parents are blessed with  a son who wants nothing more than to stick with the "plain and simple" unadulterated oatmeal. Most parents would probably want to clone our oldest son.

Anyone observing this scene of taste-testing the various extracts, flavors, essences, spices and other ingredients might come to believe that they were watching some Mad Scientist in his lab... cooking up an “experiment”. In reality, he is not really mad... just adventurous! This sense of adventure had to be directly inherited from my father. A little known secret to the outside world is that my father was a fabulous chef ….99.9% of the time. The reason for that kind of success is that he was never afraid to take risks. After all, he had a dozen guinea pigs on which to try his “experiments”. Eleven children and a wife who knew not to complain since our chef happened to know enough chemistry to keep us out of trouble… (except once… but that is food for another story). It must be true what they say about “Like Father, Like Son”. Did the correct gene get passed to know what one can “get away with” in food experimentation? In this day and age, there is probably a prohibition against experimenting with human subjects especially family members. Though Ruby the Wonder Dog and Callie (aka Calita the Fajita (translation = "fat-rat-cat")) wouldn’t mind eating *anything* that is put in their dish or dropped on the floor, the ASPCA and PETA might have something to say about exposing these animals to such potential dangers.

As long as there is this sense of adventure in one's culinary experimentation, then maybe it might be a good idea to keep a bottle of Ipecac syrup …and the phone number for the Poison Control Center ...on the inside of that cupboard above the stove ...as well as prominently placed in several other places next to the stove.

The latest discovery of this new and improved oatmeal with a "hint" of almond and all of this subsequent experimentation would be for naught if the creation is not at least accepted by the son with the finicky taste-buds.  So, the pressing question of the morning is... would our son turn up his nose to this wonderful new invention of oatmeal mixed with almond extract?  As the bowl was placed in front of him you could have heard a pin drop since my breath was being held.  Slowly, the victim (err... our son) inserts his spoon into the mixture and raises it ever oh-so-slowly to his mouth.  In a flash, his mouth closes around the spoon and his eyes grew wide in amazement. What happened next was truly a rare event.   Faster than you can say "Jack Robinson",  our son breaks into a silly grin as he consumes the rest of his breakfast.  Success!  He likes it ... He actually likes it! At long last, a little more variety and a little more spice has been added to all of our lives.

Who Ushered the Snakes out of Ireland?

Surely He Ushered the Snakes out of Ireland...  

It was hours before dawn when our Chocolate Lab pup became insistent about her "need to heed" the call of nature. The exact hour of this awakening is what the military refers to as “zero-dark-thirty”. There is no reasoning or arguing with man's best friend at that hour of the morning when one is confronted with a cold wet nose persistently interrupting your dreams. A cell phone is grabbed from the night stand, not for making calls or sending text messages... but to light the path through the pitch-black bedroom to prevent toes from being stubbed. Stubbing any of your toes at that hour would surely start your day “on the wrong foot”. One must move swiftly and surefooted through the dark... because the puppy has to “go”.

The bedroom door is swung open and the faithful companion hurriedly leads the way down the stairs through the dining room and the kitchen. The Promised Land (for dogs) lies just beyond the kitchen door. Rushing towards the back door which was soon to become the portal to relief, we both caught a glimpse of the family cat sitting in the kitchen, staring intently at the space between the refrigerator and the wall.  We have seen this posture before. More than likely our cat was  stalking a mouse. One could assume that the calico was looking to have a little fun with a mouse before breakfast, though it had been months since there had been evidence of any such critters in this hundred-year-old house. That critter-free phenomenon could probably be attributed to having an accomplished mouser in the house.  No time right now to stop and investigate what the cat is presently staring down... must first assure that my dog makes it to her Promised Land.

Standing outside on that brisk March morning here in the Midwest, one was quickly reminded of the fact that slippers were not donned before rushing outside. Body weight shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another ...impatiently waiting for the puppy to finish her business so we could head back to the warm confines of my bedroom. It was one of those frosty March mornings when you could see the dog’s breath steaming from her nostrils. Standing in the back yard, drinking in the light of the seldom-seen stars, it dawned on me that today we were to celebrate the Great Feast of St. Patrick with a party in our home.

Soon the house would be filled with the aroma of cabbage and corned beef in preparation for the annual dinner we share with family and friends. Barefoot and clad only in my dark green bathrobe seemed somewhat fitting, yet amusing, on this auspicious day.

As the dog played "ring around the rosy" widening the path encircling the ginkgo in the backyard, thoughts of yesterday's wonderful fishing trip came to mind. Even though the calendar had not yet proclaimed the beginning of Spring, it was decided that it was indeed the perfect time for a fishing trip. So confident that this was going to be “the” day to fill the freezer with fish, two dozen night crawlers were purchased before heading to what was thought to be a promising fishing hole.  Those worms looked so fat and juicy... one wonders if any fish on the earth could resist.  

Yesterday turned out to be perfect in every way for fishing .. but not for catching.  Of those two dozen crawlers, twenty-one (21) beautiful worms managed to escape from becoming lunch for bluegills, crappies, bass... or anything. Only three of these wriggling creatures ended their lives drowning while seated on a hook and suffering multiple cases of whiplash as they were repeatedly flung across different bodies of water. All in all, the day could be considered a success because it was a wonderful  opportunity to commune with God and His creation.

Among the great mysteries of the world being pondered yesterday while waiting for the first nibble of a worm was whether or not St. Patrick knew anything about fishing. We *do* know that  St. Patrick used the shamrock to explain the Most Holy Trinity in converting the heathens of that country to Christianity. Additionally, we have also heard stories how the saint drove the snakes out of the Emerald Isle ...but the more rational among us know that the theme of Patrick driving the snakes off the island probably just symbolizes the act of the saint forcing the devil and his legions out of the country. Or... could it really be true?  Could good ole Ireland really have been plagued with snakes and all other kinds of vipers before Patrick landed on the scene?

It was images of those legendary snakes that came to mind while walking up the steep trail from the isolated fishing lake back to the vehicle.  Climbing one of the highest hills in Southern Ohio, my eyes continually surveyed the trail ahead for evidence of any snakes that might be basking in the sun. The steep slopes of Croagh Patrick (Mount St. Patrick) in County Mayo Ireland were remembered with each step up the treacherous incline.  Each year a multitude of the faithful manage to climb that mountain, ...barefoot, as a sort of self-imposed penance.  Folks, ...one could just as easily (and a lot more cheaply) do their penance in the southern hills of Ohio... but it is strongly suggested that you keep your feet inside your shoes while walking in our hills.

One thing seems pretty certain and that is there were probably no snakes brave enough to confront the godly saint as he climbed Croagh Patrick.  Had a viper dared stick out its tongue to this man of god, it would have surely met its fate at the hand of Patrick's Irish walking stick ...or maybe his shillelagh.  With that in mind, a walking stick was quickly chosen for the rest of the journey up this (obviously) snake-infested trail. Funny how all of that comes to mind on a simple fishing trip the day before we were to celebrate this Great Saint's Feast Day.

So… if the holy man potentially ushered all of the snakes off the island… where in the world did they all go? Therein lies a great mystery. Inquiring minds want to know! Wonder if these exiled serpents could have joined forces with others here in the States? Having reached our sunny shores… could some have managed to wiggle themselves all the way to southern Ohio or even to my hometown? Yes, inquiring minds need to know! Surely, their current whereabouts would make for a fine tale being spun in neighborhood pubs.

Other than using the shamrock as his teaching tool, and seeing evidence of the great conversions to Christianity at his hands ...and the tales of him ushering all of the snakes off of the Emerald Isle, little else is known about this holy bishop. We know that the Great Saint lived and ministered on an island nation for most of his career and yet we celebrate his Feast Day each year with corned beef.  To be sure... St. Paddy never enjoyed a meal of corned beef and cabbage. More than likely his dinners would have been comprised of potatoes and fish.  After all, St. Patrick lived on an island... surrounded by water … and fish.

Surely, Patrick dined on the flesh of fish more than a few times, and following the call from Jesus, was probably both a fisher of men and a fisher of the kind that lives in the water (...an angler).  Wondering about the kind of bait ole St. Pat might have used to catch his dinner. If Paddy didn’t use those outcast snakes for bait, could he have used worms as luscious as these night-crawlers appear? Just wondering.... Would it be wrong to beg for the Great Saint's intercession for a selfish desire to catch just a fish or two on this fine day? No begging, ...no intercession, …no fish! Maybe that is just coincidence ...but next time...!

Nevertheless, that day was to be considered a complete success. Even without netting one meager fish, the opportunity was presented to grow closer to God and His creation. "God is good … All the Time!" One day after this religious experience and we were going to be celebrating the Great Saint's Feast Day with something other than fish. ...It is a good thing that this generation likes corned beef and cabbage.

Coming back in the house just as fast as she went out, our puppy bolted up the stairs to the Master bedroom. Both of  us had every intention of trying to catch a few more "Zzzzs" before officially starting the day. Following my dog a little more slowly, my eyes again focused on the cat that was now pawing at something in that dark area between the wall and the refrigerator.  Rather than have my wife be confronted by a furry mouse sometime as she prepared the food for the Great Feast, it was decided that *this* needed immediate attention. A broom was grabbed to be used either as a weapon ...or as a shield. Yes, it would have been comforting to me to have my watchdog by my side just in case the critter behind the refrigerator slipped through the paws of the cat or managed to avoid the swat of the broom… but puppy had long-ago raced up the stairs and presumably was already dreaming of chasing rabbits. Well...we would have to meet the beast without the aid of "ole faithful companion".

As my flashlight tried to illuminate the dark recesses of the kitchen, the cat edged forward, reaching her paw under the refrigerator. The cat appeared to have caught a mouse’s tail in her claws ...but when she slowly pulled it towards her... it became obvious that it was not a mouse but one of the longest worms ever seen.  The worm had stretched itself to the maximum length ...probably holding on for dear life, hoping to avoid becoming the cat’s breakfast. "No cat of mine is going to have a case of the worms!" The cat was obviously irritated when the huge worm was extricated from its claws and carried outside to be gently placed inside the flower garden.

Dusting off my hands upon re-entering the house, another huge worm was immediately discovered slithering toward the carpet of the living room.  So, another one was quickly ushered outside to a place much more appropriate for worms. Could there be more? Where in the world are these creatures coming from?  Imagine my surprise to see the better half of a worm escaping from the bottom of the refrigerator door. In a flash... the events of last night came to mind.  Upon returning from my fish-less fishing trip, the bait container with the twenty-one (21) surviving worms had been deposited for safe keeping (...and another day) in the refrigerator. When the refrigerator doors were swung open, *all* became apparent.  The lid for the bait container had opened ...just enough for the squirmy things to begin their great escape. Several worms were already heading down towards the vegetable crisper and the meat drawer (...one almost made it) ...but all of those were also scooped-up and hastily escorted to the flower garden.

It is still hours before dawn and my work had *just* begun. The bait container with what looked to be about a dozen remaining night-crawlers was quickly taken outside and ceremoniously dumped  in the garden with all of the other worms already placed there.  Just as the container was emptied it onto the ground, it dawned on me that a smarter person would have taken the time to count all of the worms to make sure that all twenty-one (21) were “present and accounted for”. Too late! Lost opportunity!  In the darkness one could see that the others had already started to scatter. Did all of them make it out of the house and into the garden?

Without that certain knowledge meant that a thorough cleaning of the inside and outside of the refrigerator (and more) was required... before the first guest arrives.  This entailed moving every movable appliance and all of the furniture in both the kitchen and the living room. Each square inch of floor and walls had to be inspected... (sometimes with the aid of a flashlight) ...just in case. Throughout this cleaning, the questions kept coming, “Should this incident be shared with my spouse as a humorous little story?” Also, “Is it better to suffer from a sin of omission or suffer from the truth being told before the guests arrive?” Would my beloved have a good laugh with me? The answers for those and other questions would have to wait! More cleaning had to be done... and quickly. Alas, the cleaning and final inspection was completed just before my beloved entered the room and poured herself a cup of coffee.  “It’s going to be a busy day, ...so much cooking and cleaning to do before the first guest arrives.”  ...If she only knew! From the moment the first guest arrived until the last one left, my eyes were nervously scanning each guests to see if any of my slimy little critters were going to introduce themselves to our guests.

MORAL OF THE STORY: ‘Tis better to leave any unused worms at the fishing hole for benefit of fish rather than risk ruining your day having to wonder if a worm is going to suddenly slither onto  a guest’s plate.  

After reading this... some may believe that 'tis nothing more than a wee bit of blarney.  More charitable folks will assume 'tis nothing more than an attempt to spin an Irish yarn ...but as St. Patrick is my witness... if only it wasn't true! 

(For obvious reasons, this story could not be told before this. One had to be absolutely certain that all twenty-one (21) worms made it out of the house and into the garden ...and so sufficient time *had* to pass.)