Time to get Ugly

Time to get Ugly ...again

It was one of those near-perfect late-summer days in the Mid-West, quite suitable for mixing with friends outside of church after Mass. The oppressive summer heat had finally given way to more moderate temperatures and finally, the steamy, sticky days were now hopefully behind us. Though the leaves had not yet started to fall ...or even started to change color, one could sense that we were on the doorstep of an awesome autumn. As is our custom on beautiful days like this, some fellow parishioners stood outside after Mass and continued to give our thanks to God. 

The mid-day sun was bright (and, unfortunately for me) was bearing down warmly upon my brow as we chatted. Deep within me, my soul began reflecting on some preaching presented by someone other than our parish priest. My dermatologist continually preaches to us fair-skinned folks that we are never to venture outside without first donning a hat and slathering every exposed inch of the body with sunscreen rated as SPF-30 or higher. Who would have guessed that our conversation on that bright, sunny afternoon would have extended for more than an hour?  Anyone care to guess who is going to hear another medical lecture on the need for total solar abstinence?

We lingered a bit longer than usual on this particular Day of the Sun because a few parents were waiting for one or more of their children who were attending a class meant to prepare them for the Sacrament of Confirmation. So the parents and the siblings of the Confirmation students, as well as a few of their friends, stood together outside the church and engaged in deep philosophical and theological discussions as everyone waited for their missing family member to join them.

Just a nanosecond before us adults were going to be able to answer all life’s questions and solve all the problems of the world, we were interrupted by a determined-to-be-heard voice.  A six-year-old boy broke into our adult conversation, loudly asking me, “So, what are you going to be for Halloween this year?”

For the last dozen years or so, it has become a tradition for me to overload our over-sized van with youngsters from our church and lead a caravan of other vehicles that were also hauling a cargo of kids to a safer neighborhood on the other end of town for a little bit of ”Trick or Treat”. It has been a special joy for me to introduce quite a few children and their parents to this special Fall holiday. It will not be too much longer before the children of the first group of trick-or-treaters will be old enough to join our growing caravan.

This enthusiasm for the brighter side of All Hallows Eve was properly directly inherited from my father. It was an apparent joy for my dad to stand at the door of our home and pass out treats to all of the costumed creatures who came knocking, chanting their pleas for candy. One of my favorite memories of this time of year is how my father would take the time to fawn over the night visitors dressed as story book or comic book characters and feign horror when confronted by children outfitted as monsters yet they were little more than a yard stick in height.  

Halloween was my father’s favorite holiday, which seems hard to believe if you ever saw the twinkle in his eyes at Christmas. There can be no doubt that this annual autumnal event was at least one of his top two favorite days of the year. Several years ago, our father passed from this life only days before Halloween.  

So, a few years have now come and gone since our father distributed penny candy to the diminutive beggars at our doorstep. Those who knew my father well can easily imagine that at this time each year he is probably entertaining unsuspecting cherubs and angelitos with his feigning and fawning antics.  As we headed to our father’s evening wake and rosary service, it seemed somehow fitting that our family encountered hundreds of costumed youngsters making their annual pilgrimage through the neighborhoods with their bags in hand.  More than likely our father would have loved the scene.

My flashback of these Halloween memories from my childhood was sharply interrupted by a tug at my trousers, delivered by the youngster still seeking my attention. “My dad wants me to go ‘trick or treating’ dressed as Batman again this year ...but I want to go as something else!”  (...If truth be known, this kid’s dad probably wanted to get at least two-nights-worth out of last year’s costume before the super hero evolved into another character needing a new outfit). Sometimes money is no object to young super heroes.

It turns out that my older sister also had an deep affection for this particular holiday which extended throughout her adult life. Maybe all that enthusiasm for goblins, ghosts, witches and warlocks was somehow inherited from our father. It may also be that she especially liked this holiday since her birthday fell within the month.

Faithfully, each year my sister would decorate her whole house inside-and-out for the Halloween holiday. It was always a joy for me to escort young trick-or-treaters to my sister’s Halloween House and watch how she enjoyed sharing all this with the kids.  It seemed like she was perpetually adding new items to her scary, yet mostly-funny collection. Several years ago our older sister joined our father to celebrate together in a much better place. Gone but not forgotten! Both of them left us much too soon but they left us with such great memories.  To this day, whenever a unique Halloween decoration is spotted, my older sister comes to mind, guessing that she would want to acquire it for her Halloween House.

The pesky persistent voice once again interrupted, “...You should go as Freddy Krueger this year... but you will need to buy some of those sharp fingernails.”  For anyone unfamiliar with  “Freddy Krueger” he is a truly scary-looking dude from a whole series of slasher movies based on the original “Nightmare on Elm Street”.  Not exactly my “cup of tea” as far as movies go... nor the kind of movie genre appropriate for a six-year-old ...but this little guy was actually suggesting that it would be a good character for me to imitate (...not him) when we take our annual trek on that special  night on October this year.

What costume, if any, would be appropriate for me to wear this year? Obviously, it could not be anything so gruesome that it might actually scare the youngsters being shepherded through the neighborhoods. The more that this question was pondered, the more obvious the answer became. Actually, my dear dermatologist helped me see the light since he had recently recommended (for the third year in a row) that it was again time for me to undergo a very special treatment for my sun-damaged skin.  In addition to all of the regular freezing (burning) of precancerous areas on my face and arms, it has now become an annual event for me to undergo a month-long treatment of Carac® cream. For those unfamiliar with the product or the treatment, be first advised that one should avoid appearing in front a camera for at least a month after beginning to apply this special cream to the face.

The dear doctor continually reminds me that all of this is necessary to pay for the sins of my youth when my skin was repeatedly burnt to a crisp. In those Dark Ages, some of us young, ignorant types would only “protect” ourselves from the sun with Johnson’s® Baby Oil... sometimes tinged with iodine.  So, because of all the pleasures of the flesh my body was subjected to about a half century ago ...now the torture to face, arms and dignity must be endured. Needless to say, no scary makeup will  be necessary for me this Halloween.  

My sensitive skin and its tendencies to burn with the least amount of exposure to sunlight is probably directly related to my own genetic makeup. Though my heritage is of a Heinz 57® variety, this freckled, easily-scorched skin of mine is probably most effected by my ancestors from Wales, England and Ireland. God bless them all! Thankfully, modern medicine can help people like me deal with the issues that go with having fairly fair skin.

My dear dermatologist advises that, in addition to the burning (freezing) of precancerous areas all over my head and arms and this now-annual treatment of Carac® ...my head is to be henceforth covered at all time with a big, wide-brimmed sombrero and my arms and legs are also to be completely covered, even if slathered with SPF-30 or higher-rated sunscreen. All of these precautions are to be followed, unless, of course, there is a complete loss of interest in maximizing the number of autumnal holidays that are to be enjoyed in the future. Maybe it is time for me to become a creature of the night. Maybe a big black cape would be a fitting costume for me this year.

It should be noted that Carac® packs a pretty powerful punch.  In fact, one of the key ingredients of this cream is commonly used in chemotherapy.  Pretty potent stuff ...but it does have a tough job to do! This powerful medicine comes packaged in a very small tube. Unfortunately, for those with graying hair and tired eyes, the size of a tube of Carac® happens to be exactly the same size as a travel-size tube of Sensodyne® toothpaste and might easily be mistaken. For that matter, the tiny tube of Bacitracin in the medicine cabinet is the same size and color scheme as the Carac® and the Sensodyne®. It is so dangerous to have any two similar-sized tubes of anything within reach... at least at that hour in the morning ...in my house.


Of course, it would be nothing more than a “mel-of-a-hess” if one would spread Sensodyne® toothpaste all over the affected areas of the body... however, squeezing a generous amount of Carac® onto your toothbrush will surely have some devastating, long-lasting effects. For the sake of every one's health, safety and welfare it would be best to remove all other tiny tubes from the bathroom as long as anyone in the house is undergoing the Carac® treatment.

Note to Self:  ... "Make a note of that!"

Every morning of the treatment, the smallest amount of Carac® is placed on my fingertips and is applied to the majority of my facial area. "A little dab will do yer!" Within a few days of staring the Carac® treatment, it might look like you have been out in the sun too long.  A day or so later, you could look like you developed a serious case of rosacea ...and quickly after that it looks like you have developed one of the most horrific problems of acne. Usually by the tenth (10th) day of the Carac® treatment, people are starting to stare and point in your general direction.  It might tend to bother you when you notice mothers grabbing their babies and trying to shield them from my view. It is at this point when you realize you could easily impersonate the Freddy Kruger character and do a little ("...how you say ...'trick-or-treating'") ... without needing to put on a mask or apply any makeup whatsoever... "but you will still need to buy some of those sharp fingernails!"

HAPPY HAUNTING!

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

Click here to view this photo book larger

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.