September Song and Otro Día

It's the 17th of the month, the day loan repayments are calculated and deposited in KIVA lenders accounts, to be re-loaned or withdrawn. This month as usual we chose to loan the repayments which have come in, but we were a bit short after making two loans last month. I added $13.00 to the amount we received back and immediately made a $25.00 loan to members of Pro Mujer Bolivia (For Bolivian Women). This is loan # 52 for us in the four years since we became KIVA lenders, and it's been a source of immense pleasure to share our pensioner's mite with hard-working business people around the world.

The "Otro Día" ("Another Day") borrower's group is beginning its third cycle with the Pro Mujer Bolivia (For Bolivian Women) as part of the Alto Lima regional hub. This group is made up of nine members and is run by a board of directors, of which María is the president.

The members' businesses are varied. Some sell fruit, or salchipapas (fried potatoes with hot dogs - I can testify that this combination is unexpectedly delcious), one sells computers, one sews layettes for newborns, one sells runners (i.e. tennis shoes) and one does carpentry work. What a busy, hard-working bunch of women!

This loan will benefit all these small business owners. The group's leader, María joined Pro Mujer six years ago by invitation from one of the institution's promoters, who visited her at home. Maria sells fruit from a market stall which she inherited when her grandmother died. The stall and the business were her grandmother's and María carried on that business.

She will use her loan to increase her working capital by buying fruit wholesale at the larger markets. She will later sell this fruit from her stall. Her business allows her to generate an income to help support her family, as she is married with two children.

When asked what she likes best about Pro Mujer, she says that she likes the access to health workshops and the ability to borrow money to improve her business.

If you would like to try KIVA out for free, click this link, and you'll be given a $25.00 credit to lend to any of the hundreds of applicants waiting to be given a chance to improve their lives and the lives of their families through access to something you and I take for granted - credit.

Collateral damage and a war of fear

Yesterday on Facebook my friend posted a photo with a caption that said, "Guns don't protect freedom, speech does that."

And as expected, words began to fly. One woman argued that when "our enemies" invade she has to have guns to protect herself. In light of the fact that no "enemy" is likely to invade the US with a "boots on the ground" army, it seems to me that Americans pay an extremely high price for this kind of paranoia.

In 2010, there were 19,392 firearm-related suicide deaths, and 11,078 firearm-related homicide deaths in the US. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention say that between 2000-2005 on average, one child died every three days in a firearms accident. If you extrapolate those figures to 2013, that's 1,582 little children, collateral damage of a war against an "enemy" which is not there and may never come.

But gun proponents are right in one argument. It's not the gun, it's the society. Gun-related death rates in the US are eight times higher than they are in countries that are economically and politically similar to it; however, all of these countries have more secure social networks, which is an important key to a non-violent population.

In 2009 UN statistics record 3.0 gun homicides per 100,000 inhabitants in the US; for comparison, gun homicides in Switzerland were 0.52 per 100,000 even though they rank third in the world for highest number of guns per citizen. The difference - the Swiss follow the national motto of "One for all and all for one". They take care of their citizens.

And in response the woman said; "..while you are still trying to figure out who our enemies are it will be too late to say Gee, I sure wish I had a gun! Duh! If we get invaded by one of our enemies you won't have to worry about all those social problems we have . You are going to be worrying about saving your own a_s. If you want to live in a socialistic country keep thinking the way you are."

And because I live in a country which is a social democracy I said, "Thanks, I already live in one and love it."

But all this was prelude to point. I look at the US and see so much fear, so much paranoia, and as a result so much violence and hate.

There seemed a chance in the 60s and early 70s to create an equal opportunity America, a land of peace and plenty. But that opportunity was co-opted in the most vicious and cold-bloodied manner possible, by politicians, corporations and institutions determined:

1. to keep the Black man "in his place",
2. to continue to exploit the labour of people of colour, whether Native-born or immigrant worker
3. to break the power of the working class by outsourcing their jobs to Third-World countries
4. to avoid paying their fair share of taxes, while benefiting from the infrastructure and services built and supplied by tax-paying citizens
5. to turn Americans against each other, with a special focus on hating and fearing the poor, and revering the cult of wealth and celebrity
6. instill a deep mistrust in "the government", while politicians exploit trust by focusing on divisive issues.
7. arm those who have bought into the paranoia that their fellow Americans are "the enemy". I have heard some of these people say the US Military may be "the enemy" they have to fight, which shows how far their paranoia (and their delusions) have progressed. For one thing they may have forgotten that old saying, "Never bring an M-16 to a armoured tank division invasion supported by drones".

Once this hoax that "we have seen the enemy and it is our own government" has been accomplished a corporate takeover of the government is possible. Politicians owned by big insurance, big oil, big industry, big pharmaceuticals, big money can essentially stage a coup d'etat without ever raising a weapon.

The election of Barack Obama was a Godsend to these interests. The presence of this calm, intelligent, thoughtful but often visibly frustrated Black man in the White House was a lightening rod that brought out every fear-mongering, paranoid in Washington, with the agenda of bringing the American government to its knees. And his presence made it so easy to do so with the millions of Americans brought to the brink of madness by the struggle to survive, anxiety and despair.

And many, like this unfortunate woman, are more terrified of feeding a hungry child or 90-year-old widow than they would be of finding a grizzly bear on the doorstep because feeding the hungry or tending the sick have been reframed as "socialist" acts rather than Christian or compassionate ones, and they are ready to shoot to kill the "socialist".

I struggle with this every time we turn on the news. Another mass shooting today. I had to turn it off. I couldn't kill another human being. I can't even kill a spider, or an ant. And even the act of carrying an ant outside. Where is its place, its own hill? If I place it wrongly it will be enslaved, or attacked. I worry about ants. And this huge burden of fear in a country which was at one time a beacon of hope for the entire world, it sends me reeling. I feel it deeply, as a wound in my heart.

Let all beings be happy! Weak or strong, of high, middle or low estate,
Small or great, visible or invisible, near or far away,
Alive or still to be born — may they all be perfectly happy!
Let nobody lie to anybody or despise any single being anywhere.
May nobody wish harm to any single creature, out of anger or hatred!
Let us cherish all creatures, as a mother her only child!
May our compassionate thoughts fill the whole world, above, below, across, –
Without limit; a boundless goodwill toward the whole world,
Unrestricted, free of hatred and enmity! (Sutta Nipata 118)

A Satisfied Mind

Boy, do I ever love the music of Bryan Bowers, who is the acknowledged virtuoso of the auto-harp, and knows how to make love to a song as well.

This is but one of the thoughtful songs he signs.

How many times
Have you heard someone say,
If I had his money
I'd do things my way?

How little they know
It's so hard to find
One rich man in ten
With a satisfied mind

Once he had money
Fortune and fame
Oh he had everything
He had a start in life's game

Oh, but one day it happened
He lost every dime
Now he's richer by far
With a satisfied mind

Money can't buy back
Your youth when you're old
Or a friend when you're lonely
Or a heart that's grown cold

And the wealthiest person
Is a pauper at times
Compared to the man
With a satisfied mind

Now when my life is over
And my time has run out
All my friends and my loved ones
I'll leave them no doubt

Ah the one thing for certain
When it comes my time
I'll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind.

I'll leave this old world
With a satisfied mind

Flippity-flop

I slept from 9:30 Wednesday night until 11:00 Thursday morning and woke feeling like I'd been run down by a large truck. But you have to love it. After eight days of feeling like a speed bump in a school zone, suddenly, for no reason apparent to me, about 2:00 yesterday afternoon my concrete blanket of fatigue dropped away and I felt perfectly fine.

I quickly drew up a grocery list and headed for the nearby Sobeys. Just in the nick of time, as we were looking at a dwindling supply of fruit.

As expected I put my neck out lifting sacks of food from cart to car and car to granny cart, but my lovely friend Diane came along as I finished loading the granny cart and she took it away from me and pulled it to my door. Nonetheless I sat here reading into the wee hours because my throbbing migraine would not allow me to lie down. Finally an extra pain pill did the trick and at 3:00 am I trundled off to bed and slept as well as anyone who is adored by two loving and somewhat jealous cats will permit.

Of course there's nothing wrong with being smooched awake at 4:00 am and again at 5:00, but by 6:00 am I'd had my fill of whiskery kisses and tuna breath. I got up, took my pill, went to the bathroom, fed both of the lover boys, then shut the bedroom door and slipped back into bed with a lover who knows it's rarely productive of much lovin' to awaken me in the night.

Surprisingly I was awake and quite chipper at 8:30. A quick review of systems didn't reveal anything amiss, I guess I have just caught up on a year's worth of sleep this last week and was ready to get up, even though I'd shopped yesterday. Who'd a thunk it?

When we moved in here we had a lot of help, and things got stacked willy-nilly in the closets. Face it the place is poorly designed to store those things any functioning family needs, like a toolbox, a couple of fileboxes for warranties, legal papers, etc. I have a genealogy filebox, there's a shredder, there's a wheelchair and a walker, cat carriers, linens, and I've already told you that at 5' nothing I can reach only the lowest shelf in the kitchen cupboards.

So I've been sweeping around, vacuuming around, falling over all these bits and pieces forever, and I was sick and tired of it. WalMart had a sale on sturdy open shelving so I bought two sets, a 22" long set and a 30" set - several weeks ago. I hadn't had the energy to put them together or worse, move the stuff from where they are going and then move stuff into them. The shelves are plastic and certainly not pretty but I'll go to Home Despot and get some sliders and cut to size panel or foamcore doors. I have some lovely wallpaper left over from papering the Beach House, and I think I have just enough left to cover sliding doors to cover the contents of the shelves. Tidy and even pretty. If I don't have enough paper I certainly have paint.

But HURRAH! Today I feel good AGAIN! The 30" one is going on the right side of the bed in our room, the 22" on the left. We have bedside tables which go between the shelves and the bed. I emptied the spot on my side of the room, which housed the wheelchair, a kitchen chair, some pool noodles (for stretching my back), a cubby for shoes, a cat carrier, a file box, a shredder and some misc. bits and bobs.

The shelves went together in five minutes and I had them filled just as quickly. [edit: Husband says I have taken great journalistic license. While the shelves went together in 10-15 minutes the organizational mayhem of filling said shelves took the rest of the afternoon. And to think I worked for a Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper as a pup. Truth is relative, or maybe what's true is that time is relative.] Nothing left sitting on the floor. We moved the chest of drawers from Tony's side of the bed to mine, putting it against the wall. Then we assembled the 22" shelves and put in the little boxes he uses to organize his medications, and some other boxes.

Now that the front closet is empty the wheelchair and walker both fit in easily. The shoe cubby is also there, along with the box of gloves and toques.

Very nice Flip-Flop of a day.

How to understand someone with chronic pain

And I might add this also applies to someone with a chronic illness. It's easy enough to support someone through a broken leg or recovery from an appendectomy, but when someone has to deal with chronic illness day after friggin' day, year in and year out it's more difficult to understand.

This link is to a great Wiki-How called "How to Understand someone with chronic pain" but substitute "Chronic illness" for chronic pain (the two are usually interchangeable, or compounded) and it's just as useful. It's a quick read, and it's useful knowledge.

Be a Good Girl!

Blogger Ronni Bennett tackles the myriad aspects of growing old in her blog Time Goes By. Today her subject is the annoyance elders feel at being spoken to by strangers as if they are either close family members, lovers or worse, toddlers, in her post The Dangers of Elderspeak.

So I was trying to remember if I have ever been annoyed by this "Elderspeak" and I can't recall that I have. Women in the shops here call everyone "dear" and "luv", not just the old folks.

I have been outraged at being treated as if I were stupid by physicians (and a few nurses) in doctors' offices and hospital ERs. But this started in my 20s, so it's not "just" an elder thing for medical professionals to treat patients as if they were children. I actually get more respect now that I am older than I did as a 30-year-old. Though the geneticist I saw recently introduced himself by his first name he leaned back a bit in his chair and said, somewhat suspiciously, "You seem to know a lot of medical terminology," once we were deep in conversation. (Am I supposed to play dumb for them? I've had this disorder since birth. I'm 68 years old fer cryin' out loud. I would be stupid if I hadn't learned something about it by now!)

But thinking about forms of address sent me musing on the past, as thinking often does these days. I was raised in the American South and in the 40s and 50s children were called "Sugar" by the women in the family, and were mostly ignored by the menfolk, until you were old enough to take fishing and shootin' if you were a boy and old enough to guard the virtue of, if you were a girl.

If you were lucky you had a Papaw and a Memaw on one side and a Granny and Pa on the other. I had one "Grandma", all the others having taken flight long before my birth.

Darhlin' was the common term of address between adult family members, unless you referred to them by their relationship, and this often came with some hint of disapproval, as in, "Oh, you know Bruhtha. He likes himself a fast car and a fast woman."

The grocer and the doctor called you Mrs. or Mr. unless you went duck hunting together and then it was first name basis. I don't think my Mama went duck hunting with my pediatrician, as he called her Mrs. He wasn't just a hunter, he was also an unskilled taxidermist who stuffed and mounted many of the unfortunate creatures who strayed into the path of a bullet from one of his many firearms. He called me "Little Lady" and his office made me anxious.

I can well imagine that his wife wouldn't tolerate his handiwork in her living room, so his office was where he displayed his hobby. As a result his office was a House of Horrors to this five-year-old "Little Lady", nervously waiting her turn to see the doctor; an eagle caught mid-bomb-dive was suspended from the ceiling where it rotated endlessly, glass cases crowded the chairs into the centre of the room. A frowsy raccoon family trundled along on a log, a porcupine gnawed a stick, a moth-eaten possum hung from a branch, a lop-sided bobcat snarled and raised a threatening paw, a mountain goat and other various heads and racks of antlers poked through the walls.

The exam room was worse, the cracked and peeling black leather table and instrument cabinets were wedged between glass cases of coiled snakes, a pair of long-eared Texas jackrabbits, a dozen different kinds of misshapen ducks and a giant wild tom turkey with mis-set eyes, perpetually looking both right and left.

I suppose the boys enjoyed it, but it raised a terror in me so I always cried when Mother said I had to go see the doctor, not from fear of him, but from that dead zoo of his. I'd sit there snuffling and shaking and Mother would give my arm a jerk and hiss, "Stop that sniveling and be a good girl!"

As you can see my childhood was crowded with incident. And being so busy and all remembering the good times I haven't had time to work up a head of steam about being called "dear" or "sweetie" by a total stranger at the market. But I swear the first one to tell me to "be a good girl" in a medical setting is getting their face ripped off.

Go for the Gold!

My regular Sunday web chat with the younger of our two sons consisted primarily of comparing how exhausted we each are. He is in the middle of a busy conference schedule, and worked from 6:30 am Thursday until noon Friday without a break for a proper meal or any sleep, and well, I have written at length of the Herculean labours of trolleying two cats to the vets and back this week, from which I am still in the process of recovering.

I think it was when when I said if sleeping were an Olympic sport I could sleep for Canada that the idea was born. Why not an Olympics for people like us, the dead-on-your-feet business man, the totally exhausted new mother, the beer-bellied and the old lady tottering along on her cane? In other words, Why not an:

Indolence Olympics

Sports might include;

In the Sleep Category:

Power Napping, Long Duration Delta Wave, Synchronized Snoring, Yawn Tennis, Sleep Cycling, Snooze, and Curling Up.

In the Couch Potato Category:

Channel Surfing, Most Miles Put on the Rocking Chair (timed event), Biggest Bladder Marathon, and Someone Poke Him and See if He's Still Alive.

There will also be a Procrastination Event, though anyone who shows up for it before all the medals have been awarded and the arena has been swept will be automatically disqualified.

If this is Friday I slept through Thursday

Getting up at 7:15 on Wednesday morning to haul two cats to the vets, plus a 20 minute side trip to the grocery store is a couple of hours burned out of a day for most people.

I ain't most people. Hobbes is recovering faster from his surgery than I am. Though I'm normally a night-owl I went to bed at 8:30 pm Wednesday and slept until 11:20 yesterday morning. At 3:00 yesterday afternoon I crawled onto the sofa and slept until 7:00, and last night I was in bed at 11:00 and slept until 10:00 this morning.

Actually I'm not completely certain I'm awake now. I had a cup of coffee but it's noon and I still haven't eaten or had the first handful of the meds I take to stay mobile. (I'm not certain they are working as advertised!)

I'm the closest thing you can get to a zombie without the gore and hankering for brains. And I don't have the energy to hold my arms out in front of me like that, or walk stiff-legged. Are there geriatric mummies who sort of shuffle along bent over, bleary-eyed, mumbling to themselves?

Let's face it, there's not much "go" in my reserve tank, and it takes me several hours to warm up to any productive activity. Which is exactly the reason I insist on afternoon appointments for everything. My body has a schedule, which I am not a party to, and it does not allow for substitutions, disruptions, or changes in itinerary.

On the bright side, the polecat/tomcat smell is down by 90% in here, or maybe I'm just too exhausted to smell it, but I think it's down. And maybe Hobbes is just subdued still from the surgery, though he is jumping around like always and had a fierce playing session with Smokey last night, but he's not as aggressive with those needle-like teeth and claws.

I am yawning as if I hadn't slept in a month. I am going to stumble out to the kitchen and find something I can eat without doing anything to it first, take some pills and maybe have a nap. Yeah, a nap sounds really good.

Poor Mistreated Kitties + Edit

Our kitties are having a very unpleasant day. It began when we stuffed them into cat carriers and loaded them into the car at almost the crack of dawn, headed for a 9:00 am appointment at the vet's. Well, it was 8:30 am, so almost the crack of dawn, as far as I'm concerned.

Hobbes the baby cat, who is now nine months old and has developed an extremely pungent and musky tom-cat smell, had never been in a carrier and was curious and happy to explore the inside of the one we'd bought for him a few weeks back. But they'd been out of larger carriers, and we had borrowed a neighbour's carrier for Smokey.

Smokey the claustrophobe, was not as appreciative as he could have been. He wanted absolutely NOTHING to do with this "borrowed" (or any) carrier. Getting him inside it was like trying to wrestle a grizzly through a key hole. His intentions to remain *uncarrriered* were very clear. It took one of us to shove him bodily in, while the other peeled his claws off the edges of the door one at the time, then slammed and locked the door.

We put the carriers on the trolley, after all, five pounds of carrier plus 29 pounds of cat is a load too far for either of us. Tony is broken on the right side, his broken collarbone never did fuse back together. It healed in two disconnected pieces, which hampers his ability to pick up any amount of weight, or lift his arm above shoulder height.

The cats sang protest songs worthy of any Civil Rights march as we wheeled out of the parking lot. We were about halfway to the vet's office when Smokey gave a blood-curdling yell of indignation and burst through the door of the carrier. Cat 1 Carrier 0. He sat in the back seat and glared while Tony tried to coax him into his lap. When Tony tried to reach for him he climbed into the hatch.

We reached the clinic and now what are we to do? It is on a very heavily travelled street. Trucks and cars whip past at an alarming speed. If we open a door and he makes a break and runs into traffic we are down a cat.

With his carrier between me and the door I reached in and grabbed Hobbes in his carrier, and shut the door. Tony stayed in the car with Smokey. I took Hobbes in and explained my situation. Loose cat, carrier door broken, ai yi yi.

The receptionist went to the back and brought out a large carrier of the same type we'd bought for Hobbes. Metal door and latch, not plastic. By the time I got back to the car Tony had lured Smokey into his lap, and by some miracle we managed to get him into the carrier and latch the door. Carrier on trolley, and in we go.

Once out of his carrier and on the exam table Hobbes has to inspect the computer wiring, but then that's his job/hobby at home too. Chief wire inspector/taster. He's too ADHD to sit still for much petting and is not interested in being examined thanks. He wanted *down* so he could explore. As soon as the exam was finished he was whisked away for his surgical prep.

The first thing Smokey did when I let him out of the carrier was look for Hobbes. But he was easily distracted. As long as the vet and her two interns were feeling him up he was in Heaven. He didn't even appear to notice the needles though he yelped when he was micro-chipped, and he managed to spit one of the worm pills out the first time. The monster weighs 19 pounds. We were told he needs to lose four pounds to be at his ideal weight. So there's the goal.

We loaded him up and brought him home in the vet's carrier, where he flopped down on the floor and panted like a dog. He was so stressed out. But a little bit of tuna calmed him down and now he's sleeping off his "nightmare".

The vet's office just called (11:10) to say Hobbes is awake and doing fine, and I can pick him up at 3:00. I'm wondering how long it takes for the musk to resolve? I hope it's quick. It's pretty eye-watering in here.

I'm sure if you asked either of them today I'd get a pretty dismal score on the "On a 1 to 10 scale how does your Mama score?" test, but overall they've got a pretty good set of parents.

4:00 pm Addition

I know I will be useless tomorrow, and the day after, and food stores are running low, so we decided we'd make a quick grocery trip, then stop at Taco Bell and pick up comfort/junk food for dinner and be at the vet's to pick up Hobbes at 3:00. It was sweater weather when we went in at 8:30, what we didn't count on was that the temperature had climbed to 30 C (86 F) in the hours between 9:00-1:45. The store was almost deserted and my shopping went very quickly. It was only 2:15 when I finished. Uncomfortable about leaving meat, dairy and produce in a boiling hot car for that length of time I suggested I simply drop Tony home, he could put away the food and I'd get Hobbes alone. After all there was only the one cat to deal with this time.

Fine idea, except Tony had not brought his keys with him. I wound my car key off my ring and gave him my security door key and unit key. Off he went. I went to Taco Bell and arrived at the vet 15 minutes ahead of schedule.

I paid the (substantial) bill and the Tech sat down and talked me through a long list of do-nots. As in: Do not put the cat on the bed where he might fall off. Do allow him to drink a little water but do not feed him for 12 hours as he may be nauseated. Do not let him lick the incision. (Oh, I do hope the vet told him that, kids never listen to their mothers!) Do not be alarmed that he has a shaved patch on his leg, that is where the IV went in. Finally, she goes back and brings him out.

He sees me and screams like he's having his left leg removed with a rusty hacksaw. "Mama, you'll never GUESS what they DID TO ME!!!" The Tech says the bottom of the carrier fell out and he got away from them, they had to catch him, so you have to wrap your arms around the carrier and hold it together. I can't do it. The Tech carries him to the car for me.

But when I get home I can't get in, because I have no key, and I couldn't carry the flipping carrier if I had the key. I drag out my cell and call my husband, who is sound asleep upstairs. It rings about 10 times before he answers. He brings keys and the trolley for the carrier.

Once Hobbes is inside he's like a wind-up toy that will not wind down. He jumps on *everything*, table, stove, cabinets, chairs, over and over again. You can't catch him. He won't be held. He's hyper-doodle-dandied up on drugs and apparently enjoying the trip. He's running and jumping and panting and occasionally throwing a leg in the air and licking where his little boy balls used to be. The bitter orange flavour they put on the incision to make him not lick it is apparently his favorite sauce.

Smokey is irritated by all this running and jumping and panting and decides he's going to beat the crap out of this perpetual motion cat-thing which smells of antiseptic, so I have to hover like a police helicopter to keep the peace. After an hour Hobbes goes to his dish, eats a full meal, climbs into the carrier and goes to sleep. Smokey crawls into Tony's chair and goes to sleep. Tony's been asleep for an hour already. I fall half-dead in my chair.

Do not call. We may not get up until next Tuesday.

We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway

Will Campbell (1924-2013) was a radical Christian, a native of Mississippi who was involved in the Civil Rights movement from its beginning and also ministered to members of the KKK. When challenged to sum up Christianity in ten words said, "We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway."

He was no less straightforward about the involvement of the church in politics. This was an area where my brother and I had many a conversation. He felt it was appropriate to hang the flag above the altar, and invite the candidate your congregation favoured in to preach the Sunday morning service, and collect contributions for his campaign. I believe the government's job is governing, and the while each of us must act from moral conviction the church has no business meddling in affairs of state. I think Will and I would have gotten along just fine.

"I believe God made the St. Lawrence River, and the Rio Grande River, and the China Sea and the English Channel, but I don't believe God made America, or Canada, or Mexico, or England or China. Man did that… Patriotism is the insistence that what we have done is sacred. It is that transference of alligance from what God did in creating the whole world to what we have done with (or to) a little sliver of it. Patriotism is immoral. Flying a national flag - any national flag - in a church is a symbol of idolatry. Singing 'God Bless America' in a Christian service is blasphemy. Patriotism is immoral because it is a violation of the First Commandment."

If you are doubtful how Christ would look if He walked among us today, look no further than Will D Campbell. There's a wonderful program about his life, his philosophy and his work, below. Grab a cup of coffee and prepare to be entertained.

If you can't see the embed watch it here. http://vimeo.com/55126898

God's Will from The Center for Public Television on Vimeo.

Every Breath, New Chances

If you can't see the embedded video, click on the PBS link. Blogger is being weird about videos.

We age, we are faced with it on a daily basis. The only way to escape growing older is to die young, which is not much of an option. This brings to mind the Plum Village Chant I have in the sidebar, which I find such a comfort day after day:

I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.

I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape ill health.

I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change.

There is no way to escape being separated from them.

My actions are my only true belongings.

I cannot escape the consequences of my actions.

My actions are the ground upon which I stand.

from: The Plum Village Chanting, by Thich Nhat Hanh

The One Thing

If you can't see the video here you can watch it on YouTube, and then this conversation can begin.

To start with, I'm one of those people you would expect to be a racist. I was born in the 1940s. I spent my formative years in a little town that sits almost with eyesight of the Texas/Oklahoma border. We were poor, I went to a segregated school and lived in a segregated neighbourhood. My parents had only elementary educations, and spoke the parlance of the day. Even a Black man you knew and liked was called by the "N" word. And even though it was a small town you rarely saw Black people on the street, they had their own businesses, clubs and churches. They knew better than to come to Main Street, or if they did they hurried, head down, and women pulled their children by the arm and urged them on. Signs in shop windows said, No Dogs and No *iggers.

A month before I started high school we moved to Phoenix. The students in the high school I attended, on the poor side of town, were a mixture of immigrant Whites, (from other countries or Southern poverty), Black kids, Latinos (though we just called them Mexicans then), and Japanese who had stayed on when the World War II Japanese internment camps in the Arizona desert had closed. And I learned, in the classroom, the cafeteria, the hallways and the after school clubs, that all of us were essentially the same, no matter what colour we were. Some had brilliant minds and beautiful souls, some had beautiful bodies, some goofed off and some worked hard. Some, like my friend Dan Grijalva, who had late stage muscular dystrophy, struggled on a daily basis just to survive.

It was an intense time. I remember watching on the nightly news films of courageous Black children trying to integrate schools in Little Rock Arkansas, pristine dresses and white shirts. The frightened faces as the local police turned fire hoses and unleashed police dogs on small children. The National Guard, The Freedom Riders, the lunch counter sit-ins, We Shall Overcome and I Have a Dream.

Someone broke into the school grounds and wrote racist graffiti on the walls. It was like we'd been violated. I will never forget the shame and pain on Lily Jones' face that day. We needed the adults to tell us that it was okay to be angry, it was okay for all of us to grieve with the Black students who the violence had been directed toward, but we were not told. We were children ourselves, unsure. I knew what I should have done. I wanted to go to Lily, who I liked so much, put my arms around her, cried my heart out and told her how sorry I was that she and the other Black kids had been the target of such ignorance and hate. But I was too shy, I was afraid she'd reject me. I knew what I should have done and I didn't do it.

In those moments my heart broke and broke and broke again. It's been 50 years since I Have a Dream, and "the dream" is no closer to being realized now than it was then. But that's only because those of us with White Privilege have not spoken up when we could to make the dream of harmony and peace for all our children, of any colour, ethnicity, religion, or disability a reality. We have been all too complacent, we have been willing to stand aside and allow our brothers and sisters to be persecuted, discriminated against, humiliated, and beaten down. The only thing that stands between the dream and its realization is our inaction, our lethargy, our timidity, our unwillingness to make a scene or get involved.

We know what to do. It's time for us to stop being cowards, no one wins a battle alone. It's time for us to step up to the plate and send prejudice back to Hell with the Devil, which is where it springs from and where it ought to stay.

All your diamond tears will rise up

If you can't see Bryan Bower's wonderful performance of this song embedded here you can view it here.

His interpretation is that this song is about it going down fighting, but I hear it saying that death brings a great release of the mass = energy we are composed of and our energy becomes a part of all of physical creation. I find it a beautifully compelling song. No fear. We are here, and here our energy will stay, expressed over and over again in affirmation that we indeed are one.

Come, lonely hunter, chieftain and king
I will fly like the falcon when I go
Bear me my brother under your wing
I'll be struck filled with lightning when I go

I will bellow like the thunder drum, invoke the storm of war
A twisting pillar spun of dust and blood up from the prairie floor
I will sweep the foe before me like a gale out on the snow
And the wind will long recount the story, reverence and glory, when I go

Spring, spirit dancer, nimble and thin
I will leap like coyote when I go
Tireless entrancer, lend me your skin
I will run like the gray wolf when I go

I will climb the rise at daybreak, I will kiss the sky at noon
Raise my yearning voice at midnight to my mother in the moon
I will make the lay of long defeat and draw the chorus slow
Send this message down the wire and hope that someone wise is listening when I go

And when the sun comes, trumpets from his red house in the east
He will find a standing stone where long I chanted my release
He will send his morning messenger to strike the hammer blow
And I will crumble down uncountable in showers of crimson rubies when I go

Sigh, mournful sister, whisper and turn
I will rattle like dry leaves when I go
Stand in the mist where my fire used to burn
I will camp on the night breeze when I go

And should you glimpse my wandering form out on the borderline
Between death and resurrection and the council of the pines
Do not worry for my comfort, do not sorrow for me so
All your diamond tears will rise up and adorn the sky beside me when I go

ARTIST: Dave Carter TITLE: When I Go

Celebrating KIVA!

KIVA is an organization which provides Microfinance

Microfinance is a general term to describe financial services to low-income individuals or to those who do not have access to typical banking services. Microfinance is based on the idea that low-income individuals are often capable of lifting themselves out of poverty if given access to financial services.

Over the past three or four years through KIVA we have made monthly loans of $25.00 to individuals in many different part of the world. Most have been women, many have been groups of women, who work together to guarantee each other's loans.

KIVA combines our $25.00 with loans from other lenders to make up the full amount of the loan. Borrowers pay back a small amount on their loan each month,   so your money is recycled. When a loan is repaid you can choose to loan the funds to another borrower, or take the money out of the program and put it back in your pocket. Although we have only put $286 into the program in all the time we've participated, by recycling what has returned we have loaned $1,350. And of the 49 loans we have made, only one borrower has not paid back the loan in full, and her entire village was destroyed in a tsunami. We do not know if she escaped and survived or if she died.

This month we celebrate making loans number 50 and 51, both to communal groups in Bolivia served by Pro Mujer (For Woman).  Pro Mujer provides not only loans but also free basic health care to borrowers and their children, in addition to business and financial literacy training.

Members of LAS MAÑANERAS

Loan number 50 went to “LAS MAÑANERAS” (The Morning) group, which is starting its fifth loan cycle in Pro Mujer. It is governed by a board of directors, and Pascuala is the president. The members' businesses are varied and include: condiments sales, potato sales, canned food sales, grain sales, pop sales, vegetable sales, and food sales.

This loan will benefit all these small businesses. The leader of the group, Pascuala, says that she has been part of Pro Mujer for five loan cycles. She joined at the invitation of a promoter who visited her at home to tell her about Pro Mujer's loan program. She currently has a business selling vegetables. She says that she began selling vegetables several years ago when she saw what a wide demand there was for fresh vegetables.

This loan is to increase her working capital so she can purchase larger quantities of vegetables from wholesale markets of the city of El Alto. She will then sell the produce in her market stall. This work allows her to generate an income in order to maintain her household; she is married and has three children. When asked what she likes about Pro Mujer, she responded that she likes the health center.

Members of Villa Esther

Loan 51 went to the communal group "Villa Esther" which is starting its second term in Pro Mujer. The group has eight members and is run by a Board of Directors headed by Constancia, the president. The members have a wide variety of businesses, including a bakery, a cleaning service, bread sales, clothing sales, and the weaving of wool sweaters.

The loan will benefit the tiny businesses of the organization where Constance is a member. She said that they joined Pro Mujer a year ago at the invitation of her sister-in-law, who is a member of another communal group of borrowers.

Constance runs a bakery, which helps to sustain her family. She learned how to run this business with the help of a family member who gave her the start-up capital. Her loan will be used to purchase flour, which she will buy from one of the wholesaler vendors in the city of El Alto. After using the flour for baking, she will sell her products in her market stall. Her work generates income which she uses to help maintain her home and family, as she is married and has four children. When asked what she liked most about Pro Mujer, she said that she liked the access to health assistance.

Anyone can make a KIVA loan, in fact you can make a free one now by following this link. Select a borrower, make the loan free of charge and see how it works. You get updates which tell you how your borrowers are doing, and you can see how your loan has helped raise them help themselves.

Lean In

I'm a great fan of  Buddhist nun  Pema Chödrön, and find her gentle but no nonsense advice very helpful many days.  I find reading her books like talking to an older and wiser friend, one who knows what it is to live with pain and ill health and neither pities nor blames me for my feelings.


"The next time you lose heart and you can't bear to experience what you're feeling, you might recall this instruction: change the way you see it and lean in. Instead of blaming our discomfort on outer circumstances or on our own weakness, we can choose to stay present and awake to our experience, not rejecting it, not grasping it, not buying the stories that we relentlessly tell ourselves. This is priceless advice that addresses the true cause of suffering - yours, mine, and that of all living beings."  Excerpt from "Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears", page 55 Pema Chödrön

I tend to get wound up in what I am unable to do, and I do this worst when I feel worst. So instead of just staying with the moment, and allowing my body to rest and recover I tend to replay the tapes in my head, "Lazy, useless, better if you'd never been born, millstone, could if you would… yada yada". Then I predict that if today is this bad, tomorrow, next week, next year are bound to be worse, and I just feel like curling into a ball and giving up completely.

Pema tells me not to buy into those old voices in my head, stop flagellating myself and just stay with what's happening now. Not to worry about the past, what tomorrow will be like, just stay with *now* and be like a cork in a pond. Bob along, sometimes washed over by a wave and briefly submerged but quickly popping up again.

All in all, the practice of peace must begin with being at peace with yourself, your life, your particular strengths and weaknesses. Lean into your own heart, your own pain, see them for what they are, and rest.
 

Better Underwater Than Old

Eight weeks ago we had a terrible flood which inundated entire neighbourhoods. In contrast to mayors in some smaller communities around Calgary, our mayor, Naheed Nemshi, was a tower of unflappable strength and showed incredible leadership during the crisis. There is no doubt that he is the most popular man in Calgary right now.

The Alberta government stepped in and began giving those who were displaced by the flood debit cards worth $1250 for each adult and $600 for each child in every family within 48 hours. Funds are being made available, in the billions of dollars, to help people repair their homes where possible, or to move and buy or build elsewhere if their flood damaged home sits in the newly assessed flood plain.

Volunteers have come out by the 10s of thousands to help complete strangers clean up, restore, donate. Albertans pulling together. Benefit concerts are an almost nightly occurrence with big name entertainers here to raise money for flood victims. There's a huge groundswell of community spirit.

Which is why I was dumbfounded to see on last night's news that the Kerby Centre, a local non-profit offering a wide variety of services to Calgary's seniors is going to be forced to close six of the 15 beds in its Shelter Program for Homeless Seniors  unless it can raise the $207,000 to keep the program running for the next year. The shelter housed 56 clients last years, for an average stay of about two and a half months while they got back on their feet, were medically stabilized and found a place to live. The Alberta government has turned down their requests for help.

The Shelter turns away many more seniors than it can house, but is life-saving for the clients who find a place there. One elderly couple with serious medical issues spoke of sleeping in their car in the months after they lost their home due to the inability to keep up the mortgage payment after the husband fell ill. Hungry, sick, exhausted and no longer able to endure the stress, they were so desperate they had decided to end their lives when a friend found them a place at the Kerby Shelter.

The government says it will give flood victims up to the amount of the price of the average house in Calgary to implement repairs - the average house in Calgary is now $460,000 - and that's ONE house. Maybe someone should flood the Kerby Homeless Shelter and apply for flood aid! 

This makes one suspect that the couple who owns a $2 Million property along the Elbow is much more important to the Alberta government than an elderly senior.

Where's that community spirit now? Who is going to do the benefit concert for the 80 year old who has no place to go?

The Dionysian hangs the picture wherever it suits

I have absolutely loved the work and philosophy of Dan Phillips since reading of him years ago. A trained architect from Huntsville, Texas, Phillips helps people build their own affordable dream homes with recycled materials that most people would consider useless. The houses he builds are spectacular and creative, all one of a kind and entirely unique. And by affordable he's talking $40,000-50,000. The average Calgary family home is selling for $460,000 right now! "Starter" homes are a quarter of a million dollars or more.

Each of the homes he's built has allowed low-income, first-time buyers to enter the world of home ownership. And they learn new skills as they go. One of his best carpenters was a bottle-picker he saw go by every day and asked if he'd like a steady job.

What a kitten taught a cat

When we sat the defenseless 1.5 pound ball of fluff on the floor for Smokey the 20 pound "only" cat to look at for the first time we stayed within rescue distance. We need not have worried. On Smokey's part it was love at first sight.

He would have scooped the kitten up and cuddled it immediately but the kitten took one look at his new monster-sized brother and turned fierce, arching his back, tail straight up and puffed, spitting and hissing like a teakettle.

Smokey is quiet, calm, and patient. He simply turned his back, lay down and looked the other way. The little one hid under the leg of the table, but by day two was too curious to ignore the mound of grey fur, and he was missing his mama and siblings awfully.

Hobbes at about 12 weeks, snoozing on Smokey's back

He wondered. Does that big cat have titties? Which is how patient and loving Smokey came to have scabs around his nipples for the first few weeks. He would let the baby suckle his tiny nubs of nipple, before it curled into his bulk and slept.

We tried to call the "little one" Salvadore Too, but he never took to it. After seven months he still ignored being called by name. It was obvious he wanted no part of being the second anything. So Sal2, renamed Hobbes (which he took to immediately) will be nine months old on the 18th. He weighs about nine pounds. Time for a visit to the vet. I'll have to take them both, Smokey needs his boosters, and I'm not sure how he'll react to leaving his baby behind for surgery. There cannot be a closed door between them. If Hobbes wakes and doesn't see Smokey immediately there is such a screaming as you wouldn't believe could come from such a small body.

To say they are bonded would be the grossest understatement. Smokey has, from the first, let Hobbes eat first. Smokey will only eat tuna and Hobbes will only eat chicken, but  every time we feed them Smokey stands back for Hobbes to check out the tuna bowl before he eats.

Hobbes has long, extremely powerful back legs, and even as a 10 week old kitten was jumping higher than the cobby Smokey is able to jump. Smokey was afraid to jump on the bed, would stand and look into the tub, but couldn't jump into it. Somewhere he missed that lesson. Hobbes taught him how to jump and now the two of them hurtle like furry missiles over every obstacle in the house. I've even caught Smokey on the kitchen counter a couple of times.

Hobbes has taught Smokey how to scratch the furniture. (sigh) He *never* scratched the furniture before. He's taught him to yodel, and to purr, and how to be brave.

Smokey is terrified of the vacuum. Any time he saw me taking it from the closet he would run to the bedroom and hide under the bed until hunger or the need for the litter box forced him out, four or five hours later. Hobbes is not afraid of the vacuum. He plays with it, and now Smokey will jump on the bed and watch me vacuum past.

Last week a section of the front walk had to be removed, with a jackhammer, before new concrete was poured. Smokey was just overwhelmed with fear at the noise, which was right below our balcony. He was soon so stressed he was panting and crying. I took him out into the hallway for a walk, away from the noise for a few minutes, but he soon ran back to our door, where Hobbes was waiting. Hobbes comforted him, kissing his face, rubbing along his sides and intertwining their tails and within minutes the two of them were curled together sleeping, Smokey unconcerned with the noise. 

Maybe Hobbes will teach him not to be afraid of thunder, but I doubt it. We have had several spectacular thunder and lightening storms in the last week. While Smokey hid under my chair, as far from the windows as he could get, Hobbes was standing in the big patio window watching the light show with great interest and excitement.
   
As soon as the lights go out each night a great rumpus starts, but after 10-15 minutes of hard play both will join us in bed. Smokey wouldn't sleep with us before Hobbes came. I think he must have been punished as a kitten for getting on the bed, and we couldn't convince him we wanted him there with us. Hobbes did that. From the first night, when he slept sprawled on my chest, he's taught Smokey that a lot of things are pretty okay.  You think it's the older that teach the young, and Smokey has taught Hobbes things too, but it's surprising how much the older has learned from the young.  

I'll send what I have on the Allens, but it will be a wrench

I have been an avid genealogist since the 1970s. In those days "research" involved combing through dusty files and old books in courthouses, hours spent hunched over fiche and film readers, trying to finish reading through 1300 pages of unindexed county records before the film you ordered at a cost of $15.00 or $20.00 was returned to the dark vault from whence it came, 100 or 1000 miles away.

In those days genealogy was a very civilized pursuit. You wrote polite letters to other genealogists who might have information valuable to you, explained who you were researching, how you were connected and exactly what information you were seeking. You offered to pay for any copying or other expenses and included a self-addressed stamped envelope in case the recipient of your plea was kind enough to reply. If you knew the person you were writing was a "fount of knowledge" for the family you were researching you often tucked a $5.00 or $10.00 bill into the envelope.

Now for a small monthly subscription fee you can maintain a family tree on Ancestry.com and have access to millions of ancient records, from old newspapers and high school albums to parish records from the 1500s, census records and military documents. All you have to do is put in the name and start searching.

There is also the "Family Tree", where subscribers can look at others' trees, and very easily pull data from dozens, if not hundreds, of trees into their own. The "Family Tree" on Ancestry.com is a potential minefield. Look closely and you find children born 100 (or more) years before their parents, two, three, four families "blended" into one impossible 75 years of childbearing for one incredibly patient wife, men born 100 years before (or after) the Revolution marching with George Washington, 1/2 the world descended from Charlemagne and the other half from Richard the Lion-Hearted.

Truth be told there's a great deal more fiction than fact in Ancestry trees. THIS is where research comes in, or doesn't usually. People just copy from each other, never checking for documentation to see if what they are including is accurate. Newton Allen of Connecticut did not race down on his horse in the nick of time to father your ggg-granddaddy Newton Allen's children in West Virginia and then ride back home to his Connecticut wife and children. Lots of people have the same names, even unusual ones. I though it would be easy to find Stirling Tidwell until I found out that there were dozens of Stirling Tidwells born in the early 100s. And also remember that people were not normally buried in two separate graves in different states unless there was an incredibly messy accident.

So the rule is: Forget using the Family Trees of anyone else as the basis for your "research" unless you're just trying to find any way possible to connect Granddaddy to Dan'l Boone or Davy Crockett and you don't care what path it takes to get you there. 

Most Family Trees are public, but mine is private. This is because I have put years into personal research and if someone wants to use it they must ask for it. I generally ask how they are connected so I know the research is being connected to the right individual. This angers many people who expect to buy a subscription to Ancestry.com and find their entire family tree researched and laid out for them, like buying a can of beans off the grocer's shelf. They do not understand that; 1) every family tree is unique 2) they need to do their own research using the the searchable public documents Ancestry.com provides (it's really fun!),  and 3) they have no "divine right" to research which has been done, often at a considerable investment of time and expense, by another individual.

We might compare it to your neighbourhood street. Everyone can use the street, but a if a person living on that street puts together a collection of antique clocks there is no question to whom the clock collection belongs. No one would even begin to suggest that the right to drive on the street gives drivers the right to go into the collector's home and take whichever clock strikes their fancy (no pun intended).

I happily share research and documentation on individuals, like wills, deeds, photos, marriage records etc. But I am constantly asked to share not just information on individuals, but whole family lines, by people who do not understand that they must do their own basic work. I've been told, "I don't have time to look up all that stuff!" by someone who wanted a "family tree for her kids" but decided it was easier to simply take my tree than do research on her family, even though we are not related.

I used to delete "requests" like the ones below. Now I try to help others be more successful in their search for their ancestors by sending them a link to this page, so they can learn the right way to seek information from another genealogist. You note, none of these requests contain a greeting, an introduction or the courtesies of please and thank you, they do not even sign their names. All they do is make a rude demand, when common sense dictates that courtesy would produce a better response. Here are some requests which demonstrate how not to ask for another's research.

"Send me everything you have on the Cox family."

"I am a Cole descendant. Send me everything about my ancestors."

"I'm a descendant of X. Send me her parent's names." 

"David Crouch 1744" 

"I want all you have on the Smiths."

"Send me what you have on the Allens. It's mine as much as yours."

"Give me access to your tree."

The following three messages came from one charming young lady in the space of half an hour:

1) "Send me *everything* you have on the Clarks."
2) "I said send that information. I want it NOW."
3) "You _ITCH, how DARE you block me from information that belongs to me!"

Below is an example of the proper way to ask for information from another genealogist. Remember you are asking someone else to do you a favour, so be polite.

1. Begin with a salutation: Dear (Insert name here - if you don't know the name you may say, "Hello", or "Hi" or "Dear Fellow Genealogist" ) 

2. Introduce yourself:  My name is Mr. Very Polite.

3. Say who are researching and why:  I am researching the Civils, who are my paternal grandfather's maternal line. In particular I am looking for information on my grandfather's great-uncle Extremely Civil  who was born in 1810 in Peoria New York. I have never been able to locate him as an adult.

4) Say why you are contacting the person: I see that you have an Extremely Civil b 1810 in Peoria New York in your tree, who died in Reno Nevada in 1885. 

5) Make a POLITE request:  Would you be willing to compare the Extremely Civil in your tree with the Extremely Civil in my tree to see if we have a match?

6) ALWAYS OFFER to EXCHANGE information:  I would be happy to exchange any information on my Civil and allied families (The Well-Breds, Genteels, and Courteous families) that might be useful to you. I have photos of the Civil family and a copy of the family Bible brought from Germany in 1800. If these are of interest I am happy to copy them for you.  [Note; if you have nothing of interest to exchange then you are not ready to ask for another's research, go do some research of your own first]

7) End politely:  Thank you, (or) All the Best (or) Sincerely yours, etc.

8) Then sign your name:  Mr. Very Polite

And, after all this, when you receive a reply, whether the answer is helpful to your research or not, remember to write a "Thank You" note.

And, if you think this is too much trouble, then go do your own research. 

$600 bought me two hours with Tomas de Torquemada

If I asked you what your favourite thing in the world was, (and you were honest) you'd say feeling really really good, and sex, or chocolate, or booze, or marijuana or laying on a beach somewhere naked, with somebody you also really really like, also naked, with a big box of chocolate and some booze and a joint, and that would be your favourite thing in the world. 

I could walk up and down Stephen Ave Mall asking every person I met what their favourite thing was, and though most of them would lie and say, "A good book, or dinner with my boyfriend, or a weekend skiing in Louise," you and I would both know that's a load of cobblers.

One thing no one is going to say is that their absolutely favourite thing is spending the afternoon in the dentist's chair, having what was supposed to be a "small cavity which would probably not even require any freezing to fix" turn into a spelunker's dream which leaves the dentist crying to his assistant. "Look Madge! There's an unexplored cavern 150 yards to the right in this molar! Hand me the jack-hammer! NO! Not the small one, I want that big mother! The one with the 10 HP Briggs and Stratton engine!"  

So yesterday afternoon was not marked "FAVOURITE DAY! on my calendar, nor did it have a happy face on it. Most people go to the dentist, get a needle, are the recepients of some unpleasant but not dreadfully uncomfortable burring and buzzing and poking about, and leave the office numb from nose to chin, drooling and unable to do more than eat soup for supper.

I have the genetic misfortune to be totally immune to the effect of local anesthesia. I don't "freeze". So for the last 10 years I've had IV sedation for dental procedures. This has always worked a treat. I go in, they check my vitals, put me on a cardiac, blood pressure and oxygen monitor, start an IV, and once the sedation kicks in I am off in some timeless dimension, quite possibly naked with a box of booze and a bottle of chocolate. I don't know. But it costs $600 a pop so the dream better be good. I awaken, a bit woozy, dental work done, and I'm off to eat soup for supper.

Yesterday I had no reason to expect anything different. This is a new dentist for me, but he's as careful as your old granny and sweet as candy. He's Latin. Tall, heavy-set, dark-skinned and curly-haired and I'm just thinking all I need is that medication and I don't care if he is young enough to be my son. It's my damn fantasy and if I want to lie on a beach and eat chocolate with my dentist that's between me and my drugs.

The first clue that this might not go as well as might be expected was that the anesthesiologist couldn't find a vein that would hold a butterfly needle - which is hardly thicker than a hair. Finally after wrapping my arm and hand in hot wet towels for a few minutes they try the underside of my forearm, find a vein and start the IV.

All is in readiness for dream land. Dr. Sugar gives the okay for the first level of sedation to kick in. But dream land eludes me. Through my complaints that I am feeling every rotation of the damn drill and dig of the pick he keeps reassuring me that I won't remember a thing tomorrow. He is terrified that he will over sedate me, so he doesn't give me enough sedation.

"Tomorrow you will think back and say it was painless. Why, you've even been sleeping," he said.  No. What I was doing was what I've had to do all my life when I had dental work, wall my mind off to the pain and meditate. Until I was in my 50s I had no idea that having dental work wasn't akin to a information gathering session with the Spanish Inquisition. I didn't realize that it didn't hurt everyone the same way it hurt me.

Over the space of an hour the "wee cavity" is drilled right back to my jaw bone, reamed out, done whatever to. He keeps giving me hits of lidocaine (or water) same thing. He complains that my mouth is too small to get the needle deep enough in the gum.

He finishes the tooth, then says, "Uh Oh. It's bleeding from up in there somewhere, so he tears out the just completed filling looking for the "bleeder",  seals it, fills the tooth again, scrapes the edges, smooths the surfaces. Pronounces it done. Moves on to tooth number two, a wisdom tooth which had been capped years ago and had simply sheared off one day.

"This one's gonna hurt," he said, "and I've used up almost all the lidocaine." But to my immense relief it was only a root tip left and it popped right out. He filled the cavity with a foam that stops bleeding, stitched it, and yes I felt that damn needle go in and come out for every stitch. 

And finally I was done. They took the IV out, peeled off the layers of tape, and brought in a walker I did not need. I paid the bill, instructed them to which pharmacy to FAX my prescription, arranged for a follow-up visit, went out and bought sushi and pie from the hospital's excellent deli, and caught a cab home.

But, you can be assured that if ever Dr. Sugar does another procedure on me we will be after a long and emphatic conversation about how much sedation I require. For $600 I want two hours on the beach, not two hours with Tomas de Torquemada.