The Last Day

It's December 31st. 2011. One more year. Who would have ever thought? Next week will be three years since my cancer diagnosis. The following week will be three years since my surgery for colon cancer. That was followed by six months of chemotherapy. And iron infusions to bring my hemoglobin level back up to normal. And lots of doctor appointments and blood work and CT scans etc., etc., etc. Thus far, my blood work has been better than good. My hemoglobin is normal. My CEA, which is a tumor marker, has been good. My CT scans have shown "no mass, no active disease."

For each of those three years, I have hosted Christmas, just as I did pre-cancer. This year, for the first time, I made peace with the fact that there is no perfect Christmas. Something will go awry. And who cares? We all have our health, (well, most of it), we all have jobs, and homes, and plenty to eat and we are together.

Yesterday, I mailed all my "thank you" notes and paid all my bills. I had strength enough to do three loads of laundry. And my mind is okay because I can still figure out the daily cryptogram without a hint.

I'm ending 2011 with a clean slate. You know what would be nice? To say the same thing next December 31st. Until then - Happy New Year.

When Do We Stop?

About four or five years ago, my grown children got together with their children (my grandchildren) and had a portrait taken and framed for me for a Christmas gift. Needless to say, I was enormously pleased. There were, at the time, ten grandchildren and while I had many photos of them individually, or in their particular family groups, I did not have even a candid shot of all of them. Together. At the same time. So this picture was especially meaningful.

During this past year, our family welcomed yet another grandchild. (We thought we were all finished!) She is a cutie. I planned on photo shopping her little face into the grandchildren photo. In addition to the newest grandchild, my eldest grandchild welcomed a daughter of her own, making me a great grandmother. And me so young!

Well, family once again decided that a new grand photo was in order. The logistics were tricky, since eldest granddaughter, her husband and their baby live in Arizona. Flying in for the Christmas holiday called for some tight scheduling. Their arrival was late evening on the 21st. That meant earliest photo session could be held on the 22nd. and pushing for a finished photo by the 24th. for presentation on Christmas.

Well, the 25th. arrived, as it always does. My gift was presented. I unwrapped the package and stared at the photo for a long time. I counted the faces staring back at me. And counted again. Something was amiss. There were only 11 people in the photo. They were all my grandchildren. But not all my grandchildren were in the photo.

For some reason, eldest granddaughter opted not to be included in the new photo. For reasons known only to her. As her mother said, "That's our girl."

And I want to know, when does it stop? When does Mom stop making excuses for this woman? This woman who became 30 years old earlier this month. The woman who had long held herself to be the smartest woman in any room in which she found herself. The woman who recently wrote a treatise on what one should have acheived by age 30, including realizing that one is not the center of the Universe. Fans of the blog, who have in the past nominated her for President, Queen and sainthood, were quick to comment on how succintly she had summed up what should be expected by the time one reaches 30. Putting a meal on the table; not blocking the grocery aisle with your cart; wishing folks Happy Holidays and screw'em if they object because you didn't say "Christmas" or "Hanukkah" or whatever particular nomenclature you prefer.

But just as though she knew of Granddaughter's intent as to declining to appear in the Grandchildren photo, another blogger left a comment which added her own take on what a 30-year-old should be able to do. To do something you don't really want to do simply because it would mean a lot to someone you care about and who cares about you so suck it up and just do it!

That comment was particularly appropos in light of the pontificate tone of the blog and the refusal to add to a Christmas gift that would not have impacted her life at all (her daughter, her sister and her brother are all in the picture) since she only comes here once a year. But this whole event has become a non-event and other than the fact that her Mother still defends her bad behavior, I don't particularly give a flying falafel. And this is when it stops.

We Are - Ashamed

The whole Penn State thing. I'm very sad. I'm not a rabid Penn State fan. And Joe Paterno is a football coach. I don't even like football. Nothing about the game excites me. But the scandal that is monopolizing everyone's interest is making me very sad.

Is Sandusky a monster? I don't know, he hasn't had a trial yet. Should the Board of Regents have fired JoePa? I don't know. Because I don't know what they know. But they needed a scapegoat to make themselves look righteous, so I guess they had to. Oh, and Spanier, too. God knows how he fit into the chain. It didn't sound like he had ever been in the loop when the accusation came to light. But, hey, somebody has to take the blame.

Coaches, presidents, athletic directors, out you go. You let Sandusky ply his evil trade and did nothing.

What makes me saddest is the fact that the original witness to this horror is still at work with the football team. And as of Thursday, the new interim head coach intended that this person, this cowardly wimp, would be on the sidelines in his position as one of the coaches. It was only when he received death threats that he was placed on "administrative leave with pay". Yes, I know his name, but I won't say it because it tastes bad in my mouth.

It makes me sad that this man was 28-years-old when he says he witnessed Sandusky sexually assaulting a young child in the locker room. He scurried out like the weasel he is and went home and called his Daddy and asked him what to do. Why, at age 28, would it be necessary to ask anyone what you should do. Do? DO?? You should make your presence known as you dial 9-1-1. The police would have arrived and the legal process could have begun. But no. Our witness slept on the information and then went to Coach Paterno the next day and told him what he saw. He says. We don't know what he told Paterno. But Paterno did what he was supposed to do and reported it to the next-up the chain of command. Now, current wisdom has it that Paterno should have called the police. And told them what? That his grad assistant said he saw a sexual assault taking place. And when was this, asked the friendly officer. Oh, sometime yesterday replies Paterno. And what do you want us to do about this now? You have an allegation that cannot be corroborated because the perpetrator and his victim are gone, and when he is tracked down and questioned, do you think he will admit his crime?

While I cannot answer as to the fairness of the firing of the four people who were sacrificed in order to make the university look good, it certainly seems fair to expect that the witness who suffers from Yellow-stripe-up-the-back syndrome should have been the first one to do the perp walk off the campus.

I guess he saved his own bacon when he testified to the Grand Jury. But he's still being paid by the school. And that makes me sad.

BOO!

Monday was Hallowe'en. Grandkids were all excited, having had a party at school and their little costume parade and half-day. I wasn't up for going to the parade. Nothing I could put my finger on, just not very up-an-at-'em.

But I showered and dressed and moved enough to get to their house to see them all dressed and ready to go Trick or Treat-ing. One was dressed as a Postal Carrier. Managed to get a regulation letter carrier's bag and her Dad had attached a couple of stuffed dogs to the pants of her outfit.

Her sister was dressed as Captain Hook - a recycled costume from when her big sister was younger. And off they went with assorted aunts, cousins, and other relatives to cruise the neighborhood for treats. They returned an hour later, flushed with their sacks of candy, but not ready to call it a night. Off they went to their church where they were holding a Trunk or Treat and a party with hot dogs and popcorn and hot chocolate. They arrive home with yet another sack of hyperactivity.

My littlest grand is only 8 months old and she stopped in (with her mom) to show off her Minnie Mouse outfit.

With all the unrest, and unemployment, and poverty, it's nice to know that we can still manage to give the kids a treat to continue the tradition of Hallowe'en.

Occupy This

So we have young people once again camping in the streets in front of financial institutions and complaining that they have massive student loans that are burdensome. Hmmm. They would like to see the nation's wealth more evenly distributed. Hmmm.

I'd like the wealth to be more even distributed, too. I'd like the taxes I paid all my working years to be refunded to me. It was burdensome. But it was my responsibility to pay for my share of the costs of government. So I paid.

I'd like the wealth to be distributed so that the money I paid for the mortgage on my home to be refunded to me. It was burdensome. But I paid it off two years ago.

I once had some overwhelming credit card debt, but I managed to pay it off. It was burdensome but I bought the stuff with plastic so it was only fair that I pay for it. Yes?

Sorry, but the college crowd enjoyed the years of money dropped in their laps while they went to school, got an education (we hope), enjoyed the social life and the pizza and beer parties. Tuition wasn't the only thing paid when the checks came in. I personally know one young woman who used some of her senior year check to buy a car from a classmate. Was it brand new? No. Beside the point. She didn't seem to be concerned about how the money would be repaid. Now that she has graduated with a degree in multimedia (?) the piper has asked to be paid for the dance. And it's "burdensome".

Years ago, I can remember my Father, who worked very hard for his money and never had an opportunity to attend college, insisting on paying the milk man in advance. It was his contention that once we drank the milk, it was too easy to forget that we owed somebody for it, so he would leave money every Monday for six quarts to be delivered one at a time during the ensuing week.

Thinking that student loans should now be forgiven certainly gives me pause. These people - the ones who went to college with borrowed money - they must not have taken any econ courses. The money these young scholars borrowed was my money. You see, I have a bank account. That means that the bank has my money and they use it to lend to other people for businesses, for mortgages, car loans, and yes, college. Now there was a time that the bank would pay me for the use of my money. It was called interest. But those days are gone. They still pay me interest but not so you could notice. It's about .025 percent. They haven't begun to charge me for letting them use my money as yet, but I'm holding my breath.

Now they have graduated from college, with degrees that, in this economy, are unusable. And they are moving back home with Mom and Dad. Who have probably gotten pretty used to not having Junior or the Princess around for the past four years. But they won't turn the kid out and after all, they weren't using the spare room.

If I was Mom, it would be plain that as long as I'm getting up and going to work every day, I expect the same from my offspring. Can't find a job in your field? Find something else. Cashier at the Piggly Wiggly. Man the counter at Burger King. Try your hand as a barrista at the local coffee hut. Babysit. Mow lawns. Sure it's hard work. But it's honest work. And you can give Mom and Dad a couple of bucks and throw a few on the loans. Usually, if you ask real nice, Sallie Mae will work with you, as long as you give them something to rely on. Just like you relied on them while you were getting your education with my money.

SCRAPPLE

If you've never eaten it, you don't know how good it can be. Scrapple, that is. It's all the little bits of the piggy that can't be converted into ham, pork chops, roasts, bacon, etc. It's the snout and the tail and every little "scrap" in between. Mix that up with corn meal and some spices and form the mixture into a square shape in a pan. When it sets up, it can be thinly sliced, dredged in flour and fried in hot fat until golden brown and crispy. Serve it for breakfast with eggs or pancakes. It tastes good when a little of that pancake syrup drifts onto the scrapple. Or have it for supper with mashers and corn. Have it for lunch or a snack. It's just scrapple. But when it's done right, it's as good as it gets.

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So yesterday was my birthday. Seventy-six. I didn't have a cake. The Fire Marshal refused to give us a permit for the candles. Tuesday isn't the optimal day for a celebration. I spent it grocery shopping. Since I've been watching my intake so as to drop a few pounds, it takes no little effort to make sure I'm buying the good stuff. Reading labels is time-consuming. But since I'm down 15 pounds, I'll keep doing it.

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The Big Canteloupe Scare has people being irrational. Every store has a sign that advises the origin of the fruit on display. Can't imagine any market would be willing to risk selling a melon from the Colorado farm where the Listeria epidemic began. I'm not making light of this, because people have died, but we must temper our fear with logic. I'm having a canteloupe that my market assures me did NOT come from Colorado, but from Southern California.

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If you like peanut butter, you should stock up. I have it on good authority that the peanut crop suffered this year and the price will be substantially increased. And I can guarantee you that if the crop next year is amazing, the price will not be reduced. Look what happened to sugar and coffee.

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I have grown weary at last of watching TV news. The over-dramatization makes me insane. And every unfortunate story repeats evening, late evening, early morning, midday for days on end. And all this without even having all the facts. No point in watching just to catch the weather forecast, which, we all know, is seldom right. What a scam. Show up, pontificate about the isobars and the Canadian highs and the Gulf Stream and low pressure systems. If you're wrong, well, at least it sounds as if you know what you're talking about. And you never get fired. You just get to be wrong every day and they pay you for it.

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In re: our recent extended low pressure system, it has been very hard on the joints. The Ritis boys are a bad lot, and Arthur is the worst one. My thumbs and my right knee are suffering and I've taken more ibuprofen than ever. It should be improving any minute now that the sun has made its annual appearance. Wish me luck.

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So there you have Scrapple. It tastes good with any meal. Some like it with catsup and some with pancake syrup. Straight up is good, too.

Forty Days and Forty Nights

The rain was coming down and the river was coming up. It had been raining for four straight days with only occasional breaks. Irene had come and gone and some people were still cleaning up branches and leaves and the utilities were busy restoring power to homes with downed lines. Laundry was piling up and there was little motivation to do anything because of the gloom.

We began hearing stories of flooding north and west of here and it seemed to be worse than the usual "lot of rain" and "lowlying areas" that we frequently hear. By Wednesday, it was becoming evident that this storm was quietly wicked. People were being rescued from fast-rising creeks and streams and the West Branch of the Susquehanna was causing real problems in Mountoursville and that area.

On Thursday morning, the announcement came that areas impacted by Agnes in '72 were under orders to evacuate. That meant Forty Fort, Kingston, Plymouth. Even though these areas are protected by an upgraded levee system that held in the last two alerts. In effect, get outta town. By eight PM. So carry a few pictures upstairs (optimistic, eh? who says it won't reach the second floor?) Pack some clothes, meds, laptop and Kindle. Prepare to abide by the law. And then it gets really serious. Evac time has been advanced to 4 PM. Not willing to wait until the traffic reached fever pitch, I locked the door(s) and left. Went to West Wyoming where there was no history of flooding and hunkered down for however long it was going to take. Better not be too long because I only brought enough clothes for two days. I did, however, remember to bring the expensive foods from my freezer. Not wanting to come home to a power-outage and garbage in the fridge.

And then, after dinner, the terrible news. West Pittston was being flooded. And the crest wasn't expected in Wilkes-Barre until 2 AM Friday. Businesses were inundated to the roof. The little drive-through coffee shop at the corner by the cement bridge was washed away and laying on its side down the block. Homes were taking in water where there had never been flooding before. Some people we knew living in W. Pittston were spared, but others we knew were counting the flooding in feet. Basements, first floors, in some instances higher. Heroic efforts on the part of some volunteers prevented the next town down-river from suffering the same fate.

The television was on constantly and the scenes were heart-breaking. Many folks up-river had seen this before and were covered by flood insurance. But most of the people in W. Pittston were not covered. And why should they be? They had never seen flooding prior. So as the hours wore on and the next day brought more fears, we watched. The rumors were rampant. There was trouble with the levee in Forty Fort. There was a breach. There wasn't a breach. But of course, the media has to report it whether or not it was confirmed. Now that we're sufficiently panicked, the straight skinny is - no breach. It's a "boil" and "we"ve contained it." Next thing we know, the flooding down-river has reached new highs. Nanticoke, Shickshinny, Bloomsburg, Knoebel's. And the river has crested at 42+ feet. Levee is only supposed to be good to 41. And all of the numbers that were being reported were wrong. The supposed crest was to be 38+ feet. National Weather Service lost the gauges that were to measure the crest so they "guessed." And the levee protection was obviously incorrect, or we'd be wearing waders and shoveling muck instead of writing this blog.

Getting from one side of the river to the other is a frightful task. I canceled my cardiologist appt yesterday. Took three tries to get to the Pierce St Bridge and then found it so backed up with traffic that I called the office from a nearby parking lot and told them I wouldn't be making it.

Brenna was late for dance class, despite having left early, because there are only one or two routes that are available. School is closed for the entire week, as parents shovel out houses and children are staying with relatives out of town.

This is the fourth time in 36 years that I've been evacuated due to the possibility of flooding. I don't think I want to go through this again. I'm betting my house will sell fairly easily since the levee has proven invincible. Living on a mountain sounds like a pretty good idea.