It's not pain, stain or drain, though I can make associations with each of these words quickly enough. I'll give you a hint. It's a form of precipitation. You got it! And so do we. It began raining last night and I awoke to a magnificent thunderstorm. I thought the pines were going to come crashing down on the cabin. It was still raining steadily when I awoke at 5:00am and again still at 8:30am. It finally let up around 10:00am, so I went out with my camera, a couple lenses and my tripod to photograph the swollen brook now loudly charging down behind the cabin.
Now I have to mention another small difficulty associated with life here in Maine. It rhymes with Mojito, but isn't as fun. You got it! And so do we. And apparently the species are different enough here that when they bite us Midwesterners, our bodies aren't used to their specific coastal juices and our immune systems react a bit overzealously. I was bitten on the back right side of my neck a few days ago. Yesterday I noticed a swollen lump in my neck, about an inch from a large bite. It seemed like a gland or lymph node or something, and it hurt. After my shower this morning, I discovered it was swollen even larger, and upon further inspection, I discovered another node, pea-sized, in my collarbone area. I try to tell myself that it's probably that large mosquito bite back there so close to a subcutaneous white blood cell defense center, but I have also been known to have a hypochondriacal bent. I begin to worry.
I am palpating my neck every few minutes. This isn't helping and the swelling is going up, if anything. I make Dean feel it. He says it's nothing. But then again, he thought the death of three of my Helichtotrichon sempervirens was nothing. Sempervirens, my eyeball - that was a disaster.
I find a phone book and call the local medical center here in town. The receptionist listens to my problem and tries to find a nurse. She can't locate one, but promises to have one call me back as she takes down my name and number. I put some Afterbite on my little wounds and sit down to treat myself to a bowl of Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal, which I bought the day before as a special vacation treat. I am still nervous so I eat another bowl. And another. There's no more Captain Crunch peanut butter cereal left when the kids start to wander in, searching for food. "Awwwww. Who ate all the good cereal?" Sorry.
Soon the phone rings and I jump up to answer it. The nurse listens to my complaint and assures me that my body is just trying to fight off this invasion caused by the mosquitoes. She asks where we're from, and when I say Wisconsin, she says that the bugs out here are probably different enough that our bodies are trying harder to get rid of this new variant of poison. "Give it about three days, and it should begin to go away on its own."
I am reassured, so this is when I head outside with the camera equipment. I wear my jacket with the collar turned up and the zipper zipped to the tippy top. I march through a lot of underbrush to get to the brook and then end up following the water all the way down into town, where it empties out into a pond full of reeds and frogs behind the town fire station. I roll up my jeans a bit and wade into the pond to gain access to a large rock. I climb up to get a better shot at some lovely water grass, then I wade back to shore and take the road through town to our place.
While walking, I start to feel a stinging sensation in my left thigh. I don't see anything stuck to my jeans, but I pick up my pace so I can get home faster. There's a huge, steep hill to ascend just before our driveway and I am beginning to sweat, but I don't dare take my jacket off for fear of more taquitoes. When I get home, I rip off my jeans and find hives sprinkled across my leg. What the heck? What did I do? I had my pants on the entire time I was out there. I go hunt down the Afterbite again and begin dabbing away. This helps. A few minutes later and a couple pop up on my other leg. There are none down where I rolled up my jeans to wade.
The sun came out for a couple minutes today, in a rather halfhearted way, but it quickly dodged back behind the clouds and the fog settled comfortably in its place. We went beachcombing and out to lunch, which is about when I started to notice the Captain Crunch effect. Does anyone out there know what I'm talking about? The Captain Crunch effect happens to folks who don't normally eat little, hard, round balls of sugary cereal for breakfast. A few hours later you notice that your tongue and the roof of your mouth are inexplicably sore. You ponder this fact for a while and then realize it was caused by the pleasing sensation of eating those hard pellets, mashing them against the tender insides of your gums and palate. It's 8:30 at night and my tongue still hurts.
So, swollen glands, hives, CC effect, and still no clear sky. Ah, vacation.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Soggy Little Cat Feet . . .
My apologies to Carl Sandburg. It's a foggy, overcast day here in Maine, and what started out as charming, New England fishing village coastal romantic atmospheric haze is quickly dissolving (oh, how I wish) into plain old crappy weather. The first day you kept saying to yourself, "Oh, isn't this beautiful? The mists are just like you always dream they are going to be in Maine." By the fifth day your shower towel still hasn't dried out, your Birkenkstocks are damp (though you've never worn them outside) and even the dollar bills they hand you back at the local market are moist. I am praying for just one clear, dry day. I think the locals are as well, but they don't hold out much hope. A Maine calendar I saw advertised today had these days noted in July: 2 - Winter finally ends; 3 - Spring begins; 4 - Summer is here!; 5 - Fall begins and ends; 6 - Winter resumes. I think they're serious.
It is still a pretty place and my second lobster dinner was as good or better than the first. We've taken to beachcombing, where we can get free souvenirs just by looking down. I look up, too, occasionally to see if the fog has cleared enough to photograph a quaint grouping of fishing boats. Then I look down again and take more photos of rocks. The rocks are rather nice. Sam has taken to hunting down beach glass. I did have to explain to him that if the labels are still attached to them, they are considered litter. He's getting the idea.
I found a lovely photo essay book of the Maine coastline today here in town. It was a paperback and the corners were a bit wrinkled, I supposed because it was on display and had been thumbed through by tourists like myself. I asked the store owner if he had another copy and he went back and dug one up for me. I thanked him and explained that the first one looked like it had been a bit too admired. "It's the weather, actually," he said. "Hard to keep any paper products from curling."
I get the idea.
It is still a pretty place and my second lobster dinner was as good or better than the first. We've taken to beachcombing, where we can get free souvenirs just by looking down. I look up, too, occasionally to see if the fog has cleared enough to photograph a quaint grouping of fishing boats. Then I look down again and take more photos of rocks. The rocks are rather nice. Sam has taken to hunting down beach glass. I did have to explain to him that if the labels are still attached to them, they are considered litter. He's getting the idea.
I found a lovely photo essay book of the Maine coastline today here in town. It was a paperback and the corners were a bit wrinkled, I supposed because it was on display and had been thumbed through by tourists like myself. I asked the store owner if he had another copy and he went back and dug one up for me. I thanked him and explained that the first one looked like it had been a bit too admired. "It's the weather, actually," he said. "Hard to keep any paper products from curling."
I get the idea.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
State of Maine
I am posting from the beautiful coast of Maine, among the mossy forests, lichen encrusted rocks and ocean vistas. And yes, I ate a lobster yesterday, fresh from the sea. And yes, I took a photo of it before I ate it. I even said hello to it before I ate it. Then I ate it with butter. And yes, it was delicious.
Other than the lobster traps and bouys hanging from houses as decoration, the word lobster advertised outside nearly every restaurant, and all things nautical in general, there are a couple things that seem peculiar to this part of the planet. Maybe it's because there is an abundance of them, but folks tend to use rocks as part of their decor, as part of their personal landscape. There are large boulders marking boundaries, corners of property, and mailboxes. Large rocks often line roads to keep traffic where it should be and one large rock near our cottage warns cars not to try to drive up that little road past our driveway. They are in the gift shops with holes bored into them for candles or bud vases. They are painted with animals or placed artistically in gardens where the lupine can crawl around and over them. All the doors in our log cabin have rocks near them as door stoppers and nearly every path, lane, trail and walk is lined with this local commodity.
The door stoppers lead me to the doors. Almost every building in this shipping village has what I would call a flimsy, wooden screen door with those simple metal handles on both sides. They do not latch, and due to the moist atmosphere of the island, they often no longer fit the frames in which they are set. They simply slam shut on squeaky springs, which is usually good enough to wedge the most warped into place. In our cottage, the front door has to be lifted up to fit, as does the back door. The bathroom door, which, along with the three bedroom doors all open onto the back deck area instead of into the main living area, has to be pushed downward to open. These doors are on the gift shops and houses and most of the restaurants. There are inner wooden doors as well that lock, but rarely do you see an actual aluminum or vinyl screen door. The sound of a slamming wooden screen door does bring me back to a simpler time, a summertime somewhere on vacation in my youth. The screen door I grew up with, and which is still on my parents' house, is metal and not much more functional than these Maine doors, though it does latch. It slams good and loud, too, which can still drive my mother nuts.
Rest assured there will be lots of photos to post when we return.
Other than the lobster traps and bouys hanging from houses as decoration, the word lobster advertised outside nearly every restaurant, and all things nautical in general, there are a couple things that seem peculiar to this part of the planet. Maybe it's because there is an abundance of them, but folks tend to use rocks as part of their decor, as part of their personal landscape. There are large boulders marking boundaries, corners of property, and mailboxes. Large rocks often line roads to keep traffic where it should be and one large rock near our cottage warns cars not to try to drive up that little road past our driveway. They are in the gift shops with holes bored into them for candles or bud vases. They are painted with animals or placed artistically in gardens where the lupine can crawl around and over them. All the doors in our log cabin have rocks near them as door stoppers and nearly every path, lane, trail and walk is lined with this local commodity.
The door stoppers lead me to the doors. Almost every building in this shipping village has what I would call a flimsy, wooden screen door with those simple metal handles on both sides. They do not latch, and due to the moist atmosphere of the island, they often no longer fit the frames in which they are set. They simply slam shut on squeaky springs, which is usually good enough to wedge the most warped into place. In our cottage, the front door has to be lifted up to fit, as does the back door. The bathroom door, which, along with the three bedroom doors all open onto the back deck area instead of into the main living area, has to be pushed downward to open. These doors are on the gift shops and houses and most of the restaurants. There are inner wooden doors as well that lock, but rarely do you see an actual aluminum or vinyl screen door. The sound of a slamming wooden screen door does bring me back to a simpler time, a summertime somewhere on vacation in my youth. The screen door I grew up with, and which is still on my parents' house, is metal and not much more functional than these Maine doors, though it does latch. It slams good and loud, too, which can still drive my mother nuts.
Rest assured there will be lots of photos to post when we return.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Most Recent Incident (or MRI for short)
I used to type magnetic resonance imaging technology patents for a lawyer from GE Medical Systems. I never understood the complex mathematical formulas and scientific explanations in the materials I was preparing, but the more civilian descriptions of what these machines are capable of has always been of interest. Today, years later, I got to take my first ride into that loud, cylindrical chamber to experience an MRI from the consumer end.
I actually had two of them: one of my left hip and one of my lumbar spine area, in an effort to determine the cause of the aches in this hip and the often accompanying nerve pain that has been plaguing my left leg for the past eleven months. An x-ray was inconclusive last fall, and a three-month hiatus from the gym seemed to improve things, but a few weeks back into a fraction of my former workout regime and the pain returned. I put off this next test for months, but finally made the call to my doctor, who surprisingly got me in for the procedure the very next day at what I thought was the local defunct hospital, St. Mikes. Turns out their radiology department is still in operation while they await complete takeover by the Wheaton Franciscans.
I was questioned by two different attendants before the test to make sure there were no possible metallic fragments lodged anywhere in my body. “Do you have any surgically implanted plates, screws, rods, shunts or a pacemaker? Have you ever been a metal worker? Have you ever had a tattoo?” No one asked if I had applied aluminum-laced deodorant that morning so I assumed that my armpits wouldn’t rip off my body or burst into flames. I left off my wedding ring and my watch, and even removed the earrings that have become a constant companion since my ultra short haircut last week.
There really wasn’t much to the test, other than lying still for about 20 or so minutes. I was given earplugs as the noises emitted by the magnetic monster were rather deafening. I lay on a narrow table that was raised up to the height of the tube, and then slowly advanced inside it, under the large white GE logo, so that my hip was at about the middle of its length. I took the advice of a nurse friend and began to breath evenly and think about being on the beach somewhere beautiful in a comfy chaise lounger. This was working wonderfully until Laurie Anderson showed up and began a sound check on the sand next to me. She then seemed to start a concert set, but after a minute or so her Moog stalled out on the same note, over and over. You never can tell with electronic musicians, so I simply waited to hear if this was part of the piece or not. Then her amps began to experience obvious feedback problems and I wondered where her audio tech gurus must have wandered off to. How embarrassing. But she didn’t seem to mind and plugged away, changing the frequency every now and then for creative effect.
The concert stopped suddenly, so much so that the silence caused a physical charge to run through my body. My mind wandered back to the sound of beach waves softly breaking on the shore.
Then the Irish step dancers showed up.
Now everyone knows you can’t rightly perform Irish step dancing on the sand, so the troupe set about building an enormous stage on the other side of my chair. They used about two dozen DeWalt D51845 20 Degree Full Round Head Framing Nail Guns and apparently an entire Lowe’s warehouse of ammunition before stopping just as abruptly as the Laurie Anderson concert. The sudden silence slammed into my body once again.
This alternation between Ms. Anderson and the Irish stage builders continued for the next 15 or 20 minutes. Every so often the table would more forward or backward slightly, and then it was over. The noises stopped for longer than usual and I heard the attendant push the door to the room open as he reentered. I hadn’t even known he had left. The table was scrolled out of the tube and lowered and I hopped off while he repositioned the padded sensor thingeys and replaced the white sheet. I lay down in the other direction this time for the lumber scan and was rolled in head first, nearly all the way to the other open end of the machine, though not quite. I guess I’m not really claustrophobic because none of this bothered me.
We began the same scenario again – more beeps, raps and banging as the concert set up, followed by the same electronic set and dancing construction crew and soon it was all over. Between this and the upper G.I. I endured earlier this spring, I have certainly increased my diagnostic medical repertoire to the point that visions of all my hypochondriacal future screenings don’t hold quite as much horror as they once did.
I actually had two of them: one of my left hip and one of my lumbar spine area, in an effort to determine the cause of the aches in this hip and the often accompanying nerve pain that has been plaguing my left leg for the past eleven months. An x-ray was inconclusive last fall, and a three-month hiatus from the gym seemed to improve things, but a few weeks back into a fraction of my former workout regime and the pain returned. I put off this next test for months, but finally made the call to my doctor, who surprisingly got me in for the procedure the very next day at what I thought was the local defunct hospital, St. Mikes. Turns out their radiology department is still in operation while they await complete takeover by the Wheaton Franciscans.
I was questioned by two different attendants before the test to make sure there were no possible metallic fragments lodged anywhere in my body. “Do you have any surgically implanted plates, screws, rods, shunts or a pacemaker? Have you ever been a metal worker? Have you ever had a tattoo?” No one asked if I had applied aluminum-laced deodorant that morning so I assumed that my armpits wouldn’t rip off my body or burst into flames. I left off my wedding ring and my watch, and even removed the earrings that have become a constant companion since my ultra short haircut last week.
There really wasn’t much to the test, other than lying still for about 20 or so minutes. I was given earplugs as the noises emitted by the magnetic monster were rather deafening. I lay on a narrow table that was raised up to the height of the tube, and then slowly advanced inside it, under the large white GE logo, so that my hip was at about the middle of its length. I took the advice of a nurse friend and began to breath evenly and think about being on the beach somewhere beautiful in a comfy chaise lounger. This was working wonderfully until Laurie Anderson showed up and began a sound check on the sand next to me. She then seemed to start a concert set, but after a minute or so her Moog stalled out on the same note, over and over. You never can tell with electronic musicians, so I simply waited to hear if this was part of the piece or not. Then her amps began to experience obvious feedback problems and I wondered where her audio tech gurus must have wandered off to. How embarrassing. But she didn’t seem to mind and plugged away, changing the frequency every now and then for creative effect.
The concert stopped suddenly, so much so that the silence caused a physical charge to run through my body. My mind wandered back to the sound of beach waves softly breaking on the shore.
Then the Irish step dancers showed up.
Now everyone knows you can’t rightly perform Irish step dancing on the sand, so the troupe set about building an enormous stage on the other side of my chair. They used about two dozen DeWalt D51845 20 Degree Full Round Head Framing Nail Guns and apparently an entire Lowe’s warehouse of ammunition before stopping just as abruptly as the Laurie Anderson concert. The sudden silence slammed into my body once again.
This alternation between Ms. Anderson and the Irish stage builders continued for the next 15 or 20 minutes. Every so often the table would more forward or backward slightly, and then it was over. The noises stopped for longer than usual and I heard the attendant push the door to the room open as he reentered. I hadn’t even known he had left. The table was scrolled out of the tube and lowered and I hopped off while he repositioned the padded sensor thingeys and replaced the white sheet. I lay down in the other direction this time for the lumber scan and was rolled in head first, nearly all the way to the other open end of the machine, though not quite. I guess I’m not really claustrophobic because none of this bothered me.
We began the same scenario again – more beeps, raps and banging as the concert set up, followed by the same electronic set and dancing construction crew and soon it was all over. Between this and the upper G.I. I endured earlier this spring, I have certainly increased my diagnostic medical repertoire to the point that visions of all my hypochondriacal future screenings don’t hold quite as much horror as they once did.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
One Day to Spare
Just to follow up on our van repairs . . . we got the thing back from the shop late this afternoon. They were told we were leaving tomorrow. We don't actually leave until Friday, but as far as they knew we were going straight home to pack the car. That was cutting it extremely close. Good thing I learned from dealing with my perpetually tardy mother to give a padded start time for important events. This gives us a cushion of two days to drive the thing around and make the sure the wheels don't fall off.
For all of you praying folks, think of us as we drive across the country. There will be plenty of photos to post when we return. Thank you.
For all of you praying folks, think of us as we drive across the country. There will be plenty of photos to post when we return. Thank you.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
I Met a Man
Today on my walk to the bus stop after school, I met a man. I said hello, and something in his manner and his, "How do you do?" made me stop and ask how he was doing. We chatted a few seconds and I asked him if he lived nearby. He thought he lived on the other side of the block, but he wasn't sure. I asked him if he knew his address, but he wasn't sure of that either. He did know his name, so we walked back to my house and I looked him up in the phone book.
He wan't listed, and I began to worry just a bit. I asked if he had someone at home that I could call. He said he had a lady, but he hadn't used her actual name in so long, he couldn't remember it. I suggested looking in his wallet for something with his address on it. He pulled out a small stack of cards and on top there was a woman's name and an address, ten blocks east of here. I read out the name and he said, "That's my woman! Don't ever tell her I forgot her name."
"Should I call her to come and get you?"
"Oh, no. That would be embarrassing."
My husband had just left with our van, so I offered to walk him home. He said I didn't have to, but he seemed happy to have company. Besides, I rather doubted he would have made it back without help. There are two extremely busy, uncontrolled intersections between my house and his that can be very difficult to cross, even for someone who has no trouble walking. At this time of day it would be downright dangerous. I made a quick mental note of the number on the paper now in his hand and told him I would just go get my keys.
While inside, I dialed the number that had been in his wallet and spoke to Ann, his lady. I explained what was obviously not an unfamiliar situation to her, and told her I would begin walking with Lou east on our street towards home. She agreed to drive up and meet us.
I came back out with my keys and we set off. He gripped our rickety railing and went down our stairs very slowly and carefully. I mentally prepared to catch him should he fall. He must be at least in his 80's and his tall, bony frame wobbled a bit as we made our way. He blamed the wind when he wavered towards the edge of the sidewalk. "It's trying to blow me over." He told me about being a kid on the south side of Milwaukee and how his grandmother spoke nothing but a dialect of Polish unintelligible to most of the Milwaukee Poles around her. He also told me how he took off four months ago and walked 75 blocks. Then he got tired and sat down. The police picked him up and took him home. He said this with a tone of how nice of those policemen to drive me all the way home!
We walked less than two blocks before a brown sedan pulled over and rolled down the window. His lady had arrived. Not to embarass him, I said she must have come looking for him. They both thanked me profusely, she in English and he in both English and Polish.
He wan't listed, and I began to worry just a bit. I asked if he had someone at home that I could call. He said he had a lady, but he hadn't used her actual name in so long, he couldn't remember it. I suggested looking in his wallet for something with his address on it. He pulled out a small stack of cards and on top there was a woman's name and an address, ten blocks east of here. I read out the name and he said, "That's my woman! Don't ever tell her I forgot her name."
"Should I call her to come and get you?"
"Oh, no. That would be embarrassing."
My husband had just left with our van, so I offered to walk him home. He said I didn't have to, but he seemed happy to have company. Besides, I rather doubted he would have made it back without help. There are two extremely busy, uncontrolled intersections between my house and his that can be very difficult to cross, even for someone who has no trouble walking. At this time of day it would be downright dangerous. I made a quick mental note of the number on the paper now in his hand and told him I would just go get my keys.
While inside, I dialed the number that had been in his wallet and spoke to Ann, his lady. I explained what was obviously not an unfamiliar situation to her, and told her I would begin walking with Lou east on our street towards home. She agreed to drive up and meet us.
I came back out with my keys and we set off. He gripped our rickety railing and went down our stairs very slowly and carefully. I mentally prepared to catch him should he fall. He must be at least in his 80's and his tall, bony frame wobbled a bit as we made our way. He blamed the wind when he wavered towards the edge of the sidewalk. "It's trying to blow me over." He told me about being a kid on the south side of Milwaukee and how his grandmother spoke nothing but a dialect of Polish unintelligible to most of the Milwaukee Poles around her. He also told me how he took off four months ago and walked 75 blocks. Then he got tired and sat down. The police picked him up and took him home. He said this with a tone of how nice of those policemen to drive me all the way home!
We walked less than two blocks before a brown sedan pulled over and rolled down the window. His lady had arrived. Not to embarass him, I said she must have come looking for him. They both thanked me profusely, she in English and he in both English and Polish.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Can someone please give me a plausible explanation into this current fashion trend? Is there any function, statement or excuse for wearing your pants thus, as this young man was doing last night at my daughter's track meet? I've seen fashions come and go, styles that I don't appreciate, such as the miniskirt, gauchos or pointy-toed shoes - but this one goes beyond comprehension for me. It just looks plain stupid.
photo by A. Graf
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