Sick Days

I don’t get sick often (thank God), and therefore I rarely miss work due to an illness. I like to brag that my immune system is not easily penetrated, but like Achilles, everyone has a weak spot, a chink in the armor where viruses can get through.

Today (Sunday) I stayed home from church because I wasn’t feeling well. I have one of those colds that began without much fanfare. Earlier in the week I had an extra sneeze or two, then a cold-sore began to develop the next day which was followed with a couple coughs, a series of sniffles, itchy and irritated eyes, scratchy, sore throat, a headache and general irritability (a picture of health). All this can take several days until the full blunt of the invasion is felt, which for me was Sunday morning.

When I began to notice some change in my health earlier in the week, questions came to mind: Am I too sick to play with my grandson’s? A few sniffles and a controlled cough – I’m fine. Should I stay home from a party because I don’t feel well? No, it’s just a tickle in my throat – nothing to worry about.

By Sunday morning my cough was uncontrollable, and I had no desire to see anyone or leave the house. My wife went to church by herself, where she made my apologies and perhaps said a prayer for my well-being.  I was left home to suffer on my own.

I started a fire in the wood stove to warm the house and myself, read some newspapers, fooled with the fire and felt sorry for myself. For me, being sick can be a very self-centered experience. I began to wonder who got me sick. It’s never a question of just getting sick on my own – someone must be held responsible. I considered refraining from any future physical contact with almost everyone outside my family; the handshake would be replaced with a hearty fist-bump, high-fives with a knowing nod, and hugs with a wink and a smile.

Throughout the morning I come to the realization that I may never be well again. In fact I barely remember what’s it like to be one hundred per cent healthy. I have no motivation to do anything. I should practice my banjo, but I don’t feel like it. Actually, I don’t feel like doing anything; I drink some water, but not too much as I can’t remember whether it’s drown a cold and water a fever or something else like that.

About the only thing I can do is write this silly commentary about being sick at home – and perhaps I should have waited on that too, but the deadline looms and Monday comes whether I like it or not.

I’m not completely sure, but I think I am past the age (or stage) when I will use almost any excuse to get out of doing something like going to church or work. No one has adequately explained to me the number of sick days a self-employed person is allotted, so I suppose that’s part of the reason I rarely miss work.

Staying on Track

Last week, from the comfort of my office, I watched two train cars get put back on the railroad track. I’m not sure if they “jumped the track” or if they were derailed or if there is even a difference. To get the job done it took four caterpillar cranes, one bulldozer and several men who looked like they could hold their own in any physical disagreement.

I like trains; I like counting them and playing with them. I marvel at the power of trains as they roll past my office several times a day. When I was growing up my brother had an electric train set that we had fun playing with. My brother-in-law has an impressive Lionel set that takes up most of his basement, and I am in awe of the train that runs through a village my friend Bob has in his house.

There is a popular board game that involves trains called “Ticket to Ride,” which my wife, Rhonda, and I enjoy playing together often. In this game routes are selected by the draw of cards. The routes between the destinations are completed when enough matching colored cards are picked from the pile. Some routes require certain colors and some are more forgiving and allow any color train on the track.

The colored train cars are placed on the routes between destinations, which claims your position on the board. Points are given for completed routes and destinations. The more one achieves, the more points they are given. The game is for two to five players, but like anything else the dynamic changes and the sense of competition between players is increased when more people are added to the game.

Perhaps I am reaching too hard to make a point, but when I play this game I notice the parallels between the game and how life is played out. The game begins with the cards you are dealt (family, personality and lot in life), you start at one place, add some trains (friends and experiences) and try and get to another destination (adulthood). On the way, you try to connect other destinations (education, job, marriage, etc.), and all the while you try and enjoy the journey. Certain paths in life require a mix of education, talent, skill or job experience, and of course we all need friends to help us when life derails us.

Just as I believe the way someone conducts their business affairs is a window to their value system and not, according to them, “. . . just business and nothing personal,” I also believe the way a person plays a game is a reflection on how they conduct themselves in other areas of life. Sharing routes and cooperating with each other may not always win the game, but it certainly makes the trip better for all.

Rhonda and I have fun playing the game in the evening and on Sunday afternoons. Even though we play a different style, (I like a long, continuous route, she strives to garner more destinations) we respect each other’s spot on the board, will yield our way, take turns, and be good sports whether we win or lose. Because once the game is over we still have to share a sleeper car and stay on track together.

Take It To The Limit

 “A good man always knows his limitations.” Clint Eastwood said this in the movie Magnum Force. As I continually strive to be a good man, I try to be aware of my limitations. For instance, like any Minnesotan, I can tolerate cold weather up to a point, or in this case, down to a point on the thermometer.

Saturday was cold, but I had heard that Sunday would be even colder. I’m not one to plan too far ahead, but when I know that the following day will be cold enough to tear your nose from your face, I will adjust my routine.

On the weekends I like to mix my time between inside and outside activities, but with the colder weather coming I concentrated on getting my outside stuff done before I retreated to the safety of my house. I was having trouble getting a piece of equipment started so I got up early to run to the store and get a battery charger, but before I left I needed a jump-start myself with a cup of coffee. I drank that while I waited for the fire in the wood stove to catch. A cold draft racing down the chimney made it challenging, and it took a little more time than normal.

Once the charger was hooked up, I decided to give it some time to do as advertised and charge the battery. While waiting, I tackled what initially appeared to be an easy inside project – the replacement of a temperamental electrical outlet (sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t). I have replaced outlets before and was comfortable I could get the job done before the battery was charged.

Once both the electrical power and outlet plate are off it’s usually a matter of pulling the outlet from the wall and disconnecting three wires. Usually. This time the outlet was being unusually stubborn and would not come out easily; I assumed it was because it was cold outside, as everything moves slower when it’s cold. That wasn’t it.

There were four additional wires connected to the rear that were holding the outlet in place. The outlet was being used as a junction between the power source and two other ends down the line (a light, another outlet, some other modern convenience or the neighbor’s electric fence).

Instead of letting a tolerable, but annoying situation be and putting the outlet back into the wall. I cut the four wires, disconnected the expected three wires, plus two additional grounding wires and removed the cursed outlet. I now had nine wires to contend with in a box not large enough to keep a house mouse comfortable.

Even though I had done my best to cut the four wires close to the outlet I was left with wires that were too short to reconnect to another outlet. I pulled and I tugged, but the wall would surrender no more wire to me.

I tried everything. I went to the basement (without tripping on the second step) to see if I could remedy the problem from a different angle, I even tried to splice more wire to the short ends – but the thought of the house catching fire after the wires were tucked back behind the plate caused me to reconsider.

I was starting to get mad and hot. Then I remembered the battery charger; I went outside to check on it. By now it had enough time to charge the battery and the equipment started right up.

Even though I had success in one area, I had to face facts. I was not going to be able to fix the outlet problem myself – I would need to call an electrician.

Once I had admitted this to myself, I cooled off and accepted the situation. Without regard to the quality of my character, I am keenly aware of my limitations.

A Long Holiday

Christmas is over; it ended for me on Saturday, January 9^th. I know that sounds ridiculous, but our last Christmas party of the season was at our house Saturday. Several weeks ago this day was chosen as the only day that everyone from my wife’s side of the family could get together. When people make these calendar and scheduling decisions I am never consulted, mind you I would have nothing to contribute to the discussion anyway. I remain flexible and spontaneous, if not aloof and uncommitted.

The Christmas party was special; we had it in our garage. The vehicles were backed out to make room for the tables and chairs. The floor was swept and washed so clean that it could be eaten off of it. I saw my 23 month-old grandson test this theory at least once during the party.

The feeble faux Christmas tree, complete with ornaments and lights, was transplanted from the corner of the living room to just below the landing in the garage. Presents were placed under the tree on top of the skirting and the tables were adorned in holiday splendor and holly.

Jolly relatives came from miles around bearing gifts and goodies. There were pans and platters, crockpots and candy. We talked and ate, played games, exchanged gifts and pleasantries. Indeed, a good time was had by all.

I can’t help but wonder though how out far on the calendar one can push a holiday celebration. I have a friend who believes that any day outside the 24^th and 25^th does not qualify. He says, “You can call it Christmas if you want, but it’s not.” Two weeks seems reasonable to me, but what about two months? If life becomes so busy that you go past the end of July, are you late or early?

I have known people who will not tolerate a celebration of their birthday other than on THE day. Then there are those who don’t mind a birthday lunch or party before or after the fact by a week or so, but clearly we lose focus if we wait too long or go too early.

There is a benefit in stretching the Christmas season; I find that the festive atmosphere still lingers with the decorations, and Vince Guaraldi’s Christmas music playing in the background does not seem out of place. I will miss the plush “Merry Christmas” mat outside the shower that welcomes me. The various nativity scenes scattered throughout the house that subtly remind me of the reason for the season will be wrapped up and put away. The banner that hangs from a door with its alternating blinking and winking lights that my grandson, Micah, calls “the changing,” will come down until next year.

I will miss all those things, but most of all I will miss the merry, cheery attitude that seems absent during other times of the year. People do seem happier and more than willing to give than to receive. It is the best time of year.

Christmas is over, but I hope and pray that the spirit of the season will linger.

Heavy Load

This weekend I was reminded how too much of something can be bad for you. Like most people who live around here, we have a water softener, and like most people, I have to put salt in the brine tank.

The salt comes conveniently packaged in 40-pound bags with a handle on each end. I suppose some people carry the bags like a basket, grasping the handle on each end, and I suppose some people, such as myself, will employ what my mother used to call “a lazy man’s load.”

A lazy man’s load, according to my mother, meant you would overload your arms with cargo to save a trip. For instance, if I have to carry ten bags of salt from my truck, through the garage, up the stairs to the house, down the hall, around the corner and down the stairs to the basement, my mother would call me lazy if I carried a bag in each hand and made five trips instead of ten.  Then again, she never carried 40-pound bags of salt.

Perhaps, I am lazy, in that I am trying to cut my trips in half, or maybe I am stubborn and just trying to prove I can still carry a bag in each hand. I am completely aware that I won’t win any county fair strong man competitions with such a feat, but by the end of the fifth trip my arms have each gained an inch in length.

Forty pounds is heavier than it used to be. When Bill Stemmer was running the feed mill in town, I used to buy chicken feed from him. Bill’s a big man and thought nothing of throwing 100-pound bags of feed around.  I, on the other hand, gave the matter a good deal of consideration. This was before I entered the wonderful world of pick-up trucks with their open cargo area and tall end-gate. Getting a heavy bag of feed into the trunk of a car is one thing, persuading it out is a different task entirely.

That’s the way it is with the salt bags. The journey through the house is easy; it’s the basement stairs that tests your mettle. The first step is the widest of the lot, allowing for a confident purchase, the second step is the doozie and warrants a warning. It’s narrow and it almost disappears from sight, as you descend into the bowels of the house.

For years I have contemplated replacing the whole staircase, using the top step as the model for the rest its brothers. The second step usually doesn’t bother me too much, but the opening for the stairs is too narrow to descend it straight away, and carrying bags sideways down the steps means the upper one has to be raised or allowed to bump down the stairs. Plus there is the matter of tripping and killing myself, but at least I would be well preserved with all that salt.

I was explaining the problem of the second step to my smart son-in-law and he asked to see it. After a quick inspection, he pointed out that the large first step was overshadowing the second step. He advised reducing the width of the first step by two inches, thereby exposing more of the second step.

I could feel my blood pressure go up with the realization that twenty years of tripping down the steps could have been eliminated so easily. The wide first step is the problem, as is too much salt.