Hands

I am puzzled by the saying “I know it like the back of my hand.” I know it means that someone knows something very well, as well as the back of their hand. But what makes the back of a person’s hand so well known by them?

Is it because they look at it all the time and have memorized its shape, color and imperfections, or is it because the back of their hand is at the end of their arm, and therefore it must be theirs because who else could it belong to?

It is things like this that keep me awake at night; that and the rash on the back of my hand. I have had this rash, this itchy redness for several weeks. This has happened before so it didn’t alarm me.

Several years ago I visited my physician about my pre-leprous affliction, and he referred me to a dermatologist. Either my condition or my insurance coverage didn’t warrant an audience with the dermatologist herself, so I was treated by her assistant.

I was given a prescription for some cream that made my hands look like my grandmother’s. I would have been happier with large strong hands like my father, but instead I got these.

I don’t want to complain about my hands because, well, because I have hands and they work reasonably well. But they do have their shortcomings. For instance, they can’t tie a good knot or build something sturdy out of wood. When I get a cup of coffee at a shop I have to either get a cup sleeve or ask for a second cup to insulate the first cup, as I can’t hold hot things. But I can type and I’m learning to play the banjo.

I used the prescribed cream faithfully, but after a couple refills I was told I needed to see the doctor again. Again? I hadn’t seen her the first time. So, instead of going back to the dermatologist who had handed the handling of my hands over to her assistant, I took matters into my own hands.

I tried to treat myself with an impressive collection of balms, creams, emollients, gels, lotions, moisturizers, ointments, and salves. However, the rash would come and go seemingly without regard to my treatments.

Recently, the itching began to dominate my thinking and interrupt my sleep. I started to go to bed with socks over my hands to keep the salve from staining the sheets and to keep me from scratching. Other than producing some late-night sock-puppet shows, I wasn’t making any progress.

I scratched and rubbed my hands until I couldn’t take it any longer. Concerned that I may have contracted some rare case of flesh-eating bacteria, I made an appointment with a dermatologist who had come highly recommended by a friend.

The first available appointment was more than a month out. For the next thirty or so days the condition worsened with the rash spreading up my arms towards my heart and, what I imagined, certain death. Shirts, coats and questions from the curious irritated me; I found myself hiding my hideousness from the peering eyes of the public, lest I be labeled “unclean” and shunned as a social outcast.

When the glorious day arrived I was at the doctor’s office an hour early, hoping that perhaps my enthusiasm would be rewarded with an early entry. When the doctor entered the room he reached out to shake my hand – something I had not expected a dermatologist to do.

He spent the next 20 minutes looking at my hands and conversing with me. He explained that I had eczema (Greek) or dermatitis (Latin), the same general skin ailment but with different names. He suggested a light coating of olive oil (Italian) and a prescribed cream on top of that. I expected him to add oregano and basil to the menu.

Although I may have to be deal with this the rest of my life, the good doctor has given me relief. My hands are healing, the puppets are back in the drawer and I am beginning to recognize the backs of my hands again.

Hostess

My friend Jeff, who enjoys stretching the truth (he likes to fib for fun), recently told me that Hostess had filed for bankruptcy. The company brought me the nutritional foundations of my youth: Ding Dongs, Donettes, Twinkies, Suzy Q’s, Hostess Fruit Pies (with real fruit filling), Sno balls, Zingers and Ho Ho’s. I couldn’t imagine life without them.

I’ve been burnt a time or two by Jeff’s stories, so at first I refused to believe him. But, unfortunately I found out its true. The Wall Street Journal ran a story on January 12th of this year: “Hostess Brands Inc. filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection Wednesday to confront burdensome debt and labor costs that the Twinkies and Wonder Bread baker says have left it fighting to compete.”

While Hostess is reorganizing so it can survive I thought it would be a good idea to show some support. Wonder Bread, as we all know, “Helps build strong bodies 12 ways.” Here are my 12 suggestions to help build a strong Hostess.

1. Not long ago I became aware of a great way to take care of myself – candy- flavored vitamins for adults. They not only taste great, they’re good for you. So let’s add some zip to Zingers by loading them with all the recommended daily requirements.
2. The government stepped in to save GM, Goldman Sachs, Bank of America and AIG because they are too big to fail; I submit that Hostess is no less important. I demand that Washington keep Hostess from expiring
3. Certainly business would step up if Hostess products were included as part of the school lunch programs. Twinkie the Kid would ride again
4. Make Hostess snack cakes and fruit pies popular again with a new ad slogan. “Hostess, we’ve been ruining appetites since 1921.”
5. Pre-packaged snack cakes make great gifts. And since they seem to last forever, stock up with a case or two so you’ll have some on hand.
6. Everybody likes pie, and what better way to say “Welcome to the neighborhood,” or “Congratulations on your engagement,” than with a delicious Hostess fruit pie (made with real fruit filling). Be sure to have an assortment on hand for the holidays.
7. Hostess could hold a national essay contest with the theme “What’s your favorite Hostess memory?” Mine would include a Hostess blueberry pie (made with real fruit filling) enjoyed on the hood of my car during a summer job lunch break.
8. The Minnesota Twins could sponsor “Twinkie Day.” A pack of Twinkies would be given to everyone at the game.
9. Host a Hostess Party and serve sandwiches made from Wonder bread. Be sure and save the bags. Your guests will be impressed when you demonstrate the many uses of those brightly colored bags. Feet stay warm and dry when protected by stylish Wonder brand bread bags; paint brushes will be ready to use the next time when sealed in a Wonder bag; keep some in your car for trash, and a couple in your pocket just in case.
10. Pack a few Hostess snacks in your vehicle for emergencies. What you consider an emergency is up to you. For some it means being stranded in a snow storm in Northern Minnesota; for others missing lunch qualifies.
11. Bring some Ding Dongs and Sno balls on your next trip to the airport. Whether you choose the pat-down or the full body scan the TSA agents will appreciate the humor and all that delicious Hostess goodness.
12. If the first eleven ideas don’t increase profits to help Hostess “confront burdensome debt,” then perhaps a pack of Donettes could be included in the severance package for their labor force when the company closes its doors.

Into the Fog

When I was young the fog used to come up the river from Mankato, stopping only briefly in town to rest before it continued on to the Cities. Walking to school with my brothers and sisters we would have to cross Highway 25. The state road would drop into the valley, cross the river and climb back up again before heading west and then north.

On those damp mornings we would gaze down into the valley and imagine we were on the granite shores of Lake Superior. That’s what it looked like to us. We couldn’t see through the fog, so instead we pretended we couldn’t see across the Great Lake.

The fog obscured what was there and allowed our minds to imagine what was not or perhaps could be. Maybe that’s why fog is found so often in stories – the fog fuels our imaginations.

Walking shrouded in fog on a quiet country lane far beyond the reach of the street lights can be very peaceful when done in the morning. But the same stretch of road takes on a different feeling at night when it’s foggy. A rolling fog often precedes death in movies and books, so you have to keep your imagination on a short leash lest it run out ahead of you in search of Vincent Price and Edgar Allen Poe.

The warm days and cool nights of these past few weeks have ushered in the fog around here. The poet Carl Sandburg said, “The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.” I try and enjoy its short, infrequent visits before it lifts.

Fog comes in when the proper mix of temperature and moisture has created the right conditions. According to those unpredictable people at www.weatherquestions.com “Fog can be considered a cloud at ground level. The processes forming it, however, are usually different from those that form clouds.”

You can have your head in the clouds or you can have your head in a fog. The first describes someone who is out of touch with reality. The second tells of a person who is confused, forgetful, or unable to concentrate.

But I find that fog actually forces me to focus on the matter at hand. It’s good to have vision that lets you see in the distance, but to really concentrate it sometimes becomes necessary to shut out all distractions.

Take driving for instance. Driving in fog is especially risky. I’ve come dangerously close to missing turns and curves on a foggy night. But I suppose any activity can be dangerous if not accompanied by care and concentration (throwing knives, shooting guns, making toast, etc.).

When everything else is blocked from your view you pay attention to what you can see, what is close at hand. Otherwise the important things can be taken for granted – like taking a walk with your family.

Can I see some ID?

I have a pretty good idea who I am and I can prove it when required. Several times a month I am asked for some kind of identification whether it be at the bank, the library, or some other American institution. I accept this minor disruption in my day as the price I pay for protecting my identity. However, some folks bristle at the thought of being required to provide proof of their identity when voting.

In this country we have privileges, duties and obligations. I believe our constitutionally protected right to vote qualifies for all three. There is talk of amending the Minnesota constitution so that a photo ID is required to be eligible to vote. I have read, heard and listened to the opposition, but I still believe requiring a photo ID would help remove fraud from the voting process.

There are at least two sides to every issue. I, like many others, want voter identification to be a part of the election process, and if it was added as an amendment to the state Constitution it would be protected from judicial tampering. It is easier to prevent fraudulent votes before they happen than trying to correct vote counts afterward.

Those opposed to photo ID for voters claim that if there is any fraud, it is very rare and infrequent. Maybe, but fraud, like many crimes, is invisible until detected. Those opposed to requiring photo ID for voters say it would be an inconvenience to the democratic process. So what? If I have to prove who I am in order to be allowed to vote so be it. That is a small price for liberty.

Let’s examine our day to day comings and goings and see how many hindrances and inconveniences could be removed to make our lives easier and void of responsibility.

Air travel could be smooth sailing without all the fuss over identification and security. Commercial airplanes could be like taxis with wings.

“Atlanta, Georgia please, and step on it.”

“Yes sir…Mr….?

“None of your business – just follow that plane.”

Cashing a check at any bank would be a profitable and easy transaction if you weren’t required to prove your identity.

“I’d like to cash a check.”

“Do you have an account with us?’

“I think so.”

“Great. How much money do you want?”

The appearance of a police car would no longer strike fear into the hearts of wayward drivers because almost anyone would be allowed to drive.

“May I see your license please?”

“License? I don’t need a license. My neighbors can vouch for me.”

If you want to get some books at the public just go get them. You don’t need a library card. Hunting and fishing would be fair game all year long. Anyone and everyone could carry a gun as the permitting process would be considered inconvenient. Proof of citizenship and passports could become a thing of the past (at least in this country). Titles, deeds and other proof of ownership would give way to such time-honored traditions as “finders, keepers” and “possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Of course that would be silly. No one would expect such careless treatment of our identities, laws and freedoms. So it makes sense to me that our most important one, voting in our elections, should be held to the same standard. Let’s vote on it.

Buddy and Olivia

Like most everyone, I enjoy an uninterrupted night’s sleep, and I usually get one. Before I retreat to my bedroom I let Buddy the dog out for the last sales call of the evening. We then have a conversation where I remind him not to bark unless it’s an emergency. He then spends the night in the garage below our bedroom, where he usually lays quietly.

Sometimes during the night he will bark to convince an outside trespasser to retreat to the woods. That kind of bark usually comes in a quick series of serious warnings, which gets me out of bed to survey the situation.

But more often it comes as a single sound meaning, “Are you awake?” If my feet don’t hit the floor within a minute or two, it changes to “Can you come down here for a minute?” “Please?” comes a few minutes later.

If I lay in bed long enough hoping that he’ll stop, his bark will change to “I’m not going to quit, so you may as well come down here so I can show you what I want.” Walking through a cold, dark house to check on a barking dog can test any man’s patience. Most often it’s nothing – he just wants to come in, and that’s against the night time rules. But once in a while he can’t wait for our early morning appointment.

I try to take Buddy for a walk the first thing most every morning and last Thursday, the coldest of the season, we gave it a good try. That morning’s walk was shorter and quicker than usual. Normally the half-mile takes a leisurely 15 minutes. But 11 below and a burning northwest wind sent Buddy running back to the house immediately after his two business appointments. I was content to follow him.

The morning routine is the same. I go out to the garage where Mr. Important (the name he prefers) greets me with a strong nudge. He’s a big dog – a cross between a black Labrador and a Great Dane. He’s not as big as an elephant, but when I am lacing my boots he almost pushes me off the step with his large head.

Usually we have two cats waiting outside the door for us. Pretzel, named one summer day by two young sisters who were visiting from town, and Olivia. Olivia and her two brothers, Newt and John, were given to me by a guy who had been in a band with a singer who had an Australian accent.

Pretzel prefers to sit in the warm garage on Buddy’s pillow purring loudly to show his appreciation, while he waits for our return. Olivia insists on walking with us. I have tried to dissuade her from what I consider an unnatural act for a cat, but she’s as stubborn as a mule, so she joins us. Staying close to the side of the road she trots to keep up. After about ten minutes she will casually cross my path, which is her way of asking for a lift.

The three of us walking together probably looks kind of strange; a cat and dog, sworn enemies, walking together on the same path with the same goal in mind. I suppose if a dog and cat can walk together, then it’s possible for elephants and mules (or donkeys) to get along as well. Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and liberals should quit fighting like cats and dogs and treat each other respectfully as fellow humans.

I know it’s possible because I’ve seen it done. But, I’ve also read poisonous prose personally attacking someone because their politics differ. Hissing and snarling should be left to animals. Strive for clarity and civility in your communication, or take a walk to cool down. You’ll sleep better at night.

Peter's Essays

Saturday I took the tree down, and with Buddy the dog happily prancing ahead of me, I dragged it through the pasture. Then without any fanfare, I threw it on the brush pile, thus ending another Christmas season. We like to hang onto good times a little longer at our house I guess, but sooner or later you have to move on and rely on memories and pictures to keep the spirit alive. Please allow me to share just one more story about this Christmas.

A friend of mine showed me a present she received for Christmas this year. It wasn’t expensive, it wasn’t new, and it wasn’t useful or even practical. It was just six pages written in beautiful cursive handwriting.

Once upon a time a 9-year old boy named Peter sat down to write. I can’t tell if this had been a school assignment, a suggestion from his mother, or if the mood had just hit him. Peter talked about how much he weighed, how tall he was, the color of his hair and eyes. In Peter’s first essay I learned that his father was a farmer and that Peter had to walk two miles to go to school.

The following year Peter wrote a letter to his friend James (and perhaps never sent it) happily reporting about the skates he received for Christmas and he included a “hearty,” thank you for the “kind present’ James had given him.

The next four essays, written during the next few years, were about Christmas. According to Peter, his “family likes to sing hymns on Christmas evening.” Winter was a “jolly season,” with “sleigh bells jingling on the streets.” The house was decorated “with holly and mistletoe.” But even as a little boy Peter knew that winter was hard on some because he wrote, “poor people don’t like winter because they have not enough money to buy coal to keep their houses warm.”

It’s obvious that this was written a long time ago. When Peter sat down to write he had no way of knowing what a great gift he would be giving his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren 90 years later. Fortunately, Peter, or most likely Peter’s mother, saved these writings in a special box.

Recently, that box was discovered by Peter’s granddaughter. Recognizing how special these words were, she and her mother made several beautiful copies and gave them to Peter’s children this past Christmas.

What a wonderful legacy. The words of a little boy, written long ago, saved by his mother, then again by him, to be read and shared over 90 years later are priceless. We only have a glimpse of a little boy and his world. Both are gone now, but because Peter’s written words were preserved, his family can learn a little more about him and feel a little closer to the man who was once a little boy.

Learn from Peter and write. Write your story and leave a legacy that time cannot erase. Write a letter to a friend, describe yourself, write about your father, record how your family celebrates Christmas or keep a journal, because someday somebody will want to read what you wrote.

When I turned from the brush pile toward the barn I was surprised to see the trail left by the tree and me. Dragging the tree through the pasture had mixed the leaves on the ground with the dusting of snow that fell last week. I had left a mark that showed I had been there. Soon time, wind and weather will erase all evidence of my passing. To leave a more permanent trail of life’s journeys, Peter’s family recommends ink and paper.

Cloning

It’s nothing to brag about but I believe I have a good imagination; at least I imagine that I do. However, I am not sure I can imagine all the changes (good and bad) science and technology will bring us. The other day I shared my lack of vision with my smart friend Jim. Like most of my friends, Jim had an opinion. He thinks cloning will be the next big thing and that if people our age live another 30 years they will most likely live past 100. That got me thinking.

Let’s imagine that someday cloning yourself would be as easy as copying a document. Maybe Time-Life will introduce the “Home Cloning Kit,” (some assembly required, must be 18 or older, and has been know to cause depression in some cases).

Having a duplicate me to have around would make old age more attainable. With someone to help shoulder the stress my life expectancy should naturally increase. Plus, if I can get past all the creepy stuff that accompany cloning, it would help solve the all too frequent problem of needing to be in two (or more) places at the same time.

For instance, last Saturday I needed to be in four places. To begin with I have found that I am much happier if I have my column written Saturday instead of Sunday night (Grandfather Clock is about to strike nine).

I couldn’t do that though, because my younger sister, Joanne, and her family had come down from the North Country to have a weekend at a hotel in the Cities. Some things can wait and some are clearly more important than others.

I didn’t have all day to do that either because I wanted to watch the basketball team my son coaches play in a tournament here in town. But, I also wanted to go see my cousin Sheri perform with her band, “Locklin Road,” in Le Center for the official kickoff of the St. Patrick’s Day season.

I would never trust anyone else to write my column (not even another me) – even if it meant an improvement. Maybe time with my sister would have been a better option to send my clone to. Family comes first. I could get a full report from my clone at the end of the day.

“So how was time with Joanne and her family?”

“Not so good. I kept mixing her and her daughters up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t keep their names straight. They look so much alike. They should wear name tags.”

On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea.

Maybe the basketball tournament would have been a good choice.

“How was the tournament?”

“I didn’t stay.”

“Why not?”

“Apparently there are expected rules of decorum that you aren’t aware of.”

“Such as?”

“Well it seems that referees are sensitive about their eyesight. I was asked to leave.”

Forget that one. Perhaps I could have sent my clone to see my cousin play Irish music.

“What’s this I hear about your behavior in Le Center?”

“I thought you liked to dance.”

“But not on tables, and certainly not the jig, how embarrassing. And singing with the band? I can’t sing.”

“Maybe you can’t, but I can. It was fun. You know you should spend more time with your cousins. They’re fun.”

“I know, I know. Don’t start OK?”

You know when I think about it, I can’t imagine how cloning would add years to my life; it would only seem like it. One of me is more than I can handle anyway.