For Better or Worse

An elderly man was given a prep for a colonoscopy. His bowels needed to be empty. The prep was started on the afternoon shift having only limited results, but things changed quite dramatically for the night shift. The old man rang out but before we could respond, his bowels had already emptied. A huge surprise awaited us when we pulled back the top sheet and blanket.

The escaping smell was atrocious. And I have never seen another sight like the one that awaited us. This frail man was lying in the middle of an expansive pool of butterscotch colored bowel movement. The pool wasn’t Olympic in size, but it was quite deep. It covered the entire bed surface from the middle of the man’s back and puddled along both sides of his chest and thighs to forme a lake between his legs. The depth of the feces reached half way up both sides of his abdomen and thighs. We looked at each other in utter disbelief. How could one thin man hold so much feces inside and how could we clean him without getting the mess all over ourselves and on the floor?

We finally rolled him to one side of the bed and allowing the pudding-like consistency of bowel movement to flow into the depression where he had been laying, then by folding the bed pads and sheets over the mess, we could temporarily cover and trap the bowel movement inside. We covered the mess with fresh sheets and clean bed pads. It was useless to try to clean him until we removed the entire mess from the bed. Only when it was removed could we think of beginning to clean the man.

Lining up several garbage cans against the bedside, we pulled the soiled sheets to the edge of the bed and allowed the bowel movement and the blue pads to slide into the waste baskets. Each can was lined with several layers of plastic bags to handle the amount of weight from the excrement. After rolling the man several times and several changes of disposable bed pads we could finally clean the mattress. The worst of the mess was now removed and we could tackle cleaning the man who was placed on more of the dry disposable pads. It wasn’t long until he was clean, smelling fresh, and settled in for the night.

I can’t imagine what the housekeepers thought when they collected the heavy garbage bags in the morning or what the laundry thought, but I know that some of the nurses who helped to clean the man said that they would never eat butterscotch pudding again. Me, it didn’t matter. I never liked butterscotch.

Shine On

Yesterday, I decided to have a day to myself and visit a spot that I used to hit once or twice a year, especially around Christmastime to gift shop for my wife. I hadn’t visited the place in about two or three years. It used to be a Red & White store on Route 30, just west of Ligonier. After the grocery store closed it became an antique flea market. It was a wonderful place to stroll through and take in all of the items from the past. Anything and everything graced the shelves. It was a marvelous building to wander through as I tried to decide if the item that caught my interest was something that I wanted, needed, or could afford.

I climbed into my car and dreamed of exploring the store and browsing through the accumulated oddities. The trip through the drizzle did little to dampen my anticipation. When I got to the location, the entire building was missing. It had been torn down. My heart fell. I turned around and drove back to Ligonier to satisfy another craving. I ate lunch at Ruthies, a small diner to the east of Ligonier on Route 30. I wasn’t disappointed. The food was great.

Back home, I decided to rest and allow my food to digest. Feet up, I snapped on the television. Moonshiners popped up. It was a session I hadn’t seen before and watched it to the end. It did bring to memory of an incident from Connellsville Senior High School. For the next day in chemistry lab, my lab partner and I were to do a distillation project. I knew I had elderberry juice stored in a quart Mason jar for nearly a week and thought it would make a proper distillation liquid. Sure enough, the jar was still there smelling a bit yeasty. Perfect. I smuggled it into school and then into the classroom.

After setting up the Bunsen burner and glass tubing for the distillery, I eased the lid off the jar and unobtrusively poured the juice into the glass “pot,” fired up the Bunsen burner, and waited. Controlling the heat was the most difficult. The temperature fluctuated, but soon we had a distillate dripping from the coil and collecting in another beaker. Because we were unsure of the “purity” of the distillate, we decided to distill it again. The second time, we controlled the heat much better.

My partner said, “Do you think we should taste it?” But before I could answer, our instructor said, “I’ll take that, boys.” So I don’t know whether we achieved liquor, what proof it was, or if even it was palatable or not.

Fun Day at Wally World

It’s always fun when I shop at Walmart. I love to talk with the cashiers that I’ve grown to know over the years while shopping there. Sometimes I ask about their family or I inquire about what kind of day they’re having. I always wish them to “have a good day” or if it’s Friday wish them to have a good weekend. If they say that they’re working the weekend, I commiserate with them and wish them the best anyway. What more can you say when they have to work.

While I shop, it depends on how energized I am as to whether I sometimes tease other shoppers. I almost always come close to colliding my shopping cart with another customer who is trying to maneuver through the aisles as they search for a product that has been moved or that is no longer in stock. The blind corners that Walmart has created by their narrow aisles and having products stacked like the towers at the end of each passage are reason for the near collisions. After apologies, I maneuver myself past the other cart driver and continue my quest. In variably, I forget something that I had written on the grocery list that still rests on my desk at home causing me to traipse back to an area I’ve already gone through.

I live alone with Willow my cat. She doesn’t carry on a sensible conversation with me, so while I am out I often begin to talk with total strangers. I’ve scared more than one old lady by talking to them as I walk past and they are reaching for a product. I’ve caused a few people to be startled, but no cardiac arrests as of yet. Most of the times I merely introduce myself as a writer and pass out one of my business cards to these complete strangers. If I don’t advertise, I won’t gain any new readers.

This past week it was just a bit different. The people to whom I give a card, I only have contact with them for a very brief time, a few minutes at most and I don’t recognize them if we meet again. I was in the checkout line and began to talk with a gentleman in front of me and I offered him a card. He shared that I’d met him before at another occasion in line and I’d given him a card. He still accepted the card and said that he was a police officer wanting to read the books of Tommy Two Shoes.

Oh dear, Santa

I remember responding to an ad in the Tribune Review several years ago. It was for a "Character-Santa.” The ad was seeking “a naturally, full-bearded” man. It didn't say man, but I assumed that the ad was for a man, although my brother I have seen a woman who might fit the bill but that’s another story. The advertisement sought a person for “a local mall” to do a six or seven week promotion. The ad read, “Will train. Must love children.”

Since I was newly retired, I thought I might enjoy finding something to keep myself busy with my free time; something different and something part time or casual. This advertisement was for something that was definitely different.  I like people and who couldn’t use a few extra bucks. So I called the number that was listed.

I reached a woman in New Jersey. I shared the particulars of the ad, explaining that I would be under contract with them. The time of the promotion would be over Christmas and I would be the Santa Clause for Westmoreland Mall. I thought, “Cool, it was local.”

I asked how long would I have to grow the full beard, I had a goatee at that time. She said it would have to be ready for the Christmas season. I asked for further details and she shared that I would be expected to work from ten A. M. until nine P. M. with two meal breaks of thirty minutes each and two restroom breaks of fifteen minutes,

Of course I asked about the salary. The company would give me $7.500.00 in total for those six or seven weeks. She said they would bring me to New Jersey for training, but here's the kicker, I would have to work seven days a week. She did say that there were fewer hours on Sundays. Thank goodness. I was to send a photograph via email in three weeks when my beard was fuller.

“SEVEN DAYS A WEEK! That's just nuts.” I thought. She explained the reason was if a child came back to visit, the child would expect to see the same Santa waiting to greet them. I can see her point, but seven days a week. That’s one reason I retired, too many hours. This contract sounded as though all they needed to provide was a ball and chain like for the prison road gangs.

I didn’t send her a photo after to share how much growth I had, but thought I am going to play Santa to my grandchildren anyway. And my grandchildren didn’t have to be VERY good to sit on my lap anytime of the year.

Ash Wednesday Reposted.

Are You Catholic

This incident occurred while I was still working in the emergency room. It was B.C. era…it was the days before computers. When a doctor ordered an x-ray, the nurses would have to write the patient’s name, birthday, cubicle number, what part of the body was to be x-rayed and why it needed an x-ray on a small chit of paper. Then the nurse would have to hand carry the requisition to the radiology room and be given to the techs inside.

When I carried a request to the radiology room and turned to leave, one of the techs said, “If you see the priest, tell him to stop in and give us ashes on our foreheads. We also want him to bless the x-ray machine.” I recognized that it was Ash Wednesday.

Just as I reached the door, my odd sense of creativity and humor kicked in and I said, “You know, when the priest comes in, you guys could set up a confessional in the dark room. He can open the doors for exposed sins and the unexposed to give you your penance. As in all radiology rooms, there were film storage bins with doors marked as to whether the films were exposed or unexposed. My mind made the comparison to the Catholic confessional chamber with confessed and un-confessed sins.

I heard them laugh as I exited. Later in the day, I was carrying another chit for an x-ray to the techs. When I opened the door, the priest was already ensconced inside. The techs had ashes on their foreheads and one of the girls pointed at me and said, “There! That’s the one.” Apparently they’d told the priest what I had said about the darkroom.

The priest turned to me and asked, “Were you an altar boy?”.

“No.” I replied.

He tried again, “Are you Catholic?”

“No.” I answered again.

He tried one last time, “Do you want to be Catholic?”

My reply was again, “No!”

My response was almost lost in the two technicians’ loud laughter. The priest didn’t laugh, but I’m fairly sure that I saw a smile on his face.

Write or Wrong

I’ve been sitting and writing to finish several projects, so I’m glad that our church has recently padded the church pews. Although the old pews conformed to the body fairly well, an encounter from jury duty, sitting on their unpadded oak chairs and benches two years ago inflamed my sciatica that hasn’t settled yet. Using a pillow for church services became necessary until now. The padding has made a big improvement.

I’m in the midst of three writing projects. The first is my ever-pressing Blogspot. Completing and posting an article of between 350 to 450 words three times a week can be intimidating. My concern comes not with the amount of words, but coming up with something that is fresh and of interest to those who take the time to read my blog. It’s also often difficult to imagine a title that will catch the attention of new readers and keep old readers coming back.

The second project with a time crunch element involves the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. Assembling an eight page newsletter with assorted topics isn’t easy. The effort to search for interesting local stories and then edit them to fit into the eight page format takes time. Local history, newspaper accounts, and photos must be gathered and presented in a concise, appealing way.

Choosing the proper font is another consideration. Too small and older people have difficulty reading the words. Too large and the information won’t fit in the eight pages of the newsletter. Sometimes articles must be rewritten and condensed while trying to retain the essence of the piece.

My latest project is finishing another book. It is a novella because it is shorter in length than a true book. I’m writing it as a sequel of the latest book I wrote, Addie. I had no plans to do a sequel, but I’ve had several people press me to read more about the characters in that book.

When I write I want anyone reading my words to be able feel the emotions of the characters. This time, I may not have people ask for a sequel, because it starts out with trouble and sadness.

The scenes of the new book are still local, set in the late 1950s. The story revolves around Addie’s son Ron having to return with his family to Mount Pleasant to work and to live. A chain of unfortunate circumstances force the family to move. As with Addie, I’ve done illustrations to enhance the readers’ enjoyment and aid in seeing things through my eyes.

Confusion of Uniting or Loss of Memory

I was reading a local blog that chronicles events from Connellsville, Pennsylvania. Most of the items are about people, places, or events. Those mentioned jostled my memory, but there were few things that were from times earlier or later than my years of attending high school. I was a mountain kid and somewhat separated from the places and occurrences in Connellsville proper.

I used to tease the “city kids” that I lived so far back in the mountains that we pumped the sunshine in and the moonshine out. Or I when I was harassed about living in the mountains, I would tell them, “We have signs in our bathrooms that say, ‘Flush twice. It’s a long way to Connellsville.’”

I started to write today’s blog when I saw obituaries of men and women that graduated a year before or a year after me and yet were complete strangers. Even some that graduated the same year I did, I didn’t recognize their face or by name. The year I graduated 1967, two school systems were thrust together, Connellsville and Dunbar. It was a traumatic time for all. A new school mascot, new school colors, new sports teams; both groups had to adjust and there was only our senior year to do it. It was wham, bam, and no time to think or say thank you, ma’am.

When we should have been concentrating on studying and making good grades to graduate, we had to learn how to fit together and remember new names and faces. I was never good at remembering names, so I felt doubly challenged. So if you happen to remember my name and associate it to this aging face, more power to you.

I somehow feel guilty when a person in my high school, in a class behind me or the year ahead passes away and I can’t recall seeing them or ever hearing of them, but our class size went from about two-hundred and fifty to double that at nearly five hundred. Remembering two-hundred and fifty new names and connecting them to faces when I only saw them only in the halls or occasionally shared a class would have been a giant undertaking even for a memory expert.

Another thing are my Facebook friends, many I’ve never met and I’m unsure of whether I should wish someone a happy birthday, especially old people like me. I don’t want to wish someone a happy birthday when they’ve passed away. That would make me look more stupid than I am or that I’ve entered the first stages of senility.