There's Spaghetti in My Underwear/Small Town Cuisine

My lovely wife and I moved back to this small town community in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in 2009.  We originally moved here from the San Francisco Bay Area in 1979.  There’s a few chapters of life that can be found between here and there in “Late Night Letters to the Moon”, which is available on Amazon.com.  That's a whole nother story, and contains things like going to hell and back and buying some new socks. The "hell" part is probably a lot more entertaining than the "sock" part.  Unless, of course, you have a major fetish for socks.

We were lured away from this scenic mountain locale in 2005 by a substantial monetary offer to my lovely wife to take over a title company branch office in Monterey, Ca.  Why not?  She was the top escrow maven of this county at the time and who doesn’t love the Pacific Coast?  Especially Monterey?

A year there and a couple years in Capitola, CA, and my lovely wife was getting burned out with the fourteen hour days in the hellaciously fast paced and freakish world of escrow.  Dealing with money and humans.  Other people's money.  Yeesh.  I have a whole nother story about that.  See paragraph one.  

We also figured we’d never be able to afford a home on the central coast when an 800 square foot house on a postage stamp lot was selling for around 800K.  That warranted a trip up to Portland, OR for a year to check out that scene.  

I say this so ambivalently now.  That was a lot of moving for older type folks who have a lot of crap.  It’s not like we were twenty, could partially fill up a VW van and skedaddle out to parts unknown.  Nope, we’ve got a lot of crap.  We fill up a BIG moving truck.  BIG truck.  We had to plan.

Professional movers did the first move out of here and it was paid for by my lovely wife’s new employer.  We had to pack and pay for the rest of the moves, and we’ve got a lot of crap.   I must admit, I did get very good at packing.  I had to, my lovely wife has a penchant for lovely, quite fragile glass and porcelain artsy type creations.  See: The Drunk Rooster.

Five thick, hardcore big box dish packs full of her breakable, decorative porcelain and glass.  I said, why not collect stamps?  They, too, are lovely creations of art you can look at and admire.  And when we move, they can fit underneath the front seat of the car in a cigar box quite nicely thank you.  She smiled, as she always does, but she did not listen to me.  She continued to find porcelain and glass wherever we went.

While the locale and climate were quite lovely and there was a fabulous doughnut shop there, it was lonely up in Portland, especially for my lovely wife.  I was telecommuting and she wasn’t working, and she's a little social butterfly.  She did a lot of volunteer work-we both joined the Red Cross-and we also became members of the Portland Art Museum.  But it wasn't enough, and it was nothing like the social community here that we were a part of for 30 years, more or less.  That takes a long time nourish.

We were also further away from our children, grandchildren and my lovely wife’s parents.  After living in Portland for a year, we began discussing how close we could move to the SF Bay Area but still be able to afford a house.  And Nevada County, California, our old adopted home turf, came back into view.

We made a recon run and were welcomed back with open arms by family and friends.  Within a couple months we had packed (again) and were back in our old home town.

Our amazing cat Tom knew he was home too.  He became quite animated in the car as we wound up into the pine scented hills from the valley floor.  Once we were at our new rental and we let him go, he immediately was drawn to a small pile of pine needles on the drive.  After a snort full, he was on his back  rolling in the old scents of home.  Tom went on his last walk to forever last summer.  I am so happy he was able to spend the last 4 years of his 18 year life in a place that he obviously knew and loved.

We were in that rental house for a year and then my lovely wife found this house on the side of a hill.  All it needed was a fool.  To watch the sun go down with the eyes in his head.  And see the world go ‘round.  And round.  And become more than a little obsessed with creating a colorful, panoramic and functioning dot of earth. 

Long before we left on our four year five move two state walkabout, we went to a crab feed here with some friends.  It was hosted by one of the local volunteer fire departments, which we always try to get on out and support.

Inside the firehouse, which had been cleared for this occasion, were three or four long rows of tables and chairs running the entire length of the room.  I think the entire hall was geared to seat about eighty people, maybe a hundred, of which we were a party of six.  We found our little spot of paper tablecloth and sat down with unabated anticipation.

I don’t know about you, but I’d never been to a crab feed before.  Fortunately, the friends we went with had and gave us a little guidance.  The first thing that came out of the kitchen was a plate of spaghetti.  And probably not very good spaghetti either.  Vermicelli with unadorned tomato sauce and a sprig of oregano.  I was so hungry I almost ate some, but one of our friends abruptly halted the forward movement of my fork. 

“No, no, no,” he said, “You don’t want to eat those crappy carbs, you want crab.  Don’t waste your waist on that.  They want you to eat that so you’ll eat less crab.  No carbs, crab.  Trust me.”   And he threw the plate away.  I almost potentially thought about hypothetically wanting to maybe put a handful of spaghetti in my pants, just so the title of this post could fit in with the body, but that would have been messy.  And stupid.  So I didn't.  

Next came a handful of lettuce with some Thousand Island dressing on it.  There was also a cherry tomato on top.  I figured that small amount of roughage couldn’t hurt, and much to the chagrin to my purist crab eating fiends, I mean friends, I managed to get in a couple bites before they took that plate away.  

Then came a bucket of crab legs to our little crab clan of six.  It wasn’t a huge bucket, like something you'd put oats in to feed a horse.  Or whatever they put food in for Sumo wrestlers.  It was about the size of a standard ice bucket you’d see at the Hilton, or Motel 6.  But it was full of crab legs.  Everybody took a socially acceptable amount, not quite depleting the bucket of its luscious fodder.  By the time we had almost finished our first round, the second bucket came.

Now, you know, we don’t live on the coast here in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.  And crab, usually somewhat pricey in the grocery stores, is usually considered a delicacy in these here parts.  So, you know, “All you can eat crab for $25.00. Charity Event.  Blah, blah, blah.”  I’m thinking maybe they'll cap our group at three buckets.  I mean, they couldn't really mean, “All you can eat”, could they? 

I expanded my belt buckle when the fourth bucket came.  I got giddy when the fifth bucket came. After the sixth, or maybe the seventh bucket, I wandered outside to find the Vomitorium.  I found a pine tree and had a smoke instead.

Then I went back inside, loosened my belt ANOTHER notch and partook of another two or three buckets of crab.  I felt like I was at a Roman orgy, but without the Romans.  Or naked people for that matter.  Which is probably a good thing since most folks were fabulously bloated by this point in the evening’s soiree and wouldn't feel fabulous naked.  Especially in front of strangers.  Or friends.

I would imagine enough crab was consumed that night to fill up at least one episode of the “Deadliest Catch”.  Or maybe a swimming pool.  By the way, a fabulous  game to play drunk when money is no object: drain a swimming pool and fill it with pickles.  Toss in a frog.  Whoever finds the frog wins.  You could reverse it, fill the pool with frogs and toss in a pickle, but it's a lot easier to catch and contain one frog than it is forty thousand.  Just a thought.

 It was great to catch up on a little seafood since there aren’t really any restaurants in town specializing in ocean delights.  I mean, you can get the catch of the day at many fine restaurants in town, but there's no specific fish stand to speak of.  Like Phil's in Moss Landing, which is absolutely fabulous by the way.

Speaking of restaurants, we do have a number of fine establishment here in our twin city towns of Grass Valley and Nevada City.  There aren’t any chain restaurants either.  Nothing like an Appleby's, or Chili's.  Or Ruth's Chris.  What is that anyway, Ruth or Chris?   There’s a bit of a small town resistance here to any of  that falderal, which is a showy but worthless trifle, flapdoodle or nonsense, by the way, coming in and taking business away from the established, local independents.  

If you want a steak here in town, head on out to The Willo, which is a couple miles out of Nevada City in the country.  Casual dining at its best, The Willo has like five, or maybe six items on the menu.  BBQ New York steak, BBQ chicken, BBQ ribs and a BBQ pork chop.  I think they've recently added some BBQ fish.  That’s about it.  Sense a theme here?  Whatever you order comes with some beans, green salad and slice of garlic bread, all on the same plate.  You also get a scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert.
 
Ambiance runs high at The Willo.  You can get cocktails there, play shuffleboard in the bar and for an extra fifty cents you can cook your own steak at the huge indoor BBQ.  There’s also a painting of the old SF-Oakland Bay Bridge with teeny weeny miniature Christmas lights running both sides of the span.  If that ain’t enough, there’s also velvet's of Elvis and the Duke on the wall.  Class trash at its best.

Another great steak house, The Owl Grill and Saloon, is located in downtown Grass Valley.  Recently  taken over by an old high school alum chum, Steve Graham, the Owl still sports much of the same great meaty menu, but now presented with a little more panache, flavor and flair.  The Owl is much more upscale than the Willo, but both have their place.  

A nice, romantic dinner, the Owl.  A nice, shit kicking time, the Willo.  Any questions? 

If haute cuisine is more your thing, head on over to The New Moon Cafe in Nevada City.  There Chef Peter Selaya is always cooking up new, exciting and tasty culinary works of art.  You can watch him do his stove top ballet through the large picture window near the entrance.  

South of the border?  Maria’s.  There’s also Thai.  Italian.  Sushi.  There’s pizza.  There's a host of other very fine dining establishments, like Tofanelli's, Cirino's, and Lefty's, to name a few.  All restaurants listed have been around for years, they have definitely withstood the taste of time.

There's a couple of pastie shops too.  Yeah, right.  Get your mind out of where you know it just went.  That's, like, Cornish pasties.  Again, I am not referring to a lively young lass with small items of glitz adorned strategically ala Janet Jackson, I am referring to kind of like a meat pot pie or burrito, only different.  This delicacy was brought to the area during the gold rush by Cornish miners who came to work in the gold mines.

There’s a few small coffee shops too.  There used to be a Denny’s, but since most of the locals stayed with small, local shops they left town.  It’s a bagel shop now.  I think only five of the main line fast food crap places are represented here, but not all of them.  Only one IHop.  So we have that going for us.

One night a couple months back in 2014 we ate at a local restaurant with a couple of the same friends we went to the crab feed with.  We’re all foodies.  They had a gift certificate for The Swiss House, an off the beaten track and out of the way place touting Swiss and German food as their specialty.  Somehow the Swiss House had remained in the same location for a couple decades.  It isn’t located downtown where most of the eateries are; it's out by the freeway interchange, if you want to call it that.  It’s probably more like a highway intersection.  The industrial part of town.  Without the industry.

We arrived at 7:00 PM on a Saturday evening.  There was a couple at the six seat bar having cocktails, and there were also two other tables in the restaurant that were occupied when we arrived.  It appeared to be a fairly quiet evening, with about eighteen tables sitting empty.  The décor was straight out of the late seventies, with walnut wainscoting and red and gold flambé wallpaper everywhere.  

The hostess, a lovely Asian woman in her early seventies, left us with menus and a glass of water.  Fifteen minutes later we had yet to be approached by a waiter or waitress.  With two lovely spouses thirsting for Martini’s, I decided to head to the bar myself to get the ladies a drink.  There, I learned from the couple seated, that the bartender had been missing for about the same amount of time as our hostess.  And we still had not seen a waiter.  Or waitress.  This was beginning to feel like an Agatha Christie mystery.  Or Blake Edwards romp.

We soon learned our seventies hostess was also our waitress as well as the bartender.  And chef’s spouse.   She was a busy girl.  Besides her and the chef, there was only one other person helping in the back.  I wonder what would have happened if the place had all twenty tables occupied?  We'd probably be paying extra, just like at The Willo, to help cook our own meal. 

We had a lot of fun poking fun at just about everything that was going on; the decor, the ambiance, the service.  Or lack thereof.  But when the food finally came, arguably it was some of the best tasting cuisine in the area.  Chef Karl definitely has his schnitzels down.  Perfectly cooked vegetables.  Perfectly tasty and textured sauces.  The food was impeccable.  And once we got into the one person waitress/hostess/bartender slow show pace, we had a wonderful time.  I would highly recommend this establishment to any and all.  Just don't be in a hurry.

As I write this, I am sad to say that Lily Pai Resch, the energetic and multi-tasking hostess/waitress/bartender and wife of Karl the chef, has recently passed away.  The restaurant is closed until further notice per their website.

Besides the cadre of wonderful and delicious edible locations that grace our effervescent community, we also have a unique feature that is a staple at our county fair.  It is one tasty avenue that is called Treat Street.  It ought to be a boulevard.

Basically it’s a hundred yard long, twenty foot wide walk with food stands on each side offering a wide variety of eats. From stuffed baked potatoes to burgers to tacos to brats to hot buttered corn on the cob to possibly the absolute best darn corn dogs on the planet.  Home town fair fare at its finest and each food vendor is a local charity or volunteer organization.  

Several local volunteer fire departments are represented, several churches, the Rotary, the Elks, Big Brothers/Sisters, Boy Scouts, ETC.  Besides the camaraderie, these organizations make a ton of money.  Job’s Daughters, with their uber fantabulous corn dogs, anchors the street and ALWAYS has a line from twenty to forty deep.  They sell a ton of dawgs each year during the fair.

Treat Street is not as lit up during the 4^th of July as it is during the county fair.  A few booths are usually open, but not all of them.  It was 4^th of July, 2010, on Treat Street, that I knew, after our four year walkabout, we were home.  

The 4^th of July is a big deal around this community.  The two towns flip each year hosting a parade, which is actually a pretty darn good affair.  Marching bands, humans on horses and fire trucks.  A couple batons.  A few old cars.  A few old bats.  A politician or two.  We haven’t been in a few years because they switched the start time to 1:00 in the afternoon.  And these foothills can get quite warm in the middle of summer.

I’m not much of one for heat.  I can do the high 80’s and low 90’s OK, but when it gets up there in the high 90’s to triple digits count me out.  I need to be in or near a body of water or in an air conditioned room, definitely not standing out in the street sweating and sweltering and waving a miniature American flag.  Back when the kids were young we went all the time.  Back then the parade started at 10:00 AM, which was great.  And a lot cooler. 

I think one of the reasons they changed to a later start time was to seamlessly motivate and lure folks on out to the fairgrounds right after the parade for further patriotic celebration.  And to spend money of course.

There’s always been a huge aerial fireworks display at the fairgrounds, which always draws a huge crowd.  But that doesn’t usually start until, you know, dark, which is when most people would arrive.  But the fairgrounds always opened right after the parade, around noon.  I guess not that many people were migrating out there immediately following the parade.  We never did.  Who wants to spend an entire afternoon in the heat, sweating and sweltering?

We would usually find a body of water and submerge ourselves for the afternoon.  Then we'd mosey on out to see the fireworks around 7:00 PM.  Now that the parade ends around 3:00 PM, I guess more folks are heading out earlier to partake of the festivities than before.  Not us, but some folks. 

By the way, we have the best darn fairgrounds in Northern California, if not the world.  Tall pines grace the grounds and offer tons of shade in the heat of summer.  During the fair the long, main walk is lined with regiments of bright orange marigolds.  Rustic red colored buildings dotted everywhere present quilts, baked goods, flowers, produce, and paintings during the  fair, all entered with the hopes to take home a blue ribbon.  I keep threatening to enter one of my African Violets, but I always seem to miss the deadline. One of these years...

The fairgrounds hosts many other events throughout the year, like the annual Father’s Day Blue Grass Festival, KVMR's Celtic Festival, the World Music Fest, the Strawberry Music Fest, Clydesdale Horse Fest, Classic Car Fests, a Home & Garden Show and a few isotopes.  More or less.

It was at the 4^th of July, 2010 celebration, that I experienced a very warm, subtle and welcome Aha!  Although we didn’t go to the parade, we still moseyed out to the fairgrounds around 7:00 for the fireworks.  We got together with my sister and her family and ultimately an entourage of fifteen to twenty, which included kids, grandkids, vegetables and hangers on meandered out.  We brought blankets and chairs and set up a nice little island in a huge sea of madness with hundreds of other folks.

After we had set out our blankets and chairs, my lovely wife and I meandered off to explore the festivities.  I ended up in some Treat Street line, getting something nourishing, you know, like caramel corn or ice cream.  And I was standing there, in line, soaking up the atmosphere.  Some country music and children’s laughter danced in the background, a subtle breeze tickled my fancy.  And I was overcome with a mellow melange of  melancholy and nostalgia as a soft, sugar sweet symphony swept over my sensibilities.  I knew we had come home.

Wilson Picket My Fence

"Idle chatter makes my mind wander."

I just came up with that, unless somebody else did.  You can use it if you like.

It's kind of funny how projects get started around here.  There's a hundred or so on the burner all the time; front, back, center and medium rare.  Hell, there's always going to be projects, we live in the country.  Who's bright idea was this, anyway? 

One of the ones on center stage this year has been the picket fence that frames our front lawn and is a standard for our sunset views.

A few of the fence posts had rotted as had several of the laterals.  And many of the pickets were suffering from a variety of maladies.  Yeah, this project was going to be a big one.  But before I get going too much here, I think we need a little Wilson to get this Picket post rolling along before we gets too far into the Midnight Hour. 

So I had been cogitating my method de repair and how best to attack this picket beast for a few months.  And as I was cogitating, which I can be prone to do especially when looking at a rather long and dubious situation, my lovely wife was given a cute cat statue that will situate by the potting shed, where the picket fence ends.  Or starts.  Depending on your point of view.

While the cat statute looked really clean and cute, the fence looked pretty shabby as did the potting shed.   I hadn't really touched either one because I knew this day would be coming.  And with the arrival of the cute cat statue the game was on.  Good thing I had been cogitating.

Near as I could tell, I needed to replace 4 posts.  As I got entirely too intimate in picket fence land, I discovered a couple more needed to be replaced.  Fortunately they weren't all together, so I was able to retain some of the picket/lateral action which ultimately helped me retain the level.

As the posts came down, a number of the laterals also needed replacing.  The previous owner really hadn't done anything with just about everything around here for a decade or so, let alone the picket fence.  There was A LOT of deferred maintenance, and this little area really needed some attention.  

The potting shed, another focal point for the front yard, is a bastion of mysteries.  The inside, where I store my chain saws as well as many other macho outdoor tools, is pink.

I think the place started out as a playhouse for a little girl, and then as she outgrew the joint he tried to paint it to match the house.  Sort of.

You'll notice he didn't quite finish the trim on the sides as well as the rear of the structure.  So the new trim color will be white to match the picket fence.  And the body of the shed will become the butter cream yellow the house will eventually become.  Not only did homeboy choose an asinine color for the house, when he eventually painted the shed he did it bass ackwards.

Plus that roof needed major attention.  When I removed the moss I also noticed a small amount of dry rot along the gable ends, or the edge of the "A" you see at the top.  This happened because homey did not allow for any kind of overhang over the edge, nor did he flash the edge.  No, I'm not talking about him wearing a raincoat and then exposing himself to structures, I'm talking about the placement of an "L" shaped strip of metal that slides under the roofing material and then hangs over the top of the fascia.  We'll get back to the roof later.

The first move in any home improvement situation like this is the demolition phase.  As much as I would like to use either some C-4 or the backs of a couple strapping young bucks, I usually have to get out the pick and shovel myself.  A pry bar and a hammer.  And a bucket for all the lethal hardware that comes my way.
All those keen and macho tools are mostly stored in the pink room, in case you wanted to know.

Any time I do demolition that involves hard sharpened steel is to remove that threat toot sweet.  There's too many tender paws around here, like mine, and the grand kids, that really don't need an encounter with a rusty nail.  So after I get a section off, I remove all the nails I can find.

In this little gambit, and I did not remove all the pickets or horizontals, I yanked out a couple hundred nails.  Homeboy tapped in 6 to 8 nails at each end of the horizontals I removed.  I used an "L" bracket with a couple screws when I replaced them.  Less metal and they're sturdier too.

Once I had pertinent laterals and pickets removed, it was then OK to launch into removing the posts, which were all in concrete by the way.

So I attacked my first post.  I dug, and I pried, and I sweated, and I toiled.  Thirty minutes later I had dug down about 3 1/2 inches.  By that time I said the hell with it and filled my partial hole with water.  To be addressed the next day.

You notice that PVC right next to the concrete up there?  Yeah, that thin white line?  That part of the front lawn sprinkler system?  The one I put my pick through?

Well, it turned out another ten inches and it was the end of the line.  So I quick clipped the end and put an end cap on it.  Once that area of the fence was complete I went back and added another 6 feet or so on to that clipped end and put in another sprinkler head.  That area had not been getting an adequate amount of water from the system anyway, so I had inadvertently unearthed an advantage.  Or made lemonade from an errant pick stab. 

I went back the next day and with my heavy duty six foot long pry bar I easily maneuvered that concrete out of the hole.  Five minutes.  Then I dropped in my new post, tossed in some concrete, leveled it and let it sit.  I moved on to the next, and eventually had a couple posts drying at the same time.

While all this was going on I was also contending with a lot of malnourished fence pickets.  Without paint for a decade (or more) many of the pickets were dry rotted and split.  Some I was able to save, some had to be tossed.  I set up a little picket hospital for the ones that could be saved. and as I labored over the posts and horizontals, I also mended a few pickets every day.  This involved gluing long cracks, clamping them and also patching many holes.  I needed me some Mustang Sally by this point in time.

The front yard was a pretty chaotic scene for a while, with all sorts of commotion going on.

But once it was torn apart, things got put back together relatively quickly, over the course of a week or two.

Once the laterals were up, the pickets were lined up and put up, with screws, just like ducks in a row.  A lot of 'em.  Quack quack.  A friend asked why I didn't go with new pickets.  Two reasons:  One was cost.  There's a lot of pickets on that there fence, like 235.  If I replaced half of them at Home Depot's price of $2.59 each I'd be looking at $303.00.  But since these are older pickets and hard to find, I'd have had to replace them all.  If I did vinyl it'd cost around $928.00.  But cost was not the most important part of the equation anyway.

You all may (or may not) have heard of the latest decorating trendy type situation, "shabby chic"?  Well, that's motus operandi around here.  I make things looks nice nice and then I have to mess it up a little.  A bash here, a ding there.  That sort of thing.  Makes my lovely wife happy.  What can I say?

So my process was to essentially make the entire fence structurally sound but then still retain a little of the aging luster.  I was able to replace the 20 or so pickets that were tossed with extra pickets from the picket bone yard.  Homeboy had about forty feet of extraneous picket fencing up around the place, and when I removed it I was able to retain many of the parts and pieces, just for an occasion as this.  Many of them have charming knot holes, a little bend here and hiccup there.
  
After all the pickets were up I blasted everything with a pressure washer, and then went along and methodically caulked and patched all the trim and holes.  Along the entire fence.  Yeah, it was a project.  Basically I wanted to make sure no water could get in between the pickets and the laterals.  That's where the majority of dry rot would be found if left open, so I closed it all off, one picket at a time.  It was a lot of fun.  I'm kidding.

Next, utilizing an airless sprayer I picked up at a garage sale last summer for $40, I sprayed all the trim on the potting shed.  Prior to painting, I removed the moss on the potting shed roof with a rake.  Extending way beyond my physical mass and potential.  Then I sprayed it with weed killer.  A new black comp shingle roof to match the main house will becoming shortly.

I thought it would be a great idea to use the sprayer on the fence, but I quickly discovered half the paint was heading out into the atmosphere.  There, uh, apparently was a lot of space in between surface area(s).  I ended up painting the fence by hand, taking about 45 minutes per section.  That, too, was a lot of fun.   Just kidding.  Where was Tom Sawyer and his fellas when I needed them?

That part of the job, the fence painting part, was interrupted in mid October when my appendix, Uncle Wiggley, decided to burst.  And boy, was that a lot of fun.  Again, kidding.  That little diversion set me back a good two to three weeks. 

I started painting the fence again a couple weeks after surgery, taking about an hour and a quarter per section this time around, or about 30 minutes longer.  What can I say?  There was a hole in my bucket and the wind had torn through my sails.  And my hair was all undone.  And I'm certainly not getting any younger.  Shorter, but not any younger.

 

 Then I started in on the shed, one side at a time.

My lovely wife suggested the planter boxes be black, you know, accent.  So I added a little razzle dazzle and painted them black.  Which reminds me of another song.  And in the meantime, while several other last minute pushes for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday were being attended to, I was also tossed a somewhat beat up classic weather vane, which would adorn the potting shed roof.

You may notice a few holes in the round ball thing a ma bob. Thing.  No doubt placed there by a non well intentioned pre-pubescent 12 year boy with a BB gun.

I bent the metal around the holes as best I could and then got out some old fashioned "Bondo" to fill in the remaining holes and valleys.  Works on cars and wood floors, right?  Why not weather vane thing a ma bob  things?  Then I sanded it down to a relatively unevenly smooth finish.  Next I broke the weather vane down so that I could paint it.

Once all the potting shed painting was complete, then I added the brick landing in front.  Without that it would get quite muddy right in front of the door.  Rain would also splatter mud and gunk up on the recently painted front.  I simply couldn't have that.  And once the planters had been painted, they certainly needed some plants.  With deer netting all around of course.

Notice how nice the cat statue looks now?

Even though the new roof will be forthcoming in a couple weeks, my lovely wife wanted the newly refurbished weather vane up so that the multitudes that will be descending for the Thanksgiving Holiday can "oooh" and "ahhh".

It's actually level and compass sighted in for optimum actual functional display purposes.  Held in by 4 lag bolts with a little Henry's Wet Patch underneath, it will come off quite quickly when it's time for the new roof.

With a little luck I shouldn't have to revisit this project for another decade.  Hopefully two.  And by that time, I'm sure as hell not going to be too motivated to dig up any rotten posts.

You know, a lot of folks have asked if I'm going to name the fence.  I mean, how silly.  I only name highly relevant and sometimes irrelevant things, like my kids, gold fish, ankles and appendix.  Although, now that I think about it, there is a logical choice, Wilson.


Animal Update

Our flock of fowl birds is doing fine.  Most of them have been molting, which is like shedding, only with feathers.  And since it takes a lot of protein to produce feathers, egg production falls during this process.  And since they already slow down laying in the fall and winter, we're like getting only 1 to 2 eggs per day right now. 

The other day a week or so ago I decided to lock up the flock a little early, like around 4:00 PM.  With it getting dark earlier now, they're all pretty much perched up around 5:00, but I was feeling lazy and decided to put 'em in early.  As I started walking up, I noticed the hens were getting a little agitated and were all conglomerating in one corner of the pen.  That's usually not a good sign.

Then I noticed a larger than domestic gray feline sitting on it's haunches at the back gate.  Initially I thought it might be one of our girls, they're getting their winter coats and are getting quite fluffy.  And then I remembered they were both in the house.  As I approached the cat retreated, fairly quickly, but not before I identified it as a Bobcat.  Who I believe was lookin for a little snack.

Fortunately, the flock's day time pen has a six foot high fence around it.  I'm sure the Bobcat could have gotten in-the Ringtail did-but not too easily.  And fortunately, I interrupted his flock salivation perusal by coming out a bit early.  If he had gotten in I'm sure I would have lost at least one hen before I got the alert.

Speaking of fluffy kittens, Daisy and Lilly are adapting quite fine.  They both sensed the loss of Joey, and seem to be settling in to their reign.

Hope you all enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving Holiday. 

Joey's Last Walk

It is with a heavy heart that I announce our 19 1/2 year old paranoid schizophrenic all black cat Joey was put to sleep in the early afternoon hours of November 17, 2014.  Poor Joey lived under the shadow of his alpha brother from another mother Tom Cat for most of his life.  Although a fine male feline specimen and a little bigger than Tom, Joey was a little slower and subjugated himself until Tom took his last walk to forever last year.  Then it was the reign of King Joe.

But Joey was one of those cats afraid of his own shadow, and sometimes just a cross eyed look from me would put him in a tail spin to another planet.  I think he was listening to too much Yoko Ono on his cat IPaw most of the time, although ever once in a while a little Leon Russell would seep in and he would become a normal, loving cat that you could actually pet and stuff.

He was an indoor/outdoor cat his entire life, and like his brother Tom he did the 4 year 5 house 2 state walkabout thing with us.  He also lived near the same busy street as Tom, and he, too, managed to live a long, pretty much healthy life.  So he couldn't have been that stupid.  Paranoid, yes.  Schizophrenic, yes.
A blithering idiot stooge cat, no.

He did have a little scare almost a decade ago when we lived in Monterey.  That happened the same day of Tom's blood paw tail tale CSI thingamaroo. 

I probably need to elaborate on that.

It was morning.  I was then recovering from foot surgery and was the errand runner and domestic around the house.  My lovely wife had recently accepted a new position and was a high powered executive vice-president of a large corporation.  Yow Mama!

At that time, Tom and Joe were around 8 and 9 years old.  They both had been let out at daylight, and then came back into the house about an hour later.  As my lovely wife was getting ready for work, she saw Tom in the mirror, freaked out and screamed.  A couple of his paws and about 5 inches of his tail were covered in blood.  Covered.  A sopping mess.  Looked like the domestic's day was going to be busy.

I scampered up the stairs as fast as a Festus style pace can scamper and joined in the freakishness.  We picked him up, got him over to the sink and rinsed his paws and tail a bit.  Nothing was spurting, so that was good.  I couldn't really see any major injuries either, nevertheless it warranted a trip to the vet.  Both cats needed their shots anyway, so we'd cover a couple bases.

While my lovely wife went off to work, I wrapped Tom in a towel and took him to a vet in town that specialized in cats.  They immediately took him in, and then I went back to the house to find Joe so I could get him his shots.  It took a good half hour of looking, he can be skittish, but I finally got him in a position where I could pick him up.  And when I pressed my hands around and under his torso a huge bucket of pus burst out.  All.  Over.  Everywhere.  All over my hands, bare feet and just about everywhere.  If there was ever a time to puke, that would have been it.  Could you imagine that mess? 

"Well, that was certainly a surprise," I thought to myself, "And not a real welcome one."

That was probably why he had been acting stranger than usual.  He was no doubt running a temp.  I rinsed the obvious goo off my flesh, wrapped Joey in a towel, tossed him in the cat carrier and dropped him off at the vet.  Then  I went back to the house and cleaned me and it up.  Considering my gimp and the mess that took the better part of the day.   Blood and pus. What a great day.

Later that afternoon I went in to pick up the cats.  They had cleaned Tom up real good, even trimmed all the fur off his once glorious tail.  Ever see a cat's tail without the fur?  Looks like a rat tail.  Only longer.  No kidding.  They found no injury to him whatsoever.  We figured he must have CSI wandered through a blood soaked crime scene, either animal or human.  Or maybe he bagged a deer.  There was way too much blood for it to have been a mere rodent.  I dunno.  He could have held the key to an audacious crime or he could have been the most audacious domestic feline hunter of all time.  I guess we'll never know.

Joey, on the other hand, got to spend the night.  The vet had to slice his underside all the way from rectum to sternum to remove all the pus.  Apparently Joe had about a dozen puncture wounds that had become infected.  He rarely let us pet him so what did we know?  We figured he had either run afoul of a big tree rat or possibly the big bully cat next door.   Joe was afraid of his own shadow and could easily fall victim to whatever might accost him. 

Although I give him a bad time, Joe was an agile and avid hunter.  He and Tom would routinely get birds, and there was one time my lovely wife and I witnessed Joe snag a hummingbird.  Man he was quick.

Back in Monterey, where we were renting a house a few miles out of town and in the country, our backyard sloped uphill to the road.  It was a good acre of land in back, a weed eated upward sloping meadow of uneven terrain.

In the evenings, Tom and Joe would be up there on what we named "Vole Hill."  There were hundreds of vole holes on the hill, and many of those furry little delicacies would come out at dusk.  Many did not return.  Our cat food bill was way down when we lived in Monterey.  The cats had a blast.

As recent as two years ago Joe was still hunting, at seventeen.  His two big chompers were long gone, but he still had maniacal claws that could tear through steel.   He was also a big catnip enthusiast.   He'd have a few snorts, and then if the plant was big enough he'd loll about in it.  Joe would tear into it like an unabashed inebriated professional wrestler hopped up on Bailey's Irish Cream and then scamper off attacking phantom specters in the night.

His gait had slowed considerably in the last year, and though he was still a pretty good eater he was getting thin.  His rear hips were getting bony too, but he was still moseying along.

Then the other night he apparently fell in the hall and could not get back up.  His back legs weren't working, at all.  We figured he had a stroke.  It was a long night, but both my lovely wife and I managed to get a few hours of broken up sleep.  We both awoke at 4:00 AM, and we found our youngster kitten Daisy had been keeping Joe company.  And Joe still wasn't really moving.

Our regular vet is semi retiring, so I found another one in the phone book that made house calls.  Or said he did.  I became a little concerned about his veracity during our initial conversation.  He's been a DVM for 45 years, and the fact that I had to repeat everything I said two and three times also hinted that he might be getting old.  Nevertheless, and even though his cost was $30 dollars higher than another vet in town, I booked the appointment.  He was going to be at our place between 10:45 and 11:00 to euthanize Joe.

I sighed.  I did a few small things around the house, but spent most of the morning with Joe.  As 11:00 approached, I wrapped him in a towel and we went outside to sit on the front deck.  I wanted him to be able to feel some of the wonderful mountain air he had been breathing for most of his life.  Maybe smell some memories.  I talked to him as I stroked his feeble body, his back legs unable to move.  He whispered back. 

At 11:15 I began to wonder where our vet had gone.  At 11:30 I called his office.  I left a message on his machine, asking where he might be.  This wasn't getting any easier on anybody, especially me.  I mean Joe.  I mean me.  Dang, he'd drive me crazy sometimes but he was a part of the family for 19 years.  It was hurting, and not in a good way.  Tears were starting to flow.

At 11:45, roughly an hour after the supposed arrival of the first vet, I called MOTHER LODE VETERINARY HOSPITAL.  The nice gal I spoke with there said I could bring Joe in right away.  I called Stupid and canceled.

I re-wrapped Joe in a towel and gently placed him on the shotgun seat.  Usually Joe had to ride in a cat carrier, preferably on a few kitty Quaaludes if we had 'em.  If he wasn't in a carrier, he'd usually ride on the ceiling.  This time he just lay on the seat next to me.  He didn't move and he could barely whisper. 

The front staff at Mother Lode was incredibly kind, compassionate and considerate.  I highly recommend them to anyone.  Joe and I were in the exam room within a couple minutes, and there I started to say good bye.  I reminded him of some of his many hunting exploits, of his many lazy afternoons laying on the front lawn in the sun (or shade) depending on the season.  He whispered back.

The very kind and compassionate vet and his assistant were soon in, and with just one look they, too, knew it was his time.  I placed my head next to Joey's and tears began to fall.  Again.  Dang.  The vet put the needle in and depressed the plunger.  I whispered a few affectionate words and Joe was gone. 

I re-wrapped Joe in his now infamous towel cape and walked out to the car.  There I called my lovely wife to let her know the deed was done and he was gone.  More tears.  Geez, I wasn't very good at this.  Stoic?  Apparently not.  Not in my vocabulary this day.

I brought him home and buried him on the hill.  He now rests next to his brother Tom in a rose petal strewn hole fit for a cat.  From fur to dust.  

Then I went out and bought some doughnuts.  If I still drank, it would have been time for a bottle of bourbon.  Probably two.  But I went out and bought some doughnuts instead.  I could manage those.

When I got back from the doughnut shop, I noticed I had a message.  Upon further scrutiny, you know, like when I replayed the message, I discovered it was Stupid.  He was returning my calls.  He stated he was at my house at the appointed time, 11:00 AM.  He was on the front porch, rang the doorbell, said no one was home.

Really?  I was here, I know that.  I was on the front porch with a dying cat.  I wasn't in back.  I wasn't in the cellar.  I was on the front porch.  Where the hell were you?  It apparently had not even dawned on him, even after hearing both my messages, that he might have actually gone to the wrong address.

Dude, ever hear of a CELL PHONE?  I understand they're the latest rage.  I mean, you do have a mobile business, right? 

You could have called me from where ever the hell you were and said, like, "Hi Dave, I'm standing on your front porch..."

And then I'd be like, "Um, no you're not.  I'm on my front porch and I sure as hell don't see you.  Are you invisible?"

You know, then we could have figured out where you actually were and maybe, just maybe, gotten you over to my actual front porch.  But that might have been a challenge as well.

I mean, I repeated everything two and three times our first go round.  I even gave him landmarks which he said he knew.  I gave him SPECIFIC DIRECTIONS, which he claimed he was writing down.  At least that's what he said while he kept asking me to repeat everything I was saying.  And he still went to the wrong house.  The mind reels.

In the meantime, the kind and compassionate folks at Mother Lode accomplished the task for half the cost of Stupid.  What are you gonna to do?

And so, Joe, once again I bid you farewell.  You are off to the land of hummingbirds and butterflies, where the sun always shines and catnip is a plenty.  May your kitten heart now frolic freely and not be besieged by shadows any more.  Peace Joe, peace. 

Angels On My Barcalounger

I originally had about a hundred fifty titles for this post.  OK, at least six.  Or seven.  I may have a hundred fifty by the time I'm done.  More keep trampling my cranium every day.  What's wrong with me?

"Primal Tales of My Wicked Uncle Wiggley", "Knockin at the Dragon's Door", "There's Flying Monkeys in My Nightmares",  "Frankenbelly, the Absurd",  "There's Gangrene in My Soup?", "The Appendix-Why?"  But "Angels On My Barcalounger" won out because I did meet a few Angels on this particular journey, and without them my recovery would not have been what it has been.  Alex, Teresa, Kay, Delilah, Loree, Dee and Laura-I bow to you and humbly thank you.  You cared for this old wracked with pain body with such incredible kindness and compassion.  And humor.  Words cannot fully express my gratitude.

And of course, I would be wholesomely remiss if I did not mention my very own personal Angel, my lovely wife, whose undying love and support is a blessing EVERY SINGLE DAY.

I also have a new Superhero, my surgeon, Dr. William Statton. The hell with Batman.  Or Katman.  Du.  This man makes life and death decisions every single day.  As far as I'm concerned he saved my life, with skill, compassion and humor.  Thanks again Doc, words cannot express.

BTW, I have, apparently, dated myself with the "barcalounger" aspect of the title to this tale.  Barcalounger is another term for recliner.  As in furniture.  There is a Barcalounger web site and everything.  For any of you that didn't know.  And I just love saying the word, barcalounger.  It's a problem, I know.  But in the aspect of this tale, of course, it's an unorthodox metaphor for where I would be.  At any particular time and place.  And fortunately, in this particular time and space of immediate need, there happened to be some Angels.  How lucky is that?

How did I get to the point where I garnered Angels and a new superhero?  Well, let's first examine the nasty little rascal that caused all this uproar, my appendix, who I have confoundedly named Uncle Wiggley.  My very wicked Uncle Wiggley.

Extending from the inferior end of the large intestine’s cecum, the human appendix is a narrow pouch of tissue.  It is located in the right iliac region of the abdomen (in the lower right-hand abdominal area), measuring about four inches long and roughly a quarter of an inch in diameter.

The appendix is not a vital organ and medical researchers still debate its exact function in our bodies. One hypothesis suggests that it is a vestigial remnant of a once larger cecum. This larger cecum would have been used by vegetarian ancestors to digest cellulose from plants. Supporters of this hypothesis therefore conclude that the appendix no longer serves any purpose for us.

Another hypothesis suggests that the appendix acts as a storage area for beneficial bacteria during times of illness. Beneficial bacteria living in the appendix could survive being flushed out of the large intestine by diarrhea. The appendix would therefore help a person to recover more rapidly from illness by enabling the bacteria to re-colonize the intestines after the illness has passed.

Apparently it also serves an important role in fetus development.  Well, whatever Uncle Wiggley did at one point in time for me he decided not to do it anymore.  He apparently got upset me for whatever reason and decided to get all infected and stuff.  Like, what'd I ever do to him?  And let me tell ya, when an appendix decides to go south it definitely screws up your appetite.  For just about everything, including food.

My odyssey first began in the early morning hours of October 4th, when a sharp pain in my abdomen woke me from sleep.  The pain slowly gravitated towards my right side as the hours and weekend progressed.  I did my on-line duty, reading up as much as I could about appendicitis.  I was sure that was what was bothering me.  The pain was constant, but I did not have a fever, and I still had a small appetite, of sorts.

I called my doctor's office the first thing Monday morning, and that is when I discovered my GP had left the practice.  (I don't go to the doctor's office that often.  It's one of the LAST places on the planet where you'd be likely to find me.)  I was informed I could see the Physician's Assistant, or PA, at ten that morning.  Concerned that this could be appendicitis, I gladly took the appointment.

After the nurse checked me in, took my vittles and asked me why I was there, the PA finally came in.  She sat down in front of the computer and proceeded to ask me a litany of irrelevant questions about irrelevant symptoms, like leg cramps and hands swelling-when I was in there with abdominal pain.

She never even touched me once.  She never palpated the affected area, nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  It was like I had Ebola or something.  At that keyboard she came up with the conclusion I probably had pleurisy, a lung condition, primarily because I did say it hurt more when I took a deep breath.  Which it did.  It all hurt over there.  So she prescribed Ibuprofen 800's and sent me on my way.  She also did order some blood tests, just in case.

The tests came back negative.  For what I don't know, but they were negative.  I'd be willing to guess my appendix hadn't yet exploded and my white cell count was normal.  I bought in to the pleurisy diagnosis, primarily because I didn't have a temperature and still had an appetite.  Not huge, but I was still eating.  Those two issues are apparently huge red flag warnings when trying to diagnose appendicitis.  Especially the temperature thing, and mine had been running pretty much normal.  Everything was working somewhat soundly, albeit painful, so I continued on my way.  For days.

And then over the night of October 15th I developed the chills, knowing then I had a fever.  That morning I called the doc's office again, and garnered an appointment at 2:00 that afternoon.  With the same PA.  I inquired as to whether or not a real doctor was available, and the receptionist got a little miffed, stating "Our PA works under the direct supervision of a doctor."

Well, whatever.  I just hoped they'd get the diagnosis right this time.  Pleurisy?  In my abdomen?  Really?  That entire day was spent in growing agony, and I couldn't do much except hang out on the sofa and watch Hogan's Heroes reruns.  And laugh with the pain.

I presented myself at the doctor's office with a 101.5 temperature.  After the nurse took my vittles, the PA came in soon thereafter with a mortified look on her face.  This time she immediately palpated my rock hard right side and said I needed to go to the ER.  ASAP.  She thought my gall bladder had burst.

The problem I encountered, and what also helped lead me towards buying into the pleurisy diagnosis, was that the pain seemed to be higher than where the normal appendix would be.  And it was lower than where gall bladder pain is normally associated.  Well, fuck me.

After I checked in, I got to sit and wait in the ER waiting room for two and a half hours.  Doubled up on a chair.  It was a big day in the ER.  I don't do crowds or waiting well, which is why I would rather bleed to death than go to a hospital ER.  Which was probably why I was doubled up in agony on a chair.  That and a pleurisy diagnosis two weeks ago.  I almost got up and left, but the pain was getting worse and I'd just have to start all over. 

All the rooms were full, you know, ambulatory people with goiters and sniffles.

"Oh, I'm congested and maybe have a cold.  Got an aspirin?"

I was outside in the waiting room slowly dying while some people were inside the ER simply dying to get attention.  There's a difference, I'm sure.

I was finally ushered in and led to a bed in the hallway.  Hell, I didn't care.  I just so needed to lay down.  The floor would have been fine.  The ER nurse was great, unfortunately her name escapes me.  Another  unnamed Angel to be added to my list.  She was thorough, and the ER doc was soon by my side.  We talked, and then he palpated.  Boy did he ever palpate. 

He hit the spot and that jolt sent me beyond the moon.  Just the thought of that jolt still hurts today, a couple weeks later.  That's gotta be what a bullet feels like; a white hot, searing fireball of fury tearing deep inside the pillow soft down flesh of my abdomen.  YOW.  It had already been feeling like a slew of flying monkeys had been stabbing me relentlessly Manson style.  The Doc just dropped a bowling ball into the mix.  Death sounded good. 

He then ordered a cat scan, trying to rule out appendicitis, gall bladder problems or c a n c e r.

"Oh great", I thought, I hadn't really thought about that possibility yet.  Thanks Doc.  He also reiterated the obvious ongoing dilemma, the pain location seemed to be too low for the gall bladder and too high for the appendix.  The cat scan would tell the tale.

In the meantime he also ordered a shot of dilaudid, or hydromorphone, a synthetic morphine.  Maybe I had died and gone to heaven.  After sitting in agony for hours, days really, I was lying down and soon the pain would diminish.  A little bit.  That shot took the edge off, but them dang monkeys were still there, jabbering and poking me in the side with a red hot andiron, which amazingly felt better than being stabbed with a butcher knife.  Or so it seemed. 

It turned out to be a fun deal being in the hallway.  All kinds of shit house howdy things were going on.  And everybody, doctors and nurses alike, always had a smile on their face for me as they passed by on their urgent missions.

My lovely wife was there soon after I arrived in the ER.  Besides her love and compassion, she also had her IPhone, which enabled us to keep track of the Giants-Cardinals pennant game.  I've been a Giants fan since 1962, so even though I couldn't watch the game on TV I still had to keep track.  Even in a foggy ether.

We also had a doctor that was keeping track of the score through us.  We were his score source.  At one point I was signaling the score by hand to him waaay down the hall in between his bed calls.  It was hilarious.  Or maybe that was the dilaidid.  With or without drugs, I crack myself up all the time.

Which is different than cracking up.

I think.

It took about an hour to get the cat scan, but then a scant fifteen minutes later my ER Doc was smiling and waving at me from down the hall.

"It's acute appendicitis!" he hollered through the din, gesticulating and smiling. 

I smiled, gave him two thumbs up and said, "Great!"

I think.

Actually, it was good news.  It definitely beat the Big C as far as I was concerned.  And it was something that could be taken care of with relative ease.  No uncharted territory here.  The Doc was down by my side in another couple minutes, explaining how Uncle Wiggley had kind of wrapped himself up around and in with my large intestine.  That's why his location was abdominally abnormal.

Fortunately I had not eaten that day.  I had reread a bunch of stuff about appendicitis that morning while I was down for the count, and the specter of surgery loomed.  If it truly turned out to be appendicitis, surgery was really the only option.  Get that bugger out of there, before it gets all pus-e and bursts.  I had a cup or two of coffee and maybe a glass of water that morning, but I gotta tell ya, nothing down there in that region was feeling right.  It was like something had died and the noxious vapors were filling the void, which, in a way, turned out to be kinda true.  I mean, the gangrene was festering.

 Appendicitis is a medical emergency that requires prompt surgery to remove the appendix. Left untreated, an inflamed appendix will eventually burst, or perforate, spilling infectious materials into the abdominal cavity. This can lead to peritonitis, a serious inflammation of the abdominal cavity's lining (the peritoneum) that can be fatal unless it is treated quickly with strong antibiotics.

The most frequent complication of appendicitis is perforation. Perforation of the appendix can lead to a peri-appendiceal abscess (a collection of infected pus) or diffuse peritonitis (infection of the entire lining of the abdomen and the pelvis). The major reason for appendiceal perforation is delay in diagnosis and treatment. In general, the longer the delay between diagnosis and surgery, the more likely is perforation. The risk of perforation 36 hours after the onset of symptoms is at least 15%. Therefore, once appendicitis is diagnosed, surgery should be done without unnecessary delay.

Since I hadn't eaten, he said, they could get going with surgery right away.  And I mean, things got moving really fast at that point.  A burst appendix can be life threatening.  It was then around 7:00 PM.  An EKG was ordered, a chest x-ray.   More blood tests.  Bam.  Bam.  Bam. 

Somewhere in there, it is a little bit sketchy, I met my Super Hero and the Anesthesia Kid.  Then I was wheeled down and around quiet, dimly lit hallways, through passages and corridors until I landed at a pre-surgery party down area.  There I met two lovely surgical nurses, whose names also escape me.  More unnamed angels.  My surgeon and the Anesthesia Kid were also there.  I think it was around 9:00 to 9:30 PM at this point.

My Super Hero, the surgeon, Dr.Statton, explained the intended laparoscopic procedure, which is much less invasive than open surgery.  He would make 3 small incisions, one through the navel, and see if he could do the deed that way.  But he also stated since it had been more than a few days since the pain started and most appendix burst within 24-48 hours it would more than likely be a full blown open surgical procedure.  He even expressed concern for my bikini line, but since I am a 60 year old male and my beach roving days are way behind me, I said it was OK.  Slice away.  It'll just be another wound upon my visage.  Another tale to be told.

I kissed my lovely wife good night, and our hands touched good bye, lingering for an extra moment, perhaps a lifetime.  I remember transferring from the gurney to the operating table, wincing in pain with any movement.

They put a mask over my nose and mouth.  "Count backwards from ten!"

"Ten."

I awoke on a space ship.  "Innerspace, the final frontier.  These are the voyages of the Starship Dave..."

I looked around.  I was soaring high in orbit, somewhere.  The command center seemed fairly quiet and dark, but then there were all sorts of strange colored lights on all sorts of intricate contraptions.  Some blinked, some were steady.  Once in a while a contraption would make an otherworldly space ship noise, kinda like Yoko Ono singing.  If you call it that.  It appeared I was the only one in the command center, until a young lad named Alex strode in.  I liked the shuck of his jive immediately.  I was also stoned to the bejeezus.  I appeared to be on a happy journey.

Alex, the self-proclaimed navigator for this leg of my journey was a sure fire hired gun on a trajectory to the stars.  In his early twenties, he was off and running on a career in service for all us rapidly aging old poop farts.  An admirable young man with such care and concern, and he's just now on his way.  He turned out to be an adept accomplice.

He steered my spaceship through a couple galaxies, always keeping me in a constant state of conscience drool, or planetary exploration.   IV hits of Dilaudid every couple hours.  We were always trying to stay ahead of them dang flying monkeys with their freakish butcher knives.  They were chasing me.  Always after me.  I was running, and running hard.  I think we were getting close to the rings of Saturn.

Or Buick.

As dawn crept upon our side of the Milky Way, I was introduced to a new navigator, an angelic creature named Teresa.  My initial navigator had to head off rest, repast and refueling.  But the hand off went well and Teresa and I became acquainted quite intimately, her care and professional demeanor lessening much of the humiliation one can feel when their aging old poop fart body is on display.  With my once proud WWE physique now resembling a soft white belly by Truman Capote, modesty could only go out the window.  And laughter could only ensue.  Amen.

Except when she preformed one excruciating procedure which allowed a certain part of my anatomy to function properly.   Without that dicey, white knuckle intervention the weight of the world on my abdomen (and bladder) would only increase until the point where it burst.  And then a shit house howdy bunch of pain and tears would ensue.  And probably my intestines too.  Teresa was a darling, and she kept the Starship Dave in orbit throughout the day.

That morning the Galaxy Commander, my surgeon, came in and gave me the travel scoop thus far.  He did initially try laparoscopic surgery, but then had to convert to an open appendectomy.  The appendix had perforated.  Burst.  Poof.  Lucky me.  I would need to stay in orbit for 4 or 5 days while they kept my system lubricated with IV antibiotics.  And pain medication, you know, trans-dimensional rocket fuel.  

Minutes crept into hours, and hours into light years.  There were visitors.  Phone calls.  Apparently there were people out there who were interested in what I was doing.  Where I was going.  I told them I'd just passed the Milky Way, left Uncle Wiggley on Mars, and was on my way towards Pluto.  The friendly planet.  Just trying to stay ahead of the flying monkeys.  And Tom Jones.  In leopard print briefs and playing trombone.

Ya, I was experiencing some weird, wicked dreams.  I'm sure they understood. 

When the witching hour once again came upon my vessel, Teresa handed me off to Kay, my next night time navigator.  Kay and I got along quite well, sharing some of the most wonderfully silly and insipid jokes ever known to deranged lunatics or elementary school children.  But we laughed, or giggled, a lot.  It was a bit painful to laugh, but it was also another necessary form of healing.  Kay was a delight and kept my star ship on course through the night.  We laughed together in the face of those damn monkeys.

The next morning I was introduced to Delilah, another young, enchanting creature.  She was a traveling RN for hire.  13 weeks here, 13 weeks there.  What a great way to explore the country until maybe finding an ideal location to land.  Delilah preformed another quite intimate procedure for me, removing that certain item that Teresa had set in place the morning before.  The Galaxy Commander felt that certain part of my anatomy could now function properly, so Delilah was the lucky girl who got to remove it.

Sigh.  Another lovely girl to witness me in my not so perfect prime.  But what a doll, all accomplished with compassion and humor.  Which humor was probably initiated by me.  But she played along.  I mean, if ya can't laugh at yourself and the predicaments ya find yourself in from time to time, then maybe you're too darn serious.  This was a hell of a predicament.  I was pretty much helpless.  And hapless.  I had to laugh.

Sweet little Dee was one of the co-pilots, there was always a co-pilot behind the main navigator.  She was a sweetheart, I know we had several conversations.  About what I have no idea, it's possible this memory lapse could be due to the drugs.  Flight fuel.  Keeping me in orbit.  Ahead of them monkeys.

And then came Loree, one fantabulous night time navigator.  She was the mother of twins if I recall, and a son out of state that was a comedian like me.  I was flattered.  She thought I was funny.  My dear Loree was the navigator who finally got a decent oral dose of flight fuel down for me.

You see, eventually I would be going home and would not have access to IV drugs, like the Dilaudid that was slowly replacing my blood.  They had given me a couple NorCo's, or Vicodin's, to mix with the Dilaudid, but those did not even touch the pain.  It was like popping a sugar cube.  Without the acid..  Even the Dilaudid left me at a 3-4 level of pain.  But without it for too long a time, I would lose my orbit and get excruciatingly close to the sun, heading into the 8-9 pain range.  And then the monkeys would come. 

At any rate, Loree talked with the Doc and landed on a 10 mg Percocet.  I took that around 10:00 PM, think I began to feel a rush and then I woke up around 4 hours later.  It was amazing!  I had finally slept for more than an hour or two for the first time in WEEKS!   That was the first drug that actually dropped the pain level enough so that I could sleep.  For at least the four hours it was "live".    

Loree hit me again at 2:00 AM and again at 6:00 AM.  I was in full blown orbital ecstasy.  And I could sleep again!  We had finally landed on something that worked, and should work when I went home. 

And then I was handed off to Laura, another wonderful Angel of the most fabulous kind. We engaged in many heartfelt conversations throughout the day, whenever she would come a calling.  At east I'm pretty sure I think we did.  And of course, we laughed a lot too.

That evening I was visited by Loree again, it was old times!  Our bond just got stronger.  And then my final day in Jello Land I was flying with Laura again.  When I finally got my walking papers and into some reasonable street clothes, we hugged good bye.   Thank you again my dear.

I did get up the first day after surgery for a ten foot stroll to the door.  Then I had to rest.  The next day I made it into the hall, and the next day I was doing cart wheels around the football field.  Actually, I've never been coordinated enough to do cartwheels.  I think you need longer legs than I have to do cartwheels.  I would look like a penguin if I tried them today.  And then probably get dizzy.

My fine young son steered my space ship home that Monday afternoon, five days after I initially went into orbit.  I camped out on the sofa for a few days and nights, still unable to crack a full night without waking up for some pain meds.  And I did not want to be a bother for my lovely wife.

I had the drain removed four days after I had returned home and seven days after the surgery.  Apparently when Uncle Wiggley burst he spewed pus and gangrene all round my abdomen.  This is the big problem, infection, and why it's usually better to get the dang thing out before it decides to explode, or perforate.

Yeah, so I had this little drain pump thing with a tube going into my belly.  Wonderfully colored liquid would drain into this vessel which would then be drained every 8-10 hours while in the hospital.  The amount of viscous liquid gradually diminished, yet I still had to have the dang thing inside me when I went home.  Then, when I went to the Doc's office to have it removed, I discovered the tube went in about 18 inches!  18 inches!!  I was thinkin it went in about 2 inches.  Just 2.  And when he pulled the tube out...I hollered a quite explosive expletive.  He said it wouldn't hurt, only feel weird.  Well, it was both.  Fortunately it was a little after 5:00 PM and most of his offices were bereft of patients at that point.  Otherwise, my holler of "OW, FUCK!" might have made them wonder what the office and doctor were all about.

And immediately after he pulled it out and I hollered, the good doctor looked down and quite calmly said, "I'm sorry.  Did that hurt?  Much?"

I love my doctor.

Ten days after the surgery I was still in pain.  Diminishing, but there none the less.  I did note though that staple discomfort was still a heck of a lot better than burst appendix screaming pain discomfort.  A lot better as a matter of fact.  I had about seventeen staples total.  Two were in one of the lower lapiroscopic locations, three were in me naval, and twelve were along the Mason Dixon line.

I also have discovered that even though an appendix only weighs in the neighborhood of an ounce or two, depending on the volume of pus involved, having it removed under extreme circumstances is good for at least a ten pound overall weight loss.  I didn't really eat anything for the first couple days, and then it was quite minimal for the next few days after that.  The first piece of lightly buttered toast I ate was the most amazing food item I have ever eaten in my life.

Well, my sand kicking days at the beach are definitely gone.  I probably won't be hitting up very many of those egocentric weight lifting poses either.  I'm sporting a Frankenbelly now to be sure.  I kinda look like I had a 40 acre pasture barbed wire fence strand tattooed across the right side of my belly.  And that's a OK by me.  I think there's a few more miles left on this little planetary venture and I can make that all happen without Uncle Wiggley.   Good riddance.

Once again, words cannot express my gratitude enough for the angelic intervention I was fortunate enough to receive during this inter galactic journey.  I humbly bow to all the caring doctors and lovely ladies of healing, heart and light.  May peace and love always be with you.