You Have To Fight For It

  This is a story about Megan Sawyer. You may not have heard of her but, I can assure you, she is just about the sweetest young lady who ever walked the face of this planet. Of course, I may be just a teeny bit biased because she is also my granddaughter.

  Megan was born on December 30th, 1997 and she began life as a typical very healthy baby, very active, extremely alert. In the summer of 1999, her mother, Vanessa, had told us that Megan seemed to have been drinking excessive amounts of liquid over a period of several days.. My wife, Joy, advised her to take Megan to the doctor and have her checked for diabetes. So, her father, Doug, took her to the doctor. Later, he called to say that the doctor had confirmed that Megan  did indeed have Type 1 diabetes. She was then transferred straight to the hospital where she spent several days while they gathered all the vital statistics and prepared her for the ordeals to come. That was the beginning of a long story, a story of how diabetes can affect one young life.

  This news about the diabetes caused the Sawyer family to shift gears and enter a new phase in life. Doug and Vanessa had to go back to school to learn about caring for a daughter with Type 1 diabetes. A lot had to be learned. Her blood sugar had to be taken every few hours around the clock, insulin values computed and shots given to correct the blood sugar . This became the schedule for the foreseeable future until one day when a cure for Type1 diabetes will be found.

  Vanessa linked up with the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) and became a very active participant in the South Sound chapter. Megan learned to cope with her new regimen in very short order and it became a new feature in her life.

  Vanessa used to talk at fundraisers to banks and other companies and would frequently take Megan with her. For her part, Megan liked to participate also and, at 5 or 6 years old, she would get up and say a few words. Pretty soon, the few words grew and grew and before long she would, if allowed, give a whole speech.

  JDRF also organizes the South Sound Walk To Cure Diabetes, a yearly event in May. This is a five mile walk, now held in downtown Tacoma and is a major fundraiser for the cause. A team called Megan's Mighty Marchers was formed to take part in the event and raise money for diabetes research. The MMM team of members has now grown over the years to be a larger body of people and for several years in a row, it had been the team to raise the second largest amount of money of all the teams. Megan had a lot to do with all of this. In the early days, she was pushed in her stroller around the course of the event. Nowadays, she and her friends form a considerable component of  the walkers. For a couple of years, she was also an Ambassador for the Walk.

  When Megan was three years old, she was typically having 5, 6 or more insulin shots a day. She asked her Mum to show her how to do the shots. Then, she began giving herself the shots. She did not then know how to calculate the size of the shots, but that would come in another couple of years. She was then showing that she wanted to do it all for herself......she was fighting for it.
 She does not have to give herself shots any more as she now has an insulin pump fitted. The location of this pump  on her body has to be changed every three days but, naturally, she can do this herself. After each time she eats, she calculates the amount of insulin required to cover the food and drink, checks the value with Mom, dials in the value, presses a button and in goes the insulin
  She goes to a diabetes camp every year at Camp Leo. Here, all the diabetic children and young adults get together to play, learn and compare notes. The spirit of camaraderie is tremendous. It seems they are all lit by the same flame and they all benefit from it. They are all in the same fight.

  I think that the fact that Megan has diabetes may make her even more competitive. She gets very upset with herself if her grades slip at all. She also competes in just about every sport. Whether it be track, soccer, basketball, softball, lacrosse, she is in them all and she is good at them all. She is also an awesome skier, water skier and swimmer. Recently, she competed in the Middle School District Track Meet. She is a very fast sprinter but there was one girl, a good friend of hers, who she could just not seem to beat in the 100 meters sprint. She went into Route 16 Running and Walking and had some coaching advice from Miguel Galeana and Alexa Martin. Apparently, the next day at the track before the race, the renewed determination could be seen in her eyes. Time for the race, and she blasted out of the starting blocks and down the straight to win the event. She had again fought for it.

  It seems that what had been the handicap of the diabetes has become the pendulum that drives her very mechanism. Like a pendulum in a clock, it provides the energy which makes her tick. It all happens in her subconscious but I see it as the driving force within her.
  The fact that she has one more hurdle to cross, one more hill to climb than her compatriots seems to make her fight extra hard for everything.
  We began to realize early on that Megan was a fighter and she has maintained that attitude all of her young life. She will not let the diabetes hold her back.

  How many times have we heard someone say "Why did God let this happen to me?" This question must have been answered in thousands of pulpits around the world, and yet I have never heard a convincing answer.
  I believe the story of Megan can provide an answer, even if not the only one. As I have said, Megan is a fighter. She may be a fighter naturally but I am sure that the diabetes has strengthened this urge. It has made her more competitive and it has also made her a winner, a guaranteed winner. So, in answer to the question "Why did He allow this to happen to me?", she could say "So that I can be an example to others, so that I can become a champion".

  To return to the subject of diabetes, there will also be an answer. In time, the cure will come. There are now many, many people fighting to find it and there are also now many champions. It is just a question of time.  The fight goes on.

  Postscript:- Megan is now 15 and continues her life as normal. She now is going to Camp Leo as a counselor and so will now pass on to other youngsters the knowledge she has gained in managing Type 1 diabetes. As I said, the fight goes on.
 
 

What is the Word?

   I have always been a keen reader and, a couple of times, I have almost committed to writing a book. I enjoy writing but I also like finishing what I write, so no book from me in the foreseeable future.
  I also harbor the thought that, as much as I enjoy reading, I sometimes think that I should be doing something more productive or taking exercise rather than just sitting with a book. When I am reading, I try to maintain a variety in what I read. I like to read history books covering the last hundred years mainly. I also like novels which are historic, or partly technical or political. Also novels which are romantic or involving some sort of intrigue. Lastly, I like books about some technical issues, including cooking, or travel.

  Every now and again, I take stock of what I have been reading during the last year or so, to ensure that I am maintaining a balance in subject matter. Taking stock is what I am doing at this moment.

   I find my reading habits have changed slightly of late, mainly in regard to favorite authors. Tom Clancy, for example has been one of my favorites for many years. Every new title of his I would buy without reading reviews. Nowadays, I don't even pick up his books when I see a new one. So, what happened? Well, when an author begins to put on the cover of a new book "By Jerrold Nutterbuck with Liliana Dullsworthy", I get very suspicious. However good an author Ms Dullsworthy may be, she cannot utilize Mr Nutterbucks brain. Thus, there is a considerable loss of continuity involved. Increasing quantity seems always to decrease quality in this respect. Beware, another favorite of mine, James Patterson. The effect of such an enormous change on an author's writing style would be rather like finding out that my favorite brand of pate de foie gras is now made from the entrails of Chinese chickens and is available mainly through Walmart. Simple statement, catastrophic effect!

  My two most consistent favorite authors both come from the UK. They are Jack Higgins and Ken Follett. I was first attracted to them by their novels about World War 2. Their writing style reminded me strongly of the late, great author Nevil Shute. I believe I have read all of his books, and there were a lot of them. These two authors have continued to write about spies or international intrigue. Ken Follett has also ventured into writing a major historical epic, "Pillars of the Earth" and a successor "World Without End", The former is a great history book as well as a novel, the latter I have not yet read. He has also written the first book of a promised trilogy "Fall of Giants", which covers the fortunes and misfortunes of five families in different countries during World War 1 and subsequent years. This book is in my "to read" pile. 

  I have never been caught up in the Harry Potter scenario and have not wanted to read any of the books or see the movies. To me, they were kids stuff. However, recently, my daughter convinced me to read " Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone", the first book of the series. I was absolutely astounded. It was like reading a firework display.......a blue and yellow flash here, a red and green blast over there. Everything was happening at the same time. Wow! What a brain J K Rowling must have. Her writing style just sucks you in and I could not put the book down. So, now, I have six more books on the "to read" pile. But, before I go on to book 2, I have interjected a re-issue of an old Jack Higgins novel.

  Another first for me this year has been to read a just released first novel by a new author. This was Alexa Martin's debut novel "Girl Wonder". This is a Young Adult novel and thus I would not normally have read it except that Alexa is a very good friend of ours and is also our "adopted granddaughter". I had been wanting to read it because I particularly like her writing style. The book arrived in a package on May 3rd, the day of release. I opened it and started reading and I found it was like a burst of morning sunshine coming over the eastern skyline, a real pleasure to read. I look forward to reading more from her.

  During the last year, I have read a trilogy by the late Swedish author Stieg Larsson. These books are titled "The Girl Who Played With Fire", "The Girl Who...............", etc and they are three of the most interesting novels I have ever read. He has an extremely easy going and exciting writing style that makes reading so enjoyable. What a pity he died so young. If you are into good, well written, fast moving crime fiction, these are for you.

  A subject which has kept my interest for many, many years now has been the revelation of the development and use of cipher technology in international relations from the late 1930's to beyond the Cold War period after World War 2. I must have over 20 books on this subject. I know this sounds boring but, I worked in this sphere when I was in the British Army in my twenties and I have been interested in it ever since. I have read two new books on this subject in the last few months. They keep popping out of the formerly secret cocoon as new papers are released from secrecy each year.
  
  I have read two travel related books in the last year. The first one was a so far unpublished book by a so far unknown author about renovating an old house in the hills along the French/Italian border.  The other was Frances Mayes "Under the Tuscan Sun". This covers the same sort of subject in nearby Tuscany. So they both cover an interest of mine in an area which I love and the second adds another great interest of mine, French/Italian cooking. Both of them a great read.

  So, what do I do to keep up with the events of the modern world? One thing is certain, you cannot do this successfully by reading the average newspaper or listening to and watching major network TV and radio.
  Time for digression. When we first came to the United States over 43 years ago, most people used to ask us "What do you like most about the USA?" We used to reply truthfully that we like almost everything. But, nobody ever asked us how far the "almost" stretched. So, I started asking people "Why don't you ask us what we don't like?". Most people would look shocked that there was actually something we did not like. If they then asked what it was, I used to tell them "I think the news media has to be amongst the worst in the world". Some of them then looked even more shocked and yet many agreed with me. In the 43 intervening years, not much has changed. The media has got worse and the rest of the world is trying to keep up with the worsening. I do not see much chance of any improvement when the media management is so hopelessly biassed and they employ correspondents who seem to be encouraged to use inaccurate, similarly biassed reporting methods. The end result is that "news" now has a smattering of truth trying vainly to stay afloat in a morass of liberalese gallstones.
 It matters not in which direction the biass is applied. Whether it be to the left or right, whether it be towards Iran or Israel, whether it be towards sweet cream or unsalted butter does not matter one iota. Regardless of direction, one undisputed fact stands proud. This is that, if the truth becomes biassed, it is then no longer the truth.   Hopefully, some day in the not too distant future, some of the news moguls will realize this.
  Well, now that I have let my hobby horse loose to canter a couple of  laps around the paddock, I think its time to change the subject. So what do I do to keep up with what is going on? I choose my TV and radio stations very carefully and ignore the major newspapers almost entirely.

  The foregoing describes what I do in tracking the written word. I  endeavor to ensure that what I read covers most of the facets of my interests and of the world at large. So, it depends on which book I pick up on which day to let me know for that day.......What is the word?

Uncle Stanley

  My father was known in the family as "Pop", as I am known today. But, to the outer family and many other young people, he was known as "Uncle Stanley". As I think I have mentioned in a previous blog, he had a somewhat outrageous sense of humor. He used this sense of humor particularly to amuse the children. This story is about that part of Uncle Stanley.
  The story starts when I was only four years old, so I am relying mainly on the memory of other people for this period. During the first few years I was on this planet, we went on our family summer vacation to Boscombe, on the south coast of England, near Bournemouth. We used to stay at a small hotel along the waterfront. This one year, on our first night at the hotel, my parents had put my sister and I to bed and were going to bed themselves. My mother was already in bed and my father was turning the light off at the switch by the bedroom door. Then, without warning, he yelled "yippee" and took a flying leap from the door onto the bed, which promptly collapsed as two legs of the metal frame folded up. They thus had to sleep on a bed with a 20 degree list to starboard. The next morning, after breakfast, we were ordered to leave by the management. They had heard the crash in the night. So, we spent the first day of our vacation walking the streets with our bags like a family of refugees, looking for another hotel room in this overbooked town.
  My father loved children and they loved him as he was always playing with them on the beach. On the last morning of our vacation, he apparently used to come to the beach shortly before lunch dressed in a business suit and tie, black shoes and a bowler hat. He would then walk around saying goodbye to all the kids and their parents and then walk into the sea and keep on going until his hat floated off his head and he disappeared, until he popped up somewhere else. This apparently became a ritual. Each year, the kids waited for it. This was typical of Uncle Stanley.
  Pop, as I always called him, was at his most devilish, when food was being served with guests at the house, either family or close friends. My mother was grateful at least for this last part, he normally did not behave like this when comparative strangers were eating with us.  Pop was a master at carving meat. Whatever the animal or the particular joint, he carved it beautifully. He always used to carve at the head of the table, and then the plates were passed around. Oftentimes, some people would have seconds. So, Pop would stand up and say "would you like another slice of beef, Grandma?" If Grandma said "yes", he would then carve a slice very quickly, before her plate was passed, and then he would flick the slice with the end of the carving blade so that it flew across the table onto her plate, or so he hoped. He became quite good at this and sometimes hit the target. Grandma also had a hell of a sense of humor and always laughed at his antics.
  He was at his wildest when serving desserts. If there was some sort of non solid pudding or something in a bowl, he used to love to demonstrate his prowess at spinning the bowl between his fingertps through 360 degrees vertically. My mother would try to stop him but, the more she tried, the more determined he became. He was very good at it and I can only remember one occasion when a rice pudding was spread along the length of the table. I remember one particular time when, amongst the desserts being served was a large bowl of orange jelly. He said "Who would like some jelly?" He got some replies so he then said "Well, would everyone like some jelly" He then picked up a large serving spoon and slapped it into the top of the jelly as hard as he could. The bowl disgorged its contents in all directions, so it seemed like everyone was going to get some. My mother was not at all pleased, she had not wanted any jelly. 
  My mother used to invite people to tea on Sundays. These used to be quite formal events with one or two different types of sandwich, with the crusts cut off, of course, scones with clotted cream and jam, fruit cake or rock cakes and some sort of cream cake. The tea was poured by mother out of a big silver teapot. The cups and saucers and the sandwiches were wheeled in on a tea trolley and the cakes on a portable cake stand. While all this was being brought in, Pop would get in on the act and might bring in a plate of muddy potatoes straight out of the garden and maybe a few  small lumps of coal on a plate and just put them on the trolley without saying a word, until my mother saw them. She had a lot to put up with.
  With so much food in front of them at these teas, people seemed to eat quite generously. If someone had an empty plate, Pop would frequently say "Can I pass you a scone Mrs G?" If Mrs G  said "Yes", he would say "here, catch!", then quickly throw one at her. If my mother criticized him for this behavior, he would look all hurt and sulky.
  Pop had watched some comedians remove the tablecloth from a totally set table without spilling or breaking anything. He was convinced he could do this and he explained to me how it was possible. All you had to do was give the tablecloth a sharp pull and continue the pull at the same speed until the whole cloth had cleared the table. But, he had never done it, yet.  Frequently, as we were ending a meal with guests present, he would stand up, move his chair back out of the way, grab two handfulls of tablecloth and announce that nobody should move and he was going to remove the tablecloth. Of course, all of us kids would egg him on but Mum would plead "No, Stanley, no, please no." Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he never did it. But, it would have been interesting to see what would have happened if he had done.
  Another thing Pop used to love doing was to dress up for the kids. Sometimes, if the family was ready to go out and maybe already seated in the car, he would suddenly appear in the most ridiculous outfit. My mother would have to get out of the car and go back in the house to stop him going like that. Other times, he would appear in such an outfit just as guests were arriving for lunch. He particularly loved dressing up as a priest, by wearing a white dress shirt back to front with a dark blue sweater, also back to front. He would also part his hair in the middle. He really looked the part.
  Pop also enjoyed spinning tales with the young children. He had a set of fictitious characters around which he would spin the tales. There was Og Noble, Harry Fanackapan, Squadron Leader Farnes Barnes, Fred Bloggs, Sam Lonk and others.  I remember hearing him talking to my nephew and niece, Tim and Caroline about these characters and what they had been up to. He also used to show the children how to dig holes and then move these holes around the garden. Sometimes, I would see Pop and Tim, struggling between them to lift a very large hole out of the ground and put it into the wheelbarrow to carry it up to the house. Or, I might see all three of them walking up from the bottom of the garden with their arms outstretched as they each carried their own pretend hole. If they had too many holes, they used to lean some of them against the garage wall until they needed them. I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that some of these spare holes are still there unless somebody else has found a use for them.
  Pop seemed to go through life without a care in the world and always was in a good mood. I know he really enjoyed life and he made life fun for all those around him. I am enraged when I think that a man who was such a pleasure to everyone should pass away in such an unfortunate and disagreeable manner. He died having become almost a vegetable for a few years after a stroke caused by being beaten and kicked by a team of burglars who broke into the family home. I think he was cheated out of an honorable end to a great life. He was, I believe, 84 years old when he left us.
 
 
 
 

Who Dropped the Lemon?

 To me, the most satisfying drink in the world is the Martini. But, on a hot day, I am also partial to the tang of a good Margarita. There is a relative newcomer in town called a Lemon Drop, and this sort of falls between the two of them. It has a wonderful caustic sharpness which seems to make the whole world pukker around you. I think it should have been called the Pukka Pounce. Here  is how you assemble a posse of them.

  INGREDIENTS
3 oz Lemonade (make sure its a good one)
1.5 oz Citrus Vodka
1/2 oz Triple Sec

  Wet the rim of a martini glass with lemon juice and dip top of glass in fine sugar. Put all ingredients into a shaker with ice and shake at least 63 times. Pour into glass.

  Cheers!!! Stand by to be pukkered.

Sarum

  Sarum is one of the earliest known settlements in England, dating back to at least 3000BC. It is about 80 miles west-south-west of London. It was originally built on the flat top of a mound on top of a hill as a fort protecting trade routes on the River Avon. Around 500BC, the fortifications were strengthened by double ditches all round. The Romans arrived about 60AD.  Around 550AD, the Saxons came and a castle was built on the hill. The Saxons were followed by the Normans and King Henry the First ordered a cathedral to be built atop the hill. In 1219AD, it was decided to move the cathedral to the base of the hill to avoid the extreme weather on the hill. A year later, the move was started block by block to the confluence of two rivers about two miles to the south. When the new cathedral was built, a lofty 400 foot  spire was added to the tower. The town built around the new cathedral was named Salisbury, the name it bears today. The settlement on the hiltop was then called Old Sarum, a name which it also bears today. Henry the Eighth eventually demolished the castle.
  In 1961AD, a 20 year young Irish girl named Alice Josephine Doran arrived in Salisbury. She was a comely wench and soon became employed as a receptionist at the White Hart Hotel near the cathedral.
  In 1962AD, a 29 year old Englishman named Stanley Anthony Smith arrived in Salisbury and sought shelter at the White Hart Hotel. He strode up to the reception desk and asked if he could have a room. "No, we're completely full" said the comely wench to the young Englishman.
  NOW, THAT REALLY PISSED ME OFF!! It is a tourist town but early April is definitely not the tourist season.
  So, I wandered across to the bar, licking my wound as I went. I ordered a pint of Worthington E, definitely the world's most immaculate beer. I asked Laurie, the lovely old barmaid, if it was normal for the hotel to be full at this time of year. "Hotel full? Nonsense! Who told you that? That young thing over there?" she exclaimed, pointing out of the rear service window, through which I could see the comely wench sitting behind the reception desk. Then she said "Don't worry, in a few minutes, she'll be going to lunch and Miss Smithers takes over. She'll find you a room" A few minutes later, the decidedly uncomely Miss Smithers did indeed give me a room.
  After I finshed work, I returned to the hotel around 5.30 and the comely wench was sitting at the reception desk. I asked her for my key and the expression on her face told a story. Now, it was somebody else's turn to be pissed off.
  Following the initial face off, I talked to the comely wench, who I by then knew answered to the name of Joy, as often as I could and we really became quite friendly. A few days later, I asked her out for a drink and we went to the Old Castle Inn, a pub across the road from the original fort at Old Sarum. While there, we got to know each other quite well but, then she said we had to drink up as she had to be back at the hotel by 10.15. I asked why and she told me her boy friend was going to call then!!! She wasn't out of ammunition yet!
  A couple of days went by and then one afternoon, we went to the beach near Bournemouth and had a nice time and then back to Salisbury to have dinner at the Haunch of Venison. It was still very nice in those days and we enjoyed ourselves. I had found a key. She liked good food and wine and nice places to eat. A few days later, we went to the Pheasant Inn at Winterslow, a glorious place to eat then. This became our favorite.  We now had achieved a truce and began dating steadily. We were married eight months later.
  Those first dinners at the Pheasant took place 49 years ago this month, but then again, that's another story.

                              The aforesaid comely wench.

Return to Pandemia

This is a time of year when various illnesses and diseases tend to reappear seemingly as if they were on command. The recurrence of such diseases has baffled experts for generations but they continue to study some of these afflictions particularly where the symptoms remain identical year after year. One such disease was first seen about 25 years ago in Seattle, WA and then began appearing in major population centers up and down the west coast. In recent years, it has spread inland and then across the whole country. This disease has been studied by medical experts and has been identified as Nordstromsalis Meavisitiae. It is exhibited as a compulsion based syndrome centered on a nervous disorder.
  This disease is almost entirely limited to occurrence in females and can be observed possibly as early as during the onset of puberty. Once it has established itself in the bloodstream, it could well last a lifetime. My own daughter has been afflicted with this disease for several years now. Currently, there is no known cure on the horizon although studies are in progress. The initial symptoms are a sudden inability to sleep more than just a few hours per night. This is quickly followed by a compulsion to visit any of the shrines where the patient comes to believe that the source of her compulsion lies. (Note that, in this thesis, I describe the person suffering from this disease as the patient even though she may, at that point, be a long way from realizing that there is, in fact, anything wrong with her at all.)
   It appears to be in these shrines that the major mental torment is created. Once this happens, there follows an urge to touch and feel everything in the shrine. This is, in turn, followed by the syndrome to "see what's available for grabs" or SWAG. This phase could take many hours since it involves various disciplines such as trying on followed by parading in front of several mirrors or maybe moving an object so that it stands alone and then viewing it from every conceivable angle. This eventually leads to the patient amassing a large collection of swag, which is then taken to the exit and assembled by the custodians of the shrine into silver-gray bags each emboldened with the name of the shrine in large letters. A collection of a dozen or so of these bags may then be taken proudly to be placed in the trunk of the car of the patient. Upon leaving the shrine, patients are believed to be overcome by a tremendous feeling of satisfaction and achievement. Alas, this feeling is later seen to be relatively short lived.
  It should be pointed out that the patient has by now probably not been home since she left at dawn. She will typically arrive home in time to prepare a late meal for her family. Such patients are usually recognizable by the fact that, on arrival home for some reason, they may back their car in toward the garage door. This, in itself, is a relatively complicated maneuver for many women but, nevertheless, where there is a will there is a way. When they carry in the first load of swag, they will leave the trunk or rear door open for subsequent unloading trips every few minutes. This process may take quite a while.
  While unloading and showing off her booty to the family, the patient may well be overcome by another compulsion to explain what each item would have cost when compared with the unlikely event that she had bought it before the current event at the shrine had started.
   Once the demonstration phase is completed, a break may be allowed for eating but, before the table is cleared, the "try on" phase will be entered. This affects not only the patient but the husband and children too, also grandma and grandpa, nobody escapes this ritual. This phase also leads to the generation of the first batch of swag to be taken back to the shrine for refund or exchange. These items are then reloaded into the silver-gray bags and taken out to the car, where the trunk is still open.
  The initial visit to the shrine is usually followed by more loss of sleep and much tossing and turning. During these gyrations, another form of compulsion occurs. This is a color comparison phase, in which the patient feels compelled to revisit the shrine to get a similar item of swag but in another color. This may be repeated for several items. Usually at this stage also, patients start comparing notes with other patients and plans are then made for one or more group visits to the shrine. This leads also to group therapy sessions, sometimes held at the local Starbucks spa and wellness center. These therapy sessions, however, may tend to spread the disease  rather than provide any form of a cure.
  One thing is known about the recurrent epidemics of this disease. That is that the overall time the epidemic lasts is limited to about two weeks or so. This is determined by the fact that the shrine will determine a few specific days during  which the main therapy sessions must be conducted. After this period, patients are on their own to arrange their therapy.
  As part of the analysis to back up the study of a cure, experts have tried to see what actual damage is caused to the patient on visits to the shrine. The major significant damage seems to be the considerable loss of dollaritic greenstuff from the primary purse. It has been proved that, under normal conditions, this loss may take many years to make up.
  However, there is some therapeutic advantage to be gained during the initial transaction by using a medium of Double Ended, Bartering Intensive Technology or DEBIT card. If, following the use of such a card, an item of swag is rejected by the recipient family, the item may be bartered back to the shrine for a limited number of days. This then makes the loss of the greenstuff temporary and will considerably shorten the make up period.
   The epidemic as it stands has not reached the level of possible pandemic proportions as predicted by some.  Also, no known cases of this disease have been reported outside of the United States. But, the epidemic continues to spread regardless. 
   Clearly, some of the more severe critics see this whole scenario as a rucking tipoff (as defined in the phraseology of Anglo Saxon rhyming slang.)  Others are more lenient and view it as a modern form of blood letting as was exercised by Egyptian doctors around 1000BC. Whether either of these views is accurate or not is unclear but, what is clear is that this mysterious affliction will be with us for a long time regardless of whatever modern medicine may achieve in seeking a cure.

Me and David

  Freddie and Stanley Smith were brothers born at the tail end of the nineteenth century. They also had another brother who was killed in the British Army in World War 1. The two remaining brothers were very close and each had an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor.

  Freddie had three sons, Peter, Derek, then a gap, then David. Of the two elder sons, Peter was a little more serious but they each had an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor. Unfortunately. both Peter and Derek were killed in World War 2, Peter in the Royal Air Force, Derek in the Royal Navy.

  Stanley had a daughter, Barbara, then a gap, then me. Barbara
 lives in England. She has a very keen sense of humor, sometimes somewhat outrageous. 
  David is a few months younger than me. Strangely enough, we each have an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor. We have always been great friends. This story is about a part of that friendship....the friendship of me and David.

  Unfortunately, for much of our lives, David and I have lived far apart. At the present time, he lives in northern Scotland and I live in California. But, we talk to each other every few weeks. As I have said above, we each seem to have an identical sense of humor.  One thing is certain. Over the last seventy years or so, whenever we are together, someone is in trouble.
  My first recollection of the two of us getting into trouble was in 1939, so we were sevenish. Our two families were on holiday together at Trimingham, on the east coast of England. We were staying at a private hotel which I believe was called "Highlawns". The hotel probably had about 30 to 40 guests and was situated in very nice grounds with lawns and a tennis court. It was a short walk from a beautiful beach down a narrow path. We had a very good time there and it was on this holiday that I learned to swim.
  On the lawn behind the hotel was a large summer house, a wood and glass structure. It had a main room with chairs, a table and a couch. In front of the double doors was a sizable covered porch. The whole thing was mounted on what looked like a miniature, circular railroad track, and it ran on this track on many small wheels. Thus, it could be rotated to face or avoid the sun. It ran on the track so smoothly that even two small, seven year old boys could push it around. Herein lay the problem. David and I had already been balled out by the hotel manager for pushing it.  Despite this, one day, we decided to get it going. Some of the hotel guests were seated on the lawn when we got it moving and several of them began to laugh. Hearing the laughter, we pushed even harder and we had it going at quite a clip before we realized that the hotel chef, Big Fat Lucy we had christened her, had been taking a nap inside when the rotation started. Now, she was trying to get her bulky frame upright and out of the door so she could call for help from her rotating cocoon. At this point, the hotel manager came rushing out, screaming at us to stop it. But, there was no way two small, seven year olds were going to stop this juggernaut. It was running so smoothly, it looked to us like it would run for hours. Then, the manager saw Lucy inside and I'll swear a smile crossed her face. Some of the guests stopped it and a very giddy Lucy came out ready to kill us. But, we were no longer in evidence. As far as I can remember, David and I were sent to bed right after tea.

  It was a beautiful sunny, summer day in England, they do happen occasionally. Eight or so adults are seated at tea on one of the terraced lawns in front of 25 Green Lane, Northwood, where David lived. David and I, the two 8 or 9 year olds, had finished our tea and had been excused. We had therefore disappeared. Some time later, the two young boys are seen struggling across the garden, carrying between them a large green painted object. As they come past the tea table, it can be seen that the large object is, in fact, one of the shed doors. Nobody said a word as the two boys struggled on, looking neither left nor right as they carried their load around the end of the house and out of sight. David and I then put the door down and congratulated each other on a job well done. But, we could not work out why nobody had said anything. We had imagined it would be treated with both  anger and amusement, but nothing ........??  It turned out a long time later that they were all at bursting point, trying not to laugh and therefore encourage us to do more. Why had we taken the door off? Who knows?  But, at that age, reasons are irrelevant. The explanation probably was that, while playing in the shed, we came across a screwdriver and a step ladder and we wanted to put them to good use. So, we unscrewed the door from its hinges. Logical enough.  

  I think I was about 9 or 10 when Auntie Ida and David came to tea one day. At tea, the two mothers were discussing the property behind our house. It had been a beautiful private golf course but, during the war, had been put to agricultural use and now cows grazed upon it. They commented that what had once been a picturesque tee just beyond our fence was now covered in "cow pancakes".
  "No, no" said David "those aren't pancakes, that's SHIT". He pronounced the last word loudly so that it sounded like some literary gem.
  Auntie Ida looked horrified while my mother's face took on an almost smug look, obviously thankful that her precious son had not uttered this obscenity.
  "David, how dare you talk like that" she exclaimed "where did you learn that word?" David flicked his thumb in my direction and said "he told me".
  The two mothers interchanged expressions, I believe my mother wished she could dissolve into the upholstery. 
  As soon as they left, I was put to bed. "Your father is going to hear about this".
  It was many years later before I found out that the grown ups had a lot of laughter over this incident.

  Page forward sixty or so years.

  A few years ago, David and his wife Betty were visiting from Scotland and were staying with their son Adrian and his wife Debs who live in Bellevue, WA. They were all staying for the weekend in a village of beachside houses and cabins near Eastsound on Orcas Island when Joy and I went to see them. 
  David and I had a standard method of greeting for many years when we had not seen each other for a while. That is, we march toward each other at a fast pace and in step. When about five feet apart, we snap to a halt and salute........  Hup - 2 - 3 -4 - 5 - Down. Precision is of the essence. We did just that on the day on Orcas. Then, while the two wives sat and talked, David and I walked along the beach and through the village for an hour or so, talking and doing our usual thing. Quite what our usual thing was that day I cannot remember, but we did it anyway. 
  We were told later that two ladies had reported to the office that they had seen two gentlemen behaving strangely in the village. When we heard this, we realized that the two ladies were obviously mistaken. What they had seen was not two gentlemen behaving strangely but two Brits behaving normally. An understandable mistake. 
  
  More than sixty years of friendship lie between the antics of the mischievous seven year olds  and the strange behavior of the seventy year olds. In the intervening years are a myriad of other stories and many more not remembered. Most of them are not easily relatable, as are the tales of juvenile mischief, and some are often just remarks or quips made at the time. But all are products of two lifelong friends, each with an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor. I know I am selfish to say this but, in my own mind, I really hope that there will be quite a few more years to the story of me and David.                  
 

"Two gentlemen behaving strangely??"