Up To Speed

Grandmother MaMoe

2010-08-22T08:43:00.000-07:00

She was a sharecropper, a cook, a fisherman, our family doctor, a mother, a grandmother, and a house servant and nanny at the plantation house. All of us cousins called her “MaMoe” but her given name was Willie Mae. To everybody in the country she was known as MaMoe. Story has it that Charles, the oldest cousin, and son of Aunt Sadie, use to call her “Mama’s Mother.” Over the years it got shorten to “MaMoe.” I don’t remember anyone calling her Willie. I thought MaMoe was her given name until I started researching our family’s history.

She was a kind, gentle, loving and caring woman. She wasn’t a tall woman and she wasn’t a short woman. She stood about 5’5” and weighed about 140 pounds as best as I can remember. Her hair was black, long, thick and sort of wavy. Not kinky and curly like other Black folks. Her skin wasn’t dark black or brown-black, but reddish-black. She had a prominent mole on the left side of her lower jaw. It was prominent because it was pointed instead of being flat. She always wore a sun dress with flowers on it. The kind that mama use to make Frankie and Bettye from flour sacks. On top of that she wore a half apron that had a pocket. The pocket is where she kept her handkerchief and snuff. In the handkerchief is where she kept her money. She always carried the money tied in the corner of that handkerchief. She would sometimes give us cousins a nickel, a dime or pennies to buy something when we went to the store with mama.

Her favorite seat was a wooden rocking chair. Sometimes she would sit in the living room in front of the pot belly stove if it was too cool to be outside. On nice days she would sit on the front porch watching people go by. She dipped sweet garret snuff and would have a pinch between her teeth and gum. Her rocking chair and snuff went together like grits and eggs. She was an expert at getting that brown colored stuff out her mouth. She could hit the same spot in the front yard with spit without trying. She had good follow through. She would rock back and forward and once she had the proper momentum, on the forward rock she would let one fly. “Plop”, it would fall to the ground, kicking up dust, in a cluster with all her other great efforts. If a little drool would hang up on her mouth, she would wipe it with the bottom of her apron. When she made a near perfect spit a peaceful look would come over her face as if to say, “Great shot MaMoe.” Later she became more sanitized and kept a can nearby to spit in.

She was the oldest person on the plantation. People were always coming by to see MaMoe. They brought her fish, wild game, fresh vegetables from their gardens, pecans, blackberries, pears and peaches. Some came to sit; talk, to eat, while others came by to see how she was doing. When you have been around as long as she had it was assumed that you knew all the answers. She was look upon with respect, admiration. There wasn’t much that she had not seen or heard about. She could not read or write. But what she lacked in formal education was more than compensated for by her wisdom. She wasn’t a big loud talker. She was quiet and unassuming, but she always had something to say when asked. She was a strong influence our family. All the son-in-laws treated her with respect, and kindness; like she was their mother.

MaMoe could cook anything, but she was especially good at cooking wild game. Venison was one of her best dishes. Not everyone can cook venison or other wild game. Most cooks think you have to cook it to a crisp for it to be done. But overcooked, it’s dry, tuff and tasteless. The venison that she cooked was tender, moist and flavorful. She made rabbit and squirrel stews that didn’t last long at the dinner table. In addition to wild game, she made fried chicken and fish that family stood in line for.

Her sweet potatoes got candied or baked in their skins on a bed of hot ashes in the fireplace or pot belly stove. She cooked a lot of savory pot foods that were simmered slowly all day. Black-eyed peas, crowder peas, butter beans; collard, mustard, cabbage and turnip greens with a piece of salt pork added all fell victim to her pot. And she always had corn bread on the side to soak up the pot liquor and small pieces that the fork couldn’t get. MaMoe’s foods looked, smelled and tasted good. Her daughters Sadie, Novella, and Jessie were all good cooks that put out good looking and good tasting foods. Now Mama’s food on the other hand was okay in a pinch but to me it didn’t have a personality. It was too bland and flavorless. I ate more at my aunts’ house than at Mamas. It wasn’t that Mama was a terrible cook, but more because she didn’t have the time to just cook. She got up early in the morning cooked breakfast, feed all of us and then went to work in the fields. At lunch time she came home early, made lunch and fed us again. And she did the same thing for supper at the end of the day. To her it was a job she had to do and she just got it done.

MaMoe was the family doctor who had an old fashion country cure for all of our common ailments. She was a specialist was root tea. Sassafras root tea with a little peppermint and honey cured a nasty cough. Vapor rub mixed with sardine oil rubbed on the chest took care of common colds. Cod liver oil cured an upset stomach. A taste of turpentine spirits did the job on a bad case of worms. We gargled salt water for a sore throat.

During hot summer months her skin would turn beet red instead of a darker shade of black from the sun. She wasn’t working in the fields but she walked from Aunt Sadie’s house to the plantation, working in the garden or fishing. I don’t remember her working in the fields with us but I am sure she did since she and Grandpa Frank moved from Mississippi to Louisiana to work as sharecroppers. At some point after they had been living on Islington Plantation, around 1928, she and Frank parted ways. After all the children were grown, she went to work at the plantation house as a servant and nanny.

When she stopped working at the plantation house she cared for Aunt Sadie’s children and all the rest of us cousins when my Mama and her sisters had to work in the fields. A kind, gentle, loving and caring grandmother, she had a sense of humor when it came to disciplining us. She had a bunch of us to keep in line. When it was time for one or a bunch of us to get a whipping, she would make you go to the willow tree for a switch. Being the smart kids that we were, naturally we brought back the smallest one we could find. It did matter because she wore that one out on your back side and made you go get two or three more before she was done with you.

MaMoe was born April 10, 1890 as daughter of Pete and Lizzie Jackson. She was raised by her grand parents Umphrey and Dicie (Dicy) Bowens. In 1870 Umphrey lived in Como, Mississippi on a plantation owned by M.F. Gilchrist. Living with Umphrey were Dysey, who was 27 years old, and three children: John, age 6, Lizzie, age 4 and William age 1. Lizzie was MaMoe’s mother.

The 1900 Panola County Census shows Dicey, 44 years old, born in April, 1856 in Kentucky as head of household. Living with her are Umphrey, 21 years, born August 1878, Lizzie, born October 1872, Mack , 18, born March 1882, grandson Harrisan Neil, born May 1886, a great grand daughter, Simathria, born October 1872 and a granddaughter, Willie (MaMoe) who was born April, 1891.

MaMoe was an avid fisherman. The whole family was fishermen; Mama, Sadie, Novella, Sammie and all the cousins Charles, James, Gabe, and me. When MaMoe wasn’t working at Islington Plantation House you could always find her on the bayou below Aunt Sadie’s house with her favorite fishing companion Annie Green or “Miss Nig" as we called her.

There wasn’t anyone who could out fish her with a cane pole. (Well, there was one person who could give her a run for her money. That was daddy). There was never a shortage of fish around our house. It seemed like she fished every day. But in reality, I think she only fished two or three times a week. When it rained and was too wet to work in fields the men would work on equipment at the plantation house. The ones who didn’t have to work fished. MaMoe, Aunt Sadie, Mama, Aunt Jessie went fishing. Sometime James, Gabe, Charles and I would go along.

MaMoe always had a fishing pole “set out” in the bayou in front of Aunt Sadie’s house. She would tie the end of the cane pole to a tree with wire or rope. This way when a fish got on and she wasn't there, it couldn't pull the pole into the water.

She baited a large single hook with salt pork or a worm when she could talk one of us into digging them for her. In the morning she would go down and take off any fish that got caught during the night. Most of the fish she caught were bottom feeders like catfish, carp, gasper goo, “grinter,” or buffalo. She would check her poles at noon and when we came home from school she would make one of us go check her poles again. If she had caught a fish we ran up to the house to tell her. She stopped whatever she was doing and hurried down to the bayou to take the fish off.

With all the overgrown trees about she didn't have a lot of room to rear back and set the hook on a fish. Instead, she grabbed the cane pole, jerk up as far as the tree limbs would allow her, and run up the hill, pulling the pole behind her. When the fish reached the bank she would run back down the hill, grab the line, with the fish flopping around in the mud. She was yelling at us to not let the fish get back in the water. But none of us wanted to touch it. Holding on to the fishing line, she stepped on the fish's head and took the hook out. She put the fish in a bucket with water that she kept in a shaded place on the bank.

MaMoe was particular and sometimes downright fussy about her cane poles. Charles cut bamboo or cane poles for her from a standing patch of bamboos down in the field behind the graveyard. Bamboo grew everywhere, but she wanted it from way down in the fields instead of from bayou someplace closer. She was partial to the ten footers. After it was cut, and she was satisfied with its look and feel, she would hang by tip next to the chimney to dry.

MaMoe and Frank moved to the Tallulah area during the 1920’s from Como, Mississippi. They lived on a plantation in Quebec, just North of Tallulah, with their first four children: Ester, Willie Mae, Hince and Fred. The other children: Novella, Sadie, Katie, Jessie, Sammie, Ophelia and Ollie were born in Louisiana. Ophelia and Ollie were twins who died early. She and Frank moved to Islington Plantation (Folk) around 1927.

When Aunt Sadie moved from the plantation during the late 50’s MaMoe continued to live with her in town. When her health started to fail and she got to the point where Aunt Sadie couldn’t take care of her at home anymore, she was reluctantly put in a nursing home. She died in the nursing home in January of 1982 at the age of 92. She and Aunt Novella were buried on the same day.

Good Old Days?

2010-07-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t attended a reunion since graduating from McCall in 1963. The fact is I left high school before graduating to join the air force. Since then I just haven’t had any interest in going to a high school class reunion. I know class reunions are suppose to be about renewing friendships, sharing memories of the good old days when we were young and innocent. It may have been a young and innocent time of my life but it was hardly about "good." It was more about "hard" days; days about doing without, days about just getting by, and days about just making do.
It was fun to see some of my old friends after so many years. Some had changed while others looked the same. I seemed to have changed the most. Maybe it was because of lot them have stayed in touch over the years and I hadn’t. Seeing and talking to them made me realize that I had changed in ways I hadn’t thought of. I became bored of talk about the old days, and the "remember when" stories. I was anxious talk about what has happened since high school.

For me, high school conjures up mixed emotions; some good, some bad but mostly bad. After the air force I went to college and became a shop teacher. High school shop class was where I found my calling. Working with hand tools, making things out of wood fascinated me. I wanted to know how things worked. At Grambling, a shop professor took an interest in me, became my mentor and during the next four years I learned and lived in the industrial arts building.

In high school there were teachers didn’t have a clue about how kids learned or how to teach them so they woule learn. My algebra teacher was an extremely smart man. He would spew out formula, write them on the board but never checked to see who got it. Quizzes and exams were his answers. If you failed his tests, you obviously didn’t get it. His motto was "I got mine, you get yours."

A school where you rarely saw the principal talking socially to students unless, of course, he was berating them in the halls or whipping them in his office. A school more like a larger version of a plantation; but instead of a plantation owner, it was a principal. It was a school where the school calendar was designed around when the cotton needed to be picked. A school where books, band and athletic uniforms where was handed down from the white school. A school building that was dark, had broken windows and was rarely cleaned unless the white superintendent was coming for one of his "inspections" or one of his "public verbal beatings" of good teachers.

I moved to Wisconsin, taught junior high school shop for three years, finished a master’s degree in school administration and eventually became a high school assistant principal. The junior high school where I taught was better equipped than my labs at Grambling College. I had an abundance of materials, supplies, books and tools for every one of my students, and more.
As an assistant principal my eyes were opened as how poor my high school really was. At my high school where I was an AP, we recycled books that were better than those used every day by black or white schools in the south. So it’s extremely difficult for me to relish in what is called the "good old days." I can only get angry when I think about the pervasive racial caste system which operated in the south between 1877 and the 1960s. Jim Crow was a series of rigid anti-Black laws. It was a way of life. African Americans were relegated to the status of second class citizens.

Nontheless, I am comforted and thankful that my father who quit school in 4th grade to help his mother farm, and for my mother who finished 6th grade had enough foresight and wisdom to understand the value of being educated. They both knew that education was the one vehicle that would pave the way to opportunities unavailable to them. If our nation is to remain prosperous and committed to equality of opportunity, we must make sure that all of our children, especially those in poverty, receive an adequate education.

I will be forever indebted to my parents for their sacrifices and hardships to make my life better. For that I am thankful for the "old days."

An Absolute Testament to a Friend

2010-01-09T09:31:00.000-08:00

This chapel and I are becoming too familiar with each other. I have been here four times in the last five years and all for the same reason; funerals. But that’s what this chapel does, have funerals.

By the time I made my way into the chapel, it was already bursting at the seams with more people than it has ever seen at one time. I should have known that since I had parked three blocks away. I expected Neil’s funeral to be emotional but didn’t expect that it would be so crowded. Crowded is putting it mildly. It was hard to find room to stand. It looked like some of the people had been there way before the noon starting time. As I made my way through the crowd, looking for a seat, I exchanged greetings with many former students, and now good friends from my graduating class of 1992. They were Neil’s classmates. Like me, they had come to say farewell to their friend. Some had come from as far away as California, Colorado and Florida. Others came from Chicago, Milwaukee, Madison and Verona. The Walmart group occupied the rear third of the chapel. It looked like the whole store showed up. I wondered to myself who was running the Janesville store. Walmart loved Neil, too. To see the hundreds and hundreds of people was a genuine and absolute testament to him.

Earlier in my life I thought death was a punishment. My uncles didn’t do much to chase away that notion. Instead they always told my cousins and me stories about ghost and “hants” that scared the wits out of us. To them, it was a “rite of passage” to manhood. I can still remember when my family moved next to the church when I was a young boy. The days when there was a funeral at the church, I was always home before dark because I didn’t want the dead person’s “hant” to get me. Now I have come to understand that it was never about the dead, it is about the people left behind. Death just doesn’t happen. Everything, including death, happens for a reason. Sometime the reason is easy to understand and other times we spend a lifetime trying to understand the “why.” Two nights before the funeral I confessed to a friend that I was having a problem reconciling Neil’s death. But when I looked into the eyes of his one month old son his death was reconciled. In his eyes I saw Neil.

I go to funerals when I have to, but I would rather not. They are emotionally draining, they make my stomach cramp, and by the time it is over, you are left physically exhausted. I grew up in a southern Baptist church where respect was shown to the dead by shouting in the aisles, lots of emotional crying and outburst. Some of which scared the life out of me.

I like the uniqueness of New Orleans jazz funerals. They are also called second lines. The deceased family is the “first line” of mourners along with the jazz band. The “Second Line” is non-family members who came to pay their respect and to help celebrate the life of the deceased. What makes a jazz funeral unique is that on the way to the grave site, the mourners quietly walk to slow, somber songs played by the band. Once the deceased had been buried, a trumpet call rallies everyone to celebrate the life of the deceased and help release his or her soul. The Second Liners step and dance in the street to music from the jazz band. There is some crying on the way to the grave site but afterwards it is a celebration of life. Neil’s funeral wasn’t quite as jubilant, but while sitting there I couldn't help but think about how much he would have liked a jazz funerals.

There was some crying for Neil but people were happy just to have been a part of his life. What was hard was for his friends and family was to say goodbye to him because he was only 36 years old. One friend told me that she was holding his hand when he died. She said that it was easier to watch her mother die than it was for her to let go of Neil. When a young person dies, we ask “Why God?” And leaving a fiancee and two boys under the age of eighteen months makes it even more difficult to understand. When someone old dies, their death is seen as a normal part of the human life cycle.

So many friends took the time to leave messages on is facebook page their feelings:

“I've never felt as human and vulnerable as the day our superman passed over us in the sky a final time. I never thought you could be taken down, but there is a purpose to all this. Carry on your good work my friend; your legacy will always be alive in us. It's our responsibility to you to shine on as you did each ...day. I wish I could've told you, I guess I just did. :)”

“If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven, and bring you home again. Rest in peace my dear friend.”

“….. Thank you Neil for loving my grandsons as your own. My heart aches that your own sons won't have you in their lives. I pray that Beth, your boys and your mother find peace and solace knowing how much you loved them and how you would have stayed if you could. You were too young, my dear. Rest in peace.”

“Neil, you could always make people smile. Your great sense of humor and charm will be missed dearly. I will see you on the other side someday my friend. RIP Neil”

“Rest in peace Neil, You will never be forgotten, Go fly with the Angels...”

“Neil you truly were a wonderful, outgoing person whom everyone cherished all the different reason they had you in their lives and today’s service showed it. It hurts to think about how I’m not gonna get ANOTHER nickname from you or let alone be able to have any conversation with you but I am honored to have had the chance to have a wonderful friend not only in my life but my family’s life also. I am soooo gonna miss you but will see you again someday…Sleep with the angels Neil.”

“We may not see each other anymore, but we'll talk every day. It was a definite honor to have known you and there will never be anyone like you again. Rest Peacefully, Neil.”

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. Although it's difficult today to see beyond the sorrow, May looking back in memory help comfort you tomorrow. "Those we love don't go away; they walk beside us every day. Unseen, unheard, but always near. Still loved, still missed and very dear. Rest in peace Neil.”

“I think the saddest thing is that he has two beautiful baby boys that will only know their daddy thru other people’s memories shared with them. One is 18 months and the other newborn. He was in a coma when the baby was born so never got to see his youngest son.”

“Oh Neil, how we will miss the flying rubber bands, that sometimes didn't quite make it where they were supposed to. The bright red light from the deli gun, from out of nowhere, that told us if we were "hot" or not, or if we needed to go home because we were "sick". Your crazy nicknames for us and yourself, the silly jokes either shared or exchanged over the walkie. Your smile, your laugh, the proud swagger in your step as you walked the floor in your “manager” attire. We will never be able to ring up bananas without thinking of you! There’s also going to be a lot more hairnets in the garbage, instead of other places. I could go on and on and that’s what you will do through us and your family! We thank you for all you shared with us and we are thankful for knowing you! We miss you and we love you and will NEVER forget you!”
“We may not see each other anymore, but we'll talk every day. It was a definite honor to have known you and there will never be anyone like you again. Rest Peacefully, Neil.”

Even though his young age of 35 was on the minds of many, if not all, in the chapel, it was never openly talked about during the service. Instead the funeral service was upbeat; a low key celebration of his life. The talk was about how full he lived life and how much enjoyed his family and fishing. All the speakers had a “Neil story” to share. One classmate said that Neil was always the life of the party and always wanted to make sure that everyone was having a good time. That he would have been proud of the turnout of people that was there, and he would have also been angry that he couldn’t be there. Another student told the story when Neil brought him home to live him when he didn’t have a place to live. And another student told a story about him and Neil leaving a downtown bar after closing one night and Neil stopped to give a homeless group of men twenty dollars. That was the way Neil lived.

He always called me “T” when were alone and “Mr. T” others were around. I met him during student registration in 1988, he was an incoming freshman. He had a cocky demeanor and swagger that were more befitting of a senior. Freshmen were required to come to registration with a parent, but he was sitting alone. He was trying to fill out the registration form when I walked over and said, “I want to meet your parents, and did they come with you?” He looked at me from toe to head. I thought, “He’s sizing me up.” When our eyes did meet, he hesitated for a little, stared at me and said, “My mom’s working, she couldn’t afford to take off. I haven’t seen my dad in years.” I helped finish the form and walked him through the remainder of registration. He had already done his homework on East’s football team. He knew who they had beaten and who they lost to last season. He knew who coach was and wanted to know if he could talk to him. I told him how to get to the boys locker room. When he was leaving, he came to find me to say good bye. I asked him what he and the coach had talked about. He said, “I told him I was going to be the team’s quarterback my junior and senior year.” And he was.

Two years after he graduated high school he went off to college in Minnesota. Before he left, he brought his sister, Samantha to school to meet me. She was a handful; make that two hands full. She was going to be a freshman that fall. He sat her down in my office and told her she was to behave or she would be in big trouble with me. He wanted me to look after her as I did him for four years. He was Sam’s big brother, guardian and father. But Sam was her own woman and pretty much didn’t have any use for school. She was there and then she wasn’t. I later learned that he had come and took her to live with him in Minnesota.

Neil had lupus. It has been known as a “woman’s disease.” Lupus is an autoimmune disease where your immune system tries to destroy the organs in your body. Our body’s immune system is like a security system. It contains several different types of cells which are constantly on patrol looking for foreign invaders. When one is spotted, they try to destroy the invader. With lupus, for some unknown reason, the immune system loses its ability to tell the difference between an invader and our own normal body organs, tissues and cells. In essence, the "Security Guards" identify our good cells as invaders and then try to destroy them. More than 16,000 Americans develop lupus each year. It is estimated that 500,000 to 1.5 million Americans have been diagnosed with lupus. For most people, lupus is a mild disease affecting only a few organs. For others, it may cause serious and even life-threatening problems. For Neil, his immune system affected his kidneys and lungs.

Toward the end of the ceremony it was announced that the family would have a repast at the Eagle Crest Bar and Grill others went to Pooley’s. Putting on my coat I overheard a conversation between a couple students. One student asked the other, “So, what’s a repast?” The other responded, “I think it’s a southern thing.” I butted in and said, “It’s a meal served after a funeral." That it was more common in the south.

Many of us went to the Eagle Crest to be with his family after the funeral. The conversation over beer and food was that this was an evening that he would have been totally into. Everybody did one of his favorite shots as a salute and farewell to him. By the time we arrived at Pooley’s everyone was in a good mood. Some people hadn’t seen each other since graduation and we had a lot of catching up to do since 1992. This class has so much talent and these young 35 year olds are making their mark on the world. I was blown away by some of the things they were doing.
Everyone wanted to know how I was spending my time and if was having fun. I spent four years taking care of this class and tonight this class took care of me.

The Reverend David Hart ended the service with a quote from an unknown author that said:
“The dead don’t die unless we forget them.”

I end with this poem:
You can shed tears that he is gone,

or you can smile because he has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that he'll come back,

or you can open your eyes and see all he's left.

Your heart can be empty because you can't see him,

or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,

or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember him only that he is gone,

or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind,

be empty and turn your back.

Or you can do what he'd want,

smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

--David Harkins--

Pheasant Hunting With My Bud

2008-11-11T09:50:00.000-08:00

It’s pheasant hunting season in Wisconsin and Iowa. For the next three months upland hunters will adorn their twenty percent orange attire and chase the colorful and gaudy ring neck pheasant to the end of the earth and back. It is now that I am reminiscent of my good times shooting and hunting with my buddy Milt McPike.

During our twenty- five year friendship we go teased about how much skeet and hunting stuff we had. The guys would say, “Did you two leave anything at Gander Mountain for the rest of us?” The first hunting trip we could fit the gear we owned, not including the dog, into the hatch of my ‘93 Blazer and still have room. I didn’t own a gun and when I did buy one, I kept it at Milt’s house. That was years ago. The last year we hunted together, Milt’s extended Suburban was busting at the seams from all of our hunting stuff.

In the past eighteen years we became very good friends with a few farmers in Malcolm, a small Iowa town east of Grinnell. They know us and our vehicles. One year we showed up Friday night wearing the same athletic outfit. It wasn’t planned; it just happened. That night at dinner, Ron said, “Are you guys, Me and Mini Me?” His brother Larry chimed in with, “Ronnie, maybe they didn’t come to hunt this year. They’re probably on their way to a modeling job.” The teasing was relentless, as our hunting gear multiplied over the years.

If was made for pheasant hunting or skeet shooting we had it or it was on the list of stuff to be had. One year at a skeet shoot in Waukesha, while waiting for the next event, a shooter from Illinois strolled up and commented, “I just came by to say hello and to see what new stuff you guys had.” Milt was often asked “So Milt how many guns you have now?” His answer was always the same, “I don’t know.” He knew how many he had, but he didn’t want to say how many. After a while, he had so many guns that he honestly couldn’t remember how many guns he had.

But our love for shooting accessories didn’t start with skeet shooting. It began years earlier. Milt was then the principal at East High School. When I took an assistant principal position at East, our friendship took off like a bang. In 1990 several teacher friends invited us on a pheasant hunting trip to Iowa. These guys had hunted pheasants before, but this was our first time at hunting any kind of upland bird.

Sitting in the Longhorn Café in Grinnell at breakfast I could tell from looking at the other hunters that we were different. We looked like two city slickers. Our hunting uniform consisted of blue jeans, Sears’ leather work boots, flannel shirt, baseball cap, down jacket and no gloves. We looked more ready for yard work than pheasant hunting. I turned to Milt and said, “Do you think we should have worn something different?” He looked around the café at the other hunters, shrugged his shoulders and without much thought said, “Too late now”, and continued eating his breakfast. Nobody said anything about our attire.

Our morning hunt started with overcast skies, and by midday it was wet, windy and cold. Our feet were soaked and we were cold to the bone. No one else complained about being wet and cold, and at the expense of sounding wimpy, we didn’t say anything either. We assumed that being wet and cold was an integral part of the pheasant hunting experience. Back to the hotel, as we put our wet boots and clothing on top of the radiator to dry, we learned the rest of the story. The other guys really weren’t wet and cold at all. They were wearing Gortex and thermal underwear. We didn’t know what Gortex was, let alone having it to wear.

In misery, we looked at each other and said we wouldn’t be at the mercy of Mother Nature ever again. That weekend of dew and rain soaked pants, and leaky boots made us appreciate having quality hunting clothes. After that trip, we discovered Cabela’s, Gander Mountain and became good friends with all the salesmen at Gerhard’s. Brush and briar pants replaced blue jeans; game vest and upland shooting jackets replaced putting shells in our pockets and carrying pheasants in our hands. Gortex lined leather boots replaced leather work boots; hunting hats, shooting glasses, gloves and thermal underwear, and wool socks with nylon sock liners also became part of our uniform.

We looked good in our upland clothes, but we were horrible wing shooters. Now well into our second year of pheasant hunting, we hadn’t brought a rooster home for the pot that was shot by one of us. Someone recommended that we go to a gun club and do some clay target shooting. We shot trap at Oregon for a while and eventually moved to Middleton. It was at Middleton, and later at Sauk Prairie, that our love affair with skeet began.

Since that Iowa trip, Milt and I have had many adventures hunting pheasants, ducks and geese during our twenty-five year friendship. We logged many hours tramping the public grounds at Mud Lake and Deansville on weekends searching for pheasants.

On one particular opening day we were hunting a friend’s farm in Marshall. Neither one of us were any good with directions. The field we were hunting was bordered on the east side by a drainage ditch and on the west side by impassable brush. Four of us were hunting the field from south to north. Milt was on the outside edge next to the drainage ditch. I said, “Milt don’t cross any ditches or fence lines, we will all meet up at the end this grass field” The job of a high school principal is serious work and requires serious qualifications. Unfortunately for the both of us, having a keen sense of direction in the field was not one of them.

We lined up and started our push toward the north end of the field. We hadn’t gone more then ten yards when two pheasants flushed ahead of us, banking to our left. Even though they were hens we were all rattled. Fifteen yards into resuming our methodical march, a rooster flushed between Milt and I. We both had walked by this smart rooster that chose to sit rather than fly. The noise and suddenness of a close sitting rooster’s flush, cackling, and beating its wings trying to gain altitude, was enough to wake a comatose hunter in the next county. The rooster flew right over Milt’s head. Regaining my composure, I yell “Milt, rooster coming at you.” By the time the rooster cleared Milt it was forty yards out. I made two “hope and a prayer” long shots. Milt now had a bead on the rooster but now it was out about fifty yards and picking up speed. Milt made two shots, more desperate than mine, as the rooster continued its eastward flight unscathed. By all accounts that rooster should have been on the ground. We all had a good laugh about Milt and my poor shooting.

Realigning ourselves, we continued our push toward the end. We were standing around talking after we got there and someone said, “Where is Milt? We waited for thirty minutes but no Milt. Then I remembered that I hadn’t heard him or the dog since we shot at that rooster over an hour ago. I wondered to myself if he had gone chasing after that rooster. After waiting fifteen minutes more we decided to go back to look for him. We walked back to where we started and he wasn’t there. We thought he may have gone back to the house to use the bathroom or get something, like more shells. When we got back to the house, he wasn’t there either. We had a bowl of chili for lunch and waited some more. Its been two hours now since he’s been missing. It had started to rain and now we were starting to worry that something had happen. We were getting ready to call out the Calvary when we heard a vehicle pull into the driveway. We heard a knock at the kitchen door. There stood Milt with his dog, Alex. A farmer, who lived four miles east of where we were hunting, had picked him up walking along a road near Marshall.

He had crossed the drainage ditch, two fence lines, and a gravel road. Not much was said except thanking the farmer for giving him a ride. Years later the story became one of my favorite. I often wonder how far he would have wandered if the farmer hadn’t picked him up. He had already walked from Berlin Road through Deansville and almost to Marshall, five miles away. The next town was Waterloo, eleven miles from where we were hunting. Since that day, whenever we hunted with a group, I didn’t let him out of my sight. That meant that he didn’t go into grass taller than him, timbers or standing corn. In Malcolm he was our official “blocker.”

Pheasant hunting was never more fun than with Milt. I still hunt and it’s still a good time, but it can never be any better than when you share it someone else. Sharing it with your best buddy make(s) it even better.

My skeet shooting and pheasant hunting buddy is in heaven now. He made his way to there on March 29, 2008.

Good hunting, my buddy!

No Mud Hole For Me

2008-07-17T08:44:00.000-07:00

Hello Family and Friends:

I hope this blog finds all of you in good health and spirits.
We had our every other year family reunion at my house this past father's day weekend. It was the first time we have been together since mama died three years ago. We had the greatest time. Good food, good conversations, good stories and good bonding. I really appreciated having them at our house.

Health wise, I am doing good. I don't have any symptoms of prostate cancer. But the amount of psa in my blood continues to rise. I go to the clinic every three months for blood test, an examination and consultation. Every six months I get an MRI of my bones and tissue to see if the cancer has become attached. So far it hasn't and for now examinations and a watchful eye is the plan. There is no treatment until the cancer becomes attached.

I continue to be positive and not "wallow" in what will come or may not come. The only time I get a depressed is when I am at the clinic. At the clinic it is obvious that people who are there are sick. It's a hospital, and hospitals are for sick people. Then I am okay for three months, or my next appointment. I have two choices. Wallow in my mud hole and get on with dying, or stay out of the mud hole and get on with living. Three years ago the mud hole was drained.

I know that eventually cancer will have to be dealt with and it will when that time comes. But in the meantime no mud hole for me.

Life is good!

What Really Counts?

2008-03-31T11:20:00.000-07:00

I go to my polling place and take care of my civic duty every election day. But to be honest, I’ve never had much interest in politics. At least not since the early 60’s during the Kennedy era. This year’s election is exciting to many people thanks to Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. While I’m being honest, I have say that this election is also a big deal.

A few weeks ago I was sitting on the bench in front of my locker at the YMCA when two men started talking about the presidential primaries. Both said they were happy that senators Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton were in a position to become the Democratic Party’s nomination. Both said that it was a good opportunity to vote for a woman or an African-American for president. The older man said he didn’t think the country was ready for a woman president. The younger man looking over at me, said, “I don’t know which one I’m going to vote for.” “It’s important that we be politically correct.” The older man said that if we elected a black president that would send a message to the world that we are “politically correct”.

I couldn’t help but wonder how that conversation would have played out if I hadn’t been sitting there. The younger man obviously felt that Hillary was a better choice than Obama but wasn’t going to say that in front of me in the name of being “politically correct.” Walking to my car I asked myself how many other voters are looking at Race and Gender when they decide who to vote for in this year’s Democratic Primary.

The purpose of a presidential election should not be to send a message to the world about how politically correct we are, but rather to select the person who is best qualified to address the host of issues they will face in the Oval Office. And it’s like I said before, this election is a big deal. It’s bigger than Race or Gender. It’s a race for the president of the United States, not the Downtown Kiwanis Club.

It is just as wrong to vote for one of them because of their race or gender as it is to vote against one of them because of their race or gender. This election should not be just about gender or race. The election should be about war and peace, the economy, health care, education, Medicare and social security. Their ability to be president should not be enhanced or hindered by their race or gender. Their ability to be president should be based on how they intend to deal with whatever is on their plate in the Oval Office.

Now on the other hand, if Race and Gender is such an issue, then it needs to be talked about rather than being reduced to what is “politically correct.” That is to say, we need to be able to talk about race and gender without forcing whoever brings it up to shut up, resign or be called a racist. I’m not debating whether what Geraldine Ferraro or Rev. Wright said was right or wrong. The point is nobody asked either of them what they meant. Instead they were denounced and we really didn’t learn anything. Maybe they were right, maybe they were wrong. Calling them a racist most always terminates a conversation instead of beginning one. Letting people actually discuss what they mean, what it means to them will serve to help us move forward to where race and gender matter less. Our obsessive sensitivity to race and gender will only improve when we acknowledge that ability and character are what really counts, and that race and gender really don’t.

Blessed

2008-03-07T11:13:00.000-08:00

When you get cold the bones it’s hard to stay warm. As you can imagine, cold to the bones is worst than being just plain cold. When your skin is cold you just add another layer of clothes and you are good to go. But when your bones are cold it seems like the only solution short of sitting in front of a roaring fireplace is a hot shower.

Yesterday’s temperature topped out at 26 degrees, a far cry from our coldest days of 35 below zero three weeks ago. But at University Hospital it seemed a lot colder when I got out of the car to hand my keys to the parking attendant who now knows me by name. He asked how I was doing. I said “oh, so-so.” “At least you’re being honest,” he said. I didn’t say “so-so” because I was feeling sick, but more because coming to the hospital is a reminder that this is a place for sick people. “Will you need a wheelchair today, Mr. Thomas?” he said. “No, I’m only here for a couple of test,” I said. I thought to myself, “Why did he ask me that?” “Do I look like I need a wheelchair?” Another reminder to myself: “This is not the Sheraton, it’s University Hospital.

I was at the hospital to have a bone and tissue scan. It will be three years in July when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and almost a year since I last had the scans done. The vaccination research study I participated in ended last September. During that time, I had one stable PSA reading. Other than that, it has been continually rising. The object of the scans is to determine where outside the prostate the cancer has gone. Since my PSA is rising, the medical conclusion is that it will show up someplace. That it will either show up in my lymph nodes or bones. When that happens, we will have to decide a treatment plan. The most common plan is chemotheraphy.

One of my clinical doctors called this morning with the results of my scans. He said both were negative; that he believes that it is still too small for the scans to detect. Going into yesterday I had convinced myself that the cancer was going to be detected and it was time to put on the gloves again. But fterwards I was thinking that maybe there is a reason for the negative scans. Waiting from scan to scan makes me anxious, and at the same time, I am blessed because the longer the cancer goes undetected the more time there will be for new treatment options to become available. Chemo is no Sunday walk in the park.

I have always been blessed to come from a family of prayers, a family who believe in prayers. When I allow myself I can feel how strong the prayers have been and are. I want to let you know that the prayers do not go unappreciated.

With many thanks and love, I remain,

Lee “Harry” Thomas

2008-01-15T08:13:00.000-08:00

Put a camera in my hand and you will have one man who will be besides himself. I have been fascinated with photography since my younger days in the Air Force in Texas. I would spend hours in the darkroom on Saturdays instead of being off someplace looting and pillaging. That was over forty-five years ago and thousands of photos and slides later.

Since retirement I have been sorting and organizing photos with the hope of one day doing something with them. Like having a showing and/or an online photo gallery. The showing will have to come later, but I did organize a few of them into an online photo gallery.

(Drum roll please) "And now without further ado, I give you Lee Thomas' Photo Gallery otherwise called "syrupbucket" and can be found at this web address:

http://syrupbucket.com/

Hope you enjoy touring my site and any evaluative information you offer will be graciously received.

It's all in the pixels.

Love you!

Happy Holidays

2007-12-25T19:26:00.000-08:00

I want to take this opportunity to wish all of you that check my blog a merry Christmas and a very happy new years. And thanks for checking my blog to stay "up to speed.

I will post something about where I am with prostate cancer soon. Next visit and check up is in late January.

I will not take the blame or responsibility for what you are about to view. However I do think that it is really halarious. I hope it works in your browser. A friend sent it to me so blame him.

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1768498055

Love you

Lee

Are You With The Parking People?

2007-12-11T11:34:00.000-08:00

I was standing outside in the valet parking area waiting for the parking attendant to get my car. I had just finished my medical business at the hospital and it was time to be someplace else. A woman drove up, stopped her car in front of me, gathered flowers from the passenger seat and got out. She left the driver’s door open and engine running. All the while I was saying to myself, “I hope this lady don’t think I’m a car parking attendant.” But I could just tell by the way she was hurrying and glancing at me that something weird was about to happen. She walked over to where I was standing on the sidewalk, looked right at me and asked, “Are you with the parking people? She didn’t ask “Are you one of the parking people?” That would have been a too presumptuous on her part since I could have been a supervisor or something. Her demeanor said, “Come on buddy, don’t just stand there, I have some place to be, get a move on it, take my keys, give me a ticket and go park my car.”

Needless to say, I thought I was a far cry from looking like one of the casual looking parking lot attendants, but apparently she didn’t. Now understand, I was standing there dressed in a pair of tan and black Stacy Adams, black silk and wool dress pants, black turtle neck, a leather coat and with a palm pilot in my hand. But I think she missed all of that.

I was already a little agitated because the CAP scan had taken much longer than I expected. I had gotten turned around and came out the wrong entrance and I had been waiting for the attendant to get my car for over ten minutes. I gave the woman one of my most stern and agitated looks that said “You have got to be kidding, do I look like a parking attendant?” But she didn’t retreat. Then I gave her a look that said, “What gave me away?” She still didn’t get it. She proceeded to ask me whether she was suppose to leave her car right here or pull it up further to the valet parking sign and what should she do with her keys. Finally she took a good look at me, since I was making no attempt to park her car, and this look came over her face that said, “Oh shit, he doesn’t park cars.”

Earlier, a woman who looked like a salesperson came up to where I was standing. She looked at me trying to decide whether to ask if I knew anything about parking. She looked in the window of the valet parking office. I knew no one was there because I had already looked and that’s why I was waiting. She started to go inside the little office but the sign in the window that said, “Attendants Only” stopped.

She turned from the door and proceeded to form a line to my right. Now mind you, I had already formed the line. I was it and I was first. But now she was first in line. After 2-3 minutes she took out her cell phone, and walked back into the lobby. Sounded like she was telling some that getting her car was taking longer and she was going be late. Now I was first in line again.

After maintaining first place in line, and getting out of parking a woman’s car, a group of four ladies came over to where I was standing. They were all pulling those little cases with wheels. The kind look like catalog cases that salesperson carry. They were all talking about the day. There was an alpha woman leading the pack and you could tell she was the alpha because of the way the other three women related, catered and deferred to her. They laughed at what she said. The alpha woman looked at me, deciding if I was part of the parking attendant business. I could feel her eyes looking me up and down but I hadn’t made direct eye contact with any of them, yet. One of the foursome said, “That sign says ‘Attendants Only’ and I guess we better not go in there.” I said to myself, “Oh good they can read.” In the meantime the alpha woman said to the others, “The attendant must be getting his (meaning me) car, we’ll just wait our turn.” I said to myself, “Very smart alpha woman.”

Besides, I don’t know if I would of had time get their car, go back and get mine and still get to where I need to be on time.

Me and My Disk Are Old Friends

2007-05-15T19:58:00.000-07:00

I handed the woman behind the kiosk my valet parking ticket for validation and she looked at me and said “Do you have an appointment with the clinic today?” I looked her in the eyes and wittingly responded with, “I just come here to get free parking and pass the time of day.” Apparently she did realize that I was a regular clinic customer of almost two years standing.

I was at the clinic to get my first vaccine with the new research study. The first order of business was to have blood drawn to check my PSA level and other attributes. Oncology is always an interesting place to sit and wait. I took notice of all the people who were there, waiting, along with me. A couple was there from Waupun. The man took notice of my shirt and asked how I was affiliated with Grambling. I told him that I attended college there and graduated in 1968. I commented that he probably wasn’t born yet. But he came back with, “that was the year my daughter was born.” He was being treated for prostate cancer. Nurse Dottie came out to check on how I was doing. He said hello to her like they were old friends.

The blood draw station was running about 45 minutes behind schedule, but people were waiting patiently. Some were knitting, some were reading, while others just sitting staring into space. Nonetheless, everyone was cordial and patient. The man from Waupun commented that on Mondays he and his wife didn’t plan anything else for the day except medical appointments at the clinic and VA hospital.

Another couple, sitting near me was from Janesville. The woman brought knitting to pass the time while she waited for her husband; a sure sign that they weren’t neophytes to this. They had been waiting 45 minutes to have his blood drawn. She commented to the woman from Waupun that she had brought the wrong kind of yarn and was doubling it to make it work. She and the woman from Waupun were talking about what they did when their husbands got “cranky.” The woman from Waupun said she had been married to him too long to let it bother her and that she just ignored him. The Janesville woman said that she just walks away for him when he starts acting crazy.

When you check in at the waiting areas at UW Hospitals you get a spaceship looking disk, with lights across the top that vibrates and buzzes when it’s your turn. The disk was the one thing everyone there had in common. Otherwise we were all different ages, from different cities, had different illnesses, different skin colors, and different sexes. But the disk didn’t care who you were. You get it, hold on to it, sit down and wait your turn. The man from Waupun had just returned from the VA Hospital when his cell phone ranged. I jokingly asked, “How did you get that funny sounding disk?” He said, “You have to know somebody.” He answered the phone but it was a wrong number call. A little later my disk started vibrating and buzzing and the woman from Waupun said to me, “You didn’t have to wait long, you must know someone.” I smiled and said, “Me and my disk are old friends, and have been hanging out together for a while.”

After having blood taken, Dottie and I headed up to the 6th floor to the General Clinical Research Center. On the way there we went through chemotherapy to drop off a patient’s file. It was here that I was grimly reminded that this place is for sick people; that cancer is sickening. Not being there for three weeks I had forgotten. I deplore being reminded.

On to the 6th floor were I met Mary who was to give me the vaccine. In addition to giving vaccines, they do research on sleep disorders, asthma, the heart and other neat research stuff.

The vaccine wasn’t ready yet. In the meantime, Mary wanted to check my weight, pulse, temperature and blood pressure. She asked how I was doing. I said “I am doing just fine.” She replied, “That’s good.” For some reason I didn’t think my response was what she was anticipating. I think she was accustomed to hearing all the gory symptoms people she saw were experiencing. I assured her that I did not have any symptoms, pains or otherwise complaints; that I felt absolutely great.

Now, this not the first time I had been asked, “How are you doing?” Sometimes after I answer, I say to myself, “Am I suppose to be feeling something else? “Maybe I’m really sick and don’t realize it.” I just feel weird when I answer the question and then see the look on people faces.

Mary, the 6th floor nurse, wanted to know all about me, where I was from and how I ended up in Madison. I told her I was from the Delta and she didn’t have any idea where that was. I told her it was near Vicksburg, Mississippi and she knew where that was. She once visited Alexandria and spent some time in Natchez touring the antebellum plantation homes. She said she was overwhelmed with the amount of poverty, the difference between the “haves” and the “have nots.”

The DNA vaccine is not made up ahead of time. It is specifically made for each research participant. It finally arrived and I was anxious to get on with it. Mary made sure I was comfortable and my left arm was relaxed. It’s kind of hard to be relaxed when you are about to get three needles. I did the best I could under the circumstances. The shots were like a TB test. Just under the skin. They didn’t hurt but burned. I ended up with three small bumps. Mary told me to watch the bumps for the next 48 hours and record how they looked, if they became red, irritated or bigger. She gave me a form to record my symptoms.

In all it was a good experience. While it took more time than I expected, and the clinic was depressive, I feel good about participating. Who knows, maybe this research study will lead to some profound answers.

Life is all good!

AND YET, ANOTHER BLUNDER

2007-04-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

Hurricane Katrina blew and washed her way through New Orleans twenty months ago. My favorite city hasn’t been the same and its people continue to fight for their very existence. Katrina was an act of God and our governments’ response to Katrina was an act from hell. With all the reports of government waste, delays and assistance denials to Katrina victims, I thought for a hot minute there I had heard it all. But I haven’t.

More than 10,000 pages of cables, telegraphs and emails from U.S. diplomats from around the world were recently released to a public interest group called Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington. The watchdog group provided the documents to The Washington Post. The Washington Post staff writers John Solomon and Spencer S. Hsu wrote an article entitled “Most Katrina Aid From Overseas Went Unclaimed.”

After reading the article, I had to close my windows so my neighbors wouldn’t hear me screaming. In summary, our allies offered $400 million dollars in cash and $454 million dollars in oil that was suppose to have been sold for cash, but only $40 million dollars has been used to help disaster victims or reconstruction. In a nutshell, our United States Government failed to collect most of the international cash assistance for Hurricane Katrina’s victims from our allies who made the offers.

Why? You go figure. But I think it’s more of the same incompetence that still has New Orleans waiting to be recovered; red tape and bureaucratic baloney.

Enough already. Click on the link below to read the article for yourself, and remember to close you windows so your neighbors won’t hear you screaming.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/28/AR2007042801113.html?referrer=email

Research Study

2007-04-25T08:42:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone,

I wanted to let everyone know that I was accepted in the new vaccine research study at the University Hospitals and Clinics here in Madison. The study is going to involve about thirty men much like me who have rising PSA levels with no presence of prostrate cancer. The study will take two years to complete and I will be participating for four months.

Monday, April 30 I meet with the research doctors to go over the details, sign the paperwork and get all my questions answered. Then on Tuesday I will go through the four hour leukapheresis procedure. During leukapheresis my blood goes through a machine, much like kidney dialysis, that separates and collects some of my white blood cells. The collected cells will be used to measure my present immune response. I will repeat the leukaphersis procedure again at the end of the study to compare the white blood cells before and after to see if my immune system responded to the vaccines.

I get the first vaccine on May 14 and one every two weeks thereafter, with the last vaccine on August 7. Anyway, that the low-down on the research study, and with that, hopefully that will bring you “Up To Speed.”

Later, I have a turkey I need to go shoot.

Let The Bell Ring

2007-03-16T07:52:00.000-07:00

My meeting with an Oncology doctor this past Monday to review the results of my CT and bone scan went fine. Their results included both good and bad news. THE GOOD NEWS: the scans didn’t show the presence of any cancer or that it had spread to my lymph nodes or bones. THE BAD NEWS: while the scans didn’t show the presence of cancer, it is very likely that it is in my blood system; the reason my PSA level is rising.

The doctor said it is just a matter of time before the cancer shows up, 8-10 years, depending on how fast my PSA level rises. We talked at great length about what to do in the meantime. He said, in most instances, you wait until it shows up and then start a treatment plan. Presently there is no therapy for my stage of prostate cancer in which the PSA level is rising but the scans don’t show any evidence of cancer. I told him that I didn’t have the patience to wait.

He offered me a chance to participate in a clinical trial or research study here at University Hospitals and Clinics. The study is looking for new methods to treat prostate cancer by testing a prostate cancer vaccine. The vaccine will try to help cancer patient’s own immune system fight against cancer. The vaccine side effects are redness, swelling and tenderness where I would get injected, fever, and chill.

The vaccine itself is a DNA genetic material that contains the genetic code for a protein that is made by the prostate gland. In people who have prostate cancer, the protein is made by the cancer cells and is found in the blood stream. The theory behind the vaccine is that it will help the immune system try to fight the cancer.

The study will involve thirty people and will take two years to complete. My participation would last about four months. If I participate in the study, the first thing I would have to do is go through a procedure called leukapheresis. (I have no idea how to pronounce it either) Anyways, this leukapheresis is a procedure where my blood would go through a machine (like kidney dialysis, that’s the only way I can explain it) that separates and collects some of my white blood cells. A needle is put into a vein in each arm to allow blood to be removed for one arm and put back into the other arm. (You need to have big veins because they use big needles) The collected cells would be used to measure my immune response presently. I would repeat the leukaphersis procedure again at the end of the study to compare the white blood cells before and after to see if my immune system responded.

I will decide over the weekend if this is a study I want to be involved with. Right now, I am leaning toward participating in this clinical trial because it is trying to find a treatment method that puts the onus for a cure where it should be, on the body and the immune system. Cancer is a disease of genes. If medical science is to advance, we can no longer continue to just cut out the bad parts. I believe the cure for cancer rest with the discovery of a vaccine. Just like the discovery of vaccines for smallpox, measles, mumps, malaria, and tuberculosis just to name a few.

For the past eighteen months I have been waiting for the bell to ring. In some respect I was waiting for the next round, but in another respect I think I was waiting to see I was going fight the next round or going to die. When I first learned that I had prostate cancer none of it seemed real. I felt like I was wrapped in a bubble, dreaming. That I would wake up and the cancer would be gone. I was waiting for someone to wake me up and say, “Mr. Thomas we are sorry for all your inconvenience, but you really don’t have prostate cancer.”

That was until Monday. Until Monday I was always under the belief that you get cured from cancer. But you don’t. The cancer disease will always be in the body someplace, detected, not detected or in remission. There is no cure for cancer, yet. So the goal of any treatment is to keep it inactive or in remission. It really didn’t or doesn’t matter how high my PSA level is, 15.9 or 15, 900. But what does matter is that it remains constant or level. An actively rising PSA means active cancer.

The hardest part about having gone through radiation and hoping to be “cured” is to find out that your PSA is rising. With that I started to second guess my decision because I wasn’t “cured.” It was a dumb feeling. I felt dumb when my Urologist asked me twenty-two months ago about having surgery to remove my prostate and I asked, “Are there other options besides surgery?” I will never forget the look on his face. A look that said “Are you kidding.” I felt dumb when I talked to other men who had surgery and saw the look on their face when I told them I had radiation instead. Looks that said, “Boy you made a dumb decision to not have surgery.”

After Monday I don’t feel dumb anymore for choosing radiation therapy instead of surgery. Research data still says that there is no significant difference between the outcome of surgery and the outcome of radiation. The rate of cancer recurrence of both is equal. What I am saying is that I spent a lot of time second guessing my decision; however, in the end it is a personal decision. A personal decision based on ones lifestyle, age and quality of life.

I have said a lot. Some of it may have been interesting, and some of it may have been boring. But it’s stuff that has been dragging me down and cluttering up my brain. Writing helps me talk and talking helps navigate and process decisions and emotions. It was my process of grieving. Monday helped me turn the corner and turn a new page in my prostate cancer book.

Let the bell ring and let the next round commence.

Waiting For The Bell To Ring

2007-03-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

It has been seventeen months since I went through radiation therapy for prostrate cancer. During these past seventeen months I have been taking blood test every three months to monitor the level of PSA in my blood. Remember in November, 2005 I told you that my PSA scores were 12.1 and 9.9 before radiation therapy. After treatment it should have dropped to near zero. Well, it never really got down anywhere close to zero. Six months after therapy, my best lowest number was 6.4. Unfortunately since then my PSA level has been rising consistently.

While my PSA has been rising, my doctor and I took a “let’s wait and see” approach rather than making a decision before we had more information. He said that a rising PSA score alone and without clinical symptoms don’t show the complete picture. So, taking blood test and having prostate examinations has been the order of the day. The hospital receptionist and parking attendants know me and my Tahoe on a first name basis.

My Oncologist and I decided that if the March PSA was still rising, I would need to have some scans done. He said that while my prostate feels normal, it may be that some of the cancer cells survived radiation. If this is the case, we need to find out why it is rising and from where it is coming. He said it could be coming from another place other than the treated source. And if the cancer has moved outside the prostate the more likely places it will go are the lymph nodes or bones. But he reminded that my Gleason score and MRI scan before treatment indicated early stages of prostate cancer and that it was confined to the prostrate.

Wednesday I underwent a CT scan and on Friday (3/9) I had a CAP scan. The CT scan looks at body tissue and CAP scan looks at bone mass. Wherever the source, old or new, the scans will tell. Monday I meet with Oncologist to look at the results of the scans and talk about treatment options, depending on what the scans found.

When I started radiation therapy twenty months ago surgery, radiation therapy, seed implants, hydrotherapy, hormone therapy, and chemotherapy were some of my options for treatment. I entered into a protocol or clinical trial where the number of my treatments was reduced and the dose of radiation I got was increased. It wasn’t cutting edge, but it was relatively new.

Today, twenty-months since I was diagnosed, there are so many new treatment options. Laparoscopic is the newest type of robotically controlled surgery to remove the prostrate. A cancer vaccine combined with hormone therapy can help patients with recurrence of prostate cancer. A lot of the clinical trials and treatment options are dealing more with helping your body immune system fight the cancer rather than radical surgery. I remain very optimistic.

Sitting and waiting for ten months has not been easy. It has been dreadfully tough. When I was going for daily treatment, I felt like I was fighting back. I was active. Waiting is not proactive. Waiting is not fighting. It’s like sitting on the stool in your corner between rounds waiting for the bell to ring. Waiting for the bell to ring signaling you won the fight or signaling let the next round commence.

What ever it may be, “Let the fight begin!”

Later, on down the road.

Jeff Thomas Invited to Anaheim

2006-09-19T07:26:00.000-07:00

Jeffrey Thomas is getting a chance to see what is like to compete at the next level and how he stacks up against some of the best volleyball players in the United States. Jeff, who just completed a stellar volleyball career at UW-Oshkosh was invited to train with and try-out for the USA National Volleyball Team. The team moved its training facilities from Colorado Springs to Anaheim this past April. Practice started last Monday, September 11 at the American Sports Centers in Anaheim, California.

The men’s volleyball coach for Michigan Tec University had heard about Jeff from some of her Wisconsin players and watched his play in Salt Lake City this past spring. She was impressed with his play and recommended him to the USAV men’s coach. Jeff was invited play with the USAV team in the nationals in New Orleans last year.

Getting an invite to train with and compete for a spot on the USA Volleyball Team with the chance to play in the 2008 World Olympics is an opportunity of a life time and a dream come true for Jeff.

Jeff went to training camp knowing it was a long shot in that he would be competing for a spot with the best of the best and some of the most talented volleyball players in the United States. Players from UCLA, Long Beach State, Penn State, Pepperdine, California State, Northridge and Stanford where they live and breathe volleyball all year long.

He said that they have been working a lot on techniques and precision passing and serve receive. Jeff, who played outside hitter for the Oshkosh Titans, said that there has not been a lot of time for hitting and that he was looking forward to this week when he will get a chance to show what he can do.

Jeff wrote, “For me personally, I have been forced to forget everything that I have been taught and start from scratch and I have found it to be not such an easy task. In our first and only hitting drill so far, I went 3 for 10 for kills against a combined 6'10" and 6'11" double block. I’m having a little trouble adjusting to their new ways of passing but I have been told by the coaching staff that I am making great progress and am looking better day by day, which for me right now being a club ball player among NCAA giants, keeps me going.”

If he makes the team he would stay in Anaheim and practice until November when competition starts. If he does not make the team he may be given an opportunity to play overseas starting in November and return to try-out with the USAV Team again in January, 2007.

While the opportunity to compete at this level may be a long shot for him it is nevertheless his dream and I am happy that he decided to go. Who knows, maybe the “club player” will make good of it. Regardless of the outcome, when it’s all said and done and the decision has been made as to who is on the team he will be a better person for having followed his dream. He’s our Buckeye Hills hero and we will continue to be proud of him no matter the outcome.

THE REST OF THE ROAD TRIP

2006-09-18T13:06:00.000-07:00

A lot has happen since I last posted anything on my blog. Seems like May 1 was just a few days ago. That's not the case. It was over four months ago.

If you didn't notice yet, I have added two new links to my "Favorite Links." One is for the "USA National Volleyball Team" and the other one is about "New Orleans." I will tell you later why I added them. In the meantime enjoy my new favorites.

In April I took a road trip to Tallulah, Dallas, Houston, and New Orleans. That was the trip where I visited Caruthersville three days after it had been devastated by a tornado. I told you a little bit about my experiences in Caruthersville but have not told you about the rest of the road trip. It is never too late to finish weaving a story.

The remaining drive into Memphis on I-55 was fast in spite of lane closures for construction. I had considered taking US Hwy 61 through Tunica, Greenville and Greenwood, MS, down to Lake Village, AR and through Lake Providence to Tallulah. Driving through the small towns that time seems to have passed by can be fun sometimes, especially during the daylight hours. But at dusk you have be particularly watchful otherwise you could have a close encounter with a farm tractor, combine or car without lights. People living along the two lane highway are just not in a hurry to go anyplace fast; it's just us folks from up north.

Memphis to Tunica use to be dotted with old country stores, used car lots, cotton gins, grain elevators and other businesses that supported a farming community. Tunica now looks like an oasis sitting out in middle of nowhere, surrounded by corn and cotton fields. It is all swollen now with gambling casinos, hotels, restaurants and gas stations. Instead of supporting the farming community the new businesses along the highway now supports the gamblers. It looks like a scaled down rural version of Las Vegas, neon signs and all.

I wasn't sure I would have enough energy to drive all the way, so I stayed on I-55 just in case I needed to get a hotel room for the night. I tend to stay on interstate roads when I drive at night for that very reason. As it turned out, I spent the night in a little Mississippi town south of Como, MS. Grandma MaMoe was born in Como eons ago. After a good night sleep at the Holiday Inn Express and breakfast at Waffle House the remaining two hundred miles were a piece of cake.

The plan for Tallulah was for Kenny and I to catch as many as those big crappies or "perch" as the law would allow or as many as we could get in the boat, which ever came first. Get'em home, clean'em, get the grease in the skillet very hot, get'em in the hot grease, cook'em, eat'em and life would be good. But as luck would have it, things didn't turn out quite that way. We fished a couple of days at Fortune Fork but never got into the really big perch like everyone else were catching. We didn't have a boat and that limited us to where we fished. We made a trip to Wal-Mart in Vicksburg to buy a boat but they were sold out. Larry Cox, the Sheriff of Tallulah, gave us permission to fish one of his private ponds but it rained that day when Kenny was done with school. Our two day catch didn't produce enough fish for our "fry", but not to fret, Sheriff Cox to the rescue again. I was getting ready to supplement our dismal catch with a local fish market purchase when Bettye called and said that one of Larry's deputies had dropped off a package in her office for me. The package was fish, lots of fish, lots of big perch fish. I said to Kenny, "Life is good when you have perch to put in the hot grease." Kenny replied with an "Amen uncle, that what I'm talking about."

Rwanda, Louisiana?

2006-05-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

Monday, May 01, 2006

Hurricane Katrina is almost a year old and like a lot other folks I am still stewing about how the whole disaster was handled. Oh, excuse me, did I say “handled? What I meant to say was “mishandled.”

The mishandling of Katrina leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It’s like having a mouth full of nasty food and no where to spit it out. So you swallow it and sometimes you are okay unless it upsets your stomach. If that’s the case, your body will force you to regurgitate. That’s about where I am right now when it comes to Katrina.

Can you imagine a place where neighbors kill neighbors solely on the basis of their ethnicity? That’s what occurred in Rwanda in 1994. If you haven’t read the book or saw the movie, “Hotel Rwanda”, go rent the DVD and have at it. Be warned, however, that you won’t be the same afterwards. It’s going to make you mad and it may make you cry.

For decades the Hutus and Tutsis coexisted in Rwanda. Many of them intermingled, married and yet they remained divided by government polices.On his way back from a conference in Tanzania, the president of Rwanda, Paul Kagame, is assassinated. His private jet is shot out of the sky, killing all 13 passengers and crew. Tutsi rebels are suspected, which gives the Hutu militias an excuse to avenge some of their long-standing grievances. Hutu militias and members of the Rwandan military took matters into their own hand. Within hours, hundreds of Tutsi civilians have been butchered. What does Rwanda have to do with Katrina you ask?

The United Nations withdrew its peacekeeping forces from Rwanda and helped thousands of foreign citizens to leave the country. The Rwandan people begged the peacekeepers to take them with them. Yet the UN abandoned these people and the killings continued. The militia butchered more than 900,000 Rwandans before surrendering.

Can you imagine a place in the United States where a major; No, not major, but a catastrophic disaster happened and our governments did not respond until it was too late? It didn’t happen in a far away third world country as you would expect. It happened in south Louisiana; in New Orleans. All the people crowded into the Superdome reminded me of the Rwandans who were holed up in Hotel Diplomates seeking refuge from the Hutus. With all those black people walking in water and making their way to the Superdome, maybe it did look like Rwanda. I know Hurricane Katrina was an act of God. But I also know the federal, state, and local governments’ response to Katrina was an act from hell.

I keep asking myself, “How can a government stand by and watch one of its major cities be devastated?” The people of New Orleans got less response to Katrina than the people affected by the Tsunami in South Asia or the earthquake that hit Pakistan. Our government stood by for days and did next to nothing while Hurricane Katrina and her flood waters destroyed one of its major cities.

I’m glad I didn’t write this article last year in September or October. Then I looked at Katrina and our government’s reaction to it with an eye leaning toward racism. After reading the recently released congressional report, I don’t know if they acted out of indifference, incompetence or plain stupidity. Either way, they showed a total disregard to the lives of the people of New Orleans. As the report stated “Katrina was a national failure, and abdication of the most solemn obligation to provide for the common welfare.”

Based on newspaper articles, it looks as though Mayor Nagin and Governor Blanco were more concerned about the tourism related business than they were about the displacement and deaths of their citizens. Apparently they were worried about being sued by hotels and restaurants for loss of business if the hurricane predictions didn’t turn out to be true. The congressional report went on to say that Nagin and Blanco delayed ordering a mandatory evacuation of New Orleans until only 19 hours before Katrina made landfall. The report said it was not clear how much difference it would have made since so many residents were poor and didn’t have cars or money for a bus ticket.

The report went on to say that decisions were hard to come by and nobody could figure out who was in charge. President Bush was at his ranch in Texas, Vice-President Chaney was fishing in Wyoming and the chief of staff was in Maine. The report further said that President Bush’s involvement earlier would have made a world of difference.

Last week I spent a day in New Orleans visiting the French Quarters, Bourbon Street, French Market and both the Upper and Lower 9th Ward. It will take New Orleans years to recover and man of its people will never be the same. I wonder what our government’s response would be if such a catastrophic disaster occurred in “Kenne Town.”

SPECULATION

2006-04-10T20:12:00.000-07:00

Speculation
Tuesday, April 4, 2006

Twisters and tornados are not uncommon to this area. Most of the folks I talked to had experienced at least one; some had been in two, especially the gentleman in the second house.

The gentleman in the second house said he had a storm shelter in the backyard but the door needed fixing and he had been too lazy to fix it. He had also watched the funnel cloud from his yard. The funnel cloud, he said, was easy to distinguish because it was silhouetted against the western skyline just before dark. Off in a distance he said he could see the power line transformers exploding. After he went into the house he tried to open the back door to look out and couldn’t. He said he knew it was time to get out of there. He put his family in the pickup and drove south down the gravel road as fast as the truck would go.

The tornado took out his garage next to the house. The barn in the backyard was reduced to a big pile of rubble; a big tree crushed through the roof of on the backside f his house. His wife car looked like it has just been dug out of a mud hole. The tornado popped all the windows out of her car except the windshield. Jokingly he said that he needed to get around to fixing that shelter door.

Down the gravel road to the north about 800 yards is where the third house use to sit. His neighbors that lived there weren’t so lucky. Nothing was left of that house. It was literally picked up and smashed against a very large tree. The tree was the only thing that kept it from being totally scattered across the field. What remained was a pile of debris wrapped around that large tree. Some of the house was scattered across the filed in front. A TV was lying in the ditch as was a refrigerator, and a butane tank. A camping trailer that was parked in the yard was reduced to a frame with tires. It was thrown 80 yards east from where it set next to the house. The gentleman that lives in the house was at church Sunday when the tornado hit. His mother said that if he hadn’t been in church he would have been home sleeping. She speculated about what would have happened to if he had not been in church. From the looks of what remained of his house I also speculated in my mind about what would have happened to him.

A visiting relative said the tornado sounded like death and she would never ever forget the feeling of helplessness. She said the tornado came and went in a matter of seconds. That, after it left entire houses were just not there anymore. Both she and the gentleman’s mother were thankful that he went to church Sunday.

It was hard to identify anything that looked like furniture or appliances. The landscape littered with metal, siding, roofing, and insulation. Insulation covered the ground like snow in Wisconsin. Everything was covered with mud; the things that the wind didn’t blow away were beat down by baseball sized hail. It was a grim and depressing reminder how powerful and violent a tornado can be.

It seems like this tornado had a mind of its own, picking and choosing which houses to leave and which houses to destroy. While I know scientifically that this was not the case, I do know it’s difficult if not impossible to predict the nature of tornados. Weather forecasters can only predict what tornados can do by looking at what they have done in the past. But it wasn’t hard to predict what the people on the gravel were going to do. They were upbeat and in good spirits considering the loss they suffered. They all said they were happy to be alive and were going to rebuild their houses.

Now I know there is a lesson for me in this experience someplace and it’s probably looking me in the face, but I don’t see it yet. On second thought, maybe I do see the lesson. What I overheard from all the residents on the gravel road what that they were thankful to be alive; that houses can be rebuilt; material things can be replaced, but lives cannot.

Caruthersville

2006-04-07T09:02:00.000-07:00

Caruthersville
Tuesday, April 4, 2006

The strangest thing happened though. I didn’t head to south to Memphis as planned; instead I headed north to Caruthersville, Missouri. I wasn’t sure what to expect, since I had never been in the aftermaths of a tornado before, but I headed that way anyway. I was thinking, “Okay, you are going there, but what are you going to do when you get there?” I didn’t have any idea what I was going to do but headed that way anyway. Thirty miles later I exited Interstate 55 east to the small rural town of Caruthersville. The sign at the top of the exit said, “Carutherville-3.”

Caruthersville is a town of 6,700 and is located in Pemiscot County about 90 miles north of Memphis, Tennessee. As I made the three mile drive toward town I began to see the devastation. It was unbelievable. It was like a bad dream that I wanted to wake up from, but couldn’t. Trees, power lines and parts of houses were spewed everywhere on both sides of the main highway into town. Last night the news media said the tornado had winds upwards of 200 mph. They said it crossed the Mississippi River and headed east through Braggadocio, Missouri into Caruthersville. On its way to Caruthersville, the tornado cut a thirty-mile wide trail across four counties in western Tennessee.

Despite the extensive devastation I was now looking at, it was hard to believe that only one critical injury was reported. The local newspaper reported that “more than sixty-percent of the land area and seventy-five percent of the people in Caruthersville” were impacted. But other towns like Bagota, Bradford Dyer, Millsfield, and Newbern, residents weren’t so lucky. Emergency Management Authorities say that at least 23 were killed and more than 80 were injured.

Residents were busy cutting trees, raking debris and putting tarps on the roofs of the few houses that were still standing. You could easily see the path the tornado took; the incredible power it struck with, and the devastation left in its wake. The national guards had all the access points to town blocked and were checking identifications. Only workers and other essential service providers were allowed to enter the town. I didn’t try to get into the town. I could only imagine what the town looked liked since the outskirts looked like a war zone.

I drove around the outskirts of town for a while and finally got up enough nerve to get out of the Tahoe and walk around. I stopped on a gravel road about two or three miles east of town where three houses use to sit. I could hear the sound of chain saws and smell the mixture of gasoline and oil that powered them. I debated over whether to take my camera with me. I didn’t want to be intrusive or insensitive, so I kept it around my neck and on my back. I still wasn’t sure what to do, so I just started walking toward the piles of debris.

A man came out of a camper that he and his wife were now living in. He lived in the first house with his wife and child. It didn’t take him long notice my awkwardness. He came up and just started talking to me. He had been watching the news and said he saw the tornado coming. He said it looked like a massive dark cloud coming at him. His wife and child had already taken cover in a closet. He said when he saw the funnel cloud; he went to the closet, told his wife that he loved her, said a prayer and held on to them for dear life. He said the tornado didn’t sound like a train; but more like a roar. His house was still on its foundation but heavily damaged and unlivable. A tree had fallen on his garage that caved it in on top his vehicles. It was such a mess that I couldn’t tell how many cars was in the garage. He was very thankful that he and his family are still alive. By now residents of the house next door are out on the gravel road talking to me.

Road Trip

2006-04-06T12:47:00.000-07:00

Road Trip
Tuesday, April 4, 2006

At one time or another I remember my daddy saying, “Time waits for no man.” Not only does it not wait, but it really flies. I was just looking at my last blog posting. That was on January 10, almost three months ago. I have got to blog more. It’s not that I haven’t been writing because I have. I’ve been spending more time writing my book than I have keeping up my blog. Sorry!

Right now I am sitting at McDonalds in Winona, Mississippi eating a double fish filet wit cheese and drinking a Dr. Pepper. The fish sandwich is good but not as good as freshly caught crappie and bluegills. I will get into them before the week is gone, and as many crawfish as I can eat.

I need to tell you about an experience I had on the way down here. You may or may not have heard on national news about the tornados that struck Missouri last Sunday. Anyways, I was traveling south on Interstate 55 when 6-7 power line repair trucks passed me going north in the opposite direction. They were quite a spectacle. A highway patrol cruiser was leading them; sirens blaring and flashing lights. Along the interstate highway workers were fixing road signs that were lying in the ditches. Then I remembered the news from last night in the hotel room in Cape Girardeau, Missouri about the string of tornados that plummeted Missouri. Now I understood where the power line trucks were going.

I pulled into the Arkansas welcome center to use the bathroom. I had to wail a little bit. There was a tour bus there with lots of people older than me. I went inside the center afterwards and talked to the attendant. I asked him where the tornado had touched down and he told me about thirty miles north behind me. I thought, “Do I go back and take a look or stay on my schedule to be in Tallulah around 4pm.” I decided it would be too much of a hassle to back track thirty miles. So I continued my drive on to Memphis. I wanted to be there by noon. For the next ten miles I was thinking that this something that I needed to experience; that I may never have this opportunity again.

Ten miles later I pulled into a gas station. I didn’t need any gas but I wanted to get a local newspaper. I wanted to see what towns were hit the hardest. Sure enough on the front page of Monday and Tuesday’s paper were pictures and stories of devastation. I made small talk with a gentleman who was waiting for his sister who was coming in from North Carolina on the Greyhound bus. Seems the bus left her in Memphis and she was to be on the next bus but he didn’t know what time it was to arrive. So he was waiting for her at the gas station, but he didn’t know how long he had to wait. He owns a landscaping business and we talked about the pros and cons of working hourly versus being paid a flat amount for the job. I put away two regular chicken wings and to hot wings and a Sobe soda. It was time to hit the road if I wanted to be in Memphis by noon.

What The Heck Was That?

2006-01-10T10:10:00.001-08:00

We were up this morning at 6:30AM. Ron and I went in to the MiniMart for coffee, and a sausage and egg muffin. It's a daily ritual with him before he starts his work day. All the locals are there. You get to see everybody and find out what happened yesterday, read the paper and find out what everyone has planned for the day.

Ron had to go sort sheep and take a load of them to another town. Yesterday we sorted the real pregnant sheep from the moderately pregnant ones and moved them into the lambing barn. The real pregnant ones should start having their babies soon. That was a lot of hard work, but I like helping him and Dave with chores. Helping them is my was of saying that I appreciate what they do for me when I come down to hunt. Not nearly an even trade, but it makes me feel better.

While Ron was sorting and hauling sheep, Caity and I went on a three hour hunt by ourselves. For an almost seven month old puppy she did a great job. She flushed three pheasants this morning, but they were all girl birds and you can only shoot the boys. The first one she flushed by accident and didn't see it until it was thirty yards away. She stopped, looked at it, and continued her search for birds. At that age I don't think she knows yet what she looking for. She was sniffing and smelling for scents, stopping to look up to see what was going on and where I was. The second pheasnat flushed about ten yards from her. I think it startled her. She came back to me and sat down behind me. I could just imagine what was going on in her head. She had that look on her face as if to say, "What the heck was that?" She stayed close to me for the next half hour before she decided to start hunting again. The third pheasant flushed right from under her nose. She stood up on her hind legs and watch it fly away as I yelled to her, "hen" letting her know that we were only after the boy birds, "roosters." She didn't go chasing after it but came back to where the pheasant had been sitting and got a good nose full of its scent. That was all the stimulation she needed for the remainder of the morning hunt. However, we never flushed another bird, boy or girl. It didn't matter because the only goal we had was to flush a few birds so she could figure out what's it all about. I think she almost has it figured out, almost!

Ron may get a chance to hunt with me this afternoon, if the babies don't start coming.

Holler at you later!

Now, Where Was I?

2006-01-09T06:54:00.000-08:00

Now, Where Was I?

It's been a while since I've written anything on my blog. I have been busy finishing up the homestead. Got all that done except for one upstairs room. It will be my writing room where random and not so ramdom thoughts will flow and take on life. That will get done this month, sometime.

Right now I'm down in Malcom, IA with my friend Ron and his wife Patty. Came down last Wednesday night to get a last pheasant hunt in before the season closes tomorrow, Tuesday. Thought we would have some snow but that's not in the cards. I like hunting in the snow. It's easier to hunt them when they leave tracks in the snow. And you don't end up spending time where they are not. Thursday we did chores on his farm. Putting bedding down for the lambs, getting the pens ready for them lambs to have their babies which starts tomorrow. He has about 600 head of lambs and they will all have at least one baby and some of them will have, two, three and four babies. Friday morning we went to Kalona to pick up a load of sheep from an auction barn and brought them back for a guy that Ron knows.

It's been extremely mild and most all the snow is gone. I have been trying to give Caity, my new lab, some hunting experience. She has been out a couple of times so far, but she is still pretty young and I have to keep reminding myself how young she is. But its hard when you have hunted behind an experienced lab like Beau. I told Ron yesterday that I should put a sign on her forehead that says, "I'm a puppy, be patient with me."

Anyways, we hunted south of Malcom in Otumwa over the weekend and had a lot of fun with quail and lots of pheasants. We were going to go south to Bloomfield near the Missouri border but made friends with a family and hunted around Agency both days. We didn't see any quail on Saturday but got into them pretty good on Sunday with the help of our newly made friends. Apparently we were hunting too far east, we think.

Today I need to clean the birds we shot yesterday and maybe get a two hour hunt in before noon. Ron has to move sheep and I will probably hunt alone this morning.

My next appointment with my doctor will be on January 24 and I little nervous and excited at the same time. I know my PSA won't be anywhere near zero, but if it continues to decline I will be happy. I haven't been dwelling on my condition lately because in the grand scheme of things, my stuff is minor. When I'm back in Madison this week I look forward to spending time with my best buddy who is having some health issues. I won't go into details here but will bring you "Up To Speed" later.

In spite of everything that's going on life remains good and I look forward to getting up, standing upright and taking in fresh air.

Later

I GOT ALL MY SISTERS

2005-12-01T18:48:00.000-08:00

“We are family, I got all my sisters with me.
We are family, get up everybody and sing.”

That is the chorus to a song by Sister Sledge from their album “We Are Family.” The album features the four Sledge sisters with some of the background vocals done by Luther Vandross.

Anyway, that song has been going through my head since before three of my four sisters paid me a visit in Madison during Thanksgiving. And my other brother, Steve was also here. Frankie had guest visiting her in Houston and didn’t come. Plus, they played the Bayou Classic in Houston on Saturday after Thanksgiving because of Hurricane Katrina’s devastation to New Orleans. Betty, Deloris and Vivian (Along with Dawn and Kenny) came last Tuesday and left this past Monday. The Sister Sledge couldn’t have said it any better when it comes to the great time we had during those six days. This was my first Thanksgiving with them since 1968, I think.

We had done major cosmetic work to the house to make things comfortable for them since the place hadn’t been touched in the last twenty years. Twenty years of accumulated, random junk. Most of the cosmetic work had to do with removing all the carpet and having wooden floors installed downstairs and the floors upstairs refinished. Most of the rooms were painted and we put new draperies in all the rooms. I completed the last of the work before driving down to O’Hare to pick them up late Tuesday night. Whew, I was tired, but also excited about getting them to the house to see what had been done.

I have four of the most loving and godly sisters that a brother could ask for. They all want to take care of me. They always did, even when Mamma was here. And they love having me cook for them. That is exactly what I had planned. All three of them said on Sunday, “What are we going to do on Tuesday when we are at home after eating all this good food here for six days?” It’s not that they don’t cook, (All of them are excellent cooks, except for Bettye. She would rather not, if she can help it) but they were on vacation. The food just taste better when it’s shared with someone else, especially family, and when they are also good cooks. I love cooking for them.

Dawn, Deloris’ daughter, and I made homemade baking powder biscuits just about every morning. Now, there is a story behind this biscuit thing. We can still remember when Mamma use to make biscuits from scratch, too. Those were the good old days. Buttermilk biscuits with Brer Rabbit Syrup on top and oatmeal or grits on the side. As Archie Bunker would say, “Those were the days.” That is, until Mamma went to visit her sister, Novella, in Chicago. You see, Aunt Novella had become industrialized. She didn’t do biscuits from scratch anymore. Just about everything she made came out of a can. It was there in Chicago that she introduced Mamma to Hungry Jack biscuits in a can. Since then biscuits at our 312 ½ Bozemen Street homestead were never the same. Some of us didn’t speak to Aunt Novella for a long time and there are others of us that are still mad at her. What can I say, we love our home made biscuits.

Now, Jon and I have cooked many a biscuit on Christmas and New Year’s morning. And they have turned out decent, but Dawn and I got down and rightfully dirty with these biscuits. Our goal was to produce a biscuit that people all around the world (At least on Starker Avenue) would want resting on their plate next to their grits, and waiting to be jellied and buttered. This biscuit would have to stay together when separated; not fall into a heaping mound of crumbs when the top was separated from the bottom. A biscuit that would withstand the rigors of jelly and butter spreading without falling apart. I’m here to tell you that by the third morning we had biscuit making down to a science. We took notes on what our clients reported and adjusted the recipe for the next batch. We will have to wait and see if Dawn remembers how we got to such a high level of perfection when she goes home to visit from Southern.

Of course, Vivian made her signature caramel cake and an award winning sweet potato casserole for Thursday, and a big pot of pinto beans for our other brother, Steve, on Wednesday. Wednesday’s dinner was a feast in itself. Along with the pinto beans, we had a heaping pot of Jean’s Seafood Gumbo, smothered pheasants, rum cake, an Iowa ham, corn bread and rice. Yummy, yummy, ya, ya! (No, that’s not a song; it means the food was really good. Like when you step on it) By Thanksgiving’s Day dinner, I joked that Emeril would have armed wrestled Steve for a place at our table. Emeril would have lost though. Steve is a big, big boy. We sat a table that Martha would have been proud of. (Viv and Martha are real tight)

Now when you live, sleep and eat with non-industrialize southern women, life can be energetic. Put the three of them with a mailman and anything is liable to happen. Take for instance their sleeping habits. I would swear that Bettye and Steve didn’t go to bed Wednesday night, but, they say they did. They were up before the 5AM Thursday morning. I know because I was laying in bed listening to them. Without the carpet, I thought they were in my bedroom. Bettye is usually asleep by 6PM and up by 4:30AM, meditating, reading or exercising. Steve is a mailman and he’s got the same “up early” hours no matter the weather. I’d try to beat Vivian to the kitchen and she was usually finishing her first cup of coffee by the time I got there.

During all the cosmetic work, I had taken the dining room chandelier down with the intention of replacing it with a more modern ceiling fan. It was one of those things on the list that never got done. Anyway, Thursday morning after breakfast I knew that the work light had to be replaced with something more formal before dinner. So, I’m thinking, “There is nothing open today to buy a fan.” Maybe I could clean the old chandelier’s crystals, put in new bulbs and put it back until I could replace it. Let me tell you, a new fan wouldn’t have come close to the ambience that the old chandelier added to the dining room. And to think I was about to toss it out. With the crystals cleaned, catching and reflecting the light from brand new bulbs, the dining room was transformed into a lovely place to eat.

Steve and Bettye got Kenny really going by saying something about his “dog”, Kolby Bryant. You see, Kenny and Kolby are like possum and sweet potatoes. Thursday after breakfast they got him going about what Kolby was doing in the hotel room with that girl. Kenny insisted that Kolby was framed. He said that when all that hotel room stuff happened, Kolby was in Las Vegas playing bingo; that Kolby was just sitting in Las Vegas, minding his own business and waiting for the number B-19 to win.

It snowed most of the way back to Madison Tuesday night. We woke up Wednesday to enough snow for Dawn and Kenny to build a midget snow man. They swept up all the snow from the deck and went to work. When they finished it looked a lot like the snow man on “Charlie Brown’s Christmas Show.” That was an understatement. It looked just like that snow man. Kenny put his favorite Laker’s head band on it. I took pictures of them with that snow man just in case there would be any non-believers out there. I think this was their first experience with snow.

I remember an episode of Sanford and Son where Red Foxx went someone’s house that lived in the suburbs. When he walked in he had this strange and confused look on his face. When the woman asked, “What’s the matter?”, he said “I don’t know but when I find out I will tell you.” A little while later, after he had gone through the woman’s junk, he looked at the woman and said. “You know what’s wrong with this house?” And the woman replied, “No, What? He said, “Your house don’t have no smell.” “You know, fried chicken smell, collard green smell.”

By the time we finished cooking on Thursday and with all the wonderful foods we cooked on Wednesday, the house smelled like the Food Network kitchen. The smells permeated the entire house. It smelled wonderfully delicious. It a toss up as to whether I enjoyed the food or the smells better.

No matter the foods we ate, the biscuits Dawn and I cooked, the smells I enjoyed or the ambience of the crystal chandelier, Thanksgiving this year was grand. It was grand because I had “almost” all my sisters with me.

Later, and I love ya!

Thirty Day Check Up

2005-11-08T00:40:00.000-08:00

At breakfast this morning I read an article in the Wisconsin State Journal entitled “A Plan for Cancer Survivors.” I am not a survivor yet, and that's not caught my attention. But something else caught my attention. The article stated that “Half of all men and on-third of women in the United States will develop cancer in their lifetimes. Thanks to advances in early detection and treatment, the number who survive has more than tripled over the past three decades.” Something to think about, right? Both the number who will get cancer and the survival rate. The key to surviving cancer remains early detection.

Now that I have your attention.

Yesterday, I went to see my oncologist for my thirty-day check up. It has been an extra long wait since my last treatment in October. Needless to say, I was and have been apprehensive about what the outcome would be. Remember, I told you earlier on that my two PSA tests were 12.1 and 9.9. The original test in early June I scored 12.1 and the follow-up test in late July I scored a 9.9. I was hoping for a score of anything less that 9.9. A PSA score of less than 9.9 would at least mean that something positive had happen with the radiation treatment. But I still have to go six months before I’ll know for sure. Then, after that some kind of after treatment program.

Anyway, I took the test minutes before I saw the doctor and had to wait until the afternoon before I got the results. I know, more waiting. I was suppose to call after 3PM for the results but didn’t call until well after 4PM. (I think subconsciously I made myself busy so I wouldn’t remember to call. Maybe I was afraid to call to learn the results) Before I met with Dr. Ritter I met with the nurse who had me answer a follow-up questionnaire about my symptoms, weighed me and took my blood pressure. (I was thinking to myself, “Why do I have to be weighed? “Did my prostate gained or lost poundage?”) Dr. Ritter’s intern came in and asked me specific questions about some of symptoms I am having. He specifically wanted to know about my stream. (You know, urinating) I told him that sometimes when I have an urge to go and get there nothing happens. He said, “What exactly do you mean?” I said “It feel like you are going but when I look down nothing is happening.” So, now I’m thinking, “Okay I know it were there a minute ago, where did it go.” I’m standing there thinking all kinds of thoughts. “Did it go inside me someplace?” “Where did it go?” I told him it was a weird.

My PSA results are promising. It was 6.7. It’s still in the high range. But based on what the doctor told me and on my understanding it should continue to decline. I’m happy with the score. Like I said before, anything less than 9.9 would have been good. I still have about six months before I will know the final results.

Dr. Ritter was pleased with the few symptoms I am having and didn’t feel that I need to take any other medications, besides the Flo-Max that helps me do #1. While all is not perfect, its close enough for government work, horseshoes and grenades. My next check up is two months away, January 5.

Besides the PSA test, I visited with my technicians while I was there. They were happy to see me and I was happy to see them. I had seen them for a while. We all gave each other great big hugs and kisses. I had gotten use to seeing them every day for six week and then you are done with treatment and you don’t have to go anymore and so you don’t see them anymore. They look the same, still good natured and taking care of people. Jessie is letting her hair grow, Stephanie is pregnant but don’t look it, Justin moved to another unit and Mary is still charming as ever. It felt weird and wonderful at the same time being there and not getting treatment. Wonderful was seeing the technicians who took care of me and weird because I had to use the bathroom where I sat after many treatment sessions. Only this time I was using the bathroom in an upright position.

Caity, my new chocolate lab, is adjusting very well. (Rather I’m adjusting well) I took her to Iowa when Milt and I hunted there last week. Took her out with Ron’s dog, Zoie, her sister and she did really well. She and Zoie played like there would be no tomorrow. I was worried that she would be afraid of the shotgun noise but she wasn’t. This is good. She has a really good nose and loves to retrieve. This girl can really eat and is getting really big. She is good company.

I have been working on the house for about four weeks now. All the carpet downstairs in the living and dining area was removed and oak hardwood floors were installed. The floors got done last week. Now everything has to be moved back and I have to get some painting done before everyone arrives on the 22nd.

But before the rest of it gets done Caity and I are taking another trip to Iowa to chase more pheasants and quail. Patty’s brother, Mike, is there from Canada. We will hunt with him and Ron a few days before Mike has to head back home on Sunday. We should get some really good hunts in if he and Ron haven’t shot up all the birds already.

Later, I’m Up!

Tracing My African Roots

2005-11-04T08:35:00.000-08:00

I have always had in interest in African American history for as long as I can remember. But it was during my first teaching job in Racine in 1968 that I became a devoted learner of African American history. I was hired to teach Industrial Arts at McKinley Junior High School but convinced my principal to let me teach a black history class as an extra teaching assignment. During the next three years, in preparation for class, I learned all that was available about slavery and black people who helped make America the great country it is today.

Like many other blacks, I have always wondered about what part of Africa my ancestors came from. But I am not as fortunate as Alex Haley to be able to trace my family roots back to a specific family member in Africa.

I watched the phenomenally successful television mini-series “Roots” during the 1970’s. Alex Haley told of his own family’s saga beginning with an African ancestor named, Kunta Kinte. Since then thousands of African Americans have traveled to West Africa hoping find out more about their African lineage. However, many returned from their trips frustrated by the absence of specific information about their roots.

But now as science races forward, DNA testing will allow thousands Americans to trace their genealogical ancestry back to Africa and other European countries. It will allow them to take a step into the past. Professor Rick Kittles, a Howard University geneticist, has developed a DNA test that allows African Americans to trace their African heritage. The test gives blacks an opportunity to find out where their African ancestors came from. Professor Kittles co-founded a company called African Ancestry out of a personal endeavor to find out his own African linage.

African Ancestry sends you a kit containing two swabs. You rub them along the inside of your cheeks, and then use an overnight delivery service to get the samples to the company’s laboratory. Your samples are compared to an African Lineage Database. The exclusive database contains the DNA maps for over 9,000 African individuals from 82 population groups drawn from across all the regions exploited by the trans-Atlantic slave trade, from Senegal in the northwest of Africa to Mozambique in the southwest. Most blacks came to the United Sates from the West Coast of African areas that are now Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Ghana and Sierra Leone. Smaller numbers of slaves came from Senegal, the Gambia, the Congo River basin and Angola.

For $349 African Ancestry Inc. will test either your female or male lines. The Male line is the one in which your name is passed down. The test to find out where your father’s father came from relies on the male Y-chromosome.

The oldest member of my family on Daddy’s side is Horace Fountain. Horace was born in 1820 but I haven’t figured out his relationship to me yet. My family research has been stuck in the year 1820 for a few years now and I have been trying to figure out to get it moving forward again. Maybe the DNA test is just the needed jump start. A trip to Africa you say? Well I do plan to visit Africa in the near future but not until I take that test. (I was just thinking. They’ve been looking for me for a while and once I take this DNA test they will surely find out where I am. They’ll probably be sending their “peoples” and the car around for me, heh, heh, heh). I don’t expect to find out a lot of detailed information. Generally, if the test can determine what area of the African West Coast my ancestors came from I would be happy. Then a trip to Africa would be in order. But I have to save some money first though.

About 3,000 people have been tested by African Ancestry according to figures from the company’s website. Good Morning America did a report on the DNA testing on October 21. GMA reported that several celebrities have taken the tests, including talk show host Opra Winfrey, director Spike Lee, actor Isaiah Washington and ABC News’s Ron Claiborne.
The idea and possibility of finding out what part of Africa my ancestors came from is one of the most exciting breakthroughs since I began my family research project some thirty years ago. I expect that I will be ordering that DNA kit real soon.

Later!

Why Did The Turkey Cross The Road

2005-10-26T10:02:00.000-07:00

Why did the turkey cross the road?

Thanksgiving Day in America is a time to give thanks, of family gatherings and family food. It is a time for turkey, stuffing, and sweet potato pie. It is a time for shopping, football and marks the unofficial beginning of the winter holiday season. A day is set side to give thanks in many other parts of the world also. The date and customs vary from country to country but the desire to take time to reflect on life's blessings remains the same.

It all started when the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock on December 11, 1620. Their first winter at Plymouth Rock was devastating. By the beginning of the next fall, they had lost 46 of the original 102 who set sailed on the Mayflower. The crops they harvested in 1621 were bountiful. The remaining colonists decided to celebrate the harvest with a feast. The celebration included 91 Indians who had helped the Pilgrims survive their first year. It is believed that the Pilgrims would not have made it through the year without the help of the natives. The feast was more of a traditional English harvest festival than a true "thanksgiving" observance. It lasted three days.

Question: What kind of music did the Pilgrims like?

Answer: Plymouth Rock

In the spirit of the Pilgrims, this year Yogi’s Gang has will to travel to Madison to celebrate Thanksgiving Day with me and my family. Like the Pilgrims, we have also lost most of our original colonist. Many in our family members will not be with us at this gathering and a very special “kudos” is shouted out to them. We didn’t harvest any corn, cotton or other crops this year but our spiritual harvest is bountiful, like the Pilgrims’ second year harvest.

We have much for which to be thankful. We are thankful for Daddy who had the courage, wisdom and will-power to move us from the plantation. We thank him for his stamina and endurance to work two jobs to take care us. We are thankful for Mama who worked in the fields along with Daddy but she was also always there to take care of our physical and emotional needs; encouraging us to do well in school. We are thankful to both of them for their undying and unconditional love for us.

We are also thankful for all of our original colonists who celebrated with the natives in 1621 and all the years following. They have come and gone before us. For it is because of all of them that life in this place is better for all of us remaining colonists.

I remain relatively symptom free from my prostate cancer and optimistic that the radiation treatment will be successful. I am thankful that my doctor detected it early. In addition to all the good food, Thanksgiving will also be a time for my family to celebrate my retirement.

This will be the first time in many years that most of us have spent Thanksgiving together. For some of us this will be our first Thanksgiving together. Bettye, Vivian, Ken, Deloris, and Dawn are coming from Tallulah. The Racine clan of Steve, Cheryl, Nathan, Nicholas and Nolan will be here too.

Jeremy and Emily are coming as well as Jon and Jeff. Kara Lyn and Breanna Elizabeth are coming from Minnesota. (Breanna is Jeremy daughter) I expect that things will be rocking on Starker Avenue by Thursday. The house will be full, lots of good food (pinto beans, gumbo, caramel cake, corn bread, turkey, dressing, sweet potato pie—oh, yummy), lots of pictures, football and shopping.

Answer: It was the chicken's day off.

How sweet it is. Life is good.

Later!

Life Is Good, Isn't It?

2005-10-12T11:13:00.000-07:00

I haven’t blogged for about three weeks. And it feels good to be back at my keyboard again. I have so much to talk about but will restrict my thoughts, for right now, about how things are going with me.

It’s been two weeks to today that I had my last radiation treatment. As I said before, I went and left there with mixed emotions. First, I was glad to get the ordeal over with and second, it was like ending a fight that you don’t know if you won or lost. I will have my first PSA test on November 3. It’s pretty early and the test will probably be inconclusive because it will be only thirty days after my last treatment. My doctor doesn’t expect a significant drop in my PSA but over the next six months it should be near zero if the radiation worked. That’s the hard part, waiting.

While the last day was filled with mixed emotions, I had a really good time with my therapy team. The night before, I baked one of Vivian’s signature caramel cakes. Now, for some strange reason if you haven’t heard, Vivian makes the best caramel cakes in Louisiana, maybe the whole world. People have been known to fight over the last piece. It wasn’t as good as the one she makes but my therapist team thought it was pretty good stuff. It wasn’t as much about how good it was as much as it was about it being my way of saying to them that I appreciated all that they had done for me. (I still don’t like that damn rectal balloon. That’s why I didn’t bring it home with me)

The week and a half after my last treatment was harder than I thought it would be. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom doing number one and number two. It was like trying to pour a glass of water through a straw. Most difficult it was. Besides that and feeling a little worn out around 2 PM, I felt generally good. The symptoms are getting less obvious as time goes by. This week has been a good week.

Last Friday I met up with a few people from school and had a few beers at the Harmony. That was nice because it was all the people who have been concerned about me and who have watched my back all the years I was at East. We had a good time and a lot of questions were answered. They thought that I would look sick and have no hair. They all said that I looked great. (But my back side was really burning. I had to go before I left home, that’s why I was late. But maybe I would have been late anyway, as usual) Thanks guys, I love you all.

I want to send Kudos to my fishing buddy in Tallulah, Mr. Ken. I know you are/were worried about me and I love you for that. We spend a lot of time together in a boat. While not many words shared, except “You got a bite” we share some wonderful fishing stories and have a good time when we are together. Ken, besides Nikki, you are my sticky Louisiana mud.

As a reward to my getting through treatment, I went to visit Ron and Patty in Iowa for a couple of days last week. I spent time riding on the combine with Ron cutting beans and corn. It’s always a treat for me to go there to slow things down a bit. It’s about as close to going to Tallulah as I can get. When I was working, I went there to hunt but mostly to get away. Ron and I were in the truck going back to the combine when I said, “You know what?” and he said “what” and I replied, “I can come hunting anytime I want to. I am retired.” With all the stuff that happened this summer, it was the first time that I realized that I don’t have to hunt just on Saturday and come home on Sunday. I can hunt as long as I want to, heh, heh, heh. Life is good, isn’t it?

Oh, I forgot to tell you that I got a new dog while I was in Iowa. It’s a chocolate Lab and I named her Caity. She is a fine dog of fourteen weeks and a lot of work. When Beau was here, he went to his corner and I went to mine. Caity needs a lot of attention and I had forgotten just how much. I don’t know who’s training who.

Well enough for now. I will holler at you later. About what I do not know, but I will holler back

Later!

No Modesty Towel Today, Sir?

2005-09-27T16:00:00.000-07:00

“Then Jessie handed me the modesty towel”

When I first started this journey some three weeks ago I had no idea as to how I was going to physically do it. My thought was to deal with it one day at a time. I recently read something by a famous writer who used an analogy of driving a car at night to describe writing. As I look back on the last fifteen days, I see the same similarity. “It’s like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. You don’t have to see where you’re going; you don’t have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you.”

A treatment plan that took almost all summer to decide on is near its end. Today marks day fifteen of the sixteen day plan. I went to treatment today with mixed emotions. Firstly, I went with a sense of relief that I am almost done. And secondly, I went with the feeling that somehow I will miss going every day. (I know my therapists are going to think I am a really sick person when they see this comment) But that is not saying that I love that rectal balloon anymore than I did on day one. What I am saying is that going to therapy every day means that I am actively engaged in combat with the villain. That not going everyday tend to imply that I’m waiting for the next round or to see if the fight is over, for good. (That was profound, yes?)

Besides all that, I have become really comfortable with my therapy team. When I first started I was embarrassed pulling my pants down around my ankles in front of them. (You know, assume the position) But by day fifteen that was old hat. Fact is, I arrived this morning, got into the therapy room, dropped my pants and underwear and didn’t even use the modesty towel. There I was, up on the table and with not an ounce of embarrassment. Then Jessie handed me the modesty towel, reminding me that I needed to cover up my stuff. That’s how comfortable have become with them. My other “peoples.”

“…has given me the inner strength to look at myself…”

My journey with the treatment plan has been a real growth process for me. As I said yesterday,it has been both a learning process as well as a revealing process. In addition to my therapy team, I have a lot of people to thank for that. I want get to naming names for fear that I will leave someone out. Anyways, thank all of you for reading about all my experiences. Writing has given me the inner strength to look at myself in relationship to the grand order of things in life. Early on I told myself that whatever came out of all this would make me a better and stronger person. I meditated a lot about the possible outcomes while at the same time strongly believing that what was going to happen will happen. My job will be to take what happens and figure out what that has to do with the grand order of things in life.

I’m up, Later!

I'm Glad You Asked

2005-09-26T15:03:00.000-07:00

By now you know that I am in the final week of radiotherapy for prostate cancer. Sometimes I call it radiation treatment. They are both the same. Since I found out I had prostate cancer I have learned much about cancer and about myself in the process. I can talk more openly than I did in the past. (Sometimes I think I talk too much) Anyway, I was never one to deal with all the body parts. Mine were all functioning so there was no need deal with such matters. But now it seems like I can’t know enough. My therapy team thinks I know a lot, but there is still more that I don’t know.

I have been asked many good questions; questions that I also asked myself in the beginning. When I was told that I had prostate cancer, I didn’t even know exactly where my prostate was located, what it was, or what it looked like. Besides the obvious questions of what it is, where is it and what does it do, here are the questions that I am asked most often:

“Doesn’t the radiation make you sick?

When most people, including myself, think chemotherapy when you say the word “cancer.” That’s not the case anymore. Radiotherapy and chemotherapy is not the same thing. Chemotherapy uses medications to destroy cancer cells anywhere in your body. Chemotherapy is given either by pill or injection. Radiotherapy uses a beam of radiation, much like that of an x-ray, directed at the prostate to destroy the cancer. My whole body doesn’t get radiation.

“Does it hurt?”

No, the radiation doesn’t hurt at all. I don’t feel a thing during a treatment session. It’s just like having an x-ray done.

“How did you get prostate cancer?”

As you get older, (And I have gotten older) the prostate changes. It many cases, as in mine, my prostate became enlarged. The medical term for an enlarged prostate is benign prostatic hyperplasia. (Did you get that? It took me a while to figure that one out) The larger the prostate becomes the more PSA (prostate specific antigen) it produces. PSA is an enzyme that is only produced by the prostate cells. These cells are either normal or cancerous. PSA is leaked into the bloodstream by the prostate cells which can be measured by a PSA blood test. The more enzymes that are produced, the more the enzyme is leaked into the bloodstream.

“How did you find out you had prostate cancer?”

I have been getting a PSA blood test, in addition to a prostrate exam, done every year I have a physical examination. The doctor felt a hard spot on my prostate and my PSA blood test results were significantly higher than the last time. It had gone from about 7.1 to 12.1 and that was enough to alert my doctor.

“How much PSA is normally leaked into the bloodstream?”

For men 60 years old or less, the normal level is about 2.5. The normal range is about 4.0 for older men since the prostate usually enlarges and makes more PSA with age.

“What is the average PSA of men with prostate cancer?”

The average PSA for men with prostate cancer is about 7.2. Fifteen percent of men with prostate cancer have a PSA below 4.0.

Like I said earlier, I am in the final week of treatment and, for the most part, have been symptom free. I have minor bouts with diarrhea, soreness of the rectum, constant urination and sometimes I get a little fatigued in the late afternoon. Besides that, I feel good.

I leave you with the words of Elbert Hubbard, author of “The Forbes Book of Business Quotations,”

“A Friend is a person who knows all about you---and still likes you.”

A couple more to go and you will be “Up To Speed.”

Later, Love Ya!

From Katrina To Rita

2005-09-23T14:05:00.000-07:00

I haven’t blogged for a while. At present it just seems that my fight with prostate cancer is so small as I look at what’s going on with Hurricane Rita. While Hurricane Rita has been downgraded from Category 5 to Category 3 this morning, it still has the potential to be a nasty storm for the Gulf Coast. Many of the cities in Texas and Louisiana in that area have been evacuated and look much like ghost towns. It looks like Rita won’t make a direct hit on Houston and Galveston as predicted earlier. But it’s such a large system, about 400 miles wide, that much of western Louisiana and eastern Texas will be affected by flooding.

Forecasters project that Rita will make landfall early Saturday morning somewhere near Beaumont, Port Arthur and Lake Charles. My concern about the levees breaking has come true. The levee along the industrial canal in New Orleans already has three breaks and all the rain is not yet on the ground. What I am fearful of now is that the flooding from these breaks will put New Orleans under water again. It’s going to get worst before it gets better.

I just finished reading this story from MSNBC News:

NEW ORLEANS - Hurricane Rita’s steady rains sent water during over a patched levee Friday, cascading into one of the city’s lowest-lying neighborhoods in a devastating repeat of New Orleans’ flooding nightmare.

“Our worst fears came true,” said Maj. Barry Guidry of the Georgia National Guard.
“We have three significant breaches in the levee and the water is rising rapidly,” he said. “At daybreak I found substantial breaks and they’ve grown larger.”

Dozens of blocks in the Ninth Ward were under water as a waterfall at least 30 feet wide poured over and through a dike that had been used to patch breaks in the Industrial Canal levee. On the street that runs parallel to the canal, the water ran waist-deep and was rising fast. Guidry said water was rising about three inches a minute.

Water also poured out from under the canal's western barrier, which faces the historic French Quarter roughly three miles away.

An official with the New Orleans Fire Department said flooding reached a mile inland west of the canal. It also reached as far north as Interstate 10, which divides the city.
The impoverished Ninth Ward was one of the areas of the city hit hardest by Katrina’s floodwaters and finally had been pumped dry before Hurricane Rita struck.
Throughout Friday morning, water began rising again onto buckled homes, piles of rubble and mud-caked cars that Katrina had covered with up to 20 feet of water.

I have a sister living in Houston and Barb has a sister living there also. Barb’s sister’s family all evacuated to Fort Worth on Thursday. My sister decided that she was going to stick and it out. I hope she made a good decision. Even if she had decided to leave on Thursday she would have been stuck in traffic. Thousands of people are in their cars trying to escape the hurricane. Gas stations along the evacuation routes are out of gas causing cars to be abandoned in traffic. Some people are and have been waiting at gas stations for hours for gas. The biggest concern now is for the people out on the roads.

A bus carrying elderly evacuees from the Houston area caught on fire on Interstate 45. As many as 24 people died. The accident forced the interstate to be shut down, creating a 17-mile traffic back up.

My prayers and heartfelt sympathy goes out to all the people who are and who will be affected by Hurricane Rita. Especially to all of the people who evacuated to Houston from New Orleans because they are being evacuated again.

Throw Me A Bone, Work With Me Here

2005-09-19T17:30:00.000-07:00

Like I said before, my first radiation session was on the Tuesday after Labor Day. The Saturday before, Milt and I were at the State Skeet Shoot in Green Bay and I had a chance to talk to a fellow skeet shooter who had just undergone surgery for prostate cancer. He gave me a lot of information, some of which I already knew, and some that was new to me. Jack told me that I had nothing to worry about and that the sessions after the first one would be routing procedures. That helped a lot. At the state shoot, I shot one gun, the 20 gauge well (99/100) but could have stayed home for the other three. But it was good to smell gun powder and see all the other shooters. I had been away from shoot all spring and summer.

Tuesday rolled around a lot quicker than I wanted it to. My appointment was at 2PM and I was a little apprehensive about going but knew it had to be done. Jeremy and I had talked earlier before Labor Day and he insisted on going with me. That was really nice of him. He’s a good kid. He called earlier to say he was running late. I told him to just meet me there but he was worried about my having to drive afterwards. I assured him that I’d be okay based on what the doctor told me earlier. When I got to the hospital, he was already waiting for me at the entrance. I think he was more nervous than I was. He was a mess, but that’s okay. We took the elevator the basement. He gave me a big hug and a kiss and told me that he loved me before I was escorted to the treatment room.

I was introduced to my team of technicians who would be actually doing the treatment. There were three of them: Stephanie, Angie and Jesse. I assumed the position. You know, pants and underwear down to you ankles, and of course the modesty towel. I said something to the effect that “I don’t know why we bother with the towel, you guys are going to see my stuff everyday for three and half weeks and by that time you will know it well.” But I used the modesty towel anyway. Up on the table I went and they checked the alignment marks. I got an ultrasound to find out where everything was and was readjusted on the table so the machine would know where to send its beam of radiation. I still had mega problems with rectal balloon. In Fact, I commented to my team that I had a new name for it. The new name was “a--- balloon.” But they didn’t think it was as funny and I did. I said something like, “Oh come on now, throw me a bone, work with me here.”

Okay, all the small talk was dispensed with and my alignment was checked and approved by the doctor. It was now time for the machine. The machine that gives me the radiation is called a Linear Accelerator. My technicians call it “Linac 4.” It looks like some sort of clone of a machine from the Star Wars movie. Particularly, the little white ones the bad guys were buzzing through the forest on. It’s really big and white. Clean looking. Intimidating.

So I’m up on the table and Linac position itself to my right. It gave me three doses of radiation on each my left and right sides and dose just above my naval. Each one of the seven doses last for about thirty seconds. The whole session lasted about eight minutes. It took more time to get ready than it did for the treatment. It was like having an x-ray done. I didn’t feel anything, except the rectal balloon. I thought to myself, “Self, you can do this.” And in all honesty, I will, no matter how much discomfort it may cause. Pain is temporary, the other option is permanent.

When I was done Jeremy was there waiting for me. He had worried himself ragged about what was going on with me back there. He wanted to know all that had happened and if I was feeling okay. He gave me another big hug and told me he loved me again. Remember, I told you he was a good kid.

The first radiation treatment was over. Eighteen more to go.

A Modesty Towel For You, Sir?

2005-09-14T18:01:00.000-07:00

Having decided on a treatment plan, it was now time to put the plan into action. I know I’ve already told you that I started a treatment plan the Tuesday after Labor Day, but I “wants” to tell you how I got there. You know, bring you “Up To Speed.”

On July 18, I met with my Radiation Oncologists and two interns. We discussed all the pros and cons of radiation treatment. This is also where I asked about being involved in a clinical trial or protocol. One of the interns, a female, conducted a survey that asked me a lot of personal questions relative to all my body functions. At first, I was uncomfortable with the very personal nature of the questions, but quickly learned that while she was a woman, the questions were necessary if they were going to help me through this. She recognized how uncomfortable I was and put me at ease by telling me that the information was needed in order find out where I am now and to chart my condition during treatment and after-treatment. (She now knows more about me than Barb does)

If its one thing that I have learned about prostate cancer, besides all the different options, it is that modesty has no place here. And all of you know that I am a very modest man. Being modest made it very difficult to answer some of the questions. Sometimes I would sit and look dumfounded and she would say, “Should I repeat the question?” And I would say, “No, I heard the question. I’m just trying to decide how to answer it.” At one point, toward the end of the questions, I said something like, “Now that you know all this personal stuff about me, we will have to run off and get married.” She thought that was funny. After she finished laughing, I said “I’m not kidding.” But by the end of the questions, I was comfortable with her. No! I didn’t run off and marry her.

Now if you think that my interaction with her was a wake up call for me and my modesty, think again. My modesty is about to go right out the window. (And the window wasn’t even open)

On August 29, I showed up at the clinic for a scheduled CT scan. This is a procedure where they took a series of picture of inside of my body at different angles. The pictures are made by a computer linked to an x-ray machine. (Remember I told you I had a catheter story to tell you? Well now is the time for that story) I walked into the examination room and didn’t have a clue about what was going to happen. The nurse told me that she needed to take a picture of me for my medical file. She then said, “You will need to take your pants and underwear down and get up on the table” She gave me a “modesty towel” to cover my “stuff” with. I said, “Down or off?” She replied, “Whichever you are comfortable with.” (I wanted to say, “Neither.”) So here I am standing in the middle of the room with my pants and underwear down around my ankles trying to cover up with a modesty towel. I was thinking that she had already seen most of my stuff anyway, why do I need a modesty towel? (I thought maybe she should have taken a picture of me naked since everyone would be seeing me with my clothes off anyway) She told me to lie on the table and the nurse who would be inserting the catheter would be in shortly. I was lying on the table when the other nurse came in. I instinctively put out my right arm, thinking she was going to draw blood. She said, “I’m not going to draw blood today.” Holding a catheter in her hand, she said “I’m going to insert this catheter in your p---.” I said, “You are going to insert what, where?” She restated what she had said before. “I’m going to insert this catheter in your p---.” Suddenly I realized what she was talking about. And it wasn’t what I had in mind. Oh, sure I had heard about catheters. Milt told me about them. He tells me about everything. Even stuff I don’t want to know. But he tells me anyway. I had never actually seen or been that close to one. I just remember Milt telling me how uncomfortable and painful it was. Now, I was really on edge. Just the thought of that long, big tube going into that small place all the way to my bladder made me shiver. But you know what? It really didn’t hurt at all.

The nurse injected a dye into my bladder through the catheter so that my bladder would show up more clearly on the pictures. Besides the catheter, I was fitted with and inherited my very own personal rectal balloon to be used during each of my treatment session. (I felt so special) Let’s see a show of hands from all of you who have their very own personalized rectal balloon. (Just what I thought, none of you have one. See I told you I was special) The rectal balloon keeps that part of you out of the way so it doesn’t get too much radiation. For if it did, diarrhea would be the outcome. Reference marks were made by injecting dye (Black, I think) through a needle into my skin so that the radiation machine could be aligned during treatment. I asked the nurse why she didn’t use white ink, it would show up better. With wonderment, she stared at me for a little bit and laughed.

After the pictures were taken, everything came out much easier than they went in. I asked where the bathroom was. I was in the bathroom for what seemed like hours. I thought they were going to send the orderly looking for me. I just needed to go sit to see if I had any business to conduct. I didn’t, but it sure felt like I did. I also checked to see if all my parts were still intact and where they are suppose to be.

When it comes to pulling my clothes down in front of people I don’t know, I now say to myself that I don’t have anything that they haven’t seen before. But then again they haven’t seen mine. But now as I look back, after having a chance and reflect, I find myself laughing. Some great person once said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” Life is great.

I have a lot of fun with my experiences. Writing about my experiences helps me deal with the situation I have been dealt. Cancer is a very serious business. Cancer is sad. Cancer is painful. Cancer kills. Cancer is scary. Writing about my encounters, with a sometime humorous bite, is not meant to imply that cancer is funny. It is not. When I walk into that clinic every day I see young people, old people, women, men, and children finishing up or waiting for their appointment. Some of them don’t have hair. Some of them in wheelchairs. Some of them on crutches. Some days I am scared as hell. I have to look at the humorous side of my experiences otherwise I wouldn't be able to stay positive and upbeat. It’s just my way of surviving. Nothing more, nothing less.

Peace, Love and Happiness!

The Decision

2005-09-12T20:44:00.000-07:00

This is all foreign to me. It’s confusing. It’s scary. And it’s stressful. Understanding it all helps me to make some sense out of it. And writing about prostate cancer helps me understand it. (Most of you already know that I am a concrete sequential learner)

What treatment I decided, you ask. (The answer should be obvious since you already know I don’t like pain, but I will tell you anyway) Well, after weighing all the pros and cons of each of treatment plan, and with much consternation and prayer, I elected to do the radiation treatment. Radiation treatment uses high-energy to damage cancer cells so that they cannot multiply. But in doing so, some good cells are also damaged. But the good cells that are damaged can repair themselves while the damaged cancer cells cannot repair themselves. And therein is the theory behind radiation treatment. (One of treatment team members told me that)

Remember earlier I told you that there are two types of radiation treatment. One is external and one is internal. In external radiation, also called beam radiation therapy, radiation is given from a very big machine much like an x-ray machine. With internal radiation therapy, radioactive pellets, called “seeds” are injected into the prostate gland with a long sharp needle. (It hurts me just talking about it) Both radiation types work about the same in curing prostate cancer. Like told you before, I am a wimp and will avoid pain when possible. So I chose the external beam radiation therapy. But seriously it wasn’t all about avoiding the pain. It was the best choice for me considering my circumstances.

I started radio therapy last week, the Tuesday after Labor Day. I get machine therapy five days a week. I don’t need anesthesia and there is no pain. The side effects are milder than the side effects that can come with the seed implant. My daily treatment sessions last less than thirty minutes. I get to come home afterwards, with minimum side effects so far, and continue with my daily routines.

Normally an external radiation treatment plan last for about seven weeks or 35-36 daily treatments; however, I elected to become involved in a “clinical trial” or “protocol” as called by the UW Clinics. The protocol I am involved with, like other trials, is used to research new ways of treating people with prostate cancer. Instead of the normal seven week treatment plan, my protocol last for only 3 ½ weeks. I receive slightly more radiation on a daily basis than a person would on a normal plan. But in the end I receive about the same amount of radiation as they would.

As I said before, my Web Log gives me an opportunity to understand all of this stuff. I keep a personal daily journal about all of my experiences in the clinic and about my circumstances. Keeping the journal helps me to better complete several required surveys and it helps me to verbalize what I am dealing with. It’s a way for me to internalize it all. And maybe in some small way my writings will help someone else who may find themselves in a similar situation. It is my contribution to the betterment of my protocol.

Louisiana Family Okay

2005-09-12T11:50:00.000-07:00

My family members in Louisiana are all well and survived the hurricane. Most of my relatives live in the northern part of the state and really was not in harms way. Earlier I told you that I was in Louisiana in August.

That trip put me in New Orleans the week before the hurricane hit. It is hard to imagine all that has happened in just two short weeks. But it did. I look at some of the places on television that I had just seen or had been and they weren’t there anymore. I have relatives and college friends living in New Orleans. I didn’t see any of my dad’s relatives while I there. And there are a lot of them; uncles, aunts, and cousins. I don’t know how they are doing. I assume they are okay because we haven’t gotten any phone calls, but then the phones weren’t working. None of the bulletin boards I have visited over the internet have any of their names posted as missing.

My college classmates living in New Orleans lost everything they had. And we are talking everything; houses and property. One of my sister’s friends and her husband decided not to rebuild in New Orleans but to relocate back to our home town of Tallulah.

The Tallulah Community Center is used as a shelter when people are evacuated from the southern cities. They live at the center until the danger is over. They sleep on cots in the gym and cooked meals are brought in to them daily.

My people living in Northeast Louisiana are more affected by crowdedness created by relocations. It has put a real strain on services like gasoline, grocery stores, clothing stores and automobiles. They are dealing with as best they can with the faith that all will be well in the end. Baton Rouge was the hardest hit by relocation efforts. All of the city’s school buses were used to move people from the Super Dome and all of the schools were closed. Baton Rouge is really, really crowded. Barb has a brother living in Baton Rouge. He and his family did not evacuate.

Here is an excerpt written by Jennifer Moses of the Washington Post that describes the situation in Baton Rouge:
“Unlike New Orleans, which may never recover, Baton Rouge, on the western edge of the storm, was largely spared and may even profit, at least in the short term. With a near doubling in population since last week -- making Baton Rouge Louisiana's most populous city -- housing prices are rising, and you can't get a rental, let alone a hotel room. In neighborhoods like mine, the lights (and, more important, the air conditioning) are going back on, and life has more or less resumed its everyday pace. There are the usual "yard men" cleaning up and mowing, young women jogging and people walking their dogs. Less apparent to the naked eye are the heroics: the folks down the street who have taken in some friends of friends; the secretary who is accommodating a family of out-of-town volunteer doctors; the retired nurse who is pulling back-to-back shifts in the maternity section of the nearest shelter. In fact, if you stay in the white sections of the city, all you'll really notice, in terms of Katrina, are the many downed tree branches and the buzz of chainsaws. You won't see a heavy police presence; you won't see teams of people from the Federal Emergency Management Agency; and you sure as hell won't see the Louisiana National Guard.
The problem is, you won't see these teams in the crisis centers either, or at least not in sufficient numbers. Baton Rouge, a city of some 350,000, is now accommodating another 350,000 or so, mainly in arenas that have been converted into shelters. Louisiana State University's field house is now the site of ungodly suffering, a modern Bosch's hell, and more refugees are pouring in by the hour. Next to it, Pete Maravich Assembly Center, where on ordinary weekends the LSU Tigers reign triumphant, is the center of triage units: screaming babies, women giving birth, old people having heart attacks, dialysis, and desperation. Beyond the crisis centers, refugees huddle in gas stations, parking lots and any place with shade.”

I have a sister living in Houston but haven’t talked to her about how her city is doing. My guess is that her already crowed city is even more crowded and taxed for services.

“Love ya!”
Later

I Am Doing Fine

2005-09-09T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have gotten a lot of phone calls from many of you this past week. Some of you wanted to know how I was doing and others wanted to know why I didn’t tell anyone.

I want to thank all of you who are genuinely concerned about me. Like I said before I started this Web Log to let everyone know how I am doing, both in health and in retirement.

In spite of the prostate cancer, I continue to feel good and I am having a lots of fun writing, taking a writing class at MATC (look out if you thought I had words before. Now I am going to be dangerous), photography workshops in Chicago and desktop publishing at UW. I am still working on a book about my family’s history. I don’t know how I ever got any of this fun stuff done when I worked full time.

I am not in any pain or suffering or anything like that as a result of the cancer. For now, it’s just the inconvenience of having to go for treatment every day. But then again, going to treatment every day is far better than being dead. I have a really professional, great, cool and caring Treatment Team at the Cancer Clinic. It makes going there more tolerable.

I know the word was out that I had some sort of terminal illness. I heard that in late July. Some people had me pushing up daisies already. I chose not to deal with the rumor at that time because I had other issues that were more immediate. Like mamma’s death, putting Beau to sleep, and most of all getting the strength and finding the time to tell all my siblings and family members. It just never seemed like the right time. It’s hard to tell someone about something that you really don’t understand. So I had to find out more about prostate cancer before I could talk about it. It’s more than just telling people, “Hey I got prostate cancer.” It became more about “What is it”, “Why do I have it”, “Where does it come from”, “What does it look like”, “What am I going to do about it”, and “How will it affect my quality of life.” I had to get those questions answered first. While I have most of the questions answered, I still have to deal with the uncertainty of the outcome for which there are no answers until treatment is done.

I got most of the talking done with my siblings, but there are more, especially Barb’s family that I need to talk to. I continue to work on that daily. Anyways, that is why nobody knew.

Again, thanks for your genuine concern about me and I will keep all of you "Up To Speed" with information that you can find here in my Blog.

Later!

So What's The Plan Man?

2005-09-08T21:05:00.000-07:00

So that was how most of my summer went. Like I said earlier, I had a decision to make as to which treatment option to choose. The options were: do nothing and wait it out, radical surgery, seed implant, freezing the prostate, hormone therapy or radiation therapy. I also looked at chemotherapy and biological therapy. Since I was told that my cancer was in its early stage and considering my age, the seed implant or radiation therapy seemed to be the two best options for me.

If I was to do nothing and wait out the cancer I would live 10-15 years because prostate cancer moves slowly. In watchful waiting you get no treatment but see your doctor often. If the tumor starts to grow hormone therapy can be started. That would have been considered if I was older.

My urologist talked to me about surgically removing the prostate. But more than the prostate would be removed. The prostate, the seminal vesicles, and a portion of the urethra are removed. The urethra is then attached to the bladder and you have to urinate through a catheter until you heal. (And do I have a catheter story to tell you) I wasn’t keen on any of the invasive options, radical surgery or seed implant. Call me a wimp but I just can’t stand the pain. (Probably because of my experience with the biopsy or my general hatred of pain). During the biopsy, the urologist used a thin needle to remove tiny tissue samples from several areas of the prostate. That was not comfortable at all and it affected my urine and bowls for two weeks. I had that done after learning about my PSA (prostate specific antigen) numbers. There are also some risks associated with surgery that concerned me. Loss of bladder control, infection, bleeding, difficulty urinating and bowel perforation. But in spite of all the risks, surgery is the most effective option if the cancer is confined to the prostate.

The seed implant is where actual radiation seeds, a lot of them, are planted directly into the prostate. Now remember my experience I just told you I had with the biopsy. I thought about the implants for a hot minute. The thought of having more needles stuck there makes me grimace and send shivers up my spine.

Then there is freezing the prostate. Now I don’t know about you but the thought of having your stuff frozen also didn’t bring any pleasant thoughts to my mind either. So, that option was quickly dismissed. (I probably should be open minded)

Hormone therapy is an attempt to lower the level of the male hormones, called androgens, which are produced in the testicles. Androgens, such as testosterone, help the prostate cancer grow. You get monthly shots. I learned that hormone treatment is used mostly when the cancer has spread outside the prostate gland.

On July 18, I met with a radiation oncologist and two interns at the Cancer Center of UW Hospital and Clinics to discuss radiotherapy or radiation. The UW Cancer Center is the only comprehensive cancer center in Wisconsin meeting the high standard for designation as “comprehensive” by the National Cancer Institute. They focus on the best care for patients with cancer; on research, education and prevention. (See, I told you I did my homework and research on the second trip to Tallulah) I wanted to learn all I could about prostate cancer and my treatment choices. The Radiation Oncology Department is frequently rated among the nation’s best.

Here is the scoop on radiation therapy. Radiation therapy is done using a machine that sends beams of radiation or x-rays from outside the body to the cancer. The risks that I considered were: mild to moderate diarrhea, frequent urination, fatigue and/or gas. (I experience most of that right now) Also with radiation some normal prostate cells may be damaged or the cancer could come back years later.

The big factors for me are that after each treatment I would most likely be able to follow my normal routine and at ten years after treatment, the cure rates are about the same for radiation therapy and radical surgery. There are no surgical risks with radiation therapy. There’s no risk of bleeding. You don’t have to stay in the hospital. You recover faster.

My intent in sharing the treatment plans with you is not to show you how smart I am (although I am) but rather to reveal the process I went through to arrive at a decision and only that.

Now that you are “up to speed” on all of the treatment options, (there will be a test later) and you still don’t know what option I chose. We have a little ways to go before I get to that point.

Life Goes On In Spite Of.....

2005-09-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

Okay!

Where do I start this Web Log or journal? Bright idea! From the beginning. No, not the beginning of me, but the beginning of this spring. I won't be able to catch you "up to speed" this sitting. I'll just work on it. I will keep in mind that most of my readers will be family and friends, so I will keep it lite and interesting.

This past summer has been one of many changes for me. I announced my retirement from education in late March and dealt with that better than most. I told myself (and others told me as well) that that part of my life was ending and new one is beginning; that I was retiring from the job as a principal, but not from the job of life. I am surrounded by a lot of very smart people.

Anyway, that was in June. In early July Barb and I were off to Atlanta, Texas. (Yes, there is an Atlanta, Texas) We attended a reunion of the Thomas, Allen and Green families, my father's family. Before Atlanta we stopped in Vicksburg to see mama who had been hospitalized because she had develop complications associated with her diabetes. We left her in good spirits and headed to Atlanta. On Sunday, July 3rd her condition deteriorated and we returned to Vicksburg. Very quietly, just after mid-night, she slipped off to Heaven surrounded by her children. The medical staff commented that they had never witnessed a more peaceful passing. It's something that will always be with me. (More about mama in the summer newsletter)

I took another trip to Louisiana in early August. It was hotter than....everyday. By the time I ventured out to breakfast, bout 10AM, it was in the low 90's. I hadn't been South in August in a long time. Now I know why. That trip was for a little RnR and I promised my nephew Kenny that I would bring the boat so we could go fishing. And we did and we caught fish. Besides, fishing and RnR, I did a lot of research of my father's ancestors. I spent four days in the archives at New Orleans and Baton Rouge, Louisiana. New Orleans won't be the same anymore either, but that's another writing.

For some of you this is an affirmation and for others of you this is news. In mid-June I completed my routine physical examination which included among other things a prostrate test. You know when you get over 50 your body parts act like they don't know you anymore. Anyway the test showed that my PSA level has increased significantly since the last time. PSA is an enzyme produced only by the prostrate. It's the amount of PSA that is leaked into the blood that is measured. As one gets older the prostrate enlarges and produces more of the enzyme. The normal range for men my age is between 2.5-4.0. My first test was 12.1. The second test in mid-July showed showed it at 9.9. Dr. Nemovitz had felt a hard spot on my prostrate during the physical exam. My urologist confirmed that my prostrate was in the early stage of cancer. Meaning that the cancer was confined to the prostrate. Needless to say, I was very concerned but not alarmed. That's probably because my urologist was cool about the whole thing. Nonetheless, I was concerned about my quality of life and just plain life.

Life took on a new meaning. I developed an urgency about matters, especially family. You don't know if all will be well in the end or if the end is near. But life must go on in spite of all else. No matter the end results, I promised myself that I would not lie around and wallow in slop.

The first test put a lot on my mind during mamma's funeral but I chose to not talk about it until the results of the second test were known. The family didn't need anything else on its plate except mama. By the time I made the second trip to Tallulah I knew a decision had to be made with respect to a treatment plan. My options were to do nothing, radical surgery to remove the prostrate, radiation seed implant into the prostrate, freezing the prostrate, and radiation treatment. The second trip to Tallulah was more than RnR and family research. I was a time to think and to decide. All of the treatment options, I was told, had a 98% cure rate.

As I said before, when you get older your parts forget who the boss is and act like they don't know the rest of the body anymore. And that goes for dogs too. Beau Jangles of Buckeye, my Black Lab and hunting companion of twelve and a half years didn't fair well when I was gone the second time. He was blind, couldn't walk down the stairs to the basement and couldn't hear. He was suffering and I was suffering watching him suffer. On Wednesday, August 24 I had the vet put him to sleep. I thought it was going to be easy, but it was one of the most traumatic things I have ever done. Thursday I was close to hitting bottom. I had an appointment to see a web designer on the west side about Yogi's Gang our family web Site. She had a Yellow Lab named Katie. I think Katie knew something was up with me. She couldn't talk so I will never know what she knew. Anyway I spent most of the appointment hugging and kissing Katie. That was just the therapy the doctor ordered. Katie was happy and I was happy. Very happy.