Scary Accident

Boo

Confrontation

This is about the fifth blob in this series. You will not understand this post without reading the others.Though I thought of many people I might complain to, and tried to reach them,  none of them proved to be of any help to me.
Then, as I was perusing my problem, I noticed a phone number right on my flex pen. I was surprised, but, naturally, I made that call. After waiting through the unavoidable computer-based questions, I found myself speaking with an actual person. I identified myself and began voicing my questions / complaints. This lady patiently heard me.
I knew she could never say anything self - damaging to her company. In other words, she could not agree with anything I said. To make a long conversation short, she told me over and over that all Novolog users must follow their directions to the letter. I agreed. But I told her that many people in declining health might lose the ability to follow the simplest directions. I said "what a shame that death awaits anyone who makes this error."
Though she remained patient with me, we never reached agreement on anything. We discussed a product called Levemir,  manufactured by her company, Novo Nordisk, which does NOT have this death trap, having  a window with no other way of reading the pen incorrectly. She stopped way short of saying that this new technology could replace the old; also refusing to admit that anything could be wrong with the old product.
She told me this entire conversation would be forwarded to the complaint department. I thanked and asked that they would call me. She seemed doubtful that that would happen. It has only been 2 or 3 days, but it could happen. But probably won't.

The Real Problem

Here it is. I discovered this on my own while looking at my Novolog Flexpen dispenser. If a person who happens to be entering mid-range Alzheimer's or dementia (or even a bit tipsy) or one with extreme poor eyesight reads their Novolog  insulin dispenser incorrectly, they could be dead within 3 to 4 hours. Perhaps I will re-post this soon with photos to help explain it.
The dosage number is supposed to show up in a window. Let's say a person wants to inject 16 units. But if that person fails to look properly at the injector, missing the window,  the  number 16 will show up at a higher point, as the person cranks at the gauge. Seeing the desired number, he/she could inject. The number shown in the window, not noticed by the patient, could be about 43 units. This could be fatal in a short time. (The person might feel the effects and take corrective measures in time to save himself.) But if he soon took a nap, or otherwise failed to identify the onset of symptoms, he could be very dead very quickly.
The same problem exists with Lantus, but Lantus is a slow acting insulin that would be less dangerous in the short run. Many other insulin pens are surely guilty, but I haven't encountered them.
The answer to this problem seemed painfully simple to me. Simply make the body about 1 inch longer, making it impossible for the numbers to appear  at the higher point. The plunger would also need to be 1 inch longer in order to function properly.
How many years has this disaster been going on? I wish I knew.
I am sure many people have also noticed this awful oversight. Are they complaining also? I wish I knew.

Warmin' Up

Okay.... I know that some pharmaceutical companies are killing (or sharing half the blame) in the deaths of many people. They have such a strong hold - also known as a strong lobby - with the U.S. congress and the Food and Drug Administration that they are ignoring the simple facts. When confronted with irrefutable evidence, they can comfortably say "prove it". And they can smirk. Why? Because the one person who might provide damning evidence is now...... DEAD. Yep.
I discovered this tragic situation a few weeks ago all on my own. I made a  presentation to my most trusted health care provider; a woman who literally saved my life 2 years ago in an unrelated issue. She agreed that my complaint is valid. I told her that I did not expect her to demand changes. The issue is too huge for that. I showed 2 of my pharmacist friends this horror. I assured them that I expected no action. They both saw my point and agreed with it.
Now, am I the only one who knows of this? Of course not. But I am the only person I know who is doing anything about it. I am sure my words will fall on many deaf ears. All I need is for s-o-m-e-o-n-e to take up the cause.
This has been going on for years. Here is a tidbit of good news. At least one newer competing company has a product that could slowly turn the tide. However, this may take time. While people continue dying. I am solidifying my plans to bring attention to the problem. I have no interest in personal gain.
Yes, I will get to the point (fully) soon.

Small vs Large

Picture Cyrano de Bergerac against a huge windmill. Better yet, imagine little Tom Thumb vs Babe the Blue Ox, who dug the Grand Canyon. My complaint against a huge pharmaceutical company could be even more imbalanced. However, I believe that something must be said. I took this concept to a professional at my medical clinic. I told her that I was not seeking any financial gain whatsoever. She agreed that my point was very valid. Being extremely busy, she couldn't suggest too many courses of action. She wondered if I should write to the offending company. My thought was that a minimum wage mail clerk would be the only one to see it before it hit the round file. I left there, wondering if an attorney (one who specializes in medical lawsuits) would have an interest. I determined that if I involved such a law office,  I would not offer my services for free.
I soon arrived at a local law firm. The lady I spoke with informed me that the Utah Bar Association does not allow any  attorney to share wealth with any non-attorney. Even if hundreds of thousands or even millions of dollars in profits were at stake. I questioned her at great length, eventually walking out without having shared one fragment of my concern with her.
I was back  to my earlier commitment of  hoping to expose this horror with no thought of  personal gain.       (Note) If all else failed, and if I had no other hopes of educating the public, I would have to let an attorney move forward without me. The goal, after all, is to educate, not to line my pockets.
My next step was to call a local t. v. station hoping to give an editorial on air. The man said he would call me back, but it didn't happen.
So, where am I? Let's see. I can contact the following entities: The Utah chapter of the American Diabetes Association; The Deseret News; Get Gephardt; Congressman Jason Chaffetz; and, ultimately a competing company who seems to be doing things right. Who will listen to me?
Perhaps I can somehow spring some meaningful discussion. Or perhaps I will just be a lonely old man, griping and grousing about something that matters to no one.
My next few blogs (blobs) will inform you, dear reader, of the actual problem. I will also report on my progress with my planned contacts.Please stay tuned.

A Disaster?

Hello..... Something is bugging me to an enormous extent. Please bear with me.
According to Healthline (on Google), 29.1 million Americans suffer from diabetes. One in four people over  65 suffer from it. Those are huge numbers. For this excercise I will dwell on Type 2 diabetics.
Google reports that there are 1.13 traffic deaths per one hundred million miles driven in the U.S.
Okay, it seems obvious that (comparatively speaking) a certain (unknown to me) number of folks are also dying from prescription mistakes. Let me zero in on one that may be a real horror.
Let's say that of 29.1 million diabetics, about one third take insulin. 10 Million. My guess. I'm just starting this project so my numbers are surely general. Moving forward, I will guess that each insulin user injects twice daily. That would be 20 million injections daily. (Not counting pump users.)
Let's say that IF about 1.13 persons were to die from a tragic mistake per 100 million injections, that could result in about 1 death every 5 days.
The true numbers surely widely differ from these numbers. However, I am convinced that each death is preventable. Tragically, I am afraid that the true numbers might be much, much higher.
Those with the greatest health issues are the most susceptible.
I will be blogging (blobbing) more in the near future. I will announce each new blob with a short entry on Facebook.
Hold 2 fingers 1 half inch apart. That represents what I have written. Stretch your arms out. All the way. That's what I hope to be writing until I have presented this whole concept. Wish me luck. I've never done anything like this.

In December I Facebooked that, as a small child, I had mistaken a song as "let us know, let us know, let us know", when in fact, it was "let it snow, etc". Fast forward to the present. Barbara brought 4 kids to see us on Friday, Jan. 16. Eli, Kaydence, Quintin and Addison. What a fun group of kids! They headed for the basement to explore the place. They were soon playing our seldom-used old electronic organ. We could hear them screeching a song. Babs laughed, saying the song was "Let It Go" from "Frozen. I was astounded, because Julia Warren Kohler had just posted about her kids overdoing that same great song. That song, like my old tune from the 1940s, was about cold weather. I was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. I went running down the stairs. The kids all went respectfully silent when they saw that I wanted their attention. I breathlessly announced my remarkable discovery to them."Kids", said I, "Let it Go" is a lot like a song from my childhood, named "Let it snow". I have never in my life met with such dumbfounded looks.

Slopheads

A person must sometimes move quickly to hold people's attention. This can be tricky when everyone is talking a mile a minute. So, I found myself having to hurry through a "cute anecdote" on Thanksgiving day. I was talking about a pair of criminals, trying to describe them. Things were going fairly well, but I noticed Ken's and Brian's eyes were beginning to drift. I stepped up my delivery. When a person gets to a critical moment in a delivery he must be ready with an entertaining word or phrase. In sudden panic, I realized that "dirtbags" or "slimeballs" were not sufficient. My moment of truth was not a moment at all. It was my INSTANT of truth. I called them a pair of bloated slopheads. Brian and Ken almost fell on the floor with laughter. The others in the room were not that cruel to me, but they  knew full well what was going on. "BLOATED SLOPHEADS?"  "BLOATED SLOPHEADS?" The boys were apoplectic.Their reaction to my cute story took a lot more time than the story did. I tried to explain that an "instant" is a very short time. And, yes, I had paniced. I said that those guys were not bloated anyway. Druggies and drunks are often very thin because they don't eat well. This revelation brought on another wave of screaming (and vicious) laughter. The poor li'l fellers were wiping tears from their eyes. Ken called me a few days later. He suddenly remembered "slopheads" and it all started up again. He assured me that this one would outlast flagboy, Springville, controlled plane crashes and every other one of my moronic moments. Isn't fame supposed to be FUN? I dunno. 

Blobbity

My gosh. My good gosh. I think my chilluns are ganging up on me. I glanced at the picture of the blobfish (my buddy) and I saw something almost heartbreaking. The blob is me. The BLOBFISH is truly me. I know dang well that you all did this on purpose. Don't look so surprised. The blobbin' blobfish has DROOL on the lower corner of his mouth. Yer Ma has been telling you that I drool. HASN'T she? So sad. Nothing is off limits.
Anyhoo, this an addendum to my previous post. Mary P. brought family members closer together. But my family unit had already been torn asunder. Mom left the day after I graduated high school. I didn't feel dumb because I barely got through high school. I merely could not imagine what life might ever hold  for me. I stayed with Dad because of plentiful work. When I found a new life in Price, Utah, none of us ever lived together again. Mom and Dad were probably baffled by my new life with my own Mary Poppins.
My parents were never comfy and close with us kids. I don't remember Dad ever telling me he loved me. Mom probably stopped being love/verbal when I was 6 or 7. They didn't need to say it. I knew that they both, in their own way, loved me beyond words to describe. A sad footnote to this is the fact that I may seem a bit slow in expressing my love for my kids. What do you expect from a man who finds his drool in full display on his blob?
Just before she died, Mom told us of the wonderful home we would all someday have together, across the river. Everyone thought the river was the Arkansas, just 200 yards from her house. But I knew better. That other Mary Poppins probably knew nothing of the extent that families CAN be rebuilt across the river or across the veil. Thanks for committing to hep in the yard..... d'Pa

Saving Mister Banks

CAUTION!!!! If you have not seen Saving Mr. Banks and WANT to see it, proceed no further. I may ruin it for you. Jodi mentioned it to me when it first came out. I wanted to see it but life got in the way. I found out 2 days ago that she and Babs had neither one seen it. TSK. What a great movie. I think Babs has it so maybe we can all see it. Anyhoo, I saw it twice in about one week recently. It's just fabulous. It's all about Walt Disney, Mary Poppins and the lady (named Pam) who wrote the story. Pam had a disastrous childhood in Australia.
Her banker father, whom she loved very much, died a terrible alcoholic death when she was 5 or 6 years old. His nurse assured Pam that she would see her papa through his crisis. The nurse bore a strong physical resemblance to the character later known as Mary Poppins. Imagine Pam's pain when this nurse's promise failed. Note, then, that Mary Poppins was a person who had full control of everything. She could glide UP a banister. She had a magic umbrella. No earthly worry was a concern to Mary.
The movie slowly confirmed that Mr. Banks, in fantasy, was stable and perhaps heroic. Pam's work was all about preserving the image of her beloved father. Incredibly touching.
We saw Mary P. in about 1964 when it first came out. Fun movie, but nothing earth-shaking or life-changing at the time. But, watching Tom Hanks tell Pam that the entire story was about her own father and not the 2 cute children, I found myself relating in many ways.
I had not one, but two parents caught up in the tragedy of alcoholism. My dad was a hard workin' hard drinkin' hard fightin' fun lovin' hard rock miner. When a county commissioner died, some friends came to Dad asking him to finish that term, and then to run. When they were gone he said to Mom, "I can't do it. I'm too big a drinker." Eddie heard that sorrowful confession. I heard it from Eddie some 40 years later. After retirement, Dad quit drinking and died at about age 75.
Mom took to her drinking quietly, probably in desperation over a failing marriage. She spent the last few years of her life living back yard to back yard with her daughter, my sister, Mildred. Mildred was instrumental in helping Mom get rid of that awful monster, gin. Losing Mildred to cancer surely brought on her stroke and to her death at age 89.
I had no idea that my life had a loose parallel to Mary Poppins. I have become quite emotional and tearful in my advancing years. I am glad to be writing this instead of trying to verbalize it. I cried all the way through Saving Mr. Banks, especially as Walt Disney told Pam of his difficult young life in frozen Minnesota.
My life was without meaning or direction. I barely got through high school. I stumbled forward, knowing nothing about anything. When Mary Poppins arrived, without her umbrella, I married her. Life is great.

Saving Mr. Banks

hii

Will the real singer please stand.

This is my first blob since June, 2011. Many years ago, (well, "Many Years Ago" is a better start than "It was a Dark and Stormy night", but not much better) Brian was kinda taken with the brand new release of Whitney Houston's signature song "I Will Always Love You". It was a great piece of work. Just a quick bit of background: Young'uns are never impressed with Dad's old Oldsmobile, so it was no surprise that Brian had little tolerance for his Mom's and Dad's oldies music, either. Like a big-mouthed buffoon, I let it slip that this was an old Dolly Parton tune. Brian's face went white for a moment before it went to an enraged hue of red-purple. "That's Whitney's song! Dolly Parton is a shameless imitator." Being a witless moron, I said "Dolly wrote the song." Brian's shoulders kinda drooped, but for only a second. He had no answer. Fast forward many years to the present. At our fiftieth wedding anniversary Todd and Jodi and the kids assembled a wonderful big-screen montage of family photos, accompanied by some of our favorite oldies songs. Before the guests began to arrive we all watched and listened. I had sworn that my emotions were NOT going to play in, but this was a bit unexpected. Ma and I were really surprised by all the fabulous decor put up by our kids and spouses. Anyway, one of the songs was "I Will Always Love You"........... By Dolly Parton. It received good comments, like " Ooh, nice" and "This is great!" But I was was watching Brian. He didn't disappoint. He spoke in measured tones, saying "Dolly Parton Murdered Whitney Houston and stole her song."

We had a dilemma. Our ol' toilet in my bathroom hasn't been working too well. It became apparent yesterday that it must be replaced. We were sitting in the living room discussing the awfulness of the situation. Dilemma: do we pay $379.00 for a plumber or do we pay $144.00 and turn me loose on the project. I am not a plumber. For one thing, my pants don't go down nearly far enough to even begin to show a plumber's butt crack.

I decided that it was just too risky. Translated, that means that I'm just too dang lazy and fearful. Having never installed a toilet before, I decided, with finality, that it was too scarrrry. Suddenly, someone on the tv said "Eleanore Roosevelt once said, 'you should do something that scares you every day'". That's the truth. The timing was perfect. Perfectly horrid! I looked at Maudeen. She looked at me.

I KNOW there is a life after death, because I KNOW I will eventually find Eleanor Roosevelt and give her a piece of my mind.

The guy at Home Depot showed me all the fine points of my upcoming project. I was especially impressed with the notice that said "no tools needed". I asked about that. The guy said, "If you believe that, I have a bridge I can sell you. If your fingers are as strong as Arnold Schwartzneggar's, you will be fine. Otherwise you will need tools. Just be gentle." Oh, now I'm supposed to be a gentle plumber.

Several hours later, after dragging out a heavy "twalatte" and dragging in a heavy twalatte and dealing successfully with that demoralizing WAX RING I was done. as in d-o-n-e. I hadn't broken the porcelain. I hadn't stripped any threads. There were no leaks. I even put my tools away. Okay, I lie. The tools are not yet put away, but they are stacked neatly in the corner.

Deenie said: "I can't believe this. I just cannot believe this". She thought I would be on the phone shouting,"Kenneth, get over here".

So, if you need a plumber, feel free to call..... Buttcrack Plumbing. You can find them in the yellow pages.

We are the greatest grandparents in the WORLD! Not - in this case - great grandparents, merely grandparents, but great, you understand. We support Connor in every last thing he does. He can always count on us. We are just... outstanding, y'know?

This has been one of our best weeks. We waved a Pikachu flag at his graduation. His friends pounded on his back quite a bit, pointing at us. He tried to look nonchalant, mostly looking in the other direction. What a guy.

Then, the next evening, the graduating class of Jordan High held a celebration party. Not a single parent showed up. Not a single school administrator showed up. Not a single adult showed up. We were the only grandparents there. We were so proud. We danced the light fantastic. We seemed to be the center of attention. We loved it. However, Connor didn't seem to be feeling too well. He sat over in a corner with his hands over his eyes. We eventually went over to him and asked if he'd like for us to get him an aspirin. He was so sweet. He said, "no, you have done enough". His hands never left his eyes.

He is planning a trip to Ireland right away. He doesn't know it yet, but we have our reservations made and our bags packed. We don't know exactly where he will be, but we'll find him. We WILL find him.

Editor;s note: Yes, this a spoof. He hasn't graduated yet. Grandma Maudeen casually mentioned to me that Connor was planning a party the night after graduation. But, she knows that I am easily befuddled, so she quickly added, "but we won't be attending that". The incongruity of it all hit me pretty hard. I awoke in the night, thinking, wow, there hasta be a blob in here somewhere.

Frank

I cannot bring myself to compose a complete personal history, so the next best thing might be to tell stories from my past. Some personal histories are so dry! I hope this will be a litt-a-bit easier to read.


During the late spring of 1959, I found myself running around at 6:30 or 7:00 a.m., getting ready for school in Monticello, Utah, 55 miles away. We were acting a bit crazy, as the school year was almost over. I can't for the life of me remember why I was tearing around with Frank Long at that outlandish hour when he was not in school.
Maybe he had just gotten off graveyard shift at one of the mines.I guess he was lonely. He had graduated a year earlier from some high school in central Utah. I didn't know him too well. He had stories to tell. He had tossed up an outlandish hook shot from midcourt at the buzzer to win a game for (Salina?)High.

Jay Lish, Jim McTaggart, Ralph Ramstetter,Jimmy Dennison and I were planning to run to school that day in Jay's old '48 Plymouth. (Later owned by Eddie Burton.) Frank said, "ride with me at least as far as La Sal Junction." I thought about it and said, "naw, if I did that I would (A) have to wait for them at the junction, or (B) not get a front seat." I really don't remember why I bailed out of Frank's car.

We headed out while the school bus was loading up with high schoolers. Jay was a speedy guy, but I don't remember us being in a hurry. Jay looked in his rear view mirror and shouted, "here comes Frank". That Plymouth was no slouch, but Frank was in a '51 Mercury. We stepped on it. We were soon doing 80 or 90 miles per hour, just short of the turnoff to the mining district where most of us lived. Frank must have been doing 110 or even 120 as he started around us. That Mercury was a piece of work. It was faasst.

His left wheels just barely got off the pavement. At a lower speed this would have been no problem. But he couldn't correct. He went into the barrow pit (who coined that silly phrase, "barrow pit" anyway?) He slammed into the berm (another silly word) containing the turnoff.He went airborne for a bit, then landed on the highway not more than 15 feet in front of us. But he was sideways to us. I saw - for an instant - the panic on his face. Then, he was gone in a cloud of dust.

It took 200, maybe 300 feet to stop. We went running. It must have been a windless day, because we ran into the cloud of dust, unable to see anything. We found the demolished Merc. No one knows how many times it rolled, but it ended up on its wheels. We couldn't find Frank. I was afraid he might be under the car. We could never have rolled that big monster over onto its side. We went running around, screaming, "Frank". Someone said "he's over here". He had been crushed by the car.

He was breathing, but he had an ominous pink fluid on his lips. (Sorry for being a bit graphic, but you knew this was coming.) He soon stopped breathing. The school bus came by. The driver jumped out to see if he could help. He jumped back into the bus to get the kids away from that gruesome sight.

Carloads of miners came by, heading for work, all of them jumping out to try to help, then sadly moving on. We stood there in silence. I couldn't help noticing the perfect clear blue sky. Frank's brother and grandmother soon arrived from the trailer court where they all lived. Seeing Grandma's face was a terrible moment.

After surveying the scene, the brother, (Jack?) (My memory fails) went over and sat on the running board of his old pickup truck. After a while he had some words for us. But not many. He clenched his fist and said "if I ever catch any of you speeding, I'm gonna....".

It took two hours for a Highway Patrolman to arrive. I knew the local fuzz, but I cannot remember whether it was Claude Lacy Or another guy. Ahh, my wonderful memory. I'm glad I am getting this all down. My friends would now all say, "no, it happened this way, or this way" but I haven't seen any of them in fifty years. The Patrolman sent us on our way. We wanted to stay and help get Frank into an ambulance or hearse, but we followed instructions.

As we walked into the high school at about noon, we told the principal that we had to go to the Highway Patrol office to file reports. Principal Burr told us to report and then take the rest of the day off. All the way down to the office, we worked frantically to make sure our stories jibed, I.E.,"Oh no, we weren't speeding. Oh, no, Frank wasn't speeding". We were interviewed separately. None of us were sentenced to 20 years for lying. The cops weren't dumb. They were just not interested in prying the truth out of us. Or maybe someone TOLD the truth, satisfying the interrogator.

Greetinks and salutations to all who view this blob. All two of you. Baadd news from the television world. I saw a stupidly stupid ad featuring a BLOB! He was a little square cube-like character, resembling qbert, advertising something or something. I, the original Blob, (almost original) have been replaced. I shall eventually fight to the finish, but for now......... it's ok.

It has to be ok. What's beyond angered? Beyond astounded? b'yond infuriated?? The only word I can conjure up is.....mumblized. I am disheartened and mumblized at this outrage. But it's ok. For NOW. I mumble a lot anyway, but mumblization is debilitating, so I shall take the high road, the higher road and - well you get it. But be aware, Mister Elephant never forgets.... I am done talking about THAT blob.

I won't even capitalize his name. His logo is moronic. his message is unrememberable. His colors are red and white. Need I say more? I think not. Far below mud and muck you will find slime. This guy is slime. Nothin' more to say.

On a happier note, I can report that this little freak was the product of advertising genii who probably never got past seventh grade. What is lower than moron? Lower than idiot? I got it. Imbecile. These Imbeciles, who cannot dress themselves, Have put manymanymany hours of hard work, laboring over chocolate donuts, and come up with a cube. With rounded corners. Genius!!! blob flies around like a demented bumblebeee, advertising whatever. I am proud to hold myself above the level of combatant in this issue. I have IMPORTANT themes to pursue.

The communication world is quickly becoming overrun with the mundane. MUNDANE? This quack is mundanious to a fault. That's right, a FAULT. I go now.

I shall be known as BLOBFISH! Blobfish the Indestructable. I have been refusing for some time now to look in any mirror that shows anything below the neck. Not that the image above the neck is any grand prize. BLOBFISH. Blobfish works well. Really well. B'fish will one day rule the television world. I will rule every channel, even those stupid cable channels. (Thank you, Ken, for bringing Enhanced Stupid to the family. NO! You are not stupid, enhanced! You merely put more and better emphasis on "stupid" than we have ever before witnessed.

Do you remember Seinfeld, the show about nothing? Well, this is Blobfish , the blob about nothing. I had a theme in mind. (I really did.) But I became incensed with the unfairness of it all that I just had to make one short little comment about "blob, - the Interloper". See, I didn't "cap" his name. Good for me. I go now. We'll see what the little creep thinks of that. I'm through talking about him. Or her. Or it. That's it! It'an it! I am gone now.

Blobbing for Connor's Swim Team

Recently, we received a schedule of Connor's swim meets. I decided that I would not miss a single meet. Well, I missed the first one because I'm me. You know... Flagboy. On the day of the second meet, I found a good parking spot on the east end of the school and ran inside to find the pool.(Me? Running? Yeah, rright.) But I was hurrying.

I hustled like a man on a quest. I kept thinking I could smell the pool, or at least, feel the dampness in the air. When I got to the FAR west end of Jordan High, I finally lost faith in my keen nasal instincts and asked a guy where the swimming pool was. He seemed like a fellow who had been asked many many stupid questions by many decades of students, but this one had him stumped for a second or two. "There's no swimming pool."

Acting on his instructions, I went screaming for Mount Jordan Jr. High School where Jordan was competing with Grantsville. Connor is a senior and a team captain. The meet was fun and, of course, Con-man did really well.

I decided that, considering my navigational skills, I would stick to "home meets" for awhile. I had MJJH's location down pretty well, because we had watched Jodi compete there in gymnastics. The next meet was against Pleasant Grove. By this time I had my swagger back and went strolling in a half hour early. Things were looking smooth. But, alas, a girl met me at the door. "We need timers! Will you help?" I politely declined. "But it's really really easy, and you will do great." This poor girl had no knowledge of the whole "Flagboy" thing. She was very determined and I soon found myself sitting on a timer's bench. Connor came along, quite surprised to see me there. He was really excited for me. He, too, had no real grasp of "D-flaggs".

Okay... Ya hold two buttons. Ya push the right hand button at the instant the heat starts and both buttons at the instant the heat ends. Simple. I had no idea what the second button did, but I didn't care. I was on lane six where the younger kids compete, and sometimes lane six was empty. Nice. The kids all jumped off a platform. I was doing well. That is until the kids all jumped into the pool and then took their starting spot IN the pool, for the backstroke. I was confused, but just for ONE second. The starting horn was, for me, the STARTLING horn. I was most of one second late. I felt sooo bad. I worried about being arrested and thrown into a cell with Brian David Mitchell or Mark Hoffman or the guy with all the facial tattoos. The swim meet went well the rest of the way. The timer sitting next to me casually said, "Oh by the way, this is just "backup" timing. The actual timing is all electronic."

I was so busy with that stupid timer that I almost didn't get to see Connor compete. Oh well, it was great being ther with him. I assumed for some insanely wacky reason, that the boys dressing room was on tne south end and the girls were on the north. Oh, no. As I started out the south door, the one I thought I came in, a woman grabbed me and said, "you can't go out through the girls dressing room."

But, really, I am finding my way around the facility quite well. No. Really. I just wear a fake mustache and shades so the timer girl will never remember me.

And to think: Barbara called Jodi one day this week. She thought she heard some background noise. "What's going on?" Jodi replied, "Oh, I'm just feeding fifty swimmers." Sometimes I wonder if Jodi realizes how much I sacrificed that day to help Connor out.

Still 500 Miles Away From Home

Once in a while I come across an old old song by Bobby Bare.(This is an old, old, old song in blobfish years.) The name of it is "500 miles from home". This song became a favorite the instant I heard it in the 1960s. It struck a chord with me because I had hitch-hiked a lot when I was a kid. A whole lot more than my parents ever knew about! Living in La Sal, near Moab, I found that "thumbing" got me into Moab or Monticello much more easily than trying to arrange rides. (Thumbing could be pretty tense. I remember being stranded near Church Rock, 20 miles north of Monticello, for many hours one Sunday afternoon with NO traffic and a snowstorm blowing in, and me in a t-shirt.)

I yearned greatly for my old home town of Alma, Co. In about 1956, when I was about fifteen, I announced to my parents one day that I had saved almost enough money in my baby-sitting account to ride the Trailways Bus from Moab to Fairplay, Co. and back again two weeks later. All I needed was a few dollars for spending money. They agreed and my plans were made. Jack and Margie said they they were looking forward to seeing me.

Problem. The bus came through Moab at 3:30 a.m. Dad woke me up at 2:30 and we were on our way. We got into town soon after three o'clock on a warm July morning. Dad offered to sit with me 'til the bus arrived. I said "oh, no, I will be just fine." As his taillights disappeared around the corner I broke into a run. I was danged if I was going to waste 13 dollars and a few cents on bus fare!

I got to the north end of town in really good time, heavy suitcase and all. Ten or fifteen minutes went by. Here came the bus. The wind-draft off that big old thing 'bout blew me over. I felt some real remorse as I stood there in the darkness.

I absolutely cannot remember who picked me up and dropped me off at Crescent Junction. My next ride was with a trucker. Hmmm... Maybe he picked me up in Moab! Hey, this happened 53 years ago! I should remember everything?? He told me to be ready for a very sudden jolt at any time. He said it was his policy to slam on the brakes full blast if he saw anything that remotely resembled a cop-car. People who gave kids like me rides were in great need of someone to talk to. He dropped me in
Grand Junction.

My next ride was with a guy who was having some car trouble. No surprise. 63.28% of all cars had trouble in those days. We made it through Montrose before his car boiled over. He told me to watch the car while he (A looked for a large tin can and (B walked down to the river to fill it. I was silently cursing my luck as he wandered along the highway and then down to the river - a river that I couldn't even SEE! Being a stupidly loyal kid, I could not jump out and flag down the next driver.

I sat there wishing I had elected to take the north route through Glenwood Springs, but being trapped on Hoosier Pass with NO traffic didn't appeal to me. I knew that feeling. We chugged into Gunnison without further incident. As I stood there on the east end of Gunnison, my heart sank. Here came an older car pulling a large trailer house. Being a stupidly caring lad I could not say "go 'way. Move on!" The auto was filled with a huge family of Hispanic people. They spoke more English with their hands than they did with their mouths. There were at least four of us in the front seat and who knows how many urchins in the back. I thought I could see about ten legs and eleven arms back there, all moving randomly about. A very happy family indeed. The driver, whom I shall call Pepe, cheerfully regaled me with nonstop chatter as we crawled along.

My mood was a strange cross between despair at our turtle-pace and my growing admiration for this beautiful family. If there were ten people in the car, and if you multiply that by thirty two, then there had to have been 320 teeth smiling at me the whole way. I knew nothing of heaven but this seemed pretty close to it. They told me they were off to Saguache. With heavy heart I saw Monarch Pass coming up. Being a stupidly selfish boy, I said "my aunt lives here in Sargents. I'd better stop and say hello." They dropped me off and I sadly watched them drive away. Really, I could have run beside them for the first 300 feet. That car was that slow.

My next ride was with a guy who introduced himself as a rodeo performer. About 500 yards up Monarch Pass, we went flying around the old mobile home. I ducked my head to avoid being recognized. This rodeo guy was driving a '50 ford. Remember those old '50 fords? They could HAUL. As we raced across South Park (yes, THAT South Park) this guy said he traveled North America on the rodeo circuit. Broncs, bulls, he rode 'em all. He made belts and other leather goods to pay the bills between events. He may not have been a real person. He may have been a country song posing as a person. He told me all about his endless injuries; broken teeth, broken arms, broken legs and other broken appendages. I wished like crazy that I could have gotten one of his belts, but my thirteen dollars and a few cents was very precious to me. The belt would have become a useless lifetime momento. I was a size 32 at the time and I'm an expanding 42 these days.

I didn't have a watch, so I must have asked each benefactor fifty times what time it was. He dropped me off in Fairplay at 4:30 p.m. The bus had only beaten me by about 15 minutes. I felt like the king of the world as I trudged through town, savoring all those familiar sights.

Six miles to go. I'll bet you have never heard of a PlymFord. Warren Good was an eccentric genius/handyman/mechanic/inventor. He had done something nobody had probably thought of. He had combined a trashed out old Plymouth with a thrashed out old Ford. The Good kids (yeah, for the most part, they were good kids) called this thing a PlymFord. Warren went sailing past me heading up Fairplay Hill doing about forty mph. He cleared the top doing about 30 mph, which is a testament to his ingenuity. Soon he reappeared, having finally recognized me.

The whole trip was almost exactly 500 miles. From my house at Cal Uranium in San Juan County, Ut. to my brother Jack's house in Alma Co. in less than 14 and a half hours. No freeway in those days. Two fun-filled weeks later I was on the bus heading for home. Well, I couldn't have fibbed to Jack saying I had to leave at 2:30 a.m. when he knew the westbound bus left in the afternoon.

More Misadventures at Chuckarama

A person on a serious crash diet shouldn't think Chuck-a-rama. However, I have discovered a very healthful menu there. Grandma and I were there at 11:00 a.m. when they opened. Less competition that way. People in search of food can be very dangerous. My menu goes like this. Start with a simple salad. Then move over to the pot roast. Today it was pot TURKEY roast, but that was o.k. I can dip up anything in that tray except the potatoes. Turkey, carrots and onions. Good stuff. And probably okayed by Dr. Oz. (Do you think that is his real name?) Not! Then on to the WHOLE WHEAT rolls. No butter. "A" whole wheat roll! ONE ww roll. And that's it. Marie Osmond herself couldn't have steered me any better. I was so proud of myself that I allowed myself a sliver of carrot cake. Carrot cake is more vegetable than junk food if you avoid the frosting.

To my dismay, the carrot cake, instead of being light and fluffy, was sludgy and heavy. Unlike anything I had ever experienced. I shoved it aside. Grandma looked at me somewhat askance as I went for some peach turnover. The crust looked dark, but I thought nothing of it. INEDIBLE. The crust was burned beyond repair. I was not going to let one small dessert issue ruin my otherwise excellent meal. Grandma looked downright suspicious as I went and got my favorite, chocolate pudding. The nice thing about chock puddin' is: a very full dish doesn't look much fuller than a regular dish. I assured her that the peach dish would have had more calories.

The place was filling up with crying children. The people behind us on her side kept banging the seat, jarring her quite badly. She said, "this never fails." She got up to leave. "Right behind you", I said as I finished the last bite of pudding. As she turned the corner, I quickly ate the perfect peach streudel and wolfed down the perfect carrot cake, frosting and all. I caught up with her before she got even halfway to the car.

Fogblob

We all hate fog. Fog seems to be the most universally despised weather condition. Pilots hate it. Ship's captains hate it. Some love Phoenix for the heat. Some love Minneapolis for the cold. But we all hate fog. Jodi, Todd and the Big Kids are leaving the SLC fog and heading out into the fog of the Uintah Basin to see Barb, Amanda and the Little kids. I'm jealous. It's worth braving the fog to see that group!

Well, anyhoo, we all have a favorite fog story to tell. The story often goes like this: Ya couldn't see the railroad tracks that ya were standing on at 12:00 o'clock noon. Ya couldn't see the powerful headlight of the approaching train! Ya hadda stoop over and feel the track so's ya would know which way to jump just as the train came whistling past!

My friend Buster told of driving in the "thickest fog of all time". He had the good fortune to get behind another motorist. He admitted that he was tailgating like crazy. This went on for mle after mile. The other driver suddenly stopped. Buster was lost and spooked. The other fella opened his door. Buster opened his door. The other guy stood up. Buster stood up. The other guy said "what are you doing in my driveway?"

My best/worst fog story goes thusly. Uh oh, another Moab story. I had just bought my first auto, a '55 pontiac. (Well, this doesn't include the $5.00 I spent to help buy a $20.00 Buick with some of my Carbon College friends.) That car had real good springs but no shocks. This allowed us to overfill the Buick with a ho-bunch of crazies and go down the main street of Price, hopping up and down, causing the green car to imitate a giant grasshopper, almost leaving the pavement on the upswing. What fun! The ticket we got was more than we paid for the car.

Burton! Wake up! Hey, Flagboy, get back to the story. Coincidentally, my friend and co-worker at the uranium mine, Buce, had also just bought a '55 Pontiac. Identical! Same lime-green and white. Heading into Christmas of 1961, I was excited to head for Price, home of my girlfriend, now known as "Grandma". Bruce was going in the same direction (to Utah County)for the holidays. We decided to travel through the heavy fog caravan style, just in case of mechanical problems. I was leading as we left Moab at about 6:00 p.m., having just finished our shift. Price lay 120 miles ahead.

Bruce was a bit of a drinker. He had a pint of "Old Sunny Brook" to help keep him company, along with his girlfriend and her four children. SIX PEOPLE IN THAT CAR! We no sooner left Moab than I lost his headlights in my rear view mirror. I stopped, assuming it was one of those "routine" stops for one of the young children. His car didn't appear for awhile. I turned back, wondering if he was already experiencing mechanical problems, so common in those days. Mistake. Here he came, hustling right along, trying to catch up with me.

I spun around and tried to catch him. The fog was so thick that I could only see about three white stripes ahead. I pushed the ol' greenie. I knew he would be wondering where in the heck I had disappeared to. I soon glanced at my speedometer. Seventy miles per hour?? Wow! I would knock his rear bumper into his radiator if I caught up at that speed. I slowed to about 30 mph, which was still a bit fast for the conditions.

Nice Christmas. Lotsa fun. When I arrived at the mine on the next workday, Bruce came running up to me. "What in the he** were you doing? How the he** fast were you going? I drove 80 miles per hour all the way to price looking for you"