Canned Tomatoes and Afghans

They're both lying in medical beds now, one in a hospital in Lexington and one in a nursing home in Hyden. They are my two aunts, staunch defenders of me against my parents, safe havens to run to in troubled times, an odd mix of friends and family. The both of them are sick and suffering and there's nothing I can do about it.

To say I feel worse than helpless is an understatement. If I were a man, perhaps the word would be impotent, and then some.

I never left their house but what my belly was full of good, homemade food, my head and heart full of laughter and hilarious family stories, and my hands full of some fresh garden produce, canned goods, newly made afghan or homemade pillow. In an always repeated exchange born in the deep hills of Kentucky, they would ask me to stay, and I would ask them to come home with me, and I'd drive off in my car with those wonderful Mountain accents ringing in my ears, sweet ways of talking that are now fast fading from the hills with the coming of cable and dish TV.

Last Saturday I visited one aunt in her home, watched a gory mob movie with her all afternoon and was periodically visited by her ferrets and cats -- and left with canned tomatoes. On Sunday I visited my other aunt three and a half hours away who lay asleep in her chair after having been awake all morning, and even out to church, her daughter-in-law said. That would be the church services they have in the nursing home's cafeteria. She came to briefly, to her children saying, Momma, it's Lyn. Bob and Lyn are here. I was able to ask her how she was doing, and she told me she was a-doing okay, then drifted back off to sleep. I left there with those precious words uttered from her lips, words that I hadn't heard for quite some time because a chronic medical condition periodically floods her brain with ammonia, and takes away her ability to speak. But it had come back, just a couple of words, that fell like pearls on my ears, I so hungry for the accent, so lonely for the sweet twang and descriptions like "hain't nary."

I'm an orphan now, and that's been hard enough. But what will it be like when there are no more elderly aunts and uncles in my life to sit and listen to? No more stories from the old days, and those great long convoluted explanations of who's related to who? And it so much reminds me what I learned a long time ago -- we grieve for ourselves.

I'm so angry at their suffering. I'm so angry and useless and unable to do one single thing to ease any of it or take it away, or help at all especially when I know they would have moved mountains to ease my suffering. It seems so paltry to say, I love you. I'm so angry at this medical situation where they tell the family, who is already grieving this living death, that sorry, but your loved one can only be sick for x amount of days and then their benefits wear out. Well, we have jobs we can't quit, and she can't walk on her own. Well, sorry 'bout your luck. And by the way, you have to have a password to ask how they're doing. It's not a question of extending life by artificial means. They need no artificial means to stay alive, unless you want to count when you help them eat. We're not talking about ventilators and end of life and feeding tubes.

Will this new health care bill help? Don't see how it can when it's already taken, what is the amount, $500 billion out of Medicare? There are supposedly no caps on care? So what is this about only being able to stay here for x amount of days? Only a bunch of junk filled with special interest riders funding this and that project along the way that has nothing to do with health care, and old people, and never solving the basic problem, which is why on earth does one single, generic aspirin cost $10 in a hospital? And why do we disrespect our elders so badly?

They don't deserve to live and die like this.

Tomorrow I will make vegetable soup out of one of the cans of Maye's tomatoes, because she would want me to, but I'm not for sure I'll ever open the other can. I think I'll leave it sit on my top shelf, the deep dark red of the tomatoes like some lighthouse beacon keeping watch over my kitchen. Later I'll snuggle under Francie's afghan as I watch the evening news, and run my fingers over the intricate and precise crocheted stitches one by one. Later that night, as I try to fall asleep, I'll strain to remember that voice, that sweet, sweet voice from so long ago telling me the story of when the fox got the chicken and she sent my cousin Paul to bring it back -- the chicken, not the fox. The picture of the fox, chicken in his mouth and my long legged cousin Paul, then a lanky boy, leaping through the briars and rhododendron will make me smile, ever so briefly, before my eyes begin to spill in the dark night.

CRS

I'm discovering an interesting thing about myself as I'm aging. I'm discovering that if I really don't like someone, I can't remember their name!

This is a little different from the general CRS syndrome that I started experiencing as I passed that magic age of 50. Fifty is the age where you really do need to start working crossword puzzles because it seems like the silliest things elude your memory. I try to work at least nine a day, one from a newspaper, one from a subscriber on line, and 7 from a crossword website.

It's also the age where you need to make sure you pee before you get in the car and go anywhere, but I digress.

A post on Dea Riley's page prompted me to realize this unique memory phenomenon. She had posted a story about a Northern Kentucky university professor who has published an article maintaining Sarah Palin's Down's Syndrome baby is not her own, but her daughter's, and it reminded me of the talk show host that thought it was so funny to poke fun at Sarah's sixteen year old daughter on national TV. And see, I was so disgusted by his base stupidity that I can't, at this moment in time, remember his name.

Being a journalist I know where to look to find out, but I'm also experiencing a second, and not unpleasant sensation. I find I enjoy that I can't remember his name. I never did think he was that funny, he being one of those who think it's humorous to degrade others. Never a true comedian like the masters in the old days. I can remember Jay Leno's name just fine. And now that my fevered brain has insisted on sorting it out regardless of my preferences, I find I do remember the name of David Letterman.

So the question is, will David Letterman will now poke fun at Sarah's Down Syndrome baby on his next show? Or will he at last show a little class and leave the children out of it?

Pseudophedrine

Is it just me, or have others realized that nearly all of the recreational drugs are already illegal or prescription? And that by getting pseudophedrine by prescription, you can about 4 times the number of pills you can get over the counter?

There's a doctor down in Hazard known as the "pain doctor," where everybody goes to get their oxycotin. His office, I am told, looks like a lobby of a four star hotel in Vegas.

'Nuff said, as my Momma always said.

Kentucky Congress

So, so sad tonight, feeling so beaten and disgusted. Cannot believe the legislature has passed a preemptive strike to keep the EPA out of the coalfields of Kentucky. The blindness of the people to the manipulation of the coal companies -- you just have to wonder how many of our senators and representatives are on their payrolls? All of a sudden federal intrusion into our state's workings is a big thing. It wasn't a big thing when the Health Care Reform Act was passed, even though it's already been warned that the Bill will bankrupt our state. We didn't raise hell about it. It wasn't a big thing when Beshear accepted stimulus money that other states with more integrity turned down, and neglected to acknowledge that stimulus money's impact when HE claimed HE had managed to balance the budget (first with imaginary gambling money, then the stimulus). We didn't raise hell about that. Now, though, when it comes to the production of the beloved coal dollar, the monkeys are hooting and hollering in their trees.

We are insane in our foolishness when we can't accept that we can burn our own garbage for fuel. We are insane in our shortsightedness when we can acknowledge we can produce, on our beautiful, now idle fields, plenty of bio fuel (not the corn that strips the soil, but more friendly crops like hemp and switch grass) and that we can cover our barns with solar panels. We are insane in our shortsightedness when we think it is okay to blow up some of the oldest mountains in the world for more Wal Marts. We are insane when we can't seem to see that the coal companies master mine this to keep all other industries out of the Appalachians and that the citizens of Appalachia are cutting their own necks. We are insane, and I'm just having a real hard time wrapping my mind around it tonight.

Thanksgiving

I never seem to be able to get in sync with the "real" world, and today is no exception. I was just moved to comment on how perfect it was a morning at our house today. The sun was out and shining through our windows, there was a fire cackling in the stove, we were snuggled up in covers and pets and comfortable in our chairs drinking good coffee and watching the Sunday political shows on TV. It occurred to me then that my resolution this year is to be mindful of the moment and to be thankful for it, not waiting for that faraway day in November to count my blessings.

Statistics

Just something quick, just to break the ice from this long stalemate from writing. I heard on the news this morning the following statistic, that the baby boomers are starting to come of age for Medicare benefits this year, to the tune of approximately 10,000 a day. This is a staggering, breathtaking statistic, designed to make everyone in the audience gasp a little and say, "Oh no!" What irritates and aggravates me (seems that's getting easier and easier to do), is the lack of the "rest of the story" (apologies to Paul Harvey) this statistic provides. The other logical side, of course, maybe a little morbid, is how many people on Medicare are dying every day and thus leaving the program? In other words, what is the real net increase, if there is one, and why doesn't this particular news source, who claims to be neutral and unbiased, also provide this information as well as the more inflammatory and unfinished remark?

I once had a great Journalism teacher who taught us how statistics can be used to provide justification for nearly everything, including points that are total opposites to each other. I don't remember the statistic she used, but she took one and managed to derive about ten interesting and at times, totally opposite results from the same number. (Many teachings from my old journalism school really did set with me, such as this one, and such as the one my old copy reading and editing teacher admonished, to "always consider the source!"). I had an interesting time with this when I used to work at a hospital who was fined over a million dollars in bogus Medicare charges due to its incorrect coding for pneumonia patients. As a result the respiratory therapists were charged with the duty of obtaining sputum cultures within 4 hours of admission for every patient admitted with the diagnosis of pneumonia, and when that number, on paper, was not reached, we were skewered, splayed and flayed before the administration for our laziness. The reality of the situation was much different and the percentage results were variant on many factors, many of which were totally out of our control, including a basic one -- that we were rarely informed of the admittance of a pneumonia patient within the 4 hour time span, leaving us very little time to do our protocol, which was itself a 3 hour procedure. I became so angered at receiving the rancorous phone calls from the infection control nurse and the administration that on one occasion I took the infection control nurse's statistic and ripped it apart about ten different ways. It didn't stop her from calling our department, but when she got me on the phone, she simply told me to tell my boss to call her.

My journalism teacher simply taught us, statistics can be manipulated to mean anything you want them to. My constant and persistent complaint, ad nauseam, is how difficult it is to find good, well-balanced news sources anymore who are willing to take even this simple little concept into consideration much less any of the rest of the plethora of factors that separate a fair and unbiased story from propaganda.

For instance, without getting into a huge Journalism 101 explanation, the very decision regarding what to print can dictate the bias of a news organization. Take in point a story written by the Associated Press about the Hawaii governor's resistance in releasing Obama's birth certificate, that, although written by the AP, considered fairly neutral and unbiased, was only published on Worldnews.net, a decidedly biased news media. Does the fact that thiis commonly respected AP story was published on a decidedly biased news media somehow stain the story? No. The bigger question, I'm asking, is why this story wasn't picked up and published on the supposedly respected mainstream media?

If you comment on this post wanting to argue with me about whether or not I'm a birther and all the other crap, don't bother. You're totally missing the extremely simple, elementary point. In the last dialogue not one person actually addressed that point, the exact same one the great bastion of liberalism Chris Matthews also asked regarding Obama's birth certificate, "Why doesn't he just show it?" Unlikely as it usually is, I agree with Matthews on this one, who wants to put all the diatribe and excuses aside, and simply wants to know the answer to this very important question.

THE NEW CD - Generally Speaking

The new CD. It has taken so much work, but I think it may be finished. The package design has already been sent to Discmakers and we're still fine tuning the master. I don't know what to say about it right now, except that I am exhausted.

This is the process -- write a song, then re-write it, and re-write and re-write. Then record it at the home studio, re-write again, and chart it out. Then mentally assemble a group of musicians to record it, send it out to all of them along with the words and charts. Then comes the scheduling of all involved. We finally meet in the studio to make the final arrangement decisions and actually record it. Now you listen to this song, I can't count the number of times, fine tuning each musician's part, bringing up this phrase, taking down that one countless, countless times, plus adding new instrument voices to the mix as you go and doing all the mixing with those tracks. Then you multiply this process by 12 songs. I am totally exhausted, and I have no idea how my Ed, my engineer has managed to stay sane through the whole thing. 

If I have listened to the songs a hundred times, Ed has listened to them a thousand, tweaking here and there constantly. All told, it's been two years -- thank goodness it hasn't been a constant thing until just lately. I have only a vague notion of all of the things, effects, whatever, that can be done through audio engineering. I'm an analog girl, and knew my way around the analog studio. Everything is digital now, analog to the nth degree. There are the technical aspects of making all of the voices, human and instrumental, achieve a certain level, and a certain warmth and freshness. It is unknown to most that recording is done flat, with all resonance and such taken away, and then those characteristics are added back in. The whole point is to be able to make all of the instruments sound like a cohesive unit. I can't explain it much more than that. I do know it is a great deal of work.

It does things to your ego, listening to yourself that much. One might think it would be a wonderful thing, but it's not. First of all, I'm not that fond of my voice, and then there are the thousand tiny things I wish I could change -- one song should have been in a higher key, one was faster than I intended it, I kind of flubbed that note, etc., etc., etc., ad nauseum.

It is nearly done, though. I probably wouldn't be able to listen to it full all the way through again, were it not for the wonderful job that the musicians did. I have to admit that I am less interested in my singing than I am the playing of these musicians. I know I will enjoy this album for the rest of my life simply because of the wonderful musical talent that is on it. If it were up to me, the music would go on forever. Just hang an iPod on my ears when you cart me off to the old folks' home.

I have said this before, that song writing is a singular, solitary thing, and what you manage to croak out and strum on your front porch becomes a whole new thing when you invite other people to join in and put their own impressions to it. This process to me, is the most fun thing I can ever think to do. To be able to sit down with wonderful players and let them take my song, everybody contributing in, and make it into something else completely is, well, my idea of a good time. That's what does it for me.