Me and My Guitar Part III: Audiophonic Fermentation (?)

Decades (!) after my first encounter with the guitar I couldn't play a single recognizable song (I had long since forgotten Kumbaya and Wayfarin' Stranger).  However, I could produce some pleasing sounds by noodling around and practicing my chords -- something that has eventually become extremely important, as I'll try to make clear.

My wife and I retired in 2000 and move moved to Hawai'i a year later. The guitar she had given to me 30 years earlier successfully made the trip with us.  However, somewhere in the discombobulation I lost my pitch pipe and with it the ability to keep the guitar in tune.  For a while this didn't matter too much, because (a) I was busy with many projects around our new house and didn't play much, and (b) I could keep the guitar acceptably close to being in tune just by ear.  My intent was to eventually buy a new pitch pipe but something always seemed to get in the way.  As months and years went by the guitar got more and more out of tune and my tuning-by-ear approach didn't work.  I played less and less.

A few years ago while hiking with a new snowbird friend I found out that he was an accomplished guitar player.  When I briefed him on my own interest and my current tuning problem, he offered to tune my guitar for me and also suggested I go online and buy a cheap electronic gizmo that would allow me to easily and accurately tune it myself.  At the time I had never heard of such a thing, but it turns out there are several different brands of these nifty little things, most of them less than $20.  They clip onto the guitar and register the frequency of the string that is vibrating, transforming it into a visual display that shows how close it is to a particular note. By watching the display as you turn the tuning knobs you can dial precisely the correct tension for each string.  Damn!  Not only is this gadget helpful for those of us who don't have perfect pitch, it also has many of the characteristics of a Geezer Techno-Toy -- it's cheap, has colored lights, involves sounds, and runs on batteries.  Sold! A few days later mine arrived in the mail and it has changed everything.

My Friend

For the first time ever I began playing regularly.  At first this was mainly rediscovering the basics and toughening up the fingertips of my left hand.  Most beginning guitar players have to go through the somewhat painful process of building up callouses that come from pressing down with your fingers on thin strings of metal or nylon.  Gradually I could play longer and longer without pain, but initially five or ten minutes was all I could take.  Today there doesn't seem to be a limit.

So what do I play?  This is where it gets a little weird.

As I've continued to "noodle around" I find I really like the melodies that emerge from sequences of chords that I seem to choose almost randomly.  Not only that, but I can now pluck individual notes within the chords -- something I've never done before -- and this adds interesting variation and complexity to the sound.  But the really weird part is that I'm doing this without really thinking about it or intentionally choosing the chord sequence or the notes.  I find myself just listening to what is being produced and being amazed at how pleasing it sounds.  If I start to focus on the mechanics of playing or on consciously trying to choose chords or notes, the whole thing goes sour and falls apart.

I don't know where this music comes from.  It certainly isn't from any natural talent that has ever been apparent before, nor is it the result of disciplined study and practice, as I'm sure I've made clear in recounting my saga.  As a crackpot pseudo-explanation I offer the term "audiophonic fermentation," an invented process whereby my brain has absorbed decades of visual and auditory encounters with guitar music and performance and somehow processed it into a potentiality for musical expression. (Wow, my knack for b.s. is still intact!).  Anyway, it is certainly enjoyable to be able to do something now that I couldn't do in my younger years, contrary to the usual Geezer trajectory of losing function.

Over time I've created a number of "structures" or "sequences" each with a different tonal quality and progression. I can choose to return to one of these, but once I begin to play the pattern takes on new nuances and embellishments that I don't plan nor consciously control.  An overly generous and limiting name for these structures would be "tunes" or "songs."  At present there are about a dozen of these, giving me a "repertoire" of roughly 40 minutes of music.

I should emphasize that this new-found skill is restricted to making stuff up -- I still can't play any well-known specific song, nor can I mimic a musical piece that I hear being performed by someone else.  However, what I invent does have a vague similarity to music I've listened to over the years,  and I can often detect the general influence of certain favorite performers and genres.  Maybe it's part of the "audiophonic fermentation" process -- my brain has extracted and distilled music I like down to different patterns of "potentialities" that are favored when I noodle around.

Some people have suggested that maybe this is the time to take lessons and develop my skill in a disciplined way, or that I try harder to perform known songs.  I'm not interested in doing either of these, at least for the time being.  For one thing, my childhood aversion to formal training has stuck with me.  A more palatable alternative is the rich trove of excellent instructional videos available now online, and I've sampled a number of them.  Although I get some good tips from these, I've found that attempting to copy the style or technique of the teacher leads to a degradation of my own.  I also don't have much interest in learning songs or tunes that other people might recognize because my current goal isn't to entertain other people -- it's a more selfish goal to explore a creativity I never knew I had.  If people like what I play, I am certainly appreciative.  But my main motivation is to produce new music that I enjoy.

It's also been suggested that I should buy a better guitar now that I'm taking it seriously. I've looked at a number of them and so far in every case decided that my old guitar sounds better.  It may be my pro-geezer bias operating, but I swear that my old Aria has a resonance and tone that the new ones don't have.  If I find one that is truly better, not just newer and more expensive, I might buy it.  But for now I'm following the example of Willie Nelson, who refuses to give up his 50-year old "Trigger" even though the sounding board is starting to look like Swiss cheese. [Take a look at this great video made by the man who is entrusted to care for Trigger, and also this one where Willie tells the story of Trigger.]

There are a few lessons from this 55-year saga.  First, never assume your abilities and limitations are fixed, nor that you even truly know what they are.  Processes we aren't aware of can lead to some very surprising developments in what you can and cannot do.  Second, conscious awareness isn't always necessary or even desirable for controlling behavior. There is an interplay or a balance between conscious and non-conscious control that can produce some astonishingly positive outcomes.  Finally, sometimes even very small things we do for other people can have dramatic effects on their lives. There are several examples of this in my guitar saga, but the most recent obvious ones are the impact of my friend's casual remark about electronic tuners and his spending 5 minutes to retune my guitar.  These small acts have opened up a whole new world of experience for me at just the right time in my life to me to greatly appreciate.  Me and my guitar are very thankful..... 

Me and My Guitar Part II: Kumbaya (Sort Of)

After my aborted introduction to playing a musical instrument (the accordion, aka "The Refrigerator") ended with my broken left wrist at around age 10 or 12,  for a number of years my only experience at playing music was "Chopsticks" and the first few bars of "Blue Moon" on available pianos. I frankly can't recall how or when I learned to play these, but their simplicity as well as the keyboard similarity to a concert accordion made it pretty easy to do.  However, although I like listening to piano music very much,  I never had any interest in playing it seriously.

Fast forward to college days.  A couple of my new friends played the guitar.  And not tunes like "Turkey in the Straw" that I had played on my accordion or "Chopsticks" on shared pianos, but songs by very popular folk performers of the time (the 60's) like The Kingston Trio, Peter, Paul, and Mary, Joan Biaz, Pete Seiger, Judy Collins, The New Christy Minstrels (youngsters, please use Google to identify these people).  The guitar was an instrument that drew positive attention whenever it was played in a dorm room or at an informal gathering, and those who knew how to play it were admired and exuded "coolness."  This was way different (i.e., better) than the accordion and I wanted to learn to play it.

My friends taught me a few basic cords and strumming techniques on their guitars, and I would borrow an instrument to practice whenever I could.  But I couldn't afford to buy my own guitar and I never got beyond a very rudimentary level of playing.  My chord changes were slow, awkward, and sloppy.  I became aware that my left wrist had a permanent limitation that was probably the result of a lack of physical therapy after my childhood break (the expert therapy available today would undoubtedly have led to a better outcome).  This made certain chord positions very difficult for me and to this day they present special challenges to playing. Nevertheless, I was able to produce some pleasing sounds and even managed a halting rendition of a couple of cheesy songs -- "Kumbaya," and "Wayfarin' Stranger."  My informal lessons and playing sessions didn't get me very far in terms of mastering the guitar, but they showed me that it was possible to really enjoy playing a musical instrument -- something that had never happened with the accordion.

Aria AC-6, Age 50+

Fast forward past school days to the early 70's.  My wife bought me what has turned out to be one of the most enduring and impactful gifts ever -- my own guitar.  This was in 1972 or 1973, and I still have it today, almost 50 years later (!).  In those early days we were just starting out and didn't have a lot of money to spend on something like this, but nevertheless she got me a very good "entry-level" guitar -- an Aria AC-6 classical acoustic model that she bought with the advice of the owner of our local musical instrument store.  The Aria company is still in business, and their guitars generally get pretty good reviews. Mine has the advantage that age has given it a deep, mellow resonance that only comes from guitar geezerhood.

I'm afraid I didn't do my gift justice, however. I was fully absorbed in my career,  as well as working around our new house, and indulging our passion for travel. Guitar playing was not a high priority but I would occasionally get it out and try to recover what little skill I had achieved earlier.  I couldn't remember the chords to any tunes, but in trying to reproduce them I discovered that just noodling around and faking it could sound pretty good.  I also found that playing for playing's sake, without regard for looking "cool" or emulating a popular performer, was very satisfying.

If I would have had more time and commitment I might have approached learning the guitar in a more formal and structured way by taking lessons from someone.  However, my childhood experience with the accordion left me with an aversion to playing scales and practicing the same thing over and over.  Although this might have led to a higher level of proficiency than I have now, it is more likely the guitar would have joined my accordion in that great music store in the sky -- in the Used Instrument Section.

So, for the next 30 years my guitar and I had a sort of "companionable neglect" relationship.  Every once in a while I would get it out and together we would amiably explore my incompetence.  I always liked these sessions, though, and vowed at the end of each to do them more often -- but then didn't follow through.  Even after I retired it took another 15 years before I finally began to give my guitar playing a real chance to develop.  It has turned out to be one of the most positive aspects of my Geezerhood, but not in a way I could have predicted, as I'll try to explain next time.

Next up -- I discover why the guitar is often described as a very "personal" instrument.

Me and My Guitar Part 1: A Refrigerator & A Horizontal Landing

[Note:  This is the first in a 3-part series of autobiographical blogs about my unusual encounter with a guitar. The other installments will be available over irregular intervals.]

 

Let me tell you about my accordion, an instrument whose only commonality with a guitar is that they both make sounds. I know, this blog is about guitars and we'll get there eventually, trust me.  But first some context and background.

My parents lived through the Great Depression and WWII.  Their experiences of sacrifice and struggle led them to want the best for their children, particularly those things they themselves had been denied. They did everything within their modest means to enrich my childhood and those of my two sisters. This included the decision that we each should learn to play a musical instrument.

They might have chosen any number of things for me to play:  piano, violin, flute, guitar, drums, alto sax.  I'm not sure how they made the decision, but it wasn't any of those.

LOTS of buttons

The instrument selected for me was a concert-style accordion the size of a refrigerator.  I think I was about 10 at the time, and small for my age, so when I wrestled this thing onto my chest I pretty much disappeared except for my scrawny little arms poking out from the sides, and the top of my head sticking out over the top. You've probably seen examples of this kind of accordion -- a keyboard like a grand piano on the right front, and a grid of about 10,000 tiny buttons on the left which are played blind.  It was so heavy for me I had to play it sitting down, and my practice sessions were as much physical workouts as they were musical experiences.

As you can perhaps tell, I wasn't wildly enthusiastic about learning to play the accordion.  Definitely the best part was that I had a crush on my teacher, Miss Dardano, who gave me lessons each week at the music store where my parents had purchased the accordion.  Every Saturday I would board a bus a few blocks from my house for the 45-minute journey to the store.  I didn't take the accordion because it was way too heavy for me to transport, so I borrowed one at the store for my lesson. Miss Dardano was young and gorgeous, at least to my pre-pubescent eyes.  We were in a tiny recital room that brought us breathtakingly close together, though we were separated by the refrigerator in my lap. I felt uncomfortable in her presence but also thrilled.  I tried hard to live up to her expectations, and felt devastated when I didn't -- which was often the case.  Most lessons ended with her admonition to "practice harder next week."

The pinnacle of my musical prowess was learning to play the wonderfully catchy tune "Turkey in the Straw," which I played as part of a group performance with about 20 other budding accordion artists one Saturday.

My accordion-playing career came to a sudden and welcome-though-painful end one summer when I broke my left wrist while playing with neighborhood kids.  I had been trying a simple trick on a high bar and my dismount ended with a horizontal landing. The wrist had to be reset halfway through the healing process, resulting in it being in a cast nearly the entire summer and becoming extremely atrophied.  It became clear to my parents that this ruled out wrestling with a heavy musical instrument for a long time.  The accordion was sold sometime that fall and no more mention of music lessons was made.

I was relieved. Although I certainly had positive feelings for Miss Dardano,  I never developed much fondness for my refrigerator, and playing Turkey in the Straw for my friends didn't exactly put me on the fast track to popularity.  As I look back on it now, however, there were several very positive aspects of my experience.  First, I learned to read music, an exercise that has made me appreciate that written music is a remarkable human development that enables us to transform the wonders of sound into squiggles of ink.  I also gained a deep appreciation for what good musicians are able to do, and I marvel at the level of mastery some of them have achieved with their instruments. My hours of practice to reach even the pitiful level that I managed to achieve makes me profoundly in awe of those who have combined hard work with natural talent to enable them to produce sounds that evoke emotional and cognitive states that can enrich our lives in unquestionably profound ways.  Finally, I think I unconsciously acquired something hard to put into words -- a seed of intuition about how harmonic structure and progression can be combined creatively to produce music that can be entertaining, as perhaps in the case of "Turkey in the Straw,"  but also music that is intensely personal, as I've recently discovered with my guitar.

Next:  Dick meets guitar.

Suggested Reading:
Robert Persig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, first published in 1974. 

A Traveler's Tales of Tummy Troubles

Betty the Bat made another circle through the latrine, this time dipping a wing in friendly recognition (or so I imagined).  I had been there four times already and the night was still young. The open-pit latrine was down a walkway lit by kerosene lamps, the smell of which brings a touch of nausea to this day. Another smell that haunts me is the disinfectant/deodorizer the lodge used in the latrine, because this night effluvia was coming out both ends of me, meaning at times my head was disturbingly close to the source of the odor.  The latrine was about 100 feet from the rooms in our lodge on the Amazon River in Peru, where earlier in the day we had arrived for a few days of exploring flora and fauna of the jungle.  In the afternoon we had gone fishing for piranha and the chef had prepared them for us to taste at dinner.  I, however, never got that far -- before I could take my first bite my intestines told me in no uncertain terms to make that first trip to the latrine.  Probably something I ate for lunch, but it was never clear. Whatever the exact cause, after a day in a hammock watching the Amazon flow by (while my wife had a great adventure trekking through the jungle),  I rejoined the living.

Over the 40+ years my wife and I have been traveling, we have both had a number of incidences of traveler's tummy troubles. When we relate stories like the one above to other people (usually in a bout of "competitive complaining") they often assume our intestinal problems occur more often in third-world countries and exotic locales within them.  Actually, our experience doesn't offer strong support for this.  A counter example to my upchucking along the Amazon occurred recently in Sweden, undoubtedly one of the most developed, squeaky clean places on the planet.  In this case some "Toast Scoggen" cleaned me out better than a colonoscopy prep. On the other hand, a trip to Zambia, Africa a few years ago included a meal cooked for us by local village women in open pots on the ground  -- no problems at all. And yes, it happens in the good old USA.  I once ran back to our motel after dinner at a restaurant in Maine, nearly leaving a trail of DNA as I went. 

Timid travelers also assume that if they stick to eating in upscale places they will be less likely to encounter problems.  Again, not our experience.  Many years ago I remember having lunch at the very posh Acapulco Princess hotel and then waiting outside a bathroom shortly afterwards for my wife's bipolar evacuation of it.  On the same trip, however, we ate a fish dinner at a local beach restaurant, selected from several as being the most upscale and clean-looking.  But as we left we discovered the food had actually come from the restaurant next door, prepared in a tiny shack where cockroaches seemed to be the dishwashing staff.  No intestinal distress at all.

Another of our observations is that there are definitely individual differences in susceptibility -- some people are just plain more prone to traveler's tummy than others.  Many years ago my wife and I started sharing our food in restaurants -- two or more dishes which we split between us. Since then we have discovered that even when exposed to exactly same food we have different intestinal reactions.  Perhaps the first time this was apparent was on our first trip to France, where I spent a good portion of time in the bathroom but my wife never had any problems. On this trip I did a very good imitation of a Bulimic, because even though I was sick a lot I kept on eating because the food was so good.  We later figured out that part of the difficulty was that in those days my stomach was pre-loaded with a high amount of acid from many cups of coffee, vitamin C supplements, and routine ingestion of aspirin for various aches and pains. Mixing all that acid with rather rich food was like a recipe for a volcano science project.  After cutting down on the supplemental acid, the next trip to France was much more pleasant, though far more fattening.

Although my problems in France were likely due to stomach acid, the most common cause of traveler stomach troubles is exposure to microbes.  About 80% of all cases are caused by bacteria of several kinds (mostly of the E. coli variety) and 10% or so by viruses (like the infamous Norovirus) and various protozoa (see Wikipedia). According to the CDC, intestinal problems are the most common travel affliction (other than walletus depletiosis) hitting 30-70% of all travelers, usually within the first week or so of their trip.  Although visitors to developing countries are at higher risk, all destinations have a significant risk level, even the most highly developed (as my personal experience attests).  Also, travelers from developed countries get sick more often than those from developing regions (Medicinet), and all visitors have a higher incidence than locals because the residents have developed resistance to the most common pathogens (Wikipedia) . Note, this often makes terms for traveler's tummy troubles like "Montezuma's Revenge" rather appropriate -- it is payback for germs invaders brought from Europe that infected the natives who had no natural immunity.

Traveler's intestinal problems nearly always last only a few days and go away on their own, though many people like to take antibiotics and anti-motility drugs like Lomotil.  (I love the double meaning of "anti-motility").  These treatments have their downsides, however.  Popping antibiotics may kill the offending bad microbes but it will also kill the beneficial ones that live in your gut and help protect you from other kinds of infections (see How About a Fecal Transplant?, Microbes for Breakfast!, and Fabulous Synthetic Poop!).  And male geezers with prostrate problems should be wary of the side effects of some anti-motility medications -- you may become plugged up in more ways than you wish (I speak from experience on this one).

So, is there any way to prevent this unpleasantness?  Being very careful in what you eat and drink is certainly good advice, but as the CDC notes, "Traditionally, it was thought that TD [Traveler's Diarrhea] could be prevented by following simple recommendations such as 'boil it, cook it, peel it, or forget it,' but studies have found that people who follow these rules may still become ill."  It is also the case that often a traveler can't follow these recommendations for practical reasons (like when traveling with a group or as a guest of a local resident).  The CDC is pretty blunt and realistic about this: "Although food and water precautions continue to be recommended, travelers may not always be able to adhere to the advice. Furthermore, many of the factors that ensure food safety, such as restaurant hygiene, are out of the traveler’s control."  My own experience, as illustrated by the examples above, is certainly in line with the CDC's conclusion -- being careful is prudent but hardly guarantees you won't still get sick at some point and predicting when or where is very difficult.

Besides trying to watch what you eat and drink, there is evidence that taking daily doses of bismuth subsalicylate, the active ingredient in Pepto Bismol, can cut the incidence of stomach illness by up to 50%. But there are a number of side effects and interactions that make its use questionable for many people:  "BSS commonly causes blackening of the tongue and stool and may cause nausea, constipation, and rarely tinnitus. BSS should be avoided by travelers with aspirin allergy, renal insufficiency, and gout and by those taking anticoagulants, probenecid, or methotrexate. In travelers taking aspirin or salicylates for other reasons, the use of BSS may result in salicylate toxicity" (CDC ). Sounds like the cure may be as bad as the problem. Likewise, preventative doses of antibiotics do seem to work, but they may lead to greater stomach problems down the road by encouraging bad microbes that are resistant to antibiotics and therefore very difficult to treat. Also, good microbes aid in digestion and help fight a wide range of diseases -- killing them may not be a very wise thing to do.  Speaking of good microbes, one preventative measure which seems to me like it should work is to ingest probiotics (like yogurt, kefir, and soft cheese), but so far the research is inconclusive (even so, I try to keep up my input of yogurt while traveling).

It seems to me we are left with two choices.  One is to buy some virtual reality goggles and experience travel electronically, without the messiness and risk of actually doing it. This certainly avoids traveler tummy troubles, but also removes some of the most rewarding aspects of real travel, like unplanned interactions with real people.  As you might guess, I heartily reject this option. The second is to accept that occasional tummy troubles are a small cost to pay for the life-enriching experiences that come from being exposed to cultures other than your own.  Traveling in total comfort and safety is not possible and even if it were, I don't think it would be desirable because the most beneficial aspects of travel involve a certain degree of challenge and adventure that can lead to surprisingly positive experiences.  Like making friends with Betty the Bat.

My Lessons From Owning An Apple Orchard

Some things in life sound soooo good at the time but the ultimate reality is rather different -- maybe still good, but not in the ways we first thought.  This is about one of those things in my own life.

WeeFolks Tending Their Orchard

Before retiring and moving from Ohio to Hawai'i, my wife and I owned a thousand-tree apple orchard for about 10 years as partners with another couple.  Sounds romantic, right? -- your very own apple orchard, all that luscious, colorful fruit and those rows upon rows of beautiful trees in an idyllic country setting of rolling hills and green fields, with soft, fragrant breezes and birds and butterflies and bees flitting here and there in the bright golden sunshine, and puffy white clouds dotting a deep blue sky. (Cue the violins.)  The reality was a little less Disney-esque.

Our involvement in the orchard took place while we were pursuing our full-time careers as university psychology professor and middle-school math teacher (i.e., our "real" jobs).  Besides posing physical challenges to us that were quite different from our regular jobs, owning the orchard also taught us many unforeseen lessons about agriculture, producing food as a business, and dealing with a very diverse group of people.

The orchard had been planted by two of my university friends and their wives 10 years earlier as part of their plan for retirement.  The idea was that the orchard would provide a stimulating and lucrative activity in their golden years, combining healthy exercise and fresh air with a supplemental source of income.  In 20/20 hindsight this was not a well-grounded assessment, for reasons that will soon become clear.  When one of the partners died prematurely his widow had little interest in continuing the project, and we were offered the chance to buy her share of the partnership.

My wife and I knew nothing about apple trees, but we loved gardening on a small scale and this seemed like a natural extension of our mutual interest.

Just a few bushels

Our soon-to-be-partner reported that in earlier years the work required by the orchard had been easily accomplished on weekends and occasional afternoons so that there had been minimal interference with career commitments.  Most of the crop had been sold through the local farmer's market on Saturdays and also through direct orders solicited at local public schools where the wives were teachers.  Sounded good.  However, lesson # 1 came very quickly when we learned that apple trees take years to reach their peak production and these were just approaching that point -- instead of a crop of a few bushels to sell we were soon faced with the challenge of marketing up to 23 tons of apples, something our partners hadn't anticipated in their idyllic retirement plan. Also, larger mature trees require much more work to maintain that small newly planted ones, with the attendant increase in time demanded. This was way more than a gentleman's hobby!

We sold the orchard shortly after our partners moved to Seattle.  It seems the wife of my friend had other retirement plans that didn't include farm work in southern Ohio.  Overall we regard our experience as a positive one, and we're glad we did it.  The lessons I learned were many, and I think they changed my outlook in ways I still appreciate.  Here are a few that stand out in my memory:

Nature Always Wins  

NOW what?

I now know why harvest celebrations are such a big deal -- that is the only time a farmer can truly regard the crop as a success.  In the case of apples, at any moment during the growing season nature can change a promising crop into something fit only for pigs.  In the spring, for example, a frost at the end of the blooming period can kill most of the developing fruit.  We used to cringe if there was a warm period at the end of winter because it might stimulate the trees to start blooming early and therefore be vulnerable to a cold snap.  Or too much rain during the bloom could keep bees from pollinating the blossoms and could encourage diseases that would stunt and disfigure the fruit, making much of it unsalable.  Or a fall thunderstorm right before the apples were picked could knock the fruit to the ground and turn a good crop to crap in a matter of hours. Or any number of other things outside of our control could make or break the year's production.  No matter how hard you work at growing food, nature always wins.  The best you can do is to encourage the factors that contribute to a good crop (pruning, fertilizing, spraying) and then hope for the best.

Growing Food for a Living is HARD WORK!

I also now have a keen appreciation for how much physical effort is involved in producing food, and I have a deep respect for anyone who makes a living doing it.  Remember, I'm talking about small-scale operations, not big corporate agribusinesses here. Our orchard was quite small by industry standards, and small enterprises often require more personal effort because expensive labor-saving equipment isn't available and relying heavily on paid labor is cost-prohibitive.  In our case we supplied most of the labor ourselves -- pruning, spraying, mowing, picking, transporting, and selling. Boy did I learn a lot during this process.  For instance, pruning has to be done carefully and correctly or else you can actually damage an apple tree and prevent it from bearing fruit.  But if you have 1000 trees to prune each spring in a matter of a few weeks, you have to do this skilled work quickly and efficiently.  I first read a couple of books on the subject and then practiced on the job -- lots and lots of practice over the years, to the tune of maybe 5 or 6 thousand trees total (I pruned half the trees each year, my partner the other half).

Likewise, picking apples may seem simple, but it actually requires skill to do correctly in order to avoid damaging the tree's "fruiting spurs," which are small branches near the current fruit that will bear fruit the following year.  Also, ripe apples are prone to bruising and have to be gently handled to reduce spoilage and preserve eye appeal.  And of course you have to do this quickly because there is only a few weeks' window to get it done.  We tried hiring helpers to assist in the picking but in southern Ohio there wasn't a pool of skilled migrant workers familiar with apples like there is in the big apple-producing regions of the Pacific Northwest.  Instead, we tried high school kids and university students but we found pretty quickly that most of them really didn't have a concept of "physical work," nor where their pay was coming from.  I remember one kid being very puzzled when I tried to explain that unless he picked at a certain rate, we were paying him more to pick a bushel of apples than we could sell them for -- in other words that he was actually costing us money, not helping us.  He was one of the many that didn't last very long.

Organic?
[Warning:  I am probably going to offend some you in the next section.  My apologies, but tough Pippins.]

Anyone who has had an apple tree in their yard knows that much of the time the apples are small, shriveled, home to a variety of wriggling critters, and the leaves often look as if they have leprosy.  This is because humans like apples, insects like apples, fungi like apples, and moldy microbes like apples. The trees themselves do not care what the fruit looks like or whether it appeals to human senses as long as it produces seeds that can perpetuate the species.

Advocates of organic food often seem to have the belief that all you have to do is let nature take its

Organic!  Yummy!

course and plants will bless us with a bounty of attractive and healthy food.  I assure you nature has other ideas.  Growing food, including apples, without active management practices that increase our competitive edge against all the other critters who also consider apples their own food source, would be exceedingly difficult and wasteful. This doesn't mean that we should ignore the possible health and environmental consequences of non-organically raised food, but we should be discerning, selective, and realistic in our assessments.

In our orchard we followed something called "Integrated Pest Management."  We did use chemical sprays but we tried to minimize the amount and limit their ecological impact.  For instance, in the spring we switched chemicals during the bloom period to avoid killing bees, and at other times we used sprays that were less toxic to beneficial "predator insects" so they would provide some degree of natural biological control of harmful insects.  We tolerated a certain level of infestation and only took extra action if the problem exceeded reasonable limits.  Regular pruning and fertilizing to keep the trees healthy helped them fight off disease and insects and reduced the need for chemical intervention (but certainly didn't eliminate it).  Finally, our sprayer was a low-flow-high-effort rig that allowed us to confine the spray -- in contrast to large commercial orchards where the sprayers create a fine-droplet fog that covers everything in the area whether it needs it or not.  Our method was less effective in controlling pests, however, and we had a much larger percent of unsaleable fruit than a large orchard would tolerate.

Show Me the Money!

A major set of lessons from owning the orchard had to do with the economic realities of producing food.  The "bottom line" is that thankfully we weren't depending on income from the orchard as our main source of support.  We never actually lost money but we didn't make much either, and if we put even a minimal value on our own labor we were in the red most years.  I admire any small food producer who can make a living this way.

When you are producing food you are at the bottom of a supply chain with several links, and at each level the value and profit margin increase.  In our case, we sold our apples wholesale for 1/4 to 1/5 of what we could get for them selling retail.  However, this increased profit margin was tempered by the greater time required and by additional costs of selling retail.  Further, there were only so many bushels we could sell at the retail level and this didn't come anywhere close to the total production of the orchard.  The greatest part of our crop went at a wholesale price that was just a smidge above our production costs, or for cider apples that were pretty much a break-even proposition.  In short, owning a small apple orchard won't make you rich, at least in monetary terms.

Another lesson was in the effects of supply and demand on the price we received for the apples.  For example, in years when nature cooperated and we had a very good crop in terms of quality and quantity, we often got less money per bushel.  This is because in agriculture if you have a good crop, many others do too.  Supply up, price down.  This fluctuation, however, is greater at the bottom of the supply chain than at the top.  In other words, in a good year things might cost somewhat less at the grocery store, but the price farmers receive for each unit they produce is considerably lower -- what may save them is that they have more to sell, but of course more product => more work.

These economic lessons are still with me when I visit farmer's markets.  I don't complain that the prices are pretty much the same as in the grocery store because I've been on the other side of the counter and I know the profits are going directly to the people who deserve them the most.

 These are Really Good People

Without a doubt, the most positive and enjoyable lessons from our adventure into agriculture came from the people we encountered while selling our apples.  On Fridays we picked the best apples we could for the Saturday morning market in our town, and early in the morning we set up our stall for a 4-5 hour session of selling direct to our customers.  It is hard to describe the warm fuzzy feeling of having people buy something you have produced that gives them pleasure and enjoyment.  We enjoyed talking to them, explaining the qualities of the different varieties of apples and describing our growing process. We had many repeat customers and this enhanced our satisfaction and made all the hard work worthwhile.  The market was also a social affair in our small town, and many of the customers were our friends.  In this context, however, we were able to interact on a different basis and to explore a different aspect of our friendship.  Our other main retail outlet was through the schools where my wife and the wife of our other partner taught.  My wife would solicit weekly orders in fall, and then we will fill them on a personalized basis for pickup after school.  This was time-consuming but very enjoyable because it was such a personal interaction.

We also met many other people, including other sellers, whom we probably would not have encountered in any other way because our lives were otherwise focused in different social realms.  The people we dealt with in selling our apples wholesale, like the family that ran a roadside market and used our apples for their cider, were folks we would not have been likely to befriend if it had not been for the orchard.  In general the people we encountered were down-to-earth, hard workers, shrewd in business dealings and extraordinarily decent and positive in their outlook.  They taught me that intelligence and skill aren't always reflected in a college degree, that contributions to society don't necessarily correlate with your tax bracket, and that a reputation for being honest, fair and hard-working was more valuable than money.  Definitely worthwhile lessons.......

Bah Humbug! (Redux)

A few years ago I wrote a blog about my mixed feelings concerning the Christmas season (Bah, Humbug! (Sort Of),12/12).  My attitudes haven't changed much, but in honor of the reflective spirit of the Holidays I want to expand a bit on this topic and offer some additional observations

It's become clear to me that a major trigger for the beginning of my Christmas malaise is the spectacle of Black Friday.  This occurs the day after Thanksgiving, a holiday which seems to bring out the best in people, including many sincere displays of generosity and charity.  The very next day, however, there is a tidal wave of selfish acquisitiveness in which the motto seems to be "Push, Shove, Grab, Buy" as people fight for everything from t.v.'s to toys.  These are most certainly not all intended as gifts, but rather are often desirable material possessions that are priced so low that the result is the retail equivalent of a feeding frenzy.  If there really is a "war on Christmas" as some have argued, I suggest that it isn't liberal philosophy but rather over-amped commercialism that is the major source.  At any rate, this day marks the beginning of my Christmas season emotional doldrums.

I have been ambivalent about the holiday season for quite some time, and I think the seeds were planted in childhood.

As a kid I can remember being so excited that I was unable to sleep on Christmas Eve.  Everything was so special -- the decorations at our house and around the city, the presents under the tree, the Christmas music on the radio and in the shopping malls, the heartwarming holiday specials on television, the dozens of Christmas cards we sent and received.  Although my family wasn't devoutly religious, we usually attended midnight mass on Christmas Eve at our local Episcopalian church.  Christmas day was a hectic family affair that started with opening presents, followed by dinner in mid-afternoon with in-laws and relatives, more exchanging and opening of gifts, then socializing until 8 or 9 o'clock.  All in all this was a very intense and long day.

The next day was a big let down.  I can remember getting together with neighborhood friends to compare gifts and to play with each other's stuff.  But the big thrill was over and it seemed anticlimactic.  Amazing what a difference 24 hours can make -- from heartfelt joy, eager anticipation, and warm fuzzy emotions to a kind of emptiness, deflation and a feeling of  despondency.  And those presents I had wanted so badly almost never lived up to my expectations.

As an adult I have to fight a tendency to become a bit depressed during the holiday season.  It's not that I'm a Scrooge at heart -- I really would like to feel the holiday spirit and experience those warm fuzzies again.  But it is hard to do when retailers start their holiday push even before Halloween, Christmas carols are used to sell merchandise rather than express holiday sentiments, and buying gifts is evaluated in terms of contribution to GNP rather than as a gesture of caring.  It seems commercialized, shallow and insincere.

And of course it is hard to reconcile the messages of goodwill and peace with pervasive international conflict, with the exploitation, denigration and ruthless subjugation of large segments of the global population, and with politicians and even some religious leaders calling for policies that are at odds with compassion and loving kindness. If we could act like it was Christmas Eve throughout the year these problems might disappear. But I fear we are more likely to act like it was the day after Christmas -- or even worse, Black Friday

To end on a more positive note, and to illustrate my ambivalence, not just negativity toward the holidays, I'll offer this thought:  maybe capturing the spirit of the season shouldn't be easy.  Maybe the challenge of overcoming the obstacles, of seeing past the commercialism, conflict, and shallowness can lead to a more significant personal and social experience.  I think it's worth a try.  Maybe now more than ever.

Why "Snow Crash?"

Even though I've now published 100+ editions of Snow Crash,  no one has ever asked me "why do you call your blog Snow Crash?"  This means that either (a) everybody already knows the referent of my title or (b) nobody really cares.

If the answer is (a) then I'm dismayed by the demented character of my readers.  If the answer is (b) then I'm pleased to bore you with an explanation you don't really want to hear.  Here goes.  Be advised this will be a bit convoluted and perhaps unnecessarily detailed, but I'll get to it eventually.

I'm a long-time fan of science fiction.  When I was still in grade school I talked my parents into letting me join the Science Fiction Book Club, which sent me selections every month by famous authors such as Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Frederik Pohl, and Robert Heinlein.  I devoured these books at a young age, thus warping my mind and leading to a life-long addiction.  During my working years my academic pursuits required keeping up with the literature in my field, often in the form of research articles in scientific journals.  This form of writing required very careful analytic attention and many cups of coffee to get through.  I had to forgo any enjoyable reading until summers lest it lure me away from my professional commitments -- then for a few months I plunged back into science fiction again.  Now that I am retired my reading includes several different genres, but although my addiction to science fiction has faded somewhat, I still have a great fondness for it.

In the late '80's and early 90's a sub-genre of science fiction appeared called Cyberpunk .  One of the prominent authors of this type was (and is) Neil Stephenson, who in 1992 published a book titled...wait for it...Snow Crash.  Cyberpunk was noted for its dark, dystopian view of the future and for the flawed nature of its leading characters.  The social decay depicted in these stories usually involved a concentration of power in the hands of a despicable and corrupt minority, as did the earlier works of George Orwell and Ayn Rand, but the character of cyperpunk despots was notably different.  In this view of the future private and sovereign corporations have for the most part replaced governments as centers of political, economic, and even military power. As critic David Brin has described it:

" ...a closer look [at cyberpunk authors] reveals that they nearly always portray future societies in which governments have become wimpy and pathetic ...[they]... do depict Orwellian accumulations of power in the next century, but nearly always clutched in the secretive hands of a wealthy or corporate elite.

In cyberpunk plots much of the action takes place online in "cyberspace" (in this context, a term often credited to cyberpunk author William Gibson), where the border between actual and virtual reality is blurry and porous. "A typical trope in such work is a direct connection between the human brain and computer systems. Cyberpunk depicts the world as a dark, sinister place with networked computers dominating every aspect of life" (Wikipedia).  The protagonists in these stories are criminals, outcasts, visionaries, dissenters and misfits who struggle against the social order but usually with limited success -- they are the "punk" component of cyberpunk.  Note, these works were published when the internet as we now know it was in its infancy.  Personal computers were rare until the late 1970's and the World Wide Web wasn't invented until 1991.  Also note that the cyberpunk themes are quite consistent with my generally anti-authoritarian personality and fondness for strangeness.

Now, back to the question of "Why Snow Crash?"  The term "Snow Crash" has at least a couple of meanings, one of which is tied directly to the cyberpunk plot of Stephenson's book and one of which is less directly related but is still relevant here. Stephenson once explained that "snow crash" was his term for describing the result of a system failure in the early Mac computer, a phenomenon fundamentally distinct from the failure of a Windows operating system:  "When everything went to hell and the CPU began spewing out random bits, the result, on a CLI [Windows] machine, was lines and lines of perfectly formed but random characters on the screen -- known to cognoscenti as 'going Cyrillic.' But to the MacOS, the screen was not a teletype, but a place to put graphics; the image on the screen was a bitmap, a literal rendering of the contents of a particular portion of the computer's memory. When the computer crashed and wrote gibberish into the bitmap, the result was something that looked vaguely like static on a broken television set--a 'snow crash'."(Stephenson, 1999, my emphasis).

In the plot of Snow Crash Stephenson used the term to refer to something far more sinister and complex.  There it is the name of an ancient and very dangerous virus that can infect both computers and biological systems through certain linguistic patterns, brain activity, and computer code. Whoever can control this virus and its inoculating "vaccine" will effectively rule the world. And since in Stephenson's  cyberpunk vision of the future there are many greedy, power-hungry ne'er-do-wells who would love to capitalize on such a capability, this is definitely a bad thing.

So on the one hand my blog title suggests the content of my posts is simply gibberish, the result of my mind's operating system breaking down.  This meaning is likely the correct one, and it certainly has the appeal of portraying humility.

On the other hand, I'm certainly not adverse to taking over the world -- I've often said I could solve all the world's problems if people would just do things MY way. So just maybe my blogs contain a certain pattern of hidden linguistic code that is slowly turning your brain to mush, infecting all of your digital devices, and eventually making you a slave to my will.

Notice any odd symptoms lately?????

Haircuts From Hell

In the biblical story of Samson & Delilah, the Philistines managed to take away Samson's superhuman strength by having the beautiful Delilah coax him to reveal the secret of his power -- his hair.  They shaved his head while he was sleeping, gouged out his eyes and turned him into a slave.

Two of the lessons that can be learned from this tale are these: (1) Hair is really, really important and (2) a bad haircut can totally ruin your day.

Since Samson's times people have invested a great deal of  time, effort, and money in their hair.  There is little doubt that hair wields power -- perhaps not in terms of physical strength but in its influence on perceptions of attractiveness and the associated social benefits that can bring.  The effects of a bad haircut on self-esteem and self-confidence can be devastating, as they were for Samson, but a good one can dramatically improve our self perceptions.  The search for the perfect cut is a modern quest for the Holy Grail.  And for some of us just as elusive.

Hair is very big business. Americans spend about $20 billion per year on hair care (Small Business Development Center Network, 2014) and the global total is about $80 billion (Statistica, 2014). The average male in the U.S. spends $28 per haircut, and the average woman spends $44 (U.S. News & World Report, 2014).  My own haircuts currently cost $25 including tip. 

About 12 years ago I found a barber/stylist that comes as close to giving me the perfect haircut reliably as any I've encountered.  She was working in a local barber shop as one of several barbers.  This was a place where you don't make an appointment, you just show up.  If your favorite person is free, fine.  If not you can either wait your turn or take the next available barber.  She was new and didn't have many regular customers, so she was available one day when the guy I had been going to (with mixed results) was busy, so I decided to give her a shot.  I explained my unique problems and preferences which usually flummox barbers, even though they pretend to know just what to do to accommodate them.  Not only did she listen and understand, but she followed through with one of the best haircuts in a long time.

Naturally I sought her out the next time, but my hopes weren't terrifically high.  Experience has taught me that even the same barber often follows a good haircut with a "haircut from hell."  For example, before I moved here I went to a barber in Ohio for many years whose overall percentage was pretty good, but the quality varied a lot depending on how wrapped up he got in his hunting stories or his political tirades.  Lo and behold, the second haircut from my new barber was also good,  as were the next dozen or so.

When she moved to a beauty salon a few doors down from the barber shop I moved too.  Then that shop found new quarters a short distance away and again I followed.  Then she moved to a salon closer to where she lived but about 10 miles away for me.  Didn't matter, I made the monthly pilgrimage.  Then she went into business for herself and opened a hair salon with a partner that is located a bit closer to me but still 5 miles away.  I followed along.  I remain fiercely loyal and I just hope she doesn't retire soon and that when she does I won't have any hair left anyway.  Occasionally she messes up but the ratio of good cuts to bad is so high I don't mind.

My wife has not been so lucky.  In fact, in our 45+ years of marriage I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she has returned from a stylist happy with the result.  She always has such high hopes when she leaves for her appointment and they are almost always dashed.  I have learned to keep a low profile when she returns lest I get trapped into the husband's nightmare question, "how does it look?"

Much of the problem is that both of us have naturally curly hair.  Those of you who have straight hair often tell us you are envious and wish you had hair that was naturally curly.  No. Trust me, you don't.  What you don't realize is that our hair has a mind of its own that couldn't care less about things like symmetry or homogeneity.  In other words, it does whatever IT wants to do, even if that makes you look like a first class dufus.  For example, I have a wave in the front top area of my head that -- if cut improperly -- will rise up like a cobra searching for something to strike.  My wife's curls are tighter in some areas than others, sometimes giving her a hair profile that looks a bit like a potato that has been too long in a microwave.

These are challenges that very few barbers can handle effectively and consistently. To do so requires being something of a "hair whisperer,"  a person who can determine the nuances of curls and waves and project how they will react to a snip here and a snip there.  It also requires understanding that wavy/curly hair of varying lengths reacts dynamically to climatic conditions of humidity and heat by tightening and relaxing to varying degrees.  What looks like a good cut leaving the shop can easily become a scary mess the next day. You can see why I'm so dedicated to my current barber, who is all the more praiseworthy because she herself has straight hair.

Small children often cry when they are taken for their first haircut, and they are entirely justified.  They may be sensing the lesson of Samson and lifetime of "hair angst" that lies ahead.

Celebrating Nothing: Twenty Years Without Smoking

I quit smoking twenty years ago, in March, 1994. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

For those of you who have never smoked, and those of you who were smokers who quit easily, it might be hard to understand why it can be so difficult for some of us.  It is because of this general lack of understanding that I consider those few who are still puffing despite the external and internal pressure to stop to be kindred spirits for whom I have great empathy and sympathy.  My heart goes out to them when I see them huddled together in desperate little groups outside public buildings from which they have been banned, or when I inadvertently come across one sneaking a smoke in a stairwell or a restroom.

I had been trying for years to break the habit and had managed to get down to just a few cigarettes a day, but quitting entirely was something I just couldn't do. I thoroughly understood the risks, dangers, annoyances, personal and social costs, effects of second-hand smoke, etc., etc., etc.  I knew all the reasons why quitting was a good idea and continuing was idiocy.  It didn't matter.

To punish myself for my lack of will power, I restricted my smoking at home to outside areas (during the winter this meant many cold hours in our unheated garage). I wouldn't smoke in our cars or in most public places. In my office I would sit huddled by a window blowing the smoke outside.  Long plane rides were agony, and the minute I got off I would sprint for the nearest smoking area.  Four hours seemed to be my comfort limit, as I recall. I tried to delay or avoid smoking at times it was most enjoyable, like after a meal or with a cup of coffee.  Nothing worked.  The thought of finishing my very last cigarette and having none available in case I changed my mind filled me with a very irrational sense of panic.

In those days there weren't the wide-spread smoking cessation programs there are now.  My physician was dutifully down on my habit but shrewdly realized that too much cajoling wouldn't work with me.  He knew of my efforts to cut down and he offered to help when I decided to quit entirely -- at that time a prescription was required for nicotine patches.

My turning point came one night when I woke up with pain in my chest.  Actually, not just pain, but PAIN -- like my heart was in a vice that someone was cranking tighter and tighter each time I took a breath.  And with this pain came a sense of fear close to terror -- something I thankfully haven't experienced as strongly again.  After the one and only ambulance ride of my life (well, so far) and a blur of activity in the Emergency Room, I wound up in the Intensive Care Unit overnight.  When my physician visited me the next day he gave me the wonderful news that I had not suffered a heart attack but rather a bout of something called acute pericarditis, which is an inflammation of the membrane surrounding the heart. The causes of this are not always clear, it happens most often to men between 20-50, and it often never occurs again.

Of course, I was waiting for the inevitable lecture about how smoking had led to this and was yet another reason to stop.  But my physician was honest and straight with me -- smoking was most likely not the cause, but of course it does contribute to the likelihood of heart attacks, something I really didn't want to experience if the pain was anything like the pericarditis attack.  Also, being in the ICU gave me the opportunity to achieve my 24-hour smokeless goal, because I had already gone 20 or so hours without a cigarette.  So I told my physician I wanted to try to quit smoking if he would help me.  He wrote me a prescription on the spot for a round of nicotine patches, and also for something which turned out to be critical -- an anti-panic drug.

I started with the biggest patch possible. I joke that I opted for the full wet-suit size. The patches helped numb the craving but it was the anti-panic pills that were key to continuing my effort to quit (I think it was called Xanax).  As I progressed to smaller patches the panic attacks grew less intense and less frequent.  But I learned that the patches couldn't provide the sudden "hit" of nicotine that was one of the things that made smoking so pleasurable to me, and the pills didn't deal with the craving for those.  These days there are substitutes that can provide a sudden increase in nicotine but they weren't available then.

After several months I made it to the nicotine-free level and though I had to continue the anti-panic pills occasionally, I didn't relapse into smoking and eventually I stopped them.

Before I quit smoking the public campaigns against the habit were relentless and often hyperbolic.  Smoking was the evil weed, responsible for everything from lung cancer to hangnails to global warming.  And life after smoking was touted as marvelous and just short of heaven itself.  Your sense of taste and smell would return from the dead, you would have fewer colds, better eyesight, and your hair would grow back. You would become a sexual athlete, your IQ would go up by 30 points, and you would succeed at business without really trying.  I think in retrospect that these over-the-top campaigns were probably responsible for as many relapses as they might have been for attempts to quit smoking because when the promised benefits didn't happen the residual cravings took over.

Indeed, I found that most of the promises were empty or misleading, at least at first. I believe it was my pre-existing skepticism of the claims that prevented my relapse when I found they weren't true or were exaggerated.  I did not immediately feel better.  I had just as many colds as before and they were just as severe.  My sense of taste didn't change, although I immediately gained weight because my appetite increased.  I did notice an increase in my sense of smell, but as one friend who had quit a few years before me joked, "The good news is you can smell better.  The bad news is that a lot of things smell really bad."  He was absolutely correct.  For example, I soon found a lot of men's colognes and women's perfumes to be really obnoxious -- scents that had been pleasantly muted before I quit smoking were now almost nauseatingly strong.

One thing that didn't smell bad to me was cigarette smoke. In fact I embraced it even though it occasionally re-kindled my desire.  Even to this day it doesn't smell that bad to me and I'm not one of those people who complain loudly if they get even a hint of someone's cigarette smoke.  Often these complainers are the very people whose cologne or perfume fills the air with a near-choking intensity-- they are habituated to it, otherwise it would probably completely mask the smell of tobacco smoke.  In general, I've tried to avoid becoming one of those holier-than-thou ex-smokers who show no compassion whatsoever for those who are still struggling with the habit. When I was smoking those crusaders had the opposite effect on me than they intended -- their stridency actually deepened my resolve to assert my own will, no matter how self-destructive that was.

Twenty years have passed and so far I've avoided the cancerous consequences of smoking, though the probability of lung cancer will never fall to what it would be had I never smoked.  Another sobering thought comes from the fact that I started smoking at a very young age (as an 8-10 year-old trying to emulate my two older siblings) and smoked more or less continuously for the next 40 years. Given my age when I quit, it is very unlikely I will live smoke-free for as many years as I smoked.

I'm very glad I quit, if for no other reason than recovering my self-esteem.  As an intellectual I knew full well that I was killing myself and harming others in the process, and that the logical, prudent thing was to quit.  But my habit was way beyond control by logic -- I was addicted and addiction required a different approach than simply reasoning with myself.  I'm very thankful for the pericarditis attack kick-starting that different approach.

People often ask if I still crave tobacco.  The answer is a sad one.  Yes. The craving isn't very strong and I have no intention of smoking again, but this shows just how thorough a grip something can have on you.

No matter how smart you think you are.

Geezerhood Can Suck

[Note:  This is another blog in my Geezerhood series.  Younger readers or those still in denial might just bookmark this for future reading and go do something more fun, like doing a SnapChat or Tweeting something. Also, please be advised that the content below might be regarded as "TMI" or "over-sharing"].

I've written several times about my journey through Geezerhood, often putting the emphasis on the positive aspects of getting older (see list of blogs below).  In the spirit of being "Fair and Balanced" (choke) it may be time to talk about some of the more sucky parts of Geezerhood I've encountered recently.

I realize that my recent conditions pale in comparison to those of other people out there and I sincerely apologize for making my difficulties seem so bad.  But my problems are severe enough to make me much more sympathetic for the plight of those who are worse off and to make me admire them for their ability to face their situation and continue their lives with grace and good humor.

Up to this point I've been fairly healthy -- maybe three overnight hospital stays in my entire lifetime, no significant surgeries, ZERO prescription meds on a daily continuing basis.  Not to say there are no issues at all -- family history of glaucoma so I've been monitoring my status often, pre-hypertensive (I take my pressure at home regularly), medium high cholesterol buffered by very high HDL (the good kind of cholesterol), a few pre-cancerous lesions on my forehead, treated and monitored regularly, and of course a slightly enlarged prostate, common in men of my age but being monitored.  Oh, and an irritating susceptibility to bruising on my arms and hands attributed by my dermatologist to years of unprotected sun exposure.  She also blaims the sun for those "age spots" on my hands -- embarrassing reminders of my passage into Geezerhood, but not life-threatening. All in all, not too bad for a 69-year-old.

Then, about a month ago, I began to disintegrate.

In very short order my blood pressure went up by 10 points, I had a retinal hemorrhage in my right eye, and not long after that I had a dandy case of shingles, an affliction that has led me to reset my "worst pain you've ever experienced" index.  I went from zero prescription meds to three, all of which have potential side effects and interactions, and from visits to doctors maybe once or twice per year to once or twice a week. 

One of the most disturbing things about all this is that the appearance of the problems was so unexpected and unpredicted.  For example, the glaucoma risk had nothing to do with the retinal hemorrhage, though the spike in blood pressure might.  Of course the rise in pressure is a puzzle that so far none of my platoon of medical experts can explain.  Shingles can occur in anyone who has had chickenpox, and though the risk increases with age, it can strike young whipersnappers as well.  By age 80, 50% of the population will get shingles. Having the shot (which I did) only cuts your chances by about 40-50%, though in my case it lulled me into complacency and a false sense of invulnerability. The trigger is uncertain, though some research suggests high stress (which I don't have) or a compromised immune system (which I don't have) may be causes.

Another disturbing aspect is the feeling that I've been sucked into a giant medical-industrial complex that seems designed not to let me go.  I've seen a half-dozen doctors, all of whom make me fill out the same forms over again, then perform the same tests the others have performed shortly before, apparently not trusting their colleagues or not liking the exact way the tests were performed.  They then have prescribed medications that have possible side effects that have a good chance of limiting my fairly active life-style, leading to other kinds of problems. And of course they all want me to come back in the near future to do the same tests over again.

The drug side effects are potentially very problematic and it is troubling to me that my doctors, while aware of the effects, are so focused on treating my symptoms that they don't fully appreciate the impact on my quality of life, i.e. , their impact on me as a person.  Here are a few of the possible side-effects from the drugs they have selected for me:

• Drug A (Eye Drops): Eye discomfort/itching/redness, blurred vision, dizziness, dry mouth, drowsiness, or tiredness (my emphasis).
• Drug B (Blood Pressure):  Dizziness or lightheadedness may occur ...
• Drug C (Shingles pain):  Drowsiness, dizziness, loss of coordination, tiredness, blurred/double vision, unusual eye movements, or shaking (tremor) may occur.

Note, these are possible side effects, not things that invariably occur.  Each drug's highlighted side effects has a fairly small (but known) probability of effecting any one person.  But when all three drugs are being taken at the same time, the probability that at least one of them will produce the side effects is much greater.  And guess what -- I feel tired, dizzy and clumsy. Of course which drug(s) is (are) causing these problems isn't clear because I started taking all three at the same time. Oh, and I checked online and found that these three drugs have the least severe side effects of those available for my conditions.

So the good news is that I'm receiving treatment for my retinal hemorrhage, my Shingles pain, and my blood pressure.  The bad news is that my fairly active lifestyle (hiking, working out in our pool, aerobic exercise of various types), is possibly extinct.  For the potential negative consequences of this, see my blog How to Compress Your Morbidity.

All in all I've been pretty bummed out by the whole thing.  The physical problems are themselves rather hard to deal with, but so is the treatment.  And I feel somehow cheated that my attention to diet, exercise, and precautionary actions wasn't enough to avoid these problems. I was being such a good boy, why did this happen to me?!!  The unsettling answer is, of course, "who the h*** knows?"

After lots of careful analysis, research, and intellectually rigorous consideration of the various probabilities and alternative scenarios I've come to a conclusion. My advice to myself is "GET A GRIP!"

Ok, I've got some problems that pose challenges -- this is part of living. And dying. There will be more challenges ahead, no doubt, and they may occur just as unexpectedly.  Geezerhood will end someday no matter what I do.  But I can control my mental state as it approaches, or if my mind deteriorates to the point where that isn't possible, I can still control it until my sense of self dissolves. I can choose a positive or negative path through Geezerhood.

It's up to me.
_______________________________________
Related Blogs on Geezerhood:

Embracing Your Inner Geezer
How to Compress Your Morbidity
The Power of Negative Thinking
Thoughts for a New Year
So, What Do You Do All Day?
Jogging the Memory of a Geezer
Decision Making In Geezerhood
Don't Go To Your 50th High School Reunion!
Taste Buds Are Wasted On The Young!

Why I Hate Liver

I have something in common with the late and great comedian Johnny Carson.  No, it's not his sense of humor, multiple divorces, or his bags of money.  It's our dislike of liver.

I discovered this years ago during one of his monologs on the Tonight Show, which he hosted brilliantly for nearly 30 years.  I forget the exact context of his revelation, but its impact was immediate and liberating.  Liver-haters like me could now come out of the closet!

The Beginning

My dislike for liver goes way, way back to when I was a child.  I have a vivid memory (possibly fabricated) of the first time I tasted it.  My parents were big fans of fried liver and onions, but seldom prepared it, perhaps because one or more of my older sisters wasn't too fond of it either.  On this particular night I remember the delicious smell of the liver cooking in the pan (probably the onions were the source of the good smell, but I didn't know that).  The raw liver looked kind of nice, too -- all smooth, shiny and deep red.  So I was prepared to enjoy what I recall as my first experience with liver as a food.

I chewed the first bite a couple of times and then tried to swallow.  You know about the "GAG REFLEX?" Well mine kicked in big time and my body refused to accept the taste and texture of this foreign substance in my mouth as something edible.  Our dog Rowdy was under the table (his usual dinner time position) and he had no such qualms, however.

Testing The Limits

As I grew older I encountered many friends and acquaintances who objected to my blanket rejection of what they regarded as a delicious, nutritious, and downright wonderful culinary treat.  "Oh, well, you just haven't had it prepared the right way!  You should try X, Y, Z...."  For X, Y, and Z just substitute any one of dozens of ways of cooking liver or preparing it -- braised, sauteed, ground into pates, stuffed into sausages, baked in a pixie oven, etc. etc..  Or they said "Oh, but have you tried Type A, Type B, Type C....I bet you'd really like that kind."  For Type A, B, and C just substitute any of the usual -- calve liver, pork liver, chicken liver, turkey liver, goose liver, moose liver, mongoose liver, humming bird liver.

Not wanting to seem closed-minded I tried most of their suggestions, always with the same result:  GAG.  After years of trying to correct my aberrant dislike I finally decided it was hopeless -- I do not now nor will I ever like liver in any way, shape or form.

Living With Liver

You'd think that would be the end of it -- having once committed to a liver-free life I'd just get on with it. But if you travel a lot, as my wife and I have done for many years, it's not that simple.

Traveling exposes you to many things, including the fact that most of the world doesn't speak English.  Menus are particularly problematic when they are in another language. Learning the word for "liver" helps somewhat (and I now know it in at least five languages) but chefs have a sneaky way of disguising its presence in their flowery descriptions of dishes or in idiomatic references like "Uncle Nickolai's Special Sausage."  This problem has lessened somewhat as English has become more widespread as a universal travel-language, but it still is present in many of the more exotic places we like to visit.

The solution has been to have my wife taste suspicious food that might be harboring liver in pure or sneakily adulterated ways.  She isn't a real liver fan either, but her aversion is much milder than mine.  This technique isn't perfect, though because she isn't as sensitive to the taste as I am.  It also makes me vulnerable to her joking around just to see me react when I dig into something she has declared liver safe and in fact is contaminated. Think Lucy holding the football for Charley Brown.

You might be critical of this procedure because it is exploitative of my wife's good nature.  However, we have a trade-off.  I do things that make her gag, like scrubbing toilets and cleaning up cat barf.

A Rational Conclusion (not)

As a psychological scientist I know that food preferences are largely learned and heavily determined by culture.  Texture, taste, and nutritional value do not by themselves drive the acceptance of certain items as food -- these qualities are interpreted within specific cultural frameworks and tempered by individual experiences and expectations. For example, insects are consumed readily by many people around the world, but not in our country.  This is despite the fact that insects are an excellent sustainable source of protein that is easily and safely produced with minimal input and very little environmental degradation.

It would be rational to eat insects.  It would be rational to eat liver.  See what I mean?

Please pass the pate d'cockroach.....
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Related Posts:
Microbes For Breakfast!
Taste Buds Are Wasted On The Young

My Favorite Cemeteries

[Note:  Special thanks to CH for giving me the idea for this blog ]

When my wife and I travel there are three kinds of places we always try to see besides the usual tourist sites:  community markets, hardware stores, and cemeteries.  You can learn a lot about a culture from these places -- the quality and variety of people's food, the gizmos and gadgets in their homes, their attitudes and beliefs about life and death.  And besides being interesting and informative we've found these places are enjoyable because people in them are almost always friendly and welcoming (or at least very quiet).

Cemeteries have always been fascinating to me, even when I was a child. My early interest was no doubt fueled in part by ghost stories and the allure of mysterious and possibly dangerous realms, captured brilliantly by the graveyard in the Disney attraction "Haunted Mansion."  As I've gotten older I've come to appreciate that cemeteries are much more than the repositories of dead bodies, however.  They are places where history is tangible and personal, cultural values and beliefs are embodied in architectural style, and social structure is clearly and sometimes poignantly discernible in stone.  Here are a few of my favorites.

Cemeteries: A Walk Through Both Personal and Monumental History

Death figures prominently in the history of all communities, and cemeteries offer a poignant look at historical events and the role of death in individual families. For example, in many cemeteries we have seen gravestones of several very young children in one family all dying within a short time of each other, probably from some epidemic for which there was no defense at the time. The angst of these families as they revisited the grave site to bury yet another of their children is almost palpable.

One of my favorites in this category is a Louisiana cemetery we came across while driving between New Orleans and Baton Rouge.  We saw the expected prevalence of local sons who perished in the Civil War, a vivid reminder of the horrors of that conflict.  A history lesson less prominent in the history books was portrayed by one plot where the family patriarch was buried alongside his several wives who successively died during childbirth, a common risk for women in those times. The same cemetery revealed that women often died at a younger age than men but the few who did survive wound up living longer than the oldest men.  Evolution in action?

For monumental burial sites there is one that stands out for me, though around the world I have a number of other favorites.  By "monumental" I mean containing the remains of many influential and prominent people in western history.  Although it is not technically a cemetery, Westminster Abbey in London is the final resting place of an astonishing number of historical figures, marked by gravestones set in the cathedral floor:  Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charles Dickens, George Frederic Handel, Henry Irving, David Livingstone, etc., etc.  These legendary names seemed almost mythical until I stood on top of the spot where they were buried -- the tangible evidence of their deaths made their lives seem more real for me.

Somber and Vast

Two cemeteries are tied in this category:  The American Military Cemetery in Normandy, France and Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.

The American Cemetery in Normandy contains the remains of more than 9,000 soldiers who died in

World War II, many during the invasion of France in 1944.  The emotional impact of standing in the center of thousands of identical white crosses stretching in perfect alignment as far as you can see is difficult to describe.  Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia is also vast and has the added somber quality of covering conflicts dating from the Civil War to the present day.  Both of these places are vivid reminders of warfare's deadly effects but Arlington's historical perspective suggests that war is a continuing and perhaps inevitable force in human societies. Wars do not prevent wars.

Spooky

I have two favorites that stand out in my memory. The first was a small cemetery my wife and I came across while visiting Vermont during the fall.  It was set on a hill not far from a small picturesque New England town.  Huge old hardwood trees were scattered among the tombstones, many of which were tilting helter-skelter from lack of attention.  We visited the cemetery one morning when the fog made the scene gauzy and out of focus.  It was eerily quiet, except for the sound of dew dropping from the trees onto the leaves.  Like I said, spooky.

Another spooky place is St. Louis No. 1 Cemetery in New Orleans.  Established in 1789, this was New Orleans' first cemetery and resembles a small city, with the house-like whitewashed tombs laid out along streets.  Many of the crypts mimic the French urban architecture style in vogue at the time, adding to the city-of-the-dead visual effect.  Among the residents here is the famous Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau, whose tomb always has a strange assortment of offerings outside, and has many "X's" marked on it by devotees who use this to ask Marie to grant them a wish.  There are other Voodoo practitioners buried in the cemetery as well, and if you wander around in here long enough you're guaranteed to get goose-bumps.

Architectural Delights

My hands-down favorite in this category is La Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires, Argentina.  It was founded in 1822 on the grounds of a former monastery and was Buenos Aires' first public cemetery.  Some of the buildings of the old religious order are still there, notably the beautiful little church built in 1732.  Buenos Aires was a very prosperous and sophisticated place during the 1800's and early 1900's, and the wealth of many of its citizens shows in the magnificence of their tombs. Many of them were built in the Neo-Gothic style of the 19th century using marble and granite imported from France and Italy, and look like small European cathedrals.

But the real stars for me are the tombs in the Art Nouveau and Art Deco styles, and I think La Recoleta must have one of the highest concentrations of them in the world.  Art Nouveau was popular around the turn of the 19th century, 1890-1910 and was characterized by soft, organic lines and flowery designs.  An absolute gem of this style is the tomb of a young woman named Rufina Cambaceres who died in 1902, and even includes an Art Nouveau casket.  Rufina was 19 years old when she died and there are some who believe she may have been accidentally buried alive after having a seizure, awoke in her coffin and then died of exhaustion trying to escape.  Regardless, the tomb is a masterpiece of Art Nouveau, one of several in the cemetery.

Art Deco flourished in the late 20's and 30's.  It is characterized by bold, blocky lines and simple yet powerful designs.  Recoleta tombs in this style are more prevalent than those in Art Nouveau which I think reflects the growth in the numbers of wealthy Argentinians.  In fact, several of the tombs even look a bit like banks, including that of Eva Peron, one of its most famous residents.  Hers pales in comparison though to many, many others.

Closing the Lid

There are quite a few more cemeteries I could mention in other categories, like "Humorous Headstones" (Valparaiso, Chile) and "Culturally Distinctive" (Cairo, Egypt), but I'll stop here.  Please feel free to share your own favorites.
 
One final observation is that cemeteries are the ultimate equalizers. The
most elaborate and grand tombs and headstones, meant to convey status, social superiority, and religious piety crumble and decay the same as the most humble monuments -- it may take more time but eventually entropy will win.  And though people fervently believe otherwise, this is equally true for all religions and creeds, including non-believers.  Maybe that's the ultimate lesson that cemeteries can teach us.