Going on 80

About a year ago, we acquired an aged freezer on Craigslist. Dedicated supporter of the elderly that I am, I insisted that we make a nice home for it on our back porch. 

Perhaps grateful at being given a chance for continued employment, that frosty old Sears Coldspot freezer set about making itself indispensable. 

Its most noteworthy asset is the way it has been keeping our ground beef, chickens, green beans, ice cream and lots of other vittles nicely frozen. So what’s so great about that, you may ask?  It is, after all, a freezer. That’s what it’s supposed to do. For a working life of 12 to 20 years, according to industry standards. Not this one though. It must not have read the fine print about how long it signed up for.

This is the second freezer of my acquaintance which continued working past its expected expiration date. This one and the only other freezer I ever owned just kept faithfully working 50 years and beyond. Except for some minor imperfections – there’s a crack on one shelf and the light only works sometimes – I think this freezer is definitely a “keeper”.

It has one embarrassing problem, however. Unfortunately, the exterior of the freezer  – and I say this with all due respect – is butt ugly. And because it has lived its life in the cruel outdoors, the freezer’s door, is plainly advertising its age – along with a lot of rust.

Since we like to entertain on our big back porch, Susy and I keep hoping nobody will notice the presence of the big rusty elephant in the room that contains dessert and the ice for their drinks. Guests are usually too polite to comment, but we just know what they must be thinking about our decor, and worrying whether the ice-cubes in their bubbly might require the need to schedule a tetanus shot. They have no way to be aware of the “inner beauty” of this fine and faithful freezer. 

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We decided if there was ever time for a face lift, this was it! Once the rust got scrubbed off, here’s the result. . . Thanks to 4 rolls of Magic Cover contact paper, our vintage freezer has managed to sort of quietly disappear into the woodwork on the back porch.

We were very proud of the old Coldspot’s new face.  At least until I saw the news yesterday. It seems the newer “bespoke” freezers at Samsung have also been getting a little cosmetic work done. Check it out!  

The caption under these refrigerators and freezers reads “Samsung Expands Their BESPOKE Refrigerators Line with A ‘Creators Collection of Original Artwork“

I suppose the “plastic surgeons” at Samsung are proud of themselves, but somebody ought to let them know that some old-time appliance engineers already thought of that. Here’s some vintage decorator appliances from the 1960s.

I never actually knew anyone who purchased such a colorful refrigerator or freezer, and I think I know why. When folks used to buy such a household asset, they expected it to be a one-time lifetime expenditure. Now, who would like to face looking at one of these day in and day out ad infinitum?

Of course, considering the longevity of today’s appliances, if you buy a new freezer today, you might only have to be looking at it for 12 years before you can scrap it.  Otherwise, check out the inventory of the oldies on Craigslist, and order some contact paper.

Last week’s post reminded me how much I miss that crazy neighborhood where our kids spent most of the growing-up years during the 1950s and 1960s.  

In Saint Joseph’s parish on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, none of the moms “worked”, unless you count their 16 hour days tending to their share of the 99 kids who lived on both sides of our street, plus their other assignments such as the grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, diapering, first aid, trying to make ends meet, volunteering for Mothers Club, and praying for sanity. I was among those hardy women, – my best friends, – fighting the good fight for survival of the fittest.

And so were the kids. The 99 kids were in every age group from about 18 years old on down, and the older ones all shared an odd attribute. They actually tolerated the younger kids. Unlike most teenagers, they not only kept a vigilant eye on their younger siblings and their cohorts, but sometimes, when they weren’t yelling at them, I think they kind of enjoyed their company.

I was reminded of this the other day when I was decluttering some old files. In some of son Matthew Ford’s old college papers, I found an essay he’d written. It was titled

“THE UNSUNG HERO”.

“During my twelfth year, I learned that courage often goes unrecognized and unrewarded because the action of a hero often illuminates the timidity of the coward.

“My family lived on Capitol Hill in Seattle in a large Catholic neighborhood affectionately called “Rabbit Hill” due to the large families dwelling there. If we recruited a few kids from adjacent streets, we could easily field one hundred players for a game of Capture the Flag”.

“However, we usually kept to our own block and, inevitably, we would clash with gangs from other streets. A strange kind of territorial imperative prevailed. Singly, or in pairs, boys could freely roam the entire neighborhood, but three or more boys venturing off familiar turf invited trouble. Most altercations began in alleys out of sight of mothers.

“One particular hot summer day, four of my 20th Street gang members and I congregated in my back yard and were busily engaged in one of our favorite activities –  making dirt bombs.  We proudly produced the finest dirt clods ever fashioned by human hands. We experimented with dozens of variations. Some would explode on contact, while others would hit with a thud. We “employed many different ingredients in ever-changing recipes to ensure a proper variety of weapons in our arsenal, ranging from still-wet mud balls to sun-dried hand grenades.

“We built our most potent missile around a core of fresh dog manure. Only the most experienced and physically coordinated boys dared to use this biological weapon. In the heat of battle, whoever gripped this dirt bomb too tightly before launching, suffered a fate worse than death.

“As we toiled single-mindedly at our task, none of us noticed that boys from a rival 21st street gang were stealthily filtering into the alley. On the far side of the fence separating my backyard from the alley, they quietly assembled. Suddenly, they unleashed an enormous fusillade of rocks that rained down mercilessly upon us. Initially, we put up a spirited defense, but our adversaries in the alley outnumbered us three or four to one. We turned around and scrambled over the 6 foot fence to the safety of the front yard.

“Several minutes later, as we sat on the grass in the shade of a large oak tree about 50 yards down the street, we quickly forgot our recent harrowing skirmish and entered into a heated discussion over who had the fastest bike.

“Just then, someone inquired, “What happened to Paul?”

“A dead silence ensued.“Paul was an odd character, socially awkward but doggedly determined. Only nine years old, he didn’t care for the company of children his own age. He tagged around with us. I had befriended him even though the three year age difference between us brought disdainful looks from my peers. We enjoyed playing chess and carefully recorded each game. He beat me only one time, and that was on our two hundred twenty-second game; Paul never backed down from a challenge.

“After we discovered Paul’s absence, the four of us quickly but quietly ran back to my house. We approached the fence we had recently scaled and peered between the boards. Little Paul still stood his ground. Fewer objects flew through the air, as the context had been transformed chiefly into one of verbal insults.

“We listened silently as Paul traded taunt for taunt while occasionally lobbing a poorly-aimed dirt bomb. Inspired by Paul’s bravery, we leaped over the fence and rejoined the fray. In a few glorious moments, we drove our humiliated foes from the alley. Jubilant, we heartily congratulated one another.

“While we did compliment Paul, we actually tried to minimize his role in the victory. Shame had fallen on us because, in our moment of trial, we had bolted, while a mere nine year-old stood fast against our enemies. Unlike us, this nine-year-old had faced his Goliath and had suffered no loss of honor.

“After my family moved from Capitol Hill, I never saw Paul again, but I have often wondered what hand of cards life had handed him. I saw him repeatedly display steadfast determination and courage, but quietly without seeking glory. I suppose today that he is still an unsung hero, but a hero nonetheless.”

That was the end of Matt’s essay, and he got an A+ for his story of this quiet little hero, Paul. Today, though, Paul isn’t little anymore. I saw him a few years ago and he towered over me.  

He still must be going about his life quietly though.  Except for the fact that he works as a tax preparer, I couldn’t find any other nuggets of info about him on the internet except for two items. Paul did nicely at the 2015 World Series of Poker, so it seems he may be doing better at the card table than the chessboard.

The other item was a news story. According to KOMO-TV News in 2019, a man named Paul Fawthrop from Renton, Washington helped pull an elderly woman from her burning house.  https://komonews.com/news/local/woman-pulled-from-her-burning-home-in-renton Matthew thinks it was predictable … Just another day in the life of an unsung hero.

… last night as I stood
On the same corner back in that old neighborhood
I couldn’t help brushing a tear from my eye
For I knew not a face in the crowds that went by
Gone forever are the pals that I love
There isn’t a trace or a sign
Of that regular honest-to-goodness old bunch
That I call that old gang of mine. (From the old song “That Old Gang of Mine”.)

When the teacher strikes got settled and the kids in our state went back to school this week, I figured I better quit playing hooky and come up with some kind of a celebratory blob!

Labor strikes by teachers in Washington State are actually illegal, but then, so is spitting on the sidewalk (unbelievable, I know, but true). Personally, I make a practice of hardly never spitting on the sidewalk – at least if a policeman is nearby – but I do vigorously cheer on those “illegally” striking teachers!  What I would earnestly like to spit on though, is the need to ask our legislators this embarrassing question: WHY DO THE TEACHERS HAVE TO GO ON STRIKE TO BE RECOGNIZED FOR THEIR VALUE? 

As a mom, I early-on learned to stand in awe of such unsung heroes. Most of those teachers were wearing a religious habit, but all were firmly determined to educate all seven of my brood come hell or high water – and I owe them my eternal gratitude, because they did.

Of course, like all well-trained Catholics, I have to recognize my guilt. Yes, don’t tell anyone, but sometimes when all seven kids were all at school, it was often quite nice! Yup! And I and all the other moms in my neighborhood never missed a chance to exult in the comfort of that bit of freedom over all the cups of coffee we guzzled together before the 3 o’clock bell rang at school.

Looking back though, it wasn’t as easy as you might surmise. I was thinking about that this week as I knew the mothers (and this being 2022 – the fathers, too) were facing the First Day Of School. It ain’t easy!

Relive with me what I can piece together in my memory from one of those days of yesteryear in our households in St. Joseph’s parish on Capitol Hill in Seattle back in the 1960s. Here goes…

Typically, at the end of the First Day of School, and with the 11 pm news on the television set, I – pale and haggard, and in a state of collapse – would still be stoically labeling book bags, covering books, slapping together tomorrow’s lunches, counting shoes, filling out applications for Girl Scouts, Brownies, Cub Scouts, piano lessons, violin class, school insurance, permission slips for Library Day, checking off my choices for providing “transportation, telephone calling, and typing” on mandatory volunteer worksheets for six different room mothers, and figuring out which of the three children who fit it gets-to-wear-the-new-coat-tomorrow.

And right about then, some statement invariably emanated from the television set that always stopped me in my tracks.

“Today was ‘Mothers Day’, the impeccably groomed newscaster would warble with a cheery chuckle. “Today Mommy waved goodbye and while Junior marched off to his first day at school, she floated into the kitchen, heaved a big sigh of relief, and poured that Second Cup of Coffee!”

I always had a bloodthirsty desire to share with the guy how it really was for the mothers of St. Joseph’s School. A second cup of coffee wouldn’t have even entered my battered mind that day. Which started at 7:30 am, along these lines . . . 

I would have woken that morning to a breathless blur of activity. The Great Search was on. I wasn’t up for a half hour before I would discover that everything in our house was missing. Seven children were looking for, but unable to find, breakfast cereal, clean socks, left shoes, the bathroom sink, washcloths, toothpaste, underwear, buttons, toast, ironed shirts and even the clock. 

(Editor’s note: in case you’re too young to know what an “ironed shirt” was, it was an article of apparel which had to be flattened with hot steam from a hissing triangular instrument of torture. Just kidding. Actually, even though I was always several years behind with the task, ironing was my second favorite household chore. My first favorite was hitting my head repeatedly on the refrigerator door.) But I digress. Let’s get back to our First Day of School scene.

I remember the two eager beavers on the First Day were always whoever was going into kindergarten or first grade. They’d take turns asking, “What time is it, Mommy?” at 3 to 4 minute intervals from 7:30 am on. “We’re going to be late. I just know we’re going to be late!”

Well, so did I (and we were) but I didn’t have time to worry about such insoluble problems with so many Revolutionary Wars erupting underfoot, usually involving who has “all the socks”.

St. Joseph’s didn’t offer kindergarten, so once the grade schoolers, smartly dressed in their nicely creased uniforms and ironed shirts and blouses, were finally on their two-block trek to school, I’d pack up whoever was to be enrolled in Kindergarten at Stevens public school near our house. 

The first day of kindergarten at Stevens was only one hour long for the students. During that hour, all the moms, with their preschoolers in tow, would be ushered into the gym for a kind of presentation ceremony. All the harried mothers would sit there and swill coffee and listen to the principal present a long, searching commentary on all the reasons we should support Public School Referendum #904. I think he always believed that because he knew most of the kindergartners would be graduating to a parochial school, their mothers, as taxpayers, didn’t support public schools. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I never knew a Capitol Hill mother who didn’t genuflect in respect whenever she walked past that noble public school or any other that could educate her urchins.

I usually enjoyed the ceremony. On the most frantic day of the year, it was lovely to have a chance to just sit and doze for a while, but the year I was enrolling Teresa (known then as “Terry”), I wasn’t so lucky.

Our four-year-old Judy, enraged and bereft at having just discovered that she had NOT been accepted for kindergarten, howled for water, the urgent need to tinkle, more cookies, and then suddenly hollered in desperation “Isn’t he EVER going to stop talking?”

Well, after he did, I marched Terry and Judy home but we barely made it in time. What that TV newscaster didn’t seem to realize (or maybe he just knew of schools from another galaxy) is that on the first day, St. Joseph’s only kept the kids long enough for them to be “oriented”. Which means that the kindergarten mothers could barely get home in time to find the school uniforms tossed on the couch, crumpled up on stairway and tossed on the dining room table, peanut butter buttered on the kitchen counters, and the grade schoolers having climbed into their swimsuits, were turning on the front yard hose.

Oh, it was Mothers Day, all right! 

I wish I could assure you that the days following the First Day weren’t so frantic, and actually, they wouldn’t have been except for one convention in practice at St. Joseph’s School. During the first years we lived in the parish, any student who lived within 8 blocks of the school couldn’t bring his/her lunch. He/she had to go home for lunch. But not all at one time. Starting about 11am, on a “staggered” schedule, various classes took their turn and were set free to go home and were given 40 minutes to eat their peanut butter sandwiches and get back to school. The sum effect of this strategy was that there were only about 3 hours of the day when everybody was in school. No school day was what you could exactly call a “day off” for mothers of large families in the parish.

Not that any of the mothers were complaining! In fact, most of us thought those three hours were a gift from Heaven, and the perfect excuse to guzzle coffee together. I will always smile when I remember the fun, friendship, and laughing that we had in those years. 

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All that stolen time off though, was directly due to the efforts of the teachers who were educating our kids, and I don’t think any of the mothers I knew would ever forget it. I know I won’t. I just wish they could get the compensation they deserve. Otherwise, prepare for this possible sequel to Breaking Bad . . . .

Decided to go on “vacation” for a week or so while we figure out how to co-exist with peritoneal dialysis . . . .

. . . . or else to win the Mega Millions 1.2 billion dollar lottery, — whichever comes first.  (You’ll be first to know!)

Have a good week, and stay out of trouble!

I’d like you to meet my son Matthew’s most faithful friend – his right kidney.  

Mr. Kidney is single, having lost his mate in 2004.  In spite of this regrettable personal loss, Right (- his first name) has soldiered on valiantly for the past 18 years, and, if you ask me, deserves a biological medal of honor. 

Mr. Kidney isn’t impressive in body size: he’s only about the size of your cell phone, weighs only 4 or 5 ounces, and is shaped like a kidney bean (or maybe it’s the other way around. Possibly the bean is shaped like Mr. Kidney). But, of course, he’s very attractive – especially to his owner/landlord – Matthew – who has genuine respect for the little guy’s heroism, quiet charm, and amazing work ethic.

Don’t underestimate this amazing little guy. He’s not just Matt’s live-in janitor. He serves as his on-site chemist, lab technician, bodyguard, and private investigator. Any Big Mac with fries and tartar sauce that Matt tries to sneak in is thoroughly appraised, analyzed, and filtered of poisons within an inch of its deep-fried life. 

In spite of his diminutive size, Mr. Kidney is not a wimp. He’s actually composed of over one million itty-bitty bytes called nephrons which give him his powerful muscular and analytical abilities.  If laid end-to-end, these nephrons would be 5 miles long. All of Matt’s other organs may be too jealous to admit it, but they have to rely on Right’s faithful policing of their environment or else it can mean “curtains” for them. As in “Time to kick the bucket, kiddo”.

But here’s the problem. Matthew’s Mr. Kidney is now 68 years old and he’s thinking about going into semi-retirement. And who can blame him? He seems willing to carry on with his garbage disposal activities part-time, but he’d really like to cut back on some of his other online battlefield action. Enough with the endless grind of filtering the toxins from those barbecue ribs and generously buttered salted popcorn, guys! In other words, it’s time to assign Right to some well-deserved R and R.

That’s where Matt’s sister Susy enters on stage Right. And me too, sort of. 

One day in July, Matt’s nephrologist, Dr. B. gave us a call. “Okay, Matt, it’s time now. For dialysis. But you get to pick a card. You can either go to the kidney center 3 times a week for hemodialysis through the blood, or you can have peritoneal dialysis through the abdomen at home in bed while you’re sleeping for 8 to 12 hours every night. Either method will take over the overwork your “trying-to-retire” kidney has been trying to avoid. Take your pick.”

So he did. One month later, following surgery, and an estimated $65,000 in medical costs (no kidding – thank you, United Healthcare, Medicare and the federal government!), Matthew’s body was prepped to begin assisting Mr. Kidney with some of his fearsome responsibilities.

On Thursday, after 3 weeks of intensive one-on-one training with a kindly and brainy peritoneal dialysis nurse named Jen, we were shoved out of the Kidney Center nest to administer dialysis to Matthew on our own. (Shudder, shake, shiver!)

We are scheduled – for one long, endless week – to deliver to Matt the manual version of dialysis so we know how to do it in case of any future power outages.

It’s been 3 days now. I sure wish I could tell you what an easy transition it’s been, but I’m too exhausted to think up any such lies that could be even remotely plausible.

Because Susy and I had both undergone the detailed training we were offered, our plan was that we would alternate administering the four treatments per day. Susy, was first, and performed with her usual flying colors. Then it was my turn. An occasion we now describe as “when the ax falls”.

I thought I was performing beautifully – always a trap – when it happened. Protruding from Matthew’s abdomen is a plumbing connection called a “transfer set”. During the procedure I was supposed to pretend like I knew what I was doing and join the sterile male end of the transfer set to a sterile female connector leading to another kind of tubing. But then, it happened! Oh, no! 

Due, no doubt, to my sexual lack of proficiency, the male end didn’t go in right. It missed by just a microscopic hair, and touched the rim of the female connection. Definitely a misfire! A drop of bentadine on the rim proved my sorry error. If there was one thing our training had imprinted on our brains, it was that THE MALE CONNECTION CANNOT TOUCH ANY PART OF THE EXTERIOR OF THE FEMALE CONNECTION. Foreplay is not only not permitted – it is condemned.

According to nurse Jen, if such a misfire should occur, we were to immediately halt the dialysis, and call her or whichever nurse was on call for emergency instruction.

So we did. Jen told us to conclude the procedure, and immediately bring Matthew back to the kidney center (a 26 mile roundtrip jaunt) where the transfer set that had been installed by the surgeon in July had to be replaced with a pristine new male connection, untouched by any unsanitary female connections perpetrated by any incompetent dialysis-givers.

It was downright embarrassing, I’ll tell you that. So now we have a new game plan. Susy is doing all the actual dialysis and I am providing the “consulting”, sanitising, supplies set-up, and doing the cleanup afterwards. But if you’re thinking this sounds like my inept life in a nutshell, it isn’t. I’m relieved. If there is one thing I’ve learned in the last 90 years, it’s how to stay out of trouble. Mostly.

We can only guess at what Mr. Kidney thinks of our erring efforts to supplement or replace his outstanding talent. After all, let’s face it. Lately, he himself hasn’t been performing all that perfectly either! We still like him though, and semi-retired or not, we hope he hangs around as long as possible.

Everyday I’m finding on the kitchen counter more of the “fruits” of daughter Susy’s daily gardening harvest. So far, it’s green beans, radishes, tomatoes, carrots, pea pods, cucumbers, potatoes, beets, and zucchini. My granddaughter Josie and I helped with some of the planting but Susy’s done all the sweat-labor since. 

It’s likely that people like me who spent their formative years during the hunger years of the Great Depression, regard this kind of earthy God-designed bounty with the same reverence I have for it. And we don’t want to squander it. Waste not, want not! 

Of course, each summer the farm also produces several bushels of apples, pears, figs, grapes – more than anybody could eat or give away. This is – yes – forcing me to have to research how to build a still so we can market Kartar Ridge Ranch Genuine Moonshine. (You don’t need to mention this to the Feds).

Everyday, we’re consuming the garden treasures Susy’s hauling in. Yesterday, we had vegetable kebobs laced with Costco sausages, and today roasted vegetables with a roasted chicken (imported from QFC) and a side of dill-seasoned marinated cucumbers slices. Considering the fertility of this summer’s cucumbers, this is the year we’re going to have to learn how to “pickle”.

In the midst of all this plenitude though, I am continually haunted by a memory I wish I could forget.

I think it happened one Saturday in late winter when I was still a runt of 7 or 8 years old. I remember there was a kind of urgent frenzy of activity going on in the house and my mom and dad seemed stressed. When my mother gave the order, my sister and brothers and I all piled into the car. My baby brother Richard was up front with our parents, and Joan, Jimmy, Leo and I sat as usual in the back seat of our rattletrap family car.

This time though, crammed in with us in the back seat, were sacks full of food. We didn’t know where we were headed till we got there, but every kid in the car seemed aware that we were on some kind of an urgent, grim mission.

When we arrived, we discovered we were at the farm of one of my aunts and uncle. We kids expectantly hustled out of the car ready to play with our cousin Jimmy. It was odd, though. I can remember other times we were there before, our aunt usually sent us home with a bushel basket of harvest from her garden or a covered bowl of fried chicken. This time, though, my dad was passing out to my uncle the bags of food we had brought.

I was standing by the car when my uncle reached into a bag and grasped an apple. I remember the shock of watching him tear into that apple. He devoured it core and all. It was the first time – maybe the only time –  I ever witnessed, up close, the desperation of extreme hunger. And I never forgot it.

I didn’t understand it then, but I later learned that that scene was taking place on similar farmlands in the Iowa corn belt – which contains the richest soil in the world. Recovering from World War I, farmers borrowed money to buy more land or machinery, but after the stock market crash of 1929, the value of their crops dropped so drastically that they couldn’t meet the loan payments or could even afford the cost of reseeding and planting the next season’s crops.

Among those who became enriched by the ravages of the economy were the life insurance companies who owned many of the loans and mortgages held in the Midwest. My grandfather James Gorman had eventually acquired enough acres of Iowa farmland so that each of his sons could eventually have “a farm of his own”.

I have a childhood memory of fragments of recurring conversations among the Gormans in my family. They always spoke with resentment and bitterness specifically about one organization – the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company. It left me with the belief that that company had swallowed up the family farmland in foreclosure. And, in fact, in two states alone – Iowa and South Dakota – 750,000 farms were foreclosed on by similar insurance companies and banks.

One thing God may have appreciated about the Depression years, is that so many people always said grace before meals – even if it was just a plate of beans or a peanut butter sandwich. We’re too spoiled and over-indulged to remember to do it regularly now, but the next time we sit down to dine on the fruits of Susy’s harvest, I’m going to try to remember to say it!

“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen”

Here, for your viewing enjoyment, is a handsome pic of Horridus the triceratops dinosaur. Don’t swoon. But do try to remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. After all, it’s extremely likely that his mother or his girlfriend thought that his 2,200 lbs. physique was really hot stuff.

Such is our perception of beauty.

Last week, I told you about some of the hairdos my mom cranked out in her beauty shop, and I mentioned that the finger waves and marcels were my favorites. To me, at least, I’m still awed by how easy she made it look – with a little waving lotion, a comb and her fingers to shape the waves, and then the clamps holding them in place while the lady sat under the dryer. For the marcels, she used a curling iron on the lady’s already shampooed and dried hair.

When I was writing that blob, I kept hoping I could find a photo of Audrey Hepburn wearing a finger wave. None showed up – closest I could find was one where she was done up in a pixie cut.

While I failed to find a shot where I could use Hepburn as my finger wave “model”, she was still my idea of the kind of beauty that would have sold you on how pretty finger wave hairstyles could look.

Audrey Hepburn was an award-winning movie star, famous for her fashion, style and elegance, – and also for her kindness, eloquence and quiet humanitarian efforts. She was a truly beautiful woman. You didn’t need to be her mother to see that.

As for her “beauty regime”, she once said, “I believe in pink. I believe in manicures. I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day, and I believe in miracles.”

And she also said, “If my world were to cave in tomorrow, I would look back on all the pleasures, excitements and worthwhilenesses I have been lucky enough to have had. Not the sadness, not my miscarriages, or my father leaving home, but the joy of everything else. It will have been enough.”

One of her favorite readings was called “Time Tested Beauty Tips”, written by author Sam Levenson as a wise letter-poem to his grandchild. it was read at Audrey’s funeral by one of her two sons:

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.
For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.
For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.
For beautiful hair, let a child run his fingers through it once a day.
For poise, walk with the knowledge you’ll never walk alone….
People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed and redeemed and redeemed….
Never throw out anybody.
Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, you’ll find one at the end of your arm.
As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands. One for helping yourself,
the other for helping others.

Somehow, botox and plastic surgery and finger wave hairdos didn’t get mentioned in the “Time Tested Beauty Tips” but it seems Audrey managed to face the world quite nicely without them.

And, apparently, so did Horridus. Of course, as you can see in his “After” photo below, he seems to have overdone it on his weight-loss program. The poor guy musta shed at least 2,000 pounds. It’s not very attractive. As a fashion dinosaur myself, even I know you can’t lose that must weight just to get skinny, toned, and featured in a museum. And he lost all that nice hair on his tail, too. I can certainly relate to that.

Many of us were bald when we came into the world. And many of us will be departing from it the same way. I can still vividly remember when I used to have hair, though. I have no idea where it’s going, but the hair on my head is becoming a part of prehistoric history.

This is not what happened to my mother, or my only sister, or, for that matter, my three brothers. The culprit to blame can only be my dad, Jim Gorman, whose hair, like mine, was gradually thinning as he aged. If you are one of my descendants, and you notice that your crowning glory is getting skimpy, you can probably “thank” me and my dad for it. 

My mother, Josie, would be mortified to see it. Through the ages, Norwegians must have depended on their thick manes to keep them warm during their frigid winters. They probably didn’t produce a whole lot of balding daughters – however otherwise brilliant and talented, – or even ones like me, who they would have kept dressed in muskox hides to prevent them from turning blue as well as bald, or possibly, from being seen!

My mother was a hairdresser, of all things! Thinning hair wasn’t in her wheelhouse. Probably isn’t in that of her long lost-but-now-found granddaughter Sarah Downard either. 

When niece Rene and Sarah had their spectacular reacquaintance (see posts 467 and 468), we learned that Sarah herself is – like her great-grandma Josie – a hairdresser. It must be genetic. Or else – yes – my mother is haunting her. (Hum a little Twilight Zone music, please – (Nuh-nuh-nun-nah, Nuh-nuh-nun-nah.)

Mom was trained and then taught at the Paris Beauty Academy in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She met another hairdresser fledging there – Elsie Gorman. It was she – my Aunt Elsie (Bailey) – who introduced mom to her brother Jim Gorman – my dad.

In this photo from 1929, Elsie is third on the right – and my mom Josie – here pregnant with Sarah’s grandmother, my sister Joan – is fifth on the right.

During most of my growing up years (when I still had hair), Mom operated her own beauty shop out of our home. My sister Joan and I grew up with all the latest “developments” in acquiring hair procedures. I remember, Mom always reminded us that “You have to suffer to be beautiful”. And we did. Suffer, that is. While our girlfriends were rolling their hair in rag curls, we were being treated to . . .

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My mother’s own thick hair went through all kinds of styles through the years of her youth. During her “flapper” years, she wore “finger-waves” . . . but by the time she was married, she was really “into” marcels which she somehow created with a curling iron that she heated on a kind of hot plate. . . . . I still love those looks, but it must have helped to have thick hair and natural curl! 

In most photos when my sister Joan and I were little, our straight hair was nearly always finger-waved and usually topped off with a giant hair bow. This is a pic of Joan, sans hair bow, but definitely finger-waved. When we got older, we were either “permanently” frizzed, or French-braided.

Speaking of braids, French or otherwise, if Sarah ever reads this blob, I hope she knows she is not alone in her quest for hair excellence. We are having a heat wave in Enumclaw this week, and our farm animals are suffering along with the rest of us. Especially the horses with their thick manes. To relieve them every summer, Sarah’s cousin Susy – my daughter –  pretends like she’s a hairdresser and does this.  . .        

This is C.J. and Dani showing off their summer coiffures patiently administered by Susy, while horsing around.

Finally, just in case you haven’t had enough hair insights and how they may be “rooted” in the family, you might want to re-read one of my previous blobs about the obviously genetic hairdresser mania which has always afflicted one of Sarah’s newfound nieces who – strangely enough – is named Josie. (Nuh-nuh-nun-nah, Nuh-nuh-nun-nah.)

https://goingon80.com/2010/12/17/102-hair-makeover/

We’ve got to discuss a little more about how to “go with the flow”.

First, I am pleased to reveal that on Thursday, son Matthew heroically weathered his first procedure to attain the status of Bionic Man. After two hours of surgery, his body was fitted with silicone parts which will soon allow him to (sort of) continue to go tinkle just like a regular person.

I would like to explain exactly how that magic was performed, and I would if I could, but Matt, daughter Susy, son-in-law Curt, and I are still trying to unsnarl meant-to-be helpful internet info explaining dialysis in language such as:

“Dialysis catheters are artificial indwelling transcutaneous conduits used to access the intravascular space or intraperitoneal space for renal replacement therapy . . . wide-bore central venous lines are used in extracorporeal renal replacement therapy (which hemodialysis, hemofiltration, hemodiafiltration, and ultrafiltration), while smaller transabdominal lines are used in peritoneal dialysis.”

I would continue typing out this valuable information for you but my iPad doesn’t know how to spell any more 8-syllable words.

Matt is weathering the post-op pain and discomfort of the surgery with his usual cheerful stoicism, but I thought of a good solution to ease his temporary suffering, while at the same time, expanding our “knowledge” of dialysis. Since the best antidote to pain is laughter, tonight, we’re going to start re-watching all the episodes of Patriot.

In case you’re not familiar with that delicious series, the hero of Patriot, played by Michael Dorman, is John Lakeman, a somewhat damaged, deadpan spy hero. As a cover for his spying activities, he works for – of all things – a piping supply company. It seems to me, if there was ever a time for our family to find helpful research on plumbing issues, this is it.

In this scene, John Lakeman possibly sums up everything Matt, Susy, Curt and I have learned, so far, about how dialysis must work, — at least, from a plumber’s point of view. Check it out here . . .

https://youtu.be/-F-IHvF5OCA

Getting back to real life, friends, we still don’t know kidney beans about the nuts and bolts of dialysis plumbing, but, thanks to niece Chris’s posting last week’s blob on her Facebook page, a retired teacher friend of hers, – Rose – gave us a description of the home-administered peritoneal dialysis her husband successfully used, and we have decided to try to do the same. (Thank you for your advice, Rose! It has really encouraged us!)

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Final note: we all spent most of last night in the emergency room at the hospital getting some tune-up work needed from the surgery, but we’re home now, everybody’s getting some rest, and Matthew is still managing to smile!

Question: what if you find out you have to go on dialysis and you don’t know kidney beans about the subject?

Answer: Urine trouble. (Hint: you have to say it aloud.)

My son Matthew found out recently he has to have surgery this week because his lone remaining kidney hasn’t been getting a passing grade.

On Thursday, Matthew, and my daughter Susy and I will arrive at Valley General Hospital where a vascular surgeon is going to install a “fistula” in Matt’s arm to join one of his arteries to a vein; and a catheter in his abdomen. The plan is that either of these bionic devices will be able to help take over the work currently being shirked by his failing kidney.

The hardware can’t do it alone, though. That’s where Susy, my son-in-law Curt, and I come in. About a week after the surgery, we will attend a rigorous training program. And two weeks later, Matt will begin one of – as yet undecided – methods of receiving dialysis. He’ll either have hemodialysis at the kidney center 3 to 4 times a week, or we will administer peritoneal dialysis here at home for 8 hours every night while he’s sleeping.

And that pretty well sums up the extent of our know-how about the new “adventure” we are all facing.

When God invented us, he designed our chassis with plenty of backup systems. In case one of our parts fail, well, hey! it may have come with a handy “spare part”. These are some of the paired body parts He installed on both sides of our bodies:

1. Eyes
2. Ears (both inner and outer)
3. Nostrils
4. Kidneys/ureters
5. Legs (all sections from ankles/feet/toes up to hips)
6. Arms (all sections from shoulder to fingertips)
7. Ribs
8. Lungs
9. Ovaries/fallopian tubes (for females)
10. Breasts and nipples
11. Testicles/vas deferens (for males)
12. Ventricles and atria of the heart (they are not symmetric in size/shape but you do have a left and right one of each)
13. Adrenal glands
14. Parathyroid glands
15. It’s likely there’s a few bones, nerves, tendons/ligaments, pieces of cartilage, and blood vessels associated with each part that would also have mirror-images
16. And probably a whole bunch more I left out or we don’t even know about yet.

Of course, God didn’t arrange for any of those body parts to have an unlimited shelf life. The only part He designed to be permanent is the soul.

Matthew lost one of his kidneys to cancer eighteen years ago. Since then, his second kidney stepped in and until recently has been doing a fine job all by itself. Even though the doctors kept mumbling about the possible need for a transplant or dialysis in the future, we weren’t the least bit worried. At least, until two weeks ago, when the doctor called to say “It’s time.”

The thing is, we were each given two kidneys – not three. When you need a third one, it has to be gifted to you from a fellow human being. Last year though, a pig’s kidney was successfully implanted in a human body with encouraging results.

According to the Associated Press, “Surgeons attached the pig kidney to a pair of large blood vessels outside the body of a deceased recipient so they could observe it for two days. The kidney did what it was supposed to do — filter waste and produce urine — and didn’t trigger rejection.”

In the meantime, Matthew can’t wait for a human or animal replacement, and has to choose what kind of dialysis he wants while he’s waiting: hemodialysis at the Enumclaw Northwest Kidney Center, or peritoneal dialysis administered to him by Susy and me (with Curt as backup) here at Kartar Ridge Ranch. And that, kind reader, is where you might be able to help us.

None of us here – not Matt, Susy, Curt, or me has known anybody who ever actually had dialysis, or served as a caregiver to a dialysis patient. The only person who considered having dialysis that I know of was my Uncle Leslie Rawson. It was offered to him in the 1990s. but my Aunt Mary told me he declined to have it. Leslie died of kidney failure shortly after.

It wasn’t till the 1960’s that the life-saving technology really emerged. The first machines in use in the 1940s looked like this.

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Today they look like the one on the right.

The University of Washington is considered the birthplace of repeated dialysis treatment beginning in 1960. Until then, patients in end-stage kidney failure were simply left to die.

We wish we could talk with people – other than medical or nursing staff – that actually had or are living with either kind of dialysis. If they chose to have the at-home peritoneal kind, we would especially like to hear about the earthy details from non-medical caregivers like ourselves.

If you can, please use the Comment section below to tell us – anything – about what you know, have experienced, or recommend. Or email us at fordvid@gmail.com. We will appreciate your help!