VIRGIL CAIN IS THE NAME, AND I SERVED ON THE DANVILLE TRAIN…

It was with genuine sadness that I read today of the passing of Levon Helm at age 71.  Apparently he’d been fighting a continuing battle with cancer longer than most people realized.  For those of you who are not rock & roll or roots music fans, Helm was the drummer and  sometimes lead singer of The Band, who, in this aging ex-hippie’s opinion, was the greatest rock band to ever hail from these shores.  (Ironically, this band that exuded Americana had only one member from the States, and that was Helm.  The rest were Canadians.) 

The Band had a long and storied career, both as the backup band for Bob Dylan (hence the name – everyone just knew them as “the band”), and as a star act in its own right.  I consider theirs to be some of the most interesting, powerful, intense, and influential music to come out of the late sixties and early seventies.  If I were to be dropped on a deserted island tomorrow, and was allowed to take only ten albums, The Band’s first two – “Music from Big Pink” and “The Band” – would be among them.  And if there’s a better vocal performance in all of rock history than Helm’s version of the Robbie Robertson song, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” I haven’t heard it.  If you like rock documentaries, many, including myself, consider Martin Scorsese’s The Last Waltz to be the best ever filmed.  Through the eyes of one of our generation’s finest film makers, this movie memorializes The Band’s truly amazing final concert.  The show was epic - a virtual who’s who of musical luminaries joining the band on stage – Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Muddy Waters, Van Morrison – the list goes on and on.  But the film’s unmistakable highlight is Levon Helm singing “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”  With the camera fixed on Helm’s face, you feel his pain, you feel every nuance of this wonderful song, to the point that you’d swear this was Virgil Cain himself, and he had to have been there in Dixie that dreadful night. 

[Here's a YouTube posting of that remarkable performance, excerpted from The Last Waltz:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQYj2ltJKe8&feature=share.]

It was several years back that I was first saddened to hear that Helm had contracted throat cancer, but then I was subsequently gladdened to learn that he’d apparently beaten it.  In fact, he returned to performing with renewed enthusiasm.  Levon Helm was back, and once again, a musical force to be reckoned with.  Over the past five or six years since then, he’s performed live, both in the barn at his home in Woodstock, and on the road.  During that time he also released three exceptional albums - “Dirt Farmer,” “Electric Dirt,” and “Ramble at the Ryman” - all of which won richly-deserved Grammy awards.  Helm’s voice was different, a price he’d paid to the throat cancer, but it still had the same amazing, world-weary quality.  And the music was different – less rock, more old-time country.  But the songs - the songs are amazing - pure Levon Helm, at his best. 

Although I did have the privilege of seeing him perform several times while with the Band (including at Woodstock), I didn’t see him live in recent years, performing his own music, with his own band.  I’d seen ads for him and his band playing at local venues, but for one reason or another, I failed to make time to go.  I will forever regret that.   

Rest in peace, Levon.  Thank you for all the amazing musical memories.  “It was a time I remember oh so well.”

I’M A GOIN' FISHIN'

Some of you will recall the saga of Brad and Angie, the love-sick snapping turtles who we relocated last month.  (They’d been living in the pond, aka the Sea of Cortés, which is my subtle way of reminding you, Pedro – this month’s check is due.)  While we were commiserating on how much we will miss our cute little couple, we were reminded of the fact that other animals, who had previously served as sources of energy for turtle love, would now thrive in the less hostile environment.  Frankly, I was skeptical.  Nevertheless, today’s Sea of Cortés trout fishing expedition produced larger than usual results.  Below is a photo of my friend, Darrin, holding the brown trout I landed.  I’m quickly becoming a believer!  (Happy April Fools’ Day!)

BLIND FAITH?

Well it’s that time of year again, when baseball prognosticators will be ranting and raving about this season’s possibilities and pitfalls.  And you can expect the obligatory wave of negativity coming from the Philly haters, but also from the Philly press.  Woe is us; Howard and Utley are among the missing; the bullpen has holes in it; the fill-in guys look like a tossed cheese steak on Broad Street.  (Nix looks like he’s never seen a breaking ball, and if you squint just right, Wiggington could be Wes Helms’s long-lost little brother.) 

Ok, so the Phillies have a few problems.  But everyone seems to be forgetting that they also have three of the very best pitchers in baseball at the top of their rotation, and one of the game’s premiere closers.  But perhaps most importantly, they’re coming off a season in which they won 102 games, and finished 13 games ahead of their closest competition in the NL East.  And that was the Braves, who have their own injury problems to deal with this year.  The Nationals (21.5 games back) tightened up their pitching, which will be formidable if it stays healthy.  But that would be a first.  (They’ve already announced that their closer will start the season on the DL.)  But come on?  They’re still the Nats.  From what I read in the Washington Post, they’re more concerned with how to keep Phillie fans from buying up all the tickets to Phillies-Nats games than they are with any realistic thought of winning the division.  (Sorry Don.)   And how ‘bout dem Florida Marlins (30 games back)?  Oh wait, it’s the Miami Marlins now, that should make a difference.  But if the name change isn’t enough, they have a new stadium, complete with fish tank.  Still not sold?  How about Ozzie Guillen as the ringmaster, I mean manager?  Step right up, folks, if the circus hasn’t just pulled into Miami, then what’s with the circus peanut smell and calliope music?  All this is going to definitely put asses in the brand new seats, but is it really going to make up 30 games in the standings?  I know, they also have Jose Reyes.  But then we already know how the Mets made out with Jose at the top of their lineup.  (I’ll give the Mets fans this – they always stayed reasonably in tune while singing “Jose, Jose.”  So the Marlins fans will have their work cut out for them if they don’t want voted off.)  Which reminds me, I forgot all about the Mets chances this year (25 games back in 2011).  That’s probably enough about the Mets. 

Seriously, it will be a closer race, but the Phillies are still the team to beat.  I see both the Marlins and Nats closing the gap and making it interesting.  I think Atlanta will fall on tough times because of age and injury.  As for the Mets, well, their 50^th anniversary falls this year.  Happy Anniversary, Mets!   

My bold predictions (keeping in mind my state of perpetual bewilderment): 

1. Phillies
2. Marlins
3. Nationals
4. Braves
5. Mets

In other races, I look for the Cards to move up one and win the Central, with the Diamondbacks repeating in the West.  (I know you Giant fans out there are optimistic, but the Giants’ offense makes the Phillies’ bats look like Murderers’ Row.)

I don’t bother with that other league.  When they drop the designated hitter gimmick, we’ll talk.

Comments welcome!

A SIMPLE TWIST OF FATE

In a comment I made last weekend, I was bemoaning the fact that Phillies GM Ruben Amaro had seemingly rocked the boat unnecessarily when he went out and signed a free agent closer from Boston named Jonathan Papelbon to big bucks, leaving the Phillies’ 2011 closer, resident madman, and all around good guy, Ryan Madson, floating in the breeze.  Well, sadly for Ryan, Ruben’s move is looking prophetic now.  In news over the weekend, we learned that Ryan has developed a tear in his ulnar collateral ligament, and will be lost for the season after undergoing UCL reconstructive surgery, aka Tommy John surgery. 

This was not Ryan’s master retirement plan.  In a perfect world, had forces and bad luck not conspired against him, he would have landed a multi-year, multi-million dollar deal this winter.  But through bad strategy and/or bad advice, however you want to spin it, all the real lollipop deals were gone when Ryan got to the front of the line.  So he went to Plan B.  Sign a stopgap, one year deal ($8.5M should keep the kids in shoes through the crisis), kick ass for a season to show his true value, and then be at the front of the line, a happy smile on his face, when the money trucks pull up after the 2012 season.  And it probably would have worked, if not for this crazy little anomaly in the game of baseball.  Players, pitchers in particular, who have to repeatedly hurl a 5-ounce missile at speeds in excess of 90 mph, usually while employing a twist of the wrist – this way or that – to add some deceptive motion to fool the guy with the bat, have a tendency to injure their arms.  Go figure.

And so, Ryan’s season is lost before it began, his surgery scheduled for next week.   The good news?  Well, Tommy John surgery is a remarkable piece of medical ingenuity.  Developed by world-famous orthopedic surgeon Frank Jobe, and named after the first pitcher to lay on the operating table thinking it was a good idea, the bad ligament in the throwing arm is replaced with a tendon, usually from the non-throwing arm.  The surgery has a remarkable success rate, with the patient often coming back, a year or so later, with an extra mile or two on his (or her) fastball.  So, all is not lost for Ryan.  But the gamble just became considerably edgier.  He’ll now be out of action for an entire year as he undergoes the operation, and then rehabs his arm.  Then next year, he and his agent, Scott Boras, will need to convince a GM somewhere to give him a new contract.  (You’ll recall that the current one with the Reds is only for this year.)  Then all he’ll need to do is prove that the injury is behind him, while re-establishing himself as a top-shelf closer.  Oh, and did I mention he’ll turn 33 during the 2013 season.  No easy row to hoe, as we say here in the country.  Bewildered as always by simple twists of fate, we wish you well, Ryan. 

 

HOME DEPOT’S GOT NOTHING ON ME

[Caveat:  I could have titled this piece “Too Much Information.”  I realize that it’s a bit lengthy by blog standards, and for that I apologize.  But I’ve received so many questions about my back in recent weeks and months that I couldn’t figure out how to adequately answer them in a couple of paragraphs.  I will give you a time-saving tip, though – if you don’t care about the back story, and are just here for the pictures, skip to the end of the post – they’re worth the price of admission!]

Although my recovery from back surgery is far from over – I expect to be at it another five or six months – I would like to give my heart-felt thanks to Dr. Bill Beutler, the Medical Director of the Pennsylvania Spine Institute in Harrisburg, as well as to his partner, Dr. Walter Peppelman, who assisted in my operation.  It was my extreme good fortune to find them at a time when I really, really needed a good surgeon…or two.

Judy gets the credit for that.  Dr. Beutler had performed successful back surgery on her nephew, Zach, a couple of years earlier, and she was very impressed with him.  I had my doubts - not about Dr. Beutler, but about the whole idea of surgery.  I’d been through it before, having had a discectomy that did not go well when I was in my late twenties.  After that, it was years before I was able to function without some level of pronounced back pain.  Being ever the quick learner, I swore, “Never again!”

 But “Never again!” becomes a lot less absolute when you’re faced with the prospect of not being able to walk, and I was fast approaching that condition last fall.  And the pain was becoming worse by the day.  We’d rescued an energetic (that would be the diplomatic adjective) Australian shepherd mix puppy the previous year, and getting her outside for exercise became such a challenge that I’m sure she wondered about her “luck,” being “rescued” by the likes of me.  I reached a point where I couldn’t manage walking more than about a hundred feet without having to sit down and wait for the searing pain in my legs and back to subside.  I tried lumbar injections, physical therapy, special exercise programs, etc., with no luck.  The writing was on the wall.  So I relented and called Dr. Beutler’s office, only to learn what should have been obvious – talented back surgeons have heavy demands on their time.  I wasn’t even able to see Dr. Beutler for another three months.

So I made the appointment, and to be honest, I thought that having to wait several months might not be all that bad.  I was still hoping against hope that maybe – just maybe - I’d be better by then, and I could cancel the appointment.  It didn’t happen.  The pain just got worse, and worse, as did the limitations.  When I finally saw Dr. Beutler, he took one look at the MRI and X-ray and shook his head.  He diligently laid out all my options, but it was pretty clear to me by this point that, if I wanted to continue walking as a means of getting from Point A to Point B, I needed surgery. 

 To complicate matters, I learned that I had a couple of options that affected the scheduling of this surgery.  Dr. Beutler could do it with the assistance of one of his no-doubt talented residents, which would allow us to place it on the surgical calendar relatively soon.  Or, as he strongly suggested, he could do it with the assistance of his highly-experienced practice partner, Dr. Peppelman.  The problem with this approach was that it would be another six weeks before a slot with sufficient time would be available on both of their surgical calendars.  As much as I longed to put this surgery behind me, this was a no-brainer.  When Batman tells you he can help you with your problem, but he’d like to have Robin assist, you don’t ask what for.  So we waited the interminably long six weeks for Batman and Robin.

 Finally, the day came.  My surgery was twofold - a multiple laminectomy, and a lumbar fusion.  A laminectomy involves removing parts of the vertebrae so as to relieve pressure on the nerves.  (Dr. Beutler told Judy after the surgery that he found my spinal column to be “highly stenotic,” a fact that was no doubt contributing significantly to my pain.)  A lumbar, or spinal fusion, involves the placement of titanium implants to stabilize the portion of the spine that’s been affected by the laminectomy and by disc degeneration.  In my case, Dr. Beutler also took bone from the removed lamina to use as a graft, providing additional support for the bridge between adjacent vertebrae.  (If you’re interested in a more in-depth description, there’s a good one at Web MD.)

Now, if you lasted with me this long, you deserve a medal.  I don’t have one for you, but at least you are about to reap something in the way of benefits.  The real reason for this post, with all the background info, is that I wanted an excuse to post a couple of REALLY COOL PICS!  I was able to persuade Dr. Beutler’s medical assistant, Dominique, to give me copies of the post-op x-rays.  (Side note:  Judy’s nephew, Zach, and I agree that there are probably a large number of patients who go to Dr. Beutler purely for the pleasure of dealing with Dominique.) 

First, the full frontal photo (unfortunately, of me, not Dominique):

 

And now the side view:

Maybe it’s just me – I realize I do have a somewhat personal connection to these photos – but I find them absolutely amazing!  There is more expensive hardware in my back than you could find in most Home Depots. 

I don’t think I mentioned it earlier, but Dr. Beutler is a board-certified neurosurgeon, who also has an Orthopedic Spine Fellowship on his resume.  But when you look at these pictures, you have to think that the time he spent earning his undergraduate degree in bioengineering at Johns Hopkins was time very well spent.  Thanks, Doc!

FAREWELL BRAD & ANGIE

Our good friend, Darrin, is what is known as a “wildlife management specialist,” so when he heard the story of Brad and Angelina, he didn’t hesitate to volunteer his relocation services.  What we all want, of course, is to help find these crazy kids a “home in the country.”  Oh wait – they already live in a pond on a farm.  What we all want, of course, is to help find these crazy kids a “better home in the country,” something that, from a real estate perspective, might be a little more in keeping with their celebrity status, and well-known preference for privacy. 

So it’s with mixed emotions that we bid adieu to Honey Grove’s Brangelina, and wish them well in their new digs, wherever they might be.  (Darrin has taken a vow of secrecy.)  Below are our parting photos of the happy couple, as they prepare to move on to their new home.  Note the excitement in Brad’s eyes as he pushes boldly forward:

Angie, with Darrin's assistance, obviously leaves with mixed emotions, perhaps having already grown attached to her little Honey Grove retreat:

But in any event, farewell Brad, farewell Angelina.  In the words of John & Paul, "All You Need Is Love."

THE REVOLUTION STARTS NOW!

I have received several emails from folks who wanted to leave a comment, but were unable to do so because of limitations set by blogger.com (Google).  After much gnashing of teeth, I believe I’ve located and corrected the problem.  It appears as though there was a default setting for comments that only allowed those with registered Gmail accounts to participate.  I think I’ve corrected the problem, and anyone should now be able to comment.  Power to the people!!!

UFOs, TURTLE LOVE & PERCY SLEDGE

One of the many benefits of insomnia is that you get to witness things in the wee hours that you might otherwise miss.  While sitting at the picture window this morning as dawn was breaking, sipping my coffee and waiting for the first painkillers of the day to make their welcome presence felt, I noticed this strange pair gliding through my sphere of consciousness hovering somewhere between me and the shadowy wood:

Nahh, not really.  Although I’m sure it would be a delight to meet Alicia Richards, I have no desire to become the subject of a Channel 21 News exposé, so I’ll come clean.  I have too much time on my hands.   This is a doctored photo of the pair of lovesick snapping turtles I wrote about on Sunday.  I just thought it had a certain mysterious charm that was too cool not to share. 

But on a related note, here’s an actual photograph I took of our lovesick turtles, Brad and Angie.  All creatures that impact our little world here in Honey Grove get names, whether they want them or not.  Among them, there was little Paco, the baby opossum who nearly died of starvation until he happily discovered that he adored the crunchy flavor of cicadas; there was Pooh, the little fawn who got her neck stuck in the white picket fence out back; and there was Kitty, the two-pound toad who claimed undisputed ownership of the stone steps beside the house.  The list goes on.  But let’s get back to the photo, which I took just moments before these crazy kids’ foreplay evolved into the “next step:” 

Having witnessed the “next step” first-hand, trust me when I tell you that Honey Grove’s Brangelina is not considering adoption. 

Now I personally think it’s a little tacky to post embedded music on an otherwise perfectly good web page.  If nothing else, it puts the user at risk for some awkward moments in the workplace.  So I’ll leave the choice of a sound track to your imagination and/or your situation.  Although, if you’re looking for a suggestion, Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” seems to work nicely.  I can’t imagine Brad would hesitate for a moment to “…give up his comfort, and sleep out in the rain…” for Angie, can you?

LOVE IS IN THE AIR

Considering that I’m most likely the hardest working blogger in Honey Grove, Pennsylvania (I’m claiming that title until someone challenges me), I thought that I would take the day off, you know, being retired, and it being the Sabbath and all.  But no, friends, it was not to be.  I knew that there would be no rest for the weary; it goes with the territory when you live out here in the wilderness.  But I definitely did not expect to see what I saw today. 

It’s late afternoon now, but let me go back in time to the early morning hours, when the morning light was just beginning to fall upon the pond, known affectionately as the Sea of Cortés.  (The reason the pond is known as the Sea of Cortés will go without further explanation, as long as the required package of unmarked bills continues to arrive regularly on the first of each month.  Are you reading this, Pedro?  Remember, I have photographs.)  Anyway, as the sun worked its way high enough into the sky that it created a reflection on the pond’s usually placid surface, it became clear that there was a good bit of aquatic activity occurring, presumably just below the surface, which was creating a substantial ripple effect.  This in and of itself is not terribly newsworthy, as the pond is ripe with fish, tadpoles, frogs, turtles, and God knows what else.  What was unusual, however, was the violent nature of the turbulence, and the fact that it would stop, the pond would go silent and still for a time, and then it would all stir up anew.  This went on (and off) for the better part of the day until finally, Judy, Koko and I mustered our collective courage, and cautiously worked our way through the meadow and down to the pond.  (There really should be a yellow brick road there.)  What we saw when we arrived was nothing short of amazing – at least we found it so.  When we reached the pond, we discovered not just one, but two, very large snapping turtles, turtles that couldn’t possibly have been more “in love.”  These were not teenage turtles, mind you.  These paramours were full grown and beyond – with circumferences roughly the size of toilet seats, and carrying substantial weight.  And trust me, this was not a first walk on the wild side for either of them.  Suffice it to say, the voyeur in each of us surfaced, so we watched until it began to feel a little awkward, at which point we slowly, quietly, and carefully backed away, leaving them to their much-deserved privacy, thrashing about to their lusty hearts' content.  And without going into any great detail, I know the question that each of you wants to ask, but is too shy, or reserved, to do so.  So I’ll answer it, anyway.  It’s huge.  Huge!  And as far as I could determine, not at all subject to shrinkage. 

And that’s life in the county on a Sunday afternoon in the spring.

VALDÉZ, THE D-TRAIN, AND THE RED LIGHTS ON BEHIND

Unlike Phillies’ off-seasons in the recent past (remember Merry Cliffmas?), this one was characterized primarily with yawns and raised eyebrows.  Sure, every good team needs a lunatic to close out games, and the Phillies paid a lot of money to a Boston free agent named Jonathan Papelbon because of his outstanding qualifications in that area.  The only problem is that they could have paid the same or less to keep the lunatic they already had.  “Better the lunatic you know…” I always say.  From all reports, the Phillies’ long-time resident madman, Ryan Madson, wanted to stay in Philly, was loved by his teammates, and had the knack of keeping things light and upbeat in the clubhouse, no small task over the course of a long, hot summer with a 162 game schedule.  The problem – his agent is Scott Boras.  And so, the King is dead, long live King Papelbon.  Madson, meanwhile, moves on to greener pastures in Cincinnati.  (A side note:  this may require closer scrutiny as the season progresses, and as the playoffs approach.)

Then there were the journeymen acquisitions, guys with names like Nix and Wiggington, called upon to shore up an aging and injury-prone set of "every day" players.  And there was the obligatory touch of nostalgia – bringing back “Good Ol’ Boy” Jim Thome, a 41-year-old nice guy, to help out until Ryan Howard is once again able to stand upright.  Never mind that Jim hasn’t played first base since the Clinton era.  The bottom line is that he’s a blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth, lunch-pail kinda guy, just like us Philly Phans.  [By the way, whoever stole my baby blue Shmitty’s jersey ($109.99 on eBay, plus shipping), and my lead-lined Wanamaker’s lunch pail, capable of keeping a Pat’s steak piping hot for six hours, can return them anytime, no questions asked.] 

Sorry for the digression.  What happened next, for me at least, brought more than a yawn, more than a raised eyebrow.  For me, it brought the tear of the off-season.  “Someone” in the front office – I’m quite sure Ruben had to be out of the office at the time – decided that Wilson Valdéz had to go!  Yes, you heard me.  To paraphrase the immortal words of a crestfallen Chase Utley when he heard the news, “Wilson f#cking Valdéz?”  “Are you f#cking sh#tting me?”  I couldn’t have put it more succinctly myself, Chase.  Wilson was the guy whose facial hair was never the same color or style from one day to the next, the guy with the perennial crooked smile, the guy who could play anywhere on the diamond – and I do mean anywhere – and do it well.  This is the same guy who actually pitched the 19^th inning of that marathon game with the Reds last year, after playing 18 hard innings at second base.  He faced the heart of the Reds’ order (Votto, Rolen & Bruce), tossed ten pitches, and won the game.  Adding to the Legend of Valdéz, keep in mind that the game was then over six hours old, that nobody wanted to play it, or for that matter, watch it, anymore.)  And now he’s gone.  Just like that, Wilson is gone.  And for what?  A minor league lefthander name Jeremy Horst, with all of 15 big league innings to his credit.  And to add insult to injury, his destination...wait for it…Cincinnati.  I’m beginning to have a recurring nightmare in which the Phillies face the Reds in a final, deciding playoff game.  As extra innings commence, Ryan Madson eventually takes the mound and shuts down the Phillies, inning after inning, until the top of the 19^th, when he’s lifted for a pinch hitter who, of course, drives in the lead run.  You know what’s coming.  A grinning, red-haired, yellow-goateed Wilson Valdéz salsas his way to the mound, everyone in the ballpark, as well as those pinned to their HDTVs knowing exactly – EXACTLY – what they are about to see.  Wilson takes the mound, tees the rubber, and then proceeds to toss ten increasingly dazzling pitches to three befuddled Phillies’ hitters, and it’s done.  Once again, it’s time for the long cold winter.

It’s a reflection of my ADD that I actually started writing this piece to discuss the Phillies’ release of Dontrelle Willis yesterday - the old D-Train himself.  I remember seeing Dontrelle pitch for the Marlins down in Philly in his rookie season, and after watching  him pitch several innings of impressive baseball, exchanging words with the guy in the seat next to me, my then new best friend who I ‘ve never seen since.  Paulie (probably not his real name) leaned over to me and, in hushed tones, confided, “This guy’s got some nasty stuff!”  (Not his real words).  To which I nodded knowingly, and added, “Filthy!”  (Not my real word.)  “We could sure use a guy like that on our side.”  This profound exchange stuck with both Paulie and me for years.  At least I assume it did, as there’s no way to actually fact-check that as far as Paulie’s concerned.  So when the Phillies signed the “D-Train” this winter, I’m sure there was a disjoined but celebratory “YO!!!” exchanged between Paulie and me, although again, this is unverified.  So it was with profound disappointment that I learned yesterday that the "powers that be" in the Phillies camp have concluded that the once magnificent D-Train, still a mere 30 years old, is no longer capable of getting major league hitters out.  The Phillies have shown him the proverbial door.  I’m sorry, Dontrelle, I really am.  But I’m happy that we "knew ye when," me and Paulie.  Good luck to you!  And if you do happen to find your nasty, filthy stuff again, I hope you find it in the other league.

I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS...

So now that I’m a card-carrying member of the blogosphere, at least until the background check is completed, and since I have hit the inevitable writer’s block (I like to get the requisite pitfalls out of the way early), I am taking this opportunity to give a “shout out” to some fellow bloggers whose writing I have found to be enjoyable and entertaining. 

First, there are my friends and neighbors, Eric and Nancy.  Both contribute to a blog entitled “Eric Olson Gallery” (http://ericolsongallery.blogspot.com/), which relates to all things pertaining to Eric’s art and photography.  (If you haven’t seen any of Eric’s work, your life has less meaning than it could.)  Eric also writes a blog called “Windmill Creek Diary” (http://windmillcreek.blogspot.com/), which provides a highly entertaining perspective on life up here in the Pennsylvania wilderness (i.e. Juniata County).  At least it does when Eric has the opportunity to write.  But I make no judgment one way or the other on the time between posts.  To paraphrase John Lennon, “…life is what happens when you’re in between them,” or something like that.

And then there is Ronn, long-time friend of mine, longer-time friend of Judy’s.  Ronn and his shop, The Bare Wall, have been fixtures of the Harrisburg community since the 60s/70s, and there is no better source for what’s happening there than his blog, “TBW Daily Diary” (http://tbwdailydiary.blogspot.com/).   As Ronn writes in his welcome note, “Nothing here is going to make the papers, which might be a good reason to read it.”

 On an unrelated note, the high-point of my day so far was a very personal greeting from Mama Phoebe, who apparently just arrived for the season following the long trip north.  As dawn was breaking, she sat on my windowsill for a good thirty seconds, while the two of us became reacquainted.  I wished her well with the battle she will soon be raging with Judy as to whom has nesting rights, and where.  But that’s a story for another time.

NO HARM, NO FOUL

I am recovering from back surgery, the pleasure of which is now three full weeks behind me.   In the process, and for whatever reason, the accompanying changes (many of which, frankly, are drug-induced), have affected my waking hours considerably.  Every night as dawn approaches, say around three or four a.m., rather than remaining pleasantly curled up next to my sweetheart and BedHogDog (known during daylight hours as Koko Mae Barrelhouser), I find myself compelled to cheerily start my soon-to-prove meaningless day.   Today’s outset proved not to be as cheery as usual.  It began by my patiently and painfully working my way from a prone to an upright position, then awkwardly slipping on a magazine placed strategically on the floor, or perhaps it was some other near-fatal booby trap, lying in wait for me, in the pitch blackness.  The attack was initially successful, sending me lurching awkwardly (can one lurch gracefully?) across the bedroom, where I was able to avert a total meltdown by shakily grabbing ahold of the bureau.  First my feeble scream cut the quiet Juniata night, more a gasp, really, followed by Judy’s more formidable one.  When the gasping/screaming subsided, we conducted an anxious, silent inventory, holding our breath as we gently probed here and there for newly-discovered structural flaws.  (For example, a metal rod protruding from my back would have been a bad sign.)  All of this was watched with bemused annoyance by BedHogDog, who managed a yawn and a stretch, nothing more than a thinly veiled maneuver to effectively consolidating territory.  Back to the medical crisis, and conclusion - no harm, no foul.  So you may be thinking, “…what’s the big deal, anyway?’  I’ll tell you what the big deal is!  When you’ve got a multi-thousand dollar (I haven’t seen the HOSPITAL BILL yet, so let’s just “say” it’s multi-thousand dollar, for the sake of the narrative) titanium erector set supporting half the length of your spine, now charged with the responsibility of keeping you upright, and forming the last barrier between you and the dreaded Scooter Store, one doesn’t leap to conclusions.   So it’s a damned fine morning – NO HARM, NO FOUL.