Rush Hour in the North Woods

 

 Five days ago, we learned of the death of Marjorie’s cousin, a 76-year-old man, Jerry Stanton, who was one of five children that Marjorie grew up with as a child in Pontiac, Mi. We decided to attend Jerry’s funeral. The funeral was to be held in the Catholic Church in Clarkston, Michigan, a three-hour drive for us. We decided on an early morning trip to Clarkston – we calculated that we should leave at 7:00 AM or thereabouts to assure that we would arrive at the funeral home in time to visit and offer our condolences to the remaining family members.

Thereabouts was as early as we could manage. I looked at the clock as we left the garage – it was 7:22 AM—an early start for us retired old-timers. In fact, the sun was just beginning to rise as we turned onto our version of a main highway heading southeast for the 12-mile-trip toward I 75. The large orange orb had just begun its overhead travel, hitting us dead square in the eyes as it creeped above the horizon. Although we were blinded by the initial impact of the light beam, we managed to adjust the sun visor and don our sunglasses, ignoring the beautiful vista that the sun illuminated. I mostly kept the car in the right lane as we barreled along the highway during morning rush hour.

You should understand that rush hour in the north woods is likely different than you think. I counted the number of cars on the road between our house and the metropolis of St. Helen. There were four. Counting me as one of the four.

Instead of a mélange of cars, during our rush hour we normally have a mixed bag of critters venturing from the woods to the highway. On our early morning trip, there were way more deer getting in my lane than cars, an odd skunk or two, one opossum (dead, of course) and a flock of turkeys following two mama birds. The critters along the road seem to think that 7:30 AM is the appropriate time to investigate their surroundings in search of food, sex, or whatever else motivates the colorful wildlife who have no idea about traffic patterns, rules of the road, or any other safety related behaviors. There is nothing for it but for drivers like me to watch the sides of the road instead of the road itself. This often results in driving into potholes, and/or forgetting about adjacent driveways where other drivers may be anxiously waiting for their turn to gain entrance to the public road and dodge the prevalent wildlife.

 

We made it to St. Helen and I-75 safely where we began the long ride to Clarkston and St. Dan’s Catholic Church where stood friends and family and the surprises that awaited us. The first surprise was how all the mourners were dressed: without exception the men wore suits and ties while the ladies wore similar appropriate clothing. Unlike practices I have seen in the North Woods, there were no shorts, T shirts, or casual wear within the church except for the deceased Jerry. Jerry was wearing a Tigers uniform shirt. In his right hand was a baseball that had been signed by Al Kaline. Jerry was a real fan and his widow assured that he would be prepared to follow that practice going forward. I appreciated the nice touch that the uniform and baseball provided.

After a dignified funeral service presided over by St. Dan’s Priest, the large group of mourners formed a 50-car cortege for the 2-mile trip to the cemetery where a second service was held before the casket was lowered into the ground. Immediately thereafter we joined in a lunch with the family before heading home where we arrived in the early evening. The day-long experience seemed a fitting tribute for a family man from a large family that everyone seemed to like given the large crowd for his funeral.

 

            Ukelele (or how I was conned into joining a band)

 

I may have told you that I am in a book club that meets monthly at our library. Some months ago, while attending one of the book club meetings, I noticed a strange sound coming from the Community Room. On my way out I noticed the sign. Ukelele Club Meets Tonight. I peeked into the room. It was nearly full of people, each one bent over a ukelele and each oblivious to my presence in the doorway. I sneaked out unobserved.

Some days later, I told my music-loving spouse about the ukelele group encounter. She seemed interested so I offered to escort her to the group after my next book club meeting. It was a fateful decision. Exactly one week later, my fate was sealed when she and I slipped into the Community Room after my book club meeting. Neither of us had any idea of what was about to happen.

The strumming ukelele players didn’t seem to notice us as we quietly slipped in the large room. But the leader did. She wouldn’t accept the notion of us sitting in the back, instead, she insisted that we should join her in the front of the room better to hear the music. She asked if either of us had ever played a ukelele. Upon hearing our protestations of ignorance, she offered an unused instrument to Marjorie who was standing nearest her. I was about to take a seat in the corner when she turned to me. “We need singers,” she said as she ushered me to a seat facing the entire room full of ukelele players. Then she handed me a sheaf of papers that included the texts for the songs then being

played. It was impossible to sneak out, besides, the music was pleasant. I shuffled through the pages and found the appropriate music sheet. Soon I was singing at the top of my voice, hoping that was somehow in tune with the rest of the group.

Spouse Marjorie joined in with the twenty or so ukelele players. We pretended that we were long-time players, her strumming and me singing at the top of my voice. Sometime later the leader whispered to me. “You have a wonderful voice and you’re just what we need.” Then she and went back to her job of leading the group into the next song. A little later she told me that she could hear my voice above the others and that I had a good voice for the songs that the group was rehearsing. I thought she might have been kidding. The best I could manage was, “Well, may be. I might be a little better as I learn the music.”

We were hooked. Perhaps one reason for our pleasure at the sound of the music was because many years earlier my father gave a banjo/uke to Marjorie. The instrument was old and had no strings, but we decided to keep it as a memorial to my dad.

At the first several ukelele sessions in the library we played and sang a mixture of old tunes that had become standards and newer tunes made popular by Elton John, John Denver and other world- wide pop stars. That was at the beginning of summer. By the second meeting of the group Marjorie had her own newly, purchased ukelele. My voice was just the same, although I recognized some of the songs that we had played at the first rehearsal, and I had slightly fewer embarrassing moments when I found myself singing alone while everyone else was observing a rest. [more about that below]

We decided to attend a few more of the weekly, not monthly, rehearsals since we both found that we were enjoying the music. Over those first weeks I learned a little about the ukelele group and a lot about ukeleles and the music we played. It turned out that the band had a name, had been playing together for about a year, and was led by a charismatic leader who had formed a similar group in Florida where she and her husband spent their winters.

After a half dozen rehearsals in as many weeks, Marjorie and I participated in our first public performance. It was held at the Roscommon Senior Center where we entertained a group of seniors who numbered approximately the same as the number of performers in our ukelele group. The performance went off without a hitch and both the audience and the performers seemed to enjoy themselves – including me. It didn’t hurt that the Senior Center gave us a nice lunch.

[This is time for a little education who about ukeleles and the singers who perform using the instrument.] The lightweight instrument is a four string, wooden box in the approximate shape as a small guitar. There are actually five different sized ukes, each of which has a slightly different sound. During the 1920’s an instrument called a banjo uke was developed. Here is the text from Wikipedia: The banjo ukelele, also known as the banjolele or banjo uke, is a four-stringed musical instrument with a small banjo-type body and a fretted ukelele neck. The earliest known banjoleles were built by John A. Bolander and by Alvin D. Keech, both in 1917.

 

The instrument achieved its greatest popularity in the 1920s and 1930s, and combines the small scale, tuning, and playing style of a ukulele with the construction and distinctive tone of a banjo, hence the name. Its development was pushed by the need for vaudeville performers to have an instrument that could be played with the ease of the ukulele, but with more volume.

Many think the instrument comes from Hawaii because of famous Hawaiian singers like Do Ho and more recently, Bruno Mars. By the way, the ukelele is known in Hawaii as an OOO-key lay lee, although most of us know it as a You ca lay lee.

Hawaiian Singer Israel Kamakawiwoole

 

Hawaiian Singer Don Ho

The players in our group are a diverse group of amateurs. The group is known as the Roscommon Ukers or for short, the Rosco Ukers. There are now six singers [like me] and 40-some uke players. The group diversity is a hoot. We have members ranging in age from seven to ninety-four and not all play a uke exclusively, as we have several banjo-ukes (aka known as banjo-leles) and different sizes of ukeleles that affect the sound delivered from the instrument. A half dozen of our players are children, but most are seniors who have the time for such foolishness as this.

I have now participated in several of our public performances. Many are held outdoors, some indoors if the venue has a space large enough of accommodate a group of 40 performers. I missed one of our first outdoor performance where the group performed on the lawn of a new business in town. The Village Manger was called during this performance since an irate citizen complained about a public disturbance coming from the downtown area. We all had a good laugh about this, including the Village Manager.

One of the problems in learning the music is that most of the music play sheets are NOT typical music compositions with base clefs, treble clefs, measures, notes, rests, and other directions given to performers. Instead, ukelele players are given play sheets with the texts of the music written out as poetry with chords noted above the texts (in the approximate location where they are to be played) and instructions for strumming. Missing are time signatures, rests, pitch and volume controls. These details are to be learned by listening to professionals who have recorded their songs and made them available, many times at no cost for use by amateurs like us.

Those shortcomings don’t seem to be all that important since enough of our singers and ukelele players have learned the music well enough to produce a harmonious tune. The size of the group is large enough that my errors of pitch and timing are subsumed by the large group. At least, that’s what I tell myself. At our performances, the singers set apart from those strumming their instruments. We singers are generally positioned in pairs facing the strummers. Since we are close together with the music sheets between us, each of the partners must be able to hear each other. Since I can hear my partner perfectly well, I assume she can hear me just as well. Fortunately, she is a better singer than me so I can follow her lead and stay only a note or two behind.

I am trying to learn from her and I have discovered that she keeps time by tapping her foot to the beat established by the strummers. I decided I should do the same to improve my timing. At our last performance I learned that this practice has some problems. Both she and I are seniors, and we find that some of the poetry is in small type requiring us to bring the music closer to our noses to accommodate our aging eyes. I generously picked up the music from the stand and held it for her. It took several measures before I realized that I was shaking the paper to the beat of the song. “Aha!” I said aloud, that’s why the music is hard to read. I’ll need to work on fixing that problem at our next performance which is tomorrow and I’ll need to make another report to you.

 

Bill

 

 

 

                                             Ain’t Nature Sumpin?

 

During springtime Marjorie and I often search the woods near our house for morel mushrooms. This year we found 20 or 30 of the tasty morsels in our front yard and along the trail to the river. We ate them all in two settings and they were delicious.

After these two gastronomic treats, we never found any more ‘shrooms’ after the original harvest of morels. Nor have we found the other wild mushrooms that we occasionally find known as Shaggy Manes and they are equally as tasty as the morels. These mushrooms have an interesting characteristic – after reaching maturity they secret a black liquid that digests their fibrous structure leaving the original shroom an unappetizing mess should the black liquid begin its flow before you eat it.

On an earlier mushroom hunt, we encountered an experience in the woods that was beyond anything either of us had ever experienced. As we poked through the leaf litter searching for morels, something moved that caught my eye. I waited a moment for the critter to move again and reveal himself. He did, not suspecting that a human was mere inches away staring intently at his subtle movement and interrupting his afternoon nap. He stretched to reveal his full length. Somehow, he suddenly realized my presence and perceived that I was an unwelcome visitor. In a moment, his instincts took over and he began the show that his species had developed over generations to increase their survival rate in the woods where lived a whole host of predators.

He was a full-grown Hog Nosed Snake, the first I had ever encountered. Unlike the water snakes that live in our pond, this critter turned his head to look at me instead of making a fast break for safety. He looked me in the eye, no doubt assessing his chance of slithering away before he could be further disturbed. He began his performance without taking his eyes off me, moving slowly, lifting his head and his neck in an exact replica of a Cobra. His performance was like those shown in any number of movies where an orchestra plays fearful music first quietly and then with increasing intensity as if the lead character in the movie must surely be facing his end.

My snake did not have a sound track nor did he make any sudden moves away from either Marjorie or I as we stood over him quietly. He pointed his raised head first at me and then at Marjorie, while he flattened his head, making it seem larger and his nose more prominent. Then, suddenly he flopped over to show his belly, unmoving, and, as I learned later, playing dead. Marjorie and I waited, neither speaking and nor moving. After another moment, the snake moved again to his prior position, belly down, stretched to full length, and his head slowly moving to the Cobra stance, the better to see us. In another instant he flopped over again, as if to say “I am really, really dead.” He stayed dead for a brief moment before slowly slithering away into the deeper recess of the woods. We went home to ask Mr. Google if this was normal behavior for a Hog Nose Snake. We learned that all Hog Nosed Snakes behave in this pattern to confuse and escape from predators.

‘Aint nature sumpin.’

shoulder surgery

 

Shoulder Surgery

 

Six weeks ago, I submitted to shoulder surgery to correct torn rotator cuff muscles and tendons that came to me largely because of a pickleball--induced trauma. The surgery was successful as the torn muscles were stitched back together and the torn tendons were wired back to their bony homes courtesy of anchors and plastic wires. The surgeon who performed these repairs was a fastidious sort, unwilling to accept the several other deficiencies that he found upon close inspection of my right shoulder. Make that arthritis, bone spurs, an inflamed bursa giving rise to bursitis, and a missing biceps tendon. He cleaned, screwed together, and used his Dremel to grind off the offending bony structures to assure that my shoulder bones would slide more smoothly when my muscles urged movement.

He said he sewed up the small incisions he made without incident and that I should [mostly] have use of my shoulder upon recovery providing that I followed instructions for wearing a monstrous shoulder immobilizer that he presented to me for a retail price of only $875. This, for a gadget that hindered sleep, inhibited most body functions, and made eating difficult since only my left hand was available to stuff food in my mouth -a condition that provoked daily dribbling of food on each of my shirts. The immobilizer, (my name – the doc called it a brace) seemed designed to inflict frustration and certain failure to meet doctor’s orders about wearing it 24 hours per day for four solid weeks except for time off for showers. (I almost said time off for good behavior, but it occurred to me that this was an unlikely statement since it seemed that no one could possibly wear the contraption in bed and remain in good humor.)

The doc failed to mention that the missing bicep tendon that was not (now) present in my shoulder would not be repaired. Consequent discussion of this topic with my physical therapist revealed that the biceps muscle has at least two tendons and the failure of one would allow 70 -80% percent recovery as the remaining tendon would function for the bicep. The therapist also mentioned that this condition was the cause of Popeye the Sailor Man’s extraordinarily large forearm. {I may need to look for a tattoo to complete this look).

The same doc who called for the immobilizer is now telling my physical therapist that I need to exercise my shoulder muscles by using an exercise routine that seems designed to bring pain and show how much improvement is needed. He said that a first objective is to avoid stiffness in the joint by regularly flexing of the joint’s muscles. This is not fun. The therapist has specified stretches and five isometric exercises and they seem to be helping me eat breakfast as I am now able to bring my shaky hand to my mouth with only a minor amount of spilling. Not everyone can do this. I recall that 20 years ago one of my square dance friends had a wonderful sense of humor when he suffered shoulder joint stiffening. He said if he was ever stopped by the police and ordered “Hands Up, ‘I’ll be a dead man,’ "he quipped.

I am now into my seventh week of recovery and the doctor said that I am doing fine. I was tempted to say that he felt that way because he wasn’t the one undergoing the recovery program, but I held my tongue in fear of even more exercises. The sawbones ordered six more weeks of therapy with the promise that I should achieve a more normal and fuller function without my friends and family calling me ‘lefty’.

So, there you have it. My advice about shoulder health is: Don’t do this, there are better ways to spend your retirement years.

 

 

 

My Colorful Neighborhood -Now

This blog is a follow-up to my previous blog covering my neighborhood. You may wish to consult that earlier blog for a reminder of the colorful characters that I reported on then and now...

I am long overdue in giving the current status of my neighborhood. The homes, roads, and other physical features in the neighborhood has changed little over the last 20 years despite two fires that totally consumed two houses. One of those fires occurred at my plumber’s house. He told me about his fire when he came for a recent service call at my house. I was curious about his fire since he lives in a log house in the woods not unlike mine. He said the cause of the fire was a red squirrel who was searching for a warm spot and settled on his chimney. Of course, the squirrel decided to redecorate his new chimney home with an assembly of sticks and leaves that burst into fire upon the plumber’s use of his wood burner last fall. There was no report about the health of the squirrel, but the house was summarily destroyed when the burning roof fell in and destroyed virtually all of the interior.

The second fire was at the end of our road, on the horseshoe portion of the road next to the woods. The cause of this fire was also not the fault of the homeowner according to his brother who lived next door, this, despite his concern that the lids on some of the paint cans had not been replaced as you could smell the odor of paint thinner next door. The next-door brother went on to say that his wood-working brother had numerous wood-working tools. He explained that his brother had recently complained that one of his numerous power sanders had been giving him problems that included sparking when it was connected to the household power. I concluded that maybe there was a hint in his account about the cause of the fire.

Neither of the two fires are now evident as both neighbors had the fire damage remedied by the liberal application of funds provided by insurance carriers.

More important than the fires have been the gradual loss of the colorful characters to the ravages of old age. Betty Hoover was the first to go. She had fallen ill and was sent to the hospital for recovery. While visiting her there, I happened to meet her son who I had never before seen at Betty’s house. Apparently, the son was interested not only in Betty’s health as he turned to me and asked, “Does Betty still have that big screen television at her house?’

I didn’t know, nor was I as interested in Betty’s possessions as was her son. Some weeks later I learned from Jerry Boone that the son had insisted that Betty should no longer live alone and that he would take care of her. Jerry Boone reported that Betty called him from a distant state, saying that the son had dropped her off at a nursing home and suddenly abandoned her. She died soon after her call to Jerry. Apparently, owning a big screen television can be risky.

Bicycle Bill and Big Breasted Bertha both died from risky behavior owing to an excessive fondness for the frothy brew. Bicycle Bill’s case was a little more complex than Bertha’s case. Bill was like the character in the famous movie Forest Gump. His line, “I am not a smart man” seemed a perfect fit for Bicycle Bill, also known as Bicycle Ric by some.

The Bicycle man’s relatives must have realized his inability to handle money and therefore arranged for a periodic stipend to be delivered to him, intended for his food and necessities. At one point, Bill spent all the money available and demanded more. The relative in charge of money deferred, causing Bill to threaten that he would “burn your house down.” The threat was credible, and Bill went to jail. His jail term did him no good and shortly after he returned home, he fell sick and was no longer seen riding his bicycle up and down our road on the way to the store. Bill died soon after as there was no one to look after him. His now dilapidated home sits silently in the neighborhood, just off the paved road awaiting its demise as the vines and shrubs gather to hide the memories.

One arm Amos and Jerry Boone had a similar fate. Jerry was fond of Amos and he fell into the habit of visiting him every morning after we coffee drinkers departed. Amos had become somewhat feeble, apparently unable to safely negotiate the steps into his trailer house. One day, Jerry didn’t visit Amos until later in the afternoon. On that day Jerry found Amos lying in the snow comatose, apparently due to a slip and fall which landed him near his front door. The emergency ride to the hospital was unsuccessful and Amos died later that day. Jerry lived on a few more years before his daughter observed his state of failing health and urged him to move in with her. Jerry lasted only a few months until he passed peacefully. The coffee club meetings at Jerry’s house came to an end when Jerry left the neighborhood.

There are now just three of us remaining who are graduates of the coffee club. Of course, none of us could be properly labeled as colorful, although some future blogger may have a different opinion. We’ll just have to wait and see. I may need to enlist another blogger in continuing the practice of reporting on our neighborhood happenings.

 

        My Colorful Neighborhood, Part One

 

Then

 After I moved to Roscommon in 2002, it didn’t take long to realize that I had moved to a place where my new neighbors were a different lot than those in my old southeast Michigan neighborhood. Probably the most obvious thing in Roscommon was that 2^nd homes were de rigueur, as the French would say. Either that, or some other reason prompted the observation that half of my neighbors lived elsewhere and rarely visited Roscommon, except for the two-week period of deer hunting season when the cabins were suddenly occupied.

I should have guessed the reason for the empty homes when the builder of my new home inquired if I would be hunting in the fall. When I answered in the negative, he seemed genuinely surprised as he responded, “Isn’t that interesting?” It was as if I was the first person he had ever met who wasn’t a dedicated deer slayer.

It took some time for me to realize that most men in the area were hunters and/or fishermen. A tip off to that conclusion was the sudden appearance of parked vehicles in every patch of forest land whenever the game laws allowed men with guns to meander everywhere in the area. It wasn’t until I joined a group of fishermen who drank coffee every day at a nearby party store before I realized that hunting and fishing seemed to be a favored hobby but also a favored topic of conversation. I met men from my neighborhood at the party store who met there daily before departing for a favored fishing hole. Two of the coffee drinkers went fishing every day after purchasing their essential supplies including coffee, before departing for their fishing expedition. One of the stated goals of the two was to fish in every lake, stream and water hole in the county.

I fell into the habit of joining them for coffee at the party store during my morning walk and it was easy to join in the conversation by the daily inquiry “How was the fishing yesterday?”

One of the coffee drinkers, a man named Jerry Boone, lived at the junction of my road and M-18, the major highway leading to the village of Roscommon. When the store changed owners and the new owners seemed unlikely to succeed, Jerry Boone suggested meeting at his home every morning for coffee. Boone had lost his wife to illness recently, and he was one of those men who needed male companionship to maintain an even keel. We all agreed to move our coffee drinking to Boone’s house and thus began my in-depth indoctrination into the neighborhood. In the next several months I learned about several of the colorful characters who lived in the neighborhood and I wrote a blog about them. *

·       I looked up the old blog. It was published in 2005 and entitled “Odd Characters in My Neighborhood”. In the event that your memory is as unreliable as mine, here is a brief recounting of that blog and some of its leading characters.

“Some odd characters inhabit my neighborhood. We have Big-breasted Bertha, Bicycle Bill and One-arm Amos” (each of whom visits the party store regularly since they offer beer for sale.) Another colorful female resident was Betty Hoover. Betty’s colorful personality came from her status as the unofficial neighborhood gad-about, that is to say, she was a consuming gossip, able turn up at our doorstep any time with the latest neighborhood news.

“Surprisingly, the neighborhood store was robbed recently by thieves who walked ½ mile to the store from their get-away car. After the robbery, the thieves began walking back to their car carrying their loot and shotgun. The police responded to the 911 call and arrested them as they walked back to their car. Apparently, the thieves didn’t think they would be obvious walking along a road with a shotgun in hand right after a robbery.”

“In the next town of Grayling, odd behavior takes a slightly different form. Grayling has the most unusual sporting event in the state: a canoe race that runs 120 miles that begins with paddlers on foot, carrying their canoes. The race requires at least 14 hours of paddling and includes carrying the canoes over five dams. In order to make the race a little more challenging, it is held at night.”

“The neighboring town of Houghton Lake has their own brand of strangeness. They have an annual winter festival on the ice. The most popular part of their festival is the Beer Tent. In the middle of winter folks line up go in the tent where it is 2 degrees warmer than the minus 10 outside so they can buy ice cold beer. Sometimes they have to heat the beer to keep it from freezing. Another popular event during the festival is the polar bear swimming contest.”

“Before, during and after the winter festival, the strangeness continues as folks drive their cars and trucks onto the frozen lake. They want to fish through the ice without pulling their supplies on sleds so they drive vehicles onto the ice and park them. I didn’t think this too strange until I saw several motor homes lined up on the ice.” (You should know that when and if a vehicle breaks through the ice, it is automatically not covered by insurance. Those who suffer this misfortune always seem surprised that they are required to arrange having their vehicle pulled from the lake bottom within a stated time period at their own expense. It is said to be expensive.

All of the colorful characters formerly in my neighborhood are now gone and no new ones have arisen to replace them, as far as I know. Since I no longer have Betty Hoover and Jerry Boone to keep me informed, I may be in error on this point, but if I find differently, I’ll be sure to let you know.

There are few physical changes in the neighborhood that have occurred since 2002 when I first arrived. My mile-long road has been paved and then repaved from M-18 toward my house. Unfortunately, the pavement ends just as the road marks the outer limit of my property. From there to my driveway and then to the end of the road is gravel This must be a measure of my political gravitas inasmuch as there is no logical reason why the road paving wasn’t extended to the end of the road. Past my driveway, the road ends in a horseshoe curve that must confound uninitiated drivers who find themselves heading backwards toward M 18 on the road just traveled. The absence of a completed paving job must be a north woods characteristic as a man in a different neighborhood told me he asked the county officials when he could expect to have his portion of a gravel road paved. He said the county official replied with a question.

“How old are you?” When he replied indicating his senior status the official gave an answer.

“Your road won’t be paved in your lifetime,” he said.

There are two dozen houses that interrupt the forest cover along the road I just described and about half of them are empty most of the time. I don’t know any of the people who come and go during tourism seasons, but when I see them, I’m not surprised to see them in camouflage clothing, carrying a gun.

The few physical changes in the neighborhood over the past 20 years have been widely separated in time. My new house was the first built here in several years according to Boone. He has to be believed since his ancestor was, you guessed it, the real Daniel Boone family that came north. Jerry said his forbearer was not Daniel, but Daniel’s brother Squire Boone, one who was not so famous as his brother. Just to set the record straight, our Jerry Boone was a pleasant fellow and not an Indian fighter like the senior Boone.

Watch for the next blog that speaks to the current neighborhood status.

 

 

 

A Fight I Lost

 

A Fight I Lost

 

I have shoulder pain. Have had for the last month. I don’t know why. The doctor said the X-rays that he ordered showed mild arthritis in my shoulders. It doesn’t feel mild to me, especially when my spoon won’t reach my mouth at breakfast because my shoulder won’t allow my hand to reach that unseemly height.  

I am now trying to get my shoulders to cooperate by massage, Bio Freeze, and physical therapy that Marjorie found on the internet. The therapists are Bob and Brad, the most famous therapists on the internet, in their opinion. They told me that one of the common causes of shoulder pain is laying on your shoulder while sleeping. “You can fix this,” they said, by “lying on your back.” If you can’t sleep while lying on your back, then simply add a couple of additional pillows that you steal from another bed, they said. So I did. Last night. And that’s when the fight broke out.

In hindsight, I realize that I stole the wrong pillows. Since the ‘My Pillow‘guy was too busy playing up to the former President, I used our foam-filled pillows that are too big and too stiff to do the job of cuddling up to me and providing support for my ailing shoulder in the way that Bob & Brad said should be done. They said I should put one pillow next to my torso and lay a second pillow between the first pillow and my offending shoulder while I lay on the shoulder that is not sore. It didn’t work. In the middle of the night the first pillow began taking up too much room while the second pillow wanted to move around whenever my arm claimed its share of space. When I tried to alleviate these problems, a fight broke out as I tried to set the boundaries for each pillow. The pillows won. They ended up taking more of my sleeping space than I.

I had to get even. I waited for a lengthy pause then I nudged both pillows to the edge of the bed. After another pause, I pushed gently and both pillows fell to the floor. That was not a good thing. I awoke this morning with another sore shoulder, so don’t talk to me.

I plan to attack the problem again tonight. My new strategy is to find smaller, softer pillows. I will supplement their use with an analgesic before bed. The analgesic will have the unusual name of Jim Beam.

If this strategy works, I will let Bob and Brad know about it.