Literally.....There Is More Than One Way.

There is an old saying, proposing that there is more than one way to skin a cat.  Like many other bold declarations that are commonly, or casually, used in everyday conversation, in this instance skinning a cat is not a specific reference. However, it was a phrase that successfully mislead my young and impressionable mind, and soon I was imagining that everyone, including all my friends,(who apparently were practicing Taxidermy in secret), were actually skinning cats. It was only upon looking around me that I finally noticed that cat-skinning hadn't become a raging new epidemic. In fact, it appeared that all the surrounding cats were fine, and it was at that exact moment when I began to put two and two together. I realized that what the saying was actually referring to was the idea that there are usually several ways to accomplish the same task, and that what works for one person may not work for another, but that the end results are the same.

As the years have gone by since my initial diagnosis of Cerebellar Ataxia I have had to adapt and learn new ways of doing things. I say this so easily, like all of this was a breeze, and came naturally. Like adjusting my life to fit this disease was as simple as literally falling off a log. Another quaint little saying that would seem to fit nicely here is the one about teaching an old dog new tricks because I am finding that I am in a constant battle with my second nature. That if I continue to bounce from moment to moment like I used to do, I will just continue to injure and frustrate myself. Most of the simple things that a lot of people don't even have to think about, like writing, tying your shoes, and descending stairs, have become obstacles for me that require thought and effort. I have had to slow way down and learn new ways to accomplish simple tasks.

I have learned new methods for dealing with challenges. In this blog, I will deal with the three that I just mentioned. These particular methods will not work for everyone and are only being shared with you as possible alternatives. The first one that I will show you concerns the subject of writing and centers on the issue that I have of being able to write legibly, clear enough so that even I can read it. Most of the time I can decipher what I have written, but there are those times when I find a note that I've scribbled down and I will have no clue what it says. It could be a grocery list, an idea for a blog, or a ransom note. It could be a note to my wife, saying that a friend called, or it could be an abstract cosmic drawing of the Milky Way.

This method is new to me and will take some practice. It is known as the two-handed method, and I have included pictures of my one-handed writing and pictures of the two-handed writing. The idea, as you will see, is the use the index finger of the opposite hand to help guide and direct the writing hand. This will result in more of a flow and smoother process. It works for me, and with some practice, it might actually help, but again, it will not be for everyone.

One-hand, very shaky

Somewhat smoother....but will take some practice.

The next subject that I will tackle,(not literally), will be the issue of stairs. I have shared in several of my blogs just exactly how I feel about stairs. Refer to my last blog, Metaphorically Running From A Bully if you have somehow been misinformed and are under the current impression that I love the challenge that stairs afford and look forward with deep anticipation to the next time that we will meet again. There are three ways in which I approach my carport stairs. Actually, there are four methods that I use to descend my stairs, but as one of the methods involves tripping, falling, and pain, I will skip that one. Besides, you can probably figure that one out for yourself. I also decided that I don't need to illustrate these methods like I did the writing example because these are all pretty straight forward. One method has to do with walking backward. I use this approach very successfully on my carport steps but don't think that it would work for me on a long staircase. However, I have heard others say that this method works well for them. I think the idea behind,(no pun intended....no really.... .....okay fine, believe what you want), descending backwards is that gravity makes us lean forward and topple easier, but,(no comment), if we lean forward facing the stairs we won't fall, or at least as far. My problem with this method is that I lose sight of my feet, and begin to panic. Until I remember that my feet are fine, they are still there, I just can't see them at the moment. All joking aside, though, this method actually does not work for me on long staircases, but I mention it as a possibility.

Another method that I use,(with varying success), is the traditional approach.....straight forward. Only, I hang on to anything stable and move very slowly, which unfortunately is still not enough sometimes to keep me from stumbling. During these times I have begun to use the next method, which is to turn sideways to descend. I still have to hang on to something, but it seems to really help when I am going down my carport steps.

The last subject of tying my shoes I will illustrate. As a kid, I learned to tie my shoes a certain way but was always having problems. Somehow I was continually tying knots in the individual shoe strings and ruining them. I couldn't tighten my laces because the knots that I had created would not fit through the eye holes in the shoes. It also made tying my shoes more difficult as the knots would get in the way of pulling the bow tight. So I came up with my own style of tying my shoes and have used that method ever since. I still tie my own shoes, and even though it has become frustrating, continue and will keep doing so for as long as I can. I have recently learned another method, which I read about, and is a way that a Kindergarten teacher came up with and uses to teach her students. I have not used it very much, but on days when I find that I am getting very frustrated with my usual way of tying, will switch over to this method. 

There is more than one way....and you might need to become creative to come up with a method, or way of doing a task, that works for you. It's good to try a particular way of doing something that others may claim is the best way, but if it doesn't work for you, then that's alright. The key is to keep trying, my friends. Do not let yourself quit because it has become difficult or frustrating.

Metaphorically Running From Bullies

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M74KuRyvHT0

     I really can't imagine that I am paranoid, nor can I imagine that it has anything to do with my imagination,( I never actually imagined that it did). Although, I do have to say that I have never been an individual who has the gift of long-range vision, or been able to dream about future possibilities constructively. When I was a freshman in High School and running from the latest bully in my life, I never conceived, nor did I ever have a notion that one day as an adult I would still be running. Oh, it may be a mere fantasy of actually running, but the desired result is always to try and avoid a bully.

     Inanimate objects appear to have me in their crosshairs, and I am getting the sense that they are somehow communicating and working together. Stairs are continually trying to trip me, and it has become more than just an isolated incident. I am not a conspiracy theorist by any definition, nor am I currently under any disillusions, or taking any active hallucinogenic drugs,( prescription, of course ). I strongly suspect, however. that there is a flow of communication here that is being cleverly concealed...and that the vast majority of us remain unaware. No matter where I go, the stairs that are in that place seem to know I'm coming and appear to have worked out a strategy beforehand to foil any attempt on my part to descend them with any amount of grace or dignity. No one has ever actually witnessed tiny hands reaching out of the stairs and grabbing my ankles while I am going down, or that are pushing up on the bottoms of my feet, causing me to fall forward, but that's got to be the explanation. The stairs are the original, and remain to be, the grand masters of the slight of hand trick. No matter how much I concentrate and look for the deception, they seem to have anticipated my level of attention to detail. Somehow they get me even if I am holding a rail in one hand, and someone's hand, walking stick, or the opposite rail with the other hand. Sigh....I'll probably never have a clear understanding of how the trick is done. The best that I can do is to avoid them whenever possible and to give all my up and down business to their direct competition (that would be an elevator or ramp). Or better yet, maybe I should just sit on a log in front of the ocean.

     I also have become convinced that the floors in my home somehow just know when I am going to stand up from a piece of furniture, walk down the hallway, or move from room to room. They begin to pitch and roll, and I start to feel like the little steel ball in the Labyrinth Game that is being bounced around while the player of the game manipulates the board and tries to avoid the holes. I see the holes now as bullies, and my life has now become one of avoidance. The funny thing about this is that no one else in my family seems to notice the floor angling and yawning as I am aggressively, and violently, tossed about like a rowboat in the midst of a Hurricane. Everything appears to them as normal, except for the fact that I seem to have an endless supply of ants in my pants.

     I used to play a game when I was a kid where I would pretend that the floor was covered with hot lava. Death was immediate if you touched the floor, so I would jump from one piece of furniture to the next, walk across end tables, or make my way across the window sill if it connected me to the next piece of furniture. I went through all this, not only because it was fun, or the fact that I wasn't the one who had bought the furniture that I was ruining by jumping all over it, but also because I didn't want to get burned up. Back then it seems like the furniture and I had an understanding. Apparently, they could touch the molten rock and not be burned up, and they were only too happy to let me pounce all over them, and they would keep me safe. That sentiment has changed. They are now working in unison with the floor, giving me a false sense of security and relaxation, and then pushing me out whenever the floor signals,( subtle vibration, a slight wink), and another Labyrinth Game begins.

     The doorways in my house either have a way to sense my approach,  actually see me coming, or the floor is passing on a message that I am heading their way because the openings always shrink a split second before I walk through. They do this so that I am sure to step into the frame. As I have already stated, I am not delusional, but I can hear a faint snicker of laughter in the instant immediately following, or at least have had a vague impression that I heard laughter. All my furniture in the house has begun to do the same thing, expanding by a fraction so I will be sure to stub my toe, bang my knee or drive my shoulder into a sharp corner. It then will quickly shrink back to normal so that it appears as if I'M the one with the problem.

     Whenever I leave the house, I get the same impression that you get when you are facing another person, talking and exchanging pleasantries. All the while, there is a person behind your back who is signaling frantically and waving at the person with whom you are speaking. The person behind you wants to convey a message to the one you are conversing with that there is a secret they should not divulge. Of course, all this happens without your knowledge, and you go on your way none the wiser. I suspect this happens to me every day, except it is my house that is alerting the sidewalks that I am on the move again. No, I can't actually prove anything because if I turn around, the house will just be sitting there with an innocent look. But, as the sidewalks seem to know of my approach beforehand, this would appear to be the obvious answer as to how this is possible. And it is the reason why I carry a big stick, to hold down the sidewalks when they get unruly.....well, that and the whole balance thing.

     Writing has become an issue, but I don't believe that it is my fault. I think my penmanship is perfect and that I am a victim of a systematic plot to make me look incompetent. I believe that all pens and pencils have small identification sensors in them that allow them to know precisely who has picked them up and is trying to use them. They then have the power, through internal programming, to write illegibly. I mean, how else would you explain the fact that my brain is telling my hand, in exact detail, what to write or draw and it just can't seem to do it?

     I realize that a few of these things may be pretty far out there, even for simple speculation (whose ever heard of using a big stick for balance!). But as life with Ataxia goes on,  I will continue, to the best of my wavering ability, to run from the bullies. And while I'm doing that, could I ask you a favor? If you ever see the stairs reaching for someone's ankle could you try to catch it on film and send it to me? Thanks.

I Even Went On To Higher Education, Once.

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8yPRxsAiXw

     Oh...the vast, and wondrous days of the U.S.S. Commode. What exactly was the U.S.S. Commode you may be wondering? Was it one of the various oil tankers that sank in the late eighties like the Exxon Valdez? Perhaps it was one of the United States of America's proud Naval ships? No, it was an old camping toilet. A relic of better days that was found in the dusty back lot of an old second-hand junk store...With a strong emphasis on the junk-part. It was rescued by two college sophomores who happened to have an eye for beauty, or at least fifty cents, which was precisely what the old rusty camping throne cost us. It was the first day of my second year, and Eric, the friend that I had requested as a roommate, and I were looking for something to put in our room. Something so unique that it would grab the attention of friends who were in our room and dazzle the ladies with our sheer creativity and skills of insight. When we laid eyes on the discarded, and long forgotten metal piece of....uh, camping gear...we knew we had struck gold. This classic historical piece clearly had the potential to become the artwork that would tie our room's theme together.

     We cleaned it up, repainted it blue and white, and boldly and proudly stenciled U.S.S. Commode in big black lettering on both sides. After we had it all decorated, we began to think and concentrate hard on the best use for our proud oddity. We wanted it to serve a grand purpose, so after a labored two seconds of intensive deliberation, it was decided that the tank part of the U.S.S. Commode would be a planter, and the bowl-part could be filled with ice and would serve well as a cool place to keep beverages. You would just lift the lid of the U.S.S. Commode, reach in, and pull yourself out a frosty one. Pretty neat huh? Unfortunately, our attention wavered, and after we had visited the women's dorm, we forgot about our beloved centerpiece and all our plans for it. It still stood boldly and confidently in our room and became the subject of more than a few inquiries. Questions that usually started with something along the lines of,"really?".

     After graduation, the U.S.S Commode came home with me and may reside in my parent's basement. I wish I had pictures of the old tub because I'm confident that you'd enjoy them, but sadly I don't. However, I can assure you, readers, that the U.S.S. Commode was real, oh yes, she was very real.

I should start at the beginning, though, with my freshman year at college. It was the fall of nineteen eighty-three, and I had just graduated from High School, as evidenced by the picture below.

     After graduation, and not knowing what I wanted to do, I decided that it would be a good idea to go to a two-year College in Hesston Kansas to acquire my Associate of Arts degree. I may, however, have made an overstatement when I said that I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do because the truth was that when asked to think about what I might want to do, in reality, it was closer to, "Uh, yeah, I got nothing." However, I don't want to give anyone the impression that I was not a good student and that this was not the right decision for me. It was, and some of my best times happened in those two years. I was also a solid B student, with occasional forays into the mystical world of an A.

     Reaching for the elusive A grade for me, often resembled trying to blaze a new trail as I sought to hack my way through a dense jungle armed with only a toothpick. Achieving a perfect grade was not entirely impossible...but a task that included a level of concentration and effort that I did not seem to aspire to...nor was very often willing to give.

     I did have ONE interest. I enjoyed cooking, and so took a campus job as a food prep. I met and made a great friend, Brian, who was also a food prep, and that just so happened to live in the same dorm, on the same floor as myself. Brian and I had a motto that people shouldn't mess with us because "We are Food Preps and we prep the food that YOU eat!". Later, of course, the motto was slightly changed too, " We are Food Poops, and we poop the food that you eat!".

     So, one weekend a month and two days a week I would go off to poop the food. What can I say? It was nineteen eighty-three, and apparently, I was still amused by toilet humor. You really can't blame me though because I'm a guy, and everyone knows that girls mature at a younger age than boys. I mean, aren't girls pretty much emotionally mature by the second grade, and guys are like......well, I'm forty-nine now and haven't got a solid grip on it yet, so you do the math. But Brian and I got a lot of miles out of our legendary status as food preps, and we worked together in the kitchen for both years.

     At the end of each school year, there was a traditional talent show, named The Bill Show, and the two of us worked up a performance that included some stand-up comedy and the parody of a famous song...done while we played air guitar on handball rackets. We had a friend play the song on a boombox and then cut the music at the chorus of the song so that we could shout out our improvised lyrics. During the first year, we did ZZTop's Sharp Dressed Man, which we changed, from,"every girls' crazy about a sharp dressed man", to, "every girls' crazy about a sharped dressed food prep." The second year's performance had us singing the Kansas song Carry On Wayward Son. We changed the lyrics, from,"lay your weary head to rest, and don't you cry no more," to, "lay your weary spatula to rest and don't you prep no more!".

     There were two male dorms on the campus. The one I was in was a large two-story building. It was an older building, and I had a room on the 2nd or top floor. The second men's dormitory was a larger, more modern brick building. The dorm I was in was named Green Gables, and a lot of my memories came from time spent in that house. On the first floor, right inside the entrance, was a large common room with couches and a television.

     All of the students at that school took the same required class in the afternoon, called Foundations, which was a mix of Western Civilization, History, Ethics, and Religion. Following the afternoon course, I would sometimes join a large mob of guys who would make a run for this television room so that we could quickly acquire a good seat. We would then proceed to get our daily addiction appeased by watching General Hospital. Pretty pathetic, a bunch of eighteen and nineteen-year-olds glued to a soap opera, but I guess it could have been worse.

     Then there was the day that the other dorm decided to attack our dorm. We were in our rooms and the next thing we knew; there was a horde of screaming maniacs running towards us. They were throwing water balloons and yelling challenges at us. We had a fire escape on both sides of the building, and they began to climb it. One guy on our floor got the brilliant idea to push open the emergency exit door, whereby he would fling a bowl of urine at whoever just happened to be out there at the time. This kid was not the brightest bulb that our dorm had to offer, and even though it may have seemed like a stroke of genius, he only managed to splash himself when the spring-loaded door shut right before the crucial flinging of the urine.

I know....I know.....but these shorts were in style then.

      By the time that I entered College, I had my studying style roughly figured out. There were just a few rough edges, but I was quickly able to smooth these out and become quite comfortable with my long-established style. If I were to give my style a name, a technique that had been perfected and had been in the making for twelve years, that name would have to be procrastination. Putting impending studies to the side became not only my style...but an art form. An art that was supported by all my close friends who, I joyfully found out, also practiced a form of the skill. That's right, I am referring to procrastination as a skill. Anybody can just lazily put something off, and sadly there are a lot of disillusioned people and amateurs running around.  To do it thoroughly and comprehensively you really have to want it; you have to own it. A good procrastinator will spend his time giving himself alibis and begin by laying the groundwork for very plausible explanations as too why they did not accomplish a task or assignment on time. They do it this way...so that when the deadline comes and the final push is inevitable...when they are within the throes of sheer and total panic and questioning themselves as to why they waited, they will be able to scroll back in their mind and begin to see and understand that there really was no choice...all of the current madness now becomes clear.

     Once in awhile, after arriving at this realization, a profound euphoria and feelings of purpose will settle upon the person who waited until the last possible nano-second. To be genuinely skilled not only means that one has to be able to know when it is still possible to put something off in favor of another event...but also when they have to hit the bricks, meaning that they are entirely out of spare time and the only time left will be needed to accomplish the task before them. You may have three months to do a primary assignment but if you can do a credible job, with a few shortcuts, in four hours than you wait. You can not give in to pressure, and you can never allow yourself to do anything with the task in question before that four hour deadline. To the untrained eye procrastination looks like chaos, but it is a self inflicted, and controlled chaos. It is a paradox because good procrastination only comes from proper planning, foresight, and diligent execution over time. If I could just figure out how to put off my plans to procrastinate.....

So, yeah, the picture was staged...okay, I get it, but I thought it would be nice to show irrefutable evidence that I did know how to study......And, No, it wasn't my first time.

     I mentioned earlier that everyone was enrolled in a class named Foundations, or Foundies for short, as we referred to it. It was a heavy class and worth five credits as I remember it. During the year, there were three significant assignments, all of them including three or four book reports, hand drawn and very detailed maps, and essays on various subjects. The finished result was usually at least thirty to forty pages and was to be all organized in a three-ring binder. The sane and clear-thinking student joined study groups and spent at least thirty minutes of their study time every day to successfully finish the project on time. My friends and I acceded to no study groups, nor did we spend any time on any day working on it. We waited until the day before and then would go to a twenty-four-hour doughnut shop in the next town over and whip the whole thing out. I remember these being very desperate times, but also some of the best times. In a complete doughnut-glazed, and coffee-ground laced stupor, we were able to get the assignment done, handed in on time, and always managed to get a good grade. And I am not making this next part up, nor am I under any false sense of memory here. I once got one of these assignments back, after the professor had gone through and graded them, with a big circle that was done in red ink around a paragraph that I had written, that said," This was very nicely worded." Huh? I asked all my friends to read it and tell me if they could understand or make any sense of what I had written. No one could, and it remained a mystery. Whatever it was, it had gotten me an A, so I didn't question it too seriously.

     Two of my excellent friends, Craig and Mike, and I used to study all night at a local twenty-four-hour truck stop restaurant. We would consume large amounts of french fries, pie, soda, and coffee. There was also an arcade in the back, so we would often take study breaks,(I don't remember a lot of studying going on), and play copious amounts of pinball. We played so much pinball that it felt like we were taking ten-minute breaks to study, not the other way around. It was also the three of us that got a hold of the master key to the girl's dorm, which we put to excellent use I assure you. Unlike the boy's dorm of which there were two, there was just one girl's dorm, but it was the most prominent building on campus. It was a 2-story building that housed the campus bookstore, student lounge, and snack bar. It was also a very long building, and all the girls were housed on the second floor.

     Hesston College had a very successful Nursing program that was the starting point for many careers in that field. As such, one of the things that you could find on campus was a very well stalked medical lab. There was a multi-floored building that was entirely dedicated to teaching, both through lectures and by working hands-on in one of the several labs. One of these labs is where the three of us come into the story. The college owned a full-size, and anatomically correct, practice dummy that weighed about ninety pounds. The lab was open to students until eleven p.m., so armed with a walkie-talkie and a flashlight, I went into the building at ten forty-five, and when no one was looking, I snuck under the bed and remained there until after closing. Once the building was empty, and all was dark I called Mike and Craig, who came right over. There was no alarm on the building, and it was relatively easy to let them in. We proceeded to steal the dummy and smuggled it into the girl's dorm. We were able to get it into the bed of a girl that was gone that weekend, but whose roommate was asleep on the top bunk. We put the dummy on its side, facing the wall, and partially covered the head with a pillow so it would look like someone was still trying to sleep. Later, we got reports of an entirely freaked-out girl over at the girl's dorm when she made the shocking discovery in the morning. Of course, we were as puzzled as everyone else and never let on that we did it, especially after we heard that the anatomically-correct dummy that we had stolen and carelessly mishandled was worth thousands. I'm only confessing now because I believe that the statutes of limitations have run out, and even if I am wrong about this, I also don't think that Kansas can extradite me from Oregon. We also poured packets of Kool-aid mix in the women's shower heads so that the morning would start off on a bright note.

Well, the two years spent at Hesston College sadly came to a close, and I had to say goodbye to some of the best friends that I had ever had. On a positive note, though, I did graduate, as evidenced by the picture below.

Okay, a cake MAY not actually prove anything.....but you're just going to have to trust me.

I graduated in the fall of nineteen eighty-five and in the winter of nineteen eighty-six I began a twelve-month Culinary Program at a local Culinary Institute. I finished that and received a certificate in late December of that year. Below is the only picture I could find of myself in my Chef's uniform.

Once, I was A Teenager

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gA5VNVkA4HA

After my brief, and colorful, stint as a pre-teen the next logical step was to become a teenager and attend High School. Actually, it was something about which I really didn't have a choice, because if I had, I probably would have skipped that part. I entered High School thirty-five years ago, and although I have my own three kids who have graduated from the institution within the last several years, I am not very well informed on the current mind set of the modern High School Student. All I really know is that in my day the mature and current High School student was seemingly obsessed with toilet humor.

My Freshman year 1979-1980

I mentioned in the first part of this blog, Once, I Was A Child, that a large part of Freshman hazing by the older students involved pushing a penny around a toilet seat with your nose, either as a solo act or as part of a race. This race was largely similar to a potato sack race.....with a toilet instead of a bag and a penny instead of a rope around your ankle. And actually, now that I think about, pushing a penny with your nose around a toilet seat really didn't involve jumping either, (unless of course your coach who was standing in the bathroom stall behind you while you knelt in front of the toilet would kick you in the backside, urging you on to greater speed because the other guy was making the broad turn at the top of the seat and you were still on the first leg). So, in looking back to a moment ago, I would have to say that referring to these two races as mostly similar, was over stating the matter. They were only similar by the definition that they were both races.

Being singled out to come face to face with a toilet seat was bad enough, but there was another reason for my trepidation about walking the halls of higher education. If you entered High School with someone in a grade or two above you that was already holding a grudge against you than your life was pretty much over. Your being singled out for various humiliations or random acts of physical pain were no longer mere happenstance, but deliberate acts of vengeance. We are now at the place where I re-enter the story because I had such a personal attendant.

His name was Steve, and he was a Junior when I entered as a Freshman. The only explanation that I can come up with for Steve not being my biggest fan was possibly because his sister was in my class and she definitely was a fan. But I was indifferent towards her and probably a little cruel if truth be told because I was just too cool, (or so I thought). I say that this is a possible explanation, but who really knows. Maybe someday I'll figure it out. Except for the few of the one-sided good times that I had with Steve, life while attending High School my first year was really not too bad. I would be standing by my locker with several friends, and a few of them would win the lottery and be selected to answer for their crime of having dared to enter the halls of teenage education. The imagined trespass was swiftly, and some times harshly, dealt with in one creative way or another. And even though I had friends and acquaintances who had to push a penny, I never did, nor did I ever get invited to have a face to face interaction with the toilet seat.

All of that happened from Monday through Friday, but the weekends were a different story altogether. There was a time during my Sophomore year when one of my friends decided to drive five of us to a Drive-in Theater on a Saturday night. Some of the local theaters charged a flat rate per car, no matter how many you had in the car, and others would cost a few dollars for each passenger. We decided on the movies that we wanted to see and realized that they were showing at a theater that charged a per-customer fee. So, being the socially-responsible, and civic-minded teenagers that we were, we decided to take the friend's family station wagon that night so that we could smuggle three of us in the back, thereby successfully avoiding the cover charge, saving us a cumulative total of nine dollars. Of course, the driver and his passenger had to pay, but the six dollars was absorbed by everyone.

I don't remember a lot of details of the events that happened DURING the movie, but I will never forget the after part. It was about one a.m. in the morning, and we decided that it appeared to be appropriate to light some M80 firecrackers in a few quite neighborhoods and wake some people up. We thought that it might even be a fun idea to put a few in random mailboxes and blow them up. My friends told me that the M80 was a quarter stick of dynamite, but after a friend had one go off underneath his foot, I was skeptical. Oh, they were large, and the explosion was impressive, but I'm sure that he would have lost his foot if the M80s were really a quarter stick of dynamite. The way this all came about, was as follows. I was riding in the front with the driver, and the others were in the back. The three in the back seat were rather cramped as they were relatively big kids. We had just started the early morning entertainment and the boy in the middle of the backseat was going to be the first to light one of the large firecrackers and toss it out the window. He proceeded to light it, waited for a second while it burned half way down the fuse, and threw it at the side window, where it promptly hit the door post and bounced right back between his legs. Well, as I'm sure you can imagine, there was some very frantic activity as the boy in the middle tried to stand up to get away from the burning bomb, and the other two boys tried to help, but at the same time, get as far away as possible, which really was only a few inches. The driver attempted to pull over and stop while all the action in the back seemed to be happening in slow motion, that is until about one second later when there was a muffled explosion under the foot of the kid in the middle, who had managed to step on the firecracker, which was still burning, and now between his foot and the seat. The explosion was loud in the confines of the car, and the small space was instantly filled with smoke and floating seat stuffing. The firecracker had blown a large hole in the backseat, and when we were able to stop, the hapless victim hobbled out of the car, hopping around, howling in pain and shock, as his shoe smoked and we waited for the car to air out. I suppose the guy was lucky that something soft was under his foot when the explosive went off because it appeared that a significant portion of the blast was absorbed by the car seat.

This picture was taken during my Junior year and was the 81-82 school year.

After my first two years at a large public High School, I transferred to a small private school. What do I mean by small? I went from a school with about 2000 kids to a school with about 120. There were several reasons for doing this. One was that it was the school that my dad had attended and I really enjoyed the stories he would tell of his experiences and adventures while there. Another was that it just seemed to be a better fit for me. I was somewhat lost in a big student body and actually kind of a timid kid. I also had an innocent face and demeanor about me, which meant that I could mastermind a lot of mischief and not be a suspect. A good example of this happened during my junior year. I was in my fourth period U.S. History class, and we were going to be shown a movie that day. In the early eighties, there was nothing that even remotely resembled digital media, but class room movies involved a projector on a large metal cart and reels of film. The full reel was mounted on the front of the projector, the film wound its way through where the image was cast onto a large viewing screen, and then taken up and rewound onto a take-up reel mounted on the back end. The empty take-up reel system usually worked flawlessly, unless of course, somebody had put a pencil into one of the holes in the empty reel resulting in a pile of film on the floor because the take-up reel no longer was able to freely spin. I did just such a thing that day in fourth period U.S. History. I was served well by my innocent look because even though I was the one who was sitting right next to the projector, and even though I was now the only student clearly without a pencil on my desk, (meaning there was an excellent chance that the pencil used in the film reel caper was mine), the teacher pointedly asked several other students who had done it but did not once look at, or ask me if I had done it.

My Junior Year...being a typical goof-off.

Towards the end of my junior year, various students began to campaign for the next year's student council offices. I got involved in the fast-paced world of small school politics by helping to run a friend's campaign, which actually just included water painting cheesy slogans on a square of white butcher paper. At the end of a brutal three-week campaigning trail, the student body would all gather at a local park for lunch and an afternoon of well-planned candidate speeches, after which we would return to the school, and the voting would begin. On the morning of the big day, about two hours before we all went down to the park for the speeches, one of my friends approached me and suggested that I should run for the Student Body President. At first, I thought he was joking, and then I thought, "why not?". So I went to the park that day, stood up before the gathered students, and gave an entirely impromptu speech. It must have been pretty good because I won, beating out two other strong opponents. I really don't know what I said, it being over 35 years ago, but I spent the eighty two-eighty three school year as the big cheese,( emphasis on cheese ).

Senior Picture 1983

Senior Picture !983

So, even though this did not cover every part of my High School career, I felt like what I shared here covered pretty much how the four years went for me.  In the first installment of this blog, I stated that it would be a two-part series, but I have decided to extend it to include my college years. It will be titled, I Even Went On To Higher Education, Once.  I will begin working on it in the next couple of days and post it soon.

Once, I Was A Child

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylPhPIoqpCc

     Not quite a year ago I started a blog about my life, the struggles, victories, and in general, the things that I find to be amusing. My writing began with a brief history of my childhood, and it has developed into my current life as an adult who deals with Spinocerebellar Ataxia to the best of my ability. I make light of my current challenges and daily frustrations, and in the future, I am planning to stay with that theme, but from the very beginning, various people have commented about reading the views expressed from my childhood and how they had enjoyed them. In light of this thought, I decided to go back to my growing-up years and share with you all some more details surrounding that topic, in a three-part series. This will not directly reflect on my dealings with Ataxia, which I usually take head-on, but I am happy to give you more of the stories from my growing up years, and so now I would like to present to you:

                                  Once, I Was A Child....Part 1.
                                                                                        

     For me, life began at a very young age, and I strongly suspect, that like many of you, early childhood revolved around infancy.  I know what you are thinking at this point, that to begin my initial quest at this particular stage just wasn't very original of me, and I'm sorry, but I was not familiar with the term of copycat yet. I did, however, know the phrase jinks, and I distinctly remember the doctor hoisting me up by my ankles, soundly slapping me, as he yelled out,"Jinks!". I remember thinking that this guy doesn't seem to have a clear understanding of the rules of Jinks. How long ago did he get slapped? Thirty-five, maybe forty years ago? But I was in a good mood; I mean it being my birthday and all, so I bought him a Coke anyway and later as we drank our sodas in the doctor's lounge I went over the rules of Jinks with him. He seemed to be clear when I left to go and see some of my buddies, who just so happened to be beginning their childhood adventures too, and who were currently laying low in the nursery.

     The year was 1964 and, besides this vivid recollection, everything else was a blur for me until about the age when I started Kindergarten. This marked an event that will forever be burned into my memory because it was at this time that I began to experience a random forearm being thrown across my chest at forty-five miles per hour. This would happen whenever my parents would make a quick stop, and I was the one who was riding in the front seat of the family car. Honestly, I think I would have sustained less trauma to my little body if I would have been allowed instead to bounce my head off the dashboard or fly through the windshield. Sometimes I was lucky enough to be in the back seat, flopping around completely unencumbered, working off my last candy-induced spike of blood sugar, when the brakes were gently tapped, (all the way to the floor). Really, at these times, all that would happen was that I would get a strong whiff, and intimate knowledge of, the kind of material used to construct the front seats. Some of my favorite times as a kid happened in the family car.

     From as far back as I can remember I have personally been in possession a sweet tooth. A working theory that I have is that from day one I was given a bottle of chocolate milk, either the kind straight from a carton or the Nestle Quik powered formula that comes in a can. That's got to be the reason why I go weak in the knees and feel utterly powerless when I find myself in the presence of dessert. Just a hint, slight aroma, or the mere suggestion that there may be a dessert, will start me hyperventilating and shaking. I also discovered at a young age that I have no willpower. After I have devoured the sixth cookie or second piece of cake, I will black out for a few moments.That's got to be it because when I regain consciousness, I discover that I've got another cookie, or third piece of cake, approaching my mouth and I have absolutely no recollection of how it got there. And, of course, I feel obligated to eat it. I mean,  I've already touched it, and I don't want to look like I took it on purpose and then changed my mind. I would prefer if people don't form the opinion that I'm an indecisive person. I heard a crazy rumor one time as a kid that suggested that there was a link between sweets and obesity. Well! I thought that I might just have to field test that assumption and gather my own data. At present, I can tell you that the data is still coming in, but the evidence is spreading and stretching in favor of the rumor being true. Dang, it!

     One of the phrases that I heard as a child and thought to be somewhat odd, was when my mother would say to me," Don't touch that, you don't know where it's been." I would always respond with," Oh yeah? We don't know where babies come from either, but that doesn't stop you from touching one every chance you get." Now, you understand that when I say that I always responded this way that the verbal comeback was all done in my head, right? I mean, I was kind of a daft kid, but I wasn't stupid. Looking back on the whole thing, I am now convinced that my parents had a plan to keep this information from me for as long as possible. I think that they were hoping they could somehow incorporate the baby thing into my twenty-first birthday party. They were saving the big reveal until then, and I'm not sure how it was all supposed to work. Was there going to be charts? Maybe graphs, or some pictures? I would have feigned shock and complete surprise, mumbling something like," I thought the belly button was somehow involved."  Sorry Mom and Dad but my friends had already clued me in several weeks prior.

      An entirely bittersweet event during my long and sorted career as a child was when my parents would decide to pack my brothers and me into the backseat of the family car and take us out for pizza. This was the sweet part of the memory, because, number one, we really liked pizza, and number two, because we also knew that on the way home after the meal we would be stopping at our favorite ice cream parlor for cones. And so, we would all pile into the car, drive an hour or so, inhale some pizza, (of which my mom was lucky to get any), and leave. Our next stop was the ice cream store, where we were allowed to purchase a double-scooped on a sugar cone. Of course, the cones were usually gone before we left the parking lot, even on occasion before my dad had a chance to pay. The sweet part of the evening was now over, and the bitter segment was now about to begin because the long drive provided my brothers with plenty of time to be creative and come up with new ways to make my life.....uh, interesting. With their stomachs full of pizza, and their veins flowing from the frozen sugar, they would begin to formulate new plans and plot my ultimate demise. But, honestly, I've got to say that the old standby was quite efficient and they eventually would always come back to it, so I knew what to expect in that regard and was just waiting for it. They always made sure I was on one of the ends of the backseat, by the door, and they would begin a rousing game of corners. They would violently and gleefully throw themselves to my side of the car like my dad was stunt driving on two wheels, successfully smashing me against the door. I stated that the game was called corners...corners, with an "s." This implies the use of both sides of the car, but I don't recall my dad doing any two-wheel driving on the other side. And I didn't know anything about machinery or car doors in those days,( this statement is in no way meant to be misleading because I still don" know anything about machinery and car doors ), but I was scared to death that the door would spring open under the weighty siege of their attacks. In my young mind, I could clearly see myself being sucked out of the door, never to be seen or heard from again. My brothers, I'm sure, would have calmly shut the door. Thirty minutes later, when my parents did a head count and wondered where I was, would have responded that a few miles back I had suddenly announced that I needed to stretch my legs and needed to get some fresh air, upon which I had opened the door and stepped out.

     I was a pretty typical boy, forever being yelled at, and/or admonished for running with sharp objects. This was a situation where hindsight really was twenty-twenty. As a child, I never understood that saying. My parents used it frequently, and whenever they did I would always turn around and look behind me, but I never was able to catch a glimpse of whatever they were talking about. I think the first time that I might have begun to get an inkling as to what they meant by this was when I ran around our camp tent with a friend while playing Early-Settlers and Native Americans, (we didn't call it that then, but hindsight being what it is, and wanting to be politically correct....). I, of course, had a sharpened stick and was having way to much fun to think about the danger I was facing. Not only was I taking a chance that the stick could impale me like a hot dog being prepared for the campfire, but I was also ignoring my father. Stupidly thinking I was safe because he was busy setting up camp and would probably forget the whole thing once he smelled the meal that my mother was preparing. Well, I had too many odds stacked against me and ended up tripping over a tent peg, cutting the top of my head with the stick. I could have used a full understanding of the twenty-twenty principal BEFORE all the dumb stuff, but I imagine that that's how it is supposed to work.

     Sometime around 1971, when my little brother was born, my parents got a new family vehicle, a Suburban. It gave us more room, which provided my older brothers with a better chance to build some excellent momentum before plastering me against the door. But on the positive side, Mom and Dad began to take us to the drive-in, because we could watch the first movie, which was usually a classic Disney movie like The Apple Dumpling Gang, and then spread out our sleeping bags in the back and go to sleep while they watched the second film. Back then, drive-in theaters were the main way of seeing a movie, and we had several large ones close to our house. I have another story that revolves around a drive-in, but it occurred when I was in High School, so, for now, I will leave that subject and come back to that in my next writing.


     Every summer, from third grade on, I went away for a week to summer camp. The summer after fifth grade I was invited by a friend to attend the camp that he went to every summer. This was a new place for me, and I was looking forward to it. As soon as my friend and I arrived, I knew that I was really going to like this place and would be having a lot of fun. But the first night left me wondering if I had chosen well. I was in my sleeping bag and sound asleep,(a skill I had learned from an earlier age), when I began to have a dream that a bag was being held over my head. The dream became more violent, and as I struggled more and more, the bag was pressed harder. I was awake now and beginning to panic as I realized that this wasn't just a dream, that I was covered entirely by my sleeping bag, and there was a significant weight being pressed down upon me. Suddenly, and without warning, the pressure moved off me, and I was released. I threw open my bag, to find that every eye from every bunk was on me. And standing next to where I lay was our camp counselor looking very bewildered, and with an embarrassed expression on his face. Apparently, what had happened was that he had been dreaming that he had caught a baby bear in a sack, and the more I struggled, the more determined he became to keep it in the bag. Eventually, (only seconds that felt like minutes), the noise had awoken everyone in the cabin, which successfully awoke the counselor, who quickly realized his mistake and released me. But, besides being mistaken for wildlife, I loved the camp and went back every summer after that until I graduated from High School.


     In the nineteen-seventy-four/seventy-five school year I was in fourth grade, and to the best of my recollection, this was when I began to catch faint wisps of a rumor. A rumor that at this point was somewhat elusive and vague, but that brought with it a chill in the air. It wasn't until the next school year when my older brothers entered High School that the strange tales and haunting stories of Freshman hazing became a reality. But I was only in the fifth grade and had other concerns. Besides, I still had a long stretch of four years, (which seemed like a lifetime in my young mind), before I needed to worry. This mindset worked flawlessly and carried me worry free until dinner time on the evening of my brothers first day of High School. The evening meal that night was filled with stories of the many hapless freshmen who were singled out of the herd to push a penny with their nose around a toilet seat. Tales were told, and pictures were painted in my mind of victims being lined up in bathroom stalls to become the receiver of the dreaded swirly. The basic idea behind the aptly named swirly, for those who may not know, is to have the toilet flushed while one's head is politely, and gently, introduced to the bowl and then held under water, causing the hair to "swirl" when the bowl is flushed. If the head is kept in place until the water has finished it's twirling and gone down the drain, the result is a twisted, wet hair-do.  I have come close on several occasions, while bent over and cleaning the bowl at home, to falling forward and performing a self-administered swirly. This has happened when I have been engaged in a routine cleaning of the bowl, and trust me on this one, if I did immerse my head on accident, my arms would start to flail about in shock, and my hand WOULD find the handle, successfully giving myself a quickie hair wash. I have gotten myself into many seemingly impossible scenarios. But my High School years will be covered in part two of this series, titled: Once, I Was A Teenager.

I Can't Find The Reset Button!

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTpOPbufh6I

    I found myself at a place the other day where I was pondering on all the individual, and various, gizmos, gadgets, and high tech things that have become a part of my life. To be more specific, I was pondering on all the times that a said piece of tech, one in which I had come to rely on, would not turn on or function correctly. This is a phenomenon that seems to be tied directly to Murphy's Law, as it always seems to happen at the most inopportune time.

    I was imaging how convenient it would be to be able to schedule these break-downs in advance since we all know that these things are inevitable.  If a piece of equipment, say, like your smartphone, would just be upfront with you when you set it up for the first time. It would be a very helpful feature if it would tell you beforehand that after the first week, after you have gotten it all set-up the way you like it...with all the applications installed that you want to use and arranged in a pleasing way...that it was going to experience a glitch, resulting in the need to do a reset and the loss of your customized set-up.

    Being forewarned would be very helpful. Just think about how handy it would be if you knew beforehand that your tech would fail on a specific day, at a particular time. You would be better prepared, probably even have a plan to deal with or fix the issue.

Yep! That's my plan.....the only problem is that with my Ataxia I would more than likely miss,(even at this range), and either hit myself in the forehead first or put a huge dent in the table.

    There were times, in the past, where all I needed to do was only to push a reset button or to hold two buttons in sequence, like the volume up button and the start button at the same time, for example. But this is just not the case with the various disorders of the body, namely my Ataxia.

    At least, as of the current date, I haven't located any little portholes, like behind my ear, that I can stick a bent paper clip into and have my balance put back to factory specifications. Nor have I yet to discover any combination of movements or body manipulations, like sticking out my tongue while squeezing my nose, that will enable me to speak clearly.

    I find at times that if my PC is acting wonky, (a technical way of describing an electronic glitch...really...look it up), it needs to be re-started, or re-booted. This ability would really come in handy and be an excellent way to explain my Ataxia, as in,"Just hang on a second George, I need to do a quick brain re-boot and I'll be right with you."

    There also may be a need from time to time to run a system defragmentation because there is very minimal available free Ram left in the system to keep everything running smoothly.  Or there may be times when the PC becomes choppy, begins to lag, and/or hang-up (three more highly technical terms). I guess the closest thing to an "Ataxia De-Frag." is getting enough sleep at night.

    I have discovered the universal truth that I believe most Ataxians have found, that rest is essential. I usually start my day early and have energy, or enough available system Ram, to get needed chores done. I try to cram as many things as possible before one to one-thirty in the afternoon because that's about the time that the system begins to hang up, and there starts to be some severe scattering of available resources.

    It starts to look as if there is an impending danger of a complete system crash, and by the end of the day, depending on how much I have done during that day and exerted myself, I am merely DONE! Being able to get 7 to 8 hours of sleep at night acts as a system cleaning or a system reboot for me.

    During the day all my resources become scattered, fragmented and used up. At night all these systems are brought back together in one meeting room for yet another in a long series of pep talks. The problem is that every night fewer system administrators are being found to come to the meetings.

    Yep....I'm slowly running out of Ram and the only expanding going on is not tied to more memory, or processing power, but to calories.

     I'm in need of a reset button, but I just can't seem to find one.

    

.

Neurological Smack Down

here is a link to the audio version, in case you would rather listen to this blog: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zvIWthJdU8Y

     One of the earliest memories that I have as a kid centers around professional wrestling. My mom was a huge fan of it, or I should say that in particular, she cheered for a specific wrestler named Gentleman Dutch Savage, who was part of a local wrestling circuit. The arena was located about an hour away from our home, and the action was also broadcast every Saturday night on a local t.v station. I can remember many tense and nail-biting weekend evenings in our house as we cheered and booed appropriately at the many diverse situations in which Dutch would find himself battling.

     By the time I entered Kindergarten I had already been soundly immersed in the world of wrestling, and it was there, on the first day, that I met a classmate who would become my best friend. Soon, there were a lot of sleepovers at each other's homes, and I joyfully discovered that my best friend also loved wrestling. We spent many Saturday nights glued to the television, and then afterward, we would spend the rest of the evening imagining ourselves to be residents of the ring, re-enacting all the action we had just witnessed. As a kid, I could believe myself to be a hero of the squared circle with a name that brought fear and respect, something like Steel Knuckles. My friend and I would jump off the furniture, pretending that it was the top ropes. We used pillows, picturing them as steel folding chairs, swinging away at each other like the men on t.v, and we would wrap tape around paper towel tubes and imagine them to be foreign weapons that had been smuggled into the ring when the ref wasn't looking. Then the ultimate came when my best friend had a 7-year old birthday party, and his parents not only took us out for pizza but also took us to see Portland Wrestling, the show we had been watching! We were even treated to a main event consisting of a three-man tag team, involving The Battling Midgets. I look back at the memory now with a fondness. But also through the eyes of a parent and realize that taking a bunch of six and seven-year-olds to see grown men pretend to hate each other and beat on one another in a little roped off ring was probably not the kind of decision that would propel one to a parent-of-the-year status.

     Most people, of course, understand that the so-called Professional Wrestling is as fake as margarine that pretends to be butter. It has been choreographed, and, unless you are one of those people who is thinking that the Tooth Fairy most likely is stuck in traffic but will eventually come to retrieve the 40-year-old tooth that's under your pillow, you have come to the realization that it is all just an elaborate show. Sadly, this is not the case with Ataxia. My childhood fantasy concerning a stout gladiator of the pro-wrestling circuit named Steel Knuckles has been replaced by a forty-nine-year-old flabby man named Jerky Cramps.

     I sincerely wish, though, that all my self-inflicted injuries and falls had been scripted and rehearsed beforehand, and ONLY looked real. The best that I can do at this point is to try and limit the kinds of situations that cause me to fall. Awhile ago at the Ataxia support group that I attend we had a Physical Therapist come and talk to the group about balance concerns and some safety issues. The topic that he explored with us that is relevant to this article was the subject of falling. Most of us tense up; I know I do when we trip or feel ourselves being pulled by that relentless stalker known as gravity. Myself, I'm always trying to avoid the invitation,( read blog #32 ). The speaker was telling us that we need just to relax and lay ourselves gently on the ground, folding the knees and laying down sideways, like you are getting into your bed. This would probably work great, but I seem always to forget, and at the moment of stumbling, stiffen up and fight it. After a ten to fifteen-second impromptu ritualistic-style dance, I will usually end up falling anyway. And the fall is made worse by the fact that all my pre-fall dancing has only helped me to pick up a full head of steam so that when I do hit the ground, I'm sure to injure myself. The latest example of this was when I recently stumbled on my carport stairs, did a dance routine for a few moments, and body slammed myself on the concrete driveway.

     Somehow, it all comes back to wrestling. I started childhood watching two opponents face each other in a rope surrounded ring. As an adult, well....when I hear the bell, and look around, I see only myself. You might think that this would be an easy win, but no, I usually lay the smack down and have become my own worst enemy.