Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Happy Forty-Second Wedding Anniversary, Ma and Pa! Hmmm – that’s very Ma and Pa Kettle. At least I didn’t bust out all Lil’ Abner on all y’all.

Married September 10, 1965

Oh – and just so you know, the stipulated gift for a Forty-Second Wedding Anniversary is “Improved Real Estate.” In keeping with tradition, I “improved” this real estate by cleaning two of the three toilets.

You’re welcome.

Well, not much blood, really, but she would like to stick you repeatedly with needles. Perhaps I should explain.

Shirleen is taking at phlebotomy course (as I’ve outlined previously she already knows how to do pretty much everything else in the World). My faux nephew, Tyler, is taking the course, too (bless his needle-phobic lil’ heart). She needs volunteers to be poked (need I add WITH NEEDLES) tonight (Tuesday, August 28, 2007) and on Thursday at 6:00 p.m.

Shirleen practiced on me the other night, and, as someone who’s had their blood taken for various tests at least once a month or so all this year and someone who used to participate in a specialty plasma donation program (those needles have the girth of earthworms), I can tell you she did an excellent job. I can’t vouch for anyone else, mind you, and I don’t know whether or not she has to share her volunteers. That adds an air of titillating risk to it, yes?

So let me know if you’d like to spend your Tuesday and or Thursday evening this week letting neophyte phlebotomists stick you with small-gauge needles for the sake of learning – nay – for the very future of medicine and healthcare.

I got the following text message from Shirleen on Friday (you’ll have to envision the little icon bolt of lightening – it won’t transfer by email):

I’m officially turned on:)

Now AGAIN, don’t get all concupiscent on me, this is MEDICAL, SCIENTIFIC and BIONIC. Hmm. That doesn’t sound too much better. But, referring back to my previous entries, particularly the one from August 11, 2007, you will remember Shirleen’s long overdue pain relief spine stimulating device has been implanted. Well, the surgical healing has progressed far enough, and, with the “bionics expert” looking on (evidently the rep for this device not only consults extensively with potential clients of this gizmo, he attends every surgery), they activated Shirleen’s anti-pain machine (with Bluetooth® technology).

I happy to report that she already is receiving some relief. When she’s completely healed from the surgery it should be even better (I should hope to shout).

Mind you, I think that not only is she entitled to some intense pain relief, I believe she deserves a bevy of tiny faeries to carry her to some cloud-enveloped island where she gets to lounge in an enormous bubble bath while handsome cabana boys fan her with gargantuan ostrich plumes and the scent of jasmine fills the air while the sounds of the gentle waves lull her into a well-deserved sleep. Oh – and there are other gorgeous cabana boys to feed her chocolate – especially delectable magical chocolate containing no calories whatsoever. And vitamins – one can subsist entirely on this chocolate, naturally, go to store and buy your vitamins to get healthy and strong.

Sadly, this is not to be the case. Instead, she was called into work to today so they could lay her off, because she is salaried and with the financial difficulties currently going on in the company they cannot afford her (I personally believe they cannot afford to lose her, but foresight is not the strength of most companies, in my experience). So now that she has achieved a state of increased mobility and will need less and less pain medication and so on, she will have to find a new job.

I’m not sure how she’ll feel about this, but I thought I’d just throw this out there: Anyone need a most excellent multi-talented employee? She can do anything, and if she doesn’t know how to do it already it will take her about five minutes to learn the task. Seriously.

She can expertly groom your dog (though there is a size limit to the canines with that now because of her back), help your bitch whelp its puppies (that’s not ribald – it’s the appropriate medical terminology) and then help you whip up a spreadsheet for financial planning, navigate a database, make multi-coloured explanatory charts and then do your taxes with her lightening-quick typing skills. Oh – and she can do all of this bilingually; she’s fluent in Spanish, too. Wait – she’s trilingual – she speaks some FINE teenager and can text message as fast and well as any sixteen-year-old. And don’t forget, she’s remote-controlled.

If anyone knows of any position that’s available at the moment, give a holler. She really can do just about anything. There are a few physical limitations – she shouldn’t dance, jog, do the “twist,” break dance, or, come to think of it, lift anything “heavier than a milk jug,” and krumpin’ is right out. I don’t know which or if any of these limitations change after more healing from the surgery, but I personally think the cane she uses adds a classy touch to any outfit or situation.

P.S. She has a certain sister who is relatively – okay – mostly unemployed. This sister is also multi-talented and very creative. Sorry, no Spanish, no cane, no puppy whelping (though she can throw a smattering – some smaller smatterings than others – of German, French, Italian, Latin at you, as well as a phrase or two in Russian, Spanish, Japanese, etc. and two phrases and some great song lyrics in Scots Gaelic).

Additionally, she is an ordained clergy person, can take the anal temperature of a feline, has excellent veins upon which many phlebotomists have trained, and possesses an unusual combination of knowledge concerning music (performing and teaching), theatre (performing and teaching), Shakespeare, genetic research, deposition transcription, some rudimentary knowledge of graphic design, retail management, event planning, medical ethics, U.S. Post Service approved address formatting and end-of-life care. She has been known in some work settings as the formatting and table and database QUEEN. What’s more, she has several seemingly useless skills that the innovative employer might find a way to utilize: She’s quite limber, she has double-jointed fingers and toes as well as an inordinately large cranium, an odd ankle deficiency, and she always carries a periodic table of the elements (an outdated version, but it will do for the basics). Oh – and she’s recently delving into cancer advocacy.

Mind you, Shirleen would definitely be a more ideal choice of employee at this point, and not just because she’s a single parent of actual human progeny rather than Kitten Children, but because it will still be a month or so before her sister has a minor medical procedure which should help a tad with at least one aspect of mood-leveling (positive mood-leveling is the hope).

The last first. Frenchy McFrench has spoken. I made the du a de, made plans to, as the FRENCH do, eschew capitalization in my blog title, and then I find that my syntax is altogether wrong.

But, from mes experts français well – rather mon cher expert français I have the final word(s). So, as you can see, I have AT LAST (I hope) correctly molded my title to make the French happy (I say as though “The French” are a key demographic who give a damn about my writing). We’ll just see what Google makes of this.

Now on to SCIENCE! I explained that Shirleen had been implanted with a spinal stimulating device so that we can direct her every move by remote control so that she can control her pain with a remote control. Unfortunately, this is one of those procedures that results in horrific pain in order to eventually control chronic, wretched, debilitating pain. They cannot actually switch on the device until her surgical recovery is complete. In the meantime, she is, “Lumpy, stripy and bruised.” (And SHE, being a sophisticate, pronounced BOTH syllables of “bruised” when she gave me the report over the phone. Well done.)

At least while she was in the hospital she was entertained and tutored in life by her “EIGHTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD” roommate (who either sang that information or related it in an extremely adamant manner – I’m not sure which). She did sing songs, regaled Shirleen with sage advice and stories, and made her laugh (which was painful, unfortunately).

The most amazing tidbit was, I think, this life-changing advice about relationships:

If you really love a man you give him an enema.

I, for one, am stupefied. Shirleen and I both concluded that the fact we never knew about this dictum, and therefore had never followed it as a guideline, explained a great deal about our lives in general. If only we had known. HOW COULD WE HAVE KNOWN?

We’ll just have to move forward now, armed with this crucial knowledge. I’m just wondering how one infuses the willingness to administer this essential (I guess?) medical procedure – as a sign of affection – into a computer dating bio. And people wonder why I don’t leave the house that much. Don’t you see? I have very grave matters to ponder.

Oooooh – back to the science. Once the nice doctors do turn Shirleen on (DON’T GO THERE, YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHAT I MEAN) she gets to control her device with a wireless Bluetooth® remote. Oh yes, she has Bluetooth® connectivity. That certainly gives new meaning to the slogan, “Experience hands-free in so many ways.”

I’m already trying to decide what I might do with my Bluetooth® headset (find out what one’s crazy spine sound like?). And I have a Bluetooth® mouse. I LOVE the idea that I could somehow incite funky chicken dances or the the like with that implement. My dad’s PDA has Bluetooth® connectivity. Perhaps we could upload data directly into her spinal column. The possibilities are ENDLESS!

Your suggestions would be appreciated.

Today Shirleen was surgically implanted with her robot components. She isn’t aiming for this, at least as far as I know:

Optimus Prime*

Instead, she wants some much-needed relief from the constant back and neck pain, as well as the substantial discomfort from the nerve damage resulting from having an emergency diskectomy and then having her lumbar vertebrae fused (she has a cage in there – sounds a tad kinky). As it is, I envision her spine comprised wholly of a hodgepodge of crumbly cheese. That would be an interesting diagnosis: “I’m so sorry, Miss Appropriation, but you have crumbly cheese hodgepodge spine; it’s quite tasty yet unfortunately rather debilitating.”

No one deserves liberation from the constant torment more than Shirleen; she has the highest pain threshold of any human being I’ve ever met. Therefore, when she admits to a high level of “discomfort,” shall we say, you know it must hurt like HELL.

I believe this is the implant she received:

Spinal Cord Stimulating Device

Some of these apparatuses have JOYSTICKS; that’s too cool. Part of the device is affixed into a small nook of painstakingly scraped-out bone somewhere above Shirleen’s lumbar fusion (and I didn’t think she had any more bone in her spine – I guess I was mistaken). The other portion is placed in her “flank” (their phrase, not mine). There are leads that extend from the device that help stimulate the key pain-causing nerves. They determine this placement with a trial run device (which she already had implanted and removed).

Once the surgical wounds heal, the joystick or controller is used to tune in specific frequencies that cancel the pain impulses. Oh, YES – this is superlative SCIENCE.

Hearty congratulations on finally jumping through all the hoops to receive your robot implant, Shirleen (I should inform everyone that there has been no actual jumping, per se – this would have not only been ill-advised in terms of increasing potential physical damage, but prohibitively and excruciatingly torturous). No one could be more deserving.

And, just in case, please keep us apprised of any possible super-powers. There’s got to be a SLIGHT chance, right?

*I only know this “Optimus Prime” crap because of the TRUTH – the inside scoop about the Transformers. This film has been ostensibly marketed in conjunction with the sales of children’s toys. Rubbish.

The target demographic for this movie is MEN IN THEIR THIRTIES! They know everything about the “epic battle” between “the heroic Autobots and the evil Decepticons.” And while they are bathing in the nostalgic glow of childhood reminiscences, their spouses, partners and/or girlfriends sit baffled – trying to figure out which robots are the “bad guys” or the “good guys.” I’ve had first-hand reports of this phenomenon from trusted sources.

I had a very special traveling companion on my trip to D.C./Maryland/dipping into Virginia/Stalled in St. Louis/Fin. Dear Mr. Peek-A-Boo Radley consented to accompany me on my grand adventures. It’s nice to have a traveling companion, because then you can take pictures of THEM, rather then the alternative – pictures of YOU [me, that is].

For the Fourth of July holiday, Peek-A-Boo thought he’d give you some insight into Fort McHenry, the site where Francis Scott Key penned the words to A Star is Born. No – wait – something else with “star” in it – ah yes – The Star-Spangled Banner.

Ah. “The Flag is full of stars.”
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

And there isn’t a better story for the Fourth of July, as years ago, during the War of 1812, on September 13, 1814 (you can see how all the dates go so well together), attorney Frances Scott Key and his Colonel friend went to see if they could get their doctor associate off a British prison ship. The Brits said, “Okay, FINE, but first we’ll put you on of one of OUR boats with a really funny name* and then we’ll put you back on your own sloop and make you watch us lob really big bombs at your mates in the fort all night.” I’m not kidding.

But, in the wee hours of the morn on September 14, 1814, Francis Scott Key could see that the ENORMOUS “Garrison Flag” (30 feet by 42 feet – not subtle) was still flying and the Brits were making a hasty (but dignified – harrumph, harrumph) retreat.

A Replica of the Garrison Flag Flies over Fort McHenry
Photo Courtesy of The National Park Service.

Key was inspired to write the famous text that millions and millions of people ALMOST know and mumble at important patriotic events (like baseball games and basketball games and football games). And because he, even under duress had a sense of humour, The Star-Spangled Banner was ultimately set to the British tune “The Anacreontic Song” (commonly referred to as “To Anacreon in Heaven”) because he and his associates had been put by the Brits onto the *H.M.S. Surprise. I’m sure that was his reasoning.

Now many consider “The Anacreontic Song” to be a drinking tune. In fairness, it should be noted that, though it contains certain Bacchanalian themes, it was the “official song of the Anacreontic Society, an 18th-century club of amateur musicians in London.” And who are WE to question Wikipedia. Re-write it, yes, Question it, NOOOO. Well, I admit they DO mention this:

This absence of an official connection to drinking did not keep the song from being associated with alcohol, as it was commonly used as a sobriety test: If you could sing a stanza of the notoriously difficult melody and stay on key, you were sober enough for another round.

As you will see, we were certainly sober (COLD sober) enough to enjoy numerous rounds of the festive attractions at Fort McHenry. We started in the visitor’s center cum museum. Peek-A-Boo Radley thought it was “da bomb.”

Oh, I see! This one DIDN’T explode; therefore it’s INTACT.
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

We met Ranger Bill. According to his colleague (just out of the frame on the left in the image below) he is ORIGINAL from the War of 1812. Ha ha ha.

Ranger Bill Meets Peek-A-Boo Radley
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

Then we saw a scale model of that famous battle that took place on and around September 13-14, 1814. It had lights, movement – the Government must of paid handsomely for the thing.

Peek-A-Boo Did Not TOUCH It
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

But wait, that’s a diorama made by a grade-school student. I tell you, it was so much better than the (no doubt) bazillion-dollar monstrosity that took up the whole center of the visitor’s center that we didn’t even take a picture of the “real” model.

Then we ventured out to the Fort proper. Throughout history, as I understand it, Fort McHenry has been a sort of defensive stronghold, a super-star fort, a garrison for Civil War Troops, a prison for Confederate soldiers during/after the Civil War, the largest WWI hospital in the country (evidently they just tore those buildings down in the 1920’s when they didn’t need them any more), and then it was apparently stripped down and rebuilt to super-star Fort status again.

Fort McHenry has many little nooks and crannies. Some of them are in the Sally Yard and some of them…are not. No, I don’t know what the “Sally Yard” is. Though it mentioned on numerous signs, the literature wasn’t very specific about it (translation = I didn’t bother to find out in any of the pamphlets what the “Sally Yard” is/was). Here’s a powder prison:

WATCH OUT! Peek-A-Boo’s a PYROMANIAC!
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

OHHHHH – THERE’S more, MORE, MORE and you’ll want to see it…I DARE you to continue…

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Every morning at David and Julianne’s house Green Smoothie® is the breakfast preference du jour. When they’d visited at holidays I had looked askance at Green Smoothie®. Then I tried it. It’s downright scrum-diddly-umptious. Not to mention it’s full of vegetable and fruit and flax seed goodness sans sugar -and it’s so GREEN.

To successfully make Green Smoothie® it’s best to own the super extraordinary blender (like David’s and Julianne’s – they have connections) that can, evidently, pulverize an iPod. It takes raw power.

This is where I must take a moment to express my dismay at the heartless mistreatment of ANY fine Apple product. I’m sorry, but it is cold-hearted and brutal. If I hear that this demonstration is to take place again I shall have to bodily hurl myself in front of the salesperson who is about to push the button (this begs the question: How does one UN-bodily fling or throw themselves anywhere?) screaming, “Nooooooooooooooooo!” I would then offer up to be sacrificed a Walkman (from the 1980’s, you know, which is evidently an historical era ALREADY – a while back I had a sixteen-year-old voice student who told me they were studying the 1980’s in HISTORY CLASS as the 1960’s and 1970’s were SO overdone) and I would even load the Walkman with Air Supply’s Greatest Hits. Don’t ask where I could get that…

Aside from the iPod controversy, this blender is AMAZING. It grinds the fruits and the vegetables and the flax seeds like NUTHIN’. I smoked out a blender once (literally) just trying to make hummus. After seeing Green Smoothie® made a number of times, I offered to do it. I was given instructions, which included the detail that since spinach shrinks down so much you can really pack it to the top of the container. I unfortunately translated this “packing” method to the fruit container as well. Have you heard the expression, “Shrinking peaches?” Right. That’s because IT DOESN’T EXIST. Here are the results of my poor fruit eye-balling skills:

Luckily David and Julianne were dressing upstairs so that I could clean up the evidence. Now, one may ask why there is a container full of PINK smoothie that is somehow part of the Green Smoothie®. You see, both containers are dumped into the pitcher with the magic-mixing plunger, and once everything is fully incorporated, the green overwhelms everything (go CLOROPHYLL!!!). Then you have enough Green Smoothie® for several days.

But when my Father was in Maryland last week he MOCKED THE GREEN SMOOTHIE®. Openly. He showed disdain for it and “choked it down.” He’s lucky I still gave him the Trader Joes fruit spreads I’d purchased for him…

As I’ve mentioned, I prefer that my clothing be fabricated (ha) of either natural fibers, or scientific blends (ones with a high SPF, and/or wicking properties, and/or built-in insect repellant, and/a place to rig your fishing rod – I have one of those so don’t think I’m just yanking your chain – and/or powers to defy the laws of time and gravity (especially in regards to Kepler’s gravitational laws because he was SOOO obsessed with the planets)). I just want the basics.

Whilst in Maryland/D.C./dipping into Virginia, David and Julianne were very amused by my “science” garb. Rightly so; I deserved some good-natured ribbing about my high-tech attire. So if I happened to mention that I was wearing a “science” shirt they would ask, “Does it do thus and such?” or “Can your shirt fix the car?” and so on. But here’s the thing: The question they asked most consistently was, “Does it make toast?” Yes, toast.

I like toast as much as the next person (though LIGHTLY done, thank you very much), but I do not understand how whether or not something makes toast became the gold standard by which one must evaluate of the performance of highly technological apparati (I don’t care – I know it’s not a word, but I don’t LIKE the term “apparatuses”).

If they (they being the very clever scientists who may or may not have questionable habits when it comes to personal hygiene, though that’s not particularly germane to the topic – I just want you to get a feel for “them”), build a wondrous new microscope that can magnify sub-sub-SUB-atomic particles (I guess that would be “The Babies of Quark Babies?” I’m a little out of the loop here) I am not convinced that the first thing the Nobel Prize Committee would ask would be, “Does it make TOAST?”

And were they (being the scientists) to answer, “Uhm, NO,” I do not believe the Nobel Prize Committee would turn on its heels and say, “Well then. The prize goes to Ron Popeil for his newest version of the Popeil Pocket Fisherman which is not only a MIRACLE of recreational ultra-high-tech fishing science – BUT WAIT – THERE’S MORE – it also makes toast (and is available with an optional bagel slot).”

My family has been globe-hopping (state-hopping at the very least) like stir crazy rabbits. While I was in D.C. and Maryland and briefly in Virginia my Father jetted off to London. By the time we went to call him on Father’s Day he was in Houston.

In the meantime, Ashley and Paisley went to Utah so they could go to California with Ashley’s friend. And THEN, after delaying my departure date to June 20th, I tried to go home.

I missed my flight on the 20th. I’m not ready to discuss that yet.

I booked a flight for the next day, I was already packed, and Julianne and I even managed an extra trip to Trader Joes! Triple Huzzah for THAT!!! Because I’d switched airlines I could pack a box with my spoils (QUINOA, et al) and check it. Julianne dropped me off at the airport with at least two hours to spare. The sky cap agent actually let one of my over-weight suitcases slide through without the penalty charge (he got an extra tip despite the fact that he seemed to think that I was his “Sweetheart”).

I passed through security without a hitch. This is when I tempted fate. I went shopping. I bought some festive amusing crabs (stuffed toys, of course). Then I went to The Body Shop. They were having a sale – a BIG sale. The purchase of several items, including a container of body butter and a bottle of shower wash (with PINEAPPLE in it), sent the World into some sort of Karmic tailspin.

First, my flight was delayed. It was also overbooked. I volunteered to take the incentive and give up my seat, but they wouldn’t take me because they couldn’t accommodate my connecting flight (hah). So we were delayed a little more while, “In just a few minutes we’ll have a flight crew [taken straight off a red-eye from Bora Bora?] from their other flight.” Blah blah. Finally, we planed (well, you DE-plane, yes?).

That’s when the pouring rain started (I tell you – BROUGHT ON BY RECKLESS SHOPPING). The pilot announced a weather delay. It was a lovely change of scene from the gate to sitting on the tarmac. I got on the phone with the airline right then and found out what would happen if I and several of my fellow passengers missed our connecting flight (as we had a twenty minute window or something to that effect). I was told that if they did not “hold the flight for us” we would be put up for the night, as there were no alternative flights.

When we landed in St. Louis, I kid you not, there wasn’t a gate available for the plane. I called to see if the connecting flight had, indeed, taken off. It was an hour gone. So I got on the phone with an agent again, and as I “deplaned” I started to arrange my alternate flight and put on my “you WILL [nicely] give me equitable treatment” demeanor.

As I walked through the airport she told me that evidently they were already trying to route me to Phoenix. I asked if there were connecting flights to Salt Lake City there. Nope. Bonus sightseeing? Anyhoooo, by the time I reached the desk agent, I knew that they were to issue me an “interrupted trip” voucher of some sort and that they should find my luggage (ugh – hadn’t REALLY wanted to see if again until Salt Lake) and I was to ask for a manager to get a hotel room voucher, etc. Someone attempted ONCE to say that they do not comp rooms for a weather delay and I had my index finger in the air in my forceful “talk to the [nice] finger” stance and explained that it was NOT just a weather delay and that I’d volunteered to get off the flight and before I got into the rest of the gory details that’s when they started to fetch things for me. So and so was going to fetch my luggage so it didn’t go to Phoenix or Bora Bora and someone else was running up to the something to get the signature for the voucher and was bringing it to me, etc. The agent next to mine started to look very concerned. Evidently, she’d just sent someone away from the same flight with NOTHING. So they paged him and somehow found a few others from our flight.

They handed my new partner-in-crime and I hotel vouchers and meal vouchers and explained where our luggage would be and that we were to call on the “red phone” (ooooh!) to get a shuttle. Now THAT’S what I’m talking about. I’ve never been to St. Louis. I got a scenic tour of the airport and the Double Tree Inn (not bad).

My new friend, Herr Schauble (don’t bring up the painful umlaut excision that his family suffered some years ago), was extremely gallant and helpful with my ridiculous amount of luggage (helping me protect my precious Quinoa). Turns out he’ll work for beer. I thought it was a good deal.

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Sunday afternoon we received a call that my Uncle Ron would die that day. His final diagnosis included extremely advanced liver cancer, lung cancer and esophageal cancer. Concerning the rest, either his family thought that was plenty to share with us, or the possibility of the pain associated with continued examinations made them unwarranted. As for his prognosis, if you know anything about end-of-life care, you know the sorts of things that lead a physician to tell you that the patient will die that day. If you don’t know, it’s best left as I would describe it – unimaginable. Nevertheless, Uncle Ron lingered on until Monday night.

Evidently, the week before he died he felt relatively well and was in good enough shape to attend the funeral of a friend and enjoy the company of his family the day before he entered the hospital. That night, before his hospital admission in the morning, he spoke for the very last time. “I Love You,” he said to my Aunt Joan.
A. Ronald Henderson
May 7, 1934 – June 4, 2007

Uncle Ron was a professional photographer for many, many years. His obituary says:

Ron’s life passion and hobby was photography, and [he] had the unique pleasure of doing what he loved. As owner of Ashton Henderson Photography, he took great pleasure in capturing the beauty of nature and creating lasting memories with his portrait work.

And, I guess, in the true spirit of always being the photographer, there was no picture with his obituary (also online for the time being here) and I haven’t any with me.

But he took countless photographs all those years – a legacy of images. Here are a very, very few examples:

Above is my parents’ very favourite picture that Uncle Ron took on the day of their wedding, September 10, 1965. So they took the original and hung it on the wall (without glass). The resultant sun damage, stains and scratches are very pronounced. When Uncle Ron learned that we wanted to use enlargements of their wedding pictures for my Parents’ Fortieth Wedding Anniversary and that the best-loved image was damaged, he found the original negative and made a new print (from which I made a SCAN for them to hang). Unfortunately, I have yet to manage a good scan of this picture; I will try again:


Mom & Dad, September 10, 1965

I cropped the black and white photo above from one of the portraits Uncle Ron took at Mom and Dad’s reception for their Anniversary invitation. He took a great assortment of coloured and black and white images on that occasion.

Uncle Ron also took all our family portraits. For some odd reason this is the only one I have on my computer at the moment:

My Family, Circa 1979

Uncle Ron, naturally, cannot be held accountable for any wardrobe or coiffure choices. Nor can is he responsible for any vaguely cockeyed looks; it’s a small miracle to take a picture in which my eyes AND my father’s are open.

I will miss you, Uncle Ron. I look back fondly on the trips the families used to take – staying at The Homestead, going to Yellowstone or The Tetons or to Bozeman. I love the memory of that blue Sears jumpsuit you used to wear and the gallant protection you afforded us from that gander which landed you “in the drink.” When I see all the pictures you took, the weddings, funerals, the family gatherings – all the rites of passage it seems – I shall always think of you.

For quite a long time, when someone was dying or had died, a particular song has come to my mind – a lovely piece called “Mark’s Song” by Eastmountainsouth.

Here are the lyrics, especially for Glen, for Kari, for Grandma Wanda’s Charley, and for Uncle Ron:

may your soul be blessed
may your body rest
on the mountain where you were born
may your spirit soar
where there’s joy ever more
may you find your way in peace

and there’s no more harm
in your Savior’s arms
see you fly away in the sky
did you hear the call of angels one and all
may you find your way in peace

may you know you’re loved
may you shine above
on the mountain where you were born
may your spirit soar
there’s no pain anymore
may you find your way in peace

and there’s no more harm
in your Savior’s arms
see you fly away in the sky
did you hear the call of angels one and all

may you find your way in peace
may you find your way in peace
may you find your way in peace

May you find your way in peace, Uncle Ron. And may you find peace, Aunt Joan, Kevin and your family, Janell and your family, and my Grandma L., as well as those members of Uncle Ron’s family I do not know.