Le monde de fromage de Kate

Tomorrow is very festive SUPER n’ FAT TUESDAY!!!

If you’re voting in the Primary Election tomorrow, please consider a essential and largely forgotten issue in this race for a new President: THE WAR ON CANCER, THE NUMBER ONE CAUSE OF DEATH FOR AMERICANS UNDER AGE EIGHTY-FIVE that has received an obscene lack of coverage.

This year, the Lance Armstrong Foundation sponsored the LIVESTRONG™ Presidential Cancer Forum on August 27 and 28, 2007, inviting all Democratic and Republican Candidates to share their views on cancer and related healthcare issues. Six candidates responded (and not to show any personal bias, but four Democrats accepted the invitation and only two Republicans did. Hmm). If you’d like to see video or read transcripts of what the candidates said (even though only a few of these candidates are left in the race) as well as commentary on the forum, visit the LAF’s Presidential Cancer Forum Page. At the very least, I do think it gives a sense of prevalent attitudes for each of the major parties concerning this topic.

So celebrate SUPER FAT TUESDAY! Sin, beads, politics – it’s all good.

You know – tibbles – a summary of bits and pieces – catching up with the highlights from a time period in which I’ve been either too lazy, busy, crazed or tied up by kidnappers to update my blog for my faithful reader(s). They are like stringettes. Individual stringettes… Simpson’s Individual Stringettes – for attaching notes to pigeon’s legs, DESTROYING HOUSEHOLD PESTS…. NO, no, no – I shan’t go down that road, I shall not. Tying up very small parcels…

Mock all you want; this phrase will be sweeping the nation before you can say…uhm..before you can say – “SIMPSON’S INDIVIDUAL STRINGETTES!” Ah, but where to start.

Well, on December 22, 2007, my darling niephew (that all-encompassing phrase “niephew” will sweep the Nation, too – I have no doubt) Anders turned three AND truly beautiful baby Moses Giles Samuelson-Lynn was born (who doesn’t look ANYTHING like Winston Churchill or Chairman Mao, as babies often do at first).

In January, hearty congratulations to lovely Niephew Sarah who officially graduated (with excellent test scores, indeed). There was even a ceremony with two dozen or so other “non-traditional” students. My faux Niephew, Tyler, was even one of the speakers (it was awesome – he gave a completely extemporaneous graduation speech – I think the sweeping hand gestures made it). They gave them diplomas and tassels, but had I known their would NOT be caps and gowns (even LEIF got a cap and gown to graduate from St. Marguerite’s kindergarten) I’d have loaned her mine (from my University graduation – yes, I had to BUY it – I could rant about how stupid that is – but she could have been the first high school graduate with a Phi Kappa Phi ribbon on their ensemble).

This past Tuesday I took Grandma Lee (SHHHHHHHH – DON’T TELL HER – REMEMBER: EVERYTHING I SAY ABOUT GRANDMA IS A SECRET FROM HER) to get her chemo pump attached and for her first radiation treatment. She had an Implantable Venous Access Port (a “Super” or “Power Port) put in last week and tattoos and other preparations for her radiation. I think it’s a great delivery system for her. They’ve been able to give her iron infusions through it and blood samples. And when she’s not hooked to her chemo pump she can even shower because the port is under the skin.

The chemo pump is amazing. Over the course of a week it dispenses a gradual dose of chemotherapy (in her case FU5) in a small machine that you carry around in a fanny pack (alright you Brits – STOP LAUGHING – “Bum Bag”). This lessens possible side effects and makes her simultaneous treatments (chemo and radiation) so much easier. They just refill it every week and flush out her port.

I wish she felt better, but the size of the tumor is substantial (it’s a “bulky” mass that’s probably been growing and bleeding for a long time) and it compromises the walls of the colon. Since her lymph nodes are involved as well, one of the specialists said it was important to shrink the tumor before they did any surgery. He was also so concerned about a possible bowel blockage that he inserted a stent to keep her colon open. I’d no idea that you could do that. I’d make a joke in poor taste that she was jealous of my Dad’s two stents and had to get a bigger one and put it in an – uhm – unexpected location, but it’s not really funny; she’s incredibly uncomfortable. We believe she’s probably in pain as well, but she won’t cop to anything but “discomfort.” Hopefully when the tumor shrinks she’ll get some relief. Three radiation treatments down, twenty-two to go: You hang in there,
Grandma! (shhhhhh)

Which brings up an important reminder: NEVER, EVER FORGET THAT ANYTHING I WRITE OR SAY ABOUT GRANDMA LEE MUST NEVER GET BACK TO HER EVER. EVER EVER.

Today – mmm – yesterday, technically, as we are the medical havoc and ruination family, Shirleen had eye surgery. Well, tear duct surgery, to be more specific (up through her nose). She has an unusual condition (WHAT – Shirleen has an unusual condition?) that causes her left tear duct to run constantly and squirt arbitrarily. They were not able to find a non-surgical solution (flushing it out and whatnot), so after they scanned to make sure there was nothing in her eye orbit that might even be connected to her brain (or something like that) she helped schedule her own surgery (since she works in the hospital in that department). She even threatened to get off the table in a surgical gown and go to work if they made her wait or something.

Anyhoo, the surgery was quick and successful (even though the doctor had to repair a deformed nasal turbinator – ?). Unfortunately, in recovery her nose started to hemorrhage. And why? Because if some sort of freakish thing can happen to Shirleen during a medical and/or dental procedure it likely will. They successfully stopped the bleeding; this process evidently involved something called a “nose torpedo.” She’s still wearing it, from what I understand. OH, ALAS, FOR YOUR SCHNOZ TO BE BETTER VERY SOON, SHIRLEEN! Oh – and anyone who wants is welcome to pass that along – go crazy.

And my dear Monkey Cats, your Crazy Heathen Aunt Cake Kate hasn’t forgotten you. How could she? YOU HAUNT HER DREAMS! Ha ha. In a GOOD way? It was Solo and Ensemble Competition time again on Wednesday. No prevaricating blossoms of any kind this year; we had placid Ernest Charles trio, Clouds, this time. They did a very lovely job, and I don’t think I made the “bell-like” chords sprinkled throughout the piece entirely TOO cacophonous (in performance). My principal goal for me was to NOT repeat the rubber-chicken-moment debacle of last year’s competition.

I also played for M.C. Nessa’s solo. She sang a lovely Fauré piece that I massacred when I played it for M.C. Amy’s audition for Chamber Choir last year (they took her in spite of my über-dissonant additions). I was very proud of her because she introduced herself DECLARATIVELY and CONFIDENTLY (AMEN), sang lovely French and, most importantly, kept going and was poised when she forgot some lyrics. A lesson for ALL PERFORMERS. Oh – and with MY Monkey Cats there’s never an “Adam and Eve” pose in sight.

I even got to do an almost completely unrehearsed performance of Bist Du Bei Mir with a euphonium player. “Little King,” a wee freshman, was abandoned by his accompanist a couple of hours before the competition, so I agreed that I’d probably be better than nothing (M.C. Amy would have certainly played it better, but she was already accompanying seven thousand people and singing with another five hundred or something very, very close to that). It was a very creative performance that sounded nothing like Lady of Spain. And I’ve no doubt that he will learn some semblance of tempo with a little more experience. The tone was nice… Oh – and Adam Keith owes me $15. I’ll take that in small cash bills. (?)

We found my entirely too grown-up Niephew Will ACTUALLY FILLING OUT PERFORMANCE REVIEWS. He became an honorary Monkey Cat for the evening, did the “Money Dance” at arbitrary moments throughout the afternoon/evening (he’s on the Junior Varsity Ballroom Dance Team – that’s really all the explanation I can dream up). We deviated from tradition with a Jamba Juice break, but we did end up with the requisite Taco Bell feast. We waxed nostalgic about past Taco Bell feasts, talked about their plans after high school (They are graduating! My baby Monkey Cats are Graduating. Monkey Kittens?) and they confirmed that I am, indeed, very, very old. You’ve just gotta love them. Hugs and Kisses, Monkey Cats!

Last week my Grandma Lee was diagnosed with colon cancer.

As is often the case, the symptoms that became the most acute and were the blatantly obvious did not point right away to the ultimate diagnosis. Initially, it looked like congestive heart failure, especially since she has respiratory problems that are, for the most part, untreated (they can either cause congestive heart failure over time or be a result thereof). When some of the blood tests came back from her initial visit, it was determined that her hematocrit was obscenely low (about half of what is normal – worse than Sarah’s before they diagnosed her Hodgkin’s – and you don’t want to tell your Grandma that she looks positively corpse-like). She was given an infusion, but that didn’t bring her hematocrit up enough. It was then thought that perhaps she had bleeding ulcers. She was given upper and lower g.i. tests including a long-overdue colonoscopy (she’d had polyps the last time she’d had one – fifteen years ago).

Her stomach was fine. Unfortunately, the doctor could immediately tell that she had a cancerous mass in her colon. He did think that the area (about four inches of her colon, I think) could be excised and her intestines reconnected. However, now the tumor (I’m crossing my fingers for just one) needs to be tested and staged, and she is having a number of other diagnostics to pinpoint and hopefully rule out spread of the disease. Today she also started on a series of iron infusions that the oncologist hopes will bring up her hematocrit.

Now you may ask why I said, “Secretly.” Well, the truth of the matter is that she would be completely horrified if she knew I was doing this. And it’s not just because of her personality and propensity for anxiety (in MY FAMILY – how could that BE?). She is “of a generation” where you don’t say “cancer” except, perhaps, in a whisper. Her sister, for instance, whose husband, my Uncle Ron, died this summer, did not want to talk about the “cancer” aspect of his illness. To someone like me (and my cousins) this doesn’t make sense. His illness WAS cancer. And I believe in speaking about it.

I believe this so strongly, in fact, that I volunteered a number of months ago to be the “leader” of the LIVESTRONG™ Local Army in Utah. I haven’t done anything to advertise, “get going” with a word-of-mouth campaign or organized any events – these are my responsibilities. Well, there’s nothing like a wake-up call like this.

And now I will present two wholly antithetical requests for today:

• DO NOT TELL GRANDMA LEE THAT I POSTED ANYTHING ON THE INTERNET ABOUT HER CONDITION. BBo, Tracy, Family, PLEASE don’t say anything. I don’t want her to be so angry at me that she will not accept my help. You may wonder why I’m wantonly disregarding her obsessive need for privacy. Call me a big fat hypocrite (I TRIPLE-dog-dare you), but I believe that what she does not know (in THIS case) will not hurt her. That’s the antithetical part.
• And why? BECAUSE WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW CAN HURT YOU. A colonoscopy of one of the best cancer defenses we have currently. Part of my responsibility of a LIVESTRONG™ Day Delegate last year was to help convey important messages to our Legislators. One of the requests we made was for parity in diagnostic testing (like legislation that is already in place to help with mammograms and PAP testing – I’ll discuss some serious complications with these laws another time), such as colonoscopies and PSA testing.

  My Father, for instance, could have colon cancer in addition to his (prostate) bone cancer. They excised two (or was it three?) pre-cancerous polyps during his colonoscopy a few years back. I even saw the pictures.

  So indeed, that’s the important message here (and I do not care if it’s redundant – and I assure you that you’ll hear it AGAIN even if I have to resort to graffiti): Do the preventive testing that is prescribed at the appropriate age. Well – start with getting check-ups IN GENERAL. And do consider your family history. Some cancers have a larger genetically inheritable component than others. For instance, my brothers should have PSA tests YOUNG, and my Dad’s brothers should NOT ever miss them, because my Father has his initial Stage II prostate cancer in his mid-forties. Moreover, my Father’s Father had prostate cancer (though it was not the cause of his death).

  Now, since my Grandmother has colon cancer and my Father had pre-cancerous polyps, some schools of thought would say that my siblings and I should start having colonscopies at age forty instead of fifty. As it is, since my Grandmother had a polyp at her last colonoscopy, they told my Mother that she needs her next colonoscopy in five years instead of ten (the same goes for my Father, because of his polyps).

So that’s it for now. I shall be enlisting your help (almost literally “enlisting,” come of think of it). And you shan’t turn me down, because I AM YOUR LEADER! Okay, I’m your leader if you’re in Utah, but if you think I won’t sic the leaders from States on you (and most of them have regional leaders in their States, so it will be easier to get you), you are sadly mistaken.

I love you, Grandma! And we are all there for you (even though we might not mention why or how).

My Dad spent the last few days especially grateful to be alive. The angiogram and resultant angioplasties in and of themselves are not serious procedures, relatively speaking. Two stents are certainly better than a quadruple bypass or – well – a fatal heart attack.

But my Father has spent the last two years having symptoms of heart problems (despite medication and and a lifestyle designed to manage his hereditary high blood pressure and high cholesterol). And OH what a family history. He’s the oldest of eight siblings, and at least one of his brothers has already had serious heart trouble. His mother’s cholesterol (and she’s tiny) has been as high as 400. She’s had miny strokes, her siblings have died of heart trouble and strokes. My paternal grandfather died unexpectedly of a heart attack* at age seventy; one moment he was walking around, and a moment later he fell over and was gone. Just like that.

And here’s the rub: My Dad had a treadmill test a few years back; it was inconclusive. A few other indeterminate exams here and there… And then in late April he had an MRI and an extensive series of accompanying tests (despite the fact that the insurance company did not want to pay for it – imagine that). The radiologist called my father’s PCP and said everything was “clear.”

Then, last week, he sent the doctor the actual report. I don’t think anything on that report was “normal” except the size of my Dad’s heart. The report indicated horrible percentages of plaque blockage in a number of locations and recommended immediate catheterization. Immediate.

This is what, in medical ethics terms, we call a MEDICAL MISTAKE. Yes, physicians are human; mistakes happen. And I found myself grateful that the radiologist sent the report at all, though I do hope he was horrified at what could have been a fatal delay. I imagine a scenario in which he was making calls SEVEN MONTHS AGO, reading from an overwhelmingly tall stack of reports, and he simply gave the wrong results to my father’s doctor. Who can say.

All I know if that my father had started more and more often to feel faint and dizzy, fatigued, etc. So much of it you can write off: He has bone cancer, his schedule is ridiculous, he has sleep apnea and doesn’t wear his CPAP enough, he puts the “a” in type “a” personalities (? – well, you get the picture), he has asthma, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and he deals with a ridiculous amount of stress.

Honestly, I felt like a heart attack was inevitable at some point in his life (especially when I’ve given him a really hard time, stressed him out and felt really guilty about it).

But then there was the cancer recurrence. And he’d delayed his colonoscopy for – oh – a decade (and said, “Well, I already have cancer,” which was supposed to be a joke). When I finally dragged him to get one he had two (or was it three?) precancerous polyps that they were able to excise right then. The irony: Colon cancer can be quick and insidious (okay, lots of cancers can be so) and so he could have died of colon cancer before he even reaches a difficult point in his bone cancer treatment (it’s really prostate cancer, but I always feel odd saying that since they did the radical prostatecomy years ago the “first” time he had cancer).

Then there’s the ticking time-bomb hernia. Tomorrow he’ll get a report about the tests he had on that last week. If it’s BAD I’m not taking him to the airport Tuesday to go to Disneyland – NO SIR.

I don’t know what I’m saying (insert joke here?), except that I, too, am grateful that my Dad’s alive. And I’m very glad he feels so much better; getting a little oxygen flowing efficiently through your system will do that, I suppose. But retrospectively, I’m really frightened. I don’t suppose that makes tons of sense, but so be it. He’s actually healthier and now I feel afraid.

If the radiologist had suppressed the report or delayed it any longer, who knows when the massive myocardial infarction would have happened. Probably while my Dad was at work in the middle of the night. He might have ignored it until it was too late; he was getting so sick of “inconclusive” or supposedly “clear” tests.

AAAH! I cannot think about this any more.

Everyone? Please just TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES. And get your flu shot, please.

*I think that was it. He and my grandmother were in Germany at the time, so there is some confusion about the diagnosis (as he was the one fluent in German) – it could have been some sort of embolism. The whole thing was confusing; the airlines lost his body as it was being transported back to the States (just temporarily…).

Once I have my data loaded back onto my spankin’ new hard drive, the changes begin:

• Mammogram update (no cancer – just a festive description of the experience).
• LITTLE WALLOP!!! I’ve been waiting for the right time to introduce this one forever.
• A belated update on the 2007 Gloucester Cheese Rolling Competition.
• Introducing two local LIVESTRONG Armies…
• Buh-bye, pink; welcome back “Midnight.”

I’m excited. YOU SHOULD BE, TOO.

Ever-discerning Terry sent me the PERFECT greetings for this day:

Thank you, Terry, and thanks to I Can Has Cheez Burger. I think it’s SUCH a lovely chapeau, perfect for any and every occasion.

Oh – and I’m sure all y’all thought I was going to talk about breasts today. Yup, I said it: BREASTS, BREASTS, BREASTS! (Go Google, GO!) I decided to wait until tomorrow. I wanted to make the point that we needn’t limit discussion of breast cancer awareness and breast health JUST to Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Tomorrow, at the ungodly bright, early hour of 8:00 a.m. I am getting my very first mammogram. Breast Cancer Awareness month is almost over, and I thought this was an appropriate finale to this time frame. Also tomorrow, in furtherance of Breast Cancer AWARENESS, I thought I might make everyone AWARE that they’ve been extraordinarily remiss – nay – NEGLECTFUL of the worthy goals of Team Tiny Pineapple.

The idea was to raise a mere $250 for Susan G. Komen for the Cure. The suggested donation was only $5. FIVE DOLLARS! Let me put that into even more clear perspective; I found five dollars – if I can find five dollars, anyone can pull together five dollars. Seriously, ANYONE.

Incidentally, I did not know that you could not wear lotion or deodorant/antiperspirant to a mammogram. Did you know that? This is what my Mother tells me anyway, and she has experience in the area. She claims they will actually reschedule your appointment if you don either beforehand.

It did occur to me that perhaps she thought it might be really hilarious to see what happens if I go in and say to the Radiology Technologist, “I’m not wearing any deodorant; let’s get started!” If the tech backs off I will know this was her devious plan.

Yes, I’m a copy-Kitten-Child. Grettir said he was “going pink for October,” so I had to find out all about it. Google it, and you find, among a myriad of links, Pink for October.

And in the time it took for me to muck up my site imposing the “Hills-Pink” template on it and (sort of) fixing it again, Grettir had established “Team Tiny Pineapple.” That’s why he’s the guru. As for going “pink,” it’s really very simple and doesn’t involve ANY STRIPES WHATSOEVER – I promise:

Take part in Pink for October, a campaign to help raise awareness of, and money for, breast cancer research as part of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Please join the Tiny Pineapple Team and help raise money for Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

A wise man once said:

ASSUMPTION makes an “ASS” out of you and “UMPTION.”

Insightful words, indeed.

I haven’t been “back East” since I chopped off my hair. I ASSUMED that the humidity would make it more curly and frizzy. I was prepared to tame the wild curl, I was ready to battle wanton frizziness. I was an idiot.

The first time I washed my hair and utilized my various products was on LIVESTRONG® Day – the day that we were to go visit the legislators and have a press conference and all that.

It was not long before, “OH, the horror, THE HORROR!” And that wasn’t just because I hadn’t realized until it was too late that someone had “lightened” my luggage by removing my antiperspirant/deodorant. MY HAIR HAD TAKEN ON A LIFE OF ITS OWN. Now, as many of you may know, this isn’t the first time that has happened. But this was EXTREME. It wasn’t super curly. It wasn’t even exactly frizzy. It simply had taken on, root to tip, an unimaginable VOLUME defying every law of gravity old and new. I was speechless (imagine that) and awestruck.

But doesn’t everyone DREAM of having a bunch of very important meetings and being part of a press conference when they look and smell their very worst? I thought not.

Throughout the wretchedly hot/humid day, I kept trying to calm my tresses (I spoke gently to them, touched them softly – I was the “hair whisperer”). I continuously tucked and re-tucked the whole lively shebang behind my ears. The gallons of sweat seemed to weigh it down – don’t think I’m going to pretend for one moment that I was merely “glowing” and not drenched in my own wretched FUNK and FETOR.

At our rest building – WHERE I WOULD REMOVE MY JACKET AND LET PEOPLE SEE MY ARMS IN A SLEEVELESS BLOUSE – THAT’S HOW HOT I WAS – I had a couple of moments here and there in which, from the front, my coif still looked really horrible, but it seemed I had domesticated it just a little – smushing and sweat soothe the savage beast?

Then the “official” pictures, taken by the professional photographers, were released. Here’s the one that let me know that truth – the entire, awful reality:

Delegates Mill About Prior to the Press Conference

Perhaps you don’t see it? Get a little closer. I’ve blurred the unessential parts:

Kermit & Kate Confer
(I somehow blurred off my own nose. I’m talented like that.)

Still can’t see it? I doubt this very much. But just in case, let me REALLY focus in on the ghastly part:

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I made it even more grotesque. Now EVERYTHING is blurry, even the sections I did intentionally “soften,” and I somehow made it look like I’m bleeding from the ear and that I have a mole on my jaw the size of a quarter (American).

I thought I’d “tamed” it, while it had just HIDDEN from me. I look like I’ve affixed a wild animal to the back of my head. Dead? Alive?! You decide. But WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT THING?

I’d have loved to say which animal, but I honestly couldn’t think of a genus and species that repelled me so much that wasn’t in the arachnid family; this is quite obviously a mammal. I’m open to suggestions.

On a more positive note, my skin, for the most part, liked the humidity. My knees have never been so very soft. My hands were spotted and irritated on and off (I never did figure out why – perhaps an acute case of temporary leprosy), and I was bitten by several DOZEN anonymous creatures (of the insect variety*, no doubt), but for the most part it was pleasant not to have the flaky dry places – ‘specially under my nose, because MY ALLERGIES DID NOT COME WITH ME – rather a miraculous thing. In fact, I just laid in bed sometimes, luxuriating in the fact that I could BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE completely unencumbered and giggled with delight.

As for the *insects, David, in his über-unflustered way, almost SIGHED one day because of the fifty-third time I’d cried out, “I don’t know what it is, BUT IT IS GOING TO EAT ME!” or something else along those lines. He calmly said, “Kate, it’s like being in National Geographic.”

He lived in Brazil for two years. I had never thought of Maryland as that…mysterious. Perhaps all the nature film crews should now quietly crawl through the gardens and bathrooms and attics and guestrooms of houses there whispering, “I have NEVER seen anything with so many legs that moves so FAST.”

Now I’m finding a certain logic to the idea of moving LIGHTENING-fast if you have three million legs. You think I exaggerate? Ha!

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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