tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68516962435631156542024-03-12T21:20:47.372-07:00My Inner CurmudgeonJohn Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-44517871959585485832021-06-13T20:00:00.000-07:002021-06-13T20:00:59.237-07:00Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman, # 24 The Tooth <p>Such a beautiful smile<br />With her big blue eyes<br />And pearly whites, all the while<br />Closed mouth to the camera spies</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought it very unsightly<br />
There in the corner of her mouth<br />
One tooth misaligned slightly<br />
Led her appearance to doubt<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Though endearing to me, the dentists came by <br />
And put in bridges, crowns and such<br />
No longer camera shy<br />
For the camera she smiles very much<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her appearance is something she cares about <br />
And I love her for that<o:p></o:p></p>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-55149784943655276692021-06-13T18:01:00.000-07:002021-06-13T18:01:34.791-07:00Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman, # 25 Who Comed Over<p> A mid -summer day</p><p class="MsoNormal">
Bonnie and the toddler<br />
On the front porch step<br />
Re-telling the story<br />
About that snowy January day<br />
We brought her home<br />
From the adoption agency<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Who comed over?” asked Sara<br />
“Oh, everybody came to see<br />
The wonderful new baby.”<br />
She re-told about the grandmothers<br />
And aunts, uncle, neighbors, and friends<br />
And how they were all delighted<br />
To see the new baby<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">She cares about family</span><br style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">I love her for that </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVIvAOVbOlr0OYS3ISLk1oduPBMXV_aVMvCK1jtCtMM6kh4VyLqhyBEkqHg957_tIQJAmHSUUIrUL6JHnelzP8Ec9kDsLyCNFH581se9UBbTf8Lq2m5fp7HUvn4-u6yeJsg-NjOnuJqbPB/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="256" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVIvAOVbOlr0OYS3ISLk1oduPBMXV_aVMvCK1jtCtMM6kh4VyLqhyBEkqHg957_tIQJAmHSUUIrUL6JHnelzP8Ec9kDsLyCNFH581se9UBbTf8Lq2m5fp7HUvn4-u6yeJsg-NjOnuJqbPB/w178-h257/image.png" width="178" /></a></div><p></p>
<br /><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqi6l_cP5G4IQFVSTJfIYWwMrbkWjG59th-jQT5Z-bYR26v7xaAK909hEINawy00rSiV0Y9se9HfUGZ9XSqOvOwdQTXPB85ZjI5da-kzw8Dt4sZDW6C0s3IgyookJaNrmnlmxCPzf69ymw/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="300" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqi6l_cP5G4IQFVSTJfIYWwMrbkWjG59th-jQT5Z-bYR26v7xaAK909hEINawy00rSiV0Y9se9HfUGZ9XSqOvOwdQTXPB85ZjI5da-kzw8Dt4sZDW6C0s3IgyookJaNrmnlmxCPzf69ymw/w197-h270/image.png" width="197" /></a></div><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /><br /></span></div></div>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-26949060095154336192021-03-31T17:51:00.000-07:002021-03-31T17:51:16.976-07:00Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman #26 Strong Convictions<p> Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">#26 Strong Convictions<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If she is sure that something is wrong or<br />
If she is sure that something is right<br />
She does not change her view<br />
Just because someone, something, or<br />
For that matter, everyone<br />
Says so<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This can be quite annoying<br />
Like when she yells at the TV<br />
About something shown<br />
On the evening news<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or lifesaving<br />
Like when she called the neglectful doctor at home<br />
And ordered him to do something, right now<br />
About her husband<br />
Near death in kidney failure<o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">I
love her for that</span>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-81653077669984387352021-03-31T17:34:00.000-07:002021-03-31T17:34:50.845-07:00 Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman # 27 Animals<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman</span></p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;"># 27 Animals</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">She cares about animals</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">As much as she does people</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">When I was enlisted to help </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Her Dad and Mom ‘cut’ young pigs</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">She said: </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">“I can’t stand their squeals of pain”</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">She loves a good steak, but</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">She still empathizes with dogs and cats</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">As if they were human</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">And pets</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">As members of the family</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">I love her for that</div></div><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXGNm2oBHrtFHI_juTh_eu11sTZefLTEi9gviANIwx9A40gs0r8zVWTLErshQRAYIuQJbsNGs0-AZRs4w37gH0V4q7MrNEXquwGUnJ8H3sPnR5djwY7ZLmIGSP6vtI_u_QhueOOWiiYDz/s397/bonnie_roger_alfie_evie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXGNm2oBHrtFHI_juTh_eu11sTZefLTEi9gviANIwx9A40gs0r8zVWTLErshQRAYIuQJbsNGs0-AZRs4w37gH0V4q7MrNEXquwGUnJ8H3sPnR5djwY7ZLmIGSP6vtI_u_QhueOOWiiYDz/s320/bonnie_roger_alfie_evie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bonnie, Roger, Alfie (Yorkshire Terrier), and Evie</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2JwtBTFBzU-_TIg0zZBPuQpVSH6Z_wVwpt2V5TpgI0TUNO7zX1TMhVqemL297-bxSXSb0qeqcQJB0fQdPco7plR4sVeF_xRb2x2HWktb2kkL6uA_Xyay08gs3lcmiHAVlRXhnM6uh7M1n/s640/Morgan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2JwtBTFBzU-_TIg0zZBPuQpVSH6Z_wVwpt2V5TpgI0TUNO7zX1TMhVqemL297-bxSXSb0qeqcQJB0fQdPco7plR4sVeF_xRb2x2HWktb2kkL6uA_Xyay08gs3lcmiHAVlRXhnM6uh7M1n/s320/Morgan.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bonnie and Captain Morgan<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-31798492243452630682021-03-27T09:54:00.000-07:002021-03-27T09:54:10.923-07:00Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman - #28 She Loved to Dance<p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">She
saw him on the dance floor<br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">At the Dell Rapids Pavilion<br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">He was the best dancer there<br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">When he asked her to dance<br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">She said yes</span></p><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">
On her school desk someone had scrawled<br />
“Nigger Lover”<br />
Her Father said:<br />
“Don’t let someone else<br />
Tell you who to dance with.”<br />
The next week she danced with him again<br />
Attitudes were different then<br />
Her wish to dance was not<br />
Unfortunately I am dancing impaired<br />
She loves me anyway<br />
I love her for that<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOT5oG3PLNgZIQhboaZOzH12eg880h6R5Lt1phwYf-_TjK96ePelSBriiByY5DcZmgZ0ae9GoQn4hKHRBSNubMDsy6cWcp5qQVPwd1-tLDraLo2954IEpHCtZwDQAatqBRUKUTt-8yube/s624/Dell_Rapids_Pavilion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="624" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOT5oG3PLNgZIQhboaZOzH12eg880h6R5Lt1phwYf-_TjK96ePelSBriiByY5DcZmgZ0ae9GoQn4hKHRBSNubMDsy6cWcp5qQVPwd1-tLDraLo2954IEpHCtZwDQAatqBRUKUTt-8yube/s320/Dell_Rapids_Pavilion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-51941361033091215792021-03-27T09:42:00.000-07:002021-03-27T09:42:17.499-07:00Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman - #29 A Farm Girl<p> <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">She was raised on a farm<br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">About halfway between Dell Rapids and Chester</span></p><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">
There’s something about farm kids<br />
That makes them easier<br />
To be around<br />
But, I was puzzled that their<br />
Milk was delivered by a milkman<br />
They didn’t have a cow for milk? Still<br />
She could drive a pickup truck <br />
With a manual transmission<br />
And she had driven it that day<br />
To Chester to get her hair done<br />
I love her for that<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIN5TiuWxnHxSEy_S1RyuauPrMlVlYi5cyejQbWrlrlDPYybHAVM41urxS4xM0HjBhHu8tEDi9Q_sadmkWT00_tkyM2ycWgqgtKB47h7rEb0ZLrgHRhB5AABt_zEh8yyEky0mLUvt-iauk/s598/1950_Chev_Pickup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIN5TiuWxnHxSEy_S1RyuauPrMlVlYi5cyejQbWrlrlDPYybHAVM41urxS4xM0HjBhHu8tEDi9Q_sadmkWT00_tkyM2ycWgqgtKB47h7rEb0ZLrgHRhB5AABt_zEh8yyEky0mLUvt-iauk/s320/1950_Chev_Pickup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-58355232734965559252021-03-27T09:21:00.000-07:002021-03-27T09:21:25.516-07:00Thirty Reasons I Love This Woman - #30 Basketball<p> <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Shortly after we met</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vPtttMXnYm0YTi_HY26Sh7h3QNjBvkuWY2SXB8gu-tDJIX4dwEVd4W09GO4G1Te38cFuZ3BzFsaWguj5cGB-8HUwfjaVStRNkeXhJLAvlFZjHjR9Si-qW25UPPGf17CvsGnzQvL-9J7/s393/BonnieHSSeniorPic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vPtttMXnYm0YTi_HY26Sh7h3QNjBvkuWY2SXB8gu-tDJIX4dwEVd4W09GO4G1Te38cFuZ3BzFsaWguj5cGB-8HUwfjaVStRNkeXhJLAvlFZjHjR9Si-qW25UPPGf17CvsGnzQvL-9J7/s320/BonnieHSSeniorPic.JPG" /><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">et</span></a></div><p></p><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">
Sixty some years ago<br />
As I struggled to make conversation<br />
She mentioned basketball<br />
She was a big fan<br />
Especially tournaments<br />
So of course I blundered<br />
“Are you going to the ‘State As’?”<br />
The look on her face<br />
Almost contempt<br />
“We’re going to the ‘State Bs’<br />
“No one goes to the ‘State As’”<br />
I would shortly learn the depth<br />
Of her basketball fanaticism<br />
The history of Dell Rapids high school basketball<br />
Including the legendary Riley family<br />
Her love for basketball continues to this day<br />
And culminates each year with March Madness<br />
Though the favored team is now<br />
The UConn Huskies from Connecticut<br />
A women’s team coached by the legendary Geno Auriemma<br />
I love her for that</span>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-88735342487949186572020-08-18T15:27:00.026-07:002020-09-27T09:18:44.397-07:00Great King Donivaldus<p> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Great King Donivaldus</span><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></span><a href="file:///C:/Users/john/Documents/Arts/Writing/JN/The%20Bad%20King%20Donivaldus/King_Donivaldus_Y9.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 16pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Calibri Light"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Calibri Light"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">*</span></span></a></p><p class="MsoTitle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>A postmodern fairy tale with a moral</b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKRl2DjXIqDarBIWTAItj7jf1ta05NvvpExD-WQ47evbMCv0p6YYTXgu8XCM1RgiNnvZ51DQ6tYbvbpRN_UEjYT46ME_Mtwx0QGTAfo9GASBPXLdjSK_DAANM2_DbJRqTdF4z_AGz6Mso/s333/Donivaldus_BW.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="215" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKRl2DjXIqDarBIWTAItj7jf1ta05NvvpExD-WQ47evbMCv0p6YYTXgu8XCM1RgiNnvZ51DQ6tYbvbpRN_UEjYT46ME_Mtwx0QGTAfo9GASBPXLdjSK_DAANM2_DbJRqTdF4z_AGz6Mso/w172-h266/Donivaldus_BW.jpg" width="172" /></a><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><p class="MsoNormal"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f">
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</w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:fill></v:shape></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once upon a time, long, long, ago, there was a great kingdom. The
peaceful kingdom was a land of plenty, with bountiful farmland of fertile soil,
lush green pastures, and tall timbered forests. The Good King was very generous
and did all he could to protect his subjects and make their lives enjoyable.
And all the people were exceedingly happy. But the Good King was very old and
when he died, Donivaldus was crowned.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">King Donivaldus, a large man both in height and girth moved
into the castle and ruled the Kingdom. Amazingly, though brash and
unsophisticated, he was loved and praised by many of his loyal subjects. He
often made them feel good by pointing at certain other subjects and calling
them names like “nasty” and “horrible.” He insulted the royal army and the
royal navy, saying they were all ne'er-do-wells and gullible fools for serving
in the great war. He would tell his loyal subjects stories that were not true,
and they would believe him and love him all the more. He gave his princes and
rich nobles gold and jewels; they loved him most of all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">King Donivaldus pretended to be pious, but seldom worshiped
at the Kingdom’s cathedral. Even though he committed all of the deadly sins,
even though he dallied with the courtesans, his loyal subjects loved him all the
more. Some of the other subjects thought this was disgusting and were saddened
by his behavior. Whenever any of his loyal subjects expressed their adoration
for King Donivaldus, he would smile broadly and become puffed up with pride.
Some people said he actually became larger. Soon King Donivaldus told people of
the Kingdom that he was to be called “Great King Donivaldus.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Some subjects did not love the King but did not dislike him
either. As long as they were safe and happy, they did not care. Other subjects
did not love the King at all and were displeased with his wicked ways and
falsehoods. In fact, they often wished for him to be gone. While the loyal
subjects shouted, “Long live the King!,” they silently muttered “May he slip
and fall and hit his head on a rock.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">King Donivaldus wanted more than anything else, even more
than gold and jewels, to be loved by everyone. If certain people did not love
him, he became very displeased and wanted to rid the Kingdom of those people.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sometimes King Donivaldus would summon his subjects to a
great fair in the village square. There would be horse races, jousting, games,
and feasts. King Donivaldus would find the highest place to stand, then would
speak in his loud voice. He would talk about how much better the Kingdom was
now that he was King, how he was the greatest king who had ever been. The
people would cheer and shout, “Long live King Donivaldus!” When he talked about
the people who did not like him, the crowd would shout in unison, “Throw them
out!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One winter’s day, it was discovered that a plague had
arrived in the Kingdom. The King declared that is had been sent by an evil
eastern empire; he proclaimed that no one could come from or go to that empire.
He then assured his people that now there was nothing to fear and that the
plague would soon just disappear. But the plague did not disappear; in fact, it
was spreading across the Kingdom, and many of the people in the Kingdom became
sick, and many died. This displeased King Donivaldus so greatly that he
proclaimed that the plague was a hoax perpetrated by those subjects who did not
love their King.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">King Donivaldus told all the people that they would not get
the plague if they took magic potions his court magician had concocted.
Although the royal physicians, surgeons, and alchemists warned him that the
magic potions may not be safe, King Donivaldus continued to urge his people to
take the potions.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">By summer, the plague had spread across the Kingdom. So many
people had been made sick or died, that it was being called the worst plague in
100 years.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Many of the people who had loved the King, stopped loving
him so much. Many of the people who did not love the King but did not dislike
him either, no longer feeling safe or happy, now developed a dislike for the
King. Even some of the noblemen, who had been made richer by King Donivaldus,
started to question whether he was the right king for this kingdom. Some of the
people in the Kingdom actually started calling him Donivaldus the Terrible or
Bad King Donivaldus.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When King Donivaldus was told by a courier, about the
growing dislike for him, he got so angry that he banished the courier from the
Kingdom (he never had liked the couriers anyway); he then appointed a nobleman
to rule over the couriers. The new ruler of the couriers went about dismantling
the courier system causing people’s messages to be late; or sometimes not
arrive at all. For centuries, couriers had been a well-respected tradition in
the Kingdom, so these efforts did not sit so well with the people of the
Kingdom</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sometime later, whenever couriers delivered a message, the message would often include the words “Down with the King.” Unfortunately for the King, this resulted in even fewer people who loved him. The love he had been receiving had kept him big and strong. Now without that love, the King was not so puffed up; it got to the point that the King actually started to shrink. Where once he was greater than six feet, now he was barely five feet, then four and then only two feet tall. As this dislike for Bad King Donivaldus progressed, he shrank to the size of a pumpkin. Finally, he was the size and color of a pea.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As one might expect, it is particularly difficult to rule a Kingdom if you are only the size of a pea. It is hard for people to hear your commands, not to mention the danger that you might end up in a pea soup. Soon, the people began to demand a new king, saying that they could no longer that see that there was any king. Finally, the nobles and princes appointed a regency of 538 regents who then selected a new King.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">On coronation day for the new Good King, Bad King Donivaldus was terribly angry. He jumped up and down and screamed for the palace guards to bar the new King from the castle, but the guards could not hear him because he was the size of a pea. His jumping caused him to roll across the floor just as a palace guard opened the door for the new Good King. Castles are almost always built on the top of a hill and this castle was no exception. Bad King Donivaldus rolled out the door and bounced down the hill, never to be seen again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">There was a village in the valley below the castle, where a story circulated among the village gossip. It was about a woman who was shelling peas into a large bowl in her garden. A flock of chickens clucked around and in her garden. Chickens provided eggs and an occasional chicken dinner for the family, but chicken feed was expensive. So, the flock had the run of the yard and the garden, where they ate bugs in the grass and the peelings and shells of whatever food the woman was preparing.</span></p></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: right;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojShbSgAmi4-XXD9R3KUAfrupc6z4lkH-o1yxYuggu7uYw4hAKCAcKyPIiYOd8j0RSDY64uq1LFPv3fai0Ro0d6nZw8-04YnFkou7KXgUYLy6OB5Bct5e6Cn0jbU8RkPYrdGmaoe3SCh_/s528/Chickens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="528" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojShbSgAmi4-XXD9R3KUAfrupc6z4lkH-o1yxYuggu7uYw4hAKCAcKyPIiYOd8j0RSDY64uq1LFPv3fai0Ro0d6nZw8-04YnFkou7KXgUYLy6OB5Bct5e6Cn0jbU8RkPYrdGmaoe3SCh_/w271-h161/Chickens.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><p></p></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div style="text-align: right;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When the woman thought she heard a voice coming from the bowl of peas, she was so startled that she spilled some of the peas on the ground. Her chickens quickly ate the spilled peas and she vowed to never again drink wine from that cask they had opened the night before.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">And the people of the Great Kingdom, so happy to be rid of Bad King Donivaldus, lived happily ever after.</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">.</span></p>
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">__________________________________________________________________</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A moral for kings, monarchs, and
leaders of nation states: It is never a good idea to attack or disparage
the courier or postal system.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A moral for readers
of fairy tales: It is better to not believe in kingdoms or kings; and
especially not potions, magic or otherwise. Just get out and vote.<span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
</div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6851696243563115654/8873534248794918657"><span style="color: blue; text-decoration-line: none;">*</span></a> Donivaldus,
Latin for Donald</span><o:p></o:p></p></div></span></div><div><div id="ftn1">
</div>
</div><div><div id="ftn1">
</div></div>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-41615577879202092902020-05-10T13:43:00.003-07:002020-08-18T09:41:02.333-07:00A Good Thing<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="about:invalid#zClosurez" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xwD_H1ICR_eDh7VtQ7LFxyFTzq0JaPmu__5E_fn_WO5Ni7pkrsFmALaav7DxyNUCjrCCRMBRPAKYhsvtEp9i1x_8GPj2PUS38kOyHWmKYcyPtka4jcPOxw_RjYAStF6HKD9ec5rr5PH0/s1600/Bernice_Wedding_Sepiax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1304" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xwD_H1ICR_eDh7VtQ7LFxyFTzq0JaPmu__5E_fn_WO5Ni7pkrsFmALaav7DxyNUCjrCCRMBRPAKYhsvtEp9i1x_8GPj2PUS38kOyHWmKYcyPtka4jcPOxw_RjYAStF6HKD9ec5rr5PH0/s320/Bernice_Wedding_Sepiax.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Good Thing</span></b><br />
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><i>
A Mother’s Day Poem by John Marius Nelson</i></span></h3>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a good thing she didn’t know<br />
How isolated she would be<br />
A new bride out in the country<br />
With a baby on the way</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a good thing she didn’t know<br />
How hard it would be <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyZBjGv8yqqXofTL_Tm6-eF-_8AkN6jILP59ziNfD7kz3nNj0skRPx-6cm9zLp0qBIybZxiGKWoPD6dWonydswd6l3hREOr7zySCqK67aSOxbnCTD-zyYTGWSMBA52u_oDXzRD6Bf1OEU/s1600/P5130001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyZBjGv8yqqXofTL_Tm6-eF-_8AkN6jILP59ziNfD7kz3nNj0skRPx-6cm9zLp0qBIybZxiGKWoPD6dWonydswd6l3hREOr7zySCqK67aSOxbnCTD-zyYTGWSMBA52u_oDXzRD6Bf1OEU/s320/P5130001.JPG" width="320" /></a>Caring for babies<br />
Without electricity or plumbing</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a good thing she didn’t know<br />
How hard it would be <br />
Raising four children</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With an alcoholic husband<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a good thing she didn’t know<br />
When I was born<br />
What I would be like</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a teenager <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
It’s a good thing She</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was young <br />
Resourceful and<br />
Resilient<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-50231183911204961152020-04-11T21:33:00.002-07:002020-04-11T21:33:42.778-07:00How Dust Bunnies Saved an Old Man<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoSubtitle" style="text-align: center;">
A Postmodern Fairy
Tale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoSubtitle" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5Tpoav9WkOxuiTZzACrZSRUKcw02Ri95HvnQUubvDqVceFuzCFNtRBjVm3iNFZqCY9ODcaPLFa8AZ5YaK79kPot-X88zkNzzJnEX2V3bXD8RcF8P5kL0eO7Dz5RInDF72gJ_RbGKjleo/s1600/Dust+Bunnies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="792" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5Tpoav9WkOxuiTZzACrZSRUKcw02Ri95HvnQUubvDqVceFuzCFNtRBjVm3iNFZqCY9ODcaPLFa8AZ5YaK79kPot-X88zkNzzJnEX2V3bXD8RcF8P5kL0eO7Dz5RInDF72gJ_RbGKjleo/s320/Dust+Bunnies.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once upon a time<br />
In a land of great plenty<br />
Where everyone was happy and wealthy<br />
A terrible plague swept over the country<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A frightened old man <br />
Went to hide under the bed<br />
The Government had ordered<br />
All the elderlies to stay home<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thinking it would be even safer<br />
After all, what self-respecting virus <br />
Would go around looking<br />
Under beds for its next victim<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old man was startled to see them there<br />
As he crawled under the bed<br />
Dusty, Musty and Cottonlint<br />
Introduced themselves <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How do you do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Said
the old man<br />
“How long have you been here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My whole life.” They answered in unison<br />
Not really understanding the concept of time<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have to go to the bathroom.”<br />
“What’s a bathroom?”<br />
“Oh, never mind.”<br />
“I just have to leave for a while.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please, please don’t go out there.”<br />
They begged of the old man<br />
“There is a terrible monster out there.”<br />
“He will gobble you up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My brother Cottonfoot ventured out one day.” <br />
“We heard the monster whirring and clicking” <br />
“He screamed, there was a puff of dust.”<br />
“And then he was gone.” Sobbed Cottonlint</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the way back he saw it<br />
The Roomba clicking and whirring as it<br />
Made its rounds, and chuckled at<br />
The irony of the metaphor<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He unplugged the Roomba and<br />
Returned to the safety<br />
The Dusties cheered on seeing<br />
The old man was back safe and sound<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re safe now.” He told the Dusties<br />
“I slayed the evil monster dragon.”<br />
“He won’t come around anymore.”<br />
“He won’t be eating any more Dust Bunnies.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old man taught the Dusties<br />
How to play pinochle and other games<br />
He brought them a small TV<br />
So they could watch the cartoon network<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, the old man stayed under the bed<br />
With his new friends<br />
And he didn’t catch the virus<br />
And they all lived happily ever after</span>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-28160139718315944692020-01-16T22:26:00.000-08:002020-08-23T13:10:41.235-07:00TV at the HospitalToday I was at Sanford Medical Center, at the OCC getting a biologic 'chemo' infusion<br />
I was thinking about how I can sometimes taste the medications in my IV infusion<br />
while there I was watching TV, the<br />
The Senate Impeachment swearing-in ceremony<br />
senators leaning over the secretary's desk to sign in<br />
old men w/ bald spots<br />
<br /><br />Those tastes brought up some memories<br /><div>Remembering watching the TV<div>While on a dialysis run</div><div>It was the '74 hearings<br /><div>The Nixon impeachment</div><div>house Judiciary Committee hearings<br />
remembering Barabara Nettinga<div>my nurse angel</div><div>and<br />
Sen Barry Goldwater</div><div>who carried the bad news to</div><div>Richard Nixon<br />
<br /></div></div></div></div>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-61484239611103246852019-12-25T06:17:00.000-08:002019-12-25T06:17:22.182-08:00Holiday Greetings from Bonnie and JohnLate in December, with one eye on the
calendar, another on the computer screen, John writes:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 12.0pt; mso-line-height-rule: exactly;">
So, another year has come and gone. We are
each of us a couple years beyond three quarters of a century on this earth, and
still vertical, mostly…in the past year. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<td height="0" width="73"></td>
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<tr>
<td></td>
<td></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggcujfDv3fUq4aj6U1ORWIWvIpOWvCU5aCNCuct873GwccZj3qRT_Z-iqCg3ucINcs8wcjeWS9bMJW8RQkTwgnyNVK-bZW2sz4J5OzL9pG1vSisGDF5ngtno3lt6omzBvvyMevu20aDuRo/s1600/2019_12_10_Bischoff_Sausage-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggcujfDv3fUq4aj6U1ORWIWvIpOWvCU5aCNCuct873GwccZj3qRT_Z-iqCg3ucINcs8wcjeWS9bMJW8RQkTwgnyNVK-bZW2sz4J5OzL9pG1vSisGDF5ngtno3lt6omzBvvyMevu20aDuRo/s320/2019_12_10_Bischoff_Sausage-2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just exactly what makes you think<br />
I'm the one who's been snatchiung<br />
the summer sausage. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a name="_Hlk27664253"><span
style='font-size:8.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Baskerville Old Face",serif;
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<span style='mso-bookmark:_Hlk27664253'><span
style='font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial",sans-serif;
color:white;mso-themecolor:background1'>A Christmas Poem</span></span><span
style='font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial",sans-serif;
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<a name="_Hlk27664435"><span
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color:white;mso-themecolor:background1'>A broken hip stopped old Kris
Kringle<br>
He’<b>s </b>getting pretty old you know<br>
The jingle bells no longer jingle<br>
Sleighing across the fallen snow</span></a><span style='font-size:11.0pt;
line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial",sans-serif;color:white;mso-themecolor:
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<span style='font-size:11.0pt;
line-height:115%;font-family:"Arial",sans-serif;color:white;mso-themecolor:
background1'>Out at the mall the crowds so merry<br>
Are not so much this year<br>
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<span style='font-size:11.0pt;
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and cozy by the fireplace flame<br>
We dream of the days when I as you<br>
Believed that Santa Claus really came<br>
Down through that old coal heater flue.<br>
<span style='mso-tab-count:2'> </span>- john marius
nelson</span><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Baskerville Old Face",serif;
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<span style='color:white;mso-themecolor:background1'>A
Dissertation on Why People Choose to Live and Stay in South Dakota in the
Winter<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class=QuoteText align=left style='text-align:left'>
<span
style='color:white;mso-themecolor:background1'>__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Daughter Sara, son-law John and grandson James
are only a few blocks away. James catches the bus from our house while we
puppysit the grandpuppys, Bischoff (“Bischoff” is German for Bishop and also a
popular brand of beer in Deutschland) a bordoodle (border collie and standard
poodle) and Baxter, an aged Shih Tzu as well as our aged </span>Shih Tzu who thinks he is a pit
bull.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;">Sara and John are working for the Veterans Administration. James is an 8th grader at Patrick Henry. He plays soccer, does cross country in the fall and indoor soccer in the winter.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: lime; font-size: 14px; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">A CHRISTMAS POEM</span></span></div>
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A broken hip stopped old Kris Kringle</div>
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He’s getting pretty old you know</div>
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The jingle bells no longer jingle</div>
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Sleighing across the fallen snow</div>
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Out at the mall the crowds so merry</div>
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Are not so much this year</div>
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But the UPS driver was kind of cheery</div>
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Bringing the Amazon packages here</div>
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Warm and cozy by the fireplace flame</div>
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We dream of the days when I as you</div>
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Believed that Santa Claus really came</div>
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Down through that old coal heater flue</div>
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<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- john marius nelson</div>
<span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14px;">Dissertation on Why People Choose to</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14px;">Live and Stay in South Dakota in the Winter</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">I
stay busy with hobbies, some photography, but also some writing and
occasionally a poem or two (see above). I also do some posts on Facebook mostly
about science history and public health history. OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning
Institute.) classes have been a great enjoyment for Bonnie and me. I probably
don’t retain as much as I used to, but it’s still fun to learn new things;
sometimes relearning things I forgot I knew. Bonnie stays informed reading the Argus (paper version),
watching MSNBC and CNN; and enjoys her weekly lunch with her friends.</span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">We
have both had some medical adventures this year. Bonnie has some intermittent
dizziness and nausea episodes; her anemia issues have disappeared.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m still in a relapse of the vasculitis that
caused my kidney failure in 1974 and now is in my lungs causing interstitial
lung disease a.k.a. pulmonary fibrosis; so, my prednisone </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">is still increased a bit </span><span style="font-family: "segoe ui emoji" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">☹</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">. Despite
an endless string of tests, scans and medication, my lung function has </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">declined a bit and my doctors want me to use oxygen at least some of the time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">We lost some dear people this year: John’s sister Anne and John’s cousin Robert
Nelson. Robert (Bobby) and I sort of grew up together, living a few miles apart.
Bob was a combat Vietnam War veteran; was active in the VFW and a member of the
VFW Honor Guard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Here
is a Story about a Christmas from my past.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">
<span style="color: white;">A Christmas Story for Anne</span></span></span></h1>
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Anna Mary was the oldest of four siblings born to Kermit and
Bernice (Carlson) Nelson. Dad called her Suzie after singing the song “Sioux City
Sue”, and Anne singing with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On the farm in southern Lincoln County, Anne, 6 years older, taught
me everything a five to eight year old farm boy needed to know; how to ride a
bicycle, how to fix a flat with a ‘hot patch’, how to catch tadpoles, how to
swim in the stock tank.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the coldest winter nights, the kids would all sleep in the
dining room by the old pot-belly coal stove that heated the whole house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember one of those nights, when I was four or five and it
was almost Christmas time. By the glow of the fire through the little mica
windows on the old pot-belly coal stove, Anne told me about how Santa Claus
would climb down the chimney and then through the stove pipe and hop out of the
old stove, brush himself off and head for the stockings.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Christmas Eve, we would hang our stockings, not some fancy decorated things
with our name on it, but the actual socks we wore, from a nail on the wall.
Then on Christmas morning, we would race to see what Santa had left us. It was
mostly small stuff, the good presents were under the tree and were opened on
Christmas Eve right after our dinner (we called it supper). Usually oyster stew
with the little oyster crackers; then presents could be opened, after the
dishes were done.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UMg2yskQ5qSSo_4QZ1F-aPwo1jF4xEMTEbZyS4XZ_eq8FE4umgvSQBq5zn7BtJgEII-zcv3nPDjL4TK8yljEp591zHfWPBOH4cnvoGj1dO4-IgsVLlTkI_4mL36yaNGD0Y4y0bMgwWsN/s1600/Wood_Range.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="550" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UMg2yskQ5qSSo_4QZ1F-aPwo1jF4xEMTEbZyS4XZ_eq8FE4umgvSQBq5zn7BtJgEII-zcv3nPDjL4TK8yljEp591zHfWPBOH4cnvoGj1dO4-IgsVLlTkI_4mL36yaNGD0Y4y0bMgwWsN/s200/Wood_Range.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJywE4OSmpEn3tE9-gXN8cQuzynkSH0_l9bGXEu9xdelRDlnQWth36gHjEg7mzuAN05A61KrxdDyTiZPZnadqZ_rHzYrgsWM1RJfI1V6-KzYHcP5WI4hCdj_zIRe-xZfMVGQAHgLzR5Q5y/s1600/Pot_Belly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="153" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJywE4OSmpEn3tE9-gXN8cQuzynkSH0_l9bGXEu9xdelRDlnQWth36gHjEg7mzuAN05A61KrxdDyTiZPZnadqZ_rHzYrgsWM1RJfI1V6-KzYHcP5WI4hCdj_zIRe-xZfMVGQAHgLzR5Q5y/s200/Pot_Belly.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="102" /></a></div>
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The old coal heater (which as I recall looked something like
the one pictured above-left) and the corn cob fired kitchen range (above-right)
were the only sources of winter-time heat in that old drafty house. A few years later, the coal stove was
replaced by an oil-fired heater with an electric fan. The corn cob fired range
was replaced with a ‘modern’ LP gas kitchen range. By that time, I had learned the
true Santa story and reality and didn’t worry so much about Santa burning up in
a hot stove.<br />
*****************<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background-color: #38761d; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: white;">Happy holidays from our old, not so big, house to your house!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #38761d; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: white;">It just occurred to me that, ‘this old house’ which we built is now about the same age as the house where I grew up was, and which, at the time, I thought was really, really old. So, does that mean that we are really, really old?</span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 10.5pt;">
All in all, Bonnie and I are doing pretty well and enjoying
life. As I often say, “Every day is a gift.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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We hope you all are well and are having a blessed holiday
season, and that you will have a wonderful new year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: white; mso-style-textoutline-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textoutline-fill-color: white; mso-style-textoutline-fill-themecolor: background1; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-align: center; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-compound: simple; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dash: solid; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-dpiwidth: .75pt; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-join: bevel; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-linecap: round; mso-style-textoutline-outlinestyle-pctmiterlimit: 0%; mso-style-textoutline-type: solid; mso-themecolor: background1;">Happy holidays from our old, not so big, house to your house!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="ArticleHeading" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 9pt;">It
just occurred to me that, ‘this old house’ which we built is now about the same
age as the house where I grew up was, and which, at the time, I thought was
really, really old. So, does that mean that we are really, really old?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<b style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Much
Love from Bonnie and John</span></b></span></span></div>
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John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-23699095881578778612018-11-11T10:32:00.000-08:002018-11-11T10:32:20.105-08:00The Last Good Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i030AlOVGqUMZ7RH0JTeNn6V2h34NejBpUJaIXL4KNZIEYaKpcaPLNkHuRbuD96KnZSspOOuu47zhbzHTCXHcPqNT85Zb9QtboJoCPi_M6U5qzGs9Yzm3tOqk8wj11b9sV78P6f-XnXh/s1600/the-fault-in-our-stars-2014_091757413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i030AlOVGqUMZ7RH0JTeNn6V2h34NejBpUJaIXL4KNZIEYaKpcaPLNkHuRbuD96KnZSspOOuu47zhbzHTCXHcPqNT85Zb9QtboJoCPi_M6U5qzGs9Yzm3tOqk8wj11b9sV78P6f-XnXh/s320/the-fault-in-our-stars-2014_091757413.jpg" width="320" /></a>Please excuse my feeble attempt to wax philosophical here; it's just something I have to do.<br />
The concept of 'The Last Good Day' has been explored by many and written about by a few and most famously was the main topic of a movie.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><b>The Fault in Our Stars</b></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> is a 2014 A</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">me</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">rican </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romance_film" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Romance film">romantic drama film</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> directed by </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josh_Boone_(director)" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Josh Boone (director)">Josh Boone</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, based on the</span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fault_in_Our_Stars" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="The Fault in Our Stars">novel of the same name</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> by </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Green_(author)" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="John Green (author)">John Green</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">. The film stars </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shailene_Woodley" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Shailene Woodley">Shailene Woodley</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ansel_Elgort" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Ansel Elgort">Ansel Elgort</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, and </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nat_Wolff" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Nat Wolff">Nat Wolff</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, with </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laura_Dern" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Laura Dern">Laura Dern</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sam_Trammell" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" title="Sam Trammell">Sam Trammell</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, and </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Willem_Dafoe" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" title="Willem Dafoe">Willem Dafoe</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> playing supporting roles. Woodley plays Hazel Grace Lancaster, a sixteen-year-old cancer patient who is forced by her parents to attend a support group, where she meets and subsequently falls in love with Augustus Waters, another cancer patient, played by Elgort. Wikipedia</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #4a4a4a;">"There's no way of knowing that your last good day is Your Last Good Day. At the time, it is just another good day."</span> </span></blockquote>
Most people with chronic, life threatening, or terminal conditions understand this concept. Few young or healthy people do.<br />
Everyone will have a last good day. Few will be able to recognize it as such until it's over. Many will never know. The fortunate ones will be able to live each day as if it is <i>their <b>last good day</b></i>.John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-31109473312154283492018-11-10T22:13:00.000-08:002018-11-11T10:34:27.918-08:00Anna and Uncle Frank<br />
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<h2>
<span class="Heading2Char"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span class="Heading2Char"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I -- ANNA</span></span></span></span></h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH9_SHJCYuVyvcd_LrGM77Un3lDaHCzmFxGnFi7Cb4lcvmhNPds0fRPPOk3UE9Tz07e3__1g-wlSiyZdACdR_mHVBKqYqLgaxAbN-vSmJ188JIQ4A7aAUpYrDRgqspdLnKVJWsw5vn3U4a/s1600/MemorialDayPostcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="415" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH9_SHJCYuVyvcd_LrGM77Un3lDaHCzmFxGnFi7Cb4lcvmhNPds0fRPPOk3UE9Tz07e3__1g-wlSiyZdACdR_mHVBKqYqLgaxAbN-vSmJ188JIQ4A7aAUpYrDRgqspdLnKVJWsw5vn3U4a/s320/MemorialDayPostcard.jpg" width="207" /></a><span class="Heading2Char"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Aunt
Anna</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> (we called her “Ant Ann”) was 4th of the five children of August and Bertha Carlson. </span></span></span></span>My mother Bernice was the youngest.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Her three older brothers all were St Olaf graduates and went on to doctorate level education. Clarence, the oldest was a math professor; Earl, the next, was a Lutheran minister; and Harold was a college professor in psychology. They called my mother “Babe”. That moniker continued into adulthood with my cousin’s calling her “Aunt Babe”.</span><br />
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Heading2Char"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">II –</span></span> <span class="Heading2Char"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Uncle Frank</span></span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Frank Spillman</span></b> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Jr</b>. was born and raised in late 19<sup>th</sup>
century northwestern Missouri. He had served in France during the great war
(World War I), then worked in highway construction most of his adult life. As I
remember, he was a large, gruff man, tall with light brown hair, ruggedly
handsome with broad shoulders. When I saw one of those square-jawed newspaper
cartoon characters I would say “Look, It’s Uncle Frank.” We didn’t know much
about Uncle Frank’s childhood, but the one story I remember was about Frank’s
father, Frank Spillman Sr.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Card Game</b> was
in the back-room of a bar somewhere near St. Joseph Missouri. Little Frank Jr.
was there with his dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conversation
was loud, raucous and vulgar and the half-dozen or so men had been drinking
heavily. An African American man at that card game was serving drinks and
fetching food and other items for tips. The black man, seeing the boy looking
alone and frightened, brought him a bottle of soda pop and talked to him while
putting his hand on Frank Jr.’s shoulder. Maybe Frank Sr. was losing badly, or
maybe he was just in a drunken bad mood when he took exception to this black
man touching his son. He grabbed a pistol from his jacket pocket and shouting
“Get your black nigger hands off my boy.” shot the unsuspecting man in the
chest. The injured man stumbled out the back door and fell dead in the alley.
Little Frank screamed; he didn’t know what had happened. Suddenly there was a
loud noise, his ears were ringing, the room that had been thick with tobacco
smoke was now filed with a funny smell. People that had been boisterous were
now yelling and running back and forth. His mom and dad had yelled like that
before and it always scared him. Finally, his mother came to get him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Investigation a week or so later, listened to the
half-dozen white men witnesses, then determined that the shooting was a
justified defense of Frank Sr.’s son.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">III -- Anna and Frank</span><o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Aunt Anna probably met Frank while he was on the
construction crew that built the section of US highway 77 completed from Sioux
City to Milbank. I remember Aunt Ann talking about Odebolt, Iowa where they
lived while Frank worked on a highway project, possibly US highway 20. They
moved back to Beresford in the late `30s or early 40s when the construction
work was finished. Frank did repairs, odd jobs and work on cement jobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Frank was older than Aunt Ann. I don’t know exactly how much
older, but Ann was born around 1912 and Frank was a World War I veteran, so he
was something like 15 or 20 years older. They had</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> three children: Wesley, Paul
and Berthe Ann, and nicknamed them Sonny, Buddy, and Sister. The dog was named
Buster. During the time I can remember they shared a converted duplex house
with my grandparents in Beresford.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Uncle Frank and my dad were drinking buddies. My cousins
often said my Dad was Frank’s best friend. One of my most pleasant memories was
of waking up at Grandma’s. While half asleep I would hear the voices of my mom
and Aunt Ann talking; in time it would sink in that I was at Grandma’s and I
would get to spend at least part of the day with my cousins in Beresford.
Eventually Dad would show up to get us. I don’t remember any angry words or any
mention of the fact that Dad had drunk enough to forget that his family was
there waiting for him at Grandma’s. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A car accident was probably the first sign that something
was not right with Uncle Frank. During the war (World War II) Uncle Frank and
Aunt Ann had sold their Model A Ford; gas rationing and lack of repair parts
made it too hard to keep a car. After a few years without a car, they had
recently acquired a used Chevrolet. Frank and the three children were coming
for a Sunday visit at our farm about 15 miles southeast of Beresford. Aunt Ann
had a church commitment and could not come. Seven or eight years old at the
time, I was looking forward to a day with my cousins. About a mile and a half
from our place, at an intersection of two county roads, he stopped at the Stop
sign. Although he had a clear view in both directions, he drove on colliding
with a car driven by our neighbor Melvin Tuntland. No one was hurt badly, but
both cars were damaged. When I went with my dad to help, we saw Frank’s car in
the ditch, the 3 kids crying and Frank, mad as hell, pacing up and down the
gravel road, yelling and shaking his fist. Dad got him calmed down and drove
them back to Beresford in our old Dodge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Frank’s car was repairable, but he did not have insurance;
it had to be sold to pay for the damage to Melvin Tuntland’s car. In the
following months Aunt Ann received complaints from merchants saying Frank would
take things and not pay for them or he would stand by the cash register and
take change when it was lain on the counter for someone else. If they
protested, he would get angry and threatening. No one called for him to do odd
jobs. Then in May he took a bus to Sioux Falls and was arrested for
shoplifting. He had been talking about getting a car and was in Sioux Falls to
do just that, but first he needed some accessories.<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"> </span>His erratic and belligerent behavior in jail led to a medical exam
and a blood test. His positive Kahn test indicated syphilis<a href="file:///C:/Users/john/Documents/OLLI/2018/Legacy/Aunt_Ann_Uncle_Frank_b.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>.
His symptoms indicated late stage syphilis. In the early stages the infections
could be treated with antibiotics, but it was too late for Frank as the damage
was done. He probably contracted it in Paris at the end of the first world war;
his Army records indicated he had been treated in France for syphilis.
Unfortunately, this was about a decade before more effective treatments were widely
available. Aunt Ann and each of the children had to be tested; they were
negative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Frank was committed to the State Hospital<a href="file:///C:/Users/john/Documents/OLLI/2018/Legacy/Aunt_Ann_Uncle_Frank_b.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a>,
where he died about a year later.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
I went with my mom and sisters to the Wass Funeral home in Beresford to see
him. It was my first time in a funeral home and the first time I had seen a
dead person. I remember the odor in the funeral home, I don’t know if it was
the embalming fluid or a deodorant to mask embalming fluid odor. He was laid
out on a couch like bench, maybe because they didn’t have the casket yet. He
was dressed in a suit and tie. His shoes were splayed a little. It was a hot
summer day and in those days before there was air conditioning, all the windows
were open. There was black fly netting over him that the Mr. Wass pulled back,
so we could view the body. Everyone said he looked so natural; I didn’t think
he looked natural at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A couple days later there was a funeral with the flag draped
casket at the front of Emmanuel Lutheran Church. Frank was not a church-going
man. The last time he had been in a church was probably when his daughter
Berthe Ann was baptized. The minister told a story about how just a few weeks
ago Frank had confessed his sins, took communion from his wallet-sized
communion kit and told him that just now he truly believed. This was a little
hard for me to swallow and I was 8 or 9 at the time, I don’t know if Aunt Anna
believed it or not. I thought the best part was at the cemetery a couple miles
south of Beresford. After the preacher finished the “Ashes to ashes, dust to
dust.” rituals, an honor guard of three men from the VFW fired a salute, then took
the flag that was covering the casket, folded it in a triangle and presented it
to Aunt Anna. Then everyone went back to the church for lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Driving home after the funeral, I remember my mother was bothered about things people had said to Aunt Ann. Thinking it would be comforting, some friends remarked that least it was a disease (syphilis) and not insanity that caused his aberrant behavior. Topics like venereal disease were not discussed in polite conversations, nor was the word “sex” heard; a pregnancy was described as “in a family way”. In that time, in that place, good people didn’t get “social diseases”. But it was far worse to be mentally ill.</span></div>
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
<!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br clear="all" />
</span><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<br />
<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/john/Documents/OLLI/2018/Legacy/Aunt_Ann_Uncle_Frank_b.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Syphilis:
Classified as a ‘venereal’ disease (now called ‘sexually transmitted disease’,
STD) is most commonly acquired through sexual intercourse but can be passed to
a fetus in utero. The initial (‘primary’) infection a skin sore called a
chancre, is the most infectious stage. A few weeks to several months later the
secondary stage appears as a skin rash. After the secondary stage subsides, the
disease usually goes dormant for months, years or decades then often emerging
as tertiary (late stage) syphilis.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/john/Documents/OLLI/2018/Legacy/Aunt_Ann_Uncle_Frank_b.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="mso-special-character: footnote;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="line-height: 107%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> "Yankton
State Hospital", originally named the "Dakota Hospital for the
Insane", now called "The South Dakota Human Services Center".</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<br />John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-64751129084130469262018-11-05T12:25:00.002-08:002018-11-12T18:29:08.608-08:00Old Not So White Men of World War II<br />
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
<img alt="Image may contain: text that says 'Just to be clear, these "old white men" some of ya'll are hating on are the reason we're not all speaking German or Japanese.'" height="222" src="https://scontent.ffsd1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/45121070_10218223741610057_5337718912324730880_n.jpg?_nc_cat=1&_nc_ht=scontent.ffsd1-1.fna&oh=3af3e98253991149200cae24812a3ceb&oe=5C85BF67" width="320" /></div>
A Facebook friend shared <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">this. Of course I had to snarkily respond with my "Just to be clear" rejoinder </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">about how the old white man most often hated on, never served due to "bone spurs" in his feet and how only a few of "those old white men" from WWII are still around,and that many of them were not so white.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">I do, however, have some stories of my own about some of the old men, some white, some not so white who played a part in WW II efforts to stop the Germans and Japanese. Some I met, some I only heard about when I was in the military from 1966 to 1969</span>. </span><br />
<h3>
The Sergeants </h3>
Arriving at Fort Leonard Wood Mo. for basic training (boot camp) I was in culture shock, or so it seemed to me. The army of the 1960s was racially diverse, but having lived in North Minneapolis the previous year, there was nothing shocking about that. I just did not take easily to the strict military structure and discipline. After several close encounters with the Draft Board, I had enlisted in an Army plan where I would receive Medical Lab Specialist education, as the recruiter said,<br />
"You won't have to kill anyone, You won't carry a rifle but you may have a sidearm (pistol) for self protection."<br />
He made it sound more like a civilian job than an army camp. Next thing I know, I'm standing naked with a couple hundred other recruits and draftees while a doctor pokes and prods and tells me to turn my head and cough. Then after a couple days on a train and a bus, I land at 'Fort Lost in the Woods' and a sergeant is shouting at me. At that point, I just wanted to make it through boot camp and then get on with my Medical Lab Specialist training.<br />
<br />
Of the four platoon sergeants shouting orders at everyone, one was black, one was Filipino and one was of ambiguous mixed race; I heard that a nosy trainee asked him about his race and his answer was something like,<br />
"Stand at attention Private! I'm your f***ing sergeant and that's all you f***ing need to know!"<br />
Unfortunately I cannot remember any of their names, except of course their first names which were 'Sergeant'. They each appeared to be in their forties, so in 1966 they may have been veterans of either WWII, Korea or both.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnyfkb9FqlokZRfUb4acyvjAQIxIWuQHBKT7sYJxxYmrr1yf1Z-tEOlbA5JXzARBBR6Obux7YLynC8ToPzeyoqrKvxdcGHQuREZkKESQ5Ni2gm92i-bi5DJ2LqL4NDUe0i32SBgzo6_Zn/s1600/M14_rifle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="231" data-original-width="992" height="92" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnyfkb9FqlokZRfUb4acyvjAQIxIWuQHBKT7sYJxxYmrr1yf1Z-tEOlbA5JXzARBBR6Obux7YLynC8ToPzeyoqrKvxdcGHQuREZkKESQ5Ni2gm92i-bi5DJ2LqL4NDUe0i32SBgzo6_Zn/s400/M14_rifle.jpg" width="400" /></a>The one Caucasian sergeant was a sergeant first class and outranked the other two staff sergeants. and one buck sergeant. He could say "ten-hut" loud enough to make a dead man stand at attention, at least that's how it seemed at the time. He was also the sergeant who led training out on the rifle range. I always liked the firearm training because it didn't involve climbing over a wall on the obstacle course, also it was something I was good at. Like most farm boys, I had some experience with guns. I got mine at age 12, a single-shot 22. I honed my marksmanship by shooting tin cans on a fence post and the moving blades and vane of the windmill. I was surprised to learn that some of the new soldiers were afraid of guns. Our first time on the rifle range, the sergeant demonstrated the M-14 rifle by firing a couple shots downrange with the butt of the gun stock on various parts of his body. Then to assuage any remaining fears about this rifle, he placed the gun stock on his crotch saying,<br />
"Now I am going to fire a round from the 'family jewels'."<br />
<br />
The African American sergeant somehow worked the phrase "your ass" into nearly every sentence. If a trainee did something that displeased him he would shout in a southern drawl,<br />
"I oughta haul yer ass over to the Captain and have him court martial yer ass!"<br />
He was the only sergeant who openly talked about his combat experience. One day of bayonet training we were charging at straw filled dummies with 'fixed' bayonets yelling "keee yaaa". One of the trainees, not realizing he was within earshot of the sergeant, said something like,<br />
"This is sooo Mickey Mouse."<br />
I expected some sort of mayhem, but the sergeant just remarked how he had similar thoughts when he was a trainee, then,<br />
"Son, that bayonet saved my ass in combat. Now! Lissen up platoon! Y'all get down and give me twenty-five*."<br />
<br />
The most memorable sergeant was the Filipino. The other trainees talked and joked about his poor English skills and his thick accent and that he lived in a small room in the same barracks with the basic trainees. He was short, slim, skin like shoe leather, tough as nails, and strong as an ox. He had trouble pronouncing the F sound. I remember him counting off ranks of trainees saying,<br />
"...thirty-eight, thirty-nine, porty, porty-one, porty-two..."<br />
When a trainee failed to complete something he would say,<br />
"Seeeee godammit aaah, you puk up more time you recycle."<br />
To be recycled meant repeating another six weeks of basic training. I did not like basic training and lived in constant fear that I would fail at something and get recycled. When not shouting commands he was very quiet and kept to himself He had been in the Filipino resistance during the Japanese occupation and came to the U.S. on a special immigration program for those resistance fighters. One weekend there were only a few trainees hanging around the barracks. I walked by his room; he was sitting there with the door open so I said,<br />
"Hey Sarge."<br />
He asked me if I had a cigarette, I gave him one and lit one myself and we talked briefly. An American flag hung on the wall in his tiny room, there was some kind of U.S. commendation in a frame on a night stand. When I asked him about the Philippine Resistance, he opened up a little, talking about how very hard it was. He had been up in the mountains, and there was very little food and much of the time he was all alone.<br />
"You soodjers have so easy, you eat all you want."<br />
I didn't think about it at the time, but later I came to understand why he lived in the barracks when he could have had and apartment in NCO housing. I had a lot of respect for him and it was hard not to like him, but then again, he <b><u>was</u></b> my basic training sergeant.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Soldiers and Sailors</h3>
<h3>
<div style="font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;">
Only one other trainee in my basic training company was a South Dakotan. He was a Native from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation and the fastest runner in the company in the one mile qualifying run. In a different platoon I only talked to him a couple of times. He was quiet, reserved and soft-spoken. During one of those conversations he told me his father had been overseas in the military during WWII. I asked him where his father had served, expecting to hear Europe or the Pacific. As I remember his reply was something like,<br />
"He won't tell anyone about <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">coat
talk."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Later I would hear about ‘Code Talkers’, at the time, I had no idea
what he meant.</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">coat
talk."</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-size: medium; font-weight: 400;">
<br />
Don Komoda,<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "roboto" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span>a surgical tech with the 2nd Evac Hospital where I was assigned, was from Hawaii. When some of the guys would rib him by calling him,<br />
"Hey Chink."<br />
He would respond quickly and emphatically,<br />
"I am not a Chink; I'm a Jap."<br />
Don was proud of his Japanese heritage and his family who had been Hawaiians for generations before Pearl Harbor. Komoda's father enlisted in the U.S. Navy after Pearl Harbor and had been wounded in a kamikaze attack.<br />
<br />
* Army talk for "Do 25 push-ups immediately."</div>
</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-76683395434530052012016-04-02T21:58:00.000-07:002020-05-10T13:43:45.868-07:00Bonus Day April 2, 2016<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_N6ZwdA91W0KHy-fILNesVvTA9GjJRjipseIOFSZpbK24mFAXtdQjfEMX52Z4LUpgzDBHfaT42vKH_LFKizvSHAtc-ij9xC1KwuqbL4_wqQZC8erXtZiH-Quhj4xavXLi7lkhebkFaT6/s1600/1931_MplsGnlHosp.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_N6ZwdA91W0KHy-fILNesVvTA9GjJRjipseIOFSZpbK24mFAXtdQjfEMX52Z4LUpgzDBHfaT42vKH_LFKizvSHAtc-ij9xC1KwuqbL4_wqQZC8erXtZiH-Quhj4xavXLi7lkhebkFaT6/s320/1931_MplsGnlHosp.PNG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Minneapolis General Hospital ca. 1931. It later became Hennepin <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">General Hospital and finally Hennepin County Medical Center. The buildings were demolished and replaced with the current complex pictured below in 1976 </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwMG1sFUlS2G6-fx0CD4eodZ7BebdHQ3rHgk-UeIGPpS1lW5EJZyOWVdYIaOHgJo5Sr7xHMLGQd8H6qlcefThelWFoUPJJmL_pQ8BTcPKZ90_9hL-cDjXRm-G-nyUT84YMdoE6GgtjWv7/s1600/Contagion_Annex_bdlg.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwMG1sFUlS2G6-fx0CD4eodZ7BebdHQ3rHgk-UeIGPpS1lW5EJZyOWVdYIaOHgJo5Sr7xHMLGQd8H6qlcefThelWFoUPJJmL_pQ8BTcPKZ90_9hL-cDjXRm-G-nyUT84YMdoE6GgtjWv7/s320/Contagion_Annex_bdlg.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
On this day in 1974, I was admitted to Annex 8 at Hennepin County General Hospital in kidney failure. With a near lethal level of potassium, I was started on dialysis and a potassium lowering medication. The Angel of Death hung around lurking for a few more weeks, then finally gave up and went home. There is more about this topic at: <a href="http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/2012/06/blow-out-part-i-catholic-priest-">http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/2012/06/blow-out-part-i-catholic-priest-</a> , <a href="http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/2012_06_01_archive.html">http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/2012_06_01_archive.html</a> and <a href="http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/2012/06/blow-out-part-ii-wind-beneath-my.html">http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/2012/06/blow-out-part-ii-wind-beneath-my.html</a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
My memory of the exact date is a little fuzzy due to my condition, but in my mind at least, April 2nd is the date I started living on bonus time. In 1975 I had kidney transplant at the then<br />
Yesterday I got a phone call from Dr. Davies, a pulmonologist at Hennepin County Medical Center<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fzM_0xuJR1Btw2upbMZA0D2hfVCpaXYVaakbmztvI3qIArS9Xzj4SOv3QSj18X7ZLBp28C4TfH77ZGbfpq-cRQ21cPWMT_seUDh7hzA9RuPQQQyFrKbRRvTHpLNw2EsWHKrIGpzTw4eu/s1600/2016_HCMC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fzM_0xuJR1Btw2upbMZA0D2hfVCpaXYVaakbmztvI3qIArS9Xzj4SOv3QSj18X7ZLBp28C4TfH77ZGbfpq-cRQ21cPWMT_seUDh7hzA9RuPQQQyFrKbRRvTHpLNw2EsWHKrIGpzTw4eu/s320/2016_HCMC.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">2016 HCMC complex with the new US Bank Stadium under construction isn the background</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2016-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2017-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=2">http://myinnercurmudgeon.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2016-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2017-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=2</a><br />
<br />John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-50254379180545149222016-02-29T15:53:00.003-08:002018-11-08T13:03:09.101-08:00Rare Diseases Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbWmCw9XXXDLN4JPnMD_gsVHv3obkFir5bm1pBB0ieG4sVyiJfiFvnrwYupWYGo7gaLM6ysgqHEHivRSTZEt8AagXCysagvbz5MdE7eLjTaoR7npX-miE-IOg9ezDBfrRdLXm0EGcnFSsl/s1600/JohnKrisDialysis1975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbWmCw9XXXDLN4JPnMD_gsVHv3obkFir5bm1pBB0ieG4sVyiJfiFvnrwYupWYGo7gaLM6ysgqHEHivRSTZEt8AagXCysagvbz5MdE7eLjTaoR7npX-miE-IOg9ezDBfrRdLXm0EGcnFSsl/s320/JohnKrisDialysis1975.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kris and I Two Days Before Transplant Surgery</td></tr>
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Happy Leap Day! Today is also Rare Diseases Day, a day when we who have a rare disease, can feel proud and special. You may hear us say things like "Mine is rarer than yers" or "Maybe, but mine is easier to pronounce".<br />
In the USA, a disease or disorder that affects fewer than 200,000 Americans at any given time is defined as rare.<br />
I'm 'blessed' with a rare disease with many names. Wegener’s Granulomatosis A.K.A. Granulomatosis with Polyangitis (GPA)/Midline granulomatosis/Necrotizing Respiratory Granulomatosis7Pathergic Granulomatosis etc. etc. The prevalence of GPA in the United States is estimated to be 3 cases per 100,000 people. So statistically there should be 3 or 4 of us in Sioux Falls, SD where I live, which would make a rather small support group.<br />
GPA was first described by a German pathologist Friedrich Wegener (pictured below),. In 1989 the American College of Chest Physicians (ACCP) gave Wegener a “master clinician” prize. That prize was rescinded in 2000 when a Mayo Clinic doctor discovered his Nazi past and connections to experiments on Polish Ghetto prisoners. This also triggered a movement to change the name. Currently GPA appears to be the lead horse in this race.<br />
I'm so proud. wink emoticon<br />
GPA vasculitis destroyed my kidneys in March of 1974. My sister Kris, (organ donors and the families of deceased donors are the best people in the world) gave me one of hers in Oct. 1975. In 2013 it became apparent that I was having a GPA relapse, this time as a fibrosis in my lungs (interstitial lung disease). So far the kidney is fine, but my lung function is significantly diminished. I'm currently on a treatment regimen that should induce a remission. We'll know more in a few weeks. In the meantime I'm still 'livin on bonus time'.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Friedrich Wegener</td></tr>
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http://www.rarediseaseday.org/<br />
http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/332622-overviewJohn Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-19176970742871996312016-02-13T17:07:00.000-08:002020-05-10T13:43:45.303-07:00The Beginning of the End of a Normal LifeI suppose I could have seen it coming decades ago.John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-67231363232455878242016-02-02T14:44:00.000-08:002018-11-08T13:26:44.854-08:00Ground Hog DayFebruary 2nd, 2016 (Ground Hog Day)<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLrcwgn7qGiEnVeELhcspyNNcrWrhQQuBnT3QeIXgp3ViaOoIPSkYrryeeUe0iNn5e9a3K_KlbRHLULdR9dh93zPM1AMRuO9UKmK-6-TF8w3Vvv-TM_rveoh85FxsOHJgzQ1PuTw7VT-8K/s1600/groundhog_day.gif" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLrcwgn7qGiEnVeELhcspyNNcrWrhQQuBnT3QeIXgp3ViaOoIPSkYrryeeUe0iNn5e9a3K_KlbRHLULdR9dh93zPM1AMRuO9UKmK-6-TF8w3Vvv-TM_rveoh85FxsOHJgzQ1PuTw7VT-8K/s320/groundhog_day.gif" width="320" /></a><br />
The followed story is true, mostly.<br />
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The South Dakota ground hogs (the Western Marmot, aka woodchuck) saw no shadow today, not due to the snow storm; but because they, as 'true hibernators', are asleep in a deep burrow and emerge only in early spring. February 2nd in South Dakota is definitely not, by any stretch of the imagination, spring.<br />
For much of the time we have lived in this old house, we have shared our space with one or more marmots. One who lived under our deck was rather special. We named him Woodrow Charles and called him Woody. He was quite fond of apples and peanut butter; living in the 'Old Orchard' with several apple trees must have been (ground) hog heaven for him.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcFfZwDnWzB-GhEM-KmAfziO64j1iLFIv8Jm7JqBkInt774LqAf4IrH6_d4sP1Ur4ATnAEgIwomyTSh_s9CACUr4Uo32utJynu0xL8cgMaL7BAhccMseJyXRKVF6Zusmuxuv2OTToecOPR/s1600/yellow-bellied_marmot_2732np.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcFfZwDnWzB-GhEM-KmAfziO64j1iLFIv8Jm7JqBkInt774LqAf4IrH6_d4sP1Ur4ATnAEgIwomyTSh_s9CACUr4Uo32utJynu0xL8cgMaL7BAhccMseJyXRKVF6Zusmuxuv2OTToecOPR/s320/yellow-bellied_marmot_2732np.jpg" width="320" /></a>Since he lived on our property, ate our apples, and was considered part of the family we decided he should be listed as a dependent on our income tax return. As you may know, one must provide a social security number for each dependent declared. The United States Social Security Administration had no particular objection to a marmot having a SSN, but they stubbornly insisted that said marmot have a birth certificate. We soon discovered that if you fill out the blank on the birth certificate application asking "Where Born" with "in a burrow in the ground" there is little chance of getting that birth certificate.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnGtAnqc5dkUo3mywx86PxSVwJHxfYMaamSrDUco3jzA7UTs-A67NIBemweN6pKOA8TfR1gY5I1xN3c23NwDInHe2-cqFjd1h5fSCzLQmShNCM90IK2yn17gvj9muWzRadfeLLsfxXKcBb/s1600/Juvenile_groundhog_siblings_play-fighting_DSC00689.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnGtAnqc5dkUo3mywx86PxSVwJHxfYMaamSrDUco3jzA7UTs-A67NIBemweN6pKOA8TfR1gY5I1xN3c23NwDInHe2-cqFjd1h5fSCzLQmShNCM90IK2yn17gvj9muWzRadfeLLsfxXKcBb/s320/Juvenile_groundhog_siblings_play-fighting_DSC00689.jpg" width="320" /></a>One day, when a door was left open, Woody wandered into the garage. Then when the door was closed he was became trapped there overnight. In the morning he was in full panic mode, trying to jump to a high window and causing a lot of racket. Worried that he would injure himself, we enlisted Animal Control to help. With the help of apples, peanut butter and patience, we succeeded in getting him in a live trap. He was then escorted to the woods. We imagine he found other Marmots there with whom he interacted and formed relationships; maybe even romantic entanglements. Wherever he is now, he is probably wondering what happened to his apples and peanut butter.John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-14541595182215869052015-12-05T12:22:00.000-08:002020-05-10T13:43:45.216-07:00Sitting on Ash Trays<h3>
Sitting on the Ash Tray at Sioux Valley Hospital</h3>
Yes, ash trays in hospitals, this was 1974. There I was, sitting on the ash tray in front of the elevator. I had just left the dialysis unit at Sioux Valley Hospital and when I got to the elevator I was starting to feel faint, a not unfamiliar feeling at the time. I was afraid I would end up on the floor and then someone would haul me off to the emergency room; there was no chair so I sat down on the nearest thing I could find and put my head down between my legs.<br />
<br />
Imitation of life, the artificiality of being dependent on an artificial thing.<br />
nausea and syncope became a way of life<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Anti-nausea med, I can't remember if it was Tigan or Compazine; but now what I felt was that unmistakable feeling that of an uncontrollable, inevitable, on-coming emesis. Asked the taxi driver to stop, Now! </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I picked it up, dusted it off, summoned up a little saliva, and swallowed.</blockquote>
Back in the taxi, we proceeded to the Park Avenue office building for the appointment with the Nephrologist, Dr. Rao<br />
The vasculitis had now self resolved, was not going to be systemic, and if recognized early on, could have been treated successfully before it damaged my kidneys. For some reason I was quite resentful about being told this. It was too late and I just didn't want to know.<br />
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John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-74805414397623013032015-09-08T08:22:00.001-07:002018-11-08T13:05:25.879-08:00An Equestrian Adventure Back in 1974 a type of vasculitis called Wegener's Granulomatosis caused my kidneys to fail.<br />
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Forty years later, my transplanted kidney is still working splendidly, but there has been a relapse of the vasculitis. This disease is now affecting my lungs (fibrosis). The first line of treatment is high doses of prednisone which are, over several weeks, tapered down to a maintenance level. In my case the maintenance level* is about triple the I have been on for nearly 40 years to prevent rejection of the kidney. So now I am re-living all the side effects. Incidentally, the good Dr. Wegener, who first described this type of vasculitis, it turns out was not so god after all. He was a Nazi during the 30's and 40's and was suspected of being involved with 'medical' experiments at Ausschwitz. The medical community now refers to that disease as Granulomatosis with polyangiitis, or GPA.<br />
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<br />
I wrote a poem about being on higher dosages of prednisone.<br />
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<u>The Ride on the Prednisone Horse</u><br />
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“I think I have just what you need”<br />
“It’s like an equestrian ride on a steed”<br />
Answered the doctor when I asked please<br />
Can you help me to stop this disease<br />
<br />
So I will Ride on the Prednisone Horse<br />
The name of my new treatment course<br />
A metaphor befitting the verse<br />
Called the Ride On The Prednisone Horse<br />
<br />
Now I’m riding the prednisone horse<br />
Feeling so good I could burst<br />
Ravenous appetite, feeling the best<br />
I'm lovin this prednisone hoss<br />
<br />
As I’m riding the prednisone horse<br />
A bit of a wild ride on this beast<br />
No saddle or reins to coerce<br />
Or tame this incredible force<br />
<br />
While the prednisone horse does the healing<br />
I’m having some uneasy feelings<br />
Moon face and puffiness swelling<br />
While my unstable feelings go reeling<br />
<br />
Rages and tantrums are par for the course<br />
When riding the prednisone horse<br />
If the man in the moon is the look you choose<br />
Then come ride on the prednisone horse<br />
<br />
“Beware of this horse it's the devil’s<br />
Those little white pills<br />
Come with all kinds of ills”<br />
They warned me to no avail<br />
<br />
With weight gain and blood sugar perverse<br />
Thinning hair, bones and skin are the curse<br />
Blurry vision, fractures and worse<br />
It’s barely better than riding the hearse<br />
<br />
I hate you damned prednisone horse<br />
Your double edged sword is the worst<br />
I want to be rid of this treatment course<br />
You’ve turned my good life into farce<br />
<br />
But I do love you dear prednisone horse<br />
You’ve knocked my disease off its course<br />
I need you my prednisone horse<br />
Or the disease will just keep getting worse<br />
<br />
So I’ll stay on the prednisone horse<br />
But with just a little remorse<br />
It is more of a cure than a curse<br />
And for now there’s no better recourse<br />
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* Note as of mid 2017, the "maintenance level" for me is 5mg, much lower than when I first published this poem.John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-84076407296273135932015-06-21T16:30:00.000-07:002018-11-08T13:25:19.550-08:00The Origins of the Term B.S.<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>The Origins of the Term B.S.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>A reminiscence on Father’s Day 2015</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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My Dad, Kermit passed away in 1974 from liver failure. He
would have been a few months short of 101 on this Father’s Day.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad on 25th Anniversary</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Top: Dad (Kermit), Millard, Elna, Carter</td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTL-r_mKjGGaA2_zut9A0A5IhwW6HyzzjAixudZlDpC0zpXm6Gs4jaFQQHOxmxU-cljIHhYTBE727D1Qv4DyOQMIsA7n0S-mzrXTq1-2V1c7iv9kXyYNFHv1-Zky6LcQ8-r1ojwU1u7Qn/s1600/KermitNBabyPortraitSmllr.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTL-r_mKjGGaA2_zut9A0A5IhwW6HyzzjAixudZlDpC0zpXm6Gs4jaFQQHOxmxU-cljIHhYTBE727D1Qv4DyOQMIsA7n0S-mzrXTq1-2V1c7iv9kXyYNFHv1-Zky6LcQ8-r1ojwU1u7Qn/s320/KermitNBabyPortraitSmllr.png" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Dad as Baby ca. 1915</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With many faults and strengths; he was not the greatest
father that ever lived, but still not the worst.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad was a big strong man, six foot, 250 pounds, with
enormous hands. Mom told me that once, before my time, he and my mother were
driving in a Model A Ford and had a flat tire. Finding they had a spare tire
but no jack, my dad lifted the car at the rear while my mother removed the
wheel and replaced it with the spare. Then there was a legendary bar fight in
Worthing South Dakota when two men trying to restrain him, one on each arm, were flung
backwards as he pursued someone who had angered him. That provocateur fled out
the back door not to be seen at that bar for some time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As far as I know, my father never physically or verbally
abused anyone in our family. There was sometimes a slap or a spanking when a
child misbehaved, but that task was always performed by my mother. I did
however observe one time where my dad was abusive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In south Lincoln County South Dakota in the 1950’s nearly every farm had
one or more milk cows. In order for the milk cows to produce milk, the cow had
to periodically get pregnant and give birth to a calf. In those days, before
artificial insemination was prevalent, this process would require the presence
of a bull. Not every farm kept a bull, since it used farm resources, pasture,
hay, etc. but contributed only one thing and that only happened once in a
while. If you did not have a bull when needed, you could usually borrow one
from your neighbor. Then you may end up pasturing that bull until another farmer
needed it.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJADW3AAee99mds1zk7njJUmSIZwgbCmmxCsOhycH3024ohysnhtoKkTs6P_7nFZxie89Jq6oSFVB5uv0VdTPuMNBxJkuQlU7bTGnOCBkBZYnJgHFBZaJx2ay8JuwZlgUB6G2llI1no7Z/s1600/PolledHereford_bull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJADW3AAee99mds1zk7njJUmSIZwgbCmmxCsOhycH3024ohysnhtoKkTs6P_7nFZxie89Jq6oSFVB5uv0VdTPuMNBxJkuQlU7bTGnOCBkBZYnJgHFBZaJx2ay8JuwZlgUB6G2llI1no7Z/s320/PolledHereford_bull.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Bull</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
On this occasion, my dad’s bull had been residing at a
neighbor’s farm with ten or twenty cows, but was needed at home to do his
bullish duties. My dad had an old Model A Ford that he used around the farm
much like farmers today use gators and four-wheelers. There was a canvas tarp across the seat to protect our posteriors from springs protruding through the <span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;">upholstery.</span> A hole in the floorboard allowed passengers to watch the road pass by.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7V9103h-AQlg4kX3583VApTqkJ2-j4tFBc8AwMBvS2Q9cqSU1QyYPvlXUUaEaouNtBJ2EZ7Qx99MLM2kUbq-pGqY5u-LqEhteE21cK3uN_8VaPRChK76FL3Wj2DIvbGl7rbiHYJH8dFF/s1600/30coupe-bitzjim1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7V9103h-AQlg4kX3583VApTqkJ2-j4tFBc8AwMBvS2Q9cqSU1QyYPvlXUUaEaouNtBJ2EZ7Qx99MLM2kUbq-pGqY5u-LqEhteE21cK3uN_8VaPRChK76FL3Wj2DIvbGl7rbiHYJH8dFF/s320/30coupe-bitzjim1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1930 Model A Ford (similar to my dad's)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He grabbed me and we drove in the old Ford a
couple miles to and into the pasture to get the bull. My job was to open the
gates through which we needed to herd the bull and block the open gates and
driveways until we got home. When we approached each opening, Dad would slow
the Ford and I would get out and run ahead.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we got farther from the pasture and his cow harem, the bull
became less and less willing to continue. Dad honked the Model A’s oogah
horn and nudged the bull with the bumper all the while yelling curses in Norwegian at the bull. The bull then decided to double back through the
ditch. Dad threw the Model A in reverse and sped backwards past the bull then into the ditch with me holding on for dear life. As the nudges became more and more forceful, the bull stopped in the middle of the road, turned around, snorted and
scratched at the gravel with his a hoof. The Model A honked “oogah, oogah”, Dad
shouted Norwegian curses and “wham” the radiator grill connected with the
bull’s head. That was when the bullsh*t started.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a biological phenomenon called the fight or flight
response. Evacuation of the bowels and bladder among other related things often happen when an animal feels threatened. As the Model A continued to
nudge the bull, the bull continued to defecate splattering the front fenders and
windshield with runny B.S. When we reached the home yard the bull manure was
dripping from the front of the Model A along with profuse radiator leakage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a lot of etymological explanations for the term bullsh*t.
To me, the word simply describes the behavior of an actual bull trying his best
to appear fierce and belligerent while his profuse excrement exposes his fear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nowadays every nudge of that Model A’s bumper would probably
be considered animal abuse eligible for a hefty fine or if the bull was injured
it might even be a felony. Back then, at least in south Lincoln County, it was
just bull herding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I know that as much as I wished to be, I probably was/am
not the greatest Dad in the world; I'll never know. But, I can say with 100% certainty, that I
have never abused a bull.</i></span>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-12802771350094512372013-07-20T23:14:00.000-07:002020-05-10T13:43:45.108-07:00Bonus Time<br />
This week I started a one month regimen of a higher dosage of prednisone, a corticosteroid (like cortisone) medication. Prednisone is a powerful anti-inflammatory and immunosuppressant drug, with some nasty side effects. One of the side effects is increased "agitation" aka crabbiness; I like to think of it as curmudgeonly leanings. I'm thinking this may turn our to be more of a benefit than than a harmful side effect. I imagine I will probably be spending more time on this blog.<br />
<h3>
Bonus Years </h3>
In many movies (e.g, "Death Takes a Holiday) there is this guy <span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">— or it could be a gal </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">—</span> who has this list of people who are to be "brought home" each day. We'll call him The One with the List. Some of those on the list have completed their 'life's journey' and are ready to go. We'll call them The Ready. My mother in her later years was a Ready; she lived to 94. The last couple of years were hard for her with dementia and a lot of pain. When things were especially bad, she would sometimes exclaim while holding her arms in the air: "Oh Lord, why do I have to suffer like this. Why can't you just take me." After which I would try to offer some comforting words like "Well you know the Bible says our days are numbered and only God knows when our days are up.", while thinking other words to myself...<br />
<br />
Others may have only just begun there journey, it seems, and are taken away by an accident or sudden illness. Their last words may be, "Oh my God, what's happening to me." We'll call them The Not Ready.<br />
Then there are some folks in between, "I'd like just a little more time please." We'll call them The Not Quite So Ready.<br />
And then there are those of us who have been living on 'Bonus Time'. When our names were called, we somehow avoided the fate. It's not we didn't answer, or that our cell phone battery was weak or that maybe we missed the bus, or somehow just got skipped. It had been our time to die, but instead of the fait accompli, we were handed years of life. We know that when it is really our time, we will not complain. We will say something like, "Oh well, I was living on bonus time anyway. But weren't those some wonderful years? We call them the Bonus Ready.<br />
<br />
<br />John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-14307932529602607092013-01-02T21:02:00.002-08:002020-05-10T13:43:45.173-07:00Before There Was Light<h4>
The Outage</h4>
Sitting in the dark, I tried to remember what it was like without electricity.<br />
RV<br />
Farm in the 1940's<br />
how strongly electric is associated with light.Sioux Falls Light and Power Company building http://visitsiouxfalls.com/visitors/things-to-do/falls-park/<br />
<a href="http://www.siouxfalls.org/contactus/city/history/trivia.aspx#" style="background-color: white; color: #6a8d00; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.571428298950195px; line-height: 20.4761905670166px; outline: none; text-decoration: initial;" title="Click to show/hide this question">Where was the first electrical plant located?</a><br />
<div class="faqitemtext" id="div114" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #131e23; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.571428298950195px; line-height: 20.4761905670166px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small; outline: none;">The Electrical Light Company was located on the east side of the Sioux River near Eighth Street. D. L. and C. E. McKinney started the company in 1884 with capital stock of $75,000.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
the Delco Plant was called a "Light Plants", Light Department \<br />
kerosene lamps, alladin lamp<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
Another Outage</h4>
<br />
The other morning, after waking up, I got the coffee maker going, got dressed, walked the dog, and was about to sit down at the table with NPR, the newspaper, a cup of coffee and a bowl of Grape Nuts when the radio went off. I scanned the kitchen and got a blank stare from the microwave meaning "Yes smartypants, I'm dark and I need some electrons over here." Looking out the window I saw an Xcel Energy truck go by; so evidently the electric company was onto the problem or was messing with my electricity today. Curiosity engaged, I went out to have a look. Down the street I could see lights flashing and several 'cherry pickers' waving around the high-lines. After finishing my breakfast I walked down to where the cluster Xcel trucks were at the side of the street, their cherry pickers now retracted to the top of the trucks.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RcQBzrj0pQoCLiedRk-1_9q0E7O0vTzviSXyvBW8-bsWPX8zX17TzE1QDj-Hyp2ggDT34WAUcYgtGsfqSZexG4MS-Xs_pcFZcZWsFi5M7JcqzFdfqJGvldy33bBBFeCRozC5t89JjJEX/s1600/XcelUpgrade.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RcQBzrj0pQoCLiedRk-1_9q0E7O0vTzviSXyvBW8-bsWPX8zX17TzE1QDj-Hyp2ggDT34WAUcYgtGsfqSZexG4MS-Xs_pcFZcZWsFi5M7JcqzFdfqJGvldy33bBBFeCRozC5t89JjJEX/s320/XcelUpgrade.17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Xcel Energy Trucks on Old Orchard Trail </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I walked the couple blocks to where the trucks were parked and talked to one to the Xcel linemen. He said they were upgrading the line and would have it back up and energized in less than an hour. He added that there had been some overloads in recent summers so they were replacing the conductors to increase the capacity and also adding a conductor for three phase capability which a customer had requested. I think I know who that was, but that's another story for another time.<br />
<br />
<br />
Whenever I see high-line poles being placed or removed I am reminded of when the REA came to our farm place in Lincoln County South Dakota<br />
<h3>
The Highlines</h3>
<div>
The Delco Light Plant<br />
The flood and the war<br />
The light switch was a small knob that you turned about a quarter turn until it clicked and the light would come on, except for when the batteries were run down, then Mamma would be kind of upset and say something about "When is Daddy going to come home and run the generator."<br />
Poisoned by Carbon Monoxide</div>
<div>
candles on the xmas tree</div>
<div>
cutains afire</div>
<div>
highline poles in the yard</div>
<div>
the electricians working on the house<br />
The Frigidaire with ice cube trays, Kool Aid aka nectar</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851696243563115654.post-18063955169049903492012-12-25T15:02:00.000-08:002018-11-08T13:11:21.591-08:00Before There Was Light Part Two<h3>
The Christmas Tree </h3>
<div>
This is a continuation of a story that hasn't been posted yet (Before There Was Light). Think of it as kind of like the prequels to Star Wars, minus the Jedi Knights, all the weird hair and costumes.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<h4>
Christmas Before Electricity </h4>
The farm where I grew up had no outside source of electricity until I was about four or five years old. The Delco light plant (a 32 volt home electric generator system) had been submerged when the basement flooded and could not be repaired or replaced during the war (WWII). After the war, they knew the REA (a government subsidized rural electrification program) was coming, but not exactly when the electric lines would reach our farm. So the Delco plant was abandoned with the expectation of light poles appearing up and down the road. Many of my earliest memories are of that year or two when there was no electricity in that farmhouse in Lincoln County South Dakota.<br />
<br />
<h4>
The Christmas Tree</h4>
That Christmas in 1945 or 46; my sisters wanted more than anything to have a tree to decorate. I wanted a tree too; I had seen them in town all covered with electric lights, colored balls and tinsel. Looking at the tree with all those lights was was a very pleasant experience for me, enchanting almost to the point of hypnotic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMliAvsb-q9PMY2sbN4-o5uwWk952VIkIm3hyphenhyphenDxHL4DTxHTE7m0OnBdYPxmRZGj8WAjiXgtTXpikmdCFrcul7ALUc4Im2HJukQRdg4ZmfBoJ5mlc8xBhY2l-PYXnX2J6XZGUx3y-BrqYMU/s1600/ElectricChristmastree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMliAvsb-q9PMY2sbN4-o5uwWk952VIkIm3hyphenhyphenDxHL4DTxHTE7m0OnBdYPxmRZGj8WAjiXgtTXpikmdCFrcul7ALUc4Im2HJukQRdg4ZmfBoJ5mlc8xBhY2l-PYXnX2J6XZGUx3y-BrqYMU/s320/ElectricChristmastree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
So my mother decided we should have a tree and that we would have to light it with candles.<br />
Getting a tree was no problem, there were evergreens in the grove, but this time we bought one from a store in town. I remember walking with my mother and two older sisters, Suzy (Anne) and Nancy; my younger sister Christy (Kris) was usually left with Aunt Ann who lived in Beresford. We walked all over downtown Beresford looking for candle holders for a Christmas tree. First to the dime store, then to the K and K dry goods store and finally to Gambles hardware store. I think the clerks probably said something like, "Sure we used to have those, but we haven't sold any for a while." I think we finally went back to the dime store and bought just the candles. As I remember, the candles were in different colors with spiral twists much like these birthday cake candles only larger:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwMIOcVfL8Dp_e-nKQE4skBjwWTcOKoNIPJv77bRrkcDnu2i1m1lD80bCwSnRLT7Bk8aCf88-pyH8woYsiMrQRASXXGlldNnS43o_6lcUU_e22jHQvxV0cdYAnx-VNvApwtOlKDDoaJlq/s1600/big_birthday_cake_with_candles3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwMIOcVfL8Dp_e-nKQE4skBjwWTcOKoNIPJv77bRrkcDnu2i1m1lD80bCwSnRLT7Bk8aCf88-pyH8woYsiMrQRASXXGlldNnS43o_6lcUU_e22jHQvxV0cdYAnx-VNvApwtOlKDDoaJlq/s320/big_birthday_cake_with_candles3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
When we got home, my mother and sisters got the tree set up. Momma went upstairs to the store room and after a while came back with a couple strings of Christmas tree lights in a box. She took the 32 volt bulbs out and inserted a candle where each bulb had been. They strung the lights around the outer boughs and then added the colored glass balls and tinsel icicles. We couldn't light the candles until Christmas eve because they could only be lit once and then it would be over. We had our Christmas present openings on Christmas eve. --Jesus was born that night you know, so that was when Gods gift to mankind took place and was therefore the only appropriate time for opening gifts-- After the dinner (often oyster stew), and the table was cleared and all the dishes were washed, we could sit down in the front room (a.k.a. living room) and the Christmas presents could be opened.<br />
On that evening, I imagine the tree looked something like these pictures:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXrSHl2S0I0L8q6F39cQxyx4AG3mkPtKl7uMC3C45ffDLyFLaB92EU51EjM1rBnVXyVjzE_Kca3-eo90e7xCWXa70NVvEhs3g_Qtt4QTLCdbJRDA8ZymFPh9PvOiiSzxk6m7v9uO4EKGU/s1600/BAUMKERZEN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXrSHl2S0I0L8q6F39cQxyx4AG3mkPtKl7uMC3C45ffDLyFLaB92EU51EjM1rBnVXyVjzE_Kca3-eo90e7xCWXa70NVvEhs3g_Qtt4QTLCdbJRDA8ZymFPh9PvOiiSzxk6m7v9uO4EKGU/s320/BAUMKERZEN.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprhdJoOWxd90HwgmR04EWZCGGKRp6VFXCRh_jWYb7i8FTBDi8Jqu9-I6NmDB4iGb_1-9enFvbaWtULwRjnRZj6EKZ_iMNnXDszX78TJe0zA99ylWElQTrX5PkueqKp0U8i8AeYEwZJtmZ/s1600/Christma+tree+candles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprhdJoOWxd90HwgmR04EWZCGGKRp6VFXCRh_jWYb7i8FTBDi8Jqu9-I6NmDB4iGb_1-9enFvbaWtULwRjnRZj6EKZ_iMNnXDszX78TJe0zA99ylWElQTrX5PkueqKp0U8i8AeYEwZJtmZ/s1600/Christma+tree+candles.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
It must have been incredibly beautiful, but to me it just wasn't as pretty as the trees with electric lights like the people in town had. By the next year, the REA had brought electricity to our farm and new electric Christmas tree lights were bought at a store in Beresford or Canton. For the rest of my young life I was mesmerized by lighted Christmas trees. Sixty-five years later and can still remember that feeling. But that enchanting experience faded as I grew older, replaced by other pretty things (like Bonnie) and other adventures. But that's another story for another time.<br />
<br />
FYI, here are two links with interesting information about the history of Christmas lighting <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_lights">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_lights</a><br />
<a href="http://inventors.about.com/od/cstartinventions/a/Xmas_Lights.htm">http://inventors.about.com/od/cstartinventions/a/Xmas_Lights.htm</a>John Marius Nelsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08253976401950702661noreply@blogger.com0