Tuesday, December 29, 2009

The game

Little granddaughter Olivia expressed some reservations regarding attending full-day public kindergarten in September. This was despite the fact that her older sister Lillian would be in second grade at the same school.

At the open house in August Olivia, never shy about expressing her opinion, was expressing her reservations to the kindergarten teacher. Ms. Poltkin, without hesitation, took Olivia to see the guinea pigs, Bob and Patches, who lived in a cage in the classroom. Olivia was immediately smitten with these small, smelly animals. When her teacher explained that the guinea pigs would need a home on the weekends Olivia was hooked. She immediately offered her house.

Unfortunately, the very young Ms. Polkin, unaware of certain characteristics of guinea pigs in the wild, had to find a permanent home for Bob shortly after class began and there was the terrible “incident” in the cage in the classroom. The less said about this the better. Patches would stay, a little worse for wear, and be rotated among the parents on weekends. Bob was sent to “The Farm”.

Olivia proudly took Patches home for the first weekend. She showed Patches to her parents, sisters, neighborhood children and her cat. She let Patches out to play. The cat appeared to be appalled, if cats can be such a thing. But, much to his credit, he refrained from jumping on Patches and leaving the classroom pig-less.

On Sunday Olivia’s mom Jessica noticed Patches was not in his cage. The children were in their rooms picking up. Jess searched for Patches but couldn’t locate him in the immediate vicinity of the cage. As she went upstairs to ask the children she passed the master suite and heard the plaintive cry of the captive guinea pig.

What, she thought, is he doing in my bedroom. No, that wasn’t right. The cries were coming from the bathroom next door. Still she couldn’t see old Patches anywhere out in the open. Where were the cries coming from exactly. She began opening drawers in her vanity until, lo and behold, there he was. Stuffed into the middle left hand drawer.

She took the shaken Patches to the children and demanded to know what was going on.

Olivia put her hand on her hip and while tapping her foot calmly stated that they were playing hide and seek and it was Patches turn to hide when she had been called away from her game to clean her stupid room. Now mother had completely ruined the game.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Winter on the river


Surprisingly, winter on the Bass River is busy. Not with boaters and bathers but rather with loons, seals, small arctic ducks and terns.

I find it amazing that loons spend the summer in the Rangeley Lakes of Maine and northern-most lakes of New Hampshire and then come to the Bass River for the “mild” winter. Granted the water is still mostly open here in winter, unlike the lakes, but it is still very cold and windy. Oh well, they must be pretty tough.

The gray and harbor seals from Monomoy Island off Chatham find their way here in winter to catch fish coming and going with the tides at the mouth of the river. I watched one last winter with a big flounder in his mouth, flip the fish until it was head down and then swallow it whole!

The little, bright black and white arctic ducks never stop diving. I should think they would freeze solid after the first dive but they shake off the water and start again. They bob over whitecaps and steep waves like corks then fly back against the tide to drift and dive again with the tide.

Usually someone will leave an old boat on a mooring over the winter, sort of abandoned. I watch as the winds eventually tear to shreds whatever canvas remains and the hull begins to settle in the stormy water. I speculate as to what may have happened to cause the boat to still be on its mooring. Was the owner called away on a top-secret mission before he had time to tend to his beloved old boat? Did he fall on such hard times financially that he couldn’t afford to drag the old girl up a ramp to shore for the season? Or is he actually still aboard, living out the winter in isolation, banned from civilization for his transgressions?

Or did some old fella simply forget the damned thing?

Sunday, December 13, 2009

A better mouse trap


I have an old foundation under my old house made, in part, of porous old brick. I keep promising to get some mortar and fill in all the cracks. It’s still on my list.

Field mice come into the crawl space under the house in the fall through these tiny openings, some of which they have expanded over the years. In and of itself that would not be a big problem. I learned to share in kindergarten. The real problem is when they get bold and enter my space! After all, they don’t pay rent and we are never formally introduced so why should I be housing AND feeding these little bastards?

I set out old fashioned traps with old cheese as bait in one of my cellars. These types of traps, wood base with a metal snap held back by a small rod lightly connected to the cheese platform, have been around forever. Clearly there is no wisdom passed down the generations in the mice world. In fact, even with one lying “trapped”, other mice will stop by for a taste of cheese at another trap nearby. Talk about cold!

I hate removing these deceased mice. I wear an old pair of gloves so as to not catch some exotic disease known only to doctors on Indian reservations in the southwest. I used to bag them and discard them at the dump with my trash until I watched a neighborhood hawk eating one she had caught in the yard.

Now I discard them in the yard by the cellar door and, by golly, the little corpses are gone within minutes. Talk about recycling!

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

I need to know...

As I drove to South Carolina I noticed lots of license plates from Quebec. And as I got closer to Hilton Head, I saw lots of cars with license plates from Michigan. The thought occurred to me that perhaps no one remains in Quebec over the winter and maybe most people are leaving Michigan. Who could blame either group. It makes sense to me.

Both places are colder than you know what in the winter. And all the jobs in Michigan have left for places unknown. Places like South Carolina and Alabama and India and China. Probably people from Quebec also need a break from all that French language and unceasing romance. Especially us elderly.

Now, I’m assuming the travelers from Michigan, what without having jobs and all, probably don’t have to worry about health insurance except in the broadest sense of having none but what about all those Quebecois? Doesn’t Canada have, you know, socialized medicine? Who pays the medical bills of all these old geezers from up there when they spend the winter in Hilton Head?

They must get sick while they are here. Their blood must thin out awfully in the warm weather. Their resistance must get down to nothing. When they go to the doctor or the hospital do they present a card that says something like, “Health insurance provided by the Commonwealth of Canada, eh! Send us a bill. Keep your stick on the ice, eh!”

If anyone is left in Quebec, could you let me know? You betcha!

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

A Good Cup of Coffee (and A Fine Piece of Pie)

On vacation, daughter Jessica and I like to treat ourselves to an extravagant cup of coffee at Starbucks. Something with mocha and peppermint perhaps or chocolate and whipped cream. Something with 7,000 calories that tastes like a melted hot fudge Sundae.

Upon arrival in any Starbucks I immediately wonder where I need to stand to order. No signs, no obvious counter, no one who actually appears to be waiting on customers. It’s like street signs in New England. If you don’t already know where you’re going, you shouldn’t be here. It’s a blatant kind of elitist.

When I finally get Geselle’s eye and she reluctantly takes my order for a cup of coffee, instead of actually getting it for me she hands the empty cup off in the direction of Raul. By way of sweet parting, Geselle tells me to await my prescious drink at the "bar".

Where exactly is the “bar”? Since every available space is covered with single cup coffee makers and espresso machines, coffee from places I assume are still in existence somewhere and more instant coffee packages than the U.S. Army would ever need, the “bar” is hard to find.

It is best to arrive at a Starbucks directly behind another old buck, preferably one with Alzheimer’s disease. Starbucks markets their product almost exclusively to these guys. Since there is a Starbucks on any two corners of any intersection anywhere in the world, these old folks spend all day walking from one to the other. Once outside of this shop the guy now in front of me will take a deep breath, look across the intersection and think to himself, “How about a nice cup of Joe?”

But by following this “regular” user you can discover where to stand to best be seen by Geselle and where the idiot “bar” is located.

Just one more suggestion for Starbucks: put the damn cream and sugar in it. If I wanted to wait on myself why would I be waiting in line for fifteen minutes with five other very confused old people who are already way too high on caffeine while pouty Raul takes his time pouring my stupid coffee.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Untrained Dog Owners

As I rode my bicycle along the beach today on Hilton Head Island with a gray sky and cool breeze, I came upon a large family and their Doberman walking in front of me in the same direction. I slowed until I was noticed. I waited for someone to collar the dog. The fellow I took to be dad, older and heavier than all his teenaged children, had a red plastic extendable-retractable leash in his hand. The dog was not attached to it despite what the large signs said at every beach entrance.

No one grabbed the dog but they did separate so I could proceed along the beach so I went. That’s when I heard dad shout, “Bradley”! I kept biking. He shouted, “Bradley” again with some urgency. I wondered if that could possibly be the dog’s name. Who names a dog Bradley?

That’s when I heard the noise of racing paws and nails on hard sand and there was the Doberman barking, “Woof, Woof” at my heels. This was obviously another well-trained Doberman. Dad screamed, “Bradley stop”. Bradley aimed for my right leg and snapped.

I shouted, “Fuck off Bradley”. He paused. “Fuck off Bradley” I said again. He slowed, then stopped. Obviously, I was not the first teenager to tell Bradley to stop whatever he was doing in this fashion.

I got to the big creek in one piece and sat enjoying the view. The family arrived. Bradley was still loose, but one of the kids herded him away from me without me so much as swearing in his direction. No one came over to say that Bradley is a lovely dog who hardly ever bites elderly bicyclists.

When I finally got back on my bike and turned to head back up the beach, the lady who appeared to me to be the mother of this bunch, older and worn-out looking, smiled and said, “Hello”. I suddenly had the feeling Bradley was not her favorite either.

I don’t dislike dogs, Doberman or otherwise. I dislike people who do not train their dogs and seem surprised by, and even try to justify, the untrained dog’s bad behavior. I once had a boss whose terrible dog knocked a kid off his bike out in the street and bit him. My boss speculated that the kid should not have been riding a bike in the street by his house. That was clearly the only problem.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

My old house

I have finally finished repairing all the doors in my dining room that did not close. There are six doors in my dining room, which I think is unusual. Two doors lead from the kitchen into the room, one to the wine cellar, one to the attic, one to the front porch and one to the downstairs bathroom. The entry to the formal living room is an archway. That’s because it represents the connection of one very old house, the dining room, to a not very much newer house, the living room, et al.

The dining room actually existed on its own as a house at one time in the early 1700’s, four lots down our street. The living room, den, birthing room and large attic, now two bedrooms and a bath, existed on the current site, first as a Cape half house and later as a full Cape.

The dining room house was dragged down the street around 1800 to 1830 and added to the Cape. On the back of the dining room there was a very old winter kitchen. The summer kitchen and the outhouse were in the back yard on opposite sides of the barn. There are lilacs where the outhouse used to be. I still have the permit that allowed my grandfather-in-law, Frank Crosby, to add indoor plumbing in 1936. Not a moment too soon according to my late mother-in-law.

Frank’s wife Gert complained bitterly that she had no pantry and the wood shed was on the other side of the barn. At different times, Frank went down to the Town Wharf nearby and purchased old shacks from the fishermen there. He had these shacks dragged here, cut down a window at the back of the kitchen and made the opening into a door. Then he stuck the shacks onto the back of the old kitchen. One became a pantry and one the new wood shed.

This whole section collapsed in 1984. An inspection revealed that when Frank had installed a sink in the kitchen, he left the drain pipe under the crawl space to empty into the sand there. Almost fifty years later the accumulated moisture caused the floor to give way and so went the rest of the kitchen.

We rebuilt this area. We created a modern kitchen and family room following the original exterior footprint despite our protestations to the historic commission that there was nothing original about the two fish shacks!

At the same time, we removed an odd projection from the front door. It was a very small shack that Frank had found somewhere, origin unknown, and stuck to the original front door to create a sort of closet for Gert who claimed a great lack of closet space.

This front door is actually on the side of the lot away from the main street the house sits on. This was done purposefully so that the dust from the horse drawn wagons on the dirt road wouldn’t get into the house in the summer when the front door might be open for the breeze.

So now all the doors in the dining room close properly. My guess is that absolutely no one but me will notice!

Monday, November 16, 2009

Magic Bean


This July when the granddaughters were visiting me, they each bought a little gift for themselves from a tourist-type shop. The youngest, Olivia, bought a metal can full of vermiculite and what looked like a pear pit. The can called it “The Magic Bean”.

Well, it wasn’t all that magic, at least at first. The bean simply sort of began to rot as Olivia dutifully watered the can each day. When they were readying to leave, her mother promised I would look after magic bean and bring it to their house when I next visited in the fall.

Eventually I got the “bean” headed in the right direction and it began to sprout. I left it in a sunny corner of the kitchen and it climbed up the leg of a small table next to it. I re-potted it into a clay pot and gave it a little fertilizer.

It climbed up the table and headed for the side door, determined it seemed to exceed my expectations in a straggly, weedy sort of manner.

When I packed to visit this week I unwound magic bean from the table and the doorway and put it in a place of prominence on the floor of the passenger seat of my truck.

Magic bean and I arrived in a cold rain. The next day we all proceeded from the cab of the truck to the house and a nice shelf in the big hallway with lots of light and re-wrapped magic bean around a metal display rack. Olivia was thrilled.

The next day magic bean was minus most of one leaf. On Saturday, we discovered the cat, Emerson, eating two other magic leaves. At this rate, magic bean would be stripped bare in a week. We moved it higher on the rack.

Daughter Jessica was the first to notice how relaxed Emerson seemed that evening. Positively blissed out. Laying around at the foot of the rack looking up with a big shit eating grin.

Now I know the Chinese have exported some amazing things to the U.S. I’ve been to WalMart. But you don’t think they would dare to put that in a can and sell it to kids as “Magic bean”, do you?

Monday, November 2, 2009


I purchased six preserved star fish on the Chinese black market. I put them in the front windows. All the old houses here have those little window panes. Nine over six, six over six, twelve over six. And we all have crap in the windows. Star fish, candles, oil lamps, ship models. I don’t know why. I guess it’s required.

Anyway, I put the star fish in the windows with their good side out. Like you do when you erect a fence. The good side faces the neighbor’s house. Then I took a bike ride by the river and looked at the windows in other old houses. All the star fish were facing into the house with the mouth side facing out. Every single one.

Who makes these rules. And where does one look up the “star fish facing rule for old house windows”!

I know why we have to only have white Christmas lights in our windows during the holidays. The local Historic District Commission requires it. Is there a star fish commission?

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Being a lazy Buddhist



I marvel some mornings in retirement about how quickly I have become so lazy. I always suspected that if I gave myself full sway I would be a very lazy person. It’s one of the reasons I kept going so hard, so long.

Now, in the morning, I make excellent coffee and take time to drink it, sitting quietly on the porch or while reading a book. I don’t rush. If I want to go to the store, I decide when it is convenient for me. If I want an apple crisp for supper, I take the time to make it.

When I am doing chores I take breaks and read, listen to music or just sit quietly and think. I meditate when I feel like it and not on any schedule that I can figure out or that is determined by work or anything external.

I have argued recently with friends that I like a good discussion, even a polite argument, on certain matters I think are important, things that have to do with community, public life, politics, et al.

My Buddhism instructor suggested I might want to discourage this “bad habit” in myself. And, instead, marvel at the views of others while suggesting I have taken another approach to the matter without explaining what. If they want to discuss this, I should act like Allen Ginsburg on the William Buckley TV show many years ago and simply say, “I love you” each time they try to engage me in further discussion.

I don’t think I could pull it off. I’m not THAT blissed out! But I get the point. Perhaps I should try. If it does run counter to my very nature, perhaps it will be interesting to see if I can change that at this late date.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Traffic

In 1935 two bridges were completed over the Cape Cod Canal. They are both steel suspension bridges, maintained by the Army Corp of Engineers, and built by the WPA, no doubt under budget and on time. And at that time, let’s guess that 10,000 people lived year round on Cape Cod. That was the total population, all of it, from Wood’s Hole to Provincetown, that those bridges were built to handle.

Today, 75 years later, with a population of, again let’s estimate 300,000 living year round here, we still use those bridges. They are the only way on and off Cape Cod for automobile traffic. Approximately 100,000 cars travel over the two bridges every day. When the Corp needs to do maintenance, like at the moment on the Sagamore bridge, the resulting backups stretch for miles, all day, every day. It’s like the Southeast Expressway in Boston.

On a larger scale, our Interstate Highway System was begun during the Eisenhower Administration more than fifty years ago. Ike realized in WWII that we would need to be able to move people and materials quickly from one place to another in this country as the Germans were doing. We have not tackled such a project since. We add onto and modify a system that is too old, too slow and completely lacking in capacity for today’s world. Have you ever tried to travel along Route 95 in Connecticutt?

With highways, and airports, malls, parks and a thousand other things we might consider as a community, we must all agree on the merits of the project. If just one person says no, then who are we to force this on them against their will? This appears true today regardless of the needs of the larger community.

Granted, lots of mistakes were made building the original Interstate Highway System. Hopefully, we wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. But to plan to do nothing at all seems crazy to me. We need two more bridges of the same size over the Cape Cod Canal, four lanes in each direction both in Sagamore and Bourne.

Imagine having to evacuate the Cape for some reason with the current bridges. It would be a disaster.

Wishing people would just say no to driving automobiles is just silly.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

I generally like political discussion, even argument if it is conducted without rancor. In my family, and with certain friends, we always talked about politics. Some of my friends and family members, for that matter, are very conservative, others are more liberal. No one has developed hard feelings over such discussions or felt particularly condescended to that I know of. But that's been suggested as the likely outcome by some people after I forwarded some political items recently to my e-mail list.

I have often modified my views after talking with someone I respected about current events. It would sadden me to suggest that any discussion or e-mail of mine smacks of telling someone what to think. I, of all people, don't know enough about anything to tell anyone what to think! I do have opinions, however, and though I'm sure they are often misguided, they are rarely carved in stone.

I think this experience of my e-mail list is reflective of something deeply wrong in our country at the moment. It worries me. This very small sample of folks can't discuss anything remotely political in a civil and thoughtful manner, whether we disagree a little or a lot, whether conservative or liberal. How do we get to middle ground if positions are inflexible and compromise is thought to be surrender.

This furthers my thought that some of what the Internet is doing is letting folks solidify positions and never, ever, consider a different point of view.

The old Subject Headings in a library card catalog sometimes led folks like me to very different material than we set out looking for in the beginning and I believe that was a positive thing. And newspapers provided the opportunity to sometimes see an article or opinion piece that differed from my present view. All that is essentially gone for lots of people. If you want to see a different view on-line you have to find it and go get it. It doesn't just pop up in front of you.

The Internet may be contributing to the fact that no one is listening to anyone else. No one has to compromise in Second Life!

Today some folks only watch MSNBC (or FOX News) and search web sites that amuse them and confirm their world view. I think that's missing the point. Who benefits? What about the greater good? What might a compromise actually look like?

I'm a middle of the road guy. A friend tells me that's just the place to be if you want to be run over! I want tort reform in medical malpractice and a public option that may help to drive down costs of health insurance. And, unlike preaching to the choir, I like talking to people with different points of view because I think it will help me to form a better perspective on what's not just good for me but good for the country as well.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Squirrels

I stopped feeding the birds two years ago. It wasn’t so much feeding the birds that was the problem. All I was really doing was feeding the squirrels. They jumped up onto the squirrel proof feeders, they jumped down onto them, they flew sideways onto them, they cut them down, broke them open or just banged them around until all the seed had come out. Birds really weren’t involved at all.

I had squirrel baffles and long clothesline way up in trees and away from branches. I had them attached to perfectly vertical sides of my house. I tried fishing line, supposedly squirrels can’t see it to climb down or cut. I varied the seed. Perhaps there was a type of seed squirrels wouldn’t bother with.

No such luck. I grew to hate squirrels. I was wasting my time and my money.

I would like to feed the birds this winter and, at least, minimize the theft and destruction of the squirrels. Any suggestions??

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Ole Skiffer


When Jessica went off to college I assumed Martha and I would spend much of our free time running around the house buck naked. But as that dear, sweet lady said to me at the time, “Think again, McDuff”.

So I decided to build a small, open motor boat called a skiff. I got plans from a fellow on the west coast from an ad in Wooden Boat magazine. Martha and I went to Somerville, MA to Boulter Plywood and bought all the mahogany, marine plywood and oak I would need. It cost me $500. The year was 1989. We had to drive home to Milford, NH on back roads going slowly so the long sheets of plywood wouldn’t sail off the roof racks of the truck.

I put it together, mostly, over the next year then trucked it to the Cape house. I left it, unpainted, in the back yard and went looking for an outboard motor at the winter boat show in Boston. That next summer we bought a trailer and I finished the skiff.

Here it is, twenty years later, sitting on my mooring on the Bass River today.

Some Pig




I spotted a spider in her web in my barn yesterday. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a bigger one. And the web is unusual, outlining the spider exactly in the middle.


Because of the light and the angle, and because I didn’t want to get really, really close, it was tough to take a picture.


The temperatures are dropping at night so I don’t imagine it will last too much longer. At least that is my secret hope. Certainly I don’t intend to wrestle it to the ground and jump on it!


Maybe I could catch it in a can and keep it as my new pet. It’s certainly big enough!

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Update on Pears

I cut up some of my harvest of Seckel pears from the tree outside the kitchen door and sautéed them in white wine with three boneless chicken breasts. After the chicken was cooked, I reduced the wine and pears into a sweet sauce and topped the chicken with it. Not bad.


Yesterday I peeled and cut up some pears and added a touch of good black Jamaican rum to them and then made a banana bread using my mother’s recipe plus the pears. It was sensational, perhaps the best banana bread I’ve ever made.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Bed Rest

I'm convinced, for me at least, the torment of the damned is being told not to do anything at all for 10 days or 6 weeks or whatever.

I have been reading a lot and watching movies on TV. I suppose I could clean the house except I did that just before going to the hospital in case anyone had to come in while I was away.

I do cook, but using only one hand limits my range of dishes. And since I can't exercise I guess I'll just blow up to Enormous.

I make lists of things I'll plant next summer and repairs I need to make on the house. I'm going to do some Internet shopping today for the Holidays. I'll send some thank you notes.

My brother John came to visit. He drove me to the library, the auto insurance agency, the Registry and the bank. I was told not to drive so at least, with him driving, I could get some errands done.

But how do you determine if something weighs 5 pounds so you don't pick it up? How exactly are you supposed to get it on the scale in the first place?

Friday, September 18, 2009

Crickets in the house, mums for sale

I have been attempting to ignore fall completely this year. The months of April, May, June and the first half of July were so awful, rain, cold and more rain, that we deserve an additional stretch of decent summer weather.


But despite what I feel entitled to the crickets have started coming into the house and keeping me up at night. Who came up with this business about not killing the little bastards? Carrying them out on a tissue is a pain. Why do they come in at all. I found one the other day trapped in an antique porcelain chamber pot on the porch. Did he think the acoustics would be better from there?


And the super market has mums for sale by the hundreds. Acres of orange and purple and brownish red. I suppose I’ll have to break down and get a couple. And a stupid pumpkin.


I refuse to turn the heat on in the house. I have been chilly a couple of mornings but turning heat on is admitting defeat.


I’m not done with summer, darnit. I still need ten clear beach days, five good boating-fishing days, three more hot hiking-camping days and a big barbeque evening with a red sky in the west.


Who’s in charge of this?

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Feeling better

So, I have been feeling sort of lousy for awhile. Last week I felt especially so. Really quite poorly. Every time I did anything, however minor, I had to sit down, rest, take deep breathes, bring feeling back to my arms, stop sweating. I wondered if I would feel better if I went shopping for something new.

Friday, I had an interior door in the garage that I had just painted with the finish coat. I carried it in to the house (sat down), hung it, (sat down), put the hardware back on (sat down) and decided I had a problem. And it wasn't just going to go away.

Saturday, my brothers and sister-in-law were visiting. Cal and I moved some furniture around. We carried a piece out of the wine cellar to be cleaned. I went onto the roof of the barn to grease the wind vane which was making a terrible noise as it turned in the wind. I spent a lot of time sitting and resting.

Sunday, I went food shopping because the thought was dawning (over Marblehead) that I might not be able to after I presented myself at the hospital, assuming that was necessary. I cleaned the house. I decided to sleep on it and if I still felt poorly in the morning I would call the doctor. I don't want to present myself with a list of complaints only to find out nothing is wrong!

Monday morning I felt lousy yet again. I called the doctor's office. They said someone would get back to me. About an hour later a lady called and said go to the hospital. I suggested I drive to one in Boston. She suggested I go to the nearest emergency room. I did.

I felt foolish at the reception desk because I wasn't feeling all that lousy at that moment. They took me right in and did an EKG. A nurse came and added large pads to my chest in case they had to paddle me. She said I had a stage three heart block. I was not to move and, no, I could not get up to go to the bathroom. They gave me aspirin and nitro. They fixed up an intravensus thing and called the cardiologist.

She came and told me the same thing. She explained that the electrical signal that goes from the atrium to the ventricle was no longer going to the ventricle. The atrium was beating but the ventricles, not so much.

She said I needed a pacemaker. Ordinarily I do not buy expensive appliances on short notice and without reading up on the various models in Consumer Reports. And I just bought a wide screen TV so my budget was a little overextended. And I rarely buy electrical appliances that require a company representative be present when the appliance is installed!

The cardiologist said tomorrow morning wouldn't be too soon. I felt pressured to buy. I wondered what Martha Ellen would recommend. I called Jessica to run the idea by her.

The next morning (yesterday) I was operated on and had a very nice Medtronic model installed under my left clavicle. I spent another uncomfortable night in cardiac care and came home today. My heart now beats at a steady 60 beats per minute, rather that 34 or 35, and I feel less lousy. I'm told I'll feel much better shortly but now I'm wondering if I did the right thing.

After all, this device is only making my heart beat 90% of the time. I probably could have waited a little while longer and looked for a sale.