Angry Old Man

Scout's Journal

2010-03-24T07:48:00.000-07:00

Saturday, 3/20/10

We picked Scout up in Penn Yann late in the afternoon of Tuesday, 3/16/2010. As I approached the litter of 6 pups who were lying about in the yard, Scout was the first to notice me, and came to me at once. Love at first sight! I put him into Terri's lap in the front seat; Sadie and Possum were in the back seat. He had no problem with them. He did get carsick twice on the drive home.

I gave him a cup and ½ of Puppy Chow, and he gobbled it up. When I took him outside, he heeled (almost,) sat when I stopped, came when I said, “Come.” I was amazed! Other than one “accident,” he has gone pottie outside, beautifully.

On Wednesday, Scout and I were playing out in the yard. He was lying on the ground beside a hollowed-out log my wife uses as a planter, contentedly chewing on something. While we were conducting business with the breeder the day before, he was chewing on the root of a plant of some sort. I thought he had found another under our pine tree. Later that day, Terri was with us outside, and suddenly said, “He's eating a dead mouse!” Yup, it was a dead mouse; not a root after all.

We went for a walk up our trailer park road. Two of our elderly neighbors were chatting, and Scout greeted them cheerfully. We then ran into a young couple, a friend of theirs, and their three young children. Since it was a nice spring day, the kids had all their ride toys, etc., in their yard. After meeting and greeting, Scout happily ran after them, and didn't want to come home, but obeyed my command to “heel,” albeit reluctantly, when I tugged on his leash.

So far, so good. Thursday afternoon, we went to my stepson's house, so that the grandchildren, 6 year old Joseph and 9 year old Lillian could meet Scout. They have 3 dogs and a cat. Because the dogs always greet us with vociferous barking and jumping in their pen, Scout was frightened. He calmed down pretty quickly, and had a ball playing with the kids, the rambunctious male Boxer mix, and the energetic Shepard mix. He was very cautious around the cat, but they had no problems. He got so tired out that I had a hard time waking him up, so had to carry him to the truck. Upon arriving home, he plopped down and passed out until we went to bed a couple of hours later.

We had put a nice warm blanket on our bedroom floor beside the bed the first night. Scout decided he preferred sleeping on Terri's side of the bed, so she laid a sweatshirt of hers on the floor for him. I gave him a stuffed Teddy bear to cuddle with (and chew, of course.) Sadie had kicked a sofa cushion onto the floor of the living room, between the sofa and the coffee table. Care to guess who “owns” that cushion now? It now does double duty as a couch cushion and Scout's bed.

We bought a crate for Scout Friday. I made him a nice bed, put in toys and his water and food bowls, but he ain't likin' it. He goes in and out of it readily enough, but forget about closing the gate; that ain't happenin' yet. We also got him some Purina Busy Rollhide chews, which have been really effective in controlling his chewing behavior, but he hasn't eaten any food since.

Monday, 3/22/10

Our friends who own a miniature horse farm in Pulaski invited us to their home to celebrate their daughter Emily's third birthday. Terri and I brought Scout, her daughter-in-law Cheryl, and the two grandchildren. There were already four children , a few teenagers, the parents, and the mom's parents at the party. At first, Scout was shy, and hid under the barstool that the dad was sitting on. When I thought it was time for him to go outside, the kids asked if they could walk him. I allowed them to do so, under my watchful eyes. Once Scout got wound up playing with the kids, he got plumb wore out, again. Had to be carried to the truck, and fell soundly asleep on arriving home.

We had to go to Hastings for a couple of hours yesterday. Since Scout suffers motion sickness, we decided to leave him crated at home. I can only assume that he was alright.

In order to get him eating again, Terri mixed a tiny bit of milk in with his food, which piqued his appetite. Now he's eating normally again.

Terri and I were working in the office when, suddenly, we heard Sadie snarl, then Scout screaming. Apparently, they were fighting over a rubber squeaky toy. Sadie is not good at sharing her “babies.” We're keeping them separated for now.

Scout urinated on the living room floor some time this morning before we got out of bed. He peed in the house again this evening. He had gone to the door and sniffed, and I thought he may have needed to go out, but he went into the bedroom and peed before I got up to put him on his leash. My bad. He did have a healthy bowel movement.

I am hoping to get him to like being crated overnight. He is spending longer periods inside before crying, yelping, biting the bars, and jumping on the gate. Scout was doing pretty well this evening until he somehow managed to squeeze his rollhide chew outside of the crate. I just read the package and saw that they are not suitable for puppies. Why? He managed to get the chew through the bars again, then yipped and howled and barked like a wild wolf. Too funny!

Wednesday, 3/24/10

Due to an urgent family matter, we had to leave Scout crated for about five hours yesterday. When we returned home at around 8 PM, and I let him out, he went absolutely bananas, going from one fun thing to another for about two hours. We're again allowing our “kids” to mingle. So far, so good.

I am amazed by the level of control he has over his bodily functions. In the mornings, Scout plays, drinks water, eats a bit, then asks to go out. I really appreciate that, because it affords me the opportunity to have some coffee before taking him for a walk.

Scout plays a little too roughly with our Chihuaha, Possum, so we're working on that. Because of her size, I think that he believes that she's also a puppy, so must want to play as he and his siblings did. Sadie, the Manchester Terrier mix, only plays with people. He's being really cautious around her now.

I collected Scout's stool sample at 10:15 this morning for his first Vet appointment at 2 PM. He's being especially rambunctious today.

PGR

2008-02-25T07:33:00.001-08:00

Oh my God! We had no idea that our first week would be so hectic. There were three missions, with some overlap. I couldn't believe how grateful the families are for our standing for their loved ones. Active military personnel go out of their way to thanks us, also. We are there to thank them for their service and sacrifice.

I expected more people, even though it was really cold out. Of course it wasn't bike riding weather, so I expect more impressive stuff as the weather improves. I got on the no-shows a bit in our forum, but as long as there's at least one of us there to show our respects, it's meaningful. The night of Friday, the 15th of February was so cold that the State Ride Captain assigned just Terri and me to duty inside the funeral home. The only things that would keep us from a mission are the gas expense or our health.

Ramble On

2008-02-25T06:47:00.000-08:00

I have so many thought running through my head this morning, I'm just going to go with stream-of-consciousness here, in hopes of sorting some things out.

My son, Paul, his lovely wife Sherry, and my drop dead gorgeous granddaughters Abbie and Julia have recently arrived at Sheppard AFB, Wichita Falls, TX, after transferring from Alaska. While Paul has always been the kind of son one can only dream of having, I haven't been all that great of a dad. That he deigns to communicate with me at all is a wonderful blessing. I sure wouldn't blame him if he chose not to.

I married Paul's mom when he was three years old. I adopted Paul and his older sister, Kelly a few years later. I tried my best to be a good husband and father for about 10 years, but I just couldn't handle dealing with Paul and Kelly's older sibs, who were stubbornly loyal to their biological father.

We separated when Paul was 13, and I completely abandoned my responsibilities to Paul, except for financially. Since he started playing organized baseball at 8, I had always been his coach, from Instructional League, through Little League, and on into Babe Ruth, briefly. All of a sudden, at an important stage in his life when he needed me, I wasn't there. That he's turned out so remarkably well is a tribute to him, his mom, and Sherry.

Since I feel nothing but unconditional love for Paul, he can do no wrong in my eyes, and doesn't have to accomplish great things to earn my respect. Paul recently completed his ninth year serving in the Air Force, and has been promoted to E-6, Technical Sergeant, I think. He intends to serve for another eleven years. He is such an outstanding young man, so much better than I. He sure is my hero! I've wasted most of my almost 58 years on this planet, and can only pray that I can now leave a legacy that Paul can be proud of. He's proud of the fact that I served in Vietnam when duty called, and even believes that I'm some kind of war hero. I can only hope and pray that I can live the rest of my life in a such a way that Paul has no need to ever be ashamed of me.

Patriot Guard Riders

2008-02-08T15:51:00.000-08:00

I've been in a pretty good mood lately, even though I endured a colonoscopy this morning (finally!) A polyp was found and excised, and sent to Pathology, but I'll need a re-do in six months. Apparently I was so full of shit that a one-day prep wasn't enough, so they're gonna set up a two-day one.

Terri and I recently joined the Patriot Guard Riders, an international organization dedicated to honoring our nation's service men and women, especially our fallen war heroes. We don't ride motorcycles, but do have two pickups and a trailer, which can serve as support vehicles.

This group is extraordinarily well-organized, and extremely dedicated to serving. We have found that the channels of communication are kept wide open, and that problems are solved with great gusto and cheerfulness. How refreshing! YouTube has some awesome related videos. Here's a link to PGR's main site for those who want to learn more:

http://www.patriotguard.org/

We decided to get involved when we saw a piece on a local tv station about the plans of the Westboro Baptist Church from Topeka, Kansas, to disrupt the funeral services of a local hero, U.S. Army Corporal Sigsbee of Waverly, NY, who was recently killed in action in Iraq. As it turns out, these evil whackos "celebrate" the deaths of our troops in Afghanistan and Iraq, because they believe that God is punishing us for being too liberal in dealing with gays, among other "sins."

We discovered that when requested by the family to attend, the Patriot Guard Riders ride their motorcycles in the funeral procession, drowning out any protests. They also surround the mourners, proudly carrying 3' by 5' American flags, with backs turned to protesters, shielding the family and other loved ones. We haven't been on a mission yet, but the videos sure are impressive. Can't wait!

Addictions

2007-10-30T18:42:00.000-07:00

Just a few years ago, when my doctor advised me to quit smoking and drinking, I said, "Wait a minute! I'll try to quit smoking, then maybe drinking, or at least cutting down, but BOTH at the same time? Never happen!!! She worked really hard trying to get me as healthy as possible.

I started seriously trying to quit smoking in October, 2004. I quit drinking (so I thought) in December of the same year. Dr. Dyal prescribed Wellbutrin and the Patch as stop smoking aids. These, along with a gradual cutting-down program, nearly worked. I got to where I was only smoking an average of 1.86 cigarettes per day, for a week. That should have been the last week of smoking for me, but something stressed me out and triggered a relapse. I worked really hard at not getting back up to 2 packs per day, so it was a more gradual progression than after my earlier attempts, but I did get up there.

Not long ago, we started seeing TV ads for a new drug, Chantix. Terri started taking it some time in March, and quit smoking April 1. I started taking it May 9, and quit smoking May 25th. I had another relapse near the end of July, again after a stressful event (Terri and I breaking up, again.) I resumed the Chantix regimen August 10, and quit smoking August 15, and have been smoke-free since. I still have quite a bit of Chantix left, because I didn't need the full 12 weeks' worth...Terri had given me some of her leftovers, but I don't think I'll ever need it again. Much to everyone's surprise, (meaning the drug people, the medical community, etc.,) Chantix seems to work well for alcohol cessation, too. I decided to quit drinking for good in August, too, so that's it for chemical addictions, unless you count chocolate.

Obviously, I need to find other ways of dealing with stressful events. I haven't found any magic bullet yet, but have not picked up a cigarette or drink either. I know that my son, Paul, is proud of me, and that means more than anything.

Life is Good! (Mostly, anywho)

2007-10-27T07:56:00.000-07:00

So much has happened since my last post, I'm trying something different here, just for the halibut. Today is gonna be mostly stream-of-consciousness, partly as a test, partly due to ritalin. This is also the first time that I'm posting without re-reading the previous one.

Yeah, ritalin. Back in August, Terri and I had a couples counseling session with my VA shrink, Dr. Tinelli. When Terri told him that I seemed to be having trouble keeping to task and concentrating, he suggested I try ritalin. O.K., I tried it. I didn't like it, and I didn't notice any difference in those areas, so I proposed to Tinelli at our October 16th meeting that I stop taking it. What's he do? Double the dosage! Actually, it's not a bad free buzz, so fuck it, I'll do it.

What's up with Terri and me, you might ask? The wild and crazy roller coaster ride continues. On the first of September we bought a 3-bedroom mobile home in Palermo, NY (a tiny town between Mexico and Fulton) for a whopping---are you ready for this?---$1,500! We're situated in a trailer park, so must pay lot rent to the tune of $231 per month, which covers water, taxes, grounds maintenance, snow removal, and trash removal. Of course, for that price, it needs work, but we're comfortable now. We were dealing with the same old problems when it came to looking for a rental: 3 dogs; staying in Oswego County, for some Social Security bullshit that I don't understand, really, but that's Terri's deal; parking for 2 trucks, etc. Here are a few recent photos:

Our relationship is much stronger now, having gone through so many trials together. She sure is worth it, to me. Terri is one hell of a woman; a handful at times, yes, but her good qualities far outweigh anything that I might perceive as negative. She is beautiful, sexy, smart, fun, funny, a great cook, with the heart and soul of an angel.

My virtual brother, Don, had been bugging me for a while about getting involved with Linux as an alternative to the crap from the Evil Empire, Microsuck. He and his lovely wife, Lisa, have been pretty thoroughly checking out its many flavors, and are quite excited about much of their many "pros." Well, Don found a way to break through my resistance: he put together a really nice machine (AMD 64 1.2 GHz CPU, 256 MB RAM) and loaded Debian Etch 4.0 onto a 40 GB HDD, with some really awesome apps, and sent it to me to "play" with.

I expected to have to deal with a very steep learning curve, which I may or may not be smart enough to learn, and for which I didn't think I'd have the necessary time and energy. After a quick test drive, I told Don that I anticipated switching from my Windows XP pro, SP2 box, to the Debian one by the first of the year. Took about 3 days! I'm sure no expert at any of it, but can do all of my daily routine stuff quite easily. I am gradually learning some deeper level techie sorts of things, with a lot of help, for which I am grateful; there's lots of help out there, too, but most of mine comes from my brother.

Did I mention that Don also put together the above-mentioned XP box? Yeah, he sure did. We've been Web buds for something like 7 or 8 years now, but I still couldn't believe how closely to the way I'd have done he set up the 'puter. Beautifully done!

It has a Compaq Deskpro Mobo, with a Pentium III, 500 MHz chip, and 256 MB of RAM. I threw in an old CD-R drive I had kicking around. I know it doesn't sound like a screamer, and it ain't, but I don't need one.

Now Don's a bright boy, but he ain't too smart when it comes to money. He won the Compaq on an ebay auction for $1. So far, so good. He had to pay shipping and handling, of course, to the tune of about 40 bucks. He put the system together with some bits and pieces he had laying around. I cain't rightly say how much was invested at that point, 'cause I'm pretty sure he cain't neither. Now he sets it all up, tweaks it here and there, then sends it to me. He paid shipping and handling to here, too. I asked him how much would be a fair amount to pay him, and he suggested an amount about equal to his shipping costs. I gave him $100, and he's happy. See, I told ya he ain't too smart about money. 'Course, I done been told you cain't give a redneck money anyhow. But I digress...in Southern, too. It's all Don's fault; he's from Texas. If you want to learn more about/from him, he can be found here: http://www.don-guitar.com/

Health Update

2007-08-14T08:48:00.000-07:00

I've finally gotten to the point where the powers that be on my medical team have gathered enough data for me to begin treatment with Interferon and Ribovarin. I'm waiting for a call from the supervising physician to schedule an appointment with her, then we go from there.

It's taken 11 years since my diagnosis to reach this point, for a wide variety of reasons. Now that I've lost my nearby support network, I think I'll have to postpone. We'll see.

I have been feeling pretty well lately. Other than occasionally acute abdominal pain, my symptoms have been mild.

Psychiatrically speaking, my shrink increased the dosage on one of my anti-depressants, and prescribed Ritalin to deal with a new diagnosis: Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. I have trouble focusing and maintaining concentration. Like, forget multitasking! The last I've always attributed to my sex. The others are symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or I thought so, anyway.

Ain't Love Grand?

2007-08-14T07:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I sent Terri an email, letting her know that she had forgotten to take her travel mug with her when she left Sunday. It was given to her by her brother, Jim. There's a beautiful picture of his daughters, Sandy and Shelley on it.

Her response? "Throw it away."

To which I replied something like, "Well, I guess that means it's mine to do with what I please. I'll get it to Jim."

She sent back, "Throw it away, just like you did me." Geeeesssshhhh!!!"

I've pretty much found a place for everything, and have most everything in its place. I'm really, really comfortable in my new digs. I have a 1 bedroom apartment, 2nd floor rear, in a 2 story building with 8 apartments. The village has around 1,600 residents, mostly white, middle class. We have zero, and I do mean zero, violent crime here, and it's really neat and clean. I feel truly blessed. We have an awesome God!

I was unceremoniously asked to leave Terri's son Clayton's house on the 25th of July. I had 46 cents in my checking account. Hmmmmm. What to do? I get my VA disability money on the 1st of every month. I called my "brother," Bob, who happens to be their next door neighbor, and asked for his help. He and his lovely wife, Cindy, and their son, Glenn, let me stay on the couch in their family room until the 1st. They are the most generous people I've ever known. I try very carefully not to take unfair advantage of that.

Speaking of Bob, talk about a small world! I moved from New Bedford, Massachusetts, where I had lived for 9 years, to Churchland, North Carolina in July, '04. I met Terri in a Yahoo chat room in December, '05, then moved to Chesapeake, Virginia to be with her in February, '06. In April, '06, we moved to Hastings, New York. Our next door neighbor? Bob, originally from Massachusetts. Kinda roundabout way to meet, huh? Y'all can believe what you want, but I see God's hand in this, as in all things.

PTSD Check

2007-08-13T08:43:00.000-07:00

I want some pot. I have a little beer buzz going while listening to Black Sabbath's "War Pigs." Puts me in a mood, ya know what I mean?

PTSD? Yeah, I still got it, big-time. Ain't goin' away. I do my best to manage it, similar to the way diabetics and others with chronic diseases manage their problems. To me, the difference is that they have a road map and a compass, and my ass is hangin' out in the breeze. Feels like I'm still in the 'Nam, man.

Lately, my lady and I have been on a rollercoaster that is the highest, lowest, and fastest ever engineered. The highs are out of this world; the lows are hell. This is a new thing for me, so I don't know how to deal with it. My past relationships all started off with fireworks, and ended with a bang, too. Where are we at right now? On the outs. This past Friday, Saturday, and early Sunday? We were talking marriage next year.

Terri thought we had an agreement to abstain from sex until marriage. When she proposed that last week, I thought she was joking. We have enjoyed an active, happy, healthy sexual relationship from day one. We mutually decided to work on taking our Christian faith more seriously, and trying to follow in Our Lord Jesus Christ's footsteps. Terri decided that our living in sin ran counter to the Bible's teachings. I agree; it does.

While I'm also trying to follow the tenets of our faith, I use the old Irish Catholic ploy of bargaining with God, and making things negotiable. She, of course, doesn't buy that. When she asked me if I would be able to abstain for as long as it takes, I said that I would try, but couldn't promise. Terri said that that meant she could no longer trust me in that regard, and that she'd have to worry whether or not I've cheated. I told her that I felt I was being penalized for being honest. I know what she wanted to hear, but I can't lie. She said that it's over if I can't make that promise, so I guess that's it; with us, you never know for sure.

We would get married as soon as possible, except that, Caesar's realm being totally out of control, with such an array of confusing and complicated sets of rules among and within agencies, we think that our getting married would severely penalize Terri. We actually agree that it's fair for the Social Security Administration to no longer pay Terri her meager portion of her late husband's benefits. But then we have to deal with Medicare and all their crazy bullshit.

Things haven't changed much since the 60's, have they?

Back in "The World"

2007-06-25T11:31:00.000-07:00

Earlier I tried to convey the general overall feelings that I experienced in Vietnam. In such a war, one learns to be ever-vigilant, scanning their surroundings constantly. My adrenaline levels were probably a bit higher than normal 24, 7, but really spiked when the shit hit the fan. We learned to respond to any threat instantly, with overwhelming force. We were taught to "Charlie Mike," (Complete the Mission,) until our objectives were met, regardless of the chaos and carnage around us. I suppressed such feelings as mind-numbing, paralyzing fear, revulsion, sadmess. and even anger, and did what I was trained to do.

These strategies are necesary for survival in combat, and come in handy during an emergency, but don't really work all that well in civilized society, especially within your family, among your co-workers, friends, teammates, etc. When I perceive that I am in danger, the old fight-or-flight response kicks in immediately. Even when verbally attacked, with absolutely zero physical danger imminent, I react quite strongly, at times all out of proportion to the stimulus.

Comparing the reality with the fantasy world which we all created, awaiting us Back in The World, (the good ole' US of A.) We were all gonna buy '69 Road Runners, marry our sweethearts, get a great job, and live happily ever after. This might have been some people's life after 'Nam, but I expect not very many. Can you see why I might be angry? Yup, even after 37 years, I'm still angry.

Many people today are apologetic because they didn't welcome us home as they do our brave men and women fighting today. Well, unlike earlier wars, most of us weren't sent into 'Nam as units of any size; we were sent individually, depending on our MOS (Military Occupational Specialty.) I was a 13A10, Artilleryman. When Bravo battery, 8/4 Artillery, 108th Field Artillery group needed a cannon cocker, I was it. In 1969 the military used a primitive database management system, and for personnel replacement purposes, I think it worked kind of like a Just In Time inventory management program of today. At the expiration of your tour, in the case of the Army, 365 days, you were sent home, again indivdually.

I was definitely not looking for a ticker tape parade in New York City. I did, however, expect to be "welcomed," by being able to attend college, get a decent job, and live out the remainder of my life in relative peace. Sounds easy, right?

Since I arrived home from Germany on January 1971, I would have to wait until September to get into a State College. In the meantime, I needed to generate enough income to survive. Well, thanks largely to the liberal media's misrepresentations of the military situation in Vietnam, and their portayal of us as a wild bunch of crazy hootch-burning, raping, pillaging, and killing animals, getting work was nearly impossible for me. The only available jobs were entry level scut jobs paying minimum wage. After having responsibilities for very expensive military hardware, not to mention one another, we were dismayed to find that no one trusted us with anything valuable. Personally, I felt that I was being treated like a young boy who knows little of the value of things, with few or no marketable skills.

We automatically qualified for Unemployment Insurance benefits, mine totalling $55 per week. Thanks to learning quite well how to be a heavy-duty beer drinker while in the Army, and since I was staying with Mom, Dad, and my two baby sisters, I spent my $55 in the bars; we have lots of dive joints in my home town. An old friend of mine had been discharged from the Army shortly before I was, and he was also looking for work. Well, we came up with a great system: Pete got his $55 on Monday or Tuesday. The day of the week for payment was determined by one's social security number. The eagle shit for me on Fridays. So, beginning Monday mornings, (or Tuesday,) we drank on Pete's money. Then, from Friday to Monday, we drank on my money. That's another thing the Army tought me, being resourceful.

I did manage to get a decent job in early April, thanks to being recommended by Pete's brother, Mike. It didn't last long. Three weeks later, I hooked up with a crazy 16 year-old girl, and we started hitchhiking our way to California, because that's where it was happenin', man. When we got to Kansas, I remembered that my best friend in Germany, John, lived in Hays, Kansas. So, we dropped in for a bit...for her a couple of weeks 'til her parents tracked her down. She got sent home on a bus. I stayed for eight months. What a party town!!!

I did work at couple of jobs; one for two days as a silo painter; one half day as a "mud boy" on a bricklaying crew. From May to August all I did was party.

I attended Fort Hays Kansas State College for nearly the entire fall semester. I got mixed up in a criminal venture, for which I was convicted, so they tossed my raggedy ass out of school. I stayed in Kansas until December, then decided to continue hitching to California. Uncle Ed, my mom's eldest brother, and his wife, Nancy, lived in a nice area of Los Angeles, up in the Baldwin Hills. I figured I could stay with them until I got my feet on the ground, which I did.

I worked for the California Tool Company as an inside salesman at their warehouse. I stayed there for about a year, but quit after many promises from my supervisor over a couple of months, that I would get a 25-cent an hour raise, which never happened.

After continuing is this pattern for about 23 years, my second wife convinced me that I had a problem, and should seek help at a Vet Center. Vet Centers are satellites of VA medical centers, doing mental health counseling and social work. After a brief interview with the Team Leader, he startled us by saying, "Brother, you have PTSD, (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.") Because of his recommendation, I asked the local National Service Officers of the Military Order of the Purple Heart to research, prepare, and submit a claim for Service-Connected disability, based on this diagnosis. After a few examinations, the VA determined that I was 30% disabled for PTSD, and 10% for the residual effects of the shrapnel wound in my right temple.

I found that my symptoms had worsened over time, so I filed a claim in 2002, seeking an increase in my disability rating. I was re-examined, and it was determined that I am 70% disabled. I also claimed that I was unemployable. That portion of my claim was denied. Had I been considered unemployable due to my service-connected disabilities, I would have been rated at 100%. I have recently submitted a new claim, and hope that I have successfully documented my unemployability.

Survival

2007-06-22T08:19:00.000-07:00

Things are going surprisingly well on the home front, and I am not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Terri and I seem to have arrived at a comfortable point of equilibrium. I think we're both really comfortable with one another in all the ways that matter.

Cheryl still drives me nuts sometimes, but I just do some breathing exercises, laugh, and move on.

I thought my chemo was going to begin on June 11, but that was just a meet-and-greet with the Hepatitis C coordinator at the Syracuse, NY, VA Medical Center, Connie W., RN. She was checking to make sure that I understood what treatment involves before I begin. It looks like July 2nd is my start date.

I quit smoking May 25, and now endeavor to try to live a healthier lifestyle overall, especially in terms of my diet. I have tried to quit smoking several times over the past few years, but just couldn't quite do it. Terri quit the first of April. By observing how easy it was for her, I decided to try her system. I spent a week cutting down my daily consumption, then started taking Chantix. The shit really works! For me, when I feel a craving, it is really mild and easy to ignore, and goes away quickly. The recommended protocol is to take one Chantix twice a day for twelve weeks (after a kind of break-in procedure that I won't detail here.) Terri was able to stop taking the pills after just 5 weeks. I don't know if I dare to try stopping that soon; I'll give it another 4 weeks anyway. It costs about $90 to fill the prescription, but that's money that I won't be spending on cigarettes.

Fear

2007-05-30T07:31:00.000-07:00

Here is one man's account of what occurred on the scariest night of my life:

The Sapper Attack - June 1969--By Ashley W. Wright

It was the first week of June, 1969. For weeks before the attack, the enemy had been probing our perimeter. Night after night, ARVN and US Marine snipers, from high above FSB Charlie One's observation towers, pecked away at those eerie, translucent green-grey shadows which moved silently across the big lenses of their starlight scopes. Occasionally, when teams of the enemy were picked up on experimental antipersonnel radar deployed at C-1, an ARVN mortar team would lay down fire to discourage them.
On the night of the attack, what turned out to be an NVA sapper company was seen approaching by the radar. An ARVN 105mm battery on C-1's northern outer perimeter set minimum safe time on their fuses and began firing directly into sapper ranks. We were told later that NVA mortar teams were supposed to have covered their comrades' assault but had mistaken the 105mm muzzle blasts and the close-in air bursts for detonating sapper charges so, ironically, they held back so as not to bring fire on their own troops.
The sappers were caught in the open. They had nowhere to run because the perimeter was sewn with old French and new American antipersonnel mines and could only be traversed safely with great care, in the light of day. When the ARVN Vietnamese artillery opened fire, they just hunkered down and took it. They also faced withering fire from the light and heavy machine guns of the ARVN armored cavalry unit that had just been resupplied and deployed on C-1's outer perimeter that afternoon. An hour or so after the opening shots were fired, a Marine Corps OV-10 Bronco observation aircraft began rocket and strafing runs low over their positions, just outside C-1's outer perimeter.
Our role and the role of the US 3rd Marine 155mm howitzer gunners positioned just south of us at C-1 was passive. We couldn't fire over the heads of the ARVN at such close range and, in any case, the berms of our gun pits would not have allowed us to lower our tubes enough to be effective. Our gun crews secured the guns and ammo bunkers and the rest of us stayed atop our underground bunkers, not in them, to give us height advantage if the sappers broke through our inner perimeter. They did not.
The shooting began to fade at dawn. The few sappers still out there and alive took advantage of the coming light to make their retreat through the mines. But the light also afforded our snipers and the ARVN the opportunity to pick them off. Some were shot as they fled; others lost limbs and lives to the mines.
As the morning progressed, the full extent of what had happened during the night became clear. There were bodies everywhere. A 100 meters from our inner perimeter gate an NVA soldier's torso hung headless and limbless in the concertina wire.
Near the fire base's front gate, the sapper company commander, a captain, sat in the mine field defiantly waving a small automatic pistol at ARVN and American soldiers who hoped to coax him into surrendering so they could retrieve from him valuable intelligence. He had lost both legs below the knees to a mine blast. His stumps and head wounds were bandaged. There were tourniquets around both his thighs. He wouldn't throw down his weapon and after an hour or so took his own life with shot through the roof of the mouth.
The body count was in by mid-day after hours of picking through the mine fields, dragging some bodies clear with grappling hooks suspended from long cables lowered from helicopters. There were 67 in all, stacked up along the road that ran between Highway 1 and C-1's front gate. There were no ARVN or American casualties as far as we knew.
We learned later that NVA intelligence had failed to pick up the deployment on our perimeter that day of the newly resupplied ARVN armored cavalry unit whose heavy weapons, along with the 105s of an ARVN artillery unit, laid down an impenetrable field of fire. We were thankful that uncharacteristic oversight.

Now you have to ask a psychiatrist, I guess, but as far as I'm concerned, this event was more traumatic than the day I was wounded. I was afraid every day for a year. Some days quite mildly, others quite acutely. Since I was a lowly Private First Class, the only information I ever got about anything was filtered, and possibly somewhat distorted by the time I heard it. We knew for a few days that something was afoot. My pucker factor increased each day until we were attacked. All night long I sat and lay on top of our bunker, M-16 close at hand, waiting for the NVA to penetrate our perimeter. There was no doubt whatsoever in my mind that we were going to be overrun, and all killed. I didn't find out about the ARVN armored cav unit saving our butts until I read the above story just within the last few months. What irony! For 38 years I've denigrated the fighting spirit and abilities of the ARVN. I sure do owe those dudes a huge "Thank You," and a deeply humble, heartfelt apology.

As I understand it, for the most part, the Infantry engaged the enemy in fierce, but brief, firefights, M-16's vs. AK-47's. I believe it was described best in Philip Caputo's 1977 book, "A Rumour of War," which I feel is the best book about Vietnam to date. In his prologue, he writes:

"The war was mostly a matter of enduring weeks of expectant waiting and, at random intervals, of conducting vicious manhunts through jungles and swamps, where snipers harassed us constantly and booby traps cut us down one by one."

"The tedium was occasionally relieved by a large-scale search-and-destroy operation, but the exhilaration of riding the lead helicopter into a landing zone was usually followed by more of the same hot walking, with the mud sucking at our boots and the sun thudding against our helmets while an invisible enemy shot at us from distant tree lines. The rare instances when the VC chose to fight a set-piece battle provided the only excitement; not ordinary excitement, but the manic ecstasy of contact. Weeks of bottled-up tensions would be released in a few minutes of orgiastic violence, men screaming and shouting obscenities above the explosions of grenades and the rapid, rippling bursts of automatic rifles."

We, too, suffered extended bouts of tedium, puncuated by a random rocket attack here and there. If you can, imagine fearing being overrun and slaughtered as a battle rages close by, from dusk 'til dawn.

Health (or lack thereof)

2007-05-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

After consultation with my medical team, family, and friends, I've decided to try to fight my Hepatitis C virus. I will soon begin self-administered subcataneous shots weekly of interferon alpha, and taking daily pills of ribovarin. There are a lot of possible side effects, some of which can be quite debilitating.

The shots will almost certainly cause me to experience intense flu-like symptoms for at least the day of the injection. I can expect to lose 15 to 20 pounds over the 48 week course of treatment. My viral load levels, as well as blood counts, will be checked often, because anemia often occurs. My eye doctor will monitor my vision closely, also, because vision can be adversely affected.

Since I just happen to have the most difficult form of the virus to treat, genotype 1, treatment will be terminated if I'm not responding. I calculated all the factors involved, and figure I have about a 30% chance of clearing the virus. I guess it's worth a shot, even though it's also very likely that I will not die from the disease. Is life a crap shoot or what?

The Lost Battalion is Found!

2007-05-18T14:01:00.000-07:00

I sure am happy now that I started blogging. While searching for photos to add here, I was randomly surfing Vietnam veteran sites, and, lo and behold, I discovered my battalion's Yahoo Group, and our Association web site. Needless to say, I quickly joined both.

I haven't yet found anyone whom I remember, nor has anyone who might remember me found me. I did, however, get some of my faulty memories cleared up. Thanks to someone's telling the stories of some of our combat actions, I found out the date that I was wounded, along with 9 other men, and two were killed. It's been driving me nuts for years, because I just couldn't remember the date, nor the names of the KIA's, so I couldn't look them up on the Wall. So, First Serrgeant Pedro DeHerrera and Sergeant First Class George Washington "Pops" Pierce, you will not be forgotten!

I saw my shrink on May 3rd, and he was quite pleased that I had found the sites, knowing how much peace of mind it's given me. He's treated many combat vets over the years, from Vietnam up until the present, so knows how that shit works.

As it turns out, I had even forgotten which Gun Battery I was in. Since I was assigned to C Battery, 2/92 Arty. in Germany after I left Vietnam, I somehow got confused, and thought I had been in C Battery, 8/4 Arty, 108th FA Group, in 'Nam. Well, I was in the right pew; wrong church. I was a gun bunny in B Battery, which of course stood for the Best battery. We were mostly encamped at Fire Support Base C-1 (map coordinates...no name,) then C-2, (or vice versa,) which I guess led me to "remember" that I was in C Battery.

My crazy life...continued

2007-05-08T09:44:00.000-07:00

Almost 6 weeks since my last entry. I've been as busy as a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. Terri and I reconciled again, I hope forever, but ya never know.

We had a long phone conversation, more than 3 hours in fact, on April 16th. We decided to try dating, something we've never done with each other. She picked me up at my apartment to take me hunting for new housing, closer to where she lives. Then, on the 17th, she asked how I felt about moving back in with her, Clayton, and Cheryl. I decided to try it, one more time.

It's going pretty well so far, but I still can't stand some of Cheryl's behaviors. I think she does the things she does to me because I'm a computer technician and she's not, though she claims to be. I mean, this lady knows as much about computers as I do about the Unified Theory...very, very little.

Here's one of her favorites: Whenever I'm in the kitchen, she has to jump in front of me and get in my way. I have to wait until she gets out of my way to resume whatever it is that I'm doing. Yesterday, I was heating some frozen corndogs in the oven for lunch, and re-heating baked beans on the stove to go with them. Just as I was taking the dogs out of the oven, Cheryl cut in front of me at the sink, and started putting away the dried dishes from the strainer on the counter. She knew full well that she was in my way. In fact, as she was wiping down the counter to the right of the sinks, unnecessarily, she turned and peered over her left shoulder at me, just to make sure she was holding me up. Terri jumped all over her, but that did it for me. I retired to my room until after Cheryl went to bed, about 9:45, then I ate leftover dinner.

Another one I love: When we're all eating dinner, the others tend to finish before I do. Cheryl loves this, because it affords her the opportunity to get up from the table and do everyone's dishes but mine. I have to wash my own. I don't mind doing my dishes; in fact, I'd do them all if asked, no problem. It just irks the shit out of me, and she knows it.

And talk about lies, my God what lies she tells! We were having a conversation about cutting back on some expenses. Clayton asked if we all were using hot water to do laundry. Cheryl insisted that she only uses cold water. Terri pointed out that she felt the water in the washing machine just a few days earlier, and it was warm. I know for a fact that she uses hot water when washing whites. I've seen her do it.

Another one? A few days ago, it was finally warm enough to open some windows and air out the house. When it cooled down late in the afternoon, Cheryl turned the heat on, but didn't close any windows, so out went the gas, until Terri checked the thermostat and found that the heat had been turned on. She asked, naturally, who had turned it on. Since the only people here were Terri, Cheryl, and I, and neither Terri nor I touched the thermostat, who turned the heat up? I don't know, because Cheryl said she didn't. Go figure. And she does shit like this all the time.

And the biggest one? Shortly after meeting Clayton a couple of years ago, Cheryl said that she worked for IBM as a PC technician, and she could get him a job. She was so convincing that he quit his job with Pep Boys, and went to Rochester for an interview at a hotel, which Cheryl assured him would take place. Clayton had some doubts when she said that he would have to pay for their hotel room, then IBM would reimburse him. Interview? What interview? Never happened!

I'm sorry to say this, but I really, truly believe that some folks just need killin'.

Semi-Sweet

2007-03-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

Terri and I have agreed mutually that our relationship just isn't working out. She's moving back in with her son this weekend.

She is being extremely generous. We both want to remain loving friends. She has offered to give me a bed and dresser; a 25" console tv; the reclining, rocking sofa; computer system (this ol' Win98 SE machine;) any other stuff I need that she doesn't.

I don't know yet what my situation will be. I will give written notice to my slumlord on the first, then start searching for suitable digs. I'm trying to not go crazy here, considering all of my options, as in, "Let's see...I can go back home. Head somewhere warm. I prefer living close to a good VA hospital. I love the White River Junction, Vermont area. It's just too overwhelming. I'm leaning toward Syracuse because I like the team I've been working with at the VA there. It consistently ranks in the top 5 nationally. It's a livable city, has a vibrant night life, with many attractions close by. The winters can be rough, but I can still handle it as long as I don't have to do a lot of shoveling.

When Terri is feeling alright, and in a good mood, she can be the sweetest woman on the planet; caring, giving, generous, and loving. We have had some great times together. On balance our time together has benefited me greatly. I will always be grateful to have been so blessed for fourteen mostly wonderful months.

Alone Again

2007-03-25T08:24:00.000-07:00

Well, that's it. Terri and I are finally finished. The last straw? A knock on the door. I'll try to explain, but don't worry if you don't understand, because I sure the fuck don't!

It's been a tough week, with her playing her usual drama queen bullshit, then gradually returning to some semblance of normalcy.

Thursday morning I walked to the local Dollar General store to buy milk and bread. Upon my return, Terri said, "I wish you told me you were going to the store. We could have walked together, or taken the truck." "We could have gone to KMart to return the jeans." She had bought me three pairs of jeans for my birthday, one of which I don't like to wear, "relaxed fit."

I responded with a shrug and said, "You don't bother to tell me where you're going." End of conversation.

Since last Monday or Tuesday, we've been civil, even somewhat friendly, but certainly not behaving as though we're madly in love. She's been sleeping in the guest bedroom; I still don't have driving privileges; it's been more than two weeks since we had sex; we don't eat meals together. Since Thursday night, she's complained about having to cook for just herself, because when she asks if I'm hungry, I tell her that I've just eaten.

Well, yesterday afternoon one of our neighbor's visited, asking if we would buy something for her son's school fundraiser. While she was here, she asked Terri to ask me if I would give her a Muriel sweet cigar, (which cost about $1 per pack at the Reservation nearby.) I lied by saying, "Sorry. I only have one left after this one." I actually still had two full packs, but we both have discontinued "lending" this lady cigarettes, because she has a history of not returning equal value. I'm never comfortable lying, but felt justified in this case.

A little earlier this morning came a knock on a door. Anytime there's a knock on any of our doors, the dogs go ballistic, barking so loudly that you can't tell which door is being knocked upon. If someone knocks on the outside front door, it is for the people upstairs. If it's on the inside front door, it's someone from upstairs for us. If it's on either the outside or inside west side door, it's for us.

Since there's no other way of knowing, someone has to go check it out. Well, this morning I was in the middle of something that was important to me, checking to see when it's appropriate for me to wear my Purple Heart medal. Terri was playing an online word game, Literati, a Scrabble-like game, which is of vital importance to her. She can never, ever, interrupt a game of any kind, online or not. I went to see who was knocking. Turns out it was our neighbor who "borrows" cigarettes. She had brought some to give me, because of the lie I told her yesterday. I don't know how many; it doesn't matter. I told her that I had gotten some, but thank you anyway. Now is not a good time to visit. She and her son left.

I went into Terri's room, where her computer is, and said something to the effect of, "Why do I always have to answer the door? It's usually for you." "The phone, too." She forgets to bring the cordless phone from the living room into her bedroom every morning, because she's in such a rush to get into a Yahoo chat room. Then, when the phone rings, she freaks out, yelling something like, "Get the fucking phone!" I awoke around 6:45 this morning. Terri had been up for probably an hour already. It is now 12:08 pm, and she still hasn't taken the phone off of its base in the living room. Usually, I bring it to her so that it's right there when someone calls for her. No more. Fuck it.

After our argument, she stormed out of her bedroom, tore through the living room, yelling, "That's it. I'm smoking again, (she quit yesterday,) and I'm throwing all my meds away. I'm not taking them anymore."

I said, "Don't do that. Then it's all my fault, right? Like if you get in an accident and hurt somebody while you're driving."

She answered with, "Why do you care?" I responded, "I do, but it doesn't matter. I'm sick of this shit. I'm leaving." She mumbled a bunch of shit that she wouldn't repeat out loud. I just got, "Never mind."

OK. Bye.

Men Are From Mars; Women are From Venus

2007-03-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

Oh boy! Terri and I have been getting along so well lately. Until yesterday.

I felt like warmed-over dog shit yesterday. I happened to overhear a phone conversation she had with our friend, "Meatball." She said something to the effect that he had to work until 6 o'clock. Then, "Cheryl and Clayton are coming over." I said that I wasn't feeling up to having company. She flipped!

Terri had arranged a birthday party for me. I told her that I just wasn't up to it. Then the old issue of pinochle raised its ugly head. I objected to them coming over primarily to play pinochle for hours and hours, to the exclusion of everything else, which really bugs the shit out of me all the time, never mind when I'm not feeling well.

That did it. Terri said, " that's it, I'm done," then started relocating to the guest bedroom. I spent most of the rest of the day in bed. At some point during the afternoon, while I was asleep, she left with the dogs, their food and water bowls, and the Chow-Chows bed.

She just returned about 1:20 this afternoon. She has shut herself in "her" bedroom, and is not speaking to me. Geeessshhh!!!

Vietnam

2007-02-27T18:49:00.000-08:00

Now I'll try to deal with some of the heavy shit from the past. On March 9, 1969, I arrived in the lovely Southeast Asian country of Vietnam. After some in-processing at Long Binh, we were bused to Bien Hoa air base to catch our flights to our duty stations. One had to listen to the PA for his turn to board the planes. I knew I was in the shit when my destination,"Dong Ha," was announced. The whole friggin' terminal became deathly silent.

As we "new boots," with our shiny new fatigues, and shiny new jungle boots walked across the tarmac to board the C-130, we passed the dudes deplaning to catch their "Freedom Birds" "back to the World." Let me tell ya, they were some scary looking motherfuckers! They all had what I've since learned is called "the thousand yard stare." Their fatigues and boots were anything but shiny. I was still 10 days shy of my nineteenth birthday. To me, these men of 20 and 21 looked really, really old, and tired. Really, really tired.

Our plane landed at the Dong Ha airstrip, on a runway made of some steel sheets called "PSP." My first visual impression was overwhelmed by red dust. The smells were unidentifiable to me, but were quite redolant. Now we're talkin' Twilight Zone. I had done some traveling before, and thought I was quite good at adapting to new environments. I guess I was contrasting and comparing new places to old ones, and the differences weren't all that great. I was not prepared at all for what assailed my senses.

I soon learned that the Dong Ha compound was our battalion Base Camp. I was assigned to Bravo Battery. The battery was in the base camp for battalion maintenance on the 175 mm. guns, which was a step above field maintenance performed at a fire support base. I was directed to a hooch, a building constructed of 2 X 4's and plywood, where we bunked on canvas cots. There were spikes driven into the walls above our bunks for hanging shit like steel pots, flak jackets, m-16's, ammo belts, etc. A fire mission was called in the middle of the night while I was sleeping. No one had bothered to tell us newbies how much noise the guns made when fired. Well, not only was this the loudest explosion I had ever heard in my life, my m-16 was shaken from its spike and landed on my head. Goooood Mooorrrnnninnggg Vietnam! I had not yet learned to distinguish outgoing fire from incoming fire, and thought we were being attacked. I sure as shit started paying attention to the old guys after that.

Little did I know that compared to our Fire Support base, Charlie One, Dong Ha was a resort area. They had cold beer, movies, hooches, three hole shitters, a basketball court, softball field, etc.

To go down the Highway 1 from Dong Ha to Charlie One, we had to ride in a convoy of vehicles. Convoys were only allowed during daylight hours, after the road had been swept for mines. Our convoy consisted of jeeps, 3/4 tons, deuce-and-a-halfs, 5 tons, and our self-propelled cannons, which were mounted on 30 ton tracked vehicles.

We shared Charlie One with a 3rd Marine Division 155 mm. self-propelled battery and an ARVN 155 battery. I don't remember if their's were towed or self-propelled. Charlie One was right on the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone,) near some places you may have heard of: Khe Sanh and Con Thien. While this may be apocryphyl, we always liked to say that the NVA, (North Vietnamese Army,) used us for Basic Training of their troops.

Just the thought of being overrun by a regiment or two scared the shit out of me whenever I thought about it, which was probably a tad too often for my fragile psyche. We were hit with rocket attacks a few times, but they were usually off target. When you hear them coming in, (and believe me, one gets to quickly recognize the difference between incoming and outgoing,) you head for a bunker. No problem. Funny, the one time they were on target, in my case, I can't for the life of me remember the date. Many of us were eating breakfast in the chow hall when a Russian 122mm rocket exploded just outside the rear wall. Couple of problems with that: 1. As I understand it, from scuttlebutt, no above-ground structures were to be built in the Northern I Corps area. 1. It turned out to also not be a good idea to run a 10KW generator just outside the rear wall of the mess hall, so that we weren't able to hear the incoming rocket.

The rocket exploded; the rear wall was blown out; several of us were hit with flying shrapnel. I sprinted out of the mess hall and down into the nearest underground bunker. I don't remember exactly how many of us ran to the same bunker, but I do recall that the stairwell was a bit crowded. Ten or twelve guys? I don't know. A few of us stayed near the top of the stairs, checking to see if any of our buddies still outside needed help. I was in such a state of shock, I didn't even know that I was wounded until someone said, "hey, you're bleeding." Well, I didn't hurt......yet, but suddenly felt the blood streaming down my face. I realized I didn't hear the guy in my right ear. The concussion had deafened it. Now the pain kicked in. The steel was really, really hot, and the wound hurt like hell. A shell fragment the size of your baby fingernail had entered my right temple. It was weird to feel pain all the way from the outside of my head into the brain; kicked by a mule sore and hot, burning sore.

There's other stuff that pisses me off because I can't remember the details. Two of the men were killed. Ten of us were wounded. I can't remember any of their names, except for Sgt. Gouvea (sp?) I just happened to be right beside his stretcher on the Medevac chopper. He was trying to stuff his intestines back inside his abdomen, screaming like a banshee in pain. At the hospital, someone told me how many dead and wounded there were (might have heard two nurses talking about it, or something.) I just assumed that Sarge was sent "Back to the World," (as we referred to the good old USA. A few (?) months later, he came back to the battery, good as new! We weren't tight buds or anything, but I thought he was a nice guy, and was really happy to see him again. I don't know for sure, but his wounds must have been serious enough to qualify as "million dollar," which means he could have stayed in the States.

I do remember quite clearly that we had a really nice memorial service for the dead. I had never been to a wake or funeral before. I also remember being so pissed off for a few days, that I wanted to somehow find a way to kill as many gooks as I could, if I got the chance.

You might be wondering why my CRS (Can't Remember Shit) bothers me so much. I'll try to explain. When I found out that the Vietnam Wall has a searchable database, I was psyched! Well, I entered what I thought was the date of the attack and branch of service into the search criteria box, expecting to get a list of all Army soldiers killed and wounded that day. I did get the list, but none of my buddies was on it. Thought maybe I had the day wrong. Nope. Although I was pretty sure I had the month right, I even tried a few different months when it could have happened. Nada. Why can't I remember? It also pisses me off that I clearly remember my "date" on my R&R in Bangkok: Aree Chandang. And I was drunk and stoned out of my head for the entire six days. Go figure.

Discipline

2007-02-27T18:04:00.000-08:00

My very best internet friend; a brother, really, and his lovely wife, have been kicking me rather hard in the ass lately, encouraging me to write more often, like daily. I don't know if I can manage my time and energy well enough for that, but I agree that spewing more invective is a good idea, so here goes:

I really don't know why in the hell my doc ordered the biopsy of my liver. According to the results, my liver is scarred at a level of "3." The range they use is from 0 to 4. However, on a physical exam, the doctor thought I was a "4." And, a "3" could be a "2," or it could be a "4!" So where the hell am I at? I guess know one really knows. When he explained all of this, I said, "I guess you'll really know when you do my autopsy." I got no response.

We've tentatively set May as the time I'll begin chemo...interferon alpha and ribovarin to treat my Hepatitis C virus. The course of treatment varies from patient to patient, but generally lasts for 48 weeks. They test your viral load after 12 weeks. If you seem to be responding, and tolerating the chemo well, the treatments continue. If you're not responding, there's no point in continuing. Then, it's "hasta la vista, baby," I guess.

Terri and I are somehow hanging in there. Our relationship, while still volatile at times, seems to grow stronger after we've gone through a tough time. She bought me some really nice stuff for Valentine's Day, sent me a lovely e-card, with a fantastic message, expressing her hope that we have many more Valentine's Days together. A week later, she moved into the guest bedroom, and began packing her shit for a move back to her son's house. A few days later, after the dust from a silly argument settled, we're all lovey-dovey again. Go figger.

My Brother Found Me!

2007-02-03T16:33:00.000-08:00

Yes, Jeffrey, I am he. I'm going nuts trying to remember the name of that place in Bridgewater. It was a "battle of the bands." You were the sound and/or light engineer, as I recall.

How the hell did ya find me, bro? Gotta figure a way to get in touch again. This is too public.

Later.

Significant Life Changes

2007-01-28T00:15:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it's been so long since I last posted. All hell broke loose at Terri's son Clayton's house, (where we lived for seven months.) As it turned out, Terri's daughter-in-law from hell, Cheryl, was the root of all of our problems, "our" being Terri, her son, and I. Too many cooks spoils the broth?

Terri's Manchester Terrier, Sadie, did lose her left eye. She is still full of piss and vinegar, and happy as a clam.

Terri and I found a nice 2-bedroom apartment in Fulton, NY. We moved in November first. Moving is right up there on my list of things I hate to do. Of course, it becomes more difficult the older we get. I do not handle stress well at all. Even positive life events, such as a marriage, birth, graduation, etc., are stressful to me. This is my fourth move since July, '04: Massachusets to North Carolina; NC to Virginia; VA to Hastings, NY; then here. The move from VA took four round trips, with a fully loaded pickup and 8' X 4' trailer, then a fifth with all of the above, plus another pickup truck load, driven by Terri. What a hairy ride that was!

Life is good now. I'm feeling quite well, physically, all things considered. On Monday, the 29th, I'll get the results of all of my recent tests, the most important of which is a liver biopsy.

This Crazy Life

2006-10-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

I know that I said yesterday I was going to continue with my autobiography, more or less in chronological order. Then I thought, "maybe this blog will be more interesting if I move backward and forward in time, as many novelists do." Let me know what you think.

Today sure has been a bitch. My significant other, Terri, has been going through some really tough times in the last year and a half. Her beloved husband, Jimmy Lee, died of complications from diabetes in April of '05. This past January, Terri suffered several debilitating strokes. Her recovery is not going really well.

One of Terri's foibles is that when something is bothering her, she doesn't deal with or even communicate the problem directly, but acts out in strange, sometimes destructive ways. She's been angry with me for four or five days now, and I don't know why.

Among other effects of the strokes, her vision is impaired such that she is not able to drive. Terri does not like being dependant on others for anything, especially transportation. This morning she drove herself to a dentist's appointment, about 40 miles each way. Upon her return, she decided to bring one of her "kids," (as she refers to her 3 dogs,) to the vet to be euthanized. Sadie has also suffered serious eye trouble, has had surgeries and medications for some months now. She was struck in the left eye by a cinder from our fireplace recently. Understandably, this has caused her some discomfort, but Sadie seems quite content; is her old lovable, playful self; not off her feed. Terri says that if the vet recommends the removal of the eye, she will have her put down.

I love the woman with all of my heart, soul, and body, but she sure has had me on a wild roller coaster ride since we met last December. Rather than ranting about all of our disagreements now, I'll try in future to put a humorous spin on our squabbles.

Newbie

2006-10-10T08:24:00.000-07:00

I have been reluctant to do this, even though I'm aware that blogging is nearly as popular as sex these days. One reason for my reluctance is the fact that I must carefully conserve my energy expenditure. I have Hepatitis C, which causes me to be fatigued easily, and I am often in a state of malaise. Another reason is my feeling that no one wants to read the rantings and ravings of an old man with little, if anything, of import to say. Guess I'll find out, eh?

Why the title, "Angry Old Man?" The reasons are sundry and probably will appear convoluted; perhaps even confusing. Mea culpa. I know that the aphorism, "it is better to look ahead rather than behind," makes a great deal of sense for most of us. Would that I could. Maybe this exercise will prove cathartic. One of my therapists suggested that I blog, and/or write a book. So here goes.

I was born and raised in the Shoe Capitol of the World, Brockton, Massachusetts. Although I wasn't terribly conscious of it, my family was working poor. My father impregnated my mother when he was seventeen, she thirteen. Mom was fourteen when she birthed me. I guess that in those days, unlike today, there were no programs to aid pregnant teens in completing their high school educations. My mother was forced to drop out of school in the eighth grade, marry my father, and go to work. My parents divorced when I was still a baby. My mom remarried soon after. My step-dad, Chet, was a WWII vet, who was never aware that he suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, so did not seek therapy. He self-medicated with alcohol. Chet saw his duties to me and my sister, Pat, (a year younger than I,) as providing us with shelter, food, and clothing. That was it. Love? Not!

I always did fairly well at school. As a result of standardized tests taken in the sixth grade, Junior High students, grades seven through nine, were "tracked." In our system, students were placed in divisions, ranking from 7-1 down to 7-10. I was in 7-2. In high school, I was in the College Preparatory program, which I thought was idiotic. Me, college? How? Neither my teachers nor my guidance counselors ever explained anything about financial aid, sholarships, loans, etc. Also, at that time, there was a "conflict" taking place in a tiny Southeast Asian country, Viet Nam, which tended to intrude on young men's thoughts. I decided to drop out of high school in my senior year, regarding the exercise as quite pointless.

After working at several entry level, unskilled, dead-end jobs, I enlisted in the Army in July, 1968. At the reception station in Fort Jackson, S. Carolina, a battery of tests was administered. I scored so highly on the Officer Candidate Test that a few folks got quite excited, until the realization that I had not been graduated from high school set in. A diploma was required for Officer candidacy.

Although I had contracted to be trained as a Military Policeman (MP,) the powers that be had different ideas. After completing a few weeks of Basic Training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, I was ordered to report to the personnel office. I was told that I could not be trained as an MP, because I was not tall enough. My recorded height was 5' 8". The minimum requirement, I think, was 5'9". In acuality, I am 5' 11" tall. Hmmmm. Soon thereafter, I was again sent to personnel. In order to go to MP school, one had to have achieved the age of 18 and six months; I was 18 and 3 months. Sorry, GI, MP school is out. After considering a number of alternatives, I chose three Military Occupation Specialties, (MOS,) for which I was qualified, in descending order of interest. I wound up in the last of these: Artilleryman, 13A10. Off to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma for Advanced Individual Training (AIT.) What a shithole! Sorry Okies, but I have yet to find a good reason for God to have created Oklahoma.

Next chapter: Vietnam.