First Flight

In early July, I noticed a robin’s nest built on a lower branch of the tulip tree. The robin sitting in the bundle of twigs and grass kept a wary eye on me as I passed numerous times on my way to the schoolhouse. I stopped parking my Jeep under the tree to give her a little peace. When I brought out the telephoto lens to photograph her, I startled her with the flash. She took off. Attempts to take other photos of her resulted in her quick departure.

About a week ago, I noticed a baby robin hopping down the road. A chirping robin flitted in the lower bush along the side of the road. When I returned with my camera I found neither bird. In the nest sat one little robin. I assumed the baby fledged, or attempted.

Each day I watched the baby. As it got bigger the nest began to deteriorate. Bits and pieces dangled from the branches as the bird outgrew its home. The adult robin was seen less and less, but I could hear her chirps in the near by trees.

On Tuesday, the speckled chested baby sat outside the nest that had fallen apart. The bird perched on a branch looked angry. He lost a home, a mom and was faced with an expectation to fly. Life spread out before him and the ground a good twenty feet down, where an equally angry machine gobbled up grass and spit it out with a roar. I'd be a little reluctant to spread my wings.

I got the camera, took a few photos and went back to the schoolhouse.

When I returned later in the afternoon, he was gone. I would have loved to see the first flight. I assumed it was successful. Either that or Dad hit it with the lawn mower.

Mission accomplished. Mom's work done.

No Fashion Statements

There are some legal differences as defined by New York State, but as far as the New York Racing Association goes, the only difference between a Peace Officer and a Security Guard is the pants. Both jobs require you smile at the patrons, don’t escalate a situation and keep your shirt tucked in. Oh yeah, and it is critical that your t-shirt doesn't show at the neck.

Since I promised to go through Peace Officer training, I was issued the ubiquitous gray pants with the blue strip. But tight budgets prevail at NYRA (aren’t the maintenance guys running around in new crisp cyan shirts), so the size selections are slim pickin’s. In the gun cage the smallest on the rack was a men’s 32. They were so old they had pockets. Years ago in an attempt to make the Peace Officer force look a little more authoritative, they eliminated all but the hip pockets. NYRA wasn’t going to have their Officers standing around with their hands in their pants. These pants had pockets, thread bare around the openings.

The issuing sergeant said I could take the pants to Roxy’s, the local dry cleaners, to have them taken in. I could jam a truckload of doughnuts into those pants. A lot had to be altered. However, when you try to take that much out of the waist, the back pockets end up sitting on top of each other. The cleaners promised they would leave about a quarter inch between the pockets. The best they could do.

A week later I picked up the pants. Neatly pressed, with a crisp crease down the legs they once made some officer look sharp. At home I tried them on. The waist fit comfortably. Add a belt and from the front they looked good. I came out to show Dad, but when I turned around, even he noticed the snag in my drawers. Now Dad has never been known for having any great flair for fashion, being one who would wear plaid with stripes, but fashion faux pas was so bad, it even caught his eye.

In the ass the pants drooped like a gang banger’s attire. I comes from da’hood wid trooper pants. I could have tucked a couple of Depends in there and still had room for my assault rifle. It would have been a total embarrassment to wear these to work. Who would take me seriously when I asked them to remove their beer cooler from three foot line by the white fence? But when I complained to the sergeants they looked at me like my cat looks at me. What? Back at the cleaners I received hands-up-in-the-air shrugs. (I have purposely not suggested the cleaners was a tailor.)

To the sewing room I went. Yes, I can swing a hammer and run a needle through my fingers. I couldn’t make them look any worse. Armed with a gross of pins I gathered up the bulk. Gingerly, I stepped into the legs and pulled them up. Much better. I managed to take in the droop without leaving the couch below my knees. That would compromise my ability to run after bad guys. In the end, I wouldn’t look like a middle-aged women with a medical condition.

The track issues one uniform for the summer (This is why I let my t-shirt show...a protest of sorts)and the wool pants must be dry cleaned. The first hot day of the summer occurred on opening day. I could feel the sweat run down my legs. These pants were not going to work. So this morning I went to WalMart to find a dark blue pair that would be acceptable uniform attire.

In the boy’s department I found an eleven dollar pair that fit like they were made for me. Who knew that at 55, I could wear Boy’s 16?

Getting Older

This afternoon returning home from Price Chopper where I just spent enough money to get twenty cents off my next twenty gallons of gas, I admired Mini Cooper Clubman. The little car zipped by me, a pretty shade of blue rarely seen this summer in the skies of the Northeast. Of note was the rear door that opened a little like a double door refrigerator, or a large cargo van, expect of course this car was the size of a large toy box.. Or woodshed.

From out of nowhere, much like being side-swiped by a tractor trailer, a thought slammed into me. As nice as the car looked and I thought I might enjoy driving one of those little economical, easy on gas cars, it suddenly looked very vulnerable. There I sat behind the wheel of my 333,000 mile Jeep Cheokee, feeling safe. I have no airbag, but I felt safe. Dumbly safe, but safe.

At fifty-five I finally grasped the concept. I preferred safe to small. I understood something my older friends had been expressing for years. They like their big cars. My Jeep isn’t huge, but it is a little monster compared to a SmartCar or a Mini Cooper.

It was a good feeling. I don’t have any cash for a new car. And I just squashed any glimmering desire to buy a small new one. Yayh. Now about that scooter in Hawaii…

Obama Care

It is easier to listen to the political pundits debate, breathing scary tales and spreading fear in the hearts and minds of the impressionable than to read a piece of House legislation. Who wants to read 1017 pages of anything, unless it is the latest Harry Potter adventure? Believe me HR 3200 is as full of political wizardry as any of JK Rowlings’ books.

Okay, you voted for the Big O and you are a die-hard trooper who stays loyal to your Lord. Good for you. But let’s look at Health Care Reform for the fun of it.

Obama promises you choice? Read page 16.

If you don’t have private health insurance when the bill becomes effective, you will no longer be able get it. That seems to limit some choice right out of the gate. And if you are part of a private plan, the insurer can no longer enroll any one in the plan. It’s closed. So much for free enterprise. The limits on private options soon dry up and private options will disappear. It will be impossible to get your own insurance. If you are covered by an employer plan and your employer folds, like GM as an example, you can’t get a private plan. Your only choice is to enroll in the government plan. Whew, saved by the government, unless...

You decide not to join any plan because you are young, healthy and hell, you haven’t seen a doctor since one slapped you on the ass at birth. Think twice. You’ll be taxed for not ponying up. I guess you could consider this a choice. Pay for not joining the government plan, or pay for joining. Read all about it on page 168.

Your privacy becomes yet another matter. Think everything is between you and your doctor? Nope. Everything is going to be tracked by the government. Read pages 445, 454, 479.

And who will actually make decisions about your health care? Not your doctor, but one new bureaucracy, the National Coordinator of Health Information Technology, will monitor treatments to make sure your doctor is doing what the federal government deems appropriate and cost effective. The goal is to reduce costs and "guide" your doctor's decisions. Don’t believe me? Read pages 442, 446. Your choice about your care is gone.

And when you get a little older, there is something called "comparative effectiveness." Sounds great if you got a big denominator. The older you get, the smaller the denominator. Oh yeah, that is about choice. Living or ending your life choice. It’s all about going through end of life counseling (Is this something Ted Kennedy is going through? I doubt it.) As a senior you will be required to go through counseling about end of life decisions. Every couple of years, unless a huge medical issue arises and then you’ll go more frequently, you’ll be required to get counseling about “end of life”. Maybe, as an elder you should kick the bucket instead of having medical care because you have dementia. Why waste money on your medical care when a 20 year old needs a new spleen because he was in a car wreck as a result of an underage drinking binge? Check out page 425. But I suppose if you are some important law Harvard law professor you can cry a little louder and live a bit longer no matter what your crank old age might be.

The United State is the leader in health care. People come here for health care. They don’t go to Canada. Not Mexico, not Cuba (unless you are dimwitted Michael Moore) and certainly not to Europe. News bulletin: You can get some dynamite face lifts in Africa and see a safari while you recover.

But for all our country’s great research and leading technology this bill will limit future research in order to cut cost. The Federal Coordinating Council for Comparative Effectiveness Research ( read pages 190-192) will have a goal to slow the development and use of new medications and technologies (because they are driving up costs). And here you were guessing lawsuits were doing this.

But, you’re so young. So free. So why worry? You shouldn’t. Take a look at social security. It won’t be around by the time you retire. Medicare will also be busted in a few more years. And this plan? It won’t be affordable for you or your government by the time you decide to have that funny little lump checked out. Like SS and Medicare it won’t exist when you need it. Hey, come to think of it, then what am I worried about?

I could be doing something else. Heck, I haven’t written a blog all month. But I thought this might be important. If you really want to be informed and quit making decisions like one of Obama’s sheep, look it up. You can find the House and the Senate bills at defend your health care.

That is what I did, because next month I won’t have health insurance and you know what? THAT’S MY CHOICE and I don’t want the government taking that choice away from me or interfering in my private relationship with my doctor. I have a doctor's appointment next month. I’ll choke on the cost, but again, it's my choice and it is one of the best.

Remember, anything the government can take away is not a right.

Forty Years Later

I was fifteen years old when Neil Armstrong took the huge step for mankind. Mom pooh-poohed the event and went to bed. My siblings always went to bed. But I wanted to see the historic step onto the surface of the moon. It was late and the only light in the living room came from the glow of the black and white TV. I was absorbed in a dream and challenge of President Kennedy. The fantasy came true and I took pride in my country's achievement, something so miraculous the milestone would become the measure all frustrating challenges, “If we can go to the moon, you think we could…”

The only person to share this event with me was Dad. When I asked him if he remembered watching the landing he say he didn’t. Oh well.

Forty years later, I’m sitting in the living room with Dad. Maybe neither one of us has budged since.

Opportunity Lost

I never got to go sailing with Walter Cronkite.

Are You Still Blogging

Apparently not.