The Bauer Family Blog

To see, to sleep, to shit or go blind

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Sat, 29 Oct 2016 22:56:00 +0000

It’s been a while.

Ma’s situation is stable, more or less, though we did take her to the emergency room yesterday on the advice of a Kaiser nurse. (Natch, we’re always suspicious of the Kaiser staff’s CYA ways. Pa was furious for he assumed that the trip was unnecessary. We couldn't do a thing with him beyond leaving him to stew by himself, sitting at Ma's side. He blamed Annie, natch. Those two remind me of Holmes and Moriarty, clutching each other's throats, disappearing into the violence and roar of Reichenbach Falls.)

We were stuck there for six hours. It turns out Ma has a very significant u. infection, despite having recently been on antibiotics. She was given other, stronger drugs this time. According to Dr. L, the attending, these dementia patients are often sent over the edge—mentally—by something as seemingly unrelated to the brain, like a u. infection.
Lovely.

Ma is plainly in slow decline, but it is hard to assess her state, since she tends to close herself off by sleeping or perhaps simply keeping her eyes closed, even during the day. She does not readily communicate, though Hilda does sometimes manage to coax her to say little things. Horribly, one is tempted to say that, now, Ma’s life is to sleep.

I do know that it is harder and harder to give her her medicine. She does not respond to requests that she “swallow and not chew.” She’s a chewer all right.

Sometimes, she needs to be reminded to swallow her water (or applesauce, used to make the medicine go down). Increasingly, she does not acknowledge our requests.

She is almost to the point that she cannot feed herself at all. Perhaps she is there already.
Sometimes, food gathers in her mouth, a hideous lump lacking in moisture, and she does not swallow. She is repeatedly prompted to do so, but it isn’t clear whether she understands. Seemingly not. Sometimes, she places her water glass in the middle of her food, or she pours her coffee (decaf) into her apple juice. She quite the source of disorder.

On the bright side, when an old friend visits, she usually responds, if briefly. Kathie visits fairly often, and, each time, as Kathie approaches, Ma smiles and reaches out for a hug and says “hi, Kathie.” Kathie is sure Ma knows who she is and is glad to see her. She clings to this factoid.

Walking for Ma is difficult, though, sometimes, she seems to walk fairly normally, with assistance. Lately, when she is assisted in traveling from one room to another, she starts to collapse half way into the journey. It's shocking. She generally keeps her eyes closed now, even when walking. Is she sleeping? Just what's going on here? Dunno.

These days, Ma seems generally to want to keep her eyes closed all the time. We often try to get her to open her eyes, to take in the world, but she often won’t or can’t. The world, with all of its light, holds no particular charm for her. Pa seems to think that she’s grown sensitive to light, but I don’t think that has anything to do with it. I’m afraid that, largely, she is no longer in our world. She is attracted always to the shaded world of slumber. She's been taken by the darkness.

It is possible that she is over-sedated and that that masks her true state. We all hope so. (Sometimes, one of our doctors will murmer a furtive aside: “these anti-dementia drugs don’t really do a goddam thing. These patients just decline, and there's just no turning that around.”)

We’ve managed, I guess, to get through the rough patch caused by Pa’s losing his driver’s license. Annie and Susan have long been adamant that Pa should stop driving (that is, they’ve confronted me, not Pa, with this demand). My own view was that he ought to be tested by the DMV, and I wasn’t sure how that would turn out. Who knows? I would love to be surprised.

During a visit with “Dr. Tz” a few months ago, I raised my concern about Pa’s driving. I did not provide particulars, aside from reference to his markedly low driving speed, and I did not say anything as definite as, “he shouldn’t be driving.” Still, Pa immediately responded with defensiveness. He accused me of being a wild driver. "You," he said, "drive like a crazy man." I said nothing.

Eventually, Dr Tz briefly said something like, “well, Manny, why don’t you let Annie and Roy drive you places? I’m sure they’d be happy to do that.” That went nowhere.

Eventually, Tz said something like, “let’s leave this to the DMV.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. I assumed that there is some protocol according to which doctors notify the DMV that a elderly patient might need to get his license pulled, and so they compel him to take a driving test. In fact, as it turns out, the protocol is much more severe: the doctor essentially tells the DMV to pull the license, and pull the license they do. The process took over a month.

Pa was very angry when he got the letter (which he refused to show me; I kept hoping he could just take a test). He blamed me for this disaster to his freedom. I tried to explain that it was for the best, but he remained furious.

Annie tells me that, at some point (a month or two ago?), Tz called her and “apologized” for not having made the DMV move himself. The way Annie tells it, Tz was clear that Pa should have ceased driving a long time ago. He saw the problem and did nothing. –Until I brought up my concern and he ran with it.

Nowadays, Pa seems to have gotten past his anger. I sense that he understands that I was not acting unilaterally. I’ve never tried to explain to him that the whole thing went down with a suddenness and severity that I never intended. It doesn’t matter anymore. It's just another change, like so many others.

Ron has settled into visiting us three nights a week: Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday. He seems to do especially well with Ma.

His visits are very welcome in part because they give me a break from the nightly duty of hanging out with Pa for a while and then, finally, at about 9:00, walking Ma to her bed, something that is beyond Pa’s ability.

He’s pretty doddery at this point. Sometimes, he sounds as if he's suffered a stroke—but then, apparently not.

Pa often seems unable to compensate for the decline of his mental or physical faculties. He now speaks in a low and hoarse voice—he seems to have no awareness of this—a sound that does not carry well, especially with a fan blowing and the TV blaring. Requests to have him speak louder and more clearly produce at best temporary and begrudging efforts.

For a time, he would grow annoyed by my solicitations, eventually explaining to me that the problem was not that he isn’t clear; rather, the problem was that I am deaf. In truth, however, virtually everyone is now compelled endlessly to put forth those same puzzled faces and repeated solicitations. Not sure whether he now thinks that we’ve all gone deaf. He has actually been heard to say exactly that. Does he believe what he says? Dunno.

In truth, Pa is slowly sinking into his private world, less and less is he capable of simply connecting with others. His “situational awareness” (that’s a cop expression, I guess) is increasingly poor. His remarks, when audible, usually yield confused stares and such remarks as, “what are you saying exactly?” It breaks my heart to see his descent into oblivion, but I can think of nothing to make things better. Naturally, we all do a bit of humoring—pretending to understand when we do not. Nobody wants that, especially me. But it is inevitable, for Pa’s inscrutability will only grow worse. And there not a molecule of his being that would yield some effort on his part to be clear. After a while, he'll be like some big question mark sitting in the room, largely ignored in favor of the TV's noise.

Yesterday, I watched a news program. Some politician reached into the past to express his feeling; he said that he has been put in a situation in which he didn’t know whether to “shit or go blind.”

“Yes,” I thought. "That's it exactly."

Vancouver's finest hotel

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Fri, 19 Aug 2016 00:18:00 +0000

Here's where we stayed during our trip to Vancouver a couple of years ago.

Irvine Lake, etc.

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Thu, 21 Jul 2016 21:20:00 +0000

Irvine Lake (1940s?)

El Toro Catholic Church (1974?)

Trabuco Oaks General Store (1960?)

Dispatches: from Montana!

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Wed, 01 Jun 2016 23:46:00 +0000

Hi, guys!

I just wanted to say HEY! as I sit sweltering in my parents' apartment. God, it's hot in here. (Think of the Seinfelds' apartment in Florida.) They never seem to notice. ("Who wants cocoa?"—Seinfeld's Mom. Remember?)

It's about as beautiful as it can get here in Central Montana. They've had a lot of rain, and it's as green as I've ever seen it. It's heavenly to sit at the ranch with the windows open (so as to hear the trilling birds) and do a little writing and a lot of reading.

I join Mom and Dad and a couple of kindly and interesting other oldsters for lunch each day. (I bring my own; they all eat meat and potatoes and overcooked vegetables. Actually, they don't eat the vegetables, and neither would I.) It drags on even when I engage them in conversation. They all eat even more slowly than I do!—and that's saying something, as you both know.

My reward is coming back to the apartment and fooling around with email and Facebook. There is a page titled "You Know You're From Lewistown, MT If...." that caught my attention, and sometimes it's really useful. Some people post wonderful vintage photos of various points in the town's history. The other day my parents and I were wondering how to locate the graves of several relatives, so I posted a query about that. I must have received a dozen helpful messages. It's kind of cool, although I sometimes lose track of that page for months. (Roy, I would wear your alienation from Facebook as a badge of honor!)

I've been taking walks around the town in late afternoon while my folks eat dinner (can't bring myself to sit through two of those meals a day), then watch Jeopardy with them. Then I go out to the ranch and luxuriate in my quiet, alone time and a lot of good reading.

Hey, I learned from that Lewistown F/B page that "The Thing" was filmed in Lewistown!—up at the little airport, in the dead of a snowy winter. Cool!

Also, there were two nice photos of Charles Lindbergh, who for some reason stopped here. All kinds of fun history.

Well, there's not much real news here, which is a good thing. Roy, hang in there with caring for your parents and with grading; it would be hard enough just to handle one of those tasks. I hope the grading will end soon! Jan, tell Lori that I, too, can hardly wait for another Ruta's gathering when we can catch up.

Miss you boys! Please give my best to young Theo and kiss his furry head for me!

xoxoxo

Kathie

Hollywood Invades the Prairie (October 22, 2013)

From Montana History Revealed (Montana historical society blog)

by Kate Hampton, State Historic Preservation Office

“It creeps….It crawls…It strikes without warning!” It is…The Thing from Another World!

Montana has had its fair share of UFO sightings and cryptid tales, some told around a campfire and others played out on film. Who could forget James Arness’ first feature film—the science fiction classic, The Thing from Another World? Arness is barely recognizable as “the Thing” itself, and Montana’s wintry landscape around the Cut Bank and Lewistown airports double for the North Pole.
Released in 1951 and based on John Campbell’s short story, “Who Goes There?” the movie chronicles the experiences of a scientific team that unwittingly releases an alien being from deep layers of Arctic ice. The Great Falls Tribune, Cut Bank Pioneer Press, and Lewistown Argus-Farmer covered the filming in December 1950 and January 1951. Kenneth Tobey, pictured below in the dark topcoat at center, played Captain Patrick Henry. Dewey Martin played Crew Chief Bob – and appears in the photo just left of Tobey, in the tweed overcoat.
Location scouts chose Cut Bank’s World War II-era Army Air Force training facility and airport to substitute for the windswept, icy polar research station, and nearby Mission Lake served as the alien spaceship crash site. Many locals recall the filming, and consistently tell the story of how frustrated the filmmakers became after they arrived.
They picked Cut Bank for its wintry locale and landscape, but the team had to be creative when chinooks blew snow from the runways and prairie. To create a blizzard and film the exterior of the “research station,” the crew trucked in snow from Many Glacier, mimicking a storm by blowing the snow with airplane propellers. The crew also hired local crop dusters to whitewash the runways and surrounding land. Severson Air provided several planes— some used for aerial shots.
When the crew travelled to snowier Lewistown in January 1951, they employed local “actors” to use a sled dog team to search for “The Thing” across the hills east of town. Missoula's Johnson Flying Service provided DC-3 planes used in the movie, and the crew modified them to look like military C-47's. One Lewistown poet relayed the events in verse:

…The kingpins flew ‘til their faces were blue, in search for an ideal place,

And the hit a “bonanza’ in Cut Bank Montana, My! The world seemed dressed in lace.

There was snow galore, and of cold - - much more; it was a “garden spot” for “The Thing,”

Even mittened shmoos and frosty igloos would look at home in that ring.

But the warm chinooks fooled the movie “cooks” and melted away the snow;

The directors moaned and the actors groaned. (Gad! That was a low blow.)

Though their loud cry, they wouldn’t say die and their tone bore a resolute ring;

So the men came down to Lewistown to film the gol ‘durned “Thing.”

They wore grins ‘cuz the airport’s rims were blanketed in virgin snow:

The weather was mild and the big boss smiled, and he ordered “On with the show!”…

- “The Thing,” by Tom Kelley, printed in the Lewistown Argus-Farmer, January 14, 1951

Despite their trouble filming in Montana, the actors and crew enjoyed the beauty, people, and Montana cuisine – especially the steaks. In the end, the film received mixed reviews when it was released in April 1951. Over the past decade, however, critics have recognized it as one of the best science fiction movies ever. The film and the original short story inspired John Carpenter’s remake, The Thing, in 1982, and a prequel to the story appeared in theaters in 2011. Still, the original is dark and delightful – especially when you know the backstory. Remember the movie’s ominous warning:

“Tell the world. Tell this to everyone, wherever they are. Watch the skies everywhere. Keep looking. Keep watching the skies.”

Getting old and left behind (or just crotchety)

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Tue, 24 May 2016 18:00:00 +0000

Yesterday, I got an email from Old Man Rainbird:

Subject: The Horror of Modern Times

After our discussion, I ran into this (Is Google Making us Stupid?). I like doing crossword puzzles, and for some time now I refuse to look up something until I know there is no chance I'll remember, or know, the answer, and I'm a stubborn old bastard. [That’s true.] I always enjoy the moment when things click into place and I have the answer, even if it had to churn away for a while. What's the pleasure you get in an instant search? (I ask rhetorically.) And, so, thanks for Saturday, but my realization on the true and absolute diagnosis of your mom was a blow. I really didn't know, and perhaps I was in denial.

I'm up for a lunch later this week if you'd care to indulge. If Friday is still a good day, then fine, but feel free to adjust the time, or for any day, as it happens.

Jan

I responded thus:

About the "Horror of Modern Times"

I’ve often marveled at ancient writers, somehow managing to write wonderful, complete sentences, conveying elegant thoughts, as they wield that fuckin' hammer and chisel. I ask myself, could I do that? Don’t think so. I’d have to go through several drafts, and I’d run out of rocks and wear out my tools before I said anything. My back would go out and that would be that for a while.

I figure it’s always like that. You’re limited by your tools, and people rise to the occasion of those limitations. I remember how my shitty Bic pens would just stop working and I’d have to go on a search for a new shitty Bic pen. I recall needing a shiny new pad of paper to do any writing. I couldn’t bear to just write on odds and ends and scraps. I even went through a fountain pen period. That was messy.

Reading’s that way too. You adjust to your tools. For instance, I tend to use my eyeballs, but I find that they’re not what they used to be, and I keep having to try different pairs of glasses, some of which are broken; some have become monocles or worse. And I can’t really read in the dark, unless I’m reading off of my laptop, which beams at me like a tiny drive-in movie. Darkness is better, laptopwise.

I have come to feel that I can no longer keep up with all the changes in tools and shit. I don’t know what people are doing on their iPhones, and I fear that I couldn’t do it even if I tried. I try to “read” Facebook, but it still feels like opening up the minutes for some weird-ass club of underwater basketweavers. I feel alien and left behind. I feel that way pretty much all day long, especially among my students, who seem to wonder how a guy like me is even possible.

So I’ve pretty much decided to let it go and just live in my own little world, chiseling away like I do. Boy does my back hurt.

Roy

P.S.: Of course Google is making us stupid. Everything is making us stupid. We will be remembered as the Age of Stupid.

Recent pics

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Wed, 11 May 2016 03:26:00 +0000

These days, Ron visits 3 times a week: usually late on Saturday, Wednesday, and sometimes Sunday.
He makes an effort to have Ma walk up to my place and back, a standard bit of exercise. It's hard getting her to exercise, and these walks are about it these days.

The Boy, Teddy, entertains us in many ways. Here he is rolling around in the dirt/sand, something he does every day. No one can understand how it is that he always looks so clean. A mystery.

The view from "Teddy Hill," the hillock between my place and the studio/garage. Teddy and I generally walk down this hill every day and then back up again. The Boy loves the outdoors.

There's a fine patch of cactus on the side of this hill--high on the side of the little canyon between the hill and my place. It's blooming these days.

Posies for a Thursday

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Fri, 15 Apr 2016 01:02:00 +0000

Teddy and I go on our walk

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Wed, 13 Apr 2016 01:05:00 +0000

The boy loves his walk.

We usually walk about the hills surrounding my house when I get home from work.

He can be a wild-eyed young man.

A fine Huckleberry moment

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Wed, 23 Mar 2016 01:42:00 +0000

I dropped by Ma and Pa’s at about 10:00 or 10:30 this morning. I found Ma with Hilda* in the living room. I was surprised and relieved to find Ma in a very good mood, happily greeting me, chirping with Hilda. Nothing like yesterday. Yesterday was pretty bad, what with Ma refusing even to join us for lunch—or anything else. It was one of her “bitter” days.

But today was a sweet one.

“I made reservations for 1:00,” I said. They stared at me, uncomprehending. I inferred that, as usual, Pa had somehow (tried and?) failed to communicate the plan to them, which he had mentioned at least to me last night. The plan was to have lunch today, Tuesday, at a favorite restaurant, Las Brisas in Laguna Beach (a decent place with a wonderful view of Main Beach), to celebrate Ma and Pa’s Wedding Anniversary, their 63rd, which was actually yesterday.

I thought that was a great idea. I told Pa we’d talk about it again in the morning. I was happy about the plan.

Then, at about 9:15 this morning, he called and muttered unclearly about the plan (or not?), as though he wasn’t sure about what he was saying. I asked if he had made reservations to Las Brisas. He hadn’t. I said I would. I also convinced him to invite Hilda and Annie, which, somehow, he seemed disinclined to do. “Well, you can’t invite me without inviting Annie,” I declared. “And why would we leave Hilda here when she can help out?” (Tight-waddery was afoot, I think. But maybe it was something else.)

I had already driven down to Annie’s place to let her in on the plan. “Be ready at 12:30,” I said. Okey-dokey.

Annie usually likes these outings, and her noisy geniality generally prevails. That’s good.

At about 12:25, I rolled up to Ma and Pa’s. Their usual absurd punctuality had not materialized. –Usually, I find them standing there, in front of the house, waiting impatiently, as though I were late, even when such is not the case.

It’s a German thing, I guess.

I walked inside. I could find only Hilda, who seemed unsure about something. My dad then appeared. I said, “Well, everybody ready?” Hilda looked at my dad. “Am I coming along?” she asked.

“Sure, you’re coming along,” I declared, ending all discussion about the matter. Who knows what Pa had said (or muttered or confusingly uttered) before I got there. I didn’t care. She was coming. (Pa had already insisted on paying for lunch, since I often pay for these things, and he doesn’t want to seem not to do his fair share. Possibly, this was about money, but I'm not sure.)

Ma was off somewhere, “getting ready,” so Pa and I walked out to the car, climbing inside, sitting in silence. We waited.

After maybe five minutes, Hilda and Ma trudged through the front door and out to the car. I watched and waited as they climbed in and Hilda attempted to fasten Ma and Pa’s seatbelts. It’s quite a job.

We were off. We stopped at Annie's. Naturally, Annie was not ready. I honked and waited. A minute later, she appeared.

Off we went, rolling through the gate.

“This is a nice airport,” said Ma. “Did it always have so many planes?”

How is one to respond to these Alzeimeranian remarks? “Yeah,” I said. “Nice planes.” That seemed to put an end of the "airport" business.

Ma was mildly confused, but she was happy to be reminded that we were going out to lunch, plus she was in a good mood, and that was good enough for us. She seemed happy to pal around with Hilda—two girls in the world, that sort of thing. Yesterday, Ma actually called Hilda a “bitch” after Hilda urged Ma to join everyone for lunch. “Woman, I know your tricks,” Ma said, nastily. “I do what I want. Nobodycan tell me what to do! Certainly, not you!”

But, today, they were pals again, or at least that’s what I saw in my rear view mirror as we drove down Live Oak and then turned left on Santiago Canyon. They conversed conspiratorially like school girls. It's Hilda's way of making things nice, the giggling school girl thing.

Meanwhile, the weather was a little cool and breezy—there was some fog earlier—but it looked like it might warm up.

By the time we were in Laguna Beach, twenty minutes later, it had become a bright and beautiful day. Even the ocean’s horizon line became a clear mark across the sky—the sine qua non of good beach days, IMO—and the occasional breeze caused the palm trees to undulate, their long leaves sparkling. The ocean sparkled, too.

I sparkled, silently.

We managed to park close to the restaurant, and I acquired the coins necessary for the hungry parking meter (it eats only quarters and dollar coins). The Las Brisas crew brought us to pretty much where they always bring us—to a table by the window with a great view of Main Beach to the south and Dana Point miles beyond.

Everybody sat at the table, pleased as punch. Voila!

We had a great lunch. Ma seemed especially happy. Naturally, nothing of any consequence was said. We toasted to Ma and Pa’s anniversary. We commented on the food. (Good.) Annie told her stories. Hilda talked about her dogs. (One of 'em's named "Ready," I think.) I facilitated things with the standard stupid remarks. “Like your food?” “Have more guacamole!” "Yummmmm."

Afterward, we walked to Heisler Park, overlooking the sea, where Ma, Pa, and Hilda sat on a bench, taking in the view, the people. It was a standard busy day for Laguna Beach: lots of tourists, young people, and everyone else.
It was lovely, and I felt some magic.

Nelson Pike and Pa (Manny), Laguna Beach, c. 1984

Nelson seemed to like my folks.

Some young guys walked by and then one of them stopped right next to us to take a picture of his crew with his iPhone. Annie volunteered to take a pic of the group. “No, it’s gotta be a selfie,” said the kid. We all thought that was great. Or something. I think those kids were a bunch of young Hawaiians. They waddled down to the beach. Annie snickered.

After a bit, I drove us down PCH** a few miles—progress was slow, but not glacial—and that was fun. Pa provided his usual unsolicited factoids about this and that.

I eventually turned inland and got on Glenneyre, moving north, hoping to bring us through the back way to the Canyon Road.

“Didn’t Nelson Pike*** live here?” asked my dad. “Yep,” I said. “On Arch Street.”

"Whatever happened to him?" asked Annie.

"He died," I said. "Maybe ten years ago."

I turned on Park, but the road back to the north end of the city (a left) was closed for repairs. I had to turn around. We were stuck in typical Laguna Beach traffic, crawling along.

Eventually, I decided to just go back to PCH. We drove up to Broadway, turned right, and then rolled through the Canyon like nobody's business. It was a beautiful drive. Lots of blathering. Lots of green hills, trees. Lots of reminiscing. The usual sort of thing, I guess.

Clearly Ma and Pa were having a good time, though I do believe that Pa fell asleep, just as I took the 73 north (a mistake, but a happy one: I love the view at the top).

Eventually, by about 4:30, I got us back home.

I dropped everybody off.

I got back to my place and released the hound—i.e., I released young Teddy Boy, who was very pleased to go for his walk.

We climbed up to the flat spot above the Avacado trees and took in the view, with Trabuco Canyon and Rancho Santa Margarita way off to the east, the mountain pretty much to the north. Then we climbed up to the water tower, a great view spot. The sun was still shining. The breeze was perfect, and the leaves glistened.

Again, I felt magic.
A fine Huckleberry moment.

*Hilda is Ma's caregiver for six days of the week (49 hours). Hilda has worked for us for maybe four or five months. She's warm and nice and she seems to do a great job.

**Pacific Coast Highway

***Pike, my old philosophy mentor [Phil of Religion, Hume], died six years ago. (1930-2010) In 1984, the family, including Annie, attended a party at Pike's place on Arch St. in Laguna Beach. Pike attended at least one party in our home in Trabuco Canyon. (He also worked with Kathie J. The party might have been for Kathie's doctorate.)

Birthday Lunch at Las Brisas (July 2013)
Friday on my mind (November, 2014)
Laguna Beach [old days] (January 2014)
One photo triggers memories (July 2013 [about 1984])

At Las Brisas, three years ago

Saddleback Park & Escape Country

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Sun, 21 Feb 2016 19:07:00 +0000

Remember Saddleback Park (1968-1984)? Was located at the top of the hill very near where the toll road now crosses Santiago Blvd (above Irvine Lake). Used to be a land fill up there. Back in the late 60s, early 70s, this motocross park was very popular. I do believe that the Briggs' kids (next door neighbors) road there. It eventually shut down owing to lawsuits and disputes with the land owner, the Irvine Co.
Another motocross track was constructed near us in Trabuco--Escape Country in Robinson Ranch. Two bike tracks plus hang-gliding. (I believe it was open from about 1971 until about 1978. I think the owner died in '78.)

Escape Country, c. 1975

Back in the 1970s, the only way in or out of Robinson Ranch (nowadays on the periphery of Rancho Santa Margarita) was on treacherous (for drunks) Live Oak Canyon Road, and it seemed to us that drunk drivers were dying like flies out there on weekends.

Leigh Porter, RIP

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Fri, 15 Jan 2016 06:42:00 +0000

Previously, I wrote about a high school friend, Leigh Porter, who died in 1999. I knew little about Leigh’s fate, beyond the fact that he had become a chemist, that he studied at UCI, and that he died in 1999.
I really liked Leigh, and I wanted to learn something about his life and death. I found some publications in chemistry journals, authored by Leigh and one Robert Doedens. I determined that Doedens, age 78, was a chemist at UCI (now retired), where Leigh earned his Ph.D. in 1984. I found Doedens’ email address, a UCI email address. I wrote:

Hello. My name is Roy Bauer; I teach Philosophy at Irvine Valley College. I've been attempting to track down some of my friends from high school (Villa Park High here in Orange County). One especially important friend was Leigh Porter. As near as I can tell, he died in 1999. I did a search and his name seems to come up with yours on some publications from the late 80s (chemistry?). Were you a friend or associate of Leigh's? Any information you could share about Leigh—how and why he died, what he was doing with his life, etc.—would be much appreciated. If not, could you direct me to anyone who knew him? Leigh and I were friends, briefly, in high school. I recall few decent conversations in those days—the Nixon years; the few I had were with Leigh. I remember him as a smart and sensitive guy. I do regret not having kept in touch with him. [1/13/2016 4:05 PM]

—Roy Bauer, Irvine Valley College

Today, I received this response:

Dear Roy, Leigh finished his Ph.D. degree under my supervision in 1984 after earning B.S. and M.S. degrees from Cal State Fullerton. He was a bright and independent graduate student and we kept in touch for some time after he left. He held a few postdoctoral research positions, of which the most important were at Argonne National Lab and at Texas A&M University. He did good work at both places and his supervisors had a high regard for him. He was then hired as an Assistant Professor at the University of Texas in El Paso. He seemed to be doing very well there, but I learned later that there was some tension between him and one or more of his colleagues and that he had at least one significant episode of depression. He left UTEP after a negative tenure decision. After a few short-term research positions he was hired as a postdoc at the University of Utah. Within a year or so, I received the sad news of his suicide. I have never learned the full story of the events at El Paso and Utah.

— Bob Doedens, UC Irvine

UCI c. 1973-1975

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Thu, 07 Jan 2016 07:24:00 +0000

Just imagine the acoustics! A vast plastic barn.

My time at UC Irvine started in the Fall of 1973, just after high school graduation (at Villa Park High). The UCI campus was relatively simple and incomplete in those days--not like it is today. The library seemed small, the campus, with its vast central park, often felt nearly empty, and the "commons"--I never asked why it was called that--was cavernous and noisy and furnished with shitty plastic chairs and faux-wood tables.
I came across these photos of the commons in those days:

Actually, I don't remember these booths. I do remember the shitty lighting and the hideous linoleum.

In one of my courses, students were told to form small discussion groups that would meet informally somewhere on campus. I recall being in one such group--I don't recall the course's discipline--that met inside the vast and noisy commons facility. My hearing was probably sound in those days; nevertheless, I do recall having some difficulty carrying on a conversation in that place, what with all the harsh, smooth surfaces, including much glass. I think I did all right joining in on these discussions with my colleagues.

Nevertheless, in those days, I was very shy--pathologically shy--and I did not make many friends. I remained pretty isolated through those early years, and I seem to recall struggling with that and with my utter inability to have, or to create, a social life. I was clueless. This state was essentially a continuation of my high school years, though, at Villa Park High, I did manage to have good friends and a fair number of acquaintances. No dating though. Not much socializing. I would visit with my best friend Mark and I would have long and somewhat fulfilling conversations with a few individuals (with Leigh, not with Mark, who was very OC Republican, as were his folks).

That's Verano Place in the background

Eventually, Kathie and I moved into Verano Place--in about 1980 or 1981. We stayed for many years (until perhaps 1988 or so).

In those days, at the end of Verano Place (as one walked away from campus) one encountered an old farmhouse and some fields. Pretty wide open.

I eventually got into the habit of staying on campus, in the library, to study or simply to read. The library was cold and empty-seeming, not a social gathering place by any means. So, in a sense, it was perfect for study, especially in the basement.
I could have been more studious than I was, however. I recall chasing after various whims in the stacks--reading about politics, history, and so on. Eventually, I learned to drop by the periodicals room and check out all sorts of cool journals and magazines.

UCI tended (in my experience) not to be terribly nurturing. It was more a "throw 'em in the deep in of the pool" kind of place. I typically did fine, but the experience always seemed institutional and cold. I didn't really know what other students were doing or experiencing; never comparee notes with them. There were some exceptions.
I was, however, very interested in my studies. I recall being dazzled by my exposure to linguistics and history especially. I recall occasionally getting the sense that all of my studies somehow pointed to surprising unifying themes, such as "free will."

I recall making friends with a guy named Dave P in my Metaphysics class. He was all about dating and socializing, and he was attracted to me, I guess, because I was relatively engaged in the material and pretty serious. He wasn't any of those things.
He wanted to befriend me and I offered very little resistance. I recall driving to Long Beach to his parents' home. It was in a fairly crummy neighborhood. He'd drag us to "clubs" and bars, looking for women. I did that a couple of times but found it to be appalling, and I slipped away from Dave somehow.
A year or so later he sent me a postcard from Aspen or some such place, bragging that he was now a ski instructor. He had his eyes on the babes, he said.

I recall commuting to and from UCI (lived in Orange at the time) in my '66 Bug. I installed a 6-12 volt converter, which permitted installation of a cassette tape player. Used to play Mott the Hoople. Loved that band.

I recall really liking a girl in one of my Philosophy classes. She seemed very nice. Commuted, I guess, from Riverside. I hated Riverside (I still tend to view it as foreign and unpleasant). But I liked her. I recall having opportunities to get to know her. But I failed.

I recall taking some small elective course concerning library research. The teacher, a librarian, would yammer about how one must read "books" to learn, to be learned, and so on. She offered cliches, mostly, and I guess I didn't think much of her. I recall saying that I was not that kind of reader (it's true; I was never into novels, though I did read much non-fiction). When we turned in our research projects, she singled mine out as some kind of model of wonderfulness. I was surprised and amused; I did the work in one afternoon, essentially. I recall having a conception of what a good presentation would be and relying on that, not on actual research. It seemed obvious to me how to present the research even though I hadn't really done any.
The teacher marvelled at my work; she was amazed: how can a non-reader, such as this odd Bauer fellow, be this good with research?
I didn't know what to think of the situation. The victory of BS over substance. I had some inkling that I had abilities in presentation; I wasn't sure what they were. They flowered a bit, much later, during my editor and publication (newsletters, etc.) days.

One time, I was driving in the parking lot adjacent to Humanities Hall, and I came across this girl in her Karmann Ghia. Her battery was dead and she couldn't start her car. I stopped to help her. Soon, a cop drove up and ordered me to get behind the wheel of her Ghia. I did so and the cop then used his cruiser to push me very fast--I was alarmed--through the parking lot. I popped the clutch and the engine started right up. The cop left it at that.
I told the girl to let the engine run for a while. She was grateful. Another opportunity. I dropped the ball. Off she went.

I recall attending a Kinks concert at UCI. Must've been the Spring of 1976 (the "School Boys in Disgrace" tour). Saw the same concert at Long Beach Auditorium.

Things improved for me in my last two or so years at UCI as an undergraduate. I got to know some of the other Philosophy majors, including Kathy Leonard (nowadays she goes by "Blanchard"; she's a veterinarian in San Bernardino). Kathy knew the popular and charismatic Professor Nelson Pike (only later did I realize that Kathy and Nelson were sleeping together) and, through Kathy, some of these majors, including me, ended up at Nelson's place on Arch Street(?) in Laguna Beach on Friday nights. This situation did not really lead me to a social life, however. I was always awkwardly alone, different, albeit prettty good at the philosophy thing (for an undergrad). I guess that's why people put up with me. That, and just being a nice guy.

Even now, I feel a great coldness and emptiness thinking about my undergrad years. I don't blame anyone. It's just the way it was. It's just me.

I used to use the term "medieval" to describe my childhood. I would remember it as empty and grey and harsh in some ways--though I wasn't mistreated. I was a sensitive child, as they say (though my folks never said it; I'm sure they would have described me as a "normal" kid). And, when I went to college, I just didn't have the tools to live or flourish. I was very frustrated, essentially unhappy, albeit ambitious in a certain way. I think that largely continued to be the case thereafter. Essentially, it is the case now.

I often think that my friends should be bold and tell me what I'm doing wrong. (Well, sometimes they do, but it never helps.) But I guess they don't see me the way I do. They seem to think that nothing's wrong. How very odd.

I'd fight back, master the obstacle, give it the old college try. But, now, I feel too old.

I know that's silly.

* * *

Situations and events that just roll off some people produce syndromes and complexes in others. I recall my dad often coming home from work in a dark mood. He wasn't violent. He displayed no explicit signs of his poor mood. But I knew he was unhappy, dissatisfied. Something was wrong, I knew not what. He brought his darkness home, and I felt it as if I'd been suddenly led into a dungeon made of cold blocks and iron bars in a foggy, misty moor. I felt dread. And, yes, it is as though I feared violence until sleep; the morning seemed brighter.

Was it me or him? It was both.

Trabuco Oaks general store, c. 1955

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Tue, 05 Jan 2016 21:29:00 +0000

Where I found this photo, the caption reads: "General Store circa 1934" -- Maybe these musicans are an old cutout they've got standing there, 'cause this picture wasn't taken in 1934. It's recent.

Nowadays

Sugar factories, Santa Ana

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Tue, 05 Jan 2016 21:05:00 +0000

According to the Times, "James Irvine, the Orange County mega-rancher, didn't like the price he was getting for his sugar beets, so in 1911 he formed a co-op and built his own sugar factory just outside Santa Ana." It was later owned by Holly Sugar. Demolished in 1984. (See below.)

In about 1964, Annie and I visited this facility on a school field trip. I recall seeing some pipe break open and watching tons of sugar rush onto the floor. Annie, natch, remembers it differently; some elaborate and dramatic yarn.

"Preservationists sued to protect the building as a historic monument but failed. The plant was demolished. Nowadays the only trace of the old factory is in the Embassy Suites Hotel that succeeded it, right. The building was designed to suggest the sugar factory's architecture."

The bull, the horns, the blind

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Mon, 04 Jan 2016 22:54:00 +0000

Mr and Mrs Nixon's "chairs" at El Adobe, Ma's favorite restaurant

There’ve been several episodes of hospital stays for Ma in the last two or three months.

A week ago (Monday), I received an early-morning call from Pa, who stated simply that Ma was “bleeding from her v……” That sounded pretty bad. Essentially, the blood-thinners, medicine to help prevent stroke (the #1 bugaboo), had led to bleeding in the intestines and, possibly, also owing to hemorrhoids. (Ma and Pa were mistaken about the source of the bleeding.) And so off we went to the hospital.

Ma was finally released on Friday.

As you can imagine, these hospital episodes are taxing on everyone, for the obvious reasons and perhaps for subtler reasons as well. Part of the problem is that a senile loved one’s hospital stays tend, I think, to leave one at sea regarding visits: how often, how much, etc. Must someone always sit at the loved one's bedside? It is not obvious (at least to me) that, in this kind of case, constant visitor presence is best for patient or family. But, owing to uncertainty, etc., Constant Accompaniment tends to become the default response, which produces long hours of mostly fruitless bed-sitting by all, or almost all, concerned. The matter is made worse, of course, by the suspicion that an organization such as Kaiser tends to accumulate mechanisms of CYAery that yield unnecessary tests and hospital stays. Sometimes, the CYAitude is as plain as the nose on you face. Bauers, I find, are less infected with the prevailing blindness to, or tolerance of, this kind of CYAery than most.

This morning, Annie arrived (at Ma and Pa’s) to give Ma her 9:00 a.m. shot—just as Hilda arrived as usual—and there was then quite a fuss over newly-discovered rectal bleeding. Evidently, Pa declared that it was “only hemorrhoids,” and that there was no need to take Ma to the hospital. Hilda was definitely of a different opinion. Annie called one of the on-call nurses at Kaiser and was advised, natch, to take Ma in. Pa, when not declaring that Ma wasn’t going anywhere, insisted on doing the driving to the hospital. That put Annie and Hilda on edge: both are of the opinion (I share it) that Pa shouldn’t be driving at all. So I suggested that we (excluding Annie) get going. “I’ll drive,” I said, to which a relieved Hilda responded with “Thank you.” Ma was pretty loopy (that comes and goes these days) and was barely able to walk, which alarmed Hilda, but we soon loaded into the car and were off.

Long story short: Ma’s blood is much too thin, and that has caused intestinal (not hemorrhoidal) bleeding. Ma will have to stay in the hospital for a few days so that they can thicken her blood and raise her much-too-low blood “count.” She’ll require a blood transfusion, among other things.

So, it’s back to the ol’ “hospital watch” for us.

Ma's sudden decline has, of course, been tough for all of us, but particularly for Pa, who struggles with denial (as they say) with Ma’s mental condition. In conversation, he has occasionally implied that his goal is to return Ma to lucidity. That ain’t gonna happen, and I (and Annie) have told him that. At some level, I think, he understands. “She’ll have good days and bad days,” we say. But the old Ma is gone for good.

OK.

At the same time, Pa clearly struggles with his sense of himself as the “mentally healthy one.” His judgment is in decline (as this morning’s episode demonstrates), and he is often barely able to process fairly simple information. On occasion, he betrays an understanding of his diminished faculties. On the other hand, he’s almost always “there,” if not all there, and he will certainly be at the core of (shared) decision-making, about Ma and everything else, for the time being.

Under the circumstances, I think he’s doing very well. But he can’t go on like this much longer.

[Phone interruption.]

I just got off the phone with a Kaiser doctor (of internal medicine, Dr. G), who urged me to finally get 24-hour care for Ma. He said that, with Pa taking care of Ma much of the time, it was “the blind leading the blind.” That mustn’t go on, he said. It is time to finally “take the bull by the horns.”

Yep.

Oh boy.

1/6/16 update:
Yesterday (Tuesday), Ma was given another colonoscopy, and, as with last week's test, "matter" obscured the view. They're looking for the source of her bleeding, of course. (At one point last week, I was told that the test that had been given allowed inspection of about 85% of the colon; at the time, that was judged do be adequate.) But obscurity has again prevailed, and so she is being prepped for a third test. Sheesh.
The doctors are so concerned about the bleeding (which has largely stopped), that they've decided to cut out her blood thinners entirely, which puts Ma at risk for strokes.
Sounds petty dicey.
Meanwhile, Southern Cal is being hit but a series of rainstorms. Yesterday, up here in the mountains, we got battered pretty good, and today seems to offer a repeat.
It's cold and it's wet. And everything feels unsettled.
Pa is definitely worn down by this latest hospital stay. When I dropped him off at the hospital this morning, I said, "Hang in there." He replied, "Every day it gets harder." (I'll being spelling he and Hilda at 4:30 today, a repeat of yesterday.) He does sound pretty feeble, easily confused.

"God, Honor, Fatherland": Poland lurches to the right

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Tue, 15 Dec 2015 18:36:00 +0000

Meanwhile, Germany strains for moderation

Naturally, we Bauers, or at least some of us, have a special interest in Poland, a place we visited back in 2011. While there, we witnessed some street protests in Gdansk, though we didn’t know (and didn’t ask) what they were about. Possibly, Pa made some inquiries.
There was some talk among Poles about a recent airliner crash involving the leader of the country. I do wish I had paid more attention to such things at the time. In truth, those days were very challenging in other ways.

Today, the New York Times reports on a very unfortunate development: Poland's government is swinging rightward. A general trend in Europe?

As Poland lurches to right, many in Europe look on in alarm

By RICK LYMAN and JOANNA BERENDT/THE NEW YORK TIMES

WARSAW, Poland – In the few weeks since Poland’s new right-wing government took over, its leaders have alarmed the domestic opposition and moderate parties throughout Europe by taking a series of unilateral actions that one critic labeled “Putinist.”

Under their undisputed leader, Jaroslaw Kaczynski, they pardoned the notorious head of the security services, who was appealing a three-year sentence for abuse of his office from their previous years in power; tried to halt the production of a play they deemed “pornographic”; threatened to impose controls on the media; and declared, repeatedly and emphatically, that they would overrule the previous government’s promise to accept refugees pouring into Europe.

But the largest flashpoint, so far, has been a series of questionable parliamentary maneuvers by the government and the opposition that has allowed a dispute over who should sit on the country’s powerful Constitutional Tribunal to metastasize into a full-blown constitutional crisis – with thousands of protesters from all sides taking to the streets.

Countries across Europe have seen nationalist movements rise in popularity, particularly in the wake of the refugee crisis and the terrorist attacks in Paris. But Poland’s rightward lurch under the newly empowered Law and Justice Party is unsettling what had been the region’s strongest performing economy and a model for the struggling post-Soviet states of Eastern Europe.

“I am very agitated and depressed,” Andrzej Zoll, a former president of the Polish Constitutional Tribunal, said in an interview with Gazeta Wyborcza, one of the country’s leading newspapers. “Twenty-five years of democratic Poland is coming to an end.”

On Saturday, anti-government protesters marched peacefully through central Warsaw chanting for “democracy.” On Sunday, a pro-government “March of Freedom and Solidarity” drew a somewhat smaller crowd of peaceful participants and featured chants of “God, Honor, Fatherland” and the singing of patriotic anthems like “Let Poland be Poland.”

At Saturday’s protest, Ryszard Petru, leader of a new opposition party called Modern, bemoaned the moves of the new government and its leader. “Kaczynski has managed to divide Poles yet again,” Petru said. “And he has done it in just one month.”

. . .

Yet the leadership has often seemed to confirm its critics’ worst fears. After some opposition members called for a EU investigation of the new government’s actions, Kaczynski described them as traitors.

“In Poland, there is a horrible tradition of national treason, a habit of informing on Poland to foreign bodies,” Kaczynski said. “And that’s what it is. As if it’s in their genes, in the genes of Poles of the worst sort.”

. . .

“Their attitude is that every four years there are elections, but afterwards the party that has won the election should have full power, practically unlimited,” said Alexander Smolar, president of the Stefan Batory Foundation, which promotes civic issues. “They want very much to enlarge their power and weaken the institutions that control the political process.”

For eight years, while Law and Justice was in the opposition, it agitated repeatedly for fresh investigations into the 2010 crash of a plane in Smolensk, Russia, that killed Kaczynski’s twin brother, Lech Kaczynski, then the country’s president, as well as dozens of other top Polish officials. [Back in 2011, at least one of our guides referred to this event.]

Some party officials, including a few with top positions in the new government, suggested that the crash might have been orchestrated and covered up by the Russians, perhaps with the connivance of Civic Platform and its then-leader, Donald Tusk, who is now president of the European Council in Brussels.

These conspiracy theories were rarely raised during the recent election, but now that Law and Justice has assumed power they are back in the public discussion in a major way.

The new foreign minister, Witold Waszczykowski, called on Russia to cooperate in a fuller investigation of the crash. “Either they solve this case amicably, or it will become necessary to hand it over to international tribunals,” he said.

. . .

A top government spokeswoman, Elzbieta Witek, said in a television interview that a state tribunal should investigate Tusk, too. That was just her “personal opinion,” she said.

. . .

But the most significant dust-up came over the composition of the country’s top constitutional tribunal. In the runup to the election, Civic Platform appointed five new judges to the 15-member panel, even though two of the vacancies would not occur until a new government took power.

In response, Law and Justice refused to seat any of those five judges and, instead, appointed five judges of its own.

The constitutional tribunal ruled this month that Civic Platform had the authority to appoint only three judges and it declared unconstitutional large parts of new legislation covering the tribunal introduced by Law and Justice.

But the new government continues to insist that its five judges – and none of Civic Platform’s – be admitted to the tribunal. Confusion about how this will play out, and who actually has ultimate authority over the constitution, has unsettled Polish politics and raised passions on all sides.

. . .

While Law and Justice champions socially conservative causes, including opposition to same-sex marriage, abortion and even in vitro fertilization, it also promised voters such traditionally left-wing policies as a rise in the minimum wage and a lowering of the retirement age.

“The transition phase between communist and post-communist Poland was very painful for a large part of the population,” Smolar said. “For a lot of people, especially the older population, it was perceived as a catastrophe.”

Now there are concerns that the party, simmering in opposition for so long, will seek to redress a litany of grievances, even if it means bending the constitution.

“This is not the problem in Poland only,” said Alexander Kwasniewski, Poland’s left-wing president from 1995 to 2005. “This is happening in countries across Europe. This is the problem of democracy in general. Traditional democracy is in crisis.”

Infarctions and Kalashnikovs (and false alarms?)

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Sat, 14 Nov 2015 18:27:00 +0000

Catch-22

"That's some catch, that Catch-22," he observed.
"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed.

Things seem to be OK with Ma.

Today, after class, I dropped by the folks at about 12:30 just to check in. It seemed to me that Ma's speech was much more slurred than it was yesterday. Further, the right corner of her mouth drooped subtly. So I tried to get this crew to think hard: has there been some change? Am I looking at something that's been going on for days and days or is this something new? It was like pulling teeth--plus herding cats. Pa had trouble focusing. Hilda seemed pretty fuzzy.

I emailed Dr. N, the neurologist (I haven't heard back). Then I got on the horn with the Triage Nurse (or whatever) over at Kaiser. She gave me precisely the load of CYA I figured I'd get. She asked me a series of questions. In the end, she advised bringing Ma to the emergency room, the usual default.

As I got ready to round this crew up, the nurse called right back: “call 911. That's my recommendation,” she said.

"Yeah, but I can get my mom to the hospital a lot faster than those guys."

"No, call 911, that's my recommendation. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. I'm driving her over right now."

So I did, leaving Pa here to keep things going (he wasn't ready to leave, too many loose ends). I urged him to just stay; I said I'd call him soon. I implied or said that we were just exercising an abundance of caution, etc.

So off we went. Got there fast. Ma seemed pretty danged good, aside from the slurred speech. Hilda was good company for Ma and for me. She's from Juarez, murder capital of the world. I joked about the nature of medical care: "poking and guessing," I called it.

So we hung around like people do at the Emergency Room (Ma got a private room right away). After a while, they X-Rayed her chest, and that didn't show anything. Then, after an hour or two, they Cat Scanned her skull, I guess, and that didn't show anything. So they were getting her ready for the final test, the MRI.

At that point (about 5:00 p.m.), I drove Hilda back to her car and picked up Pa, and we headed back to the hospital. It was about 6:00.

Soon after we got back, the doctor said that the MRI showed that Ma did indeed have a small stroke. Later that night, we were told it was an “acute infarction.”

So she's staying over at the hospital tonight. Drat.

I'm back home again—to get meds, feed cats (including TigerAnn, since Annie took her ill-timed trip this weekend), etc. I'll be heading back to the hospital at about 9:00 to pick up Pa.

So things aren't terribly worrisome, as these things go. She's had these little strokes before (this latest one isn't the nasty hemorrhagic kind). I'm hoping they'll turn her loose again tomorrow. We'll see.

Meanwhile, Ma has been in great spirits all day. She did a fair amount of talking—with me, with Hilda. I got her to describe her trip to Poland, etc. It was good.

In the hospital room, at one point, I turned on the TV, where we encountered non-stop news about those terrorist attacks in Paris today. You know how that is.

Sheesh.

P.S. [Saturday, Nov. 14]: Got a call from Pa who was at the hospital. According to him, "the neurologist" (not Dr. N) came in, took a look at the various images, and declared that they had been misread and that Ma had had no stroke. "There's no reason to keep her here," declared he (according to Pa). I waited for hours at the house for Ma and Pa's return, but nothin' doin'.
Later, I learned that Ma had become agitated, raising her pulse and blood pressure; hence, she was not stable enough to leave the hospital. No doubt, she is upset because she's in the hospital. If she were home, she would not be upset. And so she can't go home, where she'd cease to be upset, 'cause she's at the hospital, which makes her upset.
It's Catch-22, the best catch there is!
Ron told me, "This hasn't been a good day for Ma." (I joined him, late in the day, for a couple of hours. Ma mostly slept. Ron and I mostly talked about the decline of the Honda Motor Corp. and the oddness of needless, forseeable, yet unstoppable, calamity. Aren't we clever.)

P.P.S.: [Sunday]: at long last, Ma was released. Ron, who had stayed with her overnight (Susan and the kids are away in Northern Cal), drove her home by about midday. She seems good, but very weary. I made her her favorite lunch (spicy ramen). She resisted efforts to get her to exercise. Still, all is well. Maybe. I left the three of 'em in the livingroom, with Ma sleeping, Ron doing something on his computer, Pa doing I know not what.
Back to the "Hilda" routine in the morning. That's good.
Unclarity about what happened to Ma this weekend. "Acute infarction"? Or no? I think I'm less likely ever to call the "Triage nurse" again. Sheesh.
It's just started to rain. It's cold. Teddy says "hey."

Roy

Wish me luck (resorts)

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Thu, 05 Nov 2015 04:11:00 +0000

c. 1950

Gosh, what a time. A very difficult time.

By Saturday, Ma started slurring her speech slightly. By Sunday morning, the symptom grew worse, and she was back at the emergency room at Kaiser on Alton (in Irvine). Pa, Annie, I—and Ron, who had arrived for his weekly visit—accompanied her. Eventually, it became clear that the recent and successful effort to thin Ma’s blood to prevent clots and strokes (the bugaboo of the early weeks of this ongoing crisis) had now produced a feared consequence, some sort of hemorrhage. A glob of blood the size of a marble was growing in her brain and damaging (or just affecting?) muscles or functions involved in speech. So it became necessary to reverse gears and to quickly thicken her blood—a situation that would, of course, increase her chances of suffering strokes of the kind that occasioned the thinning efforts.
A Catch-22.

A doctor took Annie aside and said something like, “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. This usually doesn’t end well. Be prepared.”

Good grief.

Late Sunday, the doctor(s) decided that it would be best to move Ma to the hospital in Anaheim (on La Palma, near Olive Hill), owing to the availability of neurosurgeons (I think that was it) there. So she's been staying there for several days, and so the rest of us have been driving to Anaheim when we can.

At the Anaheim facility, Ma has done lots of sleeping, much of it bad. She has generally been confused to some degree, and her ability to speak intelligibly comes and goes. Sometimes, she makes no sense at all; at other times, she manages brief coherent remarks. She shows glimpses of her old self, I think. There’s pressure from some of the staff for her to do substantial “oral” exercises several times a day, but Ma generally isn’t inclined to comply with the nurses’ entreaties. She is a difficult patient.

They might be giants

She has had a tendency to become angry, even agitated. I have not experienced anything I would call "violence." (I’ve seen her angry, but not aggressive.) On Monday, Annie reported that, according to nurses, Ma had been very agitated, at one point even throwing things around the room and pulling out her IVs. Yesterday, she was much better, and she ranged from friendliness to annoyance. When I visited her at the end of the day, she was mostly reasonable and cooperative.

Today, however, she returned to agitation, even violence, or so I'm told. She took a swing at Annie, hitting her. She pulled out her IVs. Unfortunately, this was witnessed by the case worker. It appears that the professionals (case worker, et al.) will now pressure us to move Ma to a facility for those special (difficult) patients of Ma’s category. The aggressive kind, I guess.

It is obvious that Ma is continually confused about her stay at the hospital, and it is clear that she badly wants to leave. (Oddly, she often insists on “going to the hospital.”) She often tries to get out of bed to leave. She becomes very annoyed when we tell her that she ain't goin' nowhere. Sometimes, I think, she is furious. It's hard to watch.

The professionals have seen her at her worst and they’ve decided (I do believe) that she must be moved to facilities designed for such patients. “No,” they say, “it would be seriously ill advised to try to take care of this kind of patient at home. Trust us. She must be moved to that facility. It's what is best for you—and it is best for her.”
I'm not so sure. She's in a kind of hell now. Shall we move her to a lower circle of hell?

To my way of thinking, she may be exhibiting aggression exactly because she is confused and desperate, and she is confused and desperate because she is in the hospital. For all that we know, if she were back home, her unfortunate behaviors would largely subside. And, surely, if we move her to the “right kind of facility,” she will become more confused and desperate—and perhaps more aggressive/violent. I am horrified at the thought of moving her to the special facility. I do believe we should at least try to take care of her at home, see how it goes. If we need help, we can hire that. If we need to move her, well, we'll do that.
But surely that should be, as they say, the last resort.

So, tonight, I shall arrive at the hospital with the intent of raising some difficult questions—for Pa and Ron—about the professionals’ difficult and perhaps utterly wrong advice.
Is it time to say "No" to the medical profession?

Wish me luck.

P.S.: Turns out that Ron and Pa were on the same page and they agreed that we should get Ma home as soon as possible. That's what happened, though we had to overcome pressure to send her to a "facility." We got her home, albeit with hired caregivers, and, so far, things are going well (11/9).

P.P.S.: Ma and Pa and caregiver Hilda seem to get along famously. Things seem to be going very well. Ron, Annie, and I are taking turns staying over in case things go south (Hilda's here from 9 to 5). We're hoping that that will cease being necessary. Ma's doing much more walking and talking--she joins in cooking and such--and, generally, she seems much more active. All good. (11/11)

Without my walking stick: Ma recuperates

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Sat, 24 Oct 2015 22:31:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago, it was judged necessary to bring Ma to the emergency room, whereupon tests revealed a significant heart arrhythmia. Doctors decided that she should remain in the hospital until her heartbeat became consistently regular, something to be achieved through drugs.

Her hospital stay lasted about five or six days. While there, she seemed to be in reasonably good spirits, if a little confused. She started to complain of significant back pain, and so she was given an x-ray, which revealed spinal stenosis. (Spinal stenosis was the stated reason for my first back surgery, more than twenty years ago.) Dr. C commenced addressing that problem aggressively, putting Ma through various exercises every day. That latter included a walk through Ma’s wing of the hospital.

Ma tended to lapse into her familiar “good girl” mode during these episodes—i.e., she was determined to please her handlers and not make a fuss. (I had the opportunity to follow her during one of these sessions, unbeknownst to her and her therapist. It was good to see Ma trying so hard to be good.)

Perhaps it was during the hospital stay (not sure) that it became clear that the onset of Ma’s mental issues had been clouded by a stroke, or a series of small strokes, and these perhaps were brought about by her heart condition. That is, possibly her extreme fatigue which so worried us—I speculated that it was depression—likely had nothing to do with her mental condition but was entirely attributable to her arrhythmia and stroke.

I’ll see if we can gain clarity about that.

At the hospital, Dr. C explained to me that Ma’s heart issue would be fully addressed by new medicines. That was a relief. "Not to worry," he seemed to say.

Naturally, Ma’s hospital stay was taxing on everyone, especially the family. Pa, Annie, Ron, and I visited her often and often for long hours. I think that we generally felt that Ma was doing well. With some exceptions, she exhibited little of that terrible confusion mixed with anger with which she is now susceptible.

So, at long last, Dr. C decided that Ma was good enough to return home, though there were provisos: Annie was tasked with administering a “bridge therapy”—a twice-a-day injection to thin Ma’s blood until the drugs kicked in (I think the “bridge” period was supposed to be about five days). Further, a nurse (or some other) would be coming to the house each day to check up on her and to take blood—to monitor blood viscosity, I think. Getting that viscosity right is all important—to avoid more strokes.

On that great day, taking a break between classes, I ran over to Kaiser at 11:00, to assist with the move, but, when I got there, Ma was off with her physical therapist and neither Pa nor Annie (nor Ron) was around. Evidently, release time had been changed.

In the end, Ma was released at about 3:00, and she made her way down to the car with the help of Pa and Annie. Everything seemed to go well until later that night, when Ma was to receive her first injection. She wasn’t too pleased about that, though Annie and Pa managed to have Ma lie down and take the shot. Whew! Since that day (about five days ago), the injections have occurred more-or-less without incident (though with some complaint).

On the first full day at home, Ma balked about the very idea of a Kaiser person visiting the house, but that all got sorted out somehow. It wasn’t easy, I’m sure.

Pa’s obviously got his hands full and, of course, he is not 100% these days. I’d have to say that, in general, he has really risen to the occasion and has been managing to care for Ma admirably, with Annie’s assistance. (A do what I can, but I do work five days a week.)

Yesterday, Annie and I spoke about the possibility of her becoming more formally responsible for Ma at least during the week. It’s pretty obvious that formal arrangements will be necessary, for Ma really does require near-constant monitoring, and Pa isn't always up to the task (plus he has things he feels he needs to do). Evidently, one of the strokes that Ma suffered (none of which we detected by the family at the time) injured some of the muscles used for swallowing, and so Ma is vulnerable to choking immediately after meals. She's not supposed to sleep after eating, but just try an' tell her that.

Yesterday, just as it was getting dark, I found Ma walking up to my place, alone. I immediately turned the situation into a pleasant “Teddy visit.” That went well, but then she insisted on continuing with her walk alone. I let her go—with the idea of calling Pa immediately. But, just after she left, Pa showed up looking for Ma. So we got in my car and drove down toward the gate, where we found her, just below Annie’s place, stoically marching up the road. Evidently, she had fallen down and had had difficulty getting back up. She didn't seem to be injured.

The good news is that Ma seems quite capable of walking significant distances at speed, albeit with the help of a walking stick. (I don't think she actually needs it, but who knows.) Her back pain seems to come and go, though it doesn’t seem significant these days. She still struggles with fatigue, and she isn’t always the most cooperative patient.

Still, all in all, things seem pretty good right now.

Ron will be visiting in the morning.

In a few minutes, I’ll roust Ma and encourage to her take a walk toward my place—to visit The Boy. She just loves that guy.

Who don’t?

1948: bad girls fly through windshields

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Tue, 06 Oct 2015 00:54:00 +0000

Just in case I’ve never told it, here’s Ma’s “flying through the windshield” story. She's told it often. Here's what I remember.

By 1948, Ma was fifteen years old and was apprenticing to be some kind of City Hall worker, a bureaucrat. There are photographs (see) somewhere of Ma with the three or so other “students”—all of them men—and their teacher. It’s impossible to view these photos without thinking: “hey, those are guys and she’s the only girl!” But Ma always seems to depict the setting as professional; no hanky panky occurred.

Ma had friends, of course. She was attractive and unattached and so guys would hang around like they do. At one point, she was with one of these guys—he may have been in his early twenties, maybe a cop. He had a car, and Ma bragged that she, too, knew how to drive. (Implausible.) So he let her drive his car. That went pretty well for a few seconds, but then she plowed the dang thing straight into a tree. She went through the windshield and was pretty badly cut. Not sure about the young man. He was OK, I guess.

The two were conscious and climbed out of the wreck. They set about stemming the flow of blood from Ma’s forehead and then they walked to someone’s place. Eventually, they took the necessary steps to get her to a hospital. The nearest one was miles away by train or car. And so she/they made the trek.

She stayed in the hospital for over a month. She says that her injury was pretty severe: her skull was "cracked open" and surgeons had to piece it back together. She has never reported anything about comas or psychological effects. She has always told this story sans "brain" injury. Nothing psychological.

Obviously, I’ve always known Ma to have a scar atop her forehead, though it is hardly visible (it is faint, and very near the hairline). She has always seemed somewhat ashamed of it. She's certainly not proud of it.

A peculiarity of Ma—or of people of her generation, or maybe of German women of her generation—is a tendency to place some events into this odd category: “here’s when I was a bad girl and I paid the price for my foolishness.” There’s a certain head-nodding, finger-wagging, and pouting involved in the telling.

UPDATE: I spoke with Ma this afternoon and she has filled in some details. The scene of the crash was along the border of some sort of military instillation, by then taken over by the Americans and other allies. There were two boys who were with her, and both were in the car when it crashed. Ma says that she did indeed fly right through the windshield, but the two guys--I believe she said they were in their mid-20s--remained in the car and were essentially uninjured. They immediately jumped out of the car and carried or led her to a nearby water pump by the side of the road, washing the wound on her forehead. Then they literally picked her up and ran to the nearby village. Eventually, they got her to her home (in Soltau?).
At some point, Ma's mother (i.e., her Aunt Marthe) came upon the scene and accompanied Edith on the train to the hospital, which was perhaps "30 miles away." Marthe was frantic, inconsolable. Possibly, Oma Losa went along, helping Marthe "keep it together."
I think Ma said that one of the guys with the car worked for some kind of auto shop; the other guy may have had a taxi (and he was known to give English soldiers useful direction in finding, um, companionship).
The car was likely a pre-war model held together with spit. There were no parts available at the time. People patched things up as best they could. Ma says that she heard that the car was in pretty bad shape after the wreck, but that she heard that it was made to operate again.
Evidently, Edith and the others were compelled to fabricated a "story" about how this whole thing came down to keep everyone involved out of trouble. Ma was coached by her mother before she was interviewed by "the detective." In the end, everything worked out. Whew.

Said she: "It's too late now"

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Sun, 04 Oct 2015 01:09:00 +0000

A lot’s happened, I guess.

WEDNESDAY. During the pivotal meeting with the neurologist ten days ago (a Wednesday), it became clear that Ma suffers from dementia—not that there was much doubt about that for Annie and me. The neurologist, Dr. Carolyn Nxxx, I’m told, referred to the then-recent CAT scan, which, she said, showed clear evidence of damage, probably scar tissue, likely from Ma’s head injury of 1948, when she flew through the windshield of a car, cracking her right upper forehead (she spent over a month in the hospital). Based on that information and information provided during this meeting (Annie was present to provide more or less coherent sentences), Nxxx became convinced that Ma is indeed suffering from dementia and that, likely, there are frontal lobe issues—possible “seizures”—that are contributing to her behavioral problems, namely, confusion, self-identity problems, changes of mood, curious shaking, imagined strangers, etc. According to Annie, Nxxx suggested that the especially bad five-day period—about a week or two previously—was a “fugue” state.

My dictionary provides this definition of the psychological term “fugue”:

...a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment, associated with certain forms of hysteria and epilepsy.

Nxxx told the three, and especially Annie—evidently, Ma and Pa were visibly “out of it” for much of the meeting—that it is possible that there are two issues here, including the lobe issue caused by the old injury plus more ordinary causes of dementia (a more typical presentation of Alzeimers?).

Ma received a prescription for seizures. The trio was told to wait and see if symptoms changed.

(According to Annie, Nxxx directed her remarks to her and suggested that Pa had substantial dementia issues as well. Evidently, he was displaying his familiar stupefaction behavior: staring blankly, evidently unaware, etc.)

(Nxxx seemed to suppose that Annie was at a crossroads and that she would need to abandon any notion of becoming the "caregiver." It was time to bring in the professionals for these two, insisted Nxxx. Later, when Annie reported all of this to me, I was a little concerned that, for Nxxx, Annie had become the point person re the Ma/Pa care issue. Annie does OK, but she doesn't always separate fact from theory. Like her parents, she tends to embrace a theory and then enforce it in their perceptions and thoughts.)

SATURDAY. The subsequent Saturday morning, Pa called me and seemed to be overwhelmed by Ma’s aggressive and accusatory behavior toward him. Evidently, she was complaining about being left in the dark about “things.” I hurried over—with Teddy the therapy cat.

I saw that Ma was confused and angry. Her agitation, if you could call it that, seemed to be about Ron, whom she spoke of sometimes as if he were a child (when he was a little kid, we used to call him “Roonikin,” and that was the term she was using) and sometimes as if he were the adult he is today. Ma seemed particularly confused when Pa or I suggested that these Ronnies are one and the same person. Speaking with her about Ron produced hopeless and repeating circles of conversation, and so we dropped the subject.

Nevertheless, it seemed to me that Ma had calmed down quite a bit. After a few minutes, she was no longer angry. Remembering what Annie had told me about Nxxx’s directions from three days earlier, I drove down to Annie's place and apprised her of the situation. “We’ve got to take her to the emergency room,” she declared, as per Nxxx’s directions (according to Annie). So that’s what we did.
Pa resisted, but not much.

At the hospital (Kaiser, on Alton), Ma continued to be pretty reasonable, not angry, but she remained confused about Ron when the issue was raised. Her sense of the past was somewhat scrambled or blank. Still, she was calm and pleasant and untroubled. We tried to keep her that way.

You know how it is at the hospital, especially the emergency facilities. It was your standard “hurry up and wait” scenario. Nothing happened quickly. Our visit lasted five hours, which comprised a consultation with the "on call" doctor, a visit from a neurologist, and an MRI. Sheesh.

Right away, an attempt was made to contact Dr. Nxxx, but Kaiser could only locate Nxxx’s “partner” (?), who, we were told, was on her way.

After a couple of hours, the "partner" arrived. She, like Nxxx, is in her late forties. I recall that this doctor's name was something like Haxxx. So, just now, I did some looking and it appears that this partner is none other than Parissa Hxxx, MD—who, curiously, seems also to go by the name P J-Hxxx. (Nxxx and Hxxx, who are affiliated with Kaiser, share an office in Irvine with five other neurologists.)

Hxxx ordered an MRI. But, before that, she put Ma through some “tests,” with which Ma seemed to do fairly well (she did have trouble remembering one of three words: "Cadillac, ball, dog"). Aside from confusion about Ron, she seemed almost perfectly normal.
Hxxx also spoke with Annie and me in the hallway. Annie commenced referring to Ma’s earlier “fugue” state, but Hxxx seemed surprised or troubled by that. Evidently, Hxxx was disinclined to suppose that Ma would have experienced a "fugue." Annie also referred to Ma's earlier "profound agitation." I said: It was certainly not profound. Perhaps not even agitation.
Accuracy is important, is it not?

It became clear that Hxxx disagreed somewhat with Nxxx’s preliminary guess as to Ma’s issues. I think her take was that Ma was not suffering from "seizures" at all but that she was suffering from a more ordinary kind of dementia and that, quite possibly, she has suffered a series of minor strokes. (She asked the expected questions about episodes resulting in numb arms and such, but we could recall no such occasions.)
Based on her diagnosis, Hxxx prescribed anti-psychotic drugs.
Later, an hour or so after we returned home, Hxxx called and reported that the MRI had turned out as she expected. She said, I believe, that there was evidence of some small strokes. At any rate, we were to commence giving Ma the anti-psychotic drugs, which are often given to Alzeimers patients. The "seizure" drugs, she said (I think) would not help.
(A few days ago, Annie and Ma had one of their usual tense exchanges, and Annie told Ma that she was suffering from "psychosis." Naturally, Ma regarded that as absurd and Annie as obnoxious. I explained the technical nature of the term and that, indeed, some of her symptoms were in the "psychosis" category. She seemd to take that well.)

I should mention that the last thing Hxxx said to us as she left us in the hospital room was, "I think your mom will be OK." She was attempting to be reassuring. Not sure quite what she was trying to say though. "Could be worse" maybe.

Predictably, Ma and Pa are a bit untethered and creative in their grasp of the doctors’ reports/guesses thus far. Ma, for one, keeps referring to her old injury—she points to her forehead—as the simple cause of her illness, which she takes to be temporary, something to be overcome through medicine or surgery. Pa seems to go along with this (not sure). They seem incapable of taking in the divergence and complexity of medical opinion so far. They need simplicity, I guess.

At least as far as I can tell, the two neurologists presently disagree about Ma and her troubles. One seems interested in that old scar tissue; the other, not so much. (Perhaps it is difficult reading the dark spots on the scan.) On the other hand, they now have more data, including an MRI. Next up—on the 13th—will be an EEG, which might give us a better picture of what actually goes on in Ma’s brain (CAT scans and MRIs, of course, are “snapshots”; the EEG will provide info during extended consciousness; "real time" info).

In recent days, I'm told, it has been decided that the anti-seizure medicines just aren’t working; we’re waiting to see what the anti-psychotic drugs do. It's too early to tell.

Because I work, I don’t see Ma but once a day between Monday and Thursday. Annie, who does not work, reports that Ma often starts the day pretty strong but sinks into being difficult and even agitated later in the day. (I don't notice this pattern. I typically catch up with Ma late in the afternoon, and I don't see agitation.)

Yesterday, Ma seemed to do well. Or so reports Pa.

THIS MORNING, Pa seemed to have a good report of Ma’s state, though, he said, she insisted on sleeping all morning, waking for lunch at about 12:30.

It is difficult watching these two interact with each other. Pa has his own issues. His hearing is poor and he makes no effort to adust by listening carefully. He is in the habit of uttering “huh?” with everything that anyone says or any noise they make, inspiring endless annoyance and strain. He is more likely to be confused than to understand others’ remarks, many of which are not even directed at him though he invariably takes them to be. Ma regularly rolls her eyes. Their confusion routines would be hilarious—much like Burns and Allen's old schtick—if they weren’t, in fact, a likely portent to a sad and dismal decline.

At lunch today, Ma seemed pretty normal, though she expressed confusion and frustration over Ray's relationship to Ron and Susan and the kids. Somehow, she had the notion that Ray's genetic information (sperm?) is, or must be, involved in the production of Susan and Ron's children—and yet Ray never met Susan. It's a paradox, in her mind. I gently suggested that Ray made no kind of contribution to producing the four grandkids. "Susan and Ron," I said, "managed to produce those four kids all by themselves." That, I said, is normal.

Young Teddy

Ma complained that nobody had explained the situation to her. I said, "well, you were there, as we all were, when these events unfolded. Really, you weren't left out of anything and everything is OK." She was unconvinced but ceased carping.

After lunch, Annie came by to work on "the meds" (this seems to take about an hour or two out of each day; not sure why). I helped her as Teddy patiently (and sometimes impatiently) waited for his usual brushing and tickling session with Annie. Pa went off to supervise Luis, who was clearing away branches from oak trees.

Ma decided to go back to bed.

After an hour or so, it was finally time for Annie to play with Teddy—in the living room, which is customary (for Teddy, customs must be followed!). But it soon became clear that we were keeping Ma awake (such noise has never bothered her in the past). We quieted down. Nevertheless, she soon grumpily stalked out of the bedroom and commenced busying herself with cleaning sinks.

I asked her if everything was OK, and she said that she couldn’t sleep “because of all the noise.” I said that we would leave her now. Said she: “It’s too late now.”
It's very unlike her to say something like that. It's the angry Edith.

Annie and I decided to take the boy and leave, and so we did.

Ron will be coming by tomorrow morning. Annie worries that he will get Ma upset, what with his quasi-psychiatric probings and efforts at reordering Ma's mind. "The doctor said that she's not supposed to get upset in any way," said Annie.

Sheesh.

Big Trouble in Little Trabuco: a widening of the eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Tue, 22 Sep 2015 23:57:00 +0000

In class, this morning, I watched a video with students. Found myself tapping my foot like a kid.

Do 60-year-old men nervously tap their feet?

Once, on Facebook, I mentioned the power of music to enthrall (me anyway) and someone I know (a friend who was actually an acquaintance) responded that mine was obviously the perspective of someone who has never had children. I asked her if she was accusing me of cluelessness (i.e., insubstantial personhood), and, essentially, she said yes.

“Oh my,” I said.

In a world with too many people, I decided not to make matters worse.

And this is what I get.

And music’s power over me is evidence of my insubstance.

Speaking of people who confuse a perverse determination to procreate with wisdom and substance, Ma and Pa Kettle have entered a new phase in their careers, what with Marjorie Main now imagining 2^nd husbands and unwanted phantom sleepmates. The new hallucinatory aspect seemed to happen all at once about two weeks ago. Suddenly, conversation with Ma included references to nonexistent people and occasional talk of killing them.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “If you really want to kill someone, tell me, and I’ll do it,” I said.

Oddly, my chief reaction to Ma’s new aspect was a widening of the eyes, but nothing else of note. Funny how the world can change but everything seems exactly the same. Except those widened eyes.

As near as I can tell, Pa is reeling from all this, and he has not a clue what to do. It does not seem to occur to him that one might discover the source of this trouble by visiting doctors. I try to monitor their visits to doctors, but it is nearly impossible (owing to the usual eccentricities of thought and speech).

Tomorrow, they'll visit a specialist who will report results of a CAT-scan taken weeks ago. Pa discourages my accompanying them; it will reveal nothing, he assures me. He seems to assume that the visit is a waste of time.

Can’t imagine why he is so sure. His prejudices are getting the best of him, as they often do. Dr. Pa has diagnosed the problem: stress. His prescription: no unpleasantness.

The truth is, we just don’t know whence the hallucinations. We should endeavor to find out. "Stress" ain't gonna cut it.

In a sense, the hallucinations weren’t sudden. For years, Ma has has regularly seen things that aren't there—out the window, in the hills, across the patio, etc. Women in cars, dogs on cliffs, monsters in the air. If you called her on any of this, she’d back down pretty quickly.

No longer. Now, she says: “No vixen sitting in the truck? OK, if you say so.”

Diagnosis: stress

The family—i.e., Pa, Annie, Ron and me—need to get together and get on the same page about this. But it is already clear that that won’t happen, not any time soon. Pa seems clueless with a vengeance--and he imagines himself a martyr, I think. Ron is his usual self. Having been essentially absent from the scene for years, he arrived—at my prompting—and commenced issuing advice and rebuking our “impatience.” Annie nearly smacked him.
But we love him.

Years ago, we all thought Pa was the one in mental decline. But, in truth, he is the strong one of the pair, and I fear that he is as strong as he is only and exactly because he feels that he must be, for Ma. He sometimes says that he is dying and then issues a lugubrious sigh. How does one approach someone like that?

If Ma declines rapidly, Pa will soon follow.

It looks bleak.

But, in Ma’s case, we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. Maybe soon. Gotta get info, get organized.

Hard times now. Worse times acomin’.

P.S.: found it:

P.P.S.:

I think I'm in love with Chan Marshall. —Well, not her. I don't know her. What I imagine her to be. Love that. Passionately.

She seems so delicate. Love her singing, but she seems always a silly millimeter away from a nervous breakdown.

I can totally relate.

Annie x eleven

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Tue, 15 Sep 2015 05:04:00 +0000

Annie, c. 1958, Canada

Annie, c. 1960 (Orange?)

Annie, c. 1958 (Canada)

Annie, 1972

Annie, 1973

Annie, 1974

Annie, 1976

Teddy, cat

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Mon, 31 Aug 2015 03:04:00 +0000

From video footage from earlier this summer.

Our Huntington Beach Outing

noreply@blogger.com (Roy Bauer) — Thu, 13 Aug 2015 17:38:00 +0000

I hatched the plan to take everybody out to lunch—in Huntington Beach, on or near the pier. So, on Wednesday, that's what we did.
A change of pace. Ocean air. Grooviness.

We all remembered Huntington Beach and environs of long ago—circa early 60s. We remember all those oil derricks and the pervasive smell of oil. And we recalled getting those tarballs on our feet. Those phenomena are all gone now, as were all those tin cans of "Tin Can Beach," north of the pier, all those years ago.
Is it just me, or do others see how aggressive looking the faces on toys have become?
"Yeah, Charley's stole the handle, and the train it just keeps going, no it won't slow down."

Yes, Ruby's. They need to crank up their AC.
Annie took this pic.

Pa somehow gravitated to a bench, near the end of the pier, with a plaque of some guy named "Bauer" on it.

As you can see, I persist in being much too large for this world. Wearing black helps a little.

The weather was beautiful, natch. There was some wind and some surf. Pretty nice day.

Mr. Seagull

The usual goofy kids, soap balloon making machine, etc.

Roy, Ma, & Annie in Santa Monica: 55 years ago