Wednesday, November 19th, 2003

​'Tis a beauuuuuuuuutiful sunny morning here in Council Bluffs, Iowa, across the river from Omaha and just an hour or so from our destination for a few day, Lincoln, Nebraska. Of course, it can't be as beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful as 'tis in North Dakota, which is miss mightily - back home on Sunday after a grand conference at Lincoln. We (my lovin' spouse at the wheel) crossed the state of Iowa yesterday, with a stop at the Amana Colonies complex on the Interstate (the farm and land extend north up Cedar Rapids). I want to tell you about the agony of sitting in one of the great German restaurants with every conceivable wurst and schnitzel on the menu and not being able to eat any of it - except, I did my very best with a piece of raisin cream pie, not to be confused with sour-cream raisin pie. But more of this later today . . . we're late - going to meet my darlin' daughter Gretchen. More later on this fine, fine day to be alive - time to prepare for the short journey ahead today. If you don't get back later today, I hope you are taking care of yourself and looking out for each other.

Ev Albers

Tuesday, November 18th, 2003

Cool, rainy morning here in eastern Iowa near the bank of the Mississippi River where my lovin' spouse and I stopped before continuing our journey from Zion, Illinois, then to the apartment my son and his wife Albert and Bobbi are allowed to live in with their cats in Madison, Wisconsin, for a couple of days, and today westward toward Lincoln, Nebraska, for a grand conference on the humanities. Actually, 'tis quite warm, in the 50s - and the continental breakfast here at the Day's Inn in Dubuque ain't bad. The day's news this 18 day of November is of some 100,000 protestors getting ready for President Bush's visit to England today - they are assembling to protest the Iraqi war and the way the aftermath of the quick invasion and occupation. News reports from the United States' effort to kill or capture Saddam and his remaining cohorts by bombing targets in his home town and area by bombing possible hiding places are now laced with phrases like "collateral damage." To get the culprits, a lot of folks who are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time suffer mightily - some of them die. That's war - even though it's been officially over for a long time. History is on the side of those who believe that the United States will give up and go home long before Iraq is rebuilt and some sort of democratic republic is established. It took decades to rebuild Germany, and our troops are still there.

More and more Iraqis are speaking up and against the way the occupation forces treat them - and against the "collateral damage." No one has spoken out quite as forcefully against President Bush's policy in Iraq as Ken Livingstone, the Mayor of London, who has proclaimed Bush "the greatest threat to human life on the planet." In newspaper poll, Brits were asked whether the United States is a force of good or an evil force - over 60 percent still thinks we're the good guys, and only some 15 percent or so think the whole country is as evil as the mayor of London thinks our president is. We can take heart that at least part of the world is still with us.

Our short trip here from Madison was accompanied by El Rushbo - Rush Limbaugh, of course, returned to the airways yesterday after five weeks of rehab for addiction to pain killers. My lovin' spouse is a much happier traveler with Rush to curse as we cruise. Time to get ready to roll - but not before another gulp of grape juice in salute to Sojourner Truth, born on this day in 1797 (she lived until 1883). She once said, "If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down, these women together ought to be able to turn it right side up again." I have to say, she was right on - if anyone is going to put a world awry ('tis not particularly worse than anytime in my memory, but 'tis indeed less than what it should be in terms of us humans getting along with each other and treating each other with the respect and dignity we expect to be accorded) - if anyone will change things for the better, 'tis not likely to be someone of the ilk of Rush Limbaugh - or President George W. Bush, or any male, for that matter. In fact, the most cursory review of human history can lead to but one conclusion: the tenuous human hold on to civilization depends almost entirely upon women.

Take care of yourselves, kola - and look out for each other. Remember, as the German poet and writer Richard Dehmel said, " "A little kindness from person to person is better than a vast love for all humankind." Happy Birthday, Herr Dehmel (born on this day in 1863, he died in 1920).

Ev Albers

Monday, November 17th, 2003

My friend Therese Yeaton from out in Seattle has noticed that, the less likely I'm going to be able to actually consume any of the food I describe from time to time, the more likely I am to write at great length with considerable passion about what I think I can eat but can't. In fact, the more squeamish and rebellious my digestive system following chemo treatment to keep this insidious invader at bay, the more likely I am to dream about food and recall great food moments from the past. There are times I get myself worked up over possibilities of fine culinary moments that any rational person would suggest is probably less than likely. 'Tis a strange variation on what I understand of the sudden food urges of women during pregnancy, these vagaries of appetite of folks being treated for pancreatic cancer that has done in the bile duct (put back in commission with a steel stent). Saturday, for example, on the way to my son's apartment, we stopped at a grocery store, mainly to stock him up on his beverage of choice, Mountain Dew. I, of course, went to look at the pies - and spied a small version of a covered pie labeled simply, "Raisin Pie." 'Tis a straight raisin pie - no sour cream - a few spices - and the crust is quite dreadful. Now I did have a slice yesterday morning at 5:30 A.M. - with a scoop of ice cream that is far superior to the pie - Beyer's Vanilla. As soon as I opened the refrigerator, a huge mixing bowl of ice hit the floor of the kitchen, raising my wife, my son, and both Mortimer and Oliver, the cats who control things in this household (son Albert's wife Bobbi is on a brief vacation). All hell broke loose - I thought for a minute that an inquisition would convene while the ice cream melted on my pie, but they let me off with considerable disgruntlement despite my protestations that all I did was open the freezer door - the bowl of ice would have fallen had anyone opened it - 'twas a case of stuff ready to come out of Fibber McGee's closet. I ate the raisin pie - with a bit of humble pie for my misfortune. Ollie and Morty had been banging pots and pans, tossing things from counters, and making considerable noise for most of the night - without protest from either son or spouse. There ain't no justice, kola.

This Monday morning here in Madison is quite lovely - not, of course, as beauuuuuuuuutiful as 'tis in Dakota, but a fine day to be alive. In the twilight of consciousness, as I did yesterday morning, I dreamed of those fat red weiners I used to buy at Lynch's Grocery on Sunday mornings back when I was teaching at Dickinson State - must have been 1971 or 1972 that I engaged in the ritual of getting a string of those fat and short sausages and consuming them with a brew or two on a late Sunday morning whilst reading Homer or Cervantes or another of the good old guys in preparation for my world literature class. I liked 'em best boiled to bursting and mustarded in a folded-over, lavishly real-buttered slice of homemade bread. Almost baloney-like, imbued, I'm sure, with enough red dye to create an insidious invader in the largest of laboratory rats, these were truly tasty - as I remember. Small matter that I couldn't probably get even a single bite down this morning - may be one more day of Ensures, and one sans any more of that raisin pie, methinks (when I consider that I'll be leaving town without having a weest slice, I tremble). Sure am thinking about those fat, red weiners, I bought on Sunday mornings thirty-some years ago. Only Mom & Pop stores like Lynch's were open on Sundays back then in North Dakota - all other retail establishments were closed - they still are until noon for everything but groceries. We have had some interesting laws in Dakota involving Sundays and food. Not so long ago, at least within living memories of the oldest Dakotans, there were neither movies nor baseball games on Sundays. Through the early 60s, we had a law called liquor divorcement in Dakota - liquor and food couldn't be served in the same establishment, except for clubs which paid a special license. There were hundreds of side-by-side restaurants and bars around the state in those days. If one were having a beer and wanted a hamburger, one put in the order and then had to go through a doorway without their beer to have the burger.

There were certain foods that were always allowed - by common consent and without any attempt to enforce liquor divorcement when they were consumed - one could have peanuts, sunflower seeds, pickled eggs, and pickled pig's feet. Now there are those who will swear that they have never actually seen a pickled pig's foot consumed after spending several hours a day in bars - and that the same jar that they first saw fifteen years ago is still there, full. Now, of course, bars are even open on Sunday - after noon. Lynch's grocery is long gone. I haven't seen one of those fat weiners in a long time, those red, red, miniature ring baloneys.

Come to think on it, one could always buy a pickle in a bar in North Dakota in the good old days - maybe that's what led to the exception of those pickled eggs and pickled pig's feet from the prohibition of serving food with liquor. Pretty stupid, that law - nothing is better in terms of cutting the effects of alcohol than having some food. Nowadays, you can get any frozen sandwich or pizza, warmed in a microwave, in the bars in the smallest towns in North Dakota. In quite a few, you can still have a pickled pig's foot as well. I had one, once or twice. Not bad. Can't go pickled hard-boiled eggs, though.

But if you crave a pickled egg, I hope you have one today, kola - take good care of yourself. And keep an eye out for each other - in fact, take the same care of your neighbors that you do at your best for yourself. And if you see a string of short, fat, red wieners in the store, give 'em a try and let me know what you think.

Ev Albers

Sunday, November 16th, 2003

November 16, Sunday in fabulous Madison, Wisconsin, where resides Mortimer and Oliver the cats - they allow my son and his wife to live here in this apartment as well, but they clearly are in control - of such things as banging pots and pans around at midnight and generally letting guest like Leslie and me know that we're not particularly welcome. Son Albert is batchin' for a few days while Bobbi, his wife, takes a little trip to Cancun arranged by her father and step-mother - Bobbi is enjoying the sun with Jonell while the men stay home. The trip was an award for sales. I suppose it's nice enough in Cancun, but I know it's absolutely beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful in Dakota this morning - won't be there for another week or so, but I miss it mightily. At least there's the promise of a little more snow a week hence. Tomorrow will be Arnold Schwarzenegger's Inauguration Day - The Terminator is in charge of the fifth largest economy in the world! It just happens to be the 48th anniversary of the day the United States brought eighty-eight Nazi rocket scientists to the United States - and there's absolutely no connection between the Nazi Germans who were so critical to the success of the United States space program and the unusual ascent to power of Maria Shriver's husband, Arnold, as he so winsomely introduces himself. 'Tis a day to remember Alan Watts, the popularizer of zen and Buddhism who completed his passage in the middle world on this day in 1973 (born in 1916). Watts continuously reminded us that all world religions are "doom and gloom and utter misery" as the signature song of a segment of the television show "Hee-Haw" characterized life. Among his provocative observations was "You find out that the universe is a system that creeps up on itself and says 'Boo!' and then laughs at itself for jumping." Watts said that, near the end, "I have realized that the past and future are real illusions, that they exist in the present, which is what there is and all there is." The problem, of course, escaping the illusions - and 'tis hard, kola, 'tis hard. From time we arise to our last thoughts of the day before slipping into that twilight of consciousness before deeper sleep, we either agonize over what has happened and what we might have done to change the past, or we fret about what tomorrow will bring - and, hence, miss most of our lives. I often recall an exhibit of exquisite designs in butter done by Buddhist monks that I saw in Washington, D.C. The artists were completely into the moment, and to appreciate what was happening, one watched the designs develop - then they were destroyed as soon as they were finished. Accepting the cheerful nowness of Buddhist monks is as difficult as really believing for a second what certainly is at the core of the gospels of Christianity - if we actually accepted Jesus' saying (Matthew 6):

25 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?
26 Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
27 Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?
28 And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
29 And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
30 Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
31 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
32 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.

That's the kind of attitude that will get one on the streets, homeless, in our society. Contrary to this core, organized religion continues to emphasis not the joy of being alive at this moment but the necessity of shaping up so worst stuff that what happens in the past doesn't descend upon us in the future.

One thing the future will bring, if news casts are right - the return of Rush Limbaugh on Monday next - there were just too ditto heads out there who simply have been muddling through the days of his absence wondering what they should be thinking. Perhaps Watts was right - perhaps we simply never take the time to think for ourselves - as he said, "Some believe all that parents, tutors, and kindred believe. They take their principles by inheritance, and defend them as they would their estates, because they are born heirs to them." We are born Republicans, Missouri-Synod Lutherans, or believers that the Ten Commandments belong on Court House lawns - because that's what our families thought.

We didn't give much thought to Buddhism or Zen out in the Garden of the Universe, Hannover Township, Oliver County, when I was growing up. I did know from encyclopedias that they wore robes - red ones in Tibet - prayed a good deal, and didn't accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, so they were going to someplace other than heaven, sure as hell. Homogenized, inbred with our accepted beliefs handed from generation to generation for at least a hundred years, we were mightily curious about folks who didn't know the truth as we did - we didn't see or know many, except for the occasional Catholic - with the rare exception of the visits by the Gypsy caravans - one group of which camped every year or so at the edge of our pasture behind the Hannover Store. Of course, no Missouri-Synod Lutheran would ever be found visiting the gypsy camp to have her/his fortune told - but an incredibly high percentage of folks managed to do it without being noticed - more like not being remembered because the person who saw them was there for the same purpose. And there was many a horse swap - not usually, but always resulting in the Hannoverian coming away with a worse horse than the one they brought to the camp - and there was the strange, wonderfully exotic music that came from the camp - 'twas our window to the possibility of something other than the comforting but sometimes pretty boring same old hymns, prayers, and liturgy.

In many ways, we live in a "Next Year" or "Next Business Cycle" society - things are always going to be better tomorrow - with the help of chemistry, breakthroughs in medical science, possibilities of weather modification, election of a party different than the one in power, etc., etc., etc. Times are difficult for Americans footing the huge bill for invading Iraq and keeping things relatively peaceful and truly lousy in terms of what they shall eat and what they wear and where'll they'll live for the Iraqis - for all of that is going to be better tomorrow. In Hannover Township, too many grew far too old, broken in body and spirit, because of the "Next Year" syndrome - next year the rains will come without hail, next year the price of wheat will jump, next year - and meanwhile, all that is real, the present, is lost in resentment over what might have been and the wild hope that tomorrow will miraculously be better.

Time for another nap, methinks - who knows what dreams will bring? Perhaps I'll help them along the weest, for better or worse, with just the smallest of slices of a straightforward raisin pie I picked up at the grocery store on our way to our son's apartment. Take care of yourselves, kola - find a way to experience today - and that will allow you to help others do the same.

Ev Albers

Saturday, November 15th, 2003

Well, here 'tis, the Ides of November, but the 15th, and wherever one looks holiday ornaments are going up - getting a jump on making a few more bucks before 2003 rolls on through the ages. A quiet, calm, and warm by beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota standards this morn in northern Illinois, where in a few hours I go for the fifth and last four-hour session in the infusion chair. Had a bit of a chill last night for an hour or so - it passed. I prefer to think of it as the last gasp of my system still flushing itself out rather than a new round of such stuff - but it passed, and I found a used laptop to replace the one that went defunct - one I could just drop my hard drive into - and, so, life is good - by this evening we should be at my son's house in Madison to impose on him once more, twice within a week. Soon 'twill be time to pack up - early arrival at the Hospital today, have to leave by 7:00 A.M. All in all, is one great day to be alive.

My spouse, Leslie, is especially pleased about the prospect of traveling next week because she had heard that Rush Limbaugh will be returning to the airways - life on been awfully tough on the road without Rush to argue with.

My toast of White Rock Ginger Ale goes out his morning to Marianne Moore, the United States poet born on this day in 1887 (died in 1972). A most interesting woman - so attached to her mother that she lived with her until her death in 1947 when the poet was almost fifty, she was a great fan of Muhammad Ali, the boxer, and she was a great baseball fan. Moore grew up in the homes of relatives - first in her grandfather's house (he was a Presbyterian minister) and then elsewhere around Pennsylvania. Moore graduated from Bryn Mawr at Carlisle, Pennsylvania where she taught in the Indian School there, so famous and notorious to the Lakota and Dakota of the Great Plains. After moving with her mother to New York I 1918, she went to work at the Public Library and later did editing for the poetry magazine, The Dial. She has a great poem on "Baseball and Writing" you can read for yourself here -- here's one of the middle stanzas

Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
        He is no feather. "Strike! . . . Strike two!"
                Fouled back. A blur.
                It's gone. You would infer
          that the bat had eyes.
          He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.
          I think I helped a little bit."
All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which
won the pennant? Each. It was he.

The poem, of course, could have been a whole lot better had she not have had to praise the damn Yankees so much, but that's what happens to people who move to New York with their mothers, methinks. Nice quiet poets turn into rabid Yankee fans. Of course, the poem about baseball is not all Marianne Moore is about - she as an extraordinarily gifted wordsmith, methinks - with the ability to help us focus on the eternal, universal, the thing that says "We're all in this together and always have been in the smallest of incidents - the old particular in the universal, big time.

          [To] leap, to lengthen out, divide the air -- to purloin, to pursue.
               to tell the hen: fly over the fence, go in the wrong way -- in your perturba­
                     tion -- this is life; to do less would be nothing but dishonesty.

Here's to you, Marianne. And here's to you, my kola - take care of yourselves, and look out for each other - taking care of each other is for us humans ". . . this is life; to do less would be nothing but dishonesty.

Friday, November 14th, 2003

A fine enough day in a great place, here in northern Illinois, but, all things considered, I'd rather be in beauuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful Dakota at my desk, cause I'm in fine fettle and ready to test the mettle of the flushed out stent in my bile duct with a weest bit of heartier food than the Ensure I've been drinking. Today and tomorrow with four hours each in the old infusion chair, and my lovin' spouse, the world's greatest long distance driver, and I will decide whether or not my general attitude as well as my immune system is up to continue on for a grand conference at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln. I hope so, for 'twill be a great one.

Alas, my laptop computer power sources are have failed me, including a jerry-rigged jobber that was an attempt to charge from an AC to DC converter - 'tis a long a story, but the fact 'tis I must post this with my urging you to take care of yourselves today, kola, and to look out for each other, our most important work. This note is short -- and sweet, I hope - something my spouse tells me I should practice more of - brevity in writing and the weest bit happier disposition. I'm gonna go for some pie today and try.

Ev Albers

Thursday, November 13th, 2003

Crisp and the weest bit windy here in northern Illinois, but not as beauuuuuuuuuutiful as it must be in North Dakota where there's been some more of the white snow to deal those nasty germs that thrive in unseemingly warm weather for the season a blow they won't forget. Felt so great last night that, after a deep sleep from about 5:00 P.M. to 11:00 P.M., I've been munching and reading - 'tis the squeaky clean bile duct stent that will change one's life around every time.

Was thinking this morning about those days my mother managed to get my sorry butt out of bed to help with chores in the morning - I was not a morning person in my youth. I wore out many a flashlight reading under the blankets deep into the night. My hope, of course, was that my mother would give up on trying to roust me and do it herself - a shameful thing, all things considered, but tired teenagers are not known for an extraordinary sense of duty when it comes to getting up and helping get the milk from those Holsteins. Just a moment ago, I discovered in my unending, Paul Harveyish penchant to get the rest of the story, that a revolving milk platform was invented way back in 1930 for a big dairy in Plainboro, New Jersey - making possible milking 1,680 cows in seven hours. I can't imagine that set-up - we had seventeen cows in stanchions, thank you very much. And they had to milked exactly twelve hours apart - my father was fanatical about that, down to the rotation in which they were milked. By the time I was in grade school, we had milking machines - in fact, there was a gasoline power plant for milking before we had lights in the house. First things first. Back to those New Jersey cows - how did they keep them straight so that a cow that was milked at 8:00 A.M. didn't come around again an hour later? I don't suppose that was all that difficult - but I still don't know why the revolving platform, unless there was a shortage of milkers/machines so that it was simply more efficient not to waste the time to have the cows move forward as they do in milking parlors. This requires more investigation.

This is also the day back in 1946 that the first artificial snow was made in New Hampshire - to get ski slopes ready, of course. And 'tis the day to salute the memory of birthday boy St. Augustine, born on this day in 354 - he completed his passage in the middle world in 430. After good ole' thorn-in-the-flesh, marry-instead-of-burn, keep-women-in-their-place St. Paul, Augustine, the Bishop of Hippo, may be the most influential of early church fathers. A little like the first of the modern presidents, Theodore Roosevelt, Augustine was amazingly adept at offering opposing views in the same sentence, of contradicting himself almost in the same breath and getting away with it. Scholars have poured over his works for almost a couple of millennia, and they continue to disagree about what Augustine really meant to say - was he for human freedom and free will or did he advocate predestination? Yes. That's but one example. Augustine's most famous saying is, of course, "O Lord, help me to be pure, but not yet." Now Augustine, even as a youth, was not particularly a wild and crazy guy. But he wrote down everything in his Confessions, so he put that in. Actually, he did become celibate - not because he had to but because he wanted to. He was a layman, not a priest.

Here's a special salute this glorious day - and, kola, 'tis a great one to be alive - to Justice Louis Brandeis, born on this day in 1856. He lived long and did fine work, including some twenty-three years on the Supreme Court (appointed in 1916, he retired in 1939 -- and died at age eighty-four in 1941). Early on, he was known as "The People's Attorney" because of his work for the little guy against the giant corporations - he wrote a book about how banks wanted to have it all -- Other People's Money, and How the Bankers Use It. Justice Brandeis would not have approved of Bill Gates, at all, for he firmly held that individual liberty should never be at the expense of one or a few monopolizing some aspect of the economy that affects all - but at the same time, he most thoughtfully sought a balance between government regulation and individual freedom. Here's to you, Justice Brandeis - we need more of your kind around today.

A final salute this fine day goes to English poet Francis Thompson (born 1859), who completed his passage here in the middle world on this day in 1907. Something of a hapless, less-than-happy fellow, Thompson studied medicine, but not very rigorously. He set off for the big city of London from his home in north England, where he soon fond himself selling matches and newspapers to support an opium habit. He wrote some of the most interestingly poems bringing together mixed images that leaves one saying, "Huh?" You can find more than you could possibly want to read at this site. Here's a little snippet from "Assumpta Maria" (the assumption of Mary, the mother of Jesus, into heaven) that has a few lines that, quite honestly, leave me giggling the weest this morning:

Open wide thy gates, O Virgin,
  That the King may enter thee!
At all gates the clangours gurge in,
  God's paludament lightens, see!
Camp of Angels! Well we even
  Of this thing may doubtful be,--
If thou art assumed to Heaven,
  Or is Heaven assumed to thee!
     Consummatum. Christ the promised,
       Thy maiden realm is won, O Strong!
    Since to such sweet Kingdom comest,
    Remember me, poor Thief of Song!

Of course, 'tisn't fair to offer just a snippet - but you can read the rest for yourself if you're of a mind to. Time for me this glorious day to go downstairs at this fine, clean, well-lighted place and have the weest bit of breakfast and get to the infusion chair over at Zion. Take care of yourselves, good friends - and look out for each other, the most important work we have during our passage here in the middle world.

Ev Albers

Wednesday, November 12th, 2003

Very sunny morning here in Zion and the environs - and quite warm. I'm out and about without a coat - in search of a power cord for my laptop, because I somehow managed to roll over the end and smash the part that goes into the unit. Working off the car adapter as we spend the weest time before returning to the Midwestern Regional Medical Center where I was treated with another round of chemo. The CT scan showed no significant change in the size of the tumor and still no major spreading, so more of the same for me. Third morning without food or drink since midnight, because in the middle of the chemo treatment today I'll be whisked downstairs for the ERCP - the roto-rooter job, at last! Hope the drugs they use to put me under are the good stuff, the stuff from which you awake feeling in fine fettle and ready for pie.

I did indeed have pie yesterday - just the weest little bit of coconut cream pie, one those purchased at the great pie store by lovin' spouse. I also had two pieces whilst getting the poison - pumpkin (not bad at all) and a sugarless apple that was actually quite good. We arrived yesterday morning at the Center quite early, and thought we were going to have one up on the day because all of the tests and everything else went as scheduled, but the results of the SCAN weren't read until later in the afternoon so I heard about the no further invasion news from my wife as I was downstairs getting schooled on the ERCP that's happening today - I've already had it done three or four times - but I appreciate thoroughness. So yesterday was a three-pie day - compensation for the long fasts two days in a row. Don't know what today's culinary delight will be, if any. I have to start hitting the old Ensure and other protein drinks heavily to get some more protein - pies are fine, but unless they're some sort of meat pot pie, the ain't doing that much for the old protein levels.

'Tis a beautifuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful day here kola - I can't imagine how gorgeous 'tis in North Dakota. To be sure, there's the weest bit of wind and that's pickin' up pretty good this morning. And 'tis cooling off just a little bit. There's still leaves on the trees - but fading fast here as well.

Momma don't 'llow no fadin' round here at Zion - time to get into that lounger and get started with the infusion - they'll come and get me later to make a new man out of me. Here's a special toast to my darlin' daughter Gretchie over there in Lincoln where the wind is blowing - she's doing great work at the history department graduate school at the University of Nebraska. And to my hard-working son and daughter-in-law, Albert and Bobbi up in Madison - and even to those aloof yet oh so lovable Mortimer and Oliver, the cats who own the place. And a final shot of grape juice (just as soon as I wake up from the old ERCP - to the memory of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, born on this day I 1815. She's on the top ten of women of history I most admire. While I'm at it, allow me to remember with great fondness and admiration professor of English emeritus Ruth Ann Alexander of Brookings, South Dakota - who so ably presented Elizabeth Cady Stanton for many years and later became the moderator of the Chautauqua program on the Great Plains. 'Twas Stanton who said that men would treat women shabbily as long as they could - one of her variations on the theme was "As long as women are slaves, men will be knaves." As Ruth pointed out so eloquently so often, the world would be a far better place if women wielded a good more power. I also want to thank Cheryl Dickson and her hubby Jim Smith from over in St. Paul. Recently, Cheryl pointed out in a kind note to my lovin' spouse, who noted, "Finding the flannel-lined jeans is just the sort of thing we all wish we could do for loved ones -- the perfect gift at the time they want it -- and don't know what it is they are wanting. And the pie last night -- what a lovely thing to do when you must be exhausted yourself. . . . . hooray for you, and for Ev, who, despite this wretched invader, is one lucky dude."

I must say, Cheryl Dickson, you never spoke truer words.

Ev Albers

Tuesday, November 11th, 2003

'Tis barely past midnight, this day the weest bit more than one third through the month of April. My friend Charger, the great six-inch American bison, and I, are doing a still watch out here in the Hawthorne Suites, a most clean, well-lighted in about seven miles from the hospital and treatment center at Zion. 'This a place with a great heart - they offer the hospital rates of $59 for this place, the best rates of any that can be found anywhere in Zion and its environs. The great feature of the place is that I can sit here and type in a separate little room whilst my wife and lovin' spouse gets some well-deserved rest. I retired long before anything worthy of attention happened on television - so I didn't see the Philadelphia Eagles do in some guys I like, the Green Bay Packers - and I forgot to tell Charger to keep an eye on the game for me and to send appropriate telepathic vibes of encouragement to fend off the last quarter charge. Listening to a bit of Gentlemen Jim Reeves this morning ready to dance, but I'll settle for a shuffle between my computer and the coffee pot - just one more cup, and the fast for the tests this morning - the nuclear dye, CAT, and all the rest that measure the size of the invader and its progress (or regression - that's what I'm shooting for. I did see the endocrinologist who has been doing the roto-rooter jobs on me the past few months - couldn't get one yesterday, but I will have one on Wednesday - an ERCP, which stands for endoscopic retrograde cholangio-pancreatography - sending a camera and whatever tools down the throat and through the stomach. The insidious invader sits right on top of the bile duct (the reddish area, sort of), and since the steel stent that keeps the duct open is a mesh, cancerous stuff can get stuck and then I get the chills and shakes - and infections. Over the past few months, it's been necessary to insert plastic stents into the steel - and these are more susceptible to gathering infection-making gunk. But enough of such - much more that you want to know about such stuff, dear kola.

This morning I have a special salute to my friend Jim Lund, pie-maker, song-compiler, raconteur, and general good guy. His lovin' spouse Shirley has already taken off for their winter quarters in San Antonio, Texas, but Jim stays around their Lake Cormorant Cabin (well, 'tis a self-crafted palace, actually) and takes trips out into the hinterland, including North Dakota, for hunting. Jim also has me more than half convinced that the invader isn't going to be getting me in the short term - that there's shrinking aplenty in my future. Now there's the kind of faith that appeals to me! Thank you, friend Jim, thank you.

Today marks the 148th year since the Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard, finished his passage in the middle world after but a few months more than forty-two years. 'Tis hard to remember the certainty of his observation, " "Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward." The problem, of course, is that our need to understand is so great that we get stuck in the past trying to figure out how the hell we came to where we find ourselves. Can miss a lot of living that way - especially if one dwells on the mistakes of the past. Acknowledge what's been, deal with, but get on, if at all possible. I've always liked Schopenhauer's variation on the Gold Rule - the "Do Unto Others as You Would Have Them Do Unto You." Sholenhauer said, "Compassion is the basis of all morality."

I'm thinking about that this morning as I watch the ranters and ravers and true believers seemingly run amuck on everything from the evil of recognizing homosexuals as human beings ("They're all going to hell!") to displaying the Ten Commandments in public spheres (those who take them down are "all going to hell"); from CBS even contemplating running a mini-series critical of Ronald Reagan and perhaps telling less than the truth about him and his relationships with others ("Those who wrote that filth are all going to hell" - hell's gonna be full, kola, and that's just one week's worth of those assigned by the self-righteous in the news I managed to catch a bit of.

Today is Veteran's Day, of course - along with the birthday of Old "Blood & Guts" General Patton - and 'tis a day to remember all those who completed their middle passage early in defense of country and ideals as well as those who managed to come home from doing the same. 'Tis a day that such as I, who spent so much of his energy and time avoiding a uniform in the 1960s and early 70s, need to be especially grateful to those willing to sacrifice life for country. But 'tis never a day to agree that war is the only way - never has been.

A final toast - or I'll make sure I take the swig in his honor as soon as I'm allowed to drink and eat after the CT scan - is to the guy with the greatest nickname in all of baseball, Pie (Harold Joseph) Traynor, born on this day in 1899. Of course, Pie Traynor's in the Hall of Fame - and the Pittsburg Pirate third basement played in the 1925 World Series and went on to be a playing manager, a scout, and then the radio announcer for the Pirates during a seventy-two year passage in the middle world. Pie also maintained that his nickname came from his youth and his favorite treat (mine, too, Pie) - but there are suggestions that he the name came about because he came home one day from practice quite dirty and his father said he looked "pied." I suppose as in "plaid" - pied's not a work often uttered on a daily basis - although 'tis a perfectly good one. What made Pie Traynor great was not necessarily his great skill at third base - or his love of pie - but his team play. Said the old curmudgeon, John McGraw, the manager of the New York Giants, paid Pie the highest of compliments when he said, " If I had to pick the greatest team player in baseball today - and I have some of the greats on my own club-I would have to pick Pie Traynor."

If I were to pick one thing that's gonna brighten my day for sure, it's my new blue jeans, purchased to more properly cover a dwindling butt. The are my current prized possessions, purchased by my lovin' spouse at Eddy Bauer, and now, a second pair from Land's End. They are flannel-lined jeans in the old red and black plaid - reminds me mightily of my youth. My spouse also visited a great house of pie yesterday afternoon - my evening snack, in preparation for this morning's fast, was a most delicious French-apple cheesecake - with sweet sliced apples on top, just below a layer of real whipped cream. Twas both pied and among the best pie I've had. Hope a slice finds its way to you today, kola. Do take care of yourselves - and we both know that the best we can do for ourselves is to look out for each other. It's quite lovely here in Zion, Illinois - and I know 'tis beauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutiful in North Dakota, which I miss mightily. May it be as grand wherever you are today, kola.

Ev Albers

Monday, November 10th, 2003

One of the great voices who has ever shaped the poetry of the English language, especially Welsh bards writing in their adopted tongue and that part of Shakespeare he took time to claim, William Burton was born on this day as Richard Jenkins, the twelfth of thirteen children of a south Wales coal miner. He rose to the top of the entertainment world, sunk to the bottom with drinking and smoking, and quite it all in anticipation of leading the clean life. He was dead within weeks of an unexpected cerebral hemorrhage. He didn't make his fifty-ninth birthday. Twice married to Elizabeth Taylor, the couple was twice divorced. He was nominated for the an Oscar seven times, but he never received the Academy Award. Happy Birthday, Richard Burton, wherever you are! And the same to you, Martin Luther, born on this day in 1483, the man who revolutionized religion at the turn of the sixteenth century whose story has been explored with unusual fidelity to the historical record in the new film, Luther Absent from the film were the darker of Luther's continuing battle with total despair, although the filmmakes come close. Very much a human being, and a most earthy, some would say scatalogical, fellow not above taking on the devil in the bathroom, Luther stands for all time as the man of integrity in the face of superior forces willing to afford a way out if one simply adjusts and changes her/his conclusions the weest. The Pope offers Luther the chance to recant his indictment of the church for abuses such as selling indulgences, shortcut out of purgatory and into heaven - a major source of revenue for an economically hard-pressed church. Luther would have none of it - hence the classic stand of all who stand on principle, what the symbol of Protestantism, Luther standing with head tall, his feet firmly squared, one hand on the Bible - "Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise."

Whether or not the valiant Luther-like stand bodes well or evil for humankind depends entirely, of course, upon what is being defended for whom at whose expense and at what cost. Standing on principle never comes cheap - it has cost countless billions of dollars and probably over a billion lives over the millennia,

There's no price that can placed on the kind of good cheer and family happiness Leslie and I had with our son and his wife yesterday - culminating in a fine meal of a slowly-simmered beef roast with carrots, onions, and other such - and lots of mashed potatoes and a great gravy, followed by a cherry cheese cake. We had the good company of Leslie's niece Lauren Kubik Stockert and her husband Dave Stockert for dinner - a wondrous time of family fellowship. We even got in a few hands of partner pinochle before dinner and the arrival of the Stockerts - naturally, Bobbi and I won against my wife and son, And, 'twas a six or seven blueberry muffin day - along with a good deal of apple juice. So I'm well-fortified, kola for the day or so of fasting - although I sure could go for a little of that cheesecake this morning, I'll refrain so as not to skew the blood tests I'll have in a few hours. 'Tis about 120 miles from this fine, clean, well-lighted place where two cats are causing plenty of trouble this early 4:30 A.M. - we'll be on the road within an hour to beat the traffic on I-94 to Milwaukee and then on down to Zion.

The two cats are Morty and Ollie, the real owners of this space - they only tolerate the presence of Albert and Bobbi and visitors. They are lovable, indeed - but totally anarchic in their view of human society and its need for quiet nights and keeping such things as glass containers upright and unbroken.

This is also the birthday of Russell Means (sixty-third), the Lakota activist from Pine Ridge, South Dakota, who has had a great movie career and gained an international reputation as a spokesman for American Indian rights. Currently, Means is running as an independent for the governorship of New Mexico. 'Tis one of the great stories of just what standing on principle can get you. Means was in jail in South Dakota in 1979 - he served a year of a four-year sentence for "riot to obstruct justice" before being paroled. In 2001-2002, he served as Distinguished Visiting Scholar at the University of South Dakota. I remember seeing Means at the big pow-wow at United Tribes in Bismarck - in fact, I photographed him in the 1970s during his AIM heyday playing with one of the drums with great passion. Since he was wanted by the FBI and other authorities, there were folks that did not take kindly to my taking photographs, and I was most politely asked to stop. I believe my old pal Ray Wheeler has a copy of that photograph that I've since lost - well, maybe not. In the 1980s, of course, Means became a movie star. Sometimes great rewards who are in the front line of standing up. He's even been recognized as as an artist - and sells his paintings for handsome prices, indeed.

'Tis also the birthday of the poet Vachel Lindsey, born on this day in 1879. He lived some thirty-one years before the turn of the twentieth century and 31 years after - dying in 1931. 'Twas Lindsey who so whimsically - and some might say with less than great poetry - pointed out that what we see as reality depends upon the perspective one brings. Here's the weest bit of his "Euclid" for this fine Monday morning - alas, no juice for many hours - but 'tis a beauuuuuuuuuutiful day here - must be heavenly in Dakota:

OLD Euclid drew a circle
On a sand-beach long ago.
He bounded and enclosed it
With angles thus and so.
His set of solemn greybeards
Nodded and argued much
Of arc and circumference,
Diameter and such.
A silent child stood by them
From morning until noon
Because they drew such charming
Round pictures of the moon.

Be well, kola - take care of each other. To do that, you have to take the best possible care of yourselves - make it a matter of principle - along with seeking the best pie or cheesecake you can find - have it for me, whilst I wait a day or two.

Ev Albers