I have no choice but to murder my surgeon

I returned to the surgeon today for a checkup. When he advised another surgery, I did what any reasonable person would have done: I stabbed him in the neck with a forty-gauge needle. I didn’t know it would kill him, but I got lucky with my fourth blow. His tears, gurgles, and bloody froth haunted me all the way out of the building.

Now for the truth. After being advised that I needed to have the bursa on the back of my knee removed and being told that this surgery would be a bigger deal than my last surgery; I asked if he would cooperate in getting my records to another orthopedist for a second opinion, and he said he would. I signed a consent form, asked for a copy, and said I would pick up the chart when it was ready.

When I left his office, I biked to the library where I checked out books on algebra and geometry. I was especially intrigued by Euclid in the Rainforest—Discovering Universal Truths in Logic and Math; because I would like to think there is at least something that is solid, something that is true at all times and in all places. Then, I went to the empty IOOF hall and pigged out on leftover cake. I skipped the insides and went straight for the icing, scooping it up with barbequed potato chips.

I looked in at the lodge room briefly, a beautiful and aromatic room that I love so much that I would have joined the lodge for it alone. Another room that I love is the concrete block bathroom in the basement. It has speckled walls along with windings and turns that make me feel far from all that is bad in the world. I sometimes imagine taking a chair there and using it for a reading room.

Feeling some better, I went home and worked in the yard while Josh hit Bonnie’s tennis ball to her with a golf club. He’s a motor mouth, but I was glad for the company.

Comments about our appearance in the newspaper

Some comments regarding the appearance Peggy and I made in the newspaper.

“I was looking at the paper when I thought to myself, ‘I know those dogs.’ Then I saw you.”

“Don’t give up your day job to become a model.”

“My wife was reading the paper, and she asked, “Isn’t this the man who you said visited your lodge?”

“I noticed that your dogs were leashed. I didn’t know your dogs had leashes.”

“I agree with you. When I see a VW van with a sticker that says Stumps Don’t Lie, I know I’m about to breathe oil.”

Most of the people we know have mentioned the article, and this comes as a surprise to us because we don’t get the paper. In fact, we still haven’t seen the article except on the Internet, and we can but hope that our printed photo wasn’t as big as it was bad. I do not have a beer belly. I do not wear pants that are two sizes too large. Peggy’s bangs are not plastered to the top of her head. Baxter’s black fur does not make him look like a black hole, although Bonnie really was hunkering down to poop—I can but hope that people thought she was curtsying.

Too many options

My Masonic lodge visited the Junction City lodge this week. I sat beside Brother Belvin Terry who is dying from prostate cancer. He told this to each of the visitors in turn, and I listened to their reactions. One said that death comes to all. Another pointed out that he had at least exceeded the average lifespan. A third advised that he would get well if he took care of himself. When Brother Terry disagreed, the speaker tried again to reassure him, almost angrily this time. The next day, I asked the lodge’s secretary if Brother Terry would welcome a visit. I will call him soon.

I just got up to pour myself some coffee, but had forgotten to put the carafe on the warmer when I started the drip and had to clean up a large puddle. It was not the worst experience of my life—at least there’s that to be said for it.

Today, I bought a book about retirement planning, and later wondered what kind of books I would buy if I only had a few months to live. What if I knew I had seen my last Christmas, and that Peggy would be a widow when the daffodils next bloom?

My one certainty is that I would make the aftermath as easy for her as possible. I would take care of things like getting the den re-roofed and finding people to do some of the chores I now do. I would teach her more about the computer, and I would get rid of many of my personal items. But, beyond all that, how would we spend the time I had left? Would we sell the house? Would we travel?

I only know that I would not want to drain our savings on medical care if my odds of surviving were poor. Peggy long ago stopped loving her job, so how then could I leave her broke? Yet, if she were the one who was ill, would I count the cost? I would like to say that I would trade everything for even a miniscule chance that she would live; and I think this is what I would say—if it were only about money. But it’s also about doctors, drugs, hospitals, and the other irksome details of fighting a battle that you will almost certainly lose.

The trouble with living is that I cannot escape the feeling that I am responsible for something without knowing what that something is. I don’t mean responsible in the sense of fulfilling an ordained purpose but rather in fulfilling an obligation to myself. I seem to have done so little compared to what I might have done. I say this, yet when I ask myself what it is that I would do differently, I don’t know. I have a feeling of having failed, but without an awareness of what would constitute success.

I never cease to be amazed by the number of people I never heard of that are listed in the Britannica. One might be a Frenchman whose paintings were once popular but have not stood the test of time; another an Englishman who wrote forty books that are out of print. What made these people’s lives worth remembering? What makes any life worth remembering, and what does it matter whether I’m remembered? I will readily admit that a man can lead an extraordinarily virtuous life and still be quickly and utterly forgotten, so what then do I really want? By what measure might I pronounce my life worthwhile?

Many of the people who appear in the Britannica are remembered for the harm they did. Hannibal took a vow as a child to conquer Rome. By the time he committed suicide, hundreds of thousands had been killed or ruined because of him, yet Rome still stood. Others don’t strike me so much as evil as worthless. The major accomplishment of Madonna, for example, seems to be that she set new lows for tackiness by a female performer. Thanks to her, Britney Spears can sink even lower, but unlike the Hannibals and Napoleons, such people are the symptom rather than the cause of societal suffering.

If I were dying, perhaps, I would not find it worthwhile to think about such things. It is in this sense that I envy the dying. Like people in a burning house, they are forced to rely on instinct in deciding what to pick up and what to put down.

Not too many months ago, a local man robbed a bank and then sat quietly in the lobby awaiting arrest. I can imagine that such a one simply lost his ability to deal with having so many options. Every minute of every day, I choose to do one thing at the expense of not doing an unimaginable number of other things. It is a dreadful responsibility to have untold options without knowing which ones are best or if any of them are best.

It might be argued that the question is a matter of personal preference. For example, one person becomes a carpenter, another a dental hygienist. Both fill important functions, but the rub is that not everyone is suited to be a carpenter or a hygienist. This is true even among those who are carpenters and hygienists. I have always envied people who love their jobs so much that they would work for free: they have an assuredness about their place in the universe that I have never enjoyed. I see my life rather as a succession of uncertainties and miscalculations, and this appears to be the common lot. I just worry about it more than most people.

Tirade

An appliance repairman called and woke us up this morning despite being asked twice to call later in the day. When Peggy complained, he said he preferred to call when it was convenient for him. As soon as she hung up, I called him back and got an answering machine. I then called the store where we bought the appliance, and asked for the owner. I knew better than to speak to him when enraged, but I indulged myself.

I have never seen my anger from the outside, but it must look pretty bad because, from the inside, it feels very much like my father behaved. He would tremble; his voice would quiver; and he would spare no measure of abusive language. I differ from him in that I rarely speak until I calm down, and I apologize when I do.

I can count three apologies that I have made in ten years, and one that I wish I had made (I cursed a stranger over who was next in line for a urinal). The total number of instances was small, but the size of my anger was big. If displays of extreme anger worked, they would at least have that to recommend them, but I doubt that anger ever works in the long term. Even if it gets a person what he wants on the outside, it corrodes him on the inside. Then there are its unseen consequences. For example, my foremost memory of my father is of a scary individual with whom I could never relax because I couldn’t predict all of the many things that would push him over the edge. He was lucky that he never got into a mortal scrape, and the same can be said for me.

I drove to the store today and apologized to the owner. He accepted, but I know he will think of me as one who bears watching.

Om Mani Padme Hum

I walked over to the gem show at the fairgrounds today, but was only tempted by two items. One was a ring that was inscribed Om Mani Padme Hum, a Sanskrit prayer for compassion; the other a fossilized trilobite. I have always identified with creatures like trilobites and pillbugs that vacillate between being fully open and fully closed. I hit both extremes just this week. When my house was egged, and I couldn’t get the city to move yet another camper, I contemplated covering my living room window with Plexiglas and buying a motion detector for the yard. Then I spent time with Zula, and my heart reopened. Ironically, the measures I take to stay safe make me more fearful. Go figure.

It is thundering, and Bonnie is panting in terror under my desk. I can smell her hot breath, and it and the sound of her breathing is driving me crazy. I am trying to keep my heart open, so I can’t bring myself to make her move as I would normally do. Yet, she is not to be comforted, and I am feeling increasingly annoyed and powerless. I am prepared to (a) help her or (b) run her out of the room, but I don’t know how to just be with her. I ask myself what would LOVE do, and I’m not sure because my love for Bonnie does not seem compatible with my love for myself at the moment.

I called Mabel yesterday to tell her I was sorry about Zula’s passing. She said she went to Zula’s apartment the day before Zula died, and found her sitting in her recliner with her eyes closed and her hands folded. When Mabel touched Zula’s forehead to see if she was still alive, Zula smiled broadly and said, “I’m still here.” The next day, Mabel found Zula in the same position, only this time her forehead was cold and her body stiff. “You’re not here today, my dear friend,” Mabel said. Om Mani Padme Hum.

The following is my paraphrase of an old story, the origin of which is unknown to me.

A monk spent years concentrating on a particular mantra, and finally gained enough insight to teach other monks. His success was such that he soon concluded that there was nothing more he needed to learn; but upon hearing of an elderly hermit, he went to meet him.

The hermit lived on an island in a lake, so the monk hired a boatman to take him there. As the monk and the hermit drank tea together, the monk inquired about his spiritual practice. The hermit said he had no spiritual practice, except for a mantra which he constantly repeated. The monk was pleased to learn that the hermit was using the same mantra as himself, but when the hermit spoke it aloud, the monk was horrified!

“What’s wrong?” asked the hermit.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your whole life! You are pronouncing the mantra incorrectly!”

“That is terrible. How should I say it?”

The monk shared the correct pronunciation, and the old hermit asked to be left alone so he could start practicing. On his return across the lake the monk was pondering the sad fate of the hermit.

“I’m so glad I came along. At least he will have a little time to practice the mantra correctly before he dies.” Just then, the boatman looked quite shocked, and the monk turned to see the hermit standing on the water beside him.

“Excuse me, please. I hate to bother you, but I’ve forgotten the correct pronunciation. Would you repeat it for me?”

“You obviously don’t need it,” stammered the monk; but the old man persisted until he relented.

When the monk last saw him, the old hermit was saying the mantra very slowly as he walked back across the lake.

The thunder has passed, and Bonnie is at peace.

Ed

We had 47 at the lodge installation last night, one of them black. Ed is only the fourth black person I have known in Oregon, and the only black Odd Fellow (making him odd even among the odd). I don’t know how much of it is due to him being black and me having a Southern accent, but when we are in the same room, we can’t stay away from one another, and I keep thinking that what I would really like to do would be to give Ed a big long hug. I tell myself that I should think of him as just another person—like a well-tanned white guy—but I keeping looking at how black he is, and thinking that I miss black people.

When I’m around Ed, I feel like a part of me is missing, and that Ed fills the empty space. He’s my black fix. What he gets from me, I don’t know. He’s from Pennsylvania, so I can’t remind him of home. Maybe he listens to my drawl, pictures Klan robes in my closet, and wants to figure out what I’m really about; not that we talk about any of this. Mostly, I don’t talk at all except to ask questions while Ed describes his various health problems. A person’s medical history is not usually a subject that makes me hang onto his every word, but when that someone is Ed, I can’t get enough. He could be reading the phone book for all I care.

If there’s a lot of emotional stuff between black people and white people in this country, there is probably a good bit more between Northern blacks and Southern whites. I can’t imagine Ed listening to me speak without my voice bringing up feelings that he doesn’t have everyday; and I can’t look at him without wishing from the bottom of my heart that history had been a lot different. Half of Mississippi is black, yet the racial division in which I grew-up was such that they might as well have lived in another country. Even when I had black friends, our friendship was like a tiny point at which two opposing lines momentarily came together and that had nothing to do with our real lives.

After lodge tonight, everyone retired to the dining room for a feast of pies, cakes, cookies, candies, donuts, cupcakes, and….fried chicken. Guess who brought the chicken? Forty-seven people at a dessert feast, and one guy brings fried chicken, and that one guy just happens to be the only black man present! If I knew Ed better, I might have teased him about this, but I would have my toenails ripped out before I would risk causing offense. If I were to hurt Ed, it would break my heart.

I'm mostly ignored

A newspaper photographer came out today and took pictures of Peggy and me walking up and down the sidewalk. I had written to the Lane County Regional Air Pollution Authority two months ago to raise hell about the emissions from old vehicles (many of the worst are Volkswagen vans festooned with environmental stickers) that plague us when we walk to work. When a reporter decided to do an article on air quality, she came across my letter, interviewed me on the phone, and sent a photographer.

We had to give some thought to whether we wanted our picture in the paper. We are private people, and our photo will add nothing important to the story. It will only show what two people who don’t like breathing foul air look like. That said, a human-interest angle might inspire readers to learn more.

I’ve also been raising hell with the city about car camping, and am trying to get the same reporter interested in that. We’ve had one fellow on our street for three weeks, and no amount of complaining has brought a response. The cops did force a camper to move earlier this month, and the man egged our house in retaliation. Becoming politically involved is supposed to instill feelings of empowerment, but I am more often reminded that I am of so little consequence that no one thinks it necessary to answer my letters or return my phone calls.

Zula is gone

Zula died last night, alone in her apartment. I had the oddest feeling when I got the call this morning because, until this week, I never spoke with Zula except at potlucks. She made a favorable impression on me at those events, so when I heard she was dying, I regretted that I had not made an effort to know her. Uncertain of whether a visit would be welcome, I sent a card instead. Later, I asked Zula’s friend, Mabel, if Zula would welcome a visit from me, and she unhesitatingly said yes. I had apparently made as good an impression on Zula as she had on me. Now, two visits later, she is gone. I can but be grateful that our lives touched at all.

I joined the lodge fourteen years ago, and I already imagine that ghosts outnumber the living at our meetings. I can but wonder how it must feel for people who joined fifty years ago. They don’t seem to take death as hard as I—indeed, they appear to accept it with shocking casualness. The brother who informed me of Zula’s death was one of her longtime friends, yet he spoke of his garage sale right after describing the position in which her body was found.

Grange Halls

I visited Zula Kickbusch again today. She was less alert than on Sunday, and remembered nothing of my previous visit except that I was there. We spoke of her childhood, of my parents’ death, of her love for her retirement complex, and of her readiness to die. She said she felt tired from the toxins building up in her system, so I avoided challenging subjects. When all is said and done, what would be the point anyway? What might an aged woman teach me about the approach of death? I can be inspired by her dignity, and that is a great blessing to be sure, but we all stand before a wall that we can neither see over nor around. When the day comes that a hidden door opens to us, we go on alone, and have no more communication forever with anyone on this side.

I also drove to the small town of Elmira to help install their Odd Fellow officers. So many of the members have died that the lodge sold its two-story lodge hall, and rented a space in a rundown Grange. Most of those present today were in their eighties, and I reflected that the Elmira lodge would soon be a forgotten part of history.

I have only been inside two Granges, and found them pretty much alike: naked fluorescent bulbs, dirty bathrooms, badly made plywood furniture, cardboard boxes stacked along the walls, and almost nothing of beauty. The corner of the secretary’s desk in the Elmira lodge was patched with duct tape that looked like it was applied years ago.

The Grange members’ laziness had resulted in one asset. When they bought a gas oven, they left its wood counterpart right where it sat. With a little more energy, they might have hauled it to the dump. I can but hope that my experience of Granges is not representative. I have never been inside an ugly Odd Fellow lodge or an ugly Masonic lodge. Some have fallen victim to neglect as their membership dwindled, but even those are like ruins that hint of a former grandeur.

Tonight, I go to the regular meeting of my IOOF lodge. Tomorrow, I will drive to yet another small town to install its officers, and then my job as district deputy grand warden will be at an end.

The Masons just never felt right

I attended my Masonic lodge tonight for the second time in nine years. I didn’t recognize anyone, but one person remembered me. If he had not, an examination committee would have been formed to verify my membership, and I would have been hard-pressed to answer their questions. I remember the distress signal that is supposed to bring all Masons within sight or hearing to my aid, but I couldn’t have so much as named the titles of the various officers or pointed to their stations in the lodge. I would have probably been admitted anyway since I am on the membership roll, but my embarrassment would have been considerable.

The lodge I attended tonight swallowed up the lodge I originally joined, nearly all of its members being dead. That lodge was initially composed of railroad workers just as other Masonic lodges were composed of members of other trades or professions. By the time I came along, few of the railroad men were living.

I was made secretary after my predecessor died, served for a year, and rarely attended lodge after that. I joined the Odd Fellows first, so the Masons just never felt right. My experience was like that of a kid who is taken out of the only school he has ever known and enrolled in another. The fact that the two lodges are similar only made my discomfiture worse.

Oil, diamonds, and treasure chests

Today, I visited Zula Kickbusch, a 90-year old lodge sister who is dying. She was alert, cheerful, and under no delusion that she will survive. Indeed, I got the impression that she is eager to get death out of the way. Whether this is because she is weary of life or expects to awaken in heaven, I cannot say. She had other visitors, so I couldn’t question her as I would have liked.

I came home and dug some more in a hole in the backyard. I started the hole three years ago simply to see what things were like down below. I stopped at five feet, partly because of the stubbornness of the clay, partly because of Peggy’s objections to having a pit in the yard, and partly because I would have needed to enlarge the opening to go deeper. I had hauled the dirt away, so I refilled the hole with a mixture of compost and basalt. Last week, I resumed digging for no better reason than I started the first time. I was excited to find mussel shells at the four foot level, and I left off today at 64 inches.

Now, I find myself in the same dilemma I was in three years ago. If I enlarge the hole enough that I can work in it, I either have to store the dirt or haul it away. I could store it with the thought that it would only be temporary, but digging through the local clay is no easy matter, and I would expect to keep going until stopped by water at around fifteen feet. Such a depth would require that I shore up the opening, and I can’t justify such measures for no practical reason other than the prospect of finding oil, diamonds, or a treasure chest.

It's not all on us

I felt relieved some years ago when I learned that our planet has already undergone many mass extinctions, and that—contrary to what I was told—we really don’t have the power to destroy life on earth. True, we have the power to destroy much of it, and to alter nearly all of it; but past mass extinctions were followed by the burgeoning of new evolutionary forms.

Another thing that I was comforted to learn was that, no matter what we do, the earth is doomed in the long term. This doesn’t excuse our mistreatment of our environment, but it does take the total onus of screwing it up off our shoulders because, ultimately, we can’t be good enough. We can’t be good enough to make the people we love healthy and happy, and we can’t be good enough to save the earth. Seasons come and seasons go, and nothing lasts forever.

The closest thing to family

I counted 32 at tonight’s Odd Fellow installation of officers. This was a third of those present at my first installation 14 years ago. Of those 32, only three were younger than I. The women wore formals, the men black suits. Afterwards, we sat down to a wicked dessert table.

My lodge is the only organization of which I am a member that encourages largess of spirit and, other than Peggy and the dogs, it is the closest things I have to family. My parents are dead. One sister hasn’t spoken to me in twelve years, my brother in decades, and my other sister only writes occasionally. My polyfidelity group fizzled. The Family of Choice Network that I founded also fizzled. I became disenchanted with communes, religion, and co-counseling. My friends died or moved away from me—or I from them. Now, the likelihood is that I will bury most of my lodge brothers and sisters. I have already put away quite a few.

Statistically, I have 21 years left, and I can’t help but think that I should be doing more with my time. I have lived like a kid who was graduating from school with no idea what to do with himself, and now my life is more than two-thirds finished.

My first hike since surgery

Saturday, we hiked an old roadbed to the top of a nameless mountain that I will simply list as Sec17 Twn20S Rng01E Willamette Meridian. The last 150 vertical feet were too rough for my knee, so I waited in an abandoned quarry while Peggy and the dogs summited. Andesitic rocks of blue, green, brown, black, gray, and lavender, lay beneath a gun metal sky and within a circle of snowy mountains, making this, my first trip into the woods since January, a precious event. I spotted my old friend the snowbrush—Ceanothus velutinus.

Most have left, some are lingering

The bad news is that Peggy drained 35cc’s from the back of my knee last night and, again, didn’t get it all because she didn’t want to risk going too deep. The bursa is as swollen as ever today, so I went to a pharmacy and stocked up on needles. The bursa on the front of my knee is also grotesquely swollen, but doesn’t hurt as much.

The good news is that the physical therapist pronounced me ready for walking uphill if the ground is even. I passed his every test, and am working as hard as he will allow. After complimenting me, he complained about his many patients who won’t work at all. Their doctors send them through course after course of therapy during which their conditions actually worsen. I have no patience with such people because the world is full of those who would give anything to have their opportunities.

The surgeon said that a lot of people in my condition would scarcely notice their limitation because they were so inactive anyway. By contrast, I would see little reason to live if my activity level were permanently and severely limited. If I should go blind or become unable to get about under my own power (if only in a wheelchair), suicide would be on the table as an honorable option.

I went to Coburg tonight as a part of an Odd Fellow officer installation team. The 128-year old lodge has its original fir flooring, and I thought of the many feet that had stood on it, most of them are in the nearby cemetery, dividing the brotherhood into those who have left the lodge and those who are still lingering by the wood-burning stove.

Jewel-like beads

Peggy filled a 25 cc syringe with fluid from my knee last night, and still didn’t get it all. I couldn’t sleep for the pain, and called the orthopedist today to ask what the swelling means and what I should do about it. His aide put me on hold as she relayed my question to the surgeon, who was standing right beside her. She returned to tell me to cancel my physical therapy appointments and stop exercising for ten days, words that hit me like a brick.

I asked to speak to the doctor directly to get more information and to avoid the pitfalls of relayed messaging. She said he was busy doing other things even while she spoke to him on my behalf. I persisted and the great man himself came on the phone and, after a few ill-tempered remarks, told me that exercising would not delay my healing, but would only serve to reduce the pain caused by the over production of synovial fluid. Since he had assured me prior to surgery that the fluid would not return, I asked what I could expect now that it had. He said he would give up doctoring and move to Las Vegas if he could predict the future—a remark that showed where his values lay.

It rained so hard today that I only took one bike ride with the dogs. I have run errands on my bike for years, but rarely taken it out for pleasure, and my present leisurely routine has served to remind me that biking can be an enjoyable activity. As I rode tonight, I noticed that the front tire was catching the streetlights at an angle that made it look to be spinning backwards even as it threw off jewel-like beads of water toward the front.

It takes a challenge to make a hero.

Peggy and Walt are skiing, and I am trying to decide whether I want to be on my feet long enough to shop. If, like most of the world’s people, I lacked the leisure for proper healing, this recuperative period would be a trial indeed. I am taking two half hour bike rides a day, and the pain of the first thirty or so pedal revolutions is like uncoiling a frozen garden hose. At 5:00, I do my prescribed exercises. Otherwise, I spend much of the day with my knee iced and elevated.

I don’t like weekends. Peggy usually works; the stores are crowded; and my regular radio talk shows aren’t on. Ironically, I prefer weekend radio, but it throws a ratchet into my world’s predictability. Change might be the sauce on life’s menu, but I ordered my baked potato plain. With that thought in mind, I will drive over to Harbor Freight for excitement, and to buy some casters for a seat I want to make so I can sit while doing work for which I have always knelt.

One of my coming jobs is re-roofing the den, and I haven’t figured out how I am going to handle it since something strikes me as vaguely ill advised about using a wheeled seat on a sloping roof. Peggy’s well-intentioned suggestion was to hire a roofer, but she has no idea what that would mean. I have already been forced to give up my plans to climb mountains this summer, but I am by no means willing to give up the work I love and by which I justify my existence.

I am trying to regard the obstacles presented by my physical limitations no differently than I regard the obstacles presented by any other part of a job. For example, I have never been good at vaulting from the ground to the rooftop, and have used ladders to overcome my deficiency.

I am on the mailing list of a mountain climber who lost both legs when a boulder fell on him. Instead of giving up the activities he loved, he used his disability as an inspiration to excel. Some people perform greater feats handicapped than they would had they remained normal. It takes a challenge to make a hero.

At least I won't be drafted

I had a good birthday, having received money, flowers, cards, phone calls, dinner out, and a banana pudding. Some people who I would have liked to have heard from didn’t call, but I am loathe to complain since I forget everyone’s birthday but mine and Peggy’s, and I even forgot mine yesterday until she mentioned it.

Birthdays are surely a singular event in that they are so eagerly awaited in childhood and so passionately dreaded after age 29. The only good I can see in being 57 is that there will never be a war so terrible that anyone will think to draft me. This might seem a small recompense, but I well remember the years I spent avoiding Vietnam.

A lodge brother told me that he joined the Navy in World War II because the movie All Quiet on the Western Front left him with a horror of bayonets. Another showed me a magazine photo of himself wading ashore at Normandy. His best friend had just drowned after being pulled under the waves by his equipment.

I thank veterans for their service, but I never ask for details. The first time I thanked an entire group was at my Masonic Lodge; the occasion being the fiftieth anniversary of the end of World War II. The room became so quiet that I feared I had caused offense. After what seemed like a long time, someone said that, in all the years since the war, no one had ever thanked him for what he had done.

What to do?

More mountain climbers die on the way down than on the way up, partly because they become so fixated on reaching the top that they ignore things like time, fatigue, and deteriorating weather. The more energy a person devotes to something, the harder it becomes to change directions. I see this in myself. I live as if I were a train on a track.

I seldom leave home or have a visitor, and the phone rings only for Peggy. Unable to do much else, I listen to the rain and edit my journals, all the while promising myself that I will seek publication someday—I’m too depressed to make the effort now. I’ve edited 2,000 pages over the years and have only 200 to go. Maybe when that’s done. Maybe when my knee is better, and the weather is nicer, and I am less depressed, I can face buying a Writers’ Market, or learning about web publishing. Much of my writing is marketable, the question being how much trouble I am willing to go to, and how many alterations I am willing to endure.

If I don’t publish, my writing will probably die with me, yet how odious is the publication process and how scant the reward. For years, I have been unable to either go forward or to give up the idea of going forward; so I keep finding reasons to procrastinate.

I need to say something positive because recording only the negative limits my thinking to the negative. I enjoy re-reading my work. My humor is dry and original, my phrasing clever. I possess depth, intelligence, and poignancy; and am uncommonly honest even when I appear less likeable for being so…but I am boring myself. Actually, I am just waiting for summer to arrive and my knee to improve, so Peggy and the dogs and I can go to the mountains.

Jack Ketch and his famous knot

I attended a presentation on public hangings in Oregon last night. I was specifically interested in the knots that hangmen used, because it is my understanding that the so-called Jack Ketch knot (named after a 17th century London executioner) of movie fame was less popular than simpler slipknots. The matronly speaker said that this was not the case in Oregon, adding that she had seen a Jack Ketch knot in a museum.

I hadn’t imagined that the same knot would be used repeatedly, although this would explain why hangmen’s ropes sometimes broke. Ropes can only survive a limited number of drops, which is why mountain climbers throw away ropes that still look good. Age also weakens a rope, four years being the maximum for climbing ropes even if they are unused.

I was also interested in the disposal of the bodies of the executed because my lodge has the skeleton of a man who was supposedly hung (literally a skeleton in the closet). The speaker said that the two men who were legally hung in Lane County were buried, although she couldn’t speak for those who were lynched.

Even many legal hangings were botched, with the prisoner either strangling or being decapitated. The real life Jack Ketch was notorious for such ineptness. Ironically, he never hung anyone, and didn’t even create the knot that is named for him. Instead, he used an axe, which he welded so badly that he once took eight blows to sever a man’s head. His victim spent much of this time complaining bitterly, because he had tipped Jack to expedite the proceedings. When Jack Ketch died, his name was popularly applied to subsequent executioners, which is why—when hanging became the method of choice for executions—the knot of choice bore his name.

Knotted ropes break under less strain than unknotted ropes. The common square knot, for example, weakens a rope by 50%, because it is tied with 90° turns. Knots with numerous and winding turns are stronger, which means that the hangman’s knot is a strong knit indeed.

I suspect that my knot repertoire numbers about a hundred, although I rarely have need of them. Tape, hooks, screws, nails, straps, buckles, buttons, snaps, zippers, Velcro, bungee cords, and tensioners, have made knots nearly obsolete. So, why study knots? People who love knots are brothers to those who love steam engines in that both are drawn to inventions that have been superseded in practicality while remaining unequalled in beauty. Much of life is that way. Few of us would want to cook over an open fire, yet stoves and microwaves are ugly by comparison.