* You know how to polka, but never tried it sober.
 
* You know what knee-high by the Fourth of July means.
 
* You know it is traditional for the bride and groom to go bar hopping
 
* You know the difference between 'Green' and 'Red' farm machinery, and
would fight with your friends on the playground over which was better!
 
* You buy Christmas presents at Fleet Farm or Farm and Fleet
 
* You spent more on beer & liquor than you did on food at your wedding.
 
* You or someone you know was a 'Dairy Princess' at the county fair.
 
* You know that 'combine' is a noun.
 
* You let your older siblings talk you into putting your tongue on a steel
post in the middle of winter.
 
* Football schedules, hunting season and harvest are all taken into
consideration before wedding dates are set.
 
* A Friday night date is getting a six-pack and taking your girlfriend
Shining for deer.
 
 
* Every wedding you have ever been to has the Hokey Pokey and the Chicken
Dance.
 
* Your definition of a small town is one that only has one bar
.

 I grew up in a Wisconsin town but it wasn’t so small. We had two bars and most of the people who lived in towns around us didn’t come to our town because they thought they’d get lost.

 Sure, I liked to polka but my dad and mom had strict rules and said God won’t let you dance the polka if you’re sober. My old man was one smart guy. He went to farm school a couple ‘a months and all the time he was saying smart farm school things like “knee high on the Fourth of July.” Of course, that was way over our heads.

In my town we did things almost always the same all the time because we had tradition. For instance, when a guy and his girl got married it was sort of understood they would spend their honeymoon night bar hopping.

Getting married in my town was really a big thing. The father of the bride spent more money on beer and liquor than he did on the food. Oh yeah, the crowd got kind of rough when the local band played the Hokey Pokey and the Chicken Dance to only 14 encores and wanted to go home.

When my uncle got married, his girlfriend had a hard time picking the wedding date. She had to check all the football schedules, the hunting seasons, the harvest and county fair. They ended up getting married on Feb. 29, and my uncle only has to remember his anniversary every four years.

 Kids today, well they don’t get anything right. Like for instance they wouldn’t know a red farm machine from a green one, and which one is best. In our town, we had the green kids and the red kids and we fought every day about which one could pull a manure wagon further. I liked the red ones but I don’t think anyone else did because I got beat up a lot.

Well, we had our fun at Christmas too, but my brother and I always fought over where we should go to get Christmas presents for our mom and dad. I liked the Fleet Farm, but my brother, he was older, so he always dragged me over to Farm and Fleet. I have to admit that Santa at the Farm and Fleet was better because he wore an all red suit. But pretty soon the manager made him put coveralls on and he looked just like the Santa at Fleet Farm.

My uncle bragged about living in a town crawling with celebrities. Every girl there, he said, had been a Dairy Princesses at some county fair someplace. 

You know what I can’t stand about city kids? It’s the way they think they’re so smart. I heard one of them talking the other day and he used the word combine wrong because he said it was a verb!

 My brother thought it was one big joke when he told me to stick my tongue on a flag pole in the middle of winter. How often do you think he got away with that? Well maybe it was funny two or three winters. Then it got kind of old.

 I got pretty excited on my 20^th birthday when dad said I could take a girl on a date. I got a six-pack and we went deer shining. Nothing happened. I swear. No. Really.

It’s been several days since I added to this journal. In that time I have undergone a blood and a platlet transfusion and two iron infusions. All these procedures have been remarkably successful,  helping reduce the discomforts of my illness, namely dry mouth, energy loss, sleeplessness, itching, shortness of breath.

So that has been a good thing.

Although my anemia levels have risen from a dangerously low 6 to 11.2, I will continue to have iron infusions at least twice a month for the remainder of my life.  For this, I travel to the Cancer Treatment Center at Elmbrook Hospital. 

 I am fascinated when I learn how dependent the human body is on the common mineral, iron. It is the staff of life, not only for humans but for every conceivable thing in our universe. The same iron mineral that chemists study is present in every adult—about 2 to 3 grams and those tiny amounts of iron do a giant's work in maintaining a healthy body.

Iron is important to every muscle in the body, its organs the blood, even the brain. Doctors are unsure how or when iron becomes deficient but when it does, the anemia levels drop and the body reacts in many ways.  Anemia  deficiency levels can be corrected by ingesting iron tablets. But in severe or chronic cases, infusion of new, clear iron plasma is the only treatment. 

With the cornea transplant surgeries two years ago, the recent blood transfusion, platlet and now iron infusions, I have become aware of the numbers of people I have never met or seen, who have been my donors. I hope they have been blessed in whatever way God sees fit.

Carol works hard to make my day as pleasant as possible and does most of the driving to my medical appointments.  But she now has a far important task of keeping me aware of the rise and fall of my glucose or blood sugar levels.  Drastic changes can occur any time of the day or night. I am in serious trouble--often confused-- when the levels drop below 100.  Carol and I  have perfected a "drill" that when the levels do drop quickly, a snack is prepared of orange juice, fruit, sugar cookies or any such foodstuffs that will bring the glucose to a more reasonable level.

If insulin is required, we prepare that shot, and then we wait, taking meter readings often into the early morning, to see if the levels have returned to normalcy.   

Last week, Dr. Carron discussed with me the results of an Alphi-1 blood test, indicating that while the Alphi-1 level was elevated there was no sign of a deficiency and he did not believe the rare liver/lung disease was a factor in my profile. He also told me that chest x-rays taken at the same time, showed no congestion and, in fact, were remarkably clear.

Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency is a liver/lung condition that deprives the lung of protein due to liver damage, and develops an emphysema condition?  This results in loss of energy, shortness of breath.

My doctors are literally back at square one after disappointing medical procedures that had no success in treating the diabetes or the cirrhosis of my liver. My visit to a hematologist following the bust of the stomach tap last week to draw fluids building in my abdomen, was most unfortunate because during my visit I came only seconds from slipping into a diabetic coma.

I had already visited with the hematologist, Dr. Van Strothers, and we were about to start an iron infusion that would increase the iron levels in my system in hopes of eliminating the shortness of breath and restoring energy. The procedure was to last about 20 minutes. 

However, coming from a bathroom prior to the procedure, I felt a sudden need to sleep while at the same time my throat went dry and I panicked because I had nothing moist nearby to put in my mouth. I was confused and could only lean on the door jamb until a nurse quickly brought a wheelchair and moved me to a lounge chair.

I recall being talked to but could not understand what they wanted and I turned my head away from them to shut out the noise. I only mumbled something in reply but now do not know what it was I said. I must have been turning my head in several directions because by now two nurses were responding to me and both seemed to be talking and snapping their fingers in my face. 

I remember going slowly into a deep, deep lull and I believe I said, “I’m afraid I’m leaving you now.”

My sugar level had dropped quickly to 51 probably because I did not eat enough breakfast before making this office visit. Orange juice was put into my hand and I gulped it eagerly. One nurse opened a bag of small chocolate chip cookies which I devoured.  Ice chips were brought.

Slowly the sugars rose in my system and with it my comprehension of where I was and what was happening. Carol had been in the outer waiting room and was quickly brought back to where I was being administered to and told by the nurses they were having trouble arousing me. 

It was my first experience with near diabetic coma but from research I knew that such a trauma can be serious because it leads to a deep coma that patients do not respond to.

When I was fully recovered, Dr. Strothers administered the iron drip but has pretty much ruled out any hope that this is now the total solution I need.  He cites "many issues" at work and the low anemia he is treating is only one. But he has set up weekly infusions until my anemic levels increase to a normal level. 

Equally non-commited  is Dr. Carron who I met with this morning. His thinking now is to review my heart history of the past several years including a heart attack I had in 1995, to determine if breathing problems and loss of energy may be heart related. He conferred with Dr. Boscheck, my primary doctor, during our appointment, requesting  a full review of records that may offer some hint as to what is going on.

For the first time, Dr. Carron today used the term “rare” to describe other factors that may be in play—such as Alpha-1 (antitrypsin deficiency) where proteins normally produced through the liver into the lungs do not get where they belong, due to the damaged liver.  This results in a condition similar to advanced emphysema. 

I have most of the symptoms of Alpha-1, but it is a generic condition found only in offspring of carriers with the same medical conditions—and that is rare indeed.

Reluctantly, I have slipped further and further into a dismal depression. I am two more invasive procedures following the disappointing bust last week of an abdoman tap (parancesis) that both me and the doctors felt would alleviate the growing protrusion of my stomach and the filling of my abdomen with fluids. Hopefully I would have been more comfortable, my shortness of breath and exertion problems lifted. 

This week I will have an iron infusion and also an examination and possible procedure by a urologist, Dr. Chris Walsh, because my bladder no longer empties, leaving a vast accumulation of urine in the bladder. This could cause serious infection and lead to possible surgery to correct.

This morning Dr. Carron’s office called and moved an appointment from late in the month to Thursday. So I have doctor appointments this week for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

In only two weeks, I have had an upper and lower colonoscopy, a blood transfusion, a stomach tap, various blood tests.

I do not look to these procedures with any hope. Only more invasive attempts to “patch up” some serious illnesses that I know will never be cured. Failure to empty the bladder can cause serious infection in the bladder that could require surgery. The problem can be caused by obstruction, requiring catheters, or weakness of the bladder muscles of which I have little information. 

Yesterday was a bad day and I found it more comfortable to spend the day in pajamas, wrapped in a blanket and staring with more reluctance at a television set or the weather which was rainy, dark and gloomy. Carol helped me through such despair, providing me with my medicines, the food I needed and good company.

The president is dark and gloomy, giving negative approaches to every crisis he is facing in his first few days in office. The economy suck and I most pleased that I am not a stock holder in America’s industry. It does not seem to be a good place to be.

The news that is being printed n the newspaper follows the mood. I am reluctant to read a front page story about a woman who has lost three babies due to crib syndrome. She has the weight of a hippopotamus and has been known to sleep with her babies and in the process, crush them or smother them to death as they sleep.

Earlier in the week we read details about the drug death of a 15 year old girl whose body was tossed up on a driveway by a boyfriend’s father. 

Weather forecasters see no end of winter and more than too many times their predictions of foul and ugly weather are correct. We have had snow, much rain, cold and high winds. 

The sports pages reflect the mood. Today the story or a young high school basketball player who plays to sill play for his team even following his grandmother’s sudden death one week and his house burning down the next.

Business Week magazine informs me that I live in the 11^th unhappiest city in America, brought on my continual unemployment and 175 cloudy days. In what few times I can get out, I see only faces marked, as I am sure mine is, with deep furrows. In truth, there are few happy faces out there and today I can only concur with the survey findings. 

 I know that if I have a bad night and cannot sleep, I will sleep most of the next day. I don’t know if this is good or bad. Sleep has a tendency to allow time to pass quickly and without consequence. But it is no way to spend days that I am beginning to feel are numbered somewhere for me.

I read an incredible number of books, probably as many as two or three a week. However, they are popular adventure books with action stories and similar plots. They add little to anyone’s intellectual capacity but when I have noting to read, I am a caged lion.

I can only express disappointment and almost deep resentment to what is offered as reading material in the local newspapers. They insult my intelligence and, I assume, the intelligence of a waning audience of readers. 

My food tastes vary. I have no suggestions as to what to buy at the super market that will change that. Food prices are so high as to make selection difficult. Carol tries hard to bring different menus to the table, but my appetite changes almost daily and I often am not appreciative.

I hear from friends only when I reach out to them with some topic. Or bring them up to date on my health condition. I have had a lot of support from many of my classmates and friends fro outside the city.

My immediate family has little time to send e-mails. At most, a short line of acknowledgement or a one-line greeting. Seldom an exchange of information. I get the impression they are all busy with their own lives and are constantly on the run.   

I only hear indirectly about my grandchildren. Chip and Stacey will call on a regular basis but I have not heard from Beth in several months. She has not forgiven me for some political remarks I made about her candidate. If I send out any political matter, I leave their names on the list.

How do you fight such despair?

The procedure I was to have this morning to remove a buildup of fluids in my stomach capacity and lower extremities, was abruptly canceled because no such fluids could be found.

I was appropriately prepped at 7 a.m. for the 20 to 25 minutes procedure that would hopefully drain the fluids that were threatening my diaphragm and making my breathing more and more difficult. 

Although outward appearances--stomach protrusion, a sloshing to be heard, lower extremities suddenly swollen--indicated fluids were present, an ultrasound administered before the procedure to "map" those pools, found no such pools nor any trace of fluids that were supposed to be there.

Doctors, technicians--everyone in the operating suite--were stunned and had no explanation.  The blame may be laid to the cirrhotic liver that is possibly emitting something into my stomach (fatty) tissue.  It is being absorbed there and can not be detected.

The consensus was that this may be a problem to be explored by a specialist in hematology (treatment of blood disorders).  Coincidentally I see such a doctor on Wednesday when he will do the iron transfusion that had already been ordered.

Frankly I'm a little disappointed and frightened too.  I know I teared up this morning when the decision was made and bless those who left me alone for a few minutes to do that.  

Spring came early this morning and was quite evident when  Carol and I left the hospital.  Fine southern breezes had melted what snow we had left on the ground and the sun was out in full Wisconsin glory.  I needed that. 

Let me get my head around this pig odor scandal. Some people in Iowa want to study pig odors and for this they want a couple million dollars from a federal spending bill. The study has ended up on top of a pork barrel and everyone is having a good old fashioned laugh.

Except maybe most pig and cow farmers in most rural states who have come under the gun to clean up or clear out. Suburbanites are moving in and can’t stand the smell. I’m not making this up. Pig stink is a big federal case.

In my state it’s cow stink.  It's practically a law here that we have cows.   That’s because we are a dairy state and to be that, there has to be cows. Cows used to be so popular in this state, that some people thought "C O W” was how you spelled the name of my state. It wasn’t, of course, but some of us wish it was. It certainly is easier to remember.   

But anyhow, some years ago our State Agriculture Dept. set out to study how cows smelled. They held hearings and some folks had to get up in front of a microphone and tell some official listeners if cow smell offended them and how much cow stink can they stand.

Well, If you’ve ever been in front of a microphone you know it’s hard enough just to remember how to talk, But if you have to go on and describe–FOR CRYING OUT LOUD–what it’s like to walk behind a cow–I don’t even want to talk about this anymore.

But the truth of the matter is simply this: Cow and pig odors are being researched because some brave engineers think those odors can be made into alternative fuels to run our cars and light our houses.  

I’m confident that’s what is behind that federal pig odor “pork” bill over there in Iowa.

         The leading anti-pig pork guy is Sen. John McCain.  Now I like Sen. McCain but I think he knows more about animal odors than he lets on because he lives out there in Arizona and to do that you have to be a cowboy almost.  And if anybody knows animal smells, it's a cowboy--they sleep with them, for god's sake! (I believe McCain really wanted to be a cowboy all his life. Rumor says he wrote “cowboy” on the Navy application form that asked what he wanted to be in the Navy, so they put him in jet planes right away.)

In my state we've had a cow boondoogle or two.  One time, the state Agriculture Department hired a funny artist to put a picture of a cow on a sidewalk outside our famous state fair park. But some politicians took one look and said they would not pay the artist for his cow work. In fact they told him to take it away. 

But the artist saved the day and his paycheck too when he drew two of our world famous cream puffs right in the picture with the cow.  

In my state, we will pay good government money for cream puffs, but not so much for cows. 

This is what Great Britain did this week: In a speech to Congress, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown announced that Sen. Ted Kennedy had been granted an honorary knighthood by Queen Elizabeth II for his work in the Northern Ireland Peace Process.

 Ted Kennedy a Knight? Has Britain completely abandoned the role chivalry has played in such an honorary entitlement? Or have the Brits totally insulted those of us who remember that knights, chivalry and honor are part of that honor?

 I was an administrative assistant in a Republican congressional office when I learned on Sunday morning, July 19, 1969, of Ted Kennedy’s misadventures as a playboy senator.  Early that Saturday morning, after partying for most of the night, Kennedy drove his Oldsmobile 88 off Dike Bridge and into Poucha Pond.  The car flipped several times before it struck the water and settled upside down on the bottom.

 Ted Kennedy freed himself and floated to the surface, then left the scene.  His passenger, Mary Jo Kopechne, 28, one of Robert Kennedy’s “Boiler Room Girls”  who were partying at a sailing regatta as Kennedy’s guests, did not get out and drowned.

 Although everyone in Washington was fully aware of most of the details of the disastrous weekend, my boss, as was his habit, had left Washington on Friday to work at a farm in West Virginia which he was restoring. As was his habit when he returned to the Capitol on Monday, he went directly to the floor for role call.

 Within minutes of his arrival, however, he was aware that something had occurred that had the members talking. When he learned the conversation was about Kennedy, he went to the cloak room and called me immediately.

“Get the Sunday papers down here and tell me what the hell Kennedy’s been up to,” was his request and I complied.

 Also out  of town that weekend, President Nixon was scheduled to return from a Philllipine visit on Monday.   

 As was customary, Republican House staff members were often bused to the south lawn to form a welcoming backdrop for the president’s return.

That’s where I was on Monday morning, July 20, 1969, lined up as it were behind a row of senators including Ted Kennedy who had formed a line to personally shake hands and welcome Nixon home.

 When Nixon stepped off the helicopter, I watched him work the line toward Kennedy who stood directly in front of me.

 I saw Kennedy extend his hand and I saw the president look directly into Kennedy’s face. I knew then the president was fully aware of what had happened only hours earlier at Chapaquidick. I saw Nixon take his hand.

 There were no words as far as I could hear, but Nixon’s face turned stern, his smile disappeared. There are many faults that Nixon suffered in his political as well as his personal life, but at that moment his deep Quaker beliefs and the fact that he was a father of two young girls, took control.  I believed then as I still do now that Nixon would never forget that Kennedy had let a young, helpless girl drown while he saved himself. 

 So when men compare Kennedy to Knights, to chivalry and honor, I remember the time 40 years ago when Richard Nixon and Ted Kennedy met face to face on the lawn of the White House.

Carol has ordered a cheeseburger but I am famished and am eyeing a small t-bone steak and a bowl of French onion soup. Our day out is to the bank, the grocery store where we accomplish a “short list” of grocery shopping, and, most important, a doctor’s appointment.

So today I learn from my primary doctor, Dr. Michael Boschek,that I will be scheduled soon for iron transfusions and an abdominal paracentesisa, a procedure to remove the fluids (ascites) from the abdomen by needle puncture. Hopefully, this procedure will drain the 18 pounds of fluid that have been building in by abdomen and threatening my entire breathing diaphragm.

If successful, the procedure will eliminate the shortness of breath I am experiencing and ease the expansion of my stomach. The problem is common with cirrhosis of the liver patients. Many patients routinely undergo the procedure several times in the course of treatment.

The iron transfusion is to elevate red corpuscles so that my oxygen levels will improve. It is a two hour procedure and similar to the blood transfusion I had recently. My low anemia levels probably show up in the fatigue, shortness of breath, even the spasms in my legs and the abnormal need I have to eat quantities of ice. (?)

Carol’s cheeseburger is a bust with too much salt on the fries and my steak arrives but it is dry.  The grilled onions I ordered arrive several minutes after the main course and the entire meal is cool. So my treat is mainly a bust also and this, with the plan outlined by Dr. Boschek only an hour ago is not making my day any better.

An elderly woman directly behind me finds it necessary to contact a friend following her meal, by cell phone. The friend is apparently deaf or isn’t paying attention to the conversation, making it necessary to repeat sentences several times—loudly.

Another patron has tied up the wait staff with a tale of lost keys, missing since yesterday when she and three other ladies had lunch. The keys apparently are lost somewhere between a table near where Carol and I are seated, and a handicap spot in the parking lot. When we left, the keys were still missing and the wait staff anxious to get onto something else .

But Carol and I have had an opportunity to discuss the decision I had made to undergo the two procedures Dr. Boschek discussed with me earlier in the morning. We are in agreement in my choices.

I m assigned a short list of groceries found in shelves or counters near the front door while Carol takes on the main job of shopping the vast grocery aisles. When my chore is completed, I sit on a bench near the check out counter, catching my breath and waiting for Carol. 

We are home awaiting the telephone calls that will set the suggested procedures into motion. I will reacquaint myself with Dr. Van Strothers, an oncologist with whom I had treatments in the early stages of my ordeal. He will do the iron transfusion.

Dr. David Carron will be tasked with the more involved paracentesisa procedure which will drain the ascites internally into the general venous blood system by running a plastic tube from the abdominal cavity, under the skin of the chest, into the right internal jugular vein of the neck.

. The procedure should be completed within a half hour but I am waiting even more details at this writing.

I am awake most of the night with annoyances due to itching and dryness. I take Tylenol and suck ice cubes, but the night passes and I have not slept.

I find some company with the chatter of my nearby police scanner which broadcasts through the night. There are a million small, often unhappy dramas that beam across the frequencies constantly. A police chase, domestic violence, suspicious people loitering, bar fights. You name it. 

I am appalled at the numbers of young black males which are frequent victims as well as perpetrators . It seems every description of individuals sought for any violation involves young, black males, all seemingly dressed alike. Who can address this? The calls continue.

I lie awake through the final night in February and good riddance. M state’s two most winter months are January and February and thank God, with the morning, both are behind us. March is a promise of better things. 

When I was a boy, March was the time when Dad would reinstitute the Sunday drive and we would spend some pleasant Sunday afternoons in the warming spring sun. Often these drives would end at some small, out-of-the-way beer joint where the folks would mingle with the bar crowd and we kids would suck on a Nehi and explore the community outside.

On one March trip not to be forgotten the family car ended up at the yaqcht club where we explored the many yachts and sailing craft, now ashore for the winter, and played among them. It was probably my favorite March trip.

But today baseball is being played in earnest in Arizona, daylight savings time and the first day of spring are only days off. Sometimes in March you can see crocus and maybe a robin “scout” out on the lawn. The newspaper advertises the appeal of the annual sports show this week  There’s the basketball tournaments and later this month,  major league baseball teams begin to plan for real.

All in all, a hopeful month.

The euphoria of the transfusion is fading as I experience difficulty with breathing, energy loss, lack of rest, lethargy. I have begun to increase the insulin levels to those levels prior to the transfusion. In spite of the hope the coming spring brings, my depression never seems to lift,

I have noticed dark stools but they may be attributed to the addition of iron tablets to my medicine diet.  I see a doctor on Tuesday and will confirm this. I am in no way losing the water weight I must, and in fact seem to be gaining.  This is not a good thing.

 I was surprised to receive a telephone call from Mary Louise Schumacher, the arts editor of the Milwaukee Journal/Sentinel, who called on an old story we had discussed months ago. She was concerned about my health and we talked a long while.   It is good to talk to a journalist.  Our conversation reminds me why I miss the business so much.

The mayor of my town has been in touch. She has called to wish me well and writes occasionally to tell me about plans she has for the renovation of Hart Park’s sports facilities. She will now press an effort to find a sponsor interested in buying naming rights for the football field, the tennis courts and track, and she is eager to tell me about that.

I have sought for eight years to have those facilities named for the chief architect at the park, Thomas Greenwill, but to no avail. But now I am a financial backer to whatever is to be done at the park, thanks to a cash donation made in my behalf by my sister Judy andher husband Jeff Henley. So the mayor stays in touch.

I support such an effort I tell her but have suggested that the Greenwill connection somehow be considered as part of the name that might be chosen. I have done some research and discovered that sponsors of such plans are reluctant to put money into naming facilities that are established and aging such as the facilities we have at Hart Park. There are alternatives and I have listed these and sent them to the mayor for whatever help they may be. 

I have grown more and more afraid of the decisions of the new, young president and the direction he is heading. I follow the news almost all day and am aware of those who fear the presidet is following radical politics.  He justifies his choices by stating that he follows the promises of his campaign. Those ideas which to many now seem irrational and unreasonable to many, were embraced by millions.

Obama advisor Jerry Kellman, who made a short speech supporting Obama at the Demoratic convention, is the neighborhood organizer who hired Obama at a salary of $10,000 annually, to work as a community organizer in the Altgeld Gardens neighborhood in South Chicago. 

It was Kellman also who advised his young employee, Obama, to join the Rev. Wright church as a way to gain needed financial and political support. Years later he would marry Michelle Robinson, a fellow lawyer at the law offices, where they both worked. He and Michelle would remain parishioners for two decades.

Obama's work as a community organizer following college was guided by a book called  Rules for Radicals, written by Saul Alinsky, a notorious Chicago activist from the 1930s to the early ‘60’s who has been labeled a "communist" in some of his history but who apparently was never a member of any party, not even the ones he formed. It was Alinsky who hired Kellman, as a neighborhood organizer. Alinsky died in 1972 and never met Obama. 

This was Alinsky's written instructions to young organizers. "The agitator's job is first to bring folks to the ‘realization’ that they are indeed miserable, that their misery is the fault of unresponsive governments or greedy corporations, then help them to bond together to demand what they deserve, and to make such an almighty stink that the dastardly governments and corporations will see imminent ‘self-interest’ in granting whatever it is that will cause the harassment to cease.

Ironically, Alinsky was also an influence on Wellesley senior, Hilliary Rodam (who became Clinton).  She chose Alinsky as the topic of her senior thesis, met with the man three times and earned high marks for the thesis she wrote.

Alinsky was so taken with Rodham’s potential as an organizer and activist that he asked her to take a job in the same neighborhood where Obabma would eventually work.  

She was tempted, she said, but turned the offer down and went on to law school where she met her husband, Bill.

Years later, when the Clintons were in the White House, the White House asked Wellesley to seal the Alinisky thesis.  The request was honored and the thesis remained sealed until the Clintons' left the White House.  It is now available for researchers at the college.

Jerry Kellman remains an advisor to Obama and speaks in glowing terms of Obama's work in the Altgeld Gardens neighborhood.

Ray Py

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Life as a journalist was one controlled adventure after another. I loved every minute of it. I remember being in a newsroom when excitingand historical events occurred and when others would ask, years later “do you remember where you were when such and such occurred?

And my answer would be “That’s easy. I was in a newsroom.”

For instance I was in a newsroom when bells on the Associate Press machine suddenly banged with the terse statement that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. It prompted my first and only call to a press room to “stop the press!”

Now there is a story I am familiar with that appears every so often on an internet web site called Websleuths, about an unsolved murder 46 years ago. I was on the scene when Florence Kilsdonk, 28, was found slashed with nine knife cuts and dead under a kitchen table. On top of the table, her infant son, Jeffery, in diaper and a shirt, but safe. He had been the only witness to his mother’s murder.

The case has gone unsolved from that day, Dec. 18, 1963 to the present time and a special task force of the Outagamie County Sheriff’s Department in northern Wisconsin where I was working at the time, is studying the crime as a cold case.

In that long ago day, crime investigation was almost like playing at cops and robbers. Very little sophistication as far as investigating techniques were available to many police agencies, much less those rural agencies where crimes were often solved by veteran investigators who relied more on “gut feeling” to solve crimes than on new fangled technologies.

The press was considered an ally of law enforcement and helpful to many investigations. That’s why crime scenes were open to reporters and most officers were not reluctant to talk officially or unofficially with reporters during the course of an investigation. 

In such an environment, reporters were often in squad cars when police were called to a crime scene. That’s where I was when I arrived with the sheriff at the Kilsdonk crime scene in Black Creek, a small village in northern Wisconsin. I spent more than two hours with him as he and others on his staff as they tried to make sense of the murder before them.

I was free to wander the scene, pick up items, use the telephone, snoop into closets and bedrooms on my own, produce a photograph of the murdered woman, compare my notes with investigators’ notes.

Today a reporter would not be able to penetrate within a mile of a crime scene much less wander as free as I did among the clues, overhear conversations, take notes or ask questions. It is an era gone and probably good riddance.

The story I wrote on Dec. 19, the day following the murder, is printed now on a website and its facts still stand up. Today, in re-reading the account, I am pleased with the job I did.

But it was tabloid and yellow journalism. Newspapers thrived on it and readers could not get enough.  

The facts were these: Florence was knifed about 8 a.m.as she sat at the kitchen table shucking peanuts with her small baby in a baby seat near her on the table.

The woman struggled with someone who apparently entered the house from an unlocked back door. She fell dead under the table.

Her body was discovered by her husband, Marvin, 29, who came home from work, discovered the scene, apparently got some blood on his hands, grabbed the baby blanket near his child in an attempt to determine if the child was safe, then turned and ran from house without the child, took his car and drove to a neighbor who he asked to call the police. He left a bloody handprint on the blanket.

Marvin passed a lie detector exam about his involvement in the crime but was a suspect, at least in the sheriff’s mind, for many years. His “gut feeling” was the fact that Marvin had left the baby to run for help, but had no knowledge that the killer may still be in the house and the child still in danger. No father would do that, the sheriff told me.

But there never were charges and the Kilsdonk killing heads a list of 16 other unsolved murders in the northern area of Wisconsin, unsolved since 1963. 

As cold case investigators go over 46 year old reports since in the open case file with the sheriff’s department, Marvin has gown to an old man, is a resident of a nursing home and, when asked about the case hopes it can still be solved.  

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

I am in an operating room, awaiting nurses to complete their tasks at winding and binding me to life support systems and the arrival of my doctor, Dr. David Carron who will do an upper and lower GI exam.

I have been preparing two days for thisw test, eating and drinking nothing for the last 24 hours and voiding throughout the day. Without any doubt, these were uncomfortable days and I am lying here thinking that this will all be over within 30 minuts.

 Dr. Carron, following the procedure, hopes to have answers as to why my anemic levels have gone to a dangerously low level that, if left undetected or untreated, could cause mental confusion, coma and perhaps death. 

With scopes that will reach deep into my insides, he will try to detect signs of blood oozing from a bleeding ulcer or varicose veins that may be the culprit.   

His search will be intense so I will be under a mild sedative that will be administered only moments before the procedure. I will lapse into a mild sleep or melancholia. My nurse informs me I will be aware of what everyone is doing, but not give a damn.

To gain such sweet bliss, I have agreed in writing not to operate heavy machinery upon leaving the hospital. I have also agreed not to start fights.  I ask only that no one complain about my bawdy singing should I be so moved.

Only days before, and to prepare for this procedure, I took two new pints of 0+ of new blood in a 6-hour transfusion. Now with added strength the new blood has given me, we are beginning the second phase of what may be a long, long procedure over a long period of time.

 As always, I feel completely comfortable with the facilities and the staff where I am being treated. I reported to the clinic at 7:45 a.m. as instructed and the procedure began a hour later, again exactly on schedule. Dr. Carron took only a few moments to explain the procedure before he was gowned, and the Mary, my nurse, began the sedation.

Dr. Carron's work on both the upper and the lower GI will take less than a half hour. When I awake, I am pleased to hear that the doctor found no bleeding.

I know I feel better because the first taste of this common grilled cheese sandwich is easily the best thing I have eaten in my entire life.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

When Professor Harold Hill stepped off the train in River City, Iowa, it was to con the people of that innocent city into believing that, through him, Prof. Harold Hill, River City could have a boys’ band. Harold Hill would sell them uniforms and band instruments.

Never mind why it was important for River City to have that band, except it was high on the town’s  stimulus “wish list.” Hill had the answers and a slick tongue but in the course of that great musical entertainment, we learned a great deal about Hill—mostly he was a fraud and he had little interest in boys’ bands.

Meridith Willson, the story teller who brought “The Music Man” to the screen some 20 or 30 years ago, could not have been more up-to-date.  Whenever a slick salesman blows into town with a suitcase full of band uniforms and a promise to make every boy in town a player, well, you got trouble, my friends, serious, serious, trouble,.

Consensus was that not even Harold Hill believed his sales pitch. When, with the credits rolling, Hill had to stand in front of his rag-tag assembly of hopeful boys and their instruments, all he had was was a music wand and hope.

But that’s when Hollywood stepped and the fantasy began. Hill had only to shut his eyes, wave a music wand, and PRESTO—76 trombones led the big parade.

The nation’s wish list has more than 3,000 Stimulus projects and mayors all over the country have heard Professor Harold Obama’s promises to make them happen.  But like Harold Hill, Obama has to be more than a little skeptical that he may have oversold some of his promises and that only fantasy and hope, a Hollywood ending will make any music from this list.

You too can take a look by going to this link.

http://www.stimuluswatch.org/project/by_state

  Most projects in the package will hire construction workers and that will give little hope to the many professionals, artisans and women workers who are without jobs.

 Even the Depression era WPA found work for 400,000 females, many of them in their "first ever" job and many of them who were able eventually to gain the skills needed when the WWII workforce suddenly needed women.

 There appears to be few opportunities for people in the arts and theater. something the WPA provided for in its federal arts and theater projects

As I understand how this will work, private contractors will hire the workers they need to help with Stimulus projects they have won contracts for.  Assuming these contractors already have engineers, upper management and skilled help on the payroll, most of the stimulus hires will be for rank and file laborers. That will mean that large numbers of out-of-work engineers, management and skilled help will be taking jobs for which they will be overqualified.

Today we learned that the guy who responsible for the efficiency and administration of the largest piece of legislation ever passed by the Congress will be Joe Biden.

That would be the same Joe Biden who cheated in law school, earned an F in at least one law course, and was graduated at the near-bottom of his law class.

Obama has put the government’s top gumshoe, retired Secret Service agent, Earl Devaney, who broke the Abramoff scan, on the case to investigate any possible fraud.  (Roosevelt had his W-Men for this purpose).

Fraud? With thousands of private contractors actually at the point where the money will eventually wind up, one can only see delay, corruption, over-pricing, payoffs, cronyism--you name it. Devaney may need a high priced bureaucracy if he hopes to crack this case.

Oh you got trouble, my friends, serious, serious, trouble. 

Ray Py

Monday, February 23, 2009

Dear Reader,

I find myself in the embarrassing position of asking a favor of you.

 I have Non-Alcoholic Cirrhosis of the Liver and by the timeframe that has been established for me at the Wisconsin Medical College. I have less than a year to live. I am also a diabetic.

 My diagnosis is well beyond any quick reversal or even a miracle. A transplant is not possible and the condition of my illness is advanced. I undergo treatment everyday that is harsh, difficult, humiliating just to avoid the mind fog, coma and other phases of this cruel disease, as long as possible.. However, whatever I do, cures nothing.

My visit at the Wisconsin Medical school a year ago showed me how little research is being done for this disease. Cirrhosis of the Liver is an "unspeakable" disease, associated traditionally with lifelong drug and liquor addiction. it is seldom even discussed the leprosy disease of our modern age. 26,000 people die every year from Cirrhosis of the Liver and many are never aware of the illness that kills them.

This outdated information about cirrhosis, has confused the public so that non-alcoholic cirrhosis, called NASH, is somehow considered the same as alcoholic cirrhosis. Non-alcoholic cirrhosis kills thousands annually, and like alcoholic cirrhosis, it is not a pleasant death.

 Many people who have cirrhosis over many years, are never diagnosed with such until their deaths and autopsies are performed. Cirrhosis is hardening of the liver, causing it to cease its function as a sponge or cleanser of toxic liquids. These fluids often become toxic and enter the blood stream to the brain, causing confusion, coma and finally death.

 I was diagnosed two years ago following surgery for an unrelated problem. My subsequent followup questions to the Medical school doctor as to research being done was disturbing. There is little to none. My offer to be part of any research being done regardless, was turned down for now. The reason: The little research being done does not include humans and is little beyond the blood on slide phase.

 I was told that should some break through be developed of a treatment medication, I would be among the first to be tested.

 As a victim of this disease, I feel helpless. There are few organizations or support groups that I know of that will satisfy the concerns of those of us to suffer this disease. This is a broad appeal. I hope it can reach an organization or individual who will help to find funding to do the research many of us cirrhosis victims need to prolong our lives.

A friend of a mine told me she stood before her congregation, alone, and asked that the entire congregation pray for me. My mail carrier has asked his congregation to share their prayers for me and recently my dental technician said she will add my name to her church’s prayer ring. I hear from friends and strangers through this blog and other efforts who say they will offer their prayers for my recovery.

 I am humbled by these efforts and encourage by them to try a little harder to bring some recognition to this disease.

 In the time I have left, I plan to tell this story to anyone who will listen. I want to overcome the stigma of an “unpopular” disease so research that is so needed will begin.

 But I need help--and so do others.

Is this asking too much?

Your friend,

Ray Py

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Private Eye? Yeah. I did that. Worked surveillance, skip tracing. 

Nothing like it. On your own a lot. Back up? Forget about it. Hanging in trees. Watching. Find out what’s going one. They pay you for this.

Yeah. I was one of those. It got ugly.

Private eye.  The fantasy job I needed in my boring. life. Gig seemed good in the classifieds.   Called the guy. He said yeah.

Got the license; guy set me up on skips—finding guys who left town maybe still owing a couple ‘a bucks. Skipping on the little woman, kids, won’t pay the back alimony.  PI license gets me into the motor vehicle records. Everyone’s attached to a car somehow. Find the car, you got your guy.

Work with the cops. Yeah, they know where the guy might be, who he’s hanging with, maybe where he works.  They’re good guys. Share.

Tracing? Yeah, I did that.

Tracing’s too much desk time, phones, not enough contact  Hey boss, Need a couple 'a eyes?

Follow folks. Watch where they go. Who they go with. Put some eyes into that kitchen, garage, even the bedroom.  Watch. What’s going on?  Hang in trees, Hide in a bush. Watch him. That ain’t his wife.

 Client wants to know where her fiancé goes after work. She’s got enough cash for one night of surveillance. He might be a homosexual.  Dame’s worried. Can’t marry one of those.

Watch him.

He’s off work. Third shift. On his own. Watch him. He’s in that tavern; he’s got a beer, a sandwich. He eats, drinks alone. He’s off to home and to bed, alone. Dame's happy. Saved the marriage.   

10 bucks an hour, my gas, my car. Buy a coke, I pay.  Get in trouble, get out. Mostly night work,  Benefits? Yeah, right.

 Client wants to know why his furniture delivery driver returns from job with fingernail scratches on his back. Damned if I know. Some cases never get solved.

Watch the new bartender. Client wants to know if he makes change right. Puts money in the register. Drink a coke. Watch. Drink another one. Watch him.

Partner’s watching new cashier from the line. I put exact change on counter, rush to catch bus. Partner watches. Does she pocket the cash? Put it in the register? Make a receipt? Watch. Client wants to know.    

State law says watching people takes a special license—in my state a private investigator’s license.  You can carry a badge, if that helps. You’ll do big time if you carry a weapon. 

PI information can be obtained by deception, disguise, fabrication—any means. I carried a clip board, loose leaf books to look like a survey taker if need to get inside  doorway. Questions concern aluminum siding. I don't know anything about it.  Ask  three questions.  Leave.

PI information seldom gets before a judge, but attorneys find it helpful as investigative material—and often enough scandal to force a settlement.  

Surveillance work testy. Even dangerous. Get caught, get off the case. Get away. I was boxed in at an intersection by friends of my tail. I drove into an opposite lane in traffic. Got away. 

Tell the local cops where you're working. If surveillance gets blown, cops will get call. Helps if they know what's going down.    Cops will often stop by on an overnight surveillance, check you out.  

My PI job lasted only a single year. I took heat from the family and gave it up.  It was my pipe dream and I worried that the reality would not match the fantasy.

But it did.