As if we needed one more reason to boycott factory-farmed animal products, here comes another horror story. It all started earlier this year when the Department of Agriculture began issuing warnings to the poultry industry. H5N2 was knocking wild birds out of the sky, birds sick with highly pathogenic avian influenza. Within a few months, outbreaks began occurring in domesticated flocks.
In Iowa, avian flu spread wildly through tightly packed egg factories, prompting them to declare a state of emergency. Similar stories soon poured across the Midwest. In April, Minnesota lost 7% of its turkey production. To date close to 50 million birds have died of the flu or were killed to staunch the epidemic.
This is horrible on several levels. Egg consumers, especially bakeries and breakfast cafes are taking a hard hit as the price of eggs doubles. International exporters are losing money due to poultry bans from a dozen countries. U.S. Poultry farmers are starting over after being only partially compensated for the lost and culled birds. USDA officials are scrambling to determine how the disease is spread and there are murmurs of fear should the flu manage to jump species and begin infecting humans.
Not to mention the birds themselves; suffering and being put to death. No wait, that’s nothing new for them. The life of animals in Confined Animal Feeding Operations is so bad, that “premature” death is likely a blessing.
Bottom line, cramming thousands of animals into tight spaces is a recipe for disaster. To survive the stress of their environment, they are fed antibiotics and other unnatural fare. One whiff of virus and their immune systems succumb. This is no way to keep animals and a bad way to feed human beings.
Continue reading 50 Million Casualties – Bird Flu Comes a Calling
Sometimes a news story piques your interest and you have to dig around a little. On my (ten minute) commute from work the other day, I heard an NPR story about a rise in heroin use sparked by prescription drugs. From meds to needles in 3, 2, 1…
Prescription drugs have long been a cleverly disguised problem, endorsed by the feds, enthusiastically promoted by their manufacturers and embraced by the public. Modern humans trust their doctors and pharmacists with childlike innocence. However, there is mounting evidence that “asking your doctor” may not be the safest path. In fact, your helpful little pain meds may lead you straight into heroin addiction.
Here’s the scene: you have experienced a painful recovery from an ugly mishap or life-saving surgery. Your prescription for Oxycontin is a god-send but sadly, you are left with persistent residual pain. Or, more likely, you are now chemically addicted and your doctor has moved on, denying you further refills. At this point, you will do anything to get another script.
As I dug around, I found one story about a woman who went so far as to have some of her teeth pulled to get more painkillers. Another documents the 5% decrease in emergency room traffic after they began flagging repeat offenders and denying them new prescriptions. Apparently, desperate addicts were showing up with fake symptoms, seeking medication.
But for all these med-dependant folks there is another route, one that is increasingly being explored by oxycontin/oxycodone addicts – heroin. No longer able to afford your med of choice or maybe unable to convince your doctor to continue scrawling their name on that coveted piece of paper, you look for an alternative. At 1/10th the price and readily available without the hassle of faking a migraine in the emergency room or having a molar pulled, heroin is an easy choice.
Alarmingly, heroin deaths are on the rise, tripling in just three years. With the increase is a shift in user profile from fringe to mainstream, young to older. These days police officers, teachers and nurses are showing up at the detox centers. Or on stretchers in the autopsy queue.
How tempting it must be to blame the increase in heroin addiction on the legalization of marijuana. And predictable. Oh, that evil cannabis… On the other side of the fence, studies prove that marijuana “can be effective as a substitute for treating opioid addicts and preventing overdoses.”
After looking at all these stories, one statistic unites them all – both opioid and heroin addiction are on the rise. You get to decide if there’s a connection. As for me, I’m letting pot off the hook.
NPR: Emergency Rooms Crack Down On Abusers Of Pain Pills
NPR: How Heroin Made Its Way From Rural Mexico To Small-Town America
CNN: Heroin deaths up for 3rd year in a row
Washington Post: The rate of heroin overdose deaths has nearly tripled in just three years
Newsweek: Prescription Drugs Have Pushed Heroin Into the Suburbs
The Independent: Marijuana, heroin and meth spreading into Colorado’s neighboring states after legalisation of cannabis
The Week: Can medical marijuana curb the heroin epidemic?
Damned squirrel on the bird feeder,” I thought as I got up to raid the refrigerator, “Always looking for easy calories.” Oopsy! Just like me.
You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I struggle with my weight. I’m a compulsive nibbler, a secret snacker; convinced that cold leftovers eaten over the sink have no calories. Like my father, I weigh myself every day, and like him I cut back on calories after slipping into the high zone. Unlike my dad, I graph my weight on an excel spreadsheet.
As a teenager, I morphed from Twiggy-esque 12-year-old to plump 14, but quickly lost 25 pounds after I started dating, placing myself back into the fashionable underweight zone. Since then, my weight has been a yo-yo of highs and lows. I dance on the high side of BMI Normal, seldom resting in the coveted under-21 range. Of late, I’ve been stuck in a five-pound spread.
It irks me that I so frequently sabatoge my desire to eat sensibly. It’s not about the pounds, it’s my chagrin when I realized I just eaten something I wasn’t even hungry for or worse, the queasy bloat of an overloaded stomach. I’m smarter than this, disciplined in every other area of my life, and yet I continually lose control when it comes to food.
Sure, sure – it’s understandable. Easy calories are everyone’s bugaboo. We’re genetically programmed to eat, and unprepared to deal with an endless buffet of rich food. My culture is lousy with food, it’s all around me and ridiculously affordable. You can’t walk into a room without some free treat staring you in the face. No one goes hungry in a country where the impoverished are obese.
“Better than Before” to the rescue! I just finished reading Gretchen Rubin’s chapter on loopholes and learned that I’m especially adept at “moral licensing” (I earned it), “lack of control” (I can’t help it) and “this doesn’t count” (cold leftovers, chips and dip, food no one saw me eat – you name it.) So much food, so many excuses! “My friend made this for me.” “It’s free.” “We’re celebrating.” “I’m in a restaurant.” “Everyone else is eating it.” “I skipped lunch.” “We’re on vacation.” “I’ve been working SO hard.” “Loosen up.” “I’m starving.”
My challenge is to spackle up those pesky loopholes by making it hard to do the wrong thing (padlock the refrigerator?) and easy to do the right thing (drink more water.) Other strategies include going outside before reaching for a snack, doing yoga before meals, and no desserts in the house, ever.
I raise a glass of water in a toast to my own resolve. Here’s to leaping over the cheap calorie trap. Here’s to mindful eating. Here’s to freedom from temptation, an end to squirrely behavior, and lowering my five-pound spread to the coveted 20 BMI zone.
As part of Self-Care month and inspired by Gretchen Rubin’s “Better than Before.” I decided to tackle the habit of staring at my laptop screen for hours at a time.
The first step was to get a feel for how many minutes, hours actually, I am tapped into my browser. This was easily done by opening my browser (I know!) and looking at history. Turned out I averaged four hours of screen time a day over the past week, a third of it after dinner.
“I’ll bet I can cut my screen time in half and still get my work done, keep up with my friends and read the news,” I said to myself.
Changing a habit always begins with a decision. I decided to stop using my computer after dinner by turning off my laptop before I ate.
The first evening, I glanced at my To Do list after shutting down my computer and nearly turned it back on when I saw the word “Write.” I wondered if I had enough willpower to open a document without also opening the browser. The little voice in my head chided my search for a loophole with “Screen time is screen time” and I left the laptop off.
That blog post would have to get written the old-fashioned way, with pen on paper. I started scribbling.
My father who is also a writer, told me years ago when I first began writing on a computer that he preferred to use his typewriter. It kept his mind sharp, he said, to have to think out what he wanted to say and write without editing.
I found myself feeling a little lost on my first day into my new habit. I actually had too much time on my hands. I wondered who I might be letting down by not checking my email at 8pm. I had gotten ready for bed, scoured the kitchen sink, taken out the compost, pulled some weeds and dead-headed the petunias. I flirted with laying in the hammock for a spell but thought it a bit too reckless. Besides, it was a chilly evening and I would have had to put on a pair of socks.
I’m optimistic about using my new-found time wisely. I believe my writing will improve and the weeds will suffer. The next step will be waiting an hour before turning my computer on in the morning. I may try writing in my journal while I sip my cocoa. Heck, I may even do a little reading.
I’ll let you know how it goes. But I’ll probably tell you to your face rather than post it on my facebook.
My first Author’s Interview! Thank you Michele!
Michele has done a lot for the local writing community and Not only do Michele and I both love to write and blog, but we share the same birthday. Check it out:
Friendship and Travel for Two “Brauds” Abroad: Author Interview with Camille Armantrout
One of my happiest memories of late was the time Tami and I went over to Rock Ridge Park and tried out the new playground equipment there. The see saw was our favorite. The feeling of being up in the air, looking down at the other, and the next second looking up from our seat on the ground was intoxicating. We laughed and laughed.
Not long after that, Lyle bought Tami a see saw which he placed beside her swing set at The Plant. Because it takes two to operate, I have yet to try it out or see it in use. But every time I look at it, I remember the fun I had at Rock Ridge.
The See Saw is a fitting metaphor for the ups and downs of life and relationships. As Tami and I traded places that day, we talked about how we balance out our spouses and vice versa. When one of us is anxious, the other assumes an air of calmness. If I worry, Bob assures me everything will be alright. When he runs out of social energy, I step up to represent the Trouts. Naturally, we do the same for the people around us. When you walk into a room and sense tension, it’s natural to try and lighten things up. We are social animals, after all.
A few weeks ago I started asking myself what were the high and low points of my day. My email buddies are happy to play this game with me even though it isn’t easy to come up with the answer right away. After a little thought the answers do come, though and they are often surprisingly little events. One one day, for example, my low point was being lost in the morass of QuickBooks payroll hell and the high point, the moment after when I walked outside to bring in a handful of Spring flowers.
My high points can be something someone said, a gift given or received, a small epiphany or a breath of sweetly scented Spring air. Perhaps it’s enough to take note of the high points. Maybe trying to recall my low points is just looking for trouble. But I think it’s important to look at both. Not only does it give me a yardstick with which to measure my days, they balance each other out.
Everyone who has ever played on a see saw has reached that moment when the rhythm of ups and downs becomes too predictable and so they sit on the ground for a few extra seconds, their partner on the up side. For a moment, being stuck on the high side is a pleasant surprise, and then the smile begins to fade. Life is not meant to be lived perpetually up or down. We crave the movement between the two. Without one there would be no other.
I had to laugh when my co-worker asked me, So, what is there to be scared of?” I had been telling him about my year in Belize and he was entirely in earnest with his question. “Nothing.” I said lightly.
During our time as managers of a remote lodge, Bob and I frequently met guests from the developed world who were apprehensive about everything from snakes to drinking water. It was our job to assure them that they were safe. Trying to put it into perspective we would ask, “Have you ever been in a car accident or know anyone who was in one?” We’d point out that the odds for becoming a highway casualty far outweigh those for getting snake bit.
We live on a short stretch of road with a speed limit of 45 mph, 10 miles per hour lower then the rest of Hwy 1012. This piece of road is striped to indicate two passing zones, one for south-bound traffic, followed immediately by a passing zone for traffic traveling north. A few years ago Tami discovered that if you get hit trying to turn left in the passing zone, you are both the injured party and at fault.
Before pulling out of or back into our driveway I hold my breath and tuck my tongue safely behind my teeth. The unmistakable squeal and thud of wreck sends us scrambling and we’ve played the role of first-responder three times over the past six months. Our neighbors are also quick on the scene and the running joke between us is, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” Afterwards, I email the traffic engineer at the Department of Transportation (DOT) and ask them to consider re-zoning it to no passing. No luck so far.
When we returned to the States from Nicaragua, we noticed a ubiquitous new phrase. At first, I bristled when grocery cashiers sent me on my way with a casual, “Be safe!” This must be a reaction to the 911 attack, I thought. How myopic to think that we, of all people, have anything to worry about. Here we are, perched on top of the world’s resources with every imaginable safety net installed.
Sunday found us on our back porch with a happy group of people, filling plates with potluck food when we heard the familiar thud of an accident. I set down my plate and ran to the road, hoping to find a mere fender-bender but when I arrived I saw Bob, who I last saw napping, leaning into the window of a truck. Someone was still inside!
So I dialed 911 and began answering questions. Was the patient breathing? I didn’t know. I walked over for a look and to my horror recognized the driver as a friend who had intended to join us for dinner. The dispatcher’s patience was commendable. Several times she reined me in with, “Okay, I’m going to ask some questions and I need you to answer.” I made it through the call, but not with flying colors. This was too close to home for comfort.
After I got off the phone, Haruka and I held each other in a long embrace. My neighbor Jimmy grinned wryly, saying “We have to stop meeting like this,” and I waved to his wife across the street. The ambulance quickly arrived and whisked our friend away. Everything turned out as well as could be expected. The truck suffered much, much more than the human. My contact at DOT will look into our piece of road again, and the State Troopers who wrote up the report promised to keep an eye on our stretch of road.
Still, the whole affair had a sobering affect. As much as I dislike the phrase, staying safe actually has meaning when the danger is right outside your door.
Even with five to choose from, it isn’t hard to pick my favorite brother. Johnny was my compensation prize for being dethroned as the only child and quickly became my best friend. Only fifteen months younger than I, he was my constant companion throughout all our early childhood adventures.
The Cookie and Johnny Show 1958
But wait, Bobby could also be my favorite brother. He came along three years after Johnny, a cheery ray of sunshine with his bright smile. The three of us became inseparable, like a pack of puppies. I’m pretty sure Bobby was Johnny’s favorite brother too.
The Three – Johnny, Bobby and Camille
Yes, I’d have to say Bobby was my favorite brother until little Jody arrived, a lovely child with a seriousness that bordered on divine. By now I was old enough to cradle the new baby in my arms and care for him like a little mother. I fell in love.
Joe began showing his adventurous side early on. Before he was two, he disappeared and was found several blocks away at the beach. After his second escape, my mother was forced to tether him to our back yard clothes line.
Two years later, Mike appeared on the scene and soon became my newest favorite brother. He watched wide-eyed as the rest of us bounded around him, so fascinated he rarely cried. When Mom went to hook him up to the clothes line, he begged her not to, promising not to stray. There was enough going on in his own back yard to keep him entertained. I found his unique blend of humor and uncanny ability to express it through music, cartoons and water colors irresistible.
Musical Mike with his ever impish smiling eyes
Nineteen and a half months later, James stole all of our hearts with his big, beautiful eyes. Another favorite brother had been born. When he was four and a half years old, James Taylor released Sweet Baby James. The lyrics “And rock-a-bye sweet baby James,” tickle my brain whenever I think of my youngest brother.
Sweet baby James
Today, Johnny is still my favorite brother. Our earliest memories are so intertwined that we remain as connected as twins. And Bobby, with his unique blend of common sense and wry sense of humor is also my favorite. I’m looking forward to the annual road trip with my favorite brother Joe, who often tempts me into dubious adventures. My favorite brother Mike and I often delve deep into the mysteries of life over the phone. And I get so excited at the prospect of seeing my favorite brother James that I catch myself squealing like a little girl.
With five favorite brothers, I must be the luckiest girl in the world!
James, Mike, Joe, Bobby and Johnny – 1989
I dreamed about my girlfriend Ruthann last night and that made me think of you. Plus, I can’t think of a blog topic, so I decided to write you instead.
Ruthann passed away the week before Thanksgiving. I woke up thinking, “I need to email Ruthie” and then I remembered. That’s when I thought of you because you also have a habit of showing up in my dreams. Most of the time, though you show up in my day dreams.
Even though you’ve been gone for more than twenty-five years, you are still all around me. I can smell your legendary Sunday dinners in the utensils I inherited from your kitchen, and hear your voice in the jays and blackbirds that mimic the soundtrack of your yard. I see you standing in your red plaid flannel shirt whenever I pull on a piece of red clothing. I remember you telling me I looked great in red and so I have a lot of red clothes. So did you, by the way.
Anyway, beyond dreaming about Ruthann and thinking of you, here’s what’s going on in my life: I published my first book. I know! I always knew I would write a book, but didn’t think it would be this soon. And yes, I did say “my first book.”
I guess 60 isn’t all that young, but I didn’t think I’d write my first book until after I retired. These days, however retirement is a lost concept. Come to think of it, you really didn’t retire either. You just kept on cooking up those incredible meals into your 80’s. I’ve never tasted chocolate chip cookies like the ones you baked. Please whisper your recipe in my ear one of these days.
If the truth be told, I am as close to retired as I care to get. I’m involved in my community just enough to give me social legitimacy, leaving more than enough time for writing, cooking and walking in the woods. Oh, there. You popped into my head again as I thought about the woods behind your house. What a great place to play! All of us so loved our hikes up to the sand pits.
Did you know Frankie has not been up there in years? He says he wants to keep the image in his head of what it looked like when he was a kid. He even painted a picture of it from memory.
Anyhoo, as you used to say, when I was walking in the woods today, I took stock of my mental state. Okay, that’s a fib. I interviewed myself. I know it’s weird but sometimes when I’m alone in the woods, I talk to myself. It’s amazing what I learn by talking out loud. Come to think of it, I probably started this habit right after you died and I didn’t have you to talk to anymore.
So, I was walking in the woods and I asked myself, “How are you today?” and I answered, “Pretty good” and I said “Well you sound kind of down.”
“I guess I’m feeling a little guilty.”
“I’m not working as hard as I used to.”
“Heh heh, I seem to recall you being resentful because you were working too hard, vowing to cut back on your responsibilities, and now that you’ve done that, you’re feeling guilty?”
“Yeah, I know. I guess if I have to choose resentment or guilt, I’ll go with the guilt.”
It’s not like I don’t do anything for anybody anymore. There goes your voice in my head again. Good point. Guilt is a symptom of a healthy conscience, so it’s a good sign to have a little twinge of guilt here and there. But no point in getting carried away.
Well, thanks for the nice chat, Nana. I do love you so!
“I still blame myself – for what, I can’t exactly say. I might as well condemn myself for choosing the wrong parents, or the wrong planet.”
– Sy Safransky, editor and publisher of The Sun