Emergency Room Adventures of an Octogenarian

 “Tony,” she said, “Take me to the Emergency Room!”

“Is she talking to me? She’s not even in this dream.” I say to myself. I wake up. It is 2:30 in the morning as I gradually bring myself from a very good dream. 

“We need to go now,” she said. I noticed a bit of urgency in her voice. That bit of urgency in her voice voice expedited my extrication from the wonderful dream. Memory served me well as I recalled the fine print in the marriage contract.  She was recovering from surgery and the aftereffects of anesthesia had left her with nausea to the point she could not sleep. 

Soon we were on our way to Trident Hospital. 

It was midweek. All was quiet at the Emergency entrance. A security guard and another man were engaged in conversation as we drove up. I moved quickly, like I did when taking my very pregnant wife to the hospital some fifty odd years ago.. 

“Tony,” she said, “Take me to the Emergency Room!”

“Is she talking to me? She’s not even in this dream.” I say to myself. I wake up. It is 2:30 in the morning as I gradually bring myself from a very good dream. 

“We need to go now,” she said. I noticed a bit of urgency in her voice. That bit of urgency in her voice voice expedited my extrication from the wonderful dream. Memory served me well as I recalled the fine print in the marriage contract.  She was recovering from surgery and the aftereffects of anesthesia had left her with nausea to the point she could not sleep. 

Soon we were on our way to Trident Hospital. 

It was midweek. All was quiet at the Emergency entrance. A security guard and another man were engaged in conversation as we drove up. I moved quickly, like I did when taking my very pregnant wife to the hospital some fifty odd years ago. 

I went through the automatically opening doors with my eyes on a wheel chair inside. I was stopped by a security guard ordering me to walk through a metal detector.I quickly dump the contents of my pockets into the container provided. A year or so earlier I had been a part of out church’s jail ministry and had to go through such a metal detector at each visit. I, begrudgingly with haste, complied to his wishes.  I grabbed the first wheel chair I saw and returned to the car and help my wife into it. Although she was taking pain killing medications, she continues to have pain with certain movements. Navigating the automatic doors was easy as we entered the hospital. 

There was no one in the emergency entrance. To the left was the sitting area with multicolored upholstered chairs. Beyond was a hallway. On the right wall were two closed doors—wide doors, the kind hospitals have. In the corner was a counter area which was open from the rear. Two men were behind the counter which had several computer monitors and other clerical items. One of the men was in a security guard’s uniform and the other was a  huge  man with a black skull cap behind the desk was very efficient in admitting us. It was the kind of head gear often seen on some kind of religious natives of the African continent. His size was that of a television wrestler of the 1960s.  He had a large but neatly trimmed beard and big arms laden with what appeared to be ancient ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.They were barely visible against his dark skin. There was something about him that reminded me terrorist of a middle eastern country. But his manner was a polar opposite to his appearance which I would call menacing.    

The was a buzzing sound from the door next to the desk of the big man who had received our personal information and reason for being there. An attractive young nurse in blue scrubs smiled and said to my wife, “How can I help you?”

She ushered us into the sterile surroundings and began the interrogation concerning our being there. And she referred to me as “Sweetness”. A doctor joined us and began his diagnosis of my wife’s condition. 

I suddenly remembered I had left the car blocking the entrance to the emergency facility. “Should I move my car? I left it at the emergency  entrance.” 

“Yes, please. I’ll let you out.” The nurse said as she opened a door leading to the entrance way. Within minutes I was in the dimly lit parking area. I found a place fairly close, about seventy-five feet from the entrance. 

I jumped from the car into the semi-darkness and hurriedly started back to the hospital. However, my right foot caught a concrete curb and I took a dive into the asphalt parking lot. The ground hit me with two hundred forty pounds of force. I was down. My Apple Watch sprang into action. It vibrated on my wrist, emitted a wailing sound, flashed the word,”Fall!” and the words “call 911” on the small screen. 

Little did I know that when I entered my age in the Apple Watch app,that FALL DETECTION was activated due to my age being over 65. 

Before I could acknowledge my fall there were at least three or four people around me. Hands were feeling my limbs for breakage. Voices were asking if I was injured. Like sounds out of the darkness. And the young nurse who had called me sweetness deactivated the Apple Watch.  After one minute of lack of movement a countdown will start and “911” will be contacted.  

Oh, yes, by the way, those big black arms covered with hieroglyphic tattoos were lifting me up.  He helped me hobble back inside the treatment room and the young nurse tended to my wounds. My wife and I sat in matching wheel chairs. We were dismissed shortly thereafter.  Claudette and I left the hospital with me a little banged up and she had been prescribed some new medications for her ills.

About my fall, and the big guy helping me, I remembered something my mother always said.  “You can’t judge a book by it’s cover.”

Before I could acknowledge my fall there were at least three or four people around me. Hands were feeling my limbs for breakage. Voices were asking if I was injured. Like sounds out of the darkness. And the young nurse who had called me sweetness deactivated the Apple Watch.  After one minute of lack of movement a countdown will start and “911” will be contacted.  

Oh, yes, by the way, those big black arms covered with hieroglyphic tattoos were lifting me up.  He helped me hobble back inside the treatment room and the young nurse tended to my wounds. My wife and I sat in matching wheel chairs. We were dismissed shortly thereafter.  Claudette and I left the hospital with me a little banged up and she had been prescribed some new medications for her ills.

About my fall, and the big guy helping me, I remembered something my mother always said.  “You can’t judge a book by it’s cover.”

le Petit Aeronaut

 Alberto Santos-Dumont had to fly!

He had become  an expert balloonist. The  Brazilian thrilled many Parisians with his ballooning exhibitions. Some of the the balloons he had designed and manufactured himself. Like the one he carried in a briefcase.

 But this did not fulfill his desire to fly.

You see, Santos-Dumont realized the limitations of balloon flight. He could only control the vertical, up and down movement of the balloon. The wind controlled the other directions of flight! The diminutive son of a Brazilian coffee magnate needed to do what the wind did…control the  balloon’s flight in any direction! Or build a powered aircraft that could be controlled in all directions.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries France had become the epicenter of men trying to fly, that is, to take to the sky in a heavier than air machine controlled by a pilot. This aircraft would later be known as the airplane.

Santos-Dumont was a tireless experimenter. He referred to his  airships only by number. The balloons he designed had a different shape. The balloon or gas envelope was shaped lake a sausage with pointed ends. And the basket for the pilot was placed  inside a wooden framework which also housed a small gasoline engine. Should this engine stop running during flight, it could be restarted via a bicycle pedal mechanism. The Brazilian was the first to place a gasoline engine in an airship. That engine turned a large propeller mounted tractor style on the front of the gondola. That engine and propeller supplied forward motion for the craft. The addition of a rudder gave Santos-Dumont the ability to steer the airship. Alberto Santos-Dumont  designed, constructed, and flew this powered aircraft. This type of craft became known as a dirigible. One of these dirigibles was so small that Santos-Dumont used it as his personal vehicle for transportation around Paris.  Can you imagine the excitement of seeing the diminutive aeronaut land his craft on the lawn of a palatial  country estate or in front of his favorite restaurant?

Ever the competitor, Santos-Dumont entered the 

competition for the prestigious Deutsch Prize. Henri Deutsch, “the King of Oil” in Europe, posted a prize of  100,000  fr. to be awarded to the aeronaut who could fly from Parc St Cloud to the Eiffel Tower. These were the regulations:

The aircraft must be able to fly to the Eiffel Tower, round the monument, and return to the place of ascent in no more than 30 minutes, without stops, a total of 11 kilometres, under the eyes of a commission from the Aeroclub de France convened at least one day in advance. This required an average speed of 22 km/h.

Upon the announcement of this contest, Santos-Dumont began frantically building an airship for this competition.  It would be Number 4. Unfortunately, Number 4 crashed during testing. Construction began on another. Fortunately, at this time Santos-Dumont had a large hanger for construction and storage of his airships. Also, he had the ability to generate hydrogen gas on site. Hydrogen was the lighter than air gas used to lift the dirigibles. Needless to say, airship Number 5 did not include the

 

features that led to the demise of Number 4. This aircraft began the competition but started to lose gas before reaching the Eiffel Tower, it began to descend and was caught by the side of a large hotel. After being rescued by the local firemen, Santos-Dumont began work on airship  Number 6 the next day. The closing date for the Deutsch Prize was approaching rapidly! 

This airship was larger than Number 5 and, of course had improvements. The specifications were as follows:

108 ft long, ( the length of 2 semi trucks) and

20 ft in diameter. The envelope was of varnished silk and the craft was powered by a 12 hp engine amidships linked to a two bladed pusher propeller. The propeller was of the fabric covered variety. The pilots basket was on the bow. It is interesting that the pilot’s compartment was a basket—a holdover from the spherical ballooning days, no doubt. 

The two previous attempts had resulted in crashes but Santos-Dunont was not discouraged. The  flight of Number 6 was almost uneventful. Except the engine surprisingly stopped in mid-flight. The intrepid aeronaut left his position at the bow of the craft, threw caution to the wind, and crawled back to the engine and restarted it. It is debatable whether he finished in the time allotted or not (He was over the starting point but had not actually touched down.)  Henri Deutsch, the millionaire who had posted the prize, agreed that he had won the prize. Pandemonium reined in the streets of Paris and “ la petit aeronaut”  was the hero of the day! October 19, 1901. 

The Brazilian aeronaut realized that the dream of true fight would only become reality with a heavier than air flying machine. He set to work on such a craft and in 1906 he achieved that goal.

The 14bis was an interesting appearing aircraft. It was ungainly in appearance and was nicknamed the bird of prey. It was a canard design. (Perhaps more like a goose!)   The aircraft looked like a collection of box kites and had a 38 foot wing span. It was powered by  a 50 hp. V-8 engine. The 6 foot propeller pushed it through the air. Ungainly though it was, it flew! It was the first flight of a heavier than air flying machine witnessed by a crowd, photographed, and recorded as a motion picture. At this time the Wright Brothers had flown their Wright Flyer but few people had seen it and many people in Europe didn’t believe they had flown. To many, Alberto Santos-Dumont was the first to fly.  But when Wilbur Wright gave a demonstration flight in France in 1908, Santos-Dumont acknowledged the superior aircraft. 

He began to design an build an aircraft unlike any other and like some that exist today. He would build and fly his personal aircraft. And fulfill his dreams of flight. That was Number 19. It became known as the Demoiselle. The name can mean either a young girl or a damselfly. It was the ultimate in personal transportation in 1907. 

The aircraft frame was made of strong, light, bamboo with the 17 foot wing and cruciform tail covered with brilliant yellow Japanese silk. A tractor mounted propeller turned by a small gasoline engine mounted in the center of the leading edge of the wing supplied forward motion. The pilot sat below the wing in a seat fashioned between two bicycle wheels. The tiny craft weighed only 242lbs. With a top speed of 55 mph. Which, by the way, was much faster than the Wright Flyer of the day.   One of the many unique features of the aircraft was that it could be partially disassembled for transport on a small truck. It did have some misgivings though. According to some, it was difficult to fly. Santos-Dumont himself complained that he could not check the time on his pocket watch while flying. However, the famous jeweler Louis Cartier solved that problem by designing the wrist watch for him. The Cartier Santos watch is still available today. On his visit to America Santos-Dumont allowed plans of the Demoiselle to be published in Popular Mechanics Magazine. The Brazilian did not patent any of his discoveries or inventions. Several reproductions have been built for museums. One of the most pristine is in Musée de l'Air et de l’Espace, in Paris. A reproduction was made for the movie: Those Magnificent Men and Their Flying Machines. Stunt men were unable to get the craft to fly until they discovered that the inventor of the aircraft weighed only one hundred ten pounds!  They found a young woman to fly the plane.

The creation of the ultralight aircraft was the peak Alberto Santos-Dumont’s life as a aviation pioneer. The ultralight Demoiselle is the model for the ultralight aircraft of today. A personal flying machine easily maintained and flown and within the reach of the average personWith the advent of WWI, he witnessed the horror of some of his contributions the aviation being used for the destruction of mankind. He returned to his native Brazil and lived out the rest of his life in semi-recluse. 

Here is the link for the YouTube video about the Demoiselle: https://youtu.be/20HEN7Crl-M?si=q2nGUu_tDcALtOzm

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Family Fun at Adam’s Run

Contests are a part of life, particularly in sports. The majority of sports began as contests. Tractor pulling is no different. Of course, some would not agree that tractor pulling is not a sport. But then there are those who argue that the earth is flat!

Tractor pulling probably has it origins in our agrarian culture where two farm boys argued about who had the strongest horse. A contest ensued. Each horse was harnessed to a sled. The command was given for the pull to begin. Onlookers would jump on the slow moving sleds. The horse that could pull the most sled riders would have been declared the winner. These obviously were not draft horses which can pull over 8,000 lbs. (four tons)  That would be over forty average men! 

After the mechanization of farming the tractor replaced the horse. The first tractors were the traction engines. The evolved from steam engines mounted on wheels to make them portable. The engine was simply towed, usually by a team of mules or horses, to the machinery to be powered by the engine. This could be a thrashing machine or hammer mill or other machine. An inter prize man found a way to have the engine power the wheels and , walk, you have a traction engine. Soon the smoke belching monsters would be pulling plows formerly pulled by draft animals. And the tractor was born.

With the perfection of a practical internal combustion engine was the birth of the modern tractor. When I went to 4-H camp when I was twelve years old I had the opportunity to operate various tractors. Farmall, John

Deere, Allis Chalmers, were some of the modern drafters at camp. The 4-H Club was created by the federal government for education and entertainment of farm youth. I enjoyed operating the tractors but, unfortunately, the farm I lived on was not that mechanized. 

Tractor pulling became organized. Tractors compete in various classes designated by size, type and modifications. A tractor may have as little as 15 horsepower or several thousand. The contest is which can pull the largest weight the greatest distance. There are national sanctioning organizations designating the rules for competing. A tractor may be a small garden tractor or a multi engine monster engineered and built specifically for tractor pulls. The Pulltown National Tractor Pulling Championships in Bowling Green, Ohio is the largest tractor pulling event in the world.  

Local tractor pulls are a family oriented event. The tractors in this video are of the normal local farm type. The type of tractor used on the average family farm in coastal South Carolina. Family fun at Adams Run. 

I Lost My Friend

Yesterday we attended a family reunion. An opportunity to see old cousins and friends we had not seen in about four years. Family reunions were a big thing during my youth. We looked forward to seeing those cousins that we only saw once a year. Today family reunions don’t seem to be that popular. Perhaps it has to do with families not being the close knit unit they once were. Or, maybe the geographic dispersion of family members. I just don’t  know? 

The family reunion we attended was for the descendants of my great grandfather, Samuel Oliver Young, born 1833. But the dominant surname there was not Young. Due to the lack of interest no doubt. Nevertheless, we enjoyed visiting with old friends and cousins. I was particularly shocked (I guess that’s the right word.) by the changes Father Time had made to one of my oldest friends. 

I don’t remember when I first met Tom. His nickname was “Rooster”, but I don’t know why, and I never called him that. I think maybe I met him when we were both Woodmen of  the World. (WOW)  Woodmen of the World was a fraternal organization of life insurance policyholders. Younger members were members of Boys of Woodcraft. BOW attended regular monthly meetings with the WOW.  That is where, I believe, I first met Tom. His uncle was the head of the local WOW Camp. All WOW camps (local chapters) were named for trees and ours was Cedar Camp 412. This is where I met this slim lad with a ready smile and curly black hair. He became my lifelong friend. Later after each of us had graduated from high school, we were working at the same textile mill. I had a ‘57 Ford and he had a ‘57 Plymouth and we raced over the Carolina dirt roads to work every day. We neither wrecked nor got tickets. We were lucky. Over the next fifty odd years we saw each other sporadically, usually at family reunions. I guess I should give the reason why he was at our family reunion. He married a distant cousin of mine and that made him a legitimate attendee!  

And yesterday, I saw him again. He had put on a few pounds like the rest of us and the black curly hair was thin and gray. But his eyes had lost their mischievous look. The biggest difference in his demeanor was when he spoke. He spoke like some one who speaks in a foreign language. Slowly, as though searching for the correct word to use. And sometimes his answer would make no sense at all. I was flabbergasted. I did not know how to react. But lent a sympathetic ear. My first experience talking with someone experiencing the onset of dementia. I wonder if he knows who I am. I am afraid to ask.I would hate to hear that one of my oldest, if not the oldest, friend does not recognize me. It hurts me to listen to his repeated ramblings. I could probably walk away and he would not recognize my rudeness. I could not do that. Is friendship lost because it is not recognized? I think not. We walked through the cemetery housing our ancestors. He related a tale to me of how he and one other had seen two growling monsters emerge from the earth and give chase. When we reached the Civil War veteran’s grave I took a closer look at the stone. I turned to speak to him, but he was not there. He was about fifty feet away, striding toward the building where we had enjoyed a meal. I followed at a distance to ensure that he  went directly there where his wife was waiting. I knew my friend was having some problems but never expected this. He was suffering from dementia. Dementia is characterized by the impairment of at least two brain functions,such as memory loss and judgement. There are more than three million cases each year in the country. There is no cure, but treatment can help.

By the time I returned to the building, he was gone. This encounter has stuck with me. Could this be the fate that I may suffer? 

Incident at an French Gas Station

 

“ We’re almost out of gas! The red light is blinking! She said.  

“I’m sure there is a gas station close by,” I said, adding, “I’m sure that Renaults get good gas mileage.” We were in the suburbs of Avignon, France, a few kilometers from Eyragues where we were staying.

“We’d better find one soon,” she said with a hint of panic in her voice. Claudette was doing all the driving while we were in France. I had unfortunately misplaced my wallet somewhere in Paris and it was not to be found. 

“There’s one on the left up ahead,” I announced. I saw a sigh of relief on my wife’s face. We made a quick exit off the street to find a gas station consisting of two stand alone gas pumps and a carwash. There was no attendant in sight. Indeed no 7 Eleven either. 

She was out of the car and at the pump before I could get my shoes on. (If I'm not driving, I slip my shoes off.) She was inserting  the Visa card into the gas pump by the time I got out of the car. 

“It doesn’t work," she said, “It won’t take my credit card.”

“What do you mean, it won’t take the credit card?” I wanted to know. 

“I know it worked on the toll road…I’ll try a different card,” she said with a certain amount of stress in her voice.and from the abundance of her purse sprang perhaps the plastic savior.

“Oh no-o-o, it doesn’t work either!” She said and I volunteered to try my hand. She gave me the card and I tried every conceivable way to get the machine to acknowledge our wants and desires. I did not succeed. 

While I was attempting to solve the problem, Claudette had spied a Frenchman. He was apparently at the location to maintain the carwash. Neither the carwash nor the gas station were staffed by the attendents. She was gesturing to him and speaking in broken French as they approached me at the gas pumps. 

He was a tall rangy fellow of maybe fifty years or so. He wore dirty work clothes and had gray stubble on his weathered face. He looked a lot like Jean Reno, the actor.  There was a somewhat bewildered look on his face. I held a credit card in my hend and mimicked putting it into the gas pump. He looked at me quizzically as I shook my head. Against my better judgement, I gave him the card and held up ten fingers meaning I wanted ten liters of gasoline. The Frenchman entered the card in the slot and pushed it. His hand moved so very slow as the plastic card made its way into the gas pump. It seemed to have taken forever. I held my breath! He pushed some buttons on the pump…but nothing happened. The card and it did not work for him either. He looked perplexed and examined the card carefully before returning it to me. We had to try something different. Somehow I managed to get the carwash repairman to use his own credit card to put gasoline in our rented Renault.  I think it was my pantomime skills! He bought us €20 of gasoline! I gave him €25, I thought it was worth a €5 “tip”.

We never determined why the Visa card worked sporadically. We frequently are asked if the French are rude and crude. But we’ve always found them to be friendly and very helpful.  Maybe  not being rude, they’re just reflecting how they are being treated.