He Poked a Knife in my Eye

The sun seemed to be rather lazy about rising, but we made it to the Charleston Surgery Center for my 7 a.m. appointment. It was the day of my second cataract surgery and lense implant. I was excited but had a bit of angst as well.  I get anxious when someone is going to cut on me. I believe it is a natural reaction. The waiting room was almost empty, only one other soul there.  The receptionist was entirely too cheerful for  seven in the morning. There were a bunch of forms to be read and signed. I was surprised, since we had filled out several online in order to "speed up" the process. Some of the questions are quite nonsensical. I must indicate that I don't want them to file for benefits with my insurance company, although the form states that my insurance company will not honor such a claim. Bear in mind that I was reading though one relatively good eye.  After finishing these forms, I paid the lady and awaited for my turn to go under the knife. Soon I was ushered into a large room with cubby holes down one side.  The cubbies have a small bed, two chairs and some wall mounted medical equipment. There is a curtain that is used to insure privacy. There were a few women walking around in blue scrub trousers and multicolored smock tops. An attractive blonde lady told me to sit in a chair and said she would check my vitals and ask some questions. Questions? I couldn't believe there was anything else they would need to know about me after all the forms I had filled out. First she asked my name and I answered as she checked my wrist band. Why was I there? To remove a cataract from my right eye, the same side as the wrist band. She said that they always put the wristband on the right wrist.

 "Oh, really," I said, "at the other place they placed the wristband on the side indicating where the surgery would be."

"We don't do it that way here, she advised."

She checked my blood pressure and attached a clothes pin type thing to my index finger to check my pulse.  I wondered if it worked like my cellphone app did by measuring the translucency of the skin.  And then she started with the questions. What diseases and ailments had I had? I told her I had congestive heart failure.

"Has it ever failed?" she asked.

"Nope," I answered, " if it had I probably wouldn't be here."

There were more medical questions. I had to relate my combo surgery I had as a two-year-old, a tonsillectomy and circumcision.  And, of course, I was not pregnant and never had been. She asked my name again. I responded the same.

"Strip to the waist and put on this gown," she ordered.

"You know I'm here for cataract surgery?" I queried. She walked away.

I followed orders and was soon lying on the bed covered with a blanket.  They placed a hairnet on my head which was sort of unnecessary, since my head is hairless. A woman is blue was hovering over me and of course asking me my name. She said that she was the anesthetist and was going to use a topical anesthetic on  my hand, so I would not feel the needle she would implant there to feed me the anesthetic during surgery. She asked my name again and asked if I was allergic to any particular drugs or latex. I don't think I've ever tasted latex. By now my wife had joined us as well as another nurse and the surgeon.  It was getting crowded and I was feeling claustrophobic.

The doctor had me sit on the bedside and look into this machine while he used a Sharpie to make marks around my eye. I was confident he was marking the correct eye. After this I started getting a bit woozy, and they wheeled me into another room, the operating room. The last question asked was "Do you have to use the bathroom?  "They secured me to the bed. There was even a strap over my forehead.  The bright light of the microscope shined in my right eye.  I did not feel the scalpel. I did not see the implant, as it was inserted through a small incision and unfurled inside my eye. The operation was painless. They rolled me out of the operating room, and nobody asked my name. Soon Claudette and I were on our way home.  I was famished and quickly consumed leftover biscuits with homemade syrup.

I can now see better than anytime in my life after he poked a knife in my eye.

Clarence

Anchorage Bed and Breakfast

One of the most interesting things about travel is the people you meet. Some of them just stick in your mind forever.  Fortunately for me, these are good memories.  And so it was with Clarence.

We were staying at a bed and breakfast in Anchorage, Alaska.  We prefer bed and breakfasts to the usual hotels when we travel. At the bed and breakfasts we find that you are more likely to meet interesting people, travelers as well as the locals. Particularly when you gather around the breakfast table for a communal meal. The bed and breakfast in Anchorage was different than what we were used to. Instead of being one building, it was made of several.  Our abode was like an apartment a few doors down from where we would meet for breakfast. We managed a good night's sleep after landing  at the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport, picking up our rental PT Cruiser, and grabbing  a bite to eat before finding the bed and breakfast.  The weather was a cool drizzle.

At morning breakfast we met our hosts, or rather the son of the owners of the bed and breakfast.  The son, his wife, and two-year-old were from  Mexico and had come to help out his mother  in

It's not real! But don't I wish!

the tourist season. He ran some sort of internet business, which he could maintain from Alaska via a laptop. The other guests were from Minnesota and near the Arctic Circle area of Alaska.  I tend to enjoy breakfasts with other guests. We have met some very interesting people this way.   The breakfast was delicious with bacon, sausages, pancakes, pastries, cereals, and various local jellies and jams.  I rarely have a problem starting conversations with strangers, and before long I felt like the Andersens of Minnesota and I had been friends forever. We had visited their home state a few years earlier and knew some native Minnesotans back home. Also, we had almost frozen to death, or so it seemed, on the shores of Lake Superior when camping across the country.

The Andersens, husband, wife, and teenaged daughter, were in Anchorage to meet their son. He lived in the far north and would see them the next day. As a matter of fact the other two guests were his wife and son. She was a Native American of the frozen north and her son looked a great deal like her.  He had her jet-black hair, slightly turned-up nose, and Asian-shaped eyes. But in those Asian-shaped eyes was the ice-blue color of Grandpa Andersen's.  He said his name was Clarence, and he was sitting next to me.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Ten," he said, while stabbing a piece of sausage.

"Like video games?"

"No, never play 'em."

"What's your favorite TV show?"

"I do not watch very much television. Don't have time..."

"Clarence would rather not be here," his mother interjected.

"Where would you rather be, Clarence?"  I queried.

"Home."

"Why?"

"I've got work to do!"

"What?  You're only ten-years-old!"

"I have a trap line."

"And what do you trap?"

"Whatever gets in the traps.  I look at them once a day.  My friend is checking them while I'm here. I need to check them myself."

"You trap animals? Why?"

"For their pelts," he said, "mostly fox."  I thought I detected a condescending tone in his voice.

We had all finished breakfast and it was time to pack up and leave.  I waved "goodbye" to Clarence as we pulled out of the driveway. I'll always remember my conversation with Clarence, a ten-year-old trapping animals for fur in 2005.  And, he didn't watch television or play video games.  However, if my memory serves me well, I set rabbit boxes to catch ole Peter when I was ten.

Wal-Mikes

Another Thing My Wife Got Me Into...

It was a hot August day in the South Carolina lowcountry; the kind of heat that radiates off the old city of Charleston waiting expectantly for a sea breeze. Or, maybe, a thundercloud would form and drench us with cool rain soon to become steam I mused as the group walked up Queen Street past the half buried cannon barrel toward Meeting. We had just left the Southend Brewery and Restaurant at the corner of Queen and East Bay where our culinary adventure had begun.

I was not new to the craggy brick structure that houses a brewery and has the only glass elevator in the city. I had long enjoyed their grouper sandwiches when Vincent and I sold art on the streets. Now Vincent is gone, and I don't sell art on the street anymore and haven't been in the Southend Brewery in several years until today. Today was sort of a "Honey-do".  Claudette approached me several days ago and told me she had purchased tickets via Groupon for a Charleston Culinary Tour.  I had agreed remembering the fine progressive dinner we had enjoyed several years ago. This time we would be walking instead of taking a carriage.

I arrived at the brewery a few minutes late and found our guide, Glenn Morehead, right inside the door. He told me to go up to the third floor.  Aboard the glass elevator I surveyed the kitchen, brewing vats, and dining areas on the way up.  The tables were decked out with white tablecloths, and the earlier arrivals were already seated. I believe there were about a dozen  people, some retired couples and some younger, with a sprinkling of retired high school English teachers.  Our guide briefed us on the culinary scene in Charleston. One interesting fact was that if you ate in a different restaurant every day it would take about 15 years to complete the cycle.  Our tour would include visiting three eateries and sampling three dishes in each with commentary by the chef who prepared them.

Then, they brought out the food.  There were some interesting dishes: pulled pork with coleslaw on toast with a fried green tomato on top, char-grilled  pork, and barbecue shrimp on cheese grits. I am basically a "grits for breakfast" guy, but I've found that they're good at other meals as well. One dish at the Southend Brewery proved the exception.  The barbecued shrimp on cheese grits were

exceptionally good.   They were very coarse ground grits, and the mild cheddar cheese seemed to be suspended between each "grit". The shrimp were batter fried to perfection, a rarity.   I must admit that 99% of all the shrimp I eat have been over-cooked. Once the shrimp changes color, it's cooked.  Additional cooking just makes it tough. The barbecue sauce was red and sweet with just a bit of heat. Chopped scallions added a touch of contrasting color and additional flavor.  The dishes were great accompanied by a couple of in-house beers, a dark and a light.

We were greeted by the manager of Eli's Table  on Meeting Street. This building previously housed  Joseph's, which was a favorite of ours. We preferred their cranberry bog roll-up. But, alas, cranberry bogs are no more. The lady chef here had prepared some special treats for us.  A melon gazpacho, grilled pork chop, and peach cobbler was the fare. The gazpacho was unique with a blend of melon, cucumber, cilantro, jalapeno and other various and sundry items. The first taste was interesting with

a bit of heat. The second almost burned a hole in my tongue. If I want anything this hot, I'll light a match and eat the flame!  The pork was finished to perfection, very tender and moist, served with sweet potatoes and a pesto sauce. The couple next to me had martinis garnished with crispy fried bacon, a house speciality. The tiny peach cobblers were served in miniature canning  jars and had oatmeal topping under a dollop of whipping cream. Yum!

From there we walked over to Market Street and began the walk toward the Cooper River.  The market was full of the usual tourists. The air held a plethora of odors, the most dominant being shrimp cooking and suntan oil.  We passed the utility pole covered with tourist chewing gum which appeared to have been cleaned recently, but a new layer was being applied. Across the way was the Customs House.  Burwell's Stone Fired Grill is just before you get to the little guard house at the base of Market Street. The restaurant is relatively new and offers a unique dining experience. A very chatty fellow named Eric met us and seated us at  a long table. I immediately noticed the difference here. There was a lot more space between tables, the silverware was heavy, and a wood fired grill dominates. Here they serve a unique appetizer in a modified oriental soup spoon. It is a liquid, and since it is savory I will call it a soup. Quite tasty. According to the ever-talking Eric there is a great variety of this liquid appetizer. Eric launches into never ending facts about the restaurant and its menu. It is to be known as a steakhouse.  He says the steaks are of the finest aged beef, which comes from a cross-breed between Black Angus and Kobe cattle.  There is no Kobe breed of cattle.  Kobe is a cut of beef of Japanese beef cattle. On the menu the steaks are referred to as Wagyu steaks.  Wagyu is the Japanese word for cattle.  Nevertheless, we were served cubes of Wagyu beef to cook ourselves. Each couple had a hot lava stone on a tray placed in front of them flanked by two small bowls of steak sauce.  The stone had been heated to 700 degrees Fahrenheit and was coated with sea salt. Using my fork, I placed the cubes of meat on the

stone to cook. Forty-five seconds on each side and it was cooked to perfection. The beef was very tender and juicy. Yum! Burrell's also serves up kangaroo. Maybe I'll try that sometime. Our final dish was octopus.  Claudette got them to substitute pork for octopus in her salad.  She was not the only person who asked for a different meat.The cephalopod's tentacles were cut into one inch lengths,  grilled, and served on a bed of greens with pickled peppers. It was delicious.  I had had octopus in Japan, but this one was much more tender.  Local is better?  The texture reminded me of the pig's knuckles I had eaten in Santo Domingo, and the tiny suction cups were not a problem.  Claudette enjoyed her pork.

We enjoyed the culinary tour immensely and would recommend it highly. The tour doesn't visit the same restaurants each time.  I'm sure we will do it again. One note of interest: no one served chicken!

South Dakota NIghts

Wikipedia photo 

The sun was sinking in the west when we pulled in the campground east of Mount Rushmore. We had spent most of the day at the National Historic site. Now it was time for a relaxing evening by the campfire after pitching the tent and preparing dinner.  We had picked the worst possible time to visit Mount Rushmore. I will never again visit this area of South Dakota during the great motorcycle rally in nearby Sturgis. The area is inundated with Harley-Davidsons. I don't have anything personal against bikers, but I do have a problem with someone cranking up a motorcycle six feet from my tent at three in the morning. Hopefully, we had left most of the two-wheelers behind when we entered this campground. Claudette was erecting the tent while I prepared the evening meal when I heard that deep throated rumble of a Harley.

"Guess what?" I said.

"I thought we left them at the KOA," she said.

"Well, tomorrow we'll be out of South Dakota.  If I never hear another motorcycle it'll be too soon," I said.

We were camped on a small clearing in the tall prairie grass. Our biker "friends" were some thirty feet away. We had salmon with rice and vegetables and a nice sauvignon blanc. Then, relaxing around the campfire, we watched the last rays of the western sun disappear. "Have you noticed it?" I asked.

"What?" said she.

"The silence," I responded with a smile.

"Oh, the silence; it's nice," she noted.

"Our biker 'friends' have turned in early," I said.

We sat in silence, each too much involved in our own thoughts to talk. The flames turned to glowing embers as the darkness crept upon us.

"What's that!" she said.

"Where?"

"Over there at the edge of the grass." There was concern in her voice.

I saw a pair of glowing orange eyes at the edge of the tall grass.
"Probably a house cat,"  I said reassuringly.

"It looks too tall!"

"Well, maybe, but I think it's a cat," I said.

"It's too tall.  It's three feet off the ground." Now her voice had a tinge of fear.

"You know our cat Sophie is a big kitty, and when she stretches out she's pretty tall." The assurance in my voice was not projecting well.

"Maybe it's a bear!" Now she really had fear in her voice, and she was moving closer to me.

"There are no bears around here. Could be a coyote though," I said, moving closer to her.

"Will they attack people?" She was now gripping my arm.

"No, not usually," I said, trying to be calm but remembering that if animals have rabies they will attack humans. "I'm sure it's nothing to be afraid of."

"Maybe a wolf, I remember what that Indian said about them in Wyoming." She was now pressed against me.

"I don't think they're wolves around here."

We watched in silence. Time drug by. We stared at the eyes in the dark.  I think we blinked our eyes maybe every five minutes. And then they were gone.  "Whatever it was is gone now.  Let's get some sleep," I said, but I wasn't sleepy.

"Is there room for both of us on your cot? I guess that's a silly question," She asked a question and answered it.

At breakfast we looked across the clearing to the place we had seen the glowing eyes the night before. There was a mound of dirt there about two and a half feet high. It may have been an old ant hill. "You know, I believe we say a common house cat sitting on top of the ant hill last night," I said.

"It was a wolf," she said with conviction.