The search for immortality has been a part of our imagination since we first became aware that we would die. It has been pursued in myths and legends, provided some of the impetus for the exploration of the far corners of the earth, and remains part of plots in stories of time and space travel, television series and movies It  is always in the back of people’s minds as we make advances in medical research, and it sustains parts of industries such as cryogenics.

In our fear of death, however, we forget that the cycle of life is what makes life so precious. If everyone lived forever, the planet could not deal with it, so our dreams are more oriented towards finding a way that we, as “lucky” individuals, could achieve this dream. It is a case of “be careful what you wish for”. Imagine a world where your friends and family pass away in the blink of an eye. You see your children and grandchildren come and go. You watch stars be born and burn out. Your body never grows old but your mind has seen it all.

Would it be a blessing or a curse that you would never die?

I wrote Immortality (Riding in Boxcars, 2006) to focus on this issue. After all, the ride in that “Boxcar” would be a long one.

Glenn K. Currie

 

Immortality

 

Seeking

The blessings

Of eternal youth.

Finding

A single drop

From the Fountain.

All his dreams

His prayers

Answered.

 

Heart and soul,

Joined eternally.

Immortal.

One man, alone,

Traveling forever.

Endless time

To watch

Stars,

Born and gone.

 

Aeons

To search

The universe,

Seeking the antidote.

Aeons

Realizing,

The blessings,

Of beginnings

And ends.

 

 

Time for a few comments on how the bureaucrats and their special language are driving us all crazy. I hate acronyms. Everyone pretends they know what they stand for but most of the time we just move on from them without a clue, because we don’t want to have to ask the “stupid” question. Fortunately, I have always been very good at asking “stupid” questions, and I have a history of driving bureaucrats crazy by insisting they tell me what each of these things actually stands for. Here’s a little secret. They often don’t know either. By the way, did you ever wonder if acronym is actually an acronym for something, and if so what. Next time you’re in a big meeting with someone spinning off all these gobbledygook words, ask them what acronym stands for.

The bottom line is that I am tired of the government screwing up my life. It’s not enough that they write 100,000 page tax codes or 2000 page health plans, but then they load these things up with non-word words that mean nothing to the average reader. Then when you ask them what the hell a HIPPA is they get to look down on you with that special bureaucratic “smirk” that says you’re an idiot.

I wrote the following piece (Granite Grumblings, 2011) when I was in a VNA meeting. Oh, you don’t know that the VNA is the Visiting Nurse Association? What are you, some kind of idiot? Anyway I wrote this piece in one of those meetings, because the government seemed to be swamping us by the minute with new acronyms.

I hope it brings a little comic relief from a world that seems increasingly to have no sense of humor. I can only hope that no bureaucrat is reading this or I will probably be audited, again.

Glenn K. Currie

 

Comments From The HHA (Home Health Agency) Frontlines

 

I sat in what I hoped looked like a state of contemplative evaluation. Actually, however, it was dazed incomprehension.

They were talking about Groupers, HIPPS, No-RAP LUPA’s and OASIS.

I hate acronyms. They are never what they seem, and they make my head ache. In fact, lately, the whole health care system is starting to make me crazy.

A few years ago, I agreed to serve on the Board of Trustees of the Concord Regional Visiting Nurse Association (aka the CRVNA or VNA).

I figured this might be fun. You know, get to meet a lot of nice nurses, eat some cookies at the meetings, maybe learn something about the caregivers who are going to be dealing with me in a few years. (Maybe sooner if there are many more meetings like this one).

The CFO is now discussing HHRG’s. “An HHRG of C2FZS1 would have a care mix weight of 1.0758 and a labor quotient of 1.3303, if the patient lives in Barnstable…”

The room begins to swim. A bunch of old Navy acronyms suddenly appear on the inside of my eyeballs. (MEGO/SOS/ASAP). I have a page and a half of these VNA acronyms and their meanings in front of me, but they aren’t helping.

I look up Grouper, which I always thought was a large bottom-feeding fish. But no, according to my sheet, its “a software module…and for HH PPS data from the OASIS assessment tool is grouped to form HHRG’s and output HIPPS codes”.

It goes downhill from there. Trust me when I tell you that HIPPS and OASIS are not body parts or a green spot in the desert. And the No-RAP LUPAs are not a Latin American singing group.

The amazing thing to me is that the nurses and administrators actually understand all this stuff. (They don’t necessarily like it but they understand it).

The health care system is getting so complicated now, that only geniuses should apply to become nurses. Which is probably why we have a current shortage of nurses.

Who would have thought thirty years ago that nurses would all be using laptops on their visits, and focusing on POC’s, PEP’s and PPS to keep HCFA happy.

The good news is that they haven’t forgotten about the basic mission of providing quality care to those in need. And despite all the bureaucracy, the level of services that these wonderful people provide is better than ever.

That doesn’t, however, prevent me from increasingly feeling like an anachronism in this era of acronyms and anomalies.

I think they just keep me around because I’m so good looking, and I make everyone else feel smart.

(By the way, I am actually writing this in the meeting. Hopefully, all the other Trustees and staff think I am paying attention to my DMERC’s and SCICs and am just taking copious notes.)

Glenn K. Currie

 

New England is full of old stone walls: walls that seem to appear from nowhere and go nowhere. They have been overrun by new growths of oak and maple, and lilac bushes and poison ivy.

It is a testament that much of northern New England has returned from farm and dairy land to the wooded hills and valleys that preceded settlement.

It is also a message to all of us who live under the delusion that man somehow rules the earth.

The stone walls each tell a story of a family that worked to bring nature under control. The energy to clear fields and build walls demonstrates the work ethic of our early settlers, and is certainly a contributor to the character and independence that seemed to define our citizens. And yet within a few generations, much of the land has been reclaimed by the original inhabitants.

All that remains of these families are the beautiful stone walls that serve as monuments to a presence and a past. In the end they simple whisper that the earth conquers all.

The Stone Wall (Riding in Boxcars, 2006) was written after many walks in the woods of northern New England.

Glenn K. Currie

 

The Stone Wall

 

It gradually disappeared into the woods,

A tired traveler, losing its way.

Old when old was young,

When the ground grew corn and sweet melon.

 

Built slowly, stone by stone.

Disgorged painfully,

From earth asleep for millenniums.

Built with the dreams of the young.

 

Abandoned when the farm failed.

Left to the slow embrace

Of oaks and pines and sugar maple.

The caress of winter winds and summer rain.

 

Finally merging into the woodlands,

A disintegrating home to ancient ghosts.

Stones fallen awkwardly among the leaves,

Weary markers on a journey to nowhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Below is a poem that I wrote about a month ago. We all have our weaknesses and sometimes it’s best to face them head on and hope for the best.

An “Afternoon Affair” (copyright Glenn K. Currie 2014) can wear a hole in the fabric of your everyday routine and change your outlook on life. It certainly has had an impact on mine.

Glenn K. Currie

 

Afternoon Affair

 

We lay together.

Seven different positions.

Always in the same order,

Except once.

When she wanted to reverse

The sequence.

 

She insisted she be in control.

And I gave myself

To her.

Removing my pants

On her command,

And lying beneath her.

 

The affair lasted nine weeks.

She drained me dry.

Forcing me, finally,

To walk away

In an effort to

Save myself.

 

I miss her a little.

The quiet is unsettling.

Like the aftermath

On a battlefield.

Now I wait to see

If we killed the cancer.

I have decided to put a few newer poems on the blog. Some of them are in rhyme, a form I often use when writing humor. I apologize in advance to all you “serious poets” out there who hold rhyme in contempt, but for me it works in some cases, particularly when writing humor or for children.

 

I wrote “Firefly Wisdom” (copyright Glenn K. Currie, 2014) a couple of years ago when I was planning a release of a new children’s book. Because of health and other reasons, the book is probably not going to happen, so let’s have some fun with it here.

There is really a message for all of us in it if we are willing to look. Miracles can be found in the strangest of the earth’s creatures and human beings may be the strangest and most surprising of all.

Glenn K. Currie

 

                                                          Firefly Wisdom

 

                                                The elephant said to the firefly

                                                No one could be as strange as I.

                                                I dare dispute what you decry,

                                                My tail on fire, your claim belies.

                                                And though we both are odd, it’s true,

There’s some more quaint than me and you.

 

Birds that swim and put heads in sand,

Fish that fly and walk on their hands.

But upon the Earth the queerest, methinks,

Is the human creature, who should be extinct.

 

He has no skills that I can tell,

No wings to fly, no protective shell.

Predators see him as a tasty treat,

And he only runs on two of his feet.

He has no claws to fend off foes,

No fur to warm him when it snows.

 

So keep perspective about your flaws,

Don’t let your appearance give you pause,

Though often we be of bizarre depiction,

There’s one out there who is stranger than fiction.

 

 

 

I wrote True Believers (In the Cat’s Eye, 2009) to express my concern about what our society might become. In the years since, it seems like the true believers have become even more strident. The extremes in both political parties seem to want to force their will on the general public. As we expand the role of the federal government, and Congress empowers it with more controls on our lives, we run the risk of becoming the kind of society that we had always opposed.

We are a large and diverse country. It is hard to squeeze California, Nebraska and New Hampshire into the same narrow mold of cultural, religious and social mores that some desire. Our democracy will fail if we eliminate the very features that allow free people to be free. Our founders understood this. Some of our current leaders don’t.

We are being ripped asunder by people who are unwilling to compromise and politicians who allow themselves to be controlled by big money and single issue advocates.

True believers in a more advanced state of intolerance are now the ones ripping apart the Middle East. They accept no compromise, no willingness to find common ground: only the desire to put opponents under the ground.

We are rapidly losing our faith in Congress and the Executive branch to lead us away from these kinds of extremes in our own country. We push each other to the edge with anger and intolerance, and the need to demand “one size fits all” legislation.

We should beware of what we ask for.

Glenn K. Currie

 

 

True Believers

 

They wear their causes

Like tattoos.

Insignias

Made from the cloth

Of cultural epiphanies

Or sacred decrees.

 

They march to words

Beaten into placards.

Written too large

To accommodate

The small surface

Of their hearts.

 

Their torches burn

At my windows,

Demanding

Allegiance

To a society

Without questions.

 

They want to create

A new world,

Where everyone

Believes the same.

Where everyone knows

All the answers.

 

 

 

I apologize for my lack of postings the last few days. I have been a little low on energy level, which comes with the territory of radiation treatments. I did want to get off a posting before the holiday, however, and since we are celebrating the birth of democracy in our country, it seems like it might be appropriate to add something about one of the problems that comes with democratically elected officials.

 It is, unfortunately, a problem with candidates from both parties, but lately seems to be a bigger issue with Democrats because the mainstream media seem to drink the Kool Aid so much more easily regarding these candidates.

 The Emperor’s Clothes is from Riding in Boxcars (Snap Screen Press, 2006) and is a cautionary tale for all of us.

 

Happy Fourth of July. Remember we are still the greatest country in the world, even if we do have a few problems.

 

Glenn K. Currie

 

                                            The Emperor's Clothes

 

In modern times, the Emperor’s clothes,

Are made by people no one knows.

And worn in ways quite confusing,

Designed to earn the voters’ choosing.

 

Candidates don many disguises,

Leaving us with wrong surmises.

Hoping when the crown they claim,

Their regal robes will quell disdain.

 

For few desire an Emperor’s ire,

By making indiscreet inquire.

Insiders know to play the game,

And wear whatever clothes remain.

 

But what about the rest of us,

False images, upon us thrust.

Should we accept deceit and lies,

Or to this subterfuge arise.

 

I guess I would prefer to be,

One who tells them what I see.

If whole cloth clothes invisibly,

It should be viewed quite quizzically.

 

Let’s throw the rascal out I say,

Should misdirection lead astray.

But even if this one’s deposed,

The same guys will design new clothes.

In response to a couple of questions, let me say that any of you are free to forward any of the pieces on this blog to others. I only ask that you keep my name associated with the piece and that they only be published in "for profit" locations or publications with my express permission. Also, if you have any questions or comments on any of these entries please feel free to contact me through my website www.snapscreenpress.com or directly at GlennKC@aol.com.

Thanks for visiting my blog.

Regards,

Glenn K. Currie

Sometimes love is defined by the sacrifices we are willing to make for others. I feel that myself in seeing the willingness of friends and family to put up with me and my mood swings as I go through radiation therapy.

It is also apparent in the love we have for our pets and the things we will go through to make their lives a little better and also to allow us to maintain our sanity as we deal with their issues.

I wrote Smelly Dog Story (Granite Grumblings: Life in the “Live Free or Die” State, 2011)  a few years ago when we had a miniature poodle given to us. I hope you have some fun with this little story.

Glenn K. Currie

 

Smelly Dog Story

 

My recent experiences have led me to believe that the range of specialist care in our community leaves much to be desired. In particular I am referring to the areas of dermatology and cardiac, ophthalmologic and psychiatric expertise. The result has been to create a situation where the patients have to travel miles for special care and where the loved ones are subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. I am, of course, referring to the level of specialist care for the dogs of our fair city.

Let me give you just one example of how onerous this situation can be for dog owners and their little friends.

A few years ago we acquired custody of an old dog. He came to us via my mother-in-law, who greatly loves him, but is not currently in a position to care for him. This dog, a miniature poodle named Cromwell, is of gentle, friendly and lovable disposition, but I fear, limited intelligence. (Perhaps an unfair observation based on his willingness to eat rocks and pistachio nut shells).

He is, as I have said, an old dog currently in his sixteenth year, and he shares many of the problems familiar to humans of a comparable age. One particularly troubling issue that he had, however, was that he really stunk. I am not talking about your ordinary wet dog, skunk encounter or rolling in doodoo smell. We were looking at melt the furniture, burn the clothing type odor.

We tried everything. We used doggie-sized odor eaters, sprayed him with Febreze and hung little bottles of Renuzit around his neck. We bathed him in shampoo that smelled like tropical fruit, until it got on him and then gave off the odor of five-day-old flounder. We knew it was getting bad when two Jehovah’s Witnesses nearly passed out just standing at our front door. (Interestingly, we haven’t had any more visits from this group.)

Finally one of the general practitioners in town, while wearing a mask, suggested we take him to a doggie dermatologist in Hanover. This was my first realization that such specialists existed, but you can imagine my disappointment to find that she was an hour away.

In desperation we decided to make the trip. We loaded Crom into the car and began the loooong journey. In the first five minutes we realized we needed gas, and Susanne and I raced to see who would get out first to refuel the car and thus enjoy the relatively wholesome odor of gas fumes for a few minutes. I won, but she is still bitter.

Once we were on our way, it became apparent that although the temperature was twenty-two degrees, we would be making the trip with the windows and the sunroof open. Several passing cars slowed and stared at the sight of two humans hanging their heads out the windows while the dog sat at quiet attention in the back seat. (Cromwell would have joined us, I am sure, except that his back legs are no longer strong enough to support him getting up to the window.)

In Hanover, the doggie dermatologist gave him antibiotics, a special vegetable diet (yum!), and more different shampoos. She also suggested we see a doggie ophthalmologist in Boston and a doggie psychiatrist somewhere in Connecticut (I think). I suggested we leave the dog with her for observation, but she just gave me one of those little smiles that said, “don’t even go there”.

We (barely) survived the trip back and the dog’s odor has gradually returned to the more normal level of “meadow muffin ripe”.

My point in relating all of this is that because we don’t have these specialists available in Concord, Susanne and I were forced to make a very perilous trip to Hanover, during which we could have passed out at any moment, endangering ourselves, our pet and other drivers.

I am sure other pet owners have faced similar daunting experiences. We need to have these services available locally. I can tell you from personal experience that there is a pressing need for doggie psychiatrists, and an hour is too far to drive when green fumes start emanating from your pet.

I call on dog owners of the city to unite and demand these services for our community.

 

As the world has become more and more computer savvy, there seems to have been a major decline in people skills. Nobody has the time to be a real person when there is so much going on in the world behind our smart phones.

But it isn’t just the fact that most of us no longer have the time to get to know our neighbors or even our fellow workers. Businesses no longer have the time to know their customers. The pressure to accomplish all of our needs on the internet has become overwhelming. Social Security checks must be deposited electronically, and taxes paid the same way. Good luck ever talking with a real person as we fall into the deep well of resolving business issues with a major corporation.

I wrote the following piece a few years ago but, if anything, the problem has gotten worse. Good luck in Searching for Customer Service (Granite Grumblings: Life in the Live Free or Die State,  2011, Snap Screen Press).

Glenn K. Currie

 

Searching for Customer Service

New Hampshire used to be a plain-speaking, down-to-earth place where we did business with a nod and a handshake. We sorted out our customer service problems directly. If we had a question, needed to change an address or wanted to discuss an issue, we picked up the phone and talked to a real live New Hampshire person. Life was simple.

The demise of customer service really occurred when some evil geniuses invented the “decision tree” automatic answering systems. These systems suddenly provided both corporate America and government bureaucracies with an unlimited number of degrees of separation from the customer. They found that extensive use of these devices almost completely eliminated any real communication with the customer. For many of these companies, the systems have allowed them to replace their customer service departments with a well-trained cockatoo, and reassign critical human resources to such pressing issues as developing new bonus plans and redesigning forms.

Installing these systems has resulted in dramatically reducing customer complaints. This has been accomplished by initiating a diabolically clever war of attrition with the consumer. The first assault is to task the caller with fifty or sixty button-pushing decisions. Hardly anyone over sixty is going to even remember why they called after being put through eight decision trees. This immediately eliminates many of the callers who don’t have enough spare time to actually proceed through this jungle.

Unfortunately, I was faced with an issue that could only be resolved directly, and I was forced to continue through this maze. The next step in the process was to be told that I would be allowed to speak to a real person in “x” number of minutes. I learned after the first couple of tries to multiply this number by six. A word of caution to novices: if the first waiting time they give you is more that ten minutes, that is their secret code for  “we have gone home for the night”. Do not try to outwait them in this circumstance because the phone is automatically programmed to disconnect you after eight minutes. Their final ploy while you are waiting is to assault you with a carefully selected assortment of brain-numbing music, designed to turn you into a vegetable. This will leave you on an IQ level with whomever you finally speak to. 

I survived this test by just leaving the phone off the hook on my desk until I heard a voice. When I finally reached a live person, I explained that I was calling to have the phone company disconnect a phone that was in the name of my recently deceased father. I was told in broken English that they would only speak to my father regarding this issue, and then they hung up. Accepting this challenge in the true New Hampshire spirit, I redialed, went through the whole process again and then told them I was my father and I needed to cancel my phone because I was dead.

They were fine with that. Given the waiting periods involved with these systems, it probably happens to them all the time.

 

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