insearchofbud

5/3/21

Ray Brady was one of the healthy people who used to visit with me at Lame Deer clinic pharmacy.  We often spoke of his service during the World War II “Battle of the Bulge,” the bitterly cold winter when Hitler tried one last time to conquer France and, probably, all of Europe.

He had charisma and was neither needy nor overly profuse.  He did enjoy a conversation and he was a man of the world.

Mr. Brady died about five years after I retired from the Indian Health Service.

LAME DEER – On May 29, 2010, our beloved father, grandfather, great-grandfather and uncle Raymond Brady, Sr., “Naesohtoheove” (Six Stands) left his worldly existence and traveled on to be home to be with our Lord. Ray was born Jan. 16, 1925, to George Brady and Flossie Bearchum at the family ranch in the Muddy Creek area. He was raised by his grandparents Arthur and Ellen Heap of Birds Braided Locks.

Ray started his education up to the eighth grade at Lame Deer School, riding a horse to school and earning perfect attendance throughout his tenure. He went to high school at Chemawa Indian School in Salem, Ore., through his junior year before volunteering for the U.S. Army. There, he received his General Equivalency Diploma. He later attended Haskell Indian University and the Billings Business College, where he received his certification as an accountant. He worked in various positions throughout his lifetime before retiring in the early 1990s.

He was a member and former headsman of the Crazy Dog society, advising and teaching younger members the proper procedures and responsibilities as a society member.

His grandfather, Braided Locks, living to the age of 106, survived the Sand Creek Massacre and fought in the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Ray was featured in articles from the Denver Post and Billings Gazette recalling the stories that were told to him firsthand by his grandfather. Braided Locks also had the distinction of taking the last scalp that was placed in the ceremonial bundle of the Cheyenne Sacred Hat.

Raised from a traditional Cheyenne family with strong core values, Ray was taught to live according to certain disciplines and protocols. He was always there to give advice on any subject, no matter how big or small, and could always be relied upon to give guidance to his children and grandchildren based upon his own experiences and teachings.

Ray received four Cheyenne Indian names in his lifetime, his last being “Naesohtoheove,” meaning Six Stands. This name was given to him following his return home from combat in World War II. His family honored him by having a victory dance celebration and he was given the name Six Stands because he fought battles in six different countries throughout Europe.

Private First Class Raymond Brady, Sr., was part of Company “G” 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment. He was a distinguished World War II veteran who was part of the D-Day Invasion and the Battle of the Bulge. A Pathfinder during the Normandy Invasion, he helped to set up drop zones, being the first to parachute into the field and set up instruments to guide the planes carrying other paratroopers. At the Battle of the Bulge, his 82nd Airborne Division witnessed face to face combat with the feared German 6th SS Army. With only 13 left of his company, they held off the Germans and took the village of Clervaux (Belgium) and his unit received the Presidential Unit Citation. His medals earned were: The Bronze Star Medal, Good Conduct Medal, American Campaign Medal, European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal and Silver Star Attachment (Single), World War II Victory Medal, Combat Infantryman Badge 1st Award, Belgian Fourragere, Honorable Service Lapel Button WWII, Sharpshooter Badge and Carbine Bar and Parachute Badge-Basic.

Ray was humble in his achievements, never one to gloat or boast of his military accomplishments. He often liked to tease and was always ready for a cup of coffee and a good visit. Easygoing and sociable by nature, Ray dearly loved and was extremely proud of his entire family.

A recovered alcoholic for approximately 50 years, Ray was a certified state and national Alcoholics Anonymous counselor who sponsored and helped many people to overcome their struggles with alcoholism. He traveled extensively throughout the United States and Canada with his adopted brother, Carl Schmaus, serving as a motivational speaker.

Ray was a proud member of the Catholic Church. He made it a point to go to church every Sunday and liked to worship and pray at the Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church in Lame Deer. He was always glad to see his family members going to church and was the proud godparent of two of his grandkids, Derek Knows His Gun and Misty Flying.  

As the patriarch of the Brady family, Ray made it a point to keep familial bonds alive with his relatives, especially those from South Dakota and Oklahoma. He reminded and encouraged his family to keep in touch and stay connected with one another, no matter how far apart they were physically. He put his family’s welfare in the forefront of his everyday life and constantly checked on them just to make sure that everything was going all right.

He was preceded in death by his parents, four brothers, four sisters and many others.

Survivors include his children, Raymond Brady, Jr., Calvin (Marie) Brady, Sr., Shirley (Dan) Brady, Annette Standing Water, Esther (Daniel) Brady Oldman and Irene (Larry) Flying, Sr. from Lame Deer and Serena (Wayne) Brady from Eureka. Also, nieces Lavina Blackwolf, Leona Limberhand, Phyliss Fisher, Mary Ann Bear Comes Out, Linda Bisonette, Thomasine Hardground, Lavonda Brady, Elizabeth Braided Hair and Theresa Brady Small. Nephews include Charles, Herman, Michael, Sr., and Peter Bear Comes Out, Jr.; Steve Brady, Sr., Otto and Martin Braided Hair.  Also the children of Charles, Wilson, Howard, Elmer, Sr., James and Ramona Brady.

Raymond also leaves behind 23 grandchildren and 44 great-grandchildren as his direct descendants.

Extended families include: Bearchum, Whistling Elk, Tall Bull, White Dirt, Stands In Timber, Little Wolf, Rock Roads, One Bear, Alice Red Cloud and Mary Blackhorse families. Pine Ridge Reservation families: Youngman, Dreaming Bear, Two Bulls, Dreamers, Hamilton, Serry, Longjaw and Gillespie. Southern Cheyenne families from Oklahoma: Hoffman, Star, Heap of Birds, Lone Bear, Blackery, Nightwalker, Cometsevah and Big Foot. There are many other relatives from family names too numerous to mention. Please accept our sincere apologies if we have failed to mention your name at this time.

The family would like to thank the staff of the Mountain View Living Center and Veteran’s Administration in Sheridan, Wyo. In particular, Robert Axland, Dr. Carmen and DONs Laurie and Sherry for the wonderful loving care and respect showed to our father.

We were blessed to have you in our lives for so many years and although it is a time of tremendous sorrow, we are also comforted, knowing you’re in a better place and continuing to watch over us. Nastavasavoomste, Paba!

5/1/21

I bought an app for my phone so I can scan color negatives to make color positive prints.  I don’t know if it’s the best of its kind, so I’m not going to advertise here.  The quality of the positive image is not excellent, but fairly good.  Colors are approximate and the resultant image doesn’t have anywhere near the detail.  

However, I quickly ran to my collection of negatives.  I keep them carefully filed away with notes on many of them.  My photo prints are almost useless because they are jumbled together, thousands of them.  Moreover, I’ve given away most of the good images so I end up with a thousand blurry, boring, crappy. . . you get the idea.

One image I liked, particularly, was one of Nora Betty Flying.  She lived to be an old woman in a bright little blue house set way back from the road between Busby and Muddy Cluster on highway 212 to Lame Deer.  I knew her kids.  

In fact her daughter, Mary Jane Flying, was our first pharmacy technician at the Indian Health Service clinic in Lame Deer.  And this was in 1988 because of the generosity of her boss, Lynwood Tallbull.  He allowed her to come help us. 

At first, the pharmacist at the time, Bill Schuman, wouldn’t let her into the pharmacy itself, but kept her outside the door for her to dole out OTCs like Tylenol to those requesting them. 

Bill worked solo to prepare and dispense the prescriptions.  He prepared anywhere from 50-100 prescriptions daily. He was known for breaking telephones and strewing pills when he became enraged, although I never witnessed it.

Maybe you don’t know how the IHS works.  If you do, skip this paragraph.  Enrolled natives can receive care, including prescriptions, doctor and dental and optometry visits, free of charge.  It is pure socialized medicine.  The drawback is the clinic is always poorly funded.  Another drawback is the clinic is usually packed with patients seeking care.  However, the mission statement has always been to elevate the health of the indigenous people to the highest level possible.  I never saw us achieve that goal, but many of us tried as hard as we could.

Anyhow, Bill Schuman soon transferred to the Coast Guard and I eventually joined the IHS and ran the pharmacy, so I asked Lynwood to allow Mary Jane Flying to work right in the pharmacy.  Her job was to count out and pour the medicines into bottles after I made the labels.  Then I would check Mary Jane’s work and give the medicine to the patients.  We could get the prescriptions done more quickly, the two of us.  Mary Jane was a fast learner.

Soon Mary Jane asked for my pharmacy name tag so her mother could bead it.  Of course I gave her $35 for her trouble.  Then I had her make some moccasins for my newborn grandson.

That’s how I became acquainted with Nora Betty Flying, Mary Jane’s mother. 

She was willing to sit while I photographed her.

4/15/21

Gunther lies on his side on the couch as the clock strikes one.  Tuckered from barking all morning, no doubt.  Earlier, he barked so much I had to send him to the basement so I could take a nap.  Such is the excitement I experience. I’m not complaining. I like excitement like this.

Well, I do have a book, John Steinbeck’s “Cannery Row,” and I enjoy the earthy and gritty prose therein.  I’m about halfway through the short novel.

Our house is cold.  I draw myself a glass of malbec from a “bota box” in the cupboard above the stove because I believe it lubricates the brain to churn out some writing. I think documentation is essential.

I started out wanting to write a fable about Gunther, the famous little dog of Facebook.  

He is a brussels griffon, I breed of street dog from Belgium, used for killing rats. I believe Gunther would love to kill rats, although he’s killed one squirrel. I have a picture somewhere.

The brussels griffon is typically smaller than an ordinary griffon, usually 6-15 lbs.

He is comically self-important and seems to believe he is much larger because he will menace other dogs. Gunther weighs 28 lbs, and has wounds from being bitten by other dogs. He acted fierce, but ran in terror when attacked. Brussels griffons have an almost human face that some people find attractive. Others think he is ugly, like an Ewok.

This morning about 9:30 I took Gunther for a walk unleashed; or I should say, he walked and I followed him west, around the block.  Things went well.  He made it past the vomit in the street without visiting it.  (I sharply ordered him to stay out of the street, then rewarded him with one of the bribes I carried:  a 5-lobed dog biscuit.  I gave him one of the lobes.)

Gunther visited the porch at the corner as I watched helplessly.  I paused, and as I walked past, he reappeared to lead me to the house next to the alley, where he began scarfing some black stuff that I think is barbecue grease.  I arrested his effort there.  Grabbed him. Gave him a bribe.

Around past our neighbor Charlie Grime’s corner he finally pooped and I caught all of it with my bagged hand before inverting the bag and shaking its contents.  I tied a knot.  We proceeded east along the backside of the block.

Our neighbor Sharon’s bird feeder was too much temptation for Gunther.  I never did walk onto Sharon’s yard to get Gunther.  I issued some stern commands to cease and desist eating garbage, followed by a honeyed promise of a dog treat, but of course, none of it worked.  His weakness is bird feed there. I opted to leave Gunther behind.

I walked on alone, past a truck supposedly owned by a carpet cleaning company.  Stepped over a fat blue hose and an electric cord. A worker was pulling the fat hose.

A driveway leads between two garages and my alley, so I cut through because the owner’s pickup was gone.  I dropped the poop into a dumpster, then walked the alley to the end of the block, thence home.  

I didn’t curse Gunther.  I stopped doing that perhaps six months ago.  I still reflect on the hundreds of dollars in veterinarian bills I’ve paid to rehydrate him and medicate him for what the vet called his “garbage gut.”

Instead I returned home.  Once indoors, I looked out the window to see Gunther trotting back down the block from the East, same way I had come.  I went to the back door, whistled, and “jingle jingle,” in ran the dog himself.

4/9/21

Soon after I received news that my dear friend Michael Fiedler died I posted an appreciation and lament. 

Soon after I got an evening phone call from Swain Wolfe, a man I had only the briefest connection with, more than 30 years previously.  I think he tossed me out of a meeting when I was a reporter for the Montana Kaimin, published by the associated students of the University of Montana.  I was a lousy reporter and a worse writer, so I studied chemistry instead.  That was my ordinary interest, and it led me toward a career in pharmacy, a career that was good to me and I to it.  I think I left the profession in better shape than I found it.

The same evening Peter Koch phoned me in appreciation of a piece I wrote about Michael. I told him about my conversation with Swain. Peter said he loved Swain. Swain is a sweet man, he said.

I meant to write about Swain.  He was my sister’s age, so about 10 years my senior. Therefore, he lived until he was about 82, or so.  Died by his own hand.  Suicide is the usual word.  Swain Wolfe’s death prompted a friend to write me a card of sympathy, in solidarity to those who’d lost a loved one to suicide, as she had.

Trouble is, I don’t feel bad that Swain killed himself because he said he had intractable pain he was unable to control.  Death is a natural part of life.

Is all suicide bad?  Perhaps most is bad.  We certainly feel bad when a youngster has a sudden urge to pull the trigger and does.  The ones left behind a young person suffer a huge amount of grief forever. 

Locally, the Suicide Prevention group stages an annual “Out of the Darkness” event involving a three-mile walk.  Our family has walked, worn the tee shirts, attended the rally, participated in the auction, listened to the speeches by the mayor and several city council members.

Somehow, it feels good to walk through town to prevent suicide.  But what about assisted suicide?

When I worked for Joan McCracken at Planned Parenthood I enjoyed looking through the magazines and journals back in the employees area.  I recall seeing one from the Hemlock Society, a group that advocated physician-assisted suicide.

Now I am conflicted.

I particularly am sorry I’ll never again be able to meet up with Swain Wolfe.  When he phoned me to ask about Michael Fiedler, he told me that he and Michael had been very close friends in recent months.  I didn’t mention the incident 40 years ago.  (Yeah, I said 30 years earlier.)

Swain sounded kind and humble.  He said he loved Michael and knew where Michael must have met his end, someplace in Texas.  Swain said he could show me on a map, but the place Michael went with his friends didn’t have a name.  It was in the country, somewhere.

Swain said he’d miss Michael until he died.  For my part, I wanted to know more about the place Michael went.  Apparently it was closer to Mexico.

Then Swain died.

All would be well and good.  Like I said, I was a lousy reporter and a worse writer.  Still guilty as charged!

The deal is, I got no confirmation of Mike’s death. 

I heard about Mike’s death from Bob Gesell, who got the news from Colleen Kane, who got the news from her daughter who got the news from Gary Scales.  Presumably Mr. Scales had first hand information.

I have googled Michael Fiedler numerous times without finding any news to corroborate Mike’s death.

This bothered our friend Mark Fryberger, who is an ace reporter and excellent writer.

Therefore, the mystery is open.  Fiedler’s death remains unconfirmed.  

I asked my son, an emergency room physician, if the lack of corroboration of news of a death was a thing.  He said it might not be.  Notice in a newspaper might not occur, depending.  

Therefore, Fryberger and I have a long-range mission to clear this mystery.

Today is Gunther’s unofficial birthday.  Yesterday three of us walked on Norm’s Island with G. when we met a woman who recognized him from Facebook.  “I know that dog,” she gushed.  I wanted to hear more about how much she loved him, but my companions, including Gunther, were walking on ahead.  I straggled behind.

“He will be five tomorrow,” I said, over my shoulder.

We aren’t sure of Gunther’s birthday because he’s a rescue dog whom we adopted when he was a couple months old.  I had never heard of his breed, “Brussels Griffon.”  At first I got it wrong.  “Belgian griffin, or maybe pug,” I told the writing group I paid to attend.

“I love Pugs,” announced Russell Rowland.  Then, when I showed him a photo, he informed me Gunther wasn’t even close to being a pug.

Took me a week or two to learn about Brussels Griffons, and Gunther fit the description, except he’s roughly twice the size (28 lbs vs 10-15 lb) of the classic Wikipedia description.

Gunther, like typical Brussels Griffons, is comically self-important, has bug-eyes, and wants to attack huge ferocious dogs.  This last trait is the reason for some scars on his butt and a $300 vet bill.  I had to give him pain medicine and an antibiotic for a week.

He’s a better dog now than when he was as a puppy.  He used to poop in the house and chew the furniture.  He even chewed my glasses.  My new glasses that cost, like $400.  They probably tasted salty.  I have them still.  The damage to the lenses is near the edges, so I could still wear them, damaged bows and all.  

We selected April 3 arbitrarily because P.’s father’s birthday was on that day in 1899.

I want to share some thoughts about a Crow gentleman, Michael Fitzpatrick, Jr, a young 85-year-old with whom I enjoyed working.  His death notice appeared this week in the Gazette.  Bullis Mortuary provided an obituary on line, which I am including here.

I worked five years at Crow as a pharmacist, most of the time with Mike.  Working at Crow IHS pharmacy was no longer as much fun after Mike retired in 1995, so I returned to my job at Lame Deer, even though it meant driving 40 extra miles.

Michael had a rich sense of humor.  I wish I could share some instances here, but I don’t think I should.  I mean to assure you he was gentle, loved to tease in the Crow way.  He was always good-natured and kind.

Plus, he was laid-back and grandfatherly, and he knew how to deflect the slings and arrows of our hard-charging boss, Jim Carder.  

I was inclined to be lazy, and Carder always attacked me at annual evaluation when he criticized my inability to plan.  Because I didn’t routinely stock dozens of empty vials and lids into a drawer at the end of my shift, I got a poor grade.  I suppose I should have thought ahead, but couldn’t he have said something before evaluation time?  Sure, I should have been able to figure it out, but I was usually tired!  Also, I didn’t think it was my job.  Wasn’t I a professional?  Maybe, but not professional enough.  Because I didn’t plan. 

Enough of a rant. Back to telling about Mr. Fitzpatrick.

Mike started working as a supply/pharmacy technician in 1958, when I was nine years old.  

In those days, he said, he used to manage large post-WW II stockpiles of medicines for the Public Health Service. 

When I worked with Mike starting in 1990, he often sat in a little alcove, surrounded by the stock bottles of medicine that he made up for the nurses who worked nights and weekends on the inpatient ward of the clinic/hospital.  He kept meticulous records.

Well, if I couldn’t find a medication for a prescription, his mellow voice could be heard, “Look in the fridge!”  

If that failed, and I couldn’t find the medicine in a list, he’d say, “Look under ‘sodium.’”

He also told me about Crow cultural ways, such as language and the clan system.

He told me how one of his friends played marbles with an artificial glass eye. I later gave the friend, Robert Seestheground, a ride to Hardin, and I asked if the story was true.

It was. I asked Mr. Seestheground what happened that he lost an eye. He explained he got poked by cheat grass when he jumped off a fence. I asked him if it got infected? “Almost,” he said.

In those days we worked at the old Crow hospital, the one on the Western edge of the village of Crow Agency.  Mike retired before the new Crow/Northern Cheyenne IHS Hospital opened in 1995.

Here’s his obituary, copied verbatim:

Michael Edward Fitzpatrick, Jr., 85, passed away peacefully on March 29, 2021 at his home in Crow Agency.  He was born to Michael and Alfretta (Pretty Weasel) Fitzpatrick, Sr. on December 15, 1936 in Crow Agency.  His Indian name is Bache’xia’sash’ (Notable Man). He was a member of the Ties the Bundle Clan and a child of the Whistling Water Clan.  He was raised in Crow Agency area and spent many happy days with his grandparents Sidney and Edith Black Hair on the Black Hair Ranch. He graduated from St. Labre High School in Ashland, Montana in 1955.  While in high school, he participated in basketball.  Mike enlisted in the U.S. Air Force and was a pitcher for his company baseball team and was honorably discharged. He married Minnie Little Light in 1959 and was lovingly taken into her family.  He enjoyed his brothers in law and spent many hours golfing and telling stories with them. He was the arrow throwing champion for ten years in a row. He was an excellent bowler and bowled a perfect 300 game during his bowling years.  Mike enjoyed playing horseshoes and golfing with his friends.  He was a member of the original Night Hawk Singers and enjoyed traveling with the drum group to many powwows. He had many good times taking his grandson, Eli Rock Above to powwows throughout Indian Country.  He was adopted into the Tobacco Society by Ivan and Pauline Small. Later Bill and Josephine Russell adopted Mike and Minnie as a couple into the Tobacco Society.  His adopted Tobacco Society children are the late Peter and Marella Grey Bull.  He enjoyed catfishing with his brother John and his dad, Mike.  Mike and Minnie made their home in Crow Agency where they raised their children Robert, PattiAnn, Rodney and Rex.  Mike was employed with the Indian Health Service as a pharmacy technician at the Crow – Northern Cheyenne Public Health Hospital.  He took pride in his work and retired after 35 years of service.

He was preceded in death by his wife Minnie and his parents; his brothers Sidney, Richard, John and Lansing Fitzpatrick; his sister Gail Fitzpatrick; his grandson Brendan Fitzpatrick; his special friends Mort Dreamer and his brother-in-law Bobby Little Light.

Survivors include his sons Rodney (Dora), Robert (Danelle) and Rex (Susan) Fitzpatrick and his daughter PattiAnn (Albert Stewart) Fitzpatrick. He took his nieces Carrie Old Coyote and Jordis Hugs as his own; his adopted son Ben Hudetz of Illinois; his sisters Regina Goes Ahead, Delma Yarlott , Mary Black Eagle; his brothers Clifford (Ardith) Birdinground, Dana and Larry Tobacco; his 11 grandchildren and 27 great grandchildren and 1 great great grandson; his brothers in law and good friends  Leo Hudetz and Cornelius Little Light, his life-long friends Larry (Agnes) Pretty Weasel, Sr. and John Paul Other Medicine, special neighbor and friend Robert Clarence Pickett and his golfing buddy Bud Moran; his sisters in law Lena and Ella Little Light and Janice Hudetz.   As well as his extended family including the Stewart, Pretty Weasel, Other Medicine, Pretty Paint, Shane, Doyle, Walks Over Ice, Long Ears, High Nose and the families of Edith Bird in Ground, Bernice Jefferson, Arthur Stewart Sr., Stacy Stewart, Theresa Guns Shows, Jeanette Adams, Catherine Little Light, George Little Light Sr. and Dorothy Takes Enemy. Mike was a well-known member of the community and had many friends who will miss him. His family is large and if we have forgotten you, please accept our apology in our time of grief. 

March 30, 2021

Household is just me and P. again.  And G., sitting on my neck, soothes my soul.  P. is making cookies again.  I cleaned the stove.  I try to be a good domestic partner.  I’m going to change my occupation in Fb to “kitchen stove cleaner.”  Has a certain sound I find pleasant.  Can’t write more, need to practice banjo.

March 31, 2021

Today I kept an appointment with my internist, Dr. Ed Malters.  He is a fine fellow, a board-certified internist.  This means he keeps up-to-date on the medical literature germane to the health of old duffers like me.  

My problem was I couldn’t pee without taking “Flo-Max,” a miracle drug.  The reason I take the miracle drug:  I have a huge prostate gland.  Perhaps it’s the biggest on the block!

Far from being a gland to feel pride in, or to boast about, my gland constricts my urethra so that my pee comes out in a mere dribble.  This would not be something to feel pride in or boast about.  Instead, I feel consternation when I can’t pee.

Anyway, a gland isn’t a point of pride for me.  Oh, it’s nice and all.  I even used to like it, back in the day.  Except when the doctors poked their digits into my rectal regions to check its size and surface characteristics.  These days, I don’t like it so much.  Hence, the “Flo-Max.”

Flo-Max is the same thing as a drug, called tamsulosin.  Try saying that 10 times.  Quickly.  It allows urine to flow freely, so life for me was great for about 10-15 years, now.  Every year my internist asked me if I wanted a “PSA” test and every year I asked him not to bother.  You see, I learned from fellow prostate sufferer Steve that a PSA test (prostate-specific antigen) would invariably be elevated in old guys like me.  

An above-the-limit PSA would result in the doctor recommending a needle biopsy test for cancer.  This would clarify the cause of the elevated PSA test.  Was it cancer?  Was it a normally enlarged prostate?  A biopsy would tell.  Wouldn’t it?

No, it wouldn’t.  Usually the biopsy would tell v. little.  And the biopsy is no walk in the park with the dog.  

The needle biopsy involves pulling down one’s pants while a guy (usually) jabs a large-bore needle into and through one’s anus to sample the prostate gland cells.  Thanks, but no.  OOOOhhh!  Pain!

My friend had the biopsy done.  “Wow,” I remarked.  Only, my friend said the biopsy didn’t show any cancer!  “Good” I remarked.  Only the biopsy needed to be repeated in six months to make sure.  “Too bad!” I rejoined.  And on and on.

Short story:  I didn’t want to be jabbed by needles into my arse every six months for the rest of my life.  

Instead, I opted to forgo the PSA test and I’ve been relatively happy until now.  

On one of my routine man-exams my internist inadvertently checked the box “PSA,” and of course, the reading was elevated.  I opted to decline a biopsy.  This resulted in my being denied a small life insurance policy which would barely pay to have me cremated.

Now, the piper is due.  Tamsulosin no longer can control my ability to pee without making my blood pressure so low I can’t stand up without falling down.  

Dr. Malters has referred me to a urologist.  A urologist is French for “bummer.”

He (all of them are male) will put me to sleep and ream out my urethra with a device inserted through my penis so that I may pee without taking any medicines.  That will obviate my need for two medicines.  

Now I will take meds for (1) depression, (2) hypertension, and (3) cholesterol.

I’m hoping that through vigorous outdoor exercise, occasional alcohol and marijuana use, and banjo playing, I will live the next 15-20 years of my ill-spent life without further trouble.

Amen and amen.

March 19, 2021

In a week I could manage only the following diary entry:

An odd day.  Household has five guests:  Carol, Beth, Clara, Christopher, Tyler and Samantha.

March 26, 2021

Life has been chaotic since a week ago before noon Tuesday. 

P. and I were driving to help a friend and his daughter move into a house, when P. took a phone call from Kristi.  She said Katy found her brother, Bradley Angel, dead in his bed moments earlier, an apparent overdose.  

Turned out later, Bradley hadn’t.  I’m not sure what killed Bradley, but it wasn’t the “oxy” he thought he was taking. (Earlier, he offered one to Katy, who declined.)

As we made our way across town, I reviewed in my mind the procedure for CPR.  Finally, it occurred to me to call 9-1-1.  By then we met an ambulance with siren, so we pulled over.  Sure enough, Katy had called 9-1-1.  Her thinking was clearer than mine.

Things changed rapidly, we had hope for Bradley, the hopes changed to sorrow.  Then hope.  Then sorrow.  ER to ICU.  We yo-yoed like that for a week.  Relatives flew in from Pennsylvania, Alaska, drove from Nebraska, California, Bozeman, Minnesota.  Sometimes I couldn’t find a chair in our house to sit in.  Other times I crawled into the basement to practice the banjo.

Days later my brother-in-law, John Aseltine, died of a heart attack.  He was 91 years old.  More ER.  More ICU, but just a day, not a week, like Bradley.

Throughout the time my blood pressure was like, 80-something over 40-something.  I couldn’t do too much, except make an appointment to visit my internist.  I won every contest to see who had the lowest blood pressure.

Dodie, the manager at NOVA theater, invited me to build a set.  This turned out to be a great way to get me and my nephew Chris and his son Tyler out of the hectic house.  Chris and Tyler painted and built what Dodie envisioned.

I cried out my sorrow and anguish to Facebook and more than 300 people responded with reactions and sympathetic comments.  Made me feel good.  Also made me feel good that so many came to our house, but I couldn’t find a place to sit, so I plopped onto the floor until someone got up to visit the bathroom or find something to eat.  Their name wasn’t on the chair, so I claimed it.

We built a fire in a little burner out on the driveway and many of us sat around it.  Chuck Angel played some guitar.  Geoff and Chris Angel invented a game of “hide the egg,” for the youthful folks.  

My sister-in-law Dolly gave me her late husband’s banjo as a birthday present.  I played it last night, I know only one song: “Boil Them Cabbage Down.”  I’ve been working on a second song for a month, but I can’t seem to get it.  I’m getting it slowly, but my thumb doesn’t want to pick the correct string to play “Shady Grove.”  Eventually, I hope to play along with other musicians.

Our daughter, Clara, bought a puppy when she visited.  The dog is a mixture of poodle and something else, but mostly poodle.  Soft fur. Quiet disposition.  Knows how to sit and be quiet.  As you might guess, chews things, wets, poops with abandon.  Clara texted that her older dog, Kirby, didn’t cotton to the newcomer.  Gave Clara reproachful looks.

March 13, 2021

Started Thursday noon in Billings, I-90 to Bozeman. Our goal: meet our friend Pat in Willow Creek, Montana, to help her tear down a shed. I envisioned one of those sheds you can buy at a hardware store, the kind that looks like a barn. I was to be surprised.

Thence Main street of Bozeman through town clear out to four corners.  We stopped at the Food Co-op jonesing for cream puffs. We got no such thing. Upstairs was closed for Covid. No lurking allowed, but you could use the bathrooms. We bought pastries to go and asparagus.

Through to Norris.  We stopped for gas at a place that let us spend the night in the parking lot. In the morning when I thanked the woman behind the counter, she told us how to find the ringing rocks near Butte. Buy local, I’m thinking.

Turned Norris to Harrison, Montana, from there to a road to Willow Creek. 

Willow Creek is a certifiably weird town,  it is as if Three Forks, a small town nine miles away, had a little brother.  In Willow Creek, if you need to go to the city, you drive to Three Forks.

Willow Creek looks a lot like Three Forks, if you glance quickly.  It has a few sidewalks, a sort of downtown area with a bar/cafe. Only Willow Creek has no mayor. 

Both towns have bars open in the evening with regulars, red-faced and most of them overweight, good at slurring words.  The saloon in Willow Creek is famous in a book, “Blind Your Ponies,” by Stanley Gordon West. There’s an antique Sears tandem bicycle out front, not chained to anything, with flat tires. One might need to lock one’s doors at night in Willow Creek, but I wouldn’t worry about that. Pat said she was more worried about locking the hitch on her trailer.

We arrived at her house before Pat, who had gotten her Covid vaccination. Several high school kids smashed and swung at the splintery wood on an ancient tin-roofed shed, slumped like a sinking ship. Lots of dust.

Our dear friend Pat Zuelke is renovating a small house with a small workshed for her to sew.  Quilts, probably.  We spent a couple days with her tearing down a small garage that was probably built 100 years ago in the 1920s.  The dust in a place that old is astonishing and deadly to a person with breathing problems.  We found a newspaper:  Great Falls Tribune, a Saturday edition, from August, 1960.  You could buy a new car for $2,000.  I enjoyed the funnies page.  

I read a strip called, “Nancy”:  A little girl runs up to Nancy, saying “Minnie, Minnie, I heard the good news!  Your parents bought an ice cream store!  Oh, wait a minute.  I thought you were my friend Minnie,  but you’re not.  Sorry.”  

The little girl turns and leaves.  

The next frame has Nancy crying to her mother: “BAW!  I wasn’t Minnie!”

I looked through the many articles on each yellowed page of the paper.  Obviously this paper was printed with “hot type.” In other words, on an old fashioned rotary newspaper press that used lead alloy typeset headlines and linotype line matter.

I was surprised to see an article on the front page that mentioned the racial segregation and exploitation in South Africa in its discussion of the Krugerrand and the international stock market.  I didn’t know the situation there was on anyone’s radar in Montana in 1960. Interrupted, I didn’t get to look more at the newspaper.  The impression I got from scanning the headlines was local news had a lot to do with the Great Falls Fair and a long article about a local woman who committed suicide by running a hose from her car’s exhaust to a back window.  The paper seemed to have more news about distant places, places in Africa, especially.  Our esteemed professor of Journalism, Nathaniel Blumberg, called such newspaper verbiage “Afghanistanism.”  In other words, ignore the problems locally, report the distant problems.  Of course these days the problems are not distant.  The US has been embroiled in war with Afghanistan and other countries in the area for 20 years, now.   Ever since the War Powers Act following 9/11 attacks.

We camped he first night in Willow Creek parked on the street in front of Pat’s house.  Our RV is winterized, so we fixed coffee in Pat’s empty and still mostly gutted house.  Her bathroom is in finished condition.  I used those words  because the wooden ceiling over the tub is warped because no bathroom fan had been installed to dissipate he moisture from showering.

The second night I pulled the Hymer into the area  behind the house.  I moved it  back to the front in the morning  because we could get cell phone service there.  We like to listen to public radio news streamed through the phone.

We drove from Willow Creek to the landfill outside of Three Forks several times with debris from the small garage we’d razed.  Some of the neighbors said they wished for a big bonfire, but Pat didn’t think that was a good idea.  Pat has a trailer she can tow behind her Subaru Forester and she knows how to use it.

Returning from Willow Creek:  Three Forks, Bozeman, Highway 86 to Wilsall, then 89 toward Martinsdale, then to Harlowton, Ryegate, Lavina, Broadview, Acton and Billings.  We saw deer, eagles, hawks, redwing  blackbirds, geese.

Hymer systems worked well, except the toilet flap doesn’t fully open.  The problem isn’t in the cassette, because I can operate the flap with the orange device on the cassette top.  The lever at the base of the toilet won’t budge after about an inch of action, which is enough to open the flap about a quarter inch.

The electrical systems worked well, as did the mechanical.  Exception:  Plastic handle for window shade broke off.  Shade works, though.

I will probably de-winterize the Hymer prior to a trip to San Diego next month. I plan to fix the toilet, but not the window shade.