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Just part of getting older. . . .

The paper my doctor gave me prior to the “procedure.”


Do you know what kind of surgery is a TURP?  I thought you did.  I got one done to me Tuesday and it was a trip.  Far, far easier than I imagined.  Should I go into detail?  No.

Instead, I’d like to proclaim the beauty of Spring here in Billings, Montana.  I was feeling affectionate.

“Do you want to go with me to the landfill?” I asked my spouse.

“You say the sweetest things.”

The Billings Solid Waste Division is impressive.  You see, we retired our mattress, opting to use an extra from upstairs to use as our primary.  What do I do with the unwanted mattress?  I thought about this for — a week — I suppose.  Then it came to me: Call a place that sells mattresses and ask them what they do with theirs.

Mattress King at 17th and Grand solicited questions by text on their website, so I asked that way.  Was I disappointed when the anonymous texter suggested the landfill?  Yes.  I didn’t want to believe it.  Meanwhile, we loaded the mattress into the back of our van.

The city-county landfill has never looked better to me.  The hills look terraced and light green with sprouting life.  When we reached the office for instructions, an intense woman asked what we had. “A mattress,” I replied.  She directed us to a steel building about the size of a football field.  Once inside we saw a mostly empty building with a bobcat tractor in a far corner.  I drove to a pile of mattresses and added ours.  A man came over to us, said the pile is only for mattresses.

Who would have thunk they have a building for discarded mattresses?  I did see what looked to be part of a sofa in amongst the mattresses.

Okay, morbidly curious.  Now I’ll tell of my TURP.  Trans Uretheral Resection of Prostate.  My urologist said I had a large prostate, about the size of guacamole.  I was having a dickens of a time peeing because urine must pass through the urethra that is constricted by the “avocado” sized prostate surrounding the urethra.  God!  Why?

Good reason.  The prostate normally provides the adequate seminal fluid for sperm cells to be ejaculated from the penis during sexual intercourse.  For some reason the prostate continues to grow outward for greater diameter and inward to prevent easy urination.

My urologist explained he would take a loop-shaped tool into my penis and carve right through the urethra and prostate from the inside until nothing but the rind of the prostate remained. Kind of like when you remove the green part from inside an avacado. Only imagine removing the meat through a tiny hole on one end.

For my part Tuesday at same day surgery, I laid my head in a sort of operating room pillow, a yellow styrofoam ring.  Then I arranged my body on the narrow table so that it was in line with my head.  A male nurse from Oklahoma held an oxygen mask over my face. I wondered if I’d smell ether or some other gas.

Then my anesthesiologist, a woman whose name I cannot remember, nor pronounce, injected a cold fluid into my vein.  She was explaining how I’d feel the fluid in my arm, spreading throughout. . . .  I think I had pleasant dreams.

I was all done!  I stretched my legs.  Surgery was finished and I was in a recovery area, magically, about an hour-and-a-half later.  I tried to sit up and it hurt!  A nurse gave me a pill.

A couple hours later they sent me home with a rubber hose—a catheter—sticking out of my penis.  We got careful instructions in what to do if the system failed and urine stopped flowing.  Well, blood clots can occur, she said.

Three days later and no blood clots occurred.  This morning I removed the catheter myself, as per instructions.  Worried about possible bleeding, I pulled on an adult diaper, but I need not have worried.  Just a spot of blood.

I’m almost ashamed at how easy the TURP was.  The urologist gave me a half-dozen strong pain tablets, but I could have done fine with only three or four.  More importantly, he gave me some anti-spasm pills for my bladder.  These cause dry mouth, but relieve the thrill of bladder spasms, which feel intense like orgasm, only unpleasant.

So what have I got to show for myself?  I no longer have to take my old man pills for my prostate.  That means in time I’ll be able to donate blood. (Finasteride is proscribed for those wishing to donate.)

I told my grandson, Josiah, about my urologist, how he had performed the TURP on several thousand men.

“That’s SICK!” he said.  “What kind of person does that?”

2019: waiting for Springtime

Velma in 2019

January 7, 2019

Spent the time it takes to walk around two city blocks listening and repeating Welsh for a tiny part of the opera Blodwen.  This was the first Welsh opera, composed by Joseph Parry with libretto by Richard Davies.  They did this in the late 1800s.  

I’ll be in the chorus of Blodwen when it opens May 19 this year.  Our director, Dulais Rhis, sent us all Drop Box recordings for the 13 opera songs with chorus parts, so I can listen from my iPhone through ear buds.  He carefully pronounced each phrase, then set it to music, then sang it slowly so we can get it right.

This morning I listened to the 11th song.  Then I studied the score at home.  Did I mention we have until May 19?

Turns out those morning walks with Gunther are good for more than just one or two things.  Thanks to the example set by that genius author, David Sedaris, I now pick up the random bits of trash I encounter on my short walks.  An empty water bottle.  Marlboro package.  Things like that.  I make my walks two or three times a day, so I have given myself permission to pass up stuff if I’m not in the mood to stoop down.  I can get them later.

Organic matter like sticks or even frozen dog turds from someone else’s dog get a carefully aimed kick to get them off the sidewalk, of course.  This morning I did that to a chunk of ice that turned out frozen fast to the sidewalk.  Pain in toe.  A couple soccer-style side kicks did the trick.

I’m thinking of further trimming low-hanging branches over the sidewalk on our block where I have to duck.  I have a pruning shear in the garage I’ve employed before.  Mrs. Johnson on the far corner or our block has a beautiful tree that hangs too low that I’m reluctant to attack because it is symmetrical.  I avoid its branches by walking near the edge of the walk.  I don’t know what kind of tree it is.

I was amazed at perhaps a dozen low-flying geese, in formation.  They always seem to be in formation.  

Blodwen.  After I get more familiar with the sounds of the Welsh words I’ll write them out on note cards to memorize, standard practice for opera singers. 

January 8, 2019

The day started normally enough, although I didn’t drag myself out of bed right away.  P. brought me a cup of coffee.  The stuff I made was too strong yesterday.  The dog and I headed out for our morning constitutional walk.  He wanted to walk around the block clockwise, so I followed him, listening to some Welsh opera:  Blodwen.  I will sing in the chorus here in Billings when it opens May 19.  The songs are all in Welsh, hence the need to practice.

At a house on the west end of our block I heard a man loudly shouting and cursing.  I saw broken glass and other junk on the porch.  

I wasn’t totally surprised.  Last summer I had stopped to speak to one of the occupants who rented there, a woman and her grown son.  

That’s when I found out her son had been struggling with a mental illness.  I too have been struggling, so I suggested attending a NAMI (National Alliance for the Mentally Ill) meeting.  She was apologetic and embarrassed.  She said she needed NAMI at least as much as her son.

Anyhow, this morning I heard much roaring and hollering, “SHIT,” cried the voice.  At first I walked past, then because the house is on the alley, I walked Gunther down the alley a short distance, righted a big dumpster that was sideways, collected Gunther’s poop.  I heard more shouting.  More cursing.

Gunther and I returned to the front door and the young man came out.  Tattooed, wearing a black tee shirt, he smoked one of those vaping cigarettes.  He told me he was sorry he had been shouting.  The vaping device had a blue light.

“Sounds like you are hurting badly,” I observed.  He said yes, he was in pain and he didn’t want to frighten me.  He seemed remarkably composed, considering the ruckus he had been making.  I told him I wasn’t afraid, but I was willing to help him.  I told him I had some experience with people on meds, like my own brother.  (This was an understatement.  When I worked for the Indian Health Service on the local reservations, I had become friends with many schizophrenic and bipolar and depressed sufferers.  Several close relatives wrestle with mental illnesses.)

He replied he thought he needed meds.  He said he had been locked up before, and he had tried the local Crisis Center.  They don’t send you home with prescriptions, he said.  At the Crisis Center “You have to stand in line for hours behind a whole bunch of homeless people,” he complained.

I promised to ask my nephew, Jon Angel, who counsels mentally ill people, for advice for him.

Gunther and I finished our walk home, then I took him to an appointment with Dr. Kate Kilzer, veterinarian.  Gunther is in excellent condition, but he needed blood work and two immunizations and a course of some sort of good-tasting pill to prevent worms.  Gunther is afraid of the veterinarian’s office.

Meanwhile I spoke to Jon who invited me to have the cursing guy on the end of the block phone him.  

So I stopped back to visit the guy at the end of the block.  Broken glass crunched underfoot as I approached his front door. It had a broken window.  I knocked.  

The tattooed guy with black tee shirt opened.  I relayed Jon’s message to him.  I told him that Jon is a licensed mental health counselor and that he loves to get patients just like him.  He looked pleased.  He invited me in.  He closed the broken door.

The room was dark because the shades were drawn.  The TV was on, I think, possibly with a video game that I didn’t recognize.  

Previously I had told Jon about the broken stuff—lilac sticks and glass—I had seen out front of the house.  Jon surmised the guy might be angry and took out his anger on stuff, not people.  A good thing.  I told Jon I thought the guy’s mother was probably in her bedroom with cotton stuffed in her ears.

However, once my eyes adjusted, I was relieved to see lots of decorative glass objects—crystal goblets—in the living room, artfully displayed.  

A circle with a star, several feet across, made of duct tape was on the carpet.  What looked like candles burned in some of the goblets.  The man invited me to sit, so I had him call Jon with my phone.  Jon didn’t pick up.  It went to voicemail and the guy (whose name is Jerry) handed it back to me.   I left a message for Jon to please call Jerry.  We traded names and phone numbers, I urged him to hang in there, and I assured him that we all need to stick together.  He gave me a warm handshake.  I reminded him that we are neighbors.

As I left I asked about his mom.  His mother, as it turned out, was at work.  He had a broom and dustpan for the broken glass.  There was some evidence that he had swept up some of it.

January 10, 2019

We drove to Deer Lodge to receive a puppy—some kind of poodle mix that doesn’t shed—for Bob and Heather.  Velma is quite large and gambols about.  Gunther remains unimpressed.  She’s a big 2 and 1/2-month-old who pooped and peed in our kitchen, then on the rug in our dining room.  I put her into the backyard, but she managed to squeeze partway through our metal fence.  Luckily, I heard her crying.  Her hips were stuck and I walked her legs on through.  

I added chicken wire on the inside, fastened with plastic zip ties.  She cried when I went indoors, so I put Gunther back there to keep her company.  Gunther headed into his little doghouse.  Velma, however, quit crying.  At first.  Oops, I just heard a yip.  Penny went to investigate.  She’s just standing in the backyard looking somewhat forlorn.  I’m bringing them both in.  

Plan:  to be careful when feeding her.  I’ll take her around the block on a leash soon as she finishes eating.  I’m not sure what to do about her peeing, other than to get her to the backyard every two hours.

January 20, 2019

Bob, Heather, and Olivia—and Velma—are moved into their new house in Billings, a cool 1960s-style horizontal wooden house with flat roof and floor-to-ceiling windows in their front room.  Looks out on their monstrous back yard that I’d hate to mow.  Maybe they will raise lentils, or something.  

I love the wooden walls in their front room and kitchen.  Reminds me of my Aunt Corinne’s house in Seattle, the one that looked out onto Puget Sound.  I helped Bob fix some pig wire to contain Velma from making an end run around the side of the house.  Last I heard Velma loves the yard, but is learning to escape.

It snowed about 8 inches yesterday, so I fired up my new 24” Briggs and Stratton snow thrower and carved out a path from one end of our block to the other, then halfway up the east side.  I ran the machine again today, taking cutting out some of the deep snow on the street for parking.  I love doing it.  I’m also getting better at it.  My first few attempts with the machine got lousy crooked results, but I’m making a straighter path now.

This morning I got Gunther up before seven.  Thanks to my neighbors who dug out their sidewalks, I was able to walk the dog without a leash.  Like being in a hall with walls of snow, I needed to keep Gunther ahead of me, stopping so he could pee on some snow here and there, sniff a fence, like that.  As long as he was ahead of me he kept out of mischief.  

The house on the west end of the block that had the angry, troubled guy I called “Jerry” who screamed obscenities, was vacant this morning.  A side window, presumably broken in one of his rages, was boarded over with thin plywood.  I don’t know what happened to Jerry or his mother, but I could see in the front window a vacant room, lit by a lone lightbulb.  I guess the agency that manages the property sent someone to board the window and they left a light on.  I wonder how they are faring?

Gunther and I walked past to the corner where the Hispanic neighbors were getting in a van.  I picked Gunther up and held him under my arm.  The little girl who likes Gunther had her hair in neat braids.  She always used to ask to pet Gunther, but P. and I agreed that because G. sometimes nips at kids, we should tell the girl that G. is a “bad dog.”  Nonetheless, the girl grinned when she saw me carrying Gunther, but didn’t say anything.  I howdy’d the mom who wished me a good morning as she fussed with something in the van.  They were up early.  Like me.

I lit a fire in our stove at home.  Yesterday, P. invented a quilt to stretch over the top of the open stairway to our unheated upstairs.  It stretches horizontally, stapled to a board that wedges between wall and railing, over a supporting board, to another board laying across the top of the stairs that also is wedged firmly at its ends.  Got the picture?  It looks like it will keep the first floor warmer, although the forced air furnace ran and ran this morning, even though it was only about 26 degrees out.

Gunther sits on my shoulder and on the back of my chair while I write.  I hope to find the sweet places to write from, those hippie times that troubled me with fears about straight society.  As I recall, I didn’t fear having nowhere to live or nothing to eat in those days.  I suppose I should have.  I was afraid of Vietnam.  I knew I could handle being in the military, after all, I’d heard it wasn’t as bad as football practice.  I wasn’t any good at football, but I stayed with it all through high school, sitting on the bench for games.  I enjoyed practice. 

Some of my friends are writers, successful ones.  I think their secret is their perseverance, their consistent, hard work.  Plus, they enjoy telling stories, like I did before I became so deeply depressed.

I owe my life to my psychiatrist and the medicines he prescribed, but they had mild side effects.  All medicines have side effects, and considering the potentially lethal effects from depression, I’d say the medicines caused mild inconvenience only.  Still, I’m glad Dr. Stiles tapered me off the psych meds because now I feel sharper and I have more insight into the nature of depression, the illness.  I’m thinking I can take up writing, once again.

February 6, 2019

Today when I got home from my three-hour shift hosting Billings street men and women, sleeping on yoga mats on the wooden floor of First Congregational Church, I put on my PJs and went back to bed.  Mixed up dreams.  Couldn’t quite fall far enough into sleep, but I got up at a little after ten.  

A Native man was the first up, about 5:30, this morning.  He had a scowl.  Remembering my own “resting bitch face,” I asked him where he could go next.  He politely told me the Crisis Center would be open, so he could get warm again there.  So much for the “scowl.”  His face didn’t reflect what a good person he was.  P. tells me my own “RBF” has improved since the time she photographed me at the Mexican restaurant sipping a margarita.  

Nine persons, and these all reminded me of friends I had when I was a fake hippie in the 60s, slept at the church overnight.  Two of them brought no belongings.  A tenth person had exited the church in the night, not to return to the mat on the hardwood floor.

When I showed up at three a.m. me and a guy named Juan relieved two women who looked my age—perhaps 70 years old—and who also reminded me of my hippie friends from the 60s.

The night was uneventful.  I read about a third of a book about Edward Curtis, Indian photographer from the early 1900s.  I have mixed feelings about him.  I mean way mixed.  I think my friend Adrian Jawort was critical.  Others said Curtis was an artist who preserved Indigenous history.  Probably the truth is both views are valid, but I’ll put my money on the views expressed by Natives who know that Curtis doctored the photographs.  

Anyway, my shift seemed to pass relatively quickly.  Juan spent time looking at his phone, then he got a Bible off a shelf.

Juan and I chatted a bit at the beginning and ending of our shift together.  He looks friendly, charismatic.  I told him so, and I think he told me I’m full of shit, although my hearing is messed up from rock and roll concerts and the marine corps.  He smiled a lot and seemed eager to help homeless street people.

He originally came from Mexico City, then moved to the Yucatan, then to Oakland, California.  He married a woman who directed non-profits.  They moved to Santa Cruz, then to Billings.  He said his wife, originally from Billings, directs the CASA program here.  I think you’d like Juan.

You also might like some of the street people who stumbled out of the sleeping area into our part of the church before six to collect their belongings, get a pitiful little pastry in a plastic wrapper, drink some water, use the bathroom.  They each folded their blanket and rolled up their yoga mat.

Lisa Harmon, associate minister at the congregational church, showed up to help us close down the sleeping area and the area for the volunteer hosts.  She sprayed Virex from a plastic squirt bottle on the mats and said she takes all the blankets home to wash them for the next night.

Last night the temp was -7F; tonight it’s forecast to be -14, so I offered to show up again.

I had to get training, which I got Monday at the First Baptist Church from MarCee Neery, the director of the Billings Community Crisis Center.  Then I was on the email list from Lisa Harmon, who sent us the schedule for the night, showing who had already signed up for each shift.  I responded with my availability, then she sent out the final schedule.  

The street people we get for the “My Backyard” project have been vetted by MarCee and her staff at the Community Crisis Center.  Staff bring 5-10 people to the church in a van, people who, for one reason or another, were unable to stay at the Montana Rescue Mission, but are still considered reasonable people.  On the other hand, unreasonable people (mentally unstable, high on substances, whatever) remain at the Crisis Center, either for observation, or just to spend the night.  She didn’t say, but I suspect, the most unreasonable folks have to leave the Crisis Center, perhaps to go the psych unit at the Billings Clinic Hospital.

Each person who stays with us in the “My Backyard” project has to agree in writing to a list of expectations.  No profanity, no bothering each other, no sneaking out and sneaking back in.  

The idea is that sleeping on the floor of a church is better than a dangerous night of sub-freezing weather.

MarCee told us in training how to handle emergencies, how to help people who get despondent, in other words, how to act toward our fellow humans.  I appreciated her tips.  She was familiar with each individual street person and seemed to appreciate their personalities.

March 12, 2019

This morning started out good.  My neck was hurting from recent spinal fusion surgery so I had to get up before seven to make coffee.  I make it strong and I make a lot of it.  I got Gunther up and P. took him out to pee.  She also brought in the paper while I poured a cup of really strong java.  P. watered hers.  Then we read the news locally and on-line.  We started the popular “Spelling Bee” puzzle challenge in the New York Times.  I recommend it.  You have to make as many words as possible with the seven letters given.  You also have to use one of those seven in every word.  Yesterday we found all 28 words of the puzzle’s admissible word list and were designated “Queen Bee.”  Made me feel good.  The last word found was “coho,” the salmon.  

Didn’t do so well this morning with “Spelling Bee,” but it’s still early.

By eight I was taking Gunther on his morning walk.  Icy weather, so I put my metal cleats on my snow boots.  They really didn’t help me keep from slipping on the hard ice on the sidewalk.  Instead, they acted more like skates.  I soldiered on.

Gunther likes to run ahead of me.  I can get away with not leashing him first thing in the morning because he’s not so easily distracted by the neighbor’s bird feed on the ground and other garbage, like french fries.

I took a picture of him.  He runs ahead of me, but frequently turns to look me in the face, just to be sure I’m still there (I guess).  I snapped a photo of him doing his “business.”  I’m not publishing that violation of his privacy.

April 10, 2019

Overcast, steady rain.  When I left for home from First Christian Church last midnight I saw a group of homeless lying huddled in the cold beneath an overhang and another person at the main entrance, lying beneath a colorful fleece blanket.  Another had some black plastic.  Across the street at the library were several more people curled up next to a wall to escape the rain.

I started my diagonally parked car; the headlight glared on the homeless man with black plastic.  I could have turned off the lights before I started the car.  I shivered with the dampness. The bleakness.  Half block farther and I two people, a large wet-looking man and a small woman in white crossed in front of me.  The woman looked drunken because she seemed to lean backward as though her legs were walking without her cooperation.

I had left Pastor Mulberry to watch the nine who slept in the church choir room.  Alone.  Apparently they’re having trouble recruiting enough volunteers for two chaperones at each three-hour shift. 

I slept in until 8:30 when Sasha from the Community Crisis Center asked me if I’d volunteer again tonight.  Sure, I said.

Our famous dog, Gunther, waited at the back door for me to walk him to the end of the rainy block so he could relieve himself.  We hurried home for our morning routine:  coffee, read the news, check the blog, emails, Facebook, work on the NY Times puzzles.  Breakfast cereal.  This morning I made a fire in the stove.  P. is working on a quilt she says is ugly.  I urged her to finish the damned thing.  Made her laugh.

Today P. volunteers at Broadwater grade school to help with language arts.  Weather permitting, I’ll work on our back fence, to plant a post, nail horizontals, erect cedar boards.  A young man marked the location of the natural gas line yesterday with a can of yellow spray paint and a metal detector.

Later I’ll make jambalaya.

April 24, 2019

Gunther and I like to explore our alley.  Well, I like to explore our alley.  Gunther’s likes have to be guessed at.  According to where he sniffs.  He generally prances a little way, then puts his face close to the ground and trots farther.  At first, I thought there was something wrong with him, but now I see his methods are his own.  I guess he’s looking for other dogs, or food.  

One of my neighbors put out a toilet by a dumpster.  I noticed it had a vinyl toilet seat cover.  I never did like those.  Can’t say why.  I wonder if someone will scavenge the toilet?  I shudder.  Perhaps it was too heavy to drop into the dumpster.  I like to pick up the most egregious trash—the stuff that pokes me in the eye—and drop it into dumpsters.  You know, bright paper scraps, plastic grocery bags, like that.  I think people are going to feel better when they visit the alley, only they won’t know why.  It’s because the bright paper scrap and grocery bag aren’t there.  Does that make sense?

Gunther and I proceed.  I usually pick up everything in the alley behind our house.  Today there wasn’t anything new.  I would have admired my fence, but I was busy scanning the alley ahead.  A neighbor on the other side had cleared some of his hedge and left the mass of branches in the alley.  Only now most of the brush was gone, just a lot of individual branches.  I grabbed up a beer box and some newspapers.  Also a soda bottle.  

Before walking Gunther today I read an article Ed Kemmick posted about traveling 4,000 miles around the southern US.  His writing feels good to read.  He visited Denver, Memphis, another town where Muddy Waters came from, New Orleans, Austin.  Ed is passionate about American musical roots.  He used to post links to his blog on Facebook, but I don’t know if he still does.  I got my post via email.

May 31, 2019

Got my annual physical exam today.  Apparently all was well.  Except my blood pressure wasn’t quite low enough, just two millimeters of mercury high on the diastolic, which improved when he remeasured.  He ordered the lab to draw blood for electrolytes, kidney, liver function and analyze urine; got a phone call reporting all normal except some blood in my urine.  He’ll recheck that next month.

This next Christmas eve will the the 75th anniversary of our uncle Carl Ralph Bonde’s death when his army troopship was torpedoed in the English Channel by a German U boat.  Carl’s friends told me he died instantly because he was berthed where the torpedo struck.

What a debacle that was.  After the torpedo detonated and the ship’s compartments began flooding the officers of the survivors seemed incapable of acting decisively or communicating with help ashore.  

The soldiers of the 66th US Army Division stayed calm, helping rescue those below decks.  The Belgian crew of the ship, the SS Leopoldville, hastily boarded lifeboats and abandoned the troops.  The captain, who spoke Flemish, apparently never left his quarters.  Ultimately, three or four of Carl’s army buddies joined a couple hundred soldiers who boarded a Navy ship, the USS Brilliant, that pulled up alongside the sinking ship.

The remaining hundreds and hundreds of soldiers who were unable or unwilling to leap 10-20 feet to the Navy ship ended up in the icy seawater after the Leopoldville sank, just 5 miles from the French port of Cherbourg.  Thus, 763 US soldiers died during the Battle of the Bulge before reaching the shore.

The U Boat, U-486, survived the efforts of the allies to destroy it that Christmas eve.  However, the submarine was itself torpedoed near the West Coast of Norway by the British submarine, HMS Tapir, about four months later.  None of submariners on U-486 survived.

I see a pattern that stretches from my experiences with the racists I encountered from Mississippi when I was in the Marine Corps, to the racists who killed my uncle and many of his buddies in WW II.

Tour of Central and Western Montana


This post might be BORING.  Stop reading.  I mean it.  Stop now.  Okay, don’t stop.  Read on. You have yourself to blame.

I mean to tell about Penny and my recent trip around Montana to decorate graves a week before memorial day.  Well, we did see a few amusing things, some amazing things, too.

Background:  we make a trip like this most years, decorating graves in Billings, Lewistown, Kalispell, New Chicago, then home again. 

Now we have a Hymer, a sort of ultra-small RV consisting of a Dodge Ram Promaster that has been converted to a motor home, complete with kitchen, bath, and  bedroom.  Also dining area.  Obviously, certain areas serve more than one purpose.  We bought the Hymer in Anchorage, sight unseen.  Penny, Gunther, and I flew to Anchorage, bought the van, drove it south through Canada to our son Todd and his family’s home in Duluth, Minnesota.

This works good with the COVID epidemic.  We eat and sleep in our vehicle.

This is what we call a Hymer.

We drove to Lewistown, Fort Belknap, Shelby.  Spent the night.  Then on to Kalispell, spent the night camping at Bad Medicine campground.  Then Missoula to the KOA.  Weather was bad, so we returned to Billings.  There.  Said it in a few short words.

Monday:  Billings to Roundup, a town of about 1,800, including Wilbur Wood, former editor of the Montana Kaimin newspaper.  Town looked sad and dejected to me.  We saw no Trump signs, but we did see a sign urging us to help “Save the Cowboy” from the prairie reserve.  I’m not clear what kind of threat that is to the cowboys.  I think they don’t want to see Eastern Montana turned into a bison range.

Saw an occasional eagle, an occasional pronghorn.  

Drove from Grass Range to Lewistown to decorate graves of Lillian Meakins, Warren and Marion Rowton, Clara and Emory McMain, and Aunt Mina Orr.  We bought flowers at Albertson’s: bunches of mums, various colors.  Lewistown did sport a Trump flag or two.  (Near New Chicago we saw a “Truth Matters” flag.  I felt better.)

From Lewistown we drove through to Hilger, then Bohemian Corner, then took off of Highway 87 onto Highway 66 through Ft. Belknap straight north where the Assiniboine and Gros Ventre tribes live.  A long, straight highway that was in better condition than Highway 2.  A sign on US 2 suggested we write to our congressperson to fund repairs.

After joining with US 2 at Harlem, we went west to Chester and Cut Bank.  Drove about 20 miles south of Chinook to the Chief Joseph Battleground, where we walked a trail about 1 mile.  We noticed lots of gifts of Indian goods and sunglasses at the various gravesites along the trail.  The US 7th Cavalry dead were in a mass grave, marked with a sign and a depression in the earth.

One of numerous gravesites at Chief Joseph Battleground festooned with offerings.

Drove on west to Shelby, where we stayed the night at a Comfort Inn that had RV sites with hookups.  The bathrooms were well-maintained and we showered there in the morning.  I recommend the Comfort Inn campground.

Tuesday: drove to Browning where we fueled at a Town Pump.  Indian folk were friendly and funny.  Guy asked a woman coming out of the bathroom what took so long.  “Took a bath,” she chirped.  Best Town Pump ever.

Drove through to Kalispell, bought flowers at Rosaurs: Bunches of lilies.  Decorated the graves of three aunts, one uncle, and grandparents.  From there we drove west on US 2 to Libby, then a few miles later went south on highway 65 to the Ross Cedar Grove.  Encountered a guy with a Trump hat who was with some heavily made up old women.  One large cedar had freshly fallen, judging from the condition of the branches and the raw look of the splintered trunk.

Splintered giant cedar. Windblown?

Near there we stayed the night in a forest service campground, “Bad Medicine Campground.”  I put the $16 fee into the available envelope, filled out the form front and back, but the pay station box was duct taped shut.  I tore the tape where the slot was, then, murmuring “take my money, goddamn it!” I forced the envelope with payment inside. 

We boondocked that night, as we had no hookups.  I did dump our toilet cassette into the outhouse pit.  No internet, no cell service, either.  We did just fine.

Wednesday we drove south on Hwy 56 to Thompson Falls, Plains, Noxon, Ravalli, then Missoula.  Ate lunch at Greenough Park, bought flowers at Albertson’s ($5 for potted chrysanthemums) and decorated CC and Joss Orr’s graves, Hannah Banana Wild’s niche, Steven Struckman, Robert, Helen and Tom Struckman.  Only Steven and Robert’s graves have actual remains within.

We then checked in to the KOA out on Reserve, a favorite place for us.  After hooking everything up, Penny and I are busily typing and reading, having gone a couple days without good internet access.

Thursday we got freaked out by the wintry weather, so we bought a couple of potted chrysanthemums for the New Chicago cemetery, and boogied south and east.  Cemetery in great shape with freshly mowed grass.  Gunther pooped near the electrified fence and I picked up same with a bag.  We decorated the graves of George C. Meakins and Hans Kofoed.

A freak who lives near the cemetery had a whole bunch of Trump flags.  Apparently he is Mormon.  Hmmm.

Homestake pass had snow.

Because of the weather we didn’t go through Anaconda, but returned to Drummond to proceed east to Billings.  Made the whole trip from Missoula to Billings in the Hymer on one tank of gas.

Montana seems to be in pretty good shape, despite the divisions caused by politics.

A post about these posts

I am coaxing a burp from my first son, Todd, a few months after he was born in Santa Ana, California. An officer asked me if I thought he was really mine. I told him he’d be mine when I got him home from the hospital. Everyone on the Marine base agreed with me.


These days I am thinking fundamental thoughts about this blog. Hmmm. Like “who is the intended reader?” Also, “what are the general themes?” And, “why write this at all?”

Intended reader

I keep thinking you are the intended reader. Who are you? You’re intelligent, but impatient. You want the truth and when bullshit appears, you vanish like the sun in May behind a cloud. Otherwise, I’d like most of this stuff to be for my children and grandchildren so they can have a sense of who they are.

I have trouble with the truth. I’d be inclined to say I have a, say, lawnmower, when I really meant an electric Black and Decker M 100. This is important because my dear friend Mark Fryberger owns a Black and Decker M 200.

Grr. Chaps my hide. Near as I can tell, his has a more easily adjusted blade height. Well, he doesn’t have to rub it in. Actually, I don’t think he ever has.

General themes

I have to eschew the term “miscellaneous.”

  • posts that pertain primarily to the title story wherein I am in search of my uncle Bud, killed in the waning months of WW II during the Battle of the Bulge.
  • fables. I have just a few that pertain to the fauna of our block in Billings, Montana.
  • gunther, our Brussels Griffon. He is popular with many readers.
  • stories mined from my childhood. Many of these are boring, but a damned few aren’t–like the one where I got locked in a laboratory after hours, or the one where I almost burned down our house.
  • travel stories about the amazing places in the Northwest part of the United States and Canada.
  • oddities–the so-called cow-in-a-tree.
  • pharmacy stories, especially on the Northern Cheyenne and Crow Indian Reservations.
  • obituaries. Seems like many of these occurred during the pandemic year, 2020.

Why write at all?

Truth is, I feel sorry for the reader. Life is starting to make sense for me, beginning to have a kind of logic. I feel sorry the reader has to wade through so much deceptive bullshit. I believe a little truth to be a kind of magic. As far as making sense, I’ve lived 72 years and amazing things have happened. For instance, the man who hired me and rented an apartment to me later needed me to lend him $300 when he lived in the same apartment. Of course I did! He treated me generously, so how could I refuse him?

I enjoy writing. At the same time, we all know how much fucking work it is; kind of like hammering the wall with your head.

I can’t seem to leave it alone.

George Clifford Meakins

I snapped this when we had just one child and we visited Della and Lawrence in Hall, Montana.


My daughter Clara asked me to write about her maternal grandfather, George Clifford Meakins, whom she never met.

George was a cowboy with little formal education.  He was born in Mobridge, South Dakota, April 3, 1899, to John and Cora Jane Meakins.  George had a bunch of siblings:  Ethel, Pearl, Harley, Vern, Elmer, Dorothy, and Merle.

Mobridge is situated on the Little Missouri River.  George’s dad either died when a mule kicked him in the head or from tuberculosis.  Hard to tell fact from story with George.

Impressions of George come flooding in, not in any sequence, just impressions.  He was a weather-beaten, old-timer.  Penny was always proud to say she was George’s daughter, and often identified herself as such.

Once, in 1972, before Bob was born, when Todd, Penny and I were traveling across Montana, we checked at Garrison Junction Cafe to locate George.  I walked up to a long cafe counter and asked the line of weathered cowboy-looking types if they knew where I could find George Meakins.

“He’s generally at the Corner Bar in Deer Lodge,” answered one gruffly.

I thanked him and we drove the 30 or 40 miles to Deer Lodge to the above bar.  

The woman tending bar directed me back to the area with the pool tables.  The room was dark with several tables under hanging lights.  There, seated in a kitchen chair back in a corner in the dark was a wizened old man.  “George?” I asked.  ‘I seem to remember seeing a dime on the rail of a nearby table.

“Hello,” he answered.  

I asked him if wanted to go with us to visit his daughter Della and her family in Hall, Montana.  He responded by standing and walking with me to the car.  It was almost like he was waiting for us to invite him.

George didn’t drink;  he smoked unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes.  He played pool with unsuspecting, probably half-drunk cowboys.  Perhaps the gruff guy at Garrison Junction lost to old George.

He often didn’t say much.

I remember the first time I met George in the Spring of 1970.

Penny and I met up with him briefly in Deer Lodge at George’s sister Pearl’s house.  This was before Penny and I even considered marriage.  We had broken off our relationship when I joined the military service. After basic I got a 30-day leave of absence so I drove from my mother’s in Dillon to Missoula to visit old friends.

I was soon to be headed to Marine Corps training, Penny was headed to her mother’s in Lewistown.  

I figured she and I might never see each other again, so I felt kind of melancholy.  I had driven my mother’s car to Missoula, picked up Penny, and we drove to Deer Lodge together.

We sat at a dining room table:  George, Penny, Pearl, and me.  Pearl’s husband stood nearby, as if waiting on us.  After some small talk, Penny asked her dad if he would give her a ride to Lewistown.

“I had to sell my car,” answered George, looking sad.

Then he brightened up, “I still have a saddle horse, but just one saddle.”

We chuckled a bit, changed the subject.  I felt distinctly bad for the old man.

Quite a while later Penny noticed her dad’s pink Ford parked in front of Pearl’s house.  She turned pink when she realized she’d been taken in.  He did give her a ride to Lewistown.

I ended up marrying Penny in 1971.

George—I have a photo of him—was a traditional cowboy who bought good clothes:  wool shirts, blue jeans.  He often had a wool hat with earflaps, the kind with a decorative ball on top.  I don’t know if those are still a thing.  He had huge, square hands that had been burned by the sun.  His nose and ears were nibbled away from skin cancers.  Penny said he wore long underwear every day of his life, so he had pale arms and legs, and the top of his head was also white.  He generally had a short haircut.  Penny said she enjoyed playing with his hair when she was a girl.

George died in early 1975 in Missoula.  When we saw him at Saint Patrick Hospital, a radio in his room was playing, “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”  George asked us how the roads were.  Penny told him she loved him, that he was a good dad.  Penny offered to sing him a song, but he declined.  He died in a matter of hours.

Pharmacist in Lame Deer, Montana


Do you think I looked forward daily to working in Lame Deer five days/week, 106 miles from my house?  I did. For most of seventeen years. I commuted daily most of the time. Once I discovered I didn’t like cleaning both an apartment in Lame Deer and home in Billings. Also, my apartment that I had in Lame Deer (only for a few months, maybe six) was infested with mice. Then I bought a cat. Then my apartment was infested with cats.

When I first arrived in Lame Deer August, 1988, Rabbit Hiwalker gave me a sideways look. “What religion are you?” In other words, he found my enthusiasm for his reservation incredible.

My view of the reservation was greatly influenced by the clinic environment, the way people were looking their best, acting their best. I quickly learned the word “aho” meant thanks, and I heard it frequently every day.

Plus the countryside is gorgeous to me and I enjoyed studying it from the highway. Velvet green changes to gold.

Especially in June.  The air is cool at 6 a.m. and two hours to work is an easy drive through beautiful country, Eastern Montana, hills, sunrise, traveling almost exactly east.  I never got tired of the drive and I still feel intimate with every mile.  Something would catch my eye one year and I’d photograph it the following year on the same day. Or try to.

The cowboys gathered the horses in a round corral as the sun rose behind them, dust billowing from countless horse’s hooves.  No camera, but the following year I was ready.  The occurrence didn’t repeat, so I got off the road to a nearby butte.  A twin butte, really, because I could catch the early morning light as it bathed the butte with orange light.  I kept the photograph on a bulletin board in my office and people came in to visit and talk about the butte.  I’ll bet several people were conceived there on its sandy summit.  I don’t remember what the butte was called, but I returned again and again to photograph it.  Always it looked different, depending upon the weather—clouds, time of day, whether I was in a hurry to get to work.

Once I was in a hurry because I was to attend my retirement party and I’d gotten a medical exam at Crow Agency earlier.  I drove a fast car, a good one I’d bought in Denver.  Natives often obtained good horses from a distant place, and my pony was fast.  So fast a highway patrolman stopped me on a long hill near the previously mentioned circular corral.  I was traveling uphill, 105 mph.  I didn’t tell the cop I didn’t want to be late for my retirement party, but I did need to appear before a judge in Hardin, the county seat of Bighorn County.

Cars in Montana don’t usually go 105 mph uphill.  Did I mention I was in the passing lane? The judge fined me $150.

It’s all Indian country from there to Lame Deer;  mostly houses built by the government set back from the highway, connected by a straight unpaved road.  Frequently you’ll see a cluster of teepee poles leaning against the house.  The houses rarely have garages or other outbuildings.  One of my friends painted a teepee on the side of his house.  He said tourists often approach to take pictures, mostly asking permission first.  He worked at the Busby school and I have a picture of him.  Somewhere. Ronald Glenmore.  He was an artist.  I gave him most of the prints I made of tribal elders.  I believe he intended to display them at the Busby school.

Raymond Brady, Sr.

Ray Brady was generous to me.


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.

PFC Raymond Brady was in the 82nd Airborne during the Battle of the Bulge.

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!

Betty Nora Flying


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.

Gunther’s adventure on the block.

Is he tuckered out?


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.

Please, someone, corroborate Michael Fiedler’s fate.

Michael takes a photo of me in our house.


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.