Pushing It

We went out on the bikes again yesterday. My second ride in more than a year.

My coordination and balance isn't what it used to be yet. But I didn't crash into anything. It's coming back to me little by little.

The toughest part is when I try to turn my head to look over my shoulder to check on Barb behind me, or to check on traffic behind us. Then I lose my balance a little bit and have to make sure to keep the line of the bike straight. But that's always been the most difficult part of balance on the bike.

At least my behind doesn't have to get used to the little bike seat, since I've been riding the bike inside on the trainer somewhat.

When we first bought the bikes and started riding the toughest thing to get used to was the little bike seat.

Once I had my car up for work at Marietta Motors just outside of town, and when it was ready I rode my bike up to pick it up. The crew in there recognizes me and they all seemed to watch me ride up to their little office. When I stepped through the door I rubbed my rear end and said, "Man, were bike seats that small when I was a kid." They all howled with laughter.

We live in the middle of town and yesterday decided to head the opposite direction from my initial ride - toward the boat launch. I used to know all the roads and alleys by heart. But this time I forgot that one alley, next to an abandoned steel foundry is littered with pot holes. It was a bumpy two-blocks.

Twice before the access road to the boat launch I considered asking Barb if we could turn around. But I really wanted to reach the boat launch and decide that I would push it further.

The access road to the boat launch is all downhill. So no sweat, I coasted in nicely and we made it. Some men were launching a couple boats to go fishing. The river took over the horizon, with a thick, humid, morning haze over it.

(Sigh) I missed this view.

We soaked it all in for a minute or two. We traded conversation about how no one was minding the weeds around the boat launch this summer. We noticed a new house across the river that must have recently been built. Then we took off back towards home.

Barb led the way and I worked hard to keep up with here. Dang, my wife is speedy. With her coasting now and again to be kind to me, I kept the pace.

I was winded and felt thick through the thighs when we got back home. It was early morning but the air was already quite humid, and I was covered in a thin layer of perspiration. It really felt good.

Mornings

I have the most energy in the morning. It's when I want to do everything. I want to take my whole day's worth of activities and jam it all between 8 a.m. and noon.

But it doesn't work that way.

Today is grocery day. We typically like to get out early on a weekday and beat the crowds, have the stores to ourselves. It's amazing to me how the grocery store seems to bring out the rudeness in people.

But today is scheduled as a bike riding day for me. I alternate between bike riding and the Bowflex for my daily exercise. By the time we would get back from the grocery trip it would be 90-degrees and smoking hot outside.

So I have to make decisions...go for a bike ride and deal with the crowd scene at the store, or skip the bike ride and just go take care of groceries.

I'm really devoted to the exercising right now so I hate to skip it, for even one day. Tomorrow is chemo day, so exercising is out. Right now, chemo day is really the only day that I lack energy.

Fortunately Barb is very flexible and extremely understanding with me. Man, do I love this girl.

I suggested we get out on the bikes this morning and deal with the grocery store a little later than usual. "If that's what you want to do," she answered.

There are certainly more activities I want to jam into every morning. I need to wash the FJ Cruiser. The yard has dried out so much we're trying to water it daily. I need to hack a dying tree down because it's dropping pine needles all over the new deck. The weeds in the planting beds need constant tending. The spider webs on the front of the house need blasted away with the power washer. The "Granny Mobile" out back won't start and needs to be attended to.

The list goes on and on, which is good. It keeps me busy. But if I don't jam these activities into the morning they won't get done. It's just too humid lately in the afternoon for me to attack them.

So I do my best to make the most of my mornings. Then in the afternoon I can hide inside in the air conditioning and take care of work in the house.

I would like to stir-up more work for Albert Design Studio. It will come. But sometimes we all lack patience. It would provide me with a good mix between physical and intellectual stimulation, mornings and afternoons.

But the economy tends to be especially rough on people in my line of work. When times are hard businesses tend to cut their marketing budget first. It doesn't make much sense since you market to build business, something especially necessary for folks right now. But that's the way it seems to go.

I still contemplate getting involved with the local business and local restoration associations again. But I have some misgivings about some of the goals and abilities to accomplish those goals these associations have. Part of me wants to get involved and try to help, and part of me considers it a potential huge waste of time. It's a lot of local politics, and it takes a special kind of person to throw themself into the middle of all of that.

Well, I better get some breakfast in me and get the bike out. By the time we get back from the grocery store it will be 92-degrees and way too humid, and I'll be working at trying to stir up some more Albert Design business - in the air conditioning.

Woohoo - Back on the Bike

Yesterday was my first day back on the bike for easily over a year.

Oh, I've been on the stationary bike. But I haven't been out there moving, wind whipping in the face, sunshine beating on my bike helmet, dodging cars and people walking their dogs.

We bought Trek bikes for both of us shortly after my initial cancer diagnosis. There's nothing like cancer to make you want to get in shape.

We rode constantly, all around Marietta, with all of its bumpy alleys, and crazy old streets. It's really how we got to know this town.

With winter coming we bought a "trainer" so we could continue to stay in shape through the cold months. I was quite dedicated to it. I pushed myself hard on that bike. I even tried to chase cars, and sometimes even kept up. Well I kept up until they saw me in their rear-view mirror and said "What does this weirdo want?" and then they stepped on it and lost me.

When the cancer moved to the brain the bike riding suddenly stopped. It had to be. I tried to convince Barb to keep riding but she said, "It just wasn't the same without me."

As I moved through many months of radiation and the beginning of chemo control I worked hard to feel stronger, and eventually got back on the trainer to at least ride inside. As my strength went up and down I would ride sporadically indoors, but not steady enough to make a long-term difference.

Now with my new found strength after six-weeks on the new chemo Torisel I'm not just back on the bike, but took it outdoors for a ride. Woohoo!

I was a little wobbly at first, over compensating to the left, then overcompensating to the right. I jokingly said to Barb, "I hope I don't hit any parked cars."

But things came back to me. We cruised down the alley behind our house down to the Railroad House, turned the corner and came up Front Street, the road next to the river and the railroad tracks. We breezed back towards our house and I told Barb, "Let's keep going." She said, "Really?" I said, "Sure, why don't you take the lead?"

When we rode regularly Barb used to be the perfect pace-setter. I had a tendency to push too hard and ride too fast. But now it was Barb that was taking off a little too fast for me. She noticed me falling behind and let me catch up.

I wanted to ride all the way to the other end of town, to the boat launch where we always used to take a little break and soak in the scenery of the river. But about halfway there I could feel myself getting a little winded and yelled to Barb, "Let's turn it around."

We turned it around back into the alley and cruised towards home.

We passed a very obese man, shirt off, smoking a cigarette, walking his bulldog. Our bikes are so quiet we're upon people before they even know it. We gave them plenty of room as we surprised both the man and the dog and buzzed by.

Every time I see someone who doesn't take care of themself I'm reminded that cancer really has no logic to it. It strikes anyone, anywhere, at any time. I thought this to myself again as we passed this man and his bulldog.

Before long we were back home. I was a little winded, but felt great overall from the ride. For me it was a real sense of accomplishment to get back out on the bikes again. We guessed that we rode a little over a mile.

I'm once again going to try to dedicate myself to building strength, switching off days between the bike and the Bowflex.

Even with my limited schedule it can be tough to keep up. Wake up at 6 a.m., rub the sleepy out of the eyes for an hour, check e-mail and blog for an hour more, get some breakfast in me, exercise, shower - before you know it it's 10 or 11 o'clock. When there's Albert Design work to do or a grocery trip to make, that's a difficult couple of hours to fit in.

But what's more important for me right now? Probably a good mix of things, work, exercise, and down time. But I promise you, I'm not going to be happy until I reach that boat launch again, just to soak in the Susquehanna River.

The Mystery Neighbor

Once my Uncle Rhea had stopped in to visit the Albert clan up on the hill. I was probably about 16 at the time.

He was out on our back porch taking in the view. From our porch you could see for miles and miles and miles.

I walked over to him and I'll always remember what he said to me, "You realize what a great spot your Dad has here don't you?"

I said, "Yes. I do." And I did realize it. I, of course, had been to many of my friends houses. No one had a view like I had. No one had the privacy that we had. Often times growing up I'd just lay in the grass and take in all the lights shining through the valley, and all the stars above.

My Dad didn't need 7-acres, and certainly didn't want to mow 7-acres. But he didn't want neighbors. I can't blame him for that.

Sure, I'd love to have found that kind of location for myself. But, as you all know, the cost of land has risen considerably since 1964. I really don't mind being in a small town, with neighbors close on either side.

But as they say, you can't pick your neighbors.

On one side of us we have a three-story historic brick structure that once was the Marietta post office. Now the building houses two-apartments, and a clock repair shop on the first floor.

The apartments have had steady residents, nice folks all around. But we really don't see or hear from them much.

On the other side of us we have a three-story historic brick structure that is owned by a lady from Berks County. This lady is rarely there though. It seems she set up the house for her son to live in.

Her son we've conversed with many times, over the backyard fence. He's a good guy. But he's a bit of a mystery.

I'd guess he's in his late 20's. He does not have a job. But he has enough money to feed himself. I know he does do things like remanufacture Star Wars characters from other Star Wars characters and then sell them on E-Bay. It's a little strange.

Once he showed me a Gargoyle lamp he bought for his one hallway because the existing wall sconce was "boring." I call him the mad toy-maker.

For the first couple years here he always had a friend who stayed with him. They were different friends who would stay a couple months and move on. It seemed obvious that the deal was that the friend could stay there rent free if they did all the work, cleaning the house, taking out the trash, mowing the lawn.

One fine day our neighbor learned that he had a two-year-old daughter. Now there's a surprise. The mother of the child, of course knew he was the father but told another man that he was actually the father of the child. Whew, what a soap opera.

But the woman had misgivings and finally decided to tell our neighbor that he was the actual father. One look at the young girl and there's no mistaking who the father is.

A big legal battle has ensued it seems. And for us, it's become one big, gigantic, strange mystery.

For awhile the mother, father and daughter all lived next door. Then one night their house was surrounded by 10 policemen who took them both into custody. Later our neighbor told us that he tried to commit suicide because he was distraught over the death of his grandfather.

Several weeks later he told us he had to go to Reading for a week to cut grass for his grandfather.

Shortly after the police incident we saw in the paper that they had both filed for protection from abuse orders.

(shrugging shoulders)

It's quite a mystery.

Now the biggest mystery of all - no one has been at the house now for at least six-weeks. He was an animal collector, a couple of dogs, cats, a feret and a bird. We knew he took the dogs with him. But every morning we would see the cats at a slightly open second story window.

Who was taking care of them?

We had a business card from a cousin of his and finally called to inquire about the care of the remaining animals. In a couple of days someone came and picked them up. Now and again, someone will show up to mow the yard and pick up the mail.

It's quite a mystery. We'd love to hear the story behind it someday, but I doubt we ever will.

Keep Marietta Weird

When my brother was living and working in Texas, I went down for a visit. It was a memorable trip, certainly including the dance hall in the small town of Gruene, the oldest, continuously operating dance hall in Texas.

One evening my brother took me on a tour of the bars in Austin. Austin is the home of the University of Texas, one of the largest schools in the country. Austin is also the capital of Texas. And Austin is one of the biggest musical influences in the world.

The PBS show Austin City Limits has been showcasing some of this countries' best artists for decades. Tickets to the shows are sold out for months in advance.

Along one street in Austin there is bar after pub after club after bar after pub after club. It stretches out for blocks. And every establishment, it seems, has live music. You can jump from blues to bluegrass just one door down.

Mix a large university, with a state capital, with a vibrant local art scene, and you've got a lot of wonderful weirdos.

The wonderful weirdos got together quite a few years back and decided to collaborate against the impeding commercialism that was eating up Austin and stealing away all the great individualism, swamping all the small, sole proprietors with big corporate structures.

Their mission statement has become "Collaborative Fission of Coordinated Individualism."

But their very first mission statement was simply "Keep Austin Weird." LOL

The "Keep Austin Weird" campaign was a huge success: t-shirts; coffee mugs; bumper stickers; you name it. Many of the local businesses joined the campain and sold the "Keep Austin Weird" merchandise.

Then in 2003 the saying "Keep Austin Weird" was trademarked by just the type of organization they were standing up against. And since they've been enforcing their trademark all over Austin.

Ever since we've moved to Marietta, I've always felt that the same campaign would fit here nicely. Sure...this town is hardly the size of Austin. But we do have a lot of the same components.

A lot of people remember the Bradley Academy of Art that started in Marietta, later moved to York and is now known as the The Art Institute of York. This town has always been a mecca for artists, and artists have this tendency for being, well, a little weird.

Marietta also has some of the best, historic pubs in Lancaster County that feature great local musicians every weekend.

We have a gentleman who regularly takes his parrot for a walk, perched upon his shoulder. Santa Claus also drives through town on his automated wheel chair every day. Seriously, it's Santa Claus.

It may be stretching things a bit, but in ways Marietta is a mini-Austin.

But Marietta's business infrastructure is failing. People just miss Marietta as they cruise down the highway to the next shopping mall.

I think Marietta deserves a "Keep Marietta Weird" campaign, and I might just be the guy to start it. (smile)

Chemo Friday

Whew, I just can't wake up today. I was out early this morning to go for my weekly bloodwork. I was out and back before 8 a.m.

Now I'm sitting here just wishing I could crawl back into bed for a couple hours. But I have the chemo treatment at 11:30 this morning. And they'll start by pumping me full of Benadryl, which is like taking the world's largest sleeping pill.

I have to remember that "normal" people have off days too. Sometimes I get so caught up in looking for cancer or chemo symptoms that I forget that everyone has off days now and again.

Overall my energy levels have been much, much better. Gone, at least for the past few weeks, have been my almost daily afternoon naps.

I had backed off the exercise for too long, primarily because of the pains I had in May and into early June. I felt that I shouldn't aggravate anything. But now I'm back into the exercising with great sincerity. I switch off every day between the Bowflex and the bike. We have a "trainer" for the bike that allows us to ride indoors. But I've been telling Barb that I want to get it back on the street for a casual ride someday very soon. The only pains I feel now are sore muscles, and I'm just fine with that.

Thanks for all the kind comments on the blog yesterday. For the record I'm wearing jeans with a couple holes in them today, with a Detroit Tigers t-shirt my Mom and Dad brought back from Detroit. (smile)

A Misplaced Amish Surfer Beach Bum

Would you buy something from me? I'm a terrible salesman.

I'm a great behind the scenes guy, I like to think. I produce quality stuff, and those businesses I've worked with and for have always seemed to think so too.

But I'm still a guy in jeans and a t-shirt, a misplaced Amish surfer beach bum.

When I took my first newspaper job, after graduating from Ohio University, I felt that I needed to wear a suit and tie. But I quickly noticed that people didn't trust me in a suit and tie. It looked like I was uncomfortable and it looked like it just didn't fit me. I looked like I was faking it.

Also I learned that if I had to meet and talk and interview ordinary folks out on the streets, that they didn't trust a guy in a suit. Of course city officials and professionals expect to see me in a suit, but I learned that as soon as I start talking I could win their trust.

That all worked out well as a newspaper reporter. Now with my own business . . . well, who knows.

I did decide a long time ago that I have to be me. I have to come across to people I work with and for as genuine.

But being genuine doesn't necessarily make me much of a salesman. Although, I have worked with some very genuine salesman.

During "Marietta Days," an all-over town yard sale which draws folks into Marietta in the thousands, I watched and learned how Barb and Alyssa where so much more approachable than I.

If I stand out on the sidewalk people don't approach our little stand. If Alyssa and/or Barb are out there, people approach them in droves. So I tend to stay out of site so I don't hurt sales.

I've watched Alyssa place product in a logical fashion, matching what she thinks would match how a customer approaches and browses the stand. Customers ask questions and she has a great, big smile mixed with laughs and giggles.

I'm sorry. I just can't do the laughs and giggles thing. It's just not part of me.

But it's funny how geography plays such a big part in sales. This is Central Pennsylvania and we feel greater trust and faith in hiring locals, with the Dutchie talk and the Dutchie background and the Dutchie work ethic. We're conservative in nature.

Many around these parts feel much safer working with a local. I can't blame them. Most aren't going to choose to work with a "city slicker," or a misplaced Amish surfer beach bum.

It's funny. Through the years, whenever I've gone to the Outer Banks, everyone thinks I'm a local. My uncombed hair, my look, my demeanor, my sun-drenched everything, my cut-off shorts and t-shirt, to my surprise everyone there treats me like a local.

I'll never forget going into Tommy's Market one summer (Tommy's is a little gourmet grocery store heading north up the island), and when I got to the register some dude started asking me about surf conditions and telling me where he thought it was best.

How did he know that I had a surfboard in the car? I was a local. I never felt more at home, more where I belonged, than on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

I could do business there without the suit and tie. People would absolutely have faith and trust in doing business with me, cut-off shorts and all.

Now the Outer Banks is overrun with tourists. I doubt I'd feel at home there anymore. All the folks that trashed the New Jersey beaches now go to the Outer Banks to trash those beaches too.

But don't get me wrong, misplaced Amish surfer beach bum or not I'm still at home in Central Pennsylvania. And I wouldn't trade my chance of meeting Barb and Alyssa for anything in the world.

Two Coffee Cans

We finally got to the bank yesterday to cash in on our change. We started putting change in a coffee can sometime last year. Pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters, all change went into the coffee can. About a month ago we topped off a second coffee can.

Barb said, "Let's go!" and off we went to the bank yesterday. I've been with my bank for a little while. I took change there once before. You had to drop it off in the branch in Elizabethtown. They counted it, and a deposit appeared in your account a day later.

We called our Marietta branch and again the Elizabethtown branch was the place to go. Off we went, two coffee cans full of change in tow.

Now it's rather amazing how heavy a collection of change can get. Barb and I agreed that we would both have to lug one can into the bank.

A man leaving the bank saw us coming with our heavy coffee cans and was kind enough to hold the door for us. He knew what was going on. He joked as we passed him, "Now that's something I've been meaning to do."

I just began to approach a teller who looked at our coffee cans with great fear. She instantly pointed to the front corner of the bank and said, "Dump it into the machine and it will give you a receipt to bring back to the counter."

A father was already using the machine, helping his son empty piggy bank after piggy bank into the machine. Later I saw the father opening a first bank account for his son.

We waited patiently and upon our turn attacked the machine with coins. The first can was slowly dumped in, so as to not jam the machine. Then Barb reached for the can I was holding.

"No. I want to dump it," I said. "This is cool."

It was cool. You lifted up the plastic cover and a spinning wheel below sorted the coins through perfectly sized holes. I know. I know. I don't get out much.

I poured too fast. Then, I poured too slow. Then I got it just right.

Suddenly I saw a golf tee fall out of the coffee can. Oops.

Barb and I looked at each other with the same expression, worried that we just jammed or even broke the machine. But everything seemed to be operating just fine. We agreed to push on.

Then I saw a beret fall out of the coffee can. Double oops.

I looked down at a cup attached to the machine that was labeled "Rejected Coins." There was a button and a metal washer in the cup. Whew, I wasn't the only one.

The machine showed us an active dollar count as we continued to pour the coins in. It continued to tally the grand total as we cheered it on, "Go! Go!"

So how much money total do you think we had in two coffee cans? Really, what do you think?

$481.23

How about that? We were amazed!

So dig out them coffee cans and get 'em to the bank. That will pay for gas for a couple weeks!

And by the way, I did tell the teller about the golf tee and the beret. She said, "Don't worry, it happens all the time. We'll get it out."

Quick Updates

Monday morning and I feel like being productive and getting things done today.

I looked at the blog this morning and couldn't believe we missed three days in a row. Sorry about that one.

We've been a little lazy this weekend. It's hot. It's humid. And the air conditioners have been turned on a little after noon everyday.

We weren't completely lazy though. Saturday we did run up to a little farmer's market in Mt. Joy and got some local sweet corn and peaches. We've got a great outlet for fresh, local meat. We've got a pretty good connection to Chesapeake Bay seafood. We've just never been able to find a good, local supplier of fresh, local vegetables.

When I lived in downtown York, one block south of the square, I was spoiled by York's Central Market. That was a great place for me to stumble a couple blocks to on a Saturday morning. Not only could I get my week's supply of local meat and veggies, but I could sit down and have breakfast too. I wish there were markets like that all over the place.

Saturday Barb spread more grass seed on our pathetic yard. We just don't understand it. Every summer our yard gets worse and worse. The plantings do OK. The trees are ever dominant and just fine. But we can't keep grass growing.

It's a bit of a mystery to me because our neighbors to the left and right have green grassy backyards, well with quite a bit of broadleaf weeds. But ours is terrible, brown and dying. We're about to give up and just turn the whole backyard into a forest scene.

But Barb's trying to work it. She's dedicated herself to getting out in the yard twice a day and watering down all the brown grass and new seed. We'll see. In the Spring we spread fertilizer and seed and things really seemed to be coming along great. But that ended, and the grass started dying, just like last summer.

Meanwhile we've been trying to work up some clients for Albert Design Studio. We thought we had great interest from a local equipment supplier to do a web site. But we were surprised to find out that although they liked our design better, they went with someone else who promised to handle site hosting for them.

A lot of web designers take advantage of clients' lack of internet knowledge and offer to host their site for $100 a month. The reality is they don't actually host their site. They just sign up for a hosting package over the internet, pay about $10 a month for hosting, and charge the client $100. That's $90 a month then for doing nothing.

I've tried to save my clients that money. I don't feel right taking money for doing nothing. But I have to remember that people are generally lazy. They want service. They don't want to do very much, if anything they don't want to do anything at all. Often a web site is an extra responsibility for someone on top of their daily responsibilities.

So for now on I have to visualize it as not taking someone's money for doing nothing, but offering them services to ease their daily burdens. It still seems ironic to me that my honesty and integrity seem to be a handicap in the business world.

I am expecting some Albert Design work to pop up this week though. A site I had designed a few years ago is due for updates. As soon as my price estimate is approved by the communications department at the Harrisburg Hilton I'll be into the site and working.

Also, a little promotional postcard that we had printed was mailed by the printer on Friday. We received our card on Saturday. So the other 199 people we sent the postcard to should be coming into work to find it this morning. The marketing world says that if you get a three to five-percent reaction to a mailing it is a successful one. So we'll see if we stir up a phone call or two.

I do think my design work is better than ever. I really can't explain why. There just seems to be more thoughtfulness to my approach. I'm not interested in pushing as much work as possible through my desk. I'm interested in doing excellent work for fair prices. And I'm happy to pass on jobs that don't fit the bill.

After five Torisel treatments I feel better than ever, which is quite a blessing. Being on Nexavar for 14-months really ran me into the ground.

It's quite odd living through all the changes to the body these chemicals make. Going through puberty once was enough! My hair is getting thicker and darker. The little, soft, blonde beard I had has now come in dark and course as it was before. I'm gaining weight, reaching a high of 178-pounds. And I have much more energy than I've had in many, many, many months.

Some of the Torisel side-effects are beginning to show themselves. But so far they are tolerable. For some reason my entire head is drying out and flaking. The doctor confirmed that that is par for the course. Also, small, itchy hives have popped up on my forearms, along with a couple small rashes. This too, I've been told, is a normal reaction to chemo dispensed via IV.

No complaints. I can deal with that stuff. And all in all I really felt that everything would continue to get worse, not better. So.....woohoo!

It's off to make some breakfast and get in some good exercise and then get into some work for a productive day.

The Painting of the Cows

One summer in my college years, my Dad got me a job at a large pharmaceutical plant in Myerstown, where he was the controller of the plant. When he took over as controller he immediately got rid of a standing policy against nepotism. My Dad figured if you had one good employee from a family, chances are another family member could be a good employee too.

I was given the worst job in the plant. I, and the son of an engineer at the plant, were asked to paint a mile of chain link fence that surrounded the company property. That was my Dad, letting everyone know that there was nothing too humble for the Alberts. That's what made him great.

I was a bit hesitant going into this job. I figured I'd get ridiculed and treated differently because I was the big bosses' son. You know how that usually goes.

But that wasn't the case at all. I couldn't believe it. Everyone at the plant loved and respected my father. He was one of them. He treated everyone equally and with respect, and he received the same in kind.

He drove to work everyday in a 1963 Rambler that was held together in some locations by putty. He took his sandwhich to work everyday in a paper bag. He was the controller of the plant, but never separated himself from being just one of the gang.

I learned a lot from watching him, and watching how much people loved and respected him because of his modesty and humility.

And there I was with gallons of metallic silver paint and an endless supply of rollers painting a chain link fence everyday.

I'm sure that no one at the plant was envious of my job. I was out in the heat of summer, everyday I would get covered with paint from head to toe. When you roll a paint roller over a chain link fence it just sprays everywhere.

But I liked it.

I was outside. I liked the warm weather. I grew to be friends with the young gentleman I worked with, and we listened to a little portable radio everyday.

I liked it.

One day my work partner and I walked into the cafeteria covered with paint, like usual, from head to toe. Typically we just ate outside. But I think we needed a soda or something. Upon our entrance to the cafeteria everyone stopped what they were doing and just looked at us, splattered with paint from head to toe. They were amazed. They laughed. We laughed too.

When we got halfway through the summer, we got to about the halfway point of the fence. The problem was, on the other side of the fence was a cow pasture, fully stocked with cows.

Now I've had a rule I've lived by my entire life - I don't mess with anything that is bigger than me. The cows were bigger than me.

My sister would ride horses growing up. "You go sis'!" It's not for me.

My partner in painting laughed at my fear (I like to call it due respect) of the cows. I told him point-blank, that I would not climb over the fence to paint the other side. I'm not painting with the cows.

He grabbed a stick on the ground and continued to demonstrate to me how you control a cow. He jumped up and down, waving his arms, waving the stick in the air, and yelling, "WooHA! WooHA!"

"That's all you have to do," he said to me. "They'll run right away."

"I'm not climbing that fence," I told him.

"OK. I'll do it. I'll show 'ya," he said.

He climbed the fence. At his request I handed him his paint roller, a paint tray and a five-gallon bucket of paint. As soon as he started painting the herd of cows started to slowly inch towards him.

"They'll turn away," he said.

They didn't. They just kept slowly, calmly moving towards us.

When the "lead" cow came near, my partner started his cow control dance.

"WooHa! WooHa!" he shouted waving his paint roller in the air.

Didn't phase the cows at all. They just kept coming, a couple dozen of them.

At the last minute my partner freaked out and scaled the fence, hopping out of the pasture and safely by my side.

Problem is he left all of the silver metallic paint on the other side of the fence.

We watched in silence and in horror.

The cows rubbed against the fresh painted fence, they licked at the silver metallic paint like it was a delicious treat. We watched the cows slowly but surely become covered in paint.

We looked at each other and without a word headed directly towards the plant, towards our boss. There was no hiding this boo boo.

Our boss was a friendly guy. He couldn't believe we could be so dumb. But he saw the humor in it. He called the farmer and explained the problem. The farmer wasn't worried about it at all. "Those cows can eat anything," he said. "It won't hurt them.

That side of the fence, that ran along the cow pasture, never did get painted. But we finished the rest of the fence that summer.

How Do I Look?

I'm a big, goofy, white guy - in case you haven't noticed. I can't really say I know what discrimination based on appearance is like.

I guess my closest encounters with discrimination because of appearance would have been on the golf course and on the basketball court.

After Greg Norman gained fame in golf he successfully marketed a golf line with hats, clothes, clubs, the whole deal. Suddenly there were all these short, stocky men on the golf course dressed like Greg Norman.

Then, of course, came Tiger Woods and suddenly the golf courses were littered with people who had never golfed before.

It became like a secret men's club, and you had to dress and look the part, and have a brand new set of clubs, and the latest "super juiced" golf ball with built in honing sensors that automatically found the short grass.

Growing up my idea of golf was a pair of cut-off shorts, no shirt, and a nice day outside hitting a silly, little, white ball around. That idea has never changed. That's still my idea of a good day of golf.

Of course it doesn't cost $1.50 to play all day anymore. It costs $30-plus for one round. And you can't even walk anymore. You have to take a cart to speed up play so the course can jam as many little Greg Normans through as possible.

I keep my shirt on since a club house attendant screamed at me some years ago at Galen Hall in Berks County. I still say the screaming was more rude and disruptive than me getting a little tan.

But I still do dress like I always would, cut-off shorts and a t-shirt. I don't have any fancy golf spikes. I don't have any fancy golf hats or clothes. My clubs are an odd assortment of hand-me-downs and pick-me-ups that have been collected over time. My golf balls all come from my Dad's yard. He has to pick them up before he mows.

I would show up at golf courses and hear the giggles and jokes from the foursomes with their $1000 worth of clubs, and $1000 more worth of accessories. I looked like a goofball to them who didn't belong there, and they were out to make me feel uncomfortable.

The last time I ever played golf was with two dozen golf equipment sales professionals at a company outing. You can imagine how these guys were decked out, nothing but the latest, greatest, most expensive gear from head to toe. They talked down to me, giggled and whispered and laughed.

Then I took the first tee, took out my 1-wood, the driver (which is actually made of wood and not metal like all of them are today). I let it rip, a huge swing with my 6'4" arms flailing, 260-yards just down the left side of the fairway.

There was a soft "Ooooooooo," from the crowd of sales reps behind me. They were disappointed and amazed. I guess I was supposed to miss the ball.

I don't play golf anymore. I don't dress right. I don't look right. I know it's not nearly as serious as some of the discrimination that goes on in this world, not very serious at all compared to most. But it gave me a taste of what it's like.

Growing up playing basketball everyday as I did, I would drive into downtown Reading now and again and find a game on a playground to join. I would stand along side the court with my ball, the only white guy in site.

It never failed, sooner or later, a couple guys would laugh and say, "Hey get that white guy in." Like lions approaching an antelope, you could tell that they couldn't wait to rip me apart.

Surprise, surprise, I was good. I would score from inside and out. I was a slasher who could handle the ball, passing and dribbling like my hero Pete Maravich.

Unlike the golfers, I would gain their respect. They never learned my name. I was still "the white guy." But again, it's a memory of discrimination because of appearance that I remember.

Recently I asked my brother and sister if I look like a guy that is sick.

Without hesitation they both answered "Yeah."

No hard feelings. I wanted their honest opinion. I appreciated their honest opinion.

I've discussed this with Barb. I've briefly discussed this with my Mom. They've both said that I do look ill to people who've known me a long time. But they argue that to people who don't know me I look normal.

I just don't know.

As we start to pull the Albert Design Studio business back together I wonder how much I should be involved in meeting new customers. Can they tell? Maybe I should just be a hidden secret weapon and let Barb handle all of the customer interaction. I mean I have lost over 40-pounds, have multi-colored chemo hair, and I'm sitting here typing with six different needle marks down my arms. Can they tell?

I don't know.

Would people make decisions on a potential business vendor because of their appearance?

Well they do on the golf course. They did on the basketball court.

He's Four!

Photo of the Day
Ellis taking center stage at his birthday party.

Happy Birthday Ellis! And thanks for the excuse for getting everybody together. (I'm still wondering when Alyssa is going to cook a Sunday dinner for everyone again.)

Ellis had his birthday party on Saturday and it was fun, and it was great to see everyone on both Mom's side of the family and Dad's.

Ellis was full of excitement for presents, and people, and well . . . cake of course. But he's also a shy little guy. He didn't seem real happy about my camera. And we weren't allowed to sing "Happy Birthday" to him. He doesn't like to be the center of attention, a young man after my own heart.

We're off on our favorite bi-weekly trip this morning - ugh - the grocery store. But after strong storms overnight it looks like a nice morning after, with cool temperatures, perfectly fit for a drive through the countryside with windows rolled down and car stereo turned up.

We accomplished quite a bit (for us) last week, especially amongst three days of separate doctor's visits. Now this week we're waiting to hear back from many folks, and I only have one medical appointment on Friday (the chemo IV drip).

We're waiting on clients to respond to jobs. We're waiting on word from a roofer, a stone mason, a central air conditioner company, a candlestick maker, oops, forget the last one.

The only side effect I've really noticed from the new chemo so far is a strange one. My whole head is dry and chafing. My scalp, my eyebrows, my jawline, my ears, everything is so dry, even though I've been dipping into Barb's lotions.

Hopefully I'll have an opportunity to discuss this further with an oncologist on Friday.

I better wrap this up and get out to the store. We've found that as long as we get there before 10 a.m. the crowd scene isn't that bad.

Easing Into the Weekend

After doctor and treatment visits on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, we're kind of taking it easy today. Although I did get the leaf blower out and played pick-up sticks in the yard. Then Barb followed by spreading some weed and feed throughout the yard. It was just such a beautiful summer's day today, and we're determined to have a green, healthy yard, although the yard seems to have other ideas.

I'm continuing to feel better and better. The fatique is not nearly as bad as it had been. I've gained a couple of pounds also.

As we entered the cancer center for my doctor visit and treatment on Thursday we ran into my oncologist who was supposed to be on vacation to his home in India. We spoke briefly. Unfortunately, although he received a kidney transplant in the Fall of 2007, it is not going very well, and he was not able to make the trip. When, and whether, he is coming back to work no one seemed to know. A nurse offered to us that he is back on dialysis.

This oncologist has been seeing me now for almost two-years. The oncologist that filled in for him on Thursday took one look at my huge case file and said, "Well, of course I haven't caught up on all of this (pointing to the huge, bulging file) yet."

Whether this is a blessing or a curse, well we'll see. Regardless the oncologist we have seen now for two-years is a great guy, and we wish him well.

I know the oncologist that is substituting for him is hoping he'll make it back so his case work doesn't suddenly boom. He did talk with the Interventional Radiologist about a possible procedure to remove the growths in my liver. But you could tell his heart wasn't too interested in being involved.

It seems like the feeling of the oncology office is to let the Torisel continue to work the magic it has worked thus far, and keep a procedure to remove the tumors on the back burner.

My family doctor said "Let's not sit on this."

The Interventional Radiologist's position was "with these things, it's sooner is better than later."

So, over the next few weeks we'll figure out the gameplan. I'm so happy with what the Torisel has already done, I could very well be in agreement to let it keep working for awhile. But I want to keep up an aggressive posture.

The more people you talk to, the more opinions you get.

A nurse in the chemo room, with a thick Russian accent, took great disagreement with me when I answered her question about my hair.

"How did you get those blonde stripes in your hair?" she asked me.

"Oh that's radiation and chemo hair," I said with a laugh. "I've been told that once you lose all your hair to this stuff it comes back in like it first did when you were a baby."

"NO. That's not true," she sternly answered. "Everybody is different, sometimes curly, sometimes not at all, always different."

OK. There's always disagreement.

I can tell you that one great thing that cancer has offered me is peace. I never argue, never ever with anyone. I don't get mad or upset about anything. It's not worth it. Life is too short for silliness like that. That I've learned.

Someone breaks into my car to steal two-dollars in quarters. No problem. Help yourself. The police never show up after keeping us waiting for four-hours. No big deal. With limited officers I'm sure they get real busy.

Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be.

I'll let you in on the secret. Whenever you're getting frustrated, mad, upset, don't think about your curses in life, think about your blessings. It works for me everytime.

Woohoo!

It's a double blog day, because we got a double dose of good news.

We met with the Interventional Radiologist this morning. Actually we met with his assistant since the doctor is working late shifts this week. But, by chance the doctor called in while we were meeting with his assistant and I had a chance to talk to the doctor over the phone.

In a nutshell, this doctor is willing to go after the tumors, three in the liver and one in the upper left lung. He has three different methods available to choose from. Cryo ablation involves inserting a needle into the tumor and freezing it. Radiofrequency ablation involves inserting a needle into the tumor and burning it with sound waves. Chemoembolization, the third technique, utilizes a catheter run into the thigh and up into the tumors to release chemotherapy directly to the tumors.

It sounds like the last option may be the one they'll use for kidney cancer that has spread to the liver. Then it sounds like after six-weeks they may use one of the other techniques on the tumor in the lung.

The expectation is that tumors will reappear, somewhere, someday. But the goal is to take care of immediate threats and extend life.

Sounds good to me. We had a very good meeting and will be following up in the days and weeks to come. The doctor and his assistant were very knowledgeable, very upbeat and very amicable, and in general nice to work with.

When we got home we got some even better news. My family doctor received the results of yesterday's CT scan and left a message for me saying that the scan showed very positive results.

I followed up with a call to him, which he surprisingly was able to take, and it appears that it is true. All four of my tumors had shrunk after only four-weeks of Torisel chemo, and they shrunk rather significantly.

I don't have all the exact measurements yet. But I'll pick them up tomorrow when I go for my weekly chemo treatment. I'll take yet another needle stick and IV set-up gladly tomorrow - because it seems to be working and working well.

Back to Work

Getting back to the graphics work has been invigorating for me. Sure the rust has been falling off me as I get back to it after more than a year off. But it's coming back.

It keeps me awake and alert and up throughout the day. My worst enemy is the La-Z-Boy and the remote control. That's just like taking a big sleeping pill.

The work is feast or famine...like it always goes. People take forever deciding on what they want to do, and then once they decide they just can't wait to see it.

But one thing I just can't answer to any more is "I need it now!" I have to keep a sane schedule and that's just the way it has to be.

In slow work times, like now when I'm waiting for a go-ahead on three different proposals, there is still always something to work on. I can work on my own site. I can work on artwork for the house. And I can work on the house. Right now I'm trying to finish the painting on some french doors. Man I hate painting those things! lol

It's tough to get much done though on doctor days. Today we have to go in to the main campus of Lancaster General, in downtown Lancaster. I'm scheduled to meet with an Interventional Radiologist (or a resident doctor who works with this doctor we've been told) to discuss the possibility of an "ablation" procedure to zap the tumors away in a very uninvasive way.

We'll see.

Meanwhile Marietta is making local headlines. For some reason a former Congressman is trying to help sex offenders once they're released from prison. So he has set-up three in a house he owns in Marietta. The town wants them out.

If you haven't visited this site before www.pameganslaw.state.pa.us it's interesting. You can see what former sex offenders are in your neighborhood.

If It Wasn't for Bad Luck . . .

...as the blues tune goes..."If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all."

Or so it seems to go sometimes in life. You roll with the punches.

I, like everyone at some point, seem to have bad luck at medical facilities of all shape and size. There was the four-hour wait. And there was the three-hour wait. There also was the time the surgeon asked me right before anesthesia, "So which kidney are we going after?"

Today was one of those days.

First I went to a clinic between Mt. Joy and Elizabethtown for bloodwork. The very amicable and skilled nurse poked me once in the left arm. She had the butterfly needle. She saw my name (I'm there every week now) and she pulled out the smallest needle.

For whatever reason my veins are tiny in the morning. Then, by afternoon my veins are their typical huge size. I know that it does not help that it is 15-degrees below zero inside the clinic.

She couldn't get the needle into the vein. (That's one stick.)

She quickly moved to the right arm. She was determined.

She hit a vein with the second stick. (That's two sticks overall.) She took two or three tubes. I don't know. It doesn't bother me. But I would rather not watch.

"See 'ya next week," we exchanged merrily and Barb and I were off to the Women's and Babies' Hospital for a CT scan of the chest, pelvis and abdomen.

Women's and Babies' Hospital?

Yes. Women's and Babies' Hospital.

Soon I was surrounded by young, pregnant women. I registered. I confirmed my personal information. I sat. They called me back to the CT room.

A very nice, skilled nurse positioned me on the scanner bed and went in for a quick IV set-up. She pricked me in the left arm (That's three sticks.) and got nothing. She tried again on the right arm (That's four sticks.) and again nothing. She tried once more on the right hand, and once again it's a no go. (That's five sticks.)

The nurse called someone in the radiology department at the neighboring Health Campus facility. A few minutes later, another nurse came-in and went at my right hand. GOT IT! The quick IV is set-up to get a good dose of "contrast dye" into my system to get my insides to light up. (That's the sixth and final needle stick.)

The CT technician provides me with some guidance and instructions. A lady's voice from inside the CT machine asks me to "Breathe in. Ok blow it out. Breathe in. Now hold it."

The bed slowly starts to move me through the scanner and the scanner dies in a slow, spinning hum.

Well from this point the technician tried to address the issue. After a good 10-minutes of that she called someone who gave her a tip. She tried something else for a good 15-minutes and then called someone again. The nurse from the neighboring Health Campus returned a few minutes later. They tried stuff, this and that. I don't know I'm laying half-way through the scanner bed with the IV thingie in the back of my hand.

Evidently there was an electrical hick-up that shut the scanner down to a point where no one on hand knew how to turn it back on again.

I don't blame the CT techs. They were just having a bad luck day.

So, from halfway through one scanner I was manually wheeled out of the scanner and jumped off the bed. I was on my way next door to the Health Campus for my scan now. So we drove over next door, with my little IV thingie wrapped up with some sticky gauze tape.

Before long I was in for a quick CT scan. And I didn't have to get stuck by a needle again because I came "pre-stuck."

Quick Note:
The daunting idea of giving Freckles pills twice a day was quickly resolved by a coincidental conversation with my Mom. "Try 'Pill Pockets' you can get them from the vet," she advised.

They're working. Freckles is looking forward to his "treats" every day now. So far so good.

Man, how do Moms always know this stuff.

Thanks Mom!

Week of Doctors

This week is filled with scans and blood work and discussions with doctors. Monday and Friday are the only "free" days. We'll be working this morning, once I wake up and rub the sleepy from my eyes, to fill up today and Friday with things we want to get done.

Tomorrow is my first CT scan after starting Torisel. The doctor and I agreed to do a scan after four treatments, after four weeks of Torisel. The oncologist reminded me that four weeks is not a very long time. He said that he'd be surprised if he saw much shrinkage of the tumors in my liver at this point. But he is hoping to see stabilization.

The health campus where I regularly have scans is so busy that they had to send me to the Women's and Babies' Hospital right next to the Health Campus near the Park City Mall. I've almost been to every facility now, for almost every type of treatment.

We should have results on Wednesday.

Wednesday will take me to the main hospital in downtown Lancaster to meet with a Dr. Burbolowsonaokeiswkdifjkslawerski, an interventional radiologist. I'm going to have to work on pronouncing his name before then.

The interventional radiologist and I are planning on discussing the possibilities of doing the ablation procedure to all or some of my existing tumors.

My oncologist isn't real big on this move because he argues that the cancer is obviously throughout my blood stream anyway, so going after the tumors will have little effect.

But I've heard and read the other side to that argument, with proof that going after the immediate threats can extend a kidney cancer patient's life. From what I've read, the radiologist is likely to be concerned about the size of the tumors and the locations of the tumors (for example the fact that there are three in the liver and one in the left lung - separate organs).

I also hope to speak to the radiologist, Dr. B., about a new type of radiation that combines scanning with precise radiation to deliver a knock-out punch to tumors with less effect to surrounding, healthy cells.

We'll see. At some point during my visit to the Women's and Babies' facility I'll need to have a couple tubes of blood drawn for my weekly blood tests.

Thursday will make three days in a row of doctors with a visit to my oncologist, and my weekly IV drip bag of Torisel. My regular oncologist is on vacation. He went home to India to visit his mother. So I'll meet for the second time with another oncologist. He looks to me like Doogie Howser, but has a good reputation, and our first meeting went well.

It should be an interesting week. But by Friday I'm sure I'll have had enough of doctors for a little bit.

I'll keep you all apprised through the week, through this blog. And thanks again to everyone for all the wonderful support. It keeps me fighting!

Trust

I've always gotten along great with kids and animals. They're honest and straight forward. There is no hidden agendas. You know exactly where kids and animals stand. You know exactly how they feel.

Growing up I was full of trust. We never locked our doors, not the doors of our home, not the doors of our cars. I didn't even understand the concept of not trusting someone or something . . .

. . . until I met the adult world.

During my senior year of high school I set out to find a college that offered me a chance to continue playing basketball as well as pursue an education in publishing.

Unfortunately my high school coach was not very experienced in placing players at the next level. He actually tried to disuade it.

So I took off on my home, a kid full of trust thrust into the adult world.

I liked Old Dominion. It was a Division I school where I felt I could play ball. I liked the location, Norfolk was really growing economically, and it was near the beach, and a little warmer weather then Pennsylvania.

I dragged the family down to visit the school. Unfortunately Old Dominion offered nothing in the fields I was interested in. They were very heavily geared towards engineering and science with a very meek arts program that seemed to barely exist at all.

I was also invited to visit Temple, and I went. As far as basketball was concerned I felt I was up to the challenge but kept getting visions of being the white guy at the end of the bench. Temple had an outstanding arts program, and plenty of great opportunities to learn all about publishing. But, the bottom line was location - North Philadelphia, no thank you.

I received a few calls from some of this area's Division 3 schools, Gettysburg especially wanted me to play ball there. But for some reason, at the time, I wanted to go to a school that was much larger than my high school. I wanted to get lost in the crowd a little bit, rather than have everyone know everything about me. Plus I didn't think our local Division 3 schools were worth the exhorbitant price tags they held for tuition.

A sports reporter for the local paper heard that I was looking into colleges, and recognized that my high school coach was of no help. He approached me and asked me if he could take me to meet the head coach at Shippensburg, his alma mater.

I said sure, it was a Division 2 school where I felt I could play ball right away. The school also offered a Journalism degree, which fit into my plans.

We went and I was introduced to the coach. He went on and on and on about how much he wanted me to play there, how he needed a 6'4" guard on the team with my track record. The coach gave me a little tour of the fieldhouse and then turned me over to the captain of the team for a complete tour of the campus.

The coach explained that he did not have any athletic scholarships to offer. But, he really hoped he'd see me at practice in the Fall.

My mind was made up. I enrolled at Shippensburg.

On the first day of school, which was a freshman orientation day, I headed straight for the fieldhouse. On my way I noticed a team running laps on the track behind the gym. There was no mistaking it. You just don't see a dozen guys all over 6'4" running together. This was the basketball team.

I hustled down to confirm my suspicion. It was true I learned. It was the basketball team and they've already been at school practicing for the past two-weeks.

Why wasn't I told?

I made a beeline for the coaches office. He was sitting at his desk reading.

"Excuse me. I'm Jim Albert. Why wasn't I told about the start of basketball practice?"

"You're who?" the coach asked. "I'm sorry. I don't remember you."

We had a rambling confusing conversation. I was dumbfounded and furious. I was heartbroken. The guy who told me he couldn't wait to get me on his team, now was telling me he had no room for me.

After years and years and years of practicing every day, suddenly organized basketball was over. Suddenly I had a couple hours a day that I had no idea what to do with.

As time went on, I met player after player after player that the same stunt was pulled on. I even met the guard from Warwick that I played against in the Lebanon-Lancaster league finals. The same thing happened to him.

It became obvious that this coach was over-recruiting purposely to make sure if we didn't play for him, we didn't play against him. He was taking advantage of kids full of trust for his own gain.

And as time went on, those non-existent scholarships actually existed. He awarded four scholarships to four big guys from Philly. Three of them quit school after the first semester.

It changed my life in many important ways. And one way, for certain, is that it made me lose innocence, and lose trust. The first thing college taught me was how to be cynical.

That college coach retired a few years ago and Shippensburg University awarded him for his great leadership and dedication.

Flags-a-Flyin'

The flag is flyin' out front ready for the July 4th holiday. We don't have any specific plans outside of making a world famous Albert stromboli tomorrow. With our situation its best to make plans on a Tuesday when the rest of the world is at work. It's nice to have that flexibility.

Growing up on the "hill" we could watch a couple different fireworks because of our incredible view. Fireworks never really brought out the "Ooooos" and "Aaaaaahs" from me. I don't know why. I just never got real excited by them.

I even fought traffic once in Philly to get down to the riverfront to watch the city's big fireworks display. It was a site to see, I guess. But I didn't consider it worth the fight through traffic.

My friends growing up, on the other hand, were quite into the fireworks. Trips were made to adjoining states where fireworks could be bought in much, much larger sizes than allowed in Pennsylvania.

My friends would put on annual shows this time of year with roman candles bursting in the air. I, hesitantly, watched, hoping like crazy that nothing bad would happen. I was always surprised that the police never showed up. I mean these shows could not be missed. They went all out.

One year I participated rather than just watched. I didn't do much. But towards the end the organizers asked everyone on the scene who wasn't lighting off the big stuff to grab a quarter-stick of dynamite and toss it in different directions. We were in the middle of a field while the families were back on a bluff overlooking the show.

As soon as I was told to light and throw a voice screamed through the dark behind me.

"THIS IS THE BUREAU OF ALCOHOL AND FIREARMS. DROP IT AND TURN AROUND."

I almost swallowed my tongue. Everyone quickly moved towards the voice. The voice started laughing, a boisterous drunken laugh.

It was all a gag. One of the viewers of the fireworks thought it would be a funny joke.

I thought to myself, a couple seconds difference in timing and I would have thrown a quarter-stick of dynamite right at him - some joke.

I never lit that dynamite.

I never went to another of my friend's fireworks shows again.

Like I always say, life is exciting enough without going out of your way to add unnecessary excitement to it.

I hope everyone has a great, happy, wonderful, and SAFE July 4th weekend!

Freckles Sees the Doctor

Today was Freckles appointment with the veterinarian, and well, it kind of went OK.

Little Ellis likes to see Freckles hiss, and well he missed quite a show this morning.

We lured Freckles into the back sunroom this morning. He seemed to know that something was up, especially after we closed the door between the kitchen and sunroom. He stayed calm. But wanted out.

The vet is a great guy, really awesome. He has agreed to see Freckles on his own turf, here in Marietta. Last year was the first year for a house call. Freckles does not do well in the car. He pees. He poops. He pukes. He pants. It really seems to suck the life out of him.

Though it was a year since his last visit from the vet, Freckles just seems to have an amazing memory. He seemed to know that the closed sun room meant something he did not enjoy.

When the vet arrived Freckles stayed rather calm and let the vet pet him, while still begging to be let through the door to the kitchen. But when Barb picked him up, first to try to calm him down, and then set him on the sun room table - well, Freckles went wild and gave it all his efforts to break free from Barb.

Freckles dug his back claws into Barbie's chest and sprung to the floor. He really left some good marks this time. If only he knew we were trying to help him. I hope Barb's scratches heal fast. I feel so bad that he did that to her.

We got Freckles up on the scale, somehow. He weighed in at 18-pounds, a big cat. I calmed him and petted him and held him in place. Just then the vet gave the "GO" signal to his assistant and she swooped him and grabbed him firm by the scruff of the back of the neck.

Freckles showed his teeth and hissed wildly.

I can honestly say I've never seen that expression on him before.

The vet hit him with a couple of shots. In the wildness of everything I don't even really know if it was two shots or three. Freckles was a bear, being the meanest I've ever seen him. But the vet's assistant definitely showed him who was boss and kept him still.

The vet said that Freckles wasn't the meanest cat he's seen.

Barb said, "He's not?" in disbelief.

The vet answered, "Oh my no."

Freckles has developed a bit of a skin problem and has been losing fur in clumps along his right side, and his skin has been dry and he has shown some dandruff. The vet went in for a good look. He's going to give us two pills to give Freckles daily for 30-days. He also recommended Freckles getting a good bath.

Oh boy, getting Freckles to swallow two pills every day. That should be interesting.

Susan, are you ready to give Freckles another bath? (Wish I could see her face after she reads that line . . . lol.)