©2008 Dave Knechel

Because I have type 2 diabetes, I carry a blood glucose test kit with me, usually in the front left pocket of my pants. It has a couple of outside pouches, one with a zipper, that I can put a few things in, like lancets. That way, I can easily replace dull ones with new ones that don’t sting as much when I pierce my fingers. I used to carry other things, too, but not anymore. Once in a while, the zipper has opened up and I’ve found loose lancets at the bottom of my pocket. Fortunately, they’re covered, so I don’t have to worry about poking myself.

I generally do my laundry on Sundays. That way, I’m not burdened with having to do it during the week when I have work and other responsibilities going on. For as long as I can remember, I’ve done my own washing, drying and folding, even when mixing the laundry with someone else’s. Call it a quirk, but I have a particular way of folding my clothes and no one can do it the way I like it done. Just let me do it myself, thank you.

On the Sunday before last, I did my laundry. Meticulously, I folded each item as I pulled it out of the dryer and put it on the appropriate pile. One is for shirts, one is for pants, and the other is for socks and underwear, not that I feel like being too personal, but I told you I’m funny about my wash. As I pulled out a pair of blue jeans, I smelled something. Oh well, I shrugged, I haven’t been around fish and maybe it’s just my imagination.

On Monday morning, I got myself ready to go out. I put on that pair of jeans and started to transfer everything I carry with me into the pockets. I kept getting the scent of fish, like I had just gotten off a deep sea fishing boat. What is this, I thought. Nah, can’t be. As I put something in the front left pocket, I felt that one of the corners was hard and crusty. Huh? I pulled it inside out, really gave it a good feel and sniffed it. It smelled like fish. I couldn’t figure out why, but I certainly didn’t wear that pair of pants that day. Instead, I got the Mr. Clean out from under the kitchen sink and soaked the pocket. Some of my shirts mysteriously had oil splotches on them. I soaked them as well. All week long, I couldn’t figure out what caused that smell and it really perplexed me. I didn’t put a piece of fish in there. Nope. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I ate any fish or seafood at all the previous week. Oh well.

This past Sunday, I did my wash, paying particular attention to how that pair of jeans and the other clothes I soaked came out. Sometimes, I throw a little dish detergent in with the laundry soap because it helps eliminate grease stains. Everything came out clean, but the intense smell of fish was still lingering in my mind. Where could that smell have come from? Finally, it dawned on me.

Remember, I said I have those little pouches on my glucose tester? I used to carry spare vitamins and supplements, in case I happened to go out for dinner that evening without stopping at home first. I forgot all about them. Just like sometimes finding loose lancets, and I always check my pockets, one of those supplements must have slipped out. Too bad I didn’t find that softgel filled with 2400mg of fish oil concentrate. Good thing I made the right decision not to wear those pants, though. Besides everyone asking, “Dave, why do you smell like you just got off a fishing boat?“, I probably would have been fighting off cats and flies all day.

©2008 Dave Knechel

©2008 Dave Knechel

This is a story about Hannah. She’s all grown up now, but when she was young, she was pretty much the tomboy. She got a big kick out of passing gas and laughing about it, for example. Saying “poop’ was very funny, too. That lasted until boys started to show an interest in her. Oh no, I thought, the trouble was about to begin. When she was around 13, they would sometimes call after dinner, but she made a habit of going outside to pal around with some of her neighborhood girlfriends after we ate to (hopefully) escape having to help wash dishes and to put off homework for as long as she could. Anyway, when one of the boys called, she generally wasn’t around and I always answer the phone.

“Hello, is Hannah there?” This was before the poor guy’s voice changed, so it was sort of high pitched and a little bit feminine sounding.

“No, she isn’t. Is this Stephanie?”

“No.”

“Erica?”

“NO!” he’d respond, and I could detect a little bit of frustration, disappointment and anger in his voice.

“Oh. Would you like me to take a message?”

“No,” and - CLICK - he’d hang up. Later, I’d tell her some guy called and she’d get all excited.

“Who was it?!!!”

“I don’t know, he didn’t leave a name.” The next day, the boy would tell her what I did and she’d get mad at me.

“Hannah, you’re too young to start thinking about boys.” Then, I’d tell her she wouldn’t be able to date until she was 30 and she’d have to sit in the back seat when he came to get her because I would be sitting in the passenger seat, right next to him. She knew I was just kidding, but I sensed she really appreciated the fact that I loved her so much.

Fortunately, her interest in boys waned while she went through a horse phase. Life was all about horses. Horses, horses and more horses. I don’t know what it is about girls her age and their strange fascination with Equus caballus, but it seemed like every other weekend we had to take her somewhere to ride. Of course, she had to take lessons first and let me tell you, this horse obsession wasn’t cheap, either. Thank goodness for grandmothers.

A place we took her to one Saturday morning was a horse ranch in Sanford, a town north of Orlando. We had read about it and drove by several times to scope it out. It seemed like a nice place and it was surrounded by woods with scenic trails. When we got there, an employee asked if we could wait a half hour or so while they waited for other girls to show up. Their parents were obviously smart enough to make reservations. One of the young women who worked there was a drop dead gorgeous natural blonde with an incredibly perfect body and I had to sneak glances so Susan wouldn’t see me. I walked into the house with her to pay and Susan stayed with Hannah to inspect the horses outside and in the stable. Oh my God, I thought, and then she smiled. Uh oh. She wasn’t perfect after all. One flaw was all it took to stop me dead in my tracks. Rotten teeth. Yuck. How could someone that good looking have teeth that bad? Oh well, I wasn’t really interested in her anyway. I was already spoken for and quite happy, and this was a day for Hannah and a horse.

In a pen sitting all by himself was Arnold or Clem or whatever his name was, the resident donkey. I asked the young woman if he ever goes out riding. Not very often, she told me. I asked her if she would saddle up Clem and play a little game with Hannah. Put all the other girls in the saddles first and tell her there are no more horses, that she’ll have to ride him instead. Then, bring her a horse from the stable.

“Sure,” she said. “That’s funny. I love it!” She smiled again.

One by one, the other girls showed up and more horses were brought out to saddle. Then, one of the women readied Clem. All the girls were called to a horse and finally, they brought Clem over to Hannah.

“Nuh uh!” she exclaimed. “I’m not riding him!!!”

“Yes, you have to because there are no more horses.” All the other girls were laughing.

“No way!” and she turned away in anger. They told her it was a joke and brought out another horse. Poor Clem. As soon as he realized he wasn’t going to go out on the trail, he brayed and brayed. He was genuinely upset and saddened that he wasn’t going out for a fun day like the horses. He seemed to be crying. All of a sudden, I felt terrible for what I had done. It was my fault. I let him down. I had never been cruel to animals before in my life and I felt so guilty as I watched him get stripped of his saddle and then led back to his pen. Something I thought was funny backfired on me.

“Can’t you let him go out with the others? Just for the fun of it?”

“No. He hasn’t been out for a long time and he’s getting too old to go on such a long trip. The heat will bother him, too.”

Boy, I felt bad. I walked up and apologized to him as best as I could. “I’m sorry, Clem. I really am.” I thought that talking to him and giving him a lot of attention might ease the pain. All of a sudden, he let out the biggest and loudest fart I had ever heard in my life.

“phhhhtblaaaatsquifffffbreeeeppshhhhhbreeeeppp!!!“

And then he settled down. I guess that was his way of getting back at me and, suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad. After all, I was standing closest to him when he let it rip.

Everyone giggled, especially Hannah. “Ha, ha, ha, he farted on you.”

“Hannah,” I said, “he sounds just like you.” All of the girls hee hawed in laughter as they set out on their adventure. Happy trails.

The End

Free as a Bird

My brother, Tim, is on his way to his second tour of duty in Iraq.

He left yesterday morning.

I wish him Godspeed.

©2008 Dave Knechel

Around the end of October of 2006, I bought 2 bags of candy to hand out to trick or treaters. I live on a street where no children reside and we seldom get Halloween visitors. Few came and someone had to eat all that leftover chocolate. It was gone in days. Little did I know that, two weeks later, I would test my blood glucose on a dare and within a month, be diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. I have no idea how high my sugar went from eating that candy, how long I’ve had the disease or how much damage I’ve done, but many people could have diabetes or other conditions for many years and not know it. I had symptoms for quite some time and shrugged them off, like a lot of men do. I hate going to the doctor. Constant hunger with a sudden loss of weight, frequent urination and the tingling, numbness and sharp pains in my extremities from diabetic neuropathy were warnings I should not have ignored, but maladies that creep up with middle age and the lack of health insurance were good enough excuses for me to pretend nothing was seriously wrong. Until that day a lancet pierced my finger, those symptoms meant nothing. How quickly life changes. I needed help and I got it, but my thoughts turned to the countless others without health insurance. What about low-income families who don’t go to the doctor because they can’t afford to? Are they aware there’s help out there? There is, but the trick is how to educate them about where to go for treatment.

In the Orlando, Florida area, there are clinics affiliated with PCAN, the Primary Care Access Network that specializes in health care for the underinsured. There’s the Central Florida Family Health Center with locations scattered throughout the area. You pay according to your income level based on the US Department of Health & Human Services’ poverty guidelines. For the homeless, there’s HCCH, the Health Care Center for the Homeless. Also, try the Florida Association of Community Health Centers.

Thankfully, our community is also blessed with faith-based Shepherd’s Hope, nonprofit clinics that provide free assistance in a family-practice setting. Their mission is not one of continuous-care. It is to provide non-emergency treatment to those in need. Presently, there are 8 all volunteer health centers and they are a godsend. Their website states that, of the uninsured population nationwide, 8 out of 10 people are not eligible for government assisted health care plans. Most are hard-working and many work several part time jobs to make ends meet. Putting food on the family table and a roof over their heads are primary concerns and not much is left over.

My advice would be to go to a search engine and explore clinics closest to where you live. I did a search for “free Orlando clinics” and found Shepherd’s Hope in this area. Where you live, replace “Orlando” with your town. If that doesn’t work, try using assorted key words along with your search, such as “medical” or “health”, like “free health care decatur alabama” or “free medical clinics philadelphia” until something pops up. On the federal level in the United States, the Hill-Burton Act was passed in 1946 to help you find health care, regardless of your ability to pay. If your search yields nothing in your area, go to the Hill-Burton website and look through the facility locations. Something is bound to pop up.

Through local and national grants, hospitals, pharmaceutical companies and dedicated volunteers, there are countless clinics around the U.S. and throughout the world that are willing to help those in need. Look in the phone book. Call your local government. Ask a friend for advice. All you need to do is seek in order to find and if all else fails, contact one of the organizations listed here. They might be able to steer you in the right direction.

©2008 Dave Knechel

“. . . on April 22, 1970, Earth Day was held, one of the most

remarkable happenings in the history of democracy. . . ”

-American Heritage Magazine, October 1993

I remember the very first Earth Day. I was attending Hunterdon Central High School, now known as Hunterdon Central Regional High School and a lot of commotion was stirred by our teachers and fellow students preceding that day. The first thing to catch my attention, and those of plenty of my peers, was that all classes were to be suspended on Earth Day. Instead, we would have seminars in what seemed like a giant trade show, with local and state business and community leaders converging on our school to speak to us about our planet, how to improve our lives and what we could do to be positive forces in the world. We were in the middle of a terrible conflict in Viet Nam and drugs were becoming an ever present occurrence in all of our lives, whether we did them or not, and everyone was very much aware of those two things. At the time, I wasn’t much of an environmentalist, although I never had anything against ecology and conservationism. My concerns lay more in the sphere of my social environment, so who we knew that went to Viet Nam and whether drugs were cool to do or not were more important issues than saving the planet from pollution. Remember, these were the days before the ‘73 oil embargo, Watergate and words like vegan and tree hugger had not yet parsed our lips.

I recall that about a week before Earth Day, we were given a form to fill out with explanations of each symposium. We had some that were mandatory to attend and many more that were electives. At no time during the day were we to have free time, except for lunch. That way, we were always accounted for, being carefree high school students and all. Just like regular classes, we weren’t supposed to skip these meetings, either. Mandatory roll calls were to be taken, but they never were. After a while, we knew how to play the attendance game.

One I signed up for dealt with drug education. Of course, being high school kids and “hip” on the drug scene, a lot of my friends attended that one, too. I’m sure we knew more than the cops. Once there, we learned about the evils of marijuana, hashish, LSD, STP, heroin and whatever was big back then and the tools used to ingest them, like rolling papers, pipes and needles. We also learned how to detect users, how to turn them in and how to avoid frying our own brains from drugs. It was held in the main auditorium and there was a long table filled with all sorts of paraphernalia to view. Lou Rocco was the county drug czar back then and he was our lecturer. Several cops stood near him. I knew him well enough, too, because his daughter, Angie, had been the first to train me when I started working at the Weiner King restaurant in the fall of ‘68. He was a regular customer and Angie took a shining to me. She went on to be a nurse or something because she got a job at the Hunterdon Medical Center.

After his speech, good old Lou invited us to join him at that long table so we could get up close and personal with the stuff on display. We were allowed to pick up some things, but the real goods were kept at a distance. First, he explained what each item was, and then he prompted us to ask questions. I have always been known as a practical joker. During that question and answer period, I secretly swiped a piece of incense while Mr. Rocco’s back was to me, answering someone’s question. I don’t know what the other cops were doing. This was no ordinary piece of incense, though. It smelled just like marijuana when burning and it was used to train police and narcotics agents. Oh boy, what do I do with my stash, I wondered.

When the seminar ended, I casually walked into the men’s room by the main entrance, just beyond the auditorium. I waited for everyone else to leave and entered one of the stalls. The stalls, back then, didn’t have doors on them in our school. Not the men’s room, anyway. That way, teachers could make sure no one was smoking cigarettes. I carefully placed that valuable piece of pot incense behind the toilet and lit it. I hightailed it out of there before the stuff began to smell. It didn’t take long before that became the biggest news at the high school that day. POT SMOKING STUDENTS USE HIGH SCHOOL MEN’S ROOM ON EARTH DAY! Imagine that, some stupid kids had the audacity to smoke pot with all those cops swarming about. They never did get caught, though, and Lou Rocco and the rest of his force never figured out a piece of their educational material went missing.

There you have it. My first Earth Day was spent smoking up the men’s room with chemically manufactured marijuana. I’m sure it was filled with artificial ingredients. Since then, I’ve learned a lot about war, drugs and what we can do to keep ourselves and our planet healthy. I hope you have, too.

That would really be far out, man. Peace.

©2008 Dave Knechel

The human brain is such an incredible organ. I can’t fathom how deep the mind is, nor how far we can reach into it. The other day, I thought of a really sweet girl I hadn’t seen, heard or thought of in 30 years. Why did this young cutie, all of a sudden, creep into my brain for no apparent reason? I don’t have a clue. Nothing took me back to that time of my life and nothing reminded me of her, but there she was - and I pictured her just as she was - with one of the nicest personalities and the most dazzling smile of all of God’s creatures. I could understand if I had a crush on her at one time, but alas, she was too young for me then. 27 year old men do not date 16 year old girls. Besides, I’m still too old for her and it’s got nothing to do with why I’m writing this.

For the life of me, I couldn’t remember her name. Oh, I know age takes its toll on memories, but it generally effects short term, not long term as much. Because I’ve lived with this brain for more than 55 years, I have a fairly good grasp on what makes it tick and I realize how age speeds up the process of slowing it down. I guess we can never know too much about ourselves, but I certainly know what eats at me and one of those things is when I draw a complete blank. The right side of my brain is why I’ve spent a good part of my life in a creative, artistic field and the left controls how I analyze and dissect every thought and conjure up solutions to complex problems. I had to know her name and my left hemisphere was plugging away. Silently, I ran through the alphabet, trying to settle on one letter that would stand out. I think we all do that first. After a half hour or so of antagonizing myself, a letter popped out. N. Yes, “N” was more than likely prominent in there somewhere. OK, and I know when it’s time to quit. Yup, Dave, it’ll come to you now, just put it on the back burner. Give it a rest. It will be there when you least expect it. About an hour later, her first name was a clear as the first time I ever heard it… Anna. With two “N’s.” Keep it on the back burner, Dave, go on about your business. I’m sure that’s not the ” N” you’re thinking about. I’m sure there’s more to it. Forget about it for now.

When I was much younger, my best friend, his wife and I - and maybe, whoever was my best seller at the time - would get together and play a simple mind game. We’d think of 10 words and give each one a corresponding word, but the object was to make the other word as difficult to associate with the first word as possible. The harder the two words were together, the more difficult it would be to remember. For example,

pencil - tire

Your opponent would mention the two words together. Then, each word would be said by itself and the challenge was to remember the second word. For pencil - tire, I pictured a pencil resting on top of a tire and that’s what I remembered, so when my opponent said “pencil” I had the right response. I did the same thing with the remaining 9 examples. We played this for hours or until we started to get bored, but the loser always won the Steamy Turd Award and no one wanted that. I always got to draw the turd, even if I lost. There’s the right side of my brain for you. I was the best artist in the bunch. Some of you may think of this as a purely stupid game, but I’m sure it’s played a big role in why my memory is still almost as good as it was 25 years ago, while I was in my prime. I think doing crossword puzzles and word jumbles every day helps considerably, too, in keeping my mind sharp. If only my body would respond the same way.

The most puzzling part of this whole thing is where does old information come from in your brain? I mean, it’s not like a computer that stores it somewhere and knows where to retrieve it in a nanosecond. Sure, it’s in there somewhere and there’s no way a conscious mind could ever bring back everything that’s registered over so many years. It’s got to be some sort of random access memory thing, because once we put it out ofour minds and the pressure of thinking about it goes away, that’s when our brains secretly go to work. Out of the blue, the answer always comes. Always. What wondrous mechanisms are at work without our knowledge, digging so deeply into the caverns of our psyches? How do our brains do that and so much more? Well, I’m not going to fret over it too long. Believe me, it will drive me nuts. Mucho loco.

Oh yeah, Anna. Anna Notarangelo. There’s that “N” I scraped up earlier. It came to me later in the day and I guarantee I was thinking about something else. What made me think of her to begin with?

The owner of a pig farm in West Virginia was confused about paying his feed bill, so he decided to ask his young, good looking cousin for some mathematical help.

He called her on his newfangled cell phone and said, “Sue Ellen? Yer goin’ to the the University of West Virginny and I need some help. If I wuz to give ya $20,000 - minus 14 percent - how much would you take off?”

She thought for a moment and replied, “Everything but my earrings.”

Yee Haw!!!

I don’t know if it’s Murphy’s Law or just my luck, but whenever I cut into a lemon, some of the juice will squirt into one of my eyes and cause excruciating pain. Big time. What synergy causes that liquid to always find a path leading directly to one of my eyes? What did I do wrong in life to be stung by a lemon? It’s almost the same as when, on that one crucial day of a very important meeting, something will drip or splash onto my crisp, clean shirt, and create a nasty stain that will not come out - and there’s no time to rush home to change it.

Years ago, I worked near a Cuban restaurant. Living in Florida, there are a lot of ethnic eateries scattered everywhere. Many are Hispanic and run the gamut from countries like Colombia, Peru and Argentina. Sure, there are plenty of Puerto Rican and Mexican places, but when I moved here in ‘81, I developed a penchant for Cuban bread. Many supermarkets sell it and I used to eat plenty more before I found out I was diabetic and had to cut back on carbohydrates.

One morning, I stopped by that Cuban restaurant for a ham and egg sandwich on grilled Cuban bread. It was very tasty and rather inexpensive and it became habit forming, so I stopped there at least once or twice a week and sometimes, for lunch, too. They had one of the best Cuban sandwiches around. When you walk in the door, there was a counter to your right for ordering and along side it, a counter to sit at and eat. There were also tables on the left side as you looked in. Just when you walk through the door, there was an opening to the right of the cash register that led down a short hall and back to the kitchen. Along the wall was a solitary chair I had never seen there before. As I waited in line, a middle aged gentleman walked behind the counter and sat in the chair. I wondered, what could he be up to? A minute later, an elderly woman walked out of the kitchen and stood in front of him. She tilted his head back and used two fingers to keep one eye pried open. With her other hand, she took half a cut lemon and squeezed the juice into that eye.

“YEEOOWW,” I exclaimed, “what was that for?” Why would anyone want to be tortured that way? Who would be stupid enough to allow someone to squeeze a lemon in their eye? There must be a reason, I thought. “Does anyone know why she did that? Hello?” No matter what I asked, it fell on deaf ears. I realized that I was probably the only English speaking person in the place. Finally, a voice sitting at the counter said two words.

“Pink eye.”

“Pink eye?” I responded, but no one answered back. When my to go order was ready, I left and went to work. No one wanted to believe me and no one had ever heard of such a thing. Today, when I mention that event to someone from Puerto Rico or Cuba, I’m occasionally told it’s an old folk remedy and some swear it really works. I’ll take their word for it. Thanks, but no thanks.

I’ve never, ever had pink eye. Maybe it’s from the juice that occasionally squirts in my eyes. Call it preventive medicine. Maybe, it’s not Murphy’s Law after all. Murphy’s Law probably has more to do with spilling something dark on the light clothes you’re wearing at the most inopportune time. Why is that and will lemon juice cure stains, too?

During a church service, a pastor asked the congregation if they had anything they wanted to share that made them thankful.

A woman stood up and said, “I’m thankful because two months ago, my husband, the father of our beautiful children, was in a terrible car wreck. Jim’s scrotum was smashed, he was in excruciating pain, and doctors didn’t know if they could help him.”

A gasp rose from the men in the congregation as they imagined poor Jim’s pain.

“Jim was unable to hold me or his grandchildren,” the woman continued. “Every move caused him terrible pain. Doctors performed a delicate operation to piece together the crushed remnants of Jim’s scrotum and wrap wire around it to hold it in place.”

The men squirmed, imagining such surgery.

“But now,” she said, “Jim is out of the hospital and the doctors say his scrotum should recover completely.” With that, she sat down as the men exhaled in unison.

The pastor tentatively asked, “Does anyone else have anything to say?”

A man sitting next to her rose and said, “Good morning. I’m Jim, and I just want to tell my wife, once again, that the word is sternum - not scrotum!”