Mom went shopping, leaving Dad in charge of their daughter. Wendy was about 21 months old and loved playing with her new tea set.

Dad was engrossed in the evening news when Wendy brought him a little cup of “tea” that was really just plain water.

He praised her good “cooking” skills, so she brought him another cup. After several more cups of “tea,” and much praise, Mom came home.

“Honey, watch this,” said Dad, and had her wait in the living room as Wendy brought him another cup of tea. “Isn’t she just the cutest?”

Mom waited until he had finished sipping yet another cup before asking, “Did you ever think that the only place a baby can get water is the toilet?!”

This is a commentary Andy Rooney did for 60 Minutes. It originally aired on 29 May, 2005, and I think it’s about the best piece he’s ever done.

Frank Foran is one of my best friends. We’ve known each other since the early seventies. If any of you are familiar with the Foran name, his father and grandfather were New Jersey state senators. His father, Walter, has roads and state buildings named after him. He was a great guy and I am very proud to have known him. Back in the early eighties, I sketched a portrait of the senator and his wife, Anne, now 88 years old. Frank’s uncle, Dick Foran, was a Hollywood actor and singing cowboy.

I have written about some of my experiences with Frank. They are all humorous stories because Frank is a very funny man. My favorite one is about our trip to a gay bar with his (then) wife’s very gay friend. Our women made us go.

I remember Frank’s sister from many years ago. Although I didn’t know Leisa all that well, I did get to know her and her husband, Jeff, from various parties and dinners Frank had at his home and since Frank was such a good friend, I always looked at Leisa as, sort of, kind of, like, family.

A little over 2 years ago, she was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma, a cancer of the bile ducts. Sunday evening, Leisa lost her very gallant fight with the disease. I spoke with Frank on Sunday afternoon. He was driving home to NJ from her home in Bethesda, Maryland, when he called. He drove down that morning, sensing the end might be near. Frank and I talked about Leisa during the 27 months she lived with the disease. I often thought of her and said a little prayer. We certainly talked about her that day.

Leisa’s husband chronicled her disease and subsequent therapy on a blog he created specifically for that purpose. Occasionally, I left a word or two of encouragement. Usually though, I made sure Frank would give her my best when they spoke. I have kept a link to that site on my blogroll since he put it up and it shall remain there in honor of her. If you have the time, please go to Jeff’s site and read a few of the posts. You don’t have to leave a comment. No, that is not necessary. I think you will learn a little about Leisa and what a great guy her husband is. What I remember most from knowing him many years ago and from what I’ve read, is that he has a great sense of humor and he has kept it throughout this ordeal.

Leisa is resting now. Frank says he and his family are taking her death rather well, considering all she went through. I called him today after reading Jeff’s latest posts. Frank told me his mother thought a miracle would happen, right up to the end. No parent wants to lose a child.

No child wants to lose their mother. My deepest sympathies go out to Jeff, Raegan and Sean and to Leisa’s mother and two brothers.

She touched a lot of hearts.

This was another debate at Helium, a website for writers. Here is my opinion:

You’ve got to be kidding! How can charity be forced upon anyone when, by definition, the word means to give on one’s own? Look at how Princeton University’s WordNet 3.0 describes charity:

• Noun
  * S: (n) charity (a foundation created to promote the public good (not for assistance to any particular individuals))
  * S: (n) charity, brotherly love (a kindly and lenient attitude toward people)
  * S: (n) charity (an activity or gift that benefits the public at large)
  * S: (n) Jacob’s ladder, Greek valerian, charity, Polemonium caeruleum, Polemonium van-bruntiae, Polymonium caeruleum van-bruntiae (pinnate-leaved European perennial having bright blue or white flowers)
  * S: (n) charity (an institution set up to provide help to the needy)

At the same site, compel is described as:

• Verb
  * S: (v) compel, oblige, obligate (force somebody to do something) “We compel all students to fill out this form”
  * S: (v) compel (necessitate or exact) “the water shortage compels conservation”

By meaning of the words alone, charity and compel share nothing in common. One’s a noun, the other’s a verb. So there.

In a strong sense, taxation is a very compelling word. We are obligated to pay taxes. Out of those taxes we build roads, bombs and other things not considered charity. Necessary? In many cases, yes, but they are issues that can be argued about, compromised and sued over. Some public funds pay for unemployment, welfare and a slew of other agencies that benefit the public at large. Government charity? Yes, in a sense, it is to those who qualify, but what about those who don’t? Would they be forced to “donate” funds because they don’t meet minimum poverty qualifications? How can anyone, rich or poor, be forced to give money to a specific cause? Take a look at how governments operate. Through all the bureaucratic red tape, not to mention greed, how much really ends up in the hands of those who need it?

Who organizes and runs it, whatever it is? We are talking about a global charity, aren’t we, not just the United States? Should we put the United Nations in charge? In a world of political correctness, wouldn’t legitimate charitable foundations, such as the United Negro College Fund in the U.S., cease to exist as we now know them? No longer can an individual give to one cause without giving to all. Every race. Every ethnicity. Every cause. Anything else would be blatant discrimination. This would legitimize all sorts of illicit and unnecessary organizations, allowing them to beg for - and rightfully receive - handouts. Everyone and everything becomes a charity case. If denied, they’d sue. Who would pay for that? In the meantime, let’s tie up the local, federal and international court systems while no one receives help until the entire mess gets sorted out. That would take forever and, of course, private donations would be against the law. Suddenly, underground organizations flourish because the will to help is inherent in our DNA, but no one has the power to scrutinize how they are run and how the money is divvied up. Black market charities become the new rage and those running them get rich quick.

That’s one scenario, but let’s be more pragmatic and practical. If we are forced to pay, what organizations will we be compelled to give to? Who will do the choosing for us and what does happen to those we are no longer allowed to give to of our own volition? Personally, I like the Salvation Army. We wouldn’t have the right to donate to them any longer. That would be discrimination, for sure. Would they disappear or become “internationally homogenized”? In the name of humanity, all organizations become indistinguishable. “Give to one, give to all!” would be the mantra. Will we no longer be able to take advantage of tax deductions for opening our hearts? Our hearts will no longer matter when we are driven to “donate” by force and charity becomes another word for tax, or perhaps, a charity fee. That sounds better. How can we write off a charity fee?

Why should I be compelled to pay any amount to something I do not believe in? Would I ever be able to afford a nice steak again because I had to pay money to a Vegan cause in this new world order of Utopian giving? Why should someone be forced to support a foe and vice versa? What would a Catholic politician do with this power? How about a Muslim, a Protestant or a Jew? What happens to the countless places of worship that feed, clothe and house the poor, regardless of religion? There would be no religious charities, now that they are under the direct authority of the Department of Big Brotherly Love. The whole thought of it turns me off and I want to chain my pockets shut.

Charity will, and should, remain exactly what it is - a kind and personal gesture. We must want to give. As far as I’m concerned, an old idiom rings true. If “charity begins at home,” I will gladly donate my home address to anyone compelled to assist me. We don’t need to get the government or anyone else involved. Please make your checks out to “Cash”. Do it while it’s still legal, before the charity police catch you.

©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.

People have searched for ways to remove oil stains from their clothes. Here is what I do:

Sometimes I see oil blotches on cotton shirts as I remove them from the dryer. I take dish detergent, like Dawn or Joy, and soak it into the stains. After rubbing a little, just to make sure it sinks in, I let the shirts sit until the following week, when I do my laundry again. The stains are always gone the next time I take them out of the dryer.

©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 answered 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.