Medicines I have Known

          I have never thought of myself as sickly. I feel that I am in good health, but when I compared myself to another man last week, I am a sick weakling, the runt of the litter who should have been turned out into the cold to fend for myself.

            I was asked to visit this man in the hospital. I entered his room, he is about my age, maybe a little older, and was in some serious pain. With his wife's help, he told me his symptoms and I concurred with the doctor's diagnosis that he was having gall bladder issues. I commented, "Ah, that's no biggie. I had mine taken out as an outpatient. I was in by 7:00 and home for lunch."

            For once, I had said the right thing. I could see the great relief in his face as the anxiety drained from him. He was almost giddy, still in pain, but he was better.

            As we talked, I discovered this was the first time in his entire life that he had ever been in a hospital as a patient. "Really," was the only thing I could muster because I was stunned. My first flashing thought after my brilliant statement was, "Has this guy lived his life in a bubble?" My second thought was to attempt to list the times I was in hospitals and all the reasons why. This caused me to marvel more at this man's avoidance of such places.

            His wife further compounded my incredulity by saying, "He's never been sick a day in all our married years."

            "Really," again, brilliantly spoken.

            We went on with our visit, but whenever I could, I brought the conversation back to this man's extreme good health and fortune from injury. I became convinced, he had never been sick a day in his life.

            The reason I am so amazed is that I am near the opposite. I have not been sick every day of my life, but I have spent more than my fair share of time with doctors and hospitals. It is possible that I have become accustomed to illness to the point that it feels normal.

            I was sickly from birth, the runt of previous reference. Fortunately, humans rarely come in litters, so I was kept, nursed, and somehow lived. My mother being a nurse, and having access to doctors, aided my survival, which leads to my current musings. It is a miracle I am alive. If it weren't for modern medicines, I would not be.

            Penicillin was the big drug of my childhood, and I am so glad it was there. I had infections almost continually. I was sickly. I was active, but sick.

            Having my tonsils taken out, something that is rarely done today, aided my health. I stopped having infections, but now I had allergies, which given the clarity of hindsight, were the most likely culprit to begin with.

            Thank goodness for antihistamines. The only problem with the first generation of them was that they made you sleepy. I could be a dopey kid living indoors, half asleep, or an active kid living out of doors, with sneezing, weepy eyes, and difficulty breathing. With medicines, there always seems to be a tradeoff.

            I know the wonder drugs of my youth, penicillin, smallpox and polio vaccines had drawbacks, and a small percentage of people taking them had horrible reactions, some even died, but the good they did far outweighed the bad. In my mind, and most of my generation, it was worth the risk. Smallpox and polio are gone, or controlled, and many sick kids are alive because of the new antibiotics.

            Today is a different story. There are miracle drugs for everything, even things that don't need a miracle. It is nice that I can stop my hair from falling out, but is it worth the expense and side effects? Not to me. The same can be said for a myriad number of diseases and discomforts. To those who suffer from whatever the ailment is advertised on TV tonight, I am sure they are relieved to be taking the medication, but these ads terrify me. If I were a hypochondriac, I would have a new disease every night, and the disclaimers make it sound as if the cure for one thing will be replaced with serious side effects, which are worse than the original disease.

            Due to my aging self, genetic predisposition, and former hard-charging life style, there is a lot wrong with me. I take enough pills daily to choke the proverbial horse. Some have side effects, and my body has had to adjust to them, but would I do without? No, I would not. My quality of life is enhanced by these medications. I am thankful for them. Without them, I would have been dead a long time ago.   

            The life expectancy in the US today is 77.9 years, up from 47.3 in 1900. There are many factors that contribute to the increase, but a lot is due to advances in medicines. I am grateful that I do not suffer from some of the diseases advertised on TV, but if I did, I would be thankful that there is something to ease the suffering. If it weren't for such remedies in my day, we runts of the litters would be long gone. 

The Confederacy Remembered

          April is Confederate History Month in Alabama. The fourth Monday in April is Confederate Memorial Day. Will you stop to remember? 

            We are into the third year of the Civil War Sesqucentenial rememberance of a war that crossed five Aprils. April of 1861 saw hostilities break out between north and south, and 148 years ago on April 9, the war ended with the surrender of Robert E. Lee's forces in Virginia. On that same day, the last full engagement battle of the war was fought here in Baldwin County near the township of Blakeley and became known as The Battle of Blakely.

            Please note the two spellings of the same word in the previous sentence. The town is named for Josiah Blakeley, with the letter "e" being used twice. The name given to the battle is "Blakely", with one "e", because that is how it is written in the official record, the Yankee record. To the victors go the history.

            My personal rememberance this year will span all four weeks of this month. It began last week with my making a presentation at the monthly meeting of the Fort Blakeley Camp, #1864, of The Sons of Confederate Veterans, a group of which I am proud to be a member. I presented information on the Battle of Oak Hills, or Wilson's Creek if you prefer the better known name the Yankees bestowed on the conflict. It was fought a few miles outside Springfield, Missouri in August of 1861, and was the second battle of the War Between the States, and the first major engagement west of the Mississippi.

            My next observance was this past Tuesday when the Fairhope Library's Book Review Series invited me to make a presentation on my yet-but-soon-to-be-published book, Under the Magnolia Tree, the Legend of Jeremy of Blakeley. It is the story of the battle told through the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy. Through him, we are able to gain a more human perspective beyond troop numbers and movements. The writing and telling of the story has brought me closer to the battlefield as I have spent many hours walking it in search of inspiration, and I have found it. The spirit of that battle is still strong.

            There was much more to the battle than the actual fighting. The fort had been under siege since April 1, and afterward, there were mopping up operations on the part of the Yankees and escaping for the Rebels. There are many stories of Confederate escapes, and attempts that failed. It was a long and deadly night.

            I will make a visit to Confederate Rest Cemetery at Point Clear. Due to family obligations, I was unable to attend the official memorial honoring the over 400 mostly unidentified Confederate soldiers who died at the hotel which was used as a hospital during the war. A fire years later destroyed the records, dooming the buried to anonymity.

            My memorial observance will conclude this year with a trip to Port Gibson, Mississippi, located a few miles south of Vicksburg. A battle, minor to history, but hugely significant to me and mine, was fought there the night and morning of April 30-May 1, 1863. Those days will mark the 150^th anniversary of the capture of my great-great-grandfather and his subsequent imprisonment in the north. It was an event that altered our family history in ways that we will never be able to fully comprehend, but just as 2nd Lieutenant Evans Atwood's blood flows through our veins, his experiences shape us. 

            You might wonder why all this remembrance. The answer is simple, because it is my heritage. Popular or not, it is who I am, and I am proud to claim it.

            The image of the Confederacy has become tarnished. Those who honor the Stars and Bars are often seen as racist, or as misguided in honoring a lost cause. A few local politicians have, as recent as the past two weeks, told us the war is over, forget it. I do so hope the cause is not lost, nor forgotten, because the cause was, and is, freedom.

            The South was fighting against unfair tariffs, unequal representation in congress, and a tyrannical government bent on destroying their way of life. If those causes sound familiar, they should. They are the same ones the united colonies fought for against England less than ninety years before.

            Granted, there were some unsavory aspects to southern culture in the 1860s that needed to be changed. Slavery is a terrible stain on our history and heritage, but the majority of Confederate soldiers did not own slaves.

            Fighting and dying to keep the rich man rich may have kept some on the battlefields for a few months, but how do we explain those who stayed to the task for four years?  What were they fighting for?

            The troops from Missouri, which was not a slave state, were the backbone of the defense at Fort Blakeley. They were the same units that fought at Wilson's Creek four years earlier. It is recorded that every one of them had been wounded at least once. What cause kept these men in the field across five Aprils? Freedom was the cause, and that is all. The same cause that made their grandfathers stand up to King George. They too were honoring their heritage.

            I do hope we never lose sight of that great cause, or the will to fight for it, because as soon as we do, it will be taken from us. We should honor all who fought for freedoms in the Civil War, south and north. Their sacrifice is deserving of our remembrance. May we ever be willing to stand and bear arms against anyone who would take away what they gave so much to guarantee.

Tractors and Yard Work

          Spring has sprung along with all the weeds that I euphemistically refer to as grass. It is time to mow. I know, it sounds like work, but it is not all bad.

            There was a time when I hated yard work. It was a huge bone of contention between my father and me. It was even bigger than cars and all the trouble I caused with them. As soon as he said, “The yard needs mowing,” the fight was on. I never won, but I made sure that the process was not pleasant for him. I was an awful child. I still don’t like mowing. It brings back all those very loud memories, but there is a difference now that makes me look forward to mowing.

            “I like tractors purdy good,” is a line from a movie that the oldest Princess quotes with a heavy drawl, and that is the essence of my feelings.  "I like tractors purdy good too."

            Over the next three days, I’ll be mowing the property for the first time this year, and although dirty work, it makes me happy. I do not miss mowing over the winter, but I do miss riding the tractor. The tractor is a nice little diesel powered one with a three-point lift and a pull behind, three-blade finish mower.  It is my man toy, one of many, but by far, my favorite.

            During the not mowing months, I find reasons to employ it in other activities. I drive it around the acreage to check for fallen trees, to make sure the fences are up, holding the nonexistent livestock, and to poison fire-ant beds. These are all legitimate activities that can be done in the truck, but with not as much fun as with the tractor. The Admiral tolerates this, pretending, as I do, that I am actually working, but she can't hide her amusement when I fire up my little darlin' and drive it down to check the mail. Mowing is its reason for living, and now, it is time, and I am a happy man.

            I cut a forty-eight inch swath with every pass, run over fire-ant beds with impunity, and mulch leaves as I go. The tractor maneuvers so well that I can dodge in and out of the myriad trees as if I were in a sports car. Shoot, I’ve even dodged spider webs on the thing although the roll bar tends to catch them on occasions and deposit them on my back, or worse, down my neck.

            I like the roll bar. This isn’t my first tractor, but the first so equipped. I have not needed it yet, but I’ve driven tractors before where I did. I have rolled one, driven one off a sea wall, and even gotten the frontend of one suspended off the ground driving through a swing set. I have the pictures to prove it.

            I love riding the tractor for another reason, the alone time. When I’m driving with the engine at 2200 rpm, and the mower blades roaring, I have my ear plugs in, my hat pulled low, and my brain on minimum function. I am in my own little world. There are no distractions. Even though I carry my cell phone, I can’t hear it ring. I get into a zone and my mind is free to wander, and it goes places hard to imagine when not on the tractor. It is the ultimate daydream machine. I am semi-conscious, sensory deprived, and I can go anywhere and do anything.

            I am caught in one of life’s unexpected ironies. I do not like mowing the grass, but that is when I can drive my tractor the most. I mean, you can't spend an hour going down to check the mail. I guess I can buy some more implements for it. It will be a hard sell though. I will have to convince the Admiral that we have to have a drag bar, or a front-end loader, or a back-hoe, and that life will be a lot better with them. I will have to sell her on the idea that the yard needs leveling, dirt needs moving, and maybe I can get her with the suggestion of digging a hole for a swimming pool. I have to have the rationale. I do not think, “I like tractors purdy good,” will cut it. There is profound truth in those words, but truth will not buy man-toys. 

April, It's Fools, It’s Baseball; It’s America

          April 1st has two meanings in our family. For the Admiral, it is April Fools' Day, and she lives up to the suggested behavior. She loves practical jokes, so the day is for her. She has gotten me so many times over the years that I have begun to dread the day, but this year, I got her.

            Our day starts early by most standards, but when the alarm went off on April 1 at the customary time, I shouted, "Oh, my gosh, it's 7:30!" Meaning, all who have to be somewhere, are horribly late. It was a good laugh, but I sat on pins and needles all day dreading her certain revenge. Not even that level of anxiety can dampen my mood and joy for the true meaning of the day. April 1st is the holy day-of-days, the Opening Day of baseball season.

            I love this time of year. The whole of America is innocent with new beginning. We’re born again. It is trite to quote John Fogerty’s “Centerfield”, but there really is “new grass on the field”. Another season of baseball has begun, and with it, America’s heart beats.

            Baseball is America’s game. It is a microcosm of the American experience. Just like our country, baseball is a game of individuals. Nine come together for a common cause, to win. These nine people are as diverse in character, stature, ability, and motivation as is the populace of our nation, but they, like our nation, ban together to contest for victory. No one person is greater than the whole. There may be stars on a baseball team but it is the utility player, the player who has a role, the unsung who labors in the shadows, it is he who makes the team and our nation winners. It is the common guy who is willing to sacrifice for the good of the team, for the good of us all.

            Again, like life in America, if you fail today, baseball allows you to get up and swing for the fence tomorrow. It almost insists that you do. Take the opportunity. Try again, fail again, but keep at it and you will succeed.

            Ted Williams is the last player to hit over .400. He hit .406 in 1941, a remarkable achievement.  If you break it down, that average means that for every ten times Ted Williams went to the plate to hit, he failed six of them. The National League batting champion for 2012, Buster Posey of the San Francisco Giants, hit .336.  That means that he failed 66.4% of the time. Our country is the same way. We may stumble and fall, but in the end, we will be winners if we keep swinging. We do not quit even if we are knocked down six times. We will get up and win the next four, and the game.

            As in America, there is symmetry in baseball. Our country is all about being square, and just. There are ninety feet between the bases. If there were ninety-one, no one would ever be safe, and if there were eighty-nine feet, no one would ever be out. That is not American. In America, we all have a chance to succeed equally. The American way of life is based on our dedication, skill, willingness to improve, level of sacrifice, and our never quit attitude, just like baseball.

            Baseball is the only game where the offense faces the entire defense of the other team one person at a time, just like Americans, we are never afraid of the odds. “It will take all nine of you to beat me. Bring me your best.” That is the American spirit. It is what makes us unconquerable. You cannot beat one of us much less nine of us. The only way America can be defeated, like a baseball team is from within.

            Dissension and complacency will bring us down. We all have to do our part or the team fails. No one is asked to do it all, but we are all asked to do some. With new grass on the field, we have an opportunity to revel in what makes us great, each other. Let us not let each other down, and as for the jokes made at our expense, let us revel in the fact that someone cares enough, and is secure enough to joke with us.

VWs In My Life

          I do not buy my children cars, not new ones anyway. If they want a car of their own, they have to buy it themselves, or agree to my plan, which is, I will buy them a car for no more than $1,500, it stays in my name for insurance purposes, and when they turn 18, and graduate from high school, it will be theirs. You don't get much car for $1,500. They are projects, and that is part of the deal.

            We, the child and me, work on it together with me providing the expertise and money, while they provide the labor. The minimum they have to do with the vehicle is make it run well, and be safe. Cosmetics are optional, but it has to be functional. The plan has turned out to be very beneficial for both parties.

            Not all eight of my children have taken me up on the offer. Two of the three boys entered into the contract and did no more than the minimum. They did not care if the floorboard was rotting out, or the fenders rusted through. As long as there was enough duct tape to hold it together, they were happy. One of the girls took the agreement as far as it would go. Over two years, she produced a beautifully restored 1974 Mercedes 280 SEL, which she drove away to college.

            For those who take me up on the offer, the benefits are many. They learn how an automobile works, how much it costs, and how hard it is to fix when it breaks. They take care of them, and never let anyone outside the family drive their cars, which is a safety issue in itself. It is a wonderful bonding time between the child and me. Now, it is the Princesses' turn.

            The older, driving one has chosen a VW Bug. After a year of looking, we found the right one, a 1972 Super Beetle. It is painted flat black and has been in the hands of idiots, so needs a lot of work. She wants the job done right and is patient, which is good, because this is going to take awhile. Research of the VIN has revealed its original color to be Texas Yellow; hence, the car is named Rose, as in The Yellow Rose of Texas. The Princess and Rose are girls after my own heart. I did not think it would affect me so, but when I opened the door to the car, the VW distinctive smell hit my heart like a freight train as memories flooded me.

            A Volkswagen was not my first car. I had a '52 Plymouth, a '57 Oldsmobile, and a Chevy Nova before I became part owner of a '62 VW Bus along with three other guys in my high school graduating class. Our plan was to drive it from Fort Worth to Cape Horn at the tip of South America. Because I was always tinkering with hotrods, I became the default mechanic. I embarked with a toolbox containing ten wrenches, a like number of sockets, a couple of screwdrivers, a hammer, pliers, and an adjustable wrench, most of which I still have. We made it almost to South America before we ran our money down to just enough to buy gas to get home, but my life's path with VWs was set.

            I wish I had time and space to list all the Volkswagens I have owned, and all the adventures I have had in them. That will be a good book project. It will be interesting to add up all the miles I have logged, the beaches, mountains, deserts, plains, and interstates I have traversed. The one great memory and tradition I will always treasure will be that all six children of the first litter came home from the hospital in VWs. For the last child, when our business was booming, and we had many luxury cars at our disposal, we chose a Sirocco, a sporty VW Rabbit that I was tricking out in the shop, to bring him home. Neither the Admiral nor I remember what car we brought the Princesses home in, but tradition dictates that it must have been a Volkswagen.

            Because of the simplicity of The People's Car, the ease of obtaining parts and their low cost, I worked on a lot of them through college. When I had all the education I wanted, and was making a career choice, I was making more money working on VWs than I ever would with a degree in biology. I went to a dealership, convinced them that I knew what I was doing, was hired as a mechanic, and the rest is history, but history always has another chapter, and we will write it. The Princess and I have a Beetle.

            I am excited to be working on a VW again, but I fear this path is coming to a serious fork. When the car is finished, will I be willing to relinquish it to the Princess? It will be a hard thing, but I am certain I will, but what about me? I see another Bug on the horizon, and another, and a Bus, and the beat goes on. They are part of who I am, how I got here, and now, where I am going. I think that when I pass, I will have the family get into a VW Bus and drive the highways scattering my ashes as they go. That just seems to fit me. 

The Prom Princesses

          I love girls. It is a good thing since I have five daughters, and a wife, not to mention the dog and frog, but sometimes it almost more than I can bear. Now is one of those times, it is prom time. God, give me strength.

            This is not my first rodeo with proms. I have been through many, even to the point of borrowing a friend's Rolls Royce and chauffeuring the girls and their dates to dances, but this one is different. It is the first prom for both the Princesses, and they are going to the same one, but to make this unique, they are not only going to the same one, but with the same boy, at the same time. It brings new meaning to the term "double date".

            After first glance, it is not as strange as it may seem, at least, not to me. The Princesses are very close, closer than any two siblings I have ever known, even twins. They say they should have been twins. They have the same likes, do many of the same things, and are truly BFFEs. That's "Best Friends For Ever" to those of you uninitiated into the lexicon of texting. They are very different in temperament, and to me, in looks, are joined at the hip in many ways, but going out with the same boy, at the same time, to the same dance? I don't know about this.

            The young man doing the asking is one they box with at the gym. He is a very nice boy, with some skill, excellent manners, and is okay looking. The Princesses say he is hot, but what do they know? Anyway, he came up to me at one of our sparring sessions, and asked me, calling me Mister Atwood, something I will never be comfortable with, "Do you mind if I ask your daughters to prom?"

            I wasn't certain I had heard him use the plural, but gave my blessing. I was still surprised when he went to each Princess, asking her out. They were thrilled, while I and the other boxers were delighted.

            I ask him later, "Why both?"

            His reply, "They're a set, aren't they?"

            On the way home, the Princesses could not shut-up about this young man, how thrilled they were that a senior, with his own car, had invited both of them to prom. I shuddered, and swallowed hard, but was smiling all the while. The Princesses are growing up.

            To the next boxing session, I had the Princesses wear their custom made shirts that have a set of boxing gloves on the front surrounded by the words, "Touch me, and the first lesson is free." I faintly hoped he might be discouraged, but the opposite was true. He was delighted and told me he was up to the challenge. I do hope he knows what the challenge is, and where it will come from.

            On the way home from that class, the talk took the turn I dreaded, dresses. I had almost forgotten about that subject much in the same way a patient in a bad accident or injury blocks out the memory for survival, but it came crashing back to my conscious mind. I was going to have to buy two dresses!

            The expense of two dresses is enough to make me go into shock, but when the talk turned to the fact that they had to match, but not be the same, I knew the Admiral and I were in for a long haul. As I write this, four days before the event, there are five dresses, one, the Admiral's prom dress, hanging in various places around the house, none of which exactly fit either of the Princesses. The Admiral has her work cut out for her. I want to go and hide in the shop until it is time to take pictures. Where is the Fairy Godmother when you need her?

             This week is supposed to be spring break, a week of fun, going places, and relaxing, but has turned into the high-intensity time of shopping for shoes and accessories, which cannot be done until dresses are decided upon and fitted. At the current rate, that may not be until the day of the prom, which further adds to the tension and stress.

            I have retreated deeper into the shop, somewhere behind the tractor humming to myself, making engine noises, trying to drown out the cries of, "This will never fit," or, "These shoes don't match this bag," and don't forget, "My hair looks awful!"

            It will all come together minutes after the young man is here to pick up his dates, giving me my opportunity to participate in the time honored ritual of terrorizing him as I casually finish cleaning my shotgun by working the action as he comes in the front door. Pictures will be taken, many laughs will be had, smiles shared, and the Admiral and I will shed a few tears as our young women walk away to get into a car with this intrepid young man.

            Don't you think the Princesses will be lovely with their formal dresses covered by their "Touch me, and the first lesson is free" T-shirts? Won't they be charmed by the sound of my maniacal laughter after I declare, "I don't mind going back to prison," as they walk away? It will be a night to remember.

Eat it, Don't Leave it

         I eat a lot and have a lot to eat, but it has not always been that way. My experience with doing with and without came while I was in the Marine Corps.

            My first meal in boot camp was breakfast and memorable for many reasons. One was a sign hanging behind the chow line that read, "Take all you want, eat all you take." I soon found out that they were serious about that.

            At that breakfast, I was so scared with Drill Instructors yelling, the noise, no sleep, sloppy clothes, my baldhead, that I kept my eyes straight ahead as instructed, and put my tray out whenever I wanted something. For some inexplicable reason, I thought you had to take everything. I ended up with a queasy stomach, and a tray heaped with food. As I approached the table, I saw that my fellow recruits, thinking more clearly than me, had a cracker, or a piece of toast, or nothing, but none had the arm straining weight of the food I carried.  

            When I sat, I saw our Drill Instructor glaring at me. I put the slogan I had seen together with that look and my tray that should have had a forklift under it instead of my quivering arms, and I knew I was in for a life altering experience.

            I watched in terror as the huge man stormed over to me. I was able to jump to the position of attention as he put his face an inch from mine and screamed the profanities of a demon. I was able to decipher that he ordered me to eat every bite of food on my plates, notice the plural. Further, I had three minutes to do it, and if I were unable to hold it down, I would have the opportunity to eat it again. I believed him. I looked at my tray and the horror of my error came crashing home. I thought to myself, "I am going to die in the Marine Corps, not in combat, but from breakfast."

            I sat to my task with both hands scooping food into my mouth. I chewed very little of it, and was getting through it pretty well until I saw the bowl of oatmeal. I have never liked oatmeal. The thought makes me sick, and there sat a bowl of the stuff, steaming, as if to mock me. I broke into a sweat that soaked my shirt.

            There was only one way I was going to be able to put that stuff on top of everything else and not see it again. I scooped the whole glob out of the bowl with my right hand. My gag reflex was working overtime as I brought the mess to my mouth. Before I got it there, a recruit sitting down the table from me, hurled his miniscule breakfast and everything he had eaten in the past month. Mine was on the way up to join his, but I believed the Drill Instructor's stated consequence. I crammed all the oatmeal into my mouth at once and swallowed to hold the coming eruption down. I closed my eyes and tears joined the sweat coursing down my face, but I did it. I got it all down, and held it. I won. I had survived breakfast.

            The next event with food was the opposite. In Vietnam, due to some real life and death circumstances, my unit was without food and water for three days and four nights, and under extreme physical duress. I dreamed of that boot camp breakfast and longed for the morsel of oatmeal that had slid down my face, onto my tray, that I hid by sliding a plate over it. These two experiences have combined to give me a near neurotic intolerance for wasting food.

            The real magnitude of my neurosis surfaced when I was a Scout Master. I had never been a waster, and it irked me when people would throw away untouched food in lunch lines, but with boys burning food just because they could, I became a Food Cop. Whatever you cooked, or took off the community plate, you ate. It became a hard and fast rule for my family, the scout troop, and me.

            Enter plastic storage containers. They are where food goes to die. This has become a point of contention between the Admiral and I. Being an Admiral, she thinks that every meal must feed a ships' company. Consequently, we have leftovers, and I don't mean a serving or two, I mean pans of stuff. After the meal, this food becomes an unrecognizable mass as it is squeezed into plastic containers and placed in the refrigerator.

            Someone will go there to investigate the leftovers, take out one of twenty plastic containers, open it, and not be able to discern what it is. They will sniff it in a vain attempt to identify the contents, and not being sure, or worse, knowing what the mass is, will return it to the fridge shelf where it will be shuttled into the dark recesses and left to become an unrecognizable mass with fur.

            When the refrigerator is cleaned, these tubs are emptied in a process that the Admiral euphemistically refers to as recycling. Knowing what you know about my aversion to waste, you can see how this process is ripe for conflict.

            We are working through it, cooking smaller portions, emphasizing the take-all-you-want-eat-all-you-take standard. It seems to be working. Either that or the Admiral is cleaning the fridge under the cover of darkness. The problem has a simple solution; eat it, don't leave it.