Of beer pancakes, Dad and the psychology of breakfast

They say that smell is more closely linked to memory than any other sense. It stands to reason that taste, being closely related to smell, would also have the same effect. Simply smelling or tasting something can trigger trigger vivid memories and emotions.

My question is this: Can it be reversed? Can a memory of something be so strong that you can actually smell and taste it?

Wednesday night, I was settling in to watch a hockey game and I had the overwhelming smell and taste of pancakes. Not just any pancakes. My Dad's beer pancakes.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Who would waste perfectly good beer making pancakes? Then, I'd introduce you to the resourceful man my Dad was. And tell you about his habit of creating happy accidents and adhering to family tradition.

Like all of Dad's stories, the story about how beer pancakes came into existence changed depending on whether we were standing around a campfire, breakfast table or poker table. This is the version I heard most often:

We were at deer camp one year and whoever was supposed to bring milk didn't. (Probably him.) Everyone was supposed to bring a 5-gallon jug of water, but not everyone did. Pretty sure I brought one. You know I don't like going without water. (True story. He'd forget toilet paper, but never water.) So the day it was my turn to make breakfast, we didn't have any milk and we were short on water. But we had plenty of beer, so I figured I'd give it a shot. The rest is history. Everyone liked them so much, I started making them all the time.

Dad started making them at home when I was two or three years old. He probably didn't make them as often as I think he did, but if you ask me now, I'd probably tell you he made them most of the time he made breakfast on the weekend.

I guess he probably made them to remind himself of a simpler time in his life, and to bring back memories of being with his buddies and their new families in an Eastern Oregon deer camp for a week. They'd hunt all day, drink beer and play poker or sitting on strap lawn chairs or logs around a campfire all night to see who could spin the best yarn about catching the biggest trout, the most smelt or the monster buck that got away.

My memories of beer pancakes center around deer camp and the smell of the scrub cedar and sumac that surrounded the clearing along Middle Caney Creek in Chautauqua County in Southern Kansas. My dad cooked on a cast-iron griddle on an ancient Coleman stove he probably built from spare parts he acquired in the early 60s when he worked for that company.

Now, it's been at least 25 years since I've had Dad's beer pancakes. But on Wednesday night, the sense of smell and taste hit me so hard, I knew I had to make them this weekend. They weren't as "beer-y" - or as good - as Dad's, but still had that familiar tangy-sweetness I remember.

Maybe beer pancakes simply taste better after a morning spent sitting in a tree. Or maybe they're better when someone else makes them while telling you about how he created the recipe and you laugh, not because it's the fifth time you've heard this version of the story, but because you can see his enjoyment in making them while telling the story.

Or maybe it was just the company.

A Year of Change(s)

One year ago, I was in ICU with a bilateral pulmonary embolism. A.K.A Saddle clot. The long and short of it is that I had blood clots in both lungs. The mortality rate is about 25%. Scary stuff.

I won't bore you with the details, but a lot has changed in the past year. I've made a ton of progress. Here it is, by the numbers:

• I've lowered my blood pressure from high 140s/mid 80s to mid 120s/high 60s.
• My resting heart rate is down from mid 70s to mid 50s.
• I've lost 90 pounds. (Nope, I'm not done yet.)
• I've dropped 8 inches off my waist. I've bought new pants and jeans, but not belts. Leather is still good, so I've just been drilling new holes.

I'm not telling you this because I'm looking for an attaboy. Nor am I trying to be preachy. I'm saying this because if I can change, anyone can. But I figured out that I have to listen to my body, but still know when I can push.

Avoiding past mistakes

Yes, I've changed my diet. No, I'm not starving myself and I don't deprive myself of much, either. Moderation is the key. I haven't given up beer, but it's a special occasion thing now. I've tried eating healthy before, but I sabotaged my efforts by going off the deep end any time I didn't strictly adhere to it. So now, I'm a big proponent of the 80/20 rule.

Yes, I've changed my attitude about exercise. Six weeks after my hospital stay, I was cleared to walk 10 minutes a day. Over the next six months, I increased the time I could walk until I was doing 3-4 miles a day. Now I do an hour of fairly strenuous cardio five days a week and strength training two days a week. I haven't been cleared to do more. Yet.

Trying something new

Probably the most unexpected change I've made, that I didn't think would ever happen, is that I meditate. It happened by accident; I started doing deep breathing exercises to help my lungs recover. And I noticed that I was a little sharper and a little more focused. So I meditate now.

Perhaps the biggest change is my attitude toward health care. A lot of that has to do with my employer, as I work for a health care company. I realize that preventative care trumps sick care. By a lot.

My doctor kicks ass. She's supportive, creative and calls bullshit when it's needed. She's whip smart and funny as hell. I also have a health coach that I see once a month who keeps me accountable, gives me advice and lets me talk about what I'm going through.

I will also tell you that I'm a big believer in FitBit. It tracks calories in and out, water and steps. Even tells me how good I slept last night. It takes five minutes out of my day and guards against the bad habit of eating without a purpose.

Starting slow and finding time

I'll tell you right off the bat that you don't have to go to the gym. More people say one of the overriding factors for not exercising is they don't have the time. And it's hard getting started. Hey, I've been there. But by starting small, increasing when the time was right and pushing myself when I could, I got better.

Wanna know a secret? Exercising sucks the first few days. I'm not going to lie to you. But do it every day for two weeks and you'll start to feel worse if you don't do it. Wanna know another? I lost more weight just walking than I have since I started going to the gym. More about that later.

I had to start slow because I had to. Doc was afraid my heart would work harder because of the clots. I adhered to a strict, 10-minutes a day maximum the doc set for me for a few weeks. Ten minutes became 15, and I could walk around the north end of the school in our neighborhood. Then it became 20 and I could make it down another block down and one more over. A couple weeks later, it became 30 minutes, and I could make it down and around the park. I started walking in the morning and in the evening for 30 minutes, one of the few things I did that didn't get cleared by the doc.

By mid-July I could go 45 minutes without stopping, then an hour. I was getting up at 5 a.m. to walk, every day.

Here's the deal: If you don't have time to walk 30 minutes, walk for 15 minutes twice a day. It might even be better for you than doing it non-stop.

Becoming a rat

When I got cleared to go to the gym, I didn't start right away. I liked walking. But as it got colder, it was my only option. Low impact was the key, so I was on the stationary bike for 30 minutes. First week of that hurt the old posterior. But I got used to it.

Most days, I'm the first one there. I go on the weekends, too. Fearing an injury that would set me back, the doc made me schedule two rest days a week. She's overly cautious, but I get it. I'm turning into a gym rat. Kinda. I've even been known to go to the gym a couple of times a day.

To top it off, Ashley has been putting in time, too. She goes five days a week and is making great progress. It definitely helps having someone who's not only in my corner, but on the front lines as well.

Changing it up

Although I like the bike, I've added elliptical, rowing machine and swimming to my cardio arsenal. Keeps things from getting boring. I'm not an efficient swimmer so much as I'm an inefficient drowner. But I get a little better each week. (I swim on my off days. Don't tell Dr. Toney.)

It's not my objective to preach. I hope I'm coming off as somewhat inspirational. And realistic. Is it hard? I would say, no, not really. Having a health scare of that magnitude changes the perspective quite a bit. I'm grateful for what I've been able to accomplish, the resources that have helped me, and the people who've supported me in my efforts.

It's a journey. One step, one minute, one mile, one lap and one day at a time.

All clear: Getting good news on an otherwise ordinary Friday

Fridays are usually pretty tame at work. But I wasn't really looking forward to the meeting with my doctor late in the afternoon.

You see, no matter what the occasion, I approach it like there will be bad news. If it comes, I'm prepared. If it's good news, I'm even more happy about it. It makes for a pretty weird personality, I know.

Background
I had double pulmonary embolism back in February. Mortality rate for such an occurrence range between 30 and 75 percent, depending on which website you're looking at. For the record, I looked at all of them when I was in ICU.

For the millions who don't read my blog, I made a quick initial recovery and was discharged three days early.

Marching orders
The first order of business was seeing my new doc. For the first time, I have a doctor I really like. I will say, however, that she tends to operate on the way safe side of medicine. More about that in a bit.

The first thing she told me? "I'm going to be your new best friend." Cool.

I'd be in every two weeks for updates. The first order of business was a blood test to make sure the blood thinners were working. She also told me to start walking for exercise. Ten minutes a day, no hills.

When she told me I could only drink one beer a week, I bristled. She said, "It's either that or dying," she said.

"That's no way to live, Doc," I said, contemplating life without what Ben Franklin called "proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. The Eliquis website says I can have two a day.

Dr. Toney explained that because alcohol thins the blood, if I had a couple of beers on a day in which the blood thinner was working very well and was in a car wreck that caused internal bleeding, I would bleed out before anyone could help me. My contention is that a long-shot confluence of events involving physiology and bad timing on the road would have to occur.

When we got the results, Dr. Toney was amazed. I could increase walking time to 20 minutes and come back in six weeks. And she scheduled my first appointment with a wellness coach named Tiffany. Of course her name is Tiffany. What else could it be? Rain... Heather... Sienna...

Anyway, she's fantastic, too. We meet every two to three weeks. She's both a sounding board and information source. Most of all, she serves as a point of accountability for me. These two, along with a slick little piece of technology, bear a great deal of the credit for my success.

The losing battle
Fitbit kind of changed the approach. Gamification works for me. Seeing the stars pop up and turn green drives me on a daily basis. I use the app to track calories and macronutrients. (There's a sentence I never thought I'd write. Or say.)

In the past, I've had success at the gym. I improved cardio output and packed on muscle, but I didn't lose a lot of weight. And that was simply because I didn't change my attitude about food.

But that was then and this is now.

One one of my sessions with Tiffany, she actually told me to eat more. As a fat guy, I've never been told that. Her concern is that if I'm not eating enough, my body will go into survival mode and the weight will shed more slowly.

And it's not like I'm starving myself. I get plenty to eat and I'm not depriving myself of much.

Over time, I've been able to increase physical therapy from 20 to 40 minutes, then to 60 a day. I wasn't cleared to swim or lift weights, though, till we were sure my lungs are clear of clots. I've been walking an hour a day, six days a week. It's therapeutic for the mind as well as the body. Way more beneficial than I ever thought. And it doesn't cost a thing, except a new pair of shoes.

I've also started meditating. (Yet another sentence I never thought I'd say.) No, I'm not turning into a hippie transcendentalist or anything of the sort. I started doing deep breathing exercises to help my lungs and realized I felt more focused. I don't do it every day, but I think I should.

The results
I just got the results from my six-month follow-up CT scan. The lungs are completely clear. My heart is in good shape. Dr. Toney said she was glad the pulmonary embolism happened when it did because something even more dire could have taken me out.

In six months, I've lost 56 pounds. My blood pressure is down to normal levels, about 130/70. Twenty more pounds, Doc said, and I'll probably come off the blood pressure medication. My oxygen level hangs around 96 percent. And my resting heart rate is in the mid 60s.

The most important thing I'd like to get across is this: If I can do it, anyone can. Yes, It's a lifestyle change. And it's not that hard. Yes, it takes a little time, but it's worth it. I feel so much better. And I'm not planning on quitting any time soon. I know I've still got a ways to go.

The biggest challenge is to just get started. Don't let a major event be the catalyst. I took small steps out of necessity, but with physical restrictions lifted, more options are available. And I'll keep walking, too. It's what got me started, after all.

An Ordinary Weekend with Morphine

Just wanted to let y'all know what happened to me over the weekend, now that I'm out of the woods. 

For a few days, I'd had what I thought was a chest cold and I'd been diagnosed with a sinus infection on Thursday. On Saturday morning before Ashley and I ran weekly errands, I took a shower and broke loose some mucus and I couldn't catch my breath for several minutes. I wanted to make sure I didn't have pneumonia or was having a panic attack or, worse yet, one of the heart kind, so
I went to the ER.

My oxygen level was 86, blood pressure 190/105 and heart rate was over 150. They did a chest Xray and EKG. They gave me a double breathing treatment and put me on a bi-pap. If you don't know what that is, they put a mask on your face and it forces air into your mouth and nose, even if you're not ready to have that air. They didn't like the results of the chest film and EKG, so I had a CT scan.

I've never been claustrophobic until two years ago when I had an MRI - a process I equated to test-driving a coffin - and this looked roughly the same. The tech assured me that my head would be out. Until she slid me in and realized I'm so tall. I had to move down farther on the slide an my head was indeed going in. The nice respiratory tech, a stocky guy named Joseph, talked me through the procedure. I think he may have even held my hand, but I can't be sure.

They didn't mess around waiting for the results and the ER doc went down to see for himself. Within a few minutes, he came back to deliver the news. I had thrown blood clots into both lungs. Said another way: double pulmonary embolisms. The way he described it, the clots hit my heart and it ejected them into my lungs. The clots may have thrown at two different times. In retrospect, it makes sense now.

Let me back up. My office is on the lower part of the Cerner campus and I had a meeting in the main building, which is up a hill that is roughly the equivalent of climbing five flights of stairs. It was the second time I'd done the climb that week, and it really hurt. Both times. I'd also had meetings at another campus earlier in the week and the parking lot is up a good sized hill, roughly the same kind of climb.

I chalked it up to a chest cold and I'd been diagnosed with a sinus infection. Turns out, it was because of severely diminished lung capacity. Thankfully, my heart was strong enough the clots didn't become lodged, or the outcome would've been much different and you'd be reading this in a different platform. 

They told us there were "many" clots on both sides. I was disappointed I didn't set the record for number of pulmonary embolisms; you know me, always competitive. 

They gave me morphine to help my lungs relax enough to breathe. I didn't feel it and didn't feel any effect on my breathing.

They moved me to the Cardiac ICU. Let me say, ICU is scary enough. Being told you're going to CICU is a nut punch. As I transferred from the uncomfortable gurney to a one-size-fits-most hospital bed, 10 people surrounded me and very quickly and efficiently told me their names and how they would be torturing me over the next few minutes. 

IVs went in, monitors were stuck on my chest, without shaving, a situation that became a nuisance later, and eventually I looked like a very badly wired home entertainment system circa 1989. 

I was put on a heparin-steady drip to thin my blood and six liters of oxygen per hour. My nurse came in to introduce herself. Tresa expected me to pee laying down into a jug, which angled up, but for me this seemed like a logistical impossibility. I wanted to stand to pee, but she said she's seen patients with blood clots who stand up have the clots move on them. I asked how often it happened and she said it had only happened once in her10 years as an ICU nurse. So I explained a little about probability and we reached an understanding.

My next nurse was in her mid 60s named Peggy. She offered me morphine every time she came in. Kinda like a grandmother with a plate of homemade shortbread, but with painkillers. Ashley went home at 2 a.m. when she was convinced Peggy wasn't trying to hop me up on opiates. Eventually I took the morphine because I wouldn't go to sleep. Mostly because I had a rotation of people coming in for blood draws and breathing treatments every four hours and they couldn't get on the same schedule. And also because I was convinced that I didn't want people talking about how I "went peacefully in my sleep." 

Anyway, that morphine was a donkey punch. Peggy talked me through it like some whacky LSD monitor from the 60s. After about five minutes, it passed and I dozed off for a couple of hours. They started stair-stepping my O2 down and I responded well to the heparin. 


The next two days were a blur of poking and prodding in CICU, where I had to stay because they didn't have a room for me. Although I was taken off critical care at 4:00 Sunday, I think merely out of habit, they kept treating me like one of the really sick people on the floor, complete with the revolving door of techs putting needles in my arm and breathing treatments. Tresa returned, followed by Brie, the night CICU nurse. A floater nurse named Erin took care of me Monday, and she didn't let me move around much at all.

Monday afternoon, a sonogram showed I still have one small clot in my right calf, but the blood thinner will take care of that little jihadi zealot.

I was happy to see Brie return if only so I could pee in the stainless steel prison toilet under the sink, like any normal prisoner. She informed by that I would move to another room Monday night - one with a shower and toilet. I could even change from the very fashionable (and revealing) hospital gown into regular clothes. I was off oxygen and heparin, so I was no longer considered a fall risk, but the nurse still put me on a bed alarm. However, she neglected to tell me. So when I got up to change clothes, it went off and I almost had a heart attack.  

I was settled in time to watch the KU-West Virginia game and almost have another heart attack. Because I was no longer wired in, I got to sleep on my side for the first time and slept like a rock. The nurse and nurses assistant kept unneeded torture practitioners away from me and pokes and prods to an absolute minimum.

Doc came to see me about noon and said I was being discharged. She also said when she saw me Saturday, she didn't expect me to be leaving until Friday and that she didn't expect me to leave without an oxygen tank. 

I'll be on blood thinners for six months and the doc will reevaluate. Given the Griggs family's genetic predisposition to sludgy blood, it may be a rest of my life proposition. I'm also on a low level blood pressure med, which should come as a shock to no one. 

I started off this adventure thinking I was going to die and then transitioned to thinking that I could have died. Both are dark places to go. (I blame the lingering effects of Mother Morphine.)

But I didn't leave the mortal coil because I've got some shit left undone. I was already making some changes to my diet and exercise habits, in large part to working for a health care company that really focuses on it, but also because I need to. This episode will just accelerate my program. 

And I promise I won't become one of those dbags who gets all militant about being healthy because I hate hypocrisy.

I would've written this while I was in the hospital, but you can't joke about this stuff when you're getting your blood pressure taken every 15 minutes and have to poop in a bucket. Did I forget that part? Oh well... Perhaps that is as story for another time.

Goodbye, Pretty Girl

Zelda was a rescue of sorts, a beautiful, one-year-old Golden Retriever when she came to us not long after Ashley and I were married. Her given name was Zelda Moonpie, and we didn’t bother changing it because it just fit. We also used nicknames Zee and Zellie, but I started calling her Pretty Girl.

A runner when she was younger, but always a lover, Zelda became equal parts protector and tackling dummy for our boys after they joined our family. She tolerated rides and wrestling and sometimes even curious pokes in the eye.

She was intelligent and funny. Early on, if she thought I was paying too much attention to Ashley, Zelda would insert herself between us to let Ash know she had competition for my affection. She would let me know she needed to go outside by standing in front of me and growling or softly barking, and if I said, “Go tell Ashley,” Zelda would go over and stand in front of Ash until she let her outside. Both of these quirks make us laugh.

If I have one complaint about Zelda, it’s she REALLY liked one spot in our yard and rolled there so often it caused the soil to compact so badly that it sits a little lower than the rest of the yard and I can’t get grass to grow. We call the spot “Zelda’s Buffalo Wallow.” If we were outside, or when she’s done rolling around, she would sun herself in the cool grass right next to it and watch cars and squirrels and neighborhood cats go by.

She hated getting her picture taken and would turn to hide if she knew we were trying to get a snap of her, which is why she's sleeping in almost all the pictures we have of her. During thunderstorms, she would hide in the bathtub, of all places. Same for Independence Day. She loved rubs on the ears and cheeks and down her velvety snout, and, oddly enough, steamed broccoli. 

She developed cataracts and couldn’t hear very well, and later on, arthritis in her hips, but was still a lover, and still a beautiful dog as her muzzle turned gray. She hadn’t been getting around very well for two or three months and a couple of weeks ago, she started having other issues. Her health deteriorated quickly, and blood tests indicated she had either cancer or a fungal infection in her blood. Neither offered a good prognosis.

Today was Zelda’s last day with us. When we get her ashes, I’ll bury my Pretty Girl in her wallow, so she’ll always be in the sun.

Service so bad, you just have to laugh

Having worked in the industry, I understand bad days happen. Things beyond your control can affect the service you give your guests. But what happened last night was just comical.

I understand that everyone can have a bad day when they're waiting tables, especially when they're busy. But there's simply no reason for what happened. After putting menus on the table, there was a snafu at every contact. I felt like we were on a TV show to see how long it would be before we walked out.

Here's a bit of background: Having owned a bar, I'm a fairly observant customer. I watch how things happen. My wife and I don't get out without the kids very often, but when we do, all we want to do is relax and enjoy the experience. We're very patient customers, low-maintenance, and having worked in the industry, we're big believers in tip karma, even if we don't work in the industry any longer. Even if you tell me the Cardinals suck and I shouldn't be wearing a St. Louis hat in Kansas City when the Royals are in the playoffs, you're still getting 20% if you give decent service. (Yes, that actually happened.)

60 Minutes in a bar
Ashley and I wanted to watch a hockey game and walked into a half empty bar and grill with flat screen TVs mounted everywhere. A UFC fight and basketball games were on half of them; the other half had "60 Minutes" on. The only thing worse than watching "60 Minutes" is watching it with no sound. In a bar.

The server greeted us and I asked if she could see about getting a hockey game. She said "Yes!" and took our drink order. Here's where it started to all go wrong.

About 10 minutes later, she brought two beers. Mine was correct; Ashley's was not.

Five minutes later, the correct drink arrives. Cool. How about that hockey game? "Sorry, I forgot to ask. I'll ask now." We see the manager is in the pool table area banging away on his cell phone. She talks to him and walks away. He looks pissy.

At this point, Ashley notices her glass has a crack in it. It takes about five minutes till the server reappears to tell us the manager is checking on the hockey game. We tell her the glass is cracked and she apologizes. "It happens," Ash says and she goes to get another beer.

She brings it and we order a buffalo chicken flatbread. Maybe things will smooth out now. "60 Minutes" is still on. She swings by and says they don't have the NHL package. "That's OK. Can we get a basketball game? ESPN, maybe?"

She speaks to the manager again. He looks a combination of put out and flustered, with just a touch of douchebag thrown in. They both disappear.

Finally, ESPN is on. Our flatbread arrives 10 minutes later and she said she needed to get us silverware, plates and napkins. She disappears quickly, even though the servers' station is only 20 feet away.

At that point, we noticed she brought a chicken pesto flatbread and not the buffalo chicken we ordered. She's nowhere to be seen.

After five minutes, I spot her by the servers' station where they keep silverware and napkins and plates and stuff. She is talking to the manager who is still paying very close attention to his phone. She notices I am standing and gives me a cursory smile and goes right back to talking to the manager douchebag.

The wheels come off
I motioned her over and let her know we're leaving. I tell her I don't want to get her in trouble, but there's no reason for a failure at every point of contact. She said they were short-staffed (lie) and really busy (she had four tables).

Remember the part where I said we start at 20%? That goes out the window if you lie to us.

I explained to her how this experience never got on track. After the wrong beer and the cracked glass, I would have made sure everything was right for the guest, which just didn't happen. And even the douchebag manager couldn't be bothered to do something as simple as change the channel for a half-empty bar after being asked two or three times by a member of his staff. It made us feel like they didn't care about their guests at all.

I told her we'd pay for the two beers, but since the flatbread wasn't what we ordered, we wanted it removed. She brought us the tab, which was $13.26. I gave her a $20. I told Ash I didn't even want to leave a tip, but I couldn't not leave one. "Just leave a dollar and the change. That's still 15%. Maybe she'll get the picture since you talked to her," she said.

The server returned with change of $6. Not even getting the change correct seemed like a fitting end to a less-than-perfect experience. I looked at Ashley and she said, "You just have to laugh. Let's go somewhere else."

Tobacco Road dominance makes way for the Wheat State

Is the center of the college basketball universe shifting from Tobacco Road? Possibly... and over the last three years, it may have moved to the geographical center of the continental U.S.

With two teams firmly entrenched in the Top 10, and one in and out of the rankings, the state of Kansas has become one of the big stories in NCAA men's basketball this year.


Wichita State has proven their Cinderella run to the Final Four last year was no fluke with teamwork, defense and a play angry work ethic. The Shockers just became the first team to win 30 regular season games and Coach Gregg Marshall has WSU firing on all cylinders. They play with a toughness that harkens back to the days of Xavier McDaniel and Antoine Carr, with an unselfish, team-first mentality.

Kansas plays the toughest schedule in the country, has seven wins over Top 25 teams, and just locked up its 10th regular season Big 12 title IN A ROW. The tradition of Jayhawk basketball is no secret; Allen Field House is regularly named by opponents and coaches as the best place to play a road game. When you walk into the place, you definitely feel the presence of some of the ghosts of the game, including coaches James Naismith, Phog Allen and that guy who currently stalks the dadgum sideline at North Carolina.

Kansas State has been left out of the discussion this year, which is unfortunate. The Wildcats, 19-9 with five wins over Top 25 teams (including one over KU) and once again, will probably punch their ticket to March Madness. No one looks forward to playing in Manhattan; and the K-State faithful fill their barn every game, which feeds the Wildcat players without a doubt.

KU and WSU are both in the Top 5 in the rankings, with the possibility of both being #1 seeds for the NCAA tournament. Of the three teams with the highest winning percentage over the last three years, WSU and KU count for two of them.

How long this shift will last remains to be seen. But for this moment, if you love college basketball, it's a good time to be in Kansas.

(Probably Not All) The Things I Wish I'd Said About My Grandma

My Grandma passed away a few days ago and I spoke briefly at a graveside service. Too briefly. Here are some things I remembered after the fact that I should have said about her.

I'd give anything to have a piece of my Grandma's homemade chocolate pie. Other people have made them using her recipe, but they didn't taste as good.

She spoiled her dogs and grandchildren. A lot!

She watched "When a Man Loves a Woman" and "The Shawshank Redemption" every time it was on. No one really knew why.
For a person who only went to school through eighth grade, she could do the crossword puzzle pretty damn fast.

We'd spend the night with Grandma just to get some of her pancakes, which were thin like crepes, although I didn't know back then what a crepe was. And she made her own syrup which she served with a ladle and was roughly the same temperature as molten lava.

She loved to read newspapers. The best gift you could get her if you were traveling was a community paper from wherever you'd been. Although she may not have known the people the stories were written about, she'd read them cover to cover.

At Halloween, Grandma always made her grandkids a little package of candy. If you weren't going to make it by the house, she'd save it until the next time she saw you. This was something she did even after we outgrew trick-or-treating. I'm not quite sure how long she did it, but I got my last one when I was 38, usually when I came to visit for Thanksgiving.

My Grandma only cared about two things: The St. Louis Cardinals and anyone who walked through her door. If you needed someone to talk to, she lent an ear.If you needed a place to stay, there was room.

Although I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have left my Grandpa for them, I'm pretty sure she had full on crushes on Elvis Presley and Ted Simmons.

She was funny, but she never tried to be. She was our family's answer to Yogi Berra. On the tail end of a family gathering, we were talking about how her grandkids were so tall, with the exception of one. My cousin, Kip is several inches shorter than all of us, even his sister. Grandma said, "You know... Kippy would be a lot taller if his legs weren't so short." Yes, Grandma, everyone knows that.

When I was younger, my very favorite thing to do while visiting my Grandma was to scare the hell out of her. Favorite place to hide was the space between the wall and the refrigerator, but I'd use any corner or door to hide behind and jump out at her. Every time, same reaction: "Godblessit, Joel! You wanna give me a heart attack?"

She was scared to death of snakes - all species - from rattlesnakes to garter snakes and hoop snakes (which don't exist but she told me she had nightmares about) to plastic snakes that I bought with my own money when I found out she was scared to death of snakes.

There's nothing more embarrassing than walking from the on-deck circle to the plate and hearing your Grandma say for everyone in the dugout to hear, "Get a hit, Joely!" except getting a hit and her yelling "WAY TO GO, JOELY!!" so loud that even the opposing team could hear it. Joely is a girl's name, after all, something Grandma never quite grasped.

Grandma blamed her forgetfulness on Alzheimer's, which I changed to "old timer's disease" when she first used as it an excuse when she was in her early 40s.

Grandma never lost her Missouri Bootheel drawl, which meant that the way she said things different than most folks. Amongst the grandkids, one of the favorite Grandma expressions was unanimous, and my cousin, Kendirley does a really good impression of it. When she was calling out my Grandpa for something he said or did, she'd say "Oh Lawton, that's just awful." The way she said "awful" was the clincher; not quite three syllables, but definitely not two. "AW-uh-ful."

I'll miss the way she hugged me -  just on the neck, and almost strangling me - when we were getting ready to leave after a visit. I'll miss the way she talked and the way she said my name, which also got elongated into two-and-a-half syllables. I think most of all, I'll my Grandma's laugh and how she'd snort sometimes when she really got tickled.

Those are all the things I wish I'd said about her.

What I know after 12 years of marriage

On our anniversary I wanted to share some facts about my lovely bride and what I know about making a relationship work.

Ashley works harder than anyone I know, even though everyone already thinks she's amazing at her job.

She dances in the grocery store aisles: I give her a dollar to stop. This happens so often that I think it's really what's causing the economy to stall.

Our biggest fight was six years ago over how to load the dishwasher. It was a doozie. And it was the only fight I ever won. So now, I load the dishwasher 100% of the time. #Winner (Update: she loaded the dishwasher this morning while I was dozing and did a damn fine job.)

She's a better parent than I am.

If I could turn back time, I'd propose in some fantastically creative way that required tons of planning, prep time, props and people. Like a flash mob, but you know... cool.

She is WAY more forgiving than I am. WAAAAAAAAYYYYY more forgiving.

A lot of people don't know this, but Ashley and I broke up for a while when we were dating. I call it "being on a break" (a la "Friends"). Ash calls it "the six months I came to my senses."

She doesn't give herself enough credit. Ever.

I would do anything just to make her laugh.

Her taste and mine in music and movies don't really jive because she likes stuff that came out after 1997 and "Twilight."

Ashley makes great meatloaf, the best pumpkin pie and really good-looking babies.

She doesn't realize that she could have done SO much better than me. But don't tell her.

I can't think of a single time that she's ever said "No" when someone asked her for help.

I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. Choosing to be with her was not one of them.

TSA Lifts Ban on Wiffle Ball Bats

The TSA lifted the ban on Wiffle ball bats, which surprised the hell out of me because I didn't know they ever outlawed them.

Why they would ever think to ban them is beyond me. Maybe all the people thinking about the stuff they could ban were sitting around a table and everyone had to come up with one. Knives, guns, nail files, golf clubs, weed-eaters (yes, weed-eaters) were all taken as everyone went around and said an object they thought could be banned. Steve sat there and watched as all of his suggestions were named by someone else. When it got to him, he panicked and blurted out, "Weed eaters!" and like the teammates on "Family Feud," everyone just said "Good answer!" and clapped to show their support for Steve because he brings donuts every Thursday.

I have no idea why they would ever ban them, but it's only a matter of time before I can take my Slip n' Slide on a plane. Maybe they thought it was a gateway to other lawn games breaking out on an airplane. Today, Wiffle ball bats... tomorrow, LAWN DARTS!

How did Wiffle ball bats make the list of things banned on airplanes by the TSA but crying, screaming two-year-olds were never even considered?

There are many things you can't take into Canada - fresh fruit and vegetables, handguns, mace, stun guns, pet food and firewood (yes, firewood... don't get me started). Wiffle ball bats have never made the list. That should have told the TSA something.

I want to take a bat with me next time I fly just to see how people react. And if someone has the stones to ask me why I'm carrying on a Wiffle ball bat, I'm just going to tell them I've been drafted and am heading off to pursue my boyhood dream of making it to The Show.

If there is a silver lining to this, it is this: Now that they're cleared to fly, I can use my Wiffle ball bat to smuggle more than three ounces of saline solution onto a plane.

The Gun Control Debate: Two sides protecting their interests

Trends and talking points
The anti-gun population will have you believe that gun control is the answer. They rail against automatic weapons, which were not used in Connecticut, Virginia Tech, Arizona, or Colorado. Automatic weapons are highly regulated and not available to the general public. There are only 250,000 allowed in the country for non-police and non-military collectors. It is expensive in order to buy the permit and the application process takes six months to one year.

Those that don't understand firearms are lumping the weapons in with those described above. True, the look like assault weapons, but mechanically they are the same as popular hunting rifles made by Remington and Browning.

There's a reverse trend in America. The amount of crime is trending downward while the number of gun sales is trending upward. The anti-gun people would have you believe the opposite is true, that we're living in the Wild West, and that it's harder to buy Sudafed than a gun. None of which are true.

NRA response
I completely understand how the media and the left have said that Wayne LaPierre's statement about having armed guards are crazy, unfounded and dangerous. But understand that his function is to protect the 2nd Amendment rights of Americans; it is not the purpose of the NRA to keep idiots from walking in and shooting up schools.

That falls to the politicians and school administrators, does it not?

There are many school districts that employ uniformed police officers. Their superintendents and mayors have not been dragged through the media painted as an ideologue.

We must find compromise in the gun control debate.

The Gun Control Debate: Logic, facts and data are on our side

The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary has pushed the gun control debate into the national spotlight. President Obama and his administration are taking this opportunity to politicize this tragedy and push their anti-gun agenda.

By the numbers
I'll make this quick. Here's some data from the FBI concerning guns used in the commission of crimes. The rates are per population of 100,000.

Murders       2.75
Robberies  39.25
Assaults     43.77
Total           85.77

The population as of the last census is 311,592,000. Divide by 100,000 and that's 3115.92. Then multiply that by 85.77 to get the total number of gun crimes in America - 267,252.

At last estimate, there are 300 million  guns in America. Let's figure the percentage of guns used in the commission of a crime. 267,252 divided by 300,000,000. We get 0.00089084. Round it up and we've got .09% of guns used in crimes.

Said another way:
99.91% of firearms in the U.S. are owned by law-abiding citizens. 

I'm not OK with taking away their rights because less than 1% are mentally unstable psychopaths or criminals. President Obama has said he'd use any means necessary to solve the problem. Obama's opinion on gun control shouldn't matter: he's motivated to take away rights and he's already shown his hypocrisy on the issue.

The Gun Control Debate: Why Obama's opinion shouldn't matter

The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary has pushed the gun control debate into the national spotlight. President Obama and his administration are taking this opportunity to politicize this tragedy and push their anti-gun agenda.

He said "Any means necessary"
Obama has made it no secret that he hates guns. He railed against gun owners during the 2008 campaign when he described rural people as bitter clingers, holding tight to their religion and guns. (It's only the first two of the Bill of Rights; no big deal.)

They've even gone so far as to manufacture a crisis called Fast and Furious in order to push for new policy to regulate gun store owners. It backfired when one of the 2,000 guns they provided to Mexican drug cartels was used to kill a U.S. border agent, and probably more than 300. The story has been pooh-poohed by the media.

Attorney General Eric Holder was subpoenaed to testify. President Obama claimed executive privilege on many documents that the Oversight Committee requested as evidence in order to save himself and his friend from testifying as to the level of their involvement.

Until he rescinds executive privilege and speaks about his involvement in Fast and Furious, for Obama to speak about gun control is hypocritical. His opinion does not matter until he accepts blame for the operation, and lets the AG go down for perjury.

The Gun Control Debate: Compromise is necessary

What do most of the mass killings in the U.S. have in common? There are a few things, actually.

• They were carried out in gun-free zones
• The weapons were purchased legally
• The weapons were not assault weapons
• The assailants had a history of mental issues

To me, the last seems to be the one that both sides are mentioning as a problem, but it seems that neither side is trying to find a solution. Why?

Because hardcore 2nd Amendment believers don't want to give up their rights. And I don't blame them at all, because I know that the hardcore anti-gun advocates are trying to get as much as they can in the wake of the tragedy.

By addressing this issue, I think we can satisfy both sides of the debate and make our country safer, while violating the rights of fewer Americans. I'm sacrificing a little of my personal beliefs, but not giving up the farm. I don't expect you to, either. But I expect you to give a little ground to help me feel at ease. So here is my opening salvo.

Prohibiting purchase
Anyone who is undergoing counseling for depression or any mental disorder must be registered in a database. The therapist should be required to report it. For those of you who argue that this violates doctor-patient privilege, I don't care. The anti-gun people say they want to limit access, so let's get serious about doing it. Name a better way to prohibit those with mental issues access to firearms.

Yes, this includes anyone on medication. Here's why: I think those medications dull perceptions and emotions. I've watched people on anti-depressants who couldn't grieve when there was a death in the family. For others, it could make smudge the line between right and wrong because they are not completely in tune with the fact that there are consequences. I think removing their ability to purchase weapons is a good idea. Would it have stopped the Virginia Tech shootings? Maybe. Maybe not.

Restricting access
Anyone who is undergoing treatment cannot live in a house with guns. If they live with parents, their parents must remove their firearms from their home. Have a relative store them so they can still be used. But there is no exception to this rule. Not even one for self-defense. If the child is in treatment, there are no guns in the house.

Furthermore, if they visit a house with firearms, all must be locked in a gun safe with trigger locks. (Seriously... this is a good idea anyway.) Could this have prevented Columbine and Sandy Hook? We'll never know. But I think it's a wise move.

Restoring rights
I would not say that those who have addressed their issues should be forever ineligible. Just as in other areas, rights can be restored. In order to buy a gun, they have to be cleared by their therapist and one other, along with their local police department.  I would also suggest instituting a six-month waiting period. Yes, it's a pain in the ass, but I think it's warranted.

Confiscating weapons
Anyone who has been convicted of a violent crime, including domestic violence, becomes ineligible to purchase a gun. At the time of arrest, it will be determined if they own firearms. They must be turned in. If they are not convicted, the firearms will be returned. If convicted, they will be sold through police auction and applied to their fines. Any sold will at auction will, of course, have background checks, which could has the added bonus of putting more firearms in the system. If they are not sold, they will be destroyed, which has the added bonus of taking more firearms out of the system.

Expanding what's in place
Criminals are already prohibited from buying firearms. Adding the names of people undergoing treatment expands on that. Because their names will be entered into the database, background checks will immediately flag them as ineligible in the future.

Debating the issue
I wrote this to open a serious debate. Don't play "what if" with me. I'm sure you can think of scenarios where something bad happens. So can I.

I believe in the 2nd Amendment. I also believe people need to feel and be safe. If you have a better solution, where both sides can be happy, where both give a little ground, let's hear it. Let's find a solution that doesn't violate the rights of 99.91% of the population. One that can take a step in the right direction toward helping to prevent these tragedies.

Open letter to a friend

This is kind of like when we drove out to see Haley's Comet at 4:00 in the morning. Remember?

As we drove to Lake Afton Observatory, we passed a car on the side of the road. We didn't think much of it.

It was so cloudy that we couldn't see the comet through the telescope. The car was still there when we drove by again an hour later. We thought the guy had a heart attack or something and we stopped to check on him. Turns out, he was just sleeping (or something) and jerked awake when we went to check on him. We scared the crap out of him and he scared the crap out of us when he roared out onto the highway. He probably thought we were going to carjack him. We laughed the whole way home. I still tell that story.

We missed the comet, and much like that, I missed the opportunity to see you one last time. You'd probably tell me, laced with realism, something like "I want you to remember me when I was strong and we had fun."

You're probably right.

I'm so sorry I didn't get to tell you all of this in person. I couldn't come for the candlelight ceremony. I drove down to Wichita hoping to see you either Sunday or Monday.  My rotten luck... I missed getting to see you. Your Mom said you were wiped out Sunday after the candlelight vigil and they were getting you ready to go home.  I missed the serenade Monday because I had to get the boys back home to Kansas City.

So here goes with the stuff that I wanted to say.
First of all, some of the Sig Ep alums were trying to come up with a way to honor you, and we decided to steal the DG anchor and take it to your Mom's. For several of us it would be a second offense, we decided to go a different route.

Instead, we're going to have a memorial placed at the Pavilion of Heroines at the Center for Women's Studies on the WSU campus. Probably more mature. I'm writing the bio, so your legacy is kind of at my mercy. (Insert maniacal laugh and villain-y mustache twirl here.)

Of course, I'm kidding. Don't worry. I'm going to tell people how great you are, because I know you would never do that. But I will, because in addition to the legacy you've created with your students, I want other people to see what you meant to us every day. I'll let someone else choose the photo, though. 

Something you probably don't know.
I still have the copy of "The World According to Garp" that you gave me for Christmas when we were freshmen. It's one of my faves, along with "To Kill a Mockingbird," "Catcher in the Rye" and "On the Road." I'm going to finally write the book you always said I should write, and I'm going to dedicate it to you. You've been as much a part of my career choice as anyone, and you are definitely the inspiration for wanting to get this done now. You chose to change careers and now, I will also. So, if it gets published, you get the dedication.

As I've watched you go through this battle with such grace, I so admire the woman you are. Not only have you raised awareness, you have helped each of us prepare. You truly are a teacher.

I'm so glad I got to spend a few hours with you when I was home back in the spring. I'll miss our frenzied text message conversations, and those occasions when we got to see each other.

This isn't the way I wanted to let you know how I feel, but I'm fairly certain that you know anyway.

I'll never forget you. I am honored to be your friend. If it exists, I'm certain that you will have as special a place in heaven as you do in my heart.

I love you, Kelli.

Joel

What do salmon and Stevie Ray Vaughan have in common?

Not much, really. But bear with me. I saw Stevie Ray Vaughan in 1984 when he opened for Huey Lewis. Like most people, I was there to hear "I Want a New Drug." Not blues. It wasn't until later that I developed my appreciation.

I didn't really like salmon until later, either. But I now have an appreciation for it that runs deep, much like hearing SRV play after not hearing him for a while. I learn something new.

I did that tonight when I hot smoked some salmon on the grill. It was fantastic. You can probably do this in the oven on cedar planks. The smoke definitely brings something to the party.

Lemon herb smoked salmon

Usually, I think people get into trouble with salmon by overdoing it. The fish should be the star. That's the great thing about this marinade; it's simple, bright and flavorful, yet doesn't overpower the salmon.

Apple wood is great with salmon, so if you're into the smoke, soak some apple chips or chunks in water and get some charcoal ready: This just became my go-to recipe for salmon.

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup olive oil
• 1/4 cup lemon juice
• 1/2 tablespoon parsley
• 1/2 teaspoon rosemary
• 1/2 teaspoon thyme
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/8 teaspoon black pepper
• 1/8 teaspoon garlic powder
• 3 pounds salmon fillets

Directions for cooking

1. With a whisk, combine olive oil, lemon juice, parsley, rosemary, thyme, salt, black pepper and garlic powder in a small bowl. Set aside 1/4 cup of the marinade. 
2. Place salmon in a shallow dish and pour the remaining marinade over the top. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
3. Light the coals. 
4. When the coals are ready move them to one side of the grill. Throw in your apple wood and replace the grate.
5. Fold some aluminum foil and cover the cool side of the grill.
6. Place the salmon skin side down.
7. Open the vents on the top of the lid or put it cockeyed so the smoke hits the salmon
8. Cook, basting occasionally with the reserved marinade, until the fish flakes easily with a fork, 15 to 20 minutes.