Hot Tamales

This is how I got forty tamales in my freezer. Actually, there are only thirty seven. Confused? Of course.

Early on, I recognized I had a mission in life. Everyone is put on earth for a reason. Mine is to find the best-grandma-tasting tamales in the world. Yep, they’re out there, and in unusual places. I have found them Cleveland, Ohio and Rogersville, Tennessee. I suppose if I lived in the southwest, or hung out in LA, I’d have retired by now with an unlimited supply of pork stuffed masa wrapped in a corn husk. But my roots are from upstate New York, and from the day when being of Mexican didn’t bring to mind “illegal alien.”

When I came to Kona to purchase my condo I slipped into a little establishment called Habaneros for a bit to eat. Fortunately, it was a Wednesday, the only day of the week that they serve tamales. I ordered a couple and headed back to the resort where I had a rented a very nice condo on a golf course near with ocean.

It had rained most of the week and second thoughts about relocating to Hawaii haunted me. I needed to enjoy something, so the anticipation of munching down on the tamales made my mouth water. I sat on the lanai to watch golfers trudge the back nine as they tried to sneak in a round on an iffy afternoon. I felt for them. At least I wasn’t on vacation. One bite and my weather woes disappeared. I only regretted that I wouldn’t be on the island come the following Wednesday.

I won’t say I moved to Kona because I found the perfect tamale, but it is a good reason.

Being without motorized transportation requires a good deal of planning and it seems I’ve spent too much time on transportation. My first week on the island has been busier than I expected. And I pounded the pavement on foot and on bike. I try to plan the day, and minimize the number of hills I must ascend because I hate climbing hills, I’m lazy and I always arrive drenched with sweat.

Most everything I need is within a short distance and doesn’t require a hill: the library, the farmer’s market, the church, community pool, hardware store and now with Target on the island, I can even get some groceries without trucking up to KTA, Saveway or Wal-Mart. But when I have to climb, like to go to the bike shop, the hills albeit short are killer steep. Okay, maybe not for a sixteen year old, but for a 55 year old woman on a mountain bike, they require a bit of muscle. I got it. I can do it, but my knees are beginning to feel the pain.

Tamales are down the road about five miles and then up a hill, a killer hill. I ordered twenty to freeze for dinners. (Planning dinners reduces the need to ride up hills. So does not eating dinner. I've done that too.) On Wednesday morning I went to pick up mu order. Hermando, the owner was surprised I showed up on my bike. The tamales had to be repacked to fit in my back pack.

Do you know how much twenty tamales weight? As much as a fat cat. Do you know how much warmth is emitted from twenty fresh tamales sitting on your back? As much as a fat cat.

I considered the mission a success until I got home and decided to eat one. Sure it was before ten am, but it wasn’t a beer. Disappointment registered when I tasted one very salty tamale. The tamales either fell into the ocean on the way home or absorbed a lot of my sweat. Neither happened. Someone goofed in the kitchen.

Frankly, I chalked it up and individually wrapped each tamale in foil and tossed them pile of them into the freezer. I figured with a bit of rice and beans, topped with salsa, the masa would be okay.

That evening, I got a call from Hermando. “I’m sorry. We not taste them and we discovered the tamales are too salty. We already made you more. Come by, tomorrow, yes, if you like and pick up.”

Oh my knees. But worth the trip.

Death on Alii

WARNING: NOT AN EASY READ

The only thing Jason ever said to me was, “Sorry, sister.” In my head I sneered back, “I’m not your sister.” The apology lame. Issues with my upstairs neighbors.

His friends parked their cars in my parking space, even after I told them that the guest parking was just across the parking lot. While I don’t have a car or any use for the space, it is directly in front of my condo. The visitors brought loud music and conversations that filtered into my bedroom window, some times past midnight. The irritation pushed me to complain to the condo office. It wasn’t the first complaint. Before I arrived on island, the police had been called to quell a domestic disturbance.

Every day life carries all sorts of challenges. My challenge was to keep peace with my neighbor. But, Jason faced greater demons, ones I can only imagine and then not very well. His “sorry sister” apology was delivered with too much friendliness, a type of familiarity that drifts through the air when someone is intoxicated. Jason and his parade of friends were a nuisance. Yes, I lost a little sleep, found oil stains on my parking space (I'm responsible to keep it clean), but the crossing of our paths left my life unscathed.

Until this afternoon. I only heard the impact, a loud yet muffled sound, the type of sound a baseball bat makes when striking a pillow. Something wasn’t right about that sound right outside my condo. It happened fast and stopped suddenly. The sound of flesh meeting metal, flesh crashing on pavement.

On the asphalt heated by the mid afternoon sun, Jason laid bleeding. Struck by a motorcycle, carried down the street, his body bounced off the pavement, not like a rag doll, but like the body of a man, twisted and confused. He came to rest face down. Seconds later a stream of blood ran out from beneath his head. Slight gasps of air gurgled as his body tried to do what it had instinctively done since birth. Breathe.

My towel cradled his head soaked in red. It was all I could offer. Others got there first. I turned to my Lord and prayed.

It could have been a gun battle, except the motorcycle laid wrecked further down the hill. Twenty feet away from Jason the motorcyclist, also drunk and doing sixty in a 30 mile per hour zone, was sprawled face down. His blood looked like Jason's, thick and dark as it seeped away from him, no different than a bad oil leak.

A woman dressed in a short black dress check for a pulse. She yelled over, "Does he have a pulse?" I looked at Jason's wrist. I didn't answer. I don't know if anyone did. In the distance sirens screamed. She turned the motorcyclist over and began to administer CPR. The sirens were too far away, on an island that suddenly seemed so big. He’d never know who he struck.

There was too much blood. The thickness crawled along the pavement, as if it tried to escape the place it had always been. When they rolled Jason over to allow air to reach his brain, his mouth was filled with blood, his face smeared with flesh. The indignity of force stripped his pants from his waist exposing him. But he would never know the embarrassment.

I've never seen a body so broken. I turned away and clutched my chest. I felt my heart beat, but how fragile it was.

It is not often that Alii Drive becomes a quiet street. Traffic in both directions halted. The sounds of Sunday afternoon became muffled whispers of speculation. Residents, joggers, walkers, bikers all stopped to study what had happened. As if we could understand and put it back together. One moment a man, standing in the middle in a wide center turn lane, carrying a bag of ice is displaced when motorcyclist coincidentally arrives in the same time and place. Two lives collide with such force life is knocked right out of both.

I never heard the ambulance leave. Jason and the motorcyclists were pronounced dead before it arrived at the hospital.

Tonight, the neighbors set a lei on the bougainvillea near the spot where Jason's bag of ice landed. Two men lost their lives just outside my condo. I don’t suppose you see souls rise from catastrophe. Too bad. I waited. If I saw Jason's soul standing there I would say, “Sorry Brudah.” And mean it.

A Decade in Review

I didn't know the end of a decade was so important. Seems like everyone is summarizing the past ten years. So I rummaged through the old memory banks, computer files and the internet to find my personal highlights.

2000 Chile
On the eve of Y2K we expected planes to fall out of the sky, ATM machines to stop working and electric grinds to spark wildly through the night. Boy wasn’t that ho-hum? The New Year did find me wide awake at midnight. With twelve others whom I had met just a week earlier I ate lamb cooked over the coals of a campfire. It never tasted so good. Somewhere deep in the mountains of Chile my trekking crew and I from North Carolina Outward Bound paused for a little rest.

Later,I wrote in my journal…
"Tonight, the moon rose over the shoulder of Osorno. Standing on the shore of Lago Llanquihue, I stare up at the summit in self-amazement. I must tell myself I was there - just last night, descending from the peak under the star-filled sky, following my moon shadow down the slopes. Time is a funny thing, for tonight last night seems like a lifetime ago.

My presence on this mountain when measured in time and size is merely a spec compared to its age and its stature. I guess today's bright sun melted my foot prints and all traces of my being has been erased from the surface of this great mountain. In this regard, Osorno appears unchanged. I can not say the same for me. To any stranger my feat is just another mountaineering yarn. And if I must tell myself I was up there on Osorno's slopes, how will anyone believe me? I know I was there. I can feel it."

2000 Chilean "Millennium" Mountaineering alumna, 32 days
Posted on North Carolina Outward Bound

2001 Ecuador and Peru
Somewhere in my past I saw a photo of Machu Pichu where emerald green mountains touch the sky. A five day trek and I found myself looking down to the stone city. I was invited to spend the night at the hotel near the summit. After the last bus shuttled the tourists from the peak, I walked among the ruins in a solitude. Few get to experience this.

The next morning I climbed Huayna Picchu in an hour. I’ve got a great photo of me at the top taking by a couple of Germans. Alas, those were the days before digital and that photo is buried somewhere in the archives of my storage unit.

I combined this trip with another Outward Bound adventure to Ecuador. Something about the mountains. I climbed to 19372 feet, dragged through the fog with the help of an angel. I got my sorry ass to the top to see absolutely nothing. Fog threw a thick blanket around me. Complete white out. A month later National Geographic’s Adventure magazine had a photo spread of the mountain. Couldn’t believe what I missed!

2002 Singapore, Katmandu and Bangkok.
My first experiences in Southeast Asia. Overwhelmed with language, smells and sounds, and that was in Singapore. I ventured out alone to see the Royal Palace, hire a longboat captain to take me across the river and a private guide to show me the ancient capital. The people in Nepal taunted my life long dream to join the Peace Corps.

My last evening in Bangkok, feeling adventuresome I ordered a chili bass and nearly gagged when the fish arrived with head and scales. It was delicious.

Little did I know I was headed to Micronesia in a year where my host father would offer the raw heart of a tuna and I would see a young man spear a fish and eat it while hanging off the back end of my boat.

I puked in the Sheraton Katmandu lobby after a wild ride in the backseat of a Landrover. I told them I wasn’t feeling too good. And I cussed like a sailor on the accent to Kala Pater. My guide, Anna Griswald, insisted everyone drink two quarts of water during our treks. And every night I had to get out of my sleeping bag, don my frost covered jacket and pee. One night I stepped out of my tent to see the full moon kissing the Himalayas. I couldn’t help but reach out and touch the white light. No one saw me do this.

Later I road an elephant and went looking for tigers. I’m still looking for tigers.

2003 Federated States of Micronesia
“Downstairs the youth group practices Christmas carols in Mwoakillese. Over and over again, they sing with no less enthusiasm than the first time. This morning after digging the tree ornaments out of the closet in my room, I helped my little sister, Juliet, decorate a four-foot fake Christmas tree. The presents sent by my mother and father arrived and I have placed them under the tree. If I could only smell pine instead of the ubiquitous island mold, I might convince myself it is Christmas time.

In town, the lights are hung on the all the store fronts. From the PA system in Wall Mart, an endless supply of Christmas music spills out on aisles of Spam and Ramen. In the freezers, air filled Santa balloons accompany the shipments of turkey tails. Next door at Senny’s, a small retailer where you’ll find everything from rice to mattresses, a life sizes Santa wiggles his hips and dances to the techno beat found on the CD decks of most Micronesian cars.

It’s Christmas time in Micronesia. Hardly feels like it. I feel like this one is going to be a tough holiday for me.”

2004 Slogged through Micronesia
Okay, it was a lifetime dream, turned into nightmarish experiment of boredom. If it had not been for the other volunteers and my cool new family I would have lost my sanity. My assignment consisted of waiting for someone to show up to work. That usually happened on pay day when the staff of four seemed to magically appear before running off to some relatives forty day funeral.

Many a morning I sat in a burnt-out cement block building with windows boarded in plywood. Then I found a project on the island of Nukuoro. I poured my heart and soul into researching and writing a grant to built a library equipped with solar powered computers hooked up to short band radio for email. Clever me.

Clever until I asked for technical support from a salty sea captain.

2005 The High Seas
When the New Year rolled in I was rolling in the belly of the Cosmic Muffin. Remember puking in Katmandu? That was little league. Sailing from Micronesia to Majuro turned out to be a sixteen day roller coaster ride. You would think I would learn, but a promise is a promise and so I found myself sailing from Hawaii to California once again on board the Cosmic Muffin.

My July 29 journal entry
"Took the 8:30 p.m. to midnight watch. With music to listen to, a book to read, stars to gaze at, and the job of sailing a boat using crib sheets, time passed quickly. These hours usually do, especially when the alarm clock is set for every twenty minutes. We should all be nervous tonight, for I am in control using my trusty cheat sheet to keep the boat a sailing.

It is a warm night and the weather is clear, so the captain is sleeping on the foredeck. Maybe he is covered with flying fish? I don’t know.

Don’t accuse me of having a dull, uncomplicated life. "

2006 East Coast
It was on the high seas that I decided to turn my journal into a book. I scribbled out The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and I self-published my first book.

While I worked on remodeling one of my apartment kitchens, I devised a marketing plan for my memoir. I wrangled a radio show host into following my exploits then jumped into my parents' 20 year old RV and peddled the book in seaports, campgrounds, farmer’s markets and even a roadside corn stand.

The best of plans can't prevent life from happening. Mom passed away and suddenly becoming a famous author didn’t seem too important.


2007 Florida
In my never- ending search to stay warm, I packed my two cats into my Jeep and headed south. I had a whim that I would go to Key West, to pick up where Hemingway left off. Instead, I ported in the Greek sponge diving community of Tarpon Springs and joined three writers groups.

I met up with some old friends and made a few new ones. And at the end of the year, after kaykig, swimming and biking all year, I got to go sailing again. But never let land get out of sight.

Considered the year a total success.

2008 Europe
I've always had a lot of places I wanted to go, but Europe was never on the radar. I was never too impressed with the French, finding them rude even in my own country. Why go chasing after that?

But then my brother Mark thought it would be cool to go to Europe and tromp around where Dad did some of his World War II campaigning. My Uncle David, Dad and I joined a tour and set off to see Paris.

I wrote a blog excerpt...
"The soldier was aware of the constant threat of death. It slept beside him. He merely had to reach out to answer its call to end the misery. Somehow he resolved to ignored it. It wasn't mind over matter. Will-power could not have been enough. Each day he’d take slow crucifying steps toward his enemy, his only companion fear and anxiety. His backpack heavy with despair, yet he continued to grip his bayoneted rifle and a hopeless sense to live.

In this place where death piled up in layers of bones there was one refuge, a fountain. At the only source of water for either side a soldier met his enemy whose thirst had brought him to the same piece of heaven on earth. In misery, he dared not meet the enemy’s eye, for he would see the same fading light of hope. The two would silently dip their canteens in the pool, then slip over the hillside where the smell of burnt horses and gangrene filled their throats."

Lost in the Paris Metro with map in hand a French man, speaking no English, offered to help. Somehow, I managed to tell him where I wanted to go and he managed to give me directions. And suddenly, I thought the French weren't so bad after all. Nothing like a good life experience to prove yourself wrong.


2009 New York
Uncle Sam made me pay for my island retreat in Hawaii, so I worked my ass off at odd jobs to pay a few tax bills. He has no record of such activities. And when he reads this, like everything else I write, I'll claim it's pure fiction.

That’s a good way to bring 2009 and the decade to a close.

New Year Resolutions

Boy my ass is sore. I had an extremely busy first day in Hawaii and some of that time included riding my bike farther than I had intended. Once I figured out the free trolley was no longer free and the schedule had changed, I returned home to ride my bike into town to go shopping, the bank and the farmer’s market. Except I discovered a spoke broke on my front tire and that needed immediate attention, more immediate than the leaky toilet tank, which wasn’t really leaking.

That cylinder thing in the tank was acting more like the two fountains Spic and Spac in Congress Park (Saratoga Springs,New York)spitting water out of the tank. In my attempt to fix the errant water flow, I caused a leak at the shut off valve. Without a car to fetch replacement parts and with a jet lagged head that couldn’t reason where the condo water supply shut off valve was, I enacted plan B. Except the plumber wasn’t available until Monday. Plan C was to put into action: a pan underneath the leak. I went to get my bike fixed.

Bike Works were pretty busy and the guy at the shop couldn’t guarantee he’d get to me, until I told him it was my only mode of transport. During my wait, I constructively used the time to jot a few New Year’s Resolutions.

I resolve not to do a job, unless I have the tools. That ought to make the New Year much simpler. If the job needs to be done I’ll…

1. Buy the tool
2. Hire some one with the tool
3. Leave well enough alone.
   

I like the last option best, but honestly, it isn’t too practical when it comes to plumbing.

I resolve not to go outside unless my face has a thick coating of sun block 15. This resolution was made twenty five years too late, but I figure I have at least thirty more good years ahead of me, so why look like a prune? People say I favor my Dad, but I didn’t inherit his skin. Have you seen a less wrinkled 86 year old man?

I resolve to refurbish the rifle in my Dad’s basement. The gun has been hanging on the wall for years. A couple of weeks ago, something made me reach over the freezer take it off the two inverted deer hooves where it has been collecting dust since dust has been collecting.

I got to pause here and explain those deer hooves. It frankly fits no décor in my father’s house (thank God) except my older brother’s bedroom during those years when he was still young enough to sport a Daniel Boone raccoon cap. Anyway, with gun in hand I was so tempted to pull the trigger. If the cats had not been lurking in the basement, I probably would have.

To the best of my knowledge, there has never been any ammo in the house, but as I stood there with my itchy trigger finger I couldn’t recall where the rifle had came from. Mom hated guns even to the point that she thought toys guns at Christmas should be outlawed. There’s a Democrat for you.

Dad’s M15 from WWII was upstairs in his bedroom and Grandpa’s squirrel rifle was hanging over Robin’s kitchen sink. Where did this one come from?

I completely understood how little kids accidentally shoot other little kids. I was dying to pull the trigger and assuming the gun wasn’t and never had been. That’s when I decided to take it to a gun shop and have them look the thing over. Not just for bullets but, to put it in good working order. Sorry Mom, I think it is time to bear arms, but only if they are lathered with SPF 15.

I resolve to add gold to my portfolio. What portfolio?

I resolve to eat organic at least once a week. No make that once a month. Have you seen the price of organic beets in the supermarket? It's an outrage. You'd think I had money to invest in gold or something.

I’ve been itching to write. All through December, I would not allow myself. I liked the feeling of wanting to get back to the keyboard. I had lots of ideas. But I hung onto the feeling that had not been there all summer and fall. I blamed work for not writing. Truthfully, it has been me. When I applied for a real HR job in Malta, New York I was kind of serious about it. My brother in law asked, “What about your writing?”

“What writing?” I replied.

Well, I didn't get called in for an interview, so I'm back to writing.

I’m pacing myself. When I got back to Hawaii I decided to make sure I put things in order first. This morning I spent three hours cleaning the jungle out of my back yard. I don’t know how it grew because the maintenance guys turned the water off. However, the plants in the pots are just hanging on. I filled two large trash bags with dead leaves. Tomorrow, the aphids die.

Maybe I’ll write about that. My resolution on writing is three fold:

1. Diablo is running away and will Twitter (Southboundcat) about her five month exploits as she makes her way from Saratoga Springs to Kona, Hawaii. That’s one determined cat. Occasionally, she’ll blog at SouthboundCats.blogspot.com.
2. I will reactivate Beyond The Sail, shooting for at least three times a week.
3. Yes, the book. I’m not leaving the island without a book. Even if I have to buy one.
   

There's a resolution worth keeping.

Now about that leak...

Eaters Protection and Affordability Act

According to the USA Today’s editorial Wednesday, November 25, 2009, 49 million Americans lack dependable access to adequate food. That’s the largest number of people since numbers were first kept in 1995.

The number is suspiciously similar to the claimed number of people who are dying in the streets due to lack of assess to adequate health care. So as I peeled potatoes for the Thanksgiving dinner, I thought we could add a few more pages to the Health Reform Bills and fix this problem. After all, what is more critical, eating or sitting in queue to see your doctor?

Here’s my proposal. With some bureaucratic creativity this could be expanded to 1500 pages.

Every man, woman and child in the United States of America should have affordable food. To assure equal assess we need a universal food redistribution program. A single provider system. A universal food distribution program would create centers of food sources. They would require today’s high priced food sources such as Price Chopper, WalMart, A&P, Ralph’s, Safeway, etc to compete. We know they don't compete now. And have you every seen a Ralph's in New Hampshire? Food should be sold across state lines.

Because the government won’t have the overhead of advertisement, coupons, or promotional china give-a-ways, and shopping carts which end up under railroad trestles, food would be more affordable for all those who currently are starving in the street. (Ironically, that’s the poor and uninsured. Isn’t this the only place in the world where poor are fat and own their own shopping cart?)

And speaking of hefty, hefty, hefty. I propose a fat tax, similar to the one the airlines tried to impose on their fat flyers. As you enter the food distribution center you are weighed. All family members must be periodically weighed. Weight is entered into a national data base system for monitoring by the Bureau of Weights and Measures. Based on your weight and limits as defined in the Health Care Reform Bill (just another amendment), food will be distributed to each according to their need, or lack there of.

If you happen to be one of the rich people, who has a pantry stocked for three nuclear winters (my sister), there will be a tax imposed on this type hording. After all, why should these people have all this access to food while others have their ribs showing.

The fare at restaurants, fast food joints, and other dining establishments such as workplace roach coaches, will be taxed based on the caloric distribution on the menu and total consumption. A 40% tax on anything over 300 calories should discourage this gluttony.

Death panels? Not really. But certainly the elderly don’t need to eat that much.

To pay for the government run and controlled food redistribution program I propose taxing those people requiring high levels of caloric intact, say consumption over 2000 calories/day. So the NFL, and Michael Phelps will have to pony up. Oh yeah, and Michael Moore.

Anyone who plants a garden will be taxed. That includes Michelle Obama.

Farmer markets will be taxed.

Road side fruit stands - taxed.

Overweight people - taxed.

Any corn used for food - taxed.

Subsidies will be given to farmers who don’t grow food above the set limits, defined in the Eaters Protection and Affordability Act.

Anyone who doesn’t participate in the food redistribution program will be penalized and if participation is not reported to the IRS you will not be penalized, or face jail time. Definitely food rationing there, but adequate medical care.

Which brings me back to peeling potatoes. Damn it, I cut my finger.

Happy Thanksgiving.

My Response

I was asked to respond to an editorial in the New York Times.

“The merged bill would cost $848 billion over the next decade and would cover some 31 million people who would otherwise be uninsured in 2019, bringing coverage to 94 percent of all citizens and legal residents below Medicare age. And it would reduce the deficit by $130 billion over the first decade and by more than half-a-trillion dollars over the next decade, putting the lie to Republican charges that the reforms would drive up deficits.”

Lies? Let’s look at what some bipartisan experts say.

Concord Coalition, a bipartisan group of budget watchdogs says, "The Senate bill is better than the House version, but there's not much reform in this bill. As of now, it's basically a big entitlement expansion, plus tax increases." I can’t disagree with that.

Here's another expert, Maya MacGuineas, the president of the bipartisan Committee for a Responsible Federal Budget: "While this bill does a better job than the House version at reducing the deficit and controlling costs, it still doesn't do enough. Given the political system's aversion to tax increases and spending cuts, I worry about what the final bill will look like." Yeah, me too.

MacGuineas opinion is kind of neutral considering the "budget gimmicks" that made it possible for the CBO to estimate that the Senate’s would reduce federal deficits by $130 billion by 2019. (Have you heard that the deficits are now over $12.2 Trillion?)

Here’s an example of Bernie Madoff record keeping. Perhaps the biggest of those maneuvers was Reid's decision to postpone the start of subsidies to help the uninsured buy policies from mid-2013 to January 2014 -- long after taxes and fees levied by the bill would have begun.

Even with that change, there is plenty in the CBO report to suggest that the promised budget savings may not materialize. If you read deep enough, you will find that under the Senate bill, "federal outlays for health care would increase during the 2010-2019 period.” Hum? Is that in the Bill? Yes. Not decline. The gross increase would be almost $1 trillion -- $848 billion, to be exact, mainly to subsidize the uninsured (Entitlement program). The net increase would be $160 billion.

But remember everyone in Washington can play with numbers. The best thing to do is to look at Washington’s track record. Yes, pass performance doesn’t guarantee future performance, but when Medicare was first brought on board they said that by 1990 it would cost only $10 billion. Let’s try on $65,000,000,000. What do you think that number is today? Do we need more of this?

If you seriously think this bill is going to reduce the deficient you are sadly mistaken and gross under-informed about your government. Remember the $600 screw drivers?

But here is the real gamble. You think Democrats are really going to cut Medicare by $500 billion. When the Republicans tried to do so a few years back the Democrats came unglued. A big assumption in the CBO numbers is that this will pass.. Will future Congresses actually impose the assumed $500 billion in cuts to Medicare, Medicaid and other federal health pro have? I doubt it.

And then there is the 40% tax on high-premium insurance policies (Cadillac plans). Let’s say that goes through. Cha-ching, cha-ching in the government coffers? Do you think any employer will hang on to these plans despite union opposition? Nope. I don’t think Congress does either. So no revenue generated there, but CBO considers this in its number crunching.

Instead, in my humble opinion, the punitive tax is to encourage employers to dump the plans forcing more people onto the government approved plans. Why?

Because this isn’t about health care.

People with insurance tend to go to the doctors. What do you think will happen when 47 million uninsured become insured? All of a sudden there is a huge demand for medical care in a system that can’t provide it. Baby, we won’t be just talking about new regulation on mammograms.

Affordable for Whom?

“I can make a firm pledge. Under my plan, no family making less than $250,000 a year will see any form of tax increase. Not your income tax, not your payroll tax, not your capital gains taxes, not any of your taxes.” Remember who said that and when? That’s right President Obama said this about his Health Care Proposal” as he campaigned in September 2008.

Now let’s look at the Senate Health Care Bill, known as the Patient Protection and Affordability Act.

The Senate Health Care Reform Bill includes an individual mandate that forces any American who does not have a qualified health plan to pay an annual tax penalty of $750 per adult family member and $375 per child, with a maximum penalty of $2,250 per family. This kicks in any time you go without insurance for more than 30 days. Zappo. Report it on your income tax or else. (Wait! 50% of Americans don't file tax returns? How is that going to work? Guess what, I can't find it in the bill. Can you say loophole?)

These penalties are indexed for inflation, which means they are likely to increase nearly every year. And believe me, inflation is going to sky-rocket when this takes effect.

These taxes are fixed amounts based on family size, not income. A family of at least two adults and two children is actually worse off if they make less than $99,350 a year. The only affordability is a “hardship exemption” if the lowest available premium for a bare-bones plan is more than 8 percent of your income. But that saves you money only if your income is less than $28,125 a year. I’m there, whew!

The employer mandate is especially punitive on poor families. Firms that hire an employee from a low-income family who qualify for an insurance subsidy are charged a tax penalty of $3,000. I can’t figure that one out. It’s a job killing mandate.

So a company could save $3,000 by hiring, say, someone with a working spouse or a teenager with working parents, rather than a single mother with three children.

However, companies only have to pay $750 an employee instead of $3,000 if one quarter of employees are low-income. Think about that. This creates a situation where, if a company has a lot of low-income workers, they can actually save money by dropping their health plan and pay the penalty. Instead they just dump all their employees into the federal exchange. And now the low-income family pays a fine for not getting individual coverage. Well, not unless they are below $28,125 and then you get the bare-bone coverage. Think bare-bone coverage includes mammograms?

Small businesses employ 70% of today’s work force. Without small business operating and competing in a strong and healthy economy, unemployment is going to continue to grow. No worries. The Senate is here to help small business.

The bill tries to address this problem by including a “small business tax credit” to minimize the impact of the above mentioned job killing mandates and regulation-caused rises in private health insurance premiums. But the tax credit only lasts two years and largely excludes small business owners, small businesses with higher than average payrolls, and firms with 25 or more workers. After all exclusions, essentially the only eligible firms are those firms with 10 or fewer workers as well as those with low-income workers—the least likely to offer coverage even with a significant price reduction. So where is the credit and where is the coverage?

The bill would increase taxes on all health insurance plans, as well as on brand-name drugs and biologics, and on medical devices. These tax increases would affect anyone who buys these goods.

The bill would allow State insurance exchanges to charge assessments or user fees to participating health insurers, or to otherwise generate funding, to support its operations. That means insurers would pass these “assessments or user fees” through to consumers. Hum? Higher premiums? This would affect anyone who buys health insurance and remember under this plan you must buy insurance or pay the penalty. So you are damned if you do or damn if you don’t.

You got to love it. Oh, there is more, much more. But you can’t handle too much more truth.

Come on. Call your Senators NOW. Email your Senators NOW. The vote for debate is tomorrow night. And let the record show when they vote to discuss a bill, 97% of the time it goes through to the end. Stop the train wreck. We can't afford this kind of protection.

To contact your Senators click HERE . Tell them the debate is over. VOTE NO.

Letter to the Editor: The Saratogian

Scott Murphy Did The Right Thing

The health care reform bill recently passed by the House is complex. Republicans scare us by saying it rations grandma’s health care, cuts Medicare to the bare bone, increases taxes on everyone, vaporizes private choice, jails anyone who doesn’t get coverage, etc. Most of the scare is true and most of it is false. What?

Democrats are quick to point to their studies, which say the bill increases jobs, makes only the filthy rich pay more taxes and gives everyone a chance to have affordable health care. Most of this is false and most of it is true. What?

One side wants to ram it through so badly they don’t care what the long-term impact might be to the individual, to the employer and to the country. The other side wants to derail the process so badly that they offer an equally nebulous package.

The truth is no one really knows what the impact of this bill will be. Few people care what the impact will be unless it supports their side. So what does the American public receive? A bill that creates a monstrous entitlement program and huge new network of governmental bureaucracies that, once unleashed, will never be able to be modified, regardless of the impact.

The majority of Americans agree something has to be done to check the rising costs of health care. The trouble is, the issue has become so politicized that Congress doesn’t care what they serve up, just as long as they get their way.

It took courage for Congressman Scott Murphy to vote against the bill. Those who wish to bash him for his decision should step back and examine what he said no to before they decide to criticize him. Those from the 20th district should be glad to have a congressman who does not lock step to the party, but is truly looking out for his constituents. Few citizens are represented in Congress by such boldness and common sense.

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 4

Home Again, Home Again

Nothing is scarier than driving through a snow squall on the New York State Thruway, even early in the winter season. The bus made it back to Syracuse a little after 3 am. Snow filtered earthward from a low cloud bank that reflected the city’s light. (Ugh. When am I headed back to Hawaii?) I had expected the snow.

Since daylight would break in a couple of hours, I decide to drive back home instead of getting a hotel room. One fellow patriot even offered to take me in for the night, but I was ready to go home. I was tired but drowsiness didn’t catch up to me until I was 18 miles short of the second rest stop on the Thruway.

I pulled into the nearly vacant parking lot surrounded by an armada of tractor trailers. My feet were so swollen that I could barely wear my shoes. I put on a pair of heavy socks, wrapped a fleece blanket around my legs and tilted the Jeep’s seat as far back as it would go. Within seconds I was gone. Twenty minutes later I woke from my catnap.

I managed to cram my feet into my shoes and stumble into the rest stop’s bathroom. From the only opened shop, Roy Rogers, I ordered a cup of coffee. It had stopped snowing, but the wind bit a hole in my psyche as I crossed the still vacant parking lot. A few sips of coffee and I turned the Jeep east. Somewhere soon, I would find the sun.

I had prayed for a safe trip for all the thousands who made it to Washington. Mine was until I walked up the front ramp to the house. The door was locked. In my retreat down the wet ramp and wearing those flat soled shoes I slipped. I didn’t try to fight the fall and stayed upright all the way down the ramp. I was about to think I had it made when I reached the pumpkin sitting at the bottom of the ramp. It was impossible to avoid. I smashed into the squash and topple over into the driveway scraping my knee. I rested. What was the sense of scrambling back to my feet?

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 3

Experiences Behind Opened Doors

I half expected to see at least one Senator. But they were in session. Well, at least Job Lieberman was. He stood speaking before his colleagues on the TV screen in the office of Senator Akaka. I slowly pushed the heavy glass door open and waited for the receptionist to end her phone call. Meanwhile another woman entered the office. Yes there would be two people from the Aloha State expressing concern about the Health Care Reform Bill. Me and Tish.

“May I help you?”

“I’m Valerie Perez, from the Big Island. I’m here to express my concerns about the Health Care Reform Bill and would like to speak to Senator Akaka.”

“He’s not in.” A long silence ensued. Was that it?

When it became apparent I wasn't turning to leave, she added, “You can leave him a note.” But she offered no pen or paper. Did it have to be this difficult? I could be on the other side of the Capitol yelling, “Nannnnn--cy, Nannnnn--cy” trying to make the speaker cry.

I scrawled a note, as neat as I could (not very). When I was just about finished, a young Hawaiian came out and greeted us. He confirmed the reason for our visit and then offered to find a staffer who would take our concerns. I imagined the conversation.

“Who wants to entertain a couple of old ladies who got some issues with the Health Care Reform.”

“Health Care? The House hasn’t even passed anything yet. Did they come all the way from Hawaii?”

“I assume so. Heads, I go. Tails, you go talk some sense into them.”

When I mentioned rationing to the young whippersnapper staffer, named Matt, he said, “What do you think happens under Medicare. Don’t you like Medicare?” Excuse me? Are you serious? It wastes billions of dollars annually. Am I suppose to like that and use that as an acceptable model for this Bill, making rationing okay? He tried to lecture. We didn’t come for no stinking lecture. Shut up and listen. You work for me.

The whole meeting went that way. He interrupted us, we interrupted him and he couldn’t get us out fast enough. In the end, I slowly gathered my coat, camera and backpack. He was at the other end of the hallway holding the door open. Body language: Get Out of Here. They learn to drink the Kool-Aid early.

It went a little better in Senator Inouye’s office, a two floored penthouse arrangement also in the Hart Building. At least the receptionists didn’t object to being in the photo I took of the office. The staffer Michelle was polite, took notes and then asked us specific questions. “How do you feel about the soda tax?” Don’t like, but boy could I use a soda right now.

I was tired and thirsty. It began to rain. I made my way back to the Longworth building to catch up with Maize Hirono, my Congresswomen. I’ve emailed her at least three times about this bill and never got a response, not even a form acknowledgment. The long lines that earlier wrapped around the building were gone. Coming through security someone asked, “Is it raining?” I wiped off my glasses, “Only on one side of the Capitol.” She laughed.

Of course, Maize wasn’t available either. The staffer seemed confused by my presence. She didn’t invite me into the office and ran out of the office after instructing me to sign in. Moments later a prim women entered with legal pad in hand. She introduced herself and sat down at the little table in the entrance way. She didn’t offer me a seat so I asked if I could. “Sure, sure,” she waved dismissing my request as if it was ludicrous. The conversation was rushed and brief. A few notes and three minutes later I dismissed as ludicrous. Oh boy.

By now I was starving. The halls were empty. Most of the riffraff gone. I walked listening to my shoes echo in the vacant corridors. I noticed the offices all had signs that welcomed visitors to enter. Since I was here and I use to write Zack Wamp when I was in Tennessee I decide to visit his office. It was getting close to 4:30 and I had to be back on the bus by 6PM. I knew Union Station wasn’t far, maybe ten minutes. I wasn’t going to sit in the train station for 90 minutes.

I opened the door to the Honorable Wamp’s office. “Hi, is that Zack guy here?” Gone were the formalities. I figured if I acted like we were old buddies, I might get to shake his hand and thank him for his support. When I wrote him, criticisms or compliments, I got a response. After explaining I was no longer his constituent, the receptionist offered to show me his office and let me take a photo, but someone was in there having a meeting. So in lieu, she offered me a pass to the House Gallery. Are you kidding me? I can get in there and see IN GOD WE TRUST right over the flag behind the Speaker’s seat? Hell yeah, but time was limited. I thanked her for the pass and bolted across the street to the Capitol. (My feet were beginning to kill me.)

That’s where I lost my lunch. “Ma’am, you can’t take bottles or food into the building.” The guard smiled, but was firm.

“But I haven’t eaten all day.” I protested.

“Go outside and eat.” I was hungry but running out of time. No time to eat. I didn’t want to get to the station right at 6 PM. I needed time to find the bus, at least fifteen minutes. I gulped some water and crammed the bagel into my mouth. Standing in line again for security I looked like a chipmunk. Chew, chew, chew, swallow.

“Next?” The security guard commanded.

I stepped forward, tossed my backpack, the one I took to Micronesia and have not washed since, onto the conveyor. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. I walked through the metal detector to find a guard rooting around my bag. Crap, he’s going to drop my watch into the bowls of the pack and I’ll have to find it. Need to keep track of time. He found my cough drops, examined them, but let them pass.

Still before entering the maze of hallways leading to the Galley you must check all bags, cameras, personal items, etc.. I knew this. Once done, I followed signs, roped aisles and hallways to my destination. I passed a guard and asked, “Do I come out this way?” Yes, and I’ll be here waiting to be sure you do.” Yikes, I'm lost.

Destination. I turned the corner and found myself walking a decorative tile floor under ached ceiling and entrance ways. I slowed down. I sensed something special. It was quiet because I was there alone with the final security guard and yet another metal detector. I waited to be asked to come forward. Then the heavy door was opened to me and I stood looking directly across from IN GOD WE TRUST. I almost cried.

I prayed. I could have sat there for hours. Not entranced by the proceedings of a thinly occupied room below me, but by the room itself. The place of debate. Great Speeches. Call to action. Decision. Compromise. Agreement. The place of taxes, partisan politics and “you lie”. The place where life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness should be protected.

I looked on as HR 1849 went to electronic vote. The usher asked me if I had any questions. “A million, but I have run out of time.” I want to come back. I stood to leave but noticed the state seals on the ceiling. I hesitated and the usher told me I had to sit back down if I wished to stay in the Gallery. “ I’m sorry. I got captivated by the surroundings.” He smiled and told me I could learn more about the room on line. By the time I left 18 Yeas and zero nays were cast.

I walked toward Union Station in the early twilight. I turned and saw the dome bathed in light. A light of freedom. A fleeting thought danced through my head. “Boy, I like to be a Congresswomen.” That vanished before I could even tell myself I was nuts.

On the bus we listened to the radio. They said a large crowd of protestors were at the Capitol today. Protestors? I didn’t protest. And despite this,”it is almost certain the House will pass the Health Care Reform Bill.”

Listen America, you are about to die a slow death.

Part 4 is coming...

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 2

Standing on Hallowed Grounds

I had no idea how many people would assemble on short notice, or be able to come on a weekday at noon, but I reasoned not many would come from Hawaii. If I were to visit my senators and representatives from Hawaii, I would stand in a small crowd. I decided not to carry a sign which could cause me to be perceived as a fringe loonie. I dressed business casual.

My concern was for my feet. Keep them warm, keep them comfortable. They might have to take me places, quickly. My flat dress shoe looked fine, but I knew by the end of the day they would feel like they pounded concrete…barefoot.

We stepped off the bus at 11:30 am, right in front of the Capitol. People were gathering and moving toward the white dome on the hill. At that time, I estimated the crowd to be a couple thousand, but I’m no Park Service Ranger, so what do I know? I do know that it kept growing and growing. As I edged my way closer to the Capitol, I turned to see the Washington Monument. Many more people had come.

People dressed in red white and blue. The young and old. Men and women. Black, Hispanics. People dressed in business suits. Vietnam Vets with bandanas and biker vests. Many carrying signs. Many picking up the chants “Kill The Bill” or “Nannnncy.” By the time Michelle took the microphone to welcome us to “our House” we were 10,000 strong. There is no freaking way they are going to let us into the offices of our elected officials. But after opening prayer, guest speakers Mark Levine, Jon Vogt, and numerous other concerned legislators and after we sang “God Bless America”, we were dismissed to go visit with our representatives.

I stood among the people and absorbed the moment. The first time I became aware of Washington DC and the sprawling spaces between the Capitol and the Washington Monument was during the sixties. Martin Luther King. I closed my eyes. I listened to his voice. His dream. I imaged the history, the construction, not of just of the magnificent building before me, but of the country that it represents. The labor, the sweat and the blood shed to build this place, this country. The vision, the struggle, the debate, and the demonstrations. The melding of thought and action, the deliberate creation of a country that stated “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,”

I’ve been to Washington twice before, but as a tourist. The Smithsonian. The World War II Memorial. Other Memorials. Now I stood here as a patriot. I stood as a concerned citizen, as a voice for those who couldn’t come. I came because it was my responsibility, my obligation, my duty. I had a job to do. I can to protect our freedoms.

Pages of the Health Care Reform Bill were distributed. “Take one to your representative and ask them to explain it.” I never got one, but I’ve seen the bill. Four reams of paper. And yes it is triple spaced and the margins are wide, but the language is vague legalizee. It contains more taxes, the creation of a tangled web of government bureaucracy, mandates for coverage, abortion coverage, forced coverage, government committees deciding what coverage will be paid for and which will not, fines for citizens and doctors, employers and companies. It is a financial burden that any rational person knows will become an economic nightmare that con not be paid for. Thus rationing will take place.
I never got close enough to the steps to see a single speaker. But I heard ever speech, every word. I heard every prayer. I sang every song. And when dismissed, I set off to find my Senators.

The crowd was slow to disperse. Like lemmings we followed each other to someplace “over there.” I found myself scaling a wall to free myself from the masses that trapped themselves against. On the sidewalk I encounter a couple of sharply dressed men carrying leather briefcases. They dodged the throngs like a running backs headed for the goal line. Destinations in sight, but all these people were in their way. A look of inconvenience shadowed their squinter eyes. Probably medical device lobbyists.

Ms. Perez Goes to Washington Part 1

I Took It As A Sign

I hate peeing on a bus. The two by two closet could be an amusement ride if not for the commode. Come test your equilibrium as you negotiate hovering over the seat. Two rides for a quarter. Finished, I leaned against the front wall, and I zipped up my pants as the bus lurched around the corner and headed up the ramp to I-81. South bound. Destination: Washington DC. I slammed the seat shut before any tank water could slosh out of the toilet. I checked to be sure no tissue stuck to the bottom of my shoes. Seventeen days through Europe on a bus and not once did I use the bus' toilet. Just an hour and a half into this ride I was using the head, trying to keep my balance, drawing upon my skills honed onboard the sailboat the Cosmic Muffin.

I opened the door. Forty five people sat in the dark. Beneath them the bus engine hummed. Forty-five strangers. Forty-five patriots. Some sleeping, some whispering. I took my seat and stared out the window. Nothing, but darkness.

It was Monday when I heard Glenn Beck’s interview with Michelle Bachmann, Congresswoman from Minnesota. She asked for patriots to call Congress and meet up with her at the Capitol on Thursday, November 5th at high noon. It was time to mobilize. Stop socialized medicine now.

“It's the 11th hour. Let's pay Nancy Pelosi a house call and tell her what she can do with the ‘Pelosi Health Care Plan’”.

Immediately, I wanted to go, but didn’t know how to get to DC on short notice. On Tuesday I would be in New Jersey attended my cousin’s funeral, making it difficult to search the web for options. Amtrak seemed convenient, dropping me at Union Station. The walk to the Capitol would take no longer than the time it takes the House to read their proposed 2000 page Health Care Reform Bill…about ten minutes. My indecisiveness cost me. On Monday a round trip ticket from Albany was $220. By Wednesday it was $280. Assuming the trains ran like Mussolini’s I would arrive just in time for the rally. But the price was a killer.

Wednesday afternoon, my sister emailed me about the Patriots from Rhode Island taking a bus from Providence for $60. “Maybe you could drive there?” I looked for a similar group out of Albany. I’m not saying there wasn’t such a group, but I found nothing on the various websites. However, a group called Central New York Patriots sponsored a bus for Michele Bachmann's Cannon Ball Run to DC from Syracuse. They were leaving at 3 AM from Price Chopper’s parking lot. That’s about 3 hours from Saratoga Springs. The cost, $60.

At 7 PM I called the organizer Joanne Wilder and got voice mail. “I’m from Hawaii. I know this is short notice and you’re probably taking a nap since you have to get up early, but if you have room, I’d love to go.” Joanne called back fifteen minutes later. Five seats left. I had an invitation.

“Bus will leave at 3:00 so be there by 2:30.”

I google-mapped Price Chopper and went on NOAA for a DC forecast, took a shower and headed out for Syracuse by 10PM. That was how I found myself rolling down I-81 through the darkened hills of Pennsylvania.

Watching You Tube

Guilt is a useless emotion. Rarely do I allow it to push me around. If it begins to seep into the edges of my brain and heart, a little bit of logic pushes it back into the darker recesses from which it crept. Lately, I have been bashing it with a shovel, hoping to kill and bury it before it wrecks my idyllic idleness of mind and action. Keeping busy since my return from Hawaii in mid May by engaging in under the table employment in order to climb above the demands of two state property taxes and a medical bill from last December’s anal probe where I didn’t even get a chance to see it on the big screen monitor because they knocked me out even though I requested they not, has been my excuse to stay away from the keyboard and hacking out any blogs, let alone any great pieces of literature. Like that was going to happen.

Just days before the frost hit, I finished painting two sides of the old one room schoolhouse. When I began I knew it would be a race against the weather. A few days before I finished I competed against an oncoming head cold, caught at Passing the Peace in church, the first service I was able to attend because of my work schedule. I hate Passing the Peace and I'll never win a prize for promoting it either.

With the paint brushes cleaned and packed away until I tackled the mantel at my sister’s house, I channeled my energies into making a video. I spent two hours story-boarding the idea at the public library in Saratoga. Then I set up my studio, gathered props and began to shoot a series of short scenes. I sketched out my main character, a squirrel, on a notepad and I was off to production. The hardest shot involved getting a walnut to fall into the black hole of government waste. It is difficult to tie a piece of nylon thread around a nut and Scotch tape doesn’t stick very well on the crevassed surface.

Shooting the scenes in sequence kept the editing task from being a chore. After sleeping on a draft movie, more creative ideas evolved. I reshot a couple of scenes and quickly spliced the shots into a two minute video. I even had time to go down to the local dump with Dad to recycle bottles, plastics and my empty paint cans.

I expected voiceover to be a nightmare, listening to my voice drone on again and again. I combed out stutters that occurred when my brain froze or pauses because I couldn’t find the next thought even with a script in hand. I slapped on the headphones and I found it amazingly easy to do the voiceovers once I heard my voice sounding eerily like my sister. I reasoned I could blame everything on her. In the end, ad lib turned out to be best.

I laughed out loud when I saw the first movie make. Finally I understood the insanity of cult movies and actors delivering the dumbest jokes. They actually think the lines are funny. But what is really hilarious is that some big studio paid for the project.

I, however, operated on a two day schedule and a financial budget of $17.58. A charcoal pencil, two pads of tracing paper, a box of crayons and two boxes of pudding. I needed five boxes, but I found three in the cellar pantry with expiration dates of 2007.

Posting it on YouTube was as easy as attaching a document to an email. Small wonder why there are so many trash videos out there. Any buffoon can do it with a click of a mouse. Kind of like writing a blog.

A day later I had 90 views. That’s it? In a world where a six year old kid hoaxes a flight across Colorado and gets a million hits in 24 hours? I worked two long days on that video! I asked all my faceBook friends to watch it. I even had Diablo, my twittering cat, hawk the video. After all she has nearly 800 followers.

So I came crashing back down to earth and not in a Jiffy-Pop helium balloon. Guilt won’t motivate me to get back to writing. The reality is it is hard work and after spending two years writing the next book, no one will read it anyway. But I still have something to say. That’s what will motivate me.

Anyone want some pudding? Enjoy some while watching the video. Click on this YouTube link to view it. 2 minutes! That is all I ask. For now.

How to Take a Life

You are never truly ready. There isn’t much that prepares you. Resolve and fortitude crumble when loss touches your heart. When the time comes, second guessing tough decisions only confuses, as doubt tumbles in your head. Did I do all I could? Is it really time? The mind is flooded with emotions running so deep that fond memories and joys of yesterday become blurred like vision through a veil of tears.

I whispered her name in her ear. With each breath I took I felt her relax until the once sinewed muscles grew limp in my arms. I held her as I knew my own mother would have done. I was instructed to place her on the cold steel table where the warmth of her life melted my hands. I wouldn’t let the sterile metal steal the heat of her life. To preserve the little bit that remained I lifted her tiny head and shoulders in my hands to feel the last breath, the last heart beat, the last flame of life extinguish. I tried to absorb the essence of the miracle, the power that allows us to be alive. I could give her nothing but peace and it seemed such a little gesture. Boots, surrendered from this world, her limp body, a fragile mass of silky black fur rested on the table. Everything happening in the universe, the world, my life stopped.

I have read that animals will tell their owners when they are ready to pass on, as if their mission had been completed and now they move on from this world to the next. Boot had it backwards. She waited until we were ready to let her go. But like I said, even when you know the inevitable the end is never easy. I watched my tears moisten her face and pool on the table. If it had only been tears I was losing.

Known as Bootsie, or Booter and sometimes fondly referred to as BooterHead, the black long-hair cat with a smart white bib and painted paws, was my mother’s cat. This was another piece of Mom gone missing. It broke my heart even more.

It is just two weeks beyond three years since Mom passed away. There have been many things I wanted to tell her during this time. Putting that BooterHead down is not one of them.

How to Save a Life

It was mid afternoon, hot as dog breath. The Moreau Lake echoed the cloudless sky. No ripples, no defects. I was on my quest to video my feet near the shoreline of the lake when I noticed a disturbance on the water, about thirty feet from shore. What was that? Since Moreau is not known for sea monsters I stared at the wake trying to figure out the commotion.

The poor little guy was drowning! He tried hard to get to shore, but he wasn’t going to make it. He was doomed if help didn't arrive soon. I quickly ran back to Dad who also noticed the flailing victim. "God, why am I carrying so much shit in my pockets," I muttered, tossing keys, camera, pens and a Mike’s Lemonade bottle top into the Saratoga Track give-away chair. Okay, I had been drinking a little, but I wasn't going in over my head. However, I forgot to dump my wallet so I waded into the water with my wallet clenched between my teeth.

It was a small bird. It struggled to keep a float. Since birds are made to fly, I imagined he would float on the surface until completely waterlogged, but as I head out Dad yell, “He went under.” It was just a bob. The little guy was on the surface as I neared.

From reading "Boy’s Life" and my older brother’s Scouting manuals I knew that you should approach a drowning person from the back to prevent being taken under by the panicked victim. I didn’t expect the bird to give much of a fight, but to keep it from further alarm I put my hands under the water before I reached the little guy. I scooped him up without him pecking at my fingers. What was he more scared of - me or drowning?

He was too exhausted to care. I lifted him out of the water. Immediately, he closed his eyes and gave up his fight. I began to wade back to the shore with the drenched bird shivering in my hands. I took him to a sunny spot and watched him breath. He was going to make it, but he needed to dry out, warm up and gain some strength.

After a few minutes he opened his eyes, peeped once and went back to his resting mode. I figured that was "thank you." It certainly wasn’t the bird poop that covered my hand. I waited and watched him begin his recovery.

When I rescued him his wings and tail feathers had been spread eagle. He seemed so broken and fragile. Now he ruffled his wings and tucked them back into position. His tail feathers laid flat and smooth. Each little bit of recovery required rest. He'd peep and close eyes. His crown began to dry. A mat of wet feathers began to lift and fluff, revealing the soft down of a young gold finch.

I suspected it was his first flight. Who teaches a bird not to land in water? It is an experience few learn, never getting a second chance. This guy was luckier than most.

The shivering stopped. He became more alert. Once he turned his head to the lake as if to look at the waters that nearly stole his life. A few more shakes and he seemed nearly perfect, except for a few damp feather near his belly.

And then... he took off to the low branches of a nearby maple. There he adjusted his feathers, and preened a little before flying to higher branches.

That’s how you save a life.

Entitlement Program

“They spend three dollars to get into the place and they think they own the joint.” So is the observation of one of my fellow Peace Officers.

Upon walking through the gates at Saratoga Race Course some people morph into monsters of entitlement. The transformation is not flattering. For a mere three dollars the average pleasant person who would smile and say "excuse me" if you accidentally bumped your shopping cart by the potato bins at Price Chopper becomes wrapped in an attitude that would embarrass the South Park kids. Most carry the attitude in their coolers, while others have it tucked into their billfold.

To Be Rude

The New York Racing Association ( NYRA) stations a red vested hospitality corps at the gates. Armed with smiles, maps, brochures and a wealth of information these people can direct you to the nearest ATM, bathroom or any other location on and off site. They provide instructions on where to find your seat in the clubhouse, where to buy a cigar, or how to place a bet and where to celebrate or commiserate afterward. Never-the- less people stream pass this help and wander aimlessly through the grounds in search for information. When unable to obtain answers their three-dollar attitudes emerge.

By the time they find me aimlessly strolling through the grandstand to my post their patience is gone. The first race is still an hour and a half away. “Where do I get clubhouse tickets?” It’s a big ass building, how can you miss it?

Clearly agitated he went on, “I’ve had five different people tell me five different things. Do you know where to get clubhouse tickets?” He waved three general admission tickets under my nose.

What I know is that reserved seats are purchased at the main gate and general admission tickets can be exchanged at the gate to the clubhouse. So I asked, “What are you trying to do?”

Answering a question with a question frustrated him and he snarled, “If you can’t tell me, I’ll find someone else.” How's that been working for ya?

“I can tell you, but I need to know what you want to do. I hate to give you the wrong information. After all, I’m afraid you might hit me. I’m headed to the clubhouse entrance, but that might not be where you want to go. If it isn’t the right place, I’ll take you to where you can get a seat in the clubhouse. I’m just a little scared I might make you more frustrated.”

I saw him calculating a thought behind in his eyes. “I’ve got a couple of other people with me. Let me get them.” He disappeared into the crowd. When he initially approached me, I had been talking with a security guard. She now scurried away. Minutes went by and I began to think he wasn’t coming back. What did he look like? I can't remember. Make a mental note. Undress these people describing attire. When he returned, his mood had improved.

“I’m Bob,” he introduced himself as if we were meeting for the first time at a cocktail party.

I engaged in small talk as we walked to the clubhouse admission gate. When we arrived I offered, "If you need anything else, my post is right by the horse crossing.” He offered to bring me a beer. I declined but said, “Lemonade would be great.”

I never saw him again.

To Be Greedy

It’s a well-respected tradition to reserve a chair by leaving a newspaper on the seat. A picnic table can be held by placing a cooler on the table. Security will not resolve any disputes over claims. But we will toss people out who disturb the festive atmosphere of a summer afternoon at the races.

The amount of space a patron claims is inversely proportional to the knowledge one has about horseracing. Thus when someone comes to Saratoga and spreads out three acres of blankets to “reserve” lawn space near the horse crossing (prime real estate), it is an immediate signal that they have no horse sense, will smoke fat stinky cigars and will most likely place their bets prior to seeing the horses parade to the track. In other words, they will act like fools.

Such an invasion is tolerated by the regulars to a point in hopes the greenhorns will enjoy their experience and not interfere too much with theirs.

When one of the rookie interlopers staked out a piece of real estate that extended into the horse path a security guard moved the blanket. Thinking one of the other near-by patrons interfered with their claimed territory, a confrontation ensued. I foolishly found myself standing between the two shouting parties. I sounded like Arlen Specter for a moment. "Wait a minute Wait a minute." I suggested if they didn’t calm down I would show them off the grounds. (There was no freaking way I was going to kick the regular out because he provides water and cookies to the security guards and he places my bets.)

In typical juvenile fashion the response from interloper was, “Well you better say something to the other guy.”

I didn’t fall for that crap. With my best Peace Officer authority I bluffed, “I’m addressing you at the moment. Understand I’ll show you to the door if you don’t calm down.” Hell, I couldn’t move them off the ground any more than I can pick a winning horse.

Shortly thereafter, everyone kissed and made up. The interlopers eventually “snuck” into the clubhouse and we all said good riddance. Sometimes it is better to give up a little to gain a whole lot of peace.

To Be Privileged

Even in this tight economy, companies sponsor a day at the track, hosting their party in the “tents” where guests can eat and bet in for comfort of air conditioning. Admission is pricy and for that price the patrons are tagged with a tracking device placed around their wrist. With the bracelet they can roam freely in and out of the tents.

One door is no more than four feet from the horse path. On the other side the entrance to the horse path is surrounded by five foot high bushes. Patrons flow in and out of the tent on the tide of the races and horse likewise go u and down the path. It is an intersection made for disaster, especially because the outriders park their horses in the shade two feet away from the gate. People and horse often get very up close and personal. Visibility is restricted by horse butts and bushes. There is lots to watch out for, including the monitoring of glass bottles which are not suppose to cross the path.

Keeping people and horse separated is a challenge. I usually step into the middle of the path so I am visible to incoming horses and people crossing from my left and right. I eyeball the horse and rider to let them know that I know they are there and I make eye contact with people who are approaching. Most of the time people are preoccupied with the program, their winning tickets, their drinks or their cellphones.

I held up my hand to halt a patron’s return to the tent. He responded by showing me his bracelet. He apparently thought I was preventing him from entering. He snipped, “I have a gizmo.”

Just as a 1200 pound animal passed behind me, I responded, “I have a horse. Just saved your life.” That will be three dollars, thank you.

Fame and Fortune

It’s weird to be identified by someone whom you have never met. It’s what famous people deal with everyday. The other day, I yelled hello to the mayor of Albany, who doesn’t know I live in Hawaii, but probably thinks I am one of his constituents. "Hey, Mayor Jennings, you keeping the fort down?" Whatever the hell that means.

I stood at the clubhouse horse crossing waiting for the first race to start when a well-dressed, rather good-looking man approached me. “Excuse me," he began. Now I was expecting a stupid question like, "Can you tell me where the horses are?" Instead he asked, "Are you the person who wrote the book?”

I’d never seen this guy in my life. I smiled but responded, “Who put you up to that?” I looked around expecting to see seven co-workers tee-heeing in the paddock. Except, this guy didn’t look like he would play any part in a juvenile prank.

My little brain raced to zero in on how this guy knew me. Someone I met last year and didn’t remember? Before I could ask or get that quizzical expression off my face he said he had heard me on the radio. That was a month ago and it was on some obscure niche market radio station in Knoxville, Tennessee. But how would he know me from that? My voice?

I still looked stumped until he mentioned Al Roney. Al is the morning talk show host on 810 WGY in Albany.

Holy Cow! That was nearly two years ago. I called the radio station because Al Roney had gone off the deep end about man caves, as if he invented the concept. At first, I wrote him an email and then went off to work on my taxes. An hour later, Al was still talking about a man’s need for that off limits place where he can put the moose head over the ratty plaid Lazyboy and the woman in his life can’t do anything by roll her eyes. I finally had it. I called the station and told him I had been in the ultimate man cave. It was Shep’s boat, the Cosmic Muffin. I had the privilege of sailing across the ocean with this guy in his custom designed man cave that didn’t even have a bathroom. I had to use a bucket. Al thought that was a hoot. And so did this guy standing in front of me. He went on the internet, found my website, emailed me and ordered a book.

From the little photo on the back of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin he picked me out of the crowd and was able to identify who I was. Unbelievable. The fact that he even approached me is even more unbelievable. Just a few weeks ago I was eating dinner at the Everglades when I spotted someone I thought was an old high school classmate. Did I approach him? Hell no. But later, via faceBook I asked him if he had been at the restaurant.

That makes this guy a very good salesperson. He is in real estate. I had not remembered his name, but I certainly remembered his purchase. In fact, the first book never arrived, but fell out of its package. I sent another. It was a hard winter.

I just thought the whole meeting was remarkable. So I played a few horse and got the first place horse in the first three races.

Ah, there is nothing like a little fame and a little fortune to make the day.

Thanks Bruce.

Fire, Fire...

There is no typical fan at Saratoga. There is the horse groupie, the person who goes up and down the east coast tromping from one dingy track to another, following horses whose granddaddy's greatness has been spread as thin as the Track’s give-away blankets. There is the jockey groupie who saw the Cajun win the Kentucky Derby on a long shot and now hangs on the fence outside the paddock hooting at the goofy grinned jockey as if they had been life long friends. Wearing thin Italian shoes, orange checked shorts, and a linen jacket, there is the fan who talks horse, combines the oddest mix of horses for a Super Trifecta and swears to God dinner at Siro’s cost him nothing. The “I’m a player” loser. There is the dad who totes his son who clutches a stuffed gray pony and a pair of jockey goggles. And there is the guy so old his tattoo says, “Lincoln Sucks.” He brings some friends who have never been to the track and ends up getting separated and spends the next four hours searching the crowd. Finally, desperation drives the track veteran to ask security for help.

Joe looked for Billy who was a “little not right in the head. He had an accident.” I made a few notes and took Joe to the phone located near the Porch Reservations. The desk sergeant answered the phone and I explained I had a gentleman missing his party. When I began to describe the missing man the sergeant barked, “I’ll ask the questions.”

“What kind of shoes is he wearing?” Even Obama would have thought that was a pretty stupid question to ask because I would have looked for a forty-four year old white male with a blue pullover shirt about 5’ 10” with short gray hair and dark pants. But he’s the sergeant and I, the patrol officer who doesn’t have a clue as to how to become a sergeant.

“When was the party missing?” I wanted to say after he couldn’t find him, but instead I said, “since 1 PM.”

“What? And he is just reporting him missing three hours later?”

Yeah that’s right. Stupid and irresponsible, huh? I’ll tell him he didn’t make the report in a timely fashion and we can’t do anything about it. Statue of limitations and all.

After I answered all the sergeant’s questions describing the missing person, he asked me who was making the report.

“Joe DiLeo.”

“Who?”

“Joe DiLeo. D-I-L-E-O.” Joe was impressed that I pronounced and spelled his name correctly. Hey, I might be wearing this uniform, but I do have an MBA.

“Not Joe DiLeo. You got to be kidding me. Is he 80 years old?”

I asked Joe how old he was and sure enough he was 80. One thought ran through my head. Is this guy an annual prankster who reports someone missing and I haven’t heard about it. I’m going to be pissed.

The sergeant explained, “Joe DiLeo has been reported missing by HIS party.” Good, we will have a quick and happy ending.

“His party is at Gate A. Where are you?” Once again I told him I was at Porch Reservation.

“Wait there.” Click.

The rain was coming down in buckets. Standing under the cover was okay by me. "Just a few minutes," I told Joe. We struck up a little conversation while we waited. Joe was one of twelve children all boys except for the oldest who basically raised the family. Two of Joe’s brothers served in WW II, but Joe served in Korea. He had five kids, eighteen grandkids and fourteen great grandkids. Except for a bad back because of a car accident, Joe was in fairly good health. Took no medication.

Fifteen minutes rolled by and I was beginning to wonder where the hell the sergeant is. I called the desk and explained I was still waiting.

“Where are you?”

“Porch Reservations. Clubhouse.” In training they told us to be specific. There is only one Porch Reservation booth at the Track and it is a four by six booth. I couldn’t have been any more specific with a GPS.

“Okay, I am sending someone.”

Fifteen minutes later, I knew the names of Joe’s attorney and accountant, but I was still standing at the Porch Reservation with an 80 year old who needed to sit down. I found a folding chair for him and called the desk.

“We can’t find you.” I didn’t know what to say. I had on a bright yellow rain slicker that said NYRA on the back. It was so large it covered everything but my shoes. Joe was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with canoes. If I were reporting a fire, the building would be a pile of ashes by now.

Another fifteen minutes went by before a sergeant showed up. “We lost the other party.” Did I roll my eyes?

At that very moment Joe piped up, “There he is. In the blue shirt.” He pointed and all I saw was a sea of blue shirts.

“Billy, Billy, Billy”, he yelled out, but his old voice didn’t get too far in the crowd.

I yelled out, “Billy, Billy, Billy,” expecting someone in the crowd to wheel around. No dice, but I managed to get ten other patrons to take up the chant. And Billy turned around.