Halloween Night in the Cemetery

I wrote this a couple of years ago, but since it's the best Halloween story I have, so I figured I would post it again.

In the fall of 1984 I was working for a local factory on the night shift. There were maybe four other people working with me, and one of them was a friend of mine I will call "Greg". Greg and I were both in our early twenties, and after work we would often have a couple of beers together before we went home. On Halloween night that year we decided it would be fun to head on over to the nearby cemetery and toss back a few there. The cemetery is the oldest and most populated in town, and in the front it still has the old fashioned, standing tombstones as well as a few crypts.

We drove out to the side of the cemetery in separate cars, and parked across the street. We had planned our little excursion a few days prior, so we had every thing we needed, which was basically just beer and cigarettes. I stowed the beers in the pockets of my down-filled vest, and we scaled the stonewall on the north side of the cemetery. Not far from the wall was a small bench nestled between two gravesites in the oldest section of the cemetery; obviously the perfect spot for drinking with the dead.

There were a few nearby crypts, so after a couple of beers we thought we might check a couple of them out just to see what they were like inside. I thought for sure these things would be locked up to keep people like my friend and I out of them, but we opened the door to the first crypt we came across, and walked right in. It was a bit spooky in there, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. Feeling a bit more emboldened, we fully entered the crypt and spotted a small fountain like structure at the far end where a bottle of holy water was kept. We walked down the narrow passage and took a look at it, and I remember feeling a bit nervous again. I guess it was because we were now so far into this crypt that if any psychopath or evil spirit had the urge to trap us, now would be the perfect opportunity. But of course nothing happened and we were soon out of the crypt moving on to the next one as if they were model homes.

As it turns out, once you have seen one crypt, you have pretty much seen them all. Every one we looked in was made of stone, had plaques on the walls identifying the remains that were entombed, and had nice examples of ironwork and masonry. So we returned to our bench o' beer.

As we engaged in the kind of semi-drunken chitchat you might find in any cemetery on Halloween night, my friend Greg suddenly got up, and ran off into the field of tombstones. Slightly bewildered, I looked around to see what sort of creepy apparition might have scared my companion away. For a moment I thought for sure I would look up to find a headless, see-through ghoulie hovering just over and behind my head, instead what I saw was even more frightening.

What had scared off my friend, and what now had me paralyzed in fear as I sat on the bench, was the horrifying sight of two police cruisers entering through the front gate of the cemetery. Once the reality of this spectacle registered in the feeble, alcohol soaked cells of my brain, I also got up and ran.

I had no idea in which direction Greg had run, and quite frankly I didn't really care. What was on my mind was avoiding the police, and getting the hell out of that cemetery. I ran full speed trying to make it to the south side of the cemetery where I knew there would be no fence or wall to scale, but rather a sizable hedge that I could hide in, and possibly escape through. I turned back to see where the police cruisers were in relation to myself, when I tripped over a small tombstone, and landed right on top of an adjoining grave.

I should note that I wear glasses, and as I lay sprawled on this grave I suddenly realize that the world had gone all fuzzy and blurry. I literally cannot see two feet in front of my face without my glasses, and so it was imperative that I find them if I wished to get out of the graveyard in one piece, and not spend the rest of the night in jail.
I scavenged around on my hands and knees furiously trying to locate my glasses. I looked up at one point and saw what appeared to be three headlights heading in my direction. (Everything beyond two feet is blurry, but believe me I can make out three bright lights coming at me in a dark cemetery.) I finally found my glasses, put them on, and saw to my horror that one of the cruisers was just a few yards away from me, and was coming down the path I was standing next to. They were using their spot light to look into the graveyard and up into the trees, so that explained why I saw three lights instead of two.

I had little time to react, and the option to run had long passed, and so I plastered myself against the far side of the nearest tree, and held my breath as the cruiser passed by. When it did, the spotlight waved through the tombstones as it approached my tree, and when it finally got to my location the light broke on either side of me as the spotlight briefly shone on the tree, and passed harmlessly on by.

After a few moments, I breathed a sigh of relief and looked down the pathway to be sure that the cruiser was a safe distance away. It was, and the other cruiser was on the side of the cemetery I needed to get to, but was well beyond the hedge that would provide me my escape. As I stood there formulating my escape route, I heard a whistle, and turned around already cussing out Greg for just up and leaving me back on the bench. But he wasn't there. I called his name, quietly of course, but got no answer. Figuring he would have the same idea as me, and would be heading for the south side of the cemetery, I quickly, but carefully, made my way towards the safety of the hedge.

I was almost there when I stopped to look for the police. They were all the way in the back of the cemetery by now, and were on foot around the mausoleum. As I stood there, someone grabbed my shoulder.
Being grabbed by the shoulder in a cemetery on Halloween night with the police looking for you is not for the faint of heart. I nearly peed my pants. Of course it was Greg, and indeed he had had the same escape plan as I, so together we made it to the hedge, and subsequently out of the cemetery.
We walked to a local gas station and called a friend to come pick us up. While we waited for our ride we watched the police continue to search the graveyard. When our friend arrived, we quickly drove by where we had initially parked our cars. Noting that there were no other police vehicles present, nor any sign of any cemetery personnel, we got in our cars and left.

From there all three of us drove over to the next town over and snuck into a smaller cemetery there. (We hadn't yet finished our beer.)

We found a good spot with a bench, and sat down to tell our friend about our adventure. I got to the part where I heard Greg whistle, but didn't see Greg. Greg said, "I didn't whistle." I said, "You didn't? I heard someone whistle just as clear as I can hear you guys now." Greg went on to explain that he never saw me from the time he ran from the bench, until he grabbed me by the shoulder over by the hedge.

And then we heard a distant whistle.

Each of us silently finished our beers, and then we quickly left.

High Winds and Burning Embers

So, there I was just sitting around on my Sunday morning having just finished my Sunday paper, and all settled in for a rousing couple few hours of Mythbusters, when all of a sudden my world went black. Well, maybe not entirely black, but the television sure did blink out. And I mean that quite literally. It didn't exactly just turn off as all electrical gadgets do during a power outage, it just sort of blinked, and then slowly faded away like an American WWII general.

We have been struggling through our yearly high winds period here in Souther California, so a I had sort of been expecting a power outage. But it was the way the power went out that I found rather curious. Everything went off at first, the TV, the computer, the reading lamp I had been reading the paper by, but just after the power went off I looked up at my reading lamp and saw that the lights were dimly lit. I quickly got up and unplugged most every expensive electrical item in the house fearing a power surge. The winds on Sunday were very strong, and the power lines just behind our house were howling as the wind blew around them, so I thought for sure they had shorted against each other and would cause every appliance in the house to explode.

I waited a few minutes to see if the power would resume, but there was no improvement. The incandescent lights in the house were dim, but all florescent lights were completely out. None of our older television sets would even turn on, but the newer ones worked fine. The refrigerator motor was barely turning, but there was hardly enough light inside of it to see a casserole by. (Which isn't in itself an entirely bad thing.)

I figured that if the power was only "sort of out", that it most likely wasn't just going to get all better by itself, at least not any time soon, so I gave So. Cal. Ed. a call.

After working my way through the automated system, I finally found a real person who said she would send someone out. She said there were several areas that were experiencing power loss, so that it could be awhile before anyone would be able to come by. So, I waited, but as it turned out I got lucky. A truck from the electric company came out within an hour after I called, but that is where my luck ended.

I went out back with the two Edison guys and they looked over the utility pole that is just over the fence in our neighbor's backyard. One of the guys pointed at the transformer on the pole and said he thought a fuse had blown, and that is why I only had partial power. He said a crew would have to come out and replace the fuse, which isn't too tough of a job. Unfortunately, because of the winds the Edison company had their hands full with power related troubles all across the county. In other words, they had bigger fish to fry, so I was going to be low on the list of priorities.

The Edison guys left, and I spent the rest of the day sitting around with Jackie and Angel watching one of the televisions in the house that could work off of low power.

As we sat there in the semi-darkened room, I noticed it started getting even darker. I went outside to take a gander at the sky, and what I saw was pretty darned frightful The sun had been almost completely obscured by smoke. Malibu was on fire again, and the high winds had blown all the smoke into Ventura. It was almost as if the end of days had arrived, if you believe in such stuff.

I went back into the house and got my camera, and below are a few pictures that show how dense the smoke was.

As for the power, no one came to repair the fuse by the time I went to bed on Sunday. I woke up around midnight and noticed the night light in our bathroom wasn't on. I got up and attempted to switch on the lights, but they never came on. I went into the hall and tried the lights there, but again I got bupkis. The fuse finally burned itself out, and we were completely without power. The power wasn't restored until late Monday morning.

This is a view of our neighborhood as seen from our side gate. The palm trees are bending because of the strong wind, but you really can't tell from this shot just how strong those winds were.

This is a picture of the sky looking about 180° from the last picture. It looks like a storm cloud, but instead of rain or snow it brought with it a steady stream of falling ash. Soon the porch would be almost covered in black and white ash from the fire.

The sun as seen through the smoke. It's hard to get the colors right in such a picture; the sun appeared more blood red than seen in this shot.

Jackie and Angel followed me into the backyard, but I soon put them back into the house. There was so much ash you couldn't help but catch some in your eyes. When I saw Angel blinking a lot, I decided the great outdoors was not a place for two little doggies to be right now.

Another shot of the sun. This close-up shows the red I was talking about earlier. It was early afternoon when I took these pictures, and I assume because the sun was almost directly over head the sunlight had a tough time penetrating the smoke. It was dark outside, and the orange tint gave the neighborhood a surreal feel about it. As the sun started moving across the sky, and got lower relative to the horizon, it became brighter outside. I guess as the sun fell below the smoke the light was able to shine through better.

All this week we have been suffering through high winds and smoke. The Malibu fire was under control rather quickly, but there are still fires in the area that keep the skies filled with smoke. In San Diego it's even worse with somewhere around 1800 homes lost, and half a million people evacuated or homeless. Can you believe that? HALF A MILLION! I read in this morning's paper that the expected loss will be something like three times that of the fires we had four years ago what with 15 fires burning in seven counties in Southern California right now. If you remember the fire season of 2003 you understand just how significant that is.

I have lived in Ventura since 1966, and I have seen a number of fire seasons that have had devastating results. I can't remember a time that even comes close to the damage they are talking about today. I do remember a big fire in the early 1970s that ravaged the hills behind Ventura and filled the sky with smoke for a week, but while that looked bad, it was no where near what we are seeing now.

The Painted Cave fire in Santa Barbara that claimed 440 houses, 28 apartment complexes, and 30 other structures back in 1990 was considered a disaster, and rightly so, but with over half a million homes evacuated in San Diego county alone even that fire is dwarfed by the devastation that is happening right now.

The house we just bought is fairly close to the hills here in Ventura, and those hills are very dry right now, but so far there haven't been any significant fires near where we live.

For that I am thankful.

Happy Birthday, Papa

Well, another year has gone by for my little boy Angel, and that makes him another year older. It's hard to believe that six years ago today a little white fluff-ball came into this world, and then just three scant months later found his way into our home, and our hearts.

It is also my little grandson's birthday today. He is two years old today. Happy Birthday, Josiah!

Papa's story of how he came to be in our family can be found here. It's a great little story of how one day, completely by chance, we found our little boy waiting behind the glass of a pet store window for someone to bring him home. I hope you take the time to read it because I personally love that tale.

Anyway, Athenamama tradition dictates that part of our pet's birthday celebration includes their very own entry complete with both their baby pictures, and pictures of them today. So, without further ado, I give you my little Papa, Angel....

This is one of Papa's very first pictures the night we brought him home. He was so well behaved, and so quiet! The complete opposite of the boisterous little man he is today.

Well behaved and quiet, but also possessed with a love for playing. Angel's favorite playtime activity was, and still is tug-o-war. Here he is preparing to grab hold of that slipper and tug on it for all he's worth.

We brought Angel home just four days after Christmas. That little toy in the foreground is actually a stuffed penguin wearing a Santa Claus outfit. I bought it at a local convenience store that first night we had him home. It was his first ever stuffed toy. he didn't get to keep it for very long, though, because as soon as he chewed a hole in it I took it away from him and put it in one of my dresser drawers, where it sits today.

Papa at about six months old. He used to love those damn rawhide chew toys, and would lay on his back and gnaw on them like a sea otter eating an abalone. I heard somewhere that small dogs can choke on pieces of rawhide, so it's been a while since he has had one. When I do get them for Angel and Jackie I only allow them to chew on one when I am there to supervise. Even then I am like an old nervous mother, so it is a rare occasion indeed when I buy them a piece of rawhide.

Another picture of Angel at about six months. His coat was so white then, but over the years it has developed some lemon colored patches. They are very faint, but his coat is no where near as white as it once was. Right now he is pretty scruffy looking, and is in need of a bath. We had a really tough flea season, and so he and Jackie both were looking pretty bad for a while. I wasn't able to give them baths as often as I would like because I didn't want to wash off the Advantage flea medicine. The medicine never really seemed to work, though, because I found fleas on them within hours of applying the medicine. There were just so many fleas that I couldn't get the situation under control. I treated our yard, the carpet, all three dogs and their beds, but we still found fleas in each of those locations. It was horrible.

When Angel was about two years old we brought home little Jacqueline. They have been inseparable ever since. Here they are on one of the many walks we used to take when we lived in our little condo. I used to love those walks, but since we moved we haven't gone very often. There just aren't as many neat places to walk around here in the new neighborhood, but I know I shouldn't let that be an excuse for not going.

I really like this picture of Jackie and Angel walking together. It captures their love for one another. Especially the love Jackie has for her big brother.

Here's Papa just after his least favorite activity known as "Bath-time". Angel hates to take a bath, but I guess that's normal being that he is a little boy and all. When I turn on the bath water in our old fashioned bathtub, Angel hides wherever he can. I usually lure him out with a cookie, but sometimes even that won't work. Now I usually run the bath water while he is outside, then he goes straight into the water when he comes in.

According to one calculator, Papa is now the human equivalent of 37 years old! As rambunctious as he is, I never would have guessed. He still runs up and down the hallway chasing after toys, rough houses with his sister, "protects" the house, chases off the cats, and will play fetch in the backyard. For now he shows no sign of slowing down, and I hope he never does.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PAPA!

Ear Baths and Pecking Orders

It's been a while since I have had a post about our two favorite pups, Jackie and Angel, but it isn't because I haven't wanted to, it's more because nothing of any real interest has happened lately. (Not that it ever does, it's just the only excuse I could come up with.)

I have also slacked off on taking pictures lately. I am not sure why, except that I am like that in some ways. I get on "kicks" where I will do some particular activity for a while, then get bored with it, pick up another activity, and sort of cycle through them as time goes on. I might be getting closer to taking pictures again, so we'll see what the future holds.

In any case, I was looking through some of my older pictures and found some of Jackie, Angel, and Thalia that I liked, so I thought I would use those today. What I like about these pictures is they sort of highlight the relationship the three of them share.

In our house we have three cats, and three dogs. Mariah is my stepson's dog, and she is pretty big so she lives in the backyard. Angel and Jackie stay back there most of the day while my wife and I work, so the three dogs get along just fine. But that relationship ends at the back door. If Mariah shows any indication that she wants to come in the house, Jackie and Angel remind her of her place. Mariah usually doesn't try to come in, though, because she knows she isn't supposed to be in the house. But on a few occasions when it has been really cold out back, and we wanted Mariah to sleep in the garage, Angel especially lost his mind as we led her through the house to the garage door.

The cats have their own pecking order, but it's hard to tell what that order is because they avoid each other. Ebby in particlular likes to keep to her self, and is usually pretty grumpy.We let her out front so that she can get some "me" time, and so she can take her frustrations out on mother nature.

Salem also likes to keep to herself, and she has plenty of hiding spots throughout the house where she can be guaranteed of some solitude, at least for a while. And should her privacy be invaded, well, she knows of another place where others won't bother her.

That leaves poor Thalia out in the cold.Younger than the other cats, and more sociable, she wants companionship, and she wants to play, but the other, older cats really don't want much to do with her. I guess because of this ongoing rejection, Thali has decided her two playmates are going to be Jackie and Angel, whether they like it or not.

Jackie and Angel are tight. They love each other, and spend their entire lives in each other's company. The only other living soul that is honestly considered a part of their pack, is me, their daddy. But they do tolerate Thalia. At least for the most part...

Sometimes I wonder if Thali is confused. I think she thinks she's a dog.

Jackie can be pretty feisty, but she also has a soft side. She sometimes barely tolerates Thalia, especially when it comes to sharing daddy's lap space, but here she clearly extends Thalia the full privileges of an ear-bath. A privilege reserved for pack members only.

And it's not just any ear bath, it's a full service, ear bath at that!

Those three bring me more joy than you know. Well, maybe you do know.

So there we have another wacky installment of The Adventures of Jackie and Angel, (and Thalia). Until next time, please see more dogs and other critters over at the Friday Ark at The Modulator

What's Going on in My Neck

Not too long ago, I wrote about my experience with pain killers. I am currently taking them as a result of a congenital problem in my cervical spine that has caused a sort of degenerative disk disease. In layman's terms, I was born with a bum set of vertebrae, and it's a real pain in the neck. (See how I did that? It's a play on words sort-of-thing because "a pain in the neck" is an old saying, but... ah, skip it.)

Anyway, by the Summer of 2003 my condition finally reached the point where my doctors were fearful that I could suffer a "catastrophic event" should I take a hit in the neck, be involved in a situation where my head would move violently in any direction putting more of a load on my neck than it was capable of handling. That could be anything from a roller coaster to an automobile accident. And so at the end of August of that same year I endured a form of surgery that the medical community lovingly refers to as "anterior cervical discectomy with fusion".

I call it "torture".

In any case, the surgery was considered a success by all involved because the surgeon was able to clear out the area of my cervical spine that posed the greatest threat to my general well being. However, there was some disappointment during my recovery because the pain I was experiencing that sent me to the doctors in the first place never went away. In fact, it got worse.

I continued with follow-up examinations with the surgeon for several months after the surgery, and, without going in to great detail, he ultimately decided that more surgery came with a greater risk to benefit ratio than he was comfortable with, so after his suspicions were confirmed by another neurological surgeon he referred me to at UCLA, he apologized that there wasn't more that he could do for me, and sent me back to my family practitioner.

I really don't blame him because I have what the medical community calls "dysphagia". I call it difficulty with swallowing. Essentially I have this over grown piece of cartilage in my throat that is somewhat larger than most people's. (Go me!) They found out about it during surgery when they had substantial difficulty intubating me. I found out about it when I woke up after surgery and couldn't swallow because my throat was all jacked-up from the surgical team trying to force a large tube down a small hole. (The catheter probably went better.) Because of this, and because of the scarring that occurs with any surgery, the surgeon didn't think it was a good idea to go back in.

Since then my family practitioner and I have tried just about everything modern medicine has to offer in the way of pain relief as it relates to nerve damage and the cervical spine. So far we haven't had much luck, and the only thing that brings me enough relief such that I am able to function as a normal human being is those ever so nasty pain killers. With out them, let me tell you, my life would be oh so very different. And even then I suffer a good portion of my day because pain killers never work as advertised. (Also, I figure at 6'2" and 240 pounds I am under medicated anyway.)

It wasn't so long ago that my family practitioner broke the news to me that it is quite possible I may be facing a lifetime of pain management through opiates. Since we have apparently exhausted every avenue known to exist, it seemed to me she just might be right. But then, my dad had back surgery.

The surgeon who did my dad's work is, by my father's estimation, a good egg, and an even better back cracker. My father, doing as father's do, talked with his doctor about my neck. Long story short, dad's surgeon looked at my last set of films, (MRI and X-ray,) and said, "I don't see why this can't be fixed. Tell your son to call UCLA, and ask to see either Dr. X, or Dr. Y"

My dad was so thrilled he called me from his doctor's parking lot.

I talked with my doctor, she pulled some strings, and I ended up back at UCLA just this past week. This has all been going on since last October. That is when my father first approached his back surgeon about looking over my films. The story behind what had to happen to get me into seeing the head of the UCLA Spine Center is a lengthy one, and I just didn't want to take the time to bore you with all those details, but I do want to say that without my dad's help, and without my own doctor acting above and beyond the call of duty, it never would have happened, and so those two people have my undying gratitude.

But, let's get to what happened at UCLA last week.

Back up to when I went to UCLA two years ago; I was given the brush off by the surgeon I saw. They had me dress out in an examination gown, but when the doctor came into the exam room all he did was pull two pieces of film from my MRI folder, looked them over until he was convinced that I was convinced he had given them a sincere once-over, and then told me that there wasn't much he could do for me. He said that while there was no doubt that I had degenerative disc disease, it wasn't any worse than perhaps 20% of the population walking around right now. The only difference between them and myself is that I know I have a problem
because of my history.

Thanks, but no thanks.

I felt very small, and I felt like I had just been called a hypochondriac. I got dressed, put my films back into my folder, went out into the waiting room, woke up my dad, told him we were leaving, and drove home.

Fast forward to last Wednesday. This time I was seen by not one, but TWO doctors, one of which was the man himself, Mr. Head of The UCLA Spine Center. After a thorough examination, and after a lengthy questioning about my medical history, and after looking at my films, what the Head of UCLA Spine Center told me is that he thinks a particular spot in my cervical spine located just above the site of my last operation, is the root of my pain problems. He said what he wants to do is to give me a root block exactly at that site, and if my pain goes away, then we know we have a winner. After the nerve block he said we would wait to see if the pain returns because sometimes all that is needed is a one time nerve block, and some patients never experience pain again. He said if the pain does come back we would just do another nerve block, and keep on like that for a while to see if that will work. If not, then at least we know exactly where to go when I have a second surgery.

For clarification, let's look at some pictures. (OK, I guess you don't really need any clarification, but I just LOVE looking at MRI's!)

This is just prior to my first surgery. The red numbers are my cervical vertebrae, and that thick gray line that runs almost vertically through the center of the picture is my spinal cord. If you look at the area of my spinal cord around the second vertebra you will notice some white around the gray spinal cord. That white is spinal fluid, and it should be like that all the way down your spine. You see in my case starting around my third vertebra, there is no more white. The reason is degenerative disk disease. The disks have broken down, or herniated, and are pressing on my spinal cord and the nerves that come off of it. I also have developed bone spurs, (osteophytes,) and looking at C-4 and C-5, the vertebra have actually shifted in relation to each other. Crazy, huh?

This MRI was just a few months after my operation. Looking pretty good all things considered. But if you look just aft of C-3 you will see another troubling area developing. There is some room, but it looked to me when I first saw it that I was in for more trouble. This is the MRI the first doctor at UCLA saw two years ago.

If you look closely at the forth fifth and sixth vertebrae you will see they look distorted. That is because they have been fused, and because there is a plate with six screws holding it all together.

This x-ray shows the plate and screws more clearly. I am actually facing the opposite direction, so the MRI's were of my lefts side, and this x-ray is of my right side. I uh, also have some gold teeth and a filling or two.

My most recent MRI. Now, before you say, "OH MY GOD, THERE IS NO ROOM FOR HIS SPINAL CORD AT ALL!!", let me assure you it isn't as bad as it looks. The surgeon marked my MRI with a sharpie just to show me what was going on in my neck when we visited him last week. It has narrowed, but it isn't that bad.

What has also occurred is my vertebrae have shifted again, but this time it is between C-3 and C-4. Also, the osteophytes are larger, and the disk is herniated. (It may have been herniated before, I am not real sure, and the doctor didn't say) This is where the doctor wants to block my nerves.

So, there ya have it, the Reader's Digest version of what's going on in my neck. Even with all that, I still work, and I still go to Disneyland,which I just did a couple of weeks ago, and you can bet I will be writing about soonish.