You Almost Made It, Frankie

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I got this story from a friend who works as a nursing aide at the hospital here in Santa Barbara..... slightly edited, but his words.

By Philip Deutsch

You Almost Made It, Frankie

I’m telling this story to get it off my mind. Patients don’t usually stay with me. I put my heart into the work when I’m on the unit, but I forget the whole thing by the time I get to the parking lot when I’m going home at 11 p.m.

It’s a good rhythm. You go home, read a book, have a glass of wine, and sleep without troubles. The next day you do it again

But Frankie stayed with me. He was 78, in assisted living. His wife had just died and he was in pain from hip surgery. He overdosed on his pain medication and the medics found him on the floor with seven Fentanyl patches pressed to his skin.

Fentanyl is a powerful narcotic and widely used in the form of dermal patches to relieve pain. The patch releases the medication in a careful slow way and -- sometimes with unpleasant side effects -- it works.

But seven patches all at once will send you through the door, down the river and on your way to the next life. Such a patient will not be left alone in the hospital, lest they try to harm themselves again. Standard procedure. Suicide watch.

Frankie was deeply asleep when I got there at 4:30 in the afternoon. Comatose? I don’t know the medical term. But past danger, I think.

Kelly was the nurse. She’s one of the angels. They make you feel good just walking in the room. I don’t know about the patients, but I know I feel good when Kelly is around.

Frankie had a heart monitor, just in case. These are four wire leads pressed to the chest, connected to a monitor room where someone could watch his pulse and breathing rate. The monitor, besides being watched by a live person, is set with ding-ding-dings if the patient’s heart rate exceeds the parameters. They have ding-ding-dings all over the hospital. You can’t relax for a minute.

So there’s Frankie, on his back, sleeping peacefully, with thick white hair closely cropped, a trim spade beard, round face, and good skin color. He looked healthy, if you asked me, and he was resting well. I was sitting beside the bed and I turned on the TV to watch the baseball game -- kept the volume low. It makes good background noise -- the sound of a murmuring crowd. No ding-ding-dings at the baseball game.

Maybe that’s what’s bothering me. How can anybody get any rest at this hospital? It’s a process of continuous interruption.

Kelly floats in and out of the room. She gives Frankie a bladder catheter. He barely wakes during the procedure. The urine bag fills up promptly. He needed a good pee, but he was too out of it to use the urinal, and the narcotic relaxed his muscles over much, so he wouldn’t just go without help.

If there’s one thing that matters around here, it’s urination. They get really worried if you’re not peeing, and they get happy if you do. It’s all about moving the fluids -- things you’ve been managing by yourself since you were two-years-old, but when you’re sick you need help.

Kelly leaves. Frankie sleeps, I watch the game -- Dodgers and Phillies. That’s it. Six hours and I go home. Only this time, when I get to the parking lot, I keep seeing Frankie’s peaceful face. I keep thinking -- Frankie, you almost made it.

Depression and Suicide. (making no claim to any expertise on this subject) Everybody gets the blues now and then. But real depression is much worse than having a bad day -- real depression is staying in bed all day, being unable to leave the house, no appetite, insomnia, suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts. One of the things I do at the hospital is suicide watch. Obviously, I don’t see those who have made a successful effort to end their lives. But I see the attempts and the failures. These are some mighty unhappy people -- everything’s going so wrong and they can’t even kill themselves.

Usually it’s an overdose -- a cocktail of legal and illegal drugs. The doctors would sure like to know just what it is you took when you get to ER -- perhaps if you pinned a note to your shirt before you passed out.

Either way, when you get to the ER, they give you the charcoal syrup which soaks up the poison. The charcoal looks awful, but it has no taste.

Don’t try suicide with Tylenol. A sufficient amount of Tylenol will kill you, but a less than sufficient amount will merely damage your liver, resulting in prolonged hospitalization and enormous medical expense. The opiates are actually better, because recovery can be fairly quick after a less than fatal dose. Wrist slashing requires determination, and a failed attempt will leave scars that might embarrass you later in life.

As I said, I deal with the failures, and my medical knowledge is strictly anecdotal -- I only see the patients after they have been medically cleared -- when they just need to be watched.

The patients are almost always quite young, 20 to 35, and two thirds female. They are very withdrawn. They seem to be terribly embarrassed. They just lie in bed and I make no attempt at conversation.

I don’t think they want to die.

I don’t have much faith in therapy and social work, but that’s what happens after the attempt. You have to talk to somebody. This somebody comes into the patient’s room and an earnest conversation ensues -- as in, let’s find out what’s going on, and let’s see what we can do about it. This is just my bias, but I don’t see the point of “doing anything” about it. I’m quite glad to be alive myself, and I would recommend that status to anyone who asked.

But it’s your life, not mine. The social compact requires us to live until we die, so I would not help you if you wanted to kill yourself. Having said that, I think the highest respect and kindness for someone is to let them be the way they are. Are you depressed? Yes, that happens. Do you want my help? Ask for it. Do you want my attention? Then do or say something that interests me.

I just don’t want to treat a patient as if they were pathetic. I stay in the room with them and we’re going to get through the day together. I can promise that -- we’ll get through the day. And we’ll see about tomorrow.

Now Frankie was different than the others, in my own limited experience. He was much older, for one. And he made a fairly serious attempt to die, taking seven Fentanyl patches. As I said, he almost made it. If they hadn’t checked his room for another hour, he would have been gone for good.

So what happened to him after I left him at the hospital? I don’t know. I suspect they won’t let him have his own supply of Fentanyl anymore, but will give it to him one dose at a time. He’ll get counseling, but I hope it comes with respect.

There’s a time when you might tell a younger person that she’s a fool and that she’s throwing her life away. That can be a good thing to say.

But the old folks -- you really shouldn’t tell them anything. They are way past the rest of us. A doctor or a nurse, no matter how experienced or how well trained, will have no idea what it takes to be 78 until they get there themselves.

FACTS ABOUT FENTANYL (Wikipedia is the source) The opioid Fentanyl was first synthesized in 1960 by Dr. Paul Janssen. Its chemical formula is C22H28N2O. It is approximately 100 times more potent than morphine. It is used as an intravenous anesthetic.

In the mid 1990s, the Duragesic dermal patch was introduced, and the patch is now used for long-term pain management.

Fentanyl can be abused as a substitute for heroin. For that reason it is a Schedule II drug according to the Controlled Substances Act.

A Schedule I drug has no approved medical use. Schedule II drugs have approved medical uses, but are also illegally manufactured and abused.

Fentanyl, Duragesic, and their generic equivalents are often the first choice to control pain in cancer patients.

Fentanyl has side effects in 10 percent of patients -- diarrhea, nausea, constipation, dry mouth, sweating, and confusion.

Fentanyl and Duragesic are trademarks of Johnson + Johnson, one of the world’s largest pharmaceutical corporations. Sales of Fentanyl and Duragesic exceed $1.3 billion worldwide.

Editor's Note. I drew this diagram of Fentanyl over morning coffee.

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WHAT WOULD WE DO WITHOUT THE LAWYERS? An Internet search, in pursuit of information regarding a drug or medical procedure, will easily produce the website of a law firm which makes a living suing those same purveyors of drugs and medical procedures.

I found this website, YouHaveALawyer.com (a real website, I’m not making this up) which hypes the diligent adversarial talents of Saiontz and Kirk, a law firm in Baltimore, because, if you have a problem, it must be someone’s fault and they should be sued.

Take our fictional patient Frankie. It wasn’t his fault. He was depressed because his wife died. Surely the doctor knew that. Did Frankie have a history of suicidal thoughts and attempts? Did the doctor ask him?

And what about the pain management? Was Frankie carefully instructed in the use of his Fentanyl patches? Was he warned of the danger of an overdose and that it could kill him? Or maybe he was told about the danger of an overdose, and that’s what gave Frankie the idea of putting on seven patches all at once.

Has the law firm of Saiontz and Kirk sent one of their attorneys to lurk about the lobby of the hospital where I work, to press his or her business card upon weeping relatives? “Aye, I will take up your battle, I will smite the physician and pursue the drug company, I will obtain damages. We will fight and fight until justice comes.”

Saiontz and Kirk is eager to help, dear citizen, if you have had any problems with your Duragesic patch. Call them today. You can find their number plastered on the side of the nearest Metro Bus.

But what has money got to do with it? The lawyers can get you money all right, but what is Frankie's life worth at age 78. In cold blooded dollars his life is not worth a penny -- a good man, a man who is loved, but not productive in any economic sense, an expense actually.

ADOPTION. Now, I’ve finished writing about Frankie. I will send it to the Frog Hospital audience and then I get closure. But I’m afraid not. I’ve done patient care for five years -- at a hospital, a psychiatric hospital, and a nursing home -- five years..

In those five years, I have adopted about 12 patients. It just happens. These are the ones that get into my psyche, make themselves at home and just stay. That’s why I call it adoption. I see their faces, and I mean going back  years and I still see their faces. It looks like Frankie has joined the roster, along with Rachel, James, Eddie, and the others.

Twelve patients are enough. You don’t want to encourage this adoption. You want to shake them off by the time you get to the parking lot, but it happens anyway.

Editor. So that's Philip's account and I hope you found it worthwhile. Happy New Year to all ! ! !

Naming Names

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Naming Names

By Fred Owens

I got a message from Gewertz. He said that's my name don't wear it out.... You see, there is a real Gewertz and I borrowed his name to make a story last week Gewertz is such a good sturdy name and it sounds a little like Herzog, and if my character sounds like Herzog, maybe I can sound a little like Saul Bellow.

I walk in the shadow of Saul Bellow. O Divine Muse, if you might pour a little of that honey on my words too.

Imitation. I was imitating Bellow last week. I am a strong believer in imitation. That's how the Jesuits taught me to write in high school. We learned composition by imitating the style and structure of masterpieces, words from Steinbeck, Hemingway and others. Those were easy. Then we had Stephen Crane and the Red Badge of Courage which made no sense to me at all. And Walt Whitman and Mark Twain, but it was the Steinbeck and Hemingway I remember because they were easy.

Imitation is a good exercise in learning how to write. It is no different than how little babies learn how to speak -- by imitation,.

Do not be sidetracked by this silly talk of discovering originality and developing your own authentic voice. You already are who you are and nothing can change that. You can be better at who you are if you struggle a bit, but you can never be anybody else. Teenagers struggle with identity, grown men do not.

You Must Be Fred. This such an odd greeting. People say it upon meeting me for the first time. I take this literally. Yes, I must be Fred. I will always be Fred. Thanks for reminding me...... That's my identity and that's my name, Fred. Don't wear it out.

Fact and Fiction. The distinction between fact and fiction has become quite faint. This is a concern. People might worry. But I can assure you this is not a big problem. When you write factually, you must tell the truth. When you write fiction you must tell the truth. That's all you need to know. Just tell the truth. If you write less than the truth, you have written badly.

But I miss facts. We don't have as many as we used to have. We have data. We're drowning in data, but not so many facts. Facts take work. You need to make phone calls. You need to get confirmation. You need to double check. You need to clear your mind of conceit and prejudice. You need to rise above your circumstances. Facts are the homage we pay to truth. Facts are a dim approximation of truth. If you have not seen a fact lately, a good place to start is the obituary section of the newspaper.

You don't read newspapers and you're too young to look at obituaries, but take a look at the names. Scan the names quickly. Every name is spelled correctly. Just so. Because these are facts. An obituary is someone's life story, and because they are short and because they are so highly treasured by a small group of people, mistakes are uncommon.

The phone book is facts too. Burt you don't even have a phonebook. Neither do I.

So we don't have as many facts as we used to have, but we have more data than we can use. We'll survive. I like my laptop and my cell phone. I just don't trust these devices.

Absent facts, people are beginning to trust the camera on their smart phone. They take selfies to prove their existence. But the camera lies. It's easy to lie with a camera. I've done it. You've done it too. Let's be honest -- cameras lie. I mean they can lie, or they can tell the truth.

But truth and lies are not the same as fact and fiction, not at all. Here's an example -- Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien -- a more honest book was never written by a man walking this earth. Tolkien told the truth, to the best of his ability and that's why it's such a good story. He had talent and  energy and discipline and he told the truth. You cannot do any better.

Naming Names. I don't have much imagination, so when I write a story I need to start with a name, and I might borrow one. You take the name of a real person and de-factualize it, then turn it loose in the arena. See what happens. Often the new character dies a quick and pathetic death. Or should have. But sometimes they make it to the bell-ringing and shout for life, and more life, and more life, and then the character is beyond your control and gone round the world.

Here are some names of real people. Let's see what we can do with them. I mean, the names, not the people.

Ted Pietras. Ted is a strong name. One syllable. Three letters. You cannot move this name. You cannot spin it. You cannot color it. It is a mountain. And his last name is Pietras. What kind of name is that, Spanish, Italian, Greek? Something like a an olive tree. An olive tree that grows on the stony slope of a mountain, amid the rosemary and the ambling goats. You can run with a name like Ted Pietras if you're writing a story.

Harvey Blume.   Harvey Blume. Three syllables. Accent on the third syllable. Rolls off the tongue. Easy to say. Easy to remember. You meet Harvey Blume and it's like you already know him and you like him. The trouble will come later. The trouble always comes later -- and you're the writer.

Harvey had a small part in the Third Man, the Orson Wells movie. He just had a few lines. It was after they came out of the cafe, walking down the deserted street. He was an agent, but working for who? and with no possibility of moral clarity. You can't tell if Harvey is a good guy or a bad guy,

Bobby Vilinsky. You have to learn this name. You might need to practice saying it. Bobby doesn't go with Vilinsky. Lots of people, their first name clashes with their last name.  Bobby, what's your story? Tell us what happened, you know, that time when you .........It gets complicated, opaque......A dark cloud gathers and the music stops .... Bobby, what's wrong?  Images begin spinning in your mind -- a coffee shop in Somerville, an abandoned drive-in movie screen in Waltham, a pale horse in the Berkshire hills, the lower basement of a large office building, streetlights gleaming in the snow,  the beach in Revere strewn with empty  beer cans...... Thus the tale of Bobby Vilinsky begins.....Rhona looking more beautiful than ever..... Rhona screaming at Bobby, "Never....speak...to.... me again...." and pulling at her hair and sobbing, out of breath.....

Bobby's story just takes off from here, all I have to do is type it.

Power in a Name. Adam and Eve named all the creatures of the earth and so gained dominion. Mothers and fathers name their children, searing their souls like a hot iron brand. Oppressed people take back their own names and change their lives. Names are powerful, and terrible in the wrong hands.

That's Enough for Now.

Merry Christmas,

Fred. That's my name. Don't wear it out.

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Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001

It's Just a Tree

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By Fred Owens

Neighborhoods in the Bronx.

You don't need to know about old neighborhoods in the Bronx, and you are unlikely to ever go there. Why would anyone go the the Bronx, when they could fly to Hawaii or Morocco? Even people who are from there don't go there.

The Bronx. The first European settler was a Swedish man named Bronck. He built a cabin and had a family. If you went to see them, you said you were going to the Broncks, or now the Bronx.......I always wondered about that, but I only found out today.

People from the Bronx. Why do I know a half dozen people from the Bronx and they are all Jews? They live in Los Angeles. I see them at the coffee shop in Venice. I sit and talk with them. One time they got tribal on me talking about where to get a good Reuben, otherwise it's give and take. They call me Farmer Fred because of my horticultural habits. Eric is one of the Bronx Jews at the coffee shop. He goes there every day. Big Mike also lives in Venice and he is also an old Jew from the Bronx. Big Mike doesn't go to Eric's coffee shop, or if he does go he won't visit or talk with Eric, for reasons which neither man will share with me. Basically one is not encouraged to bear tells from Eric to Big Mike, or from Big Mike to Eric.

I once tried to settle differences like this, but now I accept it. They are too stubborn.

I could tell you a lot about Eric -- what he looks like, how he dresses, what he likes to eat, his love life, his business, his family, but he would not like that. I know his health and his medical problems. I know his politics and which sports he follows. I know who his friends are. I know a lot about Eric, but he's a private man. I will not write about him because he would not like that. No, not so private, but determined to control his own message. Eric says what he wants to say to people he wants to talk to.

I can only say that Eric is in real estate, he is allergic to eggs, and he is my very good and worthy friend.

The story of Big Mike is shorter. He has fruit trees. He lives on the other side of Lincoln Blvd. where the streets are wider and the back yards are bigger. Big Mike has peach trees and plum trees. He has bragging rights to his orchard and garden. He will tell you all about it and with pleasure.

Jews and Christmas

Jews fall into three groups at Christmas. The smallest group enjoys it. They love the music, the decorations and the spirit of it. It's not complicated to them. Bobby V. always came to my house on Christmas Eve to enjoy egg nog with rum. Irving Berlin loved the holidays. He wrote White Christmas and made a fortune. What good cheer!

The second group, larger, experiences anguish at Christmas. They wince at the first sound of carols at the mall. They avoid certain places and times. And there's nothing you can do about it. It won't kill them and it ends after a few weeks. I forget his first name, but Gewertz was unwittingly roped into playing one of the Three Kings at his grade school Christmas  pageant -- and marked for life because of that embarrassment. What can you do?

The majority of Jews are indifferent to the holidays. They are aware of it but they tune it out. Not their party.

Some Jews make a big deal of Hannukah. Why? It's a small feast, and may it remain so. Jews have it all over Christians when it comes to Pesach. It's a better feast than Easter, in my opinion. All you get at Easter is chocolate bunnies and jelly beans. No comparison.

And the High Holidays can be truly awesome.

Light a Candle

May every one have their holiday.
May we all enjoy peace and prosperity.
May the light cause our understanding to grow.
And what we don't understand, can we let it go?

More On Gewertz.  What I wrote about the Bronx is all true except the part about Gewertz. Here's is what really happened. This was twenty years ago in Boston when I knew him and we had coffee at Harvard Square. Gewertz was a handsome man of 30, tall, lean, with black curly hair and clear black eyes under thick glasses. He dressed well and he smelled like winter smells in Boston, when winter smells good, which happens in December when the first snow falls. Picture him in early December coming in from the cold to the Au Bon Pain for coffee and Danish, to sit at one of those rickety small tables with the Boston Globe tucked under his arm, which he wrote for, but on a freelance basis.

Gewertz was a film critic. He was the Number Two film critic in Boston and Boston can only support one film critic, so his position was precarious despite his abundant talent, his deep knowledge and his solid work ethic.

Gewertz was a little anxious, about what? Just anxious. With his good looks he should have gotten laid like a banjo, but he just seemed to have trouble with women who came into his life briefly and left a long, cold trail. He spent more time talking with me about these women than he actually spent dating them. Why was it so complicated? But I enjoyed listening because it helped him. Everyone wanted to help Gewertz.

In early December he had anxiety about Christmas. It bothered me, because it made me feel like a bruising Catholic oaf, representing a billion people who were all intent on making him suffer.. I felt guilty. Later I turned the table on him, although not in so many words. I wanted to say, Your people invented guilt and now I feel bad because you feel bad when it's Christmas? No way. Feel as bad as you want. And blame me. I don't care.

Only I never said that because I'm a sweet guy, and Gewertz was never imposing. It was me who sought out his company, who called him and said Hey....

What happened was that his parents were Jewish  but did not go to temple or do anything Jewish and at Christmas they bought a tree and put up decorations and had presents. Gewertz, little anxious Gewertz, got all the toys he wished for.

"But it was confusing," he said. "Dad, we're Jewish, aren't we? That's what I told him. Why did they do that to me? I loved the toys and I loved Santa Claus to sit on his knee, but I was seven years old and I knew it wasn't right. It wasn't wrong either. That's what my Dad said. Don't worry about it, he said. We're just having fun. It's just a tree........ I grew up, I didn't even know I was a Jew. I mean, I knew I was a Jew, but weren't we supposed to do something about it?"

To my credit, I offered no advice and made no comment. There was a pause, a rustling of cups and spoons, looking around the cafe. I ventured -- this was the Au Bon Pain Cafe in Harvard Square in 1994 -- a change of topic. "Have you noticed that all the counter help are African immigrants?"

Gewertzian Solutions

I began to think about Gewertz's identity dilemma.I came up with several solutions and I made a list.

1. He could become a Unitarian.

2. He could become a Buddhist.

3. He could become devoutly secular and dedicate his life to a cause such as climate change or the preservation of wolves.

These options were plausible.

4. He could migrate to Israel.

5. He could become Hasidic.

These choices were not remotely possible, but still, when you make a list, you need something to cross off.

6. He might -- this is intriguing -- borrow money from his parents in New Jersey and make a long overdue trip home for that purpose. This would make them very happy. "He's going to start making a living after all," they said to each other, and to him said, "We knew you had it in you, and look, don't even think of paying us back.....it's a gift."

Gewertz would use the money to go to graduate school and get his MBA and work at an investment bank or management consulting firm. He could make himself do that and forsake his creative duty as a film critic.

At age 30 the path was clear for him. With the MBA he makes a bundle, he buys a good car and a black leather jacket --- remember that Gewertz is tall and good-looking in an athletic way and with a snazzy car and a leather jacket he would simply be looking the part and not be posing, not at all.

Thus attired, he would get the girl. She would ignore his anxiety, which never went away, and smother him with kisses. With his substantial income, and hers, they could buy a house on Monument Street in Concord, with leafy lawns, stone walls and horse-riding neighbors reeking of old money.

The Gewerztes would endow the Reform temple in Concord with a six-figure gift. They would have two children and stage magnificent bar mitzvahs.

Gewertz would no longer doubt, except privately. "I get along with the old money in Concord because I know they will never accept me. So once a year Tom and Charity have us over for drinks. We go, we talk, we laugh, but we don't invite them to our house -- it's better to leave it that way."

Would Gewertz Really Move to the Suburbs ?

The last choice is my favorite.

7. Boston's Number One film critic dies or moves on. Gewertz rises to the top of his profession. He wields power judiciously. He is vindicated.

Conclusion.

I never showed him this list. I mean, what do you think I am? I don't meddle. Gewertz likely made is own list anyway. It's his life, and it's just a tree.

Thank you, have a good holiday,

Fred

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Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001

dead people

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Dead People on My Mailing List

It's an end of the year project, I am sure this is familiar to you, to clean out the cupboard and throw out the unpaired socks, and delete names from your mailing list because people move one, even loved ones move on, or they merely lose interest in your Internet connection.

Marty Federman

I try not to send Frog Hospital to people who are not especially interested in receiving it. But there are exceptions, called the Marty Federman Rule.

What happened is that Marty, whom I have not seen in over 20 years, said, in the kindest way, that since he hardly reads Frog Hospital, would I please delete his name from the list.....

This request was reasonable, but I could not comply. I even refused to comply. I wrote to Marty and told him that I needed to know he was there, even if he did not read it. I needed to know he was there because he is one of the people I am writing for.

Thus was born the status of Legacy Reader. And you might be one of them. That means that your request to unsubscribe might not be honored.

Dead People

However, we have a new problem -- what if you are dead? A good friend of mine, her name was Hunter, and she lived in Altadena, with her dog and four cats, and I was a frequent visitor, and often stayed in her spare bedroom for several weeks at a time (paying her $100 per week).

She died.  Of course it was not entirely unexpected. She did have health problems, and she had become concerned about living alone. Last year she had a fainting spell and collapsed on the floor. That left her helpless for several hours because she could not reach her cell phone.

So, treasuring her solitude, she still preferred my company for practical reasons, plus I was a good guest.

They had a memorial in her honor at the Ale House, where she was known, attending the wine tasting sessions there. Why do they call it wine tasting? You go to a restaurant, are you food tasting? Anyway, those were her people, having been 86'd from the Coffee Gallery.

This was incredible. No one gets kicked out of the Coffee Gallery, except maybe some crazy, homeless drunk or Jesus preacher.... but Hunter, in her outspoken-ness, in her ranting, managed to alienate the entire round table at the front of the house. This is a solid left-liberal group, matching her politics and religion or lack thereof. It wasn't politics. It's that she would not stop talking. And a woman at that. A highly intelligent and very articulate woman.

No, it was not her being a woman. I can cite examples of men at other coffee shops who were evicted for similar offenses.

But for Hunter, it was a kind of status, being the first woman ever kicked out of the Coffee Gallery.

I grieved for her dying, but I never get over to Altadena these days, so she was fading from my life anyway.

Then I come to her name on the mailing list. I was not prepared for this -- just to push a button and delete her name. I can't do that.

I give up. I can't delete anybody.

Marty, you are a great guy and I am glad you're still with me.

Hunter, I hope your dog and your four cats have found other homes because I know that would matter a lot to you.

All the rest of you, be well and I will write to you again soon enough.

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

send mail to:

Fred Owens
35 West Main St Suite B #391
Ventura CA 93001