Blood Work

I always see them at the hospital -- phlebotomists -- come into the room and draw samples from the patient's arm, which they place in tubes in various colors, and keep the tubes in a nice carrying basket that you could buy almost anywhere. Each tube gets a name and a bar code label, so as not to get blood samples mixed up.

But today I stopped by the lab to learn further -- they put the blood into a machine that spins and separates the components, and then into another machine that measures electrolytes, for example -- the sodium and potassium levels -- or another machine that does a CBC, a Complete Blood Count. This link to Wikipedia explains that.

I like Wikipedia for explaining medical terms. I read medical journals at the hospital's library. The articles are often very dense, but I stop to look up terms on Wikipedia and then keep going.

The blood words are some of my favorites -- erythrocytes, leukocytes, basinophils, macrophages, and the always popular hemoglobin -- that's beginner's stuff. Blood is complicated, and every single component can go wrong, and get you out of whack and very sick. That's why they do so much testing at the hospital.

The other thing about blood that is a marvel to me is its source -- red blood cells are produced in the bone marrow -- but why? You would think there might be some kind of sack near your liver that pumped out red blood cells on demand -- but why does blood come from bones?

There is some production of red blood cells in the spleen, as a back up source. The spleen weighs about five ounces and it's tucked up high and behind your stomach. Spleens don't seem to do very much for taking up all that room. You can have your spleen removed entirely and it won't kill you, although you will need some medical adjustment. You wonder why we even have a spleen.

That's as much medical news as most people want, so let's do the politics, specifically Barak Obama and his church and his pastor. I've heard so much discussion about this but nobody seems to include Mrs. Obama in the speculation.

The Obamas have a very good marriage of more than twenty years, and two young daughters. The evidence for that is that we don't know much about it -- the vigilant press corps would instantly exploit the minutest difference or disagreement between these two, but you couldn't slip a piece of paper between Michelle and Barak -- they are united in purpose and it looks like love to me. And they have kept their private life private, which is a blessing to themselves and to the American voter.

It is a faithful union. Michelle is a very good-looking woman. On top of that, she's dangerous when she's mad. For those reasons, there is no way that Barak is going to be chasing interns around the Oval Office. He will be coming home every night, because he has a very good home to come home to.

Michelle has been left out of the pastor flap. But don't you think it was her idea to join that church 20 years ago? It fits her persona, not his. Barak is not a religious man -- not like Jimmy Carter who taught Sunday school. Barak is more like many men who settle down with a good wife in a good neighborhood and go to church every Sunday because it's a good thing to do.

Rush and the right wing radio rodeo have been riding him hard on the pastor thing. But it still comes down to guilt by association, as Jack Kemp said to Sean Hannity today. If we judge Obama, let it be for his own words and his own deeds.

I just wish the Clintons would go away. I turned against the Clintons in 1996, so I have been steady on this -- nor am I recruiting people to join my animus. You all can make up your own minds.

My friend Bob says he misses John Edwards. Edwards represented a fairly standard progressive program, and a style that was combative but friendly. I think he would have been the best to represent that point of view -- with the least personal baggage, I mean. Edwards had the very big house and the $400 haircut going against him, but otherwise -- I mean, everybody has something.

The Invisible Man in this campaign season is George Bush. The Republicans NEVER mention his name, and that silence is very expressive.

I do advise all Frog Hospital readers to pace yourselves in this long campaign year. The Obamas are spending the Easter weekend in a tropical hideaway, and I hope they are not discussing politics.

Happy Easter,

Health Care issues

People keep asking me about the election -- so much has been going on since Hillary and Obama had a dead heat in the Texas and Ohio primaries. Mostly it's been a lot of noise and not worth mentioning.

The same with Gov. Eliot Spitzer's fall from grace. He had a problem, he resigned, and that's all there is to it. I enjoy reading titillating material, but I have other sources for that.

Elected officials should resign whenever their personal lives intrude on their public service -- even if they are innocent. I believe in the abundance of talent -- meaning we can all be replaced, meaning that no governor or president is uniquely qualified to hold the job -- there are plenty of people waiting in the wings who are just as good.

That argues strongly against the Clintons -- their personal lives grossly intruded on the public space in 1998 during the Monica Lewinsky scandal. They should have resigned. Al Gore could have taken over and served as well as the Clintons.

But I give Hillary credit for being co-President back then -- which is why I don't support her now. The Clintons had their 8 years. Nobody gets to move back into the White House. As for Bill, he should remember that ex-Presidents should be seen and not heard. He needs a life -- I suggest fly fishing.

Now comes the tape-recorded rantings of the gravel-voiced preacher from the South Side of Chicago. People are shocked that Barak Obama sat in this man's church for 20 years, but that's how some preachers talk in that part of town. It's nothing new -- not to anybody who has spent time on the South Side -- this is a uniquely American neighborhood, a rich proving ground for Obama's talent. Talk about a "lifetime of experience," one summer on the South Side is worth a lifetime in the suburbs.

And Old John McCain is spending the weekend in Iraq -- his 8th trip. He knows the territory well and he's staking his campaign on victory. He might choose Mitt Romney as his VP. That will give McCain some economic heft, but what excites me is getting Condaleeza Rice on the ticket. Now there's a woman! Let's get Condi in a debate with Hillary -- brains? stamina? fighting spirit? Who wins that one?

Okay, that's a roundup of the current nonsense, so let's talk about Health Care. Hillary and Obama propose that the federal government supply health insurance to over 40 million uninsured Americans. Further debate between them over the details are pointless. The real debate is with McCain, and it gets down to who is going to pay for it. McCain advocates free market solutions, he also advocates state-by-state remedies.

One hopes for a serious argument about this.

All I have to say about this is that the lack of insurance is not the only health care problem in America. Here's a few more:

The nursing shortage: Doctors are wonderful people -- they diagnose, they make decisions, and they give directions. But it's nurses who do the work. Nurses are the heart,soul, and muscle of health care -- and more than half the brains, if you ask me. But, got to the website of any hospital in the country and click the link on "career opportunities." You will find dozens of unfilled RN positions. That means short-staffing. That means over-worked, tired nurses looking after your mother.

Of course, when we get Hillary or Barak's national health care plan in place, that will solve the problem. But what is this? They have a nursing shortage in Canada and in England, too.

The nursing shortage is caused by increased career opportunities for women -- a growing problem in the developed world. Nursing is a hard job, and there are easier ways to make a living. A massive pay raise might work, or else we kidnap every available woman in the Phillipines and bring them over here.

An epidemic of childhood diseases. A rising rate of childhood asthma, childhood diabetes, and childhood obesity. This is very perplexing. Why is this happening? How can it be prevented? There's a lot of wild guesses of about complex environmental causes for these diseases, but honest people should admit to being stumped. This should not be happening in our ever-so-prosperous country. But Hillary doesn't have the solution, neither does Barak or old John.

Too many old people. I'm referring to myself and my generational cohorts. You think we have a nursing shortage now? But new hordes are coming down the health care pipeline -- a generation slipping into their dotage and still sadly called "Baby Boomers."

And just one more, malpractice. It's really nuts. What do lawyers know about medicine? I never go to see a lawyer when I'm sick, I prefer going to a doctor. Of course, doctors should face consequences for their errors, and be accountable to the public for their negligence, but there has to be a better way.

That's all I have to say. On a personal note, I had a wonderful time visiting my daughter in Texas and catching the election. Just a bit of sunshine makes all the difference. I am back to work full-time at the local hospital, where I have been employed since last autumn. I also expect to do a bit of landscaping for my regular customers this spring.

All, the best, and God bless America,

Today's Medical Fact

Today's very important medical fact is that you can wear a hat in bed -- almost any kind of hat, except, possibly, a very broad-brimmed hat which might get crushed in the back. Still, you could wear a cowboy hat in bed, if you were a cowboy or wanted to be like one, or a frilly ladies hat with feathers.

I am mentioning hats, as possible, because at this hospital where I work -- you WILL get into out standard hospital gown, with your butt hanging out in the breeeze. You will not be wearing street clothes, nor shoes, nor pants, nor a belt, or a shirt or a blouse or a dress -- none of that.

But you can wear a hat.

Brooke Army Medical Center

Brook Army Medical Center (BAMC) is a Level I Trauma Center at Fort Sam Houston, just outside of San Antonio, Texas.

If you are unlucky enough to mangle your body in a car wreck, you could at least plan to do that in the San Antonio area. They have three Level I Trauma Centers -- BAMC, Wilford Hall Medical Center at Lackland Air Force Base, and the University of Texas Medical Center.

Seattle, with a larger overall population, has one Level I Trauma Center at Harborview in down town Seattle. Harborview is owned by King County, and managed as a teaching hospital by the University of Washington. All staff are university employees, all physicians are medical school faculty.

Level I Trauma means they have a team of surgeons, burn specialists and so forth on site 24 hours a day.

Nobody knows Anything

--written on the eve of the Texas primary--

I made it down to Texas to look at the primary. I've been in Austin the past few days. The excitement in the air is electric. I have spoken to Obama's people -- they're having so much fun, they think they're winning. I have spoken to Hillary's people -- they are steadfast, determined and conceding nothing.

It's really all about the Democrats this week and how much Texans love the attention. Famously insecure, the flipside of their bragging nature, Texans need to know that we all love them. They need to know we think they are important. So I speak for many in saying this: "Texas, we love you, you are very important, and we wait breathlessly for your decision."

Ohioans -- they 're important too, of course, but their nature is self-deprecating. They don't need love and attention -- they just want jobs.

Okay, Hillary -- this is bad luck -- moved her state headquarters office into an empty building on Ben White Blvd on the south side of town, but what all the locals know is that Kinky Friedman, the ridiculous candidate for Texas Governor, used that same building in 2006. Really bad Ju-ju for Hillary.

Obama, in contrast, took up space on the second floor of a bank building for his state headquarters. I paid seven dollars to park my car nearby, just so I could drop in to visit. A media relations guy came out from a warren of back offices and blew me off in two minutes. I wasn't important enough to get his attention -- not representing any big media, not representing any newspaper that he had heard of. Unfair of me, but I marked down Obama's people for Failure to Greet.

Meanwhile Hillary is getting slammed by Maureen Dowd and the whole staff of the NY Times -- Dowd's column is her own opinion, but the highly dubious "analysis" stories on the front page, stating that Hillary hasn't got a chance, and making all kinds of unfounded characterizations about her -- it's kind of weird. There's a place for subjective impressions, but it's not news. I figure they got Obama hype despite themselves, but it's not fair to Hillary.

Also, it's not Obama's fault. He gets better all the time and he is too smart to believe all that Obama hype himself. I heard him at a rally in Austin on Thursday morning. First he gave his standrad stump speech -- I've heard it before. But then he fielded questions from the crowd, getting hit with a wide variety of challenges, and he handled them well -- giving substantive answers and responding to that criticism.

Tom Brokaw came to Austin last week to do a segment on the youth vote, which leans heavily toward Obama, especially in Austin. This is true -- the kids are out it in force -- but pardon me for not getting excited when I hear a 24-year-old graduate student gushing, "I'm going to vote! I'm even going to make phone calls!" Am I supposed to be impressed? Big whoop.

"Nobody Knows Anything." Nobody knows who is going to win the primary on Tuesday, and they are so deeply certain that they don't know that they won't even make a guess. We're all just sitting here -- those of us who aren't madly campaigning and doorbelling -- sitting here with our mouths open, saying dumb things like, "Gee, isn't this something?"

The Republicans were feeling lonely, so I stopped by their state headquarters and visited with the executive director of the party. He said they like their man, McCain, and they'll take their chances. Rush Limbaugh's kinky ploy to get Republicans to vote for Hillary in order to stop Obama -- that one died. The New York Times published second-rate innuendo about McCain's love-life --- give us a photo with the babe sitting on McCain's lap, otherwise shut up. The last bit of GOP news is how excited they get thinking about getting Condaleeza Rice to take the VP slot. Of course, she doesn't want the nomination -- but if they get her on the ticket, with her reputation and her magic two-fer qualities -- I can see her challenging Obama, "Hey, Barak, your mamma's ugly and you're dog can't fight!"

But that's all the Republican news.

So we will all know in 48 hours, but right now, "Nobody Knows Anything."

What a country -- I love this election.

The truth about bananas

It was in the breakroom at the Emergency Department. The question of bananas had come up because a female patient in one of the behavioral (locked) rooms had requested a banana. So Sydney, the Emergency Tech, had gone down to the cafeteria and came back with two very ripe bananas.

That's when I raised the question, "Is it ever wrong to eat a banana?" My thinking being that bananas were close being a perfect good. But I 'm in health care now, in medicine, so we have to be scientific and test the null hypothesis. Maybe, sometimes, bananas could be bad for you.

Sydney brightened up with the answer, "Bananas have potassium, so if you're hyperkalemic, then bananas won't be good for you."

A good point, I said. That means that bananas are good to eat almost all the time.

Should hospitals look like hospitals?

I really like this photo. It looks like a hospital. But the trend now is to make hospitals -- rooms, corridors, entrances, waiting rooms -- look like something else, something homey and warm, something that doesn't look like where a sick person would go.

"It's not about sickness, it's about wellness! So let's bring in some paintings and potted plants and softly bubbling aquariums."

That's okay. I'm down with this new attitude. We have soft colors and carpeted corridors at the hospital where I work, softer lines, and so forth. It doesn't look anything like what you see in this photo.

But the image in this photo is so strong -- of the old-style hospital, the long straight corridor, the antiseptic, heavenly glow of the flouresecent lights, the shining floor clean enough to eat off, and that yellow door down at the end -- What's going on behind that door?

Now, a Real Hospital

In a fortuitous change of circumstances, Fred Owens, the author of Frog Hospital, is now working at a real hospital. I have been negotiating with the marketing and communications wing of the hospital about what to write -- I am an employee, not an objective journalist, as far as that goes.

My job at the hospital involves patient care. I like the work and I'm very good at it.

In my off hours, I study the medical journals and databases. It's a vast field and I have been learning quite a bit -- I just spent the last three hours learning about liver biopsies.

I could spend the rest of my life just focusing on one thing like liver biospies, but right now I am reading and studying very broadly -- first to get the big picture -- and then to focus on a specific topic -- blood is very interesting, bones are cool -- there's a lot of work out there in health care, and a lot to write about.

Stay tuned.

The Woman who drives a Yellow Car

I had lunch with the Woman who drives a Yellow Car. I gave her a very nice piece of driftwood and she liked it. We discussed art, particularly the life and works of Kevin Paul and Charlie Krafft.

Kevin Paul is not well and could use plenty of support at this time -- he has been such a fine friend and such a wonderful sculptor. Charlie has the intention of making a visit of several days duration to the Skagit Valley. He has been living in a small house/studio on Beacon Hill for the past 11 years. Charlie is renowned as the former mayor of Fishtown and should provide a much needed stimulus to our local art world.

Sabbatical

I have not written a word in months -- what a relief. Instead, I have been doing embroidery, which utilizes the ten fingers quite well, without the bother of publishing and facing a hostile world. Instead I have a selection of my fine needlework to enjoy.

A message to those many people who have responded to a previous post titled "Christopher Columbus was a Very Bad Man." Apparently, you read it literally, which is your business, but I wrote it as a satire, a send-up of revisionist history.

My own view of Christopher Columbus is traditional. I admire the man and what he did. I subscribe to the view of Samuel Elliot Morrison in his biography of Columbus.

Snow Geese in flight

Snow Geese on Fir Island, near the house where I live. It was cold and windy this morning -- too rough for a walk with the dog, but I loaded firewood onto the front porch, where it's handy to the stove. Then I raked out some debris on the driveway -- just to neaten it up and get my blood flowing.

I continued to work on my embroidered sweater. It's an old brown sweater that I used for landscaping last spring, but I have recycled it into a wearable work of art, with embroidered designs front and back and on the sleeves. The theme is the valuation of old things -- old sweaters and such -- we don't throw them away.

The designs on the sweater are all about the Weather -- lightning, rainfall, the moon, the sun, snowflakes, and then a twisting vine growing up the right sleeve.

Today I completed the moon on the front of the sweater and then I did what I should have done before I started this project -- namely to wash the sweater and get it clean. Anyway, it wasn't too late to soak it in hot water in the kitchen sink and give it a gentle hand washing and rinse. Then I draped it over the railing on the back porch -- it should be mostly dry by when I come home this evening. Then I'll lay it on a towel for the final drying.

Another Day

I came home from work last night at 11:30 p.m., and made some herb tea with honey. I brought the steaming cup into bed with me and read a book, falling asleep by 12:30.

It wasn't too cold, but in the middle of the night I deployed my extra wool blanket. Otherwise I slept pretty good and woke up at 8:30, well after daylight. I reached out from under the covers and switched on the space heater to get some warmth into the room, and then ten minutes later I got up and put on my extra-thick hooded sweatshirt and my thickest wool socks.

Not really warm, but getting there, I padded into the kitchen and fixed a pot of coffee. I use an old-fashioned percolator that makes only two cups. I went outside to look at the day -- rainy, but not too cold, and not too windy -- easier weather.

By the time the coffee was ready, the space heater had gotten my bedroom a little warm, so I sat in my deck chair, which has the Lone Star flag emblazoned on the back of it -- a souvenir of my year in Texas.

I got comfortable in the chair with the hot coffee and switched on the radio. I tried Air America, but that morning woman talks too fast, so I switched over to Laura Ingraham on 1300 AM, she's a conservative. I like the sound of her voice, which is the most important thing, especially first thing in the morning. I forget what she was talking about.

I wrote about three sentences in my journal, but I realized I had little to say, so I put that down and picked up my embroidery hoop. I continued to work on an 8-inch hoop of embroidery I am making for a Christmas gift. Embroidery is a new hobby of mine and it's very relaxing -- it keeps my fingers and my mind busy without actually having to think.

Thinking is good, but thinking gets bad when you go over the same ground again and again, so it's better for me to keep up with my stitches.

My next project was to take Patti's dog for a walk. Patti is my roommate and landlady. She has a very fine dog named Pharoah, a female, just the right size, not too big and not too small, a lively, friendly dog with very good manners.

So I bundled up and headed out the door with Pharoah jumping along side me. By now it was raining hard, and a walk wouldn't do, but fortunately we had an outdoor project -- stacking the wood.

The wood guy came yesterday and dumped a cord onto the pavement under the carport, so I began to stack it up, and there was some good exercise. Pretty soon I took off my jacket, but I reminded myself to work slowly.

I got about one-third of the pile stacked up when Patti came out and said she didn't feel too good and couldn't help and said I had probably done enough for one day, so I said fine.

I haven't lived in a house with wood heat in 17 years -- since we had the old farm on Martin Road in Mount Vernon.

Wood heat makes a project out of keeping warm -- it’s something you do yourself, rather than flip a switch and pay a bill -- so the work is satisfying and the heat is a pleasure, especially in the evening, when it gets dark outside and it starts to get really toasty in the living room.

But the other thing about Fir Island is the birds, the huge flocks of snow geese that lie in pastures on both sides of the house. I go out and watch them. They sit in the field -- must be four or five thousand of them, I can’t tell -- they are pure white except for the black tips on their wings, and their necks are shorter than the trumpeter swans that also winter around here.

Honking and honking, talking about who knows what, always chattering, even in the night-time, they keep up a hubble-bubble squawking of a high-pitched nature -- maybe some coyote out working the edge of the flock in the deep of night makes them nervous.

The hunters are out in the early dawn. They have elaborate regulations about where and how to hunt the snow geese. All I know is hearing the muffled pop-pop-pop of their shotguns, and sometimes out walking I come across a pile of feathers that once was a goose, but somebody got it -- the coyote or the hunter.

In back of the house is a slough with beavers and otters. They have a slinky trail that comes up from the slough and slithers into the raspberry patch. It’s probably a beaver because of the chewing marks on the tree by the slough. I don’t know. If I keep going out there I might see it.

On top of it all is the eagles; two of them, one bald-headed, and the other is a juvenile with black feathers mottled with white. They use the cottonwood trees in back of the house for a roost. You can see them there almost anytime of day, they just come around and perch there for a while and then go somewhere else.

Otherwise, the traffic on Fir Island Road streams by on a steady basis, so many thousands of cars every day. It’s a fairly busy road, but you don’t see much from the car. This I have learned, because for many years I have driven across Fir Island on my way to somewhere else, but I never really knew the place until now that I live there and get out walking.

Fir Island

Fir Island is shaped like a triangle, 6 miles on a side. One side is the North Fork of the Skagit River, one side is the South Fork of the Skagit River, and the third side is Skagit Bay. See, the river comes down from the mountains and gets broad and deep, but then it splits into two branches forming this triangular delta.

It used to be all salt marsh and fir trees. The trees were logged, the land was diked, and it now makes for rich farmland with an abundance of birdlife -- although no more fir trees -- just cabbage fields, and pea fields, and wheat.

It's a windy place, the wind comes right off the bay with no trees or hills to slow it down. Or else it comes straight up from the south -- blowing strongly, but the south wind is warm.

Today it's not very windy, but a light snow is falling. We hadn't started a fire yet in the old farmhouse, so I headed into LaConner, to get on my laptop at the bookstore. I got a nice latte and I'm sitting in this soft chair by a gas fireplace.

The day has been pretty low key.

Chicago in winter

I came back to Chicago in late November, 1971 -- a previous post describes how I had gotten the frostbite on my toes in northern New Mexico, and so I left that cold place and went back to Chicago, to my parents' house, to recuperate.

It's a little different now, but in 1971 it was incredibly uncool to live with your parents, and that's how I felt -- when I got home -- uncool, sad, depressed, defeated, lost, screwed up -- but mainly depressed.

Like a complete failure, gone home to Mom and Dad.

But it wasn't really about getting lost in the mountains in northern New Mexico and almost freezing to death. It was -- my depression and sense of failure -- about the end of my two year's relationship with Gail Murphy, the golden girl, my California dream girl. When we broke up I thought I would die, it was the worst thing that ever happened to me -- up to that time in my life.

Actually, going back over 61 years, breaking up with Gail would surely make the Top Five of all the worst things that ever happened to me.

But it was late November and I was back in Chicago -- and that ice you see on Lake Michigan is real.

Balloons in Central Park

I was selling balloons in Central Park in New York City during the summer of 1972. Seymour, the hustler, fixed me up in that occupation when I got to town. He said he could set me up in a gypsy ( illegal ) cab operation, or he could set me up in the numbers racket -- also illegal, or he could set me up selling balloons in the park -- still illegal, because they don't issue permits for itinerant peddlars. Still, it was the least illegal of Seymour's choices, so he took me to the balloon wholesaler, told me what to buy, told me how to set up a portable cart, showed me a good place to stand, and then demonstrated the art of hawking balloons to tourists cruising in the park.

It was fun selling balloons. I made an easy $50 per day, which wasn't bad money in 1972. On the Fourth of July there were so many people in the park that I made $100, and I also chatted up this luscious Jewish woman who I squired to a restaurant, where I promptly spent the $100 on fancy drinks and seafood morsels, whereupon we retired to her apartment downtown for more fun.

That's where it ended. By the middle of July it was too hot. Nobody came to the park anymore -- they were all at the beach, so my balloon business dwindled, and I gave it up.

Instead, I got a job at Rockland State Psychiatric Hospital and worked there for the next nine months.

I don't know what happened to Seymour, but he got me set up pretty well. He was an honest hustler in a way, because he gained nothing by showing me the balloon business -- he was just helping a new guy in town.

Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease

Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. (COPD) is a combination of emphysema and bronchitis. People who smoke are most likely to get it. It shortens life. I read an article about COPD in the health section of the NY Times.

COPD can be treated, but it won't go away. The article said that COPD was under-diagnosed, that doctors don't look for it. Also, the article said, a number of things, like increased exercise and improvements in diet can alleviate the condition.

Snow Geese

I am at work right now -- at the hospital -- having a short break and able to spend a little time on this laptop. I wrote a 1,200 word story about working at the hospital. I hope it's good. But since I am an employee I cannot publish candid remarks about the job here without approval from the communications office. So I sent them a copy of what I wrote, and after they give the okay, I will post it here.

Otherwise I am getting settled into my new room at Patti Detzer's house on Fir Island. First I will tell you about the birds, because Fir Island is famous for flocks of 1,000, 5,000, 10,000, and 20,000 - huge numbers and I am not kidding -- of snow geese that come down from Alaska for the winter.

They feed in the wheat fields planted all over Fir Island -- I see huge flocks flying over the house every day.

froze my tail off

The coldest place I ever lived was in Tres Piedras, New Mexico, elevation 7,000 feet, out in the sage brush plains, like it looks in this photo.

That was in 1971. One night I got my car stuck in a snow bank way up a mountain road. I had to walk out. It took me all night, and my toes got frostbitten and I ended up in the hospital.

My toes healed, but I got out of northern New Mexico, and I never went back -- too cold.

Happiness

I'm not to used to feeling happy, but that's the way I feel today.

I am moving to a better place -- leaving the trailer by the barn on Beaver Marsh Road, leaving the trailer because it is too small and cramped in the winter time. Oh, it was lovely there in the summer, but it really sucks now, when the cold wind blows.

So I'm moving to another farmhouse, this one is on Fir Island -- thankfully, I will still be on the flats -- really, just 8 miles down the road.

But now I will be renting a room IN the house -- nice and warm and spacious in this sturdy old farmhouse.

And that has made me very happy -- that, and something else is making me happy, which is a little bit private, so that I cannot yet share it with you here.

Exercise is Overrated

The Doctor is IN, beginning with exercise tips. Taking a walk after dinner is a good idea, a little fresh air and a stroll. Have no goals. Don't keep records. Enjoy yourself. Build movement into your life.

Did you ever see a farmer out jogging? Or buying exercise equipment? Or taking out a gym membership? No, because he subscribes to a program known by its initials, W.O.R.K. or "work," which causes sweat -- in the summer -- but keeps you warm in the winter. Work is composed of a subset of activities known as chores, such as unloading the truck, or cleaning out the barn, all flowing into such a smooth slate of activity, that the farmer never yearns for exercise, but in fact dreams of idle time on the couch, when he can sink into a blissful fatigue in front of a mindless television.

But the ill-formed man has been jogging, five miles, or bicycling 25 miles, as a form of self-punishment, and even the sight of this mechanical runner produces stress in those who observe him. If the ill-formed man only joined the program of W.O.R.K. he would never even think of exercise. He would see a new day and look at his car, and decide to wash it himself, not for the exercise, but to get it clean, and not to save water or to save carbon credits, but simply to save the money he spent at the car wash.

Don't make it too complicated.

Still, the ill-formed man cannot sink in blissful fatigue on the couch. He must justify himself, he must find that meaningful piece that is missing, so, in the evening, after his punishment run, he sits before the cold blinking eye of his computer seeking information. "Gloria," he says to his partner,"I'm so glad we didn't take out an A.R.M. mortgage. Our equity is building up. We're in a good position now. I'm going to order four pairs of organic socks to support the cotton farmers in Darfur. They only cost $14 a pair."

But there is no comfort from information, and no ease comes from data. His shoulders are tense, his neck begins to crink. He discovers a website that promises the virtue of spinach or folic acid, he takes notes, he makes a plan, he emails a friend who smugly agrees, "We don't waste our time watching TV, because we are improving ourselves."

It's kind of sad.

Now the Doctor discusses the fundamentals of nutrition -- if it tastes good, and if it doesn't cost too much, then buy it. Eat a little bit less of everything you like in order to stay trim. Tired people eat compulsively, so get plenty of sleep.

It is natural, for a hundred generations of humanity, to sleep more in the winter. It is natural to put on a little fat in the winter -- it keeps you warm.

Go to bed an hour earlier and turn down the heat -- Al Gore will be proud of you for that…..I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned him. Then you start thinking you're for him or against him, and you won't get to sleep, you'll get up and cut a brownie out of the square pan -- but not made with sugar from corn syrup, because you read the label, and that information is stored in your brain in a file next to folic acid and spinach.

Floss!

Advice for young women who have spent too much time looking in the mirror: The mirror is not your friend -- you will fixate on imperfections. Put a towel over your mirror. Hide the bathroom scale -- hit it with a hammer -- throw it in the trash.

Go to the Blockbusters or Netflix and check out an old movie starring Barbara Stanwyck. Learn from her. Be her. Feel that graceful strength. It's all about posture and carriage. Relax your shoulders, lower your shoulders, and move them back a tiny bit. This lifts up the chest, but naturally, and flatters the bosom. Lengthen the back of the neck -- this lowers the chin and gives you an air of confidence.

Study the Barbara Stanwyck movie -- you think she was born beautiful? It's all about her entrance -- that magic moment, because you can make a first impression every day.

Life is a stage and we all play a part. William Shakespeare never wrote a line about exercise or diet -- there's no poetry in it.