The grandson also rises

Well, our oldest grandchild graduated from high school this week. Hooray for Jacob!

Not that there was ever any doubt. Both his parents graduated summa cum laude from college, so even as this particular grandfather graduated laude how cum, good grades were Jacob's birthright.

With our grandchildren all living so far away, it's hard to get to know them all that well. Since social media has come along it has become marginally easier, but there's nothing like going to grandma's house for cookies, or to be babysat, or all those other grandparenty things that we would have done if we lived closer.

But, I suppose that's to your benefit because this isn't going to be one of those columns about how great my grandchildren are and, by inference, how much better than yours they might be. All I know is that they're good kids, but I assume your grandkids are too. In fact, they're probably the best in their row at everything. Good for you. Well done. Nice gene work, people.

When I had first started working for my friend Dick Manville, whom I've written about before, we would spend hours over light tables laying out newspapers. This was in the days where you used gridded layout sheets, type on film, wax and scissors. You were on your feet for quite a few hours at a time, and, depending on where you were in the process, you had time to talk. Very early on, Dick said to me- and I don't remember why- “Don't talk to me about your kids and I won't talk to you about mine.”

Since I still had some respect for authority at that time, and he was my boss, that's what we did. As time passed, we eased up on the rule, but mostly because our kids went from achievements like coloring inside the lines to graduating from high school.

So fear not. I'll keep my pride to myself... at least for now.

We were unable to attend Jacob's graduation. His family lives in southwestern Pennsylvania, so far south, in fact, that you have to go through parts of New Jersey, Delaware, and even a slice of Maryland, to get there. My daughter and Sheri and I decided that Jennifer should give the available tickets to family that was more local, since there was no guarantee that we would be able to go.

Still, the family decided to have a post-graduation party for Jacob the Saturday after his actual graduation. We thought we could make the trip if we didn't have to rush and there was no pressure to arrive at a certain time. But we were wrong.

My health would just not accommodate us. As much as we wanted to see Jacob and his family, and hand out plenty of post graduation hugs, my multiple myeloma and attendant issues cried foul. No party for you, buddy!

So, that sucked and we had to call and tell first his mom and then Jacob that we wouldn't be able to be there. His mom cried, sorry about us not being able to be at the party, with a side worry about my overall health. Jacob accepted it, knowing it had been a long shot anyway. Still, it made me mad that cancer could do something like that to us. Bad enough that it can make living difficult on a daily basis, sometimes, but to keep us from family moments like that... If cancer was a person, you'd want to take it outside and, in my case, have someone strong beat it up for you.

On the other side of the cancer coin, though, was the fact that I'm here to see Jacob graduate. When we first received the diagnosis, a whole list of things popped into my head, along with the question of whether or not I would be alive to see them. There were five children to graduate from high school and/or college, there are weddings to be had, babies to be born, another Christmas... how much of all that was I going to be a part of? The answer has morphed from not many, to no idea, to probably quite a few.

All these things fall into the same category: who says we would be alive to see these things, cancer or no? True enough. Still, it was a good feeling to check the first one off the list. The celebration wasn't what we would have had it be, but it was a celebration nonetheless: the start of his new life and the next step in mine.

One thing I do want to tell about Jacob. It's not bragging, in fact, it's probably odd, so it's okay to mention, even with my convoluted rules. When he was less than a year old, Sheri and I found out that the one guaranteed, and I mean guaranteed, way to get baby Jacob to stop fussing was to sing Talking Heads “Psycho Killer” to him, usually while poking his tummy in time to the music: Psycho Killer,
Qu'est-ce que c'est, fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better.
Run run run run run run run away It loses a lot if you don't know the tune I suppose, but that baby boy would stop fussing and start grinning immediately.

Congratulations baby Jacob from Grandma and Grandpa.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

Yes. But that's not what I meant

Here's a question for you. Many of you continue to tell me what a good writer you think I am. And I appreciate that. Writing is a solitary act, so encouragement is a good thing. But do truly “good” writers have to begin so much of their work by having to further explain something they had written previously? They don't, do they? Poe never had to say, for example, “Now. About that Raven thing...”

Still, here I am again this week, after 101 blogs, saying, “There seemed to be quite a few people who were upset by my column last week, and in particular about what I had to say about dying with cancer rather than living with it. Let me explain...”

Brothers and sisters, I swear I knew exactly what I meant when I said that, but upon re-reading it after the concerns some of you had started to surface, I can easily see why you would wonder what the heck I was thinking.

The thought seems to go against the very core of what I believe, what I have been espousing in my writing. I continue to face my cancer on a daily basis and don't back away from the challenges. I am not sitting morosely pondering my demise, far from it.

But I am human. I have just gone through a period that I would call crappy, but I don't use words like crappy, so I have to come up with something else. In the past three or so weeks, I have spent more time feeling sick, tired, and discouraged than the rest of my time with cancer put together. I was lost, is what I was... Completely lost, with little idea of how to find my way back to expressing how I truly feel as we near the second anniversary of my diagnosis.

Add to that another issue with last week's remarks about dying with cancer rather than living with it... I forgot about one of the important factors I must- absolutely must- remember when I am writing or talking about cancer in general, but more important, about MY cancer. It's a hard and fast rule. Well, maybe not a rule, more of a guideline. Yeah. Guideline. Definitely just as suggestion.

Sheri and I, and to a certain extent my family, live with my cancer day in and day out. We can't get away from it. We try, and, we succeed more often than not. We have wonderful times together despite the fact that I have cancer.

But because we are never far away from knowing I have it, I tend to forget that cancer remains a scary word to a lot of people. I can't think of any health issue that has touched so many people. And when people have cancer, and they're people we love, we see pain and fear and sadness, but, if we're lucky, eventually we see happiness as the cancer loses its fight and some of its bite, for that matter.

So, I try to remind myself, constantly, that I can't talk about having cancer in any sort of casual manner. That I can't introduce the subject of death without clearly stipulating just exactly what it means to me... right now...while I'm writing about it THIS TIME.

And that, brothers and sisters, is what I did last week. I forgot that cancer and dying are big words, big concepts and can't just be dropped into a conversation, otherwise you end up spending another column trying to explain yourself.

So, to review. I remain optimistic in this struggle with multiple myeloma and will continue to poke the disease in the eye whenever I can. To that end, we have actually made a major change to how I am fighting this good fight.

Since my step cell transplant, I have been taking a maintenance dose of an oral chemotherapy drug. Both my oncologists left it to me to decide whether I wanted to do this or not. Since it seemed like one of the few active alternatives, I told them I wanted to try it.

The problem is that I have been so sick and so tired that I've really had to look at what's up with that? We have agreed I'll drop it from my regimen until my next monthly check up and see what happens. The “what happens” can be a little disconcerting, since it could, conceivably, mean the myeloma becomes active again. Our hand has been forced somewhat, though, because of the constant nausea and fatigue.

So... “what happens” it is. Obviously, you'll know as I know since I keep you aware of what's happening, even though it may take more than one whack to get the message across! Thanks for sticking with it.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

'Finding the Pony' turns 100... and one

Last week's column was the 100^th blog on my journey through cancer. In this case, 100 seems like a lot. Yes, there are plenty of others who have written much more. Remember Dear Abby? How many do you suppose her, or her sister Ann Landers, did. Different formats, true, but thousands would seem to be the answer and thousands is a lot.

I have never been a prolific writer. I have always tended to write in fits and starts. Whether it's starting a short story, or a book, or even other attempts at columns... My output has always been rather limited.

In this case, though, I've been pretty thorough. As I've mentioned here what must seem like countless times, somewhere along the way, many people have come to depend on me for a weekly dose... of whatever it is they get from this. That sentence calls out for a cheap joke. But I'm running a little low on them.

Truth is I'm running low on a lot of things. If some of you have been working on collecting the whole set of “Finding the Pony” through the Kennebec Journal and/or the Morning Sentinel, you'll find yourself a little short. Not all my blogs have been published in the papers, though far and away the majority have. There is also the variance in my own output.

When I started, there were weeks I wrote a couple of columns as things happened too fast around my cancer treatment for one blog to give me the relief writing brings me. There may even have been a couple of weeks when there were three.

The numbers, and what was going on with my treatment at the time, don't tell the whole story of my heady output. The protocol for treating my multiple myeloma, prior to my stem cell transplant, included a dose of chemotherapy, taken in capsule form; an IV dose of Velcade, a targeted therapy approved for use in treating multiple myeloma; and steroids... lots and lots of steroids.

Steroids, though actually an important part of my care at the time, also made me manic on a scale comparable to... let's say... oh... The Tasmanian Devil in Warner Brother cartoons. They gave me extra energy, made it impossible to stop talking, and left sleeping as nothing but a pleasant memory.

So, just taking steroids would have given me extra waking hours and available energy to write plenty of columns. But the thing is... On top of that, in the beginning I misunderstood the directions on the bottle of steroids. Judging by the oh-so-many people who showed me the label and directions written, as they so kindly noted, in little words even a child could follow, it should have been ABUNDANTLY clear I was to take them once a week, not once a day.

I saw more than my share of sunrises during this time, since I was consistently still awake when the sun came up. My writing output showed considerable volume, but it also showed a considerable amount of “Forty Monkeys Given Typewriters; Produce 'Hamlet,'” with similar results. For each “There's something rotten in the state of Denmark,” there waaaaay many more “Tjslkdjf jso pppdfa jhnsasm””s.

Anyway, did I have any idea how many people would respond to my writing about my journey through cancer? No. Did I have any idea the impact it would have on people? No. Did I know people would send me stuff in the mail? No, but that was cool.

In truth, I didn't know if the number of blogs would even get into double digits, either because of my heretofore shaky output, or my losing the fight in the very early rounds.

In the beginning, the writing didn't come too hard, really, because I was able to address multiple myeloma/cancer stuff, medical stuff and technical bits of what was going on around me.

Still, it wasn't long before I realized that I was going to end up revealing a lot more about me and my feelings than I had originally intended. And that was because of you, brothers and sisters, because of you. You had so many kind words and offered so many thanks for my being able to ease your fears, or help you deal with a loved one being sick. What was I supposed to do but keep writing?

Same with Sheri too. As I wrote about what she had to live through on a daily basis, caring for someone she loved living with cancer- the second time she had had to do so. Her son Jason suffered from neuroblastoma twice before he was four years old (He's now 37)- you told us it helped so many of you deal with the same challenges in your lives.

And then, somewhere along the way, I realized I was actually writing about dying from cancer, not living with it. Doesn't that strike you as odd? It does me. Multiple myeloma is incurable and it kills people. So, though on the surface, I was writing about living with all that, in my heart I was obviously preparing for the opposite. Wow.

Still, here I am still standing, still writing, still waiting for Godot. I made that last bit up. I am waiting to see what happens next, though, and I hope to be able to share it with you, whatever it may be.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.

Five not-so-easy pieces

I'm not going to lie. Those baby shots were brutal, man, brutal.

There were five of them in all and each had its own needle. For some reason, I thought multiple shots these days were given by one those Star Trek-type needless; you know... multiple needles on one head, requiring only one actual shot. I mean, I knew it wasn't going to duplicate the show's pain-free process , but I still thought medicine had taken a few steps forward since the first time I got these shots, mostly back in the 1950s. The 1950s, people, Everything was black and white and I had to wear a shirt and tie to go to the doctor, who wore his own shirt and tie and, more often than not, smoked at least one unfiltered, British cigarette during each visit.

I'll give you this... the size and shape of the needles have changed. First off, back in the day, the needles were metal and big. I've already written about the needles being reused after a quick swipe with alcohol. If I continue to bitch about it it could damage my reputation for being a brave little scout. So, let's just say the size and shape of the needles now in use are a big plus.

As I said I would, I looked around for post-inoculation lollipops as soon as I hit the clinic. None. Well, okay, maybe they're in the room where you get the actual shots, I thought. Makes sense- BAM! Pain BAM! Lollipop. 1-2, done, and out the door.

Still, I have learned during my journey with cancer, that irritating anyone who is about to perform any procedure on your person was not a good idea. Let's look back a bit. I've had things shoved up my butt, down my throat. I've had blood whizzed out of my system, and whizzed back in. I've been given enough chemo to kill me, twice. Not to mention two bones biopsies, which I seriously don't want to mention, but just think about it and I'm sure you realize you don't want someone sticking a needle in your spine whose feelings you may have hurt in a lame attempt at making yourself feel more relaxed.

So, I was very nice to the ladies who were doing the sticking, although I don't think I should be calling it sticking. But, inoculating seems like a pretty serious medical term to me and I generally avoid using serious medical terms. Besides, sticking seemed more like what it was. Stick... ing.

As the nice ladies got ready to do their part, I realized there was going to be more to this than I'd thought. First of all, there was the fact that I was going to be stuck five times with five different needles containing five different things that generated five different sensations, though pain seemed to be a constant. And don't go calling me a baby about this. I was all by myself and I couldn't see a post-shot treat anywhere on the horizon.

“How do you want these?” asked the nice lady who seemed to be the ringleader.

I had no idea what she meant and hoped not to sound too stupid when I answered, in all seriousness, “Painlessly.”

Well, the stupid boat had sailed with me on it and when the nice lady smiled like I had been joking, I smiled too. “Good one, huh nurse? Heh heh.”

“Heh heh. Yeah. Cute, but I meant how many shots do you want in each arm?”

With that, the chances of my getting through this without being a complete big baby took a big hit. How do you answer a question like that? I couldn't. I didn't, So she tried to help.

“You can have five in one arm, or we can split them up. Maybe two and three.”

I meant to say “Fine,” but it came out kinda like “Flgmyphm.” But that was good enough for her. Up went the sleeves on each arm, the area was swabbed, and stick, stick, stick, stick, stick. And they hurt, people. I may have cried “Ow” more than once, and maybe a little louder with each succeeding shot.

Fine. Lollipop time. Prior to the actual experience, I had just wanted one because... Because I wanted one. Now, though, I knew I had earned one. And the nice ladies offered me... nothing. Nothing. Not one thing to say to the world, “How brave you were,” or “Good job. We'll tell your wife what a good job you did.” Nothing. I was going to take names, as I'd promised I would last week, should this be the situation I encountered, but then I remembered about being nice. I have to have another round of baby shots in about three months; most likely from the same people. So, nice I was.

Besides, within a few minutes, I was unable to lift either of my arms very far from my side, bringing to mind one more reason for not liking shots in the first place.

Oh, I know you're probably getting all pissy because of my being a big baby about this. “Little babies get these all the time, you know, and they don't take on so.”

Really? Well, let's just take a moment to review that situation. Those babies are coddled by their mothers, kept feeling secure and safe, probably wrapped in a blanket. They've had all their nutrition needs delivered right to their intake area, and they've had the waste created taken away, while having a nice soft cloth wipe their bottom and some nice cool powder patted on them. I, on the other hand, got no hugs; no food delivered to my intake system; and, I don't even want to talk about waste disposal.

And when it's all over... they get to take a nap. Right where they feel like it. Boom, a couple of verses of “Mockingbird” and they're out.

Yeah. Babies are brave. We get it. But... I mean... Couldn't a fella just get a lollipop?

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

But I don't want to get my shots!

For the mother's restless son...

Who says: hard times?

I'm used to them,

The speeding planet burns

I'm used to that

My life's so common it disappears

And sometimes even music

Cannot substitute for tears

Paul Simon

I get the sense that what I had to write about last week left a number of you concerned about my well-being.

I knew as I was in the process that it would not be a typical column. Sure, there were the usual glib observations and snappy repartee, if repartee can be a written thing. Even so, there was an air of defeat about it that even I didn't care for.

But, we made a deal, you and I, back when we had no idea what this column would become; how serious some of what I had to say would be. The agreement was that I needed to write about right now, and by reading on a regular basis, you gave tacit approval to the deal. I don't always feel great. I've seen people who have felt they have to act like they're happy and that everything is A.O.K, all the time. For me, that's too painful to watch.

Still, we all know I'm a funny guy. Right? Funny odd, sometimes. Funny haha, almost always. But, last week I gave you exactly what I had. In the area of positive thought, I realize it was fantastically underwhelming. But in the words of everyone's favorite North Dakotan songbird, Lynn Anderson, “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.”

Brothers and sisters, should you remain concerned about my sense of humor, I refer you to that last sentence. It's just chock-a-block with chuckles. See, I hate that bleepin' song. I don't like any Lynn Anderson song, though I'd be hard-pressed to even name another. I have never referred to any singer as a songbird, North Dakotan or otherwise. And when I say I hate that bleepin' song, I mean I hate everything about it. The music, the lyrics, the jacket sleeve the record came in. In fact, let me just say... hahahahahahahahahaha. Ha.

I did come to realize over the past two or three weeks that sometimes, some times, just not feeling bad can feel good enough. It's like the old joke about repeatedly hitting yourself with a hammer because it feels so good when you stop. So, do I feel wonderful? Not really, but I put the hammer away, didn't I?

Besides, I've got bigger fish to fry this week. I've known I was going to have to face this even before I had my stem cell transplant. I mean, for over a year I've known this was inevitable, but... well, a year? A year is a long time that brings with it a lot of “It's a year. I'll worry about that later”s.

I'm just going to say what it is. If I can say it, I can face it: I have to begin having my baby shots all over again. There. Ouch, right? Diphtheria? Yes. Polio? Yes. Whooping cough? Maybe. Measles? Yes. All of them. I don't even know what they all are. I just know I have to follow the same schedule a baby does- nine months, 12 months, eleventy-seven months. I don't even have a mother to argue that they're bad for me and I shouldn't do it.

This is necessary because of the thoroughness of the stem cell transplant process. The chemo I was given before my new cells went in completely destroyed my immune system. Completely. It wasn't like I had time to move things two by two to someplace safe. This flood was thorough and complete. Yes, it wiped out the cancer that was compromising my immune system, but it took the baby out with the bathwater.

Let me take a minute for a completely pointless aside. Did you know that the unicorn, which may or may not have been left off the ark, is the national animal of Scotland? Yeah. It is. Look it up.

Anyway... Baby shots. It's not so much the fact that I have to have yet another shot of something. I think it's the fact that I have to have these particular shots again. I already had them once and, it would seem, they were working fine. But... Over the side they went and it's “Roll up your sleeve Mr. Arnold and get ready for a pinch.”

I also sense karma lurking. I can't help but think about all the times I lied to my daughters when they had to have shots (“No, honey. This isn't going to hurt.”) You can call it comfort, caring, misdirection... it doesn't change the untruthiness of it.

You know, I wonder, if, just maybe, this is where the issue of trust between parents and their kids begins to get a little wobbly. “Trust me, kids. You'll be glad you had to learn algebra.” “Sure, dad. Just like those shots wouldn't hurt. Is that what you mean?”

OK. So, I'll roll up my sleeve and be a brave little scout, but there darned well better be a lollipop waiting at the end of all this. I mean it. I'm taking names.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

Anger schmanger

So. I seem to be angry at this point in time... and a few points in time before this since I've had the feeling for about three days. Angry why? Yet another good question, brothers and sisters.

I imagine you might think, “Ah. Anger. One of the stages of grief; to be expected.” Well, in my current state of mind... perhaps you could take a minute, put your lips together, place your tongue in an appropriate position, and blow. If the sound coming out of your mouth doesn't sound like a “raspberry,” repeat until it does.

There was a time, back in the day, when my being angry would have been as newsworthy as “Dog bites man.” In other words, not worth even mentioning.

Back in the day, I actually had a counselor tell me I changed every emotion into anger quicker than anyone she ever knew. Well, of course I said, “Thank you.” One doesn't always get the chance to be the best at something, and even then I knew being polite was important. “That's not a good thing,” she said. To which I replied, “Why don't you just shut up?” keeping my mood-changing streak alive.

Now this was an excellent counselor, so she persisted. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” (I could be persistent too, with the added advantage of being immature.)

“You were just thinking about something that was making you tear up, but immediately you got angry instead, You cut off those tears completely. Why did you do that?”

I had a quick answer for her, right out of my “Big Book of Answers Guaranteed to get a Counselor off Your Back.”

“Because, I'm afraid if I start crying, I won't be able to stop,” I said in a manner that suggested weeping was just around the corner.

She laughed. “Well, that's foolish,” she said. “You're going to fall asleep at some point, and you'll stop crying then.”

As an angry person, I was a little short on snappy comebacks. “Yeah? Well, so's your mother,” I barked, hoping volume would make up for the fact that it made no sense whatsoever. But then, I thought it over for a moment and decided, “I want my money back on that 'Big Book of Answers Guaranteed to get a Counselor off Your Back,' that's for damned sure!”

But that was just the start of a beautiful relationship that counselor and I were to have as we worked on my anger issues. Mind you, this was before anger management became a fashionable term. She had the big, padded stick deal you were supposed to hit things with when you got mad. I never used them, but in keeping with my own style, I did speak harshly to them a number of times.

That was almost 20 years ago and it has been a long time since I set about changing any coming emotion into anger. So, when I say I seem to be angry at this point in time, it isn't something I say lightly, or without considerable thought.

But here's the thing: I am also very, very tired. I know I've moaned about this before, but the tiredness is worse than ever. I know I should write fatigue, instead of tiredness, but it isn't fatigue. It is tiredness. If you don't see any difference, that's okay. It's sort of like saying I'm dealing with anger management instead of anger issues, I suppose. It's a question of tone.

I'm sure I don't sound very brave when I say I'm tired of my bones hurting each and every day and the constant pains in my stomach are getting old. Then, too, being aware that I have an incurable cancer, even though our treatment protocol has kicked its ass, is wearing on me.

I'm also pretty tired of hearing myself speak/write about me. I just feel like yelling, “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” every time I have a self-centered thought. But then, I also feel like yelling, “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” every time I hear someone talk about cute puppy/kitten pictures/videos on Facebook, so what am I supposed to do about that?

When we were first going together, Sheri used to try to get me to physically release the anger by striking cookie sheets against posts in the basement. It didn't really help with my anger issues, but it did cause a lot of bent cookie sheets. For that whole period of time you could always tell the cookies we brought to any social situation because ours were the ones that wouldn't lay flat. Ha ha.

But, of course, given time, the anger passes, just like so many other ups and downs that have become part of my journey, which, at this point, is far more of a mental challenge than physical. The one constant in all of it is the gratitude I have for the life I am now living. The sooner I get in touch with that part of my heart, the sooner the other... stuff … goes away.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

The day the music really died and other endings

I've been thinking a lot about endings recently. The sort... Wait a minute. No. Not those kinds of endings. For heavens sake, don't be so morbid. Sheesh.
 
Just endings of... things. For example, I was there the day the music really died, at least in my mind, when AM radio ceased to have any relevance for anyone, anywhere. I grew up with a teeny portable tinny-sounding radio stuck to my ear, listening to rock music on AM stations.
 
When I started working at the AM radio station in Geneva, it was still about playing the hits, Top 40 lists, having a big personality, piling one record on top of another while talking over the musical introductions of every song, annoying the heck out of just about everyone, except maybe station managers and other disc jockeys. By the time I was fired, AM radio was well on its way to becoming what I find it to be today: talk radio for people who like to argue and who would rather hear uninterrupted blah, blah, blah all day, than blah, blah, blah interrupted by an occasional record.
 
Likewise, my entry into newspapers coincided with the end of the hot type era. Though I did work on one paper that still had its copy set in hot lead and was laid out on metal forms which made each page of the newspaper weigh about 75 pounds, The Eastwood Recorder was about the last of its kind.
 
Initially, the offset process relied on punch tape, then moved on to film and, eventually, computers. I was also there for the rise of computers as the way to produce newspapers. I know... that sounds like a Terminator reference. But I think you know what I mean.
 
Wow, huh? History, man. Real “You Were There!” stuff” You probably think, “Hey grandpa that's great. But, really dude, who cares?” which, if the case, would be an incredibly shallow, unsophisticated thing to say. Then, though, it would free me to make my own incredibly shallow, unsophisticated observations on your opinion which, alas, would have to be incomplete because I've never mastered how to represent the sound of a raspberry using words only. And, if you're over 16 years of age, you would lose points for saying “dude.”
 
On April 6th, I ended another 365 days of living in America. That was the date, in 1963, when my parents and I arrived in the United States from Scotland. How long ago was that? Well, Kennedy Airport was still called Idlewild and the reason to change the name was more than eight months away.
 
When we were milling around, shortly after landing, waiting for our luggage I guess, my dad asked some guy in uniform if he could smoke in our particular portion of the milling around area. I don't know what the uniform was, but I think it had more in common with the uniforms worn in the cafeteria than it did with any true form of authority. But still, the fellow displayed no lack of assumed authority when he answered, “Sure, buddy. You're in a free country now.”
 
Now, I was only 13 at the time, but I knew, right then and there, we had all made a horrendous mistake in coming here. My father was concerned with smoking around high-powered jet fuel, but uniform guy seemed to think we had barely managed to scrape our few belongings together and escape before the Queen started demanding our heads. It wasn't the dumbest thing anybody said to us in our early days in this country; it just happened to be the first.
 
It was a poor beginning, but in America we were and in America we were going to stay since we couldn't afford our way home. So, my dad took his chances and lit a cigarette. Uniform guy showed up again a few minutes later to say, “See. Doesn't it feel good to be in a free country?” True story. Seriously.
 
Obviously, in the intervening 52 (!!) years, this has come to be my home and everything I love and hold dear is here. I'm proud of my Scottish heritage, but I consider myself an American. At one time April 6 was a really important date as I counted the years very carefully. I'm not sure when I stopped caring, but it was a long time ago, probably about the time I put my faith in George McGovern.
 
And today, as I write this, it's the end of my first year as a stem cell transplant recipient. What do you suppose the kid who heard the asinine comments from uniform guy in soon-to-be-Kennedy Airport in 1963 would have thought had he even the slightest inkling how things were going to turn out. Maybe if the uniform guy had said, “Watch out kid. It's a free country, but multiple myeloma is a killer,” that might have been worth something. Still, I doubt it. 'Cause, who knew?
 
Besides, as we know, I have no gripes about any of it at this point. My life is amazing, filled with incredible people. When Sheri and I think back to May 6, 2014, getting ready to embark on the great adventure that is dealing with cancer, we see we had little more idea what lay ahead of us than that 13-year-old kid did. All we probably knew was that we were scared too.
 
The first day of the rest of my life indeed.
 
There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere