Posts
Like most retired state employees, I participate in the health care programs offered to me by the Oregon Public Employees’ Benefit Board, or PEBB. Each October, during the so-called “Open Enrollment” period, we have the option of retaining or modifying our health insurance plans and coverage.
To facilitate coordination of our health care, Mare and I have used Providence Medical facilities for years. We know and trust our physicians and their staffs. Our medical records are maintained there. For the sake of continuity we’ve anticipated sustaining that relationship. The drive from St. Helens to Beaverton and back (round trip ~70 miles) affords a change of scenery and an opportunity to visit grandchildren. In short, the trip is very manageable for us. Even more importantly, the need for specialists requires us to travel because the services I need simply aren’t available in here in rural Columbia County.
This year PEBB offers three choices in medical plans. Two of the plans, appropriate for our needs, are administered through Providence Heath Plans - “PEBB State-wide” and “Providence Choice.” Like most plans these provide coverage for providers who are “In Network.” As might be expected, Providence clinics, hospitals, physicians, technicians, and pharmacies are “In Network.” Regardless then, of our choice between the two plans, we will be driving the same miles to access the same health care.
But here’s the rub. Since we live in Columbia County PEBB is forcing us into their “State-wide” plan. This is because we do not reside in Willamette, Clackamas, Multnomah, or Washington Counties, where the other plan is available. Consequently it will cost us almost two thousand dollars a year in additional insurance premiums. When the difference between plans in out-of-pocket costs for appointments and procedures is factored in this amount could easily grow by thousands of dollars a year.
So there it is. Same travel distance, same doctors, same hospital, same medicines, and same insurance company. But because PEBB gets to call the shots, our health costs – which approach $22,000 a year – will be thousands more than they need to be. And all because we live in Columbia County rather than one of the “favored” metro areas. If this isn’t urban versus rural discrimination I don’t know what is.
And if this isn’t an argument for the vilified “public option” in health insurance, just sit back and take it easy. Don’t worry about those “Death Squads” showing up at your door. Fact is they’re already here. They’re just dressed like accountants instead of executioners.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Something's Fishy Here...
I would like to begin a series in which I discuss the plight of anadromous fish – those that spawn in fresh water and return to the sea to grow to adulthood – in the Pacific Northwest.
For most people, the word “salmon” connotes a pink, saran-wrapped slab of meat found in the local supermarket’s seafood showcase. The association with salmon and the state of Alaska has been cultivated through fabulous photography illustrating the relationship between the fish and the magnificent grizzly bears of that part of the world. In truth, Pacific salmon range from California, up the coasts of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. At one time or another, every stream feeding into a river that entered the Pacific Ocean was likely a spawning ground for these fish. To understand their story is to understand most of the things that we have done to destroy the planet and ultimately ourselves, but I am far from ready to tackle that narrative. So by way of introduction I would like to offer a quick, non-scientific profile of PNW salmonids.
To begin with, the salmonid family includes salmon, trout, char, grayling, and whitefish. Common to all of the fish in these families is the need for cold, clear water and gravelly stream bottoms on which to spawn. The life cycle of the anadromous members takes them from the spawning beds, or redds, downstream to the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, where they will feed and grow and fight to survive for the next three to five years. The adults then return to spawn a new generation and die. Their decomposing bodies guarantee nourishment for the emerging larvae, or alevins, which grow eventually into smolts. These infant fish face a long and perilous journey back to the sea to complete the cycle. This process has occurred for millions of years.
But let me return to our grocery store filets. Most people will recognize two broad classifications of fish in the display case – “wild” and “farmed.” Farmed fish are pen-raised, pellet fed, and artificially dyed red for the commercial market. Why the dye? Because true wild fish are predators and feed on marine life, especially crustaceans, that naturally infuse their flesh with its deep rich red color. Their flesh is well muscled and oxygenated because they in turn are preyed upon and are therefore capable of explosive bursts of speed. Wild fish also build up fat reserves, rich in Omega-3, to sustain them on their long journey back to the redds.
If the distinction between wild and farmed fish was all that we needed to consider my story would be done. But there are further differences that must be noted, since there are six types of anadromous salmonids along the Pacific coast. The first is easy to identify and explain. Steelhead (also known as “steelies” or “metalheads”) are rainbow trout that spend part of their life in the sea. Unlike salmon, they do not die after spawning. While steelhead smolts will eventually return to the sea that is not necessarily the case for adult fish. In Oregon and Washington steelhead are classified as game fish – that is, they are not permitted to be commercially harvested.
They next five types of anadromous fish are the true salmon. This group includes Chinook, or King salmon, Coho, or Silver salmon, as well as Sockeye, Pink and Chum salmon. In the Pacific Northwest the most prized are the first three. They are also the most vulnerable, since they are valued by commercial and sport fishermen alike. They have been at the heart of conservation battles between these two groups and the power generating companies, refereed by Federal and state governments through dozens of regulatory bodies. These battles have raged for decades at the cost of billions of dollars. But that is a story for another time.
So far I have distinguished between wild and farmed fish, steelhead and salmon. Now let’s identify another variable in the equation. Salmon and Steelhead famously return to the same spawning beds from which they were hatched. The mass of fish returning to a specific spawning system is referred to as a run. The runs occur at specific times of year, adding an additional complexity factor. Also, fish return in different sequences in different rivers. For example, in the Columbia River there are spring, summer and fall runs. To the south, the Rogue River has spring and fall salmon runs and summer and winter steelhead runs. The Columbia sees Steelhead, Chinook, Coho, and Sockeye, while only Chinook and Steelhead return to the Rogue. In the huge water system feeding the Columbia River, fish turn to the left to head up Washington rivers, to the right to enter Oregon rivers, and continue straight to get to the Snake River dividing Oregon and Idaho. This leads us to identify subsets of fish with labels like LRBs and URBs (Lower River Brights and Upper River Brights), Tules, and Redfish Lake Sockeye. All of these permutations add to the complexity of managing the fish, especially the many subsets that include threatened and endangered species. But as the guy on TV says, “Wait. There’s more.”
Now we need to get down into the weeds to understand what “wild,” means in the context of this discussion. It’s pretty simple. "Wild" can mean any fish that completed the river-to-sea-and-back life cycle described earlier. It can also have a more specific meaning in referring to fish of original native stock that complete the circle of life. There is a huge difference between the two definitions – all because of a creation known as the hatchery fish.
Hatchery fished are raised from eggs and milt extracted from fish who return to the hatchery in which they were raised. The depleted adults are killed and returned – and this is important for another discussion - not to the water to provide a nutrient base, but to iced boxes for sale to cat food producers, fish markets, fertilizer companies, and distribution to food banks. The alevins are raised in concreted pens, fed pelleted food, monitored for disease, and eventually released as smolts into their home river. For future recognition, they are marked by being fin-clipped, a process involving the mechanical removal of the small, rearmost fin along the fishes back know as the adipose fin. When an adult fish is harvested, the presence or absence of an adipose fin determines whether the fish can be kept or must be retuned unharmed to the water. This is true whether the fish is caught by a sport fisherman with rod and reel, or a commercial fisherman hauling an insidious device behind a boat known as a gillnet. But that too is a story for another day. The point is, a hatchery fish may be considered "wild" because it has journeyed to the sea and back. However it is most definitely not a native fish.
I hope to this point the reader has begun to see that the arena in which the battle to conserve wild and native salmon and steelhead is fought is truly multidimensional and very confusing. As the muses move me I will add my perspective on several aspects of the struggle by offering my own experiences and describing my involvement with the Coastal Conservation Association. Whether you fish or not, I hope you will find value in my account and consider why issues raised are ultimately important to you.
For most people, the word “salmon” connotes a pink, saran-wrapped slab of meat found in the local supermarket’s seafood showcase. The association with salmon and the state of Alaska has been cultivated through fabulous photography illustrating the relationship between the fish and the magnificent grizzly bears of that part of the world. In truth, Pacific salmon range from California, up the coasts of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. At one time or another, every stream feeding into a river that entered the Pacific Ocean was likely a spawning ground for these fish. To understand their story is to understand most of the things that we have done to destroy the planet and ultimately ourselves, but I am far from ready to tackle that narrative. So by way of introduction I would like to offer a quick, non-scientific profile of PNW salmonids.
To begin with, the salmonid family includes salmon, trout, char, grayling, and whitefish. Common to all of the fish in these families is the need for cold, clear water and gravelly stream bottoms on which to spawn. The life cycle of the anadromous members takes them from the spawning beds, or redds, downstream to the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, where they will feed and grow and fight to survive for the next three to five years. The adults then return to spawn a new generation and die. Their decomposing bodies guarantee nourishment for the emerging larvae, or alevins, which grow eventually into smolts. These infant fish face a long and perilous journey back to the sea to complete the cycle. This process has occurred for millions of years.
But let me return to our grocery store filets. Most people will recognize two broad classifications of fish in the display case – “wild” and “farmed.” Farmed fish are pen-raised, pellet fed, and artificially dyed red for the commercial market. Why the dye? Because true wild fish are predators and feed on marine life, especially crustaceans, that naturally infuse their flesh with its deep rich red color. Their flesh is well muscled and oxygenated because they in turn are preyed upon and are therefore capable of explosive bursts of speed. Wild fish also build up fat reserves, rich in Omega-3, to sustain them on their long journey back to the redds.
If the distinction between wild and farmed fish was all that we needed to consider my story would be done. But there are further differences that must be noted, since there are six types of anadromous salmonids along the Pacific coast. The first is easy to identify and explain. Steelhead (also known as “steelies” or “metalheads”) are rainbow trout that spend part of their life in the sea. Unlike salmon, they do not die after spawning. While steelhead smolts will eventually return to the sea that is not necessarily the case for adult fish. In Oregon and Washington steelhead are classified as game fish – that is, they are not permitted to be commercially harvested.
They next five types of anadromous fish are the true salmon. This group includes Chinook, or King salmon, Coho, or Silver salmon, as well as Sockeye, Pink and Chum salmon. In the Pacific Northwest the most prized are the first three. They are also the most vulnerable, since they are valued by commercial and sport fishermen alike. They have been at the heart of conservation battles between these two groups and the power generating companies, refereed by Federal and state governments through dozens of regulatory bodies. These battles have raged for decades at the cost of billions of dollars. But that is a story for another time.
So far I have distinguished between wild and farmed fish, steelhead and salmon. Now let’s identify another variable in the equation. Salmon and Steelhead famously return to the same spawning beds from which they were hatched. The mass of fish returning to a specific spawning system is referred to as a run. The runs occur at specific times of year, adding an additional complexity factor. Also, fish return in different sequences in different rivers. For example, in the Columbia River there are spring, summer and fall runs. To the south, the Rogue River has spring and fall salmon runs and summer and winter steelhead runs. The Columbia sees Steelhead, Chinook, Coho, and Sockeye, while only Chinook and Steelhead return to the Rogue. In the huge water system feeding the Columbia River, fish turn to the left to head up Washington rivers, to the right to enter Oregon rivers, and continue straight to get to the Snake River dividing Oregon and Idaho. This leads us to identify subsets of fish with labels like LRBs and URBs (Lower River Brights and Upper River Brights), Tules, and Redfish Lake Sockeye. All of these permutations add to the complexity of managing the fish, especially the many subsets that include threatened and endangered species. But as the guy on TV says, “Wait. There’s more.”
Now we need to get down into the weeds to understand what “wild,” means in the context of this discussion. It’s pretty simple. "Wild" can mean any fish that completed the river-to-sea-and-back life cycle described earlier. It can also have a more specific meaning in referring to fish of original native stock that complete the circle of life. There is a huge difference between the two definitions – all because of a creation known as the hatchery fish.
Hatchery fished are raised from eggs and milt extracted from fish who return to the hatchery in which they were raised. The depleted adults are killed and returned – and this is important for another discussion - not to the water to provide a nutrient base, but to iced boxes for sale to cat food producers, fish markets, fertilizer companies, and distribution to food banks. The alevins are raised in concreted pens, fed pelleted food, monitored for disease, and eventually released as smolts into their home river. For future recognition, they are marked by being fin-clipped, a process involving the mechanical removal of the small, rearmost fin along the fishes back know as the adipose fin. When an adult fish is harvested, the presence or absence of an adipose fin determines whether the fish can be kept or must be retuned unharmed to the water. This is true whether the fish is caught by a sport fisherman with rod and reel, or a commercial fisherman hauling an insidious device behind a boat known as a gillnet. But that too is a story for another day. The point is, a hatchery fish may be considered "wild" because it has journeyed to the sea and back. However it is most definitely not a native fish.
I hope to this point the reader has begun to see that the arena in which the battle to conserve wild and native salmon and steelhead is fought is truly multidimensional and very confusing. As the muses move me I will add my perspective on several aspects of the struggle by offering my own experiences and describing my involvement with the Coastal Conservation Association. Whether you fish or not, I hope you will find value in my account and consider why issues raised are ultimately important to you.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Central Point District 6 Redux
On his facebook page, son Jason reports that my oldest grandaughter, a sophomore student in the ever-progressive Central Point District 6, is not being issued textbooks this year. Instead, books are apparently handed out at the beginning class and then recalled at its close. Students are expected to take notes to refer to later, thus sparing them from the difficult tasks of carrying books home in their backpacks and being responsible for their condition at the end of the academic year.
What's so bad about this? Books, after all, are expensive, and budgets are tight. What's bothering me is that there are three major assumptions at work here. The first is that students at the sophomore level know how to take good notes… and that they will consistently do so. The second is that they can read effectively enough in a standard class period to grasp the essence of the printed word. The third is that the teachers are skilled and effective in lecturing. Setting aside the fact that if teachers are teaching, students aren't reading, and vice versa, it strikes me that the probability of all three of these stars aligning is somewhat low.
In my high school English classes, I was taught how to take notes. I doubt that happens today. Notes are simply ways of organizing key concepts as pointers back to the main information source... the text book. The problem with sole reliance on notes was dramatically revealed to me as a college prof. A student complained that I had asked a question that was not covered in my lecture. Confused, I pointed out that the material was in the text and that I could not possibly cover everything in class that was relevant. I pressed for an explanation, and the student declated that he never bought textbooks. “I’ve saved thousands of dollars that way, he told me. Voila. Education lite.
So now my granddaughter’s school is setting up for failure students unskilled in note taking and largely unmotivated to do so. In effect, it is also training students to disregard books and treat them as irrelevant while setting up huge obstacles to the development of effective study habits. When these same students reach college, the 30 to 50 page nightly reading assignments will simply blow them away. When cranky professors like me flunk them for producing fluff answers and superfical essays, they will feel crushed and betrayed.
My suggestion is that parents call the school and request a copy of the syllabus for each and every class. If that is too big a word for the staff’s vocabulary, break it down for them. If the teachers don't have lesson plans on file with the principal that include course objectives, home work due and test dates, and required reading and homework assignments, get other parents involved and escalate! And, oh yes. If the reply to your challenge is that “we supplement the book with internet assignments,” run, don't walk, to the school board. Yes, asynchronus learning has its advantages. But even at the collegiate level it demands extraordinary self discipline, a trait most second-year high school students are not particulaly noted for.
But what the hell. We know that District 6 has its priorities straight, as evidenced from its four day school week. This, coupled with text book savings, will allow administrators and community to concentrate on truly important issues - like whether or not the team will maked it to state this year.
What's so bad about this? Books, after all, are expensive, and budgets are tight. What's bothering me is that there are three major assumptions at work here. The first is that students at the sophomore level know how to take good notes… and that they will consistently do so. The second is that they can read effectively enough in a standard class period to grasp the essence of the printed word. The third is that the teachers are skilled and effective in lecturing. Setting aside the fact that if teachers are teaching, students aren't reading, and vice versa, it strikes me that the probability of all three of these stars aligning is somewhat low.
In my high school English classes, I was taught how to take notes. I doubt that happens today. Notes are simply ways of organizing key concepts as pointers back to the main information source... the text book. The problem with sole reliance on notes was dramatically revealed to me as a college prof. A student complained that I had asked a question that was not covered in my lecture. Confused, I pointed out that the material was in the text and that I could not possibly cover everything in class that was relevant. I pressed for an explanation, and the student declated that he never bought textbooks. “I’ve saved thousands of dollars that way, he told me. Voila. Education lite.
So now my granddaughter’s school is setting up for failure students unskilled in note taking and largely unmotivated to do so. In effect, it is also training students to disregard books and treat them as irrelevant while setting up huge obstacles to the development of effective study habits. When these same students reach college, the 30 to 50 page nightly reading assignments will simply blow them away. When cranky professors like me flunk them for producing fluff answers and superfical essays, they will feel crushed and betrayed.
My suggestion is that parents call the school and request a copy of the syllabus for each and every class. If that is too big a word for the staff’s vocabulary, break it down for them. If the teachers don't have lesson plans on file with the principal that include course objectives, home work due and test dates, and required reading and homework assignments, get other parents involved and escalate! And, oh yes. If the reply to your challenge is that “we supplement the book with internet assignments,” run, don't walk, to the school board. Yes, asynchronus learning has its advantages. But even at the collegiate level it demands extraordinary self discipline, a trait most second-year high school students are not particulaly noted for.
But what the hell. We know that District 6 has its priorities straight, as evidenced from its four day school week. This, coupled with text book savings, will allow administrators and community to concentrate on truly important issues - like whether or not the team will maked it to state this year.
What are We Paying For? The High Costs of Medical Service in the USA
On the blog referred to below, My good friend Bill offers an approach to addressing the question of who pays for health insurance coverage. I am equally concerned with the cost side of the equation, especially the incredibly insane cost of procedures. Before I proceed with commentary on this aspect of the health care story, I need to set the stage by providing some personal background.
First, let me ‘fess up. When it comes to health, I am not your typical Baby Boomer generation specimen. I had my first heart attack at age 46. No, I did not have a cholesterol problem. I wasn’t buff, but I wasn’t obese either. I lead a physically active life. Thanks to my attentive wife Mary, we ate healthy, balanced meals… although I did enjoy the occasional steak. But when you find the proverbial elephant sitting on your chest it gets your attention right away. And so it was that early in the evening of June 17, 1996, while sitting relaxed in front of the tube with Mare,I realized I was having a myocardial infarction, or in Doctorspeak, an "MI." Can you say "heart attack?" Sure. I knew ya could.
Following my scare and hospitalization I religiously attended cardio rehab. Visits to my cardiologist became as ordinary as visits to my dentist. Mare shifted us to a Mediterranean diet. I parked at the end of far end of the lot from my office. Took stairs instead of elevators. In short, I was really into “prevention.” No more elephants on my chest.
Right. About 8 years later, in the fall of 2004,in spite of my preventative measures my heart attacked me again. Within a couple of weeks of the event, my pulse dropped to an alarming 46 bpm. (Think clot and stroke time.) A pacemaker fixed that, and the old ticker purred like a kitten at a steady 60bpm. To my doc’s chagrin, and in spite of her orders, two weeks after the implant I succumbed to the lure of one of my lifetime passions. After some thirty years I began playing hockey again. Fully 25% of the players were from the medical community – internists, surgeons, and nurses – so I figured if I got into trouble on the ice I was in good company. I skated at least three times a week, and additionally played in one full-fledged, moderate contact game. It sure wasn't the NHL, but with former college players on the team the pace was fast and the shots were hard.
Before the start of the second season, I weighed 225 pounds and felt good. In anticipation of hitting the ice, I had been doing moderate cardiovascular and strength conditioning throughout the year. Except for a lower back problem that had begun to be troublesome, I was rarin' to go. But then, while engaging in my other huge passion, something strange happened to me. I was fly fishing in a small mountain stream, working my way along the shoreline. As I had done since childhood, I progressed by hopping from one boulder to another as I worked the water. I readied myself to leap from the top of one rock to the next, but nothing happened.
My legs wouldn’t work.
Oh, I could walk alright. But when my brain said “Jump legs, jump,” they declined the invitation. Nothing happened. I felt like I was stuck in concrete. I finally gave up, opting instead to simply step down from the rock that I was perched on. When I attempted to do so, my sense of balance made it feel like I was about to plunge down an elevator shaft. I finally sat on my butt and squirmed my way off the rock. It was all of four feet high.
I was mostly irritated and blamed lower back problems for the "inconvenience." Eventually hockey season started. After a couple of weeks I noticed that my legs were feeling sluggish. Whenever a check or a lost edge put me on the ice, I had to struggle to get up. I became embarassingly slow. Once, leaning on the boards before the start of a game, my legs inexplicably came out from under me. My puzzled team mates looked down at me. One said, "What the hell was that all about, John?" Not sure myself, I could only shrug. As it turned out, more than two years would pass before I found the answer that question.
Now I need to step back in order to make this story relevant to Bill’s blog. To this point my medical bills – hospital, ER costs, ambulance costs, cardiologists, ER physicians, rehab, and meds – were well into six figures. Almost all of this was covered by health insurance. I was staggered by the magnitude of the bills, but impressed by how little it cost me out-of-pocket. The tale of the next two years of my life will have to wait for another entry. For now, let’s just say that things went downhill rapidly. My relationship with the medical community intensified. Only this time I began to pay more attention to the processes of the health care system, as well as to the procedures I that I began to endure.
That's when the real fun began.
***
To see Bill’s blog on this subject please go to http://blog.williammchone.com/Wm
First, let me ‘fess up. When it comes to health, I am not your typical Baby Boomer generation specimen. I had my first heart attack at age 46. No, I did not have a cholesterol problem. I wasn’t buff, but I wasn’t obese either. I lead a physically active life. Thanks to my attentive wife Mary, we ate healthy, balanced meals… although I did enjoy the occasional steak. But when you find the proverbial elephant sitting on your chest it gets your attention right away. And so it was that early in the evening of June 17, 1996, while sitting relaxed in front of the tube with Mare,I realized I was having a myocardial infarction, or in Doctorspeak, an "MI." Can you say "heart attack?" Sure. I knew ya could.
Following my scare and hospitalization I religiously attended cardio rehab. Visits to my cardiologist became as ordinary as visits to my dentist. Mare shifted us to a Mediterranean diet. I parked at the end of far end of the lot from my office. Took stairs instead of elevators. In short, I was really into “prevention.” No more elephants on my chest.
Right. About 8 years later, in the fall of 2004,in spite of my preventative measures my heart attacked me again. Within a couple of weeks of the event, my pulse dropped to an alarming 46 bpm. (Think clot and stroke time.) A pacemaker fixed that, and the old ticker purred like a kitten at a steady 60bpm. To my doc’s chagrin, and in spite of her orders, two weeks after the implant I succumbed to the lure of one of my lifetime passions. After some thirty years I began playing hockey again. Fully 25% of the players were from the medical community – internists, surgeons, and nurses – so I figured if I got into trouble on the ice I was in good company. I skated at least three times a week, and additionally played in one full-fledged, moderate contact game. It sure wasn't the NHL, but with former college players on the team the pace was fast and the shots were hard.
Before the start of the second season, I weighed 225 pounds and felt good. In anticipation of hitting the ice, I had been doing moderate cardiovascular and strength conditioning throughout the year. Except for a lower back problem that had begun to be troublesome, I was rarin' to go. But then, while engaging in my other huge passion, something strange happened to me. I was fly fishing in a small mountain stream, working my way along the shoreline. As I had done since childhood, I progressed by hopping from one boulder to another as I worked the water. I readied myself to leap from the top of one rock to the next, but nothing happened.
My legs wouldn’t work.
Oh, I could walk alright. But when my brain said “Jump legs, jump,” they declined the invitation. Nothing happened. I felt like I was stuck in concrete. I finally gave up, opting instead to simply step down from the rock that I was perched on. When I attempted to do so, my sense of balance made it feel like I was about to plunge down an elevator shaft. I finally sat on my butt and squirmed my way off the rock. It was all of four feet high.
I was mostly irritated and blamed lower back problems for the "inconvenience." Eventually hockey season started. After a couple of weeks I noticed that my legs were feeling sluggish. Whenever a check or a lost edge put me on the ice, I had to struggle to get up. I became embarassingly slow. Once, leaning on the boards before the start of a game, my legs inexplicably came out from under me. My puzzled team mates looked down at me. One said, "What the hell was that all about, John?" Not sure myself, I could only shrug. As it turned out, more than two years would pass before I found the answer that question.
Now I need to step back in order to make this story relevant to Bill’s blog. To this point my medical bills – hospital, ER costs, ambulance costs, cardiologists, ER physicians, rehab, and meds – were well into six figures. Almost all of this was covered by health insurance. I was staggered by the magnitude of the bills, but impressed by how little it cost me out-of-pocket. The tale of the next two years of my life will have to wait for another entry. For now, let’s just say that things went downhill rapidly. My relationship with the medical community intensified. Only this time I began to pay more attention to the processes of the health care system, as well as to the procedures I that I began to endure.
That's when the real fun began.
***
To see Bill’s blog on this subject please go to http://blog.williammchone.com/Wm
Friday, September 11, 2009
Fill in the Blanks....
Here's one for you, Dear Readers, to ... Hey! Wait just a minute! Who says you're so dear, anyway? And doesn't that hackneyed, transparent effort to bond with the audience have the distinctive ring of a North Korean despot’s title? But I digress.
If you are following along, please fill in the blanks to complete the following sentences:
Q. How many (your response here) does it take to (your response here) Rush Limbaugh’s (your response here)?
A. (Your response here.)
If you are following along, please fill in the blanks to complete the following sentences:
Q. How many (your response here) does it take to (your response here) Rush Limbaugh’s (your response here)?
A. (Your response here.)
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Off Again, On Again...
Well, as I feared I went into serious melt-down after a few days of Facebook. For one thing it has what is without a doubt the crummiest explanation of feature usage of anything I have ever seen. For another, I had to relearn on old lesson with respect to the joys of asynchronous communication. I'll ignore the former and focus on the latter.
Here's what happened. A fast-paced exchange with an old friend turned from witty (to me anyway) give-and-take to confusion and misunderstanding... at least on my part. Horrified that I had overstepped the fine line between teasing and goading, I wrote a hasty note apology and shut down my Facebook page. All of my reasons for avoiding setting one up in the first place appeared to have been validated. The lack of real-time feedback through body language and verbal cues opened wide the door of misunderstanding.
But, now I'm back. It took a couple of days for my friend and I to backtrack and sort out what actually transpired. Friendship trumped miscommunication and all is well with us. I still have a lot of thinking to do about how and why I will use this strange mode of communication, and I find mistrust still rides on my shoulder as I'm typing - I mean, key-boarding.
Here's what happened. A fast-paced exchange with an old friend turned from witty (to me anyway) give-and-take to confusion and misunderstanding... at least on my part. Horrified that I had overstepped the fine line between teasing and goading, I wrote a hasty note apology and shut down my Facebook page. All of my reasons for avoiding setting one up in the first place appeared to have been validated. The lack of real-time feedback through body language and verbal cues opened wide the door of misunderstanding.
But, now I'm back. It took a couple of days for my friend and I to backtrack and sort out what actually transpired. Friendship trumped miscommunication and all is well with us. I still have a lot of thinking to do about how and why I will use this strange mode of communication, and I find mistrust still rides on my shoulder as I'm typing - I mean, key-boarding.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Central Point School District 6 - School's Out for...?
First of all, let me be clear about at least one thing. While it is true that the Cascade Mountains divide the state of Oregon – East side and West side, in local parlance – the rural and urban cultural and economic divide is far too convenient and arbitrary to explain some of the socio-economic behaviors on display on both sides of the mountains.
For example, I live in Columbia County, as rural in many ways as you can get. Perched on the shores of the Columbia River, it is the home of loggers (See “Ax Men" on the History Channel), commercial fisherman, and a middle-class generation willing to challenge Cornelius Pass in a 45 minute ordeal to reach jobs in Portland and Beaverton. Unemployment is high these days, as are many residents who have surrendered to the meth pipe. It also happens to be a conservative county that voted for Obama.
Sure, there are differences between rural folk and our suave and cool urban cousins. In this post, however, I want to focus on what I believe to be an essential truth: Rural is no excuse for stupid. Which brings me to the "point" of this essay, which is Central Point, Oregon. Heart of Jackson County. Last stand of the California gold rush ‘49ers. Past and present home of my sons and grandchildren. And home of Central Point School District 6.
With heavy hearts and bankrupt values, in June Central Point District 6 confronted a $2.5 million budget shortfall for the academic year 2009-2010. Part of the solution? A four day school week. Superintendent Randy Davon was quick to point out that the decision was “… based on feedback from the community, employee groups and the District 6 Board of Directors.” Davon went on to declare that with this decision “…we have achieved the best opportunity to provide a quality education to all of our students with the four-day week and full staffing. What is lost in quantity will be made up for with quality.(1)”
Really. Let’s take a look at how District 6 has fared in performance in recent years. Instead of trying to amaze and mystify readers with my prowess in statistical analysis, I’ll rely on one simple, easy to understand index - the performance goals, or Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP) targets, established by the state and federal government in accordance with the No Child Left Behind Act. According the explanation provided on the Standard and Poor’s website School Matters, “ AYP targets have been set for state test proficiency and participation, as well as for other academic indicators such as attendance and graduation rates.” (2) The district’s performance is summed up in the official report as follows:
"Is this district making adequate yearly progress (AYP)? No"
So let’s see if we’ve got this right. Superintendent Davon assures us that he and his “team” are going to do more with less, when past performance indicates they have been accomplishing less with more. And somehow, giving the kids an extra day off will facilitate a miraculous turnaround in system performance. Right. Talk about a Jedi Mind Trick.
Education has always been a priority item with me. My personal educational processes have put me on both sides of the teacher’s desk, as student and as a college professor(3). On the stregth of those experiences I conclude for today with a simple challenge to Superintendent Davon and his colleagues. It goes like this.
Take your school’s current directory, phone book, or any document that you feel adequately identifies its staff. Divide the staff into two categories – instructional staff and administrative staff. Now do the same exercise for your school for the past 5, 10 and twenty year intervals. Compare the ratios. Throw in a simple line graph showing student enrollment over the same intervals.
Now come back to your “stakeholders” and explain why you can’t find ways to cut $2.5 million on behalf of your kids. This grandpa will be all ears.
Notes
1 As reported by KMED AM “News Talk” and the website of Central Point School District 6 http://www2.district6.org/do/
2 http://www.schoolmatters.com/schools.aspx/q/page=dl/did=12098/midx=CommunityDemographics
3 John Stec taught and held leadership positions at Oregon Institute of Technology from 1986 until retirement in 2006. He holds the rank of Professor Emeritus from that University.
For example, I live in Columbia County, as rural in many ways as you can get. Perched on the shores of the Columbia River, it is the home of loggers (See “Ax Men" on the History Channel), commercial fisherman, and a middle-class generation willing to challenge Cornelius Pass in a 45 minute ordeal to reach jobs in Portland and Beaverton. Unemployment is high these days, as are many residents who have surrendered to the meth pipe. It also happens to be a conservative county that voted for Obama.
Sure, there are differences between rural folk and our suave and cool urban cousins. In this post, however, I want to focus on what I believe to be an essential truth: Rural is no excuse for stupid. Which brings me to the "point" of this essay, which is Central Point, Oregon. Heart of Jackson County. Last stand of the California gold rush ‘49ers. Past and present home of my sons and grandchildren. And home of Central Point School District 6.
With heavy hearts and bankrupt values, in June Central Point District 6 confronted a $2.5 million budget shortfall for the academic year 2009-2010. Part of the solution? A four day school week. Superintendent Randy Davon was quick to point out that the decision was “… based on feedback from the community, employee groups and the District 6 Board of Directors.” Davon went on to declare that with this decision “…we have achieved the best opportunity to provide a quality education to all of our students with the four-day week and full staffing. What is lost in quantity will be made up for with quality.(1)”
Really. Let’s take a look at how District 6 has fared in performance in recent years. Instead of trying to amaze and mystify readers with my prowess in statistical analysis, I’ll rely on one simple, easy to understand index - the performance goals, or Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP) targets, established by the state and federal government in accordance with the No Child Left Behind Act. According the explanation provided on the Standard and Poor’s website School Matters, “ AYP targets have been set for state test proficiency and participation, as well as for other academic indicators such as attendance and graduation rates.” (2) The district’s performance is summed up in the official report as follows:
"Is this district making adequate yearly progress (AYP)? No"
So let’s see if we’ve got this right. Superintendent Davon assures us that he and his “team” are going to do more with less, when past performance indicates they have been accomplishing less with more. And somehow, giving the kids an extra day off will facilitate a miraculous turnaround in system performance. Right. Talk about a Jedi Mind Trick.
Education has always been a priority item with me. My personal educational processes have put me on both sides of the teacher’s desk, as student and as a college professor(3). On the stregth of those experiences I conclude for today with a simple challenge to Superintendent Davon and his colleagues. It goes like this.
Take your school’s current directory, phone book, or any document that you feel adequately identifies its staff. Divide the staff into two categories – instructional staff and administrative staff. Now do the same exercise for your school for the past 5, 10 and twenty year intervals. Compare the ratios. Throw in a simple line graph showing student enrollment over the same intervals.
Now come back to your “stakeholders” and explain why you can’t find ways to cut $2.5 million on behalf of your kids. This grandpa will be all ears.
Notes
1 As reported by KMED AM “News Talk” and the website of Central Point School District 6 http://www2.district6.org/do/
2 http://www.schoolmatters.com/schools.aspx/q/page=dl/did=12098/midx=CommunityDemographics
3 John Stec taught and held leadership positions at Oregon Institute of Technology from 1986 until retirement in 2006. He holds the rank of Professor Emeritus from that University.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Journey Through The Past...
Excuse me, Neil, for borrowing your song title. As I try to sort out the personal utility of Facebook, your lyrics keep playing through my head. I must admit that I already miss my elitist sense of righteousness over avoiding dabbling in the wide, wide, world of electronic communication - at least, with its non-email variants. I mean, let's face it. As I said previously if I haven't heard from someone in forty years or so, and haven't bothered to contact that same someone myself, why do either of us give a rat's ass about getting in touch now? Is it because we're having Ratso Rizzo moments, only instead of "Im walkin here" the message is "Im dyin here?" Of course, that explanation doesn't explain the exuberant embrace of Facebook by the younger generations, although I am convinced that if they ever find out about farting and tap dancing as a means of communication they will have to try that too, just because they are able to. (I seem to have the farting part down, but the tap dancing is out of the question.)
I must admit, though, that as names (and faces, aged gracefully, save for my own) emerge from the past, my interest is piqued. However, I find that I am less curious to know about their road travelled than I am in my own reflections upon the effect that their lives had upon mine. I am surprised, actually, to find that I remember so many fine details - most of them very positive, a few somewhat sad. And I suppose that when all is said and done, what we are really asking of each other as we look back over our lives is this:
Was it good for you?
I must admit, though, that as names (and faces, aged gracefully, save for my own) emerge from the past, my interest is piqued. However, I find that I am less curious to know about their road travelled than I am in my own reflections upon the effect that their lives had upon mine. I am surprised, actually, to find that I remember so many fine details - most of them very positive, a few somewhat sad. And I suppose that when all is said and done, what we are really asking of each other as we look back over our lives is this:
Was it good for you?
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Hello, Reader...
Well, if you're reading this chances are you read the short story that preceded it. Calvin Boudreau has accompanied me through life for more than 60 years. I just didn't know his name. I know that he is a product of the Green Mountains of Vermont, and that there are chapters of his life left to examine. It will be interesting to see who, other than myself, has any interest in doing so.
I am one of the many people who like to mess about with words but are either too lazy or too terrified to take the next step. To even enter the world of Blogdom makes me question my motivation and purpose. Maybe I just like to hear myself "talk." I have been told that contemporary agents and publishers expect writers to be comfortable with the various technologies available to them. Fine. So now I'm blogging. I draw the line, however, at texting - why text when you can make the damn phone call - and absolutely refuse to twitter. If you really want to know what I am doing, just give me your phone number and I will call you personally to provide all the details. I'll call just after midnight, Pacific time. I don't do Facebook because I really don't want to hear from people from forty years ago who want to ask me "how I'm doin', " if I have figured out the meaning of life, or have I heard about Amway.
As I learn how to use the features of this mode of communication, one of two predictable outcomes will occur. I will either throw myself into the process and eventually loose all interest, or I will find something to enjoy about it. I am not so self-absorbed that I think people will fall over themselves to read what I have to say, but I do enjoy telling a tale every now and then.
It will be interesting to see where this path takes me.
Trapper John
I am one of the many people who like to mess about with words but are either too lazy or too terrified to take the next step. To even enter the world of Blogdom makes me question my motivation and purpose. Maybe I just like to hear myself "talk." I have been told that contemporary agents and publishers expect writers to be comfortable with the various technologies available to them. Fine. So now I'm blogging. I draw the line, however, at texting - why text when you can make the damn phone call - and absolutely refuse to twitter. If you really want to know what I am doing, just give me your phone number and I will call you personally to provide all the details. I'll call just after midnight, Pacific time. I don't do Facebook because I really don't want to hear from people from forty years ago who want to ask me "how I'm doin', " if I have figured out the meaning of life, or have I heard about Amway.
As I learn how to use the features of this mode of communication, one of two predictable outcomes will occur. I will either throw myself into the process and eventually loose all interest, or I will find something to enjoy about it. I am not so self-absorbed that I think people will fall over themselves to read what I have to say, but I do enjoy telling a tale every now and then.
It will be interesting to see where this path takes me.
Trapper John
Ouroboros - A Short Story
Ouroboros
By
Trapper John
“All things began in order so shall they end, so shall they begin again according to the Ordainer of Order and the mystical mathematicks of the City of Heaven."
- Sir Thomas Browne, “The Garden of Cyrus”
Calvin Boudreau looked down at the snow-dusted driveway. His wife’s footprints, cookie cutter sharp, disappeared into a wet, black rectangle where her car had sheltered pavement from falling snow. An old crab apple tree arched over the parking spot. A single withered leaf twirled in an improbable frenzy at the tip of a branch, wind spun, warning of the oncoming storm. He wondered how it managed to maintain the fragile anchor line, and why it alone chose to cling so tenaciously to its mooring when all others had long since surrendered to gravity and winter and gone to ground.
The house loomed behind, empty. His daughter and son-in-law left earlier for work, his wife more recently for her weekly luncheon with friends. He looked skyward. The forecast said a weak cold front from east of the Cascades would shed four to six inches of snowfall on the Klamath Basin. He knew better, knew this storm would be different. An unexpected southerly wind shift meant the front would race up through California, sucking up moisture until it collided with the Siskiyou Mountains at the southern Oregon border. There, the clouds’ soft gray underbelly would be ripped open on craggy peaks, spilling torrents of snow into the Basin.
Boudreau was pleased. He welcomed the storm and greeted its coming with quiet joy. He turned to his pickup and flinched as poker-hot pain seared his right hip. He slid his favorite shotgun into the cab, hauled himself behind the wheel, and headed west from town toward the Cascades. The headlight beams stabbed ahead, only to be volleyed back at the truck by dancing snowflakes. The road wound up the long flank of a mountain. Plows had already been busy and gravel hurled by the truck’s deep treads clattered against the undercarriage and wheel wells.
At first, the pain had been a mere annoyance, ignored like most anything that didn’t meet with his approval. It rewarded his detachment by migrating up and down both legs, probing his lower back, searching among the thickets of axons and dendrites for a place to roost. He suspected something more sinister than aging as its progenitor, and he was right. ALS, the doctor said. Lou Gehrig’s Disease. Boudreau sat quietly, smiled at the news and said, “That’s impossible. I’ve never played professional baseball.” The doctor didn’t reply, confused by humor coming from a dead man.
Boudreau turned onto a side road and slipped into four-wheel drive. He pictured his destination as if viewed from twenty thousand feet; a vast matrix of mountain roads interlaced like knife marks on a cutting board. The road he chose crawled upward from the base of a tall butte. At seven thousand feet, it narrowed to wind along a steep cliff. Today, the storm devoured the spectacular view.
The pickup rolled to a stop. Boudreau killed the headlights and the sparkling flakes faded into gray cotton. His cigarette lighter flared in the darkened cab. Smoke trickled from his mouth and snaked out the partially cracked window into the storm. A harsh cough racked him, and his head swam at the nicotine rush. He hadn’t smoked for nearly twenty years. No matter now. He sat and listened to the soft pinging of the cooling engine.
"Phffft." Outside, the snow hissed down, singing the song of his life. A poem long dormant in memory awakened at the sound and made him smile.
winter’s storm. snowflakes
hardly give a soft, white, damn
who they fall upon.
A cold shudder folded over him and he drew his arms closer to his body. After another hit from the cigarette, he rolled the window down an inch, the better to hear and smell the storm outside.
"Phffft." Crystalline snowflake wings displaced tiny volumes of air as they sliced through the sky. Minute sounds from each flake combined to create the signature song of this storm, itself separable and distinctive from all other storms. The delicate chorale was part of the instinctual appeal of snowfall to Boudreau, and any sign of abatement left a profound sense of disappointment. “It’s letting up,” he would say. But this storm showed no signs of failing him.
His thoughts swirled and drifted to other snowfalls. He remembered being eight and curious about the forest nearby his family’s home. He asked for permission to go there with some older neighborhood boys. His father refused and warned him to stay out of the woods. “You don’t know who or what is in there. Best you stay clear.” His dark admonition was intended more to control than protect and he expected unquestioned obedience. The boy understood that he was required to experience life on his father’s terms. But the pull of the forest was visceral, and he committed his first act of defiance within two weeks of the warning.
One afternoon, the draw became too great. Alone in a light snow, he crossed the fields to the birches at the forest edge and crept into the trees. The place felt electrified, wired, he felt sure, to contain something within rather than to keep him out. The wind hissed through the branches and he felt watched as he walked. What if he fell and broke a leg? His breath came faster, but he plunged onward to a clearing. On its far side, tall hemlock and white pine took charge of the forest. The wind intensified, sighed through the dense needles. The sound scared him, but he crossed the clearing and stepped into the dark understory of swaying trees. Neighborhood rumors of a mountain lion sighting stalked through his mind. If his father learned of this sortie, it would be better to be taken by the lion. He stumbled onto a spot where back eddies of wind sculpted shelter in the snow. A few small twigs, stacked teepee style and touched off with a single match, quickly produced a snapping fire. Boudreau stood and stared into the popping embers, stoked the blaze against the chill around him. A great sense of peace settled about him, and he knew this was a holy place.
At the remembrance of fire, he shivered and thought again of his circumstances. At the diagnosis, his family rallied to him. The home of half a lifetime sold quickly. He and his wife moved in with their daughter and her husband, who had insisted persuasively. Appreciation gave way to frustration, for while their concern was genuine, he soon chafed at the encumbrances of the protective net cast about him. He struggled to maintain his independence, and daily walked the greenway that surrounded his daughter’s home. Coyotes prowled at dusk, and raccoons, grown fat and careless on cat food, roamed freely. Squirrels foraged in the oak-rich borders. They reminded Boudreau of a bevy of gray-suited accountants hunched over their ledgers, nervous at his passage lest he throw off their sums. People were friendly, especially dog owners. He had never seen such a large collection of exotic and essentially useless breeds.
He came to hate the greenway, an artifice of nature. As if nature had anything at all to do with manicured, chemically enhanced greenness and semi-wild creatures and children in plastic bicycle helmets. When wild geese shouted down at him as they crossed overhead, he felt mocked and abandoned. He missed the woods. He stopped walking, felt old, and struggled to hang on to an image of himself that melted away by the day.
He argued more with his family. They encouraged him to focus on what he could do rather than what he couldn’t. There were well-intentioned discussions over when it would be best for him to stop driving. Once, he ventured that he might like to raise a new pup, another Lab. His daughter trumped this notion immediately. “Who will clean up after it when you aren’t able,” she countered. It was, after all, her house. “I guess a fifty-six year old man can have a pup. In fact, he ought to be able to have as many as he wants,” he bristled. The argument escalated until Boudreau turned on them all. “I have become the son, and you are all my father,” he shouted.
He withdrew more and allowed his thoughts to wander in dark places. He knew that in the end, the disease would claim his lungs and diaphragm and crush him in a fog of carbon dioxide narcosis. The doctors would ensure that death was painless. He did not fear death itself; he feared dying a mute and helpless wreck of a man. More often, as he pondered all of this, his thoughts returned to his childhood holy place. And then the storm had come to beckon him, to offer once more the quiet bliss of woods and winter and snow.
But now, his teeth chattered the alarm that the cold had become dangerous. The primordial part of his brain demanded survival and filled him with the urge to run and stamp and flap his arms, to do anything to fend off the cellular crystallization that would lead to feelings of warmth, security, then the deepest of all sleeps. The keys taunted him from the steering column. He reached for them, but his hand wavered in the cold. How easy to start the engine and crawl back down the mountain to lights and warmth and a soft bed. He yanked the keys free and rammed them deep into his jacket pocket.
He shivered again. And again. Then, movement outside tugged at what was left of his attention. Beyond the faint and dwindling line of demarcation between clear glass and thick, icy slurry, at his outer ring of visibility, a coal black shape wended its way along the road. Coyote, maybe. Too small for a lion. Alert to the presence of the truck and its occupant, nose to the wind, it approached. It stopped ten feet from the truck and sat down in the snow, as if waiting for Boudreau to make the next move.
Condensation that had but seconds before been warm vapor deep within his lungs clouded the window. He cleared it with a gloved hand and at once identified his visitor. The blocky head and lopsided, tongue-lolling grin could only belong to a Lab. He opened the cab door and slid out into the knee-deep snow. He knew the dog, so he spoke to him.
“How are you, you old fool?”
“Mostly all right. Back legs pained me some for a while, but that passed.”
Boudreau flexed his back and grimaced. “Oh, I know a thing or two about pain.” He was no more surprised that the dog could speak than he was by its presence in the first place.
“Well. I can see that.” The dog cocked his head, lifted his ears, and waited patiently.
Boudreau cleared his throat. “I want to ask you something. That day… when I took you up on the hill under the old juniper and the vet came… were you pissed with me afterward?”
“Hmmm… good question. Pissed, no. Surprised, yes. I guess I sure as hell was every bit of that.”
“Did it – did we hurt you?”
“Naw, I just got all warm and drowsy. Next thing I knew, you and I were standing under the tree while the vet drove off with someone who looked just like me in the bed of his pickup.”
“Good. I mean, glad it didn’t hurt you any. They say it doesn’t, but you never know.”
“It was hardest when you left the hill. I tried to follow, but couldn’t. I waited for you all night. The next morning, you walked back up the hill and I could tell everything had changed. You were there, yet you weren’t able. To see me, I mean.”
“Felt you, though. Thought it best to just cut you loose. Hard thing for a man to do, letting go of what he’s loved.”
A snowflake balanced on the dog’s nose. He licked it away and said, “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. What are you doing up here, anyway?”
Boudreau was surprised. “Pretty blunt talk for a dog, don’t you think?”
“Who says I’m a dog?”
“Well, for now, I do. I knew you as a dog – a damn fine one, if I may say – so if it meets with your approval, you’ll be a dog for a while more.”
“Works for me. But let me try again. I know why you are here. The question is, do you?”
“Because I’m still trying to figure out if the damn glass is half-empty or half-full, which seems a particularly useless debate if the goddamned glass is broken anyway. I can’t tell if how you live defines who you are, or if who you are defines how and why you live, and if being a man depends on whether you choose one over the other. It all comes down to how you see things, and there’s the half-empty, half –full thing again, like a snake eating its own tail.”
The dog did not reply, but rose, stretched, and walked to the right front tire. He lifted his leg. “Aaaah, that feels good.”
The man laughed at the dog’s insolence. “You always had to mark every damn tree and shrub in your path.”
“As I recall, you left a pretty mean scent trail yourself, what with all your farting and scratching. So, do you still hunt, or just sit around and talk about it?”
“Seems I lost interest and gave it up.”
“Probably just as well. You were a terrible shot, anyway.” The dog grinned at him, waiting for a reaction.
“Here, now! I think I put plenty of feathers in your mouth in our day.”
“Didn’t say I wasn’t busy. Just took you lots of shots, is all.”
“Well, I guess I’ll not be arguing with an old fool of a dog in this weather.”
“Good point. Say, do you still have that old shotgun?”
“Sure. Right here in the truck.”
“There’s a beaver pond about a mile from here. A flock of honkers set down on it as the storm came up. Want to go bag a couple?”
“Wouldn’t mind that at all.” Boudreau opened the cab door and lifted the shotgun from the seat. He turned to the dog. “You ready?”
The dog answered as he had many years ago, bounding high. “Four off the floor,” dog men called it, the ultimate expression of canine joy. Another eager leap, and the dog turned and plunged headlong into the snow. Together, as before, they started down the trail. The dog pressed against Boudreau’s side, nipping mischievously at his gloved hands, urging him on until the truck, now a white lump on the forest floor, faded into the driving snow behind them.
***
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