Time for Allergies

Fall tree leaves.

Welcome back. Here it is, late October, and we’re still waiting for the first hard freeze. That would put a stop to those pesky pollen generators for another year. It’s not for me. It’s for my daughter and the other sneezing, nose-dripping, eye-itching, and sometimes worse, hay-fever sufferers. 

I don’t know why, but seasonal allergies and I went our separate ways years ago. They used to wipe me out.

Growing Up With Hay Fever

Hay fever found me in my mid-teens, a few minutes after a friend and I watched his father burn a large field of weeds. We got smoked. Coincidence or not, I exhibited every conceivable symptom a few minutes after the burn. Those symptoms recurred for at least 30 years, as long as I was in the country, beginning around mid-August. The available medicines could turn me into a turtle.

It wasn’t until the summer after my first or second year at college that I offered my arms for allergy tests. The only part of that early morning appointment I remember is the doctor looking at me, hearing me mumble something, then telling me to sit down and put my head between my legs.

I accepted his advice and didn’t pass out. Because my mother was present, I thought it best to go with fear of the tiny needles rather than late night of heavy-duty partying as the cause. As a reward, I was presented a list of my identified adversaries: ragweed, dust, feathers and lesser stimulants. 

All in the Family

For any geneticists, I should note that neither of my parents had seasonal allergies. My brother, who didn’t get smoked by the burning field, started suffering from hay fever years before I did. (No surprise; he’s older.) He had so many other allergies, what was one more? When he was a kid, he ate black raspberry ice cream and they had to rush him to a doctor or possibly the hospital. I never got that straight.

To date, my son hasn’t been bothered by ragweed or late-summer allergens. Instead, he's miserable for a month in the spring thanks to some unfriendly trees in this region. When he was quite young, we took him for allergy testing. Needles? Oh, sure. They gave up after an hour of him climbing the walls.

Other Allergies

I’m no longer beset by hay fever, yet perfumes and fragrances can do me in. The entire cosmetic line my wife favored when she and I first got together was in jeopardy until we determined that the non-fragrant, hypoallergenic, couldn’t-possibly-bother-you cosmetic base was the culprit. Being a mile downwind of that base was enough to shut down my breathing, clunk.

Six years ago, I was convinced my allergies were kicking up again, at least in our house. It got bad enough that I underwent the barrage of allergy tests again. I was thrilled to see Cats way up there on my Avoid At All Costs list. Finally, a chance to live feline free. Surely my wife would take action.

Warren’s airborne allergen test results.

Nope. It’s not that she felt a cat was more important than I was. It’s just there were three of them and only one of me.

Anyway, I stopped the allergist’s recommended treatments, left prescriptions unfilled and canceled follow-up appointments when I realized our furnace filter was passing more dust and particles than it was capturing. Better filter, problem solved; keep the darn cats.

Those allergy tests also showed that grasses bothered me. No pity there either. I still mow the lawn.

Wrap Up

Warren and his mask.

Another reason to welcome the end of October is Halloween. I don’t eat candy, but I get to hand it out, wearing the patched-together mask I’ve used since Halloween was invented. Come trick-or-treat on Monday; you’ll see.

Thanks for stopping by. I’ll write again in about a week.

Laundry Photo Addendum--Philippines

The photo depicts a rural, multipurpose launderette in the Philippines in 1971.
 

Doing the laundry while the kids swim, Philippines 1971.

Laundry Time

Welcome back. Last week, I ventured into the mundane with my treatise on food shopping. I hope you won’t mind if I stay there a little longer to do the laundry. In my first blog post, I said I wouldn’t cover this topic. I was young and naive and forgot how fascinating laundry can be.

Laundry day on the river. Philippines, 1971.

 
The Clothes Washing Cycle

We have a fully functional washing machine and matching dryer near our kitchen (i.e., inside the house). Consumer Reports recommended them highly when we were looking, yet those lists often change as soon as you’ve made your choice.

Washing machine control center.

Our washer and dryer each have multiple settings, which I’m sure I studied when the machines were installed. Because I use the same settings for everything, I no longer have a firm grasp on the range of capabilities available to me. No problem. The dials are intuitively clear.  

One dial on the washer, for example, says Water Temperature. That’s hard to beat for clarity. I keep the dial at Warm. I realize that some clothes under some conditions should be washed in cold or hot water. With lots to think about early in the morning when I do laundry, I figure splitting the difference is best.
 

Washer load and temperature settings.

This thermal compromise had disastrous consequences when our son went off to college with my laundry instructions. He inadvertently washed his clothes in hot water in the laundry room of his freshman dorm. If only he had a little brother.

Being a role model for my son the shrinker, when I was a freshman, I laundered my chemistry lab book. I emptied my laundry bag into the washer, forgetting that I’d squeezed more than laundry into the bag. Bits of white pages and orange book cover clung intimately to every article of clothes that I pulled from the washer.  

My chemistry lab instructor, a non-native speaker of English or other known languages, didn’t quite understand. “The dog ate my homework” might have been clearer. Chemistry was never my forte; less so after that wash.  

The Clothes Drying Cycle

Drying machine control center.

I dry heavy things (towels) separately from light things (sheets). I use Timed Drying and interrupt the process to check when I have a hunch everything’s dry. One of these days I’ll try the automatic sensor settings. I am an uncontrolled lint-trap cleaner, removing and scraping the screen whenever the dryer is at rest.

Note the clothesline pulley and 

rope at the top.

I take maximum advantage of a vintage drying rack and our second floor railing, but it would be nice to have the backyard clothesline I grew up with. The birds and squirrels would love it. They should take it up with the Home Owners’ Association.  

Wrap Up

That’s all the laundry I’d like to air. Thanks for stopping by. I’ll write again in about a week.

Food-Shopping Photo Addendum--Nepal

During a UN project in South Asia in 1986, we stopped in Nepal and had time to visit Kathmandu’s open market.

She smiled--open market, Kathmandu, Nepal,1986.

How do you select the best?--open market, Kathmandu, Nepal,1986.

The family business--open market, Kathmandu, Nepal,1986.

Please accept my invitation to subscribe to the “Retired--Now What?” blog. You can do that either toward the upper right or at the very bottom of the blog by just entering your email address. Thank you. -warren

Food-Shopping Time

Welcome back. Earlier I mentioned practicing Spanish when I checked out in the supermarket. For years, I had the opportunity to learn Hindi while checking out. That ended at the height of the recession when many long-term, part-time employees were let go. I emailed my protest to the supermarket and stopped shopping there for weeks.

Checking out here was in Tagalog. (Philippines, 1972)

I do most of our food shopping. That didn’t start when I retired; however, being retired, I’m not as rushed.  

Where and When to Shop

 We live 1 to 3 miles from five major supermarkets. Add a mile, add others. Ranking the markets in order of increasing everyday prices is easily done.

I normally shop twice a week, stocking up on Fridays and filling in on Sundays. When my wife, the chef, is on schedule, she assumes control of the kitchen on Saturday afternoons. Cleaning as you go is not her modus operandi.  

The precise shopping times can be critical—too early, yesterday’s produce in disarray, restocking incomplete; too late, crowds.
  
Shopping Lists, Sales and Coupons

Like my mother, I wouldn’t shop without a list or without first checking sales prices. Unlike my mother, I follow my list and don’t run to different markets for items because of sale prices. I probably would if gas were still 25 cents a gallon. 

Checking the supermarket flyers.

I faithfully cut coupons from newspaper inserts for items I would otherwise buy or try. I’ve mulled over online coupon sites but shy away from registering or installing a special printer. We don’t buy a large range of couponed items and I am sufficiently spammed.  

The Shopping Moment

  Unit pricing is great for comparing items, except when it doesn’t. What a quandary to find one paper towel unit-priced by sheet count and another by sheet area. What’s the common denominator of paper towels that offer variable size sheets?  

Retired, I’m more tolerant of shoppers who haven’t passed the shopping-cart driving test and are oblivious to blocking entryways, aisles or whole floors. (Seniors get a special pass.)My new patience also extends to waiting in checkout lines.  

I prefer to bag myself to speed the process, yet schmoozing is de rigueur, certainly with checkout people I’ve chatted with weekly for years. How are the boys? You’re kidding. He went to Mumbai to study acting? No, my back’s fine, thanks. Is your husband feeling better?

Even when or where I’m new to the checkout person, there’s a schmooze threshold. Last Friday, I shopped in a market where checkout people must ask, “Did you find everything you were looking for today?” How cheered she was when I responded, “Yes. How about you? Have you found everything you’re looking for today?”

 Wrap Up

I don’t mind shopping for food. Now that I’m not pressed for time, I don’t even consider a self-checkout station. I’m sure they speed you along if you only have a few items, especially if all are bar coded. Whenever I look, though, somebody’s having a problem with one of them.  

A clerk monitoring the stations once called me over so I’d avoid a particularly long line. She took me through the steps and surprise! It didn’t go smoothly. No doubt, the station wanted to schmooze.

I expect I’ll have to use the stations eventually. I was slow to start pumping my own gasoline, too.

Thanks for stopping by. I’ll write again in about a week.

China Rodeo Photo Addendum

In last Friday’s blog post, Dining Out, I mentioned missing out on fermented horse milk during a UN project in northwestern China--the Altay area of Xinjiang. I’m not sure where I was when members of our team went off to learn about milking horses and fermenting the milk, but I didn’t miss the rodeo held the previous afternoon. I couldn't decide which was most fascinating, the horses, riders, observers or setting.

The rodeo begins. Northwestern China, 1982.

The riders were amazing.
Northwestern China Rodeo, 1982.

The action was everywhere.
Northwestern China Rodeo, 1982.

Women rode at least as good as men.
Northwestern China Rodeo, 1982.

The observers were as interesting as the
riders. Northwestern China Rodeo, 1982.

Discussing the action. Northwestern China Rodeo, 1982.

Was that a grandfather and grandson?
Northwestern China Rodeo, 1982.

Dining Out

Welcome back. The Washington Post had an article about a fellow, 49, who found mushrooms in his backyard after a rainstorm. They looked so good, he plucked, cooked and shared a handful with his wife. An experimental drug saved his liver and his life; his wife recovered without the drug.

Title of 25 Sep 2011 Washington Post.

article by Joe Stephens.

Reading the article, I was wondering how this guy ever made it to 49 years, when I saw, about a week later, a second person ate mushrooms he found near his home and was also saved by the same experimental drug. This fellow was an 82-year-old, retired farmer. A farmer? No way.
 

Store-bought 

mushrooms.

I love mushrooms. But about the same time my mother was telling me, “Yes, dear, you can play with the worm but don’t put it in your mouth,” I’ll bet she was also telling me not to eat mushrooms growing wild in the yard.  

Anyway, the article got me thinking about how lucky I’ve been. Of course I’ve eaten things that disrupted my internal plumbing; that’s allowed by the FDA. As yet, however, I’ve avoided dining on anything that would kill me. I thought a few highlights might be of interest.

Foreign Fare

  I emphasize that this is not a slam against any cited locale. Taking reasonable precautions is always advisable. The aftereffects of sampling our supermarket salad bars have been as bad as anything I experienced overseas. I’m not sure if that’s a testament to my iron stomach or, again, incredible luck.
 

One of Rachel’s animal 

portraits—unroasted pig.

Puerto Rico -- Working at the Arecibo Observatory, I accepted invitations to attend various celebrations. Lechon asado (roast pig) was often the main course. Given the other scrumptious dishes and, yes, perhaps a beverage or two, I’m hesitant to blame the poor pig or its preparation. Still, more than one morning after was unpleasant.
 
Philippines -- I don’t remember being “off,” so to speak, even once after dining at home, where the water was boiled, or around the country. Admittedly, I never tried balut (boiled, fertilized duck egg with an undeveloped embryo), which was offered regularly by Tomas, a program driver who had a side business selling such delicacies.
 

Bangladesh – My first UN consulting project was in Bangladesh, where I remained quite healthy, even en route, when a delayed flight set me down around midnight in Pakistan for an unscheduled overnight. 

Bangladeshi family at brick-factory housing, 1981

Preparing for that project, I made the mistake of asking an acquaintance who had worked in Bangladesh where I should stay. Then I made a bigger mistake, accepting his recommendation. Only later did it sink in that my acquaintance had been a Peace Corps volunteer. For cultural awareness, he would have opted to share space with a Bangladeshi family in a jute and bamboo structure. At least my hotel had electricity and running water.

Baking flat bread, Syria, 1982

Prickly pear vendor, 

Syria, 1982

Syria -- As in Bangladesh, my UN project activities in Syria were unhampered by food-borne problems. On my initial visit, I went with the UN’s recommended hotel, though dining alone, I kind of went overboard on flatbread and prickly pear I purchased on the street.  

On a subsequent trip to Syria, I spent more time in the field. Fortunately I remained healthy, as I and my weak knees were introduced to non-western style “squat” toilets, the use of which is akin to camping out, except they flush.
 

Squat toilet, 

northwestern
China 1982

Banquet residuals, 

northwestern China, 1982

China -- Dining at banquet tables or off a yurt blanket, where I somehow missed the fermented horse milk, I had significant aftereffects only once during UN projects in China. Flying west from Beijing to Urumqi was the most uncomfortable plane ride I’d ever taken thanks to a broken seat. To top it off, whatever I was fed on the plane spent little time getting to know me.

Minding the meal, northwestern China, 1982

Food preparation in the field, 

northwestern China, 1982

Wrap Up

At times, the aftereffects of dining overseas were humorous. Visiting a communal, open stall, no-seat, outhouse very early one morning in northwestern China, I was…uh…monitored by a boy about 5 years old. He apparently had never seen a Caucasian before. As I crouched, so did he, smiling.  

Thanks for stopping by. I’ll write again in about a week.

Musical Records Photo Addendum

In my blog post on records and record players, I mentioned that some of my records were warped but still sound fine. Here’s an example of one that’s not too bad: The Coasters’ “Young Blood.” If you’ve forgotten, “Searchin’” is on the flip side.

A view of a warped 45 rpm record.

Another view of the warped 45 rpm record.

And the plan view of the warped 45 rpm record.