Holly, 1971

Continuing in the Hopeless Romantic vein, here's a shot of the girl I married in 1971. In the final analysis, that was a sad story, but with the totally joyous sub-plot of two lovely daughters who have since made happy marriages of their own. I took this picture inside a Chester County barn, where a shaft of sunlight from a hole in the roof back-lighted the subject and bits of hay dust floated about her head. With my penchant for nostalgia, I can tell you it was a very happy day, showing no foreshadowing of things to come -- things best left unmentioned here.

Energy Then and Now

The foreground image is the Philadelphia and Reading Coal Company's St. Nicholas coal breaker in Mahanoy Township, PA, no longer a going concern. In the background are wind turbines on the ridge above Shenandoah, PA, which are helping to reduce the dependency on anthracite coal (still in abundant supply) for the generation of electric power.

Uh...Harrumph...He Clears his Throat

I guess my youthful heart has been hanging out there on my sleeve long enough. Time to come up with some more pithy, hard-hitting blogmanship before somebody accuses me of being ... gasp ... a Romantic. L'Uomo Universale, c'est-moi.

Kidney Stone Update

It's still there, an ugly little knot of pain down on the lower left, just south of the navel and north of the delicate region. Had another CT scan last night, and I'll be seeing a specialist in a few days. In the meantime... Groan... Chin up, Old Man.

The Latest Ailment of Advancing Age

I'm getting suspicious of Philadelphia -- or maybe paranoid is the word I'm looking for. Six years ago almost to the day, I was standing up in the Philadelphia division of the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania speaking on behalf of a client, when I suddenly experienced what it must feel like to be kicked in the belly by a mule. Diverticulitis! An intestinal blockage of intensity and pain I wouldn't wish on even that tinhorn corporate micro-midget who had me so mad several weeks ago. But time passed and the medical care system worked its wonders. After two major abdominal operations and the considerable indignity of pooping into a leaky colostomy bag for three months, it appeared my old chocolate channel was back in tip-top shape. Yesterday I was sitting in a roomful of people attending the August 2009 Philadelphia Sheriff's judicial sale of foreclosed properties, bidding on behalf of a client. And yes, friends, that damn mule came along and kicked me in the gut again. It felt just like what I remembered of that diverticulitis attack of yesteryear. So once again I drove home from Philadelphia in extreme discomfort, only this time dreading a repeat of past sufferings. After a brief eternity in the emergency room waiting area, the requisite inquiries into my insurance coverages, more waiting, the surrender of several gallons of blood, more waiting, an X-ray, more waiting, a CT scan and more waiting, all made bearable by a couple of hits of morphine, I received the medics' verdict ... Kidney stone. Great was the rejoicing in my heart at that pronouncement! No surgery! No leaky colostomy bag! Just a day or two of gritting my teeth while the offending bit of crystalline matter works its way through the system -- like a golf ball through a garden hose -- and leaves me a free man once again. At least until the next time I go to Philadelphia.