Steven Harper's Blog, page 6
April 9, 2025
Testing, Testing!
It's standardized testing week at Wherever Schools (and all other Michigan schools). It's very strange. We do testing of some grades for three or four hours, then the rest of the students are expected to come in for the rest of the school day. Absentee rates this week, as you may imagine, skyrocket.
We're in the second year of testing completely by computer. By any measure, this is easier for me. All I have to do is make sure the right kids are in my room, log into the test web site, and start the test. That's pretty much it. No collecting and checking answer sheets. No counting test books. No security procedures. When the test is over, the students leave and we're done.
I know the computer test is a logistical nightmare for the district, which has to make sure every student has access to a computer during the test, deal with tech support, and a host of other computer-related issues. I'm not involved in any of that, though, so I just glide on through.
The two-hour instruction period, however, is just ... weird. One day we have hours 1-4 for half an hour each, then we have hours 5 and 6 for a full 60 minutes, and on the third day we have hours 1-4 for half an hour again. It's difficult to keep continuity, and anyway, most of the students don't show up. I'm coping by showing hour-long videos. Hours 1-4 have their split in half, but so what?
It makes for a slow, dull week, really, but you rarely want excitement when you're teaching, believe me!
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We're in the second year of testing completely by computer. By any measure, this is easier for me. All I have to do is make sure the right kids are in my room, log into the test web site, and start the test. That's pretty much it. No collecting and checking answer sheets. No counting test books. No security procedures. When the test is over, the students leave and we're done.
I know the computer test is a logistical nightmare for the district, which has to make sure every student has access to a computer during the test, deal with tech support, and a host of other computer-related issues. I'm not involved in any of that, though, so I just glide on through.
The two-hour instruction period, however, is just ... weird. One day we have hours 1-4 for half an hour each, then we have hours 5 and 6 for a full 60 minutes, and on the third day we have hours 1-4 for half an hour again. It's difficult to keep continuity, and anyway, most of the students don't show up. I'm coping by showing hour-long videos. Hours 1-4 have their split in half, but so what?
It makes for a slow, dull week, really, but you rarely want excitement when you're teaching, believe me!

Published on April 09, 2025 07:45
Oh, the Medical
It feels like I spend all my spare time dealing with medical issues. I pinched a neck nerve or something, so I have to go to the chiropractor--more than once, it turns out. I had a crown done, but it's only temporary. I have to go back for the permanent one. I have that last kidney stone to deal with. And I have another biopsy this week.
I find I still shut down when I go into any kind of medical office. When I'm in the waiting room, I just stare at the floor. When I'm asked a direct question, I give short, toneless answers. I do ask questions, but also tonelessly. I don't make small talk. I don't make jokes. (I have absolutely no sense of humor about medical situations. It was burned out of me.) It's hard for me to rouse myself.
I don't even realize I'm doing it sometimes. I was most of the way through the chiropractor appointment before I noticed that my eyes were on the floor and I only looked up long enough to follow the chiropractor's explanation of the x-ray.
But it's still the biopsy that's making me panic.
I know the medical community means well when practitioners do their best to downplay side effects and pain and everything else. They know a fair number of people will be scared off if they don't downplay, and it could mean someone dies as a result.
"Oh, you won't feel a thing." "You'll be up again in no time." "It's a quick, harmless procedure." "The side effects don't last long and they're minor. Nothing to worry about." "Outpatient surgery is nothing at all."
I've been hearing this for the last several years, and it's always a lie. The last time a practitioner told me the truth was when I had a cholecystectomy. The surgeon said the recovery would be painful and last at least two weeks, possibly three, so be ready to sit on the couch for that long. He was right.
When I had my shoulder surgery, the surgeon assured me that the most painful part would be the first two or three weeks. After that, the pain would subside greatly and fade completely in two months, maybe three, and I'd have mobility back by the end of that time. But the pain--bad pain--went on for nearly two years, and I didn't regain full mobility for another year.
This was also what they said for my kidney stone operations and the first two biopsies. "The pain will be over quickly." "The side effects are harmless." But the pain was debilitating, and the side effects were spectacularly awful.
It would be easier to handle this shit if I didn't have to guess what the practitioner really means. Use the word "pain" instead of "pressure" or "discomfort," folks. Say up front how bad it can be. "The effects are usually minimal" is too vague. "We hope for the best, but you need to understand that this and this and this can definitely happen. We'll do our best to minimize it, but we can't always do that" is better.
The biopsy is sending me into panic mode again. I get at least one wrenching hit of anxiety a day right now, and I'm leaning heavily on Xanax to keep me functional.
The first time I had a biopsy like this, the urologist said there'd be no pain because they used general anesthesia, and by the time I woke up, the pain would be gone. This was only half true. I was in a fair amount of pain for a couple of days. And the other side-effect was awful. I was terrified over it for the first several days, despite reassurances from the urologist that it was harmless, and it wrecked my sex life for two full months. (If you're wondering about the exact nature of the side-effect, look up "side-effects of prostate biopsy," and you can probably figure it out.)
The second time I had this biopsy, it was at a different clinic, and I didn't find out until the day before that this clinic only used local anesthesia. I was faced with going through it this way or with rescheduling it for months later (drawing out the anxiety further). I went through it. The surgeon assured me it would only hurt when they injected the lidocaine, and then only for a few seconds. But he was wrong. Lidocaine doesn't work well on me very well, and no doctor ever gives me extra, no matter how much I explain. I yelled during the lidocaine injection, and then I screamed when they extracted the first core. So they gave me another lidocaine injection, and I yelled in agony over that one. (Darwin was in the next room and he could hear me, and it upset him enormously.) Then they started extracting the cores again, and IT STILL FUCKING HURT. I was in pain and I was angry. They had deliberately avoided avenues that would have made the procedure painless, or at least low-pain. The only positive that came out of this was that I told the surgeon before-hand that last time the awful side-effect lasted much longer than usual, and if he could do anything to change that, I'd appreciate it. He said he would try. The side-effect was still awful, but it did clear up in three weeks instead of six.
When this next bi-annual biopsy came around, I said I would need general anesthesia. They hemmed and hawed over it, but I refused to budge, so they "allowed" it. Fuck them. It took a long time and several phone calls to schedule, but at last it was done. Then I found out the procedure would be done in a new way that reduces the risk of infection--good--but makes the pain way worse--bad. (I found out that last by reading a couple studies on the new procedure. The hospital didn't mention it. Of course.) Patients also rated the new version as much more embarrassing. And the usual way is still to use local anesthetic. Fuck them. I'm glad I demanded general anesthesia.
But here's the thing. The crippling anxiety comes not as much from the pain as from the upcoming side-effect and the anesthesia. I was abused when I was under during my shoulder surgery, remember, and while that anxiety has lessened, it hasn't entirely faded. I doubt it ever will. Writing about it here helps a little, which is why I do it.
I try to tell myself that compared to 99.9% of everyone else who lives with cancer, I have it sooo easy. Chemo wrecks you for months, even years. Cancer meds come with side effects that go beyond awful into horrifying, and you have to take them for upwards of five years while my little side-effect lasts a couple months at most. But pointing out that others have it worse rarely makes you feel better. Human psychology just doesn't work that way.
I'm trying not to count the days until Friday, but I end up doing it anyway. Maybe this time it'll be better.
ETA
Today I got an estimate from the hospital for the above biopsy. The grand total is a comfortably precise $25,569.21. Fortunately for me, I have insurance.
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I find I still shut down when I go into any kind of medical office. When I'm in the waiting room, I just stare at the floor. When I'm asked a direct question, I give short, toneless answers. I do ask questions, but also tonelessly. I don't make small talk. I don't make jokes. (I have absolutely no sense of humor about medical situations. It was burned out of me.) It's hard for me to rouse myself.
I don't even realize I'm doing it sometimes. I was most of the way through the chiropractor appointment before I noticed that my eyes were on the floor and I only looked up long enough to follow the chiropractor's explanation of the x-ray.
But it's still the biopsy that's making me panic.
I know the medical community means well when practitioners do their best to downplay side effects and pain and everything else. They know a fair number of people will be scared off if they don't downplay, and it could mean someone dies as a result.
"Oh, you won't feel a thing." "You'll be up again in no time." "It's a quick, harmless procedure." "The side effects don't last long and they're minor. Nothing to worry about." "Outpatient surgery is nothing at all."
I've been hearing this for the last several years, and it's always a lie. The last time a practitioner told me the truth was when I had a cholecystectomy. The surgeon said the recovery would be painful and last at least two weeks, possibly three, so be ready to sit on the couch for that long. He was right.
When I had my shoulder surgery, the surgeon assured me that the most painful part would be the first two or three weeks. After that, the pain would subside greatly and fade completely in two months, maybe three, and I'd have mobility back by the end of that time. But the pain--bad pain--went on for nearly two years, and I didn't regain full mobility for another year.
This was also what they said for my kidney stone operations and the first two biopsies. "The pain will be over quickly." "The side effects are harmless." But the pain was debilitating, and the side effects were spectacularly awful.
It would be easier to handle this shit if I didn't have to guess what the practitioner really means. Use the word "pain" instead of "pressure" or "discomfort," folks. Say up front how bad it can be. "The effects are usually minimal" is too vague. "We hope for the best, but you need to understand that this and this and this can definitely happen. We'll do our best to minimize it, but we can't always do that" is better.
The biopsy is sending me into panic mode again. I get at least one wrenching hit of anxiety a day right now, and I'm leaning heavily on Xanax to keep me functional.
The first time I had a biopsy like this, the urologist said there'd be no pain because they used general anesthesia, and by the time I woke up, the pain would be gone. This was only half true. I was in a fair amount of pain for a couple of days. And the other side-effect was awful. I was terrified over it for the first several days, despite reassurances from the urologist that it was harmless, and it wrecked my sex life for two full months. (If you're wondering about the exact nature of the side-effect, look up "side-effects of prostate biopsy," and you can probably figure it out.)
The second time I had this biopsy, it was at a different clinic, and I didn't find out until the day before that this clinic only used local anesthesia. I was faced with going through it this way or with rescheduling it for months later (drawing out the anxiety further). I went through it. The surgeon assured me it would only hurt when they injected the lidocaine, and then only for a few seconds. But he was wrong. Lidocaine doesn't work well on me very well, and no doctor ever gives me extra, no matter how much I explain. I yelled during the lidocaine injection, and then I screamed when they extracted the first core. So they gave me another lidocaine injection, and I yelled in agony over that one. (Darwin was in the next room and he could hear me, and it upset him enormously.) Then they started extracting the cores again, and IT STILL FUCKING HURT. I was in pain and I was angry. They had deliberately avoided avenues that would have made the procedure painless, or at least low-pain. The only positive that came out of this was that I told the surgeon before-hand that last time the awful side-effect lasted much longer than usual, and if he could do anything to change that, I'd appreciate it. He said he would try. The side-effect was still awful, but it did clear up in three weeks instead of six.
When this next bi-annual biopsy came around, I said I would need general anesthesia. They hemmed and hawed over it, but I refused to budge, so they "allowed" it. Fuck them. It took a long time and several phone calls to schedule, but at last it was done. Then I found out the procedure would be done in a new way that reduces the risk of infection--good--but makes the pain way worse--bad. (I found out that last by reading a couple studies on the new procedure. The hospital didn't mention it. Of course.) Patients also rated the new version as much more embarrassing. And the usual way is still to use local anesthetic. Fuck them. I'm glad I demanded general anesthesia.
But here's the thing. The crippling anxiety comes not as much from the pain as from the upcoming side-effect and the anesthesia. I was abused when I was under during my shoulder surgery, remember, and while that anxiety has lessened, it hasn't entirely faded. I doubt it ever will. Writing about it here helps a little, which is why I do it.
I try to tell myself that compared to 99.9% of everyone else who lives with cancer, I have it sooo easy. Chemo wrecks you for months, even years. Cancer meds come with side effects that go beyond awful into horrifying, and you have to take them for upwards of five years while my little side-effect lasts a couple months at most. But pointing out that others have it worse rarely makes you feel better. Human psychology just doesn't work that way.
I'm trying not to count the days until Friday, but I end up doing it anyway. Maybe this time it'll be better.
ETA
Today I got an estimate from the hospital for the above biopsy. The grand total is a comfortably precise $25,569.21. Fortunately for me, I have insurance.

Published on April 09, 2025 07:33
March 23, 2025
Retire This Cliche
One of the bigger problems writers face these days is the cell phone. Authors spend a LOT of time separating their characters from their phones in order to explain why a character in trouble doesn't just whip out a device and call for help. A protagonist's cell phone gets broken, lost, stolen, or depowered with alarming regularity, and large swaths of fictional worlds inconveniently have no bars. And then there's this trope: The bad guys are coming. They've broken into the house. Jenny has to hide, fast. She dives into a clever hiding spot. She can't call for help because the villains will hear her. The bad guys spread through the house, guns aiming with sinister intent. One of them passes close to Jenny. She holds her breath, frightened, but pretty sure he won't find her. Then ... Mom calls. Bzzzt bzzzt! Frantically, Jenny fumbles with her phone and ends the call, but it's too late. The bad guy heard the faint buzzing. He yanks open her hiding place and Jenny is captured. (In an alternative version, Jenny accidentally connects the call instead of hanging up, and Mom says in a loud, annoying voice, "Jenny? Why haven't you returned my calls? The florist is up in arms about the buttercups!" And the bad guy grabs her.) I mean, EVERY TIME. It's gotten to the point where I expect it. Just today, I was watching a spy show, and the hapless Jenny character hid behind some boxes in the basement while the bad guys prowled around. I said, "Oh! Someone's going to call her and give her away." Two seconds later: Bzzzt bzzzt! And she was captured. Look, Hollywood, I know it's not easy to come up with new ways to get your characters into trouble, but when the audience spots it coming, you've created a cliche. Give this one up.
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Published on March 23, 2025 14:31
March 14, 2025
Really, Really Nice News
And now we have some nice news. Really, really nice news. Best I've had in ages. But first, some background. I got my first kidney stone when I was 25 years old. I happened to be visiting my parents overnight, and I woke up with an intense pain in my side that got steadily worse. Feeling like a small child who needed to tell Mommy he didn’t feel good, I woke up my parents. My mother, a nurse, immediately diagnosed a kidney stone and got me to the hospital. By the time I arrived, I was panting and sweating from the effort of not screaming. The ER gave me morphine and fluids until the pain stopped. I passed the stone a couple weeks later. I didn’t know it, but that was just the beginning. Over the next 30 years, I continually had at least one stone. Any time I went in for any kind of x-ray, MRI, or CAT scan, the doctor would say, “…and you have a kidney stone.” Most of them passed on their own, but every so often, a bout of level-10 pain would land me in the hospital. Twice, an attack came while I was driving and I had to change course to go the nearest ER. Without Siri's help with directions, I would have had to call an ambulance. A few years ago, the stones went into overdrive. Out of nowhere, I developed so many stones that the doctors lost count. The attacks ramped up the pain so bad, I seriously thought I was going to die. I had to undergo a bunch of operations that sent scopes up through my body to either pull the stones out or pulverize them with lasers. These operations and the aftermaths were torture, both physically and psychologically. They left me with PTSD so bad I had to start seeing a therapist and go on Xanax and anti-depressants. Just calling the doctor’s office gave me the shakes. And the stones kept coming. Finally, they eased up a little. I “only” had four or five at time, and they were passing without needing operations. But they were still there. I carried little time bombs that might or might not explode at any time, and I carried equal amounts of anxiety about it. The anxiety was always there, woven into my daily life. Yesterday I saw my nephrologist. A tech dutifully ran me through the x-ray machine and I went down to the examination room to wait for the doctor. He came in and after some pleasantries, he called up the x-ray. “You have one stone,” he said. “Four-point-five millimeters.” I cocked my head, honestly puzzled. “Just … one?” “That’s it. And it’s under the 5 mm threshold for treatment. It’ll likely pass on its own. We could go after it with shock waves, but it’s not necessary.” I couldn't quite get my mind around this. Only one? It had been many, many years since I’d had only one. Then something occurred to me. “My husband and I are going out of the country this fall,” I said. “I wouldn’t want this one to cause problems when we’re overseas. Would it a good idea to pulverize it so we don’t have to worry?" “Actually, when someone is going overseas, that’s exactly what we recommend. Lithotripsy it is. Let’s get you scheduled." And I was handed an appointment for the Monday in June after final exams are over. “I’m going to be stone-free,” I said slowly. “Looks like,” replied the doctor cheerfully. “See you in June.” I checked out and made my way back to the car. I had no idea how to react. For more than 30 years I'd had at least one stone in my body, and for the last several years I'd had many. The anxiety this caused was so pervasive that, paradoxically, I'd stopped noticing it. It was there like air was there. Now in a few months, I was going to be free of them completely. Sure, they might come back, and I've have to keep checking to make sure, but it didn't seem =likely= they'd come back, and certainly not in such high numbers. Kidney stones ... gone. I got in the car, moved to start it, then held back. I needed a moment to process this. So I stared at the dashboard for a moment. Out of nowhere, the crying slammed into me. I sat in my car, sobbing big, body-shaking sobs, until snot ran out of my nose and my eyes got hot and scratchy and I was fishing in the glove compartment for fast-food napkins. Why the hell was I crying, I wondered. This was good news, something I rarely got from the hospital. Even when the hospital did have good news, it was always, "Good news, but..." I should be shouting, not crying. I guess it was the utter shock and enormity of the change. I'd been living with this anxiety for 30 years. Sometimes it was low-grade, sometimes it was in the stratosphere, but it was always non-stop. Every time I got a twinge, I got a little jolt of Is this ... ? Every time a twinge turned into pain, the mental dance began. How bad is the pain? Should I wait and see if it fades? If it doesn't, or if it gets a little worse, should I go to the ER, or drink more water and keep waiting? If I go to the ER and the pain fades, I'll have made the trip and expense for nothing. If I don't go, and pain ramps up, I'll be tortured with it all the way to the hospital and in the ER while I wait for painkillers. (And the ER always takes a god-awful long time to get painkillers into you, even when you're howling.) If I go during the Goldilocks "just right" moment, I'll arrive at the ER right when the pain is going into overdrive, but when is the Goldilocks moment? And then the twinge would usually fade. The anxiety, however, didn't. That was just the way life was. But that turned out not be true. Now the anxiety was just ... gone. A big part of my emotional being had vanished completely. Thirty years of relief was crashing over me all at once, and it was a big shock. You know how sometimes you have to go to the bathroom but can't, because you're in the middle of something or not in a place where you can find a bathroom? The urgency grows and gets worse and worse, but you don't pay close attention to it because there's nothing you can do about it just now. Then it gets really bad and you finally get to a restroom and afterward you feel a little rush of relief. Multiply that by thirty years. That's what I was feeling. It would have been strange if I =hadn't= cried. So it was nice news. Really, really nice. After the sobbing stopped, I felt a divine euphoria. I was floating, and I couldn't sit still. I drove to downtown Ann Arbor and did some me-shopping—comics and role-playing miniatures. I spent more than I probably should have, but this deserved a reward! Then I got some lunch and then I went home, where I made celebratory chocolate cookies. It really was a good day.
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Published on March 14, 2025 10:08
March 11, 2025
Eek!
Last night my sister Bethany Piziks was staying with us. After a supper of home-made tomato soup and thick grilled cheese sandwiches on home-made bread and an evening of catching up, she went down into the guest room while Darwin and I got ready for bed ourselves. A moment later, we heard a loud, whooping screech from downstairs. Startled, we ran out of the bedroom and Bethany met us in the hallway.
"A mouse!" she said. "There was a mouse inside my backpack! I picked it up, and the mouse jumped out and ran away!"
So now we have mice. (Where's the one, there are always several.)
We've kept the cats out of the finished basement for more than a year now because of the Great Diarrhea Disaster, but we decided it was time to let them have the run of the place again. I also bought some live-capture traps and baited them with peanut butter. They're down there now, quietly waiting with innocent looks on their faces. The cats have been down and up several times. We'll see what happens.
In the meantime, the three of us got endless amusement out of Bethany's reaction. I don't think I've ever heard her make that noise. Bethany was laughing as hard as we were.
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"A mouse!" she said. "There was a mouse inside my backpack! I picked it up, and the mouse jumped out and ran away!"
So now we have mice. (Where's the one, there are always several.)
We've kept the cats out of the finished basement for more than a year now because of the Great Diarrhea Disaster, but we decided it was time to let them have the run of the place again. I also bought some live-capture traps and baited them with peanut butter. They're down there now, quietly waiting with innocent looks on their faces. The cats have been down and up several times. We'll see what happens.
In the meantime, the three of us got endless amusement out of Bethany's reaction. I don't think I've ever heard her make that noise. Bethany was laughing as hard as we were.

Published on March 11, 2025 18:17
March 8, 2025
Dora Dollars
So Dora is a bi-colored ragdoll cat. On a whim, I did a little research and discovered that ragdoll cats sell for between $500 and $1500.
Huh.
Don't tell her. We'll never hear the end of it.
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Huh.
Don't tell her. We'll never hear the end of it.

Published on March 08, 2025 15:13
Oncology Update
My oncology appointment lasted all of 90 seconds. It went like this:
Oncologist: Your PSAs are __, and your last biopsy was two years ago, so you're up for another one.
Me: Right.
O: I'll have my team contact you about setting that up.
Me: Okay.
O: Have your medications changed since our last appointment?
Me: Nope.
O: Okay, then. We'll be contacting you about the appointment.
And ... done.
I'm glad it was a video appointment. If I'd driven all the way to UM Ann Arbor, hunted for parking, threaded through the huge and labyrinthine palace of UM Medical, waited in the waiting room, and then seen the doctor for 90 seconds, I would have been rather put out.
For the record, I've been "downgraded" to barely having cancer. I'm on the observation list, and there aren't any indications yet that I'll need treatment. We're hoping it stays that way!
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Oncologist: Your PSAs are __, and your last biopsy was two years ago, so you're up for another one.
Me: Right.
O: I'll have my team contact you about setting that up.
Me: Okay.
O: Have your medications changed since our last appointment?
Me: Nope.
O: Okay, then. We'll be contacting you about the appointment.
And ... done.
I'm glad it was a video appointment. If I'd driven all the way to UM Ann Arbor, hunted for parking, threaded through the huge and labyrinthine palace of UM Medical, waited in the waiting room, and then seen the doctor for 90 seconds, I would have been rather put out.
For the record, I've been "downgraded" to barely having cancer. I'm on the observation list, and there aren't any indications yet that I'll need treatment. We're hoping it stays that way!

Published on March 08, 2025 08:18
March 7, 2025
Teacher Voice
I have a well-developed teacher voice. When used properly, it becomes a weapon. Decades of practice in the classroom and on stage have given me a powerful voice. It’s not a resonant, basso-profundo like Patrick Stewart or anything, but it does fill every corner of a room. Like a stage actor before microphones, I know how to make my voice fill a space, and the tone reaches deep into the psyche, where it triggers deep-seated reflexes and yanks the listener’s attention to me. You wouldn’t know when you talk to me that I can change the pitch and range of my voice from normal conversation to “pay attention or you’re dead!” But I can. The teacher voice isn’t a shout or even a bark. It’s just … penetrative. I can see it in action. When I switch it on in a classroom, the students change posture and turn toward me without realizing it. I can hold a class of 35 freshmen completely still with nothing but my voice. It has an impact outside the classroom, too. When I go back to work after two and half months of summer, when I don’t use the teacher voice, it takes a while to readjust. I turn it on at work and forget to shut it off when I get home. It’s a common thing for Darwin to wince and cover his ears. “You’re using your teacher voice,” he says, and I have to remodulate. It’s interesting that he recognizes it. I’ve used the teacher voice as a weapon out of school, and it works there, too. On a tour bus in Turkey, I caught a smarmy older woman proselytizing to the Muslims on board and quietly told her to stop unless she wanted to risk arrest. I didn’t really care if she got in trouble, but I didn’t want the rest of us to get dragged in with it. She pitched a fit and decided to harass Darwin and me for the rest of the trip. After enduring a number of snarky, snide remarks, I reached my limit. I turned on my teacher voice and boomed, “Don’t speak to me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me. Keep your religion to yourself!” She tried to interrupt, but I ran right over her. “Stop talking! Keep it to yourself!” A round of applause rang through the bus, and the woman shut up. Teacher voice. On our trip to Puerto Rico, part of our flight was rescheduled at the last minute, and Darwin and I had to make a tight connection as a result. So did several other passengers sitting around us. But you know what it’s like when a plane lands. People move so slow. It’s like they’re reluctant to leave the plane. One woman ahead of us opened the luggage bin and reached for her bag and sl-o-o-o-w-ly dragged it over to herself. She even paused to check her phone. Twice. Meanwhile, a bunch of us in the back of the plane were fuming and growing more and more worried. I finally switched on my teacher voice. “Folks! We have a bunch of people back here who need to make a connecting flight right away,” I boomed. “We need your help. Please hurry along!” And lo, people hurried along. There’s something primordial about the teacher voice. It speaks with authority and touches old reflexes. People listen to it without realizing it. It’s one of the more powerful tools in my box.
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Published on March 07, 2025 07:08
March 6, 2025
Puerto Rico!
Last month, Darwin and I joined my cousin Mark and his wife Tamara for a week in Puerto Rico. It was a delight!
Once we got there, anyway.
The day Darwin and I were supposed to fly out, a snowstorm swept in and delayed our flight from Detroit, meaning we'd miss our connecting flight in Charlotte. We ended up having to wait until the next day--and THAT flight was delayed on the runway because the plane needed to be de-iced and it took a lot longer than normal. So we were going to miss that day's connecting flight, too! I have to say, though, that American Airlines stepped up. Darwin and I spent an unhappy four hours in the air, wondering how the hell we were going to get to the island before our vacation actually ended, but when we landed and our internet was restored, we got alerts that American had automatically rescheduled our connecting flight to one that was leaving promptly after we landed. We did have to sprint through the airport, but we made it and finally ended up in Puerto Rico. Whew.
This was my and Darwin's second visit to PR. We absolutely love it there. When I left the airport and the summery air swept over me, I marveled at how much I felt at home.
We picked up our rental car without incident and met Mark and Tamara at the flat we'd all rented. To tell the truth, I was a little uneasy at first. Mark and I grew up together and we shared a number of family vacations right up until we were teenagers, and things always went perfectly well. But we hadn't traveled together since then, and we've gotten rather older in the intervening years. We're close as adults, but we hadn't done any overnight travel together, let along with Darwin and Tamara. Would we get along?
Short answer: yes!
We actually had a formal discussion about vacation stuff before we left and decided not to overschedule ourselves as a foursome in order to avoid stress. The only things we set up in advance was a hiking and kayaking trip, a visit to Old Town San Juan, and a visit to the fort El Moro. For the rest of the time, we gave all of ourselves permission to do what we wanted, either together or separate, and no one should feel pressure to do stuff together the entire time. This worked out very well. And Mark and Tamara proved to be easygoing flat-mates.
The four of us took a hiking trip through the rainforest that culminated in a visit to a waterfall/river/swimming hole. We enjoyed that very much. Then it was time to go on a sunset kayaking tour of the bio-luminescent bay, where the local plankton spark when you hit the water with a paddle or your hand. It made for a tiring but enjoyable day.
The trip to Old Town was also fun, especially when we came across the bird park, which is filled with thousands of aggressive pigeons. Tamara bought a sackful of feed and quickly found herself covered in birds from head to foot. We tried and failed to find the ice cream shop Darwin and I loved last time, but we did find the fantastic restaurant we remembered and had a wonderful lunch there. I really have to learn to make empanadas.
The four of us shared some meals and also wandered along the ocean walk. The Atlantic is a stunner. We also enjoyed perfect weather all week--seventies at night, low eights during the day, only a single afternoon of light rain. It was like the island was flirting with us.
We spent the rest of the week idling around the island. Mark and Tamara took an all-day hike on the western side of the island one day, and Darwin and I re-explored Candado in San Juan. We slept late with the windows open to the ocean breezes. On impulse, the four of us took another kayak tour around the lagoon near our flat building. I went swimming a couple times in the sheltered bay in Condado and got a perfect tan. And Mark and I re-connected, and the four of us regular-connected. Darwin haven't done much vacationing with other couples, and we had a fine time doing so with Mark and Tamara. I told Mark, "Yep--we're vacation-compatible. No small thing!" He laughed and agreed.
The week went by too fast. Darwin and I are giving serious consideration to moving there after we're both retired, or at least doing the snowbird thing. We'll see what happens.
The flight home was straightforward and without incident, but it was sad in that it meant we were leaving. I'm already trying to figure out when we'll go back.
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Once we got there, anyway.
The day Darwin and I were supposed to fly out, a snowstorm swept in and delayed our flight from Detroit, meaning we'd miss our connecting flight in Charlotte. We ended up having to wait until the next day--and THAT flight was delayed on the runway because the plane needed to be de-iced and it took a lot longer than normal. So we were going to miss that day's connecting flight, too! I have to say, though, that American Airlines stepped up. Darwin and I spent an unhappy four hours in the air, wondering how the hell we were going to get to the island before our vacation actually ended, but when we landed and our internet was restored, we got alerts that American had automatically rescheduled our connecting flight to one that was leaving promptly after we landed. We did have to sprint through the airport, but we made it and finally ended up in Puerto Rico. Whew.
This was my and Darwin's second visit to PR. We absolutely love it there. When I left the airport and the summery air swept over me, I marveled at how much I felt at home.
We picked up our rental car without incident and met Mark and Tamara at the flat we'd all rented. To tell the truth, I was a little uneasy at first. Mark and I grew up together and we shared a number of family vacations right up until we were teenagers, and things always went perfectly well. But we hadn't traveled together since then, and we've gotten rather older in the intervening years. We're close as adults, but we hadn't done any overnight travel together, let along with Darwin and Tamara. Would we get along?
Short answer: yes!
We actually had a formal discussion about vacation stuff before we left and decided not to overschedule ourselves as a foursome in order to avoid stress. The only things we set up in advance was a hiking and kayaking trip, a visit to Old Town San Juan, and a visit to the fort El Moro. For the rest of the time, we gave all of ourselves permission to do what we wanted, either together or separate, and no one should feel pressure to do stuff together the entire time. This worked out very well. And Mark and Tamara proved to be easygoing flat-mates.
The four of us took a hiking trip through the rainforest that culminated in a visit to a waterfall/river/swimming hole. We enjoyed that very much. Then it was time to go on a sunset kayaking tour of the bio-luminescent bay, where the local plankton spark when you hit the water with a paddle or your hand. It made for a tiring but enjoyable day.
The trip to Old Town was also fun, especially when we came across the bird park, which is filled with thousands of aggressive pigeons. Tamara bought a sackful of feed and quickly found herself covered in birds from head to foot. We tried and failed to find the ice cream shop Darwin and I loved last time, but we did find the fantastic restaurant we remembered and had a wonderful lunch there. I really have to learn to make empanadas.
The four of us shared some meals and also wandered along the ocean walk. The Atlantic is a stunner. We also enjoyed perfect weather all week--seventies at night, low eights during the day, only a single afternoon of light rain. It was like the island was flirting with us.
We spent the rest of the week idling around the island. Mark and Tamara took an all-day hike on the western side of the island one day, and Darwin and I re-explored Candado in San Juan. We slept late with the windows open to the ocean breezes. On impulse, the four of us took another kayak tour around the lagoon near our flat building. I went swimming a couple times in the sheltered bay in Condado and got a perfect tan. And Mark and I re-connected, and the four of us regular-connected. Darwin haven't done much vacationing with other couples, and we had a fine time doing so with Mark and Tamara. I told Mark, "Yep--we're vacation-compatible. No small thing!" He laughed and agreed.
The week went by too fast. Darwin and I are giving serious consideration to moving there after we're both retired, or at least doing the snowbird thing. We'll see what happens.
The flight home was straightforward and without incident, but it was sad in that it meant we were leaving. I'm already trying to figure out when we'll go back.

Published on March 06, 2025 18:57
Ticking Off the Right
It seems that one of my books ticked off a member of the school board. Aw! Definitely don't have a look at it.
https://www.amazon.com/Importance-Being-Kevin-Steven-Harper/dp/1644052571/
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https://www.amazon.com/Importance-Being-Kevin-Steven-Harper/dp/1644052571/

Published on March 06, 2025 18:18