Newsflash! Researchers have found the “fat” gene! Overweight people are predisposed to gaining weight in much the same way that kids born to brunette parents are likely to have, gasp!, brown hair.
As early as 2005, the low carb craze had begun to ebb. Diets lose their luster when a body’s pre-set clock reverts back to a predestined weight, and dieters lose interest in self-deprivation.
As evidence, there are the food banks that report big increases in donations from manufacturers of Atkins Diet products. It’s pretty easy to find discounted South Beach diet products, too, despite the lure of the diet’s promise to re-set the body’s insulin clock and make pounds melt away.
Science has reaffirmed that many people genetically programmed to have weight problems have a chromosomal glitch. One that deprives them of normal amounts of dopamine, the feel-good drug released by the brain in response to stress.
The World Health Organization (www.who.int) estimates that 1.6 billion adults worldwide are overweight and at least 400 million adults are obese. Sadly, I myself have always struggled with my weight. I come by it honestly. My grandfather was portly; grandma was stout; mom was a bit broad in the beam; Aunt Mabel was downright fat and my brother, well, he takes after grandpa.
Nonetheless, with the attendant health issues frequently associated with being overweight – diabetes, high blood pressure, arthritis – beginning to manifest their unwelcome selves, I’ve been walking more and eating less.
It’s working. Sort of. Slowly.
I once saw a fat girl on Dr. Phil pointing out that it’s not like you can just “kick” a food addiction. After all, you do have to eat. With other stuff, you can give it up and rid your life of all traces of that which tempts you.
The journal Science reports what researchers call the first clear evidence that a common gene causes some people to gain weight while others don’t. Those studied who have two copies of a variant of the “FTO” gene were 70 percent more likely to be obese. Seventy percent!!!
As always, researchers say they hope their discovery will lead to improved means of preventing and treating obesity. Translated, that may mean they’ve patented their discovery, and a deep-pocketed drug company will buy the rights to develop a drug that will turn off the genetic trigger.
Meantime, it seems to me it might be time to table the fat jokes. It doesn’t seem quite kosher to make fun of people for something they’re born with and just can’t help. Besides, the Centers for Disease Control (www.cdc.gov) has released an obesity study that says it’s not nearly the killer we’ve always thought. Not as terrible for your health as, say, chronic smoking.
It would be great, wouldn’t it, if everybody accepted everybody for who they are, not what they look like? As Martin Luther King Jr. said, for the content of their character? Hm. What a concept.
Read Carol's columns at www.bloggernews.net. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Surviving Hepatitis C
By Carol Bogart
Five years ago, a woman named Sally in Seattle called me in Ohio to talk about her Hepatitis C. She was, as I recall, nearing 70 and a retired teacher. Her niece, an adult lawyer, had taken me to lunch to talk to me about her. She said Sally was the dearest sweetest woman; one whose husband was gone, had not had children, and was now alone.
I was a columnist for the local newspaper and had been writing about my own Hepatitis C. For a year, I endured a clinical trial that was very much like chemotherapy. The niece told me Sally was afraid to have a liver biopsy, and wondered if I’d mind if her aunt called me.
As a result of my weekly column, many people you would never suspect to have this “dirty” disease often linked with injecting illegal drugs had come forward to either get tested and start treatment, or to simply thank me for giving voice to a condition about which so many are ashamed.
Like me, Sally had no idea how she’d gotten Hepatitis C. A diabetic, she wondered whether she’d been infected during a blood draw to check her sugar. I wondered whether it was a single acupuncture session for my herniated disk. I don’t remember, either, how Sally found out she had it. That I did was a lucky twist of fate.
I was symptom-free in 1995 (the liver is an “uncomplaining” organ) and covering a terrible story for a Cleveland television station. It was about a paramedic who, coming home from work, had flipped the light switch, not knowing that in the basement, the leaking furnace had filled the house with gas. A small spark from the switch triggered an explosion that blew him out the door into his backyard, burned over 75 percent of his body.
As the videographer and I swung into the parking lot at Metro Health Center, paramedics, firefighters and cops filled the waiting room and halls. Throughout the night, it was touch and go as their friend and co-worker needed so many transfusions that the hospital was starting to run out of platelets.
Two days later, the firefighters staged an emergency blood drive. I urged the TV station’s assignment editor to let me cover what was to me a poignant human interest story: the coming together as one of those whose occupations so often put them in harm’s way.
The first person I interviewed was the paramedic’s dad, a retired firefighter and, usually, self-contained stoic man. Now, with his son hovering at death’s door, he could barely hold back his tears. I talked, too, to the paramedic’s partner on the ambulance, a man so broken up he could barely speak.
When I learned that the paramedic’s blood type was O-negative, the same as mine, I set my reporter’s notebook aside - signing up on the spot to donate blood, despite my lifelong fear of needles.
God moves in mysterious ways.
Two weeks later, a letter from the Red Cross arrived. It said in bold capital letters across the top: “THIS IS NOT A LETTER ABOUT AIDS BUT … .” I was informed that my blood had tested positive for Hepatitis C and had been discarded. I was never again to give blood, the letter said, nor was I to be an organ donor. I thought about the organ donor sticker that had been on my driver’s license for many years.
A visit to my internist confirmed the diagnosis.
The paramedic made a slow recovery. I might have died but for that decision to give blood. That’s not to say I instantly started treatment. I didn’t. In 1995, despite country singer Naomi Judd’s success with Interferon for her Hepatitis C, for many, it meant terrible side effects, but no eradication of the virus. I had a young boy at home. I decided to wait until medicine could offer something better.
By 2001, though, I was feeling very fatigued. Regular monitoring of my liver enzymes – a barometer of how much damage the Hep C is doing in your liver – found that they were getting worse. My son was now 16. It was time.
Like Sally, the idea of a liver biopsy terrified me. It was, however, required of those who wanted to take part in a clinical trial being offered by the Cleveland Clinic. For the first time, those with Hepatitis C had a shot at a new “combination” therapy – a three-drug treatment it was hoped might up their odds of surviving what some call a silent epidemic.
The day of my biopsy, I was grateful to my doctor, head of the clinic’s gastroenterology department, for coming in early to hold my hand as the “routine” procedure was performed. I would later assure Sally it really wasn’t all that bad. When asked afterward if I needed pain relief, I truthfully answered, “No.”
The result, though, was pretty scary. Stage 3 liver fibrosis (scarring): bridging and portal. One stage away from full blown cirrhosis. I’d be starting the trial just in time.
For a year, I injected Pegylated Interferon into fatty tissue in my tummy once a week and took Ribavarin and Amantadine capsules every day. I lost 60 pounds and handfuls of hair and, by the 10th month, once failed to recognize a friend I saw at Kroger’s. At the same time the drugs were attacking the virus, healthy stuff was dying, too.
At night, I ached so much I couldn’t sleep. In the last month, the side effects were so bad that, with the approval of my research nurse, I started cutting back the dose of both the Interferon and the pills. It was either that, or just stop taking everything altogether.
I’d been getting the meds and supplies for free thanks to the clinical trial – a good thing because, otherwise, I couldn’t have afforded to get treated. Pegylated Interferon alone costs a fortune.
Once a month I’d drive the two hours to Cleveland to have eight vials of blood drawn to monitor my liver enzymes. I wasn’t allowed to take Advil during those 12 months (an anti-inflammatory, it could have skewed the results) – but that meant no relief for my osteoarthritis.
As I was going through my clinical trial, two very close friends were enduring what would prove to be their final unsuccessful round of chemotherapy – one for breast cancer, one for leukemia. We told each other that which we didn’t tell those we loved: We were in so much misery, we really didn’t care if we died, but we worried what would happen to those we left behind; in my case, my 16 year old son. My friends, farm wives, had both been married for more than 40 years.
Dolores and Shirley finally decided: No more chemo. One after the other, they passed away. At the end of my treatment, my blood work came back “clean.” No trace at all of the Hepatitis C. My enzymes were back to normal.
Every six months, I get the liver panel done. To date – and it’s been four years – I remain Hepatitis free. I’m a Type 2. Ninety percent of the Type 2s in the clinical trial had the same result. For Type 1’s, who are more resistant to treatment, the success rate was 60 percent. In the ’90s, when I was first diagnosed, Interferon, the sole drug available at the time, cleared the virus in only 10-15 percent of those treated for Hep C. I felt like a living miracle.
Sally, after we talked at length several times, did have her biopsy and started treatment. She’d waited too long. She died.
Dr. William Carey, my gastroenterologist, warned me often that the longer I waited, the more opportunity the virus had to “replicate” and become stronger.
Hep C is a quiet killer. Health officials estimate 4.1 million Americans are infected. Many are unaware. If you think there’s any chance you might have it, get tested. It could save your life.
For information on testing for Hepatitis C, contact your state or local health department.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her articles at www.hubpages.com. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Five years ago, a woman named Sally in Seattle called me in Ohio to talk about her Hepatitis C. She was, as I recall, nearing 70 and a retired teacher. Her niece, an adult lawyer, had taken me to lunch to talk to me about her. She said Sally was the dearest sweetest woman; one whose husband was gone, had not had children, and was now alone.
I was a columnist for the local newspaper and had been writing about my own Hepatitis C. For a year, I endured a clinical trial that was very much like chemotherapy. The niece told me Sally was afraid to have a liver biopsy, and wondered if I’d mind if her aunt called me.
As a result of my weekly column, many people you would never suspect to have this “dirty” disease often linked with injecting illegal drugs had come forward to either get tested and start treatment, or to simply thank me for giving voice to a condition about which so many are ashamed.
Like me, Sally had no idea how she’d gotten Hepatitis C. A diabetic, she wondered whether she’d been infected during a blood draw to check her sugar. I wondered whether it was a single acupuncture session for my herniated disk. I don’t remember, either, how Sally found out she had it. That I did was a lucky twist of fate.
I was symptom-free in 1995 (the liver is an “uncomplaining” organ) and covering a terrible story for a Cleveland television station. It was about a paramedic who, coming home from work, had flipped the light switch, not knowing that in the basement, the leaking furnace had filled the house with gas. A small spark from the switch triggered an explosion that blew him out the door into his backyard, burned over 75 percent of his body.
As the videographer and I swung into the parking lot at Metro Health Center, paramedics, firefighters and cops filled the waiting room and halls. Throughout the night, it was touch and go as their friend and co-worker needed so many transfusions that the hospital was starting to run out of platelets.
Two days later, the firefighters staged an emergency blood drive. I urged the TV station’s assignment editor to let me cover what was to me a poignant human interest story: the coming together as one of those whose occupations so often put them in harm’s way.
The first person I interviewed was the paramedic’s dad, a retired firefighter and, usually, self-contained stoic man. Now, with his son hovering at death’s door, he could barely hold back his tears. I talked, too, to the paramedic’s partner on the ambulance, a man so broken up he could barely speak.
When I learned that the paramedic’s blood type was O-negative, the same as mine, I set my reporter’s notebook aside - signing up on the spot to donate blood, despite my lifelong fear of needles.
God moves in mysterious ways.
Two weeks later, a letter from the Red Cross arrived. It said in bold capital letters across the top: “THIS IS NOT A LETTER ABOUT AIDS BUT … .” I was informed that my blood had tested positive for Hepatitis C and had been discarded. I was never again to give blood, the letter said, nor was I to be an organ donor. I thought about the organ donor sticker that had been on my driver’s license for many years.
A visit to my internist confirmed the diagnosis.
The paramedic made a slow recovery. I might have died but for that decision to give blood. That’s not to say I instantly started treatment. I didn’t. In 1995, despite country singer Naomi Judd’s success with Interferon for her Hepatitis C, for many, it meant terrible side effects, but no eradication of the virus. I had a young boy at home. I decided to wait until medicine could offer something better.
By 2001, though, I was feeling very fatigued. Regular monitoring of my liver enzymes – a barometer of how much damage the Hep C is doing in your liver – found that they were getting worse. My son was now 16. It was time.
Like Sally, the idea of a liver biopsy terrified me. It was, however, required of those who wanted to take part in a clinical trial being offered by the Cleveland Clinic. For the first time, those with Hepatitis C had a shot at a new “combination” therapy – a three-drug treatment it was hoped might up their odds of surviving what some call a silent epidemic.
The day of my biopsy, I was grateful to my doctor, head of the clinic’s gastroenterology department, for coming in early to hold my hand as the “routine” procedure was performed. I would later assure Sally it really wasn’t all that bad. When asked afterward if I needed pain relief, I truthfully answered, “No.”
The result, though, was pretty scary. Stage 3 liver fibrosis (scarring): bridging and portal. One stage away from full blown cirrhosis. I’d be starting the trial just in time.
For a year, I injected Pegylated Interferon into fatty tissue in my tummy once a week and took Ribavarin and Amantadine capsules every day. I lost 60 pounds and handfuls of hair and, by the 10th month, once failed to recognize a friend I saw at Kroger’s. At the same time the drugs were attacking the virus, healthy stuff was dying, too.
At night, I ached so much I couldn’t sleep. In the last month, the side effects were so bad that, with the approval of my research nurse, I started cutting back the dose of both the Interferon and the pills. It was either that, or just stop taking everything altogether.
I’d been getting the meds and supplies for free thanks to the clinical trial – a good thing because, otherwise, I couldn’t have afforded to get treated. Pegylated Interferon alone costs a fortune.
Once a month I’d drive the two hours to Cleveland to have eight vials of blood drawn to monitor my liver enzymes. I wasn’t allowed to take Advil during those 12 months (an anti-inflammatory, it could have skewed the results) – but that meant no relief for my osteoarthritis.
As I was going through my clinical trial, two very close friends were enduring what would prove to be their final unsuccessful round of chemotherapy – one for breast cancer, one for leukemia. We told each other that which we didn’t tell those we loved: We were in so much misery, we really didn’t care if we died, but we worried what would happen to those we left behind; in my case, my 16 year old son. My friends, farm wives, had both been married for more than 40 years.
Dolores and Shirley finally decided: No more chemo. One after the other, they passed away. At the end of my treatment, my blood work came back “clean.” No trace at all of the Hepatitis C. My enzymes were back to normal.
Every six months, I get the liver panel done. To date – and it’s been four years – I remain Hepatitis free. I’m a Type 2. Ninety percent of the Type 2s in the clinical trial had the same result. For Type 1’s, who are more resistant to treatment, the success rate was 60 percent. In the ’90s, when I was first diagnosed, Interferon, the sole drug available at the time, cleared the virus in only 10-15 percent of those treated for Hep C. I felt like a living miracle.
Sally, after we talked at length several times, did have her biopsy and started treatment. She’d waited too long. She died.
Dr. William Carey, my gastroenterologist, warned me often that the longer I waited, the more opportunity the virus had to “replicate” and become stronger.
Hep C is a quiet killer. Health officials estimate 4.1 million Americans are infected. Many are unaware. If you think there’s any chance you might have it, get tested. It could save your life.
For information on testing for Hepatitis C, contact your state or local health department.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her articles at www.hubpages.com. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Buy a NBD Car to Discourage Car Thieves
When the phone first rang, I thought it was the alarm and felt around for the snooze button. Four a.m. typically finds me sound asleep.
Eyes still closed, I fumbled the receiver off the hook. "Hullo?" I mumbled.
At first, hearing police scanners in the background, I thought it was the news desk at the TV station I was then working for in Denver. A deep male voice asked, "Is this Carol Bogart?" I was now awake. "Yes," I said warily. "This is the Denver Police Department," he informed me. "Do you have a Camaro?"
Damn.
"I don't know," I said. "Do I?"
The last I'd looked, my brand new cream-colored Berlinetta with charcoal trim was parked in the lot behind my high rise – a well-lit lot in a good-neighborhood. I'd parked it and its predecessor there without problems for a couple years.
It was gone.
A band of juvenile thieves had stolen four sports cars that night. Mine was stripped and every single thing in it stolen. These punks had smashed the overhead light so they could dismantle my dash undetected. Then, my low-slung car suffered lots of undercarriage damage during the high speed chase, sailing airborne over every bump in the road, landing again and again in a spray of sparks.
The police came and picked me up to go get it so I could drive it to the dealership for repairs. It sat idling some distance from my apartment. The kid who stole it was in the back of another cruiser as I walked toward my car. When I looked at him, he glared. The police couldn't turn my car off because the steering column had been stripped. Once off, it couldn't be restarted.
The cop had been telling me my Camaro had been in not one, but two, high speed chases. An alert officer had noticed the four teenage thieves lined up at a light around 1 a.m. in these brand new sports cars. They were in the left turn lane – but none had turn signals. This struck him as suspicious.
When he tried to pull them over, the four late model Camaros and TransAms shot through the light and the chase was on. The cop called in backup, and the four were finally pushed to the curb in a residential neighborhood.
The kid driving mine jumped out, ran, circled back, got back behind the wheel, and took off AGAIN!!!! The officer told me he'd had the pedal to the metal. "How did it do?" I asked, trying to keep the pride out of my voice. The cop shot me a wry look.
"Not as good as he hoped," he answered.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her articles at www.hubpages.com and her column at www.bloggernews.net. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Eyes still closed, I fumbled the receiver off the hook. "Hullo?" I mumbled.
At first, hearing police scanners in the background, I thought it was the news desk at the TV station I was then working for in Denver. A deep male voice asked, "Is this Carol Bogart?" I was now awake. "Yes," I said warily. "This is the Denver Police Department," he informed me. "Do you have a Camaro?"
Damn.
"I don't know," I said. "Do I?"
The last I'd looked, my brand new cream-colored Berlinetta with charcoal trim was parked in the lot behind my high rise – a well-lit lot in a good-neighborhood. I'd parked it and its predecessor there without problems for a couple years.
It was gone.
A band of juvenile thieves had stolen four sports cars that night. Mine was stripped and every single thing in it stolen. These punks had smashed the overhead light so they could dismantle my dash undetected. Then, my low-slung car suffered lots of undercarriage damage during the high speed chase, sailing airborne over every bump in the road, landing again and again in a spray of sparks.
The police came and picked me up to go get it so I could drive it to the dealership for repairs. It sat idling some distance from my apartment. The kid who stole it was in the back of another cruiser as I walked toward my car. When I looked at him, he glared. The police couldn't turn my car off because the steering column had been stripped. Once off, it couldn't be restarted.
The cop had been telling me my Camaro had been in not one, but two, high speed chases. An alert officer had noticed the four teenage thieves lined up at a light around 1 a.m. in these brand new sports cars. They were in the left turn lane – but none had turn signals. This struck him as suspicious.
When he tried to pull them over, the four late model Camaros and TransAms shot through the light and the chase was on. The cop called in backup, and the four were finally pushed to the curb in a residential neighborhood.
The kid driving mine jumped out, ran, circled back, got back behind the wheel, and took off AGAIN!!!! The officer told me he'd had the pedal to the metal. "How did it do?" I asked, trying to keep the pride out of my voice. The cop shot me a wry look.
"Not as good as he hoped," he answered.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her articles at www.hubpages.com and her column at www.bloggernews.net. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
War's Unseen Wounds
Soldiers with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Some months back I struck up an e-mail friendship with a 59-year-old Vietnam vet and he told me he has PTSD. I drew a blank. "`PTSD'? What's that?" I wondered.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he explained. "Ohhh. THAT." That I knew. Or so I thought. Years earlier, a psychologist told me rape victims frequently suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Makes you jumpy, she said. Prone to startle easily if, say, someone blows their car horn.
Beyond that, though, I've learned I really didn't have a clue. Didn't realize just how badly war's terrors can insinuate themselves into the souls of 18 and 19 year olds. Kids who watch buddies blown apart or burn to death, and wonder, minute to minute, if they'll be next.
Some, exceptionally sensitive like my friend, are consumed with guilt that men under their command were killed, but they made it back alive. Such relentless guilt and unremitting pain often seeks relief in alcohol or drugs. Even sober, the PTSD brain's capacity to feel goes numb – to keep the pain and guilt at bay.
The result: Destroyed marriages, estranged kids, lost jobs. In the case of far too many: Suicide.
At night, tangled feelings may re-emerge, manifesting as fitful sleep laced with frightening dreams. Panicked, drenched in sweat, the sufferer no longer sleeps. PTSD, the enemy lurking in the shadows.
For some, war's gory images are tattooed on their minds, the flashbacks an endless loop that constantly replays. Normal human interaction becomes something to avoid. That which is loved will someday die. Having lost emotional resilience, they have no faith they would survive.
In Washington, legislators are revisiting just what we, as a country, should do for veterans who suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The Wounded Warrior Assistance Act calls for better PTSD screening of those returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Such traumatized soldiers, it's agreed, should not be sent back into combat.
If their civilian lives start to fall apart, VA and Dept. of Defense mental health professionals need to coordinate the soldier's care. Now, too many solders in emotional agony aren't getting the help they need.
If their PTSD prevents them from functioning normally, such soldiers need prompt financial help, without the added stress of seeing their disability check blocked by the VA.
Some estimates are that as many as 15 percent of the soldiers returning from Iraq have PTSD. Others suggest that all of the returning vets have it to some degree.
It does not serve this country well to have allowed a man like my Vietnam vet friend to fall through the cracks. Although brilliant, he struggles daily to transcend the hand our country dealt him. Forty years after Vietnam, he's still in combat: battling for his VA pension.
If you believe, as I do, that this country's wounded warriors from all wars deserve our steadfast gratitude, you can write your representatives in support of the Wounded Warrior Assistance Act. Go to www.military.com and fill out the on-line form. Be sure to include your zip code. The site's sponsors will forward your letter to those who'll want your vote in the next election. To learn more about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, visit http://nam-vet.net/ptsdiwojimo.htm.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her columns at www.bloggernews.net and her articles at www.hubpages.com. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Some months back I struck up an e-mail friendship with a 59-year-old Vietnam vet and he told me he has PTSD. I drew a blank. "`PTSD'? What's that?" I wondered.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he explained. "Ohhh. THAT." That I knew. Or so I thought. Years earlier, a psychologist told me rape victims frequently suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Makes you jumpy, she said. Prone to startle easily if, say, someone blows their car horn.
Beyond that, though, I've learned I really didn't have a clue. Didn't realize just how badly war's terrors can insinuate themselves into the souls of 18 and 19 year olds. Kids who watch buddies blown apart or burn to death, and wonder, minute to minute, if they'll be next.
Some, exceptionally sensitive like my friend, are consumed with guilt that men under their command were killed, but they made it back alive. Such relentless guilt and unremitting pain often seeks relief in alcohol or drugs. Even sober, the PTSD brain's capacity to feel goes numb – to keep the pain and guilt at bay.
The result: Destroyed marriages, estranged kids, lost jobs. In the case of far too many: Suicide.
At night, tangled feelings may re-emerge, manifesting as fitful sleep laced with frightening dreams. Panicked, drenched in sweat, the sufferer no longer sleeps. PTSD, the enemy lurking in the shadows.
For some, war's gory images are tattooed on their minds, the flashbacks an endless loop that constantly replays. Normal human interaction becomes something to avoid. That which is loved will someday die. Having lost emotional resilience, they have no faith they would survive.
In Washington, legislators are revisiting just what we, as a country, should do for veterans who suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The Wounded Warrior Assistance Act calls for better PTSD screening of those returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Such traumatized soldiers, it's agreed, should not be sent back into combat.
If their civilian lives start to fall apart, VA and Dept. of Defense mental health professionals need to coordinate the soldier's care. Now, too many solders in emotional agony aren't getting the help they need.
If their PTSD prevents them from functioning normally, such soldiers need prompt financial help, without the added stress of seeing their disability check blocked by the VA.
Some estimates are that as many as 15 percent of the soldiers returning from Iraq have PTSD. Others suggest that all of the returning vets have it to some degree.
It does not serve this country well to have allowed a man like my Vietnam vet friend to fall through the cracks. Although brilliant, he struggles daily to transcend the hand our country dealt him. Forty years after Vietnam, he's still in combat: battling for his VA pension.
If you believe, as I do, that this country's wounded warriors from all wars deserve our steadfast gratitude, you can write your representatives in support of the Wounded Warrior Assistance Act. Go to www.military.com and fill out the on-line form. Be sure to include your zip code. The site's sponsors will forward your letter to those who'll want your vote in the next election. To learn more about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, visit http://nam-vet.net/ptsdiwojimo.htm.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her columns at www.bloggernews.net and her articles at www.hubpages.com. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Footloose and Free
Becoming a "city" dog was a big adjustment for a dog who spent the first 11 years of his life chasing woodchucks in the soybean field. Since moving to California from our Ohio farm, Dodger grudgingly adapted to walks tethered to a leash. Feeling sorry for him, hoping he'd just nose around in the leaves at his feet, I once unhooked his collar when we were almost home from our evening walk. He was off like a shot.
A nice young man collared him just after Dodger narrowly missed being clipped by a car. As I rushed up to retrieve my errant canine, I apologized. "Every time I let him off the leash," I said, "he abuses the privilege." Nodding as he released him, the man said, "Don't we all."
Because Dodger had always enjoyed fetching a stick thrown into the pond and creek at the farm (he's part lab – and a host of other breeds), when we first moved to California, I took him to a nearby lake late in the afternoon, hid him behind a bush and unhooked his leash. Then, I pitched a green tennis ball as far as I could out into the water. Joyfully he brought it back to me time after time. Finally, weary, I told him, "One more time and it's time to go."
I threw the ball.
Dodger swam and got it – brought it back to shore on the diagonal and trotted off down the beach. No amount of whistling, promises of treats or threats of violence could dissuade him. He had his eye on a big black dog at the top of the hill. A legal dog on a leash.
As I rounded a bend on the walking trail, hot on his heels – an elderly man seated on a bench lifted his cane in an unkind way and said sternly, "Dogs have to be on a leash here." I lifted my guilty hand around which the leash was wrapped, said, "I'm trying," and kept on going.
I understood what was in Dodger's mind. Only a month before we moved, his best friend since puppyhood had been put to sleep when hip dysplasia left Bo no longer able to get up. The two had been inseparable for more than a decade. From a distance, to Dodger's aging eyes, the big black dog at the top of the hill looked like Bo.
Although the dog's owners were unfazed by Dodger's hopeful sniffing, I quickly attached leash to collar and led him to the car. And that was it. No more outings off the leash for Dodger.
We've played many a "bring me the ball" game in the confines of the living room, but, of course, it's not the same.
Recently, with Dodger sprawled in the back seat, I went to restock the bags of birdseed. First I stopped at the bank, and then decided to try a different route than the usual. The exploration drew me back to an area I remembered where, without Dodger, I had once stumbled upon an off-leash dog park.
I'd read about such parks. Most of what I read said the dogs and owners who use them are regulars, all know each other, and there are few to no encounters of the snarling kind. Not certain how Dodger would behave with a bevy of strange dogs, I hadn't chanced it.
The weather was so nice that I was in the mood to spend a little time outdoors. Cautiously I led him into the park – on a very tight leash. Boisterous smiling dogs bounded up, made his acquaintance and bounded off. The fenced in area even had a wide perimeter of woods and trails. After a few minutes, I turned him loose. I've rarely seen him so excited.
The young dogs seemed to understand that Dodger is a codger and didn't try to include him in their rough and tumble doggie games. The park was, though, littered with well-used tennis balls. As I gripped a gritty, drippy surface to throw one for Dodger, I thought, "yuk." Tennis balls thrown in living rooms stay relatively clean. This one, I couldn't let go of fast enough. In his limping gait, Dodger chased it down, picked it up – and stopped. Brow furrowed he promptly spit it out. "Bleghhhh!!" his expression seemed to say.
Mostly, he just meandered. In and out of the woods, occasionally wending his way back for a reassuring pat to where I was seated on a picnic table. While he meandered, I watched a large yellow swallowtail butterfly dip up and down across the open space, and a hummingbird buzz a nearby tree trunk, sipping out hidden moisture.
A dog loped up to an owner seated near me, leash in mouth, as if to say, "OK, let's go." I decided to retrieve my must-now-be-tired dog.
This time, Dodger made no move to lope away. Tired, yes. Tired, content and happy.
Today, my dear old dog, now 15, is living out the remainder of his life with a friend who manages a wildlife habitat in the California Delta. No more leashes. Free to roam wherever his nose may take him. A farm dog again - at last.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her articles at www.hubpages.com. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
A nice young man collared him just after Dodger narrowly missed being clipped by a car. As I rushed up to retrieve my errant canine, I apologized. "Every time I let him off the leash," I said, "he abuses the privilege." Nodding as he released him, the man said, "Don't we all."
Because Dodger had always enjoyed fetching a stick thrown into the pond and creek at the farm (he's part lab – and a host of other breeds), when we first moved to California, I took him to a nearby lake late in the afternoon, hid him behind a bush and unhooked his leash. Then, I pitched a green tennis ball as far as I could out into the water. Joyfully he brought it back to me time after time. Finally, weary, I told him, "One more time and it's time to go."
I threw the ball.
Dodger swam and got it – brought it back to shore on the diagonal and trotted off down the beach. No amount of whistling, promises of treats or threats of violence could dissuade him. He had his eye on a big black dog at the top of the hill. A legal dog on a leash.
As I rounded a bend on the walking trail, hot on his heels – an elderly man seated on a bench lifted his cane in an unkind way and said sternly, "Dogs have to be on a leash here." I lifted my guilty hand around which the leash was wrapped, said, "I'm trying," and kept on going.
I understood what was in Dodger's mind. Only a month before we moved, his best friend since puppyhood had been put to sleep when hip dysplasia left Bo no longer able to get up. The two had been inseparable for more than a decade. From a distance, to Dodger's aging eyes, the big black dog at the top of the hill looked like Bo.
Although the dog's owners were unfazed by Dodger's hopeful sniffing, I quickly attached leash to collar and led him to the car. And that was it. No more outings off the leash for Dodger.
We've played many a "bring me the ball" game in the confines of the living room, but, of course, it's not the same.
Recently, with Dodger sprawled in the back seat, I went to restock the bags of birdseed. First I stopped at the bank, and then decided to try a different route than the usual. The exploration drew me back to an area I remembered where, without Dodger, I had once stumbled upon an off-leash dog park.
I'd read about such parks. Most of what I read said the dogs and owners who use them are regulars, all know each other, and there are few to no encounters of the snarling kind. Not certain how Dodger would behave with a bevy of strange dogs, I hadn't chanced it.
The weather was so nice that I was in the mood to spend a little time outdoors. Cautiously I led him into the park – on a very tight leash. Boisterous smiling dogs bounded up, made his acquaintance and bounded off. The fenced in area even had a wide perimeter of woods and trails. After a few minutes, I turned him loose. I've rarely seen him so excited.
The young dogs seemed to understand that Dodger is a codger and didn't try to include him in their rough and tumble doggie games. The park was, though, littered with well-used tennis balls. As I gripped a gritty, drippy surface to throw one for Dodger, I thought, "yuk." Tennis balls thrown in living rooms stay relatively clean. This one, I couldn't let go of fast enough. In his limping gait, Dodger chased it down, picked it up – and stopped. Brow furrowed he promptly spit it out. "Bleghhhh!!" his expression seemed to say.
Mostly, he just meandered. In and out of the woods, occasionally wending his way back for a reassuring pat to where I was seated on a picnic table. While he meandered, I watched a large yellow swallowtail butterfly dip up and down across the open space, and a hummingbird buzz a nearby tree trunk, sipping out hidden moisture.
A dog loped up to an owner seated near me, leash in mouth, as if to say, "OK, let's go." I decided to retrieve my must-now-be-tired dog.
This time, Dodger made no move to lope away. Tired, yes. Tired, content and happy.
Today, my dear old dog, now 15, is living out the remainder of his life with a friend who manages a wildlife habitat in the California Delta. No more leashes. Free to roam wherever his nose may take him. A farm dog again - at last.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her articles at www.hubpages.com. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Rural America - A Simpler Time
As a kid growing up on a farm, fireflies, bright stars at night and homegrown vegetables and fruit were just a given. For many generations, farming figured large in our family.
My dad grew up on an Ohio dairy farm. As a small boy, he perched on a stool in a darkened barn, keeping my grandfather company each morning as he milked the cows.
My Aunt Nettie, 87, still mows the paths between fruit trees in orchards that have supplied fruit for Gerber's apple sauce for half a century.
After dad went into business for himself at age 50, he found and bought a farm for the three of us when I was 10. The first thing he did was clear a space between the house and barn for a big garden, one that proved productive with its well-drained sandy soil.
At harvest time (Ohio growing seasons are, of course, much shorter than those here in California), mom and I would pick and put up the produce.
She made jams, jellies, tomato sauce and juice, dried corn and frozen vegetables from scratch. Many a late summer/early fall day would find mom, my Aunt Mabel, gramma and me sitting around the gatelegged kitchen table – shelling peas, peeling peaches, snapping beans – and just "visiting."
The sugar content in just-picked corn means a taste treat it's impossible to duplicate. As little as two hours between picking and putting it on the table can make a difference. Homegrown tomatoes have a sweetness and texture all their own as well.
Other crops, like potatoes, aren't quite as touchy, but one of the season's treasures are the tiny new potatoes hidden amongst the big ones. Harvesting potatoes, a root crop maturing under the plant in a mound of dirt, is fun. A potato fork is placed carefully just at the edge of the mound so as not to spear any as they're uprooted. Mom used to braise the marble-to-golf-ball sized baby potatoes in butter, sprinkle them with parsley and dole them out democratically at dinner. They were coveted by all.
I still have the last lidded glass Ball jar of dried corn mom put up in 1988 (she died in 1989). I keep it as a memento of my childhood. Drying corn dates back to the days before refrigeration. With sharp paring knives, Gramma, mom and I would slice the kernels off the slightly cooked ears of cooling corn, careful to scrape the ears so as not to waste any of the sweet core of the kernels or milky liquid.
On the stove, placed across the burners, were mom's ancient tin corn driers. Water boiled in the hollow space in the bottom of the driers. The kernels were spread across their wide flat tops. Long after gramma had gone home and I'd gone to bed, mom was up throughout the night, checking on the dehydrating corn, turning it every two hours or so to make sure it didn't scorch.
The result was a carmelized corn that, when rehydrated with milk, salt and butter, has a unique, nutty taste – one prized by three generations of Bogarts. I expect my gramma learned how to dry corn from her mother, who may have learned it from my great-great-gramma Fell – who may have learned it as a girl in Scotland.
These idyllic memories are a reminder that not so long ago, food wasn't bought in stores. We sowed and reaped and lived off the land.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her columns at www.bloggernews.net. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
My dad grew up on an Ohio dairy farm. As a small boy, he perched on a stool in a darkened barn, keeping my grandfather company each morning as he milked the cows.
My Aunt Nettie, 87, still mows the paths between fruit trees in orchards that have supplied fruit for Gerber's apple sauce for half a century.
After dad went into business for himself at age 50, he found and bought a farm for the three of us when I was 10. The first thing he did was clear a space between the house and barn for a big garden, one that proved productive with its well-drained sandy soil.
At harvest time (Ohio growing seasons are, of course, much shorter than those here in California), mom and I would pick and put up the produce.
She made jams, jellies, tomato sauce and juice, dried corn and frozen vegetables from scratch. Many a late summer/early fall day would find mom, my Aunt Mabel, gramma and me sitting around the gatelegged kitchen table – shelling peas, peeling peaches, snapping beans – and just "visiting."
The sugar content in just-picked corn means a taste treat it's impossible to duplicate. As little as two hours between picking and putting it on the table can make a difference. Homegrown tomatoes have a sweetness and texture all their own as well.
Other crops, like potatoes, aren't quite as touchy, but one of the season's treasures are the tiny new potatoes hidden amongst the big ones. Harvesting potatoes, a root crop maturing under the plant in a mound of dirt, is fun. A potato fork is placed carefully just at the edge of the mound so as not to spear any as they're uprooted. Mom used to braise the marble-to-golf-ball sized baby potatoes in butter, sprinkle them with parsley and dole them out democratically at dinner. They were coveted by all.
I still have the last lidded glass Ball jar of dried corn mom put up in 1988 (she died in 1989). I keep it as a memento of my childhood. Drying corn dates back to the days before refrigeration. With sharp paring knives, Gramma, mom and I would slice the kernels off the slightly cooked ears of cooling corn, careful to scrape the ears so as not to waste any of the sweet core of the kernels or milky liquid.
On the stove, placed across the burners, were mom's ancient tin corn driers. Water boiled in the hollow space in the bottom of the driers. The kernels were spread across their wide flat tops. Long after gramma had gone home and I'd gone to bed, mom was up throughout the night, checking on the dehydrating corn, turning it every two hours or so to make sure it didn't scorch.
The result was a carmelized corn that, when rehydrated with milk, salt and butter, has a unique, nutty taste – one prized by three generations of Bogarts. I expect my gramma learned how to dry corn from her mother, who may have learned it from my great-great-gramma Fell – who may have learned it as a girl in Scotland.
These idyllic memories are a reminder that not so long ago, food wasn't bought in stores. We sowed and reaped and lived off the land.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer/editor. Read her columns at www.bloggernews.net. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Sushi – the New Health Food?
I remember the first time a Denver friend suggested we go out for sushi. Not wishing to appear unadventurous, I acquiesced – but had zero idea which of several disgusting uncooked options to order.
"Try the California Roll," she said. "Everybody likes that." So that's what I ordered. And was immediately turned off by the bitter seaweed it was rolled with. Yuk, I thought. How on earth can anybody eat this stuff?
It was instantly clear that requesting a fork would brand me as singularly lacking in sophistication, so I listened intently as my friend demonstrated and explained the proper use of chopsticks. When, eventually, I could pretty adroitly use this new utensil to pick up a single grain of cooked rice, I felt very worldly. Fast fact: "Sushi" is vinegared or seasoned rice – not fish.
Today, I do like maguro (raw tuna), and wasabi (Japanese green horseradish), and I'm especially fond of the blush-colored pickled ginger (which there never seems to be enough of). That's it, though. Nothing else. Mike, my son and I, once included a friend of his when we went out for sushi, and were highly amused when, thinking it was safe to order soup; he was presented with a dish that contained a raw egg. He would have been much happier with a cheeseburger.
Recent research indicates that sushi has health benefits. Besides being low in fat, cholesterol and calories, raw fish is high in omega-3 fatty acids, which lower the risk of blood clots and decrease triglyceride levels, meaning it's healthy for your heart and may even have benefits for Type II diabetics. CNN reports there's a new study that says people who ate just one serving of fish a week dramatically reduced their chances of cardiac arrest.
That seaweed I hate is rich in micronutrients – in other words, nutrients needed only in miniscule amounts, like iron, manganese and zinc. It also, like all plants, contains phytochemicals, which may help prevent everything from colds to cancer. One caveat: both seaweed and soy sauce can be high in salt. Not good for pregnant women or people with high blood pressure.
The flip side is that raw anything can harbor bacteria, and some fish is high in mercury.
Now here's a personal anecdote. Some years back when I was diagnosed with Hepatitis C and had no idea how I'd been exposed; a paramedic friend asked whether I eat a lot of sushi. I said yes. By then, and for several years, my son and I had been going out for sushi at least once a week.
"That's probably it, then," he told me. He pointed out that if a sushi chef, while cutting slices of, say, maguro, nicks a finger tip, a drop of virus-contaminated blood can contaminate the uncooked fish.
Not too appetizing, is it? Even so, I'd by lying if I told you I gave up sushi. MSG (monosodium glutamate) is often used to keep such foods fresh. Some studies say MSG's addictive. Personally, I think it's the pickled ginger.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer. Read her columns at www.bloggernews.net. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
"Try the California Roll," she said. "Everybody likes that." So that's what I ordered. And was immediately turned off by the bitter seaweed it was rolled with. Yuk, I thought. How on earth can anybody eat this stuff?
It was instantly clear that requesting a fork would brand me as singularly lacking in sophistication, so I listened intently as my friend demonstrated and explained the proper use of chopsticks. When, eventually, I could pretty adroitly use this new utensil to pick up a single grain of cooked rice, I felt very worldly. Fast fact: "Sushi" is vinegared or seasoned rice – not fish.
Today, I do like maguro (raw tuna), and wasabi (Japanese green horseradish), and I'm especially fond of the blush-colored pickled ginger (which there never seems to be enough of). That's it, though. Nothing else. Mike, my son and I, once included a friend of his when we went out for sushi, and were highly amused when, thinking it was safe to order soup; he was presented with a dish that contained a raw egg. He would have been much happier with a cheeseburger.
Recent research indicates that sushi has health benefits. Besides being low in fat, cholesterol and calories, raw fish is high in omega-3 fatty acids, which lower the risk of blood clots and decrease triglyceride levels, meaning it's healthy for your heart and may even have benefits for Type II diabetics. CNN reports there's a new study that says people who ate just one serving of fish a week dramatically reduced their chances of cardiac arrest.
That seaweed I hate is rich in micronutrients – in other words, nutrients needed only in miniscule amounts, like iron, manganese and zinc. It also, like all plants, contains phytochemicals, which may help prevent everything from colds to cancer. One caveat: both seaweed and soy sauce can be high in salt. Not good for pregnant women or people with high blood pressure.
The flip side is that raw anything can harbor bacteria, and some fish is high in mercury.
Now here's a personal anecdote. Some years back when I was diagnosed with Hepatitis C and had no idea how I'd been exposed; a paramedic friend asked whether I eat a lot of sushi. I said yes. By then, and for several years, my son and I had been going out for sushi at least once a week.
"That's probably it, then," he told me. He pointed out that if a sushi chef, while cutting slices of, say, maguro, nicks a finger tip, a drop of virus-contaminated blood can contaminate the uncooked fish.
Not too appetizing, is it? Even so, I'd by lying if I told you I gave up sushi. MSG (monosodium glutamate) is often used to keep such foods fresh. Some studies say MSG's addictive. Personally, I think it's the pickled ginger.
Carol Bogart is a freelance writer. Read her columns at www.bloggernews.net. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.
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