Columns
Jim Atwell: Keep on your toes!
Every Thanksgiving I
think of Huw Lewis-Jones
of Liverpool, England. He’s
a cousin of my late first
wife, and he and his wife
Catherine, both doctors,
are dear friends to Anne
and me.
Huw’s a radiologist, and
he comes to mind at
Thanksgiving because of a
radiological truism he
shared with me. (Thanksgiving,
by the way, has been
imported to England as a
holiday, complete with traditional
meal, Pilgrims, Indians,
etc. Go figure. . .)
Huw says that, just before
Thanksgiving and again
just before Christmas, he
and other x-ray docs see a
rash of patients with broken
toes and sometimes
squashed feet.
Why? Because people
have lost their grip on a frozen
turkey and dropped it,
a dozen pounds or much
more, smack on a foot. One
foot, if they’re lucky.
For comparison, think of
the average ten-pin bowling
ball, about ten pounds.
Dropped from chest height,
imagine what that that
would do to your toes or
metatarsals. (I saw that
happen once at a bowling
alley. The guy’s howl sounded
like a chainsaw.) Now,
imagine a solidly frozen
turkey weighing half again
as much, or twice as much.
Oh, my. That could take
the edge off a holiday.
The above, then, is a
caution, courtesy of Cousin
Huw, who, though he and
Cath practice in Liverpool,
is a 100% Welshman. He’s
a native son of Dolgellau, a
name not pronounced nearly
as the letters would suggest.
Its last syllable, a
``thee,’’ must be expelled
out both sides of one’s
mouth. I can’t say it yet
without spattering standers-
by.
Like most Welshmen,
Huw’s a gifted story-teller
and, God bless him, loves to
make himself the butt of
the stories. Here’s a memorable
one that I once shared
in part with you:
Huw, then a young dad
of Tom and Gareth, five
and three respectively, was
driving them home from
playschool. They were secure
in their car seats, and
between them were their
two Border collie puppies,
Moss and Meg. (I knew the
dogs in their later years,
both of them still rollicking
and puppy-like. And the
boys, now both in college,
grew up just fine, too.)
As Huw tells the story,
he was driving along happily,
humming to himself,
with suddenly Tom spoke
from the back seat. I should
add that both boys, growing
up in Liverpool, always
sound to me uncannily like
the Beatles: that odd Liverpudlian
monotone, with a
drop of a minor third on
each sentence’s last syllable.
It was in such a voice
that Tom spoke:
``Dad, the dog is going to
be sick.’’ The drop in pitch
on ``sick’’ made the prospect
seem even worse.
Huw, though a doctor, is
self-admittedly squeamish.
His first reaction was to
minimize. ``Now, Thomas,
he’ll be all right. Just lower
the window a bit and give
him some air.’’ But then:
``Dad! He’s going to
spew!’’ And Huw, wincing,
heard the sound every dog
owner knows, that convulsive
``Erk! Erk! that makes
them snatch the puppy up
from the carpet and plop
him, at very least, on a floor
of vinyl or tile.’’ But, too
late:
``Dad!’’ came Tom’s
mournful, frightened cry.
``Dad, he’s spewing on the
floor!’’ And worse: ``Dad! It’s
worms! Dad, he’s spewing
worms!’’
Cringing, Huw glanced
into the mirror. His two little
boys were pasted against
the far sides of their car
seats, right up against the
windows. Tom himself was
now gulping and hiccupping,
and little Gareth was
sobbing and wailing, both
at once.
Well, Dad pulled over on
the road’s verge, as they
say, and unwillingly opened
the back door. On the floor,
at his poor boys’ feet, was a
tangled mass of strands of
white, mixed in some red
liquid that Huw tried to ignore.
With gritted teeth,
the poor man bent up the
sides of the floor mat and,
holding his breath, carried
it over to some shrubbery.
Then he upended it and
cleaned as best he could on
the grass. He then put it in
the car’s boot.
On the way home, Huw
stopped at a market and
comforted the boys and
himself with ice lollies; we
call them popsicles. Then
he drove home and loosed
the still sober boys and the
rollicking dogs into the
back garden.
Catherine was in the
kichen. Lovely Cath, who
now manages Liverpool’s
largest Hospice with serene
grace. She was stirring up
supper. Huw, still whitefaced,
sank into a chair.
She glanced at him and
said, ``What on earth is
wrong, Huw?’’ She knew it
wasn’t the boys since she’d
seen them out the window,
now restored and chasing
the dogs.
``Oh, Cath, it was horrible!’’
gasped Huw, hoping
for a big outpouring of sympathy.
``We were driving
home and — and Moss
spewed on the floor, right
in front of poor Tom and
Gareth. And, Cath, it was
worms! Awful, squiggly
worms, in some sort of reddish
effluent! And I had to
clean it up!’’ Huw has an
actor’s face, and he looked
at her with woeful eyes. ``I
almost gagged, too,’’ he
added, still waiting for
``Poor baby!’’ or the British
equivalent.
Cath sat down beside
him, smiling. ``Huw,’’ she
said evenly, ``you’re a dear
man, but a proper fool
sometimes. The dogs’
breakfast this morning was
last night’s spaghetti Bolognese.’’
No need to say more. Every
husband knows how
Huw felt. But never mind.
He’s still a very bright man
and gives excellent advice.
And so, remember his
warning and, when you lift
that heavy turkey out of
the freezer, use a damp
dishtowel. It will adhere to
the plastic wrapper and
give you a secure grip. And
pay close heed to what
you’re doing.
Keep on your toes, and
you’ll keep your toes on!
(That last advice is mine,
not Huw’s.)
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com
- Columns
-
-
From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
(I owe the first part of this column to an informal writers’ workshop sponsored by the Smithy Pioneer Gallery. The small group, led by Gallery Director Danielle Newell, meets Sunday afternoons and is open to anyone interested in the writing craft. As a warmup exercise on that very rainy afternoon, we each wrote a few paragraphs on the weather and emotions. Here’s what that keen group prompted me to scribble down) The dour old Scotsman, the one featured in jokes without number about buying lottery tickets, pinching pennies, scorning worldly ways, etc., once silenced a friend who was praising the beautiful weather.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: We're back from Michigan ...
Unfortunately, we once again find ourselves stuck in a time warp. When we look at the calendar, we realize that Labor Day is fast approaching. Yet, we seem to be operating under the misconception that it is still early July due in large part to the fact that we spent the almost five weeks from July 15 to August 17 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. We feel the summer has sailed by and we, unfortunately, have not kept pace.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Censorship?
All those indebted to John Lawrence, Post-rider, and do not settle the same IMMEDIATELY may rely upon having to pay cost!! Otego, Aug. 24.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: 1984 comes to a close ... finally
As we continue traipsing through 1984, we realize that even though we were supposed to be covering the comings and goings of Cooperstown, we actually were able, even then, to touch on a number of pressing community, as well as personal, issues. Of course, much to the relief of the powers that were at CCS, the school was not among them. The he-we ran for the school board in 1984 and was elected. Thus the school was deemed off limits by the powers that were at the paper. But we discovered there was still a wide range of issues upon which we could write.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: New school book
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, Aug. 18, 1810
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Books offer tennis insights
Professional tennis sometimes seems to be the ultimate life. Where else could you travel the world, earn gobs of money, get in great shape, and have groupies from the opposite sex chasing you all the time? And you get all your equipment free to boot (which may explain why players smash racquets without remorse). Quite a glamorous life, isn’t it?
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Continuing our 1984 musings
Now that we have undertaken the beginnings of this column, we fear we find ourselves unable to stop our review of the early writings. In fact, we seem to be completely addicted to the project. And thus, we will continue to explore the very foundations on which this column has been built.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Burnett's book recalls 'Golden Age'
It’s a shame that today’s young generation missed the golden age of television from the 1960s and 70s. The fact that Hollywood studios with their ``original’’ ideas of constantly remaking hit TV shows from that era into new movies and reunion specials is quite telling. Even Fox with its ``That 70’s Show’’ is a reminder of that whimsical time.
Continued ... -
Home Notes: A place to cherish
As we enter into the middle of summer, let us pause and relish in the fact that we have been blessed with such lovely weather.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Hurray for Mother Bassett!
Just back from my annual week at Lake George’s Silver Bay, in company with about 600 other Quakers. As always, it was a great time: Friends shared silence in the early morning by the lake and during the day in the big brown-shingled tabernacle. (Silver Bay is an old YMCA camp.)
Continued ...
Plenty of fine stringed music and singing in the evenings; lots of daytime rocking-chair stints on the deep veranda, facing across rolling lawns and lake to green mountains and skies of startling blue. -
In These Otsego Hills: In the beginning
Our remembering Jerry in last week’s column has now lead us to muse about our early days of writing a weekly newspaper column.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Prohibition should not be ignored
I was an American history major in college and one topic that my professors never discussed was prohibition.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Elopement
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 21, 1810 Compiled, with comments BY HUGH C. MACDOUGALL
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Personal Care is a rewarding occupation
When I was a young girl in the early 50’s my family would often take rides through Cooperstown and the Cherry Valley area.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Remembering Jerry ...
Difficult as it is to believe, we have been a widow for eleven years this week. And yet it seems as if our late husband Jerry just died yesterday. The memory of it remains most vivid in our mind. We suppose there is much that we don’t remember about July 20, 1999. But we do remember just how much that day changed our life forever. We lost not only our spouse of 28 years, but also our best friend.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Celebrating the 4th
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 14, 1810 Compiled, with comments by
Continued ... -
Our Opinion: What’s good for the goose...
The board of trustees has decided to hire an engineer to review the work of CLA Site, the firm hired to do the site assessment and design work for the Village Gateway Project _ now known as the Cooperstown Intermodal Transit Project. That review will cost up to $12,000.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: ‘Thump-thump, dum-lum’
Since I last wrote to you I’ve been several times embraced to Mother Bassett’s bosom.
Continued ...
(Oh dear, I hope that’s not a disrespectful metaphor. But if you’ve seen photos, you know she was a handsome, dignified woman with an ample superstructure.) This time, for variety, the hospital visits at first seemed to have little to do with Parkinsonism. But a new problem had turned up that had me tested in every part of the hospital except obstetrics. -
In These Otsego Hills: Travels with The Widge...
We have decided that the role of grandmother is quite to our liking. As we have been told any number of times, as a grandparent it is perfectly acceptable to hold, play with and fawn over the grandchild until such time as said grandchild becomes fussy. And then, and this is the best part, it is completely within the purview of the grandparent to return the fussy grandchild to the parents. We love it.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Shocking accident, American arrested
On Wednesday last, as Joseph Faulkner, esq. of Middlefield, was returning home from Cherry-Valley, a gust of wind arose up suddenly, a large Elm was blown across the road, directly on Mr. Faulkner, who, together with his horse was instantly killed.
Continued ...
-
From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
