Happy Birthday, Tamara

      Tam is [undisclosed] years old today!

      And remember, dear friend, a restaurant can have a senior discount even if they don't have a senior menu.

Merry Christmas!

      Here's the happiest and best of Christmas -- and other holiday -- wishes to you and yours, 

      As ever, I will gratefully accept (and return) whatever sort of seasonal good wishes you are comfortable sharing.  Practically every religion and culture has some kind of holiday on or about the longest night of the year (or shortest, for those of you on the other side of the Equator).  Parts of the planet that get serious winter weather have well-established traditions and rituals.  Nearly all of them include sharing hopes for a pleasant winter and year to follow, and only the meanest of souls would reject such an offering.

      Happy holidays is among the most inclusive sentiments, for all that some people get grumpy about it.  I don't care where, how or if you worship; I just want to wish you well.

Keep On Staying Okay, Please

      Stay okay wherever you go:

      Even after you push the button to make the silhouette man walk thataway.

Locally Grown Gardens Is Closing

      It's a sad day.  By the end of this week, Broad Ripple's Locally Grown Gardens will be gone.  They've been my go-to source for genuine Indiana sugar cream pie since they started baking and there was always something interesting there, from imported French tableware to spices and oils no one else sold.

      The business -- a combined vegetable stand, pie bakery, restaurant, and so on (and on -- morels, free-range eggs, wonderful and obscure soft drinks) -- was a labor of love for chef Ron Harris and a shining gem of the neighborhood.  We even had a Blogmeet there in 2009.

      Ron's been coping with Parkinson's Disease (there's still no cure and it just keep progressing), the lease on his wonderful location next to the Monon Trail is up, and he has decided that it's time to turn to smaller ventures.  Locally Grown Gardens will be greatly missed; I hope Ron will stay in touch.

Thankful

      Mostly, today I'm thankful things aren't worse.  Because they certainly could be.

      I'm not going to give you some kind of lecture.  This isn't a day for speeches or essays.  It's a day for remembering what's good, and embracing it.

      The world could be a lot worse off than it is today.  I could be a lot worse off.  We're not.  I'm not.  Some of that is through our own efforts -- and some of it is sheer dumb luck.

      We're squeaking through.  And that's a whole lot better than not squeaking through.  Humanity has done it a lot of times.  My ancestors and yours did so a lot of times.  We have probably done so ourselves, more than once.  Maybe we're not especially elegant or graceful about it; maybe, as a species and as individuals, we don't always do the very best thing.  But we get through.

      And I'm extremely thankful for that.

An Expedition

     I went to the big-box building-suppply store today.  First big store I have been in since the coronavirus stuff started.

     It was....different.  The parking lot looked pretty full and I almost turned around and went back home.  On closer sight, the parking lot was much smaller; the garden department has been moved outdoors, and it was surrounded by closely-parked cars.  That's where most of the people were.

     It was lumber I was after, at the other end of the building.  The lot was not even half full over there. 

     Inside, people were keeping their distance, but pleasantly enough.  Nearly everyone was masked.  A couple of African-American men -- father and adult son, for a guess, and busy working modifying their project to suit the available materials -- and I were the only people in the aisle where all the plain boards are kept, and we kind of danced around each other, keeping our distance.  I was gloved up, work gloves, lumber not being very hand friendly, and so were they.  When the older man asked to borrow my tape measure (don't visit the lumber department without one!), I was happy to help.  Arms-length to arm's-lengths and returned the same way, with what I think we both hoped were readable as smiles despite our masks.

     Life goes on.  Most people want to get along the those around them.  Nobody was swapping stink-eye or making comments, not even between the masked and the maskless.

     Tomorrow, I've got a project to start.  I hope it goes well.  

Managing The Mindspace

     Yesterday, after tough talk from the President to state Governors encouraging harsh response to civil unrest, and after violent incidents all across the country, a large group of protestors on Monument Circle in downtown Indianapolis decided to march to our Governor's residence.

     They started about a half-hour prior to the city's 8:00 p.m. curfew.  Monument Circle, the zero point for addresses and street numbers, is right on Meridian.  The official residence of the Governor of Indiana is on Merdian, too, a deceptively-small-looking and notably unfenced home at 46th Street.  It's just about a five-mile walk.

     With only a half-hour, there was no way a large and assorted group of people was going to complete that walk before the curfew began, especially walking up the single major north-south thoroughfare through Indianapolis.

     The Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Force mobilized.  They showed up in full battle-rattle, helmets with face shields, armor, gloves, and armed with every modern crowd-control tool, from batons to tear gas along with their normal sidearms.  They formed a deep line across Meridian and when the marchers neared the Governor's residence at 8:30, the police stopped the marchers cold.

     IMPD ordered them to disperse within the next ten minutes.  The marchers stood fast and chanted slogans.  There was some yelling back and forth.  The police were much better armed -- and enormously outnumbered.

     It looked bad.  Someone -- a lot of someones -- was going to get hurt.

     Deputy Mayor Dr. David Hampton, a man I had never heard of before today, stepped in as a negotiator.  What did the marchers actually want?  There was a brief huddle between the Deputy Mayor, high-ranking police officers, and the people at the forefront of the marchers.

     And then something happened.  I'm not sure who started it, but the chanting changed, coalescing on one slogan, over and over, spreading through the crowd:

     "Walk with us!  Walk with us!"

     The huddle of police and marchers dissolved into fist-bumps and shoulder slaps; the line of contact between police and marchers broke out in handshakes and even hugs, social distancing notwithstanding.*  You could see the strain easing in expressions and postures.  The police were still wary and the marchers were still upset, but they appeared to be seeing one another as people instead of symbols or threats.

     The police and protestors marched the rest of the way to the Governors house intermingled.  The protestors agreed to disperse afterward, and police walked with them back downtown to their cars.

     No one got hurt.  There were no riots in Indianapolis last night.  There was no looting.

     I'm proud of the people of my city.

     Sure, nothing big got solved last night; but everyone made room to move forward.  It's a start.
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* We may see a second wave of infections as a result of the protests and especially the riots.  If so, I'd rather have people spread it by hugging than by getting tear gassed, fighting with police and being thrown into a crowded lockup.  YMMV, but the only choices are between "bad" and "much worse."

Memorial Day

     Today is the day we remember the fallen military personnel -- the vast majority of them young, the vast majority of them without any real grasp of mortality until, suddenly, they were in the midst of it.  They did their duty.  They did their work and they did not return from it; or they returned shattered, and later perished from it.

     They're gone.  There is nothing you can do for them save remember them, respect them and the terrible price they paid.  Few were philosophers, most could not have given you a grand overview of the conflict that killed them; they stepped up, did as well as they could and died.

     We should work to keep that from happening without dire need -- and we should never forget what they and we have lost.   

2020: The Year Without

     1816 was "The Year Without A Summer."   Tamara and I have been calling 2020 "The Year Without...."  Without toilet paper, without a warm spring, without bicycle riding (well, not much of it so far), without dining out, without daily excursions to the grocer's to see what might be good.  It's the year without close contact, where waving at your neighbor across the street is fine but getting close enough to chat feels risky.  It's the year without hamfests, antique radio swapmeets or gun shows, a year without trips to the used bookstore or classes at The Indiana Writer's Center.  (However, IWC has moved classes online!  Most of the benefits plus my own coffee, so that's bearable.)

     Thinking it over, I wondered, What about the Marion Easter Pageant?

     It's a big deal.  Other than a break during World War Two, Marion, Indiana has held a huge Easter Pageant ever year since 1937.  Performed by amateur actors in Marion's Memorial Coliseum, it's an ecumenical Easter story without narration or dialog, told entirely though music and otherwise-silent actors.  The Coliseum has a large pipe organ, the all-volunteer orchestral and singing talent is remarkable and the experience is moving.

     Marion, Indiana is also one of this nation's epicenters of stubbornness.   It's not a city that embraces change.  So I wondered what they had done in response to the coronavirus stay-home order.  Defied the authorities, perhaps with references to kicking money-changers out of the Temple?  Pointed out that the cast, choir and orchestra had been rehearing together since the first of February and livestreamed the performance without an audience?

     Nope.  However reluctantly, they stood down and provided an alternative: The entire performance was recorded in 2003, and it's available on YouTube. 

     Had I known, I would have shared the link on Easter Sunday.  Even as a crusty old agnostic, I think it's an impressive production and all the more so for being entirely amateur.

Coping With Coronavirus/My Drive-Through Test

     While people yell at one another (50% pro, 45% con and 5% who wish they'd just shut up) over the Federal government's response to the coronavirus pandemic, 72 percent of us think our State Governor is doing a good job(PDF), and it's right across the board: 76% of Democrats, 73% of Republicans and 67% of independents think their Governor is doing the right things to deal with the situation.

     Here in Indiana, the State government holds daily press briefings, hosted by the Governor, with the State Health Commissioner, Dr. Kris Box, ten feet down the table and assortment of other State department heads present as needed, either at keep-away distance in the room or via videoconference.  They take questions from the Press afterwards, too -- reporters are only virtually present and reminders that, "You have to unmute your own microphone" come up every time, but the whole thing works better than anyone would have expected and after an hour or more, you're left with the feeling that you know what the State of Indiana is doing at present and what they're working on getting done in the future.  (For example, demographic data about people with COVID-19 has been sparse; they're improving it and sharing the results.)

     The State has leveraged private industry and welcomed volunteers; there's an active homegrown hand sanitizer industry now, distillers and hair-spray manufacturers who are turning the stuff out at cost or free for first responders.  They've enlisted local laboratory facilities, too, and that brings us to my experience.

     Last week, I started having worrisome symptoms -- a mild fever, sinus congestion, upset stomach, rattly lungs and a cough that felt like it ought to be bringing up a lot more than it was.  I took time off work, found enough to do remotely that I worked from home one day, and then I started getting really fatigued and even a little short of breath if I was very active.  So I called my doctor (as told earlier) and she decided that I did need to be tested for the virus.

     This is a testing system run by a local biomedical outfit with its own labs, running a testing system that didn't exist two weeks ago and operating at a pace that accommodates hundreds of people a day at a minimum.  The company has never been in the business of mass testing; they just happened to have the space, the talent and the lab facilities.  They whole system has been invented on the spot.  Presumably the state had some general plans, and presumably the company was aware of them -- they're the kind of resource that emergency-response planners like to have on tap.  But the details?  It's all wet-paint fresh!

*  *  *

      The testing requires a physician referral (on letterhead, with license number) and online check-in; you are e-mailed a confirmation number, an arrival time and instructions that include a reminder that you must arrive with a copy of the e-mail and a charged cell phone.

      The reason why becomes obvious once you drive to the end of the check-in line, past signs reading “FLASHERS ON. DRIVE SLOWLY. KEEP WINDOWS UP. REMAIN IN YOUR VEHICLE.” It’s a long wait filled with one or two car-length advances to the first check-in station, but eventually a half-dozen cars are waved to the curb by a half dozen masked and gloved volunteers, each one with a hands-free headset, holding up a laminated sign that reads “CALL ME AT NNN-NNN-NNNN.” You have to verify your appointment by letting them read the number from your printed-out or cell phone display. I had mine on a full-sized iPad, zoomed in on the necessary lines – and a paper backup, just in case.

     That station sorts out the testees (there’s a small group of asymptomatic volunteers, who get additional testing to help build the pool of data) and tags everyone’s car, and then it’s back in line for a long inching drive to the next check-in, past more signs, “REMAIN IN YOUR CAR. KEEP WINDOWS UP. SLOW.”

     Slow it is, leaving plenty of time to read a longer sign: “To conserve N95 masks, testers will be in a higher level of PPE than necessary.” Interesting, since everyone so far has had only procedure masks or bandanna masks.

     Around a corner and into a parking garage, where another group of volunteers are working in pairs, one holding a sign, “KEEP WINDOWS UP. CALL ME AT NNN-NNN-NNNN.” He waves me in and to a stop; his partner, working at a table in the background is the one who answers the phone, confirms my magic decoder number, name and birthdate, sticks a quick-printed label on paperwork, and hands it to the guy who’d had the sign. He adds the paperwork to a bagged test kit, tucks it under my windshield wiper and takes the sorting tag off my car. Meanwhile I’ve been told to wait for him to gesture me on to the testers, who “...look like they’re wearing space suits.”

     I can see them up ahead, working at two groups of three test stations, wearing supplied-air hazmat: a simple “space helmet” with a large, clear visor and one-way exhaust valves, a back-closure Tyvek gown and gloves that go over the cuffs. It’s a clever solution – the HEPA-type filter in the air unit on their back will last all day, the headgear is nearly foolproof, and all they need to do between tests is remove the gloves and put on a new pair.

     Soon enough, it’s my turn and I'm waved out. There’s a dedicated traffic director for the test stations and a big sign, “TURN OFF ENGINE.” The tester smiles as I pull up and as soon as I turn off the car, she takes the test kit from under the windshield wiper, removes a sealed vial, and gestures for me to roll down my window.

     “Hello, I’ll be testing you.” Her voice has an unfamiliar musical lilt and she radiates friendliness. She holds up the vial. “This has a long swab that I will run up each nostril for three to ten seconds and it will be uncomfortable. It may make you sneeze or cause your eyes to water.” She hands me the remainder of the test kit. “In there are tissues and paperwork. See the label on the vial? The same number is on your paperwork, with directions how to get your test results. It will take one to three days, the lab is getting faster, but there is a number to call if you don’t get results in three days.”
She’s got the swab out by then. “What I need you to do is lean towards the window and tilt your head back...”

      I comply.

     She says “Good...” and leans forward, swab at the ready, a tiny bottle brush that is acutely uncomfortable as it goes up my nose, and is no less so when she moves to the other nostril. But it’s quick enough and she bottles the thing back up with another smile. “Okay. Now just wait for the man with the sign, and you can put your window up.”

     I thank her – I’ve been saying “Thanks” quite a lot, every one of these workers is a volunteer and there’s a small army of them – and wait for the fellow with Stop and Go signs to get our group of six lined up and out the exit.

     It’s all ad hoc. The streetside signs are the largest size you can print on a good office printer and the “CALL ME AT...” signs are just 8.5 x 11 pages in page protectors. There are lot of high-visibility vests in evidence, but in a wide assortment of hues, styles and conditions. Everyone in low-level protective gear appears to have brought their own or chosen from an assortment – and the whole thing runs like clockwork. People are nice. They smile. The testing setup is cardboard boxes on folding tables – but it’s well-organized.

     We’re a more-competent species than some of us like to think.

     I’ve got a day or three to wait before I know if this is just a dire pollen season or my own Encounter With The Virus, but it’s easier to face after what I saw on the drive-through testing line.

Heigh-ho, Heigh-ho, It's Off To [Undisclosed Location] I Go

     Gotta say, I'm not looking forward to this.  There's a lot of paperwork and proving of bona fides involved and there will be even more at the test site -- all contactless until the last step, which is the part that I am told isn't fun. 

     The telephone screener/intake person was interesting.  Obviously working from home and struggling a little bit with the software, she apologized for being a slow typist.  "I'm not very quick at this.  Normally I do research," she said.  "I'm a scientist."

     My screener was a Ph.D.

     There's a whole knot of biomedical research, manufacturing, support and hospitals downtown, in a broad arc that sweeps from the granddaddy of them all, the vast Eli Lilly* complex, and curves northwest to the hospitals and related establishments on and around the IUPUI campus and then swings northeast to the collection of huge buildings that comprise Methodist hospital.  The hospitals are busy and crowded; Lilly's got one division working on COVI-19 treatments and their insulin section is obviously essential.  But everybody else, if their work wasn't essential, got sent home and their PPE was given to be used by people working with the infected and possibly infected.

     That leaves a huge pool of talent trying to work from home; if the bulk of your work is in a lab somewhere, there's a finite amount of paperwork to do, and after that--  Well, after that, it seems, there's still work to be done, even if it's not in one's usual line.  I wouldn't be surprised to learn a lot of the people collecting and collating data for the Indiana State Department of Health are drawn from that same group.

     Meanwhile, several local distillers and a hairspray manufacturer are turning out home-grown hand sanitizer for first responders; that leaves more of the usual commercial product available for you and me, and keeps the people in the police department, the fire department, paramedics and others a little safer.  Their exposure is higher than just about anyone's (except that nice person running the cash register at your local grocer's or big-box five-and-dime, don't forget him or her) and they need that alcohol-laden goo.

     This is how a city functions when things go sideways; this is how all our cities are functioning, as best as they can.
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* Lilly, it should be noted, is to the patent protection of medicines what Disney is to copyright.  And that's something to ponder.

The Persistence Of Memory

     Salvador Dali had it right: our clocks are melting, all the sweet green icing running down.*

     Yesterday, a tanker truck carrying four thousand gallons of jet fuel was wrecked and burned on the east side of Indianapolis, shutting down the heavily-used interchange between I-70 and I-465.   Amazingly, no one was killed; passers-by rushed in and pulled the driver to safety.

     This morning, across several channels, TV news people were remarking on the unusual event, musing that nothing like it had happened before.

     But it has.  In October 2009, an LP tanker traveling on I-465 near I-69 on the the northeast side of Indianapolis flipped, caught fire and exploded.  A couple of passing drivers stopped and carried the driver away from the fire.

     History doesn't repeat itself but it often rhymes; given the amount of traffic on the ring freeway and the preferential routing of hazardous cargo away from surface streets, this is not unexpected.  The remarkable thing is that on both occasions, people stepped up and helped out at considerable personal risk.  --Or are remarkable people, brave people, decent people, a little more common than pessimists would have us believe?
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* No, the link's up there.  Click on the asterisk.

Saturday Brunch

     Tam and I took a long walk to Good Morning Mama's   It was full and running over, people waiting outside.  So we walked on around the corner to Gallery Pastry Shop.

     They were busy too, but they're fast. Oh, it's a high-end kitchen, very high end; they make pastries the likes of which are hardly to be believed, food art that is as pretty as it is delicious.

     Weekends, this level of skill and organization is applied to omelet, crepe and scramble brunches.  I could watch their kitchen crew all day long. It's really amazing -- the work space is very well organized and their prep is fantastic, but the smooth coordination of effort and clear chain of command is simply remarkable.

     It's not really a large kitchen, given that a chef de cuisine, sous chef and one of the chefs de partie are presiding over a row of nine single-burner countertop "stoves" that face a bartop from behind clear barriers, while at least three more chefs de partie work at a huge square table in the background.

     Filled-out orders come to the chef de cuisine, who lays them on a set-aside section of countertop in chronological order and parcels out work to himself or the other two front line chefs; ingredients are staged between the burners and clear barrier, a full set taking up just three burner's worth of space.  Behind them on the work table, stacks of clean plates and crepes are ready to go, and a couple of big chef-grade blowtorch-like gadgets are stashed where they're out of the way but reachable.  Ingredients are cooked, omelets made, and plated; the three back-row chefs compare orders to plates, load and torch-crisp crepes, and do any prep work that needs done.

     Fresh skillets are kept in under-counter bins in front of the front-line chefs, and they swap out as needed.  Everything is within arm's reach, including a fridge full of prestaged ingredient containers to replace any as they are used up; a dishwashing setup at the very back of the room (on the other side of a row of specialized pastry ovens and other mysterious machinery) is in frequent use by any chef presently at loose ends.  

     Waiters and waitresses dance in and out on a route that takes them in to the chef de cuisine's incoming order area and out past the row of filled plates ready to go, out of the way of the routine motions of the chefs.

      --And the big boss chef chef de cuisine is not at all above rinsing out a pan or four if he finds himself temporarily free of other duties. There's a definite heirarchy but there's a lot of trust, a real feeling that everyone in the kitchen is a professional who can be counted on to carry his or her share of the work.  It's a pretty "flat" power structure.

     There's really a lot to be learned by observing the staff do their jobs -- rapidly, efficiently and to a standard very few can achieve.

Merry Christmas!

      The very best of Season's Greetings to you and yours from me and mine, which I guess would be one and a half cats (I can't claim more than a half-interest in Miss Rannie, though she and Huck must both be rated as 150% cats, so that still leaves 100% for Tam) and all the characters of the Hidden Frontier, from the starship captains to Pertaineth Apperson (you haven't met her yet) to the various Mary Sues and assorted tuckerized friends.

     Tam and I exchanged gifts last night -- a fine scarf in a variation on the "Strawberry Thief" pattern* and the promise of a WW II tank (darned slow shipping!) in Lego-like form for her, and an excellent Conklin "All-American" pen for me, with bottled ink in Diamine's "Antique Copper" and Mont Blanc's "Red Fox" red to accompany it.

     I made "raccoon hash" this morning, which you will be relieved -- you'd better be -- to hear contains no raccoon at all.  Tinned corned beef and canned diced potatoes are both very salty, so rinsing the potatoes before starting therm in the skillet, then dicing the beef and "washing" a bit at a time in a bowl of water (throw it in, let is soak for a minute or two, then fish it out to drain on paper towel) reduces the saltiness without taking away the flavor.  I set some aside to make a no-potato version for Tam and served it with fried eggs.

     Christmas dinner at Roseholme Cottage will be non-traditional: if the weather clears as predicted (or even if it doesn't), we'll grill a couple of steaks and enjoy them with mashed neeps (turnips and rutabagas) and artichokes
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* This is both a pretty thing to have and a multi-level joke, a William Morris pattern made on automatic machines and with the thrushes replaced by their saurian ancestors.  Arts?  Crafts?  Robots?  We got 'em.

Cats To The Vet

     It's time for their checkup.  I like to think Tam and I have have helped our pets live a better life.  Be kind to some person or animal today -- kindness is in short supply, it seems, yet the need for it is undiminished, if not increasing.

Sefton Delmer, Radio Warrior

     Sefton Delmer was a UK journalist and  a master of radio propaganda in WW II, a man who set up apparently-clandestine German radio stations to undermine their morale and spread misinformation.  His earliest success was a shortwave fake that attacked Hitler and his henchmen for not being Nazi enough; a prominent British politician, on hearing of it, said, "If this is the sort of thing that is needed to win the war, why, I'd rather lose it."

     Later efforts rose to absolute mind-bending sleight-of-hand; when German broadcast stations shut down during Allied bombing,  Delmer would have the UK's 600 kiloWatt "Aspidistra" transmitter (probably the most powerful in the world at the time) put on air on the same frequency and a skilled crew would expertly mimic the German programming, subtly inserting bits of misleading, demoralizing news.

     He wrote a two-volume autobiography, Trail Sinister and Black Boomerang.  You can't find the first one for much under $40 and prices for the second, covering his WW II radio work, appear to start at $100.  The Sefton Delmer Archive has them as online PDFs, but they're difficult to navigate.  And that's a pity; he was a fascinating man, and I think there's much to be learned from him applicable to our present day mish-mash of news, opinion -- and deliberate misinformation.

     Semi-related, I am considering changing my "What Would Gutenberg Do" tag, or adding a new one: "What Would Tyndale Do?" Or possibly what Michael Servetus, the unknown original of many an Internet debater, would do.  Neither was a man willing to shut up, and while that can be annoying, it's a good counter to the general human tendency to fall in line, march in step and not make waves, no matter where the mass of men is headed.  They each died of it, but their memory lives on.

Happy Birthday...To Me

     Yes, it's my birthday.  One of the ones that ends in a zero.  I'm not really good about it.  When did I get so old?

     Tamara gave me a really fine Waterman fountain pen.

*  *  *

     It's Memorial Day.  A day to remember the fallen.  Do that.  They answered when  the call came, and many never returned.  Spare them a minute, at least.

And So, Day Two--

     I'm not much of a nursemaid.  So it's a good thing Tam's determinedly self-sufficient.  Yesterday, she managed to feed the cats, quite literally single-handed.

     "So what," you reply.  Ah, you see, the cats of Roseholme Cottage include Huck, the Mighty Eater, who is spent his childhood as a feral cat and who will eat any food available.  Putting the food bag in a kitchen cabinet counts as "available:" he will open the door, chew through the bag and eat until caught.  Thus, the door to the cat-food cupboard has a stack of heavy boxes in  front of it -- and there's a stack of heavy boxes next to that. after he managed to move the first stack one afternoon and got the door open.  All that is in the far back corner of the galley kitchen.  So Tam had to move those two stacks, then bend down to the corner and get the heavy cat food bags out, all with her left arm in a sling, while Huck was frantically trying to help.

     I made up a couple of pre-measured baggies of food for the cats this morning, and stashed them in a disused cookie jar: I know Tam can feed them by herself if she has to, but the risks are non-trivial and I am home an hour after cat-feeding time at the earliest.

     On the subject of "earliest:" the orthopedic doctor had no open appointments until 30th May!  So it'll be eight more days of coping until there's a medically-approved course of treatment and plan of action.

Tamara Keel Needs Your Help

     She's going to fuss at me for this, but oh well.

     Tam fell and broke her collarbone early Sunday morning.  This is not a good bone for an adult to break, since about all they can do it put you in a sling or immobilizer while it heals, and it hurts considerably if you move wrong.  It hurts a lot more than that before treatment; she made it as far as the dining room before deciding that calling an ambulance was the only way forward.*

     The ER checked her over, did a set of X-rays and gave her a basic sling along with a prescription for a few days of painkillers and quite firm instructions to check with the orthopedic specialists come Monday.

     It won't be cheap.  She needs a working collarbone to continue doing the work to write the kinds of articles her readers enjoy, like the 2,000-round tests of a wide range of handguns, modern and classic.

     There's a PayPay tip jar on Tam's blog.  She's got a Patreon, which also gets you valuable extra snark and informed opinion.  Some money in either one -- or both, if you choose to -- would be a huge help to her.  Even warm, positive thoughts will be helpful.

     Healing time for a broken collarbone is around three months, minimum, and she'll be off shotgun use for awhile longer.
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* Tam and I both view calling for a flashing-lights-and-siren ride as a last resort, and aspire to a Stoic ideal.  Aspiration is one thing -- broken bones tend to trump that ace, decisively.  Accepting the inevitable is a Stoic virtue, too.

Tuesday

     Back to work.  Kinda dreading getting caught up.

     Here's a photo of a good-looking young couple.  I first met them a few years later: my Mom and Dad.