Teaching #12: Case Report of Hardwood Paralysis

It seems as though I will finally have my name in the pediatric medicine textbooks. We have discovered a new neurologic mystery that we will call "Hardwood Paralysis." For many months now, Sam has been flying around the house on his hands & knees like a small sputnik without a flight pattern. The only thing that realigns his flight path is music (towards which he takes a head-bouncing B-line), and remote controls (he fully understands infrared communication and programming it appears). For just as many months, we have noticed a strange phenomenon that will keep this child of otherwise torpedo-like mobility totally stationary. If you gently set him down on his back on the hardwood floor and gently let his head down to rest on the same floor, he will not move. Never. Not for as long as we have tested this, which has been several minutes. We have left the room, and watched from another room, and he just lies there. Never moving an inch. Today, we tested this with the ultimate reward, a remote control. He didn't budge. See for yourselves. I don't understand, but I deem it "hardwood paralysis," and hope to soon find a support group for the young Samuel Quinn. For now, it works to our advantage when we have to get something done such as filling the dishwasher (which is a close 2nd in Sam's book to remote controls). Ahhh, a baby's brain...crazy...yet amazing.

Sam's hardwood paralysis, originally uploaded by tierney.david.

Lesson #12: It IS all about the presents...

Publish Post

Christmas #1 for the little man.  Perhaps dad put too many lights on the tree this year.  Regardless, Sam loves it.

Teaching #11: Son to father

Teaching #10: Storks are birds that can both shit and fly, right?

Amazing.  That is really all I have to say, but I will say more so you have some idea what I’m talking about.  New little boy with a  penis = things will get peed on while changing diapers.  Jessie has gone through several outfits, as have I.  Jessie got peed in the face yesterday while changing Sam.  Needless to say, Sam blows through 5-6 outfits per night.  No surprise here.  It’s crazy, but not amazing. 

This morning I was changing Sam’s diaper on the changing table (seen in the pic below) and had a cover over his penis to prevent getting peed on.  Yes, we learned eventually.  Then I looked over and there was pee flying 5-6 ft. from the changing table, over the rocking chair, and hitting the wall.  I quickly readjusted the cloth over his penis.  It kept shooting across the room.  “Holy shit,” I said, and Jessie asked what was going on.  It was at that point that I realized I didn’t need to be covering his penis, but rather his butthole.  Yes, Sam shot poop 5-6 ft. across the room this morning from a lying position on his changing table.  Nailed the cushions on the rocking chair, the wall, the floor, his hairbrush, etc.  I’ve seen a picture of projectile pooping when I was a Chief Resident that we used to secretly insert into each others PowerPoint talks, but never really believed it could truly exist.  Either the stork dropped a load late in its flight plan and we missed it for the last 5 days, or else projectile poop really exists.  You can decide for yourself.  Teaching #10?  Cover both the penis and buttocks when changing diapers.  Here’s the proof (Note: these pictures were taken after the initial cleanup effort.  Thus the cottage cheese like particles have been removed from the golden background of poop stain)…

Lesson #11: A Lesson in Progress…

The stork finally arrived with the polar vortex on 1/4/2011.  He was carrying this little guy with a name tag on stating he was Samuel Quinn, weighing in at 7 lbs 1 oz and 21 inches tall.  Lesson #11 has begun.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.  For now, I’m off to read him a book.

Lesson #10: Don’t Screw with the Stork’s Flight Plan

Apparently, the stork (See Lesson #9 below) diverted his flight plan south of the equator because of the record December snowfall in St. Paul, MN.  The stork pilot has had significant issues triangulating a new route.  As a result I have become bored, which, by the way, is not hard to accomplish.  As a result, I’ve taken to several projects around the house like reupholstering the dining room furniture,

making a pillow with some left over upholstery fabric,

reorganizing the cabinets and junk drawer,

trying out some new recipes and bringing back some old faithfuls (good old bachelor soup), 

changing out the foam padding in the 35 year-old bassinet that my aunt made for me when I was born, and has since seen 15 babies in it, now returns to me for the little guy who is lost somewhere with his stork pilot.  It had that strange nuclear orange color to it, and 15 babies urinating and pooping on it over the years, so I thought it was ready for a change,

reprogramming the alarm system in the house, formatting and editing Jessie’s CV/résumé/job application, adding 100 push-ups and sit-ups into my daily routine, and most important writing 2 blog posts in a week.  Never thought that would happen in 1 million years.

Now I am setting up a color-coded spreadsheet to organize and deploy a search party for the waylaid stork.  My sister, Sarah, and her partner, Jose aka Vito, who are heading back home to NYC today were interested in heading-up the search earlier this weekend prior to their departure.  I wasn’t willing to pay anyone overtime on a holiday weekend though, so it will commence during regular business hours tomorrow (Monday).  Sign up below if you are interested.  

I’m soooooo bored. 

P.S. I’ll save someone a comment (likely from my sister-in-law cassie or becky) by saying ahead of time, “I know I won’t be sooooo bored when I’m not sleeping any more and have a little guy around the house in a few days pooping 16x/day.”  Don’t worry guys, I can’t wait.

Teaching #9: Dam

“That salt is for wussies.” 
“What?"
”I said that white stuff is for wussies.  Get some manly rock salt, boy!”

At that point, I realized I was looking over 5 palates of Morton Salt bags at a friend from grade school, Steve.  I haven’t seen him for 20 years.  He had 2 yellow bags of Morton Rock Salt loaded into his cart, and I had 2 white bags of Morton Safe-T-Salt loaded into mine.  Then I wondered, does Steve know something I don’t know?  So I did some research…

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How do the different bags of Morton Salt differ?  There are 3 kinds of Morton Salt sold at local home stores…

 #1) The “manly” yellow rock salt.  This is pure sodium chloride (NaCl).  It is the same stuff you put into your pasta water or onto your New York Strip steak that’s going on the grill. 

#2) The “wussy” white bag of salt.  This is pure calcium chloride (CaCl2).  We use calcium chloride in the hospital to treat people with heart problems from having too much potassium in their blood (hyperkalemia) by injecting this stuff into their vein.  It is used to make soy beans turn into tofu.  It is used in Cadbury Caramel chocolate bars to retard freezing of the caramel.  So it saves lives and makes those Cadbury bars oh so good as well.

#3) The “total wussy” green bag of salt is a mix of mostly sodium chloride (NaCl), but also has some “balancing” ingredients such as potassium chloride (KCl) and urea (NH₂)₂CO that make it easier on the plants and dogs in your yard.  Yes the stuff that makes our urine smell.  Doesn’t smell by itself, but when mixed with water it gives off ammonia gas, thus the stinky urine my wife always yells at me for leaving in the toilet.  Urea and potassium chloride are also fertilizers.  This total wussy salt also has a little hydroxyethyl cellulose and calcium silicate in it.  They say it is a “secret blend” on the bag, but I pulled the MSDS safety/hazard sheet on the product for this teaching. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So what would make the best salt to break through the ice dams on the roof of the house currently? 

Probably the one that melts ice best, but doesn’t bore a hole in the concrete or the shingles at the same time.  One that doesn’t kill everything that it contacts.  One that works well in cold weather like we are having here in the great state of MN.  That seems like an appropriate list of pros/cons for salt.  So let’s compare these 3 and see if Steve was right…

Well, let’s look at the melting capability first, because that is why I’m putting salt in nylons up on my 2nd story roof.  When you add salt to water, you introduce dissolved foreign particles into the water.  The freezing point of water becomes lower as more particles are added until the point where the salt stops dissolving. For a solution of sodium chloride (NaCl) in water, this temperature is -21°C (-6°F) under controlled lab conditions. In the real world, on a real sidewalk, sodium chloride can melt ice only down to about -9°C (15°F).  However as we have seen above, sodium chloride isn't the only salt used for de-icing, nor is it necessarily the best choice. Sodium chloride dissolves into two types of particles: one sodium ion and one chloride ion per sodium chloride 'molecule'.  A compound that yields more ions into a water solution would lower the freezing point of water more than sodium chloride. For example, every molecule of calcium chloride (CaCl₂) dissolves into three ions (one of calcium and two of chloride) and lowers the freezing point of water to about -29°C (-20°F) more than sodium chloride. So from a melting standpoint, calcium chloride (the “wussy” white bag) wins battle #1. 

Wussy 1 : Manly 0

Now lets look at the major con to different Morton salt formulations, their corrosive properties.  There is no question that sodium chloride (the manly yellow bag) is corrosive to concrete and any vegetation that exists in hibernation under the snow cover.  Calcium chloride is not without its corrosive properties, but it is significantly milder than sodium chloride.  So the yellow “manly” bag wins for manly corrosion, but loses for preserving the concrete that keeps your house standing straight and sidewalks from crumbling.  I think that means another point for the wussy white bag.  Depends on what you want to do with the salt though.  I was not interested in boring drainage holes in the concrete, so I’ll give the point to…

Wussy 2 : Manly 0

How about pricing?  Well, a 10 lb bag of the manly yellow stuff costs $5.29 compared to $11 for the wussy white bag, and $13 for the eco-friendly green bag.  So there is no question about it, the manly yellow bag wins this category hands-down.

Wussy 2 : Manly 1

Last category I have to include is “other performance characteristics”.  When the temperature drops below zero, calcium chloride (the wussy salt) attracts moisture and can make things more slippery than the sodium chloride does, which tends to dry a little better.  So unfortunately, this sub-category goes to the yellow manly sodium chloride bag.  And yes, it is generous of me to give a whole point for this category, but Steve’s a good guy.

Wussy 2 : Manly 2

So we tied.  Wussy 2 : Manly 2.  I guess here’s how I would summarize it.  If you are looking for something that will perform well in the single digits and sub-zero realm, want to be less corrosive on the concrete, gutters, plants, don’t mind 2x the price, and can handle a little less drying property when the temps are extremely cold, the white calcium chloride “wussy” salt is the one to go with.  If you want the cheapest bang for your buck, don’t care about the plants/gutters/concrete as much, and don’t expect the temperature to sit in the single digits or lower, go with the “manly” yellow bag.  Now I just gotta find Steve’s email address somewhere so I can let him know what I found out.  Maybe he knew this all along.  The yellow bag is definitely more “manly.”  Just not what I needed to take care of the ice dams on my roof. 

Which, by the way are well solved by laying nylons filled with salt perpendicular to the gutters across them to form channels in the ice dam that will last most of the season in the nylon.  That’s what hangs over my shoulders in the picture above.  Jessie thinks they look like something else that she can’t quite put her finger on yet.  There’s more info on ice dams here. 

Teaching #8: Listen before you speak

It became clear to me today, that I should never let my teaching posts supersede the number of my learning posts.  But it bothers me if they get too far from each other.

Lesson #9: You can’t ever be too ready for a stork

Well, the little guy with the big head arrives in 9 weeks!  However, I’m banking on the chance that the stork was thrown a good 50-100 miles off its course tonight.  The grill has been blown across the deck, the bench flew off the deck into the bushes, it sounds currently like there is a 747 suspended outside our house, and the wind is blowing 60 mph out there.  So maybe we’ll get a few extra days to prepare for the stork’s arrival.  I also installed some new chimney flue covers so those should delay the stork’s delivery by a 1/2 day or so.  But, I think we’ll be ready by then. 

Last week we got the car seat in the mail.  Jessie read that 80% of car seats are not installed correctly.  Therefore, we scheduled an appointment with the car seat inspector last night to make sure it was installed correctly.  I took the car seat, put it in the car with the two clips, tightened it down so it didn’t budge, leveled the little bubble between the two lines, and opted for the slightly more reclined position that still kept the level bubble between the lines (thinking that an infant would be a little safer and more comfortable in the more reclined position), and went inside to tell Jessie that we didn’t need to go to the inspection.  But the safety of our baby was at risk if we didn’t I was told, so we did. 

We got to the car seat inspection, the guy took some information, asked if we had read the manual, etc.  Then he opened the car, looked at the carseat installation and said it looked almost perfect.  He un-hooked it, changed the leveling angle and re-installed it.  “Now it looks perfect!” he said.  He then called over the “official” inspector who signs off on every one.  She said, “Lief, it looks great, but I would drop the angle just a little more into the reclined position.  There will be room, and the level bubble will still be between the marks.  It is a little safer and more comfortable for an infant in that position.”   He un-hooked the car seat, dropped the angle back to where I had it, and asked her to come sign off on the change.  She returned to the car and said, “Now that’s perfect.”  If the stork arrives 1 hour before we are completely ready for it, I’m blaming it on the 1 hour car seat inspection.

 

So we will move on to the next project  on the “Pre-Stork Arrival Checklist.”  That is a multi-task project including all items under the sub-heading “Baby’s room.”  So we got some paint tonight and will hopefully check one more thing off the list this week.  If anyone else has an idea for delaying the stork, let me know.  For now we are on schedule, but if the wind changes to a tailwind, we may need your ideas. 

Lesson #8: Alternative method to landmines discovered

I am anal about few things compared to your standard anal husband.  But, I worked on the Turfgrass Management Staff at the Town & Country Club golf course from the time I was 15 to the time I went to medical school.  During those years, I learned how to mow a perfectly straight line, crisscross a green, and stripe a fairway as good as anyone at Augusta National.  I used to have an 80 ft string with a nail tied to each end that I would stretch across my parents’ yard when I was growing up, then I would run the left side of the LawnBoy right along it.  My dad would marvel at how straight the lines were across the big yard.  If we were having a party at the house, I may even mow a crisscross that day.

The problem now lies in the fact that I am no longer a member of the Turfgrass Management Staff, but still have this urge to mow very straight lines, crisscross, and have a ballpark-like turf.  When I bought this house 10 years ago, it had a yard full of weeds.  Now she’s green and plush.   The section of our front yard that is on the other side of the sidewalk along the parkway is city property.  I, however, have always mowed it because it allows me to have nice long lines.  The neighbors weren’t fond of this practice.  I could not figure out why.  I found out many years ago when I realized that those downstream of my yard didn’t get their parkway side of the front yard mowed any more because the city mowers stopped at my mowed yard.  Anyways, most of them have gotten over that after 10 years. 

The problem more recently appeared when the city replaced Walt the veteran mower with someone new.  The new guy decided that he was going to mow the parkway in front of my house a month ago or so.  The city mows at 3/4”-1” height and therefore scalps the hell out of my front yard when they mow.  It looks like crap and just grows weeds when it is cut that short.  So I had to figure out how to let the new guy know he was crossing a line without appearing totally anal about my yard.

I have tried to time my mowing within 24 hrs of the city’s schedule, but haven’t been able to predict 100% recently because all the rain here has thrown off their usual Tuesday mowing cycle.  I figure that if they see freshly cut grass with stripes, abutting their long city grass they will stop at that juncture.  The last few weeks I have mowed 2-3 days prior to the city, and it didn’t work.  So, this week, I mowed Thursday, they didn’t mow Friday.  I mowed Sunday, they didn’t mow Monday.  I went out there Monday night (Jessie asked what the hell I was doing mowing again) and laid down some heavy lines about 5 feet upstream of where our yard ends.  I went over them 3-4 times.  It was pretty darn obvious this time because the city hadn’t mowed for almost 2 weeks because of the rain.  I decided if this didn’t work, I was going to buy a 6pk of landmines at Ax-Man army surplus store this week. 

Tuesday morning, 10 hours after I mowed, we awoke to the sounds of a Toro triplex 72” rider coming down the parkway.  Here are the pictures I shot on my phone out of the bedroom window…

Picture #1, mower approaching the warning lines on the upstream side of the tree.  You can see my stripes in the picture.  I am starting to get nervous.

Picture #2, mower comes right up to the tree, pauses and makes a sharp turn to the right, overlapping my warning stripes only!

Hallelujah!   Now it is just a question of whether this game has to be repeated every Monday night, or whether my over-anal attempt this week was enough to teach the new mower where to stop.  We’ll see next week. 

Lesson?  If you are anal enough, you can avoid purchasing and using landmines within St. Paul city limits. 

Teaching #7: Time to go fishing?

Sig: Epinephrine 0.4mg IM x 1, may repeat x 1 for continued anaphylactic signs and symptoms

I’ve had several interactions with the old swimming creatures in my life and subsequently with an EpiPen.  I’m allergic to everything that swims in the water except for frogs and turtles I think.  That is not news to anyone.  When I was 7 years old, sitting in the Denver airport on a flight delay back home, my dad pulled his Swiss army knife and a Bic Pen out of his pocket.  He then showed me how to do an emergency cricothyrotomy by removing the ink cartridge from the Bic Pen, making a small incision just below my Adam’s Apple, shoving the shell of the pen through the hole, and then breathing for someone through the Bic Pen.  See the included video below if you are trying this on someone at home while you are reading the blog, or if you have found this blog in an emergency google search and need to know how to do this.  Just substitute Swiss Army knife for the scalpel, and substitute a Bic Pen for the airway tube in the video.  Otherwise it’s pretty much the same. 

This post, however, is in reference a new revelation.  I love the cobb salad at Salut in St. Paul.  It is amazing.  It has one of the most brilliant dressings on it, and that is 75% of its glory.  I have eaten this salad 5-6 times in the past couple years.  Every time, I get a little feeling that I’m having an allergic reaction, but it never really develops fully.  The next 24 hours I have tons of watery mucus inside my body.  I found out this weekend the reason why.  I Googled “Green Goddess Dressing Recipe,” and I see anchovy paste in most of the recipes.  I know why my long run on Sunday had 4 bathroom stops.  Just a tad bit of denatured anchovy, not enough to mandate “Epinephrine 0.4mg IM x 1, may repeat x 1 for continued anaphylactic signs and symptoms,” but enough to tweak me.  I feel stupid that it took me 6 salads to figure this out.  But, the salad is so darn good that I think I will just premedicate myself with some steroid and Benadryl next time.  Teaching?  Well, there is one in this post that could save your life…Actually 2 if you are alergic to fish and see Green Goddess Dressing on a menu…Actually 3 if you ever need something to pass the time with your 7 year old child in an airport on the way back from a fishing trip…Actually 4 if you are looking for an awesome salad some night.  Call me and I’ll come have one with you. 

Teaching #6: If you are having hamburgers for your first anniversary…

Well, it has been a great first year, so we decided to celebrate with a hamburger for dinner.  We had dinner  a couple nights ago with friends of ours who have been married for 45 years.  On their 30th anniversary, Claus took Rosemarie to dinner at White Castle and they had 4 sliders each.  I guess we were inspired.  However, a slightly different type of burger was facilitated by my birthday present from my family today.  See below…

We picked up a local chuck roast from the  market today and I fired up the new meat grinder.  I washed my hands 12 times and everything was sterilized.  Trust me.  Jessie supervised and audited the process for the USDA.  A little salt, pepper, onion, garlic, and Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce into the mix.

My little sister was turned off by this picture.

Out came eight 6 oz patties. 

And two of these beauties were eaten with a nice layer of blue cheese, some lettuce from the garden, and the famous baby pickle.  Happy anniversary.  The teaching from this post?  Well, if you are going to have hamburgers for your anniversary, either make them White Castle, or grind them yourself…nothing in between.

Lesson #7: Don’t dial 9 for an outside line at the cabin

I run a handful of websites as part of my job and hobby.  One of these sites controls the paging interface for nurses to get a hold of the doctors in the hospital.  Let’s see if I can give you an example…Well, lets say Johnny is having a heart attack on Station 20, and the nurse needs to get a hold of the doctor.  So, it is kind of an important web site.  The others are much less important.  The company that hosts the websites was bought by another company a few months ago.  So they had to move all of the web sites from the old company’s servers over to the new ones.  I called twice before this happened to let them know that there couldn’t be any time when the site was not working during the transfer. 

Paragraph two: nothing in paragraph 1 worked out as expected.  They moved the sites last Friday.  The sites stopped working Friday afternoon while I was driving to the cabin.  I spent my weekend on the phone with tech support getting the sites back up, and then they would crash again.  This went on for the next 7 days and made for one hell of a week.  So I talked to them on Thursday night and told them I had to get the site in a stable situation because I was going to the cabin for the weekend and couldn’t deal with this again from the cabin.  Sure enough, Friday night when I was eating dinner at the cabin, the site went down again. Surprise.

I now had the tech support phone# memorized from dialing it 40-45 times this week from the hospital.  I picked up the phone at the cabin, dialed 9-1…(I was trying to get an outside line like I was at the hospital, and dial a long distance number), then I realized I didn’t need to dial 9-1 so just started dialing the memorized number 1-877-228-3849.  It didn’t ring because I had dialed 9-1-1-877-228-3849.  I hung up and dialed 1-877-228-3849.  I was on the phone with tech support for the next 30 minutes.  The end result is that I moved my websites off their servers so I could relax and enjoy the weekend.  I hung up the phone, and as I walked back into the living room of the cabin, the sheriff came bolting down the road into the cabin.  The phone rang, Jessie answered, a woman on the other line asked “What is the emergency?”  Jessie said, “What?”  The lady said, “Someone called 911 thirty minutes ago, and we have been trying to get a hold of someone there for the last 30 minutes, but the line has been busy.”  Jessie asked if someone called 911.  Everyone said no.  The sheriff arrived, explained that he had just driven 30 miles at 80mph to get here.  It took him 35min though, so his math didn’t line up.  After everyone settled down a little, I realized that I had tried to dial an outside line from the cabin.  It was, however, a website emergency.  The sheriff didn’t think that was funny.  The website is working fine now, and I’m enjoying my Memorial Day weekend at the cabin.

Here’s the crew from the Rusk County Sheriff’s Dept

Lesson #6: Don’t fight with someone until you verify with your wife that his wife isn’t a professor in her department.

I am emergently typing this blog, because my wife is telling her side of the story on her blog, and I’m sure there are some problems with her version.  So here’s the true version of a very unfortunate situation Friday night last. 

I am a runner.  I bike because it is 1/3 of a triathlon.  That is the only reason.  So for the last 10 years, I have run around Lake Phalen 6-7 days a week.  It takes me 35-36min depending on the day.  It is 4.37 miles.  I can run around it with a blindfold on.  There are two giant hills on the route.  Both of which I avoid by moving over to the biking path which takes the low road.  I hate hills.  Never, in 10 years, over 3,000 trips around the lake with my running shoes, has anyone pissed me off.  That is, until last Friday when I was running with Jessie around the lake.

18min into the run, Jessie and I approach hill #1 and move onto the biking path.  A couple comes up behind us and says “Passing on your left x 2,” and we move over.  They fly by.  Somewhat of an unusual sight around Lake Phalen, I must say.  The paths are usually full of little chubby kids on Big Wheels, a grown man carrying a monkey in a twins uniform on his shoulder, lots of runners, lots of Hmong families walking 4 abreast, but rarely a professional biker.  

24min into the run, hill #2 arrives, and we move to the biking trail with the other 50 people walking on the biking trail.  In my rear-view ear, I hear “On your lefffffffffffft.”  No need to move over, as we are already single file on the right side of the biking path that is 8 ft. wide.  The bikers who passed us on hill #1 passed again, but this time there was an added “This is a bike trail!”  I was not in the best mood, and said, “Hey, if it is such a problem, get on the street where you have a private bike lane painted.”  At the end of the hill, the guy parked his bike in the middle of the path, and clipped out.  Stood there waiting for me to arrive.  Jessie said, “Oh shit” and moved over to the running path.  I continued on the bike path to see what this professional biker wanted to tell me.  He started yelling at me. I yelled back at him and told him to go a lot of different places. I explained to him that there are 2 spots we jump onto the bike path with the other 400 people not on bikes walking around Phalen.  I also told him that the only law on the bike paths is a bike speed limit of 10 mph, which he and his wife were well over.  He asked me a strange question, “Are you a bike?”  I said, “Yes,” and this made him confused I think.  He was in my face, but I didn’t punch him.  Jessie was getting worried across on the walking path and started yelling, “Stop it you guys, lets go.”  I turned and started to walk away with a few more words for the professional biker, and he decided that he was going to pull a move off of page #5 from the 6th graders handbook for girl fights.  He tried to trip me with his bike shoe as I walked away.  Yes, the trip move.  Unsuccessful.  But this really pissed Jessie off, who all of a sudden comes running over and starts calling the guy an as**ol! for “getting physical” as she called it.  He asked her if she could read.  Jessie didn’t reply. 

Then he started to walk towards me again.  His wife, who was standing off her bike up ahead yelled at him to stop.  At that moment, Jessie looked at his wife and realized that it was a professor in her department at the U of M.  Awesome.  We very quickly all realized that this needed to stop, and they rode away and we ran on the running path again.  I think he realized that his question about whether Jessie could read was not appropriate for someone finishing their PhD in literacy education in his wife’s department.  Area of altercation with blood red star in map below.

30min into the run, we see them waiting on the path ahead with their helmets off standing next to their bikes.  They had checkered flags waving as we ran towards them.  We were either going to fight, old-school, or they were apologizing.  I was secretly hoping for the former.  They apologized, made small talk, shook my hand, etc.  I was not impressed, but can be very collegial if I need to be.  And I really needed to be for Jessie’s sake.  All I was thinking the whole time was that it was a good thing he hadn’t successfully tripped me because I would have given Jessie’s professor’s husband a broken nose back there. 

It was their first time riding around Lake Phalen.  I think they realized that it isn’t a spot to go on a Friday night for a smooth bike ride on the path if you want to go fast like real professionals do.  Maybe this will be their last trip around Lake Phalen.  He told me he didn’t want to be one of those guys that “gives bikers a bad name.”  It was the first time they had been bike riding as they got their bikes the day before from the store.  I’d say that’s a bad way to start out your professional bike-riding career if you don’t want to be “one of those bikers.” 

My lesson…Never get into a fight with someone until you verify with your wife that the guy is not the husband of one of her professors.  Sub lesson: this guy is a major as**ol!  Sub-sub lesson: I have good restraint because every person I’ve told this story to would have punched the guy after the 6th grader trip move.  Last lesson: don’t fight while exercising, it is stupid and throws off your pace.

Lesson #5: Manure vs. LECA, City vs. Farm, Heirloom vs. Hybrid

STUDY DESIGN

A small, triple variable, prospective, cohort study conducted at a large metropolitan hospital in Minneapolis, MN (n=3)

BACKGROUND:

Variable #1: LECA stands for Lightweight Expanded Clay Aggregate.  Manure is, for the purpose of this post, a liquid farm slurry of cow shit.

Variable #2: The city is St. Paul, and the farm is in Little Canada, MN. 

Variable #3a:  A hybrid is usually a car that combines a conventional internal combustion propulsion system with an electric propulsion system with names reminiscent of future planets, Greek characters, and energy nomenclature.  But, this time of year at our house, it refers to a tomato that has been commercially bred by crossing two distinct parents that are inbred for disease resistance, evening ripening, firm skins.  You find them at the grocery store because they have been bred for commercial purposes to be machine picked, to last on the shelf for 3 to 4 weeks and pretty much you get what amounts to a tennis ball; slightly different color and taste.  Taste suffers and the tomato’s durability and new facelift characteristics prevail. 

Variable #3b: So finally, what is an heirloom?  Grandma’s broche is one.  My brother’s underwear, another.  The wooden desk from Benjamin Franklin’s fish cleaning house yet another.  But, this time of year at our house, that term is used with respect to tomatoes.  An heirloom tomato is of a variety that has been passed down from generation to generation because of some cherished characteristic.  There are 4 classes of heirloom tomatoes.  They are:

1. Commercial Heirlooms: Open-pollinated varieties introduced before 1940, or tomato varieties more than 50 years in circulation.
2. Family Heirlooms: Seeds that have been passed down for several generations through a family.
3. Created Heirlooms: Crossing two known parents (either two heirlooms or an heirloom and a hybrid) and dehybridizing the resulting seeds for how ever many years/generations it takes to eliminate the undesirable characteristics and stabilize the desired characteristics, perhaps as many as 8 years or more.
4. Mystery Heirlooms: Varieties that are a product of natural cross-pollination of other heirloom varieties.

In recent years, the number of heirloom tomato varieties has plummeted proportional to the decrease in small family farms that supported heirloom lines of tomatoes. The unique heirloom varieties that had adapted to survive well for hundreds of years are being lost or replaced by newer hybrid tomatoes, genetically altered to be beautiful on the shelves of grocery stores.  As the number of heirloom varieties decreases, so does the genetic variability of this vegetable.  Every heirloom tomato type is genetically unique and inherent in this uniqueness is an evolved resistance to pests and diseases.  Local heirloom varieties have adapted to specific growing conditions and climates in places like Minnesota.  This narrowing of the genetic pool, and loss of adaptable characteristics has been called “genetic erosion.”

So with that background, the contest of opposites begins this week between a few friendly tomato growers at the hospital. 

METHODS

My little 40 sqft. backyard plot in the inner city of St. Paul, with a pH balanced 1/3 manure, 1/3 compost, and 1/3 dirt mixture will house my brandywine, boxcar willie, sungold, and black prince tomato plants.  My friend, Deb, will plant hers in 100% manure in the distant outskirts of the Twin Cities where the air is fresh and the deer roam free, and my boss, Terry, will plant his in LECA (“clay balls” as he calls them) next to his orchids in the basement, and grow the tomatoes hydroponically with exact (to the mmol) control of nutrients, UV light, and temperature. 

RESULTS

This contest will end late in September when we have the “taste off” in the office at work.  Perhaps Terry’s will taste like clay, Deb’s will taste nice and hearty organic, and mine will taste like exhaust from the neighbor’s 1982 diesel volvo rolling down the alley next to my tomato bed all summer (it’s the only spot in my yard that gets more than a couple hours of sun each day).  In the end, the genetics of the tomato will prevail over the conditions they grow in, and they will all make great additions to caprese salads, pasta sauce, and hamburgers all summer long.  While we enjoy our tomatoes, we will each do our part to keep a couple heirlooms going this summer maintaining some genetic variability in the days of tennis ball tomatoes. 

CONCLUSION

So is there a lesson in this Lesson #5 blog?  Not yet, but I expect it to be that you shouldn’t grow tomatoes in clay balls.  We’ll see when I get the Results section finished.

Teaching #5: A Handshake Across the River

In straight-away center at Target Field, with a backdrop of sky blue (RGB 135-206-250) that fits the color palate exactly, stands a 46ft sign with two plump (aka old-timer) baseball players shaking hands across the great Mississippi river.  It is a shout back to the original Twins logo from 1961 featuring the little-known cartoon characters Minnie and Paul. 

 

Knotholes in the walls along 5th street and the old Met stadium flagpole in right field are just a few additional reminders of Twins’ history prior to their 28-year run in the white bubble otherwise known as the Metrodome, now unfortunately known as Mall of America Field.  We got the twins out just in time.  But the collegial center field icon is perhaps more important to us “Paulers” than it is to our neighbors across the river.  In the Twin Cities, Minneapolis tends to be the dominant twin.  It has just a little more height, a little more hair, is a little better with the ladies, the better twin to date in your 20’s.  But St. Paul is the twin that you want to settle down with. It is the stable, calm, respectful, and quaint twin.  The 46ft handshake across the river is a reminder of the place this team and ballpark came from.

The Minneapolis Millers were a baseball team that first appeared in Minnesota in 1884 as a part of the Northwestern and shortly thereafter Western Leagues and eventually the American Association.  The initially Millers played in many small neighborhood parks and eventually the tiny, homerun-friendly, Athletic park (below) from 1889 until 1896.  It was located in Minneapolis close to where Target Field sits today. 

In 1896, the Millers moved into Nicollet Park (below) where they stayed until 1956 when they moved to Metropolitan Stadium.  The Millers called Met Stadium home until 1961 when the handshake occured and the Minnesota Twins arrived. 

  

The St. Paul Saints were initially a minor league team in 1894.  The Saints played in Lexington Park (below) starting in 1896.  In 1900, Comiskey moved the team to the South Side of Chicago where they became the Chicago White Sox.  A new St. Paul Saints minor league team arrived in 1916 at Lexington Park.  Lexington Park was the main home of the Saints, but during the early 1900’s, the Saints wanted a more centrally located park for weekday games, so they constructed the Downtown Ball Park (or “The ‘pill-box,” as it was generally called) close to the state capital in 1903.  This was their weekday home through 1909 with weekend games played at Lexington Park.

The Saints remained at Lexington Park until 1956 when Midway stadium was built in an effort to attract a Major League team which St. Paul made very clear.  After nearly 60 years in Lexington Park and a few years at Midway Stadium, it was time in St. Paul for the handshake as well, and the Minnesota Twins were formed.   Even though Metropolitan Stadium was not in Minneapolis (it was in Bloomington, a suburb), it was not acceptable to St. Paulers. As early as July 1954, the city’s mayor, Joseph Dillon, said that “under no circumstances” would St. Paul support the Bloomington site that was then under consideration and eventually chosen as the home for the Twins. In August of 1959, barely a week after the news that Minneapolis-St. Paul would get a team in the Continental League (the proposed third major league), a group of St. Paul fans began a petition stating they would not support major league baseball unless 50 percent of the games were played at Midway Stadium. No major league games were ever played at Midway Stadium. When the Twins came to Minnesota to begin the 1961 season, they played at Metropolitan Stadium.  The Twins would remain at Metropolitan Stadium until 1982 when the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome was built.  Soon thereafter, the Mall of America would be built on the old Met stadium site.

And so was the story of two teams in one Twin Cities.  Twin Cities baseball historian Stew Thornley says some of the highlights of the season for local baseball fans occurred on summer holidays.  "The St. Paul Saints and Minneapolis Millers would play a doubleheader, with a morning game in one ballpark and an afternoon game in the other," Thornley said. "The fans would get onto the streetcars, and it was probably about a seven-mile ride."  Then, in 1960, that 46ft handshake across the river occurred, and two teams that had cross-town “streetcar double-headers” and hometown rivalries for almost a century, now both call Target Field their home, where after every home run Minnie and Paul remind fans of history that has long since made its way to the Gulf of Mexico.

Teaching #4: "Screw the Yankees"

Lesson #4: Thermoose

We have a whole book of anecdotes about adult patients who are admitted to the hospital with their stuffed animals.  The gist of most of these anecdotes is that the number of psychological diagnoses directly correlates to the number of stuffed animals that the patient brings.  Teddy bears automatically count as 2 points on the psychiatric diagnosis scale.  Anything that makes noise when you squeeze it counts as 3 points.
That being said, Jessie and I bought a stuffed moose up on the north shore of Minnesota a few months ago for our “soon-to-arrive” nephew.  After 6 weeks of our pre-purchased baby present sitting on our couch with us, we had a strange growing affinity for Thermoose.  “Good morning, Thermoose”, “Have a good day, Thermoose”, etc.  You will be happy to know that Thermoose stayed in the living room on the couch.  Never in the bathroom, never in the bedroom, once in the kitchen.

Our little nephew, Greysen Alexander Jakes (7 lbs 7 oz 20 in) made an appearance 2 weeks ago in a Helena, MT hospital, and then it was time for Thermoose to make a plane trip to Montana in Jessie’s carry-on.  No, we didn’t check him.  Before his big flight, he got a bath in the washing machine and then laid on the deck to dry, but needed a little help drying, so we put him in the oven on low.  Don’t worry, he’s Scandinavian and loves saunas. 

Now flying back home on the plane from Montana, I realized I just thought about that damned moose.  But the thing that is different in my case is that he is a moose; dangerous, antlers, thrives in the Minnesota northland winters, and even has a beer named after his drool.  Most people probably wouldn't even classify him as a stuffed animal.  On the patient/stuffed-animal psychiatric scale, talking bears lead the list, but a moose is actually protective against psychiatric diagnoses I think.  Perhaps a –4 pts.  The fact that I’m thinking about Thermoose on an airplane, probably adds one point, making me still in the negative range at –3 pts.  I guess this is what they mean by closure.

Teaching #3: Never trust someone with a chainsaw in the winter

Telephone Conversation 10 days ago:

Ben: “Dave, can I borrow your chainsaw this weekend?”
Me: “Sure, for what?”
Ben: “Just have to cut a few things up at the cabin.  We’re goin’ up there with a bunch of people this weekend.”
Me: “What few things are you cutting in the middle of winter?”
Ben: “Are you going to be around tomorrow during the day so I could pick it up?” (smooth change of subject)
Me: In my head…Of course not, I work in the middle of every week day.  “No, I’ll be at work.”
Ben: “Ok, well, I’ll just swing over and get it.  Is it in the garage?” In Ben’s head…Great, he won’t be there so I won’t have to explain why I need the chainsaw.

Jessie and I are up at the cabin this weekend.  There seems to be a large hole cut through the ice.  Ice fishing?  Unlikely, as the hole measures a straightly-cut 4’x4’.  There are big fish up here, but 16 sqft seems to be a hole cut for more of a human-size creature.

Can you say “Polar Plunge"?  At first glance I say fun.  At second glance I see my new chainsaw in the frozen lake.  Ben hasn’t returned the chainsaw yet.  Perhaps it is still drying out.  Oh, my little brother.

Teaching #2: St. Paul Water

After a splendid long weekend on the North Shore, 50k of skiing, and 3 days of gorgeous scenery, Jessie and I both said one thing when we got back home tonight.  “Oh man, now that is good water.”  It is amazing to me how something so simple can be so strikingly different from our home in St. Paul, a friend’s house across the river in Minneapolis, and at the lodge on the North Shore of Lake Superior.

Water is water, right?  You add a little mineral to a can of Coke and no one knows the difference, but you add a little mineral to something so simple, and it is blatantly adultered.  Drinking water from the tap is something you know like the smell of your wife, or the feel of your own bed.  It is home, and there’s nothing like home.

Lesson #3: A little conversation with my old house

Over the years, I have come to many understandings with my 1930s House in St. Paul.  The latest was when my House told me 2 weeks ago, "David, pipes fitted 80 years ago are like petrified wood."  I said, "I know, old House, but it comes down to either paying a plumber to come and work on your innards or I can do it and then we'll have some money to give your tub a new white finish.  You've seen the tub... It is a hideous 1 part pink with 1 part brown color."

The issue was that we had a leak behind the tub inside the 2nd floor wall coming from somewhere in the plumbing underneath the bathtub, and it was time to fix it.  My House agreed I was allowed to explore its innards, as did my wife, that I was allowed to enter the historic plumbing inside the upstairs wall in search of the slow drip of water.  That was 2 weeks ago, and it has also been 2 weeks since we have showered in the bathroom.

Here's the issue.  My House was built as if it was on Summit Ave. in St. Paul.  Every piece of plumbing solid brass.  Every faucet solid brass, hand forged.   So I had isolated the leak, removed the petrified plumbing and went to Menards to get a replacement piece of brass.  That's when I ran into issue #1... The threads on the brass plumbing are European and only made in the time period between 1920 and 1930.  Brilliant.  Here's what we were working on inside the wall.

So, I was stuck replacing the whole lot of pipe instead of just the one that was leaking.  Anyone who has worked on old houses knows this is how things usually go.  But, the rest of the pipe did not come loose, so I was going to have to cut it out.  The house always warns me to avoid getting in too deep, but this was the only choice.  This is where I got myself to after 2 hours with a hack saw and Dremel 9600.

 

Now the problem was that I didn't have enough of a stub to attach the new pipe to.  Anyways, after making a couple new friends at Gopher Plumbing in St. Paul, I got the tub fixed, and there are NO LEAKS!  Yesterday, we refinished the old cast iron bathtub as promised with the extra money I had saved by working on this project myself for 2 weeks, buying a couple tools, etc., instead of hiring a plumber for two hours.  The bathroom looks great, and we'll shower in it tonight.  The House and Jessie agree.  Time for the next project.