One Note Away

I love music, especially what I consider to be good music.

I can hear you now, “So what’s good music to you? Do you like symphonic, rap, country, folk, dance, jazz, what?”

My answer is always, yes, to which I usually hear: “Say what? or Huh?”

OK, so I’m eclectic (no, not electric, eclectic, look it up) in my musical tastes; there’s a crime in that?

I can remember years ago; many years ago, listening to the Sons of the Pioneers sing “Cool Water” and Mahalia Jackson do “How Great Thou Art”, the only song I got tired of was Kate Smith doing “God Bless America.”

In my teens, it was the Goldbriars, New Christy Minstrels, Bob Dylan and the Grateful Dead followed by Joan Baez and others of the “Hair” era. It really was the “Dawning of the Age of Aquarius.” However, it was also the beginning of the one-note symphony for me.

I started working an orderly in the Emergency Room at Minneapolis General Hospital when I was just nineteen. Just before I turned twenty-one, Hennepin County took over the hospital and began an enlargement program. Part of that enlargement was the Ambulance Service. As I was known as a good worker, the Ambulance Service supervisor offered me a position as a driver on the service. Being the handsome young devil I thought, I decided I’d look great in the uniform. OK, I was thrilled to be on the service, and learn.

My symphony began with the first “Code 3” (Lights and siren) run I went on. The siren, the lights, the traffic, and the adrenaline were all flowing; it was a rush. What I didn’t realize was that my feelings of invincibility were masking a vulnerability – my hearing.

Unlike today, the sirens of those years were operated by the driver stepping on a floor button like the old high beam switch. You slowly pressed down on it and the siren gradually built up sound and tempo until you took your foot off. Often on long runs, my foot would get sore.

Now, if you’ve never heard a 1960s siren, know that they weren’t as loud as those of today, but they did affect the hearing. This was due to the fact that the only thing between your ears and the siren was the thin metal roof of the ambulance. Nobody thought to give us hearing protectors or earplugs, ergo, some of us had the beginnings of severe hearing loss.

When the new electronic sirens came out, they were great for traffic but worse than the old ones for hearing. I’m sure most, if not all of my readers have been close to an emergency vehicle with the siren going; loud, aren’t they a joy? Many of the doctors who rode with us complained about the noise, but no one I know of suggested that we, the EMTs at the time, have ear/hearing protection. Understand that we worked in a hospital with doctors, so it is a tad incomprehensible that they would ignore us, but they did,

After about ten years, I started to experience minor spells of dizziness, disorientation, tinnitus and diminished hearing. When I checked in at health services about this, they told me it was either the flu, aging or a simple inner ear infection.

I knew it was something more, but I had to believe in the medical staff I worked with. The only problem was, I was going deaf. I couldn’t hear clearly and words all sounded the same to me.

Eventually, this condition drove me out of EMS, and the teaching I was doing, mainly because I felt like a fool. I couldn’t understand what people were saying to me, especially women and children with high pitch voices.

As the condition had worsened over the years, rather than feeling like I was going insane, I decided to challenge it.

I was tired of saying HUH?, WHAT?, SPEAK UP, and only hearing buzzing, clinking, dinging and other weird sounds from the tinnitus, so I shut down and sought solace in the bottle. Rather than fight the demon, I surrendered – bad choice.

After a series of disasters and losses, I finally decided to face the issue that I was indeed a one-note symphony away from total deafness. I had to face my demon or die alone.

For those of you who have good hearing, and have never had an earache I say, lucky you.

For those of you that have hearing loss, I say, I understand your pain and loneliness. It is very difficult for us to help people understand that hearing loss is a soul-destroying event, especially when there’s is no hope for a cure or an improvement.

“WHAT” is a word I wish I could forget or at the very least, find a good replacement for. How many ways can it be said? How many times do we have to say it before people will accept the fact that hearing loss is a terrible disability?

Do we have to wear neon signs starting: Hearing impaired.?

“Oh, you’re just not paying attention!”

I wish that was all it is.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times.”

My favorite one is the person who shouts thinking his, or her roaring voice will overcome deafness.

One of my biggest problems is what I refer to as Audio Dyslexia; words sound the same to me; example: round, pound, sound, mound, town, etc. Add that to trying to understand people who like drop-off sentences. You know what I mean, the person who starts a sentence in a loud voice and ends in a whisper. I often want to yell, TURN YOUR DAMN VOLUME UP AND SET IT ON MONAURAL.

How about this, let’s throw accents into the mix?

I live in Missouri but still retain a Minnesota accent, or is the word dialect more appropriate? How about idiolect? (you talk funny). Whether we realize it or not, we all speak in different dialects (accents) and idiolects (our individual way of speaking). Our speech patterns are exclusive to ourselves; check out this page, it does a better job saying what I want to say:

Ever wonder how a person going deaf handles that? I drank, because I thought it was my mind going haywire. Well, it was, in a sense, because the hearing receptors in my ears were almost destroyed by loud sounds (think music and sirens fits nicely right here). I needed to be able to hear and, more importantly understand what I needed to know to do my job, and I couldn’t. I could no long talk on the phone, hear the voices nature or understand what women and children were saying. It got worse, no, it is getting worse almost daily. People I’ve known and lived with get irritated at me because they feel I should be able to understand everything they say; I can’t, the words are no longer there for me.

There were many times when I thought a bowlful of double edged razor blades sounded delicious. But, either through cowardice or stubbornness I could not give in. I lost my family, my job and even my self-esteem, however, I refused to give in.

Then one day I decided to defy my mother, and go to college. I seventy years old at the time and she was, and remains deceased but her words to me when I was only 16 still rang in my ears: “You’re not smart enough for college.” She was partially correct, I flunked math, but she was wrong about everything else, I did quite well in writing and Psychology.

It’s tragically ironic that I clearly heard the voice of a deceased person giving me the incentive to overcome by attending college and struggling in every class to hear and understand the professors.

I still struggle to hear but I realize the last note of my symphony will soon be played and I’ll be 100% deaf. I’m no longer afraid of it, nor am I willing to concede before the last possible nano-second.

So why do I feel compelled to write this?

I write because I feel communicating is the key to better understanding for all of us.

Hearing loss is what I call an invisible disability.

“He don’t look hurt or walk funny, but he sure do talk weird.”

FYI, the deaf cannot hear their own voices. THINK ABOUT IT.

Never Read Half!

I’m curious, how many people do you know that will pick up a book, magazine, newspaper or other printed matter, read only half of it, then tell you they know the entire story?

I’d be willing to guess we all know lots of people like this.

Now, how many people do you know that will admit to doing this?

If you said none, nil, nada, zilch, or zero, you’re probably right on target.

Pathetic, isn’t it? Yet this is the philosophy of a large percent of people.

Now, think this through a little. What is propaganda?

According to the Cambridge English Dictionary, propaganda is: “Information or ideas that are spread by an organized group or government to influence people’s opinions, esp. by not giving all the facts or by secretly emphasizing only one way of looking at facts.

The Cambridge English Dictionary defines propaganda as: “Information or ideas that are spread by an organized group or government to influence people’s opinions, esp. by not giving all the facts or secretly emphasizing only one way of looking at the facts,”

If you look at this sideways, you might see a similarity between reading only half the book and getting only half the facts, right?

Yep, thought you would.

America is currently under attack by professional propagandists posing as various experts, news commentators and educators. Those who would question their positions are brow beaten and denied the Freedom of Speech those same propagandists laud as a given right.

The rights and responsibilities of the tax-paying American citizens are being usurped by foreign interventionists set on remaking our beloved country into a satellite of a globalist world empire.

We are being fed bits and pieces of a very large instruction manual designed for the overthrow of our Republic. Our Constitution, the basis of our laws and freedoms is being chipped away at; eroded with half-truths and outright lies.

Ask yourself one question, throughout our history, which political party has had more members commit assassinations and mass murders?

It’s an easy one; the Democrat Socialists. Think about that and read the whole book.

Sixteen Year Old Voters?

This morning, while attempting to enjoy my breakfast I heard a report on the news about the Democrat monarchy struggling to get new voters by demanding a change in our laws to allow sixteen-year-old, legal and illegals living in America to vote. Let that sink in a minute.

The argument was this: We allow seventeen-year-old citizens to join our military. We train them then send them into battle zones where they have to make life and death decisions. If we can do that, we can allow sixteen-year-old’s to vote. Again, let that sink in.

Ready for this?

Re-read both paragraphs carefully; see the problem with the claim?

One word sticks out like a large carrot shoved up my nose.

Did you find it?

Whether you did or not, I’m going to tell you. The one word that destroys the Democrat monarchy’s argument is “TRAIN.”

Enlistees in our military are rigorously trained in basic training (Boot) camps where their mental and physical skills are sorely tested. There is an average 10+% drop out rate for numerous reasons, not the least of which is an inability to work in a team. The successful ones are sent to other facilities to further their training in specialized areas.

The key to the success of our military is team work. Each successful enlistee becomes a part of the military team; each to know his or her role in the success of the team.

How, in the name of all that’s sacred in America, can anyone compare any one of our military personnel to a sixteen-year-old? What kind of stupidity makes them think there is a fair comparison?

For me, it is an another insult to the American voters to think that a sixteen-year-old has the life experience, training and maturity equal to that of seventeen-year-old American soldier, airman, seaman or marine.

In defense of sixteen-year-old’s, I know several and have, over my lifetime worked with a number of them through my religious affiliation. There’s no denying the knowledge and drive of these kids but most lack life experience and the basic principles of our Constitution and electoral processes. I blame our liberal controlled education systems for that.

Do I think Sixteen-year-old’s should be allowed to vote? NO! Not because they’re sixteen, because we have failed to teach them what they need to know to make logical choices for themselves and their future families.

Communicate: An Ode to your Death.

Where once was I, a lad so young,

My before had not begun.

I thought my words told true my heart,

My strengths and knowledge, to all impart.

But alas a fire no more does burn,

Loss of love, life’s cruel turn.

Now it’s over, no time for hate,

To love anew please communicate.

Not a great ode, but then I’m no May Angelou. I think it puts my point across about the value of learning how to communicate.

“So what does that mean? I talk, I communicate!”

Umm, no, talking is not necessarily communicating in my book. Talking, as valuable as it is, is not necessarily communicating: relating information.

Get it yet?

We all talk to ourselves, others and even, on occasion complete strangers. guess which is probably the only one we really communicate with.

My guess is we communicate better with strangers than with anyone else. My reason is simple, more often than not, either strangers are seeking information from me or I from them.

“How do I get to the bus terminal?”

“Where’s the best place in town to get a hamburger?”

Long ago, and I can’t remember who taught me, I learned that there are six words that identify my need to communicate: Who, What, Why, When, Where and How.

For me, using any or all of those words is conveying to the person I’m talking to that I need information: I am communicating a need.

How does that work in a relationship? Well, tragically not well in many cases.

“Why did you lie to me?

“Umm, I didn’t lie, I simply fibbed.”

The question being asked is “Why did you lie to me?” The communication is, I know you lied, but I don’t know why you did.

An honest answer might be; “I lied because I didn’t want you to know I was cheating on you.” The communication is, I’m an asshole and not worth your time. OK, a bit extreme, but you get the idea.

To communicate effectively with someone you want in your life, you must learn to communicate your true thoughts, feelings and needs.

“Could you please explain to me why you felt the need to cheat on me then lie about it?”

Confronted with this question from someone you know you love and do not want to lose, how would you communicate your feelings without telling another lie?

Personally, I think the best way is to communicate the truth.

“I was drunk and made a terrible mistake. I regret it and would love to change it but I cannot. I’m sorry.”

At this point, I believe it contingent on the other party to communicate their feelings to you.

“I’m mad at you; angry and betrayed. I don’t know what to do or say right now.”

What would your response be?

Communicate does not mean accuse, lie, name call or physical attacks.

In this instance, it does mean to say, “You hurt me.”

“Can we talk about this later?” You’re communicating a willingness to be open.

“Maybe.” You’re hearing “I am willing to at the right time.”

Don’t push it by saying, “When?” That’s communicating your impatience. not your need to solve the problem.

For me, communicating is using truth, facts and tact to express my thoughts and needs.

Democrat Lebensborn Agenda?

Without fail, almost each and everyday, the Democrat monarchists show their true allegiances are not to America; their corruption is endemic.

Yesterday, the Democrats in our Congress blocked passage of a bill designed to save the lives of innocent babies. In essence, they declared that since babies who are strong enough to survive the butcher’s tools of the abortionists, had no right to live.

It made no difference to them that the child may have grown up to be another Marie Curie, John-Paul II, JFK, or MLK. No, it only meant a fighter had to die.

Was it fear of that fighter growing up to be another President Reagan or Trump?

When one adds the other actions of the Democrat monarchists such as

“Senate Democrats on Thursday blocked a bill that would fund veterans’ benefits and military construction, in an effort to push Republicans to negotiate a larger budget deal.”

“They issued press releases praising the bill, but they seem prepared to block the Senate from even debating this bill, too,” he said. “It’s all part of some half-baked Democratic scheme to get more money for the IRS and the Washington bureaucracies.” (Senate Majority Leader, Mitch McCconnell).

Here, I see the Democrat monarchy holding our heroic military veterans hostage for more money to fund their, the Democrat monarchy’s agendas. They are willing to allow our veterans to die on the streets and in the waiting rooms of our VA hospitals to get their way.

If one removes political bias from the scenario and closely examines the apparent agenda being followed, you may see similarities to those of the “great” Socialist leaders such as Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Pol Pot and so many others.

If my hypothesis is anywhere near correct, the next step, if not already taken in secret, will be the elimination of the unproductive elderly and disabled people of all ages.

Once this is all completed, what will happen?

I predict the creation of the Democrat Monarchy Lebensborn program; the selective breeding of Democrats to form a more “perfect union.”

It is easy to say, I’m full of shit, but just look at those supporting the Infanticide Agenda. Who are the leaders, who are the breeders and who are the ones declaring who may live and who must die?

I Remember Pauline


In 1963, I was nineteen and beginning to show some of the symptoms of, what I call, Childhood Trauma-Induced Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (wow, a long title there). However, in retrospect, I am unable to give it any other name. It is, what it was and came at a very terrible cost.

I did not drink, nor do drugs back then, nor did I act out other than being very insecure, sensitive and lonely, those showed, at least to people who cared which excludes my family.

I met Pauline when I started working as a kitchen helper at the Veteran’s Administration Hospital in Minneapolis, MN, where was the Dining Room supervisor, aka my boss. Almost from the first day, it seemed as though she hated me for some odd reason. It seemed, at least to me that I was her private punching bag when things went wrong. The dishes were not done correctly; I was using too many eggs, I was not overseeing the diet line, I missed a zillions spots on the dining room floor, and my hair was too long. You cannot believe how much I hated that woman. I wanted to kick her ass from one end of the hospital grounds to the other and back again.

Then one day, she assigned me to work in the small kitchenette on the 5th floor of the hospital. It was a room about twelve by twenty feet with a steam table serving line and small tables. I thought it was pretty cool, but I was a bit naïve; it was in the psychiatric ward, so I was a bit nervous. Fortunately, patients were not allowed in without the nursing staff, or so I was told.

            At noon, a sous chef would come up to help swerve, then leave when at one when the kitchenette was supposed to close. On this day, we only had four or five patients who were in and out fast, so we finished early. As I was cleaning up, a patient walked in with a bizarre look on his face. He stood in front of me and looking right into my face and said: “Do you know the president was shot?”

            The first thought that came to mind was, is he was going to tell me about President Lincoln? I did not need that, so I told him he had to leave, but of course, he was not about to leave; he took a chair by the window and started crying.

            Not wanting to upset him more, I quietly grabbed up all the sharp knives and slipped out the employee door only to find a woman in white, kneeling in the middle of the hallway. Now, since this was a men’s ward floor, I was now starting to get a little more nervous.

            I edged my way past this woman, and ran, not walked down the hall to the locked nurse’s station where a nurse (female) was sitting at the desk crying. As I attempted to tell her about the patient in the cafeteria, and the woman on the floor, she blurted out, “They killed the President.”

            Remember now, even though I had pretty much been on my own since age fifteen, and often neglected before that, I was still naïve in many ways. OK, I am lying, I was scared shitless.

            I ran back to the cafeteria to find the patient had left, so I quickly locked all the doors and ran down the back stairway to the main kitchen and dining room. You will never guess what I found there!

            I found more people crying and telling me the President has been shot and killed.

            Luckily for me, Pauline, the woman I whom I had thought hated me, stopped me, took me in her arms and hugged me.

            “It is going to be all right, baby.” She said, and she wiped away the tears I do not remember shedding.

            She held me close, as though I were her child; telling me that things I would be safe with her.

            After I had calmed down, she told me to go to the locker room, get into my street clothes and meet her out by the employee entrance.

            When I got there, she, and her husband were waiting for me. They took me to a local café where we had some coffee and watched the news. After about an hour, they took me home to the room I rented. Pauline gave me her phone number and told me to call her if I did not want to be alone.

            From that day, until I quit the hospital a year later, Pauline remained the tough, demanding boss. She made me do things over until I did them right. She made me admit my mistakes and make them right. She showed me color and gender make no difference in real friendship. To this day, I cannot help but wonder if, when she died, did she meet Nana and Henry, my best friend in elementary in heaven; they were so much alike.

Rest in Peace, President John F. Kennedy, May 25, 1917 to 12:30 PM, November 22, 1963