This is a follow-up post on Frank and his stump grinder estimate from last week (“Stumped”). By the way, he was the only stump grinder to return my call about getting a quote for the job. The name of his business is Corridor Stump Grinding (CSG) and the web page says it all: “We Remove Stumps.” Indeed, they do.
He brought his big rig over yesterday afternoon and chewed up our front yard stump in less than an hour. Frank is friendly, safe on the job, thorough, and offers a senior discount as well as complimentary ink pens with the CSG logo. I highly recommend him.
Frank has been in the stump grinding business for about 4 years and he’s pretty busy, although he’s in his 70s. He was retired for a couple of years before he embarked on this path in his life and now.
He’s also got a pretty good sense of humor and two other qualities are immediately obvious: kindness and respect. He’s proud of his family, a loving husband, father, and grandfather—and a sharp businessman. His Carleton stump grinder cost him tens of thousands of dollars and he’s doing very well.
Frank has had to repair the 21-inch cutting wheel because of obstacles like fence posts, including T-bars—which I’m sure he was glad we had removed prior to his arrival.
We wanted to shake hands after the job was done and we had talked a while. We couldn’t of course, because of the coronavirus pandemic. Anyway, Frank doesn’t mind my sharing a few pictures and a video about him and his stump grinder.
I recently read an article about Maintenance of Psychiatry (MOC) written by Dr. Henry A. Nasrallah, MD and published this month in Current Psychiatry. The title is “Revamp the maintenance of certification program.” It brought back memories of my crusade to do the same thing in past years.
I lost my connection to that crusade when I was in my last year of my phased retirement contract. In a way, though I don’t miss MOC itself, I miss the sense of meaning and purpose I had while I opposed MOC through working with the Iowa Medical Society, through a petition to oppose Maintenance of Licensure (MOL, a state based version of MOC), and through writing articles and blogging about why I think psychiatrists and physicians in general don’t need these expensive, time-consuming activities which have led to anti-trust lawsuits being filed against certification boards.
In his article, Dr. Nasrallah criticizes the MOC as a monopoly perpetrated by the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology (ABPN) and cites his own informal survey of 319 Current Psychiatry readers. He found that 86.5% of them recommended abolishing MOC. He tends to agree there should be an alternative to it. He recommends bringing back the oral exam.
I think it’s an interesting suggestion and I respect Dr. Nasrallah’s effort to not just oppose MOC, but to come up with another way for Psychiatry diplomates to keep their knowledge and skills up to date.
I remember my own oral board certification exam. It was very anxiety provoking, but I passed on the first try. There are reasons in addition to the anxiety they caused for why the oral boards were phased out after 2008. You can find them on the first page of a very entertaining post by Dr. Maria Yang. It’s a very long article, but the gist of the reasons for abolishing the oral boards is outlined on the first page. It was almost impossible to eliminate the wide variability of the live patient interview experience for diplomates while not being a guaranteed method for assessing a candidate’s knowledge and skills.
Dr. Yang lists several horror stories that make up the unverifiable yet terrifying lore about the process.
Even Dr. Nasrallah admits that the usual way the oral exams were conducted back in the day was almost unbelievably complicated logistically and also extremely expensive. He suggests that conducting them by videoconferencing could cut down on the costs, which is plausible. The justification for reinstating oral board exams is that it provided examiners a method for assessing a candidate’s interview skills and ability to collect and synthesize history and observation into a thorough diagnostic assessment and comprehensive treatment plan.
In fact, the academic medical center where I taught held what are sometimes called mock oral board exams regularly, which produced a tolerable mimic of the oral board experience in a less anxiety-provoking environment.
Making the oral exam, even in virtual format, the alternative to MOC would probably still make candidates nervous. It could also by logistically challenging as well. Would they be vulnerable to some sort of hack, such as Zoom bombing?
I spent a lot of time opposing MOC while I was working. It was frustrating. On the other hand, I thought it was important for me to let trainees know that life after residency would include challenges in addition to patient care and teaching, and that lifelong learning activities they engaged in might cost them a lot of money and personal time that they might find burdensome. I thought of myself as an example of a responsible protester in basic agreement with the principle of lifelong learning and improvement, although objecting to the certification boards’ methods.
The anti-MOC movement was a crusade that gave me a sense of purpose. I’m retired now. I salute Dr. Nasrallah.
I met Dr. Jenny Lind Porter Scott, one of my favorite teachers, in the mid-1970s during my first two years of college at what was then called Huston-Tillotson College (now Huston-Tillotson University or HTU). It’s one of America’s historically black colleges. I didn’t graduate from there, instead transferring credit to Iowa State University and taking a degree from there which eventually led to my graduating from the University of Iowa College of Medicine.
I’m sure there are no records of my attendance at HTU. I was recruited by Dr. Hector Grant, a professor of religious studies and philosophy who was traveling around the country and giving presentations to various church organizations to garner financial support for the college. I was awarded a $1,000 tuition grant under the auspices of the 17/76 Achievement Fund of the United Church of Christ.
I have neither degree nor transcripts from HTU. But I have my memories, and one of the most special memories is of Dr. Porter. One of the main reasons for today’s post is my finding her obituary on the web this morning. She died at the age of 93 in July of this year. I saw two obituaries, one apparently written by the funeral home on the Texas State Cemetery web site and the other appears in the Austin American Statesman.
Both list her many achievements as an educator, a leader among women, and a gifted writer. They also cite what might seem to be a minor detail to anyone but me and other students who knew her in the 1970s, which is that she “…established a Creative Writing program at Huston-Tillotson University…”
One of the products of that program was Habari Gani, a poetry anthology created and supported by the HTU student government and sponsored by Dr. Porter. “Habari Gani” is Swahili, which means “What’s going on?”
There was a poetry contest which preceded the publishing of Habari Gani. Mine didn’t make the cut and I left the school before I could get a copy of the anthology. Luckily, after a short web search, I was able to connect with the HTU librarian, who was kind enough to send me a digital copy in 2016. I like the introductory poem:
“Let your hum be the dream
Of an understanding universe…
Let your hum be a perfect
Utopia of love”
–Patricia Lloyd
Around that same time and in previous years, I would sometimes hear about Dr. Porter. Just when I had forgotten her, it would seem like somebody would send me a message about her. That began around 2011 when I left the one and only review on Amazon about one of her books of poetry, The Lantern of Diogenes and Other Poems, first published in 1954. It’s the only one I have. I was never able to connect with her after I left HTU.
Sadly, in 2016, I found out that the City of Austin, Texas was proposing to demolish her house. I watched the video-recorded public proceedings of the city council meetings involving the Austin Historic Landmark Commission. Those who knew Dr. Porter wanted to preserve the house as an example of the work done by a famous local architect (which they believed they could verify) and to honor her stature in literature and education. The meetings were painful to watch. I gathered that Dr. Porter’s house had fallen into disrepair and little could be done to preserve it. She had also developed a dementing illness which impaired her ability to manage her own affairs. Her husband had died several years earlier and it sounded like a decision-maker had been appointed to help her.
I had email messages from the Historic Preservation Officer and the local architect who planned to build a house with similar architectural style for a client. The plan included a micro free library, a small replica of the original house at the corner of the lot, and other items. The project was to begin about 8 months after demolition and I’ve not heard anything since. A Google Map search dated March 2019 shows a weed-covered empty lot at 1715 Summit View Place. There are hard facts of life I would rather forget sometimes. But I keep a few memories.
What I remember most vividly is her live poetry reading performance at the annual Faculty Talent Show on campus. It was held in the Agard-Lovinggood Auditorium (now a campus administration building).
Her act brought down the house because it was a strip tease. Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing salacious about it. It was absolutely typical for her legendary sense of humor and style. Of course, it was the ‘70s. Too bad I didn’t have a camera.
Dr. Porter loved her students. We believed in her courage, kindness, and strict attention to the sense and structure of English literature and language. My poem didn’t make it into Habari Gani for any other reason other than it was bad poetry. The important thing was—our lives mattered a great deal to her. She tried to teach me about Rosicrucianism, but it was over my head. The lead poem from her book is pretty down to earth.
Ever since the derecho last month, we’ve been stumped by stumps—tree stumps. It has been a lesson in the value of persistence. The tree in our front yard got knocked over almost right at ground level. I cut it up with a 20-inch hand saw. But the stump has me stumped so far. You can google “stump removal” and get an idea of what your options are.
One method is to use chemicals, involving drilling holes into the stump, into which the chemical is poured along with water and waiting patiently a few years. One guy’s review of a product revealed what appeared to be a basic misunderstanding of the procedure. It involved mixing the chemical with peanut butter, applying it to the stump which he then set on fire to make a smoke signal which could allow lost hikers to be more easily rescued. And by the way, it also hastened the rotting of a tree. The reviewer even included a photo of the heavily smoking concoction. I suspect the manufacturer published the review mainly for entertainment.
We took a half-hearted stab at chemical rotting. I mainly used a bow saw, believe it or not. That didn’t get the stump low enough below ground level to assure grass would grow above it.
Manual labor methods usually include recommendations for using a chain, a truck with 4-wheel drive, a wrecking bar, shovel, mattock, axe, and a few sticks of dynamite.
Manual labor has been the main method so far. There was a wire wrapped around the stump and three steel T-bar fence posts, which were probably placed when the tree was first planted several years ago. We got two of the T-bars out but couldn’t get the last one loose (only breaking it in half) until I got a hatchet and a pry bar. Thick roots were wrapped every which way around it and meandered off in all directions. I chopped and pried for hours until I could finally yank it out with vise grips. We hacked a softball-sized chunk of root out of the tangle, and managed to amputate several others away from the main stump. That is why I’m not a big fan of the manual labor method.
And then there’s a guy named Frank, half of a duo owning a stump grinding service. I called him and he came over the following day, shortly after I had removed the T-bar—which probably would not be the best thing for the 21-inch blade on his giant stump remover. He plans to grind it sometime in the next week.
I knew I could rent a stump grinder, but I would never do a thing like that. I’m not the handiest guy in the world, putting it mildly. I’m lucky I didn’t amputate a digit (along with a root) with the hatchet.
We talked with Frank in the front yard as he examined the stump. He said, “Oh, that’s nothing.” He quoted a fair price, which was far less than how much I would have had to pay to rent a stump grinder—and to cover the costs of emergency room charges, damage to the machine, the house and the neighborhood from a runaway grinder.
Frank is pretty busy and we speculated about what the main reasons might be, naturally one being the derecho. Frank thought the coronavirus pandemic might be another one. People sit at home either in self-isolation or quarantine and they have more time to stare at longstanding problems around the house and in the yard.
Having time on your hands can lead to boredom and brooding, which can happen to retirees like me. There are times when I would rather hack at a tree stump than read the daily news. I have to keep focused on where I’m aiming the hatchet or how I’m holding the power pole saw, which occupies me, makes time go by faster, and makes me tired and sore at the end of the day. I feel like I accomplished something. Frank retired several years ago and only later set up the stump grinding business.
We’ll see what happens next week with the stump. Frank’s business card has a picture of his giant machine. He can operate it by remote control. You can see what that looks like in a couple of videos at the website which markets the grinder he uses.
One of our favorite movies is “Up,” a charmer about an old guy named Carl whose wife Ellie always urged him to move up and onward to new adventures. In some ways, me and Sena are like Carl and Ellie. There’s a lot more to that movie than a house which travels under balloon power to South America, carrying Carl, a boy named Russell, and the spirit of Ellie.
Like Carl, I tend to be reluctant to try new things—like chain saws, for example. Ever since the derecho over a month ago, a chain saw would have come in a lot handier than a handsaw, a bow saw, and a manual pole saw. Sena tried to coax me to get a chain saw for a derecho disaster in our backyard, which left an eyesore of a mess. The tangle of stout oak branches with a dense mass of dead leaves never hit the house and was not a hazard—unless you bushwhacked into the woods and stood underneath it with a non-power pole saw and jiggled it with that.
Even with the pole fully extended, I could barely touch the 7 or 8-inch-thick branches. I could tickle it, but I knew I would never bring it down. Sena thought otherwise.
And then one day, Sena came home with a gift for me—the power pole saw. It’s a battery powered chain saw on a pole extendable to about 15 feet. The picture shows it without the battery. There are many words to describe my immediate reaction. Gratitude is not one of them. I have never owned nor used any kind of chain saw. I was not eager to learn and was not convinced that it would help me bring the oak tangle down.
My first efforts using the power pole saw reminded me more of Russell trying to pitch his first tent than Carl succeeding in getting his house in the air with balloons. The battery took only a little over an hour to fully charge, dashing my hopes of returning a defective product without injury to my ego.
I figured out how to attach and tighten the pole extensions. It was heavier than I thought it would be. Amazingly, no lubricant oil was provided. I had to make an extra trip to get that and a pair of safety glasses (which had to fit over my prescription pair). Oiling the bar and the chain is a bit tedious using the thumb-sized plastic bottle provided—which I had to fill from a large bottle of motor oil I had to go out and buy.
Finally, I could stall no longer. I crept into the very cramped space in the thicket, the kind of place in which experts tell you not to use the power pole saw. It was also necessary to stand right under the branch I needed to cut—another no-no.
At least I had my safety glasses on when I finally turned on the saw and got a face full of sawdust and wood chips that somehow got into my eyes anyway. One thing I was very thankful for was the two-step trigger mechanism. I had to first press one safety switch backward with my thumb while pressing the power trigger with my forefinger. Only then could I lift my thumb off the safety switch and continue to cut—as long as I kept my finger on the trigger. If I lifted my finger off the trigger, the motor would immediately stop. That didn’t bother me a bit.
I was just starting to gain a little confidence with the tool when I got it jammed into one of the thickest branches over my head. I couldn’t jiggle or pry it loose. It hung there, apparently wedged between the two sections of the limb and by one of those pesky strips of bark. I could hear faint snaps and pops that worried me more than a little bit.
I hurried out of there and looked back. The saw hung in mid-air in the wedge. I could hear more distinctly now a crackling noise and could see smaller branches slipping down through the foliage distal from the big branch. Gravity was playing a role here.
I grabbed the manual pole saw, extended to its full length and quickly scraped at that stupid strip of bark, holding my breath. The popping noises suddenly got a little louder and I rushed for the opening in the thicket, but got hung up by the manual pole saw which got stuck on some smaller trees. I yanked like a maniac a couple of times before realizing that I had to move back a few steps towards the thicket to unhook my saw from the brush before moving forward. I guess life is like that sometimes.
I got out—but the tree limb just wouldn’t drop. I used the molded hook on the manual pole saw and wrestled with outer branches in an effort to pull the thing down. It finally fell, releasing my power pole saw, which fell to the ground. By some miracle, neither the saw nor I was harmed. In its path to the ground, the branch passed the spot where I had been standing.
I wish I could tell you I reformed right then and there, stopped my foolhardy, reckless, death-defying acrobatics and levitated to the Himalayas, there to meditate for the rest of my life.
But I didn’t. I went back in there, retrieved my power pole saw and—got the thing wedged again in a different branch. This time, I could free the blade but had to take the chain off, brush the wood chips out, and put the tool back together. This involved repeatedly turning the chain over and over, trying to understand how this was supposed to be refitted on the bar to match the image stamped on the bar. This took a while. I dropped the bar a couple of times, but it didn’t break—dang.
Now you would naturally suppose that by this time, I saw the error of my ways, sought counsel from aliens who took me in their spaceship through the nearest wormhole back to their home planet in a distant galaxy where they reengineered my genetic code and built me a new brain thereby setting me free from the ancient human pattern of refusing to learn from mistakes.
But no, that didn’t happen. I just kept cutting. Against all odds, I cleared most of the derecho debris. It just goes to show you; sometimes it’s better to be lucky than smart.
It also helps to have a persistently encouraging wife who says, just like Ellie, “Adventure is out there!” Sena gets all the credit.
Today Sena and I want to make a shout out for a big act of kindness. Back in August, the derecho blew down a maple tree in our front yard, which also led to a concern about the tree right next to our house, which was a lilac.
We cut both down to stumps with a handsaw, a long handle tree trimmer, and a bow saw. We don’t have a chain saw. We planned to hire a handyman who does own a chainsaw to cut down the stumps.
We were outside, laboring over the lilac with the bow saw. We shared the bow saw. Come to think of it, I’m pretty good about sharing a bow saw, especially when I’ve been using it enough to notice muscle pain in several places I didn’t know I had.
We got the stump down to about 2 feet and were cutting off pathetic little chunks not much bigger than golf balls.
And then I guess a couple of guys on the construction crew working nearby took pity on us because suddenly, they walked over, shouting “Let us help you!” and carrying the biggest concrete saw I’ve ever seen, along with a respectable sledge hammer. The guy operating the concrete saw was the size of a sumo wrestler. His partner was no slouch.
No kidding, “Let us help you!” How could we refuse? What made them do that? Was it the white hair? Was it because they might have seen me yesterday get dirty as a pig cutting tiny pieces off the front yard maple stump? The only way to trim a stump once it gets to a certain height is to roll all over the ground. I have not been that dirty since I was 8 years old after playing king of the hill on a very tall dirt pile.
When I think about the use of a concrete saw almost as tall as I am to cut down a lilac stump, I’m astonished. They brought the tools they had to help us. I’ll never forget that big, friendly “Let us help you!” I’ll never forget their smiling faces.
That lilac stump lasted long a little longer than you’d think, and it was very heavy work. The saw screamed and smoked like it was on fire. It was heavy, but he was heavier and strove to slice the stump as close to the ground as possible. They both took turns swinging the sledge hammer at it—which made me instinctively want to duck. The stump finally let loose.
Immediately, the workers hurried away as we shouted thanks, almost as if they were worried that we might want to pay them—which I certainly considered. They smiled broadly, waving their huge hands.
We are still overwhelmed with gratitude for their kindness. These days, kindness is hard to come by. You look at the news (bad idea), and all you read is somebody is slamming or killing somebody else. I’m not saying you never see or hear about little or big acts of kindness—just that the bad news tends to overshadow the good.
You have to look very hard for an act of kindness. It’s harder to see how we can pay it forward. It doesn’t have to be a big act of kindness. It can be little, like saying “Good morning, how are you?” Even saying “thank you” is an act of kindness. And it’s OK to give a big shout out for any kindness you see—just to let people know it’s still out there.
Last night Sena and I watched a YouTube video walking tour of Boston, Massachusetts. It brought back memories of a trip we made there about 16 years ago. The main reason for the journey was a November teaching conference (sponsored by the Academy of C-L Psychiatry, back then called the Academy of Psychosomatic Medicine) on consultation-liaison (C-L) psychiatry I enrolled in, presented by the Mass General Hospital C-L psychiatry division. Funny, I don’t recall much about the details of the conference itself. Maybe that was because I got distracted by a bird pooping on me early on the first day.
I was on a break between programs and sitting outside the Boston Marriott at Copley Place. Suddenly I saw something white and gooey plummet inside the left cuff of my pants. It turned out to be bird poop, which led to my frantically racing back into the building to clean up.
I don’t know what kind of bird dropped that load of poop on me. It was probably a sparrow—but it could have been a seagull or even a duck, which reminds me of the highlight I can manage to remember about the trip, which was the Boston Duck Tour. I guess that means that the old story about a bird pooping on you bringing good luck might be true.
Anyway, while we didn’t have a chance to walk the Freedom Trail, we got tickets for the Duck Tour on a very chilly day. Remember, it was November. Because the annual meetings of the Academy of C-L Psychiatry were held in November, they were usually in warmer parts of the country. The Boston location was a real outlier.
We were lucky (because of the bird poop, no doubt) to find the Boston Duck Tours station at the Prudential Center on Boylston Street, practically right across the street from our hotel.
We were pretty impressed by the versatility of the Duck Tour bus, which converts readily into a boat because it’s a replica World War II amphibious DUKW vehicle.
It was a fantastic sightseeing tour. I remember the Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge and only now do I compare it to the Longfellow Bridge (also known as the Salt & Pepper Bridge). The Zakim cost a $100 million or so new, but the repair of the much older Longfellow Bridge cost over $300 million. I’m not knocking old stuff; just sayin’.
Leonard Zakim was a famous civil rights leader whose courage and respect for the dignity and rights of others seemed to get stronger after his bout with bone marrow cancer, the pain and depression from which he dealt with by using both medical and complementary therapies.
Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge left and Longfellow Bridge right
The Zakim Bridge was a part of the “Big Dig” which was a major $22 billion reroute of the main highway running through Boston and which was basically done by the time of our visit in 2004. It cost a lot of money and there has been some controversy about it.
Big Dig
There was also some controversy about whether the Duck Tours driver let Sena drive the vehicle while we were either crossing the Charles River or the Boston Harbor, I can’t recall which. He asked for volunteers to pilot the craft, but there were no immediate takers. He asked again and Sena spoke right up and took the driver’s seat. She’s modest about whether she actually drove the Duck.
Massachusetts State House left and Boston Harbor (I think) right
Then again, maybe that bird poop luck kept us on course.
It has been a while since my last post. I’m hanging in there although sometimes it’s difficult to stay optimistic. I’m reminded of the Survivor Tree, the Callery Pear in New York City. You can easily google the story about this tree which somehow survived at Ground Zero after the 9/11 attack on America in 2001. We visited New York in the summer of 2017 and saw the Survivor Tree at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum plaza. It’s hard to believe that was 19 years ago. And now we’re dealing with the Covid-19 pandemic.
I’m still adjusting to my new identity as a retired person. I was reminded of that when I read the recent post “What is your Identity?” on 9/12/2020 by The Good Enough Psychiatrist. She’s resilient and optimistic, traits I admire. I tend to be rigid and pessimistic, especially when I have a lot of time on my hands.
I also need to get out of my head. It’s amazing how easily reminiscence can morph into rumination. Galloping all over the hospital as a psychiatric consultant distracted me from that habit. On the other hand, Sena and I reminisced the other night for quite a while. I was astonished at how much we both recalled about our 42-year long marriage and the adventures and challenges we’ve been through.
Our first house was a challenge. Shortly after we moved in, I had to try to mow the tall grass which had been neglected for a long time. I had to use either a scythe or a weed whacker. I honestly can’t recall exactly what I used but the scythe sounds more impressive, so I suspect it has crept into the story more for dramatic effect. It was a very hot day and my first encounter with my neighbor from across the street was his generous act of lending me his power lawnmower. He was a white man and, back in those days, kindness in that context was uncommon.
The only time I used a power mower other than at that house was when I went to Huston-Tillotson College in Austin, Texas. It’s now called H-T University. It was one of the historically black colleges in the country and I recall feeling a bit awkward there since I had grown up in largely white neighborhoods in the Midwest. Anyway, I helped mow the campus grounds. I guess “helped” might not be the right word, especially if you consider the perspective of the groundskeeper who was in charge of fixing the power lawnmowers I destroyed. I wrecked a few mainly because I kept running over rough, rocky ground. After I dragged the 2nd or 3rd ruined mower back to him, he stared at me and shook with rage. Mercifully, memory fails me at this point.
I’m realizing I could probably go on rambling like this for a good while. I guess that might mean I’m gradually adopting the identity of a garrulous old retired guy. I know that sounds pessimistic.
On a more positive note, Sena and I had a great time in New York City three years ago. We’re glad to have the memories. Sena is optimistic and resilient by nature. She’ll help me imagine brighter times coming in the future.
Today we went for a walk on the Terry Trueblood Trail. It’s been a while because we’ve been pretty busy doing a lot of things that take up a lot of time but are not so much fun. I had nearly forgotten how relaxing it can be to just do a simple thing like go for a walk and experience nature.
Afterward, Sena wanted to go shopping for rocks. That’s right, we paid money for rocks. They were for the garden. The whole trip today reminded me of Stephen Covey’s story about putting in the big rocks first. It’s about putting the important things first in your life. At certain stages in my life, that has been difficult. It’s a good thing we get reminders now and then to put the big rocks in first.
As the yard waste collection worker approached our small, neat bundles of small tree branches tied up with twine, he just shook his head. He and his partner picked them up by the twine and tossed them in the truck. For a moment, I was afraid they would refuse to collect these relatively tiny remnants of the most devastating inland hurricane to smash Iowa in over a decade. It’s known as a derecho, which is Spanish for “straight line.” It refers to the straight-line winds which were clocked at well over 100 miles per hour on August 10, 2020.
The governor has requested federal aid. People died, many were injured, left homeless, and without power or means of communication for days which is extending to over a week now. Crops were ruined.
Trees and homes were ripped apart and scattered over the land. We knew when it ended that the cleanup job would be unimaginably hard. So that made the requirement to make tidy bundles of twigs festooned with twine all the more surreal. We and neighbors stacked the tree debris as neatly as we could in separate piles, never doubting that the city would understand that we were caught short. We just didn’t have time to stock up on twine in anticipation of a derecho.
The piles were left and so we thought, that’s understandable. The city was caught short as well. Then we heard that the reason they were left was that the bundles were not gift-wrapped.
So, we wrapped them up. It turns out it made the difference between allowing the piles of twigs to sit there and rot the grass underneath—or getting them collected.
It reminds me of a line from the movie Men in Black 2 in which the neurolyzed Agent K as the punctilious postmaster gently scolds a customer for failing to submit a “properly wrapped” parcel— “Brown paper and triple twist twine are the preferred media; thank you for your time.”
On August 10, 2020, the wind screamed like I’ve never heard it before. I made several trips to the basement in anticipation of a tornado, but we got something just as terrifying—the derecho. The power was off for a little over a couple of days. It took about a week before I got cell phone and internet access back. Thankfully, we were not injured and we had a roof over our heads.
Later in the week, we saw a long line of cars outside of a local hardware store—people waiting to buy $700 generators. Later that same afternoon, the power came back on. They’ll be ready next time.
Right after the storm stopped, I went out to get our mail (yes, the post person was out, believe it or not!). My jaw dropped when I noticed the fallen Maple tree in our front yard. We were lucky it didn’t fall on our house. I didn’t have a chainsaw. I cut it up with a 20-inch handsaw. My wife and I trimmed and stacked the remnants in our driveway. I didn’t think of triple twist twine at the time.
The last derecho I remember in Iowa was the Corn Belt derecho in 1998. I was an Assistant Professor in the University of Iowa Hospitals & Clinics Psychiatry Department. I remember pulling a tree branch off the roof of the house my wife and I had recently purchased. The streets were full of downed trees and in some cases were impassable. One of my colleagues called it a straight-line windstorm, the first time I’d ever heard of such a thing. I hoped I would never see such devastation again.
On the other hand, Iowans will make a straight-line comeback.
Go Retire Psychiatrist 