Relief in the Southern San Joaquin comes with a cool arctic blast blowing through some much needed rain for the weekend and crisp breezes for the beginning of Income Tax Week. Tuesday dries out the unexpected rain cycle slowly with clouds keeping the temps way below normal. When you know six straight months of furnace blast nears these surroundings, periods like this one are sweet relief indeed.
Our oldest son turned twenty-seven this past week. We got him a Bosch plunge router to further his arsenal of tools as he builds sets and stages at the junior college where he works in the theater department. I can't get him covered for health care, but I can buy stuff with the potential to hack off digits and limbs. Happy Birthday, son.
My wife has been suffering through a frozen shoulder, originally diagnosed as calcified deposits near the rotator cuff, which gets the prescribed physical therapy treatment from doctors until the insurance company says twelve treatments is the limit for the year. Now my wife has been through a health care drill that goes like this: exam with x-rays at the primary doctor followed by anti-inflammatory drugs, when no improvement results she gets physical therapy and when that fails returns to the primary doctor where she gets clearance to see an orthopedist, which gets her a new exam, more physical therapy until the insurance cuts off the treatment. Insurance company X finally informs doctor and therapist that it will only cover more therapy if surgical method is undertaken to free the frozen shoulder.
My wife asked her primary doctor about taking the surgical option at her first visit three months ago. Nope to that hope for a quick solution. We have now paid in out-of-pocket fees more than five hundred dollars on this exercise of pain and futility to get back to square one, and she has the best plan her company offers. As her birthday approaches surgery awaits. Happy Birthday, sweetie.
I'm listening to a tune about the same age as my oldest son. Little Steven Van Zandt's song, Voice of America, cries out "Can you hear me, wake up. Where's the voice of America?" The lyrics mean more today than when they were first written for many people, probably due to our awakening realization of urgency amid our collective debts. America has become a collateralized debt obligation. We find ourselves again as the Great Depression era's sad-sack cartoon character, Wimpy, glad handing for a burger today that we promise to pay for next Tuesday.
I note that today marks the 70th anniversary of the publication of John Steinbeck's great depression era novel, The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck remains a galvanizing spirit in American arts and literature. I've met many fans of Steinbeck, and many who think he worked for the Soviet Union in some clandestine capacity to undermine everything virtuous in America. I still find it amazing that my current county of residence (Kern County) banned the book from being taught in the public school system from 1939-1972. It banned the book from the public library for two years from 1939-1941. By the time the book was allowed to be taught in literature classes here, John Steinbeck was four years dead. Truth eventually wins out, but truth can take a long, long time to finally emerge. Happy anniversary, John Steinbeck, where ever you are.
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