Okie Dokie, Grapes of Wrath Turns 70 Today

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.

April Fools

Sun's up. A morning breeze cools the french roast in my hand with doves, jays and sparrows taking their usual breakfast places underneath the plum tree. The dog trots on patrol from one side of the yard to the other letting out various low sounds of growl indicating a feline intruder wandered the grounds recently. The morning commute echos in the air, forming the usual wall-of-sound din that serves as the sonic background to my urban lifestyle. My big cat inside the house peers through the french-door windows with a look of disgust at his imprisonment. I walk inside with the dog to cheer him up. It's not my endearments, but the offering of dried salmon which rescues the awkward reality. The lady inmate cats appear quickly to receive their usual ration of dried fish, which always must follow the big guy's preferred bribe.

The cracks in the stucco need a patch and quick touch of paint. I retrieve my tools and arm myself with latex gloves. I cover the spider web lines of separation at a corner and underneath a few of the windows. I complete the fill in the back of the house where a broom handle marks the final area of wear. A fast brush after getting the paint put back together with a quick stir ends the project.

Several kids move up and down the street with ipod cords bouncing in rhythm to their steps. I see a lot of kids out and about throughout the town everyday. Apparently school schedules must be on flex time these days.

NPR buzzes with Sam Donaldson. Sam serves up some memories of Nixon, and actually praises Oliver Stone's film of the same name. Sam tells a funny story about questioning Ronald Reagan amid his popularity slide in the early eighties when the economy was about as bad today. Reagan, as Obama does today, had a habit of always reminding the nation that the previous office holder and party created the mess. Sam's question was when would Ronald Reagan accept responsibility for some of this financial crisis. Reagan's response was funny. He acknowledged that, yes, he had once been a Democrat.

I need some tunes on to calm the critters before heading out the door. I put on a collection of oldies the Nixon chronicles had tweaked into my brain. Arthur Lee exclaims, "I just got out my little red book the minute you said goodbye......................... There's just no getting over you."