You’re running out of time. It’s almost December 31st, and everyone needs a New Year’s Resolution. What’s it gonna be this year? Finally grow out those mutton chops? Learn to speak Klingon? Arm wrestle Justin Beiber? Do some sit-ups, climb a mountain, gut a deer, paint a fence?
It’s always the same for me. “This is the year I lose weight.” Dick Clark’s been my diet coach for a long time. New Year’s Eve meant confronting all the soda, Suzie Q’s, Bits O’Honey and bowls of Count Chocula I’d eaten in the previous 364 days while rockin’ to the televised hits of Toto, Billy Squire and Juice Newton as Dick narrated the ball’s descent. Just a snippet of “Auld Lang Syne” still makes me spit out whatever I’m trying to swallow whole before everyone screams, “Happy New Year!” While my siblings or friends tooted paper horns, counting down the seconds, I rehearsed my resolution - that this year, 1978, 1985, 1996 or 2009 – pick a year, any year – would be the year I finally shed unwanted tonnage.
This Friday night won’t be any different. I’ll huddle in front of the TV, cursing Dick’s persistence, wishing I could say 2011 would be the year I instead kickbox an angry kangaroo, spend a night in Delaware or vote Libertarian. But no. 2011 is THE year I lose weight.
I’ve decided to embrace the root of my lifelong strife and go out in blaze of cheesy greasy glory, targeting five fast food creations that defy nature, their very existence calling into question the molecular order of things. From the DoubleDown chicken sandwich to the McRib, from the Cheesy Bites Pizza to the Grilled Stuft Burrito, with a handful of Sausage Pancake Mini Maple-flavored bites thrown in for good measure, I aim to earn this year’s resolution with every fat-saturated caloric chew. I’ve convinced Maisie, my 11-year old daughter to join me. Kids today need to know there are consequences for the actions their parents force them to do.
Maybe these artery-obstructing choices are, “The Five Foods You’ll Eat in Hell,” but I’m not so sure. Everyone’s always smiling on the commercials, and who doesn’t love extra cheese slathered in imitation garlic butter? People without New Year’s resolutions, that’s who.
KFC’s our first stop, and my daughter’s having second thoughts. “Will I feel gross after I eat it?” she asks, not entirely serious but worked up enough to make me wonder if she’ll hyperventilate herself out of this trip.
We split two of the Colonel’s latest creations – the Double Down and the Doublelicious, the former having gained notoriety by substituting two boneless fried chicken pieces for the bun, holding together a generous helping of bacon, cheese and mystery sauce. We split them and share our booty. “This is a swirling vortex of yumminess,” Maisie says, but less than an hour later, she’s filled with remorse. “I feel sick. Why did you make me do this?” I’d answer but can’t, the salt from the sandwiches rendering my tongue useless.
The next day we tackle the newest menu item at Dunkin’ Donuts – Sausage Pancake Mini Bites –udder-sized meat-type sausages wrapped in a thin, maple-flavored pancake. It takes a leap of faith every time you bite into mass-produced sausage, and this effort requires something more like a catapult. As the mini bite reaches my lips, the pancake gives a little, like a soggy eggroll, but I continue, eating the fleshy tube in two bites. Maisie takes one nibble and announces she’s done.
“That tasted really gross. Why are we doing this again?” I don’t answer, gobbling down the remaining bites. The hint of artificial maple lingers in my throat like the syrupy perfume of an IHOP assistant night manager who knows her way around a waffle iron.
I spend the next week trying to figure out when I’ll fit in the rest. It’s not easy finding time for fast food.
Pizza Hut’s Cheesy Bites pizza is like the Ishtar of pizzas. “A pull-apart crust with 28 cheese-filled bites!” brags the Pizza Hut website. Sadly, just as Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty couldn’t save a lousy movie, Pizza Hut’s inability to execute on its vision leaves us bereft. This pizza resembles a giant circular Sasquatch plaster casting with mozzarella-filled toes. This yeti needs a manicure. I keep the large man-beast comments to myself so we can dig in, and we eat most of the pizza before giving up. “That was not worth it,” Maisie says. That doesn’t stop me from eating a dozen bites and four slices, reminding myself 2011 is my year.
Two days later I enter McDonald’s, scanning the menu for the McRib. It’s not there! McDonald’s has been playing cat and mouse with McRib lovers for years, selling it at random times in out-of-the-way locations, creating a semi-myth about the ground pork, pickle and onion sandwich to the point where you had a greater chance of sharing a McDLT with Whitey Bulger than finding a McRib in your neighborhood. The woman behind the counter asks for my order, and I say, “So you guys don’t have the McRib.”
“Yes we do,” she says as she points to a small sign pasted to the register. “Get one before they’re all gone – the famous McRib!”
I buy a McRib Large Extra Value Meal and head home. Maisie’s waiting (she’s no quitter), and I split the sandwich in two. It looks nothing like its photo – the sauce thin, the pickles sad and the few errant white onion shards bunched in the corner in what looks like fear. As for the rib aspect of the sandwich, I wonder what tiny creature was deboned for my lunch – McRabbit? McBadger? Hamburgler? But this sandwich isn’t gonna eat itself so we dig in.
“This has a weird taste,” Maisie complains, swiping my fries and leaving the kitchen. She’s given up on this quest, resigned to the idea that New Year’s resolutions are for processed pork lovers. I finish hers and mine in a few gulps.
I’m left alone for the final challenge – a visit to Taco Bell where I’ll dine solo on a Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
One might assume that any food using intentionally poor spelling is hiding something, but after one bite, the only thing this Stuft masterpiece is hiding is its fabulousness, and I don’t care how it’s spelt. The burrito sits warm in my hands, its top grilled brown, bite after bite revealing pockets of rice, cheese, beans and just enough chicken to explain away the misspelling.
I’ll miss you the most, Grilled Stuft friend. You’ve warmed my belly, caressed my heart and made me wish I didn’t own a calendar. That way, every day would be carefree, just like the playful way you tease me with each tickle of my taste buds. I love you, Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
But this is serious. In only a few days I must declare my intentions for 2011, and this burrito’s thrown me off. Maybe I could sneak away to Taco Bell once in a while – I mean, it’s kind of like a church, right? I could claim sanctuary and declare 2011 as the Year of “Tim and the Yo Yo” or “Tim Learns Jazzercise!” No. I’ve been down this road - 1986’s cheese fries are today’s chicken burritos and 2016’s frosted apple fritters, so it’s time to man up. No more stuft burritos, no more mini maple corn dogs for breakfast and no more Spam-flavored hype hoagies – just me and my muesli and maybe a scoop of yogurt if I’m feeling dangerous.
I say goodbye to you, my five cheesy fried meat-laced friends. But if we do run into each other, let’s pretend we never met. Dick doesn’t need to know. It’s easier that way.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A Reason to be Thankful
He was a nine year old boy, and he needed my help. I didn’t know his name, where he lived, where he went to school or if he had brothers or sisters. I didn’t know his parents, the color of his bike or what posters hung on his walls. I knew only that he was sick and that somehow we were linked. Something in our blood, a chemical signature, like a fingerprint far below the surface, matched up perfectly, and the boy would die unless I helped him.
The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.
I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.
I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.
The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.
The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.
By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.
My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.
I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.
My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.
In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.
A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.
I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.
I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.
The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.
I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.
I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.
The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.
The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.
By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.
My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.
I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.
My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.
In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.
A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.
I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.
I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Halloween is Hell
Halloween is here again, and I pray for a swarm of locusts to keep us indoors. I dread this day, remembering the evils Halloween visited upon me as a child. Once I became an adult, I thought I could ignore it, but as a parent, I realize Halloween is relentless, spreading its misery around like a sugar-crazed trick-or-treater flinging razor-filled apples into the crowd.
I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.
My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.
My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.
My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.
So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.
Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.
As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.
But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.
I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.
My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.
My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.
My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.
So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.
Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.
As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.
But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
"In Treatment - Holding his nose, Tim tours Concord's Waste Water Treatment Facility"
I need a favor. Today’s topic concerns things not meant for polite conversation, so can we agree to a simple word swap? In the place of terms and phrases that refer to unavoidable biological processes, I’ll insert different words, like “sunshine,” “joy,” “roses,” and “happiness.” Your cooperation is appreciated.
I arrive at Concord’s Waste Water Treatment Facility (aka, WWTF) at 7 AM, ready to delve into Concord’s happiness, to find out how we handle this happiness, and what it takes to receive, clean, test, treat and dispense of the city’s happiness, in all its forms.
Since moving here six years ago, I’ve noticed that smell, usually while driving on the highway just south of the city’s center. This odor’s become a steady feature on all O’Shea family road trips. “Yuck! What’s that smell?” one of us would remark, earning the standard response, “It’s the waste water treatment plant!” followed by a chorus of approving nods. I’ll note that using the same excuse while sitting in traffic outside Boston is not met with the same approval. Medford’s a long way from Exit 13, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.
Mike Hanscomb, WWTF’s Superintendant, greets me at the door and introduces me to Mark Fuller, the facility’s Operations Supervisor. Mark wastes no time sharing terms like “Activated Sludge Plant,” “Sequence Batch Reactor,” and “rapid dewatering process.” When he says this last phrase, he adds, “We’ll save that part for last,” and chuckles a bit. What goes on upstairs, I wonder. I don’t know sunshine from shinola.
This facility opened in 1981, processes five million gallons a day and is staffed by fifteen employees, many with long tenures here. I meet Roy Tobin, a twenty-five year veteran of the WWTF and my host at our first stop on today’s Tournament of Roses Parade.
“We’re going to the Influent building,” Roy says as we drive, a light misty rain falling on the windshield. “This is where everything starts.” I open the truck door and can smell it, an odor that crawls up my nose, over my eyes and rests like swamp gas on my brain. Roy, and his co-worker, Burt Richards, he too a long-time veteran of the business, don’t seem to notice a thing.
The Influent building is where the roses arrive, sent from pump stations across the city, and travel up three huge inclined pipes, each filled with enormous 60-foot screws, like something out of Journey to the Center of the Earth. The liquid roses churn upward into giant rectangle structures with tightly packed steel combs that remove sticks, leaves, gravel, and what Roy refers to as “rags.” Today’s the one day of the week that Roy and Burt haul everything’s that been combed out of the millions of gallons of rose-filled water for burning, leaving it devoid of anything that can’t be broken down by biology.
Back at the main building Tom Neforas, the Lab Manager, greets me. “We provide analysis to meet state and federal guidelines,” Tom says, adding details about reducing solids, bio-oxygen demands, and water quality until he’s interrupted by Kristen Noel, the Lab Technician and resident microbiologist. “We’re bug farmers,” Kristen says with a confident look. “We do what nature does, only faster,” she says as she leads us outside.
Kristen explains how their role is to foster processes to break down the happiness naturally, rather than bombard it with chemicals, with the goal of returning clean water to the river and giving clean fertilizer to local farms. Kristen speaks at a rapid clip, knowledgeable and direct. She knows a lot about Concord’s happiness, that’s for sure.
We walk towards the Bio Towers, climb the steps and peer into the tops of these two huge two-story roofless concrete boxes. Kristen explains, “These towers are like giant Petri dishes.” Countless giant sprinkler heads spew grey-brown water that cascades down over rows and rows of cedar and plastic racks. “The water makes a biofilm over the planks – and the more it builds up, the more the slime helps break down the waste.” It’s noisy as the warm water casts a humid haze around us. “Once the water leaves here, it’s one step closer to being clean enough for the river.”
Then to the Aeration Basin, which looks like a massive Jacuzzi. The water is a frothy color of charcoal and slate, a dingy milkshake coated with a covering of fist-sized bubbles. “This is the Happy Tank for microorganisms,” Kristen yells over the bubbling brew, explaining how air promotes the growth of good critters, like nematodes, but I’m too distracted by the idea that air, water and bubbles create mist and maybe that’s not the rain I’m feeling against my skin.
In a hut near the river, Kristen samples the water, measuring its chlorine levels. She explains that this entire waste water process started after the Clean Water Act of 1972. “Before that law passed, waste water went right into the river,” she says, a look of puzzled defiance in her eyes.
Mark meets up with us, and we head to the two secondary clarifying pools to take core samples of their bottom “blankets.” While the huge rotating arm makes its slow sweep across the murky water, Mark tutors me in lagoon systems, parts per million and refers to himself as a “Used Food Engineer.” He mentions upstairs again, and he and Kristen laugh.
We’re standing on a gangplank over the water, only a metal guardrail separating me from years of therapy. Mark hoists a long plastic tube down into the water, hits bottom, raises the pole and empties the contents into a jug. We need a sample from the second pool, and Mark hands me the pole. I do what he did, feel for the pole to reach bottom and bring it up, but before I can empty it, the pole wavers. I look like a mime with an imaginary fish on my hook. I brace myself against the railing, gain control, and empty the cloudy water into the bucket. I try ignoring the drops of water that land on my face and neck.
After we test the pools’ contents back in the lab, Mark asks, “Are you ready to head upstairs?” Tom chimes in, “We’ll give you an honorary degree if you survive the Sludge Room!” Ok, now I’m worried about upstairs.
We’re outside again, and Mark reaches down towards a giant steel plate in the ground, behind the main building. “This is the Sludge Holding Tank.” I look down and take a massive whiff. Whatever hideous odors I’ve experienced in my life were like the sweet smell of a baby’s blanket compared to what I just inhaled. But on we walk. Mark’s determined to show me what upstairs is all about. I’m not sharing his enthusiasm.
“This is the Sludge Dewatering Process. We take the solids left in the tanks, send them here and turn them into Class A biosolids.” Mark opens the door and I’m hit with a stench most foul, my mind filling with words like putrid, fetid, rank, disgusting, and this was a huge mistake. He shows me how solids are mixed with polymers, squeezed dry, doused with lime, heated, pasteurized and dumped into a waiting truck. I move my head from side to side, seeking an air pocket of relief, but agitating the air only makes it worse. Mark points to the presses where the solids are churned and kneaded before they head to the ovens, and I want my mommy and nose plugs. Mark continues, but all I can think of is about the odors assaulting my soul. I’ve smelled joy before but never like this – this is serious joy, like a joy-filled laser penetrating my skull, embossing a permanent olfactory impression no amount of Febreze can ever erase.
We move down to the loading bay as a truck drives off with a load of freshly pasteurized biosolids, headed for a farm in Gilford. “Farmers use the biosolids on cornfields, but only for cattle corn. We could use it on corn that we eat, but the ‘ick’ factor is still too much for us to do that,” Mark explains. Right now my entire world is ick to the factor of 100. And the idea that cows eat biosolid-laced corn to make milk, and that we drink the milk from these cows is both repulsive and sensible to me. I’ll never think of cheese the same way again.
It’s good to know about places like this, and an occasional whiff of what goes on here is a nice reminder that there are people who take care of things we’d rather not talk about, and we’re lucky they do. And if there’s one thing I learned after spending a day with my new friends on Hall Street, it’s that everyone’s sunshine stinks, no matter what we think about ourselves.
I arrive at Concord’s Waste Water Treatment Facility (aka, WWTF) at 7 AM, ready to delve into Concord’s happiness, to find out how we handle this happiness, and what it takes to receive, clean, test, treat and dispense of the city’s happiness, in all its forms.
Since moving here six years ago, I’ve noticed that smell, usually while driving on the highway just south of the city’s center. This odor’s become a steady feature on all O’Shea family road trips. “Yuck! What’s that smell?” one of us would remark, earning the standard response, “It’s the waste water treatment plant!” followed by a chorus of approving nods. I’ll note that using the same excuse while sitting in traffic outside Boston is not met with the same approval. Medford’s a long way from Exit 13, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.
Mike Hanscomb, WWTF’s Superintendant, greets me at the door and introduces me to Mark Fuller, the facility’s Operations Supervisor. Mark wastes no time sharing terms like “Activated Sludge Plant,” “Sequence Batch Reactor,” and “rapid dewatering process.” When he says this last phrase, he adds, “We’ll save that part for last,” and chuckles a bit. What goes on upstairs, I wonder. I don’t know sunshine from shinola.
This facility opened in 1981, processes five million gallons a day and is staffed by fifteen employees, many with long tenures here. I meet Roy Tobin, a twenty-five year veteran of the WWTF and my host at our first stop on today’s Tournament of Roses Parade.
“We’re going to the Influent building,” Roy says as we drive, a light misty rain falling on the windshield. “This is where everything starts.” I open the truck door and can smell it, an odor that crawls up my nose, over my eyes and rests like swamp gas on my brain. Roy, and his co-worker, Burt Richards, he too a long-time veteran of the business, don’t seem to notice a thing.
The Influent building is where the roses arrive, sent from pump stations across the city, and travel up three huge inclined pipes, each filled with enormous 60-foot screws, like something out of Journey to the Center of the Earth. The liquid roses churn upward into giant rectangle structures with tightly packed steel combs that remove sticks, leaves, gravel, and what Roy refers to as “rags.” Today’s the one day of the week that Roy and Burt haul everything’s that been combed out of the millions of gallons of rose-filled water for burning, leaving it devoid of anything that can’t be broken down by biology.
Back at the main building Tom Neforas, the Lab Manager, greets me. “We provide analysis to meet state and federal guidelines,” Tom says, adding details about reducing solids, bio-oxygen demands, and water quality until he’s interrupted by Kristen Noel, the Lab Technician and resident microbiologist. “We’re bug farmers,” Kristen says with a confident look. “We do what nature does, only faster,” she says as she leads us outside.
Kristen explains how their role is to foster processes to break down the happiness naturally, rather than bombard it with chemicals, with the goal of returning clean water to the river and giving clean fertilizer to local farms. Kristen speaks at a rapid clip, knowledgeable and direct. She knows a lot about Concord’s happiness, that’s for sure.
We walk towards the Bio Towers, climb the steps and peer into the tops of these two huge two-story roofless concrete boxes. Kristen explains, “These towers are like giant Petri dishes.” Countless giant sprinkler heads spew grey-brown water that cascades down over rows and rows of cedar and plastic racks. “The water makes a biofilm over the planks – and the more it builds up, the more the slime helps break down the waste.” It’s noisy as the warm water casts a humid haze around us. “Once the water leaves here, it’s one step closer to being clean enough for the river.”
Then to the Aeration Basin, which looks like a massive Jacuzzi. The water is a frothy color of charcoal and slate, a dingy milkshake coated with a covering of fist-sized bubbles. “This is the Happy Tank for microorganisms,” Kristen yells over the bubbling brew, explaining how air promotes the growth of good critters, like nematodes, but I’m too distracted by the idea that air, water and bubbles create mist and maybe that’s not the rain I’m feeling against my skin.
In a hut near the river, Kristen samples the water, measuring its chlorine levels. She explains that this entire waste water process started after the Clean Water Act of 1972. “Before that law passed, waste water went right into the river,” she says, a look of puzzled defiance in her eyes.
Mark meets up with us, and we head to the two secondary clarifying pools to take core samples of their bottom “blankets.” While the huge rotating arm makes its slow sweep across the murky water, Mark tutors me in lagoon systems, parts per million and refers to himself as a “Used Food Engineer.” He mentions upstairs again, and he and Kristen laugh.
We’re standing on a gangplank over the water, only a metal guardrail separating me from years of therapy. Mark hoists a long plastic tube down into the water, hits bottom, raises the pole and empties the contents into a jug. We need a sample from the second pool, and Mark hands me the pole. I do what he did, feel for the pole to reach bottom and bring it up, but before I can empty it, the pole wavers. I look like a mime with an imaginary fish on my hook. I brace myself against the railing, gain control, and empty the cloudy water into the bucket. I try ignoring the drops of water that land on my face and neck.
After we test the pools’ contents back in the lab, Mark asks, “Are you ready to head upstairs?” Tom chimes in, “We’ll give you an honorary degree if you survive the Sludge Room!” Ok, now I’m worried about upstairs.
We’re outside again, and Mark reaches down towards a giant steel plate in the ground, behind the main building. “This is the Sludge Holding Tank.” I look down and take a massive whiff. Whatever hideous odors I’ve experienced in my life were like the sweet smell of a baby’s blanket compared to what I just inhaled. But on we walk. Mark’s determined to show me what upstairs is all about. I’m not sharing his enthusiasm.
“This is the Sludge Dewatering Process. We take the solids left in the tanks, send them here and turn them into Class A biosolids.” Mark opens the door and I’m hit with a stench most foul, my mind filling with words like putrid, fetid, rank, disgusting, and this was a huge mistake. He shows me how solids are mixed with polymers, squeezed dry, doused with lime, heated, pasteurized and dumped into a waiting truck. I move my head from side to side, seeking an air pocket of relief, but agitating the air only makes it worse. Mark points to the presses where the solids are churned and kneaded before they head to the ovens, and I want my mommy and nose plugs. Mark continues, but all I can think of is about the odors assaulting my soul. I’ve smelled joy before but never like this – this is serious joy, like a joy-filled laser penetrating my skull, embossing a permanent olfactory impression no amount of Febreze can ever erase.
We move down to the loading bay as a truck drives off with a load of freshly pasteurized biosolids, headed for a farm in Gilford. “Farmers use the biosolids on cornfields, but only for cattle corn. We could use it on corn that we eat, but the ‘ick’ factor is still too much for us to do that,” Mark explains. Right now my entire world is ick to the factor of 100. And the idea that cows eat biosolid-laced corn to make milk, and that we drink the milk from these cows is both repulsive and sensible to me. I’ll never think of cheese the same way again.
It’s good to know about places like this, and an occasional whiff of what goes on here is a nice reminder that there are people who take care of things we’d rather not talk about, and we’re lucky they do. And if there’s one thing I learned after spending a day with my new friends on Hall Street, it’s that everyone’s sunshine stinks, no matter what we think about ourselves.
FSP- Round Two!
I'm happy to report that the Favorite Song Project is a success. Three weeks ago I shared my quest for that perfect list of my favorite songs and asked readers to share their favorites. The response, both locally and from far away, has been impressive. From Seattle to Sun Valley, from Vermont to Virginia, and from New York to North Carolina, with lots of places in between, you shared your favorite songs.
Some wrote of inner turmoil. Carmine, from Concord, wrote, "Not happy with this list. Painful, and yet therapeutic." Big Star's "Back of a Car" made his list. Don, my long-time friend and true music snob, wrote, "This is the 'Schindler's List' of songs - it's a 'good' list but many other good songs got left off, and that hurts me." Don included gems from Elvis Costello, Luna and the Velvet Underground, after first sharing a list of '80's hair bands that would not appear on his list.
Tom from Connecticut wrote, "To describe this task as difficult is an understatement," then provided a list with detailed descriptions, like, "La "Villa Strangiato" by Rush. "Geek rock as good as it gets. Put this on in your car and you'll be doing 90 before you realize it."
People chose songs like "Netherlands" by Dan Fogelberg, "We're All Alone," by Rita Coolidge, and Sonny Rollins' "St. Thomas." Lists included Etta James, The Stooges, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, Prince, The Pogues and The Beatles, to name a fraction. Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" made the most lists, and kudos to the young woman from Seattle who included "Video Killed the Radio Star," by The Buggles.
Many joined the Favorite Song Project on Facebook (103 members and counting), where they post lists, share lyrics, video clips and comments on each other's song choices.
The best response came from William Rogers, "81 years young," from Allenstown, New Hampshire. William wrote me an eight-page letter about his favorite songs. "I read your article and I found it extremely interesting, but narrowly centered on young people." He wrote eloquently about his love of Big Band Music, like Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," "Let's Dance," by Benny Goodman and "Green Eyes" by Jimmy Dorsey. His letter is an education in Jitterbugging, classic singers and the local Big Band hot spots back in the day. So you to, Mr. Rogers and to everyone else who shared your favorite songs, thank you and keep those lists coming!
Some wrote of inner turmoil. Carmine, from Concord, wrote, "Not happy with this list. Painful, and yet therapeutic." Big Star's "Back of a Car" made his list. Don, my long-time friend and true music snob, wrote, "This is the 'Schindler's List' of songs - it's a 'good' list but many other good songs got left off, and that hurts me." Don included gems from Elvis Costello, Luna and the Velvet Underground, after first sharing a list of '80's hair bands that would not appear on his list.
Tom from Connecticut wrote, "To describe this task as difficult is an understatement," then provided a list with detailed descriptions, like, "La "Villa Strangiato" by Rush. "Geek rock as good as it gets. Put this on in your car and you'll be doing 90 before you realize it."
People chose songs like "Netherlands" by Dan Fogelberg, "We're All Alone," by Rita Coolidge, and Sonny Rollins' "St. Thomas." Lists included Etta James, The Stooges, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, Prince, The Pogues and The Beatles, to name a fraction. Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" made the most lists, and kudos to the young woman from Seattle who included "Video Killed the Radio Star," by The Buggles.
Many joined the Favorite Song Project on Facebook (103 members and counting), where they post lists, share lyrics, video clips and comments on each other's song choices.
The best response came from William Rogers, "81 years young," from Allenstown, New Hampshire. William wrote me an eight-page letter about his favorite songs. "I read your article and I found it extremely interesting, but narrowly centered on young people." He wrote eloquently about his love of Big Band Music, like Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," "Let's Dance," by Benny Goodman and "Green Eyes" by Jimmy Dorsey. His letter is an education in Jitterbugging, classic singers and the local Big Band hot spots back in the day. So you to, Mr. Rogers and to everyone else who shared your favorite songs, thank you and keep those lists coming!
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