...wings and G.A.S.

Today, I walk into a Modesto Save Mart, a big chain grocer here in central California. The aroma of golden fried chicken ... and fresh baked bread wafts by. It is planned that way. Retailers use every one of your senses to 'hook' you, once you walk in.


***

It's afternoon and I haven't felt like eating yet today.

The first half of some days is a battle of decision making, for me.
Nausea, often decides that I'm not interested in eating.
But I need something in my stomach first thing, to take the meds... or I will get a "gut ache" and/or will sometimes "toss my crackers".
The meds end up in the sink or where ever I'm aiming at the moment. (Note: "crackers" means soda crackers which I tend to eat a lot of.)
Occasionally, when it's bad, I take an OTC medicine to reduce nausea. It's like a cough syrup.
I could buy a couple of fast food breakfasts with the money spent on this particular med. A bottle will last me 2 or 3 mornings, depending on the feeling...

Why is it that my mornings have so many health and financial decisions right off the bat? Before I'm even clear headed? I can choose to :

a. eat some food... while feeling nausea, in order to take meds... and possibly 'toss the crackers' and my meds?

OR:

b. take OTC meds to suspend the nausea... and eventually eat some crackers... so I can take the meds... to start my day...?

Seems that wasting/using pennies worth of food and meds before I even lace my boots is just part of the routine some mornings.
I'd have been a terrible pregnant woman... I probably sound like a cranky pregnant woman right now. ... Please don't show this to a pregnant woman, I'm already in enough trouble... Forget you read this...

Some days I feel 'normal'... I think I remember what that is...

(Don't suggest I see a doctor. He... no ... THEY know all about it. I've seen more doctors more often than I've seen my own family. Some of it is just common sense i.e. 'food before meds'... We all know what it is... or ...that it's all part of my life's grand adventure.)

Normally, I'm fine. Some days it's just the "gut ache", ...but not as bad as what I call a... "green apple stomach ache".

***

This "green apple stomach ache" revelation came to me early in life, while growing up a short bike ride from two apple orchards. Unfortunately, the "enlightenment" that a revelation should bestow on the recipient, came very slowly.

As renegade mountain boys, our master "raiding" plan, conceived as 9 or 10 year olds, worked nearly every time. Right down to the miserable aftermath. We thought we had life and it's rewards for cunning and perseverance all figured out. We were, in reality, slow learners.

A pre-raid checklist went something like this:

-First, check your bike for flats and loose nuts/bolts. ...Naw, we usually found out along the way that our equipment might not hold up.
-Ride down the long driveway towards the paved road.
- At speed, you must lock your brake, slide your tire and "spin a hooker", creating a big cloud of dust as you approach the pavement.
-Aim your front tire towards the day's adventure in the direction of one of the the orchards.
-Riding on pavement was a luxury when you live 13 miles out of town. City kids were wimps. But the paved road gave us a chance to earn some extra money picking up "return for deposit" glass soda bottles.

In the 1960s, drivers ... "adults" ...mind you... threw perfectly good glass empties out the windows of moving cars and trucks along the roads of America. Probably millions of dollars worth, ...or so we speculated, ...all over the world. Well, except where they sold soda in goat skins or clay pots. Those people dressed funny and didn't speak American. Our bike tires wouldn't make that kind of trip anyway. Some day, we'd make our fortune riding bikes, collecting soda bottles all over the U.S. and paying our own way. The purest form of the free spirited American Dream.

In my day, if we collected enough 3 cent bottles, it was worth a bike ride to the little markets in Mona Vista or Soulsbyville to buy 5 or 10 cent candy bars, sodas or comic books.

A couple of times I bought cigars.
Yeah, yeah... I heard it from Mrs. Poole too... I was "too young for cigars." Hey, I was eleven. I needed to hone my appreciation for a good cigar however, by puffing on old, fragile stogies wrapped in cellophane that when lit, smelled like... and must have tasted like old dog turds. I wouldn't know about the tasting part, though.

...back to the adventure...

-Ditch your bike in the tall grass... climb through the barbwire fence where the deer have squeezed through... and have already stretched the wire fencing ...and thereby eased the passage.
-Unhook what's left of your t-shirt from the fence.
-Check to see if any of the scratches you feel ...are bleeding.
-Wipe any blood on the t-shirt.
-Follow the deer trails to your favorite variety of apple.
-Enjoy the fruits of your efforts while watching out for those two big ol' hound dogs. The one named "Lummox" was particularly pesky. The other, whose name I forgot had a bum foot and was no real threat. Just noisey.

These forays started in June or July, when the apples were small ...and could last clear into October, if we wished. The earlier June/July raids were the one's most likely to create the distress I'd later call the "green apple stomach ache" or "G.A.S."
There's no real need to explain further how these episodes happened or the curse which goes with it. It is how I knew there was a God. A God who apparently has rules about stealing apples. The penalty for breaking one of the Ten Commandments.

At the time, I wasn't sure which commandment was being broken. We were merely sampling apples ...just like the deer, so we weren't stealing. We considered it our duty to be ready to tell Mr. Longeway which of his apples were best. If... he ever asked.
Covet? False witness? We'd need to get a dictionary and check those out the next time we were near a well-stocked bookshelf and felt the urge.

The ride home at the end of the day's adventure could be a miserable one. The afore mentioned ache was the worst. No one liked being so uncomfortable that we had to push our bikes, or worse, ditch them until later rather than ride.
Other times, we enjoyed the added propulsion to our ride, laughing and passing a different sort of GAS. We never mastered how to harness this form of energy to our advantage. Again, we were ten, eleven, ...fourteen, tops. We'd experience what the extra roughage, suddenly added to one's diet could be like. We never made the connection, though.

These apple sampling bike rides/raids lessened the older we got. So did my episodes of G.A.S. coincidently. By the time I was in high school, I had completely outgrown the childhood malady. Wisdom comes with age, I guess.
Mr. Longeway, realizing we knew our way around his orchards pretty well, offered us work. We could either pick apples or fell and cut up oak firewood for him and his wife. They were old, as parents go, but their son, Jim or "Jimbo" was our friend.
Mr. Longeway was born right there in that very house. Their house was a hundred years old and they still cooked on a woodstove. The creaky house smelled like wood smoke, cigarettes, coffee and maple syrup or pancakes or something like that.
We got to drive his old Ford tractor around the orchards. Through the creeks. Around his woodlot acreage. There was more driving than cutting wood or picking apples.

***

Today, back at the Save Mart grocery store the smell of fried chicken forces me to wander by the deli. I feel like eating.
Behind the glass display are heaps and mounds of assorted fried pieces of the delicacy. I do believe I'll try some...
Twenty, maybe thirty chickens gave the last full measure of their devotion... for the privilege of being "center stage" and, if only briefly in the spotlight... in a stainless steel pan. Their sacrifice shows their love for making all mankind happy... or at least being sated for a couple hours. My eyes begin to tear up and I reach for my hanky. An emotional moment for me.
I want ...hmmm... WINGS! I want some wings... Look at them... And about 6 ought to do.
I see ... numbers...prices... and slowly it begins to sink in to my brain's pre or post trans-fat or hydrogenated oil clogged arteries...
Wha-WHAT? 90 cents?... for ONE? One lousy, scrawny chicken wing? NINETY CENTS?

I believe I'm in the mood for some top ramen...