Coolest State Flags

I declare the most attractive and effective flags to be the colorful and simple. When a banner is flown high up on a pole, tiny figures, words, and scenery drawn seemingly with a number 2 pencil are completely lost to our sight. At worst they look like aberrations in the fabric. In my opinion the flags pictured here make the boldest proclamations about their states. They are simple, striking, and convey a symbolic message and enthusiasm for their state:


Arizona--Don't you get a yearn for Arizona when you see their flag?  The warm sunny colors convey the wide open desert, the blue reminds us of the mountains and cooler areas. The star mimics a setting sun and the whole thing emanates a wild west feel.

Alaska--"The simple flag of the last frontier."   The Alaska flag goes together with the state song. "Eight stars of gold on a field of blue . . . The blue of the sea, the evening sky, the bear, the dipper, and shining bright: the great north star with it's steady light, o'er land and sea, a beacon bright . . . " which by the way, beats Oregon's languid state song by a mile. The long nights way up north give the stars greater prominence than we enjoy in the lower 48. And again, less is more.

Alaska State Song


California--My all-time favorite flag!  The grizzly says it all.  California was a wild place back in the day. The last grizzly in Southern Cal was killed in 1879 just a few miles from where I grew up (I have no memory of that event . . .). The flag was raised at Sonoma in 1846, declaring California separate from Mexico as The Bear Flag Republic. A two-year war occurred to make that a reality and voila, California became the 35th US state.

Montana--This is an exception to the rule that flags should not sport intricate pictures that are impossible to see from a distance. The bright colors and relative simplicity of the tableau makes it easy on the eyes. Love the Bitterroots and the Great Falls of the Missouri in the sketch.

New Mexico--Another flag from a sunny state that found a unique way to represent the sun, using a native American symbol. The colors represent the original Spanish explorers and settlement. New Mexico's heritage is displayed using only two colors and one symbol. Amazing.

Oklahoma--The shield of the Osage warrior bedecked with a peace pipe, an olive branch, and eagle feathers pays homage to Oklahoma's heavy native American beginnings. Set on a stunning blue background, there is no other flag like it.

Texas--Nothing says "the Lone Star State" like . . . a lone star on their flag. Dating from the days of independent Texas, the flag was Texas's symbol on becoming a state in 1845. The lone star represents solidarity in standing up against Mexico.

Washington--Old white guys glorified on a state flag don't usually cut it, but this vibrant flag honoring ol' George is pretty as a picture. The deep emerald green signifies Washington's predominant color, and, balanced out by the yellow of eastern Washington wheat fields, and azure blue reminding of us sea and sound, is stunning.

And now, the worst: There is not a duller state flag anywhere, than that from my home state. Even if you magnify the seal, it's not easy to see what is portrayed (if I squint a Conestoga wagon pops up and maybe a clipper ship . . .).  And 20 feet up on a flag pole, forget it. The beaver on the backside is a nice touch, but flown up the pole, you would swear someone spilled a jar of mustard on the flag.  About five years ago The Oregonian newspaper solicited designs for a new state flag, but the legislature did not get on board, and now that issue is dead in the water. Yeah, about as dead as our dull state flag.

You Can Bend But Never Break Me . . .

Do you have a "theme song" for your life?  Or do you ever break out in an appropriate song for whatever situation you are in?  Words to music speak to me and tie into my memories almost as much as do scents or aromas, and visuals.

If there had to be a theme song for my life, in 2013 it would be I Am Woman by Helen Reddy. That song thrilled me in1972 when she belted it out for the first time, and that hasn't changed. Not because I am out crusading for women's rights or have even seen the need to do that in a long time. The words of the song just happen to fit right now for a different reason. And pardon me if this post has a whiny or melodramatic tone to it.

My original surgery was in January, then back in March when I had surgery #two out of three this year, it was a tough time. I knew what I wanted and hoped the end of the story would be. But there was no way to know at that moment what was possible.  My foot was in ghastly condition with a transplanted fat chunk of my arm sitting on top of the cavity that had exposed my tendons and other internal goodies we should never see.

One of the medical residents made a habit of popping into my hospital room once or twice a day to take a quick look at my foot. One day he suddenly broke into a story about his friend who had led an active outdoor life, until he was partially paralyzed in an accident. The friend missed his former activities deeply, but eventually found new ones within his abilities, and was now leading a content and happy life. I looked at the dude speechless. When he returned later I asked if he had been trying to tell me something. Yes, he had.

And yes that was frightening.  And yes every single person has to make an adjustment in their physical expectations sometime, in some way, even if it's just the aging process that pares down the body's range of action.

But that could not, would not happen to me. Not now. Not yet. Somehow I would claw my way back to my active outdoor life. Hence the words to the song . . . You can bend but never break me, cause it only serves to make me more determined to achieve my final goal.  And I'll come back even stronger.  Not a novice any longer, cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul . . . If I have to, I can do anything! . . . If I have to, I can face anything!

Looking back I give some credit to that medical resident with motivating me to confront the options, then go after rehabilitation aggressively,  fully expecting the best outcome.  Cause I've heard it all before, when I've been down there on the floor.  And no one's ever gonna keep down again. . .

And yay, being back to normal life is the greatest blessing ever!

last week's trip to Lost Lake--that's Mt. Hood to the south

Hiking again: on the peak of Chinidere Mountain near Mt. Hood; from here we could see Mt. St. Helens, Mt. Adams, Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Washington, all Pac NW volcanic peaks

Family Search Indexing

Margaret Brosnahan, Brattleboro Vermont

For decades I have been involved in a volunteer project created and sponsored by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, called Indexing. It is the method and means by which billions of family history-related records have been posted online at https://familysearch.org (and other sites as well) in a searchable format for anyone-anywhere-anytime to access for the purpose of discovering or expanding their family roots.

Back in the 1980s we Indexing volunteers were given thick packets of xeroxed records taken from LDS Church Archives, most of them records of ordinances performed in the past 100 years. We recorded the names, dates and places onto large index cards, then turned back the packets and completed cards to the administrator. He or she then gave the same packet to another volunteer who recorded the same data onto a separate set of cards, and subsequently an arbitrator compared the two sets of cards to check for discrepancies, and fixed those.

Twice during this early stage of Indexing I ran across people I knew in the old records. One was a mention of an elderly woman I had known when we lived in Idaho. But the other was . . . a record of the adoption of a man I knew in my current ward. I had no idea he was adopted because he looks just like his father. I called my administrator because it was such a personal bit of info and I knew it could never be mentioned to anyone else. She had seen that record while reviewing the packet before handing it out and said, "That's why I gave this one to you, because I knew you would never repeat it."

Gradually over the years Indexing matured into the computer age. Rather than fat packets of paper we indexers looked at microfilmed records which we then recorded onto the index cards. Then someone else recorded those onto the computer and arbitrated them. My interest was always the challenge of working from the original records on microfilm. My favorite project was the two years I spent decoding Ellis Island immigration records in the mid-90s. Perhaps because one set of my grandparents were immigrants, I loved poring over the Hungarian, Italian, Croatian, etc. names of folks who entrusted their lives and future into the hands of the good ol' USA. The handwriting was tough to read and there were times when 4 or 5 volunteers stood around a microfilmed image doing their best to figure out the letters, so the record would appear properly in the index. That was of utmost importance. Ellis Island records have now for years been posted at http://www.ellisisland.org.

a typical immigrant ship of the early 1900s; this one happens to be the ship that carried my Baba to the US in 1911

For some years now Indexing has been done entirely on computer from home. I now download a "batch" from a menu of about 30 choices in various languages, then either do the original indexing, or arbitrate a batch where there are discrepancies on which my opinion is the final word. My favorites are the Hungarian records, though I've interpreted thousands of birth, marriage, death and census records in English, Slovak, and German.

In 2012 the big push was to index the 1940 Census which was released on April 1 last year. A couple hundred thousand Indexers participated and the entire project was done in just a few months time!!   One day I chose a batch of 1940 Montana Census and once again, ran across people I knew. When I was 10 years old my very first baby-sitting job was for children of our neighbors, Bruce and Joanne, who lived on my street in California. Well there in front of me on the 1940 was Bruce as an 8-year-old child with his parents and siblings. In my early 20s I had been an neighbor of Bruce's mother Claire, and her second husband, Clarence. Boy, did that Census record bring back sweet memories of great people.

What brings me to this post is the Hungarian death records I've been working on. They range from the time period of late 1800s to about the mid-1950s, and when I download a batch I never know ahead of time what year they will be. Lately they've been late 1940s or into 1950. And I've been moved to see that after World War 2, Hungarian towns and villages made an effort to record World War 2 era deaths in their local records, even if the deaths occurred elsewhere. Two categories pop out: 1. those who were killed during the war, mostly soldiers, mainly in Russia, and 2. Holocaust victims who died in concentration camps.

Yesterday I found an entire family recorded in the death records on May 23, 1950. They died together in Auschwitz on July 15, 1944:

Vilmos Farkas, 37 years old, commercial businessman, July 15 1944, Auschwitz
Fransiska Braun, 36, July 15 1944, Auschwitz
Erzsebet Farkas, 11 years, July 15 1944, Auschwitz
Laszlo Farkas, 9 years, July 15 1944, Auschwitz
Lajos Farkas, 7 years, July 15 1944, Auschwitz

On another page recorded December 29, 1948:
Armin Wuliger, 63, business, July 15, 1944, Auschwitz
Hermina Feldman, 63, July 15, 1944, Auschwitz
Margit Wuliger, 41, July 15, 1944, Auschwitz
Karoly Wuliger, 34, July 15, 1944, Auschwitz
Jeno Wuliger, 27, September 15, 1944, died in Austria [same family, but killed in battle]

The tragedy of the war and Holocaust intensifies when you see entire families wiped out for no reason at all, except that they were Jews in Hitler's way.

Indexing will stimulate personal feelings of love, pity, sympathy, admiration, respect, empathy, and appreciation, all surfacing for people you never knew.

a sample register; this one is easy reading

NOTE: Anyone can participate in Indexing from any computer, anywhere, anytime. Projects are rated according to ease of use (1 or 2 for beginners, 3-4 average, 5 is for experienced Indexers) and you can begin by registering at www.familysearch.org. And, you can  browse Family Search right this minute for records already indexed by volunteers, and posted  FOR FREE!

A "Routine" Day

On Monday (June 17) my last foot surgery was scheduled to begin at 12:30 and we were expected at Emanuel Hospital at 10:30 a.m. The original surgery in January was a long day-surgery. And unlike the March ordeal, 5 days in Emanuel's burn unit, this was to be a short day-surgery to flatten the transplant on my foot. Yay!

I started the day early, throwing in laundry, cleaning up the kitchen and fridge, and attempted to finish sewing a quilt top. I planned to fit in a bicycle ride before heading to the hospital at 10, because I didn't know when exercise would be possible again.

Emanuel Hospital called at 8:30 to say they needed me an hour earlier. I was willing to neglect the rest of my chores, but was not about to give up my bike ride, so off I went. It was a cool refreshing morning for a ride, and after a quick shower, we were off to Emanuel only 10 minutes late.

And then we waited. We could have used the hour to finish chores at home, but oh well. I was very relaxed and actually looking forward to this last step towards leading a normal life again. It was amusing to see the same staff on hand as was there for my March surgery. You don't ever want to be on a first name basis with your local hospital staff.

waiting, and waiting, and waiting . . .

The surgery was short and sweet. I took a restful nap in the recovery room. We were home by 3:30. I walked into the house on my own with little pain. Super nice to not have to use those awkward killer crutches! Craig, Daniel and I got dinner on, then I folded and put away the neglected laundry, then sat down to watch Far From the Madding Crowd via Netflix. I re-read the book earlier this year but had never seen the movie.

So Monday turned out to be a rather routine day of chores, with a little surgery thrown in. The best news is that today, day after surgery, I got in an hour of yard-work, and then a bike ride!  Normal life is a great blessing.


NOTE: There are a couple of photos below of my foot before Monday's surgery; don't scroll down unless you want to see them.  There are none yet of post-surgery because I can't remove the bandage for 5 days.

Bunion Surgery and Surgical-Site Infection: Aftermath

This recent bunion surgery and reconstructive surgeries educated me in the miracles of modern medicine--what a great time to be alive. American health care gets a bad rap at times, but I wouldn't want to live at another time or in another place. And medical insurance. I feel for those who don't have access to it. It has brought great peace knowing that whatever needed to be done to fix my problem, could be done, because insurance would provide. I'm grateful for priesthood blessings that promised me healing and peace. And for all the kind and helpful people who stepped up during this crisis--visiting teachers, ward members, family members, neighbors. Just one example of going above and beyond is my 90-year-old friend A, who carried a pot of delicious homemade soup up my 8 front steps and into my house, then came back the next day to fetch the pot, and brought a plate of treats.  Emily was there when I needed her.  Craig took over all my home duties, my care, drove me to just about every appointment, hung out at the hospital with me, cooked, shopped, cleaned, etc. etc. Thanks to everyone. I strive to be like all of you.

The Wound Clinic, or, "Where the Angels Work"

Who knew there is a such a place as a wound clinic?  For a month I was treated here 2x per week.   The staff here was so concerned and friendly.  C was my specially trained nurse and expert in wound care. On every visit though, the other staff would at the very least, open the door to my room to say hi, how ya doin'. They often came in to look at the progress of my wound, and even though it might look ghastly to a non-medical person, they always marveled and exclaimed at how much progress in healing had occurred since the previous visit.  S always photographed my foot to chart the progress. They were all upbeat and kind.

One day while I was being treated I heard a bell ring--a hand-held dinner bell type of sound--and the nurse excused herself for a minute. She later told me that the bell signified that a long-time patient was on his/her last visit, and was "graduating." The whole staff assembled to say good bye and wish them well. You can imagine the horrendous wounds (burns especially) the staff treats, and patients become part of the "family" there.

One day I showed up (no appointment) just to slip in to pick up a pressure sock, and the nurses decided they should look at my wound as long as I was there. They accommodated me in a room and located the doc so he too could take a look too. I think this place works like the parable of the loaves and fishes. There's always enough people, enough time, enough rooms, to take care of the wounded; they expand to meet the needs of the patients.

C is a proficient, kind and compassionate care-giver. My foot and leg were bandaged up to the knee, so I couldn't ever shave that prickly leg. One day I brought my razor in to use when my leg was in a state of un-wrap. C took the razor and shaved it for me. And then, and each time, coated my leg with vaseline to keep it more comfortable under the wrap. Every dressing change took about an hour and she was never in a hurry. She carefully removed the excess skin around the wound, then washed my whole foot, every time. Then she figured out the best configuration of gauze pads to absorb the fluids. At times I got teary over the gentle care that was given. These women are angels with a gift to minister to the suffering.

Happy times at Butchart Gardens, Victoria Canada, May 10, 2013
I'm mostly healed and walking!

Bunion Surgery and Recovery 2013 (Part 2) AKA: My Pound of Flesh

My Pound of Flesh

Last weekend was the 4-month mark since my bunion surgery.  To celebrate, I went on a 3.5 mile city walk with a group of friends, and also rode my bike up to and around my son's neighborhood about 3 miles away.  These were fulfilling victories!  Why did it take 4 months to be able to do those simple physical activities?   Well, on January 25 I gave up my life of activity,  exercise, and service, and embraced the life of an invalid, though I anticipated that role to last only 6 weeks.  But Shylock demanded his pound of flesh, and I gave it up.  Literally.  And willingly, to save my foot.   Thus the extra long recovery.

Continuing from Part 1 of this story:

[NOTE: I have included some icky photographs of the wound at the end of the post.  After the last part of the text there will be a gap, then the photos.  That way you can look at them only if you want to.]

The plan for reconstructive surgery was in 2 parts:  first, to clean out the mess of infection in my foot and plant some antibiotic granules in the cavity.  Second, two days later the doc would take a hunk of tissue out of my arm  to fill in the cavity in my foot.  That would be watched for 3 days, then I could probably go home.  So, Monday morning, March 18, this ordeal began in Emanuel Hospital's burn unit,  the best place to treat a bad case of tissue damage.  Coming out of surgery I was surprised and grateful to find that the doctor had done both steps in the one surgery--yes!!  It had taken maybe 5 or 6 hours.  Using a high powered magnifier he tied the blood vessels from the transplanted tissue into the foot blood vessels.

I was in the ICU and awakened about every 15 minutes by a nurse w/ a probe.  He or she put the probe into the wound in my foot to test the blood flow.  Sometimes it was hard to find, and it sure wasn't pleasant having that probe rooting around in my raw flesh.  But during every single probe I made sure that I too could hear the whoosh of the blood flow, it was that important to me to know the transplant had worked.  After a while the probe went to every half hour and after a couple of days it was down to every hour.

fun times in the ICU

No one likes a hospital stay, and this one was tough for me.  Tubes and lines were hooked everywhere, and the catheter prevented me from changing positions in the bed.  I had almost no appetite the entire week; just the thought of food was nauseating.  There was an odd smell in there that made me more nauseous as the week went on.  I never figured out what it was.  After 5 days of it I finally barfed.

As for my foot, the first time the doc unwrapped it I was appalled at seeing this ghastly mound of ragged flesh perched on top of my foot, only held down by a couple of stitches.  The piece of flesh taken from my arm was about 7" long, 1.5" wide, 1" thick.  And there it was in all its giganticness.  It was not stitched down until just before I went home, because the doc had to make sure the transplant was successful first.   Pain was controlled by a spinal, and various antibiotics were streaming through an IV 24/7.  36 hours after the surgery a picc line was put in my right arm in preparation for home use.

Besides Dr. V, the plastic surgeon, Dr. C. and some of his staff of infectious disease specialists became my new best friends.  Resident physicians also made the rounds.  One of them told me a story about a friend who was paralyzed in an accident, and found that by accepting his limitations and finding new and tame activities, he was enjoying his life.  I just stared at him and he went on to talk about other things.  When he stopped in again later, I asked if he had been trying to tell me something.  He had.  And thankfully he was wrong.

Near the end of the hospital stay the physical therapists came in to help me start walking with crutches.  Amazing, all the effort it took to get out of bed just to move to a chair next to the bed.  The bathroom was the next frontier.  Then a walk down the hall which might as well have been the Oregon Trail.

That Friday Doc V stitched down the rest of the tissue transplant.  I am deeply grateful that it "took."  Modern medicine is full of miracles.  Doc pronounced me ready to go home Friday afternoon.

For the next 4 weeks I daily infused antibiotics (ertepennum) at home via a picc line, under the instruction of a home nurse, with Craig doing the hookup.    Every other day my foot had to be re-bandaged.  That was an ordeal as it involved:

a precise, methodical cleaning, including stripping off excess flesh
placement of Xeroform (a petroleum-pregnated patch of gauze) on the wound
layers and layers of thick pads strategically placed
yards of gauze bandage wrapped to hold all that together
tape to keep the entire thing stable
eventually a pressure sock was added to the above

And twice a week I visited the "wound clinic" which I'll post about tomorrow (and it will be the last post on this).

As of right now I really don't need a bandage, just padding to protect the top of my foot.  In June I'll have surgery to reduce the size, so that I can wear regular shoes again.

 Icky photos below

Day after surgery: my borrowed pound of flesh partly covered by a Xeroform gauze.  The purple X was made by the doc when that chunk of flesh was part of my arm; it designated the donor site

a few days later without the bandage, and this time it is stitched down

side view of the transplant

the donor site on my upper arm; I generously offered a big chunk of flab from my belly but the doc declined it

about 3 weeks after surgery; it really is healing!

a month after surgery, looking great

2 months after surgery, edges completely healed; this is a weird photo--it isn't really red and this wide, that's just poor lighting

2 months after surgery, side view

Bunion Surgery and Recovery 2013 (Part 1)

A bunion is a debilitating and painful deformity in the foot, as seen above

At the end of January 2013 I had an elective bunion surgery on my left foot; the right one had been satisfactorily fixed just over 3 years previously, and it had taken me this long to store up the guts to do the other foot.  Surgery is always risky and I debated back and forth about the wisdom of doing it.   After all, I could walk and run and ride my bike the way my foot was.  The old adage, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" came to mind.  But it was "broke."   I hike and x-c ski regularly, and I call it "broke" when I have to pad my foot with layer upon layer of foam and moleskin and duct tape every single time I set off on an adventure.  And still suffer unpleasant pain.

This operation was less painful and healed faster than the previous one.  The internal hardware had improved since my last surgery, according to Doc T, and the pin in my second toe was internal, rather than external.  The stitching was underneath the skin which was more pleasant and attractive.  I went off the pain medicine after just a few weeks this time.  Even though Doc T said to wait 6 weeks before putting weight on the foot, I began at about the 4 week point putting my foot on the floor to get it used to a little bit of weight.  It was exciting to anticipate a return to normal fairly quickly.

I should mention the scooter here.  After my first bunion surgery I was on crutches for 11 weeks; what an uncomfortable dangerous time (I fell twice).  This time we rented a knee-scooter and what a joyous life-saver that was.  I could get around fast and have a little fun while doing it!   Best of all it's much safer than crutches.

[NOTE: these first 4 photos are innocuous.  Below them is more text.   Then there will be a 4" blank area to  protect those who don't want to see an unpleasant photo.  That will follow after the space]

The hardware in my newly repaired foot

All bandaged up

This is the life!  NOT

Me, my scooter, and Lil' Buddy, 3 weeks after surgery

On the down side, I got what the doc calls a fracture blister on my foot, which is basically a hematoma.  During my recovery that thing was always weepy and messy.  As my foot healed an ugly black scab formed on the top on both sides of the incision.  Doc T didn't seem worried about it.  Just over 6 weeks after the surgery we left town for a family reunion.   At my doc appointment the day before the trip he thought everything looked ok, though the surface healing was slow.  The bones had knit together as they should.

During our trip I kept my foot under wraps, because that black scab was very ugly.  And it began to smell off.  And then the incision seemed to be pulling apart, yes, my foot was unhealing.  Yikes.   I thought about going to the ER, but instead made an appointment w/ Doc T for the morning after our arrival home.

He took a look and alarmed the heck out of me when he said that I may need to see a plastic surgeon.  He carefully removed the black scab and we were all appalled to see the tissue beneath had deteriorated, and I was looking at the inside of my foot; the tendon was exposed.  A surgical-site infection had severely damaged the tissue in my foot. So by the time I left the office that day the plastic surgeon's office had been alerted and Doc T's notes had been faxed over.  I knew then I was facing a mammoth problem.  Even more so when the plastic surgeon's office got me right in that afternoon.   How often does that happen?  Surgery was scheduled for a few days hence, with a followup surgery 2 days after that; all in all the plastic surgeon expected me to be in hospital for 5 days.

My head was spinning.  And I was in shock.  And afraid.  I called my friend S for consolation; she was rationally optimistic which helped immensely.

Part 2 tomorrow: My Pound of Flesh

[BLANK SPACE, then 1 more photo]

4 weeks after the surgery; the bones were healing well, the incision was not