Heart Attacks/ What I Wish I Had Known

 Maybe you read this before,  but it's Very Worth the reading-again!

  How many folks do you know who say they don't want to drink anything before going to bed
because they'll have to get up during the night!!

Heart Attack and Water - I never knew all of this ! Interesting.......

Heart Attack & Water

Something else I didn't know ... I asked my Doctor why do people need to urinate so much
at night time. Answer from my Cardiac Doctor =

Gravity holds water in the lower part of your body when you are upright (legs swell). When
you lie down and the lower body (legs and etc) seeks level with the kidneys it is then that
the kidneys remove the water because it is easier. This then ties in with the last statement!

I knew you need your minimum water to help flush the toxins out of your body, but this
was news to me.

Correct time to drink water... Very Important. From A Cardiac Specialist!

Drinking water at a certain time maximizes its effectiveness on the body: 2 glasses of water
after waking up - helps activate internal organs

1 glass of water 30 minutes before a meal - helps digestion

1 glass of water before taking a bath – helps lower blood pressure

1 glass of water before going to bed – avoids stroke or heart attack

Please pass this to the people you care about......

I can also add to this... My Physician told me that water at bed time will also help prevent
night time leg cramps. Your leg muscles are seeking hydration when they cramp and wake you
up with a Charlie Horse.


Subject: Mayo clinic aspirin Good information.

Dr. Virend Somers, is a Cardiologist from the Mayo Clinic, who is lead author of the report
in the July 29, 2008 issue of the Journal of the American College of Cardiology.

Most heart attacks occur in the day, generally between 6 A.M. and noon. Having one during the
night, when the heart should be most at rest, means that something unusual happened. Somers
and his colleagues have been working for a decade to show that sleep apnea is to blame.

1. If you take an aspirin or a baby aspirin once a day, take it at night.
    The reason: Aspirin has a 24-hour "half-life"; therefore, if most heart attacks happen in the
    wee hours of the morning, the Aspirin would be strongest in your system.

2. FYI, Aspirin lasts a really long time in your medicine chest for years, (when it gets old,
    it smells like vinegar).

Please read on.

Something that we can do to help ourselves - nice to know.

Bayer is making crystal aspirin to dissolve instantly on the tongue.

They work much faster than the tablets.

Why keep Aspirin by your bedside? It's about Heart Attacks -

There are other symptoms of a heart attack, besides the pain on the left arm. One must
also be aware of an intense pain on the chin, as well as nausea and lots of sweating;
however, these symptoms may also occur less frequently.

Note: There may be NO pain in the chest during a heart attack.

The majority of people (about 60%) who had a heart attack during their sleep did not wake up.

However, if it occurs, the chest pain may wake you up from your deep sleep.

If that happens, immediately dissolve two aspirins in your mouth and swallow them with a
bit of water.

Afterwards: - Call 911. - Phone a neighbor or a family member who lives very close by.

- Say "heart attack!" - Say that you have taken 2 Aspirins. - Take a seat on a chair or
sofa near the front door, and wait for their arrival and ...DO NOT LIE DOWN!

A Cardiologist has stated that if each person after receiving this e-mail, sends it to 10
people, probably one life could be saved!

I have already shared this information. What about you?

Do forward this message. It may save lives!

"Life is a one time gift"

Moss and Gibby's First Christmas

The Alternate Plan

           

            “Maybe we ought to try something else, Moss, it’s really cold in this alley.”

            Snow flew from the brim of Moss’s hat as he wheeled on his partner, Gibby. “What do you mean, cold? You just got back here from the restaurant.”

            “I know, but my right hand is freezing”

            “Well, put it in your pocket.”

            “It’s in my pocket, that’s why it’s cold. I’m holding the gun with it.”

            “Let go of the gun, Gibby; you don’t have to hold it. Go back across the street to the restaurant and warm your hand. I’ll stay on watch, It shouldn’t be much longer. That Santa’s pot should be nearly full.”

            “I can’t, the guy running the place told me to get out and stay out.”

“Why would he say that? What did you do?”

“Nothing! I was just standing there inside the door and he said if I wasn’t gonna buy something I should get the hell out.”

“So why didn’t you buy something?”

Gibby’s eyes rolled. “I couldn’t buy something, Moss. I haven’t got any money. That’s why we’re gonna rob the Santa, right?”

“Tell you what, Gib, take a walk through the toy store next to the restaurant. Browse a little and get yourself warm; when you come back, I’ll take a turn.”

The little man squeezed past Moss’s bulk and was just about clear of the alley entrance when Moss pulled him back.

“Look out, Gibby. That’s a squad coming down the street. Duck back in here. We don’t want any cops seeing us in the neighborhood, if you get my drift.”

“Gotcha, Moss.” Gibby peeked under Moss’s arm as the squad drew up to the curb opposite the alley. A uniformed officer exited the car and shuffled through the street slush to the trunk area. A twist of his keys and he removed a large basket wrapped in clear plastic from the car’s trunk. He sat it on the fender of the car while he checked street addresses.

“That’s Mike McCaffery, Moss. How the heck did he know we was here?”

“Shush, Gibby. He doesn’t know we’re here. He can’t have found out the warden let us out early, already. It looks like he is taking that basket to that door next to the toy store. Yup he’s knocking now. Hey, look at that, he’s giving that basket to some lady and that little kid. It must be some kinda Christmas basket.”

“I wonder how we could get a basket like that, Moss. I bet it has all kinds of stuff to eat, good stuff, Christmas stuff.”

“The kid is tearing it open now. Naw, I can’t believe it. The kid pulled out a stinking sweater. What the heck kind of Christmas treat is that for a little kid? You know, Gib, I thought McCaffery was smarter than that. Now I’m really embarrassed that clown ever put us in the slammer.”

“It looks like a nice heavy sweater, Moss.”

“But a sweater for Christmas, Gib! You know what I mean. That ain’t nothing for a little guy like that to get. He should be getting toys and candy! Duck back, Gib, McCaffery is turning this way.”

Mike McCaffery climbed back into his squad and slowly rolled away from the curb, leaving a wake of “thank you’s” and waves behind him.

“Okay, Gib, the lady is going back in. Take a trip to the toy store for a warm up. Try not to get noticed this time.” Moss whispered to Gibby’s departing back, “Don’t hold the cold gun.”

The small boy pulled the sweater over his head and made the six step journey to the window of the toy store. Gibby saw the reflection of the store window’s lights and glitter in the boy’s eyes as he held the door so they could both enter. The boy took a half step back and gave a small shake of his head. Gibby made the correct assumption: The boy was as welcome in the toy store as he was in the restaurant.

The narrow boards of the white oak floor creaked under Gibby’s shoes as the would-be robber stepped over the threshold. He glanced back through the front window, and his eyes met those of the boy peeking through the decorations and toys on display.

A short, stocky man greeted Gibby with a, “What do you need, mister?” His tone was gruff and didn’t strike Gibby as being filled with the Christmas Eve spirit he expected.

“Just browsing for the minute, thank you.”

“Well you better make up your mind quick. I’m planning on closing in about twenty minutes.”

The man stepped around Gibby, waving his arms and shouting to be heard through the store window. “Get away from here, go back home. You’re scaring away customers, you little twerp.” Brushing past Gibby, he mumbled, “Damn kid next door, he makes the place look like something out of Dickens. You know, he asked me if I could set aside that bike and he could pay me a quarter a week on it. I pay him a quarter to sweep out the store and he wants me to finance the bike yet too, with my own quarter. Kids, they want everything nowadays.”

Gibby saw the small face reappear in the corner of the window as soon as the man’s back was turned. “That bike’s pretty small for him, ain’t it?”

“You don’t know much about bikes, do you, mister?”

“No, I never had one.”

“That’s a girl’s bike. It’s pink for a little girl. See the training wheels? I guess he wants to buy it for his sister.”

“What does a bike like that cost?” Gibby’s hand slipped into his pocket and felt cold steel.

“Should go for 80 bucks, but since it’s Christmas Eve, I’ll let you have it for 75 plus the tax a’course.”

Gibby’s hand tightened on the pistol’s grip. He glanced back at the window to the small face and a chill went up his spine. Thoughts whirled in Gibby’s head, no there has to be a better way. “I don’t have a little girl, just curious. Guess I best be head’n home. You have a nice holiday.”

Gibby didn’t wait for the man’s mumbled reply. He ignored the stare of the small boy as he crossed the street to the alley and the waiting Moss. “Moss, you ever had a bike?”

“No, Gibby, I never did, but I got something to tell you.”

“Me too Moss. I just met the meanest bastard on earth.”

“Later, Gib. Watch Santa over there for a few minutes.”

“But Moss---”

“Quiet, Gib, just watch. See the couple coming around the corner? Watch what happens when they get to Santa’s kettle.”

“They dropped a couple of bills in the slot. That’s nice of them, and good for us, ain’t it Moss?”

“Keep watching, Gibby. Catch what happens when they walk away. See! See! That damn Santa has the hole in the pot rigged so he can pull the money back out. There he goes. He’s sticking the money into his pocket. That creep is skimming from the pot, do you believe it? Those people think they’re donating to a good cause and he is robbing from them and the charity.”

“You know Moss, you’d think you could trust a Santa Claus.”

“Gibby, you know that’s not the real Santa, right?”

“Yeah, Moss, I know, but it’s the thought of it that’s disturb’n. I mean, we were going to rob him, ‘cause that’s what we do, but he’s stealing from both sides. That makes him twice as bad as we are. Doesn’t it, Moss?”

“Well, not quite, Gib. This is the way I see it. If we go over there and take the money away from that bum that he already stole, then it’s not like we are stealing it from the people who thought they were donating it, ‘cause it’s really already stolen.”

Gibby’s eyes wandered in no particular direction, he was certain that there was something wrong about Moss’s plan, but he was having a problem pinning it down. Moss gave him a nudge in the back and whispered, “Now put your hand on the gun, Gibby. Let’s go over there and give that crook a lesson on the spirit of Christmas.”

Gibby scurried across the street, taking on the attitude of an avenging angel. Moss trailed behind, hopping on one foot. The snow and slush had found its way through the hole in the sole of his right shoe.

Small bubbles of saliva formed in the corners of Gibby’s mouth as he attempted to articulate a coherent sentence expressing his anger at the Santa’s activities. His hand shaking on the gun, he was waving the whole right side of his jacket in Santa’s direction. The Santa was certain he was being accosted by some sort of lunatic until Moss hopped over the curb and interceded.

“We have been watching you, Mr. Claus, and we know you’re a thieving crumb. This is what is going to happen. You reach into your pocket where you stuck all the dough you skimmed from the pot here, and hand it over. Then you take your kettle back where it came from and turn in your suit and beard. By the way, if my friend here ever sees you on the street doing this again, he could get very upset.”

The Santa glanced at Gibby, who was bouncing about, desperately attempting to remove the gun from his pocket to emphasize Moss’s tirade.

The Santa eyes widened with fear as he blurted out, “How do I know this nut has a gun?”

There was the sound of tearing material and the gun appeared in Gibby’s hand. The catch for the clip caught on a hole in his pocket and the clip and bullets fell into the snow as he waved the automatic in the direction of Santa’s nose. Santa was smart enough to know there could still be one bullet in the chamber and was handing over the stolen cash as Moss continued his lecture.

“You’d be smart not to report this to anyone. Stealing from you is one thing stealing from poor kids and orphans is another. I’m sure you would rather not have that come out, would you? You could end up doing twice the time we would get.”

Santa gathered up his stand and kettle and ran off in what he hoped was the direction of Santa headquarters to resign. Gibby, on an adrenaline high, trotted after Moss back to the alley.

As Moss flattened the bills for counting, he asked, “Gibby, what was it you were saying about some bastard before?”

“Oh yeah, the guy from the toy store, he was being really nasty to the boy, especially considering it is Christmas and all. Did you ever have a bike, Moss?”

“What boy, Gib? Do you think you need a bike? I’m not following here. Fifty-one, fifty-two...”

“The boy with the sweater: He wants a bike. Not for him, he wants it for his sister.”

“Fifty-five, fifty-six. That’s nice, Gib, that the little guy wants to get a bike for her. Thirty-seven. Damn, now I have to start over.”

“I was thinking, Moss.”

Moss cut a hard look in Gibby’s general direction. “Thinking, Gibby? Thinking what?”

“I been thinking about what you said about Santa. You know, stealing from both ends and how rotten he was. I think you got it wrong, Moss. I think we might be doing the same thing, and that makes us just as bad as him.”

Moss blinked his eyes to adjust to the new darkness of the alley as the lights from the restaurant faded. He found himself talking to the spot where he assumed Gibby was still standing. “Are you suggesting we give this money up to the first guy that walks down the street?”

“No, that won’t work; it isn’t his money any more than it’s ours.”
“We can’t take it to the Santa. That crook is long gone by now.”

“No, I guess we can’t.”

“The way I see it, Gib, we deserve this money. We kind of rescued it. You know, Gibby, people gave this money for a worthy cause. We’re a worthy cause. We have no food, no money, and on top of that we have nowhere to sleep. We’re worthy, Gib, as worthy as anybody I have ever seen. It’s not our fault they let us out early. Is it, Gib? Tell me, is that our fault?”

            “Guess not, Moss. It’s just you were the one who said the sweater kid ought to get something better for Christmas. You know, Moss, we been broke before. We can do broke. We could go to the mission and get some soup and they’ll let us sleep there until we come up with something else.”

            Moss dropped the wad of bills to the ground when a voice from the back of alley whispered, “Merry Christmas, boys.”

            Moss dove for the bills and shouted, “RUN GIBBY, RUN!”

            “Don’t bother. I know who you are and I can find you anytime I want to.”

            Moss dusted snow from his coat as he righted himself. “That you, McCaffery? How did you get here so fast?”

            Mike’s flashlight shone on Gibby and Moss as he advanced toward them. “That Santa’s act caught my eye when I was making a delivery across the street. By the way, Gibby, you’re right, the toy store guy is a bastard. You’d be surprised how the echo from this alley carries across the street.”

“We’ll have to keep that in mind in the future.” Moss looked at his wrist as if his long ago pawned watch were still there. “Oh my, look at the time, gotta run, Mike, nice chatting. Gotta go.”

“Stay where you are, you two. You both know this isn’t the way that this has to end. I can’t let you get away with an armed robbery. Well, almost armed. I picked up your cartridges and clip Gibby. You know you should be more careful with a gun, even if the shells are lying on the sidewalk. What do you think we should do about this situation, guys?”

            Gibby took the lead. “Whatever you say, Mike, is okay with me.”

            “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but for once I agree with you, Gibby. If you don’t have the money, there is no evidence. No evidence, no robbery. Let’s go buy a bike.”

            Gibby was practically skipping across the street in front of Moss, who trudged alongside of Mike. While negotiations for the bike improved when lead by Mike in his uniform, the would-be thieves were still eight dollars short. In a moment of weakness, Mike agreed to bear the burden of the difference under the assurance of his conspirators he would not be in sight at the delivery.

            Moss and Gibby had a little spring in their step as they made their way back to the alley. “We did something good tonight, Moss. You should be happy about that. I’m sure Mike will give us a ride back to the jail: I don’t think he’ll make us walk in all this snow.”

            “You’re a real Christmas pip, Gibby, don’t ever forget it.”

            The back door of Mike’s cruiser opened as they neared it. “Hurry up guys we’re late.”

            Gibby was yet again puzzled. “Does the jail close early for Christmas, Mike?”

            The car’s tires spun and they were out of the alley. “We’re not going there. We’re headed to my place to find you a jacket that isn’t ripped to shreds, then dinner.”

Moss and Gibby exchanged confused glances. In near unison they asked, “You’re making dinner for us?”

“Not quite, I have a friend, Sharon---you’ll like her--- she keeps her diner open on Christmas Eve so that people without families can go there for a free dinner. I guess that includes us, fellas. By the way, Moss, don’t you ever refer to me as a clown again.”

“The echo in the alley?”

“Right.”

What the Future Holds?

I attended Author Rama at Martha Merrell's Books and Cuddles yesterday. Didn't sell a single book. That is to be expected when you pack a bunch of authors in a small space and what would be potential customers get wide eyed like they are looking at a mass gathering of insurance salesmen.
The highlight of the day for me was four young ( oh so very young) girls stopped at my table and told me they loved to write stories.
With the ability to create art with a mouse instead of the touch of an artist's hand to brush. Photos being developed inside a laptop by trial and error rather than within the mind and discerning eye of a photographer, I have developed a fear.
A fear that writing as we know it now might evolve into a series of menu selections on a purchased software package, stored on the clouds. A distillation of all the books that have already been written.
Some might say, what would you have us do Allan, go back to the ink pot and quill? Shall we give up auto-correction and look for an upright Royal with a two color ribbon.
Not in the least. I too prefer my delete key to a bottle of prematurely hardened white out.
The fear is that someday we will run out of little girls who pull the lollipop from the corner of their mouth to answer the question. "What do you write?"
"Oh just one of the stories that are always in my head."
No I didn't sell a single book, but I may have met the next Harper Lee or perhaps four future best sellers at one time.

A.    E. Ansorge                                                                           

THE BOTTLE OF PORT

                                     The call at 4 o’clock Sunday afternoon for some people would be an insult but as far as Eric was concerned a free meal with a different wine to accompany each course was nothing to sneeze at. The fact it was a formal dinner the next evening was a bit of an inconvenience, but such last-minute request to fill in weren’t unusual on his partner’s part. 

                                    The additional promise of a limo ride to the festivities convinced him to accept his business partner’s invitation without bothering to withhold a reply until his wife returned from the grocery. He knew Anita would understand after, all he had to work with Bill everyday.

                                    The four inches of snow that fell during the day of the dinner allowed the limo to slide sideways into the drive at exactly 5 o’clock. Eric and Anita crowded in with the three other couples already tucked warmly inside. The storm had left the streets practically devoid of all but the true traveling diehards many of whom had paid a great deal of money to attend the same charity function the limo was speeding to.

                                    The other passengers introduced themselves to Eric and Anita as they maintained firm grips on various parts of the cars interior while it careened through the city streets. More than one sigh signaled the passengers’  relief when the large car pulled to a sliding stop at the entrance of the community center and they were able to hustle to the safety of the main ball room.

                                    The hall was set with large round tables in the traditional white and red of Valentine’s Day of two nights to come.   Everyone was greeted by tuxedoed waiters with hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

                                    Chefs had gathered from the better restaurants in town to furnish the materials and time to create a seven-course feast that would probably never be equaled in the city again.  Hand-lettered menus and wine lists occupied each place setting, to be kept by the guest as a souvenir of this evening. It was obvious to all that those who decided not to brave the afternoon’s storm were indeed missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

                                    The master of ceremonies for the evening was doing his best to prime the crowd for the charity auction that was to follow dinner tempting the partygoers with peeks at gift certificates for restaurants and various selections of wine donated by vendors to the same establishments. The high point of the auction turned out to be several dinners prepared by various chefs, for the highest bidder’s guests, in his or her own home.

                                    As the evening wore down, one of the hosts, a local radio personality noticed there were a number of bottles of wine were left over because people had failed to travel out in the questionable weather to fill their well-paid-for chairs. He restarted the auction to sell the bottles to the highest bidders. Bidding started slowly many of the guests feeling they had spent enough money for admission and the items they had already bought.

                                    Anita sent an elbow into Eric’s ribs and whispered, “Start this thing.”

                                    Eric and Anita were the last couple dropped off by the limo after a slower but no less terrifying ride home. Anita cradled a 25-year-old bottle of port in her arms. Its only bidder Eric, had paid more for it than their first house payment.

                                    Eric had offered to share it with those at their table. Everyone insisted they were too full, it was too late, and they had to get up early. The bottle found a place in the small wine rack on Anita’s kitchen counter. Nether she or Eric considered opening it, it was so expensive. Without saying so, they had agreed it would be opened for some special occasion in the future.

                                    The new house had room for a wine cellar in the basement, and the bottle rested there as time passed.

                                    Holidays came and went; children were born, graduated, and graduated again. Weddings followed and one dissolved, but none of these days seemed to rise high enough to warrant taking the bottle from its resting place.

                                    Both children, Laurel and Tony, found lives of their own and moved accordingly. Affluence crept into the lives of their parents who burned a mortgage, and purchased a warm winter home to retreat to in eventual retirement.

                                    There were celebrations of life’s events and survival of scrapes with mortality but none of these things seemed like the right occasion to open the bottle…….

****

                                    Laurel sat at the dinning room table, wading through endless papers written in legalese as Tony cradled glassware in yards of bubble wrap. The antiques had already been removed to an auction house. The Florida home was sold in total.

                                    After taking one last stroll through the basement, Tony returned to the dinning room. Laurel was putting the mound of paper work back into the fireproof box.

                                    “Do you like port, Laurel?”

                                    “No, too sweet for me.”

                                    “Me too. I don’t want this rolling around in the car and breaking on the drive home.”

                                    “Just dump it out; the cleaners will junk the empty. Hit the lights on your way out, will you?”

                                     

                       

HE'S OUT BACK

HE’S OUT BACK

            Depending on who you were listening to it had several names. Pa, my grandfather, called it “The Shop.” Dad always called it the “Old Machine Shed”. To my Mom it was “The Shed,” the one she grew up with, the one that was always there. To Grandma, who knew best, it was forever “Out Back.”

         From when I was little on it, was adventure. It was musty, with its dirt floor and silky cobwebs dangling from the beams. Sunlight streamed through dormer windows and glistened off particles of dust that wandered into its path.

         The odor of leather harnesses lingers. Rubbed with thick oil once a year, to keep them “soft against the hide.” Still ready, they hang from wooden pegs, even though the two greys that wore them had disappeared when I was very small. I hold fuzzy pictures of them in my memory. Tall like pillars, their lips wet, their massive, weighty bodies shifting side to side, impatient to be at their task. Pa talking to them like they were family. To him, I’m now sure, they were.

         Red rusted machinery  that looked like it had never seen paint occupied most of the space. A great deal of it was Grandma’s dowry, passed on to the young couple by her father and his brothers “to help the kids get started” when Pa bought the land on contract.

         I would sit on the cast-iron seats while Pa explained, step by step, how the machines and the mother and daughter horses who pulled them worked together. His voice softened when he spoke of the “girls”.

         On the outside, there are still some scattered spots of the red it used to be. The rest is so weathered paint would never stick to it anymore. When I ask him, Dad says, “It would be horrible expensive to get it back into shape and the doors aren’t big enough for the machines we use now. But she is sound and the roof holds it dry. Best to just leave it be.”

         I suppose someday economics will dictate the dowry will have to fall to the torch and leave the farm for good on the scrap dealer’s truck. The walls will weaken even more in time and have to come down. I know Dad could never do it. That job will probably be passed on to me after I finish my last year of Ag at the U and I come home for good to the house on the corner where Pa and Grandma lived.

         Today, I’m here to say a last good-bye to Gram and I guess to stare at the shed and remember. Times of long ago pass through my mind and I wonder if she is “Out Back”, finally together again with Pa.

A Peek Into The Life of Victor Verie

“Detective, if she leaves, I can’t go out of this house and neither can you. I suggest you think about that and the fact you have insulted a highly decorated investigator of MI6. She might have been able to help with more than housekeeping. You have just made a big mistake, fix it.”

“I think I can manage.”

“You are on leave, you are looking at the only cop in this room, and I don’t have to stay here. After what you had me pull today you think you’re going to get any more help downtown. You black mailed a cop into violating about 100 regs., you are dancing on water, the ice is gone pal.”

Life With Detective Verie

“What do you mean it was a whim. A whim is changing your order from a latte to a macchiato, this is a war crime.”

“Mother don’t exaggerate, it is a hair cut not a crime.”

“It is a crime, and I am a witness to it. You can’t be seen in public that way. People will think police officers are being attacked by the mad barber of fleet street.”

Nicole made a grab for her mother’s cell phone but was way too late. “Ramon sweetie, pencil, are you ready?”

Victor’s address was written on a pad in Ramon’s salon Bellus along with with a brief description of what tragedy has befallen Cynthia’s daughter.

“Yes, come right away darling. Don’t interrupt dear, now please bring that little man that fixes things with you. A leg has fallen off of a table. A wooden leg, why do you ask? Quit laughing Ramon this is not funny. Fifteen minutes, excellent dear, knew I could count you. Kisses.”

“What is going on down there?”

“Nothing important Victor. I’m afraid your table has had an injury. I have someone coming to take care of it. Shall we bring the paperwork upstairs in the mean time?”

“Yes, just forget that table it’s had a bad leg for years. Don’t lean on it and it will be fine.”...