Are Organic Foods Worth the Cost and Safe?

A 2012 Scientific American article explained that organic food is considered organic, because no non-natural pesticides are used. But, pesticides are pesticides, whether naturally produced or not.  When copper sulfate and rotenone (both natural pesticides used in organic farming) are used, both stick around after harvest.  Chronic copper sulfate exposure can lead to anemia and liver disease.  Rotenone, correlated to Parkinson's disease, holds five times the risk of its synthetic counterpart.

A study by the Swedish Environmental Research Institute suggested that pesticides toxins could be nearly entirely removed by an organic diet in two weeks. But, they also reported that "levels that we found in urine during the period of conventionally grown food are well within acceptable levels, which means that it is unlikely that a single substance would pose any risk to humans."

The Environmental Working Group tested over 50,000 samples of fruits and vegetables for levels of pesticides. From their results, they compiled two lists. One, the "Dirty Dozen," high in pesticides. And the other, the "Clean 15", low in pesticides. They believe that eating organic versions of the Dirty Dozen might reduce pesticides levels by up to 92 percent.

Dirty Dozen                                       
Apples
Celery
Strawberries
Peaches
Spinach
Nectarines (imported)
Grapes (imported)
Sweet bell peppers
Potatoes
Blueberries (domestic)
Lettuce
Kale/collard greens

Clean 15
Onions            Kiwi
Sweet corn      Cabbage
Pineapples      Watermelon
Avocado          Sweet potatoes
Asparagus       Grapefruit
Sweet Peas      Mushrooms
Mangoes         Eggplant
Cantaloupe (domestic)

I believe there is a simple explanation for the difference between the two groups.  The items in the first group are usually eaten with the outside skins.  The skin is directly exposed to pesticides, whether applied or in the environment.  The items in the second group have, except for asparagus and mushrooms, have an outside covering, which is usually peeled off prior to eating.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

While in the process of putting my wheelchair bound son back to bed following a bathroom break, we heard, "Help!  Help!"  As I placed my son on the edge of his bed, leaving him holding onto a standing grab bar, we heard more desperate pleas emanating from my husband's bedroom.  "Help!  Help!"
"Coming!  I'm coming as fast as I can!"  I yelled.  I rushed down the hall.

I entered the room to see my husband's wheelchair doing "donuts" in the space by his bed.

Terry lay on his bed, witnessing the mayhem, yelling frantically, "It's doing it by itself!"

In a split second, it was clear what had happened.  As Terry had climbed into bed from his electric chair, he threw the blanket that had been covering him aside.  The blanket caught on the wheelchair control joystick and draped around the front of the arm rest.  As often happens, Terry left his chair in drive mode and forgot to turn it off.  The blanket's weight pulled the joystick to the side and, with the wrap around the arm rest, slightly forward.  That kicked in the drive.  The chair jumped into action, circling, while dragging the blanket.  With each rotation, the blanket became tighter and tighter.  The blanket edge, firmly wrapped on the control stick, drove the chair into a wild ride.  The remainder of the blanket that dragged on the floor collected Terry's discarded clothes.

As the wheelchair circled, so it's right side was near me, my hand darted out to the toggle switch and turned the monster off.  In the same instant, I thought this was Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, brought about by my husband.  Terry looked confused as to what had happened.  I explained that he had forgotten to turn the chair off, before he climbed into bed.  Then, with throwing the blanket to the side, the scene was set.  He remained convinced the chair was possessed, with a mind of it's own.  I couldn't help but laugh at the small disaster he caused.

It was typical Terry.

Singing Soprano with a Push-up Bra

Years ago, our adult son Andy (wheelchair bound) and I worked out a way for me to assist him in the bathroom, yet let him to retain his privacy and dignity.  Recently he regained strength and the ability to be slightly more independent.  One night he didn't wait for me for full bathroom assistance, but still needed help pulling up his clothes.  This is where things went awry.

Positioned to his side by his back, I pulled up his underwear and pajamas in one strong swift motion.  He immediately began making high pitched noises, released his grip on a grab bar, and began pointing, as best as he could, down.  Looking at the side of his hip, I saw that his pants were not at his waist all the way around, but angled down sharply from the back to the front.  They seemed to be caught on something in the front.  I was puzzled by what was causing the problem... then it hit me.

I slide my thumbs down, beneath the the waistbands on the sides, and pulled straight forward.  Instantly his clothes popped free from the front obstruction and up to his waist.  Chuckling, I asked him, "Was it caught on the jewels or the pickle?"

"Both!" he exclaimed, with a little irritation.

I burst into laughter, as an image of a push-up bra entered my brain... a push-up bra with slightly different contents more appropriate to a male.

When his care giver arrived in the morning, I told him while he and my husband sing alto, we discovered Andy could sing soprano.

Taste Test for Beef Jerky and Pork and Beans

I finally decided to begin a series of taste tests to find which brand of a particular type of food my guys liked best.  A couple of years ago I started with a blind test of beef jerky, served at our Superbowl party.  The results were remarkable.  I bought one bag of every brand of regular beef jerky that I could find at our store.  There were seven or eight brands.

Each brand's strips were cut into bite sizes.  The brands were served on separate plates.  The plates underneath to identify which brand was which.

The results were amazing!  Hands down, everyone chose the same brand of beef jerky as their favorite, except for one person.  It was a brand that I never even realized they made beef jerky, until I bought the bags for the taste test.  And the brand was... Slim Jim.  Slim Jim beat out all the ones I thought would be the favorite, including all the heavily advertised brands.

Needless to say, I am changing brands of beef jerky to Slim Jim.

Today I tested two brands of Pork and Beans, Campbell's and Van Camps.   I wanted to see which brand was best, before I bought several months worth of supplies.  This test was only on my two guys.  Campbell's won over Van Camps by a wide margin on the "like" scale.

"No Mail For You" Mail Nazi

Our mail carrier left a notice that she would no longer deliver our mail, because of an obstruction.  The "obstruction" was a light-weight sliding door panel we placed at the bottom of our wheelchair ramp during construction to prevent the dogs from escaping.  My husband and son are both severely physically disabled, wheelchair bound, and completely dependent.  The dogs would take advantage of them and slip past.  The construction was needed to make the house more accessible and was finished in Oct 2013.  So, why wasn't the sliding door completely removed?  (Usually it leans against the ramp railing in an open position.)

First, we ran out of funds to complete everything we needed in the remodel, which included a "special" gate for the mail carrier.  And secondly, until this past month, I was the sole care giver for both my husband and son, which meant on call/working 24/7.  I only got sleep in two hour increments.  I was exhausted and didn't have time to train the dogs.  Recently we got a part-time care giver, so I can get some sleep.  I have been training the dogs and telling all visitors not to shut the slider.  On the 27th of June, a visitor who hadn't been at our home in quite a long time, slid the panel shut.  There has been no obstruction since then.  I got a notice that the mail carrier would no longer deliver, as of July 9th, 2015.

Sure enough, on July 9th, she walked past our house, with no attempt to deliver, even though there was no obstruction.  I need to add that I have health issues, which sometimes makes it very difficult to retrieve the mail from the box, even though it is next to the door.

I called the post office to explain our situation.  We can't afford to pay someone to move the box and, if it was moved, would find it very difficult to retrieve mail.  They asked if there was a driver in the house.  Yes, me, but running errands is difficult, because I can't leave my guys alone and I, myself,have mobility problems.  When our part-time caregiver comes, I need to sleep, which gives me four straight hours of sleep.  The postal person on the phone asked if the care giver could go to the post office.  The care giver's job isn't going to the post office, it's care giving for two people.  It is the mail carrier's job to deliver the mail.

Does our mail carrier really believe that a small inconvenience on a few occasions is so great that she can not deliver our mail?  Doubtful, unless she is pathologically self-centered and lazy, which I also think is doubtful.  So, what is the real reason she doesn't want to deliver our mail?

I can only guess.  The post office sent out a survey to assess their service.  At that time, we had more wrongly delivered mail here than in any of the other places we lived.  The problem was well known in the neighborhood,  as it was a fairly regular occurrence.  Perhaps our mail carrier received fallout from the survey.  The other possible reason is that our house is on a relatively steep hill.  Our mail carrier would cut across our yard, instead of staying on the sidewalk, to mitigate the steepness and shorten her route.  We never minded, even though we know she is suppose to stay on the sidewalk.  We understood.  After the construction, the yard is uneven, un-repaired, and more difficult to navigate.  (As I said, we ran out of funds.)  Perhaps the mail carrier became irritated that her shortcut hadn't been fixed.  She now had to either navigate the rocky and uneven yard or climb the steep sidewalk and then slide something a child easily moves.  Perhaps the mail carrier has other issues.  Everyone has their own struggles... you never know.

So, here we are: a veteran career fighter pilot, wheelchair bound and completely disabled;  our son, wheelchair bound and completely disabled;  and myself, caregiver 24/7 until a month ago, now 18/5 and 24/2, with significant health and mobility problems myself.    We have a carrier who won't deliver the mail, because she is inconvenienced on (now rare) occasion by an easily slid barrier.    We don't need people feeling sorry or pity for us.  We just don't need people deliberately making life more difficult than it already is.

In Apple Valley, our mail carrier cared about her customers.  If we hadn't picked up our from our mail box in two days, she would knock on our door.  If that failed, she would peek in windows, just to insure we were okay.  She saved a neighbor man's life by finding him, after he had fallen on his garage floor and lay helpless for two days.  In contrast, our current carrier leaves notes that we need a bigger mailbox, if the mail hasn't been picked up.  It never seems to cross her mind that we might be ill or worse.  Perhaps one day she will learn from the example set by good, caring individuals.

Update:   I had been protesting for more than a week, calling and pleading for them to send a supervisor to look at the situation.  There was no obstacle.  Finally, our care giver loaded my wheelchair bound son up and took him to the post office.  They explained the situation to the post office.  Our mail, which mainly consisted of medical and insurance related issues was critical.  Even some of our medicine is delivered by mail.  Delivery began again.  The mail Nazi lost this round.

Unhook the Wagon

Unhook the Wagon

Late one night, Terry stopped outside the door to my sewing/computer/guest room.  He was not allowed to enter this particular room, because he can't help but damage things within his path.  Previously he disobeyed my demand that he not cross the threshold and knocked the door off the lower hinge.  On this particular evening, he waited in the hall, leaning his head into my domain.

"Can you help me?" he asked quietly, as though there was any question to my response.
"Yes, what do you need?"
"I need  you to..." he started, with the rest of the sentence undeciperable.
"What?"
"I need  you to..." he said again, with, once again, the remainder of the sentence trailing off into softness and blur.
"What do you need?"
"I need you to..." he repeated, with the same incomprehensible ending.
With that, I got up from my desk chair, crossed the room, and bent down to hear his request.
"I need you to..." he said again.
"Sweetheart, take a breath and break up your sentence.  I can't understand you."  Standardly, if he didn't follow the speech therapist's instructions to take two deep breaths, break his sentence into three or four word groups, and over-enunciate his words, his speech quickly trailed into soft babble.
He took two breaths.  "I need you," he said, paused, and took a breath, "to unhook the wagon."
"The wagon?  What wagon?"
"The wagon behind my chair."

I leaned over to inspect the back of his chair to see if some small thing was being dragged along.  I couldn't fathom what wagon he could be talking about.  A toy?  We didn't have children.  Where would he get a wagon I wondered.
"Honey, what wagon?" I asked.
Very quietly and tentatively he said, "I think there's a wagon hooked onto the back of my chair."
With that, I smiled and chuckled.  I said softly, "Dear, I think you were sleeping.  There's no wagon behind your chair."
"Oh...," he paused, "I thought there was."  He gazed down at the floor, with a look of confusion and slight embarassment, as he tried to sort through the conflicting information.  I could see he was trying to meld this new information, that there was no wagon, with his thoughts moments earlier.
"I think you must have been dreaming."  I gave him a few seconds to ponder the possibility.  "What were you watching on tv?"
He sat for a moment.  "Oh, yeah," he said and gave a little laugh.  He had been watching a show about Alaska.  The people had been using a wagon.  He realized he had incorporated that incident into his dream.  When he awoke, he assumed he had a wagon, which he couldn't see from his vantage point, attached to the back of his electric wheelchair.
It was too funny!  We both laughed.  Over the next couple of days, we both made reference to the incident if he needed or couldn't find something... maybe it was in the wagon.

Move the Snow Plows

Spring 2015

At 4 a.m. Terry woke me.
Desperately sleepy and hoping his problem would be quick and easy, I asked, "What do you need?"
He said, "I need you to...", with the remainder of the sentence unintelligible.
"What?  I didn't catch that."
He repeated his "need" several times, before I was able to catch his words.
"I need you to do something about all these snowplows!"
"Snowplows?"
"Yes!  I need you to move the snowplows."
"What snowplows?"  I asked.
"The snowplows!  The snowplows!"

"Honey, we live in San Diego."
His face reflected both confusion and frustration.  "I know that!"  Normally Terry's voice is nearly at a whisper.  But, now, he was putting some real effort behind what he was saying, nearly shouting.  "You have to do something about the snowplows."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Move them!  Move them!"
"Sweetie, I think you're asleep or just waking up."
He looked at me for a few seconds, as though trying to comprehend what I just said, but went right back to his determinated goal.  "We have to do something about the snowplows.  It's going to be very expensive."
"Okay.  How many snowplows are there?"
This question seemed to calm him, as he thought about the number.  "A dozen or so,"  he eventually said.  "There's a lot of them."
"Where are they?"
"They're parked outside."
"Where?"
"On the street.  They have to be moved or they'll be towed."
"Are they broken down?"
"No."
"Then why would they be towed?"
"Because they don't have a permit."
"A permit?"
"Yes, they don't have a permit.  It will be very expensive, if they all get towed."
This is where I made a mistake.  I said, "Sweetie, there are no snowplows, because we live in San Diego."
Terry erupted.  "I know we live in San Diego.  Get the hell out of here!"
What I should have done was simply said, "Yes, Dear, I will move the snowplows," and left the room for a few minutes.

The next morning, while smiling, I gently asked Terry what he was thinking in the early morning.  He said he thought there were a bunch of snowplows that needed to be moved.  We figured out that he had been watching television shows about Alaska.  That's where the equipment came into his mind.  Then, we live in a college area, where every vehicle must have a permit and must be moved every three days or be towed.  That's where his urgency to move the snowplows originated.
I asked Terry why he was so upset.  He said he was frustrated that nobody would help him move the snowplows.  Apparently, in his mind, he had tried to get other people to help and they either wouldn't or couldn't.  He thought I could drive a snowplow.

At least he recognized my skill set.  ;)