Episodes
Sunday Feb 13, 2011
Car Rex
Sunday Feb 13, 2011
Sunday Feb 13, 2011
I was the world's worst beginning driver, getting in 6 car accidents during just my first year driving at the ripe age of sixteen-and-a-half. I had tried to get my license right after my birthday in January, but when Mom took me down it was snowing pretty hard, and we were there early. The driving test administrator didn't think they would be doing any driving because of the snow, but because we were there and must have looked desperate, he said he would take me out driving.
It was snowing so hard I couldn't see across the mega-medians they have in downtown Salt Lake, so as I slowed to see the lane I was supposed to be turning left into, the light turned red. I wasn't informed until we pulled back up at the department of motor vehicles. "He turned left on a red," the lugubrious tester said. Then he turned to the other staff in the building and said, "We won't be doing any driving today." I decided to wait to get my license until there was absolutely no chance of snow.
I passed the test in July. That was a long six months to wait, but at least I passed without trying to find the left-turn lane in blowing snow. I almost immediately began to have car accidents, all caused by me. I made up for the delay in getting my license by backing up into another car while trying to get out of a parking space. I swear the other car wasn't there when I looked back, but then you never know when someone is going to pull up behind you and park while you pull out. I dented in her passenger side door pretty well, and the insurance rates started to climb.
I don't remember much about the other accidents during the year, until it was almost then end of my junior year. I do remember packing a healthy lunch and actually brown-bagging it for the first time in high school. I was so proud of that lunch and my decision to eat more sensibly. My usual lunch that entire year was a Suzy Q and a Fanta orange. Very healthy.
As I pulled around the corner up on 9th East in Sandy and headed south toward Jordan High School, I turned right and had to accelerate to get in - as usual. The lunch bag fell to the floor. I reached down to rescue the golden cargo, and when I leaned back up, there was a large truck in front of me. The bumper was high enough to smash through my radiator and shove it against my engine. As I hit the truck without even putting on my brakes or being able to swerve, my head smacked against the steering wheel. The boondoggle wrapped around the cover slashed my head.
Mom was at work, so when they asked who should come get me at the hospital, Grandpa Hale showed up just after they sewed 7 stitches in my forehead. It was all surreal. People trying to help me when all I had done was cut my head, a trip in the ambulance; more attention at the hospital. When it was over, I had a new scar and no car.
I decided to go back to eating a little less healthy. I never packed a lunch again.
I had one other miraculous accident I survived somehow. I had a Yamaha 150 motorcycle that didn't run all that well. It would go pretty well for about 10 minutes, but then it would start to sputter and probably only needed a tune-up. But I was a poor college student.
I decided to go for a short drive up Logan Canyon, and as the bike sped up, it seemed to be running pretty well. I gunned the engine as I went down the steep hill and was going way too fast. Centrifugal force took over down at the bottom - where the road turned, but the motorcycle did not. I drifted into the gravel shoulder going at least 25 or 30 miles per hour. The front wheel dug in and went sideways. The back wheel kept going forward and threw me over the handlebars.
I did a complete somersault in the air and landed on my back, which is better than landing on your head. When I hear the adjective "whumph" it makes me think of the landing on some more loose gravel. I sat for a moment and soaked in the pain, but didn't recognize any broken bone pain. I picked up the motorcycle, drove it back to campus and sold it for $100 about a week later.
At least no more bees would be smacking me in the face while going fifty miles per hour.
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Dental Hi-Jinks
Tuesday Feb 08, 2011
Tuesday Feb 08, 2011
Go to Abundance for more selections by Dane Allred, including other episodes from Rules of Engagement, plus lots more!!
Dane Allred’s Rules of Engagement
DENTAL HI-JINKS
I'm not really sure why I believe the story I always tell everyone about why I have the world's worst teeth. It's not that my mouth is disfigured or that they are all rotting away in my head, but I doubt there is a tooth in my head that has not had dental work done on it. The story I always tell is that when I was weaned my mother gave a bottle of Coke to suck on instead. I can never remember there not being Coca-Cola in the house as I was growing up, and all that was asked of me is that I not drink too much. I seriously think I had at least 16 ounces a day my entire childhood, but it was probably just a drink or two from the open bottle in the refrigerator every day.
I had so many decaying teeth growing up that the dentist must have scheduled regular appointments for me every three months. At least that's what it felt like. And to top things off, I learned at an early age the incredible pain associated with root canals. I think I had my first one at eight or nine, but it couldn't have been any later than ten or eleven.
One of the strange things about having root canals early and often is that I did get a fair amount of tolerance to pain, which may explain the rest of these experiences. It's not that I've ever intentionally hurt myself or even wanted to, but for some reason, into each life a little pain must fall. For those of you who have had none, I think I have received whatever you missed.
The dentist's office even has a particular smell that I have always associated with pain, and I have to force myself to relax whenever I sniff that scent of numbing agent. Even just walking past a dentist's office in a business complex can make my body start to tense up. So I have learned many techniques for coping with the drill and the needle. Of course, I have already told the dentist and you that I can't see the needle coming toward me or we are going to have problems. But once I get into that peaceful place where I have convinced myself that this too will end, if I but endure, then I can sit back and make fun of myself and my petty complaints.
With literally dozens of cavities filled and many root canals, there is not really one episode of pain that stands out in my mind. But one experience with a root canal did convince me that using gas for these procedures is probably not the best idea for me.
I was in Spanish Fork one summer and needed some emergency (can you need emergency root canals?) root work done. Once the dentist saw what kind of a mélange of filled cavities and former root canals he was facing, he turned to his favorite tools for managing pain - laughing gas. Nitrous Oxide. It was really like a scene from "Little Shop of Horrors", and believe me, you really do feel like laughing.
Here I was about to have the root scraped out of my tooth with tiny rat-tail rasps which looked like wire. If you have ever had toothache pain associated with a bad cavity which is near the root, you know what I'm talking about. There is no more focusing and sharp pain which goes immediately to your brain than root canal digging. And you are talking to someone who is very closely associated with many, many different types of pain. This is the kind that makes you stand straight up from a prone position.
The great thing about gas is that you can reach a point where you really don't care what is going on, and you are only vaguely aware of someone playing around with your mouth, but you don't much care about that either. I hope the next part is not the typical experience with nitrous oxide, but it was enough to scare me out of having gas ever again.
I think the dentist may have used a bit too much gas on me, because I actually had an out-of-body experience while sitting in the dentist's chair. I didn't see a bright light or a tunnel or any of my dead relatives, but I did see a strange situation taking place in front of me. It seemed like there were two people wrangling for space around a third person, and they seemed very interested in getting their hands as far down the throat of that third person as they could. It made me laugh because it looked so comical. Here were two adults struggling over some poor kid. I laughed to myself again and was thankful that it wasn't me sitting in that chair.
And then I noticed that I had a very strange perspective on the whole affair. I seemed to be floating in the corner of this room looking down at these Three Stooges. It was strange to be looking down on the scene, and I understood what it must be like to be eight feet tall and be looking down on the entire population.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, the realization dawned on me that it was me sitting in that chair, and that the dentist and his nurse were trying their best to pull the root out my tooth, apparently by reaching into my mouth all the way down to my ankles. I was seeing myself being worked on, and the best (worst?) part of all is that I didn't care. They could have dismembered me and I would have watched calmly, wondering how that poor devil, I mean me, could stand the pain.
I have never had gas again for a tooth, and because of the experience, I am trying my very hardest to stay out of the hospital and face that anesthesia again. You won't think this is true as you read the rest of my mostly self-inflicted aches and pains.
One of the truly delightful things about having rotting teeth is that you develop and special skill called eating on one side of your mouth. I didn't realize I had been doing this my whole life until I grew up and actually got control of the cavity situation. All you have to do is find a comfortable place to chew in your mouth. If one side hurts, just eat on the other side. I got so good at eating on one side of my mouth that sometimes people would comment on the wad in the side of my mouth, and I would just shrug and tell them I had a toothache on the other side. There was always more room for food, and even though I must have resembled some kind of half-chipmunk, I was content to endure the pain until it was absolutely necessary to get it fixed.
I was so fearful of the dentist and his collection of needles as I was growing up that I would let teeth get abscessed before I would admit to the pain.
What this meant at the dentist's office was much more pain than I really needed to endure - if I had taken care of it earlier it probably would have just been another filling. When I waited this long there were abscesses and root canals, which involve taking small files and scraping out what is left of the root of your tooth. Very painful indeed.
Did I already say I think I have had nine or ten root canals? I think I covered that already.
I still get cavities today. A lifetime of sweets is hard to kick. But I do go to the dentist faster now, and if there is any pain in my mouth I get it taken care of right away. I can actually eat on either side of my mouth whenever I feel like it - and I don't have to worry about eating on the wrong side.
Perhaps some of my relatives have the correct answer to dental pain. Just get all of your teeth pulled and get dentures. Then all you have to worry about is where you left your teeth the night before.
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Dental Hi-JinksWednesday Feb 02, 2011
Spading Myself
Wednesday Feb 02, 2011
Wednesday Feb 02, 2011
Dane Allred’s Rules of Engagement
SPADING MYSELF
This is not what you may be thinking after hearing this subheading. It has nothing to do with spaying, but with the common potato pitchfork, which is sometimes called a garden spade. It's like a regular pitchfork you may think of from the farm, but these pitchforks are used to harvest potatoes without too much damage, and they are excellent for loosening up compacted ground. The tines are about as big around as a finger.
I had used this particular tool for several years, and in fact had worn out several handles of past potato pitchforks. They are just too handy for loosening the ground around stubborn weeds. It works like this.
The spading pitchfork is just light enough that I can lift it up to my shoulders while sitting on the ground and thrust it into the ground in front of me with enough force to get the tines into the ground several inches. Usually I stab the ground where the weeds need pulling, and after moving the handle a bit, the ground is loose; the roots are loose, and with a simple pulling motion, a section of weeds is no more.
I have developed special muscles across my back and in my arms after stabbing this tool into the ground thousands of times every summer. I even stabbed myself in the palm once, and I think it needed three stitches. This first injury happened when a grape vine had deflected my aim for the ground, and the tines of the fork were sharp enough after the thousands of times it had penetrated dirt that it really was as sharp as a knife. The metal on the tines glows a bright silvery color from the constant sanding by the soil. But even this slight wound in my hand didn't stop me from continuing to use the potato pitchfork as my designated tool of weed elimination.
My daughter was getting married in the late summer and wanted to use our backyard for the reception. I had been slaving away trying to make the place look its best, and that included weeding where I hadn't for a few years. It was the opening night of the play "Cinderella" at the Sundance Outdoor Theatre. I was being paid to play the father of the prince, and had the unique opportunity to appear onstage in a dinner jacket, a cravat, white boxer shorts, tall black socks and slippers, reading a newspaper and ignoring my son.
That's right. I was to appear onstage with no pants. The fly of the boxer shorts had been sewn shut, and I was wearing something else under them just in case, but I guess it's time to admit that if money is involved and it's not immoral, I will probably do it. This would also explain when I picked my nose in another commercial for $300.00.
But I digress. We had been let out of rehearsal early and I knew that once the play started I would be very tired in the daytime and would probably not get much weeding done. So I determined to get some of the worst weeding over before the show that night and that included a patch where some planting pots had been sitting for a few years with seedlings in them. This had allowed the dandelions and other long-rooted weeds to really gain a foothold.
I really like working in the yard. I sell plants from my yard on EBay, and shipped over 600 packages of various plant material in the last 6 months. Mostly these are plants that are growing in the wrong place and I would be weeding them anyway, so when I pull them up I place them in a plastic bag with some loose dirt and add a little water. I seal them up and mail them on their merry way.
The best example of this is what some people call horse mint, which is really catnip. It grows in various places all over the yard, and when I see some and have sold some, I yank it up and instead of throwing it away, I turn it into cash. Even the groundcover that I sell is usually the stuff that is growing outside of the prescribed area where I want it to grow. Then it is a weed, and would probably be thrown away or burned anyway. Instead, it becomes money. It's a fun way to do the weeding in the yard.
Which brings me back to the stabbing. I have half an acre of land, and it takes most of my student-free summers to keep it under control. I can spend up to three or four hours a day in the yard and still not get done all I want to.
So when I weed, it is with a passion and energy of someone that knows it is time to get this done, and done right, and get on to other stuff. I am an intense weeder.
So there I sat in the long weeds which have had three years to grow extra deep roots. I am sitting on the ground with my spading pitchfork in my left hand, stabbing at the ground furiously and pulling the offending plants out with my right hand.
Except when they won't come out.
This weeding system works well when the plants are coming out easily. There is a problem if the weed refuses to be pulled out on the first try. This is when I usually take the top of the noxious weed in my hand, and grabbing it firmly, stab yet again with the sharpened tool of steel.
It usually works. The roots get loose and the weed comes out. But not this time.
I stabbed a little too close to my hand.
This is usually not a problem, since the blade often deflects off my hand and goes into the ground.
I was stabbing the ground so hard because the weeds were so stubborn that the blade stabbed my hand instead.
The outer tine of the pitchfork went into my right hand just above my right thumb, almost to my wrist. The blade was so sharp that it sped right under the skin and then emerged from the first joint of my thumb. Where the last knuckle of the thumb bends in, I now had a sharp steel blade sticking out of my hand about four inches.
I had really stabbed hard.
It hadn't really hurt, which I have found from extensive personal experience is usually the case with a severe injury. It did sting a bit, and the cut was clean - no blood was coming out.
In fact, the blade was firmly entrenched in my hand and as I gently tried to pull and push it a bit, my skin only moved with it. There was no blood channel like in fencing swords to allow blood to escape, and allow the stabber to extricate his blade from the stabee.
I held the blade and my hand up to the open air and admired the clean incision. I looked like one of those Freddy Krueger movies, except the blade wasn't attached to my glove; it was running through my thumb.
Time seems to stand still in these kinds of moments. I remember several different and bizarre kinds of thoughts.
Being a performer at heart and knowing I had an opening night to face later, the first words I muttered were not curses or shouts of pain. They were "Crap, I have a show tonight."
The next phrase emerged after I examined the sliced skin near my wrist. I said out loud, "Well, that only looks like 5 or 6 stitches." I had enough hands-on (!) sewing experience to know how many stitches the doctor would use.
Then two conflicting thoughts entered my mind, and I swear this is what actually happened next. I was wondering about the emergency room, but another thought crossed my mind immediately. There was going to be a wedding in this yard next month. The wheelbarrow was still sitting on the lawn, and I realized I would probably not get back to weeding for a few days. I knew I would forget to move the wheelbarrow and it would leave a big yellow mark right in the middle of the lawn.
That simply would not do. I tucked the handle of the spading pitchfork under my arm, with the blade still protruding from my hand. It was a little painful, but I endured so I could get that stupid wheelbarrow off the lawn.
I took the two handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted, a little painfully, and moved it off the lawn to the weedy patch. I kid you not. I was more worried about the lawn at this moment than the wound.
Then the other thought crowded back. I knew that the emergency room people would probably not want me to pull the tines of the pitchfork back through my hand as it would get infected. But I also knew that they would probably cut the tine off and slide it out the front of my hand. This would destroy a perfectly good spading pitchfork. I chose infection over a ruined tool.
I also had another thought as a walked over to the cement step which leads up to the patio. I could see myself arriving at the emergency room and proudly waving my arm above me and saying, "I got a potato pitchfork stuck in my hand! Can you get it out?"
I could visualize winning the "Emergency Room's Stupidest Patient" video contest, with the host playing the video over and over again imitating my voice and intoning, "Can you get it out? Can you get it out?"
It was only a few steps to the concrete step, and by the time I arrived and had played out the above scenario out in my mind several times, I was determined to get that blade out of my hand.
I put the unencumbered tines on the step and hung my hand off the side. The goal was to do this in one motion, much like yanking off a bandage. I pulled hesitantly and confirmed the holding power of steel against flesh - it felt like it was super-glued to my hand.
So I knew it would take a mighty yank to get this off my hand, and I would probably only be able to endure the pain of one attempt.
So I threw my weight into it, and locked my arm and slid the hand down and off the blade. It still didn't really hurt so bad I couldn't stand it, but for the next part I was unprepared.
The blade was off, but now two gaping holes in my hand started to pour out blood. I'm not very good with blood, even though I have a fairly high pain threshold. Especially if it is my blood.
A wave of nausea swept over me and for the first time I felt like I was going to faint. I got lightheaded and doubted that I would be able to make it up the patio stairs to the phone. A mental image washed over me -- my dead body collapsed at the base of the stairs with people standing over me shaking their heads and muttering, "Another senseless potato pitchfork death."
Blood was pooling everywhere, and I somehow made it up the stairs and opened the back door. I went to the kitchen sink and rinsed out the dirt as best I could, relishing the feel of the cold water on my flesh which seemed to be searing with heat.
I grabbed the dishtowel next to the stove and wrapped my hand up several times. I stumbled to the phone, dialed 911 and lay down on the floor.
When the operator answered and asked what was the nature of my emergency, I told her I had stabbed myself and thought I might pass out. The good news about land line phones is that they already have your address when you call. We had a man die here locally when he was called 911 on a cell phone and they couldn't find him.
The emergency operator assured me that she knew where I was, and was sending an ambulance. I told her that I would be lying in a pool of blood at the top of the stairs. I told her to tell the EMT to just come in the front door and walk upstairs. She was very comforting and kept me calm, and as I looked over at my hand, I realized I really was lying in a pool of blood.
The ambulance driver came in and took great care of me, not even laughing when I told him what had happened. He wrapped up my hand into a softball sized mound of gauze and I limped to the ambulance under my own power. Some people from the neighborhood were standing outside wondering what I had done this time, and as I emerged, I waved my giant wrapped hand at them and said I was okay. "I stabbed myself," I think I said.
I had discussed the emergency room with the EMT. I knew that if I went to the emergency room I would be late for my opening night performance. And my doctor was only four blocks down the street.
Somehow I convinced him to deposit me at the doctor's office. I'm guessing this is not standard operating procedure since they were very hesitant to let me do it, but when I insisted they walked me gingerly all the way back into the room where I would be worked on. Then they had me sign a release saying this is where I wanted to be and that I wouldn't sue them later for not taking good care of me.
I was also worried what Debbie would think when she came home and saw the blood all over the kitchen floor, but luckily my daughter Aleesa was driving up to our house when she saw me being taken away in an ambulance. Devoted daughter that she is, she followed us to the doctor's office and came right in the door.
When she saw that I was all right she asked if there was anything she could do. I asked if she wouldn't mind going to the house and cleaning up the blood on the floor. And the blood leading to the sink. And maybe the blood on the back porch. And the steps. She said she would without hesitating, and my wife was spared the sight of a bloody kitchen.
Dr. Wylie has no sympathy for my self-inflicted injuries since he usually has several at one time himself. He does rock-climbing and helicopter skiing, so we usually compare scars and stories, and I get little pity.
He went right to work, irrigating the three-inch long wound which ran just under my skin. The blade had bounced off the muscle and sinew in my hand and cruised nicely just beneath the skin to emerge at the top of my thumb. He washed it several times, but didn't sound too hopeful that we were getting all of the dirt out.
It was after all, a spading pitchfork which was often covered in dirt, and some of it had to stay under my skin. I didn't bother telling him that this particular area had once been used as a kennel by the previous owners. I guess I thought he would send me to the hospital, and I had a performance to get to.
I was right. It was six stitches on the top and three on the bottom, accompanied by a large dose of antibiotics (again). By this time I had started to feel some of the pain, but only took some ibuprofen so I wouldn't be dulled for the show that night.
He sent me on my merry way, and I made it to the call up at Sundance only about 30 minutes late. The transparent bandage on my hand wouldn't show on stage, and after showing my injuries to the cast and the directors, I was excused for being a little late. Stabbing yourself and getting nine stitches can get you excused for being slow, but don't try this at home.
To add insult to injury, I went to the vocal director and showed him my new scars. He wasn't too pleased with me being in the show anyway since I didn't have the strongest voice in the cast. I told him I didn't think I could sing that night, and he turned to me and actually said, "Could you please not sing?" I said yes, of course.
It wasn't my best opening night, but as I mouthed the words to the finale right next to audience members that night, they may have wondered why they couldn't hear this guy sing even when he was standing three feet away. I just looked at my hand and pretended to sing even louder.
When the choral director found out how lousy my voice really was, I was fired for the rest of the season. I was supposed to sing with Maureen McGovern and Christopher Lloyd in two later shows, but untrained singer that I am, I think they made the right choice. It did give me more time to get the backyard ready for the wedding. I spent the extra time stabbing at weeds with my perfectly intact spading pitchfork instead of feeling sorry for myself.
I wasn't out of the woods yet. The dirt and germs I had pulled back under my skin didn't all get flushed away, and I got an incredible infection from the wound. My arm from my elbow down began to turn black and blue, and when I showed it to the doctor two days later, he said it wasn't bruising but a raging infection.
He told me to keep taking the antibiotic pills I was taking and then went to the supply closet for a catheter. He hooked up this semi-permanent antibiotic delivery system and taped it right into the bend of my elbow. For those who have been paying attention, having needles close to me is worse than any horror flick you can name. He jabbed that giant needle into the skin and then taped it to my arm.
Getting a bag of antibiotics, he indicated we would have to do this twice a day for a few days until the infection was under control. Dr. Wylie isn't someone to mess around. When he sees a problem he deals with it right then, and doesn't take any hostages. The liquid ran into my system quickly, and then he took the bag away.
And left the needle in my arm.
As I sat staring at the needled delivery system, Dr. Wylie must have read my mind. He's heard me talk about my needle phobia enough. He said to me in his most patient and calming bedside manner, "Come back this afternoon and we'll give you some more. Let's leave the catheter in until we get this under control."
I concealed my panic. I was going to be walking around for a few days with a NEEDLE stuck perpetually into my skin. I really am a baby about this, and I am so hypersensitive about needles that I claim I can always feel the needle in my skin as long as it is there.
Logically, I know this can't be true. My body has endured enough pain to adjust quite quickly to most ailments, but I'm phobic enough to think I can feel a needle.
I was actually quite proud that I didn't faint right there in the office. I rose without fear to face several days with a needle in my arm 24/7, and left the office wondering if anyone could see the internal conflict I was experiencing. Was my face fixed into a constant grimace of pain? Or was the stoic face of resignation being presented to the world?
I actually performed a couple of shows with a needle sticking into my arm. It sounds like a trial, but realistically, I did forget every once in a while that there was a needle there. Until I moved my arm in a weird direction and a stabbing pain reminded me that I was enduring this only because I had stabbed myself earlier in the week. At that point all you can do is shrug your shoulders and think to yourself, "This too shall pass." And it does.
It was kind of cool to be able to show people the catheter, until I had to tell them the whole story about why I needed twice a day antibiotics. Then instead of feeling your pain with you, the begin to smile and wonder how a guy like me has managed to survive this long on a planet with so many sharp edges.
The only permanent damage from stabbing my hand Freddy Krueger-like is that I have two distinctive scars on my right thumb. One right on the top towards the wrist, and another just where the last knuckle bends under my thumb. I still use the potato pitchfork for gardening, but I am extra careful when stabbing at stubborn long-rooted weeds.
One more Dr. Wylie story deserves a painful revisit. I have inherited skin tabs from someone in my family, and I suspect it was probably my grandfather on my mother's side. Grandpa Hale had skin tabs all over his face near his eyes. It was really disturbing, and when I discovered them occurring on my face near my eyes, I decided to have them removed on a regular basis.
Dr. Wylie is pretty adventurous, but he enjoys this particular treatment way too much. To remove a skin tab, which is just extra skin gathered into a little protrusion, Dr. Wylie gets out his liquid nitrogen gun. He puts a little liquid nitrogen in this little evil device, charges it with a little air pressure, and goes to work with an evil grin.
Shooting liquid nitrogen onto bare skin through a little tiny hole feels just like - you guessed it - someone shoving thousands of tiny needles into your skin. There is no anesthetic involved, so you get the full effect of thousands of tiny needles undulled.
At least I don't have to see any needles; I only have to feel like there are the tiniest needles in creation all stabbing me at once.
I have to endure this unique torture every few years when new skin tabs appear, and when Dr. Wiley sees me coming, I think he is always looking for another adventure with his little gun. How often do you get chance to shoot liquid nitrogen onto someone's face and get paid for it?
After the treatments the skin turns black from the exposure to subzero temperatures and within a week the skin tab falls off. Within a couple of weeks the skin returns to normal.
I wonder why they say "Vanity, thy name is woman." It seems pretty vain to me to endure this kind of torture just so I don't have little flaps of skin next to my eyes.
Not all self-inflicted injuries lead to visible damage, or at least no permanent physical scar. After the spading fork incident, I really tried to be careful; after all, we had a wedding coming up in the backyard and I wanted to be present but not the focus of attention. My oldest daughter could do without comments like "Did you know he stabbed himself in the hand and they had to amputate his arm?" It really only took 5 or 6 twice daily infusions of antibiotic to clear up the infection, so I was feeling great. I don't know why I feel especially good after a round of antibiotics, but it's usually not worth the trouble I have to get into to get the injections. Or the pills. I really don't know how many rounds of antibiotics I've had in my life, but I think it may be above fifteen. Or maybe twenty.
The wedding went fine, and I didn't limp up the aisle with a broken foot, hand, or leg. Aleesa was beautiful and the work had been worth the pain. It's not very often you get to give your daughter away to her husband in your own backyard surrounded by family and friends, so the occasion was especially sweet.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Spading MyselfMonday Jan 31, 2011
Idaho Makes Me Sick
Monday Jan 31, 2011
Monday Jan 31, 2011
Dane Allred’s Rules of Engagement
IDAHO MAKES ME SICK
When our children were younger we took a trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. We stopped at a little convenience store in Yellowstone and I got a bag of yogurt almonds. These were a popular snack touted as a healthy alternative to chocolate with the almonds coated with creamy white yogurt. I don't think it was really yogurt, but probably just a white chocolate or even cheaper waxy alternative. But being health conscience and trying to be a better eater of confections that seemed healthy, I gladly ate the almonds, doing my duty to become healthier by eating fake health food. As we returned through a big loop through Idaho, I started to feel ill as soon as we crossed the Idaho border.
It was my old friend food poisoning. I don't know how long the yogurt almonds had sat there on the shelf, but it must have been for a very long time. I don't really think of almonds going bad or even whitish candy coating turning sour. Maybe it was the preparation of the delicious treat that donated the dreaded disease to the contents of the bag. Whatever or whoever the culprit, I was once again in the grasp of the gut-wrenching galloping gastrointestinal giddiness. We crossed the border to Idaho, and I informed Debbie she would have to drive for a while. I pulled over, went to the back of our trusty blue Volkswagen beetle and bent over as if trying to inspect the rear passenger side tire. Doubled over like this, it's easy to empty the stomach through the conventional method without looking like a drunkard stuck on the side of the road.
To all the world zooming by in their cars and trucks, I was simply inspecting the rear tire. To those who looked closer as the sped by at sixty-five, they would see the occasional heaving and perhaps understand that Dane was once again being subjected to his own hubris; brought down by a package of peanuts. I mean almonds.
Debbie took over the wheel and I sat in the passenger seat moaning and trying to sleep. Every half hour or so, I would politely ask her to pull over so I could inspect the tires. I don't even think the kids knew what was going on as they slept in the back seat.
Bend over, look at the tire. Yep, still there. Make a deposit on the side of the road. Think for a minute if this is littering or against the law. Am I supposed to find some water and wash it off the side of the road? Can you get a ticket for throwing up on an interstate?
Then I would get back in the car and we would drive for a while. Soon we were almost out of Idaho. We must have stopped at least five or six times, and I thought I was going to make it out of the state with no further problems. As the state line approached, I felt the wave of nausea sweep over me again, and I donated more roadside detritus to the state known better for its potatoes.
The really strange thing about this whole episode is that as soon as we left Idaho, I felt better. I think I was able to finally sleep for a while, and in my male ego part of my mind, I may have rewritten this episode to include me getting back into the driver's seat and continuing home without further problems. But realistically I know in my deepest part of my logical brain that Debbie drove the rest of the way.
I don't hold it against anyone from the state up north, but this was one time when the state of Idaho made me sick. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
It's been over a decade and I haven't been back there since. I haven't had any yogurt almonds since then either.
Here’s wishing you don’t have to stop by the side of the road and inspect your tires.
Don’t hold a grudge against the state where you get sick. It’s not Idaho’s fault I didn’t feel well. Just think twice before you take that bag of yogurt almonds. Maybe even check the expiration date. Then you can enjoy the scenery, and not have to check and see if the tires are still inflated.
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Idaho Makes Me SickWednesday Jan 05, 2011
Car Crashes
Wednesday Jan 05, 2011
Wednesday Jan 05, 2011
CAR CRASHES
I was in six car accidents in the year after I got my driver’s license. I got smart after my high school car crashes and read a defensive driving book. I was a better driver, and the accident rate went down. I went six or seven years without problems until Debbie and I were driving up Little Cottonwood Canyon. A truck was pulled off to the side - the wrong side of the road - which meant it was facing us.
The fool in the truck decided to pull out just as we reached him. That meant we had two choices. Pull into the other lane or pull off the road. The truck was in my lane.
Then suddenly there was a car in the other lane. Both lanes are now full, and our only choice is the trees. This meant we had to pull off the near side of the road going about 35 miles per hour. We bounced along about 5 feet and then crashed hard into a tree. The tree limb hit the windshield and the Debbie's forehead hit the windshield. The glass from the window cut off part of her bangs, which took forever to grow back.
As I looked over to see if Debbie was okay I could see that she was bleeding. She put her hand up to her head to stop the bleeding, and I jumped out of the car and yelled at the idiots in the truck. The car in the other lane had stopped. I think they called EMS, and all I remember is the ambulance taking care of Debbie. I insisted that the guys in the truck stay, but the cop let them go while I was checking on Debbie.
Another wreck and I got to pay for it since the guy responsible was let go. My insurance was already high enough, and the guy responsible for the accident was off the hook. I wasn’t going to report it to my insurance, since that would only mean higher rates for the next few years. So I was blessed to shell out over $2000 to get the windshield replaced and weld on a new part of the frame. It was fixed in time for us to move to California, where I would be starting as a brand new teacher, and get another part-time life-risking side job – painting flagpoles.
I wish I could say I have had my last car wreck, but with my past experiences under my belt, I know I'll have to be extra careful. I'm getting to be so old that now I drive the speed limit on every road. It has a nice side effect. I no longer have to mash the brake when I see the police, and there is a nice sense of calm as you pass through the radar without a worry.
I only wish I had driven better earlier in my life. The same car that had the windshield accident was in two more before it was totaled. We were driving up the hill into Orem and it was snowing lightly. But it was snowing enough that I should have been driving slower. The Volvo in front of me had stopped in the road for some reason, and I didn't see it fast enough. I was able to swerve enough to get from behind the car, but not far enough to avoid a collision. We slid past on the passenger side, and both of the blue Volkswagen bumpers were cleanly sheared off, and we suddenly had half of a dune buggy. The impact pushed us sideways up over the sidewalk where we came to rest, and fortunately, no one was injured. I guess it's really true about Volvo's being a tough car, because when we went to inspect the damage to the other car, there was a small hole in the back panel, about the size of a dime. That was all the damage I could see. I was impressed. My insurance company was not. The company canceled me and I had to get insurance with another insurer.
I wasn't involved in the final accident of the Volkswagen, but I will describe its infamous ending, because it was one of the first times my daughter Tia got to go to the emergency room. Debbie was going to her folks house and as she pulled out at a four way stop only about 8 blocks from their house, some old guy ran the stop sign and t-boned them. Glass shattered all over Tia and she got to get checked out for cuts at the hospital. I was waiting for them in Ogden to celebrate Tia's first birthday. I guess that is one birthday we will never forget, although I doubt she remembers anything about it.
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Car CrashesMonday Dec 27, 2010
Chemical Hazards
Monday Dec 27, 2010
Monday Dec 27, 2010
CHEMICAL HAZARDS
I guess one of the reasons I don't take my injuries too seriously is that I have seen real suffering up close. Anything I have been through is nothing compared to the pain and stress of cancer treatment. I don't think I could put on as brave a face as my wife when she had cancer fifteen years ago.
The bone cancer was discovered. She went through two major surgeries and the recovery process, and was now missing parts of three of her ribs. But the worst was yet to come.
Chemotherapy is designed to kill cancer cells lurking in your body, but it almost kills the patient, too. She was on a special protocol designed by the top doctors in the world, and after the first treatment she was so sick she almost quit.
We called the doctors and they decided she could probably get by on a reduced dose, but she would still have to go through six courses of treatment.
Even getting ready for the chemotherapy involved surgery. She had to have a sub-dermal catheter which would stay in her body for the course of treatment. It looked like a doctor's stethoscope end, and they buried it under her skin just below her right clavicle. It was a bump about an inch around, and when they wanted to administer the chemotherapy, they would strap a fanny pack full of the chemicals to her hip and run a tube from it to her catheter. She would then go back to school and teach the rest of the day as the chemical coursed through her body.
Here's the strangest thing anyone said to us during the chemotherapy ordeal. Since she would be carrying around the treatment with her during the day, the oncology nurse said, "Don't get this on your skin."
The nurse was worried she may spring a leak during the day and have the chemicals get on bare skin. Now think about this for a moment. During chemotherapy you are pumping deadly chemicals throughout your body which are not supposed to get on your skin?
It made us both laugh out loud. It seemed so insane that this was the way where you could kill cancer, by almost killing the patient.
Getting the chemo was the easy part. Enduring the effects was so hard that Debbie wanted to quit several times, and almost couldn't make it through the entire treatment.
After the first treatment, her hair fell out. It would come out in clumps into her hand, and she just tossed it into the garbage can. By the end of the week she was mostly bald. The hairdresser shaved off the rest.
Guys can have a bald head and no one thinks anything about it. But as soon as I see a bald woman I now think chemotherapy. I even think this if I see a woman wearing a scarf which completely covers her head. But the good news is that Debbie has a beautiful bald head.
The chemotherapy treatments would so devastate Debbie's body that sometimes she would need to go to the hospital for fluids and monitoring. She would also sometimes need to get Nupogen treatments to boost her white blood cells.
Here's a strange medical twist. If you are getting chemotherapy, you can't get the treatment if your white blood count is too low, which is one of the purposes of chemotherapy. So if the chemotherapy is working, your white blood count goes down. But if it gets too low, you can't get the treatment.
So cancer patients get a treatment to raise their white blood cell count, so they can go back in later and get chemotherapy which will lower their white blood count again. There must be an easier way to do this.
One time Debbie had an especially bad reaction to the fourth or fifth treatment. She was in the hospital in a lot of pain, and I think the staff had given her too much morphine. She was struggling to breathe, and several times she stopped breathing.
I would gently shake her and tell her to keep breathing. There was equipment in the room which would have alerted the nurses if I hadn't been there, but it was one moment in this miserable process when I felt like I was actually helping.
About the only other thing I could do was give her ice chips when she was in the hospital, which ended up being 10 or more trips. The doctors and nurses did a great job, organized and prepared in a way which is truly amazing to see.
When I think about the advances in science, medicine, and technology, I can’t wait to see what the future will bring. Join me as we journey into a future of possibilities.
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chemical HazardsTuesday Dec 14, 2010
Sheepherder Translation
Tuesday Dec 14, 2010
Tuesday Dec 14, 2010
Sheepherder Translation
As per usual, I got stuck on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I am trying to get to a stand of pine trees to cut into pine poles and posts. I had backed down the road in the beautiful mountains of Utah at the ripe age of 17, and put my left rear tire into mid-air on the dirt road. My truck was belching blue smoke, and the sheepherder nearby thought there might be a fire. As he rode up on his horse, I have never been so glad to see another human being. There really is no desperation quite like being stuck in the top of the mountains, especially when you think no one else who can help you is closer than 50 miles away. The old man listened patiently to my stupidity, and then said he thought if he tied his rope to the back of the truck, his horse could pull the rear end of my truck back onto the road.
I was out of ideas and welcomed the help. He was right. As he pulled the rope backwards with his horse, I put the truck in reverse and one cloud of blue smoke later I was back on the road. I jumped out to thank him and he invited me to come to his trailer for coffee.
This man had just saved my life, and I was obligated to at least spend a little time with him as payment. A sheepherder goes up to the mountain in the spring and has little human contact the entire summer, mostly just getting supplies from his employer and going to town once in a while. It would have been the height of rudeness to refuse his hospitality, especially after his rescue of me and my truck.
I decided to play it by ear and at least show the respect of spending some time with him.
The very first thing he did was pour the coffee and hand it to me with a smile.
I found out that this man was from Colorado, and that he had two sons who drove trucks for some company up there. After we talked for a few more minutes. He confessed to me that he didn't read English all that well. Spanish was his native language.
He pulled out a letter and asked me if I would read it to him. He indicated that a girl he had met at a dance in town a couple of weeks ago had sent it to him (what would the address be?) and he couldn't read it.
He asked if I would read it for him.
He had rescued me from the mountain. He had offered the hospitality of coffee in his trailer. It didn't seem like an outlandish request, but remember, this is a personal letter from a woman to a man.
I had no idea if there would be suggestive or other language in the letter, but I decided I better read it to him and then excuse myself - before he had me write a reply.
It was actually a sweet moment after all. The woman wrote to him about how she had enjoyed his company and hoped she would see him again. The awkwardness of the situation seemed to fade, but for anyone else who may have happened by, they would have seen a young man reading a love letter to an old man while they sat having coffee in a sheepherder's trailer. I can still see it in my mind.
The old man sat there patiently listening while I read the words of a woman that he couldn't read himself. It was so personal and so involved that I found myself detaching from the situation and ignoring the words. I vanished from the scene and it was just this old man and a woman who cared for each other communicating in the only way they could.
I finished the letter and stood abruptly. I was uncomfortable, but the old man was only grateful. We had helped each other out, and the debt was paid. I excused myself and thanked him for the help and the hospitality, and I never saw him again.
We spent perhaps 30 or 40 minutes together, but this memory is one that will always warm my heart. I think it is only when we are reaching out to one another to help in any way we can that we fully live. Even if it is just reading a love note to someone who can't read it. Or just pulling some dumb kid's truck back onto the road with your horse.
I wonder why it's the little things like this that make us feel truly a part of humanity. Good luck on your next dirt road.
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Sheepherder TranslationMonday Dec 06, 2010
Fighting Words
Monday Dec 06, 2010
Monday Dec 06, 2010
Fighting Words
If you check in the Bible, one of the first jobs for Adam was naming the animals. Mark Twain said it this way, “I think Adam was at his level best when he was naming the creatures.” Adam named the animals before Eve was created, and this is probably so he would not be corrected. I like that old sexist joke, “If there is man talking in the woods, and there is no woman around to correct him, is he still wrong?” Of course the answer from the ladies is “yes”.
I’m not sure when I became such an avid promoter of names. Names can tell us quite a bit about the status of this thing, or that thing, or this person or that society. We label with names, but we also use these handles to identify ourselves and make sense of our world. I am very passionate about knowing the names of other people, especially my students. I make them learn each other’s names. I test them on it. I do my best to always try to use their names when I see them, and as I practice more, I get better at identifying them.
So what’s the big deal? Someone once said the most beautiful sound in the universe is the sound of our own names. Think about it. It validates you as a person. It means someone else has acknowledged you exist. And they want to let you know they know you are here. What sweeter sound could there be?
Knowing someone else’s name shows you care. Not knowing their name is a kind of snub. We can overcome this by pretending we know their name. But it really isn’t the same as the real, live use of the name of another person.
One time I was glad I knew one of my student’s names. This particular student was a little disturbed, and in a public school, we accept all kinds of people. Some students are being treated by psychologists or other mental health professionals, but does that mean we don’t let them get an education? It’s another reason I like teaching in public schools. If the student isn’t a danger to others, all of us can learn some interesting things about each others. Sometimes we discover a student doesn’t belong in school, and they are taken from school.
While this person who shall remain nameless seemed to get along with his fellow students, I had no idea another student was harassing him. It had reached a point where he took matters into his own hands, and one day, pulled out a knife and threatened the other student.
I am sitting at the front of the room and see at the back of the room what I thought was an otherwise passive student pointing a knife at one of my other students. I have a couple of choices, but when something like this happens, you don’t always have a chance to weigh your options. I immediately shouted his name and demanded he bring the knife to me, at the front of the class.
Think about how stupid this is for a response. Instead of calmly walking to the back and handling the situation in a calm manner, I shouted. I also told him to walk the knife up to the front of the class, which would cause him to pass several other students on the way to the front. Luckily, he was only mad at the person standing four or five feet away from him, and he instantly obeyed, walking the knife to the front of the room and placing it in my hand. He didn’t stab anyone else, and he didn’t stab me, and we quietly walked down to the office together.
Sometimes things work out when we know the right names to shout. But the more important concept I’m trying to communicate here is that without names, we walk around saying, “Hey, you!” to other people. I don’t think he would have brought the knife to me if I had done that.
I have been in other student scuffles, and sometimes even knowing the name and the students doesn’t help. I’ve broken up girl fights where one of the combatants was a student of mine, and I knew her very well. The problem with girl fights is they tend to get so emotional they don’t know what they are doing, and she ended up hitting me a couple of times. She even bled on one of my best shirts.
The last girl fight I got hit in the face and didn’t even know it. Some of my other students who were passively watching told me I got hit, but I don’t remember it.
Maybe if had known her name, I could have asked her why she hit me.
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Fighting WordsSunday Dec 05, 2010
Road Runner
Sunday Dec 05, 2010
Sunday Dec 05, 2010
Road Runner
Most of our barriers in life are mental. We create them, feed them, keep them growing and prospering in our heads. I’ve run four marathons, though those who were watching the race will tell you I was jogging. And sometimes walking.
But I didn’t get to the end of my fourth marathon by standing up one day and saying “I will run a marathon tomorrow.” I thought I could barely run a mile when I was in junior high. I had been being excused to go down to the high school track and “train” for the high school team, which meant of course I went and played on the high jump pit. It didn’t prepare me to run, but it was fun while it lasted.
Unfortunately, I was signed up to run the mile. I had never run a mile, but there’s no way I’m going to admit this to the coach. So, like an idiot, I line up with everyone else and completely embarrass myself. The guy who was supposed to finish behind me was smarter than me; he quit. So when I ran across the finish line and someone shouted, “Hey, the race is over”; he was right. I collapsed on the side of the track and found out I was hyperventilating. It’s interesting to float 3 feet off the ground. I never ran another step until ten years later.
I was twenty-five and some friends from California were in town. They were taking a week-long “Fitness for Life” class and invited me to run in a 5K race with them on Saturday. My mind put up the obstruction about the junior high race, but I was now mature enough to tell myself, “I am not my past.”
I agreed to run with them, but needed to do some work in the five days before the race. I found out a 5K is 3.1 miles. I got in my car and measured how far I had to run away from my house to equal 3.1 miles by the time I returned. I also measured where the first half-mile was.
That night, I ran a mile.
I was surprised, since I had told myself for ten years I couldn’t run a mile. I don’t remember how long it took or how slowly I ran. I only remember I ran a mile.
I decided this must be a fluke, and rested for a day. Then I ran another mile, walked a mile, and ran another mile. Now I had run two miles in one day, and walked another. I even felt like I could do more, but I didn’t want to push it. I wanted to save something for Saturday.
I showed up for the race unsure if I could really run 3.1 miles without stopping. I decided to go very slowly, and hope for the best. With four miles of training under my belt, I started my first race. It was a beautiful summer day with a crispness to the early morning air. I tried to focus on the road, ignore what my mind was telling me – that I was being an idiot – and simply plodded along.
People passed me by, but I didn’t care. I passed a couple of people. I made it the first mile, then the second mile. For the first time in my life, I had run two miles in a row. There was no stopping me now.
I never stopped jogging. I even had a little energy left at the end of the race to sprint ahead of the sixty year old lady in front of me and beat her. But I couldn’t keep up with the ten year old that passed us both at the finish line.
It didn’t matter. I had done something I was positive I couldn’t do, and it began a chapter in my life I am still exploring. Every time I hear that nagging voice tell me, “You can’t”, I think back to that modest beginning race, and how after about ten years and many, many shorter races, I ran a marathon. Then another. And another. I ran my slowest marathon ever just two months ago.
We are all in our own private races, and most of the challenges we face are against ourselves, though we may tell ourselves we are competing against someone else. Think of it this way. When I ran my first marathon, I was in my thirties. Guess what age bracket most of the winners of marathons are in? That’s right. In the last Olympic marathon a 38 year old woman set a new world’s record.
So I will never take first place in a marathon. Does that stop me? Only if I tell myself I can’t. But the secret is, I know I can.
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Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Road RunnerMonday Nov 29, 2010
Walking into Walls
Monday Nov 29, 2010
Monday Nov 29, 2010
Walking into Walls
Even if you have lived in the same place for decades, my advice is not to walk around in the dark. I had been lulled into a false sense of security. I have walked across our front room for more than 20 years, but usually it is daylight, or at night the lights are on. There are three different lights in the front room, including the ceiling light, two table lamps hooked up to another wall switch, and the front entry light. Every time I needed illumination, it was there. The sun or the lamp, dependable and always available, and this was my downfall.
When you cross a space confidently for years, day after day, night after night, you begin to believe no light is necessary. Take a certain number of steps to the hall, at a certain angle, and walk directly back to the bedroom or den, or even the bathroom. After five decades, I was secure in the knowledge of my stride, the speed and orientation necessary to make it into the hall every time. My pride welled up and puffed my chest, and made me believe there was no new thing to be learned in the front room. So who needs light?
If I hadn't hurt myself so many times in the past with such alarming frequency and impunity, I probably would have excused myself this one lapse. But I know better than to try adventuring in the dark. Never mind that I had been lying on the couch reading for half-an-hour, and rose up confidently to go to bed. No matter that as I weaved from the couch to the light switches on the wall, I was a little wobbly. Lying down on a bed and getting up fast can be deadly when you're this old anyway, especially if you consider the medications I take, one of which can cause fainting if you rise too fast. It's a good medication with a small side effect, and I am pretty dizzy most times anyway. Light-headedness is a small price to pay for better health.
But on this particular night, and for no particular reason, I concluded that my long years of trekking across this same front room meant I no longer needed light. I confidently switched off the hall light, the small table lamps, and without another thought, the ceiling light. After all, it was only a few steps across the carpet to the hall, where I could switch on the hall light if I wanted. I swaggered across the darkness, fully expecting to run the gauntlet of the hall without trouble to a peaceful night's sleep. But somewhere between the beginning of my journey and the other side of the room, in the six or seven steps across the carpet, I veered seriously to the left. I was walking at a good clip, nonchalantly anticipating my entry into the hallway, when what to my wandering feet should appear but the far wall of the room.
My forehead met the wall first. I must lead with my forehead when I walk, and I must have been walking 3 or 4 miles per hour. The wall was not moving at all.
If you have ever head butted someone, you will be familiar with the very next sensation I experienced. If you have never had the thrill of banging your head forcefully against the forehead of another person, try walking into a wall. It was so similar, for several seconds I believed I had head butted my wife in the middle of the hall, and proceeded to apologize profusely. The wall stood stoically and took it. When I didn't find my sweetheart's collapsed form on the floor, I realized I had fallen victim to my own hubris. I reached up and felt the blood running into my eyes from the cleft in my skin. A one-inch gash split my forehead wide open.
Turning on the hall light and walking directly to the bathroom, I patted the blood from my forehead for the next hour as the wound eventually sealed. I thought about going to get 5 or 6 stitches at the emergency room, but that would involve driving myself to the hospital with one hand or waking up the wife and asking her to take me, and then I wouldn't have a badge of honor to wear for my stupidity.
There is a nice thin scar running vertically just above my left eyebrow. Sometimes a visual reminder is better than a lecture. I'm sure I won't be walking across the front room in the dark for at least another decade or two. But with how slowly I learn, it may happen again next week. Just remember, lights are our friends. They can help you from head butting the wall.
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