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Saturday, December 24, 2016

Why Americans' Lifespans May Be Declining │ Tame Indigestion with Three Potent Plants │ Might Sweet Potatoes Regulate Appetite and Initiate Weight Loss?

'Twas a little past 11:30 p.m. before I was to bed last night ─ my younger brother Mark was passed out in his chair in the living room.

Earlier, I overheard him talking to my youngest step-son Pote and Pote's girlfriend in the kitchen, and it would seem that she is going to be here Christmas Day.  Mark suggested she could lend a hand to his girlfriend Bev in the preparation of the Christmas dinner.

Mark helps Bev, anyway.

We don't know if oldest step-son Tho will be present; and my wife Jack definitely will not be.  She said in a phone-call to me yesterday that she would probably be around from Vancouver on Monday.

I continue to suffer clogging nasal passageways during the latter few hours of my night, impacting my ability to freely breathe and, of course, sleep.

I could have risen for the day at 6:00 a.m., but I did not feel like it.  I probably got up shortly after 7:00 a.m.

Pote was up, and alone ─ his girlfriend must have had to work.  He was to take off in his older brother Tho's car late in the morning, so perhaps he had to work, too.  Tho must have spent the night at his girlfriend's home.

The sky looked quite clear early this morning, so it must have gotten below freezing overnight.

I spent the better part of the morning working on the edit of an old post at one of my six hosted websites ─ I commenced the edit on Thursday, and am not even half-finished it as yet.

Mark headed away for the afternoon around 2:00 p.m.  He said that he would probably be home this evening ─ he normally spends Saturday nights at the home of his girlfriend Bev.

But if he does come home, does that mean that Bev will be with him, or will she prefer to stay at her own place tonight and  have him come and pick her up tomorrow?

This was what took place last year, but she was here the two Christmas Eves before that.

I have just finished speaking to my eldest step-son Tho around 2:50 p.m. ─  he phoned me as I was typing here.  Evidently he is in a liquor store, and he was seeking information on what kind of booze to get Mark, Bev, and I.

Bev likes white wine, and Mark prefers Scotch.  I have no liquor preference, although I tend to buy dark rum because it's probably the harshest type of booze to drink straight ─ which is how drink my liquor here at home.

I don't even use ice. 

All Tho is getting from me is a $25 lottery gift pack, so I hope he at least wins that much from it.

I see that I was mistaken about Pote having gone to work ─ he and his girlfriend arrived home about 3:10 p.m.

Before I leave this account of my day, I want to post this photo of my wife Jack:

My wife Jack on a very sunny September 8 (2016) afternoon.

She is standing at the back left corner of our home ─ I took the photo while standing at the side of the house.
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In two very recent posts, I included discussion of the U.S. longevity statistics that found for the first time since 1993, the life expectancy of Americans dipped downward.

This is one prime article about it:

NPR.org

Jack Harrison has an opinion on one major reason why this may be happening:

JacksDailyDose.com

I located a report on the cholesterol study he was referring to:

Livescience.com

Dr. Joseph Mercola also tackled just why it is that Americans' lifespans have suddenly started shortening:

Mercola.com

There is no question that it is impossible to live a long and healthy life when one's diet is that of processed food that is probably rife with hidden GMO ingredients and untold non-food chemicals, and all the while blindly ingesting sundry medications.  

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Do you suffer from burning indigestion very often?

I used to get prolonged bouts in my 20s, 30s, and maybe even my 40s; but once I started eating sensibly-sized meals, the condition waned.

The only time I have ever experienced an onset in recent years has been when I have overindulged in liquor ─ killing a 40-ounce bottle of booze in less than 24 hours can do harsh things to the stomach lining.

There are some unspeakable dangerous products on the market to treat heartburn ─ it is always a mystery to me why people take them instead of researching other remedies.

Dr. Marc Micozzi offers three potential solutions that are not only natural, but healthy:

DrMicozzi.com

I am not familiar with his third plant, but Wikipedia has quite a lot on it in its article Rooibos.  It doesn't exactly discuss health benefits, however.

If by chance you wouldn't mind learning more about the plant's value, try these websites:

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Components of sweet potatoes may assist in appetite regulation, and also inhibit weight gain.

A study was done using a very specialized extraction process to obtain sweet potato peptides ─ these peptides were prepared by enzyme digestion of sweet potato protein from starch wastewater.

It certainly doesn't sound like something we could be doing in the kitchen.

Mice were the trial subjects, and were fed this peculiar sweet potato derivative for four weeks.

Here are three reports on the study and its results, if you are curious:

Elsevier.com

ModernFarmer.com

MedicalNewsToday.com

I may be wrong, but my impression concerning that last reference was that its author was thinking about yams, and not sweet potatoes.  

"Creamy and sweet?"  Even the photo heading the report looked to me like sliced cooked yams.

It might'nt hurt to try and add more sweet potatoes to our diets, especially if they may have an effect on reducing visceral fat.  I have seen some exceptionally dark, purplish sweet potatoes I wouldn't mind giving a try.

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My eldest step-son Tho came home in the afternoon while it was still very much daylight out there, and delivered the three bottles of drink.  I'll keep them aside until tomorrow.

Tho said he would be spending this evening with his girlfriend, staying at her home overnight and having Christmas there, too.

He wasted no time taking off again upon making his delivery.

Taped to the bag containing the three bottles is a note declaring:  "Merry Christmas from Tho and Poté."

I refer to Pote without the accented 'é' because he only started using that particular letter a few years after coming to Canada in September 2008.

He obviously learned at school over here ─ or a teacher or someone else showed him ─ that the accented letter more precisely indicates the pronunciation of his nickname (Po-tay).

I may one day start using the accented letter, but I have been resisting because it is a Thai nickname ─ not Spanish.

As for Pote and his girlfriend, they did not hang around too long, either.  Pote told me that he was going to spend the night at her home with her family, but they would be back tomorrow.

They left here around 4:30 p.m.

So if Mark (with or without Bev) does not come home this evening, I will be spending Christmas Eve all alone.

I am fine with that ─ in fact, I think I would prefer to remain alone if Mark is just going to show up by himself plastered.  

I have a journal entry from 41 years ago to post now ─ I am curious how my Christmas Eve in 1975 fared.

Back then, I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.  

The house I was renting the unit in was located on Ninth Street, one or two houses up from Third Avenue.

I was expected to go to my father Hector's apartment at 6038 Imperial Street in Burnaby and have a turkey dinner with him and his girlfriend Maria Fadden.

However, I had engaged in a big blow-up at her four days earlier, and had stormed off declaring that I was never coming back.

My father had left me a note on December 23 asking that I come as previously planned ─ they would be expecting me.

Note: I was a walker, so I would hike to their apartment, and return to my room later on in the same fashion. 

I had gone to bed the evening prior at 8:30 p.m.
WEDNESDAY, December 24, 1975

I suppose I was up before 4:30 a.m., but could have gotten up a little before 2:30 a.m., I guess; but there is not too much of a rush needed this morning, so I slept further; I hear it raining.

I didn't mention yesterday that in addition to my slightly crippled left foot, my right hand is afflicted with what may be a painfully pinched  nerve deep in the mid-palm region.

I felt tired, so later this morning I lied down a while; it was exquisite, though I didn't quite fall asleep.

Well, I am certainly adept at causing myself anguish.

I left about 10:00 a.m. for dad's, taking with me the fancy loaf (I found a penny on the way); I arrived at the building with a foot of such soreness (and I wore soft shoes) that I am almost certain something is broken or dislocated.

I listened at their door, but couldn't be sure they were about.  There was no conversation.

For some while I did this, then knocked.

They were abed, and from the sound of their voices, not too sober.

Dad let me in, wearing absolutely nothing about his loins; Marie was out of sight.

There was booze, and stuff scattered on the floor.

I sat at the table with dad.

He said he had given Marie a very rough time in return for the treatment I received.

As she rustled about out of sight, she said angrily that she thought he said I wasn't to come till 5:00 p.m. (the turkey was to be ready at 4:00 p.m.).

A bit later she mumbled something, ending with "both of you"; it wasn't nicely put, whatever it was.

And when she ─ all this while still out of sight ─ said we were both retarded, I just put my toque on (to dad's alarm), put the loaf on the table and picked up my vade mecum, then stood up amid dad's protestations and pleading, and left, he asking, "Don't do this to your dad."

Being unattired, all he could do was lock the door after I replied, "No, it's too miserable here."

I thought I could hear him confronting Marie as I walked down the hall.  

It cut me quite deep.  Definitely, just the two of them are going to be facing the turkey with their booze-diminished appetites; Marie's Cindy & Carl have already visited.

Perhaps the situation was my fault for coming so early.

My foot, extremely painful on occasion during my trek home, served a bit to take the focus of some of the mental hurt I felt.  I am quite sure something is seriously amiss with it.  I hope all is well in 9 days when I next return to S.A.N.E.

I found a second penny while coming home through Moody Park.

I had to leave dad's; I am forever resolved to leave the presence of arguers, no matter how painful it is to me.  It is best.

Shortly after 1:00 p.m. Mark knocked.  Cathy & kids were in the car.  

He came to see if I wanted to spend the night at their place, then go with them to mom's Christmas dinner.

I said no, blaming today's experiences on an unsettled, antisocial mood.   

Tonight they are going to go to Nell's a while, then to a Mass Cathy talked him into.

I lied down perhaps 2:00 p.m. and enjoyed a profound slumber; I arose about 3:55 p.m.

I got tomorrow's weight/bullworker routine out of my hair.

And now it's about 5 minutes short of 5:00 p.m.; and I can not remove the image of dad sitting at home clinging to the hope that I may yet return and make his Christmas Eve.  But in vain.

Well, as I was typing Ron part of a letter, shortly after 6:00 p.m., Mark & Cathy came here in an effort to get me to go with them to Nell's and then Mass; they tried quite hard, but I refused.

Mark said dad phoned and asked them if they'd care to come to supper; they agreed to visit him Boxing Day, and I guess they'll take me as well.

They left good-naturedly enough.  

It was nice of them.

I shall try to bed at 8:30 p.m.
I never expected that.  It hurt to read about it.

I never knew what to expect anytime I went to visit my father and Maria.  They had a bad alcohol problem.  It was behind the blow-up I had with her when her brain was addled on lots and lots of beer.

I do not read ahead into my journal ─ each of these entries is essentially brand new to me because I have forgotten so much after these many, many years.

Maria's niece Cindy and Cindy's husband had visited a previous time, so they were not coming to visit this day.  I had been told that they would be present for the Christmas Eve dinner.

My father was a lonely man ─ I am certain that was why he was with Maria, mainly.  But she was lonely, too.

My foot was sore because of some running I did in boots, all the way from what was then the Biltmore Hotel to my father's apartment building four days earlier.  It was in the Biltmore beer parlour that I had that mix-up with Maria.  I had stormed out with my poor father desperately calling after me and trying to catch up.

I ran to their apartment ─ I had a key ─ and left a note declaring I was not coming for Christmas Eve, nor in fact ever again.  And I left the key on the note.

It was an emotional trip back to my lonely room ─ it cut deep to hurt my sorry father.

Anyway, I was hoping my foot would heal up by the time I had to return to work at a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends).  It is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society ─ I worked there just one day a week as a swamper on their blue pick-up truck.

My younger brother Mark and his girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther were my visitors later that Christmas Eve.  It was to my maternal Aunt Nell Halverson's home off in Surrey that they wanted to take me ─ there would have been a major carousal going on there with her huge household!

I was typing a letter to Ron Bain ─ an American pen-pal ─ when Mark and Jeanette paid me the second visit.

It is interesting that I seemed willing to go with them to see my father on Boxing Day.  I expect that I felt that there would be less likelihood of friction with Maria.

I sure miss my father.  He died 10 days after his 63rd birthday in early 1983 ─ a heart attack in the Kingsate Mall in Vancouver's Mount Pleasant area. 

I am over four years older than he ever got to be.
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