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Sunday, February 5, 2017

Are Crumb Rubber Playing Fields Causing Cancer in the Children And Adults Playing on These Surfaces?

My youngest step-son Poté announced fairly early last evening that he and his girlfriend were making curry for supper, and did I want some?

Well, I had not eaten my second meal of the day yet, so I responded that I was most certainly willing to partake.

I commenced my evening of T.V. viewing via our Android TV Box just after 8:00 p.m., and held off breaking into one of the cans of strong (8% alcohol) beer that I planned on enjoying that evening. I felt that I should wait until I had eaten.

Poté actually dished me up a plate of food and brought it to me. And it was delicious ─ I was definitely hungry by then, for it was nearing 9:00 p.m. He said to help myself to more if I wanted because there was lots left.

Well, I did not quite feel satisfied with the quantity given to me, so when I was done I sought more. And this time, I dramatically spiced it up with dried and ground red hot chili peppers.

Well, it was a challenge to finish what I had taken ─ heck, I could have stopped before I was half-done the plate. Something felt most amiss internally ─ I did not feel at all well.

It took some long while to finally finish the last of what I had on my plate, and throughout I felt physically uneasy. I even wondered if perhaps I was on the approach of a heart-attack or something.

The beer was not very enjoyable because of how unwell I felt. And feeling overfull, it did not go down all that easily. So as a result of the late and long-lasting supper, and the length of time it took me to finish my three cans of beer, I was up a little later than planned.

It was something after midnight before I got to bed ─ the actual time is now lost to me. I was still feeling quite off, but I got to sleep as I normally would have.

At my first break in sleep overnight ─ roughly halfway through my stay in bed ─ I rose to use the bathroom and drink some water. Oddly, I was still feeling just as poorly as I had been, but I was comfortable enough once back in bed.

I think it may have been just after 7:30 a.m. when I checked the time this morning and decided to rise to get to work on the post I started on Friday at my Latin Impressions website. My youngest step-son Poté was up ─ he must have needed to take his girlfriend away for her early start at one of her two part-time restaurant jobs.

But I was feeling entirely normal ─ there was no trace of the previous evening's discomfort. And I have no idea what exactly was wrong with me. Not once did I suffer indigestion, so that was never a symptom of having been subjected to a system-disrupting barrage of excessive red hot chili peppers ─ if that was the culprit behind what had affected me.

It was almost as if I was coming into a state of shock. But would not stomach distress by way of heartburn have been involved if a threatening level of excess spicing was the case? There was not a race of that.

It is a mystery. And note that I can handle spicy food ─ I prefer my Thai wife's spicy fare.

Poté has yet to bother himself and get out to buy a lock key extractor to hopefully extract the stem of the key he busted off in the lock to the backyard shed door Friday evening.

Until we get this remedied, I unable to exercise out there ─ it has a couple of features allowing me to do some exercises that I cannot do in the house. But neither can we access shovels to try and deal with the foot of snow that has fallen since Friday morning.

I had a $159.14 expenses reconciliation cheque from my younger brother Mark to deposit, and I also wanted to get out to the government liquor store at 108th Avenue & King George Boulevard here in Surrey. It's a round-trip hike of about four miles.

Things conspired to delay me ─ including a nap after I had worked upon that Lawless Spirit post and then had some breakfast. I was down for maybe an hour midday for that nap, and came out of it right after a rather peculiar dream I now do not remember.

But the dream was one of those that had elements that when I first woke up from the nap, I initially believed that it was reality. I also thought that I was waking up from a night's sleep and not a nap, and that today was maybe a weekday.

It was most unusual.

I actually began to wonder if maybe I would not be getting out for that rather arduous errand. However, there was no getting beyond the fact that I had gotten no exercise today, and the feat of achieving this endeavour would compensate adequately.

And so, as much as I hate going anywhere so late in the day, by 3:49 p.m. i was already on my way.

First I went to the Coast Capital Savings ATM over near the King George SkyTrain Station. That took care of maybe the first mile of my journey.

As I proceeded along the King George towards 108th Avenue, I stopped to take a couple of shots of Surrey Place (Central City) from my vantage on the opposite side of the King George:



And there is nothing really more to say. I bought the flat of two dozen cans of strong beer, and managed to struggle them home. I was back by 5:34 p.m., I believe. The trip had taken about 15 minutes longer than it normally would have ─ actually, not bad, considering conditions.

Poté had been home at his computer when I had left home, but he was gone ─ and the front door was unlocked ─ when I was back here again.

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I suppose that there are many types of artificial turf ─ the stuff used on various playing fields and even playgrounds.

But could the surfaces using crumb rubber actually be causing cancer in people who use those fields and playgrounds? Naturally, the companies behind their production declare that it's nonsense. They even declare that studies have proven that there is no such danger.

But who were the researchers, if there have indeed been studies? That is...who was paying them? Researchers are extremely adept at finding the results that their bosses want them to find, and nothing else.

Note these two articles if you have kids or maybe even grandchildren:

CNN.com

HSIonline.com

The second article is primarily based upon the first article, but it does a good job of drawing one's attention to key details a reader might otherwise not take note of in hurrying through that longer report.

I have not set foot onto the artificial surface of a playing field or playground in many years, so I cannot even say that I have ever noticed a crumb rubber surface.

But if you have young people you care about, maybe you have noticed such surfaces.

Don't let vested interests sway you to ignore the potential dangers these surfaces do seem to pose.

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Because of how late everything concerning today's blog has been, I am just going to close off now with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting my most humble abode in a house located on Ninth Street, and maybe a house or two up from Third Avenue.

I had an appointment to keep with my social worker, Russ Jeffs. I had been working a day per week as a truck swamper for a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is now called Fraserside Community Services Society.

The employment was through some sort of initiatives or incentive programme that was in place between S.A.N.E. and social services. Each month, I was paid the going social assistance rate for a Single person, plus maybe an extra $50 for the truck swamping.

But the previous week, I had met with Russ and was told that my contract with S.A.N.E. was not going to be renewed. And so that Friday was to have been my last ─ despite everyone at S.A.N.E. wanting me there.

Anyway, I had actually gone to bed the evening before this entry at 7:15 p.m.
THURSDAY, February 5, 1976

I had some difficulty falling asleep last night, and didn't get up till nearly 5:30 a.m.

That sole of mine is still serious enough.

I decided this morning I haven't been tithing my proper share, so I'm going to mail in $16 that I question my ability to afford.

I saw Mr. Jeffs (I spoke to Ken awhile in the waiting room); all he discussed was my return to S.A.N.E. for $50 monthly providing I could talk Verna into agreeing to help out his group in return; he also said I could possibly swamp for him if they get a truck as is hoped.

I don't want to do swamping for anyone, nor rub shoulders with either lot.

I felt pretty dejected coming home; I bought 3 comics.

It's another sunny, cold day, but my foot rules me.

I typed Terri a letter.

It's so cold here. I am going to retire at 8:00 p.m. rather than after The Waltons, an hour later. I napped very poorly at noon (11:30 a.m. - 12:45 p.m.).
The arch of a foot was almost cripplingly sore, for some reason.

I liked Russ Jeffs ─ he was a very affable elderly Englishman with greying, ruddy hair. He founded something called the Sasha Club, although I am unsure of the precise spelling now. I had first thought that it was called the ShaSha Club or similar, but a friend corrected me.

The club was a place for New Westminster's troubled and cast-off youth to hang out and perhaps get guidance. Anytime Russ Jeffs pressed me to attend, I would make a token appearance, and then not show up thereafter, so I never quite understood just what it was all about.

In reading here that he was looking to get a truck for them and taking me on as a swamper is actually news to me ─ I don't remember that there was ever such a potential opportunity.

I think I was uncomfortable about working for them or for S.A.N.E. any longer because I wanted more from life. Also, some of the people I found myself working with as a swamper were mentally challenged ─ they would get placed on truck-detail on occasion as my co-swampers. I expect that it was a community outreach sort of thing, but it would sometimes make me feel very uncomfortable because I was concerned that people we might be making pick-ups from or deliveries to would just assume that I was also 'a mental case.'

Verna (Williams?) seemed to manage S.A.N.E. In reading that Russ wanted me to approach her about helping his people...I can't really see how. What would I have said to her?

I honestly remember none of this. Had I not had a journal and written this down, that part of my history would be lost. I do not even remember how nor when my time with S.A.N.E. truly ended ─ or maybe it already truly had because I was not willing to beseech Verna for anything in order to keep working?

The next day would have been my day to work at S.A.N.E., but it doesn't sound like I was set up to go there and put in a day. I will have to await tomorrow's journal entry to see ─ I do not read ahead because I find some of these surprises enlightening and even intriguing.

I think that the "Ken" I spoke with in the social services waiting room was a young fellow that I had been on a two-month, full-time course with in November and December 1974 ─ the course was Basic Job Readiness Training (BJRT).

The letter I typed up was to an American pen-pal, Terri Martin.
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