Thanks Again Washington County

Thanks Again Washington County

By John R. Greenwood

Foxfield Farm - Granville, NY

I owe a lot to Washington County NY. It has come to my rescue time and time again. It has been a tough summer for me. There has been some family losses and more work than play, thus making it more difficult to recuperate. But, as it has in the past, the green pastures and farm scenes of Washington County have revived my spirit and brought me back peace of mind. The resuscitation began with the 2016 Washington County Fair. I didn't get to enjoy the rides, tractor pulls, or the displays, but that’s okay. It was my visit at 3:30am to pick up milk that brought my pulse rate and my outlook back on track. Passing by the darkened rides and curtained midway games was therapeutic. Picturing the change that would take place in the hours ahead brought a smile to my face. As I pulled in the back entrance to the waving flashlight beam of a man that had probably manned that same post for years, I waved back in a semi-salute of mutual appreciation for being early morning sentinels at this yearly late summer event. As I backed in to the milking barn to prepare the milk tank for pickup I scanned the dimly lit barns looking for an early riser. The cows stirred quietly, mooing a welcoming good morning to me. I saw the familiar sign of Lincoln Hill Farm right next door. The same farm where a tragic farm accident was overcome by the miracle of prayer and the farmer strong will of Lenny Austin. Lenny who just months earlier teetered at heavens gate refused the invitation and decided to stick around for what we all hope will be decades more county fairs. The strength of Lenny, his family, and the close knit network of friends and neighbors was an inspiration for any one with a ticking heart this summer. I can’t express how deeply I was affected watching the farming community rally around one man and his family. It was uplifting and the high point of the summer of 2016. My admiration for farmers and the communities where they reside has always been of the highest regard, but in this, my 61st year, it quadrupled. 

Heide Merecki and Sara Kelly
at Lovejoy Hall on the Hubbard Hall Campus 

Today I enjoyed another spirit quenching experience in the town of Cambridge NY. The Cambridge Valley Fine Art Tour was in its second day and there was one artist in particular that I had been wanting to meet. Matt Chinian was one of the seven artists in town who were displaying and selling their work all within the city limits. I apologize for not getting to visit all seven artists but heat and time took a toll and my wife and I had to cut our tour short. Before meeting Matt we did get to meet artists Heide Merecki and Sara Kelly in the Lovejoy Building on the Hubbard Hall Campus. Their work was wonderful as were their welcoming personalities. It was like reacquainting with old friends. Two more examples of Washington County hospitality that has been so supportive of my own work. 

Artist Matt Chinian 

We left these two lovely artists and headed out to meet Matt Chinian. Matt’s gallery is located next to his home. It’s a beautiful piece of property right on Main St. I’d been by it dozens of times on my way to Bedlam Farm, Battenkill Books, and Hubbard Hall. I knew where it was because I’d seen the sign out front. I never would have stopped by unannounced or without an invitation. The tour was the perfect opportunity to introduce myself. I’d become interested in Matt’s work because not only did his work resemble my favorite artist Jack Lewis, much of it was done along the banks of the Hudson River. For over a year I’ve wanted to show Matt, Jack’s work. I knew in my heart he would be as drawn to the painting and writings of Mr. Lewis as I was. I pulled into Matt’s back yard and parked the car. My wife was not feeling well so she relaxed quietly while I headed into the gallery to introduce myself. Matt came out of the gallery door as I approached. I instinctively said, “Hi Matt, I’m John Greenwood, aka “Raining Iguanas” from the blog and Facebook.” Although we hadn’t met before, it seemed like we had. I was the only visitor at the time so I took full advantage of it by blasting Matt with both barrels. I couldn't  explain why I was so interested in his work fast enough. Matt is a quiet and mild mannered man. I was rattling on like a four year-old on Red Bull. The poor guy didn’t know what hit him. He was gracious and genuinely interested in my Jack Lewis, Hudson River connection. This was better than any ride at the fair. It was better than any ride at Disney for me. “I just happen to have a copy of,  “The Hudson River” in the car Matt,” I interjected. He nodded and with two strokes of a paint brush I had it spread out on a table in Matt’s gallery looking for a similar painting in Matt’s collection. It didn’t take long to locate one. As I gently flipped the boxes of prints one scene stopped me in my tracks. It was a painting of the Rip Van Winkle Bridge and the Hudson River done from the banks below the Olana Historical Site. It was almost an identical match to Jack’s painting in the Hudson River book done from the same location. There were over fifty years between the two paintings and I was enjoying them both equally. I had to have Matt’s rendition. I said, “I’ll take it!” Before we could go any further more visitor’s showed up cutting our talk short. I didn’t want Matt to miss an opportunity to make another sale so I stepped back. Later we made a commitment to get together at another time so we could talk in more detail about his work and the painting I wanted. It was like Christmas morning with a room full of presents you have to wait to open. Our meeting was much too short but it had enough content to pump me up for another week or two. I couldn’t wait to get home to write about it. That’s a bonus! 

So, tomorrow morning when I return to the Washington County Fair Grounds to pick up the last milking I will scan the empty barns and the disassembled rides. I will replay my Sunday art tour. I will make a list of thank you’s to all the great people from the area who have decorated my life over the last few years. Jon Katz and Hubbard Hall got the ball rolling and it looks like it has no signs of stopping anytime soon. 

A sign found in Matt Chinian's Gallery
Good advice I'd say

A "Clem" Sign Surfaces

A “Clem” Sign Surfaces
By John R. Greenwood

This short email recently arrived from the West Village in NYC: 

Greetings!

I recently picked up a very cool wooden sign that has a “Clem” Signs signature on both sides. After trying to find some history online, I saw your post. Can you give me some info on “Clem”? 

Jeff DeCanio

General Manager 

The Happiest Hour and Slowly Shirley 

________________

Looks like Christmas may have arrived early for this blogger. I was excited beyond words. A Walter Clements original found it’s way to the Big Apple and I was about to find out how. I sent back a response within minutes. I assured Mr. DeCanio that I could indeed provide some history and a few stories about “Clem” to boot. The only thing I asked for in return was to know how he acquired it and would he send me a photo. I gave him a brief history of myself and how I became so interested in an old Saratoga sign painter named Walter Clements aka “Clem” Signs. I wanted desperately to speak with Mr. DeCanio so I included my phone number in my response. I was hoping he would be equally excited to speak with me about Clem. A couple days passed and I began to worry. Did I overdue my response and scare him off? Maybe he wasn't that interested after all. 

Two days later my wish came true, along with a response from Jeff DeCanio he sent a photo of each side of Clem’s “Cocktail Lounge” sign. There was no doubt about the authenticity, it was clearly a “Clem” sign and wow, what a beauty it was! I knew it had to be from Saratoga Springs. Then I remembered from some of my other posts that Clem had done a lot of work at the Adelphi. He’d painted the A’s on the front doors and made other signs there. I delivered milk to the Adelphi through the 1980’s and that sign seemed familiar. The patina matched the dark decor of the hotel too. The hotel was also being renovated presently, so it made sense that some pieces and parts were being scattered about the country.

The Adelphi Hotel
The four Clem A's

Here’s my response to Jeff after seeing the photos he’d sent:

Wow, Christmas in August! I can't tell you how excited I was to see that sign. It's a "Clem" Sign for certain and I'm pretty sure I will be able to confirm where it came from. I'm writing you from my car as I wait for my wife to get out of work. I will write again later when I have more time. I wanted to thank you right away. This was a real gift to see this. You can call me at your convenience. I'm in the same boat. It's August in Saratoga and crazy here too. May I ask where you found the sign? Were there any items from the Adelphi Hotel where you found this?

Signed,

Smiling in Saratoga

__________________________

I soon found out that my instincts were spot on. The next day at work my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar but it was from New York, New York. It had to be my new “Clem” contact from the West Village. I bolted for the conference room for some quiet and privacy. 

“Hello” 

“Hello, is this John Greenwood? This is Jeff DeCanio, I’m the guy with the Clem sign.”

An instant friendship was born. 

This is the type of joy life should consist of. Those simple moments of connection and discovery that we make in our normal everyday lives. You don’t need phone app’s or expensive vacations to savor life, you need people and a purpose. Whether it’s collecting antiques or taking pictures, painting a landscape, or writing stories about trips to the store it’s all about attitude and spirit. For me, receiving that phone call from NYC was food for the soul. Documenting these little vignettes of time, in my mind, is what fuels this journey that began in 1955. That’s a lot of vignettes and a lot of living. There’s plenty of joy and happiness to harvest out of that field. 

After brief introductions we got down to Clem and the sign. It turns out that Jeff was on a vacation upstate when he wandered in to an antique store in Hudson, NY called “Ida’s Eye.” It was there he discovered the “Cocktail Lounge” sign. He said it fit the vibe of the restaurant so well he just had to have it. He said he was told the sign came from the Adelphi Hotel. I told him one of the last things Clem painted around Saratoga was the side of my Price’s Dairy milk truck. That was in the mid 80’s and Clem was in his seventies at the time. 

Notice Clem's hand-painted hat 
Photo Courtesy of Valerie Adinolphi 

I remember the day he painted the “Price’s Dairy” clearly. Clem didn’t drive so a local plumber named Ron “Pooch” Coleman drove Clem out to the where I had the truck. He set up two step ladders with a simple scaffolding system. He carefully measured out the letters in a curved manner just as I’d asked him to do. He had a wide array of stencils and when I saw the calligraphic type he had I knew it would look great in forest-green on my crisp white truck. I think he was hoping for a much more straight forward type with no curves but he obliged and got right to work sketching the letters out in pencil as I headed off to make my deliveries in another truck. I remember being excited to see the end result later that day. It wasn’t the design or the look that I felt so satisfied with, it was the fact that it was hand-made advertising done the old-school way. Now they print out a graphic on a machine and wrap entire trucks in sticky vinyl. Yes, some are vivid and colorful, but my truck was an original painting, by the original artist. It is my opinion that deep inside the sign painter Walter Clements lay a true artist who would have given anything to have been a renowned painter of landscapes or portraits. He painted signs to eat and stay warm. Every time I looked at that green Price’s Dairy on the side of my truck I thought of Clem and the effort he put into it. I knew he was exhausted when he finished the truck. There was a sense of relief and of pride. Like me, I think he was pleased that I didn’t just settle for simple block letters in a straight line. I think he charged me $100 per side. Where can you buy an original painting for that price? The experience still brings a smile to my face and is probably the main reason I’ve become so interested in preserving “Clem’s” legacy as a Saratoga sign painter. Jeff DeCanio just upped that legacy ten-fold by contacting me with a simple email request. 

The "Clem" Signs signature is at the tip of the "Y" in Price's Dairy

The truck is long gone. The memory is not. I will continue my “Clem” Signs searches. I am grateful to Jeff DeCanio for sending me his email and the photographs. I also want to thank Valerie Adinolphi for sharing her photo’s and memories of Clem with me. I know she is as sentimental as I am of Clem’s work and memory. I also want to thank childhood friend Rhea Gordon Demory and Saratoga artist Robert Wheaton, two other Saratoga originals who have provided me with photos and memories of Clem’s work. It’s nice people like this that make up this blog and fuel this writer. 

If any of you happens across another “Clem” Sign or story, I would be thrilled to hear from you. 

You can contact me at: jgreenwood@rainingiguanas.com

   Jeff DeCanio is the General Manager of a bar and restaurant in the West Village in NYC. The bar is aptly named, The “Happiest Hour,” and the restaurant, “Slowly Shirley.” In a later phone conversation when I inquired about the origin of Slowly Shirley, Jeff eluded that the focus of the restaurant was the wide variety of interesting cocktails—the food although as enjoyable and unique, might arrive slowly but surely. With a blog named Raining Iguanas I could relate to the hidden tone. If you're ever in the Big Apple look up Jeff and his establishment and say hello. Tell him a Raining Iguana sent you. 

Walter "Clem" Clements
Photo Courtesy of Valerie Adinolphi 

Wondering Cow

Wondering Cow

By John R. Greenwood

Where are all the kids, wondered Miss Blossom? The barn and fields used to be brimming with rosy-cheeked girls and scabby-kneed boys during the summer. Did an alien spaceship drop down and slurp them up like August lemonade, whisking them off to a distant star? I miss the afternoon treats of alfalfa and clover dropping through the ceiling cracks as energy packed ten year-olds constructed castle-size forts in the hay-mow above. Did the never-ending kid-laughter and tall tales that once filled every inch of the farm, now disappear to some unknown land? I miss watching the boys in their white t-shirts and cut-off jeans wading in the creek chasing giggling girls with croaking bullfrogs and Garter snakes. Every hot August day used to be filled with the clickety clack of hay bailers and chugging tractors. Wagons heaped with sun-burned backs and baseball caps are now just a distant memory. All I see now is yellow jellyrolls of hay scattered across the country side with no one in sight. 

What’s happened Miss Blossom wondered? 

Is it something I said? 

Did I smell too bad? 

Doesn’t anyone enjoy the cool, refreshing nourishment of my milk anymore? 

Do sugar and caffeine packed drinks with names like Vein Splitter and Eye Popper really taste better than an ice cold glass of liquid nature? 

It saddens me. 

Bring my kids back! 

I want more running, jumping and smiling faces around me.The simple times we made so complex vanished into thin air when no one was looking. Too many precautions have turned my barn inside out Miss Blossom lamented. 

Maybe one day the children will return from Mars, or Venus, or wherever they've gone. 

For now I will simply replay the scene, over, and over, and over again…

My Turn

My Turn 

By John R. Greenwood

I’ve heard enough. 

Now it’s my turn.

I try to remain neutral to a fault when it comes politics and religion. You go your way, I’ll go mine. This time I felt I must speak my piece, get it off my chest and wait for election day. 

I’m a simple man who lives between Right and Left worlds. My heart lives in the middle Left somewhere between common sense and compassionate human. I try to do more listening than talking or judging.

I’ve walked a lot of miles and I try to know what its like to do it in someone else’s shoes. They don’t often fit perfectly. There’s always more to the story. 

I have an American flag on my front porch, not as a reminder of how great America was but as a sign of how great I believe America is. My America is and always has been great. I don’t want to look back, I want to live forward. I’m nostalgic about the past but I’m more interested in enjoying what’s left of today and looking forward to what I’ll do tomorrow. 

I’ve watched and listened to as many viewpoints and opinions as I possibly can over the last several months and I’m in the same place I was in the beginning; I’m tired of being bullied and frightened in to thinking the sky is falling. I watched the horror movie that was the RNC until I couldn’t handle any more trembling. This past week I watched the DNC and I finally felt safe enough to crawl out from under the bed. 

There are no perfect scenarios or options in this life. You make the best decisions based on the best information you can assemble. There is one thing I am 100% sure of; I want to finish up this life of mine on a positive and optimistic note. After listening to Michelle, Bill, Barrack, and Khizer Khan, I knew I had to put something down on paper. I had to voice my opinion. I had to take a stand against fear. 

If you didn’t listen to both sides while idling in neutral this piece won’t change your mind. It’s not intended to anyway. If your biggest fear in life is more stringent gun control, you’ve already made up your mind. If the world gets so bad I need to keep my grandfather’s Winchester on my lap at night I don’t want to stick around anyway. 

Immigrants and minorities only have one choice and for those who are just looking for some peace and quiet, its clear that the optimistic bus is the one you want to get on. The seats might be a little torn, and the windows might need a little Windex, but from where I sit and from what I’ve heard this is the mode of travel I want to take.

Like it or not there is no pause or rewind button on this election. From what I’ve absorbed over the last few months I’ve determined that my odds of a better world are now, and have been in the hands of a woman. There have been two in particular who have looked out for me very well over the last six decades. One brought me into the world and the other will be holding my hand when I leave. I’m hoping there’s one more who’ll continue to look out for my best interest. 

This post is not meant to stir debate or solicit commentary. You can find plenty of that in tons of other places. My goal was to state my position so I can stop holding it in. I’ve got plenty of other things I’d like to talk about other than politics. 

I have an American Dream to continue living. It’s alive and doing well, but you have to open your eyes and your mind to be able to see it as clearly as I do. I guess it helps when you have two brand spanking new lens implants that replaced the cataracts, that my wonderful health care professionals identified and my wife’s health insurance plan paid for. 

Do you SEE what I’m saying? 

I hope so. 

Signed,

An American Dreamer

Sleep Retardant

Sleep Retardant

By John R. Greenwood

 It’s 4:45am and I just returned from my physician prescribed sleep study.

Warning: I’m not happy. 

First of all let me say, this is not one of those, grumpy-old-man-sour-grapes-mad-at-the-world rants, it’s a simple observation inflamed by the fact that I’m tired and I haven’t had anything inspire me to start typing in quite awhile. 

That changed this morning. 

As a professional truck driver and transportation manager I have carried a Class A CDL driver’s license for decades. One requirement of being a CDL (Commercial Driver’s License) holder is you must pass a DOT (Department of Transportation) physical every two years. If you have extenuating health issues you may need a yearly physical. Up until a year ago I never had any issue of any kind and I always passed my two year visit with flying colors. 

That is until I got the Neck Lady. The infamous lady with the rubber ruler who told me my neck size coupled with the 1940’s weight chart on the wall dictated that I was a “candidate” for sleep apnea. When I responded with the fact that I slept like a baby and never experienced insomnia more than a handful of times in my life, she only seemed more determined to send me to sleep hell. It’s not that I don’t believe sleep apnea is a serious and problematic health concern, because I do. I know several people who wear their CPAP apparatus faithfully and swear by it’s results. Part of me was upset about having to incur more expensive testing when I didn’t feel there was reasonable cause. Maybe a tiny sliver of my ego was upset because I’d been reduced to once-a-year re-cert status—that is, until I could be properly diagnosed. 

So after dragging my feet for a few months I decided to talk to my own doctor. She seemed minutely sympathetic but ultimately suggested that I suck it up and find out for sure. So, I did. 

A week later I got a call for a consultation appointment. Three weeks later I had my consultation which basically consisted of filling out paperwork, answering a few questions, and another $40 copay. “The Sleep Center will be in contact in a week or two with your appointment,” were the last words I heard for two months until I called them back and asked what the story was. My physical would be running out in September, it was June, and my consultation had been in April. “Oh, we’ll get right back to you.” The following week I got a call and a date. 

It’s now the second week in July and I’m heading to my 7:30pm sleep study and where the fun stuff is about to begin. 

I arrived on time with my Walmart backpack. It contained a pair of shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in, my iPod for some relaxation music, and Tom Brokaw’s book, “A Lucky Life Interrupted.” I smiled the next morning when I thought of titling this piece, “A Sucky Night Interrupted.” 

I knew I was at the right location when I saw Ma & Pa Kettle (Google them) heading in the door—Pa with a big pink pillow nestled under his arm. I wondered if I missed the memo telling us we could bring our own pillow(s) to the sleep study? Ma & Pa took the elevator to the second floor, I took the stairs. The elevator was small and the pillow was big. It was a long way to the second floor in cozy quarters. I wasn’t in the mood for cozy. We all arrived at the intercom simultaneously so I pushed the button and stepped aside. I let the Kettle’s go first. I had all night. 

Once we were allowed access a young girl whisked the Kettle's away. I wasn't sure which one was taking the study. Maybe they both were, but the pink pillow case told me Pa was going to deposit Ma then head back to the hills. I was greeted by slender and pleasant Dustin. He was grey in color and polite. He sensed a less than exuberant old man, I sensed an overly precise young man who took his job seriously. He led me to Room #2 and with clipboard in hand proceeded to recite the rules and regulations of the house. I listened with the same excitement I did when listening to the Neck Lady list the markers for sleep apnea a lifetime earlier. I did my darnedest to handle this whole ordeal procedure like an adult. I had done everything I was supposed to do. For the first time in my life I felt prepared for a test. I was tired and all I had to do is sleep—right? How hard could it be to sleep in a strange setting? I’d slept in the passenger seat of a rolling eighteen-wheeler at 65mph on the NYS Thruway with my head bouncing off the window at 3pm in afternoon. This would be a piece of cake. I finally found a test I might be able to get a 100 on and maybe even get extra points for drooling. 

Hook me up Dustin I’m raring to go…

Then reality set in. 

I saw the wires, probes, machines, monitors, and additional paraphernalia that was about to be connected to thing atop my self described, fat neck. 

Maybe my optimism was premature? 

I kept hearing my well intentioned primary care doctor’s voice, “Suck it up.” I stood there like a real adult and did just as Dustin directed. He began attaching sticky probe tape on me from head to toe. I remained calm and compliant. Once Dustin had attached 95% of my testing paraphernalia he told me to go ahead and relax until I was ready to actually go to sleep. At that point he would finish hooking me up and after a few minor calibrations I would be ready for a peaceful nights sleep. After he left I turned on some relaxation music and sat quietly reading my book. Reading is a great sleep inhibitor for me and within 45 minutes I was ready to begin my sleep journey. After waiting another 30 minutes for my host to return I was beginning to lose some of the calm I’d collected. Dustin finally arrived to complete the connections. I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. Once all the apparatus was connected I could barely move my head. He gave me my final instructions and turned the light off as he left. I managed to get on my side and as I lowered my heavily wired head to the so called pillows that were provided I knew instantly I was in trouble. The pillows they expected me to sleep on were like flimsy foam from a stuffed animal. The bouncy cheap stuff you might find in a sofa pillow if it were being used as a movie prop. It was like lowering my head onto a half inflated balloon. I’m not a pillow snob. Although I prefer my own pillow(s), I can usually survive a night or two on hotel pillows of substandard construction. These pillows had no business even being called pillows. I began to panic. With each attempt to adjust my position and get comfortable my fear grew. I began to get claustrophobic. My hopes of acing this test were beginning to fade. No matter how much I punched and poked those puny fake pillows they were not going to comply. I felt sure my night was going to be filled with nightmares of Neck Lady cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West in my ear, “You have apnea, you have apnea. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,ha!”

I can honestly say that, other than the night Taco Bowl tried to food poison me, this was the worst night’s sleep I have ever experienced. I’m sure that if this sleep test was graded on a scale of 1-100, my score was going to be a 12 or less. I felt like someone was trying to strangle me all night with a phone cord. Those of you over forty may know what phone cord is. If I’m torturing you by dragging this story out, you’ll have some idea of how torturous a night I had. 

I think I may have had a couple of two hour stretches where I finally fell asleep. 

I was awakened by a quiet rap,rap,rap on the door. It was Dustin. He apologized for having to disturb me but he said, “You’ve managed to disconnect all but a couple of your wires. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to re-calibrate the equipment.”

I looked at him with vacant eyes of disbelief. 

“That’s not happening scooter. It’s 4am and that’s when my alarm goes off. There’s no way I can go back to not sleeping.” 

He had that look of victory, like David beating down Goliath. 

“Well, we have six hours of data. You can go home if you want.” 

I’m sure he’d just told me the machine had been disconnected from the majority of probes. If that was true my data would be incomplete or at best show I slept like a barrel of monkeys. I knew right then I was doomed anyway. 

Get me out of here.

When he went to unhook me from the contraption where all the wires came together he found it on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. No wonder I couldn’t move, with the unit on the floor all my wires were taught as a Wicked Tuna fishing line. I’m surprised he didn’t come in to find me blue and unresponsive. I looked on the other side of the bed and there were the two pillow imposters against the far wall. Obviously I’d had a midnight hissy-fit and flung them with an anger they deserved. I had stripped the blanket from the bed and tucked into a ball to use as a pillow backup and slept with just a sheet over me. The bed looked like a crime scene. I might be sent away to sleep prison after this episode. I felt like a failure and a fraud. I’d always boasted that after working the nightshift for two years in the 80’s, I could sleep on a ladder if I had to. 

Dustin couldn't get me out of there any faster if he tried. The only thing he was worried about was the survey on the clipboard. He’d told me the night before that I would need to fill one out before leaving. I couldn’t wait. I was ready to share my viewpoint right then and there. 

“I can tell you right now those pillows belong in the dumpster” 

“We’ve had a couple people say that.”

“A couple?” 

“We’ll to be honest one lady said they were the best pillows she’d ever slept on.” 

“Who was that, Wilma Flintstone?” 

No response…

Dustin gathered up his stuff and told me to come out to the front desk when I was ready and he’d let me out. I felt bad. I think I was scaring him. I had flashbacks of my father when he would lose his patience during one of his prolonged hospital stays. He could be a nurses nightmare and dream all in the same day. I could hear him laughing from above while cheering, “That’s my boy.” 

As I snapped a farewell photo to memorialize my experience I sat for a moment and tried to put it all in perspective. I had come to some serious conclusions about sleep apnea. Foremost, it is a real and serious condition that should not be taken lightly. This piece was meant as a relief valve for my frustration with the sleep study itself. I shared it as entertainment more than a health care review. I do wonder if the CPAP industry isn’t thrilled to death by this additional gold rush. I think there should be a more in-depth interview process before sending someone for testing that I found to be questionable at best. As the case in any issue you can usually justify the means if you weight the argument enough to one side. It’s hard to argue with the positive results many people see when properly diagnosed and treated. I argue that you would be hard pressed to find any person who didn’t possess a sleep issue of some kind from time to time. Are we destined to be a society filled with mask covered faces attached to breathing machines? Maybe we place too much emphasis on perfection. In doing so we create a culture of doubt and despair. Often to such a degree we create a more complex mental or physical problem. I will follow through with my testing and take my medicine no matter what the final diagnosis may be. I may not agree with it but in the end I must set an example for others and comply with the regulations my industry has created in the interest of public safety. 

When I complained to Sleep Tech Dustin about the horrible pillows we were expected to ease into slumber on he did add that regulations require the pillows to be flame retardant. He said, “These are the only flame retardant pillows we could find.” 

I’m thinking maybe they were the cheapest fame retardant pillows they could find but I know one thing for certain they were definitely sleep retardant. 

I need a nap.