Has anything in your life, that seemed almost inconsequential at the time, come back 20+ years later as something with potentially enormous significance?
In 1992, I was less than a year out of college and settling in at my first real job. I was enjoying living on my own, and getting to know my way around Metro Detroit. Sometime early that year, our office building had the Red Cross in for a blood drive. I'd given blood on occasion in high school and college, and was comfortable with the process, so signed up for a slot and donated.
As I munched on the post-donation juice and cookies, I flipped through some brochures that had been put out from a related organization. This other group was building a registry of potential bone marrow donors; for a cancer patient with no compatible blood relatives --- especially full siblings --- available to donate, getting a hit through the registry could be their only hope. I honestly can't remember what in particular compelled me to fill out the form and apply to join the registry, but I did. I was most likely moved by the realization that I, having been adopted as an infant, almost certainly have no full blood siblings --- and certainly none that I knew of or could ever locate. I think that made it easy for me to empathize with the plight of someone in a similar situation. And, heck, let's face it: I was young and probably idealistic about potentially saving someone's life.
The registry deemed me healthy enough to join, and collected a small blood sample (they now use a cheek swab) to "type" me for the database. Human DNA has proteins called “Human Leukocyte Antigens,” or HLAs, attached to it. These HLAs serve as markers, to determine how good a match a potential donor is for a particular patient. There are a great many HLA markers --- but ten in particular that are especially important and that doctors examine to assess the degree of match. As I understand it, six (or three sets of two) of these are relatively easy and inexpensive to identify; these six are what go into each potential donor's registry record. When a patient needs a transplant, these basic six are used to greatly narrow the search. Anyone who makes the "short list" then submits a second blood sample and the expensive additional testing is done to identify his remaining four HLA markers. A donor and patient don't have to match on ten out of ten, but the more common markers they share, the more compatible their bodies are. And therefore the greater chance the patient's body will react well to the donor's tissue.
Two analogies, besides the obvious "needle in a haystack," come to mind:
14 October 2014
10 October 2014
Surprise Bonus!
Living on a farm, you never know when a curve ball will throw your whole day onto an unexpected trajectory. It could be the surprise arrival of a goat kid or lamb, especially one that needs human attention because the mother isn't doing her job. It could be the stupid goat that snaps a leg going over a fence. Or any number of other things.
Tuesday of this week, it was an early-morning collision on the road in front of our property. I was out in my office when I heard the sound of crunching metal. The dogs began barking, and I went to the window for a look. A car had stopped toward the western edge of our land, and two whitetail deer where headed across our hay field. The lead animal was bounding at full tilt, but the second one was hobbling badly. It wasn't hard to deduce what had happened.
Another vehicle stopped to assist the one that'd hit the deer, so I returned my attention to the hay field. It appeared that both animals were now long gone, but then I took a closer look. In fact, the trailing deer --- a doe --- had collapsed in the middle of the field. Her head would be visible for a few seconds at a time, struggling, before dropping below the tall grass. It was likely that the collision had broken some ribs, which had punctured a lung; it was how more than one of our beloved farm dogs had died over the years. I figured the humane thing to do would be to put her out of her misery.
I holstered a handgun, then pulled on my jacket and jogged out to the hay field. As I made my way toward the struggling animal, I noticed an older woman walking in from the road as she talked on a cell phone. She greeted me, and introduced herself as the driver of the car that'd hit the deer. She said she'd called the sheriff's department, and that a deputy would be coming to take the accident report and euthanize the deer. "They asked if I want the deer, and I don't," she added. "Do you?"
"Sure," I replied.
After trying to describe our location to the person on the other end of the line, the woman handed me the phone, and I told the dispatcher exactly what our address was. "I have a pistol and can put the deer down right now," I added.
"No, you can't!" the dispatcher replied. "You need to wait for the deputy." I was more than a bit taken aback by the dispatcher's emphatic tone, but on later reflection understood the policy better. Without an officer to confirm the circumstances of the situation, it would be easy for a poacher to shoot a deer and then later claim he was euthanizing an injured animal. He could even break one of the animal's legs, and/or a few ribs, to make the story more convincing.
I assured the dispatcher that I would wait for authorities to arrive, then handed the phone back to the driver. But as she gave her name and other information, euthanizing the deer became moot. The poor doe went into death throes, and flopped flat onto the hay field. The driver's voice broke with emotion, and could barely spell her own name for the dispatcher. I knelt and stroked the doe's neck and head as the animal expired --- even more as a gesture of comfort for the driver than for the deer.
Once she finished with the dispatcher, the woman returned to her car and I went back to the house. I got a large wheelbarrow, took it to the hayfield, and after quite a struggle managed to get the heavy doe into the wheelbarrow. I considered bleeding the animal out, but didn't want to risk having to explain a large knife wound to the officer. Instead, I simply wheeled the body up next to the woman's car, told her I'd return once the police arrived, and then went back to my office to wait.
I didn't realize the police had arrived until I looked up and saw the driver bringing the wheelbarrow down our driveway to back porch. I looked out to the road, and saw the patrol car now behind hers. Apparently, the officer had been satisfied with what he'd seen and no longer needed the deer's body. I grabbed my identification, and followed the woman back to her car. Her husband had also arrived, and the three of us stood around making small talk while the officer sat in his cruiser and worked on a computer. It was an unfortunate way to meet the neighbors (they lived just a couple of miles up the road from us), but I enjoyed getting to know them.
While we were talking, our oldest son came out to the road to see what was going on. He told me he'd seen the carcass in the wheelbarrow, and had thought one of our own goats --- one that indeed has coloration very similar to a deer's --- had died. I explained what'd happened, and assured him that all of our animals were fine. But it was still an amusing misunderstanding that injected some much-needed levity into an otherwise sad situation.
Eventually, the officer finished his work and gave me an official "Permit to Posses Deer or Bear." I thanked him, then said my good-byes to the woman and her husband. (Her car had substantial front end damage, but was fortunately still operational.)
Back at the house, I had a decision to make. Take the carcass to our butcher, and spend $60 or more having him process it? Or try my hand at carving it up myself? Although I butcher all of our poultry, and am not the least bit squeamish, I'd never attempted to butcher a mammal larger than a scrawny goat kid or lamb. In my mind, I guess large mammals had become something "I Can't Do," and that "Someone Else Has to Do For Me."
I was tired of thinking that way, and decided to treat this deer as a learning experience. Yeah, I would probably make some mistakes. But so what? It had cost us absolutely nothing. The whole thing was a pure bonus.
I left a message for a friend who has a lot more experience butchering deer, and who'd told me some time back that he'd be happy to teach me how to process a deer or goat. And then my oldest son and I got started as best we could. First, I got some heavy-duty baling twine, then cut holes near the each of the deer's rear ankles to string it through. While I hugged and hoisted the deer as high as I could, my son pulled the twine over a large beam in the downstairs part of our barn.
Problem is, though, that beam is only about seven feet off the ground. Even with the deer as high as I could string her, the head was still almost on the ground. Since I didn't have any other options at the moment, we got to work as best we could. First, I cut the head off to allow as much blood to drain. Then, in the time before our friend arrived, I managed to disembowel the animal and get all the guts / organs removed. There was a lot more material, but the process was similar enough to eviscerating a turkey or goose. The twelve-year-old joined us somewhere in the middle of this process, and the two boys thoroughly enjoyed identifying each of the body parts as they came out. We saved the heart and liver (which were HUGE compared to their poultry counterparts!), fed the lungs to the chickens and barn cats, and dumped everything else into an old feed bag for disposal.
Our friend got there soon after I cut the hide and began peeling it off the deer's hind legs and back like a sock. He'd brought a real block and tackle, which would work well using the rafters of our garage. He helped me cut the carcass down and move it, then he set up his hoist in the garage. A moment later, we lifted the remains of the deer into place. It still was a little lower than ideal, but a much better work space than the barn.
It took us about 45 minutes or so to finish skinning the deer and cut off the neck. We then flipped the carcass around the other way, so it was now hanging from the front legs. This let us remove large chunks of meat, and the hind quarters, and he showed me how to remove the tenderloins and back straps. We also got a good look inside the chest cavity, which confirmed my suspicions about how the deer died: several ribs on her right side were badly broken, which had most likely punctured her lung.
We put the meat in large food grade plastic bags, and stored them in a spare refrigerator. We made the mistake, however, of thinking the garage would remain cool enough to allow the fore quarters to hang and age for a couple of days. It was certainly cool enough at night (we even had our first frost early today), but the garage got warmer than expected during the daytime hours. When my neighbor returned this morning to help cut up the large pieces in the refrigerator, and to finish carving up the hanging carcass, we decided that the room-temperature meat would be more safely fed to the dogs. It just didn't smell or look quite right. He apologized, explaining that he'd never butchered a deer this early in the fall. I shrugged and assured him that what we had in the refrigerator (easily 25-30+ pounds) would be plenty. This was a learning experience, and I'd learned something important. Besides, with all the lambs and goat kids we're expecting to butcher this fall, I'm not sure how much spare freezer space we'll have anyway.
We spread the meat out on top of an old (dead) chest freezer that I've kept precisely for use as a butchering table. (We sanitized it with bleach water first, of course). We then cut up the large pieces of meat, filling gallon-sized Ziploc freezer bags about halfway each --- about the right amount of meat for a meal for our family. Since we'll end up simply throwing most of these in the Crock Pot, and then adding carrots and potatoes, I wasn't very particular about neatly slicing and packaging anything. Hunks of meat were fine. Finally, I took what was left on a rear shank and submerged it in a saltwater brine. I figure it'll make a really nice venison stew for our Sunday dinner this week. The Ziploc bags all went in the refrigerator to age for a few more days; I'll transfer them to the freezer this weekend.
And, in the meantime, I know the dogs will enjoy finishing up the fore quarters.
I can honestly say ... this is the first roadkill I've ever butchered. And the first that I'll be eating. I wouldn't have touched it had I not known its origins, and known personally how it died. But why let perfectly good and delicious venison go to waste?
Best part is: I was able to use this "bonus" carcass as a learning experience, without fear of ruining one of our perfect farm-raised animals. And, you know what the best thing is I've learned? Butchering a large mammal is now Something I Can Do.
Tuesday of this week, it was an early-morning collision on the road in front of our property. I was out in my office when I heard the sound of crunching metal. The dogs began barking, and I went to the window for a look. A car had stopped toward the western edge of our land, and two whitetail deer where headed across our hay field. The lead animal was bounding at full tilt, but the second one was hobbling badly. It wasn't hard to deduce what had happened.
Another vehicle stopped to assist the one that'd hit the deer, so I returned my attention to the hay field. It appeared that both animals were now long gone, but then I took a closer look. In fact, the trailing deer --- a doe --- had collapsed in the middle of the field. Her head would be visible for a few seconds at a time, struggling, before dropping below the tall grass. It was likely that the collision had broken some ribs, which had punctured a lung; it was how more than one of our beloved farm dogs had died over the years. I figured the humane thing to do would be to put her out of her misery.
I holstered a handgun, then pulled on my jacket and jogged out to the hay field. As I made my way toward the struggling animal, I noticed an older woman walking in from the road as she talked on a cell phone. She greeted me, and introduced herself as the driver of the car that'd hit the deer. She said she'd called the sheriff's department, and that a deputy would be coming to take the accident report and euthanize the deer. "They asked if I want the deer, and I don't," she added. "Do you?"
"Sure," I replied.
After trying to describe our location to the person on the other end of the line, the woman handed me the phone, and I told the dispatcher exactly what our address was. "I have a pistol and can put the deer down right now," I added.
"No, you can't!" the dispatcher replied. "You need to wait for the deputy." I was more than a bit taken aback by the dispatcher's emphatic tone, but on later reflection understood the policy better. Without an officer to confirm the circumstances of the situation, it would be easy for a poacher to shoot a deer and then later claim he was euthanizing an injured animal. He could even break one of the animal's legs, and/or a few ribs, to make the story more convincing.
I assured the dispatcher that I would wait for authorities to arrive, then handed the phone back to the driver. But as she gave her name and other information, euthanizing the deer became moot. The poor doe went into death throes, and flopped flat onto the hay field. The driver's voice broke with emotion, and could barely spell her own name for the dispatcher. I knelt and stroked the doe's neck and head as the animal expired --- even more as a gesture of comfort for the driver than for the deer.
Once she finished with the dispatcher, the woman returned to her car and I went back to the house. I got a large wheelbarrow, took it to the hayfield, and after quite a struggle managed to get the heavy doe into the wheelbarrow. I considered bleeding the animal out, but didn't want to risk having to explain a large knife wound to the officer. Instead, I simply wheeled the body up next to the woman's car, told her I'd return once the police arrived, and then went back to my office to wait.
I didn't realize the police had arrived until I looked up and saw the driver bringing the wheelbarrow down our driveway to back porch. I looked out to the road, and saw the patrol car now behind hers. Apparently, the officer had been satisfied with what he'd seen and no longer needed the deer's body. I grabbed my identification, and followed the woman back to her car. Her husband had also arrived, and the three of us stood around making small talk while the officer sat in his cruiser and worked on a computer. It was an unfortunate way to meet the neighbors (they lived just a couple of miles up the road from us), but I enjoyed getting to know them.
While we were talking, our oldest son came out to the road to see what was going on. He told me he'd seen the carcass in the wheelbarrow, and had thought one of our own goats --- one that indeed has coloration very similar to a deer's --- had died. I explained what'd happened, and assured him that all of our animals were fine. But it was still an amusing misunderstanding that injected some much-needed levity into an otherwise sad situation.
Eventually, the officer finished his work and gave me an official "Permit to Posses Deer or Bear." I thanked him, then said my good-byes to the woman and her husband. (Her car had substantial front end damage, but was fortunately still operational.)
Back at the house, I had a decision to make. Take the carcass to our butcher, and spend $60 or more having him process it? Or try my hand at carving it up myself? Although I butcher all of our poultry, and am not the least bit squeamish, I'd never attempted to butcher a mammal larger than a scrawny goat kid or lamb. In my mind, I guess large mammals had become something "I Can't Do," and that "Someone Else Has to Do For Me."
I was tired of thinking that way, and decided to treat this deer as a learning experience. Yeah, I would probably make some mistakes. But so what? It had cost us absolutely nothing. The whole thing was a pure bonus.
I left a message for a friend who has a lot more experience butchering deer, and who'd told me some time back that he'd be happy to teach me how to process a deer or goat. And then my oldest son and I got started as best we could. First, I got some heavy-duty baling twine, then cut holes near the each of the deer's rear ankles to string it through. While I hugged and hoisted the deer as high as I could, my son pulled the twine over a large beam in the downstairs part of our barn.
Problem is, though, that beam is only about seven feet off the ground. Even with the deer as high as I could string her, the head was still almost on the ground. Since I didn't have any other options at the moment, we got to work as best we could. First, I cut the head off to allow as much blood to drain. Then, in the time before our friend arrived, I managed to disembowel the animal and get all the guts / organs removed. There was a lot more material, but the process was similar enough to eviscerating a turkey or goose. The twelve-year-old joined us somewhere in the middle of this process, and the two boys thoroughly enjoyed identifying each of the body parts as they came out. We saved the heart and liver (which were HUGE compared to their poultry counterparts!), fed the lungs to the chickens and barn cats, and dumped everything else into an old feed bag for disposal.
Our friend got there soon after I cut the hide and began peeling it off the deer's hind legs and back like a sock. He'd brought a real block and tackle, which would work well using the rafters of our garage. He helped me cut the carcass down and move it, then he set up his hoist in the garage. A moment later, we lifted the remains of the deer into place. It still was a little lower than ideal, but a much better work space than the barn.
It took us about 45 minutes or so to finish skinning the deer and cut off the neck. We then flipped the carcass around the other way, so it was now hanging from the front legs. This let us remove large chunks of meat, and the hind quarters, and he showed me how to remove the tenderloins and back straps. We also got a good look inside the chest cavity, which confirmed my suspicions about how the deer died: several ribs on her right side were badly broken, which had most likely punctured her lung.
We put the meat in large food grade plastic bags, and stored them in a spare refrigerator. We made the mistake, however, of thinking the garage would remain cool enough to allow the fore quarters to hang and age for a couple of days. It was certainly cool enough at night (we even had our first frost early today), but the garage got warmer than expected during the daytime hours. When my neighbor returned this morning to help cut up the large pieces in the refrigerator, and to finish carving up the hanging carcass, we decided that the room-temperature meat would be more safely fed to the dogs. It just didn't smell or look quite right. He apologized, explaining that he'd never butchered a deer this early in the fall. I shrugged and assured him that what we had in the refrigerator (easily 25-30+ pounds) would be plenty. This was a learning experience, and I'd learned something important. Besides, with all the lambs and goat kids we're expecting to butcher this fall, I'm not sure how much spare freezer space we'll have anyway.
We spread the meat out on top of an old (dead) chest freezer that I've kept precisely for use as a butchering table. (We sanitized it with bleach water first, of course). We then cut up the large pieces of meat, filling gallon-sized Ziploc freezer bags about halfway each --- about the right amount of meat for a meal for our family. Since we'll end up simply throwing most of these in the Crock Pot, and then adding carrots and potatoes, I wasn't very particular about neatly slicing and packaging anything. Hunks of meat were fine. Finally, I took what was left on a rear shank and submerged it in a saltwater brine. I figure it'll make a really nice venison stew for our Sunday dinner this week. The Ziploc bags all went in the refrigerator to age for a few more days; I'll transfer them to the freezer this weekend.
And, in the meantime, I know the dogs will enjoy finishing up the fore quarters.
I can honestly say ... this is the first roadkill I've ever butchered. And the first that I'll be eating. I wouldn't have touched it had I not known its origins, and known personally how it died. But why let perfectly good and delicious venison go to waste?
Best part is: I was able to use this "bonus" carcass as a learning experience, without fear of ruining one of our perfect farm-raised animals. And, you know what the best thing is I've learned? Butchering a large mammal is now Something I Can Do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)