A Big Burly Joke

A few weeks ago, I came up with what I thought was a great riddle. After none of my hand-picked readers figured it out, my wife suggested I rephrase it in the form of a joke. One intrepid reader offered a good guess (Burl Ives Trio) that was not what I was looking for.

So for those of you reading this for the first time, here is an (improved?) version of the joke:

A surgeon, a pathologist and an oncologist are hiking through forest when they encounter a burly tree (shown at left). Curious by nature, they sit down to ponder their discovery. Of course, the surgeon proposes to cut open one burl. The pathologist thinks that's a good idea; she whips out her pocket microscope to examine it. The oncologist goes on about a two-hit hypothesis and proposes dumping toxic chemicals onto the tree's base. What do you call this conclave of MDs which also happens to be a name for the piece of wood being examined by the pathologist?









A Tumor Board!



I tried to tell this riddle/joke at a recent party I held at my house when I realized that a few years ago, I had actually sliced up a small burl with the intent to make a set of coasters out of them. (The slices warped, and will need additional work to make them functional.) I got some laughs, but not because of the joke. Mostly, my guests thought something about the back-story was hilarious.

This group of mostly medical professionals proceeded to hypothesize the origins of burls. We all decided burls are some sort of tumor. Perhaps it's caused by a genetic cancer, but also perhaps by insects, fungus or viral disease. (Viruses cause tumors in humans, too!) That burls often congregate in groves could support a genetic or infectious cause. But the tendency for burls to form on golf courses and orchards speaks to a traumatic origin. Maybe the burls I saw in Alaska are residual from moose antler scraping behaviors or aborted assaults by beaver?

For those out there who have never heard of the second meaning of "tumor board," you will probably not think this as funny as I did (and still do, by the way). At most hospitals, there is a special meeting of specialists every week that serves to discuss the new, complex or complicated cancer diagnoses. Since every cancer is a little bit different, and every patient is different, you can imagine there could be a very large number of approaches to cancer therapy. In an effort to provide the best care, pathologists (who have the final word on diagnosis), surgeons (who provide the important skills to remove some tumors) and oncologists (typically the doctor in most contact with the patient) all meet to present and deliberate information. This meeting is called a tumor board.

Clue

Activity on this blog been down of late, mostly 'cuz I've been busy finishing my Ob/Gyn clerkship. Well, then there's that pesky truth that I mostly write for myself.

But I thought I might get one guess for my previous riddle. Yes, it was complicated and as my first blog riddle, maybe too hard. My wife suggested I turn the puzzle into a joke. So here's your first clue:

A surgeon, a pathologist and an oncologist are on a hike in the forest when they encounter a burly tree (See the recent post for a picture). Curious, they sit down to ponder their discovery. The surgeon proposes they cut open the burl. The pathologist thinks that's a good idea; she whips out her pocket microscope to examine it. The oncologist goes on about a two-hit hypothesis and proposes dumping toxic chemicals onto the tree's base. What do you call this conclave of MDs?

And your clue is this: the answer is the same as one of the items in the pathologist's possession.

A Woodland Riddle

Anyone out there up for a riddle?

When I was in Fairbanks for my obstetrics and gynecology rotation, I was fortunate to have a few days off so I could get out and experience the Alaskan landscape. Alaska is so big that it is impossible to make generalizations about the land. The people, the flora, the geology, the weather - it's difficult to write about the place without over-generalization.

One thing about interior Alaska that is hard not to notice is the trees. Having lived in the Pacific Northwest for several years, I've rediscovered a connection with the colossal organisms that define the landscapes here. Evergreens are, after all, the reason Seattle can claim the title of Emerald City. It isn't surprising that one of the first things I noticed after landing in Fairbanks was the diminutive stature of the area's trees. Black and white spruce, paper birch, alder and poplar are the main species there. And none of them grow much taller than 40 feet! Old growth forest consists of tree trunks less than a foot in diameter. The short growing season conspires with the extreme winter cold to limit tree height and diameter.

There is something else peculiar about interior Alaska's trees. There is a much higher frequency of burl formation there than any place I've been. Woodworkers know burls to be valuable sources of figured wood. Laminates, sculptures, and bowls derived from burls are things of beauty. Hikers and orcharders know burls to be those funny bulbous growths along the trunk, roots and limbs of trees. One of the more affected trees I encountered on a hike is shown at the left.

The strangest thing about burls is that no one really knows what causes them. Theories range from insect infestation, mechanical damage, genetics, fungus and soil contents. What I know is that when a medical student who has been a biomedical researcher and is an amateur woodworker encounters these misshapen trees in the forest, the first thing he thinks of is a riddle. That's right, the trees speak to me! This one said:

You doctors, you searchers, you cutters of flesh;
You sawyers, you sculptors, you dry aesthetes:
Gather together to crack my mystery.

So then, my witty readers... What do you think it all means? What was this telling me? How and when might we be able to figure the etiology of this I'll put up what I think it was telling me next week, and provide grades on your responses. I hope some brave readers will offer solutions to this mystery, first.

Arms

My experiences in the Ob/Gyn clerkship these past weeks have revealed to me that being up in arms about something is very different than being up to your arms with something. Or up to your elbows. Whatever. I'm going to keep the field at arm's length.

LOL Zygotes

I'z got 2 faces
I zgot 2 faces
1 zygot, 2 faces
1 zygote, 2 faces

And no, I didn't do any Photoshopping on this one. Read all about it!

Flicker

My wife and I installed a homemade bird feeder fashioned from a gallon milk jug on our back fence. So far, the only critters who frequent it are a pair of squirrels. We've seen a bevy of quail in the park on the other side of the fence, and a few stragglers have investigated the seed strewn in the snow by the messy rodents. But to my knowledge, no birds have actually visited the feeder proper. You can imagine my delight when I saw a flicker sitting above the feeder trying to decide if it was safe to jump down to munch on the delicious seed. It's fair to say that:

The flicker was on the fence about the bird feeder.

Photo lifted from the NaturalVisions Birding Website.

Lincoln Park, Spokane

I am very fortunate during my stay in Spokane, Washington to be living in an apartment that backs up against a nice little patch of nature called Lincoln Park. In the snow, my wife and I can snowshoe out the back door and hike over to our own private sledding hills. Now that the temperature has risen, much of what we thought to be permafrost is thawing. Our afternoon reward for studying was strewn with slick rocks, muddy runoffs, iced puddles, and to say the least, uncertain footing. This brought to mind a conundrum:

When is a walk in the park no longer a walk in the park?