Opinion

I confess that occasionally even doctors get squeamish. Or perhaps more honestly, this doctor does. My personal list has gotten pretty short, but one of the things that still makes me squirm is something I nevertheless frequently recommend to my patients.
 So what is this mysterious and rather ominous medical recommendation? Nasal saline irrigation.
The practice of rinsing the nose out with liquid probably originated centuries ago in India, and it remains part of spiritual ritual as well as traditional medicine around the world. However, it isn’t something I learned about in medical school. Western medical research into it began in earnest perhaps 25 to 30 years ago.
How does this rather torturous sounding practice help? It physically removes germs, allergen and irritant particles, it loosens thick mucous, and it helps the cilia — the tiny hairs lining our airways— clean things out.  

Let’s start at the beginning.
When I was little, my mom kept a radio in the kitchen. From there, I remember two things: if we were home, it was on, and it was always around. We kept about a dozen or so CDs and cassette tapes on hand, swapping them out as tastes or moods changed, but there were a few that always stayed in the pile. One was Shania’s “The Woman In Me,” but we’ll talk more about that later. The other was Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours.”
There’s something alchemical about music and maybe no better band (and no greater frontwoman) than Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks to talk about when you talk about this peculiar magic: that you can hear a song or an album your whole life without really listening to it, but when you finally do — when you walk into the kitchen one stormy night because you’re a kid at home alone and want to hear voices that aren’t yours in the old, dark house — everything falls into place and everything changes.

While browsing through the 1974 archived GS, I saw this on the editorial page: “Only 42 shopping days ‘til spring.” It would have been funnier if I had seen it last week when the temps were in the minus category. But then, I might find it funny next week when the forecast has the thermometer dipping down yet again. Weather is fickle in Wyoming.
Writing this on Feb. 1, I am reminded that tomorrow is Groundhog Day. Not that I really believe old “Phil” can predict the weather. But can you believe the number of people that brave the weather to watch and see if the wise gentleman comes out of hibernation? They must really be bored with winter.
Surprised that someone hasn’t been fact-checking him. But while I don’t believe in the “predictor’s” predictions, I do check to see whether the sun is out—or not—on HIS day.
But I’ll take a few spring days in the midst of winter.

A new phenomenon is taking root here in Wyoming, where our rural nature and an independent spirit have long defined our political identity.
 The unmistakable influence of Washington DC-style political messaging has permeated real and virtual spaces, creating a sense of urgency for Wyoming voters to decipher the truth from the lies and half-truths.
Now, more than ever, the most crucial task for voters lies in our ability to discern the truth, a skill that hinges on scrutinizing the source. The grassroots integrity of Wyoming’s politics, once bolstered by our close-knit communities and face-to-face interactions, is now facing challenges posed by sophisticated political flimflams that blur the lines between fact and fiction.