Saturday, September 10, 2011


      At the risk of - what the smug set would call - "pointing out the obvious", I nevertheless stoutly put forth: We have indeed been having "Stormy Weather" and me and my guy, well, in some ways, on some days just haven't "been together".  This because meteorologically and metaphorically, it "keeps rainin' all the time".  Ole "Laddybuck's" retirement from the full time practice of Emergency Medicine has had 'dear and glorious' in something of a dither.  Surely there will be some who feel that 'sharing' this experience is in "bad taste."  So be it.  I''ve provided fair warning as to my being in risk mode, this entire exercise allows room for reports of just how thin I may be wearing, we don't want your writer to wear any thinner and, frankly, this particular 'passage' in our lives is truly BENCHMARK so I've no time - nay - I've a responsibility to NOT concern myself with your gustatory judgment.  Recovery is how we're 'rolling' on this one.
     (Horoscopes, in general, are rarely on point but in the midst of this time-consuming tempest, I actually glanced at mine - in passing, the newspaper, that is - and it was all about rummaging through old belongingings and finding objects from the past which would haunt, harrow and 'happy-up' my reverie. "Hah! SELF: not rolling with reverie presently.  Or hadn't you noticed?" And that freeze-frame re-activated, causing "Action!" to proceed. If only time would allow.  It was a Lulu, dear reader but we can't t dawdle.)


      Because the headlines are - ready? - GOOD!  That said, keep in mind the reference is to the "big picture" because you already know quality of the early shots.  FAR too clear to cheer.  My Irish dervish was in NO gear.  I recall my comiserations with KD who, trying to enjoy her B-Day week, worried about being ravaged by Irene in a Rockaway bungalow - built circa 1920 - STILL gently, calmly, sincerely inquired about the "R word".  She vividly recalled humorlessly those "long morning naps", the worry, the fatigue.  MY MOST incredulous and negative images were those crafty little disappearances.  And the HIDEout!  Garage, door closed, smoking and - after being forced to put the stored deck furniture out, leaving a cavernous, depressing vacuum, selecting an injured, rescued, ancient white wicker chair on which to perch in his new smoking/reading room.  You KNOW how I feel about wicker.  Granpa and I spent hours at his last work shop, watching those calloused, old buddy hands labor at braiding the well-soaked strands of reed, suspended from twenty feet, twisting, pulling, creating the manmouth rockers that would comfort old bones as meticulously as the cradles, carriages, high chairs that would embrace, protect, carry new, tiny, helpless life.  And the old lives were re-charged as well. There will be NO desecration of the old and carefully crafted.
      (Just how I felt when fetching, organizing clothes for Julie and Mia's up-coming visit tomorrow.  Yes!  I've barely finished un-packing from our divine five days in Boston celebrating Mia's B-Day and family in general and now - drum roll - Julie's coming down for a week, WITH Pwincess Mia, to celebrate Dad's B-Day, attend his "R word" party with ALL co-workers, fam and friends AND to scoot up to Richmond because they have a buyer for their house!  Hip, hip. So, up to my ears in clothes and plans, I run into Mom's Persian lamb coat.  The VERY precious coat I was getting ready to take to relic rehab so I can present it to some lucky gal at Christmas. Might as well get a look at this challenge in the light.  And I did.  SELF:  KNOW this was handled by an ace cleaner soon after her death.  What IS this sprinkling of ecru lint marring these silken black curls-of-a-coat???) 
      The ONLY blemish on our otherwise perfect Beantown visit was a back injury incurred when Dad insisted on helping and - on the last day - wrenched his lower back while closing a stubburn hatchback after our last errand.  I had Mia out of harm's way, busy building up her nearly hysterical excitement as Mommy extracted two dozen magically colorful, wretchedly-behaved, helium-filled baloons and Poppy gave that machine's rear door an Enola Gay Ka-Slam.  Resuming an upright position proved excruciating.  And nary a merry soul was the wiser. He doesn't DO treatment or injury, for that matter.  It was Pwincess Day, the Pwincess Jumper - accommodates at least twenty wildly bobbing bodies - had been delivered and inflated, the power was back on, Snow White cake and ice cream chilling comfortably and Mia's message was loud and clear, "Poppy, it's time to Paahtie!"  So no-pain-Poppy fell in. I
                                                           daresay he wisely was NOT doing any
   jumping in the Princess Jumper, but I do believe Mia jump-started his mood if not his mobility. Our day tumbled into a giggling evening whilst we called Mia's Grampy in Florida a happy singing - yup.  Grampy's B-Day, too - having prepped with inhaled helium to sing the traditional plus "The Chipmunk Song". You're NEVER too young - or old - for a "helium Happy-Song!"
      (The lint roller was a futile undertaking; I was determined to identify and remove this fuzzy disgrace; the big guns got dragged out; following the lining's underbelly - having turned the entire coat inside out, I stood, armed with Oreck, stolid and stunned, a sister to the ox.  This because I had identified the crime.  It was the lamb's fleecey fur, decades ago used to pad the shoulder area. And it had been DYED! "Ewe, too?", I shouted at coat.  And then I laughed.  It was laughter bubbling up from the irony of this old, vain, soft curly little lady's mane AND, more gratifying, from the recollection of the greeting I'd received by way of "Good Morning" today from Phil, to wit, "I really am feeling better!" ) After it took us an hour to walk to the car from the plane; after he was not able to walk or stand even for three days; after he refused to be evaluated and I was certain he'd slipped a disc but helpless to intervene, he felt better.  After all, I never doubted his self-diagnosis.  Really.  And as he went about immediately overdoing it, I thought I'd glance at the horoscpes which, all things considered, were rather prophetic.
      (The obsession with clothing had indeed harrowed - at first - my reverie, thinking of how little lamb ONCE UPON A TIME was so pretty, hanging around with Mary. But then I discovered her mischief, and although HER happiness was now in perpetuity to be found in a sleek, fashipnable and ever-loved and treasured heirloom, she had furry pals out there in this generation who couldn't have it anybetter. )   
      And with some TLC and patience, Poppy will be carrying Pwincesses on the beach before long and without a whimper.  As for me, I'll be working on MY rehab and the white reed chair.  Later, Lorane. . . .                                                              

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