Sunday, August 26, 2012

        So this lady walks out of the church service at its completion - thinking.  The recessional hymn selected for this Saturday, five-thirty PM service had been, "Go Out and Make a Difference".  The collective 'delivery' this evening had seemed marked by unusual gusto, a 'pop' if you are into 'Marthastewartese'.  It was pondered with no small amount of serious consideration en route home.  Since I was the lady, I can say with authority that my brow was indeed at least as knitted as my sleeve of care.  What am I gonna do?  Actually, what am I gonna do?

        My intentions had been something commensurate with my doctor's orders as they relate to surgery rehabilitation.  But living as I do in what will most likely someday be referred too as the eponymous "Armstrong Era", a fact punctuated by the honored astronaut's passing this very day, I was more acutely aware of the insult any activity that lived in the "one small step" box of endeavors would be on this evening.  But, ever the pragmatist, I kn ew I daren't even consider anything in the "giant leap" category without a one-way 'ticket-to-ride back to Pittsburgh at the ready.

        Go out. . .  Make a difference. . .  Well, upon our arrival home, I tumbled into the task with all of the color and zeal available to me at the moment.  It was 'walk-Bridie-our-beagle's' appointed hour.  And as the task by its very nature 'covered' at least half of my hymnal exhortation - 'go out' - I gathered the necessary gear, paged our fearless huntress, ultimately found her and 'coaxed' her from slumber a-sofa and set out to 'make a difference'.

        Ere long, she quickened our pace as the pretty people on our first new street were entertaining - not very, in truth - and Bridie is something of a party animal when the theme is barbecue.  It was, she was true to her instincts and we were a-stroll then a-stop, perch and turn head to side in that endearing and embarrassingly cute way that silky, long-eared dogs can pull off.  Making it quite clear that she was obviously confused as to the 'difference' we were about making, I asserted 'owner/human' authority and yanked her back into a respectable stride.

        Eventually, we came upon one of her favorite grounds for investigation - a lovely log cabin-esque small home which was built in our neighborhood several years ago by "Habitat for Humanity".  It was here that volunteers had recently re-seeded the small front lawn (and fertilized it sparingly) which seemed to capture Bridie's full attention every evening.  Therefore, it was here that she ultimately contributed to the fertilization effort - generously. 

        Twenty minutes or so later, we reversed course, heading home.  Once finally within several homes of our mailbox, we turned the corner that was home to an elderly Greek lady, recently widowed, who has always had a passionate relationship with her garden and grounds.  Un fortunately, circumstances and ill health have prevented the care usually lavished upon the lawn of late.

        A few gusty Nor'easter had snapped and strewn several errant branches of an old, tall Crepe Myrtle tree which was usually tended with loving care.  With a little effort and patience, Bridie gave me permission to drag two of the larger, unsightly twisted pieces of 'lumber Au naturale' to our driveway.  There, they joined a growing pile of similarly tossed brethren which we had already stacked at the curb in the sizes dictated by the pretty people who man the neighborhood Civic League.

        At peace in the knowledge that our fruits of labor, such as they were, would make muster and be removed by the city's Tuesday Crew dedicated to this task, we climbed the few steps at the end of the driveway, somewhat more comfortable with the notion of having covered the 'Armstrong step' and maybe even put a dent in the beginnings of an 'Armstrong leap' - hardly "giant" - for "mankind".  Chuckle you may.  I'll wait.  Got nothing but time - and a mission.  ANY body - ALL bodies - can make a difference.  I'm gonna do it.  Every little chance I get.  I look forward to running into you,
Later, Lorane. . . .

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

But on the Bright Side. . .

        Goodness me.  Apologizing for the disjointed" grammar, let me simply say, it's been hard to find any.  Goodness, that is.  I've been busily soldiering on with my post-op rehabilitation.  Again, with a sincere appreciation of tasteless word selection, I can only call this endeavor 'hardness'.  Three times daily, I doggedly walk for at least one hour - weather conditions notwithstanding.  Sans body brace, those back muscles are indeed feeling very 'put upon' when asked to perform.  Then there's 'work'.  Writing, for me, is not a matter of life or death.  It's infinitely more important.  Therefore, time spent away from this focused activity is time more painful than walking.  ONLY because acts of love super cede 'work', I am thrilled that my Godson, Brennan, elected to move from Massachusetts to Virginia and is temporarily staying with us.

        (The news-of-the-day - ever quietly in the background by habit, is ever so glum these days.  I have nothing but respect for consistency - in its place.  'Glum-chum' tidbits on a global scale strongly snuff out anything close to respect.  And the 'tidbits' seem to be escalating in magnitude as well as multitude with regard to wrong-doings, the varied legions of humanity involved in miscreant behavior and - perhaps MOST galling - the "watching-paint-dry"-brand of ennui assumed by the global audience.  By way of comic relief, we still have William Devane's love affair with that shiny and near erotically sensate metal, GOLD, to follow with morbid if not forced interest.  It remains safe in his 'free' safe in the wall behind the 'Currier and Ives'-like scenic tasteless wall art cum secret metal knob - the one he closes with an impish glint as the tag for this sixty second interruption of the 'news blues' boys and girls' reports.)

        Brennan is remarkably determined in his job search.  We revised his resume several times.  He has an impressive background/bank of experience in the upscale cuisine-restaurant business.  Starting out as a bartender, he's been successful - not merely successive - in his employment pursuits.  In fact, his last position, in a Five Star well-known establishment, was managerial and he brings with him glowing personal endorsements from the owners of these eateries.  Our resume revisions, therefore, were de minimus and he was by no means resistant.  He WAS curious, however.
        "What's wrong with 'Serving tables?'"
        "Nothing.  However, that is not what you were doing."
        "I don't get it."
        "You serve PEOPLE, Brennan, not TABLES."
        "Oh.  Right.  That's what I do."
And so it went.  Necessary, tedious for both of us and not adding any 'good cheer' to my already downward-trending mood swing.  Such were my ruminations yesterday whilst taking the necessary _errand run" which life requires and schedules confound.  Fortunately, a stop in a crowded store caused a pause in the action which proved a boon for us all.

        (The magazine rack proffered a treasure trove of remedial offerings gs.  I snatched - seemingly pedestrian at the time, but in retrospect heaven-sent.  Right there, in her September issue of "LIVING", Martha Stewart, in a subhead tease "Having a Ball",  gives us soothing salvation.  Once home, I rifled through to "the piece" that promised peace in the form of "puffs".  "Pom Poms" as in the remedy "Plastics" of Mrs. Robinson fame.  Martha supplies the skinny - and the OVERFLOWING - on the many and varied uses of these critically required-for-the-perky-pleasant-ambiance crowd's needs.  Dubbed "puff pieces", these colorful, infinitely varied - in function and form - accents of beautification, innovation, decoration and multiplication are de rigueuer in addition to essential. 
        We are provided the materials needed/preferred, the photographically captured effects and even the 'squad' of elves cum instructions - a company called "Clover", makers of pom pom-creation kits.  Martha shares the wisdom and methodology of how we "can create many different sizes."  So scotch any notion of going to all of this trouble only to find yourself sitting on a pile of pathologically identical pom poms.  She goes on with the good news of manufacture, allowing as how we are to ". . . use very fine yarn to make gum ball-size ones and tie them to key chains or the handles of buckets or boxes for a hit of color and whimsy."  There you have it, folks.  Gone henceforth all mopes-on-ropes, harried/worried and focusing on things negative - personally OR globally.  I daren't speculate as to whether the lady was dreaming or working sedulously at her brightly-lit office-at-manse, a benzene ring is a benzene ring.  So too, color/whimsy life is color/whimsy life.)

        I feel about tomorrow as though I'm awaiting Santa.  Probably won't be able to sleep knowing that whatever else fills my day post sunrise, I'll be fiendishly fast-forwarding to my debut in yet another activity - but one that will bring true change, gratification and - hating to emphasize the obvious - AGAIN - an abundance of COLOR and WHIMSY, the stuff productive, balanced, healthy folk are made of.  Who knew?  Negativity shall never cross my threshold again.  Like butter, I'm on a roll.  I've got color and whimsy.  And there's plenty to go around.  Enjoy! 
Later, Lorane. . . .

Friday, August 17, 2012

From the Desk of Lorane

        Don't believe we've met.  I used to be a deco-type, pale lacquer, devoted, lone utilitarian buddy.  Then due to Lorane's back operation, I accommodatingly morphed into an orthopedic mattress, dining room table, several hospital beds and, lately I'm - portable as a banana- found in the living room - surrounded by the grand peep gallery, on the deck, watching/gazing (I could just spit 'cause my folks weren't jet skis!) or back on ye ole hard mattress.  Guess the operative word may be 'lone'.  This because of all the 'm-i-a-s'.  That would be you readers and 'our' writer. What/where up?
      (As I recall, I was last seen wearing thin skin covered by a thick, hard, supportive 'body cast' affair - the medical folks call it a "Turtle".  Those cut-ups!  Turtle indeed.  Missing, though, was the usual paraphernalia - cool, mossy earth or sand under webbed Joan and Davids, nearby wading ponds, a chatty, newsy-kind of reptilian companion, mayhaps with the moniker, 'Rivett', and crowning, palettes of color, turned on by shards of brilliant sun - or off by mist-to-rivulet moisture finding its way to playfully bounce off of or gracefully slide over/down my smooth, runway-ready 'flage'-slick slicker.
        And writing.  Those who caught a gander caught the makeshift cubicles-for-the-creating - pens, legal pads, 'to-do-list' pads, forgotten "tomorrow's Menu"s, tissue boxes.  I longed for "Desk" - large, familiar, sea-worthy yet mermaid-made.  Then, once home, I became a nomad in my home.  But I kept writing.  Now I am also talking.  I speak with lovely folks who help the hapless who are hopelessly tangled in the technicalities of turning written material - please see above - into a unified whole - dedicated, explained, introduced, printed, bound, distributed and placed where books-to-be-acquired and read live.) 
        So I'm going to the source.  She's in town. Rumor has it there's a plot a-foot.  But, not unlike "Second-Hand Rose", even rumors I'm hearing, someone heard before.  Not to be trusted.  So I'll be going to the source.  I know she's around here somewhere.  This week was her Mom's birthday so she stays close to the ranch - if you get my whiff.  And, cross my four legs, you will be the first to know - first and top drawer - scoop.
        Later, Desk. . . .