Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Bear-Biting in 2015

       {Just an Aside.  Sometimes writing is automatic, I guess.}

Sandy's Life Song

Thrust from the fluid, undulating, warm liquid ambiance of his mother's womb,
Already feeling hammered and teleported into the OB's slippery, gloved hands by some act of sorcery,
This same kak's beefy hand delivered a remora-powered blow to Chandler's dolphin-smooth deriere,
grinning at the expectant wail reaction.
Mom's grin flatlined at the sound of her cherub's response-in-protest.
Medicine of the mundane exited.
And "Sandy-Pete-McGaw", the concerto - maestroed by Mother Marty by which her son's life would be known - bellowed, then mellowed into its rhythmic, tidal performance.
Ruled by the Moon Goddess, the sirens of the sea would softly, yet urgently, beckon to him lifelong.
His art was lived rather than created.
In many ways, life was an interloper between Sandy and his artistic muse.
We are formed by what we desire and Sandy's aquatic desire,
His penchant to be of the waters, vascillated between glass-smooth and blurred stormy.
But ever did it flow freely, soothing and at peace with itself.
He lived a life of generosity and praise to those who clung to that "Last Hurrah" mentality, the genre of HOPE.

******************************************

       "Some days you bite the bear and some days the bear bites you."  In my Freshman year at Georgetown, I dated (briefly) a midshipman whose cloying habit it was to drawl out this non-hallowed maxim as punctuation, summation, commentary to whatever event or experience we'd just endured.  I thought Annapolis was lovely, the parties and outings always a great time but what price sailing, cobblestoned historical surroundings, or asparagus, for that matter.  With little remorse, I soon forfeited the entire gestalt, electing instead to lead the Hoya Life with unabashed gusto - making the revered "Tombs" hangout my second home, learning every word of every "Chimes" song and keeping ONLY the wisdom of his far-too-oft-repeated maxim as a lifelong memento.

       You may recall, back in the paragraphs before you were applying for your Medicaire card, that I had come to a screeching halt upon arriving at the month of February in what would become that dastardly year of 2015.  I do believe the attitude

expressed on the little one's face
captures the overall mood of our family on that soggy Saturday that ensconced itself indoors as well as out.

       Daddy doc had been blissfully purchasing 'stock' in amounts abundant to supply ALL Habitats for Humanity from his buddy, 'Sam'.  I was doing indoor chores -  some of which brought me in very close proximity to the 'house side' of the garage door. (Did I mention the fact that on the ever-growing list of losses associated with the ageing process, auditory acuity has been a tough little tiger of resistance on mine.  Thus far.)

       Upon his mud-tracked return, laden with unnecessaries, there was an aura of urgency about his countenance which required investigating. 
"I'll start putting things away while you make your second . . .", I began.  (Affect and tone casual.)
"WE are heading for the garage - if it's still standing!"  (Affect and tone not UNlike 'Code Blue!')  Maintaining silence as we trundled down the steps to the 'Mother-in-Law-Suite', crossed the hardwood flooring, followed by the lush carpeting of his study, he yanked the garage door open to the now sloshy five steps leading to the car-less, storage filled double garage, water rising quickly and spiraling dervishly from the still standing golf bag - clubs with animal booties intact - such that its reach missed nary a millimeter of garage, the ceiling, floor and contents.

       The jetted stream of water had its origin above, beginning from a frozen, broken, exterior spigot that had at one time been the connection for the garden hose, the diameter of which was the causation of the force and 'dead-on' direction of the rapidly destructing, impossibly curtailing with any speed or efficiency, power-driven, structure eradicating flood - with obvious plans of following the path of least resistance - and most irreversible, possibly 'demolition status' outcome.

       Springing into action, he made the necessary calls and I salvaged as many critically important documents and irreplaceable items that I could carry up what was now the path of greatest (and most dangerous) resistance to dry/safe pastures.  USAA provided rapid, accurate and complete guidance.  Family, friends, neighbors and GOD got us through the remainder of the longest of OUR February days in forty-eight years of marriage.
(Unfortunately, there will be 12 more months to be continued.  Or we could call it a day and chat about pruning the calceolarias.  For now, I'm calling it a day  (and a more engaging olio of characters you'll never meet.  Honest.)
He couldn't wait to see how it ended. . .



Later, Lorane. . . . .              

      

      
 






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