tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28199772543999409412024-03-13T01:38:42.857-07:00Last Seen Wearing ThinA compilation of life experiences, relationships and, when applicable, analysis of same re: value and/or detrimental effect. This is combined with ongoing current event commentary - personal & global - and the effects, in the writer's opinion, said events potentiate.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.comBlogger186125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-10205314437811901622018-06-29T14:45:00.002-07:002018-06-29T14:49:15.923-07:00Over His Dead Body<span style="font-size: x-large;"> I hear that what we now know about Pompeii is known because 'the dead speak'- a phenomenon of considerable importance to historians and one driven home in the wake of our losing Charles Krauthammer last week, (Born March 13, 1950-died-June 21, 20018, Charles was 69.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> While engrossed in a culinary video, savoring a favorite chapter, "Amazing Avocados", I was assaulted by a news alert announcing that this intellectual giant, Renaissance Man, liver of the life "he intended" and pillar of civility had been snatched from us by cancer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Charles allowed as how his ‘date’ with learning and purposeful growth was to blossom into an exquisite, enduring marriage with an assist from his father, the penultimate matchmaker. "My <span style="background-color: yellow;">father told</span> us very early, 'You have learn everything. You don't have to <i>do everything</i> but you should learn everything.'".</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Following a diving accident one year before he was to graduate from Harvard Medical School, which left him paralyzed, he asked to continue with his class. Had he not, Charles was certain he would devolve into a black abyss of despondency.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> After his arduous recovery and 'on time' graduation (Our boy demonstrated adefining spirit characterized by his affinity and friendship with hard work.), he pursued psychiatry, finding it to be midway between pragmatism and philosophy. A need to affect change and leave his imprimatur on the world through honest discourse and his clear, succinct style of writing, he deserted medicine, embarking on a career in political journalism in Washington, DC. Why you may ask with hungry curiosity. "Because that's where they make laws."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> With his cavalier attitude, his bride and an optimism that was de rigueur, he succeeded in landing an op ed spot with the Washington Post. One thing led (take your best shot. I cannt submit that hackneyed phrase to a piece about Charles. Although he <i>did </i>use it when describing his career change in casual chat! I'll go with 'destiny '.), he eventually joined Fox News as a much venerated, oft-quoted commentator. By the by, our 'hail fellow well met ' was awarded the Pulitzer prize for journalism en route. We last found him there-the pithy, polished pundit we came to know/strived to emulate (Thesaurus in hand). At his passing he also wrote a weekly column for the Post when not engaged with presidents and kings. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> His positive affect and innate good grace and affability have been heralded by colleagues, friends, historians, world leaders and the entire Washington Nationals franchise over the decades, (He noted of latter, "With the world going to hell in a handbasket, God created baseball very late on the sixth day.") These same folks, true followers all, also confessed to episodes of white knuckled panic during merry forays with Charles driving his wheelchair-customized van. His propensity to speed dashed all chances of indoctrination into the Drivers' Hall of Fame.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Charles cruised through venues-social, political, sports-with the admirable ease found only in the man who incorporates truth, kindness and comfort with in his own skin. Like some opulent millionaire, squandering precious coins of personality, he whipped around in his metier now engaged in hearty debate, now cheering his beloved Nats, now sharing a room, a dinner, a tete-a-tete with a cohort/friend, or 'splitting a personality ' with stinging bon mots, with his personal ebullience and savoir faire, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">always holding forth and fifth and sixth. And his audiences will recall and savor each 'Charles encounter ' as one of spirited inspiration. Thank you, Charles. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Weeks before leaving he wrote he was losing my his battle with cancer`. An army of collea gues have vindicated him admirably by airing his sage commentary vis a vis news topics of the day. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">JUST</span> <span style="font-size: x-large;"> last week, he joined his fellow panel members with his thoughts on immigration. It was wonderful to see and hear him - healthy,wiley and natty as ever wrapping it up for the gang. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> As with Pompeii, he 'speaks '. While history herself is in mourning, eloquence has been silenced. Who among us would deny the value in perpetuity of this phenomenon? Who indeed. (Think about it. Take your time. I can wait.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . .</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-86458963842742774862017-10-01T17:31:00.000-07:002017-10-01T17:31:43.626-07:00SMART COOKIES DON'T CRUMBLE<span style="color: purple;"> </span><span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> She's very excited. My ten yea-old granddaughter. It's her first ever attempt at grabbing an office. With her imposing poster(three feet long from chin to knees) that reads "I may be a Rookie but I'm one Smart Cookie". She's in a field of fifth grade luminaries at a private school in Southeast Virginia. They're 'running' on adrenaline, coined phrases, ambition, the competitive spirit and a blissfully blank platform. But, they're awash with the good intentions of a frontiersman for theirs are footprints that will trod virgin paths of academia with hormone-infused, heartfelt slogans:"Council for council", Install Hall", and then there's our cookie.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> Is there precedent for this confidence? (Or would that be putting the 'duh' in redundant?). The fruit of just her <i>maternal </i>family tree nourished legions of the needy, placed honorably among the more-than-capable, produced juice that was prized in the nursery and dried well into ensuing generations. Its legacy was cherished and preserved, not in the awkward scrawl of the child but in the baroque style favored by legends. One particular tree branch proved destined for immortality. It crashed into self-sufficiency having acquired the wisdom and power to succeed at the foot of a global specialist. I give you the Jackie-Fruit Cookie. (Take it.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> The Jackie-F was planted under a nom de plume. (Patience, dear reader. It's rough going to keep this 'mix' of metaphors straight. But if we work together, we all learn.) Christened, raised and educated as Bertha, she ultimately retained counsel reputed to be the best and charged it with her image-makeover. The chocolate chip Bertha Cookie was deeply dunked, emerging a self-created 'Blue Chip' confection. Forsaking her bridal New Jersey shores (the Palisades ne'er the wiser) the Jackie-F could be seen seated cozily behind the tinted glass partition of her Mysterious Blue limo - George at the wheel - nestled in the smooth, gray pile of satin velvet seatcovers, bound alternatively for Delmonico's, then Idlewild Airport, or the Office - of new female hirees, shared with the more stately, established 'lady', Liberty (Libby in the 'hood). By late, late evening, she was brownstoned in Brooklyn.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> It was a time for leveling the global playing field in business, in banking, in corporate-ladder land. Jackie (in Prada) knew the mechanics, merchandising, 'money' of oil better than most. She had traveled extensively (and mostly in Greece, on yachts and in Prada) in her last position at Axon. Nationally, she was feted at the Oil Industry's "Fleet Week'' in New York Harbor, as well as equally comfortable and poised at the Pentagon where defense contracts were served to minority bidders with regularity. Jackie's four-inch Fendis clicked her to the winners' circle in DC, in glass-breaking steps at the finest Greek Galas, and, at last, to the pomp and ceremony of the launch of "L'Isle Petroleum", the first of its kind in the industry. Twenty-Four/Seven was de rigueur for her. "Top Gun" (Tom Cruise)' work sun to sun. Jackie's work, never done.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> Only the Georges in her entourage knew of the many nights never going home, missing meals, and non scheduling of doctors' appointments and time with her family. It was also given to George to fetch her Diet Cokes, her visiting family from airports, her realtor to present papers for signage on the newly-purchased townhouse in Georgetown. George it was who also met her maiden aunts when they arrived to assume the care of her eight year-old daughter in Washington when she was summoned to "camp".</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> You see, (don't you?). The Gulf War 'happened'. Our jets needed fuel. Jackie-F had several huge Department of Defense contracts. They called for supply of "Jet-Six" for our fighter planes. Prices, in deference to the war, were down across the board. Jackie-F noticed the government as to the price change. At the dizzying three-month's end, she noticed no change in payment. At war's end, the error had been compounded many times over. She sought counsel. They advised: Do nothing.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> She was stunned. In disbelief she heard the words. Comprehension would be a very late arrival. Her stellar career! Exhausted from her ascendance, she was thankfully numb when they told her how "Isle" would be divided, who'd been selected to assign foster care for her 'baby'. There was legitimate help waiting in the wings to assume the care of her (illegitimate, it seemed) child while she was detained in the federal penitentiary. Was it fatigue? "I can't feel my feet" </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> The picture painted by her attorneys guided her preparation. There would be sports - tennis, surely and sailing, weather permitting. Spas -'The Pamper Pad', she remembered them saying. Dress would be very casual. And she <i>so </i>missed her jeans, jellies and jet(bomber) jacket. Best to wear her hair long for now. She would leave her CDs with the aunts for little Josie. Skype? She presumed so. But. Her Erno Lazlo, just in case they don't carry. . .</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> The big day did not disappoint. Six feet, one inch in height, Jackie-F's arrival would most likely be noticed. So sad, parting with George. (He'd become the Morgan Freeman of her conscience, explaining, embellishing, erecting "Enter, Jackie-F!", "Beat it, Bertha!".) But. They insisted on a chopper. It put her in mind of "Fleet Week". She'd been lowered to the deck of a carrier! Top Gun! Roger that. Over and out. Today, it would be to a dry, courtyard expanse, seated in something called a "double bucket swing". Yes. Don't drop your racquet. Don't lose a jelly. Be courteous to your 'bucket buddy'. Enter and in. Roger this and that and happy and skipping. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> Boy. Wow, that 'lady' must have had a really bad day. Took all my stuff. The others laughed. No. Please. "I'd rather not bend. . ." Lines. Lines. This morning I believe they are serving. . . "French toast, please. . No? No, No, No! Well, that's just too Goddamned <i>bad! It's a law! You have </i>to give me bread and <i>water. A law!"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> She had always loved to clean. Maggie - older sister - would cook and Bert would clean. In Mars. Thank God for dirt. And for books. She learned more about the law than any of her new friends. She composed lovely, neat arguments and motions about the incompetence of lawyers at trial and in hearings. And, in turn, she never had to worry about her safety - or comfort. She began to pray more. Remembering Latin verses or words straining to rhyme. Never once did she doubt her intelligence.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> And there was so much to learn. Just like a frontiersman, her jellies found new roads. Every day a new challenge. It reminded her of the way she felt in the sixties at Berkely. Or in the Peace Corps. Always giving, giving, giving. Even back then. Thinking of her early days at Axon. . . She hoped she could take Josie to the Greek Islands and that the numb feeling would go away in her feet. And the dizzy spells.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> As with everything else, time would tell. But Jackie-F knew - because she was a smart cookie - that things would end well. She would be whole, intact, in control. Because smart cookies don't crumble. Wait. Do I see crumbs? Do you? (You look. I'll be right here). Holding things together. Not stirring. Like a mouse on Christmas Eve. In a smart, quiet house. Sooner or</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Later. . . . .</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Lorane</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-35810841184019539332017-09-12T08:37:00.000-07:002017-09-12T08:37:05.247-07:00IT WASA VERY GOOD TIME <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">There are days - sometimes weeks- when reverie seems to hover, like a shroud covering the ranch. It touches memories blown from shelves, book spines and kodachrome-heavy albums. Moving among these threads of the whole cloth of our lives, one can re-create the scenes from which they hail. It's a tidy idea to have a framework for working with life experiences. Time, place, age -they all serve to orient the memory organizer making the job one of re-lived accomplishment, even overall <i>good</i> <i>times</i>. (I've gone with 'hair color' and 'do' when dealing with the last with excellent results.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Our "family" experience (soon to come "the Personal", "The Professional" et cetera until you regret ever learning how to read) best evolves geographically. Another child, new job, the Jones' - there's always an impetus for the filling-nesters to migrate. And there is no formula; each is a one-of-a-kind template to be colored in. I tend to recall walls (I painted), furniture (I re-covered ) addresses, neighbors, views - the physical trappings that peopled life; relationships that offered kindness, assistance, a beer - inanimate trappings,well they are a measure of progress - more or fewer things to dust and maturity - moving when progress calls. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Inanimate trappings coordinated with location by and large. But. You cannot use only location to measure value. To (and fro) wit, thirty years of living spent at our second zip code saw the birth of three, the death of seven, sending off of four and the incorporation of additional family units. Thirty years bore witness to a bounty of momentous occasions that were never reflected by a concomitant transfiguraon of the physical residence. Hardly. White house, black trim and shutters, large, redwood-fenced back lot, and purple - yes purple - metal-slatted blinds shouted the existence of a roaring crowd of diverse, busy folk 'rolling' on an otherwise run-of-the-wanna-be-upper middle class-not-so-<i>sub </i>urban-types street. Two moves, twenty years, barely pre-IRA-living later finds the <i>nucleus</i> of those folk in a custom built, new home. These digs can hardly tell a story of upward mobility when you drive immediately passed "Jeb the Butcher" as you approach the right turn onto "I live here" boulevard. Hardly.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Returning to <i>sub sub</i> urban involves returning to a brief, inoculatory phase endured before the high-powered whirlwind 30-year lap. This incubation spell was ne'er idle (lest the reader get confused). While incubating, the nest was a white/black trim Dutch Colonial that squatted on an immense, meandering corner lot and peacefully leaned back onto a very old, sprawling magnolia tree that rather controlled its wedge of end-of-the-neighborhood' land. For it hardly traversed at all before ending in a trickling stream the other side of which became a path that stretched into a dirt road which, once adopted, became the sidelines (bleachers to boot) of a crookedly-lined ball field by which the tracks of Norfolk and Southern carried punctually-routed trains 24/7. (Note to writer: <i>Do</i> give examples of the 'death-to-creativity' run-on sentence in your next 'improve your grammar' blurb. Oh, look. I have! Never mind.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Fourteen-thirty-two Gates Avenue was the official location but technically/sociologically - you shall see- it was the very busy apex of the triangle formed by two sleepy, tree-lined streets which served to house - in a landscaped <i>vision</i> - attorneys and doctors and their families. (and their stories. If azaleas could talk! Don't ask. Well. Go ahead. Ask. I'm going to be right here.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> As noted, this incubation spell was ne'er dormant. Rather, the</span><span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> master amused himself with a riotous schedule - thirty-six hours on and twelve off - dedicated to his healing apprenticeship. Off hours found him bonding with their boy as well as engaging in gang buster efforts at family expansion. Boy needed and wanted sibs lest he be 'to the meagre' born. However <i>boy's</i> days were joyous, filled with the things of the child.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> The mistress (poor word choice) having tip-toed <i>by</i> home decoration - the carpeted first floor was barren save the pillowed/stuffed pieces in the den, boy's room sported an elaborate scheme hatched at the previous home and the master bedroom, well it <i>was </i>a utility room, as you can imagine. ( knock yourself out!)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Time never hung comfortably on her hands. Not wanting to spend it circling the drain, (This 'issue' is worthy of its own post but suffice it to say, she'd noticed that wanna be docs' wives, trying to hone their 'solitary evenings' skill set, often resorted to handy pharmaceutical aids. The result was 'wives nite out' or in a clouded room, a smoky restaurant, a dim café, voices leaking out in disarray. So sad. The pills - prescribed as pain relievers and mood elevators - morphed into pain expanders and mood relievers. Everything hurt and nothing made sense. Some flirted with detox time or worse. I bring you no news when I tell you that prominent among these ladies, one could find Junior League presidents and heads of Mothers-Against-anything-verboten. Remaining an outsider to this fate, she followed her doctor's suggestion to "get involved in something you love ".) Time, then, was exuberantly squandered on her lifelong passion, theater.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> As fortune would have it, the town's little theater was within walking distance. Time, in this case, gunned the engines of her extreme restlessness. And the dinner theater was an easy drive from the launch pad. Now, their schedules were aberrant - for this hood - but being caught up in rehearsals and performances would take the bite (usually felt by Mrs. Intern and Mrs. Resident) out of her 'home alone' evenings because she wasn't. Doctor's work sun to sun. Ingenue-with-child's work never done. As the season came to a close, she bounded over to calls at the dinner theater, landing a plum part that would define how she rolled hence. At 1432, that is.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> She worshipped at the alter of structure in the pre-opening weeks. Boy walked to school; almost-doc was on duty at St. Everywhere; lines, line, lines were the task-master of her days. The vagaries of board-trotters trumped the vapidity of school board meetings. The Junior League Roll Call never sang her name. Dinner on the run or not at all was followed by our Boy basking in abundant care and feeding by fellow cast members. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> As you may know, The Prisoner of Second Avenue is pretty much a two actor performance. The husband and wife carry the audience through a life/relationship-changing-burglary. In New York. In two rooms of their apartment. Mel is a lumbering, teddy-bear of a guy - pj's and ball cap -clad - depressed and in reverse on the trigger. ( If you get my drift. I'll wait while you think.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Edith is a youthful, forty-two New York doer- type. She has no time left for small stuff while Mel's <i>stuff </i>is being big on the New York Times while he's out of work. The audience merrily gobbles two and a half hours of Neil Simon one-liners with a plethora of sight gags which were crafted in a style so subtle and nuanced as to feature Simon's comedic genius rather than comedic bufoonery. And, well, our leading lady darts around, now focused, now musing in a personal neurotic charade, but <i>ever</i> in her color-blocked, long, terry robe--fresh from the bath. (Hey, this robe could have been borrowed from her aunt, a cloistered nun, but, eyebrows will click their heels or whatever they do when the Southern Belle image has been bruised. And that would be by viewers or reviewers- a distinctly astigmatic crowd at the time.). Predictably, the majority of audiences pierced the sonic capacity of the room in greeting her when she padded to the stage apron, barefoot, robed and <i>last </i>for the curtain call. Except for one particular set of eyes and ears that would remain stolid and stunned. Moreover, their attendant mouths would gear up to 'talk'. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> It was soon after the show opened to long run/rave reviews that they were invited to a 'welcome to the neighborhood ' party. (for them). The host and hostess were the attorney who represented the area's largest-profile children's hospital and Mrs. Attorney, Heika, homebody (body being the operative syllable of the word). The target couple, king-and-queen-for-a-Sunday-evening, were accompanied by their next door friends, the Hills. (He was also an attorney but Helen rode her own star as a docent at the city's pestigious museum. Now Braxton - Brac- <i>did </i>have his bronzed kicking shoe from the glory days at UVA prominently displayed in the living room, but overall and perhaps because of a mutual interest in sports, wanna-doc liked Brac. Helen-of-Gates would follow a bottle of Asti Spumanti anywhere but otherwise was inocuous. Smiled alot actually.) </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> So it was, on the big welcoming night, that the newbies joined the masters/mistresses of their contiguous, tree-lined streets (remember that triangle) to make merry, spear Gouda and sport "Hello, My name is ____" badges. Several hours into the soiree, the host approached our gal as she was balancing dipped crackers in one hand and hubby's and her wine in the other - clearly a replenish mission. Host Esquire (slander is such a messy scene, no?) proferred -sans any pleasant platitudes (which were pitifully abundant when this group gaggled)- : "I just want you to know that we (gesturing at the room, the world, the planet beyond) all know exactly what you are (pause, wink meaningfully) and what you're doing."</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">That <i>she</i> paused, gathering her thought, is once more bringing you no news , but punctuating the massiveness of the gestalt of emotions she had to suppress and what with both hands full, scotching any possibility of 'leaning attentively on the piano', we must color her paused. But, thus digitally constrained, she looked beyond Esquire Bill, her cold stare finding Mrs. A, Heika, transiting the room with seven or eight "Hello, My name is <u>male guest"</u> stuck onto the seat of her too tight slacks. Thusly rewarded, she returned her focus to her antagonist, her expression questioning, her voice locked, as Bill held forth, "Leaving at dinnertime, usually dragging the child. Get home rather late, eh?"</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said, "It is wiser to remain silent and be thought ignorant than to speak and remove all doubt."? Clearly, our guy has grossly overstepped and underestimated. And she. Well, she's a survivor who has 'bigger fish to fry' as it were, down the road. (Would that she'd had a free hand to toss some savignon blanc at his sneer.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> His elaboration sparked some (a soupcon?) tension. Her thoughts tumbled about in her head, barely concealed by wispy bangs, emotions threatening to jog amok. <i>This </i>was a really <i>bad </i>scene in which she was forced to play. What price, though, public confrontation, or her reputation, or asparagus for that matter. All of the energy, time and work she'd put out to ensure safe passage and privacy of their domestic ship now seemed wasted, the ship marooned. She knew, moreover, that if she stirred this pot, Bill would go on a fool's errand, and she to pieces. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Rather, she'd opt for 'Bill avoidance/non-event', the sorry but typical reaction he usually encountered. Indeed, her very own wanna doc never spoke of the Bills of the world, save as potential patients. (which <i>this Bill was bucking for!) </i>Were she to acknowledge his lunacy, he'd have ventured <i>and</i> gained. Her world had been rocked before, by far better than Bill and, <i>wait </i>a . . . </span><span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">But Bill waits for none but, in his pickled, puffed up pouter pigeon voice spouted, "My Heika. When I get home at six, she's waiting by the front door, with my children, happy and anxious to give me anything, and I mean <i>anything, </i>I want". (Assuredly, this last was delivered with a leering wink'n lip curve, but she doesn't recall.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> This last <i>also </i>fell on deaf ears <i>and </i>nerves. No longer in the conversation, she moved aside, poking her way passed partygoers, approaching husband, indicating the front door (For good measure, she glanced toward the foyer. No sign of Bill's kids. That's crazy!, her mind interrupted. Crazy. She wanted to look into "help" but knew there'd be no room at the 'bin'. She doesn't <i>do </i>crazy. She's a wife, a Mom, still a daughter and sib. She reads EKG'S. When <i>not </i>working, she acts. Loves the theater, you know. ('Course you do. You <i>are </i>still reading, no? There <i>could </i>be a test. . .). What <i>else </i>can you do when a tipsy Bill spouts BS? At his house. At your party. I ask you. What? (Take your time. I'll be right here.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> She waited a few weeks before sharing the episode with her mate. And when she <i>did, </i>it became an addendum to her happy plan of getting comp tickets to the show for the neighbors. An away-from-home, Cumbaya bonding event for the hood. (How could Bill <i>not see </i>the folly of his thinking after that? All of that audience interaction, warmth , fun, skipping. She was certain this would clear up all misunderstandings. Wipe her slate of nasty falsehoods. Dissolve any enmity. NOT. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Saturday nights were usually sold out. And it was indeed a full house to which her neighbors added ten wary people. They were happy to use their complementary tickets. They were happier to see their choice reserved seats. After a wonderful meal, there was satisfied chatter as they anticipated seeing their very own friend and neighbor on stage. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Lights. She enters in blackout. Stage lights up. Upstageright, she she's speaking frantically into the phone.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Edison. E-D-I-S-O-N. Edison. Yes. They robbed us. We've been robbed. What d'ya mean, "What do I mean?" Robbed. They come in. They take <i>things </i>out. Robbed us. And so she whisked through the Edisons' burglary and Neil Simon's work of art. All of this happiness was met with thunderous applause right up to and including the reassuring, bemused dénouement. The performance almost over, the gasp caught her attention. Then the low buzz. The inappropriate whisper. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> It now <i>was </i>over. She waited a bit longer before starting from upstage center, alone, to greet the robust audience response. At the apron, she looked for her guy. He was exhausted and giddy with wine and clapping wildly. (She recalled hearing gales of laughter coming from this table.) She bowed deeply, head down, robe slightly open, feet <i>very </i>bare. And the Bill. Looking at his tablemates. He began whispering, then insisting on something. They ignored and non-evented him. They applauded.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> He stood, making very sweeping extremity moves as he packed up his program, cigarettes and car keys. His Heika was already marching exitward. He followed after first stooping down to speak to a man at the next table - a total stranger. Stranger ignored him, focused on applauding. Bill deposited his commentary into stranger's wife's ear. (He was just thinking of others. Even then. He was just giving , giving, giving. Doctor's work sun to sun . Bill's work never done.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Spring, welcome as always, found new life in the hood. People were out jogginq, kids playing ball. Moms strolling beside Santa-brought shiny trykes. And Bill thrilled with his new pine-paneled game room, invited ALL the boys for Wednesday night kickass poker. Even wannbe doc found time. She was glad.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> It was after midnight when she heard Brac's voice. "Time for bed, doc". Wanna be had won big with two pairs. He'd defended her honor, <i>and </i>left his host with an impressive swollen lip and no instructions for caring for it. Heika would want to happily administer 'tender loving care' and do whatever the ER doc advised. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Stuff happens but you go on. Of course she knew <i>nothing</i> had happened but some goodness knows maturity. Father Barton - a friend and frequent dinner guest to many in the hood -was no stranger to her. He'd recently spoken of Bill and Heika and change and smiling and skipping. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> On a Saturday, early, before the unforgiving mowers got going, Bill found doc hanging a tire swing for the boy. The magnolia tree had finally become more than a pretty face. At first he helped in silence. Then they were facing each other and the huge branch stole the show. But not before she saw hairy arms resting on broad shoulders. Then she smiled, listening to friendship. Halting at first. But quite real.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> <i> </i> </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> <i> </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0Nunavut X0A, Canada72.222638115097311 -81.210937546.632482115097311 -122.5195315 90 -39.9023435tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-19686141198517290022017-08-20T20:03:00.000-07:002017-08-20T20:19:06.288-07:00EAT STUFFED CABBAGE. . .IN A MATTER OF SPEAKING<span style="font-size: x-large;">It seems the Summer of 17 has been quite the sizzler. Gods of War have held the headlines. National, ethical and economic issues/conflicts have preoccupied bylines. (Albeit the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and its environs remain blissfully 'Southern' quiescent.). Tragic and conquering heroes now escalate, now ebb ere moving from center stage to sidelines. A season of bombast, the natives a-twitter, twitcin' like the fingers on a trigger of a gun.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">And that's just TV fare. Rumor has it that from the local scene to the international stage, reality has surpassed network headlines. </span><span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">(looks like I'm to go with aubergine for 'reality'. Editors!). In fact, my sources often touch base in the middle of the night-disturbing a perfectly <i>perfect</i> bay at the moon- using Morse Code, such is this global <i>imager/'screwdriver-in-the-shoephone' </i>obsession.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Thankfully, my ruse was outed, find me they did-hiding, 'Garboesque' at our North Carolina cottage, back to the fray, nose as distant from any grindstone that may lurk about as possible.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Forty-five years of summering with children embedded crowds of memories in these walls. Now they wrap me in their Zeitgeist and I am a willing captive . Standing proudly on its piles, cottage and I are a coning tower, gleaning and reporting life activity, a safe harbor, unedited, unplugged (perhaps unread) and awash with candor.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Locally, tis a fact that the renters have been testy. Communal energy levels have been notably, if not alarmingly low as one might expect, what with the dismally damp weather pattern. They soldier on, our mostly 'Yankee ' brothers. Each morning finds our lock-stepping band of hopefuls marching along the unforgiving planks of the main beach walkway, passing our East front porch. The path was cleverly constructed so as to obliterate any view of sand or surf save by periscope from the road. This structural malfeasance results in our campers having to bear, push, drag, forgo (most common) their 'fun-in-the-sun' trappings toward an uncertainty.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">THEN, their paternal leader faces the grim task of deciding whether it will in fact be a 'beach day'. There will be a collective peering out at the horizen in the hope they'll soon have to squint or seek cover under a gaily striped umbrella. Not. The gaze from our porch reports another 'rainy, mostly rainy, rain with t-storms' kind of day. By day three, I was seeing fewer parades and earlier starts of the crestfallen trek back to the cottages which in the brochures, had such an abundance of healthy, tanned fun and now seem to mock the very notion. Several 'tourons' have taken to glancing my way with narrowed eyes of suspicion, accusation even. Relax, pal. Not MY raindance.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">In fact for me, this daytime fare alternates with evenings of news viewing . That said, I must qualify that scene by mentioning the occasional disruption. Yes, dear readers, Camelot is subject to being pierced by random sneakerfalls of rude, tresspassing night revelers, shouting obscene words, tearing off bits of bits of clothing, while generally rumbling along in some nocturnal, ritualistic 'dash-to-the-dunes'. Of course these are the same dunes re which they have been asked to "keep off". And given this species of motley humanity, it's no oddity that also by day three, much of the signage has been altered/embellished in the infantile scrawl common to New York City Subway wall writers with... . the old familiar suggestion, in some cases graphically, if in a puerile fashion. (Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to apologize for this shocking breach of taste. This, because my editor, who usually functions as the Morgan Freeman of my conscience, is now out.) (BLACKOUT, PU-LEASE!)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">During most welcome hushes, I can see that back home the quest for 'altered argot' is still in full force. Responses/statements are wearing a freshly washed and starched 'so' as their lead-in. (You'll recall our time worn 'so'- a letter couplet used to indicate degree or amount, less frequently, demonstrative of style or manner.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Location queries insist on terminating with 'at'.(And one cannot imagine <i>where</i> the solution to this problem is at.). People, rather than attending, accepting, declining, or missing meetings, are 'taking' them. And our most recent outing of the 'Batta Book, Batta Boom' sit com is pointing with his horned rim glasses to achieve impressive levels of authority and take-charge-ability. A brief preview has our hero foregoing verbal response completely. Rather, he's planted downstage right, facing the audience, a vision of smug satisfaction. He stands in silence ( a condition which, we may see by the end of this post, is not without powerful message potential.) He is silent <i>as well as</i> stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">In the ever-shrinking big tent of significant action, we find paralysis. This because seated, nay sutured within the seamed borders leading to 'action', are words, words, words. Flung, delivered, sung, twittered, their insufficiency and ineptitude as harbingers of their brethren, 'deeds' puts one in mind of 'Liza Doolittle's plea, "Show me!". (And wasn't <i>her</i> monicker a misnomer). Their recipients are alternatively frightened, confused, insulted, at a loss, having revved down from slo to no motion. And this is because action <i>without</i> forwarned, amplified drivel was playing at the top of the charts this week.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">In an impressive, lothario performance, life taking action cut quite a rocket swath to the top following 'words' clumsy stumble to its nadir. Good guys' work sun to sun; terrorists' job, never done. Finally, their work is never desultory. Indeed, in their absence, they are pointedly life-threatening. (See Spain, Finland, Germany)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Why just today, during the somewhat conclusory commentary of a current events panel, the participants shared the 'special place' or custom - from their respective pasts - to which folks were drawn in the event of a community crisis. (This is daytime, happening now fare, guys. It's how we roll at high noon.). Each panel member in turn proffered a place - town barbershop, church, city hall and the 'casual' like. The last panel member, known for her savy and no nonsense candor, offered a deadpan, "In Rumania, we just ran somewhere and ate stuffed cabbage.". Conclusions are - and should remain - in our inbox. This observer's takeaway, nonetheless (utile little word, no?) is in the company of 'imprimatur' and "me too". </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Crisis Centers punctuate crisis; barber shops allay it. But. Modern medical science seems without conclusory evidence of harm, short or long-term, from eating stuffed cabbage. Of course studies are mostly limited to Rumanians and carnivores but in the words of a wise old Buddhist monk, 'who's to say if this is good or bad?'. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">And Simon says:</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">"Fools said I you do not know</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Silence like a cancer grows.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Hear my words that I might teach you</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Take my arms that I might reach you.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">But the <i>words</i> like silent raindrops fell,</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">And echoed in the well of </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Silence.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Simon said, "do".</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">So, I say, "now hiring: do men"and in signing off, happy birthday, Mom and Kathy, and y'all, eat stuffed cabbage. Sounds safe, tho awaiting FDA approval in the overcrowded bin labeled, 'later',</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;">Lorane</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com02343561.669859367423562 -114.2648291587829636.079719367423564 -155.57342315878296 87.259999367423561 -72.95623515878296tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-2622341515215751292017-07-04T14:19:00.000-07:002017-07-04T14:25:56.247-07:00Are the Stars out Tonignt?<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> They say (and don't you always wonder who 'they' are?) that words are the control mechanism for one's personal magic. Indeed, this notion is by habit hammered home to one's children and grandchildren. Would that the spiffy club of Madison Avenue 'ad' folks subscribed to and considered it when penning their messages, entreaties and 'plugs' to the public. Before sharing today's thoughts with you, I should like to call attention to some word usages that were better left idle.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Without 'naming names', (you know who you are) there has been an anemic campaign - befitting its subject - afoot to market an overnight/week inn that has the target audience believe there are great minds and clever wordsmiths culled from the higher institutions of writing, such as they may be, assembling in Spartan rooms, legal pad at the ready as well as an imagery net to snare only the catchiest of phrases out of the literary ephemera for uses most befitting their product needs and their targets' agenda/capacity for understanding the English language. In one such think tank setting, a somewhat brash, confident, self-aggrandizing, and apparently easily entertained guru 'takes the floor' (rather than his leave, which would have been the more humane move) to subject his audience, uninspired fools all, to THE answer to this day's charge, spouting meaningfully and, were it not so pathetic an offering, smugly, "Batta-Book, Batta-Boom!".</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> That this outburst is greeted with less than his anticipated enthusiasm is right up there with the reaction of the South when Sherman marched through Atlanta. Dauntless in spirit as he is witless in expression, our boy leers about the room with eyes settling upon those of his cohorts, slowly and deliberately as only those who are patient/kind to their inferiors can do. (Odd, don't you think? For in truth this young turk most likely believes he's never had any. Inferiors, that is.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Moreover, the bruise to our language is converted quickly and smoothly to a deep, life-threatening laceration by the fact that save ONE daring doubter, speaking in the dulcet tones of the meek and inexperienced, ("Don't you think we should mention something about our low prices ?") the gathering submits in silence, punctuated by the smallest, youngest sycophantic outburst from a bespectacled, non-cunning little shaver clad in conservative office-ware's, "I like it.", which elicits the expected boom from our leading buffoon of, "Hire him!"</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> As a nation that's been watching millions of immigrants sail under Lady Liberty's armpit, her fearlessly-welcoming torch held high lo these past seven or eight decades or so, transforming them into proud Americans who would, live, grow, mate, procreate and speak English in their adopted land, we deserve more than "Batta-Book, Batta-Boom" when we are holding ourselves out to the world through an advertising campaign.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> We demand proper diction from our children and more than a passing acquaintance with their vernacular; we have been proud to incorporate those very same immigrant names and families into our culture; we nod approvingly and with pride as we call out their names as the brave who have given their lives in heated, ugly battle for this country. Do we dare now, having produced genius as well as men and women happy to make the Ultimate Sacrifice, stoutly put forth, "Batta-Book, Batta-Boom" as the best we have to offer?</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> In deference to patience (yours) and sensibilities (mine AND yours), I shall leave "Eat More Chiken" or whatever for another outing. Today, we celebrate our Independence (and thank God it wasn't won in a spelling bee or judged by a grammarian). More in tune with that celebration, my thoughts were waxing more astral than asinine today. (Take note of tense usage there.)</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">In honor of words, as they march along our pages bearing our thoughts, it seems now that my own birthing has become an indistinct anachronism, that taking time to reflect and record this living may have merit. With that humble goal, seventy-year-old thoughts were attempting to form such a reflective piece recently.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Perched quietly ("Listen" and "Silence" have the same number of letters. Coincidence?) in my study, poised to commit thoughts to paper and fling them onto my .NET, when SHE, the 'passing-by-thought-I'd-stop-in-intruder arrived, with the force of an un-forecasted hurricane. The room, it contents, my quill and I shuttered with such force from the vibrations, those 70 year-old thoughts were fractured upon impact with the pages.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> From an off-center pacemaker or five, word fragments flew, vying for speed and dominance in contorted paths - now straight, now spiraling, here up, there down - and when given sound/voice/escape, produced NOT the uttered catharsis of artistic expression but noise that pushed the line between cacophony and chaos.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Listeners knelt in fervent benediction, praying for a spate of discernible, meaningful, peaceful lines to soften the impact of this writer's frenetic oration. Some quietly fled, quit the cool comfort of mosaic tiles underthongs, embracing the hot, slate, cracked sidewalks and skirting the pot-holed tar crossings in a frantic, desperate/disparate (your pick) hunt for the sound of silence. Pausing at the corner of Walk and Don't Walk, they came upon a stubble-faced, toothless old man, Frank, peddling his warm, soft, salted pretzels. He smiled his encouragement. The taste of freedom would sate their need, help them swallow those last echoes of her neurotic banter.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> She permitted herself a pause: I can't control the wind but I can control the sails. In pursuit of a 'bridge over troubled water', she took leave of her home, seeking the rhythm of the sea, the heat of a carpet of sand. Greeted by the sleek rainbow shining down and from the massive mural, dominating the cathedral-ceilinged great room of the cottage, her childhood pierscape of the 59th Street Bridge yelled a Brooklyn "Back-atcha!". She was 'feelin' groovy'.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> No longer exquisitely bored, she applied some sonic experimentation via Simon and Garfunkel gifts to the soul to herself and to the task at hand. She <i>would </i>have the tools to write here. The grim latitudes of Suffolk that caused 'writer's block' - when the people in your head stop talking to each other - were back 'at the Zoo'. All the thoughts in her heart, straining to be released and shared would skip over the boulders of obstruction and tumble out, freed from that toxic confusion of interruption by man and machine. </span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">"Staying long?", a shout-out from neighborly voices. In and out, fro and to the familiarly desultory escape into a silent, inner-self writing, with, not under, the stars,</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">"For the Listeners and Livers Still Waiting To Be Born".</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Later, Kathy, Mary, et al. . . . .</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0Unnamed Road, Warm Springs, VA 24484, USA38.1013672696567 -79.804687512.579332769656698 -121.1132815 63.623401769656695 -38.4960935tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-82818105352183289602017-06-19T16:37:00.000-07:002017-06-19T16:42:58.801-07:00OF VICE AND MEN<span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> In 1926, Ernest Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" was published by Scribners under the masterful editorial guidance of Max Perkins. Prior to publication, two editorial discussions were held by author and editor. The first dealt with words and phrases - Profanities which the editor felt might cause suppression of the book at the time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> The second focused on the book's epigraph in which Hemingway wanted to juxtapose a comment of Gertrude Stein, referring to young artists of the day as the "lost generation " with a passage from Ecclesiastes containing the words:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">One generation passeth and another generation </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">cometh; but the earth abideth forever. The sun also riseth, and the sun goeth down, and resteth to the place where he arose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Thus the genesis of the title was in the Old Testament, punctuating the author's theme of the relationship between the earth (abiding) and its people (transient).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Not unexpectedly, reactions to the book focused heavily on the editorial discussion. Papa's word choice and characterizations were seen as scandalous-SALACIOUS even, vulgar and a reflection of the values and judgment of their publisher. Perkins bore the burden of response to this negative epistolary reaction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> In one such justificational elaboration he shared an observation with the irate reader. To wit, there were two common positions held with regard to books like this. The first feels vice should <i>never be presented in literature openly </i> as it is unpleasantly evil. The second sees the open presentation of vice as <i>valuable </i>because it is evil and ugly and if known will be avoided but if concealed/ignored, it dons a "false glamour which is seductive."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> In a not so distant artistic presentation, a TV series, "The Sopranos", enjoyed a long and avid following. Its depiction of the Italian Family Mob activities was graphic and violent and seemed to weave these qualities into the same cloth used to fabricate the characters that peopled the domestic families of its protagonists. Perhaps a majority of one, this observer, an Italian New Yorker, found everything about this artistic gestalt to be repulsive as well as inaccurate. Different strokes? One wonders with detached curiosity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Perhaps a decade has passed since the end of this weekly injection of unadulterated vice which, as noted, was mainlined by a large and enthusiastic audience. Time has not dulled my guttural, near violent opposition to its popularity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Currently, our nation-hood by hood-is all a-whisper about this 'vice scene 'on our very own streets - in demonstrations where the sit-in has devolved into the 'smash-in'; in minor criminal behavior where the young shoplifter has placed guns and machetes into his sticky fingers; where the major crime scene now eliminates not one or five with direct or friendly fire and bullets but rather mows down a crowd of unfortunates happening in their wake; and most recently, we have the crudely hollow but loud roar of opposition to elected officials by many who at one time applauded "The Sopranos ". This last phenomenon culminated in a "family-style" takeout hit of adult innocents on a baseball field where the victims were practicing for an upcoming charity fund-raiser. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> The perp apparently stalked and skulked for months; vice concealed/ignored, seduced him in much the same way that legendary sirens seduced seamen. And yet, to this observer, his may be the smallest brush stroke in this portrait of vice. The mute acceptance, nay encouragement, of the hate-spewing, destructive, senseless, mean-spirited cast of thousands of miscontents-turned- miscreants will flood the canvas with grease paint as the crowd-killing of a nation unfolds . </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Oh, for the days when vice was unpleasant and ugly and calli</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">ng a fictional character like Lady Brett a bitch in print threatened to suppress a book's publication. "The Sun Also Rises" was banned in Boston. The non-lady bitches in our congress speak at podia with amplification.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . . .</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-20629879015093184382017-05-27T11:06:00.001-07:002017-05-27T11:06:46.115-07:00I'm No Fiddler!<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> I've heard that Nero played his fiddle while Rome burned. Guess he demonstrated his lack of the ability to multitask when matters of import were occurring on the world stage. Well, far be it from me to criticize. Obviously, I can't UNItask (continue on an awkwardly begun, well-intentioned writing catchup even.). ADHD does that to one.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> But today, in that I actually completed what was to be a written communique, in person, in real time, I turn my attention - such as it is - to current international events. To wit, (whom I hardly know), on the increasingly, potent, frequent and ugly extremist attacks on innocent, unsuspecting, helpless victims on this same 'Nero' world stage.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> I heard an angry, determined law enforcer commenting on the abattoir recently created in Manchester, UK. He said, "They have a moral elevator that has no bottom floor." I am moved to respond:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">THE PLANETARY GRAVE DANCE </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">(To be performed atop the fetid, sunk remains of the losers during their impudent 'victory' gavotte)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> We must leap onto the 'retribution/redemption' escalator set to propel the globe's 'people-mover' to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, leaving an endless 'magic carpet', piled with the packed carcass bits of gratefully dead and condemned, having been ferociously slain while quaking in fearful anticipation, their very beings infused with the approaching symphonic song of annihilation that would be followed by the blissful and cherubic cheers drowning out their eternal sounds of silence. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> The Roman poet Horace wrote, "Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero." His admonition has been translated, "Seize the day, trust as little as possible in tomorrow.". Horace, obviously a man of action, wasn't allowing any moss to gather under his 'stones'. That's how <i>he </i>rolled. As to his decision, it seems a prudent course. Indeed, the more likely and proximate harm becomes, the more passionately we may wish to adopt his lexicon. You can certainly count <i>me </i>in. I'm no fiddler!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-68969037439465134122017-05-05T20:05:00.000-07:002017-05-05T20:05:01.520-07:00Here's To The Lady Who Lunched , The Spirited Men Who Joined Her, Unsinkables and "Always Dreamin'". <span style="font-size: x-large;">The birth of this new month is etched on my heart by its being the start of my second post operative week, having had foot surgery the week previous . Home alone. So much time. I used it to entertain - lavishly - the many thoughts I've been wanting to share with neglected loved ones. But the 'party' never came off as it sadly lacked the action verb - share.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Here we are, then, dear readers, at week's end and as the inimitable Dorothy Parker spat in response to her proferred party invitation, "Oh, are you entertaining?", "Not very.". Worse yet, my neglected loved ones deserve better lest they begin to see themselves as forgotten, shunned even. In a paltry attempt at mimicry - imitation being the highest form of praise, I shall adopt an acid-tongued, clever story-telling style used by Ms. Parker in her column/poetry proliferative years.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> She told several stories at once using (known in cardiology as 'interpolation' or an extra heart beat 'fitting' between two normal ones without disturbing the rhythm). Post operative foot notwithstanding I shall leap over Dorothy's acuity (fat chance), incorporating a 'crowd'. Many loved ones. Very little time. No appreciable attention span (you may recall. Or not.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> (<i>On the first rumination day, I was haunted by thoughts of my dear, thespian friend, Marty McGaw, whom I've not seen in years but spoke with two years ago on the occasion of the tragic, sudden death of one of her beautiful sons (Sandy). Karma guided me to my desk - ostensibly for stationary and I stumbled upon a haltingly begun emotionally abandoned letter which I give to her now:</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">'Marty, et al, There are no words - save those that the levelled and bereft must continually come up with to fill the never-ending voids generously offered by 'The Comforters'. Ere long you become a turnstyle easing another group of "I-don't-know-what-to-sayers" down and through, oozing along with an occasional, "Yes. Henceforth I shall be sloshing my Alaskan King Crab legs around in the salty, down home bath of my tears.".</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">I keep a notebook - but promise to write directly to you clearly as soon as my heart can handle clarity - titled, "Ridiculously Good Ideas". Last week's entry: RANDOM THOUGHTS - THE SANDY 'HAPPY LIFE FORMULA'.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">If we could see life as a spectrum, with SPLENDOR at one end and TRAGEDY at the other, what would the diagram look like? (work with me here, Marthena. Picture a horizontal, bisected paramecium with words in each section.) On the left or SPLENDOR Side: finding the right life partner; good health for you and your family; freedom/opportunity to move around to tropical climes; surviving/overcoming daily annoyances. Now the right or TRAGEDY Side: moving ahead after a crisis; losing a long-held job unexpectedly; leaving a listless, apathetic spouse; raising young kids by yourself; dying young.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Does 'feeling happy' require discipline? How or should or need one maintain a large, transparent perspective? Is that the trick, Sandy? Or is that too unrealistic an aspiration for the average, non-Sandy Mac who can barely remember to buy toothpaste in the drugstore?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">CURTAIN</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Guess I developed 'writers block'. The people in my head stopped talking to me and each other. We had to 'take it on the road' for a year or so while you were taking it on the chin. But I'm preaching to the choir. Of all beautiful, temperamental souls, you most of intimately understand the crippling quirks of the artist.)</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Dorothy Parker once put forth in a poem, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"For art is a form of catharsis, And love is a permanent flop.". I would have given those lines to Sandy but she saved the piece , "Comment" for him, as do I:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Oh, life is a permanent cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> (<i>Sandy's Life Song:</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Will of necessity be garbled in the morn. A night of brain rest is a-bornin'.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. : . .</span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763;"></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-39876359118756265052017-04-15T19:15:00.000-07:002017-04-15T19:15:23.567-07:00LADIES, DON'T LISTEN UP!<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Sometimes, when you just <i>have</i> to bite the ole 'responsibility bullet', put the laundry in, scrub that burnt grilled cheese crust off the still-soaking pan and get the veggies ready for steaming, it's a tad less tedious if you have the TV on (volume very loud) in the background. Sometimes.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Now there are alternative 'carrots'. Like today, I made reservations to fly North and visit the daughter and her fam who said "No!" to being a Southerner. It was a fun chat with a travel agent - an Idaho native. She was pleasant, funny and professional and, obviously, when faced with the 'big question', she decided to leave her hometown hood for a barely-remembered local to drive around in a 16-wheeler, repeatedly losing the truck <i>and </i>the huge baking potato splayed across its middle.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> You may recall, we recently moved to a decidedly rural, picturesque, prosaic area of Virginia. Indeed, I get lost when driving along one white-gated pasture after another. I could just <i>kick </i>myself because my parents weren't Holsteins! City-raised, ambling through this overdose of NATURE does nothing to improve my already bruised mental status so a retreat from the un-natural world of TV advertising has become a nonpareil when it was once non-existent.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Today, I was treated to a head shot of a whining young married posing the question that must be consuming her sisterhood, "Ladies, are you as tired of NOT being able to find the perfect, most comfy recliner for your hubby as me?". (That's not even rhetorical. Unbelievable comes to mind.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> This travesty was soon hooked, replaced by a pert and serious journalist giving us the heads-up on what we <i>may </i>have time to learn- today's news. Her selected 'MO' was the 'no-lead-in-snippet-of-the-meat-of-the-matter'. Alabama's governor was seen sourly baring his conscious - smothered in rural,garden-fresh garni from his estranged wife's new green bank account. It seems our remorseful state leader is stepping down, having stepped in and out with one of his underling aides. Back to the ADS, pu-leez!</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> There is that poor dear literally hopping up from her seat in the center of a theater row, whispering embarrassed, "Excuse mes" as she is pulled down and forward in her trek to the aisle, apparently at the insistence of of an animated, bloated, determined bladder. After enduring several such humiliating exits, she takes a stand (and presumably a seat) wit, "That's it. We're going to the doctor.".</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> And she's not alone in facing absurd resolutions. The asthmatics, the forgetful, the overweight, short of breath, blood-clotters, joint achers, complexion-pocked, heart-beat blocked eve, the sleep under-stocked - all malingerers NOT to the malaprops flock - your friendly PHARMACIST. He's got the stuff - that gels your feet when you can't jump, that tells your heart how fast, slow or strong to pump. The MAN.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> The medication, information and cost for this remediation concludes the cheering and he goes on to 90% of what he's to say - the AUCTIONEERING! His tongue came to the fork in the road - and he took it - and us. </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> That yellow brick road was fun but don't kid yourself into thinking you won.That road morphs to quick (very quick) sand, and you're swallowed into the dire,fatal even,things that can possibly - indeed already may have - happened, befell the cure-taker. Buyer beware. You can lose more than your hair. If brevity is the SOUL of lingerie, CYA-jargon is at the very HEART of the "info-mercial" that 'drapes' to the point of smothering you MEDICAL HEART. I wound up catching too many glimpses of insanity-pushing and no diversional and really helpful data.</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> I tell folks we moved to the "Plantation". I've counted 14 spots per night dealing with death and burial preceded by spots pushing 'company/care/sequestration' for the older set, the soon-to-be planted. Their "NATURAL HABITAT"? Think I'll take a solo trip to a weekend spa, then come back, rested, but not bested. And just munch on the ole 'responsibility bullet'. Ya know?</span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . . </span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0Suffolk, VA 23435, USA36.84168 -76.479443536.638386 -76.802167 37.044973999999996 -76.15672tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-20004109959059275362017-02-20T18:42:00.000-08:002017-02-20T18:42:05.792-08:00Stray Thoughts<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Been a while since last we met. People - family and friends - are askin', "What's up?".</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Thinking, mostly. It's good to stop and take stock every now and then - especially when another year of living is about to become history. Catalogued, as it were.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Be warned, dear friends however, that mine is a living and thinking of parentheticals, ellipses, dashes. This because whereas most folks, be they right or left-brained (the 'right' thinking logically, rationally; the 'left' thinking metaphorically, I think), still maintain a fellowship with consistency, order, flow and relatedness. When they write or tell a story or describe an encounter, the reader or listener or visualizer <i>follows </i>them. They understand. They 'get it'. They can imagine, if only analogously.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <i>My </i>constant companion, the 'good fellow' I hail is known today as "ADD" or attention deficit disorder. Arguably, the single thought process or mode of expression or descriptive ability that I consistently 'maintain' is the IN ability to 'stay on point', shall we say to completion. Moreover, this phenomenon is ill-suited to my gender as the end point for women IS completion unlike that for men which is perfection (To be sure, many of my married sisters would experientially argue this point.)</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> So, it would seem I'm a majority of one in a 'non-category' of folks. That said, (BTW, have you noticed lately that respected, educated people, when speaking a response, begin their peroration with the word "so"? What's up with that?), I can embark on sharing my "What's up?" utilizing every arrow in my quiver of loose associations, flights of ideas and oxymorons consoled by the knowledge that the recipients of this malapropismic outpouring, armed with the ability to discern that some sequitors are perfectly logical and some are non, will select with ease the material intended/enriching/informing for them, casting inapplicable detritus aside.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> My dearest buddy from high school, Kathy, whose friendship and personality I love AND admire, is presently the object of a rarely felt emotion by me - jealousy. (And why are some window blinds dubbed "jealousy"? I welcome any and all takers.) She, with hubby Will, are in Florida, having extended their annual visit with the ONLY one of their seven children who does NOT live close to their home in New York. Kathy's rheumatoid arthritis fares better in the warm clime and she immerses herself in the morphed relationship of friendship with Elizabeth who, by virtue of age plus the longevity/depth of her many other virtues, has become more of a confidante than daughter.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> This new found but predictably gratifying development is definitely in the 'more-bang-for-your-buck' category - rather like the little 'roadmap' that Russel Stover illustrates (I've seen examples) on the inside of the lids of their boxes - a reassuring, more enjoyable type of indulgence of "quality ingredients in small batches" - one that insures both participants that they'll NOT 'get into' something unappealing.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Of my three children, two live close by but are struggling through some rough patches presently and the third lives in Boston (buffeted by an Eskimo Winter with all of its vagaries), well out of 'coffee clatch'-range but with her hubby and daring little troopers:</span></span><br />
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AND baby cuz ZOE below welcomed warmly by "The Troopers"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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"The Troopers" - MIA AND WES</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I DO relish decorating our new home for their anticipated visits, though. I've recently 'bonded' with Martha Stewart (VERY unlikely bedfellows) in spirit as I certainly cannot afford her recherche concepts save a visit from The Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> And I feel blessed by the proximity of the other six of our eight grandchildren, ranging in age from twenty-seven months to fourteen years. Taking care of, playing with (when MY arthritic joints permit),talking and listening to as well as watching them at play and study is a priceless gift. They are so close and caring with each other, share many of the same qualities and activities but evince impressive and strong individuality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> The youngest - unplanned and to date, seemingly unbridled Zoe - currently stands out in the individuality arena. It IS true (so scotch any kind rumors to the contrary) that several weeks ago, on a rare "Mommy and Daddy are gussying up to attend a fancy-dancy dress-up party hosted by Daddy's boss night", while Mommy was chatting with her and trying to find and apply some makeup, little Zoe was quietly (too quiet) 'borrowing Mommy's red nail polish to carefully paint her entire foot and toenails. Hmmmm. Decision time. Dad in his tux; Mom, gown and heels. Do we can the formal OR call and plead with the sitter to come early for a special 'cleanup' project.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Their sitter ran with the ball and Mommy and Daddy danced the night away at theirs. But. This is the same little Zoe who happened to be with her parents, Granddad and coloring travel gear when, during a visit to very ill Paternal Grandmom, her doctor took the family into a conference room for the saddest of possible words (and they were NOT Tinker to Evers to Chance) with Zoe and her portable playroom in tow. That she would remain seated, let alone quiet was a long shot. Well, when they come in against big odds, long shots pay off big. At some point, Granddad broke down. Zoe, twenty-seven months of pure decorum, slid noiselessly out of her chair, walked the length of the conference table to a staunchly-seated but clearly beat Granddad, climbed up his very long legs, sat in his lap, arms around his neck and settled her soft towhead gently on his shoulder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> This kind of precocious, loving, intuitive behavior is rarely seen - even among the non- astigmatic. When one DOES see it, the proper response is the purchase of one or ten bottles of "Jungle Red" nail polish. Just leave them in her crib, next to Lovey, turn on the humidifier and exit the room, silently pulling the door behind you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> The VERY special ingredient in all of these grand parental (Grams to all but the Boston battalion. Mia had trouble pronouncing the hard "g" when she started talking, so I'm 'Gigi' among the Yankees) relationships is the reciprocity. I watch THEM learn and, in turn, learn FROM them.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Theirs is a new world for me. While, of necessity, I appreciate (and take advantage of) the advances in learning resources that propel their education, research and overall progress, I fully agree with author Charlotte Moss who tells us, "It requires discipline to power off and not get sucked into the digital rabbit hole.".</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> I take every opportunity to stress the importance of - every now and then - doing what they consider some very old-fashioned things to jump start their minds, their souls and get the creative juices flowing. When they become frustrated and whine about NOT being able to select an essay topic, I remind them to slow down, to allow themselves to fully experience their "now" - take a walk down an old street when they are on a field trip, really see how people used to live, smell the air, stare at the crowds, listen, eavesdrop, commune with the stars, BE INSPIRED. These are the experiences that will become the memories that influence, define the rest of their lives.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> (I still recall with a chuckle what a pro my paternal grandfather was at 'defusing' a potentially unattractive scene involving him and his spouse, Grandma Stella. My recollection is, of course, based on eavesdropping - a habit of which he was acutely aware. On one of our compulsory two week "whole family" vacations to a forgettable Jersey 'resort', he had JUST finished pitching baseballs to his four sons, at least two of whom were quite athletic. None of them could hit him - left or right-handed. He lay down on the grass, arms crossed in total self-satisfaction (which ANY observant onlooker would say was highly deserved), when Granma Stella approached, shattering the glow of his sunny-day victory with a dismissive mutter of, "Willie. Time to wash up for suppa.". (I daresay Stella's mudder was no girl's best friend)</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Of course Granpa ignored her. And of course she persisted times three as she stealthily approached. FINALLY, he uttered with the perfect smidge of indignance, "Stella. Can't you see I'm talking to the Sun?" Never even opened his eyes. Noting no support forthcoming from her audience, she stomped off, one foot collecting an unnoticed cow pie.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> His other diffuser (what with the little ones afoot and all ears) was song. Indeed. Stella would attempt to goad him into an argument about a long- forgotten, inconsequential disagreement (an all-inclusive category) and he would spin around, hand over chest, crooning, "Ya gotta GIVE a little, TAKE a little, and let (down on one knee) your poor heart BREAK a little. . ." followed by applause from the kids and a bow from him and - ready? - a mudder from Stella. My favorite was his rendition of "Peg 'o My Heart, I love ya. . .". None of the other kids thought that one was funny. And it wouldn't have been had her name been Margaret. The point is, the guy - the MEMORY of the guy - has been topic and character and behavior fodder for yours truly for a lifetime. Hope you get the chance to catch my "Second Hand Rose" some day.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> So, when my 'grands' can't come up with a topic, can't articulate a design scheme, convey/describe a color - they can turn to their 'hard drive' of experience, of really being present in their "now".</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> When my fourteen year-old grandson asked me why it was so hard for him to come up with an idea for an essay while his dad could easily think of five right off the top of his head, I told him it was part longevity and part recalling experiences with clarity and exactitude because he'd taken the time to fully appreciate the present moment. (So much so that he earned himself a 'gentleman's C' at Georgetown but an A plus in 'person'.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> By way of example and as a means of giving him something to which he could relate, I shared/gave him one such example that I own.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> I had the privilege to know (well) the "mental coach" of the US Olympic Diving Team during the era of the inimitable Greg Luganis. It was during the few years following Greg's terrible accident, crashing his head into a platform during a badly-timed/executed very high and difficult dive.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Coach thought he'd never climb that ladder again. I was in Florida with Greg and his mental coach when Greg was helping coach our team for an upcoming competition. I asked him - during a break in their daily twelve-hour practice. "Greg, how did you ever have the guts to get up and, after the doc cleared you, climb that ladder AND execute a perfect Gold Medal dive?".</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> His response: " I looked at Frank (the mental coach). He approached me and in his gentle, dulcet voice said, 'Greg. Try to remember what it felt like when you did it right.'"</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Greg had been coached to fully experience every important life challenge. He closed his eyes for a moment, then calmly and fearlessly began the longest of ladder climbs to the platform from which he was to execute the Gold Medal dive. He never heard the crowd. His focus was completely on the memory of what it felt like to do it right. With this vivid memory, he perfectly executed the best First Place dive of his life.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> Like Greg, dear readers, die really KNOWING SOMETHING. You are not here long.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . . </span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0Suffolk, VA, USA36.7282054 -76.583562136.3210549 -77.2290091 37.1353559 -75.93811509999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-13104775526488589352017-01-07T16:51:00.000-08:002017-01-07T16:51:02.081-08:00My Wildest Dreams<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> Shouts of "Happy New Year!" have been heard in spates since the first of January - at least in my limited experience. And you can be certain that such ãn outburst would <i>never</i> be initiated by yours truly. (Just as certain as my ignorance of why that diacritical mark landed on the letter 'a' in the word "an".) This because within hours, often minutes, I would be told tacitly by an eager eavesdropper that the recipient of my ebullient greeting had lost his dog the previous day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> I am puzzled by this perceived lack of uniformity with regard to 'happiness wishing' by known passersby. As a population, are there segments among us 'waiting for the other shoe to drop ', thinking "what's the point?"; could there be superstition afoot? Preoccupation? Heretofore unknown malevolence lurking in their 'over-the-shoulder' opinion bags? Gradual hearing loss? A trend toward insularity fueled by the unhappy accompanying spate of violence? General malaise? Asparagus? WHAT?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Pondering this phenomenon the other night, I thought, "Never in my wildest dreams have I considered experiencing such behavior.". Pause. (mental drum roll) "Have I any wild, let alone superlatively so, dreams?" Statistically, they surely exist, but live in the young or lonely. As I tend to treasure solitude, if I had wildest or even wild dreams, it was so long ago, I've forgotten them. And more's the pity, as they could have been rather entertaining doozies!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Ironically, I often admonish my grandchildren , "Dream Big!" Sad realization indeed to think the 'admonisher' dreamt not at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">But she did. From the moment I spied my babysitter Aunt's Underwood typewriter, I went into a child's forbidden trance. (Forbidden because kids from Brooklyn don't 'do' trances.) "Someday, I'm going to be a writer." (Whilst dear Aunt Stephie was yelling, "Don't bang on the piana!")</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Piana indeed. I'd given my regards to Broadway in the form of seeing Camelot and My Fair Lady twice each - payola from my older brother - my senior by five years, for grabbing the NYU grade postcards and handing them over to him before the parents got home from work. Why Camelot and My Fair Lady? 'So's I wouldn' be sayin' things like "piana" or yellin'.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Guess I had some wildest dreams after all. Well, wild anyway. I'm writing this blog. "Wildest" would be having avid, devoted readers, after being published in 'grown-up people books. My lot, it would seem, is more akin to Dorothy Parker's retort to an evening soirée invitee's query, "Oh. Are you entertaining?" "Not very." The latter remark was Dorothy's.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> For the record, then, my little grandpeeps, Grams DID have "wildest dreams" and for you, dear readers, I should like to apologize for my shocking breach of taste in not wishing each (or both) of you the HAPPIEST EVER OF NEW YEARS!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . . .</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-23861514758128097122016-11-05T18:02:00.000-07:002016-11-05T18:03:51.059-07:00SPECIAL DAYS. . .<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> Well. As students often muse while closing the final page of their essay 'blue books', "I gave it my best shot.". In truth, "Entire Week" is marquee-worthy on 'The Great White Way'. But since my misadventures (You go girl. The standout among underplayers refusing to wait in the wings.) would be but a brimming basket of tedium for you, your lot is to be spared. Hold fast this gift lest a feckless change of mind snatches your good fortune. </span><br />
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> On this date in what has become my youth, we were blessed with the birth of our second child. For us, the preceding seven years had been a harrowing succession of attempts, failures and the sad finality inherent in knowing we were to be the parents of a single child. (Our son sent a sad text this morning, the anniversary of what he's fond of calling "The Golden Age".) Words fail (Imagine!) whenever I try to express the emotions, actions, changes, relationships - the <i>gestalt </i>of experiences attendant to this 'business of parenting'.</span></div>
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> This morning I was speaking with an accomplished, beautiful, married, mother of two delightful children (full of the 'devil', as they say), who is a most successful professional in the medical arena which has additionally rendered her a world traveler and had to keep reminding myself that I was still also speaking with that shrieking, slippery, black-haired baby miracle who from the dawning of her exciting, loving, caring life showed a determination, spirit and destiny directed to keeping 'things' right - HER way - much like the Julia, the Grandmother for whom she is named.</span><br />
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">Pity,the lack of cooperation by this 'machine'regarding the photos.We tell our eight grandchildren to develop an interest in a serving profession Mia and Wes charm Santa</span><br />
<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">because it is highly doubtful that robots will ever have the ability to care. (To which seven year-old Patrick moaned,"I'd HATE to be a WAITER!").
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> And all of this happiness I've had writing this jaunty little piece this afternoon was trebled by preoccupation with shady thoughts of finding out I actually didn't need a new prescription for glass lenses. Rather - and far more exotic - is the foreboding news that I've been using a magnifying glass to read because of VERY early stage ( Odd. I'm generally LATE for everything.) macular degeneration. We'll just see about THAT. Ha! I had already selected killer frames.</span><br />
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> AND. That silly rash I've had on my legs since I got ONE rose bush thorn in my shin ( taken out and washed and treated with antibiotic ointment right away) while removing the six rose bushes planted by the builder's landscaper who had orders NOT to plant ANY flowering shrubs. That was February. Been a long, hot, pale Spring and Summer.</span><br />
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> On the other hand, 1) it makes for decent copy, 2) I love surprizes. They're 'SPECIAL', and 3) YOU get to 'live' it, too. That's how WE roll. </span><br />
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">IF IT ISN'T SPECIAL, IT'S NOT ONE OF OUR DAYS. And THAT'S the truth!</span></div>
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<span style="color: cyan; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . .<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-10660557561858268732016-09-08T13:39:00.003-07:002016-09-08T13:39:51.734-07:00THOMAS - At Seventy-Five, The Story is Still Happening<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> This young guy walks into, 1978 (running, even walking too brusquely may have caused suspicion, detention, delay) and with a resolved sense of determination to become 'more involved in mankind' precipitated by a hastily-made New Year's resolution, he excitedly embarks on the execution of the answer to his fervent prayer - "God, show me what I am to make of this world.".</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Many, too many of his years had been wasted in pursuit of 'finding himself', ferreting out his personal karma. Now, certain he had arrived and was comfortable with 'his way of being in the world', it was time to negate immersion in 'Self' for the higher, nobler purpose of helping others out of darkness into the bright light of comfort and confidence, trampling on pain and despair en route. Thomas would embrace psychiatry , dedicate his being to the daunting clinical treatment of that suffering population of 'hapless losers' whom others avoided as a waste of their talents and time.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> I have been true friends with him for over forty years. Mostly, we agree. On one dominating opinion, however, we follow different drummers. Thomas is a star in Dr. Freud's 'marching band'. I have more of a 'Ringo-style' Dr. Carl G. Jung beat. Over time, Thomas specialized in the treatment of adolescence. (Of course, the standing joke, if you will, is my assertion that his choice was dominated by his personal development.)</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> The admirable book he wrote on parenting, I feel, has an overall prescriptive nuance that is all too carelessly </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">squandered elementally. This because the reader has little or no exposure to his frame of reference. However, it is very well-received. What follows, then, is a tribute to Thomas' life work, writings and teachings while practicing as the finest, most-honored clinician I know.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> As is his want, (and in keeping with his astrological sign), Imam able to NEATLY divide his career/life into three areas: Adventure, Gratitude and Completion. In his young years,I think, as John O'Donahue said, "I would love to live a lifelike a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.". Thomas' inquisitiveness and enthusiasm for 'doing', lived a life in full play, one of relished experience. I would imagine he misses walking barefoot, toting posters decorated with bright colors, oil finger-painted 'things', gree shoes running in wheat fields, getting his baseball signed by his favorite St. Louis pitcher when that team played his hometown Giants and building shelters with treasures from his chest.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> But in 1978, aware of the closure of the Adventure part of his life, hehe concluded that one must let one's heart reveal you; you must let love uncover you. This realization led to the conclusion that with collaboration and friendship, comes connection. (I'm sure his relationship with his beautiful, loving wife reinforced this phenomenon.)</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> His clinical methodology seems to be a simple 'show and tell'. For Thomas, beauty (healthy self-awareness and living in the present sans past negative baggage or future hopes) was too good to pass up.He also felt that good gets better - much the way as when one's tears roll down one's face during a poorly-executed aria one's performance is in effect an ensemble, and one's co-performers will carry the day or note - as good team members tend to do. In that he knew he did not exist in isolation, he was able to climb the rubbled, ruined walls like those of Rome t oday.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> Of course the Gratutude phase was born. As he handed his sung song to those for and about whom he cared, he told them to play THEIR music. The resulting, though at first halting, results were immensely gratifying. Of couse this process is far more complicated and precarious than it sounds. For example, Thomas had constantly to be certain that imagery was separated from reality experience (a concept, I believe is called 'duality' in psychiatry. For me, knowing that I am NOT the two soft-cooked eggs upon which I gaze is sufficient and find Thomas' emphasis on rhis element a tad tedious.).</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> Nevertheless, I think, dear reaser, that you now know that Thomas was approaching Completion (Please stop that ebullience - out of respect for him). But indeed, he was finally able to bring the LIVED,FOUND treasured and not forgotten knowledge to HIS life and the chapters on the pages of tho se of his patients. The response has been a thing of beauty to observe. Thomas exudes LIFE and the fact that HE is still growing, has learned and known very extraordinary people during this time, continues to build - and with a healthier crew,has slowed down ONLY to let the entire Gestalt <i>breathe </i>and is ever anxious to DIVE into the new, to open, to reveal, connect and explore.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> Make what you need and find truly beautiful. This has been one - Thomas' story It is time for yours. </span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Happy B-Day, ole' man!</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . .</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-82298046468393417172016-09-03T20:29:00.000-07:002016-09-03T20:29:09.900-07:00May I Ask Who's Speaking?<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;"> That this question was asked by me <b>of </b>me is - if nothing else - a justification for the title of this Blog. I was in Barnes and Noble the other day on a specific mission - buy a basic but extensive book on sewing. I'm not doing much with my mind lately, so I had decided to revive a craftamused myself with as a newlywed.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Money being at a minimum, I'd decided to start by taking down drapes and using the material to recover our "House-Anything-But-Beautiful" black <i>vinyl </i>dining room chair seats. I learned that all chair seats are 17 inches deep, had enough material, discovered the wonders of a staple gun and the chairs looked 'WOW'.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> At the time, the Navy had assigned us to Norfolk. Hubby had been 'star-gaze' happy because after finishing Officers' Training School, the brand new Lt. Doctor had visions of using his surgical training on the floating hospital, The Hope. (1969) The Navy thought otherwise, pulled The Hope and gave 'glum-chum' Lt. Doctor and his Mrs. and baby son orders to report to Norfolk prior to embarking in 3 weeks to the Indian Ocean for 11 months with a fleet of destroyers going on a 'peace-keeping' mission.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> He was assigned to the flagship, the Harold J. Ellison under the command of a Commodore. (I thought the last one was Perry). He'd be bunking with the ship's pastor.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> The enmity between the two began on day one as the fleet was being laded with 'good will' goodies for all ports of call. Lt. Doc laded the English complete encyclopedia into his car (destined for a non-English-speaking nation) along with a pair of slolums earmarked for non-motor boat possessed Madagascar but less wasteful for building bookshelves for new sets of encyclopedia.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Said enmity progressed on a steady course sparked by the numerous bartered purchases from carvings to carpets accumulated by the good Lt. Doctor. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Back at the 'ranch' oftownhouses reserved for officers, having wanly waived a wet fairwell to her spouse, the Mrs. and 9 month-old son set about writing to Lt. Daddy every day (Philip's missives often on the wall), and redecorating - at times to mask his messages -.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> With my staple gun fast becoming my new best friend, I took advantage of a White Sale at Sears, rushing home with my heavily-discounted two sets of lime green and yellow plaid single bedspreads and matching shams, using one for his 'big boy' bed transition and stapling the other on one of the walls. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> I planned to use the extra sham - glued to a cheap white shade - but in the interim, cut a long, blue and white gingham robe in half and 'styled' it over a rod. Perfect length to the sill. I didn't notice the pocket facing the street side of the window. Three other new Navy wives did, though, and took several weeks to decide which of them would play 'point-out-the-pocket'. By then, my respectable, co-ordinating shade was hung and I was ahead 2 to 1 in the enmity department.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Fast-forward to 2016, Barnes and Noble, new sewing book and while hunting for a sewing magazine in the 'self-improvement' section, I was distracted (terrible ADHD. You've noticed.) by a magazine I'd never seen and was certain it was an ill-fated blunder. There was "Artful Blogging" and I had to have it to be certain I haven't been writing 'white-pockets-facing-the-street' metaphorically for lo these many years.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> I found my answer on page 19. A successful, known blogger, discussing her various ploys to avoid dry cycles when creativity eludes her (like writers block when the people in your head stop talking to each other), "takes time off from social media" because ". . .it's too easy to look at other people's work in search of that elusive spark that can re-kindle creativity".</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> Whew! My literary window treatments are winners by that standard. I can't even find my page on Facebook much less an "elusive literary spark". </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> And as for successful bloggers, I say, "Whatever Floats Your Boat". In 1971, when the fleet returned, the Commodore was set with every test performed by Drs. Jellyfingers, the Lt. Doctor was now First Lt. Doctor having been high-lined to another destroyer to perform a life-saving appendectomy on a seaman (apparently the Commodore wasn't so lucky and got dunked), and in 2016 I may not be a successful, well-known blogger but I'm never lackingbat least three simultaneous conversations going on in my head.</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . . .</span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0Suffolk, VA 23435, USA36.84168 -76.479443536.638386 -76.802167 37.044973999999996 -76.15672tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-75516063212542361822016-08-07T22:02:00.000-07:002016-08-07T22:02:07.356-07:00Demonstrate - It's Your Right and Everyone's Watching<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> The past month seems to have fast-forwarded itself, propelled by the very energy of its events. The world stage was brimming with combustible and powerful sparks of conflicts, high emotions, tragedy, confusion - the stuff of an action-packed inferno. Our nation's performance, a real page-turner, was dominated by the antics at two major political party conventions. A gripping narrative, it was enhanced by the desultory alteration of genre. Fiction and non, its cast of characters and their roles vied for audience acclamation with events and plot.</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Adding to this olio was the orchestration of riveting - though not always cogent - demonstrations and their demonstrators (ranging from pith to pit) ever integral to the calliope. At times passionate; at others impassive; their constant could be noted as "show-stopping". But the price of lingering was too often the missing of an important beat, so the show and its observers <em>had </em>to slog on. One wonders, with idle curiosity (as the interest of energy conservation precludes the use of any more rigorous modifier), what compels these outbursts?</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Well, the wronged clearly need and are entitled to justice. And righting a weong to selfis either innate or mastered as an art form at a very early stage of development. Its beginnings are instinctual. Show me a baby cub who <strong><em>won't </em></strong>reflexively claw and snarl at his perceived aggressor as he smugly culls the last of the honey from his sticky fur follicles from the remains of little cubby's smoothly retrieved sweet delicacy jar, carelessly tossed by some sated slob and I'll show you a Momma bear who has some serious street-talkin' to do with her 'taken' little urchin. (This is the Mamma who used to run with The Porridge Boys so our little cub has to honor his Mamma's moniker.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> The 'Conspiracy Crowds', who've been harboring - <em>sub rosa </em>suspicion and grudges now strongly sense a stimulus - a word, expression of opinion, an innocent reply which could have menacing overtones, a deviation from formerly-held ideas regarding problem-solving, issue priorities, tie color, hem length - and fertilize and cultivate it to full fruition. They turn what may have been just a hint of <em>sub rosa </em>doubts into a full-cast, symphonically performed production of The Little Shop of Horrors. In that 'Faustian' classic about a flower shop owner trying to make ends meet in New York's Skid Row (in our scenario, to win a presidential election, if you will - or not) into: "The <em>real </em>focus, here, folks, is Audrey." </span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> (In Little Shop, Seymour, an employee who craves fame, buys a plant, names her Audrey, and gathers the duped hordes into the shop to watch Audrey perform tricks NO plant could ever do. Seymour, at whose command she seems to perform, becomes famous and the shop thrives. Not so the townfolk as, in truth, Audrey does Seymour's bidding ONLY IF FED HUMAN BLOOD. We needn't go into the workings of the 'donor program', but you've most likely imagined it wasn't pretty.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Suffice it to say regarding 'demonstrators', there does exist a small (it is hoped) type of warped people who will stop at nothing to ensure that the main, largest follow-spot is always attached to their cause - anti- everybody, everything associated with the 'other' candidate. Like so many demonstrators, they don't really have a cause - beyond demonstration.</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> lieved in, bought Audrey. Obviously, the downside to all of this is a willingness to follow the best enticer - with passion. Capitalizing on this, "Evil" lures the 'Don't-know-what-it-is-but-I'm-for-it' crowd into chaos and destruction. Seymour's 'cause' wrought havoc. He believed in, bought Audrey. Faust bought damnation from Mephistopheles when he sold his soul to him.</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Moral: Even if the rewards sound endless AND are on sale, they are NEVER worth the true cost. I was lucky. I just got grounded. But I was 17 and had a brother 5 years older than I, so my folks had been through the drill.</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> I was a senior in High School, had been accepted to Georgetown, my grades were sterling so I risked the tarnish and joined a merry little band of afternoon class-cutters who spent afternoons in the Village - often at the Cafe Wha? where we saw and heard Carly Simon, Woody Allen and even Joan Baez (You can Google her). And one Sunday, Joan was staging a protest under the Village Arch. WOW! My best friend and I, having told our parents we were going up to the Cloisters to listen to Gregorian Chant music, hot- footed it to the Village where a crowd had gathered on this beaytiful, sunny day.</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> AND THERE SHE WAS. JOAN BAEZ PLUS GUITAR and several hundred young people, arms locked, Chiclet smiles glinting. We lucked out and edged into the throng - arms entwined with JOAN'S as we gleefully chanted:</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;">(Think "Glory, glory, Halleluiah!) "If the cops get in our way, we're gonna roll right over them, roll right over. . . .") And it was. Over, that is when the Six o'Clock News came on and I sat next to my parents as they watched this bawdy DEMONSTRATION and there's never a blackout when you need one.</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;">And no, I still don't know what I was demonstrating - save ignorance.</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . . .</span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-58361734531719844132016-07-29T19:52:00.000-07:002016-07-29T19:52:13.297-07:00Did You Say Something?<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> <span style="font-size: x-large;">It seems so easy to fall 'out of the loop' these days. Either you can't find it or you're not endowed with the appropriate 'social media' to play. In fact, the very words 'social media' have taken on a life heretofore not <i>de rigueur</i>. (At least, not in MY generation's lexicon.)</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> My husband and I spent this past weekend in our 45 year-old cottage on the Outer Banks of NC. Our son and his three children - aged 14, 8, and 12 plus the eldest's best friend were thrilled to be along, surf fishing, surfing and shell-collecting. One evening, our son and I took two of the sated, heated crew with us in the same car a walkable distance to fetch ice cream creations for the whole crew.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> I listened as the 8 and 12 year olds updated my son 3 times regarding changes and sizes of the crew's selections requested by the stay-behinds. In that I'd only heard two of the fetchers' voices, I turned to look at them to determine the source of these telepathic communiques.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Tbey sat quietly, heads bowed - as though having suddenly come upon royalty - staring at their cell phones while their fingers did the talking. (Being from an distant, older era where progress was telephonically applauded when we arrived at a point that announced we now could "let your fingers do the walking", their smooth and accommodating transmissions indeed gave me pause.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> This because 1) I was so impressed with their ease and accuracy - to say nothing of speed. Didn't have time.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> And 2) I was stunned into a panicked silence - most out of character - because of my personal, quiet, demoralizing panic over the knowledge that that the question, "Grams, you're sticking with pistachio, right?" was imminent. Truth be told, I was developing a shrewd strategy, soon to be VOICED of simply 'nodding' and mumbling -"Uh, Huh".</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Therein lies the rub. It was but a few short decades ago, in my case anyway, that a seemingly 7 foot tall, black-garbed nun stared down her hooked nose, pointing with a long wood 'dart' at my visage, as she spat, "Did you say something?" She would invariably receive "No, Sissst!" through clenched teeth, pigtails wildly snapping back and forth to punctuate my saintly negative. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> I suppose one could surmise that, decade-hopping notwithstanding, SILENCE STILL RULES. (But if your powers of observation remain intact, you'll note the stealth with which the inability to express oneself in simple, yet complete and parseable sentences, is creeping past us, unnoticed.)</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . .</span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-85059237215520584232016-07-20T18:29:00.000-07:002016-07-20T18:29:14.676-07:00The Turning Leaf<span style="font-size: x-large;"> It's a Wednesday - standing couch time appointment. I'm planning on making it - on time - and won't <em>he </em>be surprised. Yup. Another 'new leaf' abornin'. Truth be told, I've sworn off those 'new leaves'. One never honors them; they even tend to create an unpleasant, subtle kind of pressure. (What if I regress? Go back to being an 'old leaf'? What then? Would it be a symptom of the dreaded "empty promise syndrome"? Will I be justly shunned - even by me?)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Perish the thought. Rather, as I plagiarize with impunity - and a stemless glass - from a wine bottle label, I (drum roll, or egg roll - your call) introduce you to my new 'MO', "Turning Leaf". I'm excited and a bit relieved. I mean, all those abandoned 'new leaves' - as a recent TV commercial notes - aren't going to rake themselves. Consequently, I'll have far more energy and be infinitely more tidy emotionally if I simply use one 'turning leaf' whenever I'm moved to change or improve this business of living.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> By way of example, today, my leaf turns <em>on punctuality</em>. It feels like it was only yesterday that I was chronically late. Indeed <em>it was</em> yesterday that tardiness was embedded in my moniker - "The Late Lorane Leavy" the naysayers would spout. Well, they'll have to find a new tree on which to lift their leg. Mine, sprouting turning leaves at all stages of gestation, will no longer provide a 'hit-able' target.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Having split a personality or two at the appointed time - and basking in my mind-mender's approval, "Here, here" - I shall proceed with efficiency to execute my list of chores/errands smugly aware of the lack of any interruption of planned activity that can thwart the effervescence I'll be enjoying after my first successful leaf-turning.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Why, you may be asking, does she persistently impose this tripe on us? I would submit, "I love writing." And apparently you must love reading. In that writing of necessity is largely autobiographical, I share, give what I know, what I've learned, what I've felt and why.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> <em>(I must digress. And it's relevant. My husband and I saw the film "Genius" this past weekend. It beautifully and accurately presents a long chapter in the life of noted Scribner's editor, Max Perkins. The selected part of his brilliant career deals with his discovery and nurturing of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and - largely - Thomas Wolfe, contemporaries all.</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Having read and studied the literature and authors of the late twenties and early thirties throughout my life, I was no stranger to the characterization of Mr. Perkins' effect on these artists and their work. I was moved, therefore, to purchase the book from which the screenplay emerged after my appointment. It didn't emerge after my appointment. Rather, I went to Barnes and Noble after my appointment where the establishment's manager and I spent a delightful part of the afternoon discussing - and locating a copy of - the book.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;"> My only criticism of the film - which I highly recommend - was the absence of stress on the physical size of Thomas Wolfe. I had read in several sources that it was his habit to use the refrigerator as a 'desk', scribbling a word or eighty on a page which he'd then send floating to the floor. It was given to dear, dogged Max to climb four or five flights of dark, musty, steel-tipped stairwells to reach Wolfe's apartment, collect the uncollated mountain of strewn, cluttered paper, cart it back to Scribner's and spend an uncanny amount of time - motivated by a deep admiration for the writer's talent - so that, ultimately, we could have "Look Homeward, Angel".</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;"> I lived in a five story walk-up in Brooklyn from birth to ten and have vivid - actually happy - memories of riding, knees crouched up to chin, in the "dumbwaiter" which was just outside our door and had cable-sized ropes with which you could lower yourself - although it was intended for lowering trash - to the basement. Quite fun, actually. Unfortunately, Mr. Wolfe's digs lacked this "extra" and dear Max had to use the shoe leather express to reach his treasure. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;"> In the movie Genius, there are two scenes showing Wolfe hard at work, writing atop the fridge. Unfortunately, both the appliance and the actor are of average height, leaving the viewer to surmise the choice of 'desk' was just another quirk in the artist's personality. I'll read the book and let you know whether the lack of emphasis on Wolfe's height was a casting accommodation.)</span></em><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><em> </em>We were talking about writing and reading, I believe. So, from soul through quill to heart and mind, your being is free to take and keep what it needs. When you do, and it is a positive experience, we are connected. My cathartic outpouring has joined us, rendered us members of this enormous and complicated but loving and supporting family.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Perhaps, you, too, were thinking of turning a leaf but thought the notion odd. Well, you needn't because you just found out that at some point everyone in the family does.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> Or maybe you were feeling the need for a good listener, someone who really hears your worries, shares your triumphs, understands and wants to allay your fears. Seeking help is a good thing. 'Therapy' doesn't label you negatively. Taken as directed, it makes you do your 'happy dance'. Alternatively (and finally), you may have just wanted a glass of wine. No harm. No foul. Good for the circulation, actually. May I touch your bottom?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> But then I must be on my way. Wouldn't want to be tardy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . .</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><em> </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><em> </em></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-92038539554646409172016-06-15T18:33:00.001-07:002016-06-15T18:33:22.533-07:00What I Know. . . .<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"> I know. I know. Said, publicly on Facebook, that I was going to write more and haven't. Well, I've been reprimanded - by phone even - and the truth of the matter comes down to material. People who followed this blog did so because they got a laugh here and there. Or perhaps a stinging bit of insight jumped off the page that was <em>just </em>what they were looking for. (Sorry about that preposition at the end of that sentence but "grammatically correct" as well as Emily Post are dead. Today at least. Although you can probably take Emily's demise to the bank.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Believe I was going on about 'insight'. Surely it couldn't have been about 'jumping' as it's noon and I'm still in bed. Long day, late night thing. But insight.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Last week, at the end of my weekly couch-time session, after filling this incredibly caring clinician with sagas of failure, negativity and depression for 50 minutes, he asked whether I'd found any good 'Summer reads'.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> By way of response, I reminded him of the sorely-missed, supremely gifted singer/song-writer Jim Croce and his brilliant (To this warped mind) "Car Wash Blues". To wit:</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Well I had just got out</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> of the county prison</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Doin' 90 day for non-support.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Tryin' ta fin me an 'xe cutive position</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> But no madda how smoove I talked</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> They wouldn' listen</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> to da fac that I was geenius</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Da man say "We got all that we can use"</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> So I got dem steadily depressin'</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> low-down, mind-messin'</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Woikin' at da car wash blues.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> My point in regaling him with Croce's masterpiece verbatim was to convey my utter frustration when trying to read today's New York Times "Best Seller List" recommendations. There aren't two paragraphs to be found (by me) that can serve as a lowly apprenticepiece to Croce's work.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> He then urged me to write (and I knew this was coming as he seems to think I could hold my own with F. Scott and his bride, Hemmingway and Dorothy Parker - (dysfunctionals all) so again I give him Croce's</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> So don' spec to see me</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Wid no double martini</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> In a 'high price society' news</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Cuz I got dem</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> steadily depressin', lo-down, mind-messin'</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> woikin' at da car wash blues.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Surely the subtext of this exchange is the unspoken but secretly held belief that like Jim, I, too, am "Geenius" ( I promise not to call you Shirley). And since we know this subtext to be false, we understand the need for these weekly sessions.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> On the other hand, this 71 year-old lady was walking her in-extremus-but-under-treatment beagle the other day in her newly moved-into neighborhood in "surprising Suffolk", VA when, noticing some menacing cloud development, she took a new turn - intending to make a hasty return home, only to become flummoxed and quite directionally challenged.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Seeing a moving van being guided into a driveway peopled by a young couple and their dog and hoping the driver would be familiar with the streets, she asked the guider to point her in the direction of her address. He felt fortunate in finding <em>his </em>delivery address and couldn't help. She then asked the mover-IN and he predictably admitted no area knowledge. But.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> He takes out what turns out (I believe ALL tenses should be used lest they get lonely) to be his VERY smart phone and in a nanosecond he is enlarging a map depicting the very corner on which we stand with his index finger (we weren't standing with his index finger, he was tracing with it) and, by then reducing the image size, finding my address and instructing me as to the route I should take.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> As if on cue, what turned out to be HIS bride, walked briskly toward us inquiring as to my beagle - Bridie's - temperament toward new dog friends as it was time to walk theirs and she would be happy to walk with me. In that Bridie is hardly in what could be perceived as "aggressive mode", walking and talking commenced and upon arrival at our driveway we were Lisa and Lorane, the latter explaining "DO Tell", our now GARDEN-Guard-Pet. </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Do Tell - an iron frog wielding a red metal coffee mug, is now parked, cross-legged, on a marble stone - our official greeter/mascot. For a long time, I explained to Lisa, he was my writing confidante. A great listener, Do Tell, especially when I suffered from writers block (when the people in my head aren't talking to each other). We exchanged phone numbers and Lisa told me I 'should write' because I told such good stories (Do Tell is hardly a story.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> (<em>When I observe my own grown children - married and raising families - reaching out to their elders or ANYONE they know is in need, to lend a hand, I'm proud and heartened and know it was worth the effort over the years to instill this value system. The kindness that was effortlessly extended to me by Mike and Lisa , having just uprooted from their Colorado home and his Air Force career, on the day they were moving into their new home - not a day one usually does a 'happy dance' - tells me 'THEIR MAMMA RAISED THEM RIGHT'.</em></span><br />
<em><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> I know we'll become friends - even though he IS a die-hard New York Yankees fan. You see, as a child, I spent countless days at Ebett's Field, wolfing down hot dogs laden with sauerkraut and mustard and pulling hard for the entire then Brooklyn Dodgers organization. Indeed when we played the Yankees, I really thought their team HAD to wear white uniforms with black stripes because they were felons out on a pass. I was very young.)</span></em><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"><em> </em>I guess, if physicians, followers and new friends say I should write (Do Tell was ALWAYS A BELIEVER), I should. I'll write about the things I know. (Heaven knows, I've lived long enough, it should sound like 'breaking news' to most.) My next foray backward (it's comfy back there) will probably be the old hood, the ubiquitous 'railroad apartments', life in the 'hallways', dumb waiters (A gent I dated at Georgetown thought I was referring to the uneducated "help" many years later), Jewel Street, Diamond Street, hanging Casey Stengel in effigy, the "Incubators", $ to be fished with a string and gum from over the metal vents leading to the subway entrances, our resident, beautiful, retarded block buddy, Ray-Ray. . . .</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Yeah. The 'things I know'. And, boy, so many days I wish, "Everything Old Is New Again".</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . .</span><br />
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<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-67357651152117442212016-04-03T22:18:00.001-07:002016-04-03T22:18:32.441-07:00What Ever Happened to What'sername?<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> By way of introduction to this evening's quill work, A REALLY BIG SHOUT OUT TO MY SON ROSS (DON'T USE PHRASE "IN-LAW") BECAUSE IT'S HIS <em><u>BIRTHDAY!</u></em> HE'S A WONDERFUL, FUN GUY, MARRIED OUR YOUNGEST DAUGHTER AND WAITED AT THE CHURCH FOR OVER AN HOUR BECAUSE THE QUAINT, VINTAGE TROLLEY WE'D RENTED TO TAKE BRIDE, MAIDS AND FAM TO NEIGHBORING CITY CAUGHT FIRE ON THE HIGHWAY, NECESSITATING ASAP EVACUATION. (PLEASE SEE, "THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS")</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> A hardworking family man, he's the guy who's sit straight-faced, tolerating a guest speaker on Dream Interpretation when she says, "Consider your dream world as the true reality, and your ordinary waking life as a dream.", all the while thinking, And then see how popular you are in the corporate structure at board meetings when you admit to a cash flow problem but want to discuss instead a place in the Executive lot for your unicorn. This young man can 'work a situation'. And at home - King of the BBQ and a rabid Bears fan. Fortunately, already beautiful wife, son and two daughters look great in navy and orange. Blow it out, today, Ross!</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> On to other, lesser matters at hand. The eldest of our eight grandchildren has reached that 'world-is-my-oyster' age of fourteen. Lately, family chats turn to issues of sustainess, stability a future success. His goals are challenging - bloodless orthopedic surgery among them. His younger sister by two years is set on oceanography. My husband is a doc, I was a nurse then studied and practiced law and now want only to write (indeed, first love)</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> When they see me struggling at the keys, they ask - in a kind way - why I remain one of the 'lesser literary lights'. Indeed, indeed. Time to launch into the relationship between talent and industry as they relate to success topped off with examples of some of the 'swells' who 'made it' and the 'could-have-beens' and why. (This topic often comes up at class reunions and the discussion can get rather feisty. "Did Whatshername, you know our valedictorian at Georgetown, do OK when she came back from 'camp'? "Dunno."; "What's it matter?" "Just saying." Some sequiturs are perfectly logical and some are non. Obviously, ole "Whatshername" really had a shot, also had a problem, sought help and got it and there is a classmate present who knows the outcome and isn't giving it up. I say, "Pass the salt, puleez, and the tripe.)</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> We are but sixteen years into this century; change abounds; these kids will have career opportunities in areas not yet discovered. It is imperative that families and school systems not add stress by exacting a career preference prematurely. Clearly competing/enjoying sports and the Arts in a coordinating outfit with clear, blushed skin and just the right color, waterproof eyeliner are <em>primo </em>now. When the time comes to make life choices, success bubbles out of admixture of talent and INDUSTRY.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> While dating, my husband and I were fortunate to see a unique, rare, visiting Rodin exhibit at the Smithsonian. The artist's industry could provide heat and light to the entire Midwest. A combination of his wife, Zelda and his addictions, contained F. Scott Fitzgerald to half the literary masterpieces within him. During the same time period, Scribner's editor Sam Perkins handled Thomas Wolfe - a physical giant of a man whose habit, when on a writing streak, was to use a legal pad and the top of the refrigerator as a desk, tearing off pages in a desultory fashion, casting them to the floor. Sam would diligently climb several flights of steps to Wolfe's unkempt apartment, collect the non-collated pile of yellow paper and return to his neat office so that we could have, <em>Look Homeward, Angel. </em>A non-fail recipe - that, talent + industry.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> By definition, an introvert takes what the world impresses upon him and makes something of it. An extrovert, contrastingly imposes his will upon a world situation/issue and makes something of it. Nothing happened to Whatshername. She did neither, apparently - either because she didn't have the ability, when opportunity knocked or she did but was lazy. In a scene from the movie, <em>The Turning Point, </em>Shirley Maclaine, former prima ballerina, says to Anne Bancroft, reigning prima ballerina, of her character Didi's losing the part of Anna Karenina to Bancroft's character, Emma, "You got nineteen curtain calls.". Emma replies, "You had a baby." Equally talented when the part (and their subsequent lives) were cast, this exchange revealed the point at which each of them knew who they were and what they wanted to be. Successful. Twenty years of daily, sweating, grueling work achieved that success for each. You'll know the moment.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> Don't ask. I'm still working. Flapper? Bohemian? Writer?</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Later, Lorane. . . .</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glad you waited Birthday Ross</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-46892558660658863092016-03-25T17:28:00.000-07:002016-03-25T17:40:39.342-07:00This is Serious. . . and I'm Ready<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> It's been rather WET around this 'burg' the past few days. We're still in 'find-things-and-find-a-home-for-them' mode. One excursion down THAT bleak alley was rewarded by discovering three huge, black lawn'n'leaf bags - thought to contain the pillows to our wicker outdoor chairs but, "surprise!" they contained <em>all </em>of the linens for the two trundle beds we have for overnight visits by the grand peeps. (Of course when our best friends visited <em>very </em>soon after we moved in and my husband had unexpected open-heart surgery, en route to visit one of their kids in Florida, the bed linens were MIA.)(<em>They </em>were en route to Florida. He had his surgery in Virginia. I pictured you forming an image of 'drive-through' surgery. NOT!)</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"> So be it. I daintily hauled the 'finds' out of the garage and through the house for a 'christening' visit to the laundry room. (Had the washer and dryer been unionized, there would most assuredly been at least a demonstration.) In the face of this seemingly endless 'moving in' activity, my husband decided to surprise me by getting the attachment necessary to fill and operate the hot tub we'd installed in the master bath for therapeutic back 'issues'.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"> That exciting evening, as we watched all the fun goings on in the world news, I would dash to the master bathroom and Check on the filling progress of my new best friend every ten minutes. Things seemed to be progressing nicely until the fourth such check. Where there had been eight or so inches of hot water occupying the base of the tub, said base was rapidly becoming empty having dispersed its contents to the tub's surrounding area (recently dry, new hard wood flooring) as if by a demonic variety of sorcery. BRAIN: "Stop inflow of water." RIGHT HAND: "I'm ON IT."</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"> The remainder of the evening was spent playing mop, swear, take photos, speak-through-clenched-teeth 'calmly' so as not to sound alarmed/upset to the recovering cardiac patient. I'm sure you know the drill. And, once tolerance and energy were depleted, the new 'washer-dryer-with-an-attitude' was finally discharged of its duties for the night. The next morning, once all involved were alerted and blamed, we took the logical course of action and returned to the store that had delivered the tub to discuss resolution and recovery. (I tried to explain - while hubby was napping - how this was an <em>extremely </em>unusual course of events to the washer and dryer but they were serving 'frozen' shoulder and would have nothing of it. BRAIN: "What is it you are always telling your grandchildren about arguing/reasoning with inanimate objects?")</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"> Now, tomorrow happens to be the dreaded b-day, the cruel reminder of the passage of time and missed opportunities, iced off with the requirements of seeming to be merry and grateful and just itching to chuckle at every snappy little amusing remark. It's a game I usually play with a semblance of pleasure but, and even "Do Tell" will back me up on this one, I'm tired and - ready? - wet, AGAIN! Having just demonstrated to (a very tolerant) husband how staying on top of things and following the rules re: the 'care and feeding' of the new washer and dryer, I finished chores, got a shower and did what was to be today's last imposition on the laundry room inhabitants, only to discover in passing that water was freely flowing from the washing machine onto the just-cleaned tile floor. And my phone was ringing.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"> Taking the opportunity to answer it (after stopping the machine) to give myself time to calm down, hope it wasn't a neighbor wondering why there was water oozing out of all of our windows, I thought ANYone but my dear Mother - ensconced in heaven since '81 or my best friend Kathy (of the no linens when visiting) is going to get a very unpleasant earful. Well, it was yet another missed opportunity. Apparently these limbs aren't traveling at a brusque enough speed these days because as I retrieved the cell phone it spitefully went silent. And you <em>know </em>I missed Kathy's early b-day call.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"> Haven't even listened to her message (Mopping, you know) but I am blissfully transformed. I can't wait to call her back and just laugh at all of this nonsense. The incredibly able mother of seven will, I know, see some bizarre humor in this drippy tale. And I <em>shall </em>be grateful - for Kathy, the ability TO LAUGH AND THE ABILITY TO MOP. INDEED. I BELIEVE IT IS MY FOURTH ANNIVERSARY FROM THE GOOD FRIDAY ON WHICH THE WONDERFUL DR. DAVID OKONKWA PERFORMED 12 HOURS OF SURGERY ON MY BACK - THE RISKS WERE HIGH BUT THE RESULTS 'DIVINE'.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"> So, a shout of gratitude and good will to Dr. David. I can mop! The alternative to the risky surgery - by now I'd be wheelchair-bound, on a morphine drip, a <em>real </em>death sentence - would have been no more mopping but lots of 'resting' in peace. Sooo glad we opted for "Door Number Two" - hope you are, too. Serious can be scary. But 'ready' is good. I try to balance them. And I'll let you know what Kathy had to say. You'll laugh.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;">Later, Lorane. . . .</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: large;"></span><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0Virginia, USA37.4315734 -78.65689420000001131.0306784 -88.9840427 43.832468399999996 -68.329745700000018tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-31860022130215353062016-03-20T14:28:00.000-07:002016-03-20T14:49:21.254-07:00LADIES, DON'T LISTEN UP<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> There are days when you just <em>have </em>to bite the ole bullet of responsibility and really clean the frying pan in which you burned the grilled cheese sandwich that has been dutifully soaking for nine days, vacuum the Melba toast crumbs efficiently swept under the kitchen runner the last time your fourteen month-old granddaughter visited and actually put soap in the washing machine and start doing the filled tub of laundry. I find that these overdo but necessities in life can be made less tedious if I have the TV on (volume <em>very </em>low) while making the beds and my life a tad more orderly.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> You may recall (and , to be sure you are a happier individual if you do <em>not)</em> that we recently moved. We now live in a far more rural, pastoral even, area where driving along the side roads, you can 'take in' one bucolic scene after another, punctuated by haystacks, toothpick-in-your-mouth farmers and lazy grazers abounding. (I could just <em>kick </em>myself because my parents weren't Holsteins!)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Today, booming out between politically analytical commentaries, I was subjected to (Out here in the 'country', our servers broadcast mostly local advertising - matters and places presumably of interest to those of us who live in this prosaic zip code) a whining little young married's attempt at providing useful (to me) advice in the form of, "Ladies, are you tired of just <em>not </em>being able to find the perfect recliner for your man?" (Pu-leez! Can we just get back to mundane but magical</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <em>music?) </em>There were no options but</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> to consider the query rhetorical or beyond un-believable. This travesty was soon hooked and soon replaced</span><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> by a pert but serious 'journalista', lip gloss teasingly nearing the head of her hand-held mike as she gave us the <i>latest </i>on Hulk Hogan's lawsuit</span><br />
against Hawker Magazine` where the editor gave a green light to a two inch piece on the videotaping of the former wrestler's tryst with his best friend's wife - in said wifey's own bedroom. The Hulk was nattily attired in a long-sleeved, black shirt, open-collared and matching his black 'doo-rag' knotted at the nape as he tried for a semblance of <span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">indignance</span> in the witness stand. <br />
He staunchly put forth the irrefutable non-truism of <i>Gawker's shock</i>ing breach of taste which had head-locked our First Amendment rights en route to flagrantly and irrefutably decimating the Hulkster's heretofor gleaming reputation in matters connubial.<br />
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[Uncharacteristically stepping out of character for a brief technical 'non-explanation', dear readers, I must confess my shared frustration over this unintentional, distracting and non-professional foray into the inane Land of Annoyingly Frequent Point Size Variation. Having given a directive for the insertion of an amusing and apt visual - which may yet appear at a cloyingly inappropriate juncture - I was rewarded instead with the visual of the computer's choosing.Mea Culpa. But it would be far too costly to Carpe Computer.]<br />
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On a similarly tasteless programming note, but wearing a more 'BMOC' look, William De Vane insists on knowing "What's in YOUR safe?", coveting ALL neighbors' goods. Well, not ALL. Doubtless, he has NO interest in the 'goods' of that dear young lady, seen alternately popping up from her center theater seat, slouched and whispering embarrassed "excuse me"s on her trek to the aisle. She seems to live at the bidding of the demanding grip of an animated, bloated and determined little bladder. After enduring these frequent, untimely, follow-spotted exits in similarly crowded venues, she takes a stand (or presumably a seat) with, "That's it. We're going to the doctor.!" (The specialty is never elaborated upon) My guess is that however HER story ends, DeVane does not want ANY of her anatomy in HIS safe. Her endurance is admirable, but, let's face it, in the end (no pun intended), she, like so MANY others is a 'settler'. I'm sure by now you're familiar with THAT crusty, poorly presented species of humanity so we shan't go there.<br />
Of course, "Restroom Lady" is not alone in her choice of resolution. The asthmatics, the overweight, the blood clotters, the forgetful, the joint achers, the joint takers, (did I mention the forgetful?), the complexion-pocked, the heartbeat-blocked, the sleep-understocked - all malingerers NOT - to the malady jocks flock - your friendly pharmacist. He's got the stuff that gels your feet so you can jump, that tells your heart how fast, slow or strong it should pump. The MAN.<br />
The medication, information, cost for this remediation, whence you came (DNA) and where you're going, he slides so smoothly (you never see it coming) he's done with the cheering, the 'good news' he's been auctioneering. "Paper or plastic, Ma'am?" He's sure the spoils of your fixed income will fit in your van.<br />
Yup. His tongue came to the fork in the road and he took it - and us. That 'yellow brick road was fun but don't kid yourself into thinking you came out ahead - or at all. That road morphs to quick (very quick) sand and you are swallowed up almost wholly into the dire, overwhelming, fatal even, things that can - indeed already have - befallen the 'miracle-cure takers'. Buyers beware. You can lose more than your hair. Just as brevity is the soul of lingerie, long-windedness has taken our breath away. To bite the bullet of responsibility, I wound up catching too many glimpses of insanity<br />
Soooo, I'll watch my step (never know what it's going to do). Time to begin. As long as I'm walking with Pop's dog - cute little pup -Assassin. Ladies, men can pick out their own recliners. You just try to be sure your 'workout tights' match your eyeliner.<br />
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<li>Later, Lorane. . . .</li>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-79704190342488104122016-03-02T17:14:00.000-08:002016-03-02T17:14:59.013-08:00Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-81445950757793876102016-03-02T16:59:00.002-08:002016-03-10T07:53:39.346-08:00DANCE WITH THE DIVINE<span style="color: blue; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> Soon it will be time</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><strike> </strike>to celebrate (or acknowledge) the passing of another year in the relentless passage of time in this saga of living. I boldly requested a present for the occasion. Dance is a life-long passion of mine. Not so for my husband. It came to my attention that our city will be hosting the 2016 performance of the richly inspiring and unique <i>Shen Yun</i>, the Chinese choreographic phenomenon which has its audience "enter the gates of a lost civilization where ancient legends come to life (certainly a goal of mine) and music connects heaven and earth." (the birthday gift of perfection for one who is unable to stop her new , modern computer from drawing red lines through and under her limping verbiage, giving new and painful meaning to 'connect=the=dots'.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> I went to the limits of brashness in asking (no harm) this remarkable machine to share a sampling of this performance masterpiece with you, dear reader, potential listener, via linkage with a "You Tube" excerpt, "Dance with the Divine". (And I profer a premature apology should you hear, if anything, 'Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of company 'B'".)</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Apropos of nothing (why break my streak?), there is a TV commercial currently running which has a tag line of "Optometry humor.", thrown out snidely by an actress aptly-garbed in a white lab coat. Somehow, this little (VERY, thankfully) literary outing <i>appears</i> to stumble into that category.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> But I digress. (surprised?) My birthday inching ever closer. THAT was our topic, it is hoped accompanied live or through the miracle of what is sure to be a 'Helen Keller' effort on your part (It is on MINE, and I'm writing it. I would happily trade every jar of wrinkle cream this evening to have my hunter green, portable Underwood of college days for just one hour!) Birthdays - as a rule, in the Pythagorian, not twelve-inch sense - can be an occasion of 'stock-taking', an 'epiphany of significant or 'passing' largesse, a gathering/celebratory excuse or, perhaps, at some point, just another day - 'same-old, same-old', laundry, meal preps check the obits and, not finding your name, check the horoscopes.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Given the insurmountable shortcomings of simply discussing the issue, I can only hope (fingers AND toes crossed) that the "big day" will come and go with more grace/less aggravation and desultorily throw out a 'postcard':</span><br />
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<strike><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bv1ZvR60v_g/TUil4aE4DrI/AAAAAAAAAKk/N3sRCzofGaQ/s1600/scan0002FINALRUNAWAYFRAMEDED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bv1ZvR60v_g/TUil4aE4DrI/AAAAAAAAAKk/N3sRCzofGaQ/s320/scan0002FINALRUNAWAYFRAMEDED.jpg" width="249" /></a>Later, Lorane. . . . .</span></strike></div>
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<strike><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> </span></strike>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-15375018517676340262016-02-09T17:30:00.000-08:002016-02-09T17:30:17.220-08:00Bear-Biting in 2015<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> {Just an Aside. Sometimes writing is automatic, I guess.}</span><br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Sandy's Life Song</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Thrust from the fluid, undulating, warm liquid ambiance of his mother's womb,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Already feeling hammered and teleported into the OB's slippery, gloved hands by some act of sorcery,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">This same kak's beefy hand delivered a remora-powered blow to Chandler's dolphin-smooth deriere,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">grinning at the expectant wail reaction.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Mom's grin flatlined at the sound of her cherub's response-in-protest.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Medicine of the mundane exited.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">Ruled by the Moon Goddess, the sirens of the sea would softly, yet urgently, beckon to him lifelong.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">His art was lived rather than created.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">In many ways, life was an interloper between Sandy and his artistic muse.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">We are formed by what we desire and Sandy's aquatic desire,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">His penchant to be of the waters, vascillated between glass-smooth and blurred stormy.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">But ever did it flow freely, soothing and at peace with itself.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">He lived a life of generosity and praise to those who clung to that "Last Hurrah" mentality, the genre of HOPE.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">******************************************</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> "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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> 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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">expressed on the <span style="color: #38761d;">little one's face</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">captures the overall mood of our family on that soggy Saturday that ensconced itself indoors as well as out.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> 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.)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Upon his mud-tracked return, laden with unnecessaries, there was an aura of urgency about his countenance which required investigating. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">"I'll start putting things away while you make your second . . .", I began. (Affect and tone casual.)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">"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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;">(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.)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He couldn't wait to see how it ended. . . <br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Later, Lorane. . . . .</span> </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2819977254399940941.post-65587117606660626172016-01-30T17:27:00.000-08:002016-01-30T17:27:27.137-08:00Wow. You Really Can't Make Some 'Reality' Up<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> You know, if you've been 'following' (that's computer-speak for me) this blog, these past 16 months or so have been somewhat sketchy. (ABSOLUTELY no pun intended.) Now you know I've NEVER been described as punctual, regular or any other of those 'grown-up' words that are associated with reliability, predictability or good housekeeping even. That said, you ALSO KNOW that these have been times that would try the staunchest of souls - to say nothing of how they could toy with any woman's complexion, full-bodied, shiny hair and at least NEATLY manicured nails.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> As I'm forced to borrow my husband's computer, the visual that screams "perfection!" at this juncture is unavailable for sharing.. (A dear and glorious Emergency Medicine physician he may be, but his collection of 'unusual' pierce and slashing wounds barely whispers the angst that a pic from MY assortment of 'Frenzy - Unabashed' would bellow your tidy existence into painful disorientation. And 'alas', alack' and ALL appropriate 'et als', we must endure deprivation of sightly punctuation.</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Rather, we'll (with the frequency and abandon utilized in changing actors) run amuck with 'just the facts, Ma'am'. Heaven knows it was enough to bring any semblance of my mental equilibrium to near wipe-out.</span> <br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">The decision had been made to downsize and move closer to six of our eight grandchildren. That was January, 2015. Realtor retained, signage spiked into the patchy lawn (visible from the road and the Linkhorn Bay in Virginia Beach, being a waterfront lot.) In February, hubby doc trundled off to the highlight of his week (NOT golf), Sams, to stock up on grillables for our free-standing extra freezer for the merrily-anticipated Spring and Summer of cook-outs with the fam whilst we chattered excitedly about what we ALL wanted in the downsized new domicile that only Grams and Poppy would be purchasing. (Having failed retirement with flourish - after several huge, heart-warming parties given by several staffs - I insisted he stand up, dress and interview because the hole in the sofa created by his read-a-thon was looking like a costly repair.)</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Glumly for him, he returned within days with a stash of repetitive, often ungrammatical queries to be answered ASAP and returned to the Hampton VA Hospital in anticipation of his starting his second - financially saving and skill-maintaining - medical career. In two weeks. Seems our veterans' hospitals are constantly in need of qualified, hungry, willing personnel who "hadn't heard" or "didn't believe" the rumors. Fitting nicely into both categories, our boy was dressed out in his white chaps, stethoscope at the ready and set to :"Never is heard a discouraging word."</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Determined, equipped and enveloped by my new best friend, silence - save the occasional inspirational lyrics and melodies of "The Commitments" and "All that Jazz", I embarked on the recapture of Tuscany and Bari in my house-planning dreams, my jumbo box of colored pencils and my newly-printed (on transparency paper) scaled enlargements of the architect's blueprints. What would be left behind, what came and the 'transformations' of treasures accumulated over 47 years became the focus of every waking moment NOT spent frolicking with one of our precious offspring - and theirs.</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"> Then came February. The day of the rains coming (02/26/15), of 'Motherhood NOT smiling'. A bit premature, I do believe 'prefaces' remain acceptable. The foregoing, then, shall be so named.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XymGJQH7Wjs/TUeQKGmak4I/AAAAAAAAAKc/u09Y2Eps7MI/s1600/EDdream%2Bframed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XymGJQH7Wjs/TUeQKGmak4I/AAAAAAAAAKc/u09Y2Eps7MI/s320/EDdream%2Bframed.jpg" width="198" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "times"; font-size: x-large;"> Till we meet again. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Times; font-size: x-large;">Later, Lorane. . . .</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00318061353545129950noreply@blogger.com0