Lemon-Haired Lady Lorane

      (Although premature, possibly inappropriate even, I felt it only fair - to me - to provide just a glimpse of autobiography today, my birthday.  It is also something of a canard, really, to include myself among the lemon-haired as for at least sixty years, that I recall, I've decidedly been a brunette. But, as I'm sure you'll agree, my friends, stuff indeed happens - like gray hair brazenly sprouting from an erstwhile pristinely uniform sable pelt.  Further punctuating the need to put a halt to this pernicious progression was the fact that I was - and continued to be - an olive-skinned brunette. 
      There are those (all of the women in my husband's family come to mind) who are simply beautiful 'white blondes'.  Just recently, while talking to Jennifer, daughter of stunning Jackie whose carefully disheveled, high/low-lighted tresses augmented many a closing of million dollar business deals, Jennifer - last seen by ME sporting just-short-of-raven locks that graced her hips, allowed as how after each wrenching hospital visit with her mother, now in extremis, she'd rush home to try even harder to achieve the whitest blond possible for her now smartly-bobbed, vixen-do.
      So VERY soon after the intrusion, nay, invasion of this most unattractive, persistent and rapidly metastasising attribute, it was shorn to the max and transformed into a streaked, low/high-lighted coif requiring studious maintenance performed by the studied, dexterous, internationally influenced hands of Belgium-born, world-traveled Roswitha.

      The results not only changed my classification but 'felt' right, a way of being in the world for which I have always sought steadfastly before launching ANY activity, like living.  Now the cast of characters which will live in my diary, similarly populated/comprised this 'living' to which I've alluded.  In deference, then, to the comity/respect I have come to enjoy and treasure among established authors - quite by chance, I assure you - I daren't transgress the 'code', blemish the bard-influenced art of the literati, by committing the sin of redundancy.

      On the other hand, after a cursory mental preview of the events to which you will share through the 'genuine' lemon-haired set, it occurred to me that there is one ubiquitous aspect/involvement that truly followed me like a well-operated spotlight (like sand through an hourglass) all 'the days of my life'.  Coincident with that massacred introductory metaphor, I speak now of performing.  The set: mostly 'on stage' but, to be sure there were scenes off-stage that were indeed theatrically entertaining - in retrospect.

      My love of the performing arts was described far better than I might by Nora Ephron (except she was referring to her imagined love affair with Bill

Clinton when she wrote) "The vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory".  That truly sums up my personal 'acting' career.  I was the drama queen in my own soap opera.)

      For the above reasons 'snippets' will have to suffice - and be disjointed the while.  To wit, in parochial high school, I suffered my family through a period of preparation for my 'vocation' by attending six AM mass before getting on with my school day. 

      To accomplish this, I would rise in owl-time, shower,wash and 'roller' my hair (you may have to google this last, but it involved rolling one's hair around 1.5 -2 inch wire mesh rollers in multiple precision rows which were then covered for security) and, in my case, deference to the then Roman Catholic 'rule' of women always covering their heads when inside a church.  Ours was particularly ornate - huge, artisan-quality/vintage stained-glass windows, every square inch of wall a fresco ed mural, a ceiling surely modeled after Cellini's, statuary both inspirational and copious, mounted as centerpieces of mini side alters which surrounded the periphery inviting the faithful to pause, light a vigil candle and kneel in meditation.

      On one such morning ritual outing, being a 'daily communicant as well, I reverently processed to the five marble steps one climbed to kneel at the velvet-padded top step, hands folded in prayer (and thus not clutching the sturdy, polished ornate brass railing) heavy-lidded eyes at half mast in both reverence and - in hindsight - rapid onset hypoglycemia.  I vaguely recalled the lateral approach of the priest-with-server-holding-paten-at-the-ready-lest-Christ-hit-the-deck.  And then. cherubim and seraphim, harps and halos - as promised.  I made it! Heaven!

      Were it not for the rollers, it would have been a massive concussion capping off the five-marble step backward free fall.  But as convention would have it, as I plaintively called out, "Saint Peter?  It's me, Lorane.  I made it and. . .", the priest was shaking my cold shoulder - and serving some of his own - trying to rouse this disruptive, shoddily attired teenager and send her to her earthly residence.  Needless to say, Mom put an end to this routine, henceforth, heading me toward the first of the two subways I was to ride - without preamble - to school.  Now.

      I muddled through the educational process by taking advantage of every scholastically-approved dalliance in stagecraft I found.  Post marriage, having graduated with my MRS intact and bags packed, bound for Norfolk, Virginia, I kept the home fires and my duodenum burning, enduring Southern 'hospitality' and hospitals having developed six bleeding gastric ulcers for my trouble. Soon after we arrived and hubby deployed, it began.  First, a phone call from a woman identifying herself as "Mrs. Commodore."

      You see, Doc began his 'payback' Navy career a First Lieutenant.  He deployed as THE medical officer on the flagship destroyer which also berthed the Commodore, hallowed commander of the entire fleet.  (You will appreciate JUST how poorly they did not get along through a successive lemon-haired lady.)  Knowing how/what the Commodore represented to Doc via daily missives, a 'chatty', welcoming call from the Mrs. was unlikely. And darn, I truly believed the last commodore was Perry!

      Her mission was to telephonically elaborate the 'rules' of this charade.  First, the "Luncheon Friday will commence yada yada yada." To which Mrs. "First Lt." replied, interrupting, "My name, the one to which I REPLY, is Lorane Leavy."  More 'psycho-military' babble.  Sooo, and I DO apologize for what will likely be perceived as a 'shocking breach of taste', I'll not be attending the "LUNCHEON".  There was a modicum of satisfaction - think sub-atomic - in hanging up before Mrs. Commodore could master ANY composure.

      In time, eons metaphorically, I had big time ulcer surgery, did some couch time and, at the shrink's suggestion, listening to enough of my, "Y'all come back", "Have a nice day!", "Darlin' this 'n that" - THEY could care LESS what kind of day I have and as for me, I hope they NEVER come back or at all!", I got involved in community theater, tried out/read for my first role and got it.  That started my twenty year love affair with the most important 'escape mechanism'/safe-port-in-any-storm - acting and theater people.

      Now lest you think this relationship in any way TRUMPED what was really primo in my life - my family, having/watching them grow, working at aiding in developing these little copers, LOVING them and Doc more than life - pu-leez, know that, like writing, the acting was/is an invaluable adjunctive tool, permitting, forgiving, blessing, recording, providing the means/fortitude to survive some of the curve balls at which we would 'swing and miss'.  Thank God, as I do daily, for such gifts.

      Ironically, my involvement was sometimes misinterpreted/miss-judged.  To wit, when we purchased our first 'starter mansion', it was located near the hospital at which civilian Doc now practiced AND in the 'right' neighborhood.  Trust me.  Serendipity.  The price was right.  Populated as it was by the 'right stuff' - lawyers, docs, Indian-chief types - we were feted with a 'welcome to (US)' party.  Host, attorney, for local (wonderful) children's hospital, married to Heidi, pres of Junior League-money-raising-arm of same, extended a warm welcome.  We all had "Hello-my-name-is" name tags (yet another warm accommodating gesture) and the fun, like the booze, ran free.

      At a point perhaps ten to fifteen minutes from 'curtain', I was raiding the magically always replenished yum 'snack' table when 'host' approached from behind with, "Just want you to know, Lorane, we all know the type of woman you are."  Assuming this was a jocular, throw-away remark, I answered, "And what would that be Bill?"

"We've all seen you leaving the house in the early evening, little Philip in tow, going 'who knows where for 'we know what'."

"Pardon?", as I noticed Heidi, mixing, stroll by in black, skin-tight slacks, now festooned with male "Hello, my name is"- tags affixed to her derriere.

"I just want you to know, that when I get home at six, every night, my front door is opened, and waiting to greet Dad are my two kids and Heidi, who is prepared to give me anything - and I mean ANYTHING - I want or need."

Wow.  Exit-stage-handy-staving-puke-along-the-way.  Doc got home VERY shortly, inquiring,

"What the Hell was Bill talking about?"

      The 'situation', shall we say, ultimately met with closure.  Lesson learned: Ya just never know what these 'right people' are thinkin'.  AND, it doesn't matter.  Doc was doing his thing - noticeably well - and we were trying to grow our fam but met with losses in that column.  So, my circle of friends - never HAD to do the Junior League - took care of me when doc was away. One memorable example of the reciprocity or symbiosis within this relationship will have to do as time's a 'tickin and us sixty-seven year-olds need our 1) beauty/survival rest and 2) 'lemon-haired' touch-ups regularly and I've an appointment tomorrow for the latter which I will miss without the former.

      One fine mid-day, when I was not involved in his currently, widely-publicized production, a dear and talented and Polish director friend, Stan Fedyszyn, called in an obvious state of panic. He had, for good and sufficient reasons which I do not recall, invited a famous Polish theatrical company, launching an American tour, to begin same at his theater (The original, architecturally/beautifully historic Norfolk Public Library which Stan had transformed into a working theater).

      On the much anticipated day, a caravan of silver, sparkling buses-and-cargo-vehicles lumbered over the historic cobble-stoned-street, coming to rest in front of the majestically-gargoyled "Actors' Theatre".  Much to Stan's surprise/dismay, a Mr. Dviewicz, a State Department go-between, had neglected to mention that the lauded director of this production - an original script, named simply, "JA" -  spoke NO English.  Stan, surprisingly, spoke no Polish but is brilliant in the memory/improv department.  He recalled that I was half Polish. Good, Stan.  But he assumed I was fluent in the language.  Bad, Stan.

      His panicked prattle, naturally elicited a huge 'Nightingale-type' response from yours truly (and foolishly) such that I said, "Stash. (Polish for 'Stan' - poor attempt at ambiance-establishment)  Calm down.  Now, slowly repeat what EXACTLY you think I can do to help."  His voice more modulated now, his respiratory rate low enough to allow for elocution, he said, "Get over her, Lorane.  Quickly.  I don't know what the hell this guy is asking of me!"  Never giving a thought to how I might remedy this dilemma - MY aptitude/facility with the Polish language being restricted largely to 'comprehensive', expressive a distant memory - rushed to change - clothes/persona - selecting a 'Mary-Tyler-Moore-white-pant-suit', grabbing Philip - happy to be going on a field trip - and gunning it to my 'friend-in-need', just half a mile away.  (That's when living in the 'right neighborhood' REALLY paid off).

      Pulling up to the 'crime scene', my antennae locked on the vision of two local remote TV station trucks.  'Suds, Stan, the press is here.  Forgot to mention COVERAGE, Stan?  We're cooked, ya dumb Pollack'.  Soldiering on, I 'unobtrusively' exited my vehicle - white-pant-suit-clad-gal-in-heels-with-toddler-in-tow - barely escaping a lunging reporter armed with an open mike.  Once inside, trying to collect my self/thoughts, Stan appeared, an assistant lured Philip out of the picture with treats/games-in-hand and Stan led me to an obviously, newly/quickly constructed, theater-in-the-round FILLED WITH DIRT.  That's right, friends.  I was looking at an area perhaps 25 x 25 feet, obviously sunken, to accommodate ? 3 - 4 feet of black, loam-type soil, transported from Poland (and stored, no doubt, in several of those shining, silver cargo vehicles still parked - and being filmed by the 'live coverage' because 'if it bleeds, it leads' and this stuff was extravasating - in front of the theatre.)

      Still absorbing THIS 'circus' and mindful of the heels-white-suit costume, I was thinking 'protective logistics' when accosted by the renowned, ebullient, non-English-speaking Director.  "Panie!", he shrieked, grabbing my hand, and bowing to kiss same. (I think 'panie' CAN mean 'miss' and know it translates 'Mrs.') I donned that handy, dandy, 'imitation life' face tuned to 'smile'.  Post hand-kiss ordeal, I managed "Dzien Kuye" - totally phonetic spelling of THANK YOU.  He was really ecstatic now because he thinks I can communicate - dare not mention modality.  Let's just say it had been an unnecessarily protracted 'hand-kiss'.

      What followed was an authoritarian issuance of directives to his 'cast', resulting in several of them 'diving' into the dirt ("Places!) and a final directive yielding the now-submerged 'cast' member's fingers-hand-wrist-arm progression 'ceilingward', and, once in position, a loudly uttered, "Ja!".  Looking at me with a child's anticipatory, "Love me/approve my genius"-expression on his face, I returned what I hoped was a meaningful grin, and applauded wildly, eyes darting at Stan, saying, "Clap, Stash! EVERYBODY clap!".

      And we all did.  Director, so moved, he was now crying, impulsively bent down, grabbed a handful of black dirt, and in an obvious gesture of gratitude, took my hand, pressing this symbolic gold from his Polish soil-dripping hand into mine.  (Did I mention that by this time, Stan, ever the accommodating opportunist, had allowed the 'press' to enter and film this happiness/magic-moment?)  I'm thinking, "What would Mary Do" Ms. Moore, kindness itself, would treat this regally special gift accordingly.  Lorane throws dirt on the floor and then sweeps it up to be discarded.  Mary clutches same to her bosom, thence reverently places it in her . . ? purse?.  Right.  "I'll do a 'Mary'.

      After placing this precious booty in my formerly-pristine purse - AND making certain NOT  to have left a spec behind using a tissue, the now-blubbering, leering-eyed director and his entire loam-dipped cast, burst into applause of gratitude - with Stan and company joining in the festive encore - while the cameras rolled.

      Ah, yes.  The world's a stage and all of that.  Lady Lorane - not yet lemon-haired, but a bona fide future contender, had just gleefully strutted another hour upon 'life's' stage and will happily be heard.  Sooner, rather than,

Later, Lorane. . . .

     

Lemon-Haired Lady Fritz

      (Well, now, today, I give you "Fritz" but pictorially, just not on this page.  However, this 'candid' of SHAMUS, our Brittany, more than serves - as you will see - for several reasons.  Fritz is here for two reasons: he's a dog, like 'Miss Lillian', and he's short - in stature as well as role-played-in-our-lives.

      While doc was 'First Lieutenant Doc' and we lived in a town house community provided for the officers by the U. S. Navy, we had our FIRST family dog  (really our son, Philip's first dog), Max.  In the start of my ninth month of pregnancy with Philip, as I could no longer see my feet, weighed a 'smart' 196 lbs. and had to relinquish my position as Head Nurse of the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital known for producing their finest surgical resident, our Doc. And I was SO relieved to do so as now I could follow orders & 'put my feet up'.

      Ever sensitive doc, concerned that I might be lonely, noticed a sign outside the "Maximum Care Unit": 'PUPPIES'.  And so it was that to relieve the nurse, whose frantic attempts at selling the 'surprise' litter her dog had presented, our boy brought this little , fuzzy bundle of un-trained canine bliss home as a present for me.  To keep me company.  Whilst I basked in the joys of elevated, edematous stumps, eating Granny Green apples.

      Max - derivative of his foundling origins - was a challenge, as presents go.  Our townhouse there was such that you had to walk down a flight of carpeted steps to exit.  'Training' proceeding at 'snail's pace', I wound up cutting the carpeting off the bottom step, which Max 'read as' "LOO", and placing it out on the commons lawn.  Worked like a charm - if you ever find yourself in a similar dilemma.

      Max-in-Norfolk was a dear, loyal playmate for the little guy.  He looked like a miniature sheepdog, his matted fur-covered nose ever on the prowl for cast-off-Philip crumbs. (Perhaps a breed-specific trait - tidiness.)  In summertime, we'd have him 'groomed' by a guy who thought raw 'Miss Lillian-look' WAS HIM!  So he arrived home post first grooming with bows on his 'poodled' ears and tail.  But he was SOOO cool, even Lt. Doc approved - after trashing the bows.)

      Today's Max episode - and I know you're thinking, wait a minute, 'MAX is a lemon-haired-lady?' - as well you should.  Your patience will pay off - centers on a painstakingly-planned Winter visit to Pittsburgh.  I'd made the flight arrangements, bought a travel crate for himself, explained over & over to Philip that "The cargo area is like a dogie playground.  They run and jump and fetch balls, get treats, etc. ad nauseum, made packing lists and assigned pre- departure duties.  The ONLY thing Lt. Doc had to do was bathe, brush and, at the appropriate time, medicate Max for the trip.

      On the eve of our journey to PA, where 'cold shoulder' would be served as MY three squares to go with the frigid temps outdoors due to the ubiquitous snow, it rained heavily.  Unfortunately, after the ordeal of coaxing (the un-walked) Max upstairs and into the bathroom for his hated 'suds-'n-rinse special', once we were at 'Mission Accomplished', Max scooted out, unseen by yours truly, so focused was I on carrying four bags of trash to the pre-placed garbage barrel.

      Even worse, at least an hour had elapsed before I noticed Max had not executed his post scrub chow-down because my list read, "wash/pack Max bowls after emptied".  "Where's Max?"  Nothing.  Strolling with admirable control to the living room where my 'men' were reading pre-bedtime, I bellowed, "Where's MAX?!"  Blank-tape stares said it all.  NO one knew where or when or whence Max had exited into the dark, stormy night nor his current location.

      Donning those 'handy, dandy imitation life disguise faces that have been pre-'smiled', Doc and I assured Philip he was JUST outside - and, proving yet AGAIN there IS a God - we heard scratching at the front door just in time for, "See? Now up we go for prayers and tuck-in.  We've got a big day tomorrow, big guy."  When I came back down, a very muddy Max was being restrained by a very anger-restraining Doc, waiting an appropriate amount of time before dragging the scoundrel pooch back upstairs for Bath Two.

      When freshly re-groomed, winter-do Max came down, he went, predictably, to the kitchen and his waiting bowls.  Once fat'n happy, he curled up at doc's feet and they watched the news while I returned to my list.  Perhaps an hour later, while I was upstairs blissfully checking task after task off my prep list, I was summoned.  Loudly.  Hmmmm.  So, scurrying down the steps, quickly but quietly, I inquired, "Is someth. . ."

      I was met with a vision.  Doc restraining a very muddy Max who was restrained by a very anger-restraining Doc, waiting an appropriate amount of time before dragging the scoundrel pooch back upstairs for Bath Three.  We both stared at peacefully-sleeping, scrubbed and fed ?.

I approached carefully and did a subtle 'gender check'.  Not sharing the findings I just said, "Well, THIS is NOT Max." Doc, already dragging the now-growling Max upstairs, spat back, "Why don't YOU figure out what to do with 'Fritz' because we have twelve hours and one travel crate till take-off."

      Had to think quickly.  The neighbors two doors down.  Of course.  Kindest folks you'd EVER want to meet.  They'll be happy to keep him/her for a day or two.  But ONLY a day or two as he'd received transfer orders.  They were leaving in four days.  And that will be PLENTY of time for the dear, hardly-known, Mrs. to figure out Fritz' next safe port in this evolving not-so-perfect storm. Most likely, after inquiring of well-known neighbors, she'd have learned that "Those Leavys.  Their dog is MAX. Male dog. SUCH practical jokers!".

      I felt quite certain that lemon-haired Fritz - or, perhaps by now, 'Annie', named for the famed orphan - would be in the care of a loving family or the base shelter.  I have a friend who, in that the family dog, 'Yippie' had taken to nipping the children - she had seven - was moving to a larger house.  On moving day, she simply took the dog to the vet - for his shots - and never saw him again.  Our vet would not have been available on a rainy evening.  And lemon-haired Fritz/Annie would be fine, I was certain.  Aren't you?

Later, Lorane. . . .

     

Fritz Lemonhair Circa 1972

      (Well, now, today, I give you "Fritz" but pictorially, just not on this page.  However, this 'candid' of SHAMUS, our Brittany, more than serves - as you will see - for several reasons.  Fritz is here for two reasons: he's a dog, like 'Miss Lillian', and he's short - in stature as well as role-played-in-our-lives.

      While doc was 'First Lieutenant Doc' and we lived in a town house community provided for the officers by the U. S. Navy, we had our FIRST family dog  (really our son, Philip's first dog), Max.  In the start of my ninth month of pregnancy with Philip, as I could no longer see my feet, weighed a 'smart' 196 lbs. and had to relinquish my position as Head Nurse of the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital known for producing their finest surgical resident, our Doc. And I was SO relieved to do so as now I could follow orders & 'put my feet up'.

      Ever sensitive doc, concerned that I might be lonely, noticed a sign outside the "Maximum Care Unit": 'PUPPIES'.  And so it was that to relieve the nurse, whose frantic attempts at selling the 'surprise' litter her dog had presented, our boy brought this little , fuzzy bundle of un-trained canine bliss home as a present for me.  To keep me company.  Whilst I basked in the joys of elevated, edematous stumps, eating Granny Green apples.

      Max - derivative of his foundling origins - was a challenge, as presents go.  Our townhouse there was such that you had to walk down a flight of carpeted steps to exit.  'Training' proceeding at 'snail's pace', I wound up cutting the carpeting off the bottom step, which Max 'read as' "LOO", and placing it out on the commons lawn.  Woeked like a charm - if you ever find yourself in a similar dilema.

      Max-in-Norfolk was a dear, loyal playmate for the little guy.  He looked like a miniature sheepdog, his matted fur-covered nose ever on the prowl for cast-off-Philip crumbs. (Perhaps a breed-specific trait - tidiness.)  In summertime, we'd have him 'groomed' by a guy who thought rgw 'Miss Lillian-look' WAS HIM!  So he arrived home post first grooming with bows on his 'poodled' ears and tail.  But he was SOOO cool, even Lt. Doc approved - after trashing the bows.)

      Today's Max episode - and I know you're thinking, wait a minute, 'MAX is a lemon-haired-lady?' - as well you should.  Your patiencewill pay off - centers on a painstakingly-planned Winter visit to Pittsburgh.  I'd made the flight arrangements, bought a travel crate for himself, explained over & over to Philip that "The cargo area is like a doggie playground.  They run and jump and fetch balls, get treats, etc. ad nauseum, made packing lists and assigned pre- departure duties.  The ONLY thing Lt. Doc had to do was bathe, brush and, at the appropriate time, medicate Max for the trip.

      On the eve of our journey to PA, where 'cold shoulder' would be served as MY three squares to go with the frigid temps outdoors due to the ubiquitous snow, it rained heavily.  Unfortunately, after the ordeal of coaxing (the un-walked) Max upstairs and into the bathroom for his hated 'suds-'n-rinse special', once we were at 'Mission Accomplished', Max scooted out, unseen by yours truly, so focused was I on carrying four bages of trash to the pre-placed garbage barrel.

      Even worse, at least an hour had elapsed before I noticed Max had not executed his post scrub chow-down because my list read, "wash/pack Max bowls after emptied".  Where's Max?  Nothing.  Strolling with admirable control to the living room where my 'men' were reading pre-bedtime, I bellowed, "Where's MAX?!"  Blank-tape stares said it all.  NO one knew where or when or whence Max had exited into the dark, stormy night nor his current location.

      Donning those 'handy, dandy imitation life disguise faces that have been pre-'smiled', Doc and I assured Philip he was JUST outside - and, proving yet AGAIN there IS a God - we heard scratching at the front door just in time for, "See? Now up we go for prayers and tuck-in.  We've got a big day tomoorrow, big guy."  when I came back down, a very muddy Max was being restrained by a very anger-restraining Doc, waiting an appropriate amount of time before dragging the scoundrel pooch back upstairs for Bath Two.

      When freshly re-groomed, winter-do Max came down, he went, predictably, to the kitchen and his waiting bowls.  Once fat'n happy, he curled up at doc's feet and they watched the news while I returned to my list.  Perhaps an hour later, while I was upstairs blissfully checking task after task off my prep list, I was summoned.  Loudly.  Hmmmm.  So, scurrying down the steps, quickly but quietly, I inquired, "Is someth. . ."

      I was met with a vision.  Doc restraining a very muddy Max who was restrained by a very anger-restraining Doc, waiting an appropriate amount of time before dragging the scoundrel pooch back upstairs for Bath Three.  We both stared at peacefully-sleeping, scrubbed and fed ?.

I approached carefullu and did a subtle 'gender check'.  Not sharing the findings I just said, "Well, THIS is NOT Max." Doc, dragging the now-growling Max upstairs, spat back, "Why don't YOU figure out what to do with 'Fritz' because we have twelve hours and one travel crate till take-off."

      Had to think quickly.  The neighbors two doors down.  Of course.  Kindest folks you'd EVER want to meet.  They'll be happy to keep him/her for a day or two.  But ONLY a day or two as he'd received transfer orders.  They were leaving in four days.  And that will be PLENTY of time for the dear, hardly-known, Mrs. to figure out Fritz' next safe port in this evolving not-so-perfect storm. Most likely, after inquiring of well-known neighbors, she'd have learned that "Those Leavys.  Their dog is MAX. Male dog. SUCH practical jokers!"

      I felt quite certain that lemon-haired Fritz - or, perhaps by now, 'Annie', named for the famed orphan, would be in the care of a loving family or the base shelter.  I have a friend who, in that the family dog, 'Yippie' had taken to nipping the children - she had seven - was moving to a larger house.  On moving day, she simply took the dog to the vet - for his shots - and never saw him again.  Our vet would not have been available on a rainy evening.  And lemon-haired Fritz/Annie would be fine, I was certain.  Aren't you?

Later, Lorane. . . .

     

The Lemon-Haired Lady Diary

      There she was, at the tip of my callouses, with a simple request.  I simply cannot recall what, of the many sites I follow, page she was on. So, moving right along, as is my wont, I've put her here.  On my page, which I'm far less likely to misplace.  Although I hadn't planned to introduce them in this fashion - The Lemon-Haired Lady Diary - I shall, as, at the end of the day, there's always a reason when 'plans' are thwarted, changed, interrupted - you get the point.  So, I give you "her".
      (Over these many years of conjugal getting-through-it-all with some degree of grace and efficiency, ours has been a very together separated family.  Mark those words.  This achievement is NOT for the weak, the tired, the lackluster or disinterested.
      Rather, the rigors of healing kept my husband from membership in the 'family vacation' set - summers, holidays, breaks - he was simply not a candidate.  To accommodate the conflicting "dad's-a-doc" v. "school's-out-we're-kids-and-wanna-play - away" conundrum, we added a small cottage on the Outer Banks to our already over-extended monthly payments. 
      It was here that the children and I would 'vacate' from June 10 or thereabouts until mid-August, whence fond adieus were bid to the sound/rhythm of the surf and we trundled back to Virginia in time for school clothing/book-shopping and that tachycardic anticipation of another 'new' academic year. 
      To be fair, the Shaman was not in a state of total separation.  He was in Virginia.  And, whenever scheduling permitted, he'd drive down for 3 or 4 day spells of togetherness, drip castles and trash fiction. Oh, and he adored - truly - repairing the west porch screens.  'Ritual' simply denies justice to this annual, focused, in-the-shade-avec-breeze undertaking.
      This arrangement continues to this day, bringing with it a new set of tiny footprints in the sand.  The Leavy 'summer experience' is simultaneously sweet, savory, and brings with it the totally unexpected - like all good things. "Her" particular chapter came at the end of the summer, the 'trundle back to 'Ginny' part.)
      So entrenched in the scheduling of schedules for each child, each child's school picture, the baby's 2 year-old - and 1.5 yr late - portrait in addition to the shopping marathon, I really didn't notice her for a day or two.  Perhaps she was on night duty or off on a rare visit home, whatever, I was taken aback by my husband's query, "You don't MIND about Katie, do you?"
      Wow, aren't those the questions that have you almost checking in to camp 'closed-ward-no-visitors'?  You know when, heart in a panic vice, you 'play it off' casually, maybe with a, "Mind? Don't be silly! WHY . . . would-I-mind?"  Then the glazed stare on the handy, dandy imitation life disguise face, plastic smile in place, HOPING for the "Well, because I just for GOT to mention. . ."
      And you're home free. As I was, because doc was only too happy to quickly prattle on about the circumstances that landed 'new resident' - in its dual meaning - Dr. Katie Lemonhair - in our daughter's bedroom.  Ending with, "I figured the girls would want to share the BIG bedroom together and, yes, they can - and should - get new beds and matching whatevers," he did one of those 'THANK-YOU-GOD-I-OWE-YA' exhales. (Irish Catholic guilt has been a huge problem-solver for me these 44 years.)
      And that was how I came to know that, due to her late acceptance into the residency program, when Katie arrived from Ohio, the only room she could find was with three frosh at Old Dominion U. who were living off campus - with an agenda. What with rushing around, getting her own books, locker, starched white lab coats, schedules and already working on her first rotation, she really wasn't bothered/hadn't noticed the menagerie into which she was ensconced.
      So, when Doc Phil came on duty in the Emergency Department one seven am, he noticed a tangled, yellow mop near the phones and attending roster.  On closer inspection, he determined the 'mop' was attached to a frail human neck which dropped into flattened shoulders belonging to a sleeping resident seated in a chair. This will never do. "Nurse!"  Nothing.  "Anybody WORKING today?" Nothing.
      Within five minutes he had gently wakened the 'poor kid', averted the potential sob session that was beginning to develop on her face and sat beside her, feigning a chart conference, while getting the sorry scoop on the kid's living-unplugged situation. 
"Katie, you'll never survive this rotation in that setting.  And this is only your first rotation of what will be a very demanding year."
"What am I going to DO, Dr. L?"
      Of course he just threw our house keys at her, trying for paternal-authority-figure as he instructed her to get her stuff from that loony bin, just dump it in the smaller of the two bedrooms facing the main street and get a good day's sleep.  The wife, kids and his father-in-law - not very helpful of late, hittin' the booze since Nana passed - won't be back from the beach for another three days.
      A dog? I'm sure he told her that would be a plus.  "We have a Brittany - gets gloomy when the kids go back to school."  "Mind?  My wife will be delighted - if only to have another grown woman around.  Those kids and Poppy and Shamus (our Brittany) - she's got her hands full.  She'll welcome the companionship." or something along those (fine) lines.  What a guy!
      'Quelle surprise!' was MY reaction when the scenario (like Katie) settled in.  And the dog! A fluffy, white toy poodle named 'Miss Lillian' already had the interior blueprint of our home etched on her white, curly-fur-covered brain, like the templates on those new computerized floor sweepers - a quiet, charged stealth weapon with paws. Shamus (well-named for this interlude in the family saga) would stalk her, skulking along at what he thought was an inconspicuous, five inch distance.
      Looking on the bright side - which was beaming in through a narrow slit in an off-kilter venetian blind slat - I thought, well, the kids will soon be busy with school/sports/dance and therefore supervised safely by mature adults for the majority of my day; Katie has that demanding schedule; Poppy will diligently attend to the grocery shopping and then read the receipt for an hour or so as though it was "Moby Dick" before a taste to go with "Hawaii-Five-O"; Phil's saving lives; Shamus has the mutt covered (I thought); and I can get to the computer and finish the long-overdue deader-than-deadlined assignments I had undertaken for a local slick magazine. What's to worry?
      Sometimes trouble, like intra-arterial plaque, has an insidious onset.  I began to wake up around three am intermittently.  Finally, deciding the cause was noise, I dragged myself out of bed to see which of the offspring was NOT sleeping.  Au contraire.  What I found was 'Katie-on-the-phone'. Executing a languid retreat, I noticed Katie had terminated her conversation, placed our receiver in our cradle and meekly explained that three am was the only time she could fit her therapy sessions in.  Her therapist, a blind psychiatrist in Ohio, had been treating her for several years and time of day was of no moment to him, dedicated mental health care provider that he was.
      Indeed. Well, that solved the middle of-the-night issue.  Soon after, I began noticing bits of a pinkish crumb-looking trail on the hardwood floors.  No stranger to Hansel and Gretel, I followed them to THEIR source.  What ho!  Seemed Miss Lillian had 'issues' as well - but no blind veterinary therapist in Ohio.  Thus her addiction to oriental rug padding went un-abated.  In fact, it had escalated to where she no longer bothered to attempt to hide the evidence - such was the square footage of gnawed rug padding I detected upon close inspection.
      With what had become alarming aplomb, Katie presented a picture of an innocent, frightened creature suffering from 'separation anxiety' which netted conciliatory, understanding, shrink-like nods from the master of the house.  The mistress, on the other hand, suggested crating the little (fluffy) bitch until she came to understand that Miss Lillian, if not cured of her addiction, would NOT be relying on the kindness of strangers but on the Greyhound Terminal cargo bus headed to Ohio.
      Thus we muddled through until some time in May.  Totally enjoying my 'rapture' time - now whittled down to two precious hours a day to think and write in silence, I wafted into my study, alighted on my special Swedish Maternity bentwood typing chair with the air of Isadora Duncan, ignoring the gait of Agnes Gooch, and, still entranced, gazed questioningly at a white business envelope taped to my computer screen and labeled, "Lorraine". 
      Mother's Day offering? Ya think? No.  My husband and fam know how my first name is spelled.  Suddenly on 'rampart alert', I tore the envelope open, ripped out the single piece of paper and read:
"I hope you don't mind.  For obvious reasons, when I realized I had run out of my Herpes medication, I wrote a scrip for YOU and called it in to the pharmacy number on your pre-natal vitamin bottle."  Thanks. You'll never know how grateful I am to you for doing this. Katie."
      Mind?  Obvious? HERPES!? For me?  Oh, but I DO know how grateful - and more - you are/should be.  Geez!  MY pharmacy?  MY pre-natal. . . .  That's it.  Time for some tough love. Enough is enough.  And I got RIGHT into my car before I ran out of 'rapture time' and lead-footed it over to . . . the damned pharmacy, praying it would be a down time over there. 
      It seemed an eternity that I loitered around the Father's Day display waiting for a clear, empty shot at the pharmacist.  Finally, coast clear, I waddled over to "Pick-UP" and quietly said, "Leavy".  I looked up into the eyes of a stranger.  My pharmacist was out sick.  "Ma'am?" fell out, loudly, of the stranger's mouth.  On tip toes, waking my now irritated, uncomfy fetus, I spat, "L-E-A-V-Y"  Another head-scratching hiatus.  Then, "I got it. Take this stuff DAILY for that Herpes, hear?"  Dropping the name of the 'condition' loud enough they probably heard it back in Brooklyn, I could only nod.  I didn't have to TRY to look ill.  Running SO low on 'fight-or-flight' juice, I was about to turn, barf and run, when he  - perhaps noticing - busied himself with packaging and cash register activities aborting my flight.
      My ire, however, was very much intact.  Oddly enough, it was disorientingly intact because all of a sudden I was NOT in our driveway.  I was at the hospital.  I was walking in and approaching the receptionist (lovely little elderly candy-striper) and asking her to page Dr. Lemonhair overhead.  Her "Herpes scrip is waiting for pick-up at Main Reception." 
      And there was "one less set of footsteps on our floor.  In the mornin."  Some days you bite the bear and some days the bear bites you.  Doctor Lemonhair suffered a bad bear bite that day.  Hasn't been any Christmas card exchanging since she left.  I guess she realized just "how grateful" I was - for obvious reasons.
                                       Later, Lorane. . . .
     

The Shillelagh

Top of the Day, to ALL! My greetings come to you with some Irish lore, compliments of the typically dutiful research of a dear, Hoya classmate (Georgetown '66), Mary Sellinger O'Rourke.  Too busy at Christmas, Mary always sends greetings on St. Paddy's Day.  Very much to my delight, as I've been relying on our family's 'authentic' shillelagh of late for strolling, I was (and am certain you will be too) fascinated by its history.  Learning the correct spelling was icing on the ole Irish oatmeal this mornin'.

     

      (Here we go and bless you, Mary!)

     

      Shillelagh is the Irish word for an oak club. Shillelagh was the name of an oak forest in County Wicklow on Ireland's eastern coast. Unfortunately, the forest no longer exists as it was cut down to provide wood for many famous English buildings.  The paneling of Westminster Hall is from the Shillelagh Forest.

     

      Shillelaghs are now made of blackthorn. The black color comes from a curing process in which the wood is smeared with butter and the stick is then placed up a chimney to cure.  (Would that wives could do the same with husbands afflicted with a penchant for 'a wee taste' now and again!)

     

      The large knob at the top is a blackthorn root and the bark is left on along with the knots.  The shillelagh functioned both as a walking stick and as a weapon.  When the knob on the end was hollowed out and filled with molten lead it was known as a "loaded stick".  (Odd.  Precisely how I referred to me hubby in his younger, leaner years.)

     

      At times, during the English occupation, it was illegal for the Irish to carry weapons. The shillelagh walking stick would then have a dual function. 

     

      Bata is the name for Irish martial arts, which could be executed with one or two shillelaghs or batas.  When two are used, one is for shielding; the other for attack.

     

       The winner of the Notre Dame/ University of Southern California football game is awarded The Jeweled Shillelagh, which is encrusted with rubies.

      In 1945, Bing Crosby recorded a song called, "It's the Same Old Shillelagh" about a young Irish lad who inherits his father's shillelagh.  It was quite popular at the time, but recently has become criticized for it's inherent violence and Irish stereotyping.  Most of this criticism has come from those who are not Irish.

     

      (Might I add -  probably knew I would - that these 'not Irish' dunderheads most likely are imbued with the inherent IQ of a box of frozen snow peas and, as such, fail to have the arsenal of functioning Betz cells required to appreciate the mentality of the post World War II fans of Master Crosby, the glorious armistice which was gained through necessary violence, and the pride in the Irish 'fighting spirit'.  Please see, 'Notre Dame', Ann Arbor: football.)

IT'S THE SAME

OLD SHILLELAGH



   Sure it's the same old shillelagh me father brought from Ireland

And devil a man prouder than he, as he walked with it in his hand.

He'd lead the band on Paddy's Day and twirl it 'round his mitt

And, devil a bit, we laughed at it, poor dad would have a fit.

Sure with the same old shillelagh, me father could lick a dozen men

As fast as they'd get up be gory, he'd knock them down again.

And many's the time he used it on me to make me understand

the same old shillelagh, me father brought from Ireland.



HAPPY SAINT PADDY'S DAY!

(May the road rise up to meet 'ya,

The wind always at yer back,

 And may 'ya get to Heaven afore the Devil   thinks to stuff ya in his sack! )

Later, Lorane. . . .   

Goin' green. Dreamin' chocolate

TAH DAH!

      Guess ya just don't mess with a Leprechaun - especially on the Ides of March.  But I did.  I was just sooo excited to be breakin' a way-too-long silence - mine - that I parked me sorry arse at the keyboard, mouse potato that I've become, and squeezed my eyes shut.  And there I sat, you know the way you would if you were makin' that special wish before you blow out your birthday candles, and said, "Oh, Muse of Muses, the Greenest of Greens, Shamus of the Unsolvable, - I'm lowering me head, now, as in prayer, for effect - Laddie Leprechaun Himself, create for me the most beautiful shower of sparkling SHAMROCKS so that I may share them with me friends as we approach the grand celebration, known to the uninitiated as 'Saint Patrick's Day', of YOURSELF!"  I was just sayin'.  But it seems He was not amused by my pullin' on his little green leg.  I was denied my shower of shamrocks.  He sent this lovely little Lass to show ME.  "THERE'S yer 'shower'.  And there's no messin' with The Laddie!"  Well, 'fie on im', I say.  Me friends don't NEED a visual.  The world of souls, ALL initiated AND devotees of St. Paddy, have The Shamrock etched on their hearts.  Unlike yours - made of stone - in-scribbled with blarney.  You can take your leave.  The Lass stays. And once again, we're ALL reminded of why we must address a 'con' when utterin' yer name!
      (NEXT! I thought I heard my name, was being paged.  But no.  It was only the anchor.  He was giving us fair warning of which woebegone world event we'd be listening to after the tasteless-but-required "after this".  Shamefully tedious, lately, don't you think?  The 'news', I mean.  But like a responsible little soldier, I'd just strained to comprehend the previous item.  It seems that scientists at Oxford - as in the other side of the pond - had finally concluded the long, laborious - and ludicrous in my mind - study that confirmed, as only empirical scientists can confirm, the FACT that the hateful, destructive racism which has been visited upon those of dark-hued skin for ages, is now an anachronism. 
      Yes, fellow world citizens, They-at-Oxford have eradicated racial - and ONLY racial; you women and gays will have to plod on searching for the THE formula that reduces misogyny and homophobia to particulate ionsofice - discrimination by the one-time, oral administration of a drug identified only as "in the cardiac classification", pharmaceutically speaking.  How about hermeneutically speaking.  I mean is this yet another Druidic plot to conceal the formula for gold?  Hmmm?  You really can't make this stuff up, folks.  Real life wins hands down every time.)
      Patrick has always been a special name in our homes. And the festive behavior surrounding the commemoration of the saint's day, in our family, is always the chief ingredient in the 'Mania Mash' that prevails around March 17.  The parades, the marathons, the 'wearin-o'-the green.  St. Paddy's Day ROCKS.
      I started getting itchy yesterday, actually. Well, I was just being pragmatic.  Out doing the marketing, SOMEhow I strolled right by the fresh veggies and next thing I knew my soles were stuck to the slick floor.  Looking up - for assistance - my eyes locked on a glistening row of glass half-barrel sized canisters each  filled with - Confections?  Of the tiny UFO-shaped variety, brightly-colored sugar-coated chocolate. 
      OK, so this wasn't the chain-variety market that my husband and the rest of the prudent citizenry use when a nation-wide depression is scratching at your porch screen door. Rather it was the kind food snobs like me, who prattle on about Madeleine's as though they'd actually read Proust, patronize.  When Gigi shops for her one little grand peep who, being logistically disadvantaged, requires fed-ex ed treats on special occasions, she can be found here - specialing up all SIX peeps, what with the gas prices these days. Arthritic but not astigmatic, I filled my basquette with little bags of green, white and orange specialities toute suite!
      (Apropos of nothing, our anchor was back muddling through what sounded like a 'Willie Wonka' piece, at first bite.  But color me RED, white and green, he was speaking of the mayor of an obscure little Italian village.  It seemed, for good and sufficient reasons, I'd hoped, the man had just yesterday announced the passage of a new town law. Henceforth - and here the techies out-did themselves as the perfectly sync-ed copy, as uttered by the law-maker in real time, was simultaneously being translated from Italian to English, the words marching lock-step across the bottom of the screen - it will be "against the law to die".
      No snickering, please. And no pun intended.  This chocolate theme is heavy on my gastronomic vocab tonight.  As a direct result of the exhaustion of available real estate, there remained nary a soupcon of sod into which a shovel could be sunk for the purposes of internment.  Ergo, no dirt; no death.  At the time of this stunning reportage, two people had already broken the law.)
      For our newest peep, this will be his FIRST sweet celebration of what, I'm sure his three year-old big sister - of "Mommy, what time does the plane leave?" "What plane, sweetie?" "To- Chi- ca- go, Mom." "What?" "Mom- my, Grams- got-me- a- Bears- Cheer- lead- er- out- fit.  I- have- to- be- in- Chi- ca- go. The- squad- needs- me!" - fame - has excitedly described for him.  So that's one organic household that will be putting on a green "Shite Show" Saturday from sugar shock.  Our son's eldest is running the last leg of the local Shamrock Marathon (raising money for the breast cancer fight) after which, he, his sister (dropped in earlier as "Lass") and their little brother, PATRICK-surprise-baby-four-years-ago Saturday, will be visiting US.
      They offered to detail my car - as MY b-day is almost upon us.  Sweet is as sweet does, Saturday.  Seconds after those Shammys are stored, the guys will settle in for some b-ball hd-duty and the treat marathon shall commence in full force.  It's only once a year.  AND everyone will be in the best of moods.  No bickering, Saturday or no b-day cake apres treats.  I run a tight shoppe.
      (Unfortunately, our boy was back with some glum-chum news that is becoming de rigueur in the Mid East.  'Bickering' is but a tip-toe performance when compared to the colossal carnage in THAT arena.  I heard Syria, then more Afghanistani murders.  Iran - always on stage - was mentioned at some point.  But getting back to the Afghanistan theater, I was reminded, sadly, of an announcement in the 'weekend event' section of our paper.
      Most of the events - the great majority, in fact, had an Irish tinge.  So one - under the "Dance" heading really stood out as no cake walk: "Dances of  Afghanistani and Mid Eastern Rhythm Workshop".  Personally, I think decency demands a cancellation.  The potential for Mephistophelian metaphor is chilling and would stand out as a shocking breach of taste.)
      Of course there's not enough 'riverdancing' hours in a week to burn off the tasty calories we shall - as a family - gain this week.  But it is sooo worth it. It's TRADITION.  My husband and I, in a state of combined confusion/depression after listening to the evening news, toyed with a resolution/closure to the 'news' events we'd just endured.
      If the Oxford boys could only put their cardiac chemical in the Mid East drinking water, they might stop the hate/toxic tornadoes in that region.  Barring that, those suffering the ultimate exit, would die needlessly AND criminally should the Italian mayor's reigning trend spread.  Perhaps, we wondered, it would be well to establish a chopper service - if only for the Italians, that would air-ferry/deposit remains over Mt. Etna.  That way, the unfortunate departed can legally make ashes of themselves.
      (Thank Heaven for St. Patrick. Stay as sweet as you can.  Go green and fulfill your chocolate dreams Saturday.  It could be pouring Sunday. Later, Lorane. . . .)