Context: circumstances or events that form the environment
within which something exists or takes place. There you have it - a tidy little
definition of a word frequently used - and abused - in communication - verbal
and non - as well as writing and informal discourse. I hate to be pesky (OK, I
lied. As you know, friends and readers,
fatigue, illness, temperament, certain people and most content that seems to
stream into my consciousness directly from the television, elicit peskiness of
unwarranted and lofty proportions. And
you know this because I am also insensitive enough to ‘share’ my unattractive
emotions at the drop of a hackneyed expression)
Now before you lower
that boom of a pointer on your upper right corner “x”, deserting this tab as
though you’d seen a warning prompt: “Continue reading at the risk of erasing
your hard drive”, know that I’ve not embarked on an instructive stroll down
“Composition I” lane - and we all know there’s no strolling ‘up’ that rocky
road - but simply wanted to orient everyone to this evening’s pithy, playful
ruminations. Lord knows, I stand first
in the ‘orientation line’. The past five
or six days have been inordinately disorienting causing a fit of
seeking-in-extremis for peace, order, direction and pleasant experience. Lest I
fall prey to a full-blown case of pesky.
Fortunately for all,
persistence conquered pesky and I found my treasure trove – which, per Virginia
law, I may keep if a ‘rightful owner’ has not left a claim. Last-minute changes had us dining at b-day
grandpeep’s fave watering hole to commemorate her eighth year among the VERY
quick. Molly is currently taking tennis
lessons - and showing signs of greatness - but along with a tennis bracelet, we
gave her a small, crystal catcher’s mitt and baseball which she literally
‘visits’ to admire every time she’s at our home. It’s a paper weight, actually, and I’d always
found her tender fascination endearing.
Especially in that the child shows no interest in the sport - save her
Mets ball cap. Thus we presented Molly
with the coveted trinket cum framed poem.
(Framing seems rampant in those heinous TV emissions of late. Watching the evening news brings a spate of
commercial interruptions clearly aimed at robbing the unsuspecting, average
watcher of his old friends – peace-order-direction-pleasant experience – with
whom news is normally endured. They (we
know of whom we speak) have some beastly attention-grabbers out there. Who’s NOT going to listen up when the subject
concerns health – in the context of
its continuity.
In
that as a genre there seems to be no discernible distinction, we’ll have a
gander at a common bladder issue, unpleasant but not life-threatening. At least the lure is cast in that manner. The captive audience takes the bait – and the
Vesicare. The scene begins in our
mythical land of “Context” with bronze-hued PVC-pipe figures marching this way
and that, singing with hearty voices reminiscent of the era of protesting.
(Which will re-enter in present tense context when the nightly news resumes.)
The
message our marchers are conveying is that they’ve worked hard to get where
they are (presumably ‘success-land’) and will not tolerate interruptions by
‘leaky-pipe-induced’ frequent trips to the ladies room. Enter Vesicare. By now you’ve gathered this is a
pharmaceutical frame-up. The abject ‘bete-noire’ of over-active bladder
syndrome, Vesicare renders this unsuspecting malady a thing of the past, a has
been in the long line of similar would-be impede-rs of “so-if-you-go-to-Somewhere-on-your-way-from-
Nowhere,-and-you-meet-anyone-you’ll-know-it’s-Me” bronzed marchers.)
Molly sat rapt, caressing her crystal treasure while proudly
reading her poem:
INSTRUCTIONS
for safe use of Molly’s enclosed:
Catch a falling star
and put it in your
pocket.
Never let it fade
away.
Catch a falling star
and put it in your pocket
save it for a rany day.
For
love might come and tap you on the shoulder
some
starless night.
And
just to show you’ve grown a little bolder,
you’ll
have a pocketful of starlight.
Pocketful
of starlight.. . ..
Catch a falling star.
You’ve got your glove,
just DO it.
(Others think that it’s
‘Their’ day.)
Catch a falling star,
you’re
faster getting to it.
No
one gets in Molly’s Way.
Your
glove and ball –
the
day that you got older -
came
for catching light. Starlight’s best,
wants
Molly’s glove to hold her.
Star-matching-Star
made MAGIC all night,
Magic
starlight all night.
Molly’s ball and glove
came when she reached
her eighth year,
lighting up her sky with
stars.
Molly’s
ball and glove told all who came,
Now
see here:
Stars’re
hers now, they’re not ours.
Stars
will never fade away. . .
Won’t
be any rainy days. . .
Molly’s
starlight’s here to stay. . .
Glove
and ball are Molly’s way.
Love
and Stars mark Eighth Birthday.
Candles out, but Starlight stays.
Pockets full, colorful
light from Stars all
Molly’s days.
Light from stars that’s hers not ours.
But sharing, loving,
bright Birthdays!
Balls
in gloves
Showered
loves. On her way -
EIGHT
today.
Never,
ever fade away. . .
All
her starlit bright Birthdays
Always
Starlit, bright Birthdays.
And
a star she shall be, wherever her talents take her.
(Would that the same could be said
of our marchers. Seconds after their
song of determination and praise loses its volume, Mr. Friendly Voiceover,
totally aberrant contextually, booms in to remind us in tutorial tones that, as
with all modern miracle drugs, there MAY be side effects – of which he is all
too eager to warn us. The litany –
ranging from inconvenient to lethal – is prefaced by the
what-has-become-typical advice, “Therefore, consult your doctor if you have any
known conditions like heart arrhythmias, psychiatric disorders, respiratory
ailments, glaucoma, G-I Tract Disorders or a significant history of allergies.)
(One would think, in the
doctor-patient context, that had ANY of those successful marchers suffered from
ANY of the aforementioned conditions, the ‘doctor’ would soon become
‘successive’ had he not been aware of them when he prescribed the
Vesicare. Really, folks, is ‘average
patient’ now responsible for diagnostics and test result interpretation such
that findings are to be shared with ‘average patient’s’ treating doctor so he
doesn’t screw up and prescribe Vesicare to the hapless hyper-allergenic marcher
whose dumb luck it was to now develop an overactive bladder which, as yet, she
hadn’t had time to work up?)
Sunday -
warm and sunny - was just perfect for grandpeep Charlie’s second b-day. He was just a bubble of dimples, giggles, and
hugs and kisses all around. The kids
seemed to fly all over the swing set and jungle gym; tumble in the grass
waiting a turn at driving the Jeep and beeping the horn; laugh and peak through
their blindfolds when pinning the butterfly on Curious George’s tree. And after
gallons of cold juice, Charlie’s Curious George cake was the perfect pause
before tearing open presents with renewed life!
(I watch and listen to this
potentially lethal scenario, gleaned from this potentially award-winning sixty
second ‘spot’: successful bronze pipe’s
march becomes a walk, then a fall, groping forward in a desperate, last lurch
toward an unreachable phone that will never follow a “911-order”. Marcher had ignored the heartburn,
fiber-blasted the constipation, artificially teared her dry eyes, watered her
dry mouth, squinted through her blurry vision.
The wheezing – well successful pipes can’t just STOP for a cold. Of course she never forgot to take her
anti-depressant but the confusion caused her to take two Vesicare that
day. And when her lips and face and
throat started to swell – what was it she was supposed to do?
She stopped
marching and walked to think this through.
Tired, she sat, groped for her cell phone to call her buddy, Pattipipe,
but decided to nap first. But then she
thought the grass must be getting to her because she was wheezing, call doc. .
. ‘Reach out and touch some bo dy. . .’
Reaching, her crooning stopped, as did she. At the service, doctor, in the context of
both sympathy and helpfulness, explained to her grieving, successful friends,
that “Nothing should ever get in the way of taking care of yourself.” He left an ample pile of his cards next to
the Guest Registry. Ambling down the
carpeted marble steps, he was heard singing softly, “I’ve worked very hard to
get where I am; I’ll never allow a leaky pipe to get in my way. . .”
In the
context of ruminations, I think I’ll run with ‘playful’ tonight. There’s something about TV commercials – in
the context of ‘pith’ - that makes me feel pesky. And we certainly don’t want to go THERE.
Later,
Lorane. . . .
