DECLAN: A Story of Capabilities and Limitations

Been a spate of silent days. That blank tape syndrome, you'll recall. Well, actually I was all set - after trapsing through some of my "on air" haps and misses,

to introduce you to a 'pro' I'd profiled back in the day. A guy who did his work well, with flair and devoted following. But what with getting Valentine goodies for the grandpeeps, wandering down the Valentine Memory Lane and then - quite serendipitously, HONEST! - getting an email from a very dear, close, old friend in which she ASKED about one of our children, I am moved to switch gears and profiles and intros and answer her query here by introducing you to Declan.

Recently another dear friend sent me a PDF version of his story which I am told I can deftly place right here. No problem. Of course, no CLUE either as to how this prestidigitation is to be effected (& even if I succeed, I shall probably ALSO "place" every iota of extraneous text/imagery as well) so I will just give it ONE shot & if, after I yell "PULL" & shoot nothing happens, I'll just peck it out for you.

On the evening of February 17,1984, our 16 month-old son, Declan, aspirated a piece of browniie containing fragments of walnut. He'd been laughing. On March 15 - a Thursday afternoon, he died. At Christmas we'd had 4 beautiful, healthy children. I was finally able to write this at Easter. We then had three.
As with all tragedies, much of the experience is personal, unique. But Declan was also a member of a community, a neighborhood, a region. He - and we - were fortunate that he lived in Hampton Roads. If you are fellow residents, you deserve to know why.since we trust ourselves to each other everyday. Today, in 2011, as Americans, you are equally deserving, for the same reason. Declan's story has to do with capabilities and limitations. It is a point of reference from which we can all hope to see progress but with which we must live in "the now". That Declan had to die is, we believe, a fulfillment of God's far greater "story". But we don't ask that you share our metaphysics, just the experience of the way he left; a sharing that is secular and intended to evoke pride and hope.
Phil, my husband, had been a practiicng Emergency Medicine doc for 12 years. I had been a coronary care nurse. Ours, then, was a privileged perspective. Words like 'emergency', 'stable', 'critical'. have poignant, scientific meaning for us. "Baby', 'fear', 'protect' have equally charged meaning. Our professional qualifications allowed us to reconstruct events with clinical observations. Our credentials as parents were the same as yours.
We gathered late for a special dinner that night. It had been a good week for the family Phil and I, 14 yr-old Philip, 7 yr-old Julie, 3 yr-old Jennie, Declan and Poppy, my Dad who lived with us. By 7 that evening, Declan was bored, antsy, cranky. He toyed withe his brownie - mashed it up, spread it around (probably curious as, when I think about it now, he'd never had one before (I don't "do" desserts) and we've not had one since). And he took a bite. He was giggling when he finally stood up, wanting to get down from his chair. "O.K., Helen (often referred to him as 'Helen Keller' who also - initially - had that nasty little habit of cruising around the table, scarfing tidbits from siblings' plates), "it's time for that bath", I'd said, picking him up. Suddenly, I felt him jerk but there was no sound. Movements continued, his face turning red.
I handed him to Phil. He opened his mouth to clear it of food. There was nothing in his mouth. Still no sound — no coughing, no choking. I dialed 911.
An alarm shrieked silently through all of us. This was bad. Experience and exposure notwithstanding, there was terror in the air. My hands shook as I dialed. Yours might too, but you'd dial. Reciting our name, address and the nature of the problem sounded hysterical inside my head and yet I was coherent. The children and my father stood frozen— "Oh my God." "Daddy do something." "Mommy, Mommy." I told them to stand still.

Phil had by this time done numerous Hennlich maneuvers, applying sharp pressure to the abdomen to force air up and dislodge the obstruction from the windpipe. They didn't work. He alternated blows to Declan's back and chest. Nothing. The look of frustration and disbelief that I saw in my husband's eyes was undoubtedly mirrored in my own. We had to go beyond mother and father and son — and function. We brought him over to the counter by the kitchen sink and began cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). When I tried to breathe into his nose and mouth I met with total resistance. Something was stuck in his airway. Phil quickly repeated all of the previous maneuvers to try to clear it.

I brought the girls and my father out to the front hall, turned on all the lights, and opened the front door wide. I told them to pray and direct the paramedics to the kitchen when they arrived. Phil was vigorously massaging the baby's chest and blowing into his mouth. Declan was gray and stiff; stomach contents were oozing out of his mouth and nose. We suctioned him with our mouths. The telephone rang. The paramedics. "MY GOD, haven't they left yet? Didn't they believe me?" In fact, they were en route. They questioned Philip, who stood next to us and relayed what was going on. Which was: "He's vomiting Phil." "No, he's dying Lorene." "Then you'll have to do a trach." "I can't." (Trach refers to tracheostomy cutting down into the windpipe so that a tube can be inserted to breathe a patient.) Philip, fighting for control, "They want to know if he is in respiratory or cardiac arrest?" "Both!" I handed Phil a kitchen knife as we hyperextended Declan's neck, his soft, blond, feathery hair fanning out
into the kitchen sink. "My dad is doing a trach, now." Phil somehow cut the skin. The blood was dark. No oxygen. The windpipe was so small. The drinking straw and the cut-off bail point pen were too big to use as temporary airways.
There was madness then, of a sort. "Don't die Declan," "BREATHE, baby!" "NO, God, no." Phil grabbed Declan's head and blew with all his strength into his mouth. We finally heard it — a wet, croaking gasp. Phil had blown the obstruction down and into the lung. The blood flowed freely and bright red now as we continued what became effective CPR. I checked his groin. He had strong, regular pukes. We all knew Daddy had brought Declan back. Phil and knew how much deadly acid and oil we had blown into his lungs. But maybe....
Suddenly — uniforms. The paramedics were in the kitchen getting out the equipment that would keep Declan breathing and beating so he could be moved to the hospital. They began four minutes from the time I had dialed 911. How hard it must have been for these young men. Phil
taught and trained the Emergency Medical Teams (EMTs). They are, in a sense, tested by him daily. With feelings of disbelief. trepidation and desperate urgency, they faced Dr. Leavy in his kitchen — a battlefield of blood, tears and vomit — for the most comprehensive of tests: to stabilize and transport his near-dead little boy. We had prayed for them to come and were so relieved to see them. But when we faced the fact that we had to relinquish control — stop doing things to and for Declan with our own hands — we felt the first blows of impotence which would continue to reign for the next 27 days.
They moved Declan to the breakfast- room table and began attaching the nuts and bolts of the life-support system that would allow safe transport. I checked on the other children, returning to find the paramedics and Phil still at it. Declan had gagged out the first breathing tube so they were putting in another. They were checking the position of this or that, and finally I couldn't stand it any more. "Can't we just get going?" "Well, M'am," he answered calmly, "we want to make sure he has a good I.V. running in case he needs any medicine on the way." I knew this. I had no right to say that. I apologized, and he understood. They seemed to be taking hours, but it was truly a matter of minutes. They do so much — tedious, complicated things — so quickly and so well that the helpless, terrified person standing by wants to say mercilessly, "Listen, hot shot. this is your job. Can't you step on it?" Well, it isn't — a job, that is. It is a series of highly skilled maneuvers performed under difficult conditions and aimed at saving a life. There can be no interference. It was agreed that Phil do the intubation, but beyond that we handed Declan over to them.
They were aware of our knowledge and our eyes. They executed their tasks flawlessly, speedily. They found time to comfort and reassure us. We ran blindly down the front steps. They remembered the blanket and to move with a coordinated effort as they carried Declan gently out into the chilly February night. We were grateful to and for our paramedics. Trust them with your lives.
And the police. A garden of squad cars outside. Police in every room. Now we adults know, don't we, that the police are there to help us. But there is still a vulnerable child that plays in the back room ofall our minds who says, "Police — must be trouble." There also is a vulnerable
grown-up standing on the front porch of our minds saying, "No problem — you all can go home now." So it is with a strange ambivalence that we seek and accept help. Part of me wanted to minding the rest of Norfolk?" But the crushing truth was that they had answered a call to 1125 Westover Ave.. a place where tragedy was in progress. And they were needed there — now sitting on the stairs holding Jennie, now kneeling, arms around Julie, watching Declan being saved. Standing beside Poppy. allowing him to cry. Talking with Philip; praising his courage, his father's work. Offering to calm me and accepting my rejection with mature grace. Washing the blood from the sink and cabinets. "The children shouldn't have to look at this." the policeman said.
They made the unbearable bearable.No one wants cops in his house, but we demand that they be right under the window when things go bump in the night. They must walk gently amid the rubble of human emotions. It's ugly — what they must see. It's beautiful — what they do. The next time you're talking to a police officer— waiting for your ticket or whatever say thanks for us.

The Emergency Room. Our other family. Stunned and silent. they
reined in their emotions and worked to correct the imbalances that could threaten Declan's life. We were in a small, quiet room. a place for shaking. crying, praying. We did all of these things and drank the first cups of what would be vats of coffee drunk during the long vigil. Softly-spoken words of encouragement, assurance of prayers. offers of continued support were all around us. Finally, Declan was ready for transfer. Everyone wanted to do more, to say he would be all right. But, like us, they could only surrender him — and hope. There are no routine emergencies. Declan's presented the dilemma they face each day — "Let what we've got be enough to save this life." They did what they could. And then they cried. That's part of emergency medicine. Maybe you didn't know. They cry for all of us. It's something to think about when the E.R. is crowded and you have to wait a long time to be seen for your earache. Declan would eventually that the available, known treatment used to keep him alive contributed to his death. At the house having no suction, we had to blow large amounts of destructive fluid and chemicals into his lungs along with the oxygen he needed. Whatever lung tissue was still healthy after that had to be helped along with high concentrations of oxygen and pressure to get the job of oxygenation done. This tissue eventually was damaged from the prolonged use of high oxygen and pressure. It was unavoidable. On the night of February 17th, the doctors could only hope that the initial
while his lungs healed.
There was a very special, state of the art place in your midst called the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at The Childrens Hospital of The King's Daughters. There were two, full-fledged, experienced pediatric intensivists there all the time along with a highly skilled. educated and astute group of nurses. Add to this the endless and immediately available lists of specialists, residents and social service personnel and you know that this unit is nothing short of superb. We lived with these people and what they do for 10 days.
Their work is demanding, exacting. One drop more or less of a drug can take a life. Reading and correctly interpreting the maze of machinery attached to each patient can save entrusted to them gives new meaning to the words critical, fragile. The little people themselves give new meaning to the words loveable, vulnerable, helpless. The thing that comes to mind when I think of that staff is love — in all of its meaning. Their challenge is to fix the smallest and the most broken among us and to grab the little body from which life has almost completely drained, find the hole and plug it. They know some of their patients will die. But they never know which ones. Wouldn't it be easier, emotionally, to focus completely on the machines.
the numbers, the cold — but reliably there — steel and polyethelene aspect of their work? Sure it would. Instead, they love the child, love the family, over and over again.
It's a very high risk kind of love. He would hear friendly, cooing. comforting voices always around him. "Mr. Clown's gonna play his music, Declan. I'll put him on your head so you can hear him." "Let's see what the kids did today, Declan." (At the doctors' suggestion, the children sent daily tapes of their activities so Declan could hear their voices and they could be with him.) We knew about the nurses' hugs and kisses, their prayers with Declan. They were saying, "I'm gonna love you, you tricky little kid, even though it's gonna hurt like hell if you die." They had to face us and the children, day and night, answering so many questions in such detail, having to admit to that awful set of limitations. They desperately wanted the miracle to happen but after 10 days Declan's lungs were saying they couldn't function with the high pressures. Only a jet ventilator could deliver high oxygen with low pressures.
So, having worked so hard for so long, they had to turn their littleguy over to the Medical College ofVirginia for the only chance he had left.
It took 24 hours to fly the ventilator and a qualified inhalation therapist to Norfolk, prepare this special KD van, and then move Declan and all of his paraphernalia up to Richmond. It was with great care and courage that our doctor, nurse and paramedic escorted Declan to MCV. It was with great reluctance, hope and love that they left him there. It hurts not to be able to do the miracle.
Phil and I went up alone and settled into the Ronald MacDonald House. It felt safe and good — being in a house. We missed the kids. We were tired, scared. edgy. The staff at MCV would be edgy as well. Their new admission was a rare case a kid who had survived full arrest and serious aspiration in his kitchen, had normal brain function, no heart or kidney failure and had exhausted the miracle supply at KD. Only his lungs were shot. Would the jet ventilator be the key? Despite these dreadful odds, their embrace of Declan and us was complete from
the first meeting. Declan did not improve on the jet. Phil asked about ECMO — Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation. It's like a heart-lung machine. Maybe we could rest Declan's lungs so they could heal while ECMO kept him alive. Consultations were made. It
wasn't recommended. It has been used successfully only on newborns. But, "We happen to have an ECMO team right here," they said.
The next day Declan started to decline rapidly. The ECM() team was
called. They would try to get him on. While they primed the pumps and the intensivists worked to keep Declan going. the surgeons explained to us how slim the chances were of surviving the treatment. There was a great danger of hemorrhage on ECMO. Any infection is fatal. The
pumps are geared for the small volume of blood in the neonate. Declan could die for any of these reasons. (Of course, we were in a large city, in 1984, with AIDS making a strong debut, priming his pumps with 24 units of donated blood. It gave me pause then and now.) If he doesn't get on ECMO, we thought, he'll be dead tonight. Yes, doctors, we understood. We signed the papers. It was a difficult discussion far all of us. They hated what they had to say. There would be a time limit. He could stay on for only 10 days. Any longer and hemorrhage would be certain. We could only hope that he could live on ECM() and his lungs would heal enough to work again on the jet. "If he makes it. he'll be the first in the world with his kind of disease," the surgeon said. They began at 4 p.m. At 2 a.m., Declan finally was on ECMO. Our children joined us the next day. team. The staff gently prepared the kids for the pumps, the motors, the tubes, the bleeding they would see. They helped them to see Declan under all of this to talk to him, to listened. They heard the truth. They saw how never to lose hope. And that other families had tragedy. They made friends. They learned how to support and be supported. A child Declan's age on ECMO was a new frontier. There were many technical problems, many close calls. We've After 14 days, the time came to turn off the ECMO machine. There had been no change in Declan's lungs. We talked to him, told him how much we loved him and would miss him. But we knew he had to leave and it was — would have to be — all right. He squeezed our fingers, wrinkled his nose when we blew on his face. His touch and reactions were playful, not desperate. Declan was not afraid. He knew no pain. no strangeness. He did not die alone or in silence but in the company of people who loved him enough to say goodbye.
MCV belongs to you. too. You needn't fear impersonality, a syndrome associated with large medical centers. It is warm and friendly, and people care. These same people made medical history that March. Other children will live because they had the courage to put Declan on ECMO. Maybe that was part of Declan's mission. Another part might be that two other children can now see with his corneas, still others fought their cancer with the juices from his thymus gland.
At Declan's funeral, there was a line of rescue vehicles, EMT's standing at attention. Nightingale (our rescue helicopter) hovered overhead at the gravesite. The staffs from KD and MCV were there. We released a dozen helium-filled baloons to escort him - and returned the salute to the gathered honor bearers. Declan could have left without a trace. He's left some rather large footprints for a little guy. But then, look at who his friends were.
Valentine's Day will be happy today - as it was in 1984. I'll more than likely NOT say the same of the Ides of March, 2011. L. . . .

SOUND OFF! - On the Air

Mon Dieu! It would appear to be Wednesday as I write and I distinctly recall muttering something about continuing our discourse on "the morrow". Time passage being the elusive/subjective little bugger that it is, we shall just have to proceed as though no beats were 'skipped', no promises broken. I WILL say that the marshalling of memories, reaping of relevant recollections and assemblage of the activities associated with my Mrs. First Lieutenant-days back in the VERY tender times of our union takes its toll - emotionally, intellectually, sartorially even, ie, what WAS I wearing that day. . . . .

It was Halloween. And while Daddy was amusing himself with the preparation of lectures, selection of public service footage and distribution of appropriate 'dress' for the sailors under his charge while they would be on liberty in port at Recife, Brazil (known for it's beautiful women and not so STD's), I was 'creating' young Philip's costume. Given his assumed , previously-mentioned, newly-developed aversion to speaking, we had agreed that he would be Harpo Marx cum massive multi-colored curly wig, loud rubber ball-controlled horn and white face with deep red painted smile and cheeks - this last applied with a palette knife. As he clumsily boarded the pre-school bus on foot-long lime-green plastic shoes bound for the party at St. Peter's, I was pleased, he excited, the other kids ebullient and the driver badly in need of aspirin.

I had to be back by 12:30 - drop-off - and so had 4 hours to dress, drive the 20 minute trip to 'downtown', interview with the Director of our local CBS affiliate News Director, Jim Mays, and, after cajoling, cringing but convincing him that he really needed a fresh face and fluently-articulating news reporter, return home jubilant, my new roots with the rootless and newsworthy, my new label: 'live reporter'. Mr. Mays was lounging at his enormous, seaworthy desk, hands behind his head, fingers entwined and supporting his half-balded head, feet crossed at the ankles, resting on the desk blotter and smoking a cigar. (Soooo prototypical.) I entered, nattily-clad in a navy and hunter green plaid wool suit, pleated skirt, crisp, white blouse, gleaming penny loafers trying to keep my focus as sharp as those knife-pressed pleats. Which was a challenge, what with the billowing, enveloping cigar smoke. "And you are?", he crooned hoarsely, by way of introduction.

My mind whispered, "no one, really" but I heard Mrs. First actually iterate "Lorane Leavy.". What followed was a halting, apologetic explanation of the purpose of my audience with the News Director followed by a sighed exhalation of cigar smoke punctuating his long, beady-eyed, squinting stare. Then, in that unmistakable this-interview-is over tone of voice, he allowed as how one needed either a degree in broadcast journalism OR six months on-air experience to even be CONSIDERED for employment as a field reporter. "Come back when you have either one and we'll talk." He took a phone call and I my leave.

Dazed and disappointed, I found the street and leaned against the black marble building face - staring. At some point, the mural of the scene across the busy avenue became sharp enough that I recognized the somewhat familiar landmark of the glass, bubble-shaped building that filled the street intersection's corner - the WNOR AM-FM radio broadcasting studio. There was a small sign lodged in a pane section steel support the words on which seemed to be undulating, "N-O-W-H-I-R-I-N-G" And I was across the street, panting/banging on the steel back door. Within a 5 or so minute blur of time, I was seated in a darkened room, given several sheafs of paper, instructed to review them and then - from somewhere behind a large pane of glass - a voice-wearing-headphones boomed, "Whenever you're ready, honey!".

I'd been asked to read - into a small, black, standing mike, - the contents of: "60- SECOND SPOT: FIRST AMERICAN BANK - DEMO". (BRAIN: "This is an audition! DO something!"; Lorane: "Do WHAT?"; BRAIN: "Read the damned thing!"; Lorane: "I don't know anything about BANKING!"; BRAIN: "Then sing, "Let My People Free", whatever! Or leave because you've got 45 minutes before Harpo gets off the bus at the ole casa!") And so it went and Lorane steeled herself and in a clear, loud, up-beat voice chirped some foreign jargon for 57 seconds, being certain to REALLY "hit" - as they say - the tag with carefully executed enthusiasm (commercials SELL things, right?) . . .AND, a subSTANTIAL penalty is required for EARLY WITHDRAWAL!!!!". And 'headphone's shouted "CUT!!!"

There followed a brief-but-thorough explanation of the meaning of the words I was to read oh-so-smoothly-and intelligently. Then. "Again. . . On 3. . .Three, two, one" and he pointed at me. (Never thought that was fair. "On 3" should begin with 1.") Anyway, I re-read, Mr. Director - Tony - re-played back, pondered, looked at HIS watch (I mean I was the one who had to speed home to grab Harpo before he hit the furniture with that "no-enzyme-detergent-can-touch-THIS" body.) and simply, somewhat sadly, said, "Be here at 8 tomorrow morning. Marcie can only go through it with you one time. You'll be doing the 11 to 2 PM slot and she's being transferred to Texas Monday." Tomorrow was Saturday. I'll have to bring Har. . . uh. . Philip to the studio. Who's going to. . . and so on and on and then I was home for, "Guess what? Mommy's going to be on the radio!"

To say the least, we got off to a rocky start. Marcie was a WONDERFUL, KIND, PATIENT and gone-by-Monday Navy wife who had been on the air for three years. A Navy wife, she loved the very 'happiness' of the job of playing popular music from new and old but always popular albums; it kept her from constantly wondering how things were going for her Navy Seal husband; it provided an outlet and friends - other young women, in similar circumstances, who were fortunate to be among the ONLY "ALL FEMALE" FM RADIO MUSIC PROGRAM IN THE AREA! And it was BECAUSE Marcie was such a talent - technically and personally - that she occupied the Prime slot 11 AM to 2PM - the most listened-to time frame. This explained the affect (worried, almost panicked) of the Programming Director, Tony, when he interviewed me. He'd had the same notice given to Marcie by the Navy - 2 days - in which to make the transition: Marcie to ???? And Marcie 'd had 2 days in which to ready herself and their little girl for a huge move/change. But she wrote lengthy notes for me, outlining the format of the "show" with specificity; provided me with tapes of old programs; found FCC leaflets and bound notebooks containing rules, laws contact information and graphics of equipment, its function, operational info as well as bequeathing me her very own professional (expensive) headphones-cum-jack.

Briefly, the format was a 4-quadrant hour during which your hostess actually spoke four times - "top of the hour, 15 minutes past, bottom of the hour, 45 minutes past & back to the top". We began with the recap of the previous 15 minutes; station ID ("call letters"); the time/date; our slogan, eg, "We've just been listening to Elton John, Helen Reddy and the Eagles. (short "ring tone") It is eleven AM on this Monday morning, November 3rd, 1972. I am Lorane Knight reminding you to "Hear the top hit albums, twenty-four Hours a day on WNOR - FM, Naw-fuk". (There was actually a piece of paper taped to the console, just behind the microphone, with those letters thusly printed - the phonetics of our fair city. So MANY people insisted - and still do - on saying Nor-folk or Nor-ferk or some such so management insisted all of us use the 'piece-of-paper' rendition. Because it is correct.) At 15 minutes past the hour, we did another music ID recap AND (THE MOST popular aspect of our format as per our polled listening audience) three of the day's HOROSCOPES!. There were some 'fans' who ONLY tuned in every 15 minutes as we preceded the top of the hour routine with the last three Zodiac reports.

Tony christened me Lorane Knight to protect anonymity and worked on my "radio voice" which, as per the station's rating indices, should be soft, feminine, warm, almost unobtrusive. The microphones were old and 'unidirectional' so you had to position your mouth and project your voice directly at the mike or the pick-up was spotty. (With an omni-directional mike, you could be physically reaching and turned to the right to prepare for pushing a commercial button and you'd still be picked up when speaking.) Modulation & volume were "issues" as well in achieving the WNOR "radio voice". Fortunately, the engineers were a helpful bunch and Tony was FINALLY satisfied with my "voice" after the guys actually put a white sports sock over the thing to mute & soften my apparently grating sound. Tony was also constantly watching/listening so as to "help" me achieve the very BEST DJ performance AND not breach any FCC rules. The glass studio - visible from the outside - was bisected by a glass wall such that half was FM & half AM. Tony spun 45's in the same time slot as I on the AM side while I "q-ed up" (one prepares to play/air/bring volume up on the next song of an album by placing the needle down 'between songs' & rotating the 'platter' slightly counter-clockwise) I mention this physical arrangement so that you can appreciate how easy it was for Tony to monitor EVERYTHING I said & did.

The headphones are key. If you are just standing in the room, you don't HEAR anything. You only hear the music through the headset. You monitor sound & quality with gauges with needles on the console. BUT. although YOU can only hear through the headset, THE LISTENING WORLD can hear any/everything that is audible IN THE STUDIO. Thus, when broadcasting, the CRITICALLY IMPORTANT "On Air" neon sign is VERY conspicuously LIT. (Of course, this, too is controllable. Pushing a button MUTES studio sounds, ONLY "airing" what is audible through those headphones. And this is the mode utilized. UNLESS the DJ is speaking/airing. At these 4 times per hour, there MUST be TOTAL silence in the studio. That's all ya gotta know. Really. So, pretty soon, I settled into a routine, even developed a following of sorts.

The First Lt/Commander was now retired from the Navy and specialized in Emergency Medicine. So I had all of my "ER FANS". That can be a gloomy place at times, so I'd (sub rosa, of course) play some cheer-up stuff for them - at the magic noon hour. Only they knew about it. Beginning at 11:45, I play a special trilogy, eg, the "Anticipation/Lay-Lady-Lay/(topped off with) The Stripper by David Rose" ending at the top of the hour break. OR, they also liked the "Bennie and the Jets/Look What They've done to My Song, Ma/ Maggie May" combo. We started to get mail about these favorites - happy, complimentary mail. Same with "Dock of the Bay', "Joy to the World", "Lean on Me", "Brandy", "Mockingbird", an occasional "Brand New Roller skate" or "Where the Iguanas Play".

We had fun - promos - (One involved a staged pseudo hockey game (using brooms and tennis balls) on the Scope triple A hockey rink. We (WNOR -FM DJ'S) were pitted against the McDonald "Quarter-Pounders" (a group - unbeknownst to us - of McDonald employees weighing 175 + one quarter lbs.) It was the half-time entertainment at a real hockey game. All of our family/friends came. We wore jeans & WNOR-FM T-shirts & sneakers; The Quarter Pounders had snazzy uniforms in McD colors. We saw them for the first time only seconds before face-off. Oye. I actually (accidentally) got the ball & "broomed" it ALL the way to the goal with around 1 K pounds in tow. SCORE! BY LORANE KNIGHT! Laughter all around because she "SCORED" FOR the "Pounders"! The fam and ER staffs were SO proud. And Tony. . . .

Well, he was serving some cold shoulder that Monday. I, on the other hand, was kind and jovial. Adult, if you will. At one point, he stormed in and informed me that we barely escaped being fined by the FCC because I had been in violation of a rule which forbid the playing of the same some in a seven day period. They were not happy with my daily, dedicated trilogies. Oh. well. He dashed off to a meeting. I found my favorite Jonathan Edwards album & Q-ed up "Sunshine Go away Today". (Unfortunately, didn't notice Tony sneak in to the studio - meeting cancelled, and listening as I pushed the 'magic button' and belted along with Jonathan:

Sunshine go away today; Don't feel much like dancing

Some man's gone, he's tried to run my life; Don't know what he's asking.

He tells me I'd better get in line; Can't hear what he's saying

When I grow up I'm going to make it mine; but these aren't dues I been paying.

How much does it cost, I'll buy it; the time is all we've lost, I'll try it

But he can't even run his own life; I'll be damned if he'll run mine, Sunshine.

Sunshine go away today; I don't feel much like dancing

Some man's gone, he's tried to run my life; don't know what he;s asking.

Working starts to make me wonder where; the fruits of what I do are going

He says in love and war all is fair; but he's got cards he ain't showing.

Sunshine come on back another day; I promise you I'll be singing

This old world, she's gonna turn around; Brand new bells'll be ringing.

OOOps. Gotta go. FBI - BOMB SCARE. We have to evacuate the building. I q-ed up Don McLean and "Bye, bye. . . ."

L. . . . .

Now Hear This

Soon after we were transplanted to Virginia by the Navy, I sensed that I was not going to be a good little 'Mrs. First Lieutenant'. I say this because within 2 weeks of becoming a Virginian, my husband received orders to report to the USS Harold J. Ellison, a destroyer bound ("I'm sure it's one of those dinghies - figuratively speaking/sailing, used to taxi/outboard you to the HOPE. That was the deal. A HOPE doc, Viet Nam, surgically putting the injured, oozing, US fighters/fliers back together again. ) But, what ho! The HOPE has been recalled, you say? Your really are going to be on a - flagship destroyer? For nine months? And your fleet, most ably-commanded by a 'Commodore', (and I thought Perry was the last of the breed) will deploy for the Mid-East? Friend;y mission? Maybe see you in six months if we can rendezvous in Weisbaden? Baby Philip will love Christmas in Germany with little cousins, romping about in suede liederhosen, lucky to be in the Navy and visiting Air Force godparents-cum-two-little-boy-cousins? OK, then. We're all in this together and apart. Bye. . . .

And so it was that I began my lone epiphany as a military wife - so recently civilian, working blissfully in the first coronary care unit in the country in NYC and then equally blissful re: becoming a mother of our tow-headed, blue eyed, fair and lively and TRES Irish-looking now 11 month-old son. What to do? Mrs. Commodore - as she referred to herself via telephone introduction-cum-invitation to my very FIRST white-gloved, summer- chapeau-ed, be-ribonned and crisp "Luncheon" as an officer's spouse, ie, Mrs. First Lieutenant. (I had so recently shunned NOW because I HAD an identity - indeed it was printed right there on my social security card, nursing and driver's licenses - and had NO concept/inclination to 'become' Mrs. first Lt.". Well. We soldiered/sailored on, Philip and I, and it wasn't long before we were 'manageing", coping with Daddy's absence, following his travels on a map that consumed our dining room wall and was dotted with brightly-colored pins marking the exotic/alien ports at which the Harold Jack, and, therefore Daddy, parked/anchored whilst being militarily friendly. And Daddy was the best doc - had the lives of the entire fleet 5-10 other destroyers - in his red-white-and-blue-gloved and capable hands. (Performed a circumcision on one hapless fellow while rounding the Cape of Good Hope - more on THAT human bandage in another outing.)

We busied ourselves with coping, pre-school, learning to remember that "peach" was, in the South, a 4 syllable word and remembering to tell everyone with whom we were forced to interact to "Have a nice day!". The time came when the speech thing started to become an annoyance. (Philip elected to speak as little as possible) I, ever vigilant and 'in touch' with my environs (when you grow up in Brooklyn, it becomes part of your essence. You could call it 'survival', even). Anyway, I was MOST irked by the seemingly casual and widespread phenomenon of MISPRONUNCIATION which was de rigueur among the broadcast journalism set. So intense and un-palatable became this negative awareness, that I vowed to intervene. Thus began my long association with broadcating, writing, acting and - at least in my humble situation and trappings - a rabid determination to effect change. I must confess that my activities could never be characterized as altruistic. Rather, I enjoyed the challenge. The challenge of insinuating myself into these public forums - broadcasting, acting, teaching creative writing - and somehow succeeding in becoming a part of the genre, all the while - and with conscious determination executed with an oh-so-subtle performance - "talking right, if you will, and varying the old vocabulary almost indiscernibly so that, as a community - of neighbors, fellow-military servants, friends and worker bees, we could "evolve" elocutionally and conversationally. (Getting that word-to-paper transition was going to take time, but I was thrilled with the receptiveness of the unwitting students.

I hope to introduce you to some local luminaries in many public arenae as we go along. And, to be sure, you'll suffer through - as did I - the embarrassments and public indignities brought upon this writer all by herself as she verbally and technically stumbled through the vagaries of being a disc jockey, community theater actress and published writer in Hampton Roads. I hope you will be able to laugh with and not just AT my foibles - God knows I certainly did lest I became doubtful of the "kindness of strangers" and boarded that proverbial 'streetcar' bound for rejection and confinement. On the morrow, then, some bizarre vignettes associated with "Lorane Knight" (on air ID) and how she became one of the very few female DJ's in the seventies and then - because you will have earned it - a glimpse into the talents of the truly gifted on air personnel during this era in this venue. For now, having delved (I trust not too overbearingly and at too great a time span) into dear Cassie's travails last evening, Orpheus again whispers and I'm dashing to his embrace. Later, L. . . .

I Knew You When We Both Knew Nothing and Now That's Changed

Three point game. . . . Seven minutes to go.... [Cut to commercial] And the mind wanders. Always happens when I'm tense. No 'Grace under pressure' here. Just me, although it would have been decent for Grace to show. I'll just think about good friends who always showed. Brings Cassie, a dear high school buddy to mind. And that day a shared 'friend' popped in on her.

Seven silver cups hanging from seven equally-spaced c-hooks screwed into the bases of the kitchen cabinets. Christening presents from Bill's mother. The kids use them every day. I've never looked at them from here. That's because in the nine years we've lived in this house, I've never sat on the cushioned window=seat side of breakfast nook. They look warm, happy - the cups. And the silhouettes. White paper profiles mounted on black. The silhouettes. They make the kids look like they all have overbites. And they didn't even have front teeth when I did them. But then I'm not an artist. Just a wife and mother who couldn't sleep and came down to her kitchen at five A.M. , made coffee and sat on the wrong side of her kitchen table clutching HER favorite mug - "4 Mom 4 all you do from us 7" - and sorting. Thoughts (finished the socks at midnight)

It's more like brooding, really. Because I've been talking to Mary. She always makes me feel like I'm missing some very big point. Taking everything too lightly. We were close friends in high school. We lived near each other for ten years in NY and she became a friend and not so much fun. I don't think she liked marriage and kids.

You see Mary worked as a secretary on Wall Street (whilst I went to Queens College - English major/cheerleader until Bill and I were surprised = as was the cheering coach - that we were in "the family way" as well as the family's way, as you can imagine!) and married Tom - bonds. Then after schlepping around (Mary's phrase) for ten years, she got smart and educated and a PhD in Educational Psychology. She also had two children - Jennifer and Timothy - while schlepping and ignored them while getting smart. Mary. Slim, blond, angular, with deep-set, watery-blue eyes and a deeply nasal voice was now dumpy and terribly earnest in her deeply nasal fashion. Me? After Queens College, Bill - banking - and I married because we were deeply in love, Catholic and careless and having Nancy, the first of our seven children. Me. Cassie. Slim, vivacious, auburn-haired, brown-eyed with a deep but non nasal voice was still slim and clowned a lot. I've always believed in love, laughter, children and laughter. But apparently I never got "integrated" and smart - Mary says.

She called me six months ago to announce getting PhD'd. I was thrilled for her. Sounded REALLY happy. Then she called again the following month to see 'how I was doing'. Then it was a call a month to get me motivated toward self-improvement and get at what Mary seemed to feel were the many maladjustive tendencies which were hampering my "process". "What are you going to DO with your life," she'd ask. "What do you DO now?" And I'd hang up feeling stupid and threatened and spend the week wondering if those were trick questions or what. What do I DO?

I eat right and exercise and Bill loves me. I read a lot and roller skate. The kids see me as a Mom to be proud of and have fun with and never have to worry about prepositions during. But Mary made it sound like the nineteen years I'd just spent with my family having what we thought was a good time, have been squandered in aimless dalliance, just so many idle moments strung together into a chain which effectively choked my personal development, stifled my exposure to life - in the cosmic sense. She STRONGLY suggested I hot-foot it down to the nearest community college and gobble enrichment credits before it's too late. "Too later?", I'd ask. "Those kids are going to be gone some day, Cassie, and just WHAT will you be prepared to DO?" I'd point out that three of my children were still under ten and are emitting no true sense of exodus presently. "That's just it. You are ENTIRELY focused on Bill and the kids." (A fact I believed was in the + column - even among the astigmatic PhD'd crowd - what with easily-opened bottles of lye and bleach lurking about, available for tampering.) She spoke deliberately, tutorially, sometimes very slowly - as though speaking to somebody with the IQ of a box of frozen snow peas.

I was showing what was termed in academic circles as no respect for the concept of wholeness. And the way to reach that, it seemed, was to split your time between family and school - or SOME 'other'. Otherwise, you remain neurotically attached to the home environment in addition to being subjected to remarks like, "Why don't you and Bill come up this weekend. The Olshefskis are coming. You'll love her. SHE didn't go to college, either." (That was Mary at her subtle best.) She meant well. And frankly, I dreaded that leaving-the-nest syndrome. I just had to figure that I'd think of something when the time came. In fact, I DID have plans. But I couldn't think about that at the moment. It was five thirty and I was feeling very edgy and defensive. My own fault. I'd never learned how to say "no". And now there'd be a confrontation because

Mary was coming down that day. Driving the two hundred miles from Boston to Westport to see me - and analyze and save me. From What? Myself, I guessed. She and Tom had visited the previous month and while the guys shot hoops, Mary'd mapped out a plan that would have me all educated and ready to assume my place in our culture as a mature, informed citizen by the time our youngest was finishing grade school. I'd meant to tell her that I wasn't interested but couldn't get a word in. So I just figured she'd soon get a job and not bother me any more. (PhD's DID work, right?) She'd said she was interviewing but wanted to get me settled first. Ahh. What price friendship? Or wholeness? Or asparagus, for that matter?

I liked it better when she wasn't 'saying' anything. We really hadn't TALKED in nine years = not since we'd moved from the islands, Long and Staten. In fact, our last meaningful chat had been on moving day = mine. Bill had taken the three oldest kids and followed the moving van. I kept the baby and my Hoover upright. I was giving the outgrown house one last nostalgic, split-leveled sweep when Mary'd popped in. She'd brought coffee, prune danish, Marlboros and advice. I only needed the Marlboros but badly enough to be gracious about the rest.

She looked SO natty in her Villager blouse, crew-necked sweater, flannel slacks and tassel loafers. She sat on the floor near the window seat and arranged danish, napkins, cardboard cups of coffee on the sill, setting the lids out for ash trays. I was winding our ten year-old Hoover cord around its frayed hooks. "Cass. Why don't you leave that dangerous dinosaur here. It would be symbolic. I told Tom I'm not taking any of our tired relics up to Boston. (Did she mean Tom wasn't going?) New job. New city. New home means new appliances, you know? (I wondered if a "husband" was a clever psychological euphemism for "appliance.) I'm sure Bill would spring for a new vacuum cleaner."

"Wouldn't think of it, Mare. Just spent thirty-seven dollars and a rainy Saturday overhauling the old girl. We are rarin' to take on the 'new' dirt." I extricated the furniture brush from the baby's hand. He'd been meticulously moving a large hill of ashes out of the fireplace and on to the just-swept floor. He was two, a quiet child who entertained himself easily. I gave him the little net sack of matchbox cars (already 'packed' in my purse) and hoped he wouldn't get interested in he danish because the divine Ms. Hoover was prepped for her exit. "Cassie, come and sit. Coffee's getting cold and we have to talk."

I sat and lit a butt. I could see my old Buick wagon - sagging but SO ready to leave. As was I. Not so with Mary who obviously had something pithy to say. I leaned back against the wall, pulling my knees up and hugging them to my body, trying to let IT say, "O.K., Mary. What's on your mind?" And then, "How are you and Bill doing - really?" She was referring to the fact that right after the baby was born, I had announced I wanted a separation. Now I ALWAYS want SOMETHING after giving birth but THIS baby's post partum period had been PARTICULARLY flamboyant. Bill'd been working and going to night school in the city. Often he'd stay at his mother's, too tired to face the drive back to Long Island where I sat basking in the luxury of being twenty-six and the mother of four. I'd been feeling terribly neglected, trapped, victimized. Bill suggested we seek counseling; we did; it was great. We'd begun talking more, going out - even if we were tired, making plans. The counselor had suggested I go back to school and I did - and did well. Needed it while Bill was finishing up. But. That phase of our life over, I had no wish to continue. I needed Bill and the kids more.

"We're great, Mary. Really." The baby was straining to get at the danish - leaning over Mary's leg. But she was too intent to notice. I gave him the whole bag. "You know, Cassie, at first I thought it was very selfish of you - and vain - to go back to school. And I still don't know how you managed. I mean, when did you SLEEP?" "Mary I only took twelve credits in two years. And I wish you'd told me how you felt. I was looking for a reason to quit."

"No, Cassie. I can tell you feel differently about yourself. You're smart and you know it now. You're not in any way inferior to Bill and now HE knows it, too."

"I didn't feel inferior to Bill, Mary. I missed Bill. But you're right about my self image. I see myself in a far more enlightened fashion now that I've read Moby Dick. And not a day goes by that I don't ponder, with impishly superior interest, one of the GREAT questions. Like, how DID Wagner and his music tie in to fascism? To his mother?" I started to laugh. Mary didn't.

"Don't put yourself down for my sake Cassie. I'm so proud of you. And I think the kids will respect you more now, too."

The baby had torn the pastries into cubes with which he was respectfully building a sticky little village for his cars. I was glad I hadn't packed the Hoover and becoming piqued with Mary's commentary on my lousy twelve credits.

"Well. I have something to tell you. I've enrolled in Boston College. I'll be starting in January - after we're settled in."

"Mary, I think that's great."

"I've been thinking about it ever since you started going. We're SO much alike, Cass. It never occurred to me to look at you if I wanted to see myself. I watched you change when you went back to school." She stopped to sip some cold, cardboard coffee and light a cigarette. As she inhaled, she started to laugh, then choke. I slapped her back broadly, relieved that she was laughing. Enough of this soul-searching, Mary. Let's just have a few laughs about old times. Then you can head out for Boston and your new life and appliances and I'll lock up and launch the rest of this day with the baby and Hoover.

"What's so funny?"

"Cass, (looking around at the canary yellow walls) do you realize that it was when you went back to school that you re-did the house?" She got up and walked over to the fireplace, her loafers clip-clopping on the hard wood floors. "And YELLOW in the living room." Her body was tensing. She was really pumping up. "YELLOW. That's SO significant, Cass." She wheeled and marched toward the dining room (which was done in a rusty orange with celery trim) and I got fearful that she would get some time-consuming mileage out of this bizarre 'color thing'. I wished I'd still had my furniture so I could have taken the chair Mary would have been siting in and move it out onto the front lawn. While she marched, the loafers did sort of a hollow clip-clop, clop. The baby was trying to imitate the sound with a car. I didn't dare ask the significance of yellow. Mainly because the kitchen was red and the way things were going, the living and dining rooms were just appetizers. I had to be in Westport before dark.

"Mary, I've always enjoyed painting and papering. Remember all the stuff I did on Lloyd Street?" That was a fifth floor, two-bedroom walk-up in Brooklyn. Our 'starter mansion'.

"Cass. You painted prison bars on the walls in the kitchen."

"That was a joke, Mary."

"No it wasn't. Not really. C'mon, Cass. Admit it. Things were rotten and you found a way out. And I'm getting out too. No more schlepping and cleaning and waiting on Tom and the kids. It's a dead-end street. Look at my mother."

She was kind of 'leaning' on the Hoover, now. "What does it get you, Cass? Tired, dull, alone. That's what. I will NOT become my mother and I have YOU to thank."

I could only focus on the ironies - comic and sad. It kept me from saying, "Let's not get in to 'mothers."

Mrs. O'Brien. A large, white-haired woman with a lusty laugh. I remembered her ironing the church altar linens while we stuffed our faces with her PERFECT, home-made jelly rolls and listened to her funny stories about old-time Irish politicians. She still ironed and baked and campaigned for young Irish politicians - and laughed. MY mother went, as they used to say, to business. A secretary for a fork-lift company - and an alcoholic. She still worked and went on week-long toots whenever she felt vaguely depressed. She was often depressed. No, Mary. Let's not 'do' mothers. I got up to collect the droppings from our brunch.

"Look, Mary. It sounds like you're really going to enjoy school. For me, it was just a time-filler. Bill was just so BUSY."

She looked puzzled, a bit let down. I looked at my watch. I thought of Bill, the kids and the Seven Santini Brothers trying to decide where to put furniture and seventy some-odd boxes in Westport. I walked over to Mary and gave her a quick but very hard hug. "I'm so happy for you, Mare," I was. I cared about Mary. We had shared alot. And I wanted to say, "I'll miss you," but it didn't come out. Instead, I said, "now, for old times' sake, won't you schlep this Hoover out to the car? I'll scrape this mess up and follow on your loafered-heels with the baby."

"Where's Yippy?"

"Gone. I took him to a vet in East Meadow."

"Are you going to pick him up now?"

"No, Mary. I'm not going to pick him up at all." We were outside. I shut the door and ran my fingers over the knocker. This house had been good.

"Cassie. Is Yippie sick?"

Yippie was an incorrigible, destructive gray terrier who had recently taken to snapping at the children. Nobody liked him.

"No. I found him gnawing on my new leather wallet this morning. Ruined it. So, after everybody left, I took him to this vet who boards animals. I said, "I'd like to board my dog. We're going away." He said, "How long will you be gone?" "I don't know," I said. "Has he had his shots?" "No. You'd better give them to him."

"Cassie, that's crazy! And it will cost you a fortune when he finds you."

"Don't think it will, Mary. Gave him a phony name." She was actually laughing with me. I buckled the baby into his seat and walked around to the driver's side. We hugged each other again. She slapped the rusted fender. "Hey. Are you going to be commuting to school in this old hog?"

"Mary, I. . .We'll see." Could I tell her I was pregnant? SHE was matriculating. I was GESTATING and that was that?

"I'm going to miss you, Cass."

"I know. Now Mary, let's not start slobbering.. I'll just get in and go - real fast. I'll call you."

"You're right. Go, Go." And I did.

And it's six A.M. and she's probably getting into her car while I'm getting another mug of coffee and nervous. Bill will be down soon. IS it inappropriate to want to raise children instead of your cosciousness?

And then the kids.

I don't think I'm dull and tired. I'll ask the kids what they think. Maybe I'll just ask the baby. Then I'll pick up some prune danish and be back by en because I don't run away from adult confrontations. "I'll try to get down around ten thirty so why don't you send the baby to play group," she'd said. "Then maybe we can have a few sane hours together."

"Sounds great. I'll plan a four hour brunch."

"Just make sure you're there. Write it down somewhere, Cass," she'd laughed. I didn't. You know you have a history of running away from adult confrontations."

She's been harping on that theme since my father died two months ago. My father - and I use the term loosely - died of cirrhosis in a VA hospital in New Jersey - where he'd been for two years (since his second wife's death.) My parents divorced when I was a year old. I saw him once, when I was in high school. I brought Bill to meet him after we were married. And I saw him two weeks before he died at the hospital's request. Because despite the fact that Dad never "kept in touch" I'd been listed as 'next of kin'. I thought that last visit would be traumatic, moving. He was obviously sick, but comfortable. Tried to talk about his grandchildren - showed him pictures of the fam. He smiled and said Bill reminded him of a drill sergeant he'd had in 1944. That's what we talked about - strangers talking to strangers. He asked me if I'd brought anything to toast our reunion. And then he went to sleep and I to pieces. That cry was good. The doctor called when he died. Would I please come and retrieve his effects - twelve sets of underwear, a shaving kit and dentures - and take care of the funeral arrangements. I requested cremation and the mailing of his effects. My problem was telling my mother. Still haven't. Mary couldn't believe I was putting it off.

"Cassie. WHY haven't you told your mother?"

"Well, she's just going to go off on one of her toots and I can't decide whether to do it here - which is so bad for the kids - or at her place. Then I'll be worried about finding her unconscious or hurt somewhere." Mimie (what she likes to be called) has been doing so well for a few months. I hate to blow it.

"You know, Cassie. This reminds me of Yippie."

"No. Yippie didn't drink, Mary."

"I'm serious. You couldn't face putting the dog to sleep or selling it so you just abandoned it. Now, you can't face telling your mother her HUSBAND has died so you're avoiding it."

"I hardly think that constitutes a pattern, Mary."

"Cassie. Mimie has a right to know and you have a responsibility."

"You're right, Mare. I'll tell her." And I'll see if maybe she'd like to share his effects. I'll take the lowers and give her the uppers. Final payments.

Mimie hadn't confronted Dad in 30 years. We'd been confronting her drinking for as many. I think I'll wait to tell her. And I think it's six thirty because Bill's coming down.

"How's the old prep this morning?"

"What are you doing down here, Princess?"

"Thought I'd surprise you with coffee. . . ."

"You've been down here since five, Cassie."

"But I've been down here since five and drank it all so no surprise."

"No problem. Only have time to tell you I love you and hope you getrid of Mary before I get home."

"She's not staying for dinner - has to go in to the city to see her sister. Why don't you want to see Mary?"

"Because she bores the shit out of me, sweetheart. AND seems to upset you and that upsets me."

"Mary's just opinioated and now knows SO many more things about which to have an opinion. Makes her . . . interesting. Always up for a debate."

He's just nodding and, damned it, I had two cigarettes lit.

"Shit, Bill. she makes me feel so stupid. And maybe that's good or maybe it stinks."

"Look, Cassie. Mary's recently all PhD'd and all full of herself. You can see that. And she'd been practicing - psyching everyone out. Tom's been praying for her to get a job. Tired of having his covert neuroses served every night with his TV dinners."

"She does TV dinners?"

"Told me you should get a career. If THAT'S what's bugging you, go for it. I'm behind you. But you said you weren't into a 'career'."

"I'm not. I mean I have plans but they don't feature going back to school."

"Tell HER that. Tell her 'I have plans, doctor. Thank just the same.' What plans?'

"Do you think I shun mature confrontations?"

"Certainly not. You sleep with me."

"So then, do you think I shun mature confrontations?"

"A gal who handles all bills and bank accounts for a family of nine can confront with the best of them."

"She really serves Tom and the kids TV dinners?"

"You really have 'plans' that I don't know about?"

"Yes. Didn't want to tell you till I saw how it went."

"So how's it going?"

"It hasn't. Till next Tuesday. Dr. Rosen called me - if you must know."

"Oh. Adult confrontation? I mean I can wait till next Wednesday to see how it goes."

"DOCTOR Rosen has asked me to DO the walls in his new suite downtown. Heard about my papering."

"AND I make ALL decisions."

"Great! WHY didn't you tell me? Are you thinking of a business?"

"Maybe. Eventually. I-like-to-hang-paper! There. Do you think that's weird, Bill?"

"Not unless you're hanging it on Dr. Rosen. AND - you're smiling!"

"I'm going to call it - ready? - 'Cassie's Hang-Ups'."

"Terrific. And tell Mary,"

"She's coming down to get my Karma straight for me and I say, 'Thanks. But I'm busy and then I'm going to hang wall paper?"

"Yup. And then thank her for coming, hate to give you the bum's rush but have to get ready for an adult confrontation in the city at eight. I'll get tickets to something and we'll celebrate."

"Actually, I love the whole idea and I think - KNOW -I'll be good and I think I'm going to cry. . ."

"Right. 'Bacon and tears in the morning; Champagne and laughter at night."

His hug feels very proud. Hope mine feels grateful. I'm glad Mary's coming down today. She's an old friend, you know. We're very different. She loves prune danish and I do not. And some sequitors are perfectly logical and some are non.

Later. Oh, and wait'll next year. L. . . .

You Make Me Want to SHOUT!

Delightful break in the ubiquitous football action - spent a day and a half with our three year-old granddaughter, Emma. Lunch, stories, pre-dance class "rest", (nostalgically fun) delivery of pink tutu-clad "Isadora-in-training" free-form dance "movement" pupil (Never watch, honest) but DO listen. LOVE the happy/tappy strains of "I'm Just a Broadway Baby" 'stage-shouting through the walls), our house for a "sleep-over (a little din-din then hot tub apres shower whence we water romp with giant rubber duckie - ". . .put tail in, put tail out, put tail in and shake it all about. Ya do the Wackie Quakie and you turn yourself around. . ." to BIG GIGGLES), a little "Happy Feet" penguin CD, nite-nite and jubilant anticipation - starting @ 6 AM - to seeing a touring production of "Thomas Saves the Day" at 10:30 AM! We're going to really SEE and HEAR that wonderful little 'loco' THOMAS!

It was a dreary, windy, rainy, day OUTside BUT WE were on cloud 9, squinting from the glow of pure joy, as we sloshed with the throngs from parking lot to (seemingly miles-away) "Entrance" to the Ted Constant Convocation Center of Old Dominion U. In Norfolk, VA. Got baby brother Charlie an "official" Thomas-the-train-engineer hat for the beach this summer, wildly colorful, strobe-like "Thomas" flashlight for Emma, then. along with Poppy and Aunt Margie (visiting for surgery; legally blind), we efficiently made our way (stopping only for popcorn) to our Row H (for HAPPY) center, level 1 seats in a record-breaking, sopping wet - from rain - 32 minutes. Got ALL situated/settled in; explained the importance of the tech engineers (they were set up 8 -10 yds in front of us) re: sound, lights, doing all the "stuff" that would make THOMAS' show run without an 'un-hitch'. And then that magic moment: House lights going down, stage skrims lighting up, and the FOLLOW SPOT - neon-bright and embracing our narrator. He lays out the plot-line: Big storm last night, power out, annual "Lantern day" Festival will be ruined - UNLESS -you got it: "THOMAS SAVES THE DAY".

And then "Modernity" settles, like a rude, rough, torn and obtrusive blanket. Having been instructed that CELL PHONES AND FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY were strictly 'verboten', at least half of the boorish, thoughtless, witless, clueless ADULTS - accompanying/supervising - a tot community of close to a thousand, ranging in age from the abhorrently inappropriate first-and-only-child, among the toddlerhood genre for a mere 3-4 months to the far-more-apt and trying- to-'get-into-THOMAS' 3-5 year-old set - wbip out their ever-handy/available/"sent from my's" so that - ready? - they can either conduct vapid conversations with their peers OR (and certainly a brand new form of shocking breach-of-taste-phenomenon for this 'hexagenarian', ie, taking photos with their pudgy, hand-held devices of THEIR PROGENY ATTENDING/ENJOYING a well-done, well-rounding- imagination-developing, educational, colorful, enriching, etc, event bountifully/at-impressive-imposition,-presented, parentally-inspired/executed EXPERIENCE. And (pu-leez pardon the cliche) adding insult-to-injury (as re: the innocents, the producers, performers, THE very "THOMAS" icon itself) physically manipulating, interrupting these sub-minors' attention/enjoyment of the production to record (again - for 'the Jones' & the grandparents) images of these same innocents enveloped in the arms, laps "Baby Bjorns, etc) of the "because we care-are-involved-informed-coper-raising-on-a-wet-Saturday-morning" parents/primary-care-givers.

Such was the distorted experience for moi, that, when (as the story-line theme was 'working together) the cast (throughout) called for audience 'help'/participation, that Emma and I (poor child followed my crazed lead) WILDLY "choo-choo-ed; clap-clapped, shrieked 'GO THOMAS!'/ 'GO TEAM!'" to those painful decibels that used to only be reserved for the "Peppermint Lounge" in the 60's. So there. I said it. I was not amused with the audience/current trend in take-your-kid-to-a-family-"thing" demonstration today. All commentary/response/explanation invited. QUESTION: WHY would you attend a LIVE children's performance only to 1) ignore the performance, 2) distract the attending child from experiencing/ enjoying the performance and 3) go to a great deal of trouble/physical discomfort/expense only (APPARENTLY) to utilize YOUR digital toys such that you could 'PROVE' to posterity that you, as a parent, were the "s___"? Ya know, they made ME want to SHOUT! Emma had a ball. And, ". . . that's what it's all about." Later, L. . . .

I knew you When; We Both Knew Mothing and Now That's Changed

PS

Almost forgot. Of ALL the things I wanted you to know about Grandpa. TaDa!

I give you,

"WILLIE'S WINDOW"

NOW you get the picture - of Vincent William Grocki. That's all, folks. I mean, that's what's left - in the imagery department - after last night's outpouring. Blank tape. It happens. Akin to "blank page". And, well, gotta get ready fo 'Da SOUPA BOWL'. Later, L. . . .