HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Today, dear readers - I am quite thrilled/honored to discover 2 new followers - I felt a need to look around and get my bearings.  We've just had a 'benchmark' event in our family - my "dear and glorious" Emergency Medicine Physician of 36 years officially retired from 'active' daily practice yesterday.  The kids and grand peeps who are local had a festive celebratory dinner for him at the end of the day.  I was not able to attend because of a particularly difficult time with post-operative, chronic back and arm pain but ofttimes it is wiser, I have learned, to sit still, not risking further exacerbation.  And certainly my heart was with them.

     (Also, the self-imposed quietude provided an opportunity to think about VERY dear ones who are celebrating birthdays this month.  My mother's is today, my DEAREST, OLDEST friend from high school days is marking another amazing year and - not that this last in any way leans toward preference/partiality - we, as Catholics, celebrate what is known in religious parlance as "The Feast of the Immaculate Conception" or the day on which Mary was chosen to be the earthly Mother of Christ.  No Mary, no protagonist so hers is a unique Motherhood.)
     In addition to birthdays, my thoughts went to writing - big surprise, you say.  Well, as our lives follow the serpentine path particular to each individual, I believe - and, if you've really been following - I've not infrequently alluded to my study/admiration of the psychiatrist C. G. Jung.  It's rather a things-happen-for-a-reason type of 'being in the world' and - especially in the clarity of hindsight - perhaps the ONLY remaining sight with a modicum of proficiency at my age, an age that makes 'dirt' appear infantile - and I re-read things I've said for their value - positive and negative. 

     Perhaps a BRIEF perspective on my recording of life experiences as they seem to get prodded along by Jungian notions is in order.  It serves to introduce some new players/ideas and, who knows, may either be helpful OR fall into the wanting to "eat-those-words" column.  When I was doing lots of medical/technical writing, I came to know Drs. Howard & Georgianna Jones, founders of the Jones Institute for Reproductive Medicine in Norfolk.  Dr. Howard, in one of his tutorial interviews, once said, "It is true that when we recognize principles operating in nature, we realize they are beautiful and can't be any other way."  His English professor was Robert Frost - color ME green - who once told Howard that in poems, you wrote so that the reader couldn't predict what would come next, but when that reader came across the word, he realized it was the only word that could possibly be there.

     Dr. Howard had come to feel that nature was kind of like that.  When you figure out what is going on, upon mature consideration - almost dashed THIS listener's enthusiasm for experiencing the prospect - you discover that that is the only way it could be.
Naturally I pondered this pearl and, as is my wont, turned to my more comfortable analytic methodology, ie, what-would-Jung-think-about-this?  Jung had devoted his life to the operating

    

principles of the human psyche, if you will and concluded that part of what we are is conscious and part unconscious, that is, not immediately known to us as being 'of us.'   The stratum closest to the conscious mind he called the personal unconscious; the boundless, elusive forces behind are known as the collective unconscious.  We are influenced, indeed at times compelled, to act or be a certain way by these personal and universal forces.  By the time we present these forces to reality, they have a particular, identifiable force. Our conscious mind or ego has shaped them.  In the amorphous, timeless, mercurial realm of the unconscious, these forces are formless, universal symbols which Dr. Jung called archetypes.  They conjure up images which apply to any given epoch using the language and reference frame of that time.  Jung proved their intransient repetitiveness in his study of dreams, fairy tales and folklore.  They are with us, have the power to stir and alter us.

     This being the case, one necessarily finds them in literature.  If the written word attempts to reflect the human condition, its archetypal nature should be one of its ongoing principles.  I do not analyze my writing - and aren't WE all breathing a sigh of relief re: turning THIS page, if you're not raiding the fridge waiting for her to "get on with it!" - but I DO write so that the writer can't predict what will come next.  And am obviously a prisoner of the 'let's-point-out-the-obvious' coven.  BUT.  The completed work has meaning for me - did she say "completed"?; so this DOES end? - has achieved a goal, responded to an emotional need.  The message is there - for the most part personal, but should it have application BEYOND the personal, can touch the "not me", then there could be something in it for the reader as well and THAT is a true 'Nirvana' experience for this ole penner.

     The archetypes that parade through and energize my words, give them nuance beyond MY conscious intent.  So, as you read these slices of my existence, you are invited to to read the works and just let them speak without accompaniment.  Just keep in mind that this writer, in that she cannot predict what will come next, has not been commissioned to 'create any archetype's content' or current essence and present it as 'literature'.  Writing is like that. "When you figure out what is going on, upon mature consideration, you discover that that is the only way it could be."

     (NOW back to birthdays.  Hats on?  Party mood warmin' up?  I decided to start with Mom - where I started before.  Julia Jeanne Scicutella was born in Manhattan if immigrant parents from Bari, Italy.  She was unfortunate to be greeted by the polio epidemic and, as if to stamp her passport and future "temporary" US citizen, her young mother suffered from a cardiac malady requiring her father to re-turn the infant girl and older brother, Paul, to Bari where it was hoped the clean, fresh air would be less of a burden on her condition.  This was not to be the case and Antoinette, at age thirty-three, died of what seems to have been rheumatic heart failure leaving behind her two precious children and husband Leo, an olive grove laborer.  Antoinette's mother did her best to care for her grandchild but it wasn't too long before Leo was courting again.

     Of course money was scarce - as was time for a lame daughter - but Julia soon established her place, helping where she could and always, always visiting her mother's mausoleum - shared with five school teachers each of whom were apparently loved/missed deeply by their devoted students.  More to the point, the students - also frequent visitors - had the means/inclination to shower their departed instructors with heartfelt prayers and MANY, LARGE votive candles.  Mom would often speak to me of the importance of sharing.  By way of example, she'd fondly recall placing what, in her mind was an over-doing of votive-candle-bringing, one or two now SHARED votive lights by her mother's encased oval photo as she knelt to pray.

     It wasn't long before the home scape changed irrevocably.  Leo married Angelina and they had Michael.  Oh! such crowded quarters for an infant.  So, in that Angelina's 'people' had a Bishop in their clan, it was arranged for Julia, becoming more lame/burdensome, to move in with the good Sisters at several local convents.  And the groves thrived, as did Paul and Mikey, and just when the oil was flowing with enough volume and return on the sweat beads, Angelina suggested a FRESH start, in the New Country - and they whisked the family off trans-Atlantic, to the Island - Ellis.  I believe we've been on this trip before.  Third class, Enrico Caruso on the same ship to begin a USA tour and Julia - lame, head shaved (lice, you know), babushka'd and actually believing the story Leo fed her about the "miracle" of pulleys in Brooklyn - you just have to push the line and the clothes move across with ease to a tall pole on the other side.  Beside herself with laundering expectations and dreams of opportunity, it was with enormous love and gratitude that she recalled Mr. Caruso coming DOWN to third class every night of the crossing to perform.

     They settled in a Polish neighborhood, Julia was speaking Polish and English flawlessly within six months and the real miracle - an interested orthopaedic surgeon at Long Island College Hospital - performed ground-breaking surgery that severed the polio-shortened tendon in her heel allowing her to walk with but a slight limp.  After that, she worked, met and married - selecting my Dad from an army - literally - of beaux, and raised and educated a son and daughter with him.  To this day, she is the most beautiful and strongest woman I have ever known.  I salute you, Mom, and love you.  I cannot sing "The Song Caruso Sang" but if you listen, my readers and I are belting out a "Happy Birthday To You.")

     Don't know about you, but , as usual, she did me in.  So, on the morrow, I shall continue.  More B-Day greetings, pitch around a few archetypes - and "bad" angels and maybe throw in a coup la Jungian saws.  Hope you'll join me.  Later, Lorane

Overeating

Many years ago, while raising our little 'copers' - soon-to-follow - I did freelance writing in different local publications and genres.  There were feature stories, medical-technical pieces and my personal favorite, a monthly column which appeared in a magazine, Hampton Roads Surroundings accompanied by the photo on the left.  (It was SUCH a favorite endeavor and popular, even, that I anguish daily over its title - clever yet not 'cutesy' - and TOTALLY evaporated from my memory.  And I'll thank you to scotch any rumors/thoughts of the notion of "early-onset Alzhimer's)  What was my point?  Oh, yes, this column.  Rhe charm/appeal of it seemed to be a sardonic brand of humor underlying the telling of real-life experiences - usually of other people - who may or may not have known that I wa referring to THEM/THEIR EXPERIENCES. 
(I'd LOVE, for example, to share with you the one about a young married couple who quarreled SO bitterly while on vacation, she attempted to end their relationship  -and HIS life - by poisoning a tuna/noodle casserole.  Her attempt was a total botch - so strong was his constitution - that ahe - clearly in a moment of reckless abandon - whacked him over the head with a bottle of Aste Spumante in the hopes of causing an oh-so-memorable, throbbing headache.  Unfortunately, the poor, unsuspecting - and apparently generically-flawed - rogue suffered a fatal brain bleed because 1) her aim was serendipitously accurate and 2) landed the liquid rocket encased in a thick, cheap, glass containersquarely on his unbeknownst kinked and weakened cerebral arteriole.  But that will have to wait for another day, another story, another black bleed.)
     I DO recall - on too many occasions, I fear - thinking, "Some day you'll eat these words, L."  Like the day someone actually recalled that couple from my foolishly adept description and inquired about the entire saudry mess.  However, those thoughts wer certainly NOT confined to my writing.  There were countless times in my own youth when I'd 'mouth-off', as the saying went, to my mother and would pay dearly - or not so. Mom had this uncanny way of snapping up a wet dishcloth, twisting it into an efficient projectile in a nanosecond and then flinging it at me - often across a room, the "Babe" having nothing on HER arm - and landing it smack on my lips.  She never looked but she never missed.  Got MY attention and verbal respect, I'll tell ya.  And, as is SO often the case, although I can honestly say I never struck my children, they are fond of reporting "that look" which I apparently saved for moments of "If-I-get-up-and-walk-over-there-you're-going-to-pay-for-every-step-I-take."
     (In ONE of my columns, I just could not rest until I'd shared a story of "just desserts" involving some neighbors - actually it was the MISTER - who got too much, too fast and took every opportunity to announce/display/brag about this largesse at any opportunity.  First THE landscape artist, next up, the interior decorator, the ADDITION, the ALL-NEW Country French kitchen - you get the portrait.  We were finally graced with a dinner invitation at which the many, expensive wines flowed freely.  THEN dinner - a true Cana affair, with the four of us seated and Spodrd and Waterfored, armed with enough sterling to re-stage the Battle of Yorktown.  And just as the MISTER stood ceremonially to pour the first "red" into our goblets - which were fine and fetching and footed on the imported Italian ecru "Holed-Marble" table, I began to feelan uncomfortable, unforgetably delicious wetness dripping languidly onto my skirt.  Seems, MISTER hadn't inquired re: porosity of "Holed-Marble" and HAD he, it would have been allowed as how liquids HAVE been known to ferret their way through the table tops - or so SOME importers had said.  SUCH a waste of fine red vino!  Rather the same hue, in fact, as my skirt and MISTER'S cheeks.)

      I was, as previously stated, NOT inclined to be physical with my children.  (Actually, Philip - to your right - was ONE of TWO exceptions.  At his seventh birthday party, I heard quite a eucus eminating from the den.  I entered and was met with the vision of Philip jumping - as high as he could - up and down while shreiking, on the sofa.  I yanked him down and SHOOK hin until he stopped - which he did in short order.  Then he just looked at me as if to say "Thanks." and went on to enjoy awonderful party.)  BUT.  when he was just starting high school, I encouraged him - as we did with all three - to work hard, especially during summers off.  He did just that.  He worked for the contractor who built our summer cottage on the Outer Banks.  I recalled seeing him a few times, slaving away in the hot sun, using electrical tools, standing alongside 'veterans' who appeared a tas unsteady for ten AM and disappeared altogether for a "dip" in a newly-constructed fountain.  Recalling my encouragement of Philip's sedulous application of himself doing manual labor during vacations AND THEN seeing his new comrades-in-tooks, I wondered if I'd 'eat those words one day.  Sure enough, after a few years, he found similar crews with whom to "temp" during breaks in nthe school year.  THIS crew, however, was kind enough to get him connected with fellow users of not-to-be-gotten goods.  The gods were good and this spate lasted but a few weeks but I still rue the day I spoke of this particular association.

   Julie had more of my temperament as a teenager.  BUT.  She was also blessed with an extremely strong work ethic.  Indeed, when she became old enough to work during summers on the Outer Banks, she had at LEAST two jobs - often filling in for someone at a third.  I felt it was becoming too emotionally/physically depleting.  So, I encouraged her to invite friends from school down; to relax and party more.  She did just that and when a Boston buddy from Georgetown drove all the way down, they went out after Julie got off from work.  Bree, buddy, tired-but-game, asked if they could get anything for me/the house on the way home.  I replied that yes, we could use colas and chips.  And, having read into the night, I fell asleep.  Suddenly aware of a screaming phone, I wakened and saw it was 3 AM. Running to the phone and barely got out "hello" because I was hearing: "Ma'am, are you Lorane Leavy. . . This is Officer Whomever of the Dare County police. . .have a daughter named Julie?. . .Please come to the parking lot of the Food Lion immediately. . .no one is hurt. . .careful, Ma'am."  I sped the 2 miles to the empty but for a sherriff's car and Bree's.  Approaching slowly, the cast revealed their places - Officer standing with Bree adjacent to the car; young man in rear seat; Julie, slouched down with baseball cap covering half of face in front passenger seat.  "Is that your daughter, Ma'am? I nod robotically.  "She's got a bit of an attitude."  More nodding.  It seems while Buddy Bree wan dered into open-all-night Food Lion for chips and soda, Julie and friend, bored, still in PARTY MODE had been blasting the car radio with all windows down.  Asked to get out of the car, "Attitude" replied that legally, her car was her home and cop needed a warrant.  Right.  "Well, I certainly apologize, sir.  I'll be giving her a ride directly home."  She followed me wordlessly until we were in her bedroom when she began beriding ME for letting that "A___hole cop talk to HER like that when she was only playing music!"  I was too busy chewing on "You should party more. . ." until the sound of poor buddy Bree dragging her suitcase down the steps brought me to the business at hand.  EVERYBODY to bed.

      Jennie - coiner of that "look" phrase - was never physically touched - whereas at about age 3, Julie got her bottom whacked for stepping off the curb, into the street on a busy NORFOLK street.  BUT.  Jennie's wedding was just turning out to be SO storybook - reception at the Old Cavalier Hotel in the very room where SCOTT AND ZELDA danced! ("Who were Scott and Zelda?"), I suggested, nagged even, to rent a quaint old vintage trolley to transport the wedding party to the two-cities-away church.  This, you may recall, netted us a burning trolley; on the side of a major highway; with a blackened-hem Vera Wang-clad Jennie climbing over the guardrail accompanied by eight maids, one flower girl and a ring bearer (plus parents, Mistresses of Ceremonies, etc. Please See "Get Her to the Church on Time.")  Word-filled mouth again but I DID manage to wash them down with enough bubbly to laugh.

(The are some delicious tales about the parents of this brood in my column-of-n-name but, alas, in the interest of decorum, delight and divorce costs, we'll just have to sit on them for now.  Otherwise, I'll  only be speaking to the dog for the next few days and she's VERY much 'Daddy's Little Girl'.  So, Later, Lorane. . . )

Three Months Past Due Date. STILL pregnant with thought. . .

(This here, as they say where the ominous little 'nature shot' was taken, is what we call a "Nor'easter" down here.  They kind of sneak up on ya, middle of the day, evenin' - when a rainbow was just tryin' to be born at sunset, ANYTIME.  Honest.  Sneaky, strong, NO regard for the peace folks were tryin' to enjoy, or the fried chicken or jes the following of God's creatures, teachin' youngins the ways of the denizens of the sea, sky and dunes. They know too much 'bout the ways of the 'civilized' creatures in those new-fangled, monster-sized vacation 'cottages'.  Too much, indeed, ask me.)

     Well, dear readers, that's how these last three months have been for me.  Just came and went - sneaky-like.  And stormy, like Earl there.  I guess a lot has to do with end-of-year doings - recitals, playoff games, last-of-season doc appts - ENDINGS ALL.  Some were just too cute, too exciting.  But another time, maybe as the cuteness/excitement is - as always - in the eye of the beholder.  Others, though, may have some elements of what C. G. Jung might call, the "Collective Unconscious" - that universal, timeless, unseen, very shared "it" that makes us all - the race, not its infinite types, nationalities, dialects, etc, a fact in itself, is a blessing -ONE.   

  (I just got back from my evenin' stroll with our Beagle, Bridie, - who was one teed-off pooch 'cause the two days of West winds have been bringing those black 'parania'-flies, hungry as John-in-the-desert but much preferring pooch-nibbles to lizards.  I still walk with my Irish walkin' stick and tonight I did my best to use it as a gentle swatter so the poor hound could take care 'o biness.  And we met THE cutest new friend - she said it was a "soft-haired Wheaton", an Irish 'working dog', mostly white with some gray patches. floppy ears and DOESN'T SHED!  Rare enuff it wasn't an Irish "poet" dog like most of  'em, but non-shedder, too, that WORKS.  If THAT don't earn her a 2 - 3 times a week smoked salmon dinna, don't know what would.  Well, we got to see the beginnin' of a rainbow an' then you just 'feel' the wind start to change, the air cools a bit, the pace HAS to pick up 'cause we got a Noreaster comin' our way.  Minutes inside and I opened the blinds to watch the sand on the dunes start to swirl, the sea oats begin their Dirvish Dance an', 'course the "Tourons" head for the highest point of the walkway to watch the lightnin' an' listen in awe to Thor's rumblin'.  I swear, they inherit the "Dumb-Ass Gene" WITH their Trusts. FINALLY, one such in the rented 'cottage' to our left - 11 bedroomer - yelled "Get outta da pool!" to the 10 or so kids and their glassy-eyed traveling sitters.  Else it was gonna be a Kodak Karnage fer sure.)

      I soon lost interest in everything but the sheer power of the storm.  Harnass THAT and you could bring light and heat to the entire Midwest, Mr. President.  And if I could suck up but a smidge through my flexible straw, oh, the stories I could tell.  Like the dance recital.  NOT the dancing part.  It was about getting to know 2 of my granddaughters - well - differently.  Emma, began "Creative Dance Movement" 2 months after her classmates - NEVER having "taken" anything in her 3 years.  Molly began yr. 3 at age 5 and had added jazz to ballet and tap.  Would Emma do ANYTHING or just walk off?  Was Molly going to blossom into that "funny" musical theater person or lose interest?

     Sorry.  I did say I'd save it for another day - but it does help to fill in this 3-month writing hiatus of moi's.  In short, the little ones wore bright yellow tutus, black tights/ballet shoes + yellow silk flapper headband with giant red gerbera daisy on left side and hot pink tutus, black tights/tap shoes, white gloves w/ black continuation to elbows topped off (sorry) with miniature black, sparkly top hat, worn @ jaunty angle on left for "I'm just a Broadway Baby".  Their outfits alone = show-stoppers, the 2nd ending with them "gathering" in a group of 11 at the apron &, w/ hands to side of mouths, shouting, "Mista Produsa!  Im Talkin' Ta YOU Suh!"  Hats off to rpm Dance in Suffolk.

  Emma had other 'little surprises, too.  She had the 'moves/lyrics' down cold with her 150 or so IQ but every now & then, she'd drop out of character - far stage left NEXT to accompanying dance assistant, and kind of gaze down the line to see how her pals were doing.  Or spot one of us, gracing us w/ a proud wave. Obviously ALL tabu.  But the BEST was the Final Company Curtain Call.  Some dear soul was sacrificed in the wings to orchestrate timing/positioning, etc.  Babies went first.  Emma thought this dear soul had done such a wonderful, difficult job Saturday evening, that Sunday she INSISTED - by holding the lady's hand in a death grip and saying such that she could be heard, "Now you've been SO wonderful, you MUST take a bow TOO!"  Oye. 

     And one of Molly's  numbers ended with a pre-set tableau.  Dancing assistant standing center stage, became anxious when ALL movement stopped before the ending. As she sidled right, there was Molly, on a high riser, Upstage Center, directing the dancer down stage Right to KNEEL - as rehearsed. Kid finally knelt and SAME ordeal was repeated with Downstage Left dancer. After SHE knelt - as she'd been directed to do - "Good-Golly-Miss-Molly", knelt, putting the final, correct brush strokes on the tableau, thus ending this dancing instructor nightmare with a dazzling "Showtime, Folks" smile. Fathers chagrined, mothers apologetic, performers thrilled with their bouquets and Gigi - that's me b/c youngest, Mia, cannot yet get that hard "g" in "Grams" out - ever so proud and amused. Paybacks ARE Hell, you'll recall.  
    

 Molly's - 2nd from left - jazz costume hadn't arrived till JUST before showtime so ONLY the 9 or so dancers "knew" the joke.  They wore sparkly silver, fitted dresses, hemmed/trimmed in black boa, long black gloves and large-ish silver sparkly spectacles for "Supermodels" - a song all about your reputedly 'hum-drum' 9-5's determined to become models and "workin' VERY hard" to get there.  Again, THEY obviously had a ball doing it & the audience LOVED IT. 

 (The quiet is so loud now that the storm has passed, I can hardly think.  Sure it didn't get by y'all, tho.  REALLY crazy thing is there aint a Touron to be seen/heard.  Scared? Dead? Gone, please the Lord?  Well I aint checkin'.  Gotta rest up 'cause the husband's comin' down in the mornin'.  Been savin' lives in Virginia Beach ER's all day so could be cranky.  PLUS, just decided to - just can't get the ole "r" word out but he'll not be workin' in the ER - after 36 years - after August 15.  So there's a lot of pissin' 'n moanin' goin' on and parties 'n such .  I mean it's worse than "3 months past due" AND menopause. (Why is it called "pause"?  I mean stop is stop, no?  Hope so with the doc.)

     We shall commence with "ENDINGS" when we meet again.  And some sequitors are perfectly logical and some are non.  Later, Lorane. . . . . 

May 14, 2001: The Day the Music Lived. Again

     The other day I was (metaphorically) out foraging for wood to keep the ego fires burning.  It had been a week or so of 'downer days' - attorney screwed up so trial, with probable award for Moi, postponed;  child of mine refuses to return a valuable antiquity JUST when Mom in need;  spinal "condition" and car accident injury causing more pain and less range of motion;  contractor lied about beach cottage cleaning so son took wife there for leisurely Mother's Day weekend which she spent cleaning;  related my woes to "friend" whom I've been supporting through a cancer scare for months only to get, "BOOOO.  Talk when things better." in response.  (Funny.  She doesn't LOOK like a 'rubber crutch'. - and I could smell, taste, feel a tailspin case of "woe-is-me" coming on.

     I frequently turn to (St.) Groucho (surely a Jew for Jesus) at such times.  And not jus for his comedy, which had as its stockpile, IDEAS, ie, he would create an art form which would then announce itself to the world as inane, incomprehensible, inimitable and, always successful.  You see, his IDEA of comedy rendered the FACT of comedy valid. 
    
      (The only way to explain this little 'way' he had with the comedic is by example.  This because both in presentation and content, Groucho's ideas often sound confused, illogical, as if they had lost their way and didn't do what they set out to do.  Groucho would be delighted with this outcome.  To wit, an exchange from the play "Animal Crackers" between Captain Spaulding (Groucho) and a society lady (Margaret Dumont):
     Mrs. Dumont:  Captain, did you BAG SIX tigers?
     Groucho:         I bagged them. . . . . I bagged them to go away but they hung around all afternoon.  They
                            were the most persistent tigers I've ever seen. . . . . The principle animals inhabiting the    
                           African Jungle are Moose, Elks and the Knights of Pythias.  Of course, you ALL know
                           what a moose is?  A moose runs around the floor, eats cheese and is chased by the cat. 
                          The Elks, on the other hand, live up in the hills, and in the Spring they come down for their
                           annual convention.  It's very interesting to watch them come to the water hole.  And you
                          should see them run when they find out it IS just a water hole.  THEY were looking for an
                           "Elkohole".)
    
      But I believe his most admirable 'Marxmanship' is exhibited in how he lived his life.  His Credo: - and this is PURE conjecture - 'YOU might "Bet Your Life" but I prefer to think mine through very carefully.  He had an innate sense of the importance of knowledge.  Having been deprived of the opportunity to learn formally because family survival duties required him to succeed sartorially and, therefore, financially.  To compensate, he syphoned knowledge from books, social events, for example, hosting a dinner party where he fed AND fed on his guests, and keeping up with acquaintances whose mental acuity he admired.  His frequent luncheons at the famous Algonquin Table with Dorothy Parker, FPA, Chico Marx and noted authors and refined performers of the time.  Ere long, he distanced himself from "the Table" luminaries.  He felt they were not living up to their potential;  had become absolutely refractory and were stagnating.
     Surely, there is nothing to be gained by fostering relationships with the likes of THIS group.  Which is why I come bearing gifts today, dear reader.  They are for you and, it is hoped, will serve you well on  your journey, your LIFE journey.
 I.  Befriend little "better-you-makers", eg, God, happy doers, 'HEALTHY' ego possessors and loyal, loving mates and pets.

     (Groucho's brand of executing this kind of living mimics best some of the Greek gods Trickster and Pan.  His antics - engaging as they were - DREW folks with 'the right stuff' to him.  People love to laugh and he was personally responsible for countless solo outbursts of erratic and disruptive behavior but he was also, and deeply, involved with similar outbursts with three or four of his brothers.  Amusing pranks, yes, but a display of filial unity and devotion that appealed to worthy 'friends'.  Pan, known for an impish kind of rape, ie, an outward transgression which is actually - and secretly - welcomed by his victims.  One of the Ladies Marx, daughter Miriam, is a case in point.  Their father-daughter relationship was based on a true, if primitive, love.  Groucho at Miriam's PTA meeting is a fine example of life with father Marx.
     He attended the meeting at her special request, sat in the front row, and was not recognized.  Miriam was delighted and very proud that he was there.  He behaved beautifully from the time the president called the meeting to order until the Treasurer began her report.  He listened in martyred silence as she reeled off, in a high-pitched voice, page after page of dull facts and figures.  But when she climaxed her report with the announcement that the PTA had spent eight dollars and ninety-seven cents for tea during May, he could no longer restrain himself.  Jumping to his feet and shouting, "What KIND of tea?".  Taken aback, but still in command, the treasurer said, "Why orange pekoe, of course."  "Why wasn't I consulted?  I happen to like Chinese tea!"  "We've always used orange pekoe and I think we all enjoy it."  "Well I don't.  And I don't know about these other people either.  They're just a bunch of sheep that will drink any swill given to them."  He then demanded a vote; the meeting was in a shambles and Miriam was asked to escort her father home.)

     II.  READ - only the best of fiction and non.

     (As mentioned earlier, Groucho determined to educate himself.  While others played neighborhood games in their precious off hours, he read.  Later, when pastimes matured to girls, pool, cards, croquet, he sat at home alone or at the theater - reading.  His children claim he kept a current news magazine on the front car seat so he could make good use of red lights and traffic jams.)

     III.  ENGAGE IN WELL-ROUNDED LEISURE ACTIVITIES.  And these ALWAYS in moderation, eg, nap is good; in bed lightly snoozing 80% of the waking day is bad.

     (Groucho, acutely aware of their collective lack of performing talents when they started out working in vaudeville, had to do some fast talking to keep the rotten eggs and tomatoes at bay.  And it worked.  His "word salads" - practiced in off-hours - sparked a life-time banquet of Marx malapropisms and general mayhem in every field of entertainment.)

     IV.  HELP THE NEEDY but do not confuse "fellowship" with obsession, neglect of one's own duties or the excuse of never having the time to - in solitary - examine your own journey.

     (One gal Groucho helped regularly was mother Minnie - an out-going, fun-loving, poker-playing woman who loved to make the decisions.  Her interest centered on getting her boys started on a career and playing a role herself - manager.  Groucho once said, "My mother treated us all equally - with contempt."  The fact is, he visited her daily and treated her with consistent kindness and respect.)

     V.  LOVE ART, SPORTS, LEARNING.  And it need not be in that order.  There are NO rules, actually.  For example, what one person considers "art" may simply be utile to another.

     (For Groucho, certain objects - what some might consider creature comforts - elicited very strong responses.  His first car, a Pontiac convertible, was purchased for twenty dollars in cash.  It meant a great deal to him.  Indeed, each Sunday, the family enjoyed a regular outing - a twenty minute drive to the park where Dad would spend several hours simonizing and buffing while the family watched.  Go figure.)

     VI.  LOVE LOVE, shunning the evil, the tawdry, the mean and hurtful, the selfish.

     (Groucho's love of love in this way is performed in his relationship with his children.  His concern for every aspect of their development had them in and out of school - lest they miss seeing FIRST-HAND a one-of-a-kind object or learning experience.  He honestly felt that excursions with him were far superior to anything the school could offer them educationally or culturally.  With Groucho, education was, "Reeling and writhing, of course, and then the different branches of arithmetic - Ambition, Distraction, Uglification and Derision.", as Lewis Carroll had said.  It was also just as confusing to Arthur and Miriam as it was to Alice in Wonderland.  Actually, they always brought their lessons along and learned a great deal.)

     VII. LOVE YOU - MIND, BODY, SOUL - WITH HUGE AMOUNTS OF LAUGHTER, AS MUCH GRACE AS POSSIBLE AND HONEST/WILLING PARDON ALWAYS ON HAND.  For it is true: One minute you're waiting in the wings; the next, you're wearing them.

     These have been my counter to "The Seven Deadly Sins":  I give you,

LORANE'S SEVEN 'LIFE-ING' MUSTS  FOR YOUR JOURNEY PACK

I write them wearing my 'just-received-yesterday' "One Fabulous Mom" pin from one of my fabulous children.  I dedicate - and will soon give them - to my FAVORITE, FABULOUS, FUNNY FATHER, Msg. Ray Barton (pictured below with the 'pin-giver')

September 16, 2008

                                                                  Father officiated at the

                                                        wedding of Julie & Matt Compton

November 5, 1976

Father Ray officiates at

the 'Punch Bowl" Baptism

of Julie Jean Leavy

(Plastic half-full glass of cola = Druid Good Luck talisman)

Later, L. . . .

Has it Really Been THAT Long?

     Wow.  April 27, 1968 saw me getting married - to young Philip G. Leavy, Jr. (please see - or not - photo to the right)  And this was not some '60's, rad, impulsive act.  We'd met at Georgetown University, although did not begin the 'dating ritual' until my senior year.  He was a second year medical student.  We'd been through "Camelot" - the Magic Years and then the beginning of the always rudely unexpected relationship with the ugly aspects of reality.  I guess even then we were "Strange Bedfellows" indeed.  He was most amusing - witty, ever the optimist, roll & frolic with the punches - and the Beatles.  I was given to musing, always quietly questioning but outwardly very, uh, 'outward', I guess those who were around me would say.  I, too, laughed alot, searched for the just right bon mot, loved to dance, sing and, naturally, suffer fools not at ALL.  So we were "a good fit", "nice match" and everyone seemed a tad surprised by this.  And as the Good Lama used to quip, "Who's to say if this is good or bad?" Whilst awaiting the nuptuals, he studied in D.C. and I was a Coronary Care nurse in N.Y.  and even as the "hearts grew fonder," I would sometimes find myself thinking - in silence, of course:

(I once told you "Everything old is new again".  This is still true.  Like if I were going on about my "musing tendency".  Same ole, same ole in 2011.  Just this morning, as is my wont, I checked my horoscope - ALWAYS, that & the Obits and if I don't see my name in the latter, I proceed with the former.  TODAY, the missive was "You go out of your way to gain mental perspective.  No one can accuse you of missing the forest for the trees."  AHA! So THAT'S what I've been sensing lately.  When I'm musing.  I feel like Woody Allen walking down the street, turning around in circles, not knowing whether I'm being followed or I'm following someone else.  I'm being JUDGED.  Can't you hear the whispers?  "Does she even SEE the forest??  Look at how she focuses - over and over - on-each-tree?  See? "  Not so fast, my would-be friends. I may LOOK like a disoriented Woody Allen but what you are witnessing is an individual - as she has ALWAYS DONE - going-out-of-my-way-to-gain-mental-perspective.  That one characteristic which revealed 'where the I stopped and the Thou began' re: my lifetime bud and me:  Lorane was always ANALYZING;  Phil concentrated on just LIVING. )

     Of course NOW, the nay-sayers are saying, "Can you BELIEVE those two have been married for FORTY-THREE years?"  And the sages are only too happy to footnote THAT "Mad Magazine"-like commentary with desultory - and un-invited - observations like, "Please.  They never wore a sign on their backs.  Didn't HAVE to.  It was SO apparent, to the truly aware, that they were ONE, they were/are STILL best friends and totally devoted to each other, their marriage, the kids.  They are what MARRIAGE IS."; or the equally 'never-requested-profundity' along -and between - the lines of, "God works in mysterious ways.  In Phil and Lorane's case, He was uncharacteristically candid.  He blessed this beautiful union."   Can't help but wonder, with all due respect, of course, what the HELL was 'He' doing/dawdling re: the USSR?  THERE was one union that was neither blessed nor beautiful.  The bottom line, I think -realizing full well that my thoughts/musings can ONLY be but 50% of the 'picture' - is that, at least in OUR relationship, ABSENCE was a helpful little success "insurance policy".  I'd ask Phil to weigh in on this point but he's not here at the moment. 

     Apres honeymoon, we moved into our 3rd floor walk-up in College Park, MD, which we shared with 2,436 roaches and an Indian family, roughly 22 in number; Phil went off in his starched whites & I in my washed RN couture to NIH/National Heart Institute to perform research on the "dying heart syndrome."  Pd well.  Good thing b/c Phil needed the VW & we were LUCKY enuff to find/buy "The Pig" - some very old navy blue sedan for FIFTY DOLLARS!  The Pig & I barrelled along in the right lane each morning doing 35 mph - EASY - just to see if the other 'highwaymen(&women') had REALLY had their coffee.  Finally, graduation, Long Island surgical internship AND pregnancy.  The TRIFECTA!  I worked as charge of Meadowbrook's combo Med/Surg ICU until I could no longer see my toes (got to 196 LBS!) which was a good thing b/c we REALLY had to supplement Phil's $4K/yr. intern salary.  So, @ 37 wks., I retired to our on-campus, rent-free townhouse.  AND.  To keep me from getting bored/lonely, Phil brought home a 6 wk-old mutt puppy, brought in by one of the Maximum Care nurses.  Hence, "Max" became a fun pass time for toeless Moi re: potty training.  (Had to go down 1 flight of carpeted steps to get out the door.  Max never got passed the LAST step.  So, I cut the carpet off of that step, put it out on the grass, and WHAT LO!  By December 16, 1969, when first-born Philip arrived (after 23 hrs of labor; LaMaze sans coach who was doing surgery; posterior - crown-of-head on Mommy's spinal column), new Daddy, Dr. Phil and potty-trained Max built a snowman on Max's fav spot.

     Then on to OTS in Newport, R.I. (had to pay ye ole Navy back & Phil was SO hoping to get on The Hope) after which we were shipped to Norfolk, VA.  The Hope was pulled back; Phil deployed for 9 mos. on the USS Harold Ellison destroyer & young Philip and I went to our initial classes of "Daddy's not home" School - degree STILL unearned but training INVALUABLE re: sustaining a 43 year-old marriage which ushered FOUR children into this world.  LITTLE COPERS, FOLKS.  That's what you want.  To BE and to RAISE.

     (So far, that's how I ANALYZE our marriage.  Especially around anniversaries.  When we all tend to take a look and check on ". . .what condition our condition is in.".  Indeed, I DO see "the FOREST".  AND  I go out of my way and, who knows, maybe even gain the RIGHT  mental perspective.  At least I'm trying.  VERY, according to some. I'll ask Phil - when I see him.  I mean REALLY see him, like "the FOREST".)

     WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?



Later, L. . . .

      

The Kindness of Strangers

(I was using the                                       adjacent  mat but distinctly heard the kitty mutter, "Hmph!  USED to drink water from the garden hose but NOW I have to use the 'bottle' because          I  USED to be playing OUTside but    NOW I have to be INside -                 exercising, staying in shape.  And       good health.  I chant, do mantras and breathe deeply.  And I STILL feel like scratching someone in the face,           ya  know?  Like maybe one of              those Vet Hospital Administrators in charge of Managed Cat, er, Care.  "I have always depended upon the kindness of       strangers."  In the classic drama, "A Streetcar Named          Desire", these are the final words of Blanche DuBois, a        faded  Southern beauty who is plagued by neurotic,            genteel pretensions.  She speaks these words as she is being escorted out of her sister, Stella's, home to a  sanitarium by a doctor and a nurse.  They are the "strangers" to whom she ostensibly refers.  Having just witnessed this   tragic heroine's mental and moral disintegration, one can't    help but see an allusion to Blanche's sordid history of  prostitution in her   fateful parting line.  But the GOOD news  for ole Blanche was that she didn't have to wait around for -                             precertification.  That is, the strangers came to get her            and her sanitarium bed was waiting.  Her family didn't have    to   endure the railings of her tortured mind, unable to ease her suffering.  That was 1948.)                                                    
     On April 6, 2011, I drove up to Richmond to be with my     granddaughter, Mia Lorane, and her parents - Julie and Matt(certifiable in another sense for several months now) - for an old-fashioned, home-made, Italian Four Cheese Ravioli           supper on pre-op evening.  We even had Puttanesca Red         Sauce - the MOST flavorful (but not SPICY) of the reds.         Got its name in the Old Country.  The 'Ladies of the              Evening'  would spend the day whipping up a batch of red       sauce that would outdo ALL competitors in the AROMA    department. The heavy, iron pot would then be set out on the window sill to 'cool'.  'Gentlemen', as was their wont,          followed their noses, filled their bellies and lingered to enjoy an after dinner aperitif.                                                                                              
     And so it was on the night before our Mia was FINALLY      going to lose her tonsils and adenoids - those glands we have in the back of our throats and below our ears that FIGHT       INFECTION when they are working.  I know this stuff.  You remember.  You did "the cap" ordeal?  The Neurology ICU?  And how WE were worried about potential 'Doctor' (Joe)        Zivagos on the ward? NOW our worry was just getting Mia     ON TO a ward.  The months were long, tedious and, MOST concerning, detrimental and dangerous for Mia as SHE          endured the repeated 'sick time' with temps of 104-105,        feeling miserable while accumulating the EIGHT                documented, required - by the insurance company - Strep    Throat infections that netted her the sought-after referral to an ENT specialist who would remove these glands - while we could only watch, unable to ease her suffering.                          
(Because of changes in the health care delivery system over    the past forty years, we arrived at the threshold of the new     century embracing Blanche's coda.  We, too, depend on the   "kindness of strangers.  We depend on decisions made by        amorphous group of overseers - let's call them medical         directors - to adequately address our symptoms, make us       whole, cut out the malignancy, truss the splintered bone,       guide our children into the world.  Then, it is hoped, they'll   see to it that their journey into adulthood, plagued with its    own particularized and threatening set of medical/surgical     misadventures, is as safe and negative incident-free as             possible.  This because of due diligence, vigilence and the       absence of vapid indifference.  We can ONLY hope they          make the right call because they are the SUPREME call-         makers.  And if they don't?  IF SYMPTOMS ARE NOT              PURSUED AGGRESSIVELY, the malignancy festers, the        bone deforms or decays, the bough BREAKS AND THE          BABY FALLS?  Quite simply, the medical director - and the   'Care' Organization whose costs he is charged to contain -      DID IT.  IN THE NURSERY. WITH THE 'MAGIC' DENIAL    WAND.)                                                                                             
     So Wednesday night, those four cheeses, in their                   Puttanesca-dripping pillows, slid down with roller coaster-     ease, washed down by chilled, fruit-flavored water with many glass-tingling "Saluts!"  A joy to watch.  Mia had lost at least     12 pounds.  Those "necessary, documented" antibiotics can     confiscate even the best of two year-old, raw tuna-loving         appetites.    And although beautiful AND bright, the constant pain (doc said she'd probably NOT been without throat pain    for SIX months) can put a dent in the sunniest of                       dispositions in the most popular of "Princesses" in any pre-    school.  So, even though she told me that Rocco - the pre-        school boyfriend - was in "Time Out" again that day for             taking her hair bow, her heart just wasn't in it.  But her            HANDS are another story.  Between my Italian heritage          'hand-speak', the Rocco affair and that ravioli, she was             HAND-EMBELLISHING during ALL communication with     
us and the staff until the OR doors dropped the curtain on       her baby-blue paper capped bobbing head, her face                   punctuated with her usual grin of expectant                               adventure.                                                                                        
(And what is the role played by the doctors and nurses             today?  As you may recall, back in the day, when Millie pil=  
ferred my cap but I was still a crisp, white, moving container  
of concern for MY PATIENTS, we still depend on them. But,  
interestingly, they are doing the bidding of the medical 'care' 
organizations that cut their checks.  This, so the cutting does  
NOT involve their jobs because of a misunderstanding about  
priorities.  They must provide the care deemed necessary        and appropriate by the call makers.  Whereas, to put it ano-  
ther way, there was once a clear delineation of where the "I"  
stopped and the "thou began", NOW "I" is all there is and      
"thou" no longer has an existence.  You see, "I" will only pay  
for treatment and testing that IT has pre-ordained. There-    
fore, the hands-on (formerly 'real' doctors and nurses)            treaters provide a sanctioned service and THEN, they are     
PAID!  They, too, depend on the "kindness of strangers",         much like Blanche did in HER profession.)                                
     Fortunately, the surgery went smoothly.  The doctor was   
QUITE surprised, however, at the SIZE of the adenoids           (twice normal) noting as well that they were wearing a        
foul coat of bacterial film, which, as you can imagine,               scotched any notion that they could have been functioning   
as part of Mia's immune system.  Once home, she could           depend on familiar family, free care and one-on-one loving,  
un-managed care.  And she, as is HER wont, had plenty of       whine to go with her post-op cheese.  I daresay, late at night  
we did as well.  That Mia was on her way to hearty health was apparent by the increasing number of princess costume           
changes per diem.  I returned home - humming Disney tunes in lieu of Dory Previn - tired but oh-so-glad to have been part of the healing-cum-loving experience again.  Where DID I        store my cat, er, cap?  Later, Lorane. . . .                                           

The Kindness of Strangers

( I was using the adjacent mat but distinctly heard Kitty mutter, "Hmph. USED to drink water from the garden hose but NOW I have to use the 'bottle' because I USED to be outside playing but NOW I have to be INside, exercising, staying in shape. And good health. I chant, do mantras and deep breathe. And I STILL feel like scratching someone in the face, ya know? Like maybe one of those Vet Hospital Administrators in charge of "Managed Cats, er Care".

"I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers." Those were the final words of Blanche DuBois, a faded Southern beauty who is plagued by neurotic, genteel pretensions. She speaks these words as she is being escorted out of her sister's home to a sanitarium by a doctor and a nurse. They are the 'strangers' to whom she ostensibly refers. Having just witnessed this tragic heroine's mental and moral disintegration, one can't help but see an allusion to Blanche's sordid history of prostitution in her fateful parting line. The GOOD news for ole Blanche was that she didn't have to wait around for pre-certification. That is, the strangers came to get her and her sanitarium bed was waiting. Her family didn't have to endure the railings of her tortured mind, unable to ease her suffering. That was 1948.)

On Wednesday, April 6, 2011, I drove up to Richmond to be with my granddaughter, Mia Lorane, and her parents - Julie and Matt (certifiable, in another sense for several months now) - for an old fashioned, home-made Italian four cheese ravioli supper on pre-op evening. We even had Putanesca Sauce - the MOST flavorful (but not SPICY) of the red sauces. Got its name in the Old Country. The "Ladies of the Evening" would whip up a batch of red sauce that would outdo ALL competitors in the AROMA department. It would then be set out on the window sill to 'cool'. The 'gentlemen' as is their wont, followed their noses, filled their bellies and so on. And so it was the night before Mia was to FINALLY have her tonsils and adenoids - those glands we have in the back of the throat and below the ears that FIGHT INFECTION when working. I know this stuff. You've been. Remember the cap? The Neurology Unit? And WE were worried about the potential Dr. (Joe) Zivagos on a ward! It had taken months of repeated "sore throats" until Mia had the EIGHT documented, required - by the insurance company- Strep Throat infections that netted her the sought-after referral to an ENT specialist who would remove these glands.

(Because of changes in health care delivery over the past forty years, we arrived at the threshold of the new century embracing Blanche's coda. We, too, depend on "the kindness of strangers". We depend on the decisions made by an amorphous group of overseers - let's call them 'medical directors' - to adequately address our symptoms, make us whole, cut out the malignancy, truss the splintered bone, guide our children into the world - and then, hopefully, - see to it that their journey into adulthood, plagued with its particularized and threatening set of medical/surgical misadventures, is as safe and negative incident-free as possible. This because of due diligence, vigilance and the absence of vapid indifference. We can only HOPE they make the right call because they are the SUPREME 'call-makers'. And if they don't? IF SYMPTOMS ARE NOT PURSUED AGGRESSIVELY, the malignancy festers, the bone deforms or decays, the bough BREAKS AND THE BABY FALLS? Quite simply, the 'medical director' - and the "Care" Organization whose costs he is charged with containing - DID IT. IN THE NURSERY. WITH THE 'MAGIC DENIAL WAND'.)

So Wednesday night, those four cheeses in their Putanesca-dripping pillows slid down with roller-coaster ease, washed down by chilled fruit-flavored water and lots of glass-tinkling "Saluts!" A joy to watch. Mia had lost at least 12 pounds. Those "necessary, documented" antibiotics can rob even the best of two year-old, raw tuna-loving appetites. And although beautiful AND bright, the constant pain (doc said she'd probably NOT been without throat pain for SIX months) can put a dent in the sunniest of dispositions in the most popular of "Princesses" in any pre-school. So, even though she told me Rocco - the pre-school boyfriend - was in "Time Out" again that day because he took her hair bow, her heart just wasn't in it. Her HANDS are another story. Between my Italian heritage 'hand-speak', the Rocco affair and that ravioli, she was 'HAND-EMBELLISHING' during ALL communication with us and the staff until the double OR doors dropped the curtain on her baby-blue, paper-capped bobbing head.

(And what is the role played by the doctor and the nurse today? As you may recall, back in the day when Millie pilfered my cap but I was still a crisp, white moving container of concern for MY PATIENTS, we still depend on them. But, increasingly, they are doing the bidding of the medical 'care' organizations who cut their checks. This so the cutting doesn't involve their jobs because of a misunderstanding re: priorities. They are to provide the care deemed necessary and appropriate by the call-makers. Whereas, to put it another way, there was once a clear delineation of where the "I stopped" and the "thou began", NOW "I" is all there is and "thou" does not have an existence. And "I" will only pay for treatment and testing that IT has pre-ordained. Therefore, the hands-on (formerly existent doctors and nurses) treaters provide a sanctioned service and then , THEY ARE PAID! They, too, depend on the "kindness of strangers", much like Blanche did in HER profession.)

Fortunately, the surgery went smoothly. The doctor was QUITE surprised, however, at the SIZE of the adenoids (twice normal) and noted that they were wearing a foul coat of bacterial film which, as you can imagine, scotched any notion that they could have been functioning as part of Mia's immune system. Once home, she could depend on familiar family, free care and one-on-one loving, un-managed care. And she, naturally, had plenty of whine to go with her cheese. I daresay, late at night, we did as well. That she was on her way to hearty health was apparent by the increasing number of Princess costume-changes per diem. I returned home - humming Disney tunes in lieu of Dorey Previn - tired but oh-so-glad to have been part of the healing-cum-loving experience again. Where DID I put my cat, er cap? Later, Lorane. . . .

EVERYTHING OLD IS OLD AGAIN

We've been playing a little game on Facebook which involves 'grabbing the nearest book to you, opening to pg. 56 and typing the fifth sentence. You then put the instructions, followed by your sentence in your 'Status" box. We then read each other's status info & play a rollicking round of "Who-wrote-that?'. The other day, a friend posted a panicked msg, to wit, I grabbed the nearest book (a computer manual) and page 56 was BLANK! NOW what? there are a multitude of good and sufficient reasons why a computer manual should not be classified as a "book" for our 'fun & games" purposes but I shared her dilemma with you ONLY because it mirrors the situation I find myself in with today's post. I was thinking - after my last foray into quill work, that I rather miss keeping a Dream Journal, particularly the value of incorporating what is called the "day's residue". This would be your daily life experience - whether dealt with or not consciously - and regardless of seeming relevance/importance. I think people would find their dream stories and characters far less strange if they'd take the time to see the pun, tie-in, remote source of the 'exotic' and chaotic material of which our dreams are composed. Our waking lives are not just worthy of note but of recognition, repetition, dramatization even. You might even 'get' a joke you missed or see the importance of a relationship/situation. Soooo, I was all set - notebook at the ready - to begin last night. Unfortunately, I fell asleep sitting up and my co-antiquity quietly turned off the light, closed my book & drifted off. An hour later, my eyes slammed open in response to the intense low back pain I was having in response to NOT having taken nite-nite meds and sleeping flat. What to do? Well I corrected omission #1 and then stared into the plaster at reams of blank pages. Finally, I wondered what would I have dreamed about if I'd begun this project last week? Day's residue: overshot turn-off street returning from B-Day brunch & passed the Old Cavalier Hotel - where Scott & Zelda danced? You remember, the "Burning Trolley" chapter of our lives? OBVIOUSLY, I'd have been dreaming of the Roaring Twenties! (And 'dancing' - like Isadora Duncan. Actually she was not at her best in the twenties. She'd entered into an ill-fated marriage to a Russian poet, many years her junior, and was touring the country in her endless efforts to start a school for her Art - Dance. Fantasy and reality were given equal time in her program of life; the primitive and the instinctual neatly woven into her aesthetics. Her Art - she ALWAYS capitalized that word) was spontaneous beauty. In her 1928 biography, in her faulting yet honest brand of prose, she shared her life experiences with such intensity that YOU felt HER drama. She said over and over again to her students "Art must come from the soul.". And she knew only a few would understand. Which ones? ) Of course the Roaring Twenties was not ONLY about dancing. And certainly my biography has and will always be about the young, the old, the dramatic, the joy, the tragedies, the "Gates of Hell" and of Heaven. In this regard, the "Twenties" roar, cry, run, sit motionless, approach and bid farewell - as metaphors go - and come. (Isadora's two children drowned in a car accident when their car rolled off a bridge. She never recovered. She died in a tragic car accident as well by the sea - in 1929. Hers was a great love, a great Art. But the Jazz Age headlined children in general. Just as the world mourned the death of Isadora's children, it mourned for the Lindberg baby as well. The trial of "little Gloria" Vanderbilt was followed closely. We were entertained by Shirley Temple and Betty Boop and Little Orphan Annie. The "Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh" were widely read. Mickey Mouse was born in 1929. Did they all represent the creative, moving toward new possibilities? Or were they collectively the SHADOW of the Child - that had to be left behind? I would say they rather 'grew up'. We meet the female spirit again in Clare Booth Luce's play, "The Women" in 1933 but I don't think she was speaking ONLY of 1933 women. In fact, in 1975 The Actors' Theatre of Norfolk mounted her production and I was assigned the role of the wronged and oh-so-right Mary Haines. A tough assignment as it was hard to believe ANY woman could be as naive and devoted as dear Mary. Ms. Luce trots out thirty-five brands of femininity - hat-check gals, debutantes, chorus girls, authors, countesses, mothers and daughters and, of course, poor, jilted Mary. It is a marvelous satirical tableau, dedicated to the female spirit. The ladies lunched and played bridge and had affairs and went in and out of analysis - wearing Jungle Red nail polish. The show was held over, so many playgoers wanted to come and see themselves. You see women never change. Only hem lines do.) And last night there I sat - NO polish, NO dream, in full focus but, lately NOT about children. Rather about original things. Old things. German things So, were I to have been dreaming of THAT residue. . . . (Well, we COULD go back to the Twenties. I recall having to do a 'required' paper once on German architecture. I wrote about Bauhaus - a school of Art form AND a building. Now there is NO question but that the visual arts are my VERY short suit - except for a Chanel given to me in the sixties by a lady for whom I babysat. BUT. I have some VERY first-hand, up-close-and-personal experience with a production set designed by Liubov Popova in 1922. How does this relate to the Roaring Twenties, you might ask, legitimately? Well Bauhaus believed that the inner structure - the soul - of a building, must be reflected on the outside. Now follow closely. The set to which I referred was for the play "The Magnificent Cuckold", first performed in Russia. It was a free interpretation of a windmill, which included slides, platforms, ladders and several discs and wheels in addition to the windmill itself, upstage. It was called constructivism in the art world. In 1974, the Actors' Theater mounted THIS production at the Chrysler Museum and Walter Chrysler borrowed the original set from its home in the Albright-Knox Museum in Buffalo, New York. And you ask 'How does it relate?' Bite your tongue. Everyone was thrilled and the set was a complete success. I was a member of the cast and can tell you when this thing arrived (and did it have "IT"!) we were stunned. It was like a Rube Goldberg MONSTERPIECE. I hated the 'art'. It sprawled the width of the stage, almost spilling over the apron. All of its parts moved and buzzed and creaked and seemed to hiss viciously, "Caution! Menacing genius crossing.". I mean, it was one thing to be upstaged by this inanimate beast, but worse, we risked our lives every time we walked out there. (I PAID Aaron Norris - in town to open one of his brother's Studios - to teach me how to fall without breaking a hip) One made entrances on ladders and exited down a slide. A cross was invariably interrupted by one or the other rude, triangular swinging doors. And the hummmm. Every part moved electrically, you see, and each character had its partner "moving part". Popova's plan was to have the set react/relate to the drama. So when the actor was "on", his wheel or flap or whatever began doing its thing. Such a treat - acting your little heart out over this mechanical din while the audience sat mesmerized by the technical hi jinx going on behind you. I am not a violent person but WILL confess to kicking a 'work of art' several times during that run. Indeed, were it to appear via my subconscious in the wee hours, NIGHTMARE would be the heading in the "Dream Journal". As to what would it MEAN? Well, let's just say it was the most 'felt' experience of the art of the "Twenties" I have ever had. And it was a 'feeling' I still had six months after the show closed.) Rather like the physical bruises I'm still nursing since a visiting Christmas relative returned home. Psychologically, analysis might compare the entire experience, like portions of the "Twenties" Dreams, to my feelings about our involvement in the Mid-East. Yet, geographically, the emotional 'hot spots' of the Christmas visit hang more around what was at one time 'Slovania'. He was invited because it was known he needed help. He's also a very proud, independent sort. Soooo, we concocted a story about how I NEEDED HELP as I was post-op back surgery. And what with the Holiday bustle and Noel visits keeping everyone distracted, all went as partially planned. He was evaluated for needed eye surgery and a date was selected/confirmed. Almost blind from birth, he now had cataracts which just about obliterated his sight. Just about. During the pre-op waiting period guest did nothing constructive but had a funny little breakage/mess-making thing going. Hostess went to P.T. 3 times a week and K.P. 7 days a week. However, God is Good, surgery went well and we dined out departure eve. We asked questions that went to whether guest had needed assistance at home; guest asked what ever happened to Grandmother's vases - the German antique ones with the painted tulips on them. We were happily assured that guest would be fine at home. Guest was sad to hear vases must have broken. I reckon three times a week I exercised at P. T. while guest exercised at home - mine - snooping. Imagine if he could SEE? Those vases have beautiful irises painted on them. And the study and evaluation of antiquities is passionately absorbing. Later, L. . . .