The Shaman - His Agonies, his Ecstasies, his Poetry

      This guy walked into an ER - about forty years ago - intending to make some extra money while working on his surgical residency and after taking care of some rather challenging patients over several of his free weekends, he found himself re-thinking his career choices.  His conclusions, as I know you've guessed, launched a ground-breaking specialization.  Surely it will come as no surprise, then, to you, that the highlights of this experience - his experience - of eventually becoming an Emergency Medicine physician will be shared here.
      Imagine my surprise, however, given the 'glum chum' atmosphere prevailing in this household since he retired, as I watch my fingers labor over the keys this evening, at my election to write about it.  And as is my wont, I am moved to at least try to parenthetically illustrate some of the emotions, motivations, and evolving processes of his specialization with excerpts of poetry.  More specifically, the crafted meanderings of Dorothy Parker which I mention up front lest anyone be confused by 'gender specific' pronouns.  This specialty is populated by men AND women; so too will be the artistic commentary about it.  Starting now.
      (Her mind lives in a quiet room, a narrow room, and tall.
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom and mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat and set in decorous lines; And there are posies, round and sweet, and little straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.)
      The first ten or so years Doc worked with a group of family practitioners who, wanting more regular schedules, forfeited their private practices and joined together to work exclusively in the ER.  Naturally, our boy was the 'young upstart', all energetic, sponging up knowledge and experience, the "go to" guy in the group.  And his slower-moving, less excited and far more easily fatigued, colleagues were all too happy to let him 'go for it' - his it, theirs, that of the community - just wound him up and let him be the "Road Runner" of the group.

Young, leisure-suited, Doc Leavy, Jr.

      So it was that his experiential and exposural base grew exponentially.  Always a voracious reader, he would perch on the cutting edge, literally, of emergency procedures, encouraging them to follow suit - a 'following' to which they were most definitely NOT suited.  He was the rising star; theirs was setting peacefully at dusk, having walked the dogs, checked the ripening honeydews or snap peas, drawled a bit but mostly nodded off, 'listening' to the Missus. 
      In 1976, a new hospital was built in Chesapeake and Doc's group won the contract to operate the Emergency Department.  In that this was their second facility, they hired more new docs and our boy was elevated to Chairman of the new facility, a position daunting to his partners but abject Manna to him.  Throwing himself into it full bore, he wrote protocols - for the hospital, for the emerging EMS System of the city, for the ER itself.  The patient population grew as did the  body of knowledge about their presenting pathologies and the treatment thereof.  It's called progress.  Our doc embraced the challenge, learned new techniques and procedures, attended major conferences in this evolving specialty and would return re-charged, ordering new equipment, urging, teaching, spreading  the news that broadened the base knowledge required of the receiving, attending physician in the ER.  The younger, newly-hired docs gobbled it up.  The old school, hard core, resistant founders of the group balked.
      (If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains of the folk who give me pains;  Or had I some poison gas, I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of people whom I do not love.
but I have no lethal weapon - Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!  So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.)
      Enough.  By 1980, Emergency Medicine became a legitimized specialty, IE, The College of Emergency Medicine administered an official Board Specialty Examination nationally.  Doc Leavy and a friend  - soon to be a partner - were the first two Emergency physicians to take and pass the national boards in the state of Virginia.  With that, our boy moved on to the largest group in the area.  Based at a teaching hospital which established a medical school and became a Level I Trauma Center, he forged along, ahead, beyond most of his colleagues and for thirty years treated the most fragile, compromised, life-threatened people in our community at all of the facilities which this vanguard group covered.
      So many recollections of working with him were shared at his send-off salutes.  The night he was head-butted by a crack patient, losing five front teeth.  He got treatment, of course, but returned to FINISH HIS SHIFT!  He'd been spat on, verbally abused, reported (insensitivity - refusing to give a drug-seeker narcotics) and feared while respected by the nurses and EMT's.  Known for his Irish temper - and propensity to throw things - they spoke of learning to duck (or give him the RIGHT thing at the first request) to steel themselves against crying (or leave the room but provide a hardened replacement) of learning more from him than from ANY other source. 
      Because his motivation was pure even in the moments his manner may have been rough - "We are just NOT going to let this patient die or hurt or lose a chance at healing.  That's why we're here - to DO IT RIGHT BECAUSE WE CARE!" This refrain was repeated by doctors, nurses, techs, EMT's, even patients in attendance at his 'farewell fetes'. 
      (Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, a medley of of extemporanea
      Their job is not pretty.  Which is why they recalled how much they'd laughed with him as well.  This phenomenon is common in any group of people who work together in an atmosphere where at any moment a man, woman, parent, child, priest or thief can slip away.  The miracle doesn't work.  And the 'miracle workers' cry.  But there was the day "Administration" circulated a memo suggesting a more homeopathic approach in the ER and Dr. L.  went out and bought ferns , hanging one in each examining bay;  looked the other way as the nurses became more and more confused as to why a paranoid schizophrenic was getting increasingly paranoid (because Doc's own son, working as a tech in the ER, was whispering eerie little nothings over the PA system that the patient could hear); absolutely refused to get a new car, driving a Chevy Impala convertible that was SO shabby, he once left the keys in, top down & ran in because he was late.  The car was running ALL night in an open lot and no one even tried to take it; refused to quit smoking but could ALWAYS be found, so concerned was he about the weather and therefore his patients' safety en route to their homes, that he sacrificed ANY free time he may have had to go out - in all weather - to the ambulance bay and check the skies.  And pity the nurse who, finding him to say, "Dr. L., Mr. X is going south."  Thinking of 92 year-old Mr. X, he'd snap back, "Then what the Hell are YOU doing out here!"
      But he also had that little way of always sliding on to sit next to a child on the stretcher when asking her questions.  And he could always be found sitting with the family -  shedding a few with them - after having to tell them their loved one didn't make it.  One of his partners calculated that over these years he had seen and treated over one hundred fifty thousand patients.  And so MANY of them would not be here today had he not.  And ole "tuffy" took it like a champ, last night.

       
      (I think no matter where you stray, That I shall go with you a way. Though you may wander sweeter lands, you will not soon forget my hands.  Not yet the way I held my head, nor all the tremulous things I said.  You still will see me, small and white and smiling, in the secret night. 

BUT NOT FORGOTTEN  - Dorothy Parker Poems)
Later, Lorane. . . .

REMEMBERING

•       One of life's treasured joys, for me, is basking in the glow of the shining, new, inchoate little people whom - in our family - we call grand peeps.  Theirs is a world of infinite possibility, potential, possessions designed only for them, powerful emotions, and - on a REALLY perfect day - potato chips, with dip, maybe.  Sharing slices of their developing wholeness - priceless!  And they share this bounty freely with Grams - aka Gigi, for those who are still struggling with the hard "g".  In turn, I love telling them stories, answering their questions, all with as much animation and drama as arthritic joints will allow.  Of course we do 'silly' stuff, too.  We march, hop over imaginary obstacles - sea horses, ladybugs, sleeping kittens - don real or invisible costumes, sing many an old and lately some more current tunes.  I've decided that the magnetism of our relationship, the siren who sings SO sweetly that I must follow her to their lair is freedom.  Their reality is completely free - a luxury that growing up will ultimately snatch away.

      (I'm reminded of this blessing daily as I walk our Beagle around the neighborhood.  This because Bridie is a slave to routine, absolutely worships at the altar of repetition, offering gifts, little 'forget-me-nots' along the way in canine gratitude.  And so we pass, wave, greet the same folks in the same order daily.  Ours is a quiet, relaxed neighborhood.  The prevailing temperamental climate, or 'Zeitgeist' as the philosophers might say, is peaceful, contemplative, big on reverie as the community has decades of living on which to dwell.  This pleasant, friendly insularity breaks - or at least leaks - at one home-pass each stroll.  This when we're walking by the truly picturesque home, which keeps itself tucked back thirty or so yards from the road, belonging to - we'll call them Bubba and Opal.  There was a time when I looked forward to a breezy, warm - always interesting - chat with Opal.  A lady whose life has been a swirl of vibrant activity, color, the Arts, travel cannot but entertain, enrich with each exchange.  She had chosen a lifetime behavioral pattern of freedom and, like the peeps, relished sharing it.  Until, like a breeze building to a gust, her candle was snuffed.  Opal's memory has been snatched away.)
      I often find it odd that with all the trappings of amusement modernity has bestowed on our peeps, they much prefer the telling of what 'long ago' was like.  Having assured them that when I was little - I'm afraid they'd have trouble forming the "Gigi YOUNG' image, so I go with size - I read by lamps, not candles; we had running water; my Dad drove a car, I can progress to the games we played, the friends we had, the toys we cherished.  We lived on a dedicated "Play Street"  in Brooklyn.  Early each morning two policemen would dutifully roll two tall iron poles, set in bases of cement discs and topped with a round yellow metal sign announcing "Play Street" at each end of the block.  So, from six AM until six PM NO cars or trucks could drive on Jewel Street.  There were two exceptions: the occasional horse-drawn wagon of a green grocer and Johnny, the ice-cream man, who drove a white "Brinks-looking" refrigerated Good Humor truck in the Summer months.  Both were occasions of opportunity.  As soon as the green grocer had concluded sales and gently urged his ancient steed forward, there'd be a race of old, babushka'd, shovel-wielding women down their respective stoops to be the FIRST to get to the horse's droppings - the most prized of fertilizers for backyard veggie gardens.  (What is it Robin Williams said?  "You're only given a little spark of madness.  You mustn't lose it.")  Of course Johnny presented the high-point-of-the-hot-day potential - a creamcicle, ice cream cup, fudgecicle and a variety of cones.  The peeps can listen endlessly, wide-eyed and alternately grinning or pinching pinching their noses during a fertilization scoop.  "Tell us what it was like - you know, playing on YOUR street.

      (Weather notwithstanding, Opal ALWAYS leaves her ornately carved, white, two-seat er bench, careful not to spill her iced drink or forget to bookmark her page, and runs to greet us in the street. arms waving akimbo, a dance step or two for Bridie before bending down for her daily Beagle smooch.  Opal has always worn a stunning gold choker, usually sporting a dangled oval olive-sized sapphire.  There were times when, after admiring it I'd take a stab at warning her of its potential for reeling in an "artful dodger" or Southern Gentleman old thief.  "Oh, Bubba's home!", she'd laugh in that truly self-enchanted way with Bubba's meticulously-painted backdrop - their house - behind her.  Sometimes, we actually met on the street when Opal and Bubba were walking their two white poodles.  I'd be coming out of our driveway and see Bubba.  I felt like greeting him in Farsi because sure as sh  _ shootin', Opal would be seventeen feet behind him with poodle # two in tow.  Then, seen any bluebirds yet?"  to which I'd respond in the negative.  "Can't be-leeeve it!", from B.  "Why I saw a FLOCK of 'em swarming out from your point other day."  Well I had seen ONE marble-sized, robin's egg blue egg in the grass by our trash cans out back.  I've YET to see ONE bluebird ". . .so perty, takes yer breath away!" One can only hope, Bubba, I'm thinking.  Bubba's civic project that year was building tiny, wood bird houses, asking permission to trespass on your property and nailing one of these things to a tree.  He lines them with some fetchingly-malodorous hay which, he says attracts this particular blue bird which, if you've not had a respiratory arrest from the sight of it, leaves you AND your property free of pesty insects.  And, of course, grants shady Bubba presumed legitimate entrance onto your property.  You CAINT make this stuff up, my dear readers!)

      The peeps do remarkably well at reading and, if ability fails them, they've inherited that marvelous quality of "making it up" without skipping a beat - a skill my oldest son had mastered;  I had admired; my husband, when he finally caught on, flew into an Irish rage and would grab the textbook and thump the kid on the head with it.  SOOO macho.  And when he sleep-walked at age fourteen in a three floor plus finished attic house and Mom had to find and lead him back to his bed, I'd spend that thirty minutes of adventure recalling the reading sessions of yore. 
      But they prefer oral story-telling - which is fine with me.  Leave the book reading to the 'teachers' in these pre-schools that run on blatant thievery.  And 'street-play' and Brooklyn "toys" are still at the top of the charts.  I would say our most valued/versatile 'toy' was the steel/aluminum roller skate that you attached to your shoe with - ready? - your "skate key".  Good.  We raced, played skate-hockey - no cars on a "Play Street" so we could ALWAYS field a team on Jewel.  In the fall, we build 'scooters' from an orange crate, a two by four and worn-out skate wheels.  (Crate nailed vertically to board which is mounted on four wheels - two front of board; two rear.  Then elaborate, very individual painting/chalking of crate for "The Races".  The girls got to sit in the crates and monitor the action, giving their driver tips on dodging, veering, speeding up, stop-spinning 180 degrees for a 'head-on' etc.  GREAT sport.  Of course there was stick ball year round: Pink Spaulding ball "pitched" off the third or fourth step of a stoop, he swings.  Or standard pitching with measured, chalk-drawn bases.  Chalk was indeed a mainstay: bases, Potsy, "I declare War", cartoon faces - then rub hand in colors on street and paint own face.  Those WERE the days.
      (Not long ago, both my husband and I were 'kidnapped' by Bubba in the evening - en route home/wine.  "Got a minute?  I want you guys to see for yourselves who Opal really is."  We both poin- ted to Bridie as the poodles were already raising bloody hell just inside their front door.  "Oh, I'll just tie her leash to Opal's chair.  She'll have shade, water.  She'll be fine."  Opal was already doing a slow, tango out of the house with a bowl of iced water.  Bubba had launched into a history of Opal's career as an artist - in all media and his own, humble career at the Ford Plant as an engineer from which he started his own international engineering firm post Ford retirement.  His accumulated evidence of their dual careers was staggering in amount and a KO bore in delivery.
      Then the Tour began.  Overwhelming doesn't touch it.  Opal's paintings - oil, pastels, palette knife, lithography - was wall to wall times at least seven rooms.  The living room had a decided twenties feel - tres Isadora Duncan, flapper, Zelda and Scott, Art Deco and ALL with a haunting attention to detail.  Rounding a corner we passed a hallway leading back to the front hall through a door the transom of which had been replaced with a magnificent stained glass window Opal ferreted out of a pile of cast-aways at a yard sale.  That hall's walls were all adorned with stills - of edibles.  And then the kitchen, looking out on the Buddha Alter-inspired garden apprentice piece but dominated by an island centerpiece the panels of which had been retrieved from a storefront in Rome.  Two by four foot panels on either side were each consumed by large, round, brightly-painted faces with Keane-portrait eyes.  One end was a very happy young woman; the other a crying young man.  The side five by four panel was of two large, round, faces - a smiling version of the happy woman cheek to cheek with a coyly-smiling woman who, the story went, had taken smiley away from crying man.  Oye.  And Opal had repeated versions of this tragedy on the floor tiles in the kitchen.  We processed, Phil and I open-mouthed, down another hall - first into Bubba's "study" - incredible large paintings of horses, races, the Kentucky Derby and his rifle collection, then to Opal's magic room, adorned with old photos in frames like gold, but more burnished, of her and her mother - obviously/admittedly the inspiration for the ladies in the twenties art.  Little china dolls, lace dresses, baby-sized, artfully displayed.  It was all pastel and floral and soft and OPAL.  Then back to the front hall - dominated by an ornately-carved bird cage, as wide as the bay window through which it is seen from the street.  SO eerily telling.  Opal's art is continual movement - what we know as history whereas Bubba's functionality reaches an omega point where there is no longer a need for material production.

      Of necessity, then, he must display Opal, HIS Opal because her art - her images - enter into consciousness as synthesis - a CONSCIOUSNESS OF SOME THING.  And that is why they are dynamic, creative and will always be useful.  She does not remember them.  We could never forget them.  Bubba can never have her genius, her art so he garners meaning/importance of Bubba via a warped 'she-chose-me-and-her-taste-is-infallible' construct.  "She was quite prolific.", as he's escorting us out.  Hmmm, I think.  Indeed.  You were but a tiny pellet in her enormous arsenal. . .)

      I do try to stress with the peeps that when I was little I had and did lots of things because they weren't pre-fab.  And it was fun.  And our "things" - like the wicker doll carriage, cradle and high chair Grandpa made for my baby dolls, were beautiful.  Maybe some day, I'll tell them the story about when I was four.  I put all my stuff in my doll carriage and was standing by the door of our fourth-floor walk-up apartment when my Mom asked me what I was doing.  ""Surely, we're leaving here, right?" 

Later, Lorane. . . . 

     

CHANGE

      God only knows when I was ". . .Last Seen" and, hopefully, no one was REALLY paying attention.  I can only submit that I have been 'seeing' and pray my attention span is as short as science says it should be during this decade - of living, not history w/ a capital 'h'.  By the calender, it's been almost a month - since I've spoken to the "faithful four" - not to be confused w/ how many times I've spoken to myself.  (You get NO back-talk, so it's a favorite activity)  And, you can bet your socks or MLB Playoff pick winnings or ninth grandchild that it was NOT due to loss of interest - sighing is Rude - but rather b/c so MUCH has been going on - globally but it does trickle down - and @ the haciendas.  What with "Netflix" changing its DVD format, the Economy, the legions of network/computer changes - Google + = WHAT??? - the Economy, the political debates, traveling - oye -, buying, wrapping, presenting B-day gifts, the Economy, the "R" - word developments, keeping up with the kids, friends and the Economy - the not-so-merry-go-round does not stop - and there IS no brass ring.
      (I DID have some heirloom ring jewelry re-created - by a real jeweler.  I mention this b/c a) it wasn't mine, 2) I'm clueless in this arena and 3) it meant a lot to the little girl-recipients to have something - besides me - that can be legitimately labeled an "antiquity".  In fact, whilst entertaining myself with the aforementioned activities, I've also been delving into the history/potential value of some "antiquities" which have been in my possession but either forgotten or ignored for years until "the Economy" became such a hot issue.)
      You know, I was truly surprised at the high temps on ole Beantown when we flew up for Mia's party.  Of course the tykes felt nothing but wet joy, and we hydrated them often, but they jumped in that plastic sauna for at least  4 hrs.  Ah,

youth and energy and that elusive ability to sustain arduous activities for extended periods of time.  Even more stunning was the recovery made by The Recliner, once home again, with wrenched back-that-he-does-not-need-evaluated, who, knowing the "R"-word party was upon us, rallied after a mere six days, rising quite early on THE  day, running - metaphorically - errands, tending to medical review reports, answering correspondence, well, obviously a tad anxious.  But when the children - ours - arrived to fetch us, they were glowing, SO excited and obviously anxious to get going because they had arranged for  - TA-DAH! - BOB.  This gentleman, along - actually beside - his limo - awaited us in our driveway.  Photo-op extraordinaire.  Bob was great - @ pictures, music, stocked bar.  Bob was The Man and, thank fully, The Recliner actually seemed to relax as we S-L-O-W-L-Y made our way to a quaint, ocean side, restaurant where, upstairs, the "Party Room" - where the stunning view of the ocean and loving friends and colleagues waited to greet - and HONOR -  him.  That it was deserving is a given.  That they got him there will go down as the most memorable accomplishment in the history of his Emergency Medicine

group.  

      (This grouping of antiquities to which I referred includes a pair of caduceus-shaped, black, Civil War-era andirons.  They were given to me many years ago by a close, VERY Southern, friend.  She told me that they'd belonged to her great-grandmother.  It seems that when this gentile lady got word that General Sherman was a-marchin' South, she kept her wits about her and post-haste buried them - the andirons - in the back yard - along with the family silver.  Needless to say, yours truly has been all about researching this noble tale.  More specifically, the research has focused on andirons - "firedogs" to you historians - Civil War decorative architecture, iron art and the like. As I relayed to KD via email today - you'll be saddened to know she thinks she's losing her hearing.  Naturally, this awareness makes me use 20 pt. type and bold fonts when I write to her - like she'll better get the message - because I just KNOW she'll be able to either encourage my pursuit OR see through the hyperbole of Some Southern women and tell me that most likely great granny's tail remained seated in the wake of this hysterical rumor.)

      So many stories were told about so many personal, moving exchanges with OUR doctor on the occasion of his "R"-word party that I hesitate to begin lest I repeat the cry-fest that it occasioned.  It was at the same time moving and sad for him.  But.  The kids carried the night - again - re: moving.  You see, when the last of us were outside again, in the circular driveway, - of all things, talking about the movie "What About Bob?" - I looked beyond one of the kids and saw a white, shining, 1910, mint-condition Rolls Royce with - seated behind a steering wheel that had been installed on the wrong side of the vehicle - BOB, "at-our-service."  Naturally I shouted - to no one, "That's the way WE roll!" - only to be silenced by happy nods in blissful affirmation.  The doc was overwhelmed.  More pictures.  TRES twenties posing, seated on fenders, standing on bumpers, leaning from running boards.  Absolutely exquisite stuff.  And then the S-L-O-W ride home with BOB instructing us on how to waive to the peasants!  Great fun on a night that COULD have tumbled into melancholy.

      (I 'd like to think that - knowing Ivey - her great-grandmother DID indeed clutch at her hooped skirt, petticoats be damned and plunge through the gahden to stealthily secret the Family Treasures - AND her husband's tribute to his noble, honored and well-executed medical profession.  Else why even speak of such a fuss?)

      Fortunately, the fussing went on here - what with the FOURTH B-day of yet another curly-haired grandpeep/princess.  Emma was royally hospitable to her invited subjects and a GRAND time was had by all the following weekend at HER fete.  I DO wish you could have seen her "retired" grand Dads lapping up the cake and ice cream - and beginning to enjoy the BREAK and the change.  Later, Lorane. . . . .

LAZARUS LIVES



YA THINK???

      At the risk of - what the smug set would call - "pointing out the obvious", I nevertheless stoutly put forth: We have indeed been having "Stormy Weather" and me and my guy, well, in some ways, on some days just haven't "been together".  This because meteorologically and metaphorically, it "keeps rainin' all the time".  Ole "Laddybuck's" retirement from the full time practice of Emergency Medicine has had 'dear and glorious' in something of a dither.  Surely there will be some who feel that 'sharing' this experience is in "bad taste."  So be it.  I''ve provided fair warning as to my being in risk mode, this entire exercise allows room for reports of just how thin I may be wearing, we don't want your writer to wear any thinner and, frankly, this particular 'passage' in our lives is truly BENCHMARK so I've no time - nay - I've a responsibility to NOT concern myself with your gustatory judgment.  Recovery is how we're 'rolling' on this one.

     (Horoscopes, in general, are rarely on point but in the midst of this time-consuming tempest, I actually glanced at mine - in passing, the newspaper, that is - and it was all about rummaging through old belongingings and finding objects from the past which would haunt, harrow and 'happy-up' my reverie. "Hah! SELF: not rolling with reverie presently.  Or hadn't you noticed?" And that freeze-frame re-activated, causing "Action!" to proceed. If only time would allow.  It was a Lulu, dear reader but we can't t dawdle.)



"re-TIRED?"



      Because the headlines are - ready? - GOOD!  That said, keep in mind the reference is to the "big picture" because you already know quality of the early shots.  FAR too clear to cheer.  My Irish dervish was in NO gear.  I recall my comiserations with KD who, trying to enjoy her B-Day week, worried about being ravaged by Irene in a Rockaway bungalow - built circa 1920 - STILL gently, calmly, sincerely inquired about the "R word".  She vividly recalled humorlessly those "long morning naps", the worry, the fatigue.  MY MOST incredulous and negative images were those crafty little disappearances.  And the HIDEout!  Garage, door closed, smoking and - after being forced to put the stored deck furniture out, leaving a cavernous, depressing vacuum, selecting an injured, rescued, ancient white wicker chair on which to perch in his new smoking/reading room.  You KNOW how I feel about wicker.  Granpa and I spent hours at his last work shop, watching those calloused, old buddy hands labor at braiding the well-soaked strands of reed, suspended from twenty feet, twisting, pulling, creating the manmouth rockers that would comfort old bones as meticulously as the cradles, carriages, high chairs that would embrace, protect, carry new, tiny, helpless life.  And the old lives were re-charged as well. There will be NO desecration of the old and carefully crafted.

      (Just how I felt when fetching, organizing clothes for Julie and Mia's up-coming visit tomorrow.  Yes!  I've barely finished un-packing from our divine five days in Boston celebrating Mia's B-Day and family in general and now - drum roll - Julie's coming down for a week, WITH Pwincess Mia, to celebrate Dad's B-Day, attend his "R word" party with ALL co-workers, fam and friends AND to scoot up to Richmond because they have a buyer for their house!  Hip, hip. So, up to my ears in clothes and plans, I run into Mom's Persian lamb coat.  The VERY precious coat I was getting ready to take to relic rehab so I can present it to some lucky gal at Christmas. Might as well get a look at this challenge in the light.  And I did.  SELF:  KNOW this was handled by an ace cleaner soon after her death.  What IS this sprinkling of ecru lint marring these silken black curls-of-a-coat???) 

      The ONLY blemish on our otherwise perfect Beantown visit was a back injury incurred when Dad insisted on helping and - on the last day - wrenched his lower back while closing a stubburn hatchback after our last errand.  I had Mia out of harm's way, busy building up her nearly hysterical excitement as Mommy extracted two dozen magically colorful, wretchedly-behaved, helium-filled baloons and Poppy gave that machine's rear door an Enola Gay Ka-Slam.  Resuming an upright position proved excruciating.  And nary a merry soul was the wiser. He doesn't DO treatment or injury, for that matter.  It was Pwincess Day, the Pwincess Jumper - accommodates at least twenty wildly bobbing bodies - had been delivered and inflated, the power was back on, Snow White cake and ice cream chilling comfortably and Mia's message was loud and clear, "Poppy, it's time to Paahtie!"  So no-pain-Poppy fell in. I

                                                           daresay he wisely was NOT doing any

"JUMP TIME, POPPY!"

   jumping in the Princess Jumper, but I do believe Mia jump-started his mood if not his mobility. Our day tumbled into a giggling evening whilst we called Mia's Grampy in Florida a happy singing - yup.  Grampy's B-Day, too - having prepped with inhaled helium to sing the traditional plus "The Chipmunk Song". You're NEVER too young - or old - for a "helium Happy-Song!"

      (The lint roller was a futile undertaking; I was determined to identify and remove this fuzzy disgrace; the big guns got dragged out; following the lining's underbelly - having turned the entire coat inside out, I stood, armed with Oreck, stolid and stunned, a sister to the ox.  This because I had identified the crime.  It was the lamb's fleecey fur, decades ago used to pad the shoulder area. And it had been DYED! "Ewe, too?", I shouted at coat.  And then I laughed.  It was laughter bubbling up from the irony of this old, vain, soft curly little lady's mane AND, more gratifying, from the recollection of the greeting I'd received by way of "Good Morning" today from Phil, to wit, "I really am feeling better!" ) After it took us an hour to walk to the car from the plane; after he was not able to walk or stand even for three days; after he refused to be evaluated and I was certain he'd slipped a disc but helpless to intervene, he felt better.  After all, I never doubted his self-diagnosis.  Really.  And as he went about immediately overdoing it, I thought I'd glance at the horoscpes which, all things considered, were rather prophetic.

      (The obsession with clothing had indeed harrowed - at first - my reverie, thinking of how little lamb ONCE UPON A TIME was so pretty, hanging around with Mary. But then I discovered her mischief, and although HER happiness was now in perpetuity to be found in a sleek, fashipnable and ever-loved and treasured heirloom, she had furry pals out there in this generation who couldn't have it anybetter. )   

      And with some TLC and patience, Poppy will be carrying Pwincesses on the beach before long and without a whimper.  As for me, I'll be working on MY rehab and the white reed chair.  Later, Lorane. . . .                                                              



YOU-ARE-BUGGING-ME!

      I know what you must be thinking, dear readers.  FIVE days and NOTHING.  Not even a quick, "Did OK with Irene.  Hope you did as well."  Or the potentially dastardly extreme, "I guess we still have our health but I DO so miss my mind, clothes, furniture, computer.  But the Shelter is LOVELY.  They did an admirable job in so LITTLE time. Dry-ish, steamy (good for the lungs), done in mid Depression Drab but filled with SUCH ebullience, hope and gratitude one feels one has checked in to the Plaza."  No.  All I've been able to muster is sullen silence and can only HOPE I've not dashed any semblance of a kindly relationship we may have been developing pre-Irene.  Please know, too, that you were in my thoughts - wishing only for good fortune while we all toiled in the aftermath of the reign - and floods - of her Majesty.  Rather harsh, I'd say, as royalty goes. 
      And so went the humble little serfs in our little community of family and friends.  When will she arrive?  How fierce will be her mood?  Will our temporizing, meager preparations suffice?  How many pounds of flesh, joules of energy, rays of parsimonious happiness will she exact?  Truly, we were at her mercy.  She knew the powerful fear of the unknown that we harbor quietly whilst scurrying around, good little worker bees, hard-working, hill-building little ants.  All the while, stifling an amused chuckle.  "Chop, chop! Well done, lady (bug) L," she most likely mocked.  "Good work, all of that defrosting, baking, sealing," as I toiled in the kitchen preparing days of meals.  "Cooking up a storm. now, aren't you?  Well, so am I!"  One she knew would tear us apart with the ease of dismantling the wings of our Monarch Butterflies.
      (I may have mentioned - it's been so long - but our home sits on a point of land, a finger reaching for the Lynkhorn Bay.  The house is small, allowing for all manner of flora - conifers and tropicals sharing the same green beds.  And EVER so inviting to the tiniest of crawling and flying fauna - a bug haven, all moist, warm, dotted with yummy human snacks who venture out to plod through and collect, clear, crush the felled post-storm flora.  Clever, too.  "Raining.  Best get inside!" I know you've heard the roach is the oldest of creatures.  Celebrated even.  The brilliant Franz Kafka had one of his heroes meta morph into one while abed.  Obviously smart or they'd be extinct.  Not just another pretty face, the roach.
      And the fleas.  What with their bushes all akimbo, their mossy huts swamped over, they, too were tired, hungry, MORE than willing to 'settle' for a hairless treat out gathering detritus, disturbing their own temporary, hastily erected shelters.  And they REALLY got under my skin - some setting up camp.  Of course we were not only wet but in the dark.  It was SUCH a temptation to grope my way out to the porch at night, to feel SOME relief from the stifling heat, perhaps - secretly - welcome a 'breeze' - which in fact was a stinging gust of wind but I LOVE make-believe, and iced tea in the summer and reading with light.  But there's not time to play "a few of my favorite things" because we're still reeling in Virginia, entrenched and scratching in post Highness Irene labors.)
      She was at her MOST playful - twirling, sliding, jumping - Friday evening and throughout the night.  Two of our children and their children live in the same general vicinity - but a healthy trek away from us - and we stayed in touch with cell phones, taking and giving advice, encouragement, hope, prayers.  To be sure we were all altering the facts some but keeping ole 'fear' at bay was primo.

Normally, that white little dock cannot be seen from here and, in fact one steps directly onto it from solid, dry ground.  Similarly, there is NO water from the dock to the far right of this picture,  The two points are contiguous, neighborly, 'y'all come over for BBQ, heeya?'  And Her Wetness was just getting started when I shutter bugged around the house, still able to see my hand in front of my face.  And it was a darned good thing I COULD see if I do say so my DARNED self because that made it SO much easier to find all of those bright, cheery, STORED-FOR-THE-SUMMER quilts and gracelessly schlep them out to be tucked against shoe moldings and thresholds - which seemed to be multiplying.
      This feat was accomplished JUST in time because we soon heard - and not ones to be fooled, knew the floors moved and windows quickened their rattle - the felling of what surely had to be an extremely old, tall specimen of flora.  Sure enough.  The phone rang - LAST time the land line rang in days - to permit a harbinger-of-doom type of fellow the excited privilege of announcing the crashing of the largest tree on his corner manse property directly on to the power lines - what-would-Helen-Keller-do-time - and then gaily dancing about in the street like a band of lighted serpents.

If  you look VERY closely, on the left - JUST above the yellow metal crane man's equipment -a very tall tree - the house to it's right has two and a half levels - goes STRAIGHT UP. But - if you're a good inspector - notice the ANGLED trying-to-pose-as-a-limb wood, leafy appendage that begins its lean above house-level and to the right, coming to rest on used-to-be-neighboring-tree, standing tall, upright and working very hard to support what is really a massive splinter - hyperbolize that freely - which Irene tickled off during her performance, teasingly balancing it on bro tree before her masterpiece - this being a mere apprentice piece - jete to the corner manse where right en pointe, she twirled the BIG boy into the power line.  Hence our final phone call, the successful debugging of our land line; BLACKOUT.
     ( I so wanted to share the many acts of kindness and caring that folks displayed while we serfed around, collecting huge , sticky pine branches, acorns, pine cones, flotsom and jetsom that had washed ashore from homes - and houses-of-fun from the looks of some of those 'jester-toys' - but what with scrounging around in the evening for Calamine lotion, tweezers, antiseptic solutions, dressings and potables, the seemed to be first a growing fatigue then increased aching and finally a generous dollop of ennui at night.  Just COULDN'T write.  But, the good news is that searching feudal attempt at finding my quill, I forgot to scratch my bug bites.)  
      I trust He held you in the palm of His hand and all is well and so to bed.  Later, Lorane. . . .   

Goodnight, Irene. NOT



NOT "finer" in Carolina



It's Friday.The last time we chatted, I took you down to our beach cottage via Memory Lane.  It's on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  Specifically, Corolla.  The memory, however, was all about Charlie-the-hurricane and how we weathered it.  Of course, hats off to the storm-savvy-harpist friend who was visiting - along with ten children, a grandfather and a Brittany spaniel.  So, as to Charlie, we had the 'right stuff' and a happy ending even.  In fact, without realizing/planning it, a la Mr. Frost, I bid you sweet dreams with a famous poem.  It referred to a famous double play - Tinker to Evers to Chance - called "Baseball's Sad Lexicon" by Franklin Pierce Adams.

      Did I mention today is Friday?  Right.  And it's been a most erratic/uncharacteristic day for your devoted teller of tales.  You see, rather than writing in the comfort of my cozy imagination, I've been alternately #1 mesmerized by input from the TV or, #2 cooking.  The driving force for #1 is ongoing reportage of an approaching devastation in the form of Hurricane Irene and the reason for #2 is an anticipation of the imminent loss of electricity and its attendant amenities like the ability to see, to have at hand edible sustenance as well as drinkable potables ALL perks that accompany #1.

      (Ironically, there was an excellent chance of my not being abreast of this potential crisis because just yesterday, my husband announced - in that 'glum-chum', defeatist tone that men acquire along with their wedding rings - "The TV isn't working.  No reception.  Wants a 'valid something-or-other card'."  Call me silly, but I'm from the school of 'if-it-breaks-fix-it'.  But in the wife department, after forty-three years and NOT, thank goodness, inherited the "dumb ass" gene in this arena, I knew better than to suggest calling a repair man.  That would cost money - scarce enough already these days.  No invoices, thank you.  No voices period, actually.  Silence is good at times like this.  That way the bearer of the negative news doesn't know what you're thinking. 

      Now my thoughts were actually quite mundane, desultory.  Nothing clever - like a solution was popping up.  BUT.  Although it's not my fave appliance, I'm not averse to talking on the phone in a situation like this.  I called the cable provider service department, in THIS case actually grateful to be interacting with a speaking robot.  Robot inquired as to the purpose of my call - even providing choices - and, once we were on the same blank, e-reader page, provided two alternatives.  I could push the red, lighted button adjacent to the 'valid something-or-other card'-holder - if my control box has one - OR turn the power completely off, count to thirty, turn the power back on and check for signs of life in the TV.  I elected the latter option and, as instructed by robot who announced she was still there and holding, duly noted that the search was on for the satellite accompanied by a horizontal progress bar which paraded across the screen, left to right, indicating progress in rising percentages.  Robot cheerfully reminded me to tell her when the process was complete.  I finally said yes and hung up.  Sounds abrupt, I know but does etiquette require an expression of gratitude to a telephone robot? The salient point of this exercise, the thing that elevates it to a class of things lovely is the TV was functioning flawlessly.  Repair person indeed.)

      So it was, then, that I had the ability to monitor the uninvited Irene's progress with visuals all day today. Unless I was cooking, and I would increase the volume during these interruptions.  It is five thirty, PM and I just heard a broadcaster say, "Nature always bats last" via, "You know what they say."  Well I don't.  Do you?  I mean who is this "they" to whom he blithely alludes?  And what of this cryptic "bats"? Is that some new age 'code' for something sinister to which I, for one, am not privy? Hmmmm?  At least MY baseball analogy was upbeat, artful, had "IT" even.

      The entire East Coast is currently a bit on edge, pal, as to the safety, fortunes, even well being of the population - young, old, loved, infirm ALL stripes.  I BETCHA they'd prefer you keep your little seriously unsettling old saws to yourself.  Hubby and I, while escorting Bridie on her constitutional through the neighborhood, couldn't help but notice the damage-mitigating precautions folks have effected - securing garden fixtures, removing deck furniture, storing cars in their garages.  The same ole same ole waving/smiling rituals were maintained, we picked up after our perambulating pets, but there was an eerie broken silence during such activity.  Our home - today - sits on a point of land jutting into the Lynkhorn Bay, contiguous with the Chesapeake whose shores may very well be re-sculpted by Sunday morn.  And still, we stare at the developing events and strain to hear the now reporting-in-the-rain talking, gelled and wind-blown heads.

      (Of course, looking at the bright side, as a family, an avid sports-fan-family, we would have been denied hours of good news and exciting 'plays' were it not for the TV.  And we owe

it all to the man my son - pictured left with his son - is fond of referring to as "TV Guy".  TV Guy was part of a wonderful Christmas present from the children, which, once installed, would allow us to see both cable and local Steelers' games.  Now you have to be special to know TV Guy and he had been here once with my son under some ruse and during much company and confusion.  I just recall asking him to help our daughter Julie - or ANYbody - to rotate and straighten the Christmas tree - glares all around - except for TV Guy. 

      I will also always recall the day he was to come to the house and install the present.  Son Philip called to say TV guy was running late.  Eileen was having trouble reaching the only nurse - surprised? - who knew the date and time of her next appointment.  I realized I'd fed the dog twice.  Perhaps as a reward, Bridie soon loudly announced the arrival of TV Guy, a dear friend/helper of Philip's in-laws.  He made a rather 'man-on-a-mission' entrance, armed with several boxes and four hours of chit-chat.  He installed, set, tested 'tv' things and instructed me about 'things TV' such that we got reception of local channels and cable beautifully.

      The side-dish to this main course, unfortunately, was that I then knew more about TV Guy's personal, psychological, social and professional life than anyone in the world.  Added to this bank of data was the same HIIPA-forbidden information about his former wife, "multi-personalitied" daughter and her seven year-old son.  TV Guy had raised this guitar-progeny lad since he was a fretfully young four months.  I guess it could have been worse.  I mean, the entire cast of dysfunctional characters could have been waiting for him in his van and, for any number of reasons, come in!)

      Rather, it was not, he finally went out and we can endure the tension and concern and "bat" baggage that are unique to folks who live quietly, in a lazily lovely community in a small home overlooking usually calming, brackish water and among similarly-uncomplicated people.  Of course, in the interest of levity, Phil and I talked as we walked about a few people who - as our offspring are wont to say - don't "roll the way" we do.  I guess my favorite of our musings was that a certain twosome, having the true misfortune of a wife recently afflicted with escalating Alzheimer's married to a husband who tended toward physical abuse even when she was not only sanguine but exceptionally gifted in the visual Arts, would not fare well.  Perhaps he would enthusiastically, even coyly, suggest to her impressionable/accommodating mind, that it would be fun - and good luck - if they went out to their secluded, manicured ornate atrium behind their home so that he could bind her with silk scarves to the seated statue of Buddha.  She'd be thrilled, poor dear.

      Mind's a tricky space, oft crowded with mischief-minded imps.  For now, I want to assure you that: Kathy D is safe - she was considering "riding it out" in Rockaway with a few cans of Spam and some wine; to our knowledge, the fam AND the community are following instructions and, for now, are dry and, to all of you who may chance upon these words, we ARE our brother's keeper and, til we meet again, I wish you "Bacon and tears in the morning, champagne and laughter at night."  Later, Lorane. . . .

STORMS

      The last time we met, it was all about birthdays, more specifically tributes to August birthday people and tributes in general.  I know you'll want to hear of Kathy's reaction to HER B-Day tribute.  Hubby Willie had returned home from their summer cottage while Kathy stayed behind to enjoy a visit with Ryan, the child whom she's been teaching since pre-K.  Ryan's parents brought him to Kathy's beach cottage for a most special visit.  He addresses her as "Miss Kathleen" - and that this formerly severely autistic child 'addresses' at all is a tribute to Kathy-the-teacher-lover-of-children.  He's a lucky little shaver who, like all those unfortunate among us who have a 'condition' or illness must seek help and depend on qualified caregivers.  Shortly after her guests departed, the MOST welcome guy, clad in brown shorts and shirt, arrived with a gift I'd sent her.  A token, really - funny book about grandmothers and a copy of her B-Day "tribute".  After 'shedding a few', she wrote a note of gratitude and inquired about our well being in regard to yesterday's quake.  Virginia Beach is but 90 miles from Richmond; Kathy's cottage, at the far end of Rockaway Beach in NY, had somewhat seized, appliances dancing, furniture following suit so she wondered how WE had fared.  In fact, we were on an errand and I barely noticed as Phil was driving.  More impressive was that there was an earthquake in Virginia at at all.  But we don't have time to ponder this because we're all revved up today about our - apparently - weekend guest, Hurricane Irene.  Could get sticky/tricky.  Been there.
      (Thinking of Ryan in the same discussion birthed an analogy I'd not considered before, ie, illness, its accompanying distress/stress, is also a 'storm'.  We 'weather' it; the outcome is often uncertain; we are at the mercy of qualified - or not - care/assistance-givers.  I was reminded of our experience with Phil's sister, Eileen's, protracted 'illness' and the 'weathering' of it.  The necessary reliance on/being at the mercy of others loomed large as I recalled dealing with the "money lady."

On this "special" day, Eileen (pictured left) was pacing & edgy prior to our meeting with the financial aid person. Naturally we were late. She had given us specific instructions - as was her wont - to be in the lobby of specific bldg X at specifically 10 AM whence we would dial a 10 digit number, followed by the cagey & specific "1 2 3 #" which would precipitate her appearance with specificity and punctuality and gracious leading of the way to our specific trysting place.

      Wellll, it was raining, we left our house @ roughly 9:45 AM and amused ourselves during the trek into downtown Norfolk fumbling through a manila envelope stuffed with sheaves of information in the form of documents, bills, various lists of things Eileen did not own - so very short lists - and official proffers of identification, ie, Birth Certificate, Social Security Card, Automobile Titles which she also did not have thereby lightening the manila load considerably.

      We were maneuvering this treasure less trove alternately with the large telephone book because we thought we were to use the magic number ONLY when we were once inside the lobby of Specific X so we were trying to find the general public's access to Ms. Susan M which was complicated by the fact that "the Stone Wall", as Eileen was fond of saying, is employed by "ChamberlinE", Eligibility Specialists.  And I do think they should have kept the 'a' in Chamberlin if they wanted to play with the big girls, don't you? It's of no moment as neither Ms. M nor her august employer were listed. We were getting frazzled - but almost there - it's so hard to scan tumbling pieces of paper AND "manage" a phone book search when you're driving a rented vehicle. (My poor little "back-end er" was still in ICU) with wipers going on when I thought I'd used a directional & vice versa).

      Unfortunately for our family,  we were no strangers to hurricanes either. Many years ago, I - along with a dear friend who played the harp in the Norfolk Symphony and, more importantly, was raised in Corpus Christi, Texas - were at our cottage with 10 children, including one French foreign exchange student, my 68 year-old father and our Brittany spaniel when TV programming was interrupted to bring us a special report on the 'comin -your-way' Charlie-beast-of-a-hurricane.  It was apparently supposed to touch land in Wilmington but had - ready? - changed course and was heading, in the broadcaster's last-heard words, "I wouldn't want to be anywhere near Duck, on the Outer Banks today."  Then. Blank screen.  "WHY, ED," my mind screamed, "what about Duck, Ed?  Ed?"  I'd been wondering why my friend had moved the grill in from the back porch early that morning so right after she said, "I'd best be on my way.  We have a matinee today," I swiftly, quietly, deftly snatched her car keys from the table and rooted them in a hanging plant.

      (Wellll, 3 blocks from the Medical Center Campus, the cell phone rang - somewhere between us - and I found it to be the M WOMAN HERSELF so we went right into gear using those terribly relieved, happy, embarrassed, nauseating tones of voice saved for such occasions as I relayed to Eileen how fortunate we were because you'll never believe. . ."oh, no, really? Please let ME explain to her. . .". And so it was that minutes later, I dropped Eileen off at the Main Hospital adjacent to the Childrens' Hospital, sporting its Charlie-and-the-Chocolate-Factory "look"and went off to the parking garage, visible in the far, bleak distance, telling her I'd meet them wherever. But no, after schlepping back, about to inquire as to Eileen's location, she called my name from behind, simply saying, "Lorane. There she is. She insisted on waiting for you."

      And after settling comfortably into 3 office desk chairs lined against the wall in a hallway, the 'Meeting' began. Forms, forms, forms. . .questions, questions, questions - state and federal - re: who are you, how did you get here, whom are those living at this address and this address? And cryptic comments, her favorite being, "I can only write down what you tell me.". We would take turns with what seemed to be feeble attempts at clarification - "Yes, she's not able to work because she is disabled. (one of her blank-tape glares) "Ah, I see." "She is disabled because the cancer causes a great deal of pain. . . because the cancer prevents her from using her right arm presently. . .because she doesn't have the stamina to point to an unruly student. . .". Finally, she scoured her notes with the order and dexterity of the astigmatic and said, "What was the first thing you said, 'the cancer completely interferes with her ability to function'"? that will have to do.

      After an overly extended discussion of "Of which state is Eileen a resident?" - a matter which will be decided by codified law & the state which harbors her person at this time, Eileen signed 20 or so forms which would be processed, ruled upon and either accepted or appealed.  Our "advocate" scurried off mumbling, to the Great Eligibility Shaman, her Supervisor, where they would chant, choose and chain the matter UP - perhaps to Chamberlin him/herself. . .)

      What with the winds picking up, the little children bellowing excitedly about the water in the commodes sloshing to and fro, the exchange student pestering with "Q'uest que c'est 'CHARLIE" to which I informed her "It's a storm.  We name them over here.  Like gerbals.", my son asking what he should be wearing and my friend's daughter announcing she'd lost contact with her Dad, the Texan took the helm.  First she ordered the 4 oldest to make a run to the nearby rip-off convenience store & buy ANYTHING labeled "to be used during a power outage/emergency"; then all tubs were filled with water; every piece of linen in the house was collected and stuffed along the doors and windows at floor level and the middle school group was ordered to go out and quickly gather any/all pieces of wood slats, etc.  The EMS van  driver arrived to tell us if we saw him return, we were to file into the van to be taken to the Corolla Lighthouse - which has 152 or so steps - as an evacuation destination.  And, chores completed by our excited crew, my friend ordered me to follow her and we went down the stairs - all cottages are on pilings - gripped each other's bodies for SOME stability as we barely made our way to our neighbor's cottage where we had moved her car, thus clearing the way for Charlie to gush under/away from ours should he drop up, retrieved a huge, thick, long rope from her car, then dragged back to our haven through the painfully stinging downpour.  Why/what up with the rope?  She used it to secure her harp.  BUT. if the need arises, we shall don life jackets - actually HAD them - and "tie ourselves one to another to the rope, and "Tally Ho" or some such.  MIND: WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?

      (It started slowly, this day. Lots of ennui. We sat. And sat. Started to get irritable listlessness, frenzy re: unfinished calender for Dr. Cross. But. Suddenly it was time to leave for the 2 PM progress appt. Calender still not done (to our satisfaction) so notes made re: info he might need; symptoms occurring during this "first round of chemo". We were on time; Eileen signed in @ 2:05 PM. Then we sat. And sat. And went uptstairs shopping for snacks. One hour. and 45 minutes later, she approached the crackerjack receptionist, reminded her that she signed in for a scheduled appointment with Dr. Cross @ 2: 05 PM and what the Hell!!

OOOPs. Lots of scurrying; what's her name? Doctor who?
Did she sign in? etc.

      Then a frenzied worker bee escorted us to Dr. Cross' examining area, muttering the while about checking the shedder, calling ahead to Dr. Cross, etc. . .

And Eileen announced as a 'tada!' to the waiting room, "I don't think I heard an apology, Lorane, did you?" We were ushered right in to the examining room ("You've been sitting too long!") Soon Dr. Cross came in, apologized for Eileen's incarceration in "Reception" and got down to the business of how she was doing.

      He's not a cartwheel kind of guy, but in his measured, dolcet tones he allowed as how, she hadn't had any bad, untoward effects from the chemo, her blood work was fine (what one expects) she seemed less lethargic (she was) and his plan was to start round 2 next week. The mass on he left scapula was smaller so the disease was not progressing and she had no new symptoms. The only pain was in her right arm (would wake her up from sleep) which was from the radiation of the large mass which also destroyed the brachial plexus in that arm.

      He answered questions (she'll have her blood work the afternoon before chemo AT VIRGINIA BEACH GENERAL - WALKABLE - AND HER THERAPY THERE AS WELL WHICH IS GREAT BECAUSE IF THE STRONGER, 2 DRUG TREATMENT HITS HARD, SHE'S CLOSE TO HOME) "Please call me ANY time for ANY thing. I'll see you next week. . .")

      Once back inside, everyone accounted for - Frenchie doing needle work, others playing cards, mostly poker - I had two burning questions:  Why the pieces of wood?  "Well, when the windows go, we'll have SOME protection from the boarding the kids did."  BRAIN: WINDOWS GO WHERE???  And, uh, why do we need the rope again?  Just had to hear THAT ONE REPEATED.  In sum, it was an extremely long 10 + hours.  Water poured through the window/door frames, sopping ALL precautionary absorbancy linens; the wind screamed; I prayed countless rosaries; my friend, by contrast, was a lounging Librium, gazing around at her accomplishments, occasionally seeming to scout around in search of her car keys but too respectable an agnostic to interrupt the silent pleas of the frantic Roman Catholic, pitifully-trying-to-seem-to-have-grace-under-pressure whilst clutching her wooden, papal-blessed beads; AND THEN. SILENCE.  Exhaustion, confusion, quizzical looks, but blessed silence.  She calmly explained, gazing out at the blinding sun and the emerging 'tourons', urging their toddlers to hunt for special shells in the surf, that THIS was the "Eye of the storm" into which one never ventures.

      All the while, my Dad had been calm, silent; Shamus, the Brittany, exceptionally alert. He was quite bright and I've always wondered if he KNEW there would NOT have been a life jacket for ALL human plus Shamus.  Was he planning to take Frenchie out?  We'll never know, dear readers.  But  I can only conclude that HAD Charlie NOT spared our little admixture of a sub-community of humanity, then the "saddest of possible words," would NEVER have been, "Tinker to Evers to Chance".  Later, Lorane

     

BIRTHDAYS: PART II et al

     I know.  You must be thinking - and justly-so - "Didn't she say she was going to continue this birthday commemoration 'on-the-morrow'."  Indeed.  And it's four days of morrows that have come and gone.  As did I.  Have to "go", that is.  Things come up, must be addressed.  So my husband and I were forced by circumstances to take a brief road trip.  And I detest long drives.  In truth, Phil was doing the driving, but aside from having the time to think and read, the experience was uncomfortable, cramped, intrusive and LONG. Yup.  But we finally got to My Wits' End and actually, though I hate to admit it, we got a lot done once there.  It was necessary 'housekeeping' stuff;  got it over with and I'm back - pointing out the obvious.  And continuing my birthday tribute, this time to my 'bestest', oldest, high school friend - Kathy D.
     (You know that having-opportunity-to-think-on-road-trip thing I dropped?  Devil's ALWAYS busy, as Mom used to say and right now he's nudging me to share my thoughts re: this phenomenon occurring during the macadam-burning travel.  But I'll stay the course.  Besides, you already KNOW that Robert Frost - old and beautiful "road less traveled" - was Dr. Howard Jones' English teacher.  During the endless drive, though, I read a friend's blog in which he went on about HIS jolly good fortune of hearing and - get this - having late afternoon coffee clutches with none other than William Faulkner whilst buddy Monty Joynes was a student at UVA in the early sixties.  Well, just you wait.  I've shared my exposure to Tony Ardizzoni but the 'morrow' is coming when you'll get to know Professor/historical scholar/published and honored author Alf Mapp, Jr. who was MY creative writing instructor.  But I digress.  Imagine. . . .)
      Kathy - at the risk of foundering around with cliches - is, like my Mom, one of those people who, if you're REALLY lucky, 'happens' into your life - and stays there.  We attended a VERY small, private, ALL-girls 'academy' in Brooklyn.  It was a link in a chain of such schools administered by the Sisters of St. Joseph which is a Catholic TEACHING Order of nuns - not to to be confused with the cloistered variety, dedicated, SILENT - save a sung psalm or two - hard-working, producing - bread, scarves, whatever - whose SOLE mission is prayer; or the Nursing varieties whose assignments are self-evident (think Blessed Mother Teresa) or the once-prolific mendicant varieties who devote their lives to raising money for the underprivileged, ill, generally needy.  No.  The "Josephites", as we familiarly termed them, were educated to be educators.  Did you know that the primary meaning of the word "educate" - from the Latin "lead out" - is to do just that, elicit the knowledge the student either owns or discovers and produce a 'learned one'.  I recall thinking - with Kathy, "Thank GOD!", because if it by ANY stretch meant to "infuse" knowledge, we would have most assuredly graduated as a group of well-groomed, "good" and cerebrally-empty young ladies prepared to pursue office work, an MRS or - with a LOT of help, TEACHERS.
     (Bye the bye, Monty shared - graciously - that, in addition to his proficient/prolific writing accomplishments, Mr. Faulkner serve at Mr. Jefferson's University of Virginia, as the TIMER for the track team AND  - in an interesting glimpse of biography, was an equestrian extraordinaire who met his unfortunate demise as a result of complications from complications of a horse-riding incident in his home, Oxford, Mississippi.  You will learn, dear reader, at a more opportune time, that Alf Mapp, Jr., "Jeffersonian-biographer" extraordinaire, and a prudent man as well - perhaps because, like Mom, suffered severe mobility issues secondary to polio - lived and wrote until January, 2011 at the age of eighty-five.) 
      Now in addition to her inner and OUTER enviable Irish beauty - auburn hair, sleek, agile body, laughing eyes and dazzling smile - Kathy was hopelessly, naturally, genuinely funny.  She not only saw/found the humor in everything around her but projected that amusement with words, reactions, expressions - verbal AND facial - to those of us fortunate to be in/part of her 'company'.  We laughed, giggled, 'hid' outbursts all day in response to her comedic style, observations, way-of-being-in-the-world.  She was Captain of the Cheering Squad, active in the Arts - NATURAL pianist, actress, dancer - and LOVED to organize and execute parties - in and out of 'le scene academe'.  An only child, product of an early divorced set of parents, she many reasons NOT TO BE the Kathy she was.  But she had a PLAN.  Very simple, actually:  I plan on being happy.

     (I'm finding that Kathy's "plan" has been shared by some rather successful/talented luminaries.  Monty also shared Mr. Faulkner's ("old gray fox") layered and deliberate methods of behavior during Q and A sessions that often followed his readings or speeches.  In one such exchange, in response to Monty's query as to whether the author was in the habit of viewing films whose genesis were his novels.  He wryly responded that it was not in his contract.  He was not REQUIRED to see the films.  Even today, recalling the exchange and the hint of a smile aborning on William's face while responding, Monty smiles too because Faulkner was smiling because he knew Monty knew that the author had in fact written the screenplay for "Sanctuary", a film derivative of his last novel.  But THAT hadn't been the question.  And I recall a passage in Alf Mapp's (pictured at right) "Thomas Jefferson: A Strange Case of Mistaken Identity", in which he reveals how Jefferson - very close FRIEND of James Madison - when asked for design assistance on Madison's home-expansion/improvement plans, gave Madison a rendering of a magnificent entrance - which happened to face Monticello, Jefferson's home - in which the height of the door was just shy of Mr. Madison's height, causing him to "bow to Jefferson" every time he went out.  And WE thought they were ALL about government!)
      Kathy and I sat in the last pair of desks which, of course was invaluable strategically, because we could more easily conceal our antics.  Now they were innocent - the pranks - but set a poor example and caused mayhem among our 'holy penguin mentors'.  We ALL hated the imposed school uniforms - navy skirt/vest/white blouse/stacked-heel oxford navy shoes AND navy blue beret - so donning one huge, fuzzy, ORANGE slipper on hand for a Friday sleepover and risking a stroll passing the open door of the Principle at the end of a lunch period netted all manner of chuckles.  That I WAS 'CAUGHT' and once again stripped of my Pope Leo Honor pin was a small price to pay.  Because I was NO fan of these women.  Why?  How about "No, you may NOT be a cheerleader.  You would be an occasion of sin."  This because I had "bosoms", you see.  All that jumping around, you know.  WE ONLY PLAYED OTHER GIRLS' SCHOOLS!  WHOM was I tempting??? 

      Well, despite their objections, I went on to Georgetown after graduation and Kathy went to Queens College - they LOVED that.  A heathen institution.  And don 't you know, Kathy was the Captain of THEIR cheering squad until the end of Freshman year.  Kathy had married her "steady" since beginning of HS Junior year, Willie, and they were expecting Nora, their first of SEVEN wonderful children.  They've been loving and laughing for lo these forty-some years.  I stopped counting when they had their 20th grand peep. In fact, Monday, they welcomed Annabelle into the clan.  She's beautiful - just like, no, ALMOST AS beautiful as her grandmother.  Kathy still makes me laugh, serves as an iconic example of brave and strong womanhood and inspires with glorious tales of her special little student - yes, SHE TEACHES still - an autistic little guy, now functioning one-on-one with Kathy, since pre-K, in the second grade.  I'll always feel blessed to have been in her grade.  Would that I could be in her class.  Later, Lorane. . . .