Lemon-Haired Lady Fritz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later, Lorane. . . .

     

Fritz Lemonhair Circa 1972

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later, Lorane. . . .

     

The Lemon-Haired Lady Diary

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

The Shillelagh

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

     

      (Here we go and bless you, Mary!)

     

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

     

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

     

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

     

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

     

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

     

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

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

     

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

IT'S THE SAME

OLD SHILLELAGH



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the same old shillelagh, me father brought from Ireland.



HAPPY SAINT PADDY'S DAY!

(May the road rise up to meet 'ya,

The wind always at yer back,

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

Later, Lorane. . . .   

Goin' green. Dreamin' chocolate

TAH DAH!

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

As Long as He Needs Me. . . . Jackie

      I would have told you sooner, but time is no longer of the essence.  Jackie went on - steadfastly - until she was sure she could flee.  When the children finally came, she whisked away the silly air mask (it felt like an extra, fat nose.  Probably looked worse.  And it wasn't necessary.  She had been waiting for the children.  As they entered her 'cell', she was transformed, in regal trappings, having no further need of the pallet upon which she lay.  She was exuberantly FREE and exclaimed, "Ah, I-can-fly!" 
      (A native of Manhattan, nee Mars, it had been a most unusual - often dual, if not duplistic - span of living. Born and nurtured co-operatively by her dear, gentle, beautiful mother, Mary - of an artist's soul so creating Jackie was a canvas explosion of color and metallically-charged energy that glowed as she evolved; this effortless and perpetual motion was performed in the very incubator of natural, growing, giving, living things - the family farm.  How Mary, urbane to a degree and devoted to her God, her family and the Arts, came to love and marry a strong  but softy good man who 'planted his lady-love and their progeny in the isolating but never insular, town of Mars, PA is of no moment.  It was just exquisitely RIGHT and safe for this sedulous salesman of dog food - an occupation requiring constant absences - whose presence was deeply felt at all times by his family.)


Mary lauded Maggie's first efforts - at once inchoate and polished

      Margaret, Jackie's older sister - and the first-born - was blessed with her mother's artistic talent.  Yes, Mary 'farmed', efficiently but in such a charming manner that the children felt they were tumbling along in a fairy tale - one their contemporaries might call 'growing up'.  IS there any other direction?  People are so careless with words, Jackie always thought.  Father had an extra barn erected to house Mary's potter's wheel and art supplies. But the animals were never a chore - to be tended before closing the curtain on the mundane and immersing herself in creation.  hardly.  the animals were family - a natural part of an ongoing creation.  Loved and cared for, they in turn produced AND played.  Moreover, with Father gone, they protected - Mary and the children were theirs to shield.
     

       (Two strapping brothers preceded Jackie.  Indeed, Jackie was the youngest by ten years from the second boy.  Of necessity, then, she stood out, was unique, waif-like 'runt', if one dared.  Nary a one did.  Bursting upon this bucolic, established, peaceful, productive and somewhat egalitarian, came Jackie, debuting as an oddity and maintaining her reputation fearlessly, doggedly throughout the lifetime she was to spend among us.  'Special' being a family trait, well established by her siblings intellectually, athletically, spiritually, Jackie would distinguish herself by maintaining her status - oddity developing quite naturally. 
     
      Indeed, some thought she'd accomplished  her transformation into 'creativity' with a modicum of stealth, as often occurs when the label-lickers are on the outside, behind a thick shard of depression glass, myopically looking in.  Never did such matters concern her.  Once independent enough to walk unaccompanied to the main road to await the school bus - for a while, in that Mary's early morning rituals didn't allow for the luxury of walking her baby to the main road, she trained two large geese, Hansel and Gretel, so-christened by Mary, to trek to and fro and remain with their charge until she was safely en route - Jackie was launched and never looked back.  In ANGER, that is. In reality she remained with Mary long after Mars.  When Father's death came in the form of a sudden, untimely, premature heart attack, Mary lived with her maiden sister after which they both morphed into appendages of Jackie.)
      After graduating with honors from the University of San Fransisco, Jackie married and the couple joined the Peace Corps.  Never intended to be but a faddish gesture, Jackie's stint in Central America was aborted by the most unexpected discovery that she was 'with Joshua', as it were.  Three months into pregnancy, policy placed her on a plane back to New York where she lived with her husband's parents until Joshua, born/bouncing along with doting grandparents, could be weaned from her care.  She catapulted herself into the work force, starting at the lowest rung but reading at night to utilize her considerably creative and proficient skills in math and personal relations and learned/mastered the oil industry - in theory.
     

      When her husband finally returned, announcing they would devote themselves to the family business, expanding his father's green-grocery empire into New Jersey, Jackie naturally went but was lured more by that state's fractionating towers than ferns.  Not surprisingly, the home front became fractious as well, and the oft-repeated mistake of marriage-resuscitation by means of baby addition was made.  The plan was totally foiled but brought Jackie the joy of her life in her daughter, Jennifer.  A repeat performance of hostile housewifery was followed by her return to oil and separation from all things matrimonial.  But by the the time the settlement was dusted off her shoulders, Jackie was carrying the responsibilities that accompanied prompt and persistent promotions as well as the duties of single parenthood.
      (As brains would have it, Jenny, too thrived in New York, with nannies and nice trappings that went with Mummie's rise and raises in the company.  Serendipity stepped in, and one day Jackie discovered an accounting error that, had it gone unnoticed, would have cost the company millions of dollars. But noticed it was, by our girl, who quickly gained equal notoriety within the inner circles of management.  Soon after all the corporate handkerchiefs were wrung out, Jackie was invited to gavotte into the garnished grand 'inner circle' of where-it-all-happens.  Staying only long enough to go through one full dance card and garner enough money and moxie to leave, she formed the first all-female petroleum provision company on the Wall Street District.
     


      The timing was such that 'minority rights' were all the rage and the enticements to proliferate proved most profitable.  I know this first hand because she invited me to spend a week in New York, working alongside the women who ran each respective department.  My participation - welcome enough because I wore skirts and was related to Madame President - was punctuated pecuniarilly as well as it was given to me to produce a polished, illustrated, inventive, attractive, glossy ten 'or so' page brochure introducing the world to the vagaries of the oil business.  I left my saintly father and shaman husband in charge of our four children and bit the (silver) bullet, flying in to New York, waiting whilst George, Jackie's driver schlepped my luggage to the limo, toughed it out in rush hour traffic delays on the LIE - at one point, we were (that would be George and I) stalled in traffic and I simultaneously noticed the spire of my childhood Brooklyn parish and a PHONE in the limo - attached to THE VEHICLE'S REAL LEATHER REAR WALLS!.
     

      Counting to ten, humming "If they Could See Me Now", (George was Russian and didn't 'do' the theater), I called my husband and gushed my circumstances actually trying to elicit pity for this shocking inconvenience.  No go.  "Hanging with the 'SWELLS' are we?"  BRAIN: "You got it, Bucko!"  Lorane:   "Honey, Jackie is YOUR cousin.  I should think you;d be happy for her - after all she's been through!"  And that's the truth, ladies and gentlemen.  As for husband, like the man said, "NEVER have I EVER met a ruder pest!"  Sure, we ate at Delmonico's - a working dinner at three A.M. - and went out one night to a Greek restaurant, crashing a wedding, dancing and crushing good, real stemware with our shoes.  But that was ONE night.)
      There IS no 'short' of it - or I would share it with you.  Over the years I've spent a fair amount of time with Jackie.  I brought our girls up to 'the city'.  She came down here for every illness and funeral we've muddled through.  I became FAR too familiar with limos - but we were following them.  In all of these years, all the hours, days, walks, business excursions, I never saw Jackie pass a homeless person without putting money in his hand or cup.  Never broke stride.  Kept on talking, walking.  Can't recall the names of all the underprivileged folks she 'took in', trained/educated and then hired.  Dear Aunt Mary and her sister visited, then re-visited Ireland before venturing to Rome - the Pope, no less - and Greece and South America.

      When our kids were in college in DC and she was starting a branch there, they dined well and learned at the four inch heels of a brilliant business mind.  She bought at least one 'house' in Florida - that I know of - so that Mary and sister would be comfortable while sister was having chemotherapy and radiation treatments arranged by Lady Loving.  Jenny has had the best of educations and is probably a decent match for Rand-McNally when it comes to global 'particulars'. When the tables turned, Jenny, the sweetest of young, disillusioned young women - having heard family 'still-on-the-outsiders' speak - with tongues touched by the devil - ill of her mother, the 'black sheep of the family' - I would say to her, "Jenny, listen with the ears of your soul.  Your mind could never comprehend this behavior.  And as you must hear, you must also consider the source.  And then you must forgive and let it go." 
     

       Eventually she was dealt a horrible health hand.  The past twelve years have been devastating physically and emotionally.  But she stayed in the game.  Jackie doesn't fold.  Confined to a wheelchair/scooter, she first braved the busy traffic of 'the city', working part-time.  A series of vascular disasters left her in constant pain, living in 'assisted' dwellings, in the Bronx - one to two hour from her beloved daughter and her little girls.  I recently wrote of the beauty to be found in the resilience of the human spirit - as it is evidenced in children who must face indignities and physical deprivation, pain and suffering. 

      I find myself in the unenviable position this evening of relaying, nay, reinforcing that same resilience - this time found in an adult who worked hard, loved deeply, lost much and trusted implicitly that, just as the good family and friends who cared for her when in need, she would 'light up' at the thought of finding peace and solace with her God. 

      So, Jenny, Sister Maggie, brother Phil, ALL those who care, do not be sad.  And don't be afraid.  (He calls each of us by name), "Jackie, come. follow Me ans I will take you home. And you will have My joy and comfort under His wing.

What Price Success?

      Here we are on this day devoted to a saint by Roman Catholics, to love the world over, to hearts by cardiologists and lovers alike.  Its symbols are personal and universal but always emotionally-spawned.  Candles, and their ambient hues settling on scenes of affection, fields of flowers, with the red rose bed at the top of the hill; images, Heart-shaped and Red, parade across scented paper, peek out boldly, adorning formerly 'white shoulders' as carefully-applied tattoos are displayed as draped shawls slide to giggle with scented elbows at the dastardly scheming of it all, and then - larger than life -burst forth on garish gonfalons announcing "Let those Feelings Fly".
      (As it turns out, this particular Valentine's Day is sharing the spotlight with an equally warm and loving but - it is hoped - far more significant and infinitely more enduring event: the launching of the book, "Every child is Entitled to Innocence".  An anthology of short stories and poems by an international group of authors who are also passionate lovers - of children. 


Indeed, the lovely leader of this movement cum accompanying art, Niamh Clune, has asked all of us - that would be the citizens of neighborhood 'world' - to "Light a candle in your Heart for a Child's Right to Innocence."
      Through the words and experiences of the book's contributing authors, she asks as well that the book sales' LAUNCH leads to an infinite orbit around our world, doing the work of the larger group to whom all sale proceeds will be donated, Child Helpline International.  These saving soldiers man the phones on the worldwide network  managing the child-help support phone lines in the attempt to keep our children safe. Without those who provide shelter in a storm and solace to a child’s wounded heart, many more of our innocents would be lost to us forever.)

       Every Child is Entitled to Innocence (Kindle Locations 99-101). OrangeBerry Publishing. Kindle Edition. Perhaps, you will be more inclined to be on the 'succeeding team' if we take a brief glance at whence success.
      "To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a better place whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded." - Anonymous
      So then.  Light your candle, start the flowering of success with this seed - found on Amazon: www.orangebooks.com - "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence."  See you there, Lorane. . . .
     

ONE RINGY DINGY, ONE MILLION RINGY DINGIES

ONE RINGY DINGY, ONE MILLION RINGY DINGIES. . .



OOPS  "Ringy" needs a dinghy.

          My   good readers,

As promised, when I happened upon this post in the light of day - which occurred two hours after publishing it - allowed as how I must re-visit and re- vise the text at the point - probably four A.M. - at which it began to deteriorate, ultimately achieving gibberish re: meaning/sense.  Blame it on the hour.  Nay, there is NO excuse, only a trip down 'polish lane' to expunge the inherited 'Polish literacy'.  It is hoped, those of you who attempted to follow my train of thought, only to have your analytic skill de-railed, might experience a more intelligible foray this evening.  Or not. L. . . .

      Pack up all your cares and woes.  Here we go - again - and I've got you covered.  My personal provenance classifies me, metaphorically, as a 'globe trotter'.  This because I grew up in NYC, a city steeped in its tradition and then marinated in a vast olio of cultures over, lo, these fifteen or so decades.  I therefore traveled - extensively, internationally - at a very early age.  The concept of 'foreign land' is alien to me.  I simply can't imagine the feeling of  'I've NEVER been HERE before'.
      To boot, I'm no stranger to 'reaching out' and 'touching someone'.  You see, I remember when we had pen pals, shared an exciting day with a friend, then placed it in an envelope and mailed it.  I was in 'touch' with my husband every day of his nine month deployment - still have the letters; he'd be rounding the Cape of Good Hope while I was rounding our checkbook balance UP; I met/got to know HIS dad, who'd been gone from us almost thirty years when, while clearing out the attic of the family home, one of his sisters and I found - color me red - and scanned the letters he had written to his wife while he was serving - as a surgeon -in the European theater during WWII.  We wrote thank you notes, 'dear Johns', 'bread and butters'; we commiserated with friends who were lonely, far away. Then.  Telephone arrived and we'd spend hours on the line - while doing - or getting Herald Trib answers to do - homework.
      The best way to really know someone is by reading their letters.  This voyeur got chummy with Hemingway, Thomas Jefferson, Clare Booth Luce, C. G. Jung, Jennie Churchill and, of course, my father-in-law through their personal writings.  Thoughts, feelings, opinions, beliefs - all flowed unimpeded, languidly, allowing time to craft, find JUST the right word.  Sharing.  Bare-ing.  Mind to mind.  Heart to heart.  It was personal, had a signature - the way t.s.elliot's 'signature' was lower cases; Fred Astaire's, a top hat and cane; Mae West's cup size; FDR's cigarette holder; Emily Post's white gloves and never-on-a-table elbows.
      You get the picture.  You were presented with 'the picture'.
      (We wrote to inform, announce, update.  Today, for example, I listened as a journalist 'told' us a story about whales in their huge, reflecting tanks in California.  The accompanying visuals served to enhance the 'plight' of these glistening leviathans, romping, splashing, jumping UP, diving DOWN, 'puttin' on the' skits for the grinning, droplet-dotted faces of kids of all ages who'd come JUST to watch them do THEIR thing. Rewarded by clapping, cheering, it was one big, wet story of an adventure, a celebration of sorts.  The personal sort.)
      These days, 02/08/12, for one, we continue to write to each other and to 'reach out' with Ma Bell.  But boy-oh-my - such is the admixture - it's a much bigger deal.  You have your 'friends' on Facebook, Google runs you around in 'circles', you 'connect' on Linkedin and you stream with WII - pronounced 'whee', not to be confused with 'the big one'.  And, it's in technicolor and stereophonic - no - make that 'wrap-around' sound and 'hi-def', a compensatory 'widget' to make up for the loss of hearing sequela from the 'wrap-around' sound - now ebbing.
      You've got the whole 'enchalada' right at your fingertips - or maybe you're 'all thumbs'.  Whatever.  You 'tweet', you 'Like' and you 'LOL' - and even if I've been deaf since birth and signing, I 'get it'.


ON AIR. NO COMMUNICATING

      (The 'whale thing' rapidly escalated into a scandal.  As if on cue - "cue the Wackos!" - a sizable, motley crew of representatives from that august body-sans-wit, notorious by the acronym, "P.E.T.A", landed on the calm shores of normalcy.  As the Head Quarters from which this steerage deploys is located not far enough from our home, we've - the community - come to know something of their tacticians and body lunatic.  They are 'People for the Equal Protection of Animals', I think, although in spirit, the hegemony of this sub-culture springs from its 'for-the-prevention-of-cruelty-to-animals' thematic underbelly.

      Not uncharacteristically, they were secretly ebullient while being ostensibly cacophonic and unattractive, albeit clothed - a decided improvement over some more urbane, barely-clad demonstrative displays of 'skin-not-to-be-contaminated-by-the-associated-dermatological-pustulitic-infestations-associated-with-the-donning-of-hides/pelts-of-sacrificed/tortured-mammals.  I've referenced this roiling reverie lest the reader come away with a negative impression of this most recent 'P.E.T.A.' debacle.

      Indeed, the outraged champions of 'Free-Willy-ism' and 'Let-Moby-Dick-Go-ism' actually added a 'je ne sais quoi' touch to an otherwise potentially pallid parade with their colorful placards of indignance.)

      By way of explanation/comparison, the hegemony of the 'e-culture' can best be elaborated upon by creating, if you will - or not - a virtual 'benchmark case', to wit: Conductivity v. Connectivity.  The underpinnings of the former generate a descriptive ability and the extent to which an element/object can transmit/carry something from point A to point B, said objects  being as disparate as messages, electric current, goods and even people - unless the individual's avoirdupois is preclusive! The latter, didactic in nature, is the ability to reach/communicate/inform using words, images and emotional overtones. 

      Presently, I would place into evidence "Plaintiff's Exhibit 1", the soon-to-be-released anthology, "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence", published by The Orangeberry Press.  All proceeds from the sale of this collection of poems and short stories are to be donated to Child Helpline International, an organization that physically provides support, IE, food, clothing, healing and any needed improvements in living conditions to underprivileged/abused children worldwide.  This organization's mission statement embraces/demonstrates Plaintiff's very definition and serves to render tangible meaning to the phrase "reach out and touch someone'.

      (The reason P.E.T.A aficionados were all a-whisper about this 'whale' thing detection was that under the guise of harmless entertainment - for the performers AND audience - what was clearly patent in their pristine tank was cold- blooded, heinous transgression of our nation's constitution in the form of SLAVERY.  Please, readers, scotch any notions of canard in my re-telling of this incident.  One simply CANNOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP. 

      Hard to believe, but the P.E.T. A. pundits were asking us to accept 'THE REALITY' of these insouciant performers-at-play: THEY WERE RESPONDING TO COMMANDS.  "More arc, Moby!", "Wiggle, Willy - or the whip!"  Yes, dear friends, their frolic was FRAUDULENT.)

      In its Opening Statement, Defense indicted itself by utilizing the vapid prediction that it would show how its didactic nature would purport to/succeed in alleviating the plight of these enslaved mammals. 

      Whereas Plaintiff, utilizing a 'non-living' instrument, would typically fail at breaking the chains on this bounty of bondage.  Thereafter, it would resort to a ruse of smoke and mirrors 'a la', "But we will deliver hope and inspiration to churlish children worldwide!" And the whales? "Well, uh, they don't read."

      At this juncture I can only suggest the plausibility of Summary Judgment for Plaintiff if only for pragmatic reasons.  To wit, whence Defendant's 'jury of whale peers'?  And the proposition of  'like/kind', thus allowing dolphins to comprise the panel, will be thrown out by prior case law, refuted but once mentioned in a dissent referencing the use of the human Miami Dolphins.

      Moreover, at what point will the Court permit the erection of the only container that will humanely present the enslaved whales?  Obviously, there can be no appearance without an appropriate tank and, given the severity of the charge, Defendant will be held in contempt if it cannot produce its only evidence - the fatal flaw in Defendant's nature.  And, reading previously taken sworn depositions at trial would be garbled at best but, if allowed, would insure that Plaintiff must prevail because these glorious specimens of contentment would categorically elide their denial of enslavement.

      (Connectivity, then, can only demonstrate, by revealing its superficial, ineffective nature re: correcting wrongs, that it is but a useless widget that is marketed brilliantly as an effective, substantive tool.  When asked to deliver, its diaphanous cape and cause will evaporate, leaving shreds of bare detritus to face the court of reality's wrath - an outcome more in keeping with P.E.T.A.'s previous pontifications.

      Conductivity, by contrast, as evidenced by its own Exhibit #1, will win the day as the anthology, "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence" finds its way into the tiny - previously empty - grasping hands of the very children it is prepared to help worldwide, as the channels open and the 'mana' of hope flows freely to its target.)

      Plaintiff rests.  Minutes later, the Court declares in Conductivity's favor.  Connectivity will bear all court costs and make appropriate restitution to the 'kind strangers' in California for the temporary monetary and, more significant, cultural losses suffered by its citizens.  Adjourned.

Once more, later, Lorane. . . .