By POP-ular Demand, Heee's Back!



They Do



        One thing led to quite a few others and, much to my discredit, I interrupted the story of Joe and Julie.  Thankfully - for us all - reality has been but in it's place tonight - elsewhere - and in response to the jolt of realization delivered via email of just how many lives Joe had touched, he rules - again.

        You see, I was having some glum-chum-news days; I gave in to "coping" with the present (in other words caved); left Joe in the thee-ay-ter and robbed my readers of the slice of Americana they'd all settled in to enjoy.  But THEY weren't having it.  Such was the outpouring of messages from old school chums of mine, my brother's, the fam - about how well they remembered him (when THEY had the chance) and about the stories of him and Mom (when THEY didn't) that, feeling slapped 'up side the face', I decided, present company WILL be excepted, and WE will continue.

        As they were living, then, Joe and Julie were heading 'for the chapel' - Stella, post-depression poverty, and overall lack of interest in their decision to become Mr. and Mrs., on September 3, 1936, they gave each to the other for better or worse.  They decided to toast those who wished them well and those who didn't could go to hell.

        Not having money for a real photographer, they always displayed the framed and matted remembrance of their stint as best man and maid of honor, preserved properly by Mom's big brother, Uncle Paul.  (You see Julie in her flowing gown at the top, left of today's edition.)  That he was asked by 'Big Paul' to be best man was really 'big' for Joe.  I never found it odd.  Growing up, Uncle Paul had the bucks and the gas station and a new caddy every year but he obviously liked and respected the guy his kid sister had picked (or the 'hood would have been talking about ole 'Joey Blue Eyes' in memoriam.)

        Joe had his precious, steady job with the American Chicle Company - who brought us Dentyne, Chiclets and Sen-Sen - and eventually made Joe the supervisor of the printing department.  He received an award for NEVER missing a shift OR being late after he'd given them thirty-four years of his lower middle class, happy and secure life.  A handsome gold square Bulova watch, it was, and a gold bracelet for Mom with a company logo charm.  He drove mostly Plymouths until they died but they always had a wax job that would make any self-respecting caddy cry.

        On Saturdays, he played 'serious' handball with the guys.  (Most he's been War buddies and they played  LOT of baseball over there in Germany - when they were not getting shot at.  Bet you didn't know that.  And his teammates were both his personal friends AND four of Mom's "ET-talian" cousins (good friends of his as well).  The reason they wound up together, Mom told us, is they (all the eligible young men in Greenpoint) all left the same day.  There was a huge parade down Manhattan Avenue of guys marching off, eyes straight ahead, while the sidewalks were lined with crying, waving Moms, wives, kids and sweethearts.  Mom was a number 2 and a number 4.  Anyway, the way it worked out - alphabetically and numerically, when they all got to the induction center, the guy in charge walked down the lined formation and with his index finger, poked each guy's chest, saying "Army, Navy, Marines" and somehow all Joe's buddies got Army and stayed together 'over there'.)

        Anyway, Saturday we watched the young

Turks' whale those tiny, very hard black ball into a concrete wall - until somebody missed.  Then they started over again.  (Not far from THOSE courts, the old men - like Mom's Pop - played 'Botchie' Ball.  They used a black ball that was larger and rolled strategically along a path of racetrack coal chips, aimed at pins.  The game was MUCH slower but the commentary compensated with its excited shouts and happy jeers.)

        Sundays belonged to God in the morning and baseball in the afternoon.  Our complex of four city parks named for an Irishman, McKaren, had five regulation sized baseball fields.  So if we weren't having the time of our lives at Ebbetts Field, we could be found watching our dads play at McKaren's.  (Once a month, the late Sunday afternoon was reserved for the ritual of "Waxing and Polishing" whatever jalopy Dad was driving.  This ritual HAD to be performed in the afternoon shade.  Remembering THESE hours gives me a longing for the excitement of watching paint dry.

WE Do

        But somehow, Joe and Julie - whatever the season or reason - made these outdoor 'doings' adventures. I never mattered if it was snowing or if, in summer, we had been to Rockaway in the sun all day and, if we were really lucky, got to go on some rides at night only to come home beet red, get swabbed with Noxzema to put out the fires on our red skin and fall blissfully to sleep (no AC) with a cool breeze sweeping in to wash over us as we lay on cool, clean sheets that still smelled of the fresh air and sunshine that had prepared them to be 'spa quality'.  No. It never mattered if we had walked the nine long blocks ro go to the ice cream parlor with Mom and Dad in the evening for that 'surprize' cone or sundae, them nine blocks back to our five flight walk-up, railroad apartment. 

        You see, NONE of what some kids today might call trite or dull or 'ho-hum' because we were with Joe and Julie and safe and together and passed other kids with their folks, feeling good too.  The very 'routine-ness' made it so special.  The fact that we didn't ALWAYS get to do these things as SPECIAL when we did.

        And, even when Julie was NOT as amused as we, could put on a show at night that made anything on TV or in the movies seem like 'nothin'.  That's becaause we had a WHITE METAL kitchen table top and HE had shoes with real taps on them (made them last longer, he said) and could leap up onto the table top and go into a soft shoe that led into a 'Bolger rendition' of "Make 'Em Laugh" with the same finesse and ease as Ray hikself.  And we'd laugh.  (And Mpom would pretend she didn't - busying herself cutting the aquare 'Saturday Night Special' pizza she'd just made from scratch into generous portions.

        Sometimes, on Sunday afternoons, if it was raining and there weren't any games, our grandparents and Aunts and Uncles came over (with hungry, play-wound-up cousins) and it was impromptu party time. (Once, my Uncle Julian - the 'non-brother' (brother-in-law) who was NOT too athletic - or liked by the uncles and Granpa - thought it would be funny to see if we kids could do chin-ups on the heavy, carved wood rod that supported the drapes that separated the parlor from the bedrooms.  When it was my turn, the already groaning rod (or was that Mom?) just loudly cracked, spilling me and the carefully-ironed drapes to the floor.  'Jullian' thought it was funny.  He was laughing alone.

        But Joe saved the day.  He ordered my brother to set up the card table (the men ALWAYS played poker after dinner while the ladies cleaned up and sang songs with us kids.)  Just before the poker thing got started, seeing the obvious pain in his Julie's eyes as she bravely tried to ignore Julian's 'prank' and her hard-earned, now-broken carved wood rod, decided to let us kids have one ride each down the dumb waiter.

        We went nuts with excitement (the dumbwaiter was this closet-like affair that happened to be located right outside our apartment door.  The renters used it to carefuklly place wrapped trash or items to be stored in assigned basement stalls, to transport the items on a shelf-with-pulley system located behind the community 'closet door'. So, when not in use by neighboring rentors, Dad would put each kid in turn on the shelf, close the door and let it free-fall ALMOST to the basement when he'd yank the heavy rope, jerking the 'rider' to a 'bungee-type- stop landin g when Granpa (having been cued to get to the basement) would open the door and lift out the happy, squeeling kid - all the while belting out some bouncy Polish tune so we'd know he was there.  We LOVED the whole dumbwaiter-ride' thing.  Mom wasn't a fan but forgot about the curtain rod.

        It was during a poker game on a Sunday night that I bheard the men talking about my brazen request (MANY years later) to go to college.  Granpa was gone.  Jpoe's kids were, naturally the oldest.  My brother, Vince was attending NYU and that was OK with the uncles.  But.  Julian thought it was ceazy to send a GIRL to college. 

        "What for, Joe?  She'll just get knocked up and yo'll have wasted a wad."  And then he laughed because he thought he said something funny.  I was too busy crying to even ask my brother what was so funny.

        "Don't think so, Yuletche."  (That was a Polish nickname for Julian that SOUINDED dangerously close to the Polish word for 'jackass'.)  Uncle Julian stopped laughing and started to cough on his cigarette smoke.  (Another of his 'princely habits - the other two being scotch and occasional poen films I MUCH later found out he'd take my Aunt Dorothy to in Jersey.)

        "I'm with Joe on that," my Dad's youngest brother, Stash, said.

        "Geez.  I hope my Barbara never puts me in THAT position," adding nothing but offering commentary was Dad's next oldest brother Walter ("Vwadge")

        So four years later, when I was a senior at Georgetown and it was winter and everybody wore herringbone Chesterfield coats with black velvet collars and after a late lunch mine was missing from the coat racks, I panicked (and froze waiting for my parents' next vist down).  I had decided Dad would take the coat deal better and soften the blow of Mom's "How-could-you-be-so-careless-with-a-coat-we-couldn't-afford in-the-first-place speech.  So, I drove with him to get them checked into their motel while Mom hung out completely entertained by my ftiends at the dorm. I haltingly told him there was something I had to tell him and it wasn't good.  Before I could get on with my confession, he pulled the Plymouth carefully over to the shoulder of Rock Creek Parkway, stopped the vehicle safely and turned off the ignition. 

        "Do you have a flat?," I ask.  (HOW could I have inherited the 'dumb ass gene' from Uncle Julian?  Pray, tell me.)
        "Just give it to me straight, Kid," he said.
        "You're pregnant, right?"
        "Geee-zus,"  spat all-educated moi.
        ""I'll handle Mom," he continued gently.
        "How DARE you," shouted the now-who's-got-the-edge yours truly.
        "My damned COAT was stolen," profanity punctuating the pain.
        "Thank GOD!"  And ole Joe grabbed his little girl in a bear hug.
        Of course I stiffened just a soul-stabbed smidge before letting the poor guy off, shedding a few conspiratorially-relieved tears.  He took us to Blackie's to celebrate and tell Mom that night where I went to the Powder Room and she to pieces.   By the time I returned, Mom had vented her rage over the monetary gauging and poor Joe sat slathering butter on a hot roll in famished/celebratory anticipation of his comfort food.
        I PROMISE to matriculate him to Poppy tomorrow - RIGHT after you hear the Robert-Mitchum-look-alike story that was still being recalled at our forty fifth reunion last year.  For now, "To sleep; perchance to dream."
Later, Lorane. . . .

Just Call Me Poppy. . .

"THE Fedora'

Well I was about to say "It's about time!", as nothing seemed to be happening when I pecked at the keyboard, hardly a newsworthy phenomenon, when, well, you've got the picture - AND the copy.
        Today is my husband's birthday - an event grandly feted at the reunion we've just labored through.  Of course telephonic and mailed best wishes poured in all day along with the occasional wry and touching Irish Blessing.  I was among the wishers and 'blessers', to be sure but it occurred to me that
1)  You already know the 'shaman'
2)  I've done 'imortant birthdays' (p/s see august 2011) and
3)  I've never written about my DAD!
        We'll not be able to say that tomorrow.  Joe's birthday was September 1.  Our fourth child, Declan, was born August 31 and I really think Daddy felt slighted that I had dared go into labor on what was most surely HIS appointed day.  No matter.  He brought the 'big broyjher and sisters' to the hospital and joined in the festivities - all the while referring to the infant as "Joey".  (Dad was a quiet kind of fellow but subtlety was a LONG suit.)  Might as well begin at the beginning with 'Joe-the-suiter'.
        Greenpoint, our Brooklyn 'hood, was not the haven of the recherche that I'm told it has become today.  Rather, it was on the 'wrong side' of the "Lake".  A 'point', yes; green, no.  more of a smoky, slate gray.  Riverside, yes;  Manhattan loomed like a Lego cityscape in clear view from OUR side.  In fact, waterway access defined Greenpoint's existence and provided adventure-on-the-docks for athletic little shavers like Joe - tall, lean, fast - a super athlete.  "Leap-Pile" was a favorite.  the game involved jumping from one tarred, pigeon=flecked sunken piling to the next.  The winner was the guy with the best time.  Joe held the record, finally besting good friend Benny-the-Bat one fine day.  That he broke a front tooth, did a lousy job of attempting to glue it back on and didn't get it past his Mom, caused a 'luster loss' for the activity but you could always get a bunch of bored fellas together for a run or two.
        Joe was the eldest of four - only one sister - so his was a 'birthright' pace-setter role.  A devil on skates, metal roller AND ice - his rep was most firmly established an d widely-known in stick ball.  The family (as well as the family of the gal he would woo/pursue) lived on Diamond Street.  Honest.  The big games were played on the last segment of the street which terminated - unfortunately for the diocese - in the huge Gothic, gargoyled magnificence of St. Stanislaus Kostka roman Catholic Church.  (Some might have called it the far center field wall but it was definitely a church.  Stained-glass windows, twenty to thirty feet by roughly fifteen feet indented the sand castle-like mammoth cathedral walls at intervals, beautifully depicting biblical business or stellar, haloed luminaries.  So when Joe hit a homer, which would be the distance of a city block (four sewers; thirty row houses; as many vehicular chrome and white-walled hunks of metal - pick your metaphor), "Holy S___!" was NOT an unusual vocal response/shout of athletic prowess, it SOMEtimes acknowledged yet another 'stained-glass' fatality. 
        He had a vegetable cart business before and after school.  I don't recall whether it had a name but it certainly provided the opportunity for the "Joe and Julie romance story of the times" to begin, flourish and culminate.  Mom was SO impressed with Dad's looks, athleticism and dancing prowess, that ere long, much to Grandma's disapproval, they were an 'item'.

        I COULD have touched that photo up but it was TOO much a part of the love affair.  You see, in the early thirties, you could go to the top of the Empire State Building (a serious date), have a four shot strip of pictures taken in thirty seconds AND record a SONG which, after an hour or so, was presented to you as a genuine 78, playable at home.  Forever.  And the ENTIRE package was yours for a mere FORTY CENTS!

        Having WALKED across the bridge to 'the city' done the lickety-split picture segment of the deal, Joe then gave us his a Capella, croon-tune supreme, "Old Shanty Town":

It was just an old shanty

In 'Old Shanty Town'.

The roof is so slanty

It touches the ground

In an old tumbled down shack

By an old railroad track

Like a millionaire's mansion

Keeps calling me  back.

I'[d give up a palace

If I were a king.

It's more than a palace

It's my evry-thing.

There's a queen waiting there

In a silvery crown,

In a shanty

In old shanty town.

And so it went - many times for us kids when Dad was in a show biz mood.  Which was often - and he was GOOD. 

        You see, after a proper courtship (On one date, they walked across the bridge - in February - sharing a five cent "O Henry's" bar, paid twenty five cents each to get into the Imperial Thee-ay-ter to climb tnhbe three flights of MARBLE steps and sit in the loge section and watch a movie.  Stella (Grandma-who-did-not-like-the-Julie-business) had put mothballs in her 'Joey's' winter coat pocket in the off season.  Joe was not aware of Mom's prophylactic busy-ness, took his coat off in the dark thee-ay-ter, and, while grandly folding it over his super-long arm, inadvertently lifted it high enough in the air so that its pockets gave up the forty or so moth balls which 'clink-lock-hopped' down each of the flights of marble steps.  THIS 'gauche' misadventure was perfectly timed between the Newsreel and the 'Main Feature'.  (I always figured Stella was singing "Who's Sorry Now" THAT night.)

        Julie loved it.  Julie loved Joe.  And was SO excited to show off his high school graduation picture.  She would take his yearbook to work with her (she never had the opportunity of an education beyond eighth grade, having to go to work in a sewing sweatshop to 'help out' at home) and pass it around d to the girls - all proudly garbed in their white, starched uniform dresses provided by the employer - and point to his picture.  The class editor, responsible for captions placed under said head shots, had directed the phrase, "Did You Ever See A Dream Walking?" under Joe's.  Mom naturally (and proudly) pointed the caption out because it obviously referred to his looks.  Turns out what with sports, tap dancing around, selling veggies pre and post school, Joe did a fair share of napping during class.  Oops.

        Their whirlwind pre-nups have me catching my breath - and thinking of those naps.  So rest up, friends, because Joe-on-his-way-to-being-"Poppy" will have you hoppin' like a mothball.  Tomorrow.

Later, Lorane. . .

Away at Home



Couldn't Sleep ALL Week. . . .

 


  

She LOVES Having YOUR Name. . . .




 

                It's that 'Family Reunion'-time of year.  We are gathered as is our wont on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  Folks have traveled from Florida, Massachusetts and Virginia by land, sea and air.  As the three generations interact, I can 't help but long for the days when I was in the 'latest-arrival' category. 

Things were so much more

'secure' feeling when I was the 'kid'.  Now, I'm the 'Grams' or 'Gigi' for the tots who cannot yet 'handle' the hard 'g'.  And the pressure is exhausting.

For example, as I write, the gang is off

well, doing the reuniting with great gusto and good cheer.  I recall that freedom, that joi De vie - because I was standing on the shoes of a sturdy, know-where-they-are-going "big person" leaving me with zero responsibility save  looking cute-ish, giggling, getting away with dripping cherry Popsicle splashes on my white pinafore and staying up LONG after bedtime story time watching the grown-ups fetch one more glass of water, climb bunk ladders or squeeze between walls and bedposts finding the cuddly, stained and ragged 'must have' sleep buddy that I had carefully secreted hours before.





You Know They're Adorable, Mom. . .





 

Beach is BEST!!!



        I love them dearly but I am tired.  You see  the roles changed in a thirty or so year blink and the current 'happiness'  is a tad lopsided - from where I am crouching.          Now, I'm the fetch-er, forcing a smile while arthritic knuckles do the fetching and squeezing - and 'comfortable' is a foggy memory.  After a day on the beach, pointing out porpoises leaping out of the choppy waters to snag lunch from the sky and suffering the sticky/oily/grainy sensations of splayed sand on carefully-sun screened and insect-repellent limbs, I have been memorialized in color by the gadgetry-loaded middle generation's digitalized toys which I thought really were watches or visors.


 

THIS was The Life!

        Surely the week will seem a TREASURE that I want NEVER TO END - next month.  And I shall create memorable collages;  send them off in large numbers to unsuspecting and very busy friends; plan hungrily for the next time we can be together.  Indeed.  And you, dear readers, will have the added fun of visuals ad nauseum upon which to gaze while reading random posts that have NOTHING to do with children.  And you'll wonder.  "These her Grand peeps?  Ya think?"  

Children Swimming?



        I'll most likely be going on about misleading pharmaceutical advertising and the dangers thereof but, and YOU will "get" the inappropriate accompanying visual, the selected photo-of-elaboration will be of happy, frolicking, organically-sated cherubs who in NO way could need or even know of pesky "slings and meshes implanted therapeutically and demonstrating their presence pathologically".  Rather, they will call to mind "Touching Angels".



Later, Lorane. . . .

'

        So this lady walks out of the church service at its completion - thinking.  The recessional hymn selected for this Saturday, five-thirty PM service had been, "Go Out and Make a Difference".  The collective 'delivery' this evening had seemed marked by unusual gusto, a 'pop' if you are into 'Marthastewartese'.  It was pondered with no small amount of serious consideration en route home.  Since I was the lady, I can say with authority that my brow was indeed at least as knitted as my sleeve of care.  What am I gonna do?  Actually, what am I gonna do?

        My intentions had been something commensurate with my doctor's orders as they relate to surgery rehabilitation.  But living as I do in what will most likely someday be referred too as the eponymous "Armstrong Era", a fact punctuated by the honored astronaut's passing this very day, I was more acutely aware of the insult any activity that lived in the "one small step" box of endeavors would be on this evening.  But, ever the pragmatist, I kn ew I daren't even consider anything in the "giant leap" category without a one-way 'ticket-to-ride back to Pittsburgh at the ready.

        Go out. . .  Make a difference. . .  Well, upon our arrival home, I tumbled into the task with all of the color and zeal available to me at the moment.  It was 'walk-Bridie-our-beagle's' appointed hour.  And as the task by its very nature 'covered' at least half of my hymnal exhortation - 'go out' - I gathered the necessary gear, paged our fearless huntress, ultimately found her and 'coaxed' her from slumber a-sofa and set out to 'make a difference'.

        Ere long, she quickened our pace as the pretty people on our first new street were entertaining - not very, in truth - and Bridie is something of a party animal when the theme is barbecue.  It was, she was true to her instincts and we were a-stroll then a-stop, perch and turn head to side in that endearing and embarrassingly cute way that silky, long-eared dogs can pull off.  Making it quite clear that she was obviously confused as to the 'difference' we were about making, I asserted 'owner/human' authority and yanked her back into a respectable stride.

        Eventually, we came upon one of her favorite grounds for investigation - a lovely log cabin-esque small home which was built in our neighborhood several years ago by "Habitat for Humanity".  It was here that volunteers had recently re-seeded the small front lawn (and fertilized it sparingly) which seemed to capture Bridie's full attention every evening.  Therefore, it was here that she ultimately contributed to the fertilization effort - generously. 

        Twenty minutes or so later, we reversed course, heading home.  Once finally within several homes of our mailbox, we turned the corner that was home to an elderly Greek lady, recently widowed, who has always had a passionate relationship with her garden and grounds.  Un fortunately, circumstances and ill health have prevented the care usually lavished upon the lawn of late.

        A few gusty Nor'easter had snapped and strewn several errant branches of an old, tall Crepe Myrtle tree which was usually tended with loving care.  With a little effort and patience, Bridie gave me permission to drag two of the larger, unsightly twisted pieces of 'lumber Au naturale' to our driveway.  There, they joined a growing pile of similarly tossed brethren which we had already stacked at the curb in the sizes dictated by the pretty people who man the neighborhood Civic League.

        At peace in the knowledge that our fruits of labor, such as they were, would make muster and be removed by the city's Tuesday Crew dedicated to this task, we climbed the few steps at the end of the driveway, somewhat more comfortable with the notion of having covered the 'Armstrong step' and maybe even put a dent in the beginnings of an 'Armstrong leap' - hardly "giant" - for "mankind".  Chuckle you may.  I'll wait.  Got nothing but time - and a mission.  ANY body - ALL bodies - can make a difference.  I'm gonna do it.  Every little chance I get.  I look forward to running into you,

Later, Lorane. . . .

But on the Bright Side. . .

        Goodness me.  Apologizing for the disjointed" grammar, let me simply say, it's been hard to find any.  Goodness, that is.  I've been busily soldiering on with my post-op rehabilitation.  Again, with a sincere appreciation of tasteless word selection, I can only call this endeavor 'hardness'.  Three times daily, I doggedly walk for at least one hour - weather conditions notwithstanding.  Sans body brace, those back muscles are indeed feeling very 'put upon' when asked to perform.  Then there's 'work'.  Writing, for me, is not a matter of life or death.  It's infinitely more important.  Therefore, time spent away from this focused activity is time more painful than walking.  ONLY because acts of love super cede 'work', I am thrilled that my Godson, Brennan, elected to move from Massachusetts to Virginia and is temporarily staying with us.

        (The news-of-the-day - ever quietly in the background by habit, is ever so glum these days.  I have nothing but respect for consistency - in its place.  'Glum-chum' tidbits on a global scale strongly snuff out anything close to respect.  And the 'tidbits' seem to be escalating in magnitude as well as multitude with regard to wrong-doings, the varied legions of humanity involved in miscreant behavior and - perhaps MOST galling - the "watching-paint-dry"-brand of ennui assumed by the global audience.  By way of comic relief, we still have William Devane's love affair with that shiny and near erotically sensate metal, GOLD, to follow with morbid if not forced interest.  It remains safe in his 'free' safe in the wall behind the 'Currier and Ives'-like scenic tasteless wall art cum secret metal knob - the one he closes with an impish glint as the tag for this sixty second interruption of the 'news blues' boys and girls' reports.)

        Brennan is remarkably determined in his job search.  We revised his resume several times.  He has an impressive background/bank of experience in the upscale cuisine-restaurant business.  Starting out as a bartender, he's been successful - not merely successive - in his employment pursuits.  In fact, his last position, in a Five Star well-known establishment, was managerial and he brings with him glowing personal endorsements from the owners of these eateries.  Our resume revisions, therefore, were de minimus and he was by no means resistant.  He WAS curious, however.

        "What's wrong with 'Serving tables?'"

        "Nothing.  However, that is not what you were doing."

        "I don't get it."

        "You serve PEOPLE, Brennan, not TABLES."

        "Oh.  Right.  That's what I do."

And so it went.  Necessary, tedious for both of us and not adding any 'good cheer' to my already downward-trending mood swing.  Such were my ruminations yesterday whilst taking the necessary _errand run" which life requires and schedules confound.  Fortunately, a stop in a crowded store caused a pause in the action which proved a boon for us all.

        (The magazine rack proffered a treasure trove of remedial offerings gs.  I snatched - seemingly pedestrian at the time, but in retrospect heaven-sent.  Right there, in her September issue of "LIVING", Martha Stewart, in a subhead tease "Having a Ball",  gives us soothing salvation.  Once home, I rifled through to "the piece" that promised peace in the form of "puffs".  "Pom Poms" as in the remedy "Plastics" of Mrs. Robinson fame.  Martha supplies the skinny - and the OVERFLOWING - on the many and varied uses of these critically required-for-the-perky-pleasant-ambiance crowd's needs.  Dubbed "puff pieces", these colorful, infinitely varied - in function and form - accents of beautification, innovation, decoration and multiplication are de rigueuer in addition to essential. 

        We are provided the materials needed/preferred, the photographically captured effects and even the 'squad' of elves cum instructions - a company called "Clover", makers of pom pom-creation kits.  Martha shares the wisdom and methodology of how we "can create many different sizes."  So scotch any notion of going to all of this trouble only to find yourself sitting on a pile of pathologically identical pom poms.  She goes on with the good news of manufacture, allowing as how we are to ". . . use very fine yarn to make gum ball-size ones and tie them to key chains or the handles of buckets or boxes for a hit of color and whimsy."  There you have it, folks.  Gone henceforth all mopes-on-ropes, harried/worried and focusing on things negative - personally OR globally.  I daren't speculate as to whether the lady was dreaming or working sedulously at her brightly-lit office-at-manse, a benzene ring is a benzene ring.  So too, color/whimsy life is color/whimsy life.)

        I feel about tomorrow as though I'm awaiting Santa.  Probably won't be able to sleep knowing that whatever else fills my day post sunrise, I'll be fiendishly fast-forwarding to my debut in yet another activity - but one that will bring true change, gratification and - hating to emphasize the obvious - AGAIN - an abundance of COLOR and WHIMSY, the stuff productive, balanced, healthy folk are made of.  Who knew?  Negativity shall never cross my threshold again.  Like butter, I'm on a roll.  I've got color and whimsy.  And there's plenty to go around.  Enjoy! 

Later, Lorane. . . .

From the Desk of Lorane

        Don't believe we've met.  I used to be a deco-type, pale lacquer, devoted, lone utilitarian buddy.  Then due to Lorane's back operation, I accommodatingly morphed into an orthopedic mattress, dining room table, several hospital beds and, lately I'm - portable as a banana- found in the living room - surrounded by the grand peep gallery, on the deck, watching/gazing (I could just spit 'cause my folks weren't jet skis!) or back on ye ole hard mattress.  Guess the operative word may be 'lone'.  This because of all the 'm-i-a-s'.  That would be you readers and 'our' writer. What/where up?
      (As I recall, I was last seen wearing thin skin covered by a thick, hard, supportive 'body cast' affair - the medical folks call it a "Turtle".  Those cut-ups!  Turtle indeed.  Missing, though, was the usual paraphernalia - cool, mossy earth or sand under webbed Joan and Davids, nearby wading ponds, a chatty, newsy-kind of reptilian companion, mayhaps with the moniker, 'Rivett', and crowning, palettes of color, turned on by shards of brilliant sun - or off by mist-to-rivulet moisture finding its way to playfully bounce off of or gracefully slide over/down my smooth, runway-ready 'flage'-slick slicker.
        And writing.  Those who caught a gander caught the makeshift cubicles-for-the-creating - pens, legal pads, 'to-do-list' pads, forgotten "tomorrow's Menu"s, tissue boxes.  I longed for "Desk" - large, familiar, sea-worthy yet mermaid-made.  Then, once home, I became a nomad in my home.  But I kept writing.  Now I am also talking.  I speak with lovely folks who help the hapless who are hopelessly tangled in the technicalities of turning written material - please see above - into a unified whole - dedicated, explained, introduced, printed, bound, distributed and placed where books-to-be-acquired and read live.) 
        So I'm going to the source.  She's in town. Rumor has it there's a plot a-foot.  But, not unlike "Second-Hand Rose", even rumors I'm hearing, someone heard before.  Not to be trusted.  So I'll be going to the source.  I know she's around here somewhere.  This week was her Mom's birthday so she stays close to the ranch - if you get my whiff.  And, cross my four legs, you will be the first to know - first and top drawer - scoop.
        Later, Desk. . . .

On the 'Context' Couch - Again

      Boy, oh boy,  I just NEVER learn.  I had a plan.  A few things I wanted to share today.  In fact, I may still try slipping in a visual - as they say in the biz - that we can consider 'Coming Soon!'s. 
      I always have SOME form of background noise going when I write and, usually, it's a low-volume news-all-the-time station because our beagle, Bridie, likes to keep up and, if I happen to pick up word that Assad, Vlad - any ONE of the 'rumblers' seems to be REALLY 'starting something', I can cruise into an impromptu closure since  there wouldn't be any point, as it were. 

In truth, that is precisely what occurred.  Having had a coif change yesterday that brought my scalp closer to/in near immediate contact with the ambient airwaves, brain was picking up signals that would surely have been blocked pre-mowing of the already scanty tresses.  Caught in a cattle rush akin to a Bloomie's Basement Sale, words started to push and shove, rudely gaining access to the 'hot ticket' items.  Soon, defenseless conscious mind was accosted by 'street fight', Delta Airlines, an image of a sad, elderly gentleman bemoaning the bombing of a busload of innocents in an Israeli border area, dubbed by the somber speaker as a "Tough Neighborhood".

Coming Soon:
"Murphy Cheers The "Bears"

      (The dam burst and the usual crowd of interruptive regulars used the opportunity to provide no relief from indignities, rolling out THEIR cacophonic carpet of medical marauders posing as therapeutic Titans.  Thence entered those maladies - garden variety flavor-of-the-week afflictions - suffered upon us all, dragging with them the panacea posers of which we are to be aware so that we can beware.  Of course, had we been remiss, recourse was a phone call away.)

      On the political scene - peppered liberally with the basic 'stealers' - the incumbent leader stateside was out-cavorting his opponent in the "street fight".  Having borne witness to "The Rumble" so many years ago in NYC, I defer to Stephen Sondheim with advice to the underdog:  "When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way from your first cigarette to your last dyin' day."  Take a cue from your worthy Shark, "Boy, boy, crazy boy! Stay loose, boy!  Breeze it, buzz it, easy does it. . . Go man, go, but not like a yo-yo schoolboy!"

      (CELEBREX:  "A body in motion tends to stay in motion; a body at rest, tends to stay at rest."  But you can count on that ole arthritis to jam your best gavotte.  That's when you 'turn on the juice, boy'.  Celebrex can take the edge off the pain and give it back to YOU.  Of course it has been associated with depression so tell your doctor immediately if you're having frightening nightmares or suicidal thoughts. . .) You-are-kidding!

Coming Soon:
'Pre-season mania!'

      With nary a break in the action, our glum-chum ambassador shared the bleak news of a bus- bombing which, in this "Tough Neighborhood" - a subtitle may be the Mideast - will be taken seriously by Israel.  As luck would have it, the area's biggest bully, Iran, gets a pass on this one because the international rumble scene is fiercely focused on that little hoodlum, Syria.  The Arab community, of course, sides with Syria, ". . . Society's played him a terrible trick and sociologically he's sick. . . Juvenile delinquency is a social disease." 

      As to Iran, our incumbent leader put his gloves back on, handed our Secretary of State a mike and let her loose.  No stranger to 'bad boys', Secretary Clinton cut right to the chase.  In response, the Syrian leader boldly pouted, "Dear kindly Judge, your Honor, my parents treat me rough, with all their marijuana, they won't give me a puff.  They didn't wanna have me, but somehow I was had.  Leapin' lizards, that's why I'm so bad." 

Coming Soon:  Beagles join the Squad!

      So, disgusted with them, she attacked the "Silent Supportive Source", Russia ,with a scathing, "Boy (z) like that would kill your brother.  Forget (that) boy(z) and find another.  One of your own kind.  Stick to your own kind."  And she MEANS it, Vladimir.! "Someone gets in our way, someone don't feel so good."            While we're on the other side of the pond, it was frightening to hear that FIRST CLASS passengers on a Delta Airlines flight were served turkey sandwiches laced with sewing needles yesterday. Talk about not feeling so good.  The flights originated in Amsterdam and were bound for several different US cities.  "Gate Cuisine", the catering service for the airline, is investigating the matter. MMmm. . . Tasty!

      (PRILOSEC:  A flight cabin door opens to begin THIS passive propaganda video.  It delivers a chipper, uniform-clad stewardess, grinning far too broadly while toting a portable display of pill boxes and delivering, "O.K.! WHO gets occasional constipation, bloating and diarrhea?"  As she deftly glides down the aisle, meek and silently-afflicted passengers begin to raise their hands - her cue to jauntily toss her wares side to side.  The passengers don't miss a trick.  Did I tell you I'm getting bored just in the retelling?) 

     

"Coming Soon:  "Can We Play?"
by "The Immigtants"

          Indeed, I was about to turn out the lights and cash it in when the GOA saved the day.  I had occasion to visit the quarters of our government's accounting office during a private tour - smallest office in the building.  But you know what they say about small packages.  It seems in the course of one of their 'general accounting' exercises, it was discovered today that a considerable amount of taxpayer money has been spent operating a U.S. Flight School. 

      To be sure the courses must/need to be thorough as at the completion of their flying lessons, the new alums receive a license to operate a plane.  It was noted by a particularly sedulous accounting employee, that these stellar students included an impressive number of ILLEGAL ALIENS.  Gone was my ennui.  This tidbit was as fetchingly amusing as the timing of discovery was NOT.  Even more arresting, when one ponders the ramifications - even beyond the financial - was the fact that one of the school's instructors was an illegal alien.

      (The programming cut to William Devane, once again telling us how much more secure he feels knowing he owns GOLD.  The world is in a financial chaos and the government is 'printing our way out of it'.  Well, he assures us, "You can't print gold."  WHAT A SHOCK!  William buys his gold from Rosland (just an 'e' short of all those 'razzle-dazzle' Black Bottom frolicking dance-a-thons) a company that gives you "the right gold, right away" and will throw in a safe if you buy now.  "What's in your safe?" is his clever tag.)

      I just couldn't get the immigrants out of my head.  Reverie's a powerful thing and back in the day, in NYC, I can still hear them:

      "Puerto Rico, you ugly island,

      Island of tropic diseases.

      Always the hurricanes blowing,

      Always the population growing . . .

      And the money owing,

      And the babies crying,

      And the bullets flying.

      I like the Isle of Manhattan,

      Smoke on your pipe and put that in!"

      The President's Press Secretary was asked about yet another government 'operation' today - the President's Jobs Committee.  That would be the one that has not met for six months with unemployment still above 8%.  Well, Mr. Carney allowed as how the President has a "lot on his plate."  And yet he found time this week, rushing between those God-awful rubber chicken-dinners, to remind the citizenry of 'whence they come.'  If you own your own business, the formula goes, you did it because you got help from the government.  We - the popular, not the papal - are in this together.                          

"Coming Soon": 
"I Did It My Way"

     

Now for an "All Skate"  finale:

      "I like to be in America!

      O.K. by me in America!

      Ev'rything free in America

      For a small fee in America!"

"Good night, Chet.

Good night, David."

Later, Lorane. . . .

 . .

THE "LITMUS LIASON"

      Twas the night before takeoff, and all through the day I'd been dashing about looking for 'to do' lists the completion of which would be critical to our being able to 'play'.  The stakes - of the highest - will we find out during the dreaded/anticipatory nail-biting, three month follow-up visit with 'The Man'  whether his intense and complicated, surgical intervention had succeeded in transforming the twisted, serpentine, intermittently  disconnected spinal column I had presented - with oh such high hopes -


 to him into a reasonable semblance of 'the spine' which your average post-menopausal, female homo sapiens should possess.

      Just as with 'the Toni' (for you more mature readers), only 'time will tell' and it was 'time'.  The appointed hour was Thursday, July 12, 2012 at eleven AM.  I mention this because the only evidence I'd been able to find of THAT potential factoid was a clearly-printed notation on my over sized personal calender. 
      Based on this possible miss-information, my husband had made flight arrangements that had us leaving Virginia at noon Wednesday and arriving in Pittsburgh at roughly three PM.  A rental car - pre-arranged as well - would then whisk us through the afternoon traffic from the airport to downtown and the UPMC Family House well before the day's heavy, stifling end-of-workday hordes' "running" to home.

      At the last minute - compulsive wench that I am - I'd ventured a call to the Neurological Surgery Department 'angel-of-mercy-and-efficiency', Kathleen Brunetti, who confirmed the appointment and became immediately distressed about the failure of the computer system to automatically call patients - especially if from out of town (or touch) - to remind them of their arrival times and dates. 
      Thus it was that I instituted the frantic packing regimen sans 'to do' list fretting all the while about the news of the morrow.  I'd been quite diligent regarding ALL post-operative instructions and was even 'graduated' from "Home bound" physical therapy ten days ahead of schedule - such was my progress.

Pre-operative "back"

      Therefore, I had quasi-reasonable expectations of SOME improvement with the potential for ongoing progress.  After all, when 'going IN' to this risky procedure, one's back looks like it belongs to Mrs. T-Rex,  one is comfortable in at least thinking twelve hours of tedious manipulation and re-alignment would yield a spine the casual reviewer would tend to classify as 'human'/circa 21st century.
      I may APPEAR to be smiling but the rear molar, antiquated pound or so of silver fillings are dominating the maxillary imagery.  There was hardly anything to grin about - I was VERY into 'bearing' - when the only thing that seems straight on this x-ray is the outline of my metal spectacle rims.  That somewhat vertical undulation trying to  traverse the torso terminating just below the hip bones is the "before" of my dominant supporting structure.
      Somehow, we were out the door ON TIME and fate wiped THOSE silly grins off our faces once, ensconced with one bag and the walking stick I was going to present to my savior, we noticed water on the passenger side of the floor of our Lexus followed by confirmation of a doomed departure when the awful sound of NOTHING rang out upon turning the ignition key.
      "We're taking my car," from my husband fixed a permanent grimace on my visage.  He drives a Mazda Miata "Special Edition" two-seat, royal blue convertible - "The Electric Blueberry" - which ensures that one's derriere is at least eight inches above the road and, with knees covered with lip gloss, one's attempt to sustain any elevation from the machine's soft suede seat is totally dashed for lack of space.  So put the above-right picture in your mind, roll it forward - fetally - and begin the bounce-a-thon from driveway to airport.
      Suffice it to say, when nerves are permitted - due to lack of anchorage - to smack against their exit portals with abandon upon any movement, the pain receptor sites remain in high gear throughout the journey.  Boarding the plane was a relief - once again erect - but, alas, our Captain smoothly noted that due to the heavy pattern on this WEDNESDAY MID-DAY flight, we were ninth in line for take-off.  He therefore smoothly put her down at New York's LaGuardia at one PM.  Our connecting flight would begin boarding at 1:19PM.
      In that the aircraft in question was several 'zones', a bus ride and two harrowing speed rides down serpentine, downgraded hallways in a wheelchair powered by the sturdy legs and determined mind of an airport 'transporter', I sat crazed, holding a six-foot high walking stick all the while we hot-wheeled it to the 'now-alerted-to-hold-the-plane' check-in person.  We were given new boarding passes and catapulted down and aboard, acutely aware of the explosive slamming of the boarding gate door left in our wake.
      Once at our destination, we made the transition to ground transport in record time and motored along, with a 'Motown' escort to drown out the pounding in my head, to the waiting haven of Family House.  Early dinner, early beddy-bye and a night of toss-turn-turbulence (mental now) brought us to a sunrise greeted by heartfelt gratitude admixed with the anxiety associated with where we were - and why.
      First stop: Radiology.  Full back series.  Getting out of undergarments, body brace, overgarments and jewelry took 30 minutes but blessed Josh waited patiently, helping when possible.  Then four 'candids' of the 'handiwork' and back to the dressing room for a repeat 30-minute re-dress.  Ah, but there was time for a yummy omelet before our appointment.  Yummy omelet-man, meticulously cleaning his instruments, made it clear that once again, we could check the ole 'just missed' box.
      But really, who could eat?  We masticated on some-such, straining to listen to "Ellen" in the cafeteria.  There's a gal who can take your mind off of your troubles.  Finally it was time to turn in the trays and trundle toward what could be Trouble.  We checked in, took our seats and robotically solved crossword puzzles for forty-five minutes and then "Ms. Leavy?" (Again that question format.  Always sounds like, "Did Ms. X avert disaster and actually live to keep this appointment?")
      The Physician's Assistant was the very soul of brevity but I had typed up a log of my entire hospital stay as well as a summary of my post-operative course, so she thankfully needed only to collect these documents and present them to my surgeon.  (We actually had bumped into him and his clinical nurse on the way to the examining room and I'd thrown the walking stick to him.  He'd never heard of a Shillelagh.  I had used one pre-op but it 'walked' from the pre-op changing room.)

The Man,with New Stick & New Woman

      When he entered the room, holding his new stick, he was one big smile. The x-rays were apparently 'A-to-Z' victory signage.  He was both pleased and a bit surprised.  Experienced/specialized though he is, his work with 'vintage' material has apparently been somewhat limited.  (I guess there have been those who selected choice #2, "within eighteen months, you'll be wheelchair-bound, on a Morphine pump.")  We stood grinning like dolts for so long, my husband was able to capture the 'kodak moment'.  And soon after,



"AFTER" Back



we were all mesmerized by the morning's photo-op.  Adding to the DDS' silver, the gold earrings are brought to you by Saint Jude, whose likeness they bear and whose benevolence provided the talented hands and brilliant mind that was capable of effecting the remainder of the architecture in the picture.  The vertical meander is now an 'un-broken, solidly-aligned vertical', capable of weight-bearing and other activities of daily living which the next three months will either demonstrate or bring the bearer to her knees trying. (Most trying, at times, to be sure because THE BRACE HAS BEEN - FOR THE MOST PART - DISCHARGED!) 

       It's muscle-building time.  The mile plus walks will be solo; the cycling carried out without 'carrying on' about mean, old, nasty, super hot/suffocating BRACE.  This, unless/until body screams, "Halt!" by buckling its knees, delivering quivering poundage to the floor.  In such cases, BRACE-BE-BACK is the order of the day.

      Apparently, months one through three, is for healing from the surgery.  Months three through six is for building/adjusting/altering the size and shape of the muscles that have been accustomed to the architecture of the last seven years.  Without a doubt, they are 'testy'.  (In truth, they give 'pain' new and interesting voices - if Wikipedia is interested.)

      It's been a busy two days.  This one, dear readers, must bid you bon soire.  This because "sore" is the operative adjective of the moment and I shall acquiesce as the grand peeps will be a-callin' tomorrow.  It's been quite a ride.  (NOT highly recommended but worth every second.)  I'd say I'm glad it's over but can't because it's not.  Just MAY have an acid-tongued comment to throw out now and again.  I'm just sayin'.  Later,

Lorane. . . .

Re: Possible 'swan song'. . .

      What ho!  Just when I was thinking of calling a vacation planner, aural reality slapped me right up side the head.  Must be quick - A) have to call Estate Planner and B)
      My unusually acute hearing aptitude-curse has delivered the 'final vinyl' message via - you guessed - our helpful/watchful/ever-informative well being observers who herald all manner of hellish outcomes should one NOT heed their on-air heralding. 
      It seems, whilst we were all basking in the mundane superficiality of Summer Buffoonery - at the beach, under a tree, softly swaying in a hammock, reading, dreaming, or just contemplating the usual when/wheres of humankind's universal demise subsequent to some errant, maniacal button-pusher - "They" (let's not go there) have discovered that unsuspecting, formerly suffering-but-recently-treated folks who had 'infused, man-made, discs' inserted surgically between their spinal vertebrae, are at a decided risk of ominous consequences.
      Surely, it is now sadly clear as to why I may not tarry in delivering/performing this - what may/will/could be my final scene.  (please see "While You Were Away from My Desk", I think, things are already blurring)  Numbered among the recipients of these fiendish albeit mobility/quality-of-life-preserving medical instrumentalities, I am at best distressed to learn that they have been seen to cause extreme difficulty breathing and THE INABILITY TO SPEAK.  (drop page) 
      "If you have recently undergone a procedure involving these infused discs, you may be entitled to compensation." (drop page)  "Call 1.877. BAD.DISC now where experienced legal professionals are waiting to help in your quest for justice, money, the American Way. . ." (drop page)  I THINK memory loss may have been another side effect but I can't recall.  Confusion was definitely in that march-to-oblivion army and, as you can read, our on-air benefactors know their shtuff.
      Suffice it to type, then (the 'eliding' issue is becoming distracting - even for the elide-r), I want you, my friends, my readers, to know that should I make it to Thursday and Pittsburgh and the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center Hospital for my three month post-op follow up visit, I shall:
1.  Be certain that Dr. David, who returned my life to me, has heard the news;
2.  Remember to bring fliers with the appropriate advisory data to pass out  (or if I already have), casually leave among the 'for-your-health' reading materials in the waiting area and
3.  After kissing the scalpel hand of The Man, vow to utilize any/all vehicles at my disposal to put an end to THESE FEAR- MONGERING SUPPOSEDLY BONA FIDE MEDICAL "WARNING" BALDERDASH DISTRIBUTERS' DAEMONIC TACTICS! 
      Have a nice, healthy day; take good care of yourself and don't take accept any wooden nickels or well-meaning advisories seriously. Ever.  Later, Lorane. . . .
     
     
     

Have You Seen. . .

If ‘people-watching’ is something you enjoy -  in 'the activities you enjoy' column of any survey, my box would be checked and highly rated - and a week at the beach is one of the best of humanscapes.  The ambiance, variety, ability to indulge un-noticed and the compliance of the watch-ees rule in this sport.  The obvious, well- grounded counter to this bestowing of 'the best' is duly recognized/ acknowledged by inserting a codicil addressing preferences.  Climate, purpose, time constraints -  all come to mind as potential reasons to defrock my choice.

        (By way of example - and a congested rte 64 West - last  Father’s Day at the races in Virginia definitely places - or shows even.  Colonial Downs dedicated this day of thoroughbred turf racing to our Armed Forces and a long shot, GENERAL Barbara, returned the favor.  The people ran - make that slowly inched - the gamut of types from regular lout to dad and granddad-party celebrants to the usual air-conditioned Jockey Club whine and diners and box seat diehards risking rent money.)

        The beach crowd offers a similar variety but far less nattily-clad - if at all - of society’s resolute, raunchy respite takers.  They hail from as far North as Canada and West as Ohio.  There is something about the Outer Banks of North Carolina that lures the pallid, tired masses to the sand and vitamin D and, yes, an odd olio of wild Mustangs who called the environs home for centuries.  The picture of a stocky steed, grazing, with a white gull - also grazing, insects - on its back makes for a special visual for that “What I did this summer” essay.

        (What Colonial Downs did was make history.  Indeed, for the first time in Mr. Jefferson’s Virginia, Virginians were treated to a spectacle of shorter duration but similar singularity as growing asparagus.  These specimens, however, were fully grown and eager to run.  The first ‘full-of-fun’ provision was a camel race.  The riders, awkwardly seated and clinging to barely reachable pommels, forced frozen smiles in the direction of the stands as the five feral beasts grinned at their own largess and took their graceless parade in stride looking like hippos emerging from a 3 inch drainpipe.  The winner, Joe Camel, left his fellow ‘ships of the desert’ in the dust from the starting gate.  “Shocking breach of gait”, might well have described his erstwhile competitors.)

        The humans, no question, steal the show in the beach scene.  Ensconced in ‘Willy Wanka-esque’,  8 to 12 bedroom mini spas -  we used to call them cottages - they first nibble, then gobble and chug every new-found amenity – God or contractor/designer devised.

        The “family vacation” category – those with babysitters and those with schlepping mommies and daddies, squeal in the water, castle-build in the sand and vie for the the newest water/shore toy to be had. Airborne, motored along the briny’s  surface, negotiated - or not - by balance, grace and poise, the goal is to skim the rolling white caps or glide choreographically along the shallow pools at the shoreline.  Shiny, oiled bodies – Balance, Grace and Poise possibly among them - bob, twirl, forge ahead on wings of the sea gods and goddesses, racing to a hair-blown, splashing dismount.  Neptune be pleased.

        (The big crowd pleaser at the races, wings down, were the ostriches.  Sleek, proud, black-feathered, they pranced for their eleven-field parade, then did a slow gallop to the gate.  This was to give their riders a taste of the white-knuckle ride ahead.  Pointed, orange beaks, angled down in pure determination, they increased the gait, length and speed simultaneously.  The combination achieved dizzying speed.  And then, the plumed rascal in the worst post position - far outside, one being close to the rail - seemed to be thinking, “ Flightless indeed!” as its feathers spread, revealing a fluffy, white, petticoat that strained to help its wearer leave the ground.  So intense was this failed attempt, the poor rider flew instead.  It’s a gravity thing.)

        The family members frolic.  Dad paid big bucks  to drive all the way to Corolla and he would smile, his hand out for another Corona.  Mom sliced dozens of limes, dragged dozens of gallons of ocean in colorful pails in time for dripping, molding, and drenching enough wet sand into bathing suit linings to ensure rashes from hell.  And all this while, she was glancing longingly, enviously, at shapely, comfy, teen girls and shady, lady, comfy, moms cum Au peres or zero children needing any attention – lounging.  “Some day.  Right, god?  Some day. . .”

        Young turks, cunning little shavers just last year, flex, volley, brandish La Crosse  sticks, kayak out to mermaid waters and throw balls -  of all categories.  Bathing-beauty youth, scantily-clad, oiled, and sporting twinkling tatts, playfully run/briskly walk/gossip and tone with hand-held weights along the shoreline.  And “The Readers” occasionally remove sunglasses to acknowledge the ocean wind with a grateful kiss.

        (Of course, there were winners and losers at the track.  I don’t have time to discuss the animals.  I’d say the winners were those who ‘came out even’ – didn’t lose the rent, enjoyed the company of good friends and food at the Jockey Club, were glad the family had an occasion to gather – in some cases as many as four generations.  The losers – the ones connected/controlled by cell phones and computers, conducting business or fabricating alibis – missed the point.)

        The beach scene has been changing over the past decade.  People ‘types’ are the same.  It’s called humanity.  But the losers lose bigger somehow.  Invaded by the fax, the cell phone, the computer, the cable with high definition – it’s a slaughter.  And poorly defined, too.  “High Definition”?  Is that the kind of definition that lets you see ‘nothing’ more clearly?  Or the kind that best keeps your attention away from the big picture?  I take my cues from the animals.  Bridie, our beagle, loves the beach.  She chases “Mr. crab”, skulks around in the dunes trying to look the huntress, goes along with the stick-fetching routine – for a while.

        But left alone, she just ‘beaches’.  Sits in the sand or by a dune; gazes at the geese flying in formation; watches the sandpipers do their double-time run against the approaching tide or just stares straight ahead, wind blowing ears and whiskers, smelling, being, doing the beach.  Try it.  Do some people-watching.  Prelude, really.  Then BE beach. The beautiful, unspoiled creation of which we are part is “Beach”.  It’s a part of the whole SELF of creation.  Spend some time in SELF.  There IS no higher definition and beach is one with it.  And when someone asks, “Have you seen. . .”  You’ll delight in saying, “Yup.”

Later, Lorane