This is going to be one of those posts wherein your writer is going to have difficulty with organization. Generally speaking, I tend to be a rather organized person. However this past week - in terms of weather, work, and some wailing from children and grandchildren - has been somewhat out of the ordinary. We actually had snow in Virginia. To be more accurate, we had several spates of snowstorms.
To be sure, those hardy folks who live in Kansas and Wisconsin - truly salt of the earth - would not have even blinked were they to have had the same experience. (Indeed, I was speaking with a lady who lives in Kansas yesterday. (She lives in Kansas every day but was sharing the events of recent days.). She arrived at work at her usual time, driving her four-wheel drive Jeep Wrangler with the ambient air temperature of 4°Fahrenheit. She allowed as how the day before the temperature was also 4°but just to make things a bit merrier and more challenging, that Great Weatherman in the sky added 50 mph winds.
She and her husband have a darling little Chihuahua. Usually they share the walks and runs and other play rituals with the feisty, furry outlaw. Naturally, on 50 mph day, "Daddy" got the call. As she was speaking I could imagine this propelled little pet jetting its way to Oklahoma. I guess you could say we had history repeating itself. Move over Toto.
Back here in ole Virginny, both the people and the pets had difficulty greeting this white powder with the same je ne sais quoi as did those in Kansas. I think I'll recount the events of the week as accurately as I can although they may not be in the order best suited for the telling. (That's never stopped me before and the results have been acceptable, if not at times entertaining.)
Saturday morning came far too early for this sexagenarian to fully participate in the round of 'star grand children' basketball games. Please understand that by that I don't mean my own game was not at its best. Rather, I was simply conveying the fact that the hour was such that I did not even attend the sports events.
Further punctuating the bad taste of my absence, our nine year-old Molly had crafted a beautiful multicolored bracelet for me which was delivered by Poppy, the grandfather for whom no hour is to early to prevent his attendance at the important moments in the lives of his offspring. Apparently this bracelet comes in a kit and that kit is accompanied by what the company seems to feel are very complete directions as to the assemblage of the bracelet.
I know of at least 10 mothers and daughters who expended hours of thoughtful energy and compliance with these directions - all to no avail. Nine of these people through the towel in. Molly, on the other hand, saw the experience as a wonderful opportunity to learn, to teach and to manufacture (for appropriate compensation) as many bracelets as she could fit into her already busy schedule. Hence the sign hastily tacked to her door and keenly observed by her godmother," Knock before entering. Work in progress."
These were the events of Saturday morning. At this point we had no way of knowing that it was but the beginning of a string of days hallmarked by canceled school days, frigid temperatures, bored children and mothers who could only hope that their behavior was noticed by those with the authority to admit them to a psychiatric facility for treatment, rest and absolutely no visitors.
It put me in mind of the article I once read written by Erma Bombeck - that lady with incomparable wit who would share everyday experiences with her public. She once wrote of a rainy spell - seven consecutive days of downpour - during which she and her three children, all under the ages of six, were held captive (but not captivated) in their home.
At one point, bleary-eyed and lacking focus, she noticed that one of the children was coloring her marriage license. The child looked up expectantly, as if for approval. Erma smiled and in a soft, approving voice simply said, "Just remember to stay inside the lines, dear." Such was the mental state of our son and daughter and their friends in Portsmouth Virginia this past week.
Our daughter was the dedicated care provider as the other moms had to get to work. Of course the streets were not cleared and it was impossible to tell just where that patch of black ice might be, lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to not grab the boot on its surface, sending the wearer into an acrobatic somersault. Undaunted, our girl took her troop - her six year-old girl, four and a half year-old boy, best friends' six year-old twins and the family dog - a huge and quite harmless mutt who absolutely adores romping in the snow - on a 'nature walk'. At some point each of them hit the deck with the exception of the little boy twin. He trundled along ahead of the rest constantly calling to them to keep up.
The following day, after retrieving some appropriate gloves for our grandson from our son's camp of storm prisoners, the little group was determined to build a snowman. The final product was quite colorful and well done. Its creators flanked it looking absolutely immovable. Cherry red skin frozen into plastic smiles, they appeared in a picture that was texted to me to be able to be transported into the house like true stick figures.
Today is Friday and it began hopefully with the thought of rising temperatures. Having had our ritualistic argument that starts every day and centers on "Where is our dog?", I proceeded to prepare breakfast and call my daughter in Boston. Her husband is to have surgery and I sent a text inquiring as to his well being. Not receiving a response, I decided I must have had the wrong daughter or son-in-law or surgery or city. In any case, I was not troubled enough to interrupt my morning regimen.
About to dive into steaming oatmeal, quill poised over a crossword puzzle, my cellphone beckoned. It was our dedicated care provider just wanting really to speak with an adult (boy, did she have the wrong number) and go over the events of the week that would be a etched in their hearts with icicles. Or not. In the midst of multi tasking orders and plans with the children, she stopped - just for a nanosecond - before shrieking, "My God! It's a mouse!". "Where?", I inquired, calmly, looking around my own kitchen.
"It's outside, in our yard, just sitting on the path!"
"Is it sitting in the sun?"
"Yes it is. I must show Emma."
"No. She won't sleep for weeks."
"I'll present it as a science project."
"Why don't you just create a path of cheese chunks leading to the fence and out to the street?"
"I must get a picture first. Ross never believes me when I tell him I see these things."
"Get a picture for your exterminator as well."
"Do you think it's going to die?"
(Emma) "Is what going to die Momma?"
"Get rid of the mouse, call the exterminator, then fix breakfast for the children and plan an exciting indoor project. Then call me back."
I asked my husband to listen for my cell and went to get a shower. Dressed and beginning chores, I asked whether my cell phone had wrung. "I never heard your cell phone." I checked and there was a text message. To wit, "Left a message on your cell. Mouse hung out in same spot for about 2 hours and left. I called the exterminator and they are closed so we'll just hang out inside. Em and I did our T25 cardio workout and are now having a game board marathon."
That's how we roll around here. There is really nothing that can dampen the spirit, camaraderie, curiosity and energy of a young American family - even during an un- expected Virginian blizzard.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Friday, January 31, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Just CAN'T STOP Listening
Well now. I was going to be writing about clothing today but something keeps getting in my way. And because I didn't want to type, I turned on speech recognition. Unfortunately, a while ago I got an e-mail and because I was not interested in it I deleted it. Well, I thought I deleted it.
Instead, the person who was speaking on the e-mail video continues to speak. He has identified himself as Anthony Tryster. He claims to be the president or owner of a company called the "Coffee Shop Millionaire Education, Incorporated". Even as these words are falling on the page, old Anthony is in the background chattering away about how you and I and anyone else can make millions of dollars by opening a coffee shop.
I wasn't able to turn off my e-mail so I turned off my computer. After I restarted it, I was able to get to my blog page and eventually even got my speech recognition friend to work. So fortunately I don't have to type. I can just tell you about Anthony and the problems that he has caused me. After all, if Anthony was able to get to me, he probably can pop into your living room as well.
It seems that Anthony Tryster and all the members of the coffee shop millionaire education incorporated organization have figured out a way of making millions of dollars with very little effort. There seems to be a time element as well. As I listen to Anthony in the background, I keep hearing that if we don't act now, we are going to miss our big opportunity. (And trust me, from the way he describes his car and last winter's skiing jaunt in Gstaad or wherever, we certainly don't want to do that.)
I think there may be a money element involved as well. Anthony has decided to make what he calls a "one time stupid decision" to offer this opportunity on what he calls his "very own dime". All we have to do is watch and listen to his tutorials and we will have all the information we need to start our very own millionaire coffee shop.
Unfortunately, I don't have any visuals or pictures that I can share with you as Anthony has done with me. I've seen folks loitering around, sipping lattes and eating doughnuts, reading newspapers and figuring out crossword puzzles - all the while lounging in comfort like your average warm and cozy a lizard.. Actually they are sipping your potential $1,000,000 coffee.
According to Anthony, the "really cool part" is that you really don't need anything to get started. "You can live on your own terms." Those terms seem to be defined as absolute "autopilot income". He has explained that the real average daily income is anywhere from 1 to 3 thousand dollars.
It's difficult because he speaks very rapidly but from what I understand the ability to become a $1,000,000 coffee shop owner is tied very closely to what Anthony's told us was his stupid decision to give that autopilot start up income to the new member. There's nothing immoral or illegal about his system. In fact, Anthony chuckles that your friends will think you've won the lottery. What a kidder. The guy slays me. NOT, RIGHT?
According to Anthony, the Internet is literally a "river of money". And winning the 'swim' game online has nothing to do with luck or timing but has everything to do with knowledge. And Anthony is planning to literally download that knowledge right into your brain. Of course none of this can happen unless you act right away. If you don't act fast and download this special knowledge, it may not be there when you return.
Oh. There is one other element that seems to be very important. There will be a limited number of people who will be able to access or download this knowledge. Anthony says, and rightly so, if he were to give his system or knowledge to everyone - why it would be like shooting himself in the foot.
Therefore, for a very limited time, Anthony is going to "stupidly" give you the information and start up knowledge that you need for only $37.00. Failure is simply not in Anthony's vocabulary. Apparently neither is longevity. I say this because Anthony has shared with me - and with you - the fact that he may have to close this page in a short period of time.
In that the noise or rather background sound of Anthony's babbling has ceased, it just may be that that time has arrived. More's the pity, I say. Just as I was warming up to becoming a coffee shop millionairess, that "closed" sign seems to have been placed on the door.
Well, I may have lost a great opportunity, but I think I'll check to be certain that our Security System is on and the "Open" sign is not executed on our front porch anon. Or even later. Lorane. . . .
Instead, the person who was speaking on the e-mail video continues to speak. He has identified himself as Anthony Tryster. He claims to be the president or owner of a company called the "Coffee Shop Millionaire Education, Incorporated". Even as these words are falling on the page, old Anthony is in the background chattering away about how you and I and anyone else can make millions of dollars by opening a coffee shop.
I wasn't able to turn off my e-mail so I turned off my computer. After I restarted it, I was able to get to my blog page and eventually even got my speech recognition friend to work. So fortunately I don't have to type. I can just tell you about Anthony and the problems that he has caused me. After all, if Anthony was able to get to me, he probably can pop into your living room as well.
It seems that Anthony Tryster and all the members of the coffee shop millionaire education incorporated organization have figured out a way of making millions of dollars with very little effort. There seems to be a time element as well. As I listen to Anthony in the background, I keep hearing that if we don't act now, we are going to miss our big opportunity. (And trust me, from the way he describes his car and last winter's skiing jaunt in Gstaad or wherever, we certainly don't want to do that.)
I think there may be a money element involved as well. Anthony has decided to make what he calls a "one time stupid decision" to offer this opportunity on what he calls his "very own dime". All we have to do is watch and listen to his tutorials and we will have all the information we need to start our very own millionaire coffee shop.
Unfortunately, I don't have any visuals or pictures that I can share with you as Anthony has done with me. I've seen folks loitering around, sipping lattes and eating doughnuts, reading newspapers and figuring out crossword puzzles - all the while lounging in comfort like your average warm and cozy a lizard.. Actually they are sipping your potential $1,000,000 coffee.
According to Anthony, the "really cool part" is that you really don't need anything to get started. "You can live on your own terms." Those terms seem to be defined as absolute "autopilot income". He has explained that the real average daily income is anywhere from 1 to 3 thousand dollars.
It's difficult because he speaks very rapidly but from what I understand the ability to become a $1,000,000 coffee shop owner is tied very closely to what Anthony's told us was his stupid decision to give that autopilot start up income to the new member. There's nothing immoral or illegal about his system. In fact, Anthony chuckles that your friends will think you've won the lottery. What a kidder. The guy slays me. NOT, RIGHT?
According to Anthony, the Internet is literally a "river of money". And winning the 'swim' game online has nothing to do with luck or timing but has everything to do with knowledge. And Anthony is planning to literally download that knowledge right into your brain. Of course none of this can happen unless you act right away. If you don't act fast and download this special knowledge, it may not be there when you return.
Oh. There is one other element that seems to be very important. There will be a limited number of people who will be able to access or download this knowledge. Anthony says, and rightly so, if he were to give his system or knowledge to everyone - why it would be like shooting himself in the foot.
Therefore, for a very limited time, Anthony is going to "stupidly" give you the information and start up knowledge that you need for only $37.00. Failure is simply not in Anthony's vocabulary. Apparently neither is longevity. I say this because Anthony has shared with me - and with you - the fact that he may have to close this page in a short period of time.
In that the noise or rather background sound of Anthony's babbling has ceased, it just may be that that time has arrived. More's the pity, I say. Just as I was warming up to becoming a coffee shop millionairess, that "closed" sign seems to have been placed on the door.
Well, I may have lost a great opportunity, but I think I'll check to be certain that our Security System is on and the "Open" sign is not executed on our front porch anon. Or even later. Lorane. . . .
Friday, January 17, 2014
Oye, NOW What?
I had asked if there were opportunities to write blogs or feature articles. For some reason, which remains a mystery, this respected employer thought I had inquired about employment as an editor. Consequently, I have been deluged with a spate of emails from people all over the country who seem to be in dire need of editing.
In that I had used his blog to announce my intention of seeking employment and the response was positive and sent in a timely manner, I decided to once again use this forum. Mr. Scott, I have no desire whatsoever to be an editor. Indeed, it is my hope that in a short while I will have a need for one. Therefore, if you have occasion to see and read this missive, kindly change the category of employment that I had sent to you.
I have emailed this same information to you. But in that my e-mail experience of late has been frustrating to the point of ulcer formation, I felt there was no harm and perhaps actually benefit in posting the same message. I trust this was an honest misunderstanding and I certainly feel no animus toward you or your organization. I'm also quite certain that you feel your job was done in an efficient manner and are pleased with the army of clients that are responding.
In other words, you must be quite comfortable. Doubtless there are no ulcers in your future. In fact, there are many people like yourself who avoid his malady but are in fact carriers. I doubt you are even aware of this curious and potentially damaging ability. It might be in your best interest therefore, to heighten your awareness of the effect you may be having on coworkers, friends and loved ones.
Although it has been said by the well known sage Oscar Wilde, "It is wiser to remain silent and be thought ignorant than to speak and remove all doubt", in this instance, silence on my part would have led to mounting frustration, an enormous waste of time and energy on the part of people who would rather be having their work edited, and an unnecessary overload in my inbox.
Although it was said by the bard, "Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care", I have endured several sleepless nights in an effort to find a way of correcting this problem. It is hoped that in several days I will be rested and can say ringingly, another of the bard's prophetic phrases, "All's well that ends well".
Later, Lorane. . . .
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
The Earl Affair
So this guy walks into a funeral setting. Maybe some background would be in order. Earl, the guy, lived with a lady artist who was very gifted. The lady also had a very large family. Although divorced, she had daughters with her first husband. Mother and daughters lived in California although not in the same cities. Ultimately, the younger of the two moved to New York City to pursue a career in stand up comedy. The older daughter married and remained in California not far from mother.
In addition to her many genres in the field of art, Minnie, the mother, shared a job with the guy, Earl. They were co-curators for a rather prestigious art museum on the coast. When not working at the museum, each would be hard at work in their combination apartment studio. Although Minnie had worked in watercolor and oils for many years, her canvases tended to be very dark and gloomy. (Whether this fact was at all related to her relationship with Earl, we shall never know.)
For his part, Earl dabbled in painting, sculpture, and dabbling. One could say the relationship was marked by its longevity and relative lack of change. When change did come, it was in the form of Minnie's reception of a one year, all expenses paid, time of work and study in Italy. Wasting no time, she was packed and off to Rome, knowing that Earl would assume the full responsibilities which they had shared at the museum. It was her dream come true and she glowed with the happiness of her good fortune.
Earl, on the other hand, seemed not to share in her ebullience. Rather, he sulked and assisted with her packing and transport to the airport with the visage of the punished puppy. With the air of a happy afterthought, Minnie assured Earl that she looked forward to his visiting her while she was abroad. He, in turn, smiled weakly and told her he would try his best to make some arrangements to do so.
With a humble half wave, he seemed to turn and drag himself slowly to the parking garage. Once out of Minnie's site he arrived at his car, and leaped with a gleeful yawl, kicking up his heels and returning to the ground grinning broadly. On his way back to the apartment, he called several friends, sharing with them the woeful tale of Minnie's depression at having to spend a month, let alone one year, away from him. Would they consider spelling him at the museum from time to time? He was a friend in need (And a man of greed).
It came to pass that at least three times within the next six months Earl crossed the pond, providing quiet company for Minnie; raucous company for Earl when he was out on errands. So generous in nature, he managed to find yet another attractive, wealthy, and in need of company woman in Rome. Her gratitude knew no bounds and included a luscious, navy blue, cashmere winter coat. After all, Earl had to return regularly to what he told her was the frigid climes of San Francisco.
At some point during the second half of Minnie's productive Roman holiday, she sadly lost her mother back in the United States. Of course Earl was at the ready with his consolation and transportation to Pittsburgh, handily enough now owning proper, warm clothing for the event. Rather a large affair (the funeral) in that Minnie's aunt had died within a day of her mother's passing, there was much confusion and many in attendance.
After the burial there was a reception at the funeral home. Despite the exhaustion of the many weary travelers, several hours were spent in fond remembrance of the two very close sisters - aunts, mothers, cousins, and friends to these visitors. Finally, farewells were bid and the crowd dispersed to several local hotels. Not long after, everyone was receiving frantic calls from the funeral director. It seems that no one could locate Earl's coat.
Just about everyone returned to the funeral home for assistance. After all, imported, navy blue, cashmere wool coats were not plentiful, even in the frosty climes of Pittsburgh. Half of the group scurried about engaged in the frenetic activity of location. Others sat comforting the now inconsolable Earl. Ultimately, this situation was officially declared a mystery by the funeral director and the grievers were dismissed.
One of the nieces had flown in from school at Georgetown, accompanied by her best friend who lived in Boston. They retired early as they had an early flight the next morning. Once back in the dorm, the best friend commented, "I was just so glad I had my new blue coat. It was colder in Pittsburgh than it is in Boston."
For her part, Minnie was curious as to how Earl came to own such a luxurious coat. Once back in Rome, she received several messages that calls had been coming from woman inquiring about her 'brother', Earl. Thinking quickly, she responded that he was fine but had to return to the States to take care of an irregularity at the museum. She then called Earl inquiring about his coat and any other irregularities he might have in the closet.
Earl returned post haste to Rome. Minnie was hard at work. Earl was hard pressed to explain a rather surprise visit from his 'sister's' new friend. Things ended as these things usually do. Springtime in Boston found best friend taking her winter clothes to be cleaned only to discover that her blue coat was - Earl's! At the completion of her hysterical confession, her roommate reassured her that her own coat would be replaced and that she would pay for the mailing of the now famous, "Earl Coat" to the roommate's home.
Minnie completed her wonderful stay in Rome. Upon her return, she had two very successful shows and is now painting great, happy, uplifting and upbeat stills, in bright, expensive oils. Unfettered by Earl, she has moved farther south end is enjoying the life of a successful and extremely talented painter.
The "Earl Coat" continues to reside at the Georgetown camp. Recently, it was told it will be traveling again. Friends of the family who live much farther north, will be needing the "Earl Coat" this season. It is such a warm and fuzzy feeling - the "Earl Coat" and the experience.
Later, Lorane. . . .
In addition to her many genres in the field of art, Minnie, the mother, shared a job with the guy, Earl. They were co-curators for a rather prestigious art museum on the coast. When not working at the museum, each would be hard at work in their combination apartment studio. Although Minnie had worked in watercolor and oils for many years, her canvases tended to be very dark and gloomy. (Whether this fact was at all related to her relationship with Earl, we shall never know.)
For his part, Earl dabbled in painting, sculpture, and dabbling. One could say the relationship was marked by its longevity and relative lack of change. When change did come, it was in the form of Minnie's reception of a one year, all expenses paid, time of work and study in Italy. Wasting no time, she was packed and off to Rome, knowing that Earl would assume the full responsibilities which they had shared at the museum. It was her dream come true and she glowed with the happiness of her good fortune.
Earl, on the other hand, seemed not to share in her ebullience. Rather, he sulked and assisted with her packing and transport to the airport with the visage of the punished puppy. With the air of a happy afterthought, Minnie assured Earl that she looked forward to his visiting her while she was abroad. He, in turn, smiled weakly and told her he would try his best to make some arrangements to do so.
With a humble half wave, he seemed to turn and drag himself slowly to the parking garage. Once out of Minnie's site he arrived at his car, and leaped with a gleeful yawl, kicking up his heels and returning to the ground grinning broadly. On his way back to the apartment, he called several friends, sharing with them the woeful tale of Minnie's depression at having to spend a month, let alone one year, away from him. Would they consider spelling him at the museum from time to time? He was a friend in need (And a man of greed).
It came to pass that at least three times within the next six months Earl crossed the pond, providing quiet company for Minnie; raucous company for Earl when he was out on errands. So generous in nature, he managed to find yet another attractive, wealthy, and in need of company woman in Rome. Her gratitude knew no bounds and included a luscious, navy blue, cashmere winter coat. After all, Earl had to return regularly to what he told her was the frigid climes of San Francisco.
At some point during the second half of Minnie's productive Roman holiday, she sadly lost her mother back in the United States. Of course Earl was at the ready with his consolation and transportation to Pittsburgh, handily enough now owning proper, warm clothing for the event. Rather a large affair (the funeral) in that Minnie's aunt had died within a day of her mother's passing, there was much confusion and many in attendance.
After the burial there was a reception at the funeral home. Despite the exhaustion of the many weary travelers, several hours were spent in fond remembrance of the two very close sisters - aunts, mothers, cousins, and friends to these visitors. Finally, farewells were bid and the crowd dispersed to several local hotels. Not long after, everyone was receiving frantic calls from the funeral director. It seems that no one could locate Earl's coat.
Just about everyone returned to the funeral home for assistance. After all, imported, navy blue, cashmere wool coats were not plentiful, even in the frosty climes of Pittsburgh. Half of the group scurried about engaged in the frenetic activity of location. Others sat comforting the now inconsolable Earl. Ultimately, this situation was officially declared a mystery by the funeral director and the grievers were dismissed.
One of the nieces had flown in from school at Georgetown, accompanied by her best friend who lived in Boston. They retired early as they had an early flight the next morning. Once back in the dorm, the best friend commented, "I was just so glad I had my new blue coat. It was colder in Pittsburgh than it is in Boston."
For her part, Minnie was curious as to how Earl came to own such a luxurious coat. Once back in Rome, she received several messages that calls had been coming from woman inquiring about her 'brother', Earl. Thinking quickly, she responded that he was fine but had to return to the States to take care of an irregularity at the museum. She then called Earl inquiring about his coat and any other irregularities he might have in the closet.
Earl returned post haste to Rome. Minnie was hard at work. Earl was hard pressed to explain a rather surprise visit from his 'sister's' new friend. Things ended as these things usually do. Springtime in Boston found best friend taking her winter clothes to be cleaned only to discover that her blue coat was - Earl's! At the completion of her hysterical confession, her roommate reassured her that her own coat would be replaced and that she would pay for the mailing of the now famous, "Earl Coat" to the roommate's home.
Minnie completed her wonderful stay in Rome. Upon her return, she had two very successful shows and is now painting great, happy, uplifting and upbeat stills, in bright, expensive oils. Unfettered by Earl, she has moved farther south end is enjoying the life of a successful and extremely talented painter.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Thursday, January 9, 2014
LORANE AND WRITING AND THUMBTACK!
href
="http://www.thumbtack.com/WRITING-AND-LORANE-Virginia-Beach-VA/service/772374">WRITING AND LORANE. . . .
"Please start listening", is all I had to say and, bingo! The speech recognition GUY started to listen and type for me. And really, at my age, this is the best Christmas present one can get.
I think I'll start by explaining that rather unusual first paragraph. You see, I happen to be in the market for writing and editing and proofreading and doing it all from my home locally. One day, during my pursuit, I came across a company called THUMBTACK. It seemed that they were aware of just the kind of activity I was interested in and asked that I fill out some forms, send them back to them, and wait for my very first client.
I guess you could say that I'm rather in the middle of the process. This middle part involves telling the world about myself, my abilities, my limitations, and my strong desire to work for and with them ('it', whichever). THUMBTACK had already prepared a variety of such announcements. However, they felt it would be in my best interest - and perhaps a more personal, accurate sharing of these qualities - if I do it myself.
So, color me doing it myself. (Bye the bye, that first unusual-looking paragraph was the profile address assigned to me by THUMBTACK which they wanted posted on my web page. It serves no other purpose than to alert THUMBTACK that I had indeed elected to write my own story rather than using one of theirs.)
As a THUMBTACK parvenu, I have no track record with the organization. This means that I am not able to tell you a wonderful tale about the many successes I've had using their connections and the armies of clients that I have accumulated by doing such stellar work for them (armies and THUMBTACK) .
Rather, I must begin at ground zero (oddly, I do not feel lonely or uncomfortable here) and share with you some of the daliences I've had during quite a long life of writing. Somehow using the very word 'writing' doesn't ring true. This because, you see, I don't believe I write but rather simply tell stories. And by telling stories I don't mean to mislead you into thinking of the word 'fiction'. Nay, my 'stories' are the spate of observations regarding the activity in the world as it was spinning around me.
Professionally speaking, I am a wife and mother (Employer: GOD) have written for quite a few local magazines and our newspaper, The Virginian Pilot, written book reviews for Amazon, contributed a short story to a collection of short stories for children, and dabbled in poetry. Perhaps 'scribbled' might have been a better word when it comes to poetry. I care very little for rhyming, detest symmetry, and the best way to describe my thoughts is with the word 'stray'.
I believe inspiration and wit come from above whereas drama comes from below. (And drama is the totally unnecessary, sordid, self-absorbed activity of dwelling on the negative.) I refuse to be a drama queen at an event given in my honor, even if it is my wake. In forty-five years or so of marriage - to the same person - we have experienced incomparable bliss as well as the depths of disintegrating sorrow.
This last refers to the death of our seventeen month-old son. The gold star of bliss refers to the successful raising of his three marvelous siblings. It is grossly unnatural for the child to predecease the parent. Our three children have conquered and learned from this incongruity. It shines through every day in the lives of their own beautiful and happy children.
As the saying goes, of all the things I have lost, I miss my mind the most. That being the ruling stray thought of the moment, I must confess I've already forgotten the reason for which I am committing this life history to paper. Ah, yes, THUMBTACK. Clearly, they do a sterling job of putting potential clients in touch with potential employees.
As a child, sibling, wife, mother, nurse, and medical malpractice litigation attorney, I have seen much in many places. If, therefore, you are in the market for a somewhat neurotic - but happily so - author, editor, proofreader, or participant in any creative genre, I guess I'm your gal.
Later, Lorane. . . .
="http://www.thumbtack.com/WRITING-AND-LORANE-Virginia-Beach-VA/service/772374">WRITING AND LORANE. . . .
"Please start listening", is all I had to say and, bingo! The speech recognition GUY started to listen and type for me. And really, at my age, this is the best Christmas present one can get.
I think I'll start by explaining that rather unusual first paragraph. You see, I happen to be in the market for writing and editing and proofreading and doing it all from my home locally. One day, during my pursuit, I came across a company called THUMBTACK. It seemed that they were aware of just the kind of activity I was interested in and asked that I fill out some forms, send them back to them, and wait for my very first client.
I guess you could say that I'm rather in the middle of the process. This middle part involves telling the world about myself, my abilities, my limitations, and my strong desire to work for and with them ('it', whichever). THUMBTACK had already prepared a variety of such announcements. However, they felt it would be in my best interest - and perhaps a more personal, accurate sharing of these qualities - if I do it myself.
So, color me doing it myself. (Bye the bye, that first unusual-looking paragraph was the profile address assigned to me by THUMBTACK which they wanted posted on my web page. It serves no other purpose than to alert THUMBTACK that I had indeed elected to write my own story rather than using one of theirs.)
As a THUMBTACK parvenu, I have no track record with the organization. This means that I am not able to tell you a wonderful tale about the many successes I've had using their connections and the armies of clients that I have accumulated by doing such stellar work for them (armies and THUMBTACK) .
Rather, I must begin at ground zero (oddly, I do not feel lonely or uncomfortable here) and share with you some of the daliences I've had during quite a long life of writing. Somehow using the very word 'writing' doesn't ring true. This because, you see, I don't believe I write but rather simply tell stories. And by telling stories I don't mean to mislead you into thinking of the word 'fiction'. Nay, my 'stories' are the spate of observations regarding the activity in the world as it was spinning around me.
Professionally speaking, I am a wife and mother (Employer: GOD) have written for quite a few local magazines and our newspaper, The Virginian Pilot, written book reviews for Amazon, contributed a short story to a collection of short stories for children, and dabbled in poetry. Perhaps 'scribbled' might have been a better word when it comes to poetry. I care very little for rhyming, detest symmetry, and the best way to describe my thoughts is with the word 'stray'.
I believe inspiration and wit come from above whereas drama comes from below. (And drama is the totally unnecessary, sordid, self-absorbed activity of dwelling on the negative.) I refuse to be a drama queen at an event given in my honor, even if it is my wake. In forty-five years or so of marriage - to the same person - we have experienced incomparable bliss as well as the depths of disintegrating sorrow.
This last refers to the death of our seventeen month-old son. The gold star of bliss refers to the successful raising of his three marvelous siblings. It is grossly unnatural for the child to predecease the parent. Our three children have conquered and learned from this incongruity. It shines through every day in the lives of their own beautiful and happy children.
As the saying goes, of all the things I have lost, I miss my mind the most. That being the ruling stray thought of the moment, I must confess I've already forgotten the reason for which I am committing this life history to paper. Ah, yes, THUMBTACK. Clearly, they do a sterling job of putting potential clients in touch with potential employees.
As a child, sibling, wife, mother, nurse, and medical malpractice litigation attorney, I have seen much in many places. If, therefore, you are in the market for a somewhat neurotic - but happily so - author, editor, proofreader, or participant in any creative genre, I guess I'm your gal.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Saturday, January 4, 2014
DESIGNING INTERIORS - TAKE 2 (SEEN)
Just picked up a magazine. Tuscan Style: live in relaxed elegance. The cover features an elegantly relaxed family room. Four pale ecru rattan woven chairs, pillowed in a powdery cyan, are grouped around as if to venerate a rather Spartan, square marble-topped table supported by black, round, wrought iron legs. The table hosts a rather prosaic ceramic bowl of five chubby baby blue hydrangea and two Moroccan leather, gold embossed tomes. They are slightly angled one to the other in an otherwise tidy pile on which one of a set of carved wood, blocky candle holders holding an off-white, round, fitted candle sits.
(One imagines that perhaps the occupant, returning from taking a breath of fresh air on dewy wet toes in the contiguous EL fresco emporium late last evening, having used a candle to enhance the mood and prevent an uncharacteristic spill transitioning from grass to brown-shaded woven tile flooring, had placed the impromptu walking light on the books adjacent to its partner, while still basking in the refreshment of the cool, stone exterior border wall, exuding its perfumery from its brim of greenery and buds. Nary a thought was given to its proper marble resting place.)
The tan interior adobe walls were broken by a surprised expression to hold a small fireplace. Three artfully arranged clay pots cradled infant blooms to one side of the opening. The entire expanse spoke of youth - indoors and out. This combination of age and decoration brought to mind that canvas we painted in our first apartment. He was finishing medical school and I was working and there was precious little of anything else. We did, however, inherit a lovely suite of furniture from his family. It was all of the furnishings from his father's first medical practice in 1934. Extremely well made and Deco in style, it nevertheless presented a challenge when it came to function and arrangement.
The handsome scale, waste basket, and desk - truly seaworthy - with its four matching chairs, provided both comfort and a feeling of playful "op art". Our own purchase, a hexagonal Formica dining table, was placed opposite a spacious and attractive sideboard. This last had been transformed from his Dad's roomy, attractive examining table. With its many different-sized drawers and interesting knobs, it was always a focus of lively (if not unusual) conversation. Its one ungainly drawback, functional as they may be, were the matching stirrups. I daresay they had more costume changes than Helen Hayes during their 'dinner at eight'- role. Imagine, if you will, Japanese flower arrangements or strobe-lit, Lego-engineered figurines painted steel gray and you'll have a legitimate appetizer if not a full five-course meal of their morphings. (Did I mention the fact that the table was carved from one piece and the stirrups were soldered on?)
The favorite AFTER dinner game, however, was "Let's take our guests' EKG's". Perhaps that's one reason our parties were so popular. It certainly wasn't the cuisine. AND, each guest got to leave with a personalized souvenir. Have you guessed? They each took home a rhythm strip of their very own heart rate. Of course we'd tell them it was normal. An if it was 'funny-looking'? Well, stuff happens. (Medical Style: living in feigned hardiness.)
Later, Lorane. . . .
(One imagines that perhaps the occupant, returning from taking a breath of fresh air on dewy wet toes in the contiguous EL fresco emporium late last evening, having used a candle to enhance the mood and prevent an uncharacteristic spill transitioning from grass to brown-shaded woven tile flooring, had placed the impromptu walking light on the books adjacent to its partner, while still basking in the refreshment of the cool, stone exterior border wall, exuding its perfumery from its brim of greenery and buds. Nary a thought was given to its proper marble resting place.)
The tan interior adobe walls were broken by a surprised expression to hold a small fireplace. Three artfully arranged clay pots cradled infant blooms to one side of the opening. The entire expanse spoke of youth - indoors and out. This combination of age and decoration brought to mind that canvas we painted in our first apartment. He was finishing medical school and I was working and there was precious little of anything else. We did, however, inherit a lovely suite of furniture from his family. It was all of the furnishings from his father's first medical practice in 1934. Extremely well made and Deco in style, it nevertheless presented a challenge when it came to function and arrangement.
The handsome scale, waste basket, and desk - truly seaworthy - with its four matching chairs, provided both comfort and a feeling of playful "op art". Our own purchase, a hexagonal Formica dining table, was placed opposite a spacious and attractive sideboard. This last had been transformed from his Dad's roomy, attractive examining table. With its many different-sized drawers and interesting knobs, it was always a focus of lively (if not unusual) conversation. Its one ungainly drawback, functional as they may be, were the matching stirrups. I daresay they had more costume changes than Helen Hayes during their 'dinner at eight'- role. Imagine, if you will, Japanese flower arrangements or strobe-lit, Lego-engineered figurines painted steel gray and you'll have a legitimate appetizer if not a full five-course meal of their morphings. (Did I mention the fact that the table was carved from one piece and the stirrups were soldered on?)
The favorite AFTER dinner game, however, was "Let's take our guests' EKG's". Perhaps that's one reason our parties were so popular. It certainly wasn't the cuisine. AND, each guest got to leave with a personalized souvenir. Have you guessed? They each took home a rhythm strip of their very own heart rate. Of course we'd tell them it was normal. An if it was 'funny-looking'? Well, stuff happens. (Medical Style: living in feigned hardiness.)
Later, Lorane. . . .
DESIGNING INTERIORS
Just picked up a magazine - TUSCAN STYLE: Live in relaxed elegance. The cover features an elegantly relaxed family room. Four pale ecru woven rattan chairs, pillowed in a powdery cyan, and grouped around as if to venerate a rather Spartan square, low marble-topped table supported by black, wrought iron legs. The table hosts a prosaic ceramic bowl of five chubby baby blue hydrangea and two Moroccan leather, gold embossed tomes. They are slightly angled one to the other in the otherwise tidy pile on which one of a set of carved wood blocky candle holders holding ecru, round, fitted candles sit.
(One imagines that perhaps the occupant, returning from taking a breath of fresh air on dewy wet toes in the contiguous EL fresco emporium late last evening, having used a candle to enhance the mood and prevent an uncharacteristic spill transitioning from grass to brown-shaded woven tile flooring, had placed the impromptu walking light on the books adjacent to its partner, still basking in the refreshment of the cool, stone exterior border wall exuding its perfumery from its brim of greenery and buds. Nary a thought was given to its proper marble resting place.)
The tan interior adobe walls broke in a surprised expression to hold a small fireplace. Three artfully arranged clay pots cradled infant blooms to one side of the opening. The entire expanse spoke of youth - indoors and out. This combination of age and decoration brought to mind the canvas we painted in our first apartment. He was finishing medical school and I was working and there was precious little of anything else. We did, however, inherit a lovely suite of furniture from his family. It was all of the furnishings from his father's first medical practice in 1934. Extremely well made and Deco in style, it nevertheless presented a challenge when it came two function and arrangement.
The handsome scale, waste basket, and desk - truly seaworthy - with its four matching chairs, provided both comfort and a feeling of playful "op art". Our own purchase, a hexagonal Formica dining table, was placed opposite a spacious and attractive sideboard. This last had been transformed from his dad's roomy, attractive examining table. With its many different sized drawers and decorative knobs, it was always a focus of lively conversation. Its one ungainly drawback, functional as they were, were the matching stirrups. I daresay they had more costume changes than Helen Hayes over the years. Imagine if you will Japanese flower arrangements or strobe-lit, Lego-engineered figurines painted steel gray and you'll have a legitimate appetizer if not a five full course of their morphing. (Did I mention the fact that the table was carved from one piece of wood and that the stirrups were soldered on?}
After dinner however, we always played "take our guests' EKG". Perhaps that's one reason our parties were so popular. It certainly was not the cuisine. And each guest would leave with a souvenir. Have you guessed? They each took home a rhythm strip of their very own heart rate. Of course we'd tell them it was normal. And if it was 'funny looking'? Stuff happens.
Later, Lorane. . . .
(One imagines that perhaps the occupant, returning from taking a breath of fresh air on dewy wet toes in the contiguous EL fresco emporium late last evening, having used a candle to enhance the mood and prevent an uncharacteristic spill transitioning from grass to brown-shaded woven tile flooring, had placed the impromptu walking light on the books adjacent to its partner, still basking in the refreshment of the cool, stone exterior border wall exuding its perfumery from its brim of greenery and buds. Nary a thought was given to its proper marble resting place.)
The tan interior adobe walls broke in a surprised expression to hold a small fireplace. Three artfully arranged clay pots cradled infant blooms to one side of the opening. The entire expanse spoke of youth - indoors and out. This combination of age and decoration brought to mind the canvas we painted in our first apartment. He was finishing medical school and I was working and there was precious little of anything else. We did, however, inherit a lovely suite of furniture from his family. It was all of the furnishings from his father's first medical practice in 1934. Extremely well made and Deco in style, it nevertheless presented a challenge when it came two function and arrangement.
The handsome scale, waste basket, and desk - truly seaworthy - with its four matching chairs, provided both comfort and a feeling of playful "op art". Our own purchase, a hexagonal Formica dining table, was placed opposite a spacious and attractive sideboard. This last had been transformed from his dad's roomy, attractive examining table. With its many different sized drawers and decorative knobs, it was always a focus of lively conversation. Its one ungainly drawback, functional as they were, were the matching stirrups. I daresay they had more costume changes than Helen Hayes over the years. Imagine if you will Japanese flower arrangements or strobe-lit, Lego-engineered figurines painted steel gray and you'll have a legitimate appetizer if not a five full course of their morphing. (Did I mention the fact that the table was carved from one piece of wood and that the stirrups were soldered on?}
After dinner however, we always played "take our guests' EKG". Perhaps that's one reason our parties were so popular. It certainly was not the cuisine. And each guest would leave with a souvenir. Have you guessed? They each took home a rhythm strip of their very own heart rate. Of course we'd tell them it was normal. And if it was 'funny looking'? Stuff happens.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Sunday, December 22, 2013
On 'By-And-Under-Standing' Greatness
Good heavens! Has it really been that long? Sorry. But these past several months have delivered blows - health-related and loss-related. One of the losses was particularly painful, marking as well a " rite of passage" in my life. But, shamefully, the loss I believe I am missing the most is ME. Yes. That wasn't a typo. I believe I 'lost' myself as well. (Along with my quill. Even Do Tell couldn't recall where I last stored it.) But back to me. (Propriety not withstanding, all humans are happiest when the topic is all about them.)
During this literary hiatus - because of which, dear readers, (both of you) your lives were less rich. There has been ample time for mulling. And mull I did. Ti's the season, after all. I replayed this saga, even taking notes at times (And how pathetic is that?) decade by decade, ultimately concluding that it has been given to me the role of " almost-making-it-but-knowing-many-who-truly-have. And-knowing-them-well."
The following outpouring should explain. A) the title of this post and B) why somewhere in the midst of these reflections I lost that coiner of snappy little phrases, wife and mom who truly contributed and supported "Sparky" and our offspring, Grams of seven little Peeps who saw her as someone to have fun with and never have to worry about prepositions during, and would some day make it in the major leagues. She's the one I lost, most regrettably.
Formative years. Birth to age 10 in Brooklyn was an asymmetrical composition in which space - geometric and emotional - loomed and receded sharply and with no discernible etiology. There were spans of time when my innermost dreams of my future suggested glowing lights and their sparkling reflections on a wet street. These were countered by spans when I mentally fought to enlist suggestive atmospheric effects that could surround me - like engaging oil canvases - to mute and the harshness of my reality - a blank GPS covered with soot.
Perhaps this explains my passion for literature and the theater. When the afternoon light began to fade, I could take refuge in a book or see a performance that portrayed elegant urbanities enjoying their surroundings. And there is no doubting that I even reached my eleventh year because I was enveloped in familial love and support and blessed with a strong faith.
I prettified my environs in my active imagination. We all did. The creek that was crossed by the splintered, rusty nailed bridge that led from Greenpoint to Long Island City was referred to as Lavender Lake, a favorite swimming hole of hood kids who never noticed the awful fumes from the glue factory when diving wildly from tar-splashed pier poles. Rather, we saw Lavender Lake as white and shining, reflecting certain-to-be future Summer Olympians. Majestic elms framed our mental portrait of the lake. There was nary a tree in the real neighborhood.
Eleven to twenty. I decided to characterize (Stray thought: I once ghost wrote a book for a Colombian doctor because he pronounced characterized ka-RAK'-tur-ized and said 'urinal' instead of journal. Brilliant fellow but a expression challenged.) this decade "movement".
I seemed to live half of my life on subways, buses, and an occasional car. I 'moved' daily from Greenpoint Brooklyn to the Prospect Park section to attend an all girls, small, Catholic high school. I understand it is a school for the deaf now. In many ways, it was then too. The students, well, my friends, had little use for what passed as education at the hands of the sisters of Saint Joseph, most of whom were octogenarians or deficient in some educational fashion.
For example, we had a French teacher with a significant stutter, exacerbated by hour snickering; a principal whose credo was all proper, young Catholic girls had two options - attend saint Joseph's college, majoring in English or education or go to a secretarial school and find employment that would culminate in getting her MRS and a large family. She therefore refused me a letter of recommendation two Barnard college because students attended protestant services there. (The word protestant was pronounced as though she were saying Druid.)
Lastly, the only sports available to us were basketball - in a league of similar small all female academies - and cheer leading. Working three evenings a week at Macy's precluded basketball but I did inquire about cheer leading. I was rejected because at that time I wore a 34C bra and jumping around publicly while cheering would
make me an "occasion of sin". (To whom, I ask you. We played only other all girl schools.)
After high school, I moved from New York to DC where, after four years, I had earned a BS in nursing, a serious boyfriend who was still in med school, and the chance to be part of the first coronary care unit in the country. I snapped that one right up, moving back to New York, sharing an apartment with a fellow alum on third and Lex.
As I tended writers, musicians (I actually called Isaac Stern "fiddler" and he rewarded me with one of his very rare smiles.), actors, (one such famous woman became my new best friend because I let her cover the hospital floor with her treasured lion skin rug, hauled to New York directly from slaughter on safari), and dignitaries. The ambassador from Bahrain had the good taste to suffer his heart attack while delivering a speech at the UN.
The event netted him a swift drive to our unit and me as his care provider. In return, at the conclusion of his protracted stay with us, he sent one of his minions to fetch 30 or so bottles of Ramu perfume from Kenneth's. None of the other staff liked it. I kept and treasured all 30 bottles.
Headquartered in our CCU and the Cornell Medical Center tower (from which one could see and hear the raucous soirees hosted by old blue eyes in his Sutton Place apartment) I became acutely aware of how truly ordinary these beings extraordinaire were when death toyed with the notion of feting them at his soiree. Their gratitude - when beating him at his game - was boundless and lavishly strewn upon their care providers.
When loss of life looms large for the 'great', the reactions are variable but the one element of common denomination is fettered candor regarding very personal issues. It seems to be a shared need among these very uncommon creatures. AND - pardon the pun - they share these ruminations of their souls with the nearest "COMMONER" which so often was me.
Thus, I inherited that dubious privilege of intently understanding (here we go again) the privileged as I stood or sat bedside, preserving their living (while earning nine) and piercing the walls of privacy that under normal circumstances permit few entrances. The onlooker who, either by chance or curiosity, happened to observe these encounters/private interludes would doubtless comment - if the occasion arose - 'she seems out of place'.
" Out of place" as though if this were the rolling credits at the end of a special news broadcast, she had been assigned and performed flawlessly the task of bringing this attentive audience up to date on the national weather, masterfully juggling the interplay of computerized, full color visuals, the artful and timely use of the ubiquitous pointer, the lavaliere mike from the control room, all the while executing professionalism in her posture, voice modulation, exacting enunciation, AND never a stumble in her serious but stylish four-inch heeled pumps. A peasant necessarily among royalty whose spotlight moment, albeit brief, was functionally superb. But the bottom line here is, "Why does this director display inordinate lack of judgment by including the 'weather lady' among this avalanche of luminaries who had held his audience spellbound for to 2 hours?"
And SHE, having been granted entrance to the wrong room, has no choice but to endure. "Dear Diary, this evening I debuted what could conceivably be a career of performing "The remembered, banal, inexcusable, on-air, theatrically maleficent distraction".
As it turned out, decades three, four, five and, so far six found me continually, although wearing a variety of different hats, executing that 'privilege' over and over again. I "do" 'greats' very well and often. My mulled thought on this activity can be summed up by concluding that the privilege is a gift without doubt and although it has taken five plus decades to realize it, it is a most rewarding service.
It has also served to focus my life. Rather then "missing" the lost conglomerate of the woman I was a few months ago, I am determined to incorporate all of these roles, managing emphasis and time according to need.
I had actually, Dear Diary, been granted access to the right room, which will be relished - not 'endured'. And by way of example, I'll be sharing my experience with the great and talented actor, Pat O'Brien. You'll just have to trust that during the several months we worked together, our personal relationship provided the opportunity to stand by and understand him. For now, I must wrap this - and quite a few other things - up.
Later, Lorane. . . .
During this literary hiatus - because of which, dear readers, (both of you) your lives were less rich. There has been ample time for mulling. And mull I did. Ti's the season, after all. I replayed this saga, even taking notes at times (And how pathetic is that?) decade by decade, ultimately concluding that it has been given to me the role of " almost-making-it-but-knowing-many-who-truly-have. And-knowing-them-well."
The following outpouring should explain. A) the title of this post and B) why somewhere in the midst of these reflections I lost that coiner of snappy little phrases, wife and mom who truly contributed and supported "Sparky" and our offspring, Grams of seven little Peeps who saw her as someone to have fun with and never have to worry about prepositions during, and would some day make it in the major leagues. She's the one I lost, most regrettably.
Formative years. Birth to age 10 in Brooklyn was an asymmetrical composition in which space - geometric and emotional - loomed and receded sharply and with no discernible etiology. There were spans of time when my innermost dreams of my future suggested glowing lights and their sparkling reflections on a wet street. These were countered by spans when I mentally fought to enlist suggestive atmospheric effects that could surround me - like engaging oil canvases - to mute and the harshness of my reality - a blank GPS covered with soot.
Perhaps this explains my passion for literature and the theater. When the afternoon light began to fade, I could take refuge in a book or see a performance that portrayed elegant urbanities enjoying their surroundings. And there is no doubting that I even reached my eleventh year because I was enveloped in familial love and support and blessed with a strong faith.
I prettified my environs in my active imagination. We all did. The creek that was crossed by the splintered, rusty nailed bridge that led from Greenpoint to Long Island City was referred to as Lavender Lake, a favorite swimming hole of hood kids who never noticed the awful fumes from the glue factory when diving wildly from tar-splashed pier poles. Rather, we saw Lavender Lake as white and shining, reflecting certain-to-be future Summer Olympians. Majestic elms framed our mental portrait of the lake. There was nary a tree in the real neighborhood.
Eleven to twenty. I decided to characterize (Stray thought: I once ghost wrote a book for a Colombian doctor because he pronounced characterized ka-RAK'-tur-ized and said 'urinal' instead of journal. Brilliant fellow but a expression challenged.) this decade "movement".
I seemed to live half of my life on subways, buses, and an occasional car. I 'moved' daily from Greenpoint Brooklyn to the Prospect Park section to attend an all girls, small, Catholic high school. I understand it is a school for the deaf now. In many ways, it was then too. The students, well, my friends, had little use for what passed as education at the hands of the sisters of Saint Joseph, most of whom were octogenarians or deficient in some educational fashion.
For example, we had a French teacher with a significant stutter, exacerbated by hour snickering; a principal whose credo was all proper, young Catholic girls had two options - attend saint Joseph's college, majoring in English or education or go to a secretarial school and find employment that would culminate in getting her MRS and a large family. She therefore refused me a letter of recommendation two Barnard college because students attended protestant services there. (The word protestant was pronounced as though she were saying Druid.)
Lastly, the only sports available to us were basketball - in a league of similar small all female academies - and cheer leading. Working three evenings a week at Macy's precluded basketball but I did inquire about cheer leading. I was rejected because at that time I wore a 34C bra and jumping around publicly while cheering would
make me an "occasion of sin". (To whom, I ask you. We played only other all girl schools.)
After high school, I moved from New York to DC where, after four years, I had earned a BS in nursing, a serious boyfriend who was still in med school, and the chance to be part of the first coronary care unit in the country. I snapped that one right up, moving back to New York, sharing an apartment with a fellow alum on third and Lex.
As I tended writers, musicians (I actually called Isaac Stern "fiddler" and he rewarded me with one of his very rare smiles.), actors, (one such famous woman became my new best friend because I let her cover the hospital floor with her treasured lion skin rug, hauled to New York directly from slaughter on safari), and dignitaries. The ambassador from Bahrain had the good taste to suffer his heart attack while delivering a speech at the UN.
The event netted him a swift drive to our unit and me as his care provider. In return, at the conclusion of his protracted stay with us, he sent one of his minions to fetch 30 or so bottles of Ramu perfume from Kenneth's. None of the other staff liked it. I kept and treasured all 30 bottles.
Headquartered in our CCU and the Cornell Medical Center tower (from which one could see and hear the raucous soirees hosted by old blue eyes in his Sutton Place apartment) I became acutely aware of how truly ordinary these beings extraordinaire were when death toyed with the notion of feting them at his soiree. Their gratitude - when beating him at his game - was boundless and lavishly strewn upon their care providers.
When loss of life looms large for the 'great', the reactions are variable but the one element of common denomination is fettered candor regarding very personal issues. It seems to be a shared need among these very uncommon creatures. AND - pardon the pun - they share these ruminations of their souls with the nearest "COMMONER" which so often was me.
Thus, I inherited that dubious privilege of intently understanding (here we go again) the privileged as I stood or sat bedside, preserving their living (while earning nine) and piercing the walls of privacy that under normal circumstances permit few entrances. The onlooker who, either by chance or curiosity, happened to observe these encounters/private interludes would doubtless comment - if the occasion arose - 'she seems out of place'.
" Out of place" as though if this were the rolling credits at the end of a special news broadcast, she had been assigned and performed flawlessly the task of bringing this attentive audience up to date on the national weather, masterfully juggling the interplay of computerized, full color visuals, the artful and timely use of the ubiquitous pointer, the lavaliere mike from the control room, all the while executing professionalism in her posture, voice modulation, exacting enunciation, AND never a stumble in her serious but stylish four-inch heeled pumps. A peasant necessarily among royalty whose spotlight moment, albeit brief, was functionally superb. But the bottom line here is, "Why does this director display inordinate lack of judgment by including the 'weather lady' among this avalanche of luminaries who had held his audience spellbound for to 2 hours?"
And SHE, having been granted entrance to the wrong room, has no choice but to endure. "Dear Diary, this evening I debuted what could conceivably be a career of performing "The remembered, banal, inexcusable, on-air, theatrically maleficent distraction".
As it turned out, decades three, four, five and, so far six found me continually, although wearing a variety of different hats, executing that 'privilege' over and over again. I "do" 'greats' very well and often. My mulled thought on this activity can be summed up by concluding that the privilege is a gift without doubt and although it has taken five plus decades to realize it, it is a most rewarding service.
It has also served to focus my life. Rather then "missing" the lost conglomerate of the woman I was a few months ago, I am determined to incorporate all of these roles, managing emphasis and time according to need.
I had actually, Dear Diary, been granted access to the right room, which will be relished - not 'endured'. And by way of example, I'll be sharing my experience with the great and talented actor, Pat O'Brien. You'll just have to trust that during the several months we worked together, our personal relationship provided the opportunity to stand by and understand him. For now, I must wrap this - and quite a few other things - up.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Boo-Hoo Jasmine
'OUT-OF-THE-BOX' MEMO ON "OBAMACARE"
I've heard rumors. Seen pictures even. Indeed I thought I actually saw "THE BOX" once. Felt threatened. It had to be a mirage. I mean, a giant, cubic structure, black, opaque, labeled in white block lettering - "The Box" - just hanging out. Adding to my natural aversion to all things pugilistic - 'boxing' as a sport, entertainment or exercise - the structure was aesthetically unappealing (not Cubist of a remnant of DA DA-ism in form).
I thought - from my safe, non-threatening, non-involved perspective/placement - outside the 'Box' - 'No'. It is simply a no-go/don't roll that way 'thing'. This stray thought, bona fide sibling of my thought process/Family of strays is of small moment but does explain my way of being in the world. ALL of my thoughts are strays - believe the diagnosis was ADHD - and comfortably so. Perhaps "The Box" is simply a container, sated with orderly, logical, rational, 'lock-step' THOUGHTS, surrounded by an invisible, electronic moat, strategically placed/guarded so as to bar entry to ANYTHING resembling that disorderly genus of pathogens - "THE STRAYS".
I'll never know. Outside the box here, on a good day I have (stray) mood swings; on a bad day I have the whole (stray) 'mood playground'.
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Today's stray is spawned by a recent viewing of Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine. Brilliantly executed, the film's centerpiece - the woman previous generations recall as Blanche DuBois - is given a well-deserved 'portrayal extraordinaire by Academy Award-winning actress Kate Blanchard.
Later,
I'll never know. Outside the box here, on a good day I have (stray) mood swings; on a bad day I have the whole (stray) 'mood playground'.
Today's stray is spawned by a recent viewing of Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine. Brilliantly executed, the film's centerpiece - the woman previous generations recall as Blanche DuBois - is given a well-deserved 'portrayal extraordinaire by Academy Award-winning actress Kate Blanchard.
Thoroughly engrossed in the 'art' of the movie, I later surrendered to reverie's invitation and re-visited Streetcar Named Desire and she reflections it spawned. I could still see Blanche covering bare light bulbs with garish Chinese lanterns because she believed that in the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary.
But although it is said that beauty happens when art meets life, this was not the case in the entire experience of Streetcar. For example, just before the curtain falls, the final scene sets the stage for the cradle - that soft, swinging cocoon in which so many of us begin life's journey - to do the same.
"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." These are Blanche's final words to us. A faded Southern beauty who is plagued by neurotic, genteel pretensions, she speaks these words as she is being escorted from her sister's home by a doctor and a nurse. They are the strangers of whom she ostensibly refers. Having just witnessed this tragic heroine's mental and moral disintegration, one cannot help but see an allusion to Blanche's sordid history of prostitution in her fateful final line.
The good news for Blanche is that she doesn't have to wait around for pre-certification or the assignment of a very well-compensated 'guide', a common requisite in what will soon be our new 'affordable' health care system. (To date, the qualifications of these individuals are de minimus with regard to knowledge of health matters such as pathology, treatment, diagnosis and the like. The 'guide' serves only the purpose of directing a patient to the appropriate treatment facility or program for same.)
Barring evidence/information to the contrary, then, they need only be kind and strange. And this system, designed rumor has it (because the legislators who enacted it did so without reading it), tends to instill a fear of security (knowledge being power), the chipping away of independence and choice and quite possibly the availability of appropriate care when it is needed.
So here we are on the brink of entering a garden quite strange to us at the behest of a guide equally strange - but kind. Must we go in? Do we have the option of keeping things the way they were? The hinges of the garden's gate of memory swing - like our cradle in the attic - and though my heart and mind need go into the garden, it is to walk with olden things.
How will it turn out? Not as it did for Blanche. And Jasmine, poor dear, recalls - and re-tells to young nephews - her therapeutic 'do' applied with electricity-cum-conditioner to rid her of that 'frizz' on her head. Our fate, rather, must be executed by presumably affordable 'guides' in something of a desultory fashion.
Let's all trust that our hopes and dreams - and those of our progeny - swing right along with some miraculous light - one that shines compassionately, not requiring Chinese lantern-covering to protect us from its harsh reality of neglect and ultimate disintegration. He has given us affordable health care. It is a "tale told by a fool, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." We have found the fountain of youth. This because ageing is simply not affordable.
Later,
Lorane. . . .
Monday, September 2, 2013
The way We Were
Genuinely speaking, - the genesis of that qualification, bye the bye, simply bears witness to the fact that eighty per cent of what I write is written because I am moved - bulldozed even - to share what I feel are significant ruminations and observations.
The remaining twenty per cent has been urged upon me as material that someone else wants to say - and would but for lack of a forum. Writing from emotion and intuition, never concerned with the trappings of accuracy nor the drudgery of plodding through authoritative tomes in search of factual data that would lend some insight or significance, even, to my scribnership, fits comfortably, tattered T-shirt-like.
This actually makes sense (another non-concern) as it mirrors reading habits. Rarely is anything read in its entirety unless it moves me, actually precipitates an irresistible commitment to continue. (I think now how fortunate this was for my children that I wasn't thusly 'grabbed' by Anna Karenina when there were children, a husband and a dog relying on wife/mother's industry for the procurement/preparation of food and the civilized requisite of clean clothing at the ready.)
Having evolved into my present passage (to which we have a right), it followed naturally that I distance myself from writing 'groups' and organizations. This because the element of common denomination that forges these entities is something of a 'mission statement' (we write; like to be in the company of writers; wish to become. . . point made) that involves/ requires regular conventions and workshops.
These gatherings, dedicated to writing, are hallmarked by the hosting of known/successful authors who speak to the assembled 'would-bes', pleasantly but tutorially nevertheless
(aside: "Me at writers' meeting dreaming of being with the ole 'Round Table Gang'.)
often with a soupcon of smugness, always with a truckload of copies of their latest opus on display, prepped and ready for that personal note written to the drooling purchaser, signed by the known, accomplished hawker.
For sixty-some years, I've preferred - whenever possible and surrounded by my favorite things/people -
.jpg)
(JUST 'being' with the grand peeps)
I'll assume you get the picture(s). - no pun, just FUN. And that is what truly inspires an introvert - in the Jungian sense - like me. It's also, perhaps, why so many writers are introverts. They are affected by what their environment does to them - working in obscurity. I daresay - and you can see - I've fixed the place up somewhat tastefully (mine), adorned it with an ambiance that will allow for remaining here, untarnished by commercial success and soaking in blissful lack of conventionality and sagacity as long as I remain among the quick.
UNLESS. There was a break-in, so to speak, last week. It came in the form of a missive which presented itself as a legitimate correspondence to me from one Ms. Elise Warren, Guest Services Manager for U S Airlines. It seemed I was the fortunate recipient of an award - valuable at that - entitling me to two free airline tickets to ANYWHERE in the continental US PLUS two free nights for two cozy occupants at any Marriott Hotel location.
With Thanksgiving soon trotting up to our door and a brand new peep - Wee Wes Compton - in Boston, my ebullience was barely containable. As hurried/harried investigation would prove, it was also entirely unwarranted as well. The infamous Warren wench, I discovered - on an extremely rare foray into the investigative journalism arena - was entirely bogus and I cruelly beset upon.
Such is the downside of introversion. We become prey to the negative elements of our environment, never having acquired the skills of the 'artful dodger'. (To be perfectly honest, the word was deleted from my hard drive when they closed Ebbett's Field.) The gonfalon bubble was pierced and the sport itself followed only literally. Ms. Warren had visited upon me pain greater than the lance that became known as "Tinker To Evers To Chance".
It' been said that "Men never make passes at girls who wear glasses". I would profer a warning: to the careless, 'Introverted masses', sans rigid Arthurian mail, we are ripe for transformation to asses.' We are safer, happiest, the way we were.
Later, Lorane. . . .
The remaining twenty per cent has been urged upon me as material that someone else wants to say - and would but for lack of a forum. Writing from emotion and intuition, never concerned with the trappings of accuracy nor the drudgery of plodding through authoritative tomes in search of factual data that would lend some insight or significance, even, to my scribnership, fits comfortably, tattered T-shirt-like.
This actually makes sense (another non-concern) as it mirrors reading habits. Rarely is anything read in its entirety unless it moves me, actually precipitates an irresistible commitment to continue. (I think now how fortunate this was for my children that I wasn't thusly 'grabbed' by Anna Karenina when there were children, a husband and a dog relying on wife/mother's industry for the procurement/preparation of food and the civilized requisite of clean clothing at the ready.)
Having evolved into my present passage (to which we have a right), it followed naturally that I distance myself from writing 'groups' and organizations. This because the element of common denomination that forges these entities is something of a 'mission statement' (we write; like to be in the company of writers; wish to become. . . point made) that involves/ requires regular conventions and workshops.
These gatherings, dedicated to writing, are hallmarked by the hosting of known/successful authors who speak to the assembled 'would-bes', pleasantly but tutorially nevertheless
(aside: "Me at writers' meeting dreaming of being with the ole 'Round Table Gang'.)
often with a soupcon of smugness, always with a truckload of copies of their latest opus on display, prepped and ready for that personal note written to the drooling purchaser, signed by the known, accomplished hawker.
For sixty-some years, I've preferred - whenever possible and surrounded by my favorite things/people -
MY STATIONARY
(COMFY PILLOWS)I'll assume you get the picture(s). - no pun, just FUN. And that is what truly inspires an introvert - in the Jungian sense - like me. It's also, perhaps, why so many writers are introverts. They are affected by what their environment does to them - working in obscurity. I daresay - and you can see - I've fixed the place up somewhat tastefully (mine), adorned it with an ambiance that will allow for remaining here, untarnished by commercial success and soaking in blissful lack of conventionality and sagacity as long as I remain among the quick.
UNLESS. There was a break-in, so to speak, last week. It came in the form of a missive which presented itself as a legitimate correspondence to me from one Ms. Elise Warren, Guest Services Manager for U S Airlines. It seemed I was the fortunate recipient of an award - valuable at that - entitling me to two free airline tickets to ANYWHERE in the continental US PLUS two free nights for two cozy occupants at any Marriott Hotel location.
With Thanksgiving soon trotting up to our door and a brand new peep - Wee Wes Compton - in Boston, my ebullience was barely containable. As hurried/harried investigation would prove, it was also entirely unwarranted as well. The infamous Warren wench, I discovered - on an extremely rare foray into the investigative journalism arena - was entirely bogus and I cruelly beset upon.
Such is the downside of introversion. We become prey to the negative elements of our environment, never having acquired the skills of the 'artful dodger'. (To be perfectly honest, the word was deleted from my hard drive when they closed Ebbett's Field.) The gonfalon bubble was pierced and the sport itself followed only literally. Ms. Warren had visited upon me pain greater than the lance that became known as "Tinker To Evers To Chance".
It' been said that "Men never make passes at girls who wear glasses". I would profer a warning: to the careless, 'Introverted masses', sans rigid Arthurian mail, we are ripe for transformation to asses.' We are safer, happiest, the way we were.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Sunday, August 25, 2013
PSA: From a Non-Paid, Attorney Spokesperson
Just when I thought I would never see it in print, I recently came across an impressively cogent and accurate article, the reading of which confirmed that I am - have always been - a dyed in the wool INTROVERT. Carolyn Gregoire poses 23 questions which, if the reader responds in the affirmative, confirms the fact that said reader is indeed a "secret introvert". I urge you, then, to scotch any rumors to the contrary about this writer's 'way of being in the world'.
Why, you might be wondering with hungry curiosity, is this mundane fact of any moment? Well, tucked snugly, protected from extraverted assault, is the proclivity to express one's self - with no small authority - via the written word. (Other favorites included but were not limited to a negative response to excess environmental stimuli - can't help wondering if that applies to my abhorrence of sound pollution? - requisite 'down-time to recover/re-charge from the former, and reacting to a ringing telephone - 'incoming/unwanted call!' - as though someone had shouted "BOOO!" in the wee hours of the night.
MOST profound was the fact that introverts have a constant, on-going inner dialogue in action. This, coupled with an inordinate attention to details the rest of the population consistently ignores, has birthed this evening's brief but heartfelt outburst. Indeed, though an uncharacteristic outpouring for me, I feel a strong emotional responsibility to YOU to relay my grievances.
We've been down this path before, lo so many months ago when I shared my not-so-shining moments working as a DJ at a local radio station. I call it to mind by way of justification and to lend some credibility to my observations - which, to be sure, are intended as a shield for your deservedly sensitive feelings. Whether it be accompanied by the visual or not: CARELESS, PREVENTABLE COMMENTARY SPEWED OVER OUR AIR WAVES IN THE FORM OF ADVERTISING IS NOTHING SHY OF VENOMOUS.
There. I've said it and can only HOPE that the army of inattentive button-pushers and programmers on our televised and audio commentary menus are going to get wind of my observances and clean up their act! (Aware of the risk of redundancies, I'm soldiering ahead.) Why? Because it apparently needs repetition.
You will recall, that the programing of commercials can/is subject to control. It is also true that talk show hosts and journalist-types should be aware of the contemporaneous elements of reportage and advertising breaks. For example, announcing that dear little addition to the Royal Family loses its ebullience when followed by threatening, negative dialogue.
I will simply throw out, "Are you OK, Mrs. Meekham?", "No.", plaintively, "I've fallen and I can't get up!" This tripe is immediately punctuated with the command-from-nowhere, "Susan, we've detected a strong presence of smoke emanating from your kitchen. Get out!" (Well, in the interest of expedience, without time to inform the listener that scenarios have changed, I naturally think in horror, "How can she? She's fallen and she can't get up!") Now then. How can I - or anyone rejoice in the happiness abounding about the Prince changing the little shaver's nappies when it is upstaged post haste with this overwhelming tragedy that ensues?
Then we have the lineup of pharmaceutical miscreants, at first teasing us with the unimaginable, never-before experienced pleasures of sexual enhancement at age seventy-seven. This, of course deflates itself (no pun intended) when followed by the 'adverse effect' warnings legally requisite and ending with, "If you experience difficulty breathing, or swelling of your tongue and throat, contact your physician immediately." Ladies and Gents, if you experience those last symptoms, they will be your last symptoms. (Trust me on this one. Unless a neighbor is present and you are damned good at ASL!")
And what PSA would be complete without reminding us - following a teaser on the number of heinous deaths experienced in the Mideast at the hands of demons using chemical warfare products - in the unmistakably talent/taste-less tones of our own William De Vane, that "There's a storm coming." (Can't beat the guy when it comes to pith and insight.) Then old Bill shares his unique progenies' wisdom exhorting us to purchase gold. "What's in your safe?" "Pestilence and death, Bill. Read the paper?"
And the beat, as we once said, goes on. But. It needn't. If you have been given the privilege of wearing a set of over-sized headphones and a mike over which millions will absorb your dulcet tones, PAY ATTENTION! It's quite simple, really. And the humane, responsible thing to do. We realize that advertisers 'pay the bills', but surely even they don't want to be perceived as insensitive, greedy entities, do they? (We'll leave that as a 'rhetorical' question.)
Just do the right thing and do it right.
PS: "Do Tell, here. Just reminding you that it is still Kathy's Birthday MONTH!
Later, Lorane. . . .
Why, you might be wondering with hungry curiosity, is this mundane fact of any moment? Well, tucked snugly, protected from extraverted assault, is the proclivity to express one's self - with no small authority - via the written word. (Other favorites included but were not limited to a negative response to excess environmental stimuli - can't help wondering if that applies to my abhorrence of sound pollution? - requisite 'down-time to recover/re-charge from the former, and reacting to a ringing telephone - 'incoming/unwanted call!' - as though someone had shouted "BOOO!" in the wee hours of the night.
MOST profound was the fact that introverts have a constant, on-going inner dialogue in action. This, coupled with an inordinate attention to details the rest of the population consistently ignores, has birthed this evening's brief but heartfelt outburst. Indeed, though an uncharacteristic outpouring for me, I feel a strong emotional responsibility to YOU to relay my grievances.
We've been down this path before, lo so many months ago when I shared my not-so-shining moments working as a DJ at a local radio station. I call it to mind by way of justification and to lend some credibility to my observations - which, to be sure, are intended as a shield for your deservedly sensitive feelings. Whether it be accompanied by the visual or not: CARELESS, PREVENTABLE COMMENTARY SPEWED OVER OUR AIR WAVES IN THE FORM OF ADVERTISING IS NOTHING SHY OF VENOMOUS.
There. I've said it and can only HOPE that the army of inattentive button-pushers and programmers on our televised and audio commentary menus are going to get wind of my observances and clean up their act! (Aware of the risk of redundancies, I'm soldiering ahead.) Why? Because it apparently needs repetition.
You will recall, that the programing of commercials can/is subject to control. It is also true that talk show hosts and journalist-types should be aware of the contemporaneous elements of reportage and advertising breaks. For example, announcing that dear little addition to the Royal Family loses its ebullience when followed by threatening, negative dialogue.
I will simply throw out, "Are you OK, Mrs. Meekham?", "No.", plaintively, "I've fallen and I can't get up!" This tripe is immediately punctuated with the command-from-nowhere, "Susan, we've detected a strong presence of smoke emanating from your kitchen. Get out!" (Well, in the interest of expedience, without time to inform the listener that scenarios have changed, I naturally think in horror, "How can she? She's fallen and she can't get up!") Now then. How can I - or anyone rejoice in the happiness abounding about the Prince changing the little shaver's nappies when it is upstaged post haste with this overwhelming tragedy that ensues?
Then we have the lineup of pharmaceutical miscreants, at first teasing us with the unimaginable, never-before experienced pleasures of sexual enhancement at age seventy-seven. This, of course deflates itself (no pun intended) when followed by the 'adverse effect' warnings legally requisite and ending with, "If you experience difficulty breathing, or swelling of your tongue and throat, contact your physician immediately." Ladies and Gents, if you experience those last symptoms, they will be your last symptoms. (Trust me on this one. Unless a neighbor is present and you are damned good at ASL!")
And what PSA would be complete without reminding us - following a teaser on the number of heinous deaths experienced in the Mideast at the hands of demons using chemical warfare products - in the unmistakably talent/taste-less tones of our own William De Vane, that "There's a storm coming." (Can't beat the guy when it comes to pith and insight.) Then old Bill shares his unique progenies' wisdom exhorting us to purchase gold. "What's in your safe?" "Pestilence and death, Bill. Read the paper?"
And the beat, as we once said, goes on. But. It needn't. If you have been given the privilege of wearing a set of over-sized headphones and a mike over which millions will absorb your dulcet tones, PAY ATTENTION! It's quite simple, really. And the humane, responsible thing to do. We realize that advertisers 'pay the bills', but surely even they don't want to be perceived as insensitive, greedy entities, do they? (We'll leave that as a 'rhetorical' question.)
Just do the right thing and do it right.
PS: "Do Tell, here. Just reminding you that it is still Kathy's Birthday MONTH!
Later, Lorane. . . .
Thursday, August 22, 2013
It's the Little Stuff
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| Gigi (AKA Lorane), Grandpeep Mia Lorane welcome NEWEST 'Peep', Wesley Xavier Compton.
OK, I don't know how to rotate a photo from Sky Drive but I know you know how to tilt your head to the right. So, after trying to accomplish the former for an hour or so, I've elected to go with the latter. After all, it's far more important for you to meet Wee Wes and big Sis than for me to polish off every antacid I could find in the house.
Been quite a ride lo these past seven days. The grandparents, arriving at the end of yet another long day of parental pacing/fretting/very much OVER being pregnant as himself had decided to change his arrival date so far by 10 days, chatting amiably into the late evening over gripping topics like the successful execution of the nautical theme in the nursery and Jetty's (family Portuguese Water Dog; you've seen them romping around the White House lawn.) unbreakable attachment to pregnant Julie's side, the fascinating solar system ceiling night light in Mia's room, and-so-on.
The next day, "The drama-Begins-Day", we head for the Mall with Mia and take in "Planes" while the parents attend the weekly-ordeal office visit and receive the cryptic determination that things have finally begun to move, they are to go home and get a good night's rest in preparation for "Opening Night", as it were/was going to be.
They slept, packed, got admitted and continued all day to "move along" with help from a Pitocin drip to augment contractions, screeching on the brakes just long enough to get that epidural going. We spent another lovely day with Mia, ending with a quick pit stop (no pun intended) to see Mom. Bad move. So caught up in the action were we, that we neglected to mention/explain the presence of a snake pit (again, no pun) of wires and tubes that would be entering Mommy's person. Too late to convey the fact that these were helpful, painless, everyday, ordinary 'fun lines' that Mommies get to play with while waiting for baby bro. Oh no. Mia never got past, "WHY are they hurting Mommy?!"
Sweeping her out to the parking lot while blowing her nose, I promised to teach her a song on the way home in the car. (This is something of a tradition with all of my peeps who still can belt out "Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree", "Pull Brass Rings on the Merry-Go-Round", and "Yankee Doodle Dandy" along with some very select Dory Previn numbers.) For some reason that night I elected to teach her "The Little Mouse" song:
"Oh, the liquor was spilt on the bar room floor
And the bar was closed for the night.
When out on the floor crept a little brown mouse
And he sat in the pale moonlight.
Well, he lapped up the liquor from the bar room floor
Then back on his haunches he sat.
And all night long they could hear him r-o-a-r,
"Bring on the cotton-pickin' cat!"
Oddly enough, morning came. Odder still, no news from the hospital. (Their home is in a quaint town in a very wooded area which is most assuredly NOT friendly to cell phone signals.) Mia was cuddling with us in bed. All seemed quiet on the suburb front. Then my cell began a barrage of dings starting at almost 8 AM. We'd check the text and see, "Media message". We'd tap those horrid words and NOTHONG would happen but a nasty little "PS", "Tap again."
Finally, I was reading words frlm our son, "Congratulations on having another healthy grandchild." And just what potion of evil did HE have for breakfast? "WHAT DID WE HAVE?", I SPAT BACK. "Call on the house line." He did and just as we were telling Mia about Wee Wes' arrival, Daddy Matt opened the front door - looking more than a tad ragged - inquiring as to WHY Mia wasn't in her special "Meet Little Brother" outfit. The plan was for her to meet him first, then us 15 minutes behind so Julie could finally sleep.
Apparently, she'd rolled to her opposite side the evening before (just as the doc was getting ready to head to the delivery room) and felt Wes twist a bit. What ensued was an all-nighter of contractions/pushing, culminating in a non-stop one hour marathon of same beginning at 7 AM. With the entire entourage exhausted, doc made the call for a section and at 7:52AM, "Prince Wesex" made his entrance.
Mia was 'special-dressed' and out the door in a flash; we dressed lickety-split and followed; Congrats and tears all around in Julie's room. Then we got Mia to her Grammy so Matt could sleep; we moved to an inn in Plymouth so Matt and Mia could share a "Daddy/Daughter" weekend; visited Julie again before dinner with Matt's Lovely Mom and hubby. Aren't you tired just reading all this tripe?
I am just typing it. The mystery lies still in the "little miracle". One day you have a daughter who looks un-comfy with a basketball tucked under her diaphragm, sitting on her aorta causing shortness of breath. The next, a perfect miniature human being, sloe eyes darting about the room, following voices and moving images.
And so to bed, after, "Happy-Birthday-best-Buddy-Kathy-Dehler!" and to you, my hapless/loved readers, it really is about the 'little things'.
Later, Lorane. . . .
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Sunday, August 4, 2013
What's It All About?
 |
Alfie? Hardly. And "Hokey Pokey" is out. Must, then, be something 'in'.
Had to really listen up, so hushed was his cue.
Five, six seven, eight - "Jump!"
Fly high, tuck and SPLASH-IN!
No room to run and dash in.
But must have the SOUNDIN'
like a song. Like the song. Light the song.
It's your heart and soul, Joey. Because the
song alone - the melody,
cannot be 'in'. It needs the harmony.
You were, always will be, the Harmony.
Joey Patrick Callahan,
born of the perfect shot.
Francis Sullivan lovin' Lauren -
and it flew from that tee, took aim,
and came to be that "Hole in one!",
yelled he as he gazed at Lauren's ever swollen, won belly.
It was you, Joey P, that then surfaced to be
the missing light in the links of song
now perfected and completed
by Joey's Harmony filling life undefeated.
First as son to Father, Mother.
Then as sibling shield to brothers and sisters.
He brought comfort, spoke truth in song and word and laughed easily, heartfelt, at
the bidding of humanity and his Lord.
His mission - to be there
when big bro Sully crashed;
to love and mind Coleen when she thought him rash;
to encourage, reinforce in Vincie
that needed self-discipline that, if gone unheeded
would stagnate Vince. He'd not succeeded.
To cherish, bond with, allay Clare Bear's fears.
Acting as one from the start
and even now, to her end of these years.
There was a splash. Perhaps one heard a snap
as he crossed over, met by a wee Irish shaver.
Rubbing his eyes in confusion,
faintly hearing cries, sobs of desperation
he thought - must be a delusion.
Then, blindkng light - coming from him ."Like the song, Joey," wee one plead, "Remember, only you are Harmony. Only you make 'it' 'in'."
Sing with them.
Return her peace to Mom; eradicate Dad's doubts;
and reassure Sully such that he knows he's the strength for himself and Vincie
while Vince begins to re-learn laughter.
Be sure Coleen knows she'll never lose her prince. You're there always - always close and there. Lastly, you're ever 'The Man' and trojble buddy for little princess, Clare Bear.
Make certain they all know
it was ever the plan
that only laughter, love and kindness
would alone be the one whom others knew as Joseph Patrick Callahan.
It's about being 'in' on all the right things
and the power of good raining down
when melody and harmony sing the music of this living
which is but prelude to the next. A typically 'human' misunderstanding of prelude.
Later, Joey, Lorane. . . .
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