Wow. As my father used to say, it's been a long time between drinks. There is a reason. In fact, it is more than one reason. It just seems a waste of time and ink to recount them. So I'll just dive in.
I don't recall whether we discussed this before, but 'my way of being in the world', according to Dr. Carl Jung is as a true introvert. By this he means that I observe what's going on in the world and respond or react to it. The reaction is in no way passive or to be seen as negative. Rather, many introverts are responsible for bringing about very positive change in their environment.
Recently, a cluster of events involving friends and family caused me to reflect on the early days of our marriage. My husband and I came from two entirely different backgrounds or worlds as they say. His dad was a cardiologist and he was heading for the field of medicine following in his father's footsteps. My Dad, bright but unfortunately not educated, had a very strong work ethic and labored tirelessly for the American Chicle Company in their printing department for 35 years. I had one sibling, a brother, and my parents' main goal - mother also having been denied an education - was to ensure that their children would have an education.
When we married, then, we were a medical student and a nurse with a bachelor's degree from Georgetown University. Our finances were such that the United States Navy was very helpful in my husband's attaining of his goal. In return for this assistance he owed the Navy three years of his beginning medical career. He had hoped to be assigned to the medical/surgical ship, Hope, treating the injured who were fighting the war in Vietnam. At the completion of his officers' training in Rhode Island, the Hope was pulled back. We were pushed forward - in the eyes of the Navy - and downward - in our eyes - to Norfolk, Virginia.
Three weeks after arrival doc Phil was deployed on the destroyer Harold J. Ellison to the Mideast on a "friendly mission". All of this 'friendship' would take approximately 11 months. During the deployment, I lived with our then 10 month-old son Philip, in comfortable navy officers' town houses. You can only imagine our unblemished ebullience upon his return. Imagine as well our craving to restart our marriage in our own first home.
We were most fortunate in finding a small, white, Dutch Colonial in a neighborhood that was both close to the only catholic elementary school available as well as to the largest civilian hospital in which my husband wished to work after discharge from the military. Within weeks of our moving in, the diocese closed the school and sold the property to a condominium developer. Contemporaneously, a phenomenon formerly alien to me - busing - was in its inchoate phase. Therefore, Philip would walk two blocks where he would join youngsters who had been riding for over an hour to begin their preschool education at Taylor Elementary School. A large stone building planted on tree-lined streets engendered awe in these tiny day travelers.
I could strongly identify with these youngsters as I had attended elementary school in Brooklyn, New York where, rumor has it, trees do not grow. Well you can scotch that rumor because they do. Trees that is. A more valid rumor extant when I was a kid in grade school was something called "segregation". The main thrust was that white children and black children did not play or go to school together. The prevalence of wise guys in Brooklyn told me that we little kids were having our chains jerked.
Fast-forward us to June 1969 - 1970, plunk us down in Norfolk, Virginia sending our first little guy to preschool and you have the recipe for feeling sorry for these kids who were trundled back and forth like baggage every day to school. It wasn't so much the traveling. You get used to that. I took two subways and a bus just to get high school. It was more the force feeding of an alien culture to a child and telling him it was good and good for him.
I also found myself feeling sorry for my parents. They had worked so hard to give us the gift of being comfortable among the 'smart' people and now that we had an education, we found ourselves still having to prove ourselves and our 'smartness' to our colleagues and peers. The right loan and a steady job got us the house. But what price acceptance? Or friendship? Or asparagus for that matter.
It was tradition in our new neighborhood for one of the community leaders to host a welcoming party for new neighbors. Preparing for the evening of this festivity, we were nervous all day long. We memorized names and tested each other by describing their owners. We practiced walking the half block to the party in our empty living room. (The standard answer to any queries about this void was always "We're strong believers minimalism.") And when the curtain actually went up, we could be seen standing in the driveway between two houses - one of which would be the correct address. Smiling and admiring the sunset, we argued about the house number.
After what must have been an agreed-upon length of time for this misery, our host came bounding down the perfectly manicured lawn to lead us to his majestic front door and our potential future. With revelers spilling into the entrance hall, we were each labeled with stick-on labels reading, "Hello, my name is" and with the gold metallic pens proffered, we each printed our first and last names (which caused amused giggling and winks the likes of which served to break the ice but confuse us completely.)
Thusly adorned, we entered the exquisitely- appointed living room. Color-coded napkins and coasters, printed stirrers and miniature banners - "AND NOW, THE LEAVYS!" were sprinkled about. We were led to the bar, generously supplied, and I dare say we sprinted to its offerings. Next on to a completely covered groaning board. Our hostess, Olga, the neighborhood's cherished and accomplished chef, had really outdone herself. (Or so we were told as we had no knowledge of Olga when she was 'in'- doing.)
Muted classical music swimming in the background, the evening proceeded smoothly, abounding with greetings - "Welcome, dears", "We've heard so much about you.", until at one point I thought I heard our host call/whisper my name. Turning in curiosity, I did indeed see our host crooking his finger at me in a fetching manner. I approached cautiously, trying to arrange my face into something of a "You called?" expression. After meticulously wiping no crumbs from each side of his smirk, he said simply, "We all know the kind of woman you are." Intrigued, I allowed my eyes to plead for the definition.
By way of response, I was treated to a monologue the focus of which was my leaving the house in the evening with my young son and returning rather late with my son alone. These excursions apparently took place only when my husband was working at the hospital. He went on, un-invited, to add, "By contrast, my wife, Olga, is standing by our open living room door with our two children at her side when I arrive home each evening. And she is completely ready to give me anything - and I mean anything - I want at that moment." Popping a cheese ball into my mouth, I turned focused intently. His eyes followed my gaze. We both then enjoyed the vision of Olga making her way across the room with at least 10 "Hello, my name is" labels affixed to her derriere. A male name was neatly printed on each label.
Brushing the no crumbs off both of my covered shoulders, I proceeded gracefully to the cloak closet. Having seen but not heard the exchange, I felt my husband in tow. With an expression exuding pleasant exhaustion, I waived kisses to the assemblage, allowing my shawl to be draped on my shoulders and preceded my husband across the meticulously manicured but now punctured lawn to the sidewalk. Ambling back to "Castle Leavy", I wondered aloud whether the moat would be chilly as there seemed to be an unusual frost in the air.
Irish anger having subsided, we spoke mostly of correcting/healing any wounds. It had been one week since Mr. Simon's play, "Prisoner of Second Avenue", had opened to raves at the local dinner theater. I was fortunate to be cast in the lead as Edna. We decided to treat all of our new neighbors to an evening of dinner and the show. It was important to both of us that while waiting for child number two, I was very involved in community theater, especially in productions that lifted people's spirits. I have always felt laughter is a wonderful medicine and the genius of Mr. Simon is found not only in his wit and through his quill but in the message one ultimately leaves the theater feeling.
In this case I truly believed that seeing the performance would be therapeutic for all involved. At the opening a middle aged couples' apartment has been robbed and Edna, the wife, is calling the police. She then calls Mel, her husband, who, as only a husband can inquire, says, "Robbed? Whaddya mean, 'robbed'?" Her response is just as typical. "Robbed. Robbed. They come in. They take things out. Robbed." The playwright then walks the audience through the response of each of the marriage partners.
Egalitarian as Simon is, he allows each character to crash and burn and then to recover. In my mind, the two stars of the performance are the recovery and the fact that they recover together. These are both very positive and necessary things in a marriage. For my husband and I, we had been wronged but after discussion, we not only got over it, we got over it together and we reached out to those who had wronged us. It was our sincere hope that as a little neighborhood community, the response would be the same. At curtain call, dressed in pajamas and a terry cloth robe, I looked up and was staring into six sets of steely eyes.
The following morning I visited Hillary, a young gal with whom I really thought I had bonded. Sitting in the living room waiting for Hillary to get her coffee mug, my eyes were fixed on her husband's bronzed kicking shoe that his parents had given their son when he graduated from UVA. (Looking back, seeing that little spectacle would have put most sensible women on their guard with regard to its owner.) Hillary returned, wearing her terry cloth robe, and sat, hugging her coffee mug as if to protect it from my attempt at stealing it. "Was there something special on your mind because I'm running late," she said. (That she would be running at all, let alone in a robe, never crossed my mind. Pretty Hillary, a docent at our local museum, could have used a Jane Fonda tape for Christmas.)
Fast forward four months. Ironically, she did start jogging. She joined a group that met each morning at 6:00 AM then jogged for an hour. The effect was most dramatic. She looked fantastic and had an affair with a young man - father of seven - who had also decided to become a strider. Thus began an avalanche of broken hearts and marriages that became viral in our 'smart' little community. Does this story have a ring to it? (Or a point, you're probably asking yourself. Fair game.) Or does it only have morbidity?
Yes, we've been robbed. We can crash and burn but don't even try to fix it - let alone together. It's all about, "I've got a brand new pair of roller skates; you've got a brand new key. Let's see if we can get together and try them out and see. I've been lookin' around allot. You've got somethin' for me." (Dory Previn) Nobody even HAS to know your name.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Monday, February 10, 2014
This and too much That
You know regardless of what you say you may have in mind (or remnants therefrom), it seems that with each passing day your plans, dreams, activities (or avoidance thereof), relationships (or non) are in a process of RE-orchestration.
When I was a child, nightmares (on occasion) followed "scary stuff" - rumors of aliens taking over our world, threats of wars and the dropping of bombs, the prom invite NOT materializing.You remember. That stuff. Now, decades later, we can chill out. Relax a bit. Because it all happened for real and we made it through. And because we made it through, we can have stuff 'in mind'.
Those plans, dreams, activities - it's all there. And it's ours. It's our turn. Gotcha! You forgot. RE-orchestration is the CEO. It's subtle - this process - and very well marketed. But the bottom line remains - you are not running the show. And there's no point whining about it. Like rats in a Skinner Box, Simple Simon said and we did. Nobody wants to be a misfit, odd-man out, not cool and up-to-date.
With social media at the helm, we get on board - Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, YouTube. We connect, befriend, like - and quickly, because there will be more stuff to learn tomorrow - and lots of it. All those dreams of sailing into the sunset came true. Unfortunately, instead of boarding "Happily Ever After", I got on to the "Ship of Fools".
Why just today, I learned that I am already history. One of my granddaughters asked if I would help her with her Kindergarten project. She called and requested that I answer several questions.
"Certainly," I said.
"When you were a little girl, did you use a tin tub or did you have a bathtub?"
"A tin what?"
"Tub. For your bath."
"Of course we had a bathtub," I said laughing.
"Did you have to pump your drinking water?"
"No, Emma. We had faucets in the house. Just like you. But I did pump water to drink once. We were visiting family who lived on a farm during vacation."
"Poppy used to visit family in Mars, Pennsylvania all the time and they had to pump their water."
Our daughter had the speaker phone on.
"I'm sure the children will find that very interesting."
"And when he played baseball with his cousin, Phil, they made the little pillow bases out of cow droppings."
"They may not find that quite as interesting," Jennie added.
It was difficult to follow the interview because both my cell phone and my Surface tablet were on my desk. Did I turn them off? Of course. But "(Tee, hee) we're here." Softly bonging whenever an email came or a voicemail registered in the phone.
"I'm sorry, Emma. What was that about houses?"
"Did you and Poppy live in your own house?"
"Well Poppy's family had their own house. I lived in an apartment house. It's a big house where several families live."
"Oh. Like Jay and Ashley's?" Jennie's brother in law and his wife live in an apartment so Emma had a frame of reference. But she found it very hard to believe that we had only one telephone in the house and that sometimes other families used this same number. I told her that we would be happy to answer any questions that her classmates may have after she gave her report.
Yesterday we were helping our oldest grandson with his project. He was to be dressed as an Irish immigrant in the early 20th century just arriving in America. He asked us whether we had an old trunk and perhaps an Irish, raggedy wool cap. My husband told him every family that was Irish had raggedy caps and he was sure we had one. I rushed to the garage to spray his father's army trunk with some muddy brown paint. Just as I was dragging it outside to dry I was busted. "You better be able to splain, Lucy," he said.
What's to explain? We spend our days learning new technology from the young children. But when we are asked to be or to make an antique, we shine. That's how we roll - holding each other in a death grip for fear of fracturing something on the way down. Later, Lorane
When I was a child, nightmares (on occasion) followed "scary stuff" - rumors of aliens taking over our world, threats of wars and the dropping of bombs, the prom invite NOT materializing.You remember. That stuff. Now, decades later, we can chill out. Relax a bit. Because it all happened for real and we made it through. And because we made it through, we can have stuff 'in mind'.
Those plans, dreams, activities - it's all there. And it's ours. It's our turn. Gotcha! You forgot. RE-orchestration is the CEO. It's subtle - this process - and very well marketed. But the bottom line remains - you are not running the show. And there's no point whining about it. Like rats in a Skinner Box, Simple Simon said and we did. Nobody wants to be a misfit, odd-man out, not cool and up-to-date.
With social media at the helm, we get on board - Facebook, Twitter, Linked In, YouTube. We connect, befriend, like - and quickly, because there will be more stuff to learn tomorrow - and lots of it. All those dreams of sailing into the sunset came true. Unfortunately, instead of boarding "Happily Ever After", I got on to the "Ship of Fools".
Why just today, I learned that I am already history. One of my granddaughters asked if I would help her with her Kindergarten project. She called and requested that I answer several questions.
"Certainly," I said.
"When you were a little girl, did you use a tin tub or did you have a bathtub?"
"A tin what?"
"Tub. For your bath."
"Of course we had a bathtub," I said laughing.
"Did you have to pump your drinking water?"
"No, Emma. We had faucets in the house. Just like you. But I did pump water to drink once. We were visiting family who lived on a farm during vacation."
"Poppy used to visit family in Mars, Pennsylvania all the time and they had to pump their water."
Our daughter had the speaker phone on.
"I'm sure the children will find that very interesting."
"And when he played baseball with his cousin, Phil, they made the little pillow bases out of cow droppings."
"They may not find that quite as interesting," Jennie added.
It was difficult to follow the interview because both my cell phone and my Surface tablet were on my desk. Did I turn them off? Of course. But "(Tee, hee) we're here." Softly bonging whenever an email came or a voicemail registered in the phone.
"I'm sorry, Emma. What was that about houses?"
"Did you and Poppy live in your own house?"
"Well Poppy's family had their own house. I lived in an apartment house. It's a big house where several families live."
"Oh. Like Jay and Ashley's?" Jennie's brother in law and his wife live in an apartment so Emma had a frame of reference. But she found it very hard to believe that we had only one telephone in the house and that sometimes other families used this same number. I told her that we would be happy to answer any questions that her classmates may have after she gave her report.
Yesterday we were helping our oldest grandson with his project. He was to be dressed as an Irish immigrant in the early 20th century just arriving in America. He asked us whether we had an old trunk and perhaps an Irish, raggedy wool cap. My husband told him every family that was Irish had raggedy caps and he was sure we had one. I rushed to the garage to spray his father's army trunk with some muddy brown paint. Just as I was dragging it outside to dry I was busted. "You better be able to splain, Lucy," he said.
What's to explain? We spend our days learning new technology from the young children. But when we are asked to be or to make an antique, we shine. That's how we roll - holding each other in a death grip for fear of fracturing something on the way down. Later, Lorane
Monday, February 3, 2014
Turn, Turn, Turn
It occurred to me today, which is a rather dreary, gray Monday, that it doesn't have to be. Having made this decision, at the end my usual chores, after belting out a few verses of the Carpenters', "Rainy Days and Mondays always Get Me Down", I resolved to come up with some resolutions (that do no involve 'belting' and 'down'.).
Donning this new mindset with admirable resolve, I sat at my desk and began by turning the page of the calendar to the month of February. And right before my eyes in glittering, exciting technicolor, I was faced with the vision of the most inspiring seascape I have ever experienced. I was looking at very clear cyan blue water peopled with scurrying tropical fish and the centerpiece of what I was to learn was the Andaman Sea - Andaman Island.
Rising majestically from the pristine waters, an enormous, vertically trapezoidal, green moss-covered blade of earth dominates. It could very well be a form of natural lighthouse set atop a huge undersea mountain. It was a vision that at once completely erased any thoughts of gray, of rainy, of sad Mondays. Moreover, it heightened, punctuated my resolve to make changes. Such is the power of natural beauty. It awakens the spirit, stirs the soul.
Propelled as I was on this lofty course, I decided that change number one would take the form of some type of follow through. By way of example several days ago we spoke of job- seeking and of what I thought would be my guardian - a company called Thumbtack. As that wheel of fortune turned, the guardian became one of anger rather than angel.
Suffice it to say that (face it, we all want to catch the 11:00 news) Thumbtack presented one mislead after another. My attempts at correcting errors went either unnoticed or ill- followed. In the end, it was the end. I refer of course, to the termination of our relationship, certainly not of my job seeking. It was a 'miss-tack'. I also spent some time talking about the indomitable spirit of our young in the face of what others might perceive as adversity. No changes there.
This morning I spent time catching up with emails and notifications. Apres B-ball games on Saturday we lunched at a New York deli. I guess that's put me in something of a Broadway mood.
Donning this new mindset with admirable resolve, I sat at my desk and began by turning the page of the calendar to the month of February. And right before my eyes in glittering, exciting technicolor, I was faced with the vision of the most inspiring seascape I have ever experienced. I was looking at very clear cyan blue water peopled with scurrying tropical fish and the centerpiece of what I was to learn was the Andaman Sea - Andaman Island.
Rising majestically from the pristine waters, an enormous, vertically trapezoidal, green moss-covered blade of earth dominates. It could very well be a form of natural lighthouse set atop a huge undersea mountain. It was a vision that at once completely erased any thoughts of gray, of rainy, of sad Mondays. Moreover, it heightened, punctuated my resolve to make changes. Such is the power of natural beauty. It awakens the spirit, stirs the soul.
Propelled as I was on this lofty course, I decided that change number one would take the form of some type of follow through. By way of example several days ago we spoke of job- seeking and of what I thought would be my guardian - a company called Thumbtack. As that wheel of fortune turned, the guardian became one of anger rather than angel.
Suffice it to say that (face it, we all want to catch the 11:00 news) Thumbtack presented one mislead after another. My attempts at correcting errors went either unnoticed or ill- followed. In the end, it was the end. I refer of course, to the termination of our relationship, certainly not of my job seeking. It was a 'miss-tack'. I also spent some time talking about the indomitable spirit of our young in the face of what others might perceive as adversity. No changes there.
This morning I spent time catching up with emails and notifications. Apres B-ball games on Saturday we lunched at a New York deli. I guess that's put me in something of a Broadway mood.
And that, in turn, 
led me to begin my catchup reading with friends from the theater. One of them must have been in something of a pithy mood as she shared with us a quote, to wit, "The poet sees what the philosopher thinks."
led me to begin my catchup reading with friends from the theater. One of them must have been in something of a pithy mood as she shared with us a quote, to wit, "The poet sees what the philosopher thinks."
Unfamiliar with its author, I reserved comment. I mean the guy could have been nearsighted or astigmatic. We just don't know.
The quote, however, put me in mind of a piercing query presented in one of the literary discussions to which I contribute. A writer had asked, "Do you see the story through your own eyes or, like an actor, do you see it through the character's perspective?". Putting the quote and the question together reminded me of something I had said to you, dear readers, recently. "My 'stories' are the spate of observations regarding the activity in the world as it was spinning around me."
I lay no claim to philosophical knowledge but can say with authority that the world has been spinning around me for lo these 60 plus years.(Had things gone in reverse, I probably would be the proud owner of quite a collection of brass rings by now.) I believe that all characters are in fact a composite of the writer's personality/ experience. Therefore, any 'story' must be self revelatory.
Very early on today (seems like years, doesn't it?) I mentioned my calendar art vision of the Andaman Sea and Island. As it turns out they are located due west of Bangkok, Thailand, an area that took a few spins around me some years ago. EN route to Hanoi with Operation Smile and plans to help with several weeks of cleft palate surgery, Bangkok had simply been a pit stop. And what a pit it was.
It was quite a surprise, then, to learn that so very close to this pit is what the recherche consider the 'pet' stop for leisure and fun. (Special February deals at this very moment - five days and six nights - starting as low as $29,000. But ya gotta hurry!) I'm afraid that's one spin I'm going to have to miss.
So. Poets see what philosophers think. Beauty is probably still in the eyes of the beholder. Stories are conglomerates of our split personalities. And $29,000 is better spent on the transport and supplies needed by those who donate their time and talent to fixing deformed children. I gotta tell you, though, if you still have that hankering to see Andaman and it's environs, this calendar does a sterling job.
Later, Lorane. . . .
Friday, January 31, 2014
Here's to the Red, White and NEVER get the 'Blues'
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. . . .
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. . . .
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. . . .
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