May 14, 2001: The Day the Music Lived. Again

     The other day I was (metaphorically) out foraging for wood to keep the ego fires burning.  It had been a week or so of 'downer days' - attorney screwed up so trial, with probable award for Moi, postponed;  child of mine refuses to return a valuable antiquity JUST when Mom in need;  spinal "condition" and car accident injury causing more pain and less range of motion;  contractor lied about beach cottage cleaning so son took wife there for leisurely Mother's Day weekend which she spent cleaning;  related my woes to "friend" whom I've been supporting through a cancer scare for months only to get, "BOOOO.  Talk when things better." in response.  (Funny.  She doesn't LOOK like a 'rubber crutch'. - and I could smell, taste, feel a tailspin case of "woe-is-me" coming on.

     I frequently turn to (St.) Groucho (surely a Jew for Jesus) at such times.  And not jus for his comedy, which had as its stockpile, IDEAS, ie, he would create an art form which would then announce itself to the world as inane, incomprehensible, inimitable and, always successful.  You see, his IDEA of comedy rendered the FACT of comedy valid. 
    
      (The only way to explain this little 'way' he had with the comedic is by example.  This because both in presentation and content, Groucho's ideas often sound confused, illogical, as if they had lost their way and didn't do what they set out to do.  Groucho would be delighted with this outcome.  To wit, an exchange from the play "Animal Crackers" between Captain Spaulding (Groucho) and a society lady (Margaret Dumont):
     Mrs. Dumont:  Captain, did you BAG SIX tigers?
     Groucho:         I bagged them. . . . . I bagged them to go away but they hung around all afternoon.  They
                            were the most persistent tigers I've ever seen. . . . . The principle animals inhabiting the    
                           African Jungle are Moose, Elks and the Knights of Pythias.  Of course, you ALL know
                           what a moose is?  A moose runs around the floor, eats cheese and is chased by the cat. 
                          The Elks, on the other hand, live up in the hills, and in the Spring they come down for their
                           annual convention.  It's very interesting to watch them come to the water hole.  And you
                          should see them run when they find out it IS just a water hole.  THEY were looking for an
                           "Elkohole".)
    
      But I believe his most admirable 'Marxmanship' is exhibited in how he lived his life.  His Credo: - and this is PURE conjecture - 'YOU might "Bet Your Life" but I prefer to think mine through very carefully.  He had an innate sense of the importance of knowledge.  Having been deprived of the opportunity to learn formally because family survival duties required him to succeed sartorially and, therefore, financially.  To compensate, he syphoned knowledge from books, social events, for example, hosting a dinner party where he fed AND fed on his guests, and keeping up with acquaintances whose mental acuity he admired.  His frequent luncheons at the famous Algonquin Table with Dorothy Parker, FPA, Chico Marx and noted authors and refined performers of the time.  Ere long, he distanced himself from "the Table" luminaries.  He felt they were not living up to their potential;  had become absolutely refractory and were stagnating.
     Surely, there is nothing to be gained by fostering relationships with the likes of THIS group.  Which is why I come bearing gifts today, dear reader.  They are for you and, it is hoped, will serve you well on  your journey, your LIFE journey.
 I.  Befriend little "better-you-makers", eg, God, happy doers, 'HEALTHY' ego possessors and loyal, loving mates and pets.

     (Groucho's brand of executing this kind of living mimics best some of the Greek gods Trickster and Pan.  His antics - engaging as they were - DREW folks with 'the right stuff' to him.  People love to laugh and he was personally responsible for countless solo outbursts of erratic and disruptive behavior but he was also, and deeply, involved with similar outbursts with three or four of his brothers.  Amusing pranks, yes, but a display of filial unity and devotion that appealed to worthy 'friends'.  Pan, known for an impish kind of rape, ie, an outward transgression which is actually - and secretly - welcomed by his victims.  One of the Ladies Marx, daughter Miriam, is a case in point.  Their father-daughter relationship was based on a true, if primitive, love.  Groucho at Miriam's PTA meeting is a fine example of life with father Marx.
     He attended the meeting at her special request, sat in the front row, and was not recognized.  Miriam was delighted and very proud that he was there.  He behaved beautifully from the time the president called the meeting to order until the Treasurer began her report.  He listened in martyred silence as she reeled off, in a high-pitched voice, page after page of dull facts and figures.  But when she climaxed her report with the announcement that the PTA had spent eight dollars and ninety-seven cents for tea during May, he could no longer restrain himself.  Jumping to his feet and shouting, "What KIND of tea?".  Taken aback, but still in command, the treasurer said, "Why orange pekoe, of course."  "Why wasn't I consulted?  I happen to like Chinese tea!"  "We've always used orange pekoe and I think we all enjoy it."  "Well I don't.  And I don't know about these other people either.  They're just a bunch of sheep that will drink any swill given to them."  He then demanded a vote; the meeting was in a shambles and Miriam was asked to escort her father home.)

     II.  READ - only the best of fiction and non.

     (As mentioned earlier, Groucho determined to educate himself.  While others played neighborhood games in their precious off hours, he read.  Later, when pastimes matured to girls, pool, cards, croquet, he sat at home alone or at the theater - reading.  His children claim he kept a current news magazine on the front car seat so he could make good use of red lights and traffic jams.)

     III.  ENGAGE IN WELL-ROUNDED LEISURE ACTIVITIES.  And these ALWAYS in moderation, eg, nap is good; in bed lightly snoozing 80% of the waking day is bad.

     (Groucho, acutely aware of their collective lack of performing talents when they started out working in vaudeville, had to do some fast talking to keep the rotten eggs and tomatoes at bay.  And it worked.  His "word salads" - practiced in off-hours - sparked a life-time banquet of Marx malapropisms and general mayhem in every field of entertainment.)

     IV.  HELP THE NEEDY but do not confuse "fellowship" with obsession, neglect of one's own duties or the excuse of never having the time to - in solitary - examine your own journey.

     (One gal Groucho helped regularly was mother Minnie - an out-going, fun-loving, poker-playing woman who loved to make the decisions.  Her interest centered on getting her boys started on a career and playing a role herself - manager.  Groucho once said, "My mother treated us all equally - with contempt."  The fact is, he visited her daily and treated her with consistent kindness and respect.)

     V.  LOVE ART, SPORTS, LEARNING.  And it need not be in that order.  There are NO rules, actually.  For example, what one person considers "art" may simply be utile to another.

     (For Groucho, certain objects - what some might consider creature comforts - elicited very strong responses.  His first car, a Pontiac convertible, was purchased for twenty dollars in cash.  It meant a great deal to him.  Indeed, each Sunday, the family enjoyed a regular outing - a twenty minute drive to the park where Dad would spend several hours simonizing and buffing while the family watched.  Go figure.)

     VI.  LOVE LOVE, shunning the evil, the tawdry, the mean and hurtful, the selfish.

     (Groucho's love of love in this way is performed in his relationship with his children.  His concern for every aspect of their development had them in and out of school - lest they miss seeing FIRST-HAND a one-of-a-kind object or learning experience.  He honestly felt that excursions with him were far superior to anything the school could offer them educationally or culturally.  With Groucho, education was, "Reeling and writhing, of course, and then the different branches of arithmetic - Ambition, Distraction, Uglification and Derision.", as Lewis Carroll had said.  It was also just as confusing to Arthur and Miriam as it was to Alice in Wonderland.  Actually, they always brought their lessons along and learned a great deal.)

     VII. LOVE YOU - MIND, BODY, SOUL - WITH HUGE AMOUNTS OF LAUGHTER, AS MUCH GRACE AS POSSIBLE AND HONEST/WILLING PARDON ALWAYS ON HAND.  For it is true: One minute you're waiting in the wings; the next, you're wearing them.

     These have been my counter to "The Seven Deadly Sins":  I give you,

LORANE'S SEVEN 'LIFE-ING' MUSTS  FOR YOUR JOURNEY PACK

I write them wearing my 'just-received-yesterday' "One Fabulous Mom" pin from one of my fabulous children.  I dedicate - and will soon give them - to my FAVORITE, FABULOUS, FUNNY FATHER, Msg. Ray Barton (pictured below with the 'pin-giver')

September 16, 2008

                                                                  Father officiated at the

                                                        wedding of Julie & Matt Compton

November 5, 1976

Father Ray officiates at

the 'Punch Bowl" Baptism

of Julie Jean Leavy

(Plastic half-full glass of cola = Druid Good Luck talisman)

Later, L. . . .

Has it Really Been THAT Long?

     Wow.  April 27, 1968 saw me getting married - to young Philip G. Leavy, Jr. (please see - or not - photo to the right)  And this was not some '60's, rad, impulsive act.  We'd met at Georgetown University, although did not begin the 'dating ritual' until my senior year.  He was a second year medical student.  We'd been through "Camelot" - the Magic Years and then the beginning of the always rudely unexpected relationship with the ugly aspects of reality.  I guess even then we were "Strange Bedfellows" indeed.  He was most amusing - witty, ever the optimist, roll & frolic with the punches - and the Beatles.  I was given to musing, always quietly questioning but outwardly very, uh, 'outward', I guess those who were around me would say.  I, too, laughed alot, searched for the just right bon mot, loved to dance, sing and, naturally, suffer fools not at ALL.  So we were "a good fit", "nice match" and everyone seemed a tad surprised by this.  And as the Good Lama used to quip, "Who's to say if this is good or bad?" Whilst awaiting the nuptuals, he studied in D.C. and I was a Coronary Care nurse in N.Y.  and even as the "hearts grew fonder," I would sometimes find myself thinking - in silence, of course:

(I once told you "Everything old is new again".  This is still true.  Like if I were going on about my "musing tendency".  Same ole, same ole in 2011.  Just this morning, as is my wont, I checked my horoscope - ALWAYS, that & the Obits and if I don't see my name in the latter, I proceed with the former.  TODAY, the missive was "You go out of your way to gain mental perspective.  No one can accuse you of missing the forest for the trees."  AHA! So THAT'S what I've been sensing lately.  When I'm musing.  I feel like Woody Allen walking down the street, turning around in circles, not knowing whether I'm being followed or I'm following someone else.  I'm being JUDGED.  Can't you hear the whispers?  "Does she even SEE the forest??  Look at how she focuses - over and over - on-each-tree?  See? "  Not so fast, my would-be friends. I may LOOK like a disoriented Woody Allen but what you are witnessing is an individual - as she has ALWAYS DONE - going-out-of-my-way-to-gain-mental-perspective.  That one characteristic which revealed 'where the I stopped and the Thou began' re: my lifetime bud and me:  Lorane was always ANALYZING;  Phil concentrated on just LIVING. )

     Of course NOW, the nay-sayers are saying, "Can you BELIEVE those two have been married for FORTY-THREE years?"  And the sages are only too happy to footnote THAT "Mad Magazine"-like commentary with desultory - and un-invited - observations like, "Please.  They never wore a sign on their backs.  Didn't HAVE to.  It was SO apparent, to the truly aware, that they were ONE, they were/are STILL best friends and totally devoted to each other, their marriage, the kids.  They are what MARRIAGE IS."; or the equally 'never-requested-profundity' along -and between - the lines of, "God works in mysterious ways.  In Phil and Lorane's case, He was uncharacteristically candid.  He blessed this beautiful union."   Can't help but wonder, with all due respect, of course, what the HELL was 'He' doing/dawdling re: the USSR?  THERE was one union that was neither blessed nor beautiful.  The bottom line, I think -realizing full well that my thoughts/musings can ONLY be but 50% of the 'picture' - is that, at least in OUR relationship, ABSENCE was a helpful little success "insurance policy".  I'd ask Phil to weigh in on this point but he's not here at the moment. 

     Apres honeymoon, we moved into our 3rd floor walk-up in College Park, MD, which we shared with 2,436 roaches and an Indian family, roughly 22 in number; Phil went off in his starched whites & I in my washed RN couture to NIH/National Heart Institute to perform research on the "dying heart syndrome."  Pd well.  Good thing b/c Phil needed the VW & we were LUCKY enuff to find/buy "The Pig" - some very old navy blue sedan for FIFTY DOLLARS!  The Pig & I barrelled along in the right lane each morning doing 35 mph - EASY - just to see if the other 'highwaymen(&women') had REALLY had their coffee.  Finally, graduation, Long Island surgical internship AND pregnancy.  The TRIFECTA!  I worked as charge of Meadowbrook's combo Med/Surg ICU until I could no longer see my toes (got to 196 LBS!) which was a good thing b/c we REALLY had to supplement Phil's $4K/yr. intern salary.  So, @ 37 wks., I retired to our on-campus, rent-free townhouse.  AND.  To keep me from getting bored/lonely, Phil brought home a 6 wk-old mutt puppy, brought in by one of the Maximum Care nurses.  Hence, "Max" became a fun pass time for toeless Moi re: potty training.  (Had to go down 1 flight of carpeted steps to get out the door.  Max never got passed the LAST step.  So, I cut the carpet off of that step, put it out on the grass, and WHAT LO!  By December 16, 1969, when first-born Philip arrived (after 23 hrs of labor; LaMaze sans coach who was doing surgery; posterior - crown-of-head on Mommy's spinal column), new Daddy, Dr. Phil and potty-trained Max built a snowman on Max's fav spot.

     Then on to OTS in Newport, R.I. (had to pay ye ole Navy back & Phil was SO hoping to get on The Hope) after which we were shipped to Norfolk, VA.  The Hope was pulled back; Phil deployed for 9 mos. on the USS Harold Ellison destroyer & young Philip and I went to our initial classes of "Daddy's not home" School - degree STILL unearned but training INVALUABLE re: sustaining a 43 year-old marriage which ushered FOUR children into this world.  LITTLE COPERS, FOLKS.  That's what you want.  To BE and to RAISE.

     (So far, that's how I ANALYZE our marriage.  Especially around anniversaries.  When we all tend to take a look and check on ". . .what condition our condition is in.".  Indeed, I DO see "the FOREST".  AND  I go out of my way and, who knows, maybe even gain the RIGHT  mental perspective.  At least I'm trying.  VERY, according to some. I'll ask Phil - when I see him.  I mean REALLY see him, like "the FOREST".)

     WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?



Later, L. . . .

      

The Kindness of Strangers

(I was using the                                       adjacent  mat but distinctly heard the kitty mutter, "Hmph!  USED to drink water from the garden hose but NOW I have to use the 'bottle' because          I  USED to be playing OUTside but    NOW I have to be INside -                 exercising, staying in shape.  And       good health.  I chant, do mantras and breathe deeply.  And I STILL feel like scratching someone in the face,           ya  know?  Like maybe one of              those Vet Hospital Administrators in charge of Managed Cat, er, Care.  "I have always depended upon the kindness of       strangers."  In the classic drama, "A Streetcar Named          Desire", these are the final words of Blanche DuBois, a        faded  Southern beauty who is plagued by neurotic,            genteel pretensions.  She speaks these words as she is being escorted out of her sister, Stella's, home to a  sanitarium by a doctor and a nurse.  They are the "strangers" to whom she ostensibly refers.  Having just witnessed this   tragic heroine's mental and moral disintegration, one can't    help but see an allusion to Blanche's sordid history of  prostitution in her   fateful parting line.  But the GOOD news  for ole Blanche was that she didn't have to wait around for -                             precertification.  That is, the strangers came to get her            and her sanitarium bed was waiting.  Her family didn't have    to   endure the railings of her tortured mind, unable to ease her suffering.  That was 1948.)                                                    
     On April 6, 2011, I drove up to Richmond to be with my     granddaughter, Mia Lorane, and her parents - Julie and Matt(certifiable in another sense for several months now) - for an old-fashioned, home-made, Italian Four Cheese Ravioli           supper on pre-op evening.  We even had Puttanesca Red         Sauce - the MOST flavorful (but not SPICY) of the reds.         Got its name in the Old Country.  The 'Ladies of the              Evening'  would spend the day whipping up a batch of red       sauce that would outdo ALL competitors in the AROMA    department. The heavy, iron pot would then be set out on the window sill to 'cool'.  'Gentlemen', as was their wont,          followed their noses, filled their bellies and lingered to enjoy an after dinner aperitif.                                                                                              
     And so it was on the night before our Mia was FINALLY      going to lose her tonsils and adenoids - those glands we have in the back of our throats and below our ears that FIGHT       INFECTION when they are working.  I know this stuff.  You remember.  You did "the cap" ordeal?  The Neurology ICU?  And how WE were worried about potential 'Doctor' (Joe)        Zivagos on the ward? NOW our worry was just getting Mia     ON TO a ward.  The months were long, tedious and, MOST concerning, detrimental and dangerous for Mia as SHE          endured the repeated 'sick time' with temps of 104-105,        feeling miserable while accumulating the EIGHT                documented, required - by the insurance company - Strep    Throat infections that netted her the sought-after referral to an ENT specialist who would remove these glands - while we could only watch, unable to ease her suffering.                          
(Because of changes in the health care delivery system over    the past forty years, we arrived at the threshold of the new     century embracing Blanche's coda.  We, too, depend on the   "kindness of strangers.  We depend on decisions made by        amorphous group of overseers - let's call them medical         directors - to adequately address our symptoms, make us       whole, cut out the malignancy, truss the splintered bone,       guide our children into the world.  Then, it is hoped, they'll   see to it that their journey into adulthood, plagued with its    own particularized and threatening set of medical/surgical     misadventures, is as safe and negative incident-free as             possible.  This because of due diligence, vigilence and the       absence of vapid indifference.  We can ONLY hope they          make the right call because they are the SUPREME call-         makers.  And if they don't?  IF SYMPTOMS ARE NOT              PURSUED AGGRESSIVELY, the malignancy festers, the        bone deforms or decays, the bough BREAKS AND THE          BABY FALLS?  Quite simply, the medical director - and the   'Care' Organization whose costs he is charged to contain -      DID IT.  IN THE NURSERY. WITH THE 'MAGIC' DENIAL    WAND.)                                                                                             
     So Wednesday night, those four cheeses, in their                   Puttanesca-dripping pillows, slid down with roller coaster-     ease, washed down by chilled, fruit-flavored water with many glass-tingling "Saluts!"  A joy to watch.  Mia had lost at least     12 pounds.  Those "necessary, documented" antibiotics can     confiscate even the best of two year-old, raw tuna-loving         appetites.    And although beautiful AND bright, the constant pain (doc said she'd probably NOT been without throat pain    for SIX months) can put a dent in the sunniest of                       dispositions in the most popular of "Princesses" in any pre-    school.  So, even though she told me that Rocco - the pre-        school boyfriend - was in "Time Out" again that day for             taking her hair bow, her heart just wasn't in it.  But her            HANDS are another story.  Between my Italian heritage          'hand-speak', the Rocco affair and that ravioli, she was             HAND-EMBELLISHING during ALL communication with     
us and the staff until the OR doors dropped the curtain on       her baby-blue paper capped bobbing head, her face                   punctuated with her usual grin of expectant                               adventure.                                                                                        
(And what is the role played by the doctors and nurses             today?  As you may recall, back in the day, when Millie pil=  
ferred my cap but I was still a crisp, white, moving container  
of concern for MY PATIENTS, we still depend on them. But,  
interestingly, they are doing the bidding of the medical 'care' 
organizations that cut their checks.  This, so the cutting does  
NOT involve their jobs because of a misunderstanding about  
priorities.  They must provide the care deemed necessary        and appropriate by the call makers.  Whereas, to put it ano-  
ther way, there was once a clear delineation of where the "I"  
stopped and the "thou began", NOW "I" is all there is and      
"thou" no longer has an existence.  You see, "I" will only pay  
for treatment and testing that IT has pre-ordained. There-    
fore, the hands-on (formerly 'real' doctors and nurses)            treaters provide a sanctioned service and THEN, they are     
PAID!  They, too, depend on the "kindness of strangers",         much like Blanche did in HER profession.)                                
     Fortunately, the surgery went smoothly.  The doctor was   
QUITE surprised, however, at the SIZE of the adenoids           (twice normal) noting as well that they were wearing a        
foul coat of bacterial film, which, as you can imagine,               scotched any notion that they could have been functioning   
as part of Mia's immune system.  Once home, she could           depend on familiar family, free care and one-on-one loving,  
un-managed care.  And she, as is HER wont, had plenty of       whine to go with her post-op cheese.  I daresay, late at night  
we did as well.  That Mia was on her way to hearty health was apparent by the increasing number of princess costume           
changes per diem.  I returned home - humming Disney tunes in lieu of Dory Previn - tired but oh-so-glad to have been part of the healing-cum-loving experience again.  Where DID I        store my cat, er, cap?  Later, Lorane. . . .                                           

The Kindness of Strangers

( I was using the adjacent mat but distinctly heard Kitty mutter, "Hmph. USED to drink water from the garden hose but NOW I have to use the 'bottle' because I USED to be outside playing but NOW I have to be INside, exercising, staying in shape. And good health. I chant, do mantras and deep breathe. And I STILL feel like scratching someone in the face, ya know? Like maybe one of those Vet Hospital Administrators in charge of "Managed Cats, er Care".

"I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers." Those were the final words of Blanche DuBois, a faded Southern beauty who is plagued by neurotic, genteel pretensions. She speaks these words as she is being escorted out of her sister's home to a sanitarium by a doctor and a nurse. They are the 'strangers' to whom she ostensibly refers. Having just witnessed this tragic heroine's mental and moral disintegration, one can't help but see an allusion to Blanche's sordid history of prostitution in her fateful parting line. The GOOD news for ole Blanche was that she didn't have to wait around for pre-certification. That is, the strangers came to get her and her sanitarium bed was waiting. Her family didn't have to endure the railings of her tortured mind, unable to ease her suffering. That was 1948.)

On Wednesday, April 6, 2011, I drove up to Richmond to be with my granddaughter, Mia Lorane, and her parents - Julie and Matt (certifiable, in another sense for several months now) - for an old fashioned, home-made Italian four cheese ravioli supper on pre-op evening. We even had Putanesca Sauce - the MOST flavorful (but not SPICY) of the red sauces. Got its name in the Old Country. The "Ladies of the Evening" would whip up a batch of red sauce that would outdo ALL competitors in the AROMA department. It would then be set out on the window sill to 'cool'. The 'gentlemen' as is their wont, followed their noses, filled their bellies and so on. And so it was the night before Mia was to FINALLY have her tonsils and adenoids - those glands we have in the back of the throat and below the ears that FIGHT INFECTION when working. I know this stuff. You've been. Remember the cap? The Neurology Unit? And WE were worried about the potential Dr. (Joe) Zivagos on a ward! It had taken months of repeated "sore throats" until Mia had the EIGHT documented, required - by the insurance company- Strep Throat infections that netted her the sought-after referral to an ENT specialist who would remove these glands.

(Because of changes in health care delivery over the past forty years, we arrived at the threshold of the new century embracing Blanche's coda. We, too, depend on "the kindness of strangers". We depend on the decisions made by an amorphous group of overseers - let's call them 'medical directors' - to adequately address our symptoms, make us whole, cut out the malignancy, truss the splintered bone, guide our children into the world - and then, hopefully, - see to it that their journey into adulthood, plagued with its particularized and threatening set of medical/surgical misadventures, is as safe and negative incident-free as possible. This because of due diligence, vigilance and the absence of vapid indifference. We can only HOPE they make the right call because they are the SUPREME 'call-makers'. And if they don't? IF SYMPTOMS ARE NOT PURSUED AGGRESSIVELY, the malignancy festers, the bone deforms or decays, the bough BREAKS AND THE BABY FALLS? Quite simply, the 'medical director' - and the "Care" Organization whose costs he is charged with containing - DID IT. IN THE NURSERY. WITH THE 'MAGIC DENIAL WAND'.)

So Wednesday night, those four cheeses in their Putanesca-dripping pillows slid down with roller-coaster ease, washed down by chilled fruit-flavored water and lots of glass-tinkling "Saluts!" A joy to watch. Mia had lost at least 12 pounds. Those "necessary, documented" antibiotics can rob even the best of two year-old, raw tuna-loving appetites. And although beautiful AND bright, the constant pain (doc said she'd probably NOT been without throat pain for SIX months) can put a dent in the sunniest of dispositions in the most popular of "Princesses" in any pre-school. So, even though she told me Rocco - the pre-school boyfriend - was in "Time Out" again that day because he took her hair bow, her heart just wasn't in it. Her HANDS are another story. Between my Italian heritage 'hand-speak', the Rocco affair and that ravioli, she was 'HAND-EMBELLISHING' during ALL communication with us and the staff until the double OR doors dropped the curtain on her baby-blue, paper-capped bobbing head.

(And what is the role played by the doctor and the nurse today? As you may recall, back in the day when Millie pilfered my cap but I was still a crisp, white moving container of concern for MY PATIENTS, we still depend on them. But, increasingly, they are doing the bidding of the medical 'care' organizations who cut their checks. This so the cutting doesn't involve their jobs because of a misunderstanding re: priorities. They are to provide the care deemed necessary and appropriate by the call-makers. Whereas, to put it another way, there was once a clear delineation of where the "I stopped" and the "thou began", NOW "I" is all there is and "thou" does not have an existence. And "I" will only pay for treatment and testing that IT has pre-ordained. Therefore, the hands-on (formerly existent doctors and nurses) treaters provide a sanctioned service and then , THEY ARE PAID! They, too, depend on the "kindness of strangers", much like Blanche did in HER profession.)

Fortunately, the surgery went smoothly. The doctor was QUITE surprised, however, at the SIZE of the adenoids (twice normal) and noted that they were wearing a foul coat of bacterial film which, as you can imagine, scotched any notion that they could have been functioning as part of Mia's immune system. Once home, she could depend on familiar family, free care and one-on-one loving, un-managed care. And she, naturally, had plenty of whine to go with her cheese. I daresay, late at night, we did as well. That she was on her way to hearty health was apparent by the increasing number of Princess costume-changes per diem. I returned home - humming Disney tunes in lieu of Dorey Previn - tired but oh-so-glad to have been part of the healing-cum-loving experience again. Where DID I put my cat, er cap? Later, Lorane. . . .

EVERYTHING OLD IS OLD AGAIN

We've been playing a little game on Facebook which involves 'grabbing the nearest book to you, opening to pg. 56 and typing the fifth sentence. You then put the instructions, followed by your sentence in your 'Status" box. We then read each other's status info & play a rollicking round of "Who-wrote-that?'. The other day, a friend posted a panicked msg, to wit, I grabbed the nearest book (a computer manual) and page 56 was BLANK! NOW what? there are a multitude of good and sufficient reasons why a computer manual should not be classified as a "book" for our 'fun & games" purposes but I shared her dilemma with you ONLY because it mirrors the situation I find myself in with today's post. I was thinking - after my last foray into quill work, that I rather miss keeping a Dream Journal, particularly the value of incorporating what is called the "day's residue". This would be your daily life experience - whether dealt with or not consciously - and regardless of seeming relevance/importance. I think people would find their dream stories and characters far less strange if they'd take the time to see the pun, tie-in, remote source of the 'exotic' and chaotic material of which our dreams are composed. Our waking lives are not just worthy of note but of recognition, repetition, dramatization even. You might even 'get' a joke you missed or see the importance of a relationship/situation. Soooo, I was all set - notebook at the ready - to begin last night. Unfortunately, I fell asleep sitting up and my co-antiquity quietly turned off the light, closed my book & drifted off. An hour later, my eyes slammed open in response to the intense low back pain I was having in response to NOT having taken nite-nite meds and sleeping flat. What to do? Well I corrected omission #1 and then stared into the plaster at reams of blank pages. Finally, I wondered what would I have dreamed about if I'd begun this project last week? Day's residue: overshot turn-off street returning from B-Day brunch & passed the Old Cavalier Hotel - where Scott & Zelda danced? You remember, the "Burning Trolley" chapter of our lives? OBVIOUSLY, I'd have been dreaming of the Roaring Twenties! (And 'dancing' - like Isadora Duncan. Actually she was not at her best in the twenties. She'd entered into an ill-fated marriage to a Russian poet, many years her junior, and was touring the country in her endless efforts to start a school for her Art - Dance. Fantasy and reality were given equal time in her program of life; the primitive and the instinctual neatly woven into her aesthetics. Her Art - she ALWAYS capitalized that word) was spontaneous beauty. In her 1928 biography, in her faulting yet honest brand of prose, she shared her life experiences with such intensity that YOU felt HER drama. She said over and over again to her students "Art must come from the soul.". And she knew only a few would understand. Which ones? ) Of course the Roaring Twenties was not ONLY about dancing. And certainly my biography has and will always be about the young, the old, the dramatic, the joy, the tragedies, the "Gates of Hell" and of Heaven. In this regard, the "Twenties" roar, cry, run, sit motionless, approach and bid farewell - as metaphors go - and come. (Isadora's two children drowned in a car accident when their car rolled off a bridge. She never recovered. She died in a tragic car accident as well by the sea - in 1929. Hers was a great love, a great Art. But the Jazz Age headlined children in general. Just as the world mourned the death of Isadora's children, it mourned for the Lindberg baby as well. The trial of "little Gloria" Vanderbilt was followed closely. We were entertained by Shirley Temple and Betty Boop and Little Orphan Annie. The "Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh" were widely read. Mickey Mouse was born in 1929. Did they all represent the creative, moving toward new possibilities? Or were they collectively the SHADOW of the Child - that had to be left behind? I would say they rather 'grew up'. We meet the female spirit again in Clare Booth Luce's play, "The Women" in 1933 but I don't think she was speaking ONLY of 1933 women. In fact, in 1975 The Actors' Theatre of Norfolk mounted her production and I was assigned the role of the wronged and oh-so-right Mary Haines. A tough assignment as it was hard to believe ANY woman could be as naive and devoted as dear Mary. Ms. Luce trots out thirty-five brands of femininity - hat-check gals, debutantes, chorus girls, authors, countesses, mothers and daughters and, of course, poor, jilted Mary. It is a marvelous satirical tableau, dedicated to the female spirit. The ladies lunched and played bridge and had affairs and went in and out of analysis - wearing Jungle Red nail polish. The show was held over, so many playgoers wanted to come and see themselves. You see women never change. Only hem lines do.) And last night there I sat - NO polish, NO dream, in full focus but, lately NOT about children. Rather about original things. Old things. German things So, were I to have been dreaming of THAT residue. . . . (Well, we COULD go back to the Twenties. I recall having to do a 'required' paper once on German architecture. I wrote about Bauhaus - a school of Art form AND a building. Now there is NO question but that the visual arts are my VERY short suit - except for a Chanel given to me in the sixties by a lady for whom I babysat. BUT. I have some VERY first-hand, up-close-and-personal experience with a production set designed by Liubov Popova in 1922. How does this relate to the Roaring Twenties, you might ask, legitimately? Well Bauhaus believed that the inner structure - the soul - of a building, must be reflected on the outside. Now follow closely. The set to which I referred was for the play "The Magnificent Cuckold", first performed in Russia. It was a free interpretation of a windmill, which included slides, platforms, ladders and several discs and wheels in addition to the windmill itself, upstage. It was called constructivism in the art world. In 1974, the Actors' Theater mounted THIS production at the Chrysler Museum and Walter Chrysler borrowed the original set from its home in the Albright-Knox Museum in Buffalo, New York. And you ask 'How does it relate?' Bite your tongue. Everyone was thrilled and the set was a complete success. I was a member of the cast and can tell you when this thing arrived (and did it have "IT"!) we were stunned. It was like a Rube Goldberg MONSTERPIECE. I hated the 'art'. It sprawled the width of the stage, almost spilling over the apron. All of its parts moved and buzzed and creaked and seemed to hiss viciously, "Caution! Menacing genius crossing.". I mean, it was one thing to be upstaged by this inanimate beast, but worse, we risked our lives every time we walked out there. (I PAID Aaron Norris - in town to open one of his brother's Studios - to teach me how to fall without breaking a hip) One made entrances on ladders and exited down a slide. A cross was invariably interrupted by one or the other rude, triangular swinging doors. And the hummmm. Every part moved electrically, you see, and each character had its partner "moving part". Popova's plan was to have the set react/relate to the drama. So when the actor was "on", his wheel or flap or whatever began doing its thing. Such a treat - acting your little heart out over this mechanical din while the audience sat mesmerized by the technical hi jinx going on behind you. I am not a violent person but WILL confess to kicking a 'work of art' several times during that run. Indeed, were it to appear via my subconscious in the wee hours, NIGHTMARE would be the heading in the "Dream Journal". As to what would it MEAN? Well, let's just say it was the most 'felt' experience of the art of the "Twenties" I have ever had. And it was a 'feeling' I still had six months after the show closed.) Rather like the physical bruises I'm still nursing since a visiting Christmas relative returned home. Psychologically, analysis might compare the entire experience, like portions of the "Twenties" Dreams, to my feelings about our involvement in the Mid-East. Yet, geographically, the emotional 'hot spots' of the Christmas visit hang more around what was at one time 'Slovania'. He was invited because it was known he needed help. He's also a very proud, independent sort. Soooo, we concocted a story about how I NEEDED HELP as I was post-op back surgery. And what with the Holiday bustle and Noel visits keeping everyone distracted, all went as partially planned. He was evaluated for needed eye surgery and a date was selected/confirmed. Almost blind from birth, he now had cataracts which just about obliterated his sight. Just about. During the pre-op waiting period guest did nothing constructive but had a funny little breakage/mess-making thing going. Hostess went to P.T. 3 times a week and K.P. 7 days a week. However, God is Good, surgery went well and we dined out departure eve. We asked questions that went to whether guest had needed assistance at home; guest asked what ever happened to Grandmother's vases - the German antique ones with the painted tulips on them. We were happily assured that guest would be fine at home. Guest was sad to hear vases must have broken. I reckon three times a week I exercised at P. T. while guest exercised at home - mine - snooping. Imagine if he could SEE? Those vases have beautiful irises painted on them. And the study and evaluation of antiquities is passionately absorbing. Later, L. . . .

Checkin' What Condition My Condition is In

Obviously, I really must work on consistency. It's the distractions, of course. But this last was big - a birthday. Try as one might, these little 'rights-of-passing-time' grab the ole psyche & demand attention. And reflection. And stock-taking - of the 'self-evaluation kind. And as the chips fell this year (would that they could have dipped and scooped something savory, creamy & plentiful - chip behavior far more befitting of a birth commemoration/commendation affair) I was pleased, embarrassed even, to receive several sincere inquiries re: why I was not writing. In truth, I've never met a quandary that plunged me into a celebratory mood and this one took it's place in the ever- lengthening line of similar "fixes-you'd-like-not-to-be-in", floppy quandary feet firmly planted in the quicksand terra non firma. What to do, yada, yada as I stood, 'stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox'. Or sister. Whatever. I'd recently developed an interest in the study of antiquities & thought myself too preoccupied & focused (having begun with myself) to interrupt this inchoate passion. Certainly not by this 'writing thing'. But there truly is nothing to be gained by avoidance tactics, save perhaps peptic ulcer disease, so I vowed to face the "situation", answer the question, do SOMEthing. Sooo, I once again dug around, looking for the muse, the etiology of my affinity for writing. It made sense to re-visit my feelings, analyses, opinions of someone - a writer - whom I knew filled that role for me. Naturally, I also fell back on my other problem-solving activities - dream interpretation. But my main focus, to be sure was a writer under whom I studied, wrote about and clearly saw as something of a Doppleganger. The man was Tony Ardizzone - author, teacher, my "Man Between the Lines", as it were.

(I plunged as well into ye olde Dream Journal. You've been. You perhaps just don't remember. Anyway, I was reading a very telling section of one such analysis - under the circumstances then and now - which contained some dialogue which I'd written in an attempt to get at the meaning of images and words recalled from a dream I'd had centered on my mother's death - clearly a life-changing, direction-altering, numinous event in any one's collection of experiences and, therefore one that renders contemporaneous happenings, ie, dreaming of it, frightfully significant in the short and long run of "this living, this living, this living" as Ms. Parker might tell us.)

His office told stories. Theater posters reminded me of his wife, actress Diane Kondrat, her art, her career. Framed photos of their son, Nick, traced his progress as he looked on his way to being four. Students' and administrative papers vied for the eyes and ink of the man - writer, husband, father, teacher - writer. Books - not leather-bound tomes planted to announce, "Academia lives here." but miss-matched, old/new, vertical/horizontal ones, worn and comfortable from being read. On the door you learned you were in the office of - TONY ARDIZZONE - DIRECTOR OF CREATIVE WRITING. They are not props - the wife, the son, the work. Rather they're loved, nurtured daily. He'd water a cactus & tell you he'd rather talk about his work than himself.

But gracious, polite, this man of letters answered questions. Grew up in Chicago. Dad from Sicily. Mom from Liechtenstein. Two sisters; two brothers. But he couldn't play 'fill-in-the-blanks'. He was a story-teller. Relaxed, dark eyes now merry, now sober, combined with his light voice to share scenes, portraits of people and events that'd molded his life; produced the artist who shared and cared about Hampton Roads. Tony spoke with a gentle intensity and his reverie settled on the room like dusting powder - that his favorite grandmother wore. "My mother would make us crepes for breakfast rolled around fresh fruit. Only she called them omelets." He didn't know until in college that omelets were made with eggs.

(That dialogue I wrote about dreaming about my Mom's death went like this:

Me - So, here we are. I figure I'd better start this conversation since I dredged you up.

Mom - Listen, don't go getting all cerebral and spiritual. I'm here now so let's use the time wisely.Or else you'll just get carried away and you're not supposed to. I am 'cause it's my funeral.

Me - Very funny. I know you mean well but, shit, look at my situation here, will you? I've got to go through the day I've dreaded all my life . . . you went and died first. . . I still can't get over that and now to top it off, I'm talking to you and you're dead.

Mom - that's just the point. I'm still here. Still bitching. Still bugging you. And you'll see. It's a good thing, this continuation of a force, a feeling. You need some grounding. For instance, when I said I had a headache, I didn't mean I had a headache; I meant I had a headache, don't you see?

Me - When you put it like that, who wouldn't see? What's to 'see'? Don't give me parables. Let's talk straight because I've got some big stuff on my agenda, here. You want a headache? I can give you a headache.

Mom - That is the headache. To see you're still so upset about my leaving; to see that you still concern yourself with things that you can't control. That's a headache. I'm dead and that's that. But you and me - that is an always because we are all one. You just have to learn to look, for what, and where.

Me - You know, I can understand that, and that gives me a headache because this is a really freaky conversation. We're pitching around some really freaky notions. I mean, what's it all about?

Mom - Did you just call your Mother a 'freak'?

Me - I know that's supposed to be an attempt at comic relief, but going back to what you said earlier, yes, you're a freak, I'm a freak, all of these 'me's' are freaks because I don't trust the validity of these thoughts. To say nothing of chats with the dead.)

His Father was a printer and teletyper. Always had two jobs. They lived in a flat - second floor of a house - where there were "drunks in the hallway." He was supposed to be named Vito - after his grandfather. But he didn't think he'd be alive or would be a very different kid if he'd had the misfortune of being named Vito. This because Vito was a 'tough' name and he'd have been in more fights. Theirs was a tough neighborhood but by then, the Italian areas in Chicago had been effectively scattered by urban planners - the Democratic Machine.

Both parents encouraged the kids to read, get an education, work hard. "They pushed all of us kids. My Mother would say, 'If you can't get it right, don't do it.' So he'd say, 'Well, then I'm not gonna do it,'which produced 'You do it and don't get smart with me.' from Mom. And it was done and done right. Tony read, always loved reading. He said, "At some point, I really came to understand, appreciate what writers can do. They could take a kid like me and put him someplace else. I thought that was an incredible thing - and envied their power. When I read "How Green was My Valley" I didn't even know where Wales was." It flabbergasted him that this man who wrote the book had a completely different metaphor/background and he was touching Tony, this kid from Chicago. Tony wanted to do this for other people.

(Mom - Thoughts are thoughts.What's to trust? They come in and go out of your railroad station. Some stay longer than others. Some leave a more lasting impression but they should be free to move about on their own course. Now trusting, that's always been more of a problem for you than thinking. You were always looking to me for approval/disapproval when you knew the value of your actions. You just used me as your conscience so that you wouldn't have to take any responsibility. Well, you've got the ball now and trusting yourself might be a good place to start on your 'solo' adventure because you are really all you have. I also think you always knew that.

Me - But I'm so damned weak, easily-influenced, confused, lacking in both experience and any really strong convictions. I wouldn't cross the street on my say-so right now.

Mom - You'll get so tired of that side of the street so fast you won't have to tell your ass to follow you as you run across. You're far more prone to error due to commission than omission.

Me - You got it. I'm impulsive. I'll probably screw up more than just a few times because of it.

Mom - And it will be the best thing that can happen. Because for the first time, it will be your very own screw-up, not one you can say I made you do. And this is how you will learn to trust your own thoughts - they led to actions that were either harmful or beneficial to your process, Either way, you learn something. But eventually, you get tired of screwing up and you GET THE ACTIONS THAT DETER OUT OF YOUR ACT. More importantly, you pursue and hold on to those that are right, good, good for you - and for others. You'll always belong to the people.)

He was laughing at the thought. That he wanted to get other people to other places. He remembered thinking that knowledge would get Tony out of the neighborhood. It was a little scary at the time. There was even a time in middle school when he rebelled. But in his defense he explained that you had to see that 'spelling B's' were dumb. You got punished if you got it right. You didn't want to sit down right away, but if you kept on getting it right, you had to keep standing up there - just you and the smart girls. He won once and said 'Enough!'. He'd look for his best shot. When was it 'respectable to make a mistake? That's where all the fun was. He'd get to sit down and watch the other kids.

He was sent to a college prep high school where 'they' wore cuffed, white pants and 'he' wore black stovepipes. Of course there was a clash and he got tight with the city kids.But I got the sense that it was a treasured difference; no bitterness; acceptance of people and situations. He learned to play well with the hand he was dealt - and really cared about the differences. But it wasn't until after grad school at Bowling Green that his work was appreciated and after getting his degree, marrying Diane and "really working," his first book, "In the Name of the Father", was published and he officially dedicated himself to writing and teaching. Oh, and when he came to Old Dominion, they had Nick. Can eyes turn neon?

After teaching in Morocco for a year, he realized how myopic we were as a 'reading' nation. When asked where the kids are whom he would take somewhere else through his writing he said, "I wanted my work to reach the people who would like it. I don't just write for Americans. If I get lucky, I'll be read by the world. But I'm not going to explain what a refrigerator is. I can't pander to someone who doesn't know the culture. And my concept of my audience will always go beyond the people who live on this land mass." He also feels the community has a responsibility to the writer. He feels they should read. But even then, he thought our society conspired against the quiet moment. And that's because the quiet moment can't be sold. For Tony Ardizzone, that's America in a nutshell - buying and selling. He wanted to take a "crack at the world" and then leave behind some books. He has. He's also received the "gravy" of respectable recognition. Writing - like living - can be a tough, lonely road. But I guess you have to take your best shot.

(Me - Well, as usual, you're right and I must confess I had an incling this would be the deal. Baggage will have to be thrown overboard. I'll have to hurt and hurt some others but the process will out and will triumph because it means survival, facilitating the collective destiny, getting as many people as possible - especially yourself - together.

Mom - Alright. Now that's a big order. Don't expect you'll wake up tomorrow and all your ducks will be in a row. (I don't think I've ever accomplished having them all in the same place at the same time. Row? Really, Mom?) You see the way you think you should go. Now prepare; pack; take only the things you need for any particular part of the trip.

Me - So. What now? You're going back or forward or whatever to your process now, right? And I bury the child and bear the adult. . . DO drop in now and again, won't you?

Mom - I'm here more than you know. Learn to listen.)

Of Human Bandage

Just wanted to explain why I haven't written in a while. And, I don't have to tell YOU, dear reader, how TRUE that old saw "A picture is worth. . .". And truth be told, THAT amount/kind of Frolic can lead to Fatigue, Foot cramps, Phony explanations even.

I'll just 'fess up'. Frustrating interruptions are the villains. You know how it goes - If it's not an arm - or some such - it's an elbow. Indeed - and anon - I MUST tell you of a most distressing missive I received from a friend this week. To say it 'gave me pause' (and I don't mean the "mena" variety) would be bordering on rudely blithe. It seems that what was to be a long-awaited, well-deserved and chocked-with-chuckles family ski trip morphed into a painful, life-threatening, embarrassing 'slush show'. Did I mention painful? Broken limbs, six to eight-inch long pins, MONTHS of dreary recuperation - not even able to weight bear for SIX more weeks! And this dear soul, you wonder, with hungry curiosity? The Dougger. Doug Reidel. I just wanted to find that damned old CAP, get on a plane & lend a few 'practiced' hands in Columbus.

(Of course, while sitting at my desk, trying to find some words of comfort, potentially POSITIVE sequelae to such a "life-comes-to-a-screeching-halt" event, a ?soupcon of humor/irony? - my eyes (dragging my mind along) wandered to a framed poem, presented to me by my children, on the occasion of having my very own office. Started reading it - you know how your thoughts stray (Hell mine have gone missing for MONTHS!), I focused on their first two stanzas, the 'medical' memories of this Coda. To wit: "If I were a Cadillac/ I'd be pink with wheels of black./ A white ragtop and leather seats/ I'd sing with Jimmy in the heat.

If I were a nurse one day/I'd mend the heart/ wash tears away./ Hold the hand of people scared/ And comfort the souls of those who pray." And I thought, "Wow. Marge REALLY needs to hop into that car & groove with the Parrotheads. (Doug & Marge, you guys, I do believe, will in fact share a GRIN or two, when the one who penned most of this opus is revealed.)

I guess it reveals a lot about 1. our feelings about ageing (as far as we're concerned, we don't.) and 2. the classic "Father-Son" relationship, wherein the teacher often becomes the student; the kid "could never beat/keep up with the old man; the only difference between 52 and 26 is numerical. Because apparently 'Old Dougger' was still "young" Dougger but 'dem bones' were hiding a few surprises. Mr. Brittle was there carrying on high with Ms. Inflexibility; The Reaction/Reflex Twins were feeling feisty in tow; Fight AND flight had hung back at the lodge, laughingly insensitive to their respective responsibilities while all-too-enthusiastically sloshing toddies. And, to be sure "Blinding (bitch) Fear" totally OUT-GLARED the usually lovely "Sun-Induced (bleached) Squintess-of-the-Downhill" so Marge, daunted but devoted, could only bribe Mr. Willpower to enlist Ms. Action whilst nullifying the tip-toe-approaching Nausea Groupies. So when all was said and done - we could ALL hit our knees and say "a few" to St. Bernard et al.

(THAT kind of near-miss loses NOTHING in the re-telling. Again I was drawn to the framed things said: "If I took up writing verse/ It wouldn't have to be for purse./ I'd write with love, and thought, and pain/ I'd share my heart with the universe./ I'd write 'bout numbers and letters and lives,/ my writing style would be alive,/ Not in one place, two place, three,/ But on any page it wants to be./ With flair and muster, I'd pen a few, writing 'bout ones whom we once knew." Marge, best friend of my husband's favorite (of four) sister, Eileen, has been part of his family since the girls were in kindergarten and part of ours - through Eileen - for lo these 41 years. So, then, I guess - as my kids hinted - I write 'bout those I knew yesterday, today and tomorrow. Just recently, I used the salutation "My New Best Friend, Marge" in an email.)

Tough as it will be, these LONG, arduous weeks of recovery will be lightened by the love and relationships that are PRIMO in "the kids", ie, Marge's AND Eileen's. They are not just CLOSE, they are united by shared lives and the baggage (happy and sad) that they share. They'll visit, hang out, PUSH Marge & the Dougger through pitiful remorse (I'd give it 7 - 10 minutes) right into perseverance and the PRIDE worthy of hard-fought-for recovery. And they'll laugh - because they-are-FUNNY AND FUN and because the alternative nets you 'nada' and they're too SMART for that. The Dougger's rehab will be 'all it can be' and NEVER an "act". Not that 'strutting one's hour across a stage signifies nothing.'

(In "My Life According to My Offspring", I read how that works: "And if I chose to act on stage,/ My passion would be all the rage./ 'She made me cry.' the people'd say,/ and made them laugh for tricks next day../ I'd sing and dance for legion crowds/ or just a few,/ if it's allowed. /It wouldn't be for them, you see?/ It would be for ME to see. For if life's a play, and I'm on stage,/ then I'M the one to write the page/ of goods and bads to happen next./ You might say mine's a living text." Ah, Marge, you must be getting warm re: the largest contributor. (No pun but it's true in size) It's the God-child of Eileen (who gave the very EARLY instruction in elf-like devilry and Irish artistic humor and YOUR favorite drinkin', memory-lane-'n buddy in Cleveland.)

Now there is ALTERNATIVE assistance for the Dougger, Marge and Fam. We DO have "connections". Yes, Eileen WAS "fun and games" BUT - as we ALL know - both she AND her favorite brother only PLAYED after the 'brain work' was 'fait accompli'. In THIS instance, I'm certain - & know that Eileen's FOUR wonderful sons, friends as well to the Reidels - will agree that in a "blink" of a jaundiced, blurred but loving EYE, we can have an experienced, strong, faithful AND related aide 'in the house', cooking, cleaning, wershing AND executing the doctors' rehab orders relating to the Dougger. Marge's onus eases, Dougger is in capable hands and progress goes forth ALL THE WHILE obviating the need for that drudge of "all-work-and-no-play". Moreover, we are more than happy to help. Just say the word. (Pick any word you like.).

(I speak from experience here. Even as I gaze fondly at my framed, inchoate literary masterpiece, 'proud as PUNCH' of my little ones, I again pass along THEIR WISDOM: "I'd play with cards till hours dark/ Calling bluffs with winning spark./ I'd play the game of life, you see?/ with balls and chips - and cookbooks, too, / (although I'd rather BUY the stew!)/ I'd read and play and think and BE/ For that is what life IS for me.)

You simply need not worry another sec about the Dougger, Marge. You two have raised wonderful little 'copers' whose love, dedication and abilities will dovetail nicely with the "HELPER" whom we shall send forth. It will be like - well - EXTENDING the Fam!

(I KNOW, Marge, that you, like me, are the subject of these last poetic words of homage written from the hearts of babes: "And if I were a Mother, my name would be Lorane/ My life would be to catch the games/ and hold the hand and ease the pains/ of my OWN kids and others', too/ A mother's job is never through./ I'd help fix toys of wood and tin,/ hold my course through thick and thin./ For 'mothering's' a chore for some,/ For me, I'd play with more aplomb./ Life could throw me things for worse,/ but life goes straight, not in reverse./ I'd stay my course with passion strong,/ steering clear through right and wrong./ See, they could never break my back/ or drive my new pink Cadillac.")

There you have IT and you, and Dougger and the KIDS - ALL of them. And now, take a deep breath, relax and know that from this point forward, whilst the Dougger heals, you'll beam with your brood and enjoy the culinary (and OTHER) surprises of your NEW helper, a guardian angel who just HAPPENS to be ready, willing and able to fit in, white glove-like, perhaps in time to dec the house in merry GREEN!

Later, Lorane. . .. .