Who Woulda Thunk it. . .

       Day late but always de rigeuer, we always re-enforce the importance of "Lady Liberty" to the grandpeeps.  Indeed, just today, I was browsing in an all-import, recherché shoppe that carries olive oils, vinegars and derivative items (they exist, and smell good, too) from far lands to ole Virginny.
       The proprietress - a very sweet, chatty, knowledgeable (secondary to the first two attributes, to be sure) lady was going on about the variety and enhancements of one of her products.  Having a somewhat shallow command of exotic oils, I am always reliant on my personal, necessarily narrow exposure.  My maternal grandparents hail from Bari, Italy and earned their dubious 'fortune' in olives (the intensely laborious, weather/pest-invasion dependent growing/nurturing/harvesting thereof).
       Our "Savor the Olive" shoppe owner, by contrast, is passionately involved in the procurement/dissemination of all things olive/vinegar/derivatives and equally eager to share this body of knowledge.  What I find most enjoyable when chatting with her - in addition to her unbridled ebullience which, if she could 'vat' that quality, would put half the pharmaceutical industry out of business - is her deeply sincere interest in what her 'chat partner' is saying. 
       This is becoming a sadly lost quality, a non-existent stroke or strum in the 'Art' of conversation.  By way of example, in response to her queries about my ancestry and personal history, she found it a boon to have been born into a culture as rich as that of Italy and yet learn of it via lore, story-sharing, a recollection of an ageing Aunt, proudly sporting several white hair stubs on her wrinkled chin, an accidentally found, faded photo taken in 'the Old Country'.  That this 'education' took place while I was physically growing up in Brooklyn, New York when the monthly rent for a five-room railroad apartment was $26.00/month just trebled the 'story's' charm.
       Her merriment truly eclipsed when I recalled the utter confusion on the cherub faces of my daughters when I took them to see "where Mommy grew up".  As I prattled on about the concept of several families living in one building, they stared, glassy-eyed, at the black, iron stairwells attached and climbing up these same buildings to the roof.  Finally realizing their minds wete elsewhere engaged, and following their sight lines, I said, "Oh.  Do you know wbat the black stairwells are for?"  To the negative, slow nods I explained fire escapes.
        "Imagine," I shared with my now-mesmerized shoppe-keeper, "I take them to Broadway, The Statue of Liberty, the actual Chrysler Building 'shining at night' (They'd both been in Annie), Central Park and Wall Street and they are fascinated with fire escapes!"  My dear lady friend looked at me, somewhat expectantly.  Well I could only give her the same tutorial, adding, "As a matter of fact, they were in the back of our apartment building.  The only memorable thing about them for me - well, there were two."
       (She was really leaning in toward me now, for) "Well, when Granpa made - by grating - horseradish, he was banished tl the fire escape landing."  That is one pungent odor!  "And, it was the most convenient and safest playpen for me when Mom was busy."  The landing was about 4 x 6 feet, iron-bar enclosed, lots of fresh air and sunshine and easilh heard/observed with the window open.  "Of  course there was that unfortunate day."
       (You've heard the expression, 'eating out of your hand'.  My palms felt gnawed on at this point.)  "I actually got my head stuck between twl of the bars!  Mom had to call the Fire Department!  They roared up, crowds immediately jammed our front stoop and they barreled up the five flights only to find my embarrassed Mother, pointing feebly at the window.  I, as ordered, was perfectly still and quiet, captive actually."
       Muttering, these gentle giants produced crow bars and I was a free baby bird in short order.  They chatted with Mom about the wisdom  - albeit practicality - of het decision-making and wre soon gl e, dispersing a no-longer-interested crowd.  (What?  Nobody dead or even fighting?)  By contrast, our shoppe lady thought that the dandiest tale she'd heard - in any culture - in quite a personal history of tale-telling.  Ya just never know, do you, what makes for a 'good story'.
Later, Lorane. . . .
      

RIP

       Several years ago, the small cottage - not unlike ours - next door disappeared and an enormous, stone gray and white rental extravaganza was regally erected on the lot.  In fact, the structure seemed to 'hang over' the surveyor's plot line, much like an imposing pot belly does over a tired, stretched belt forced around the bulging circumference of the body-outgrown-its-pant-size.
       The seasonal occupants seemed to mirror the structure (which, boasting all the amenities of over-priced, oceanfront properties like a swimming pool, numerous barely occupy able terraces-cum-view of the ocean or the cottage across the street and the two by four foot office-away-from-home-cum modem looms large in weekly rental rates as well as numbers of occupants per week) in that they, too, laugh louder and longer - breaking the 'could be' still beauty of the Summer night - than most and routinely force their vacuous ebullience on the surrounding environs presumptively.
       Apparently, the premises were - unusually - rented this past March for a week.  A local, year-round couple recalled that a boisterous group suddenly appeared off-season.  But before the week was over, and following an official-looking, investigative visit by non-guests, the revelers, now unusually quiet and somber, placed a hand-made, crude wood cross and surrounding bouquets of artificial flowers at the base of the steps leading to the beach and departed.
       Noticing the cross - into which "Michael Lee, 1994 - 2013, RIP" had been carved - upon my annual arrival, it has become a tragic reminder of human frailty and non-consolable desperation.  The accompanying comments, written in "Sharpie" ink, have long-since been incorporated into the salty, turbulence of 'tears' stretching to Brittany.  His family and loved ones put James Gandolfini to rest today.  I sincerely hope he finds, cheers, can be what the young man who left with harsh March winds - Michael Lee - sought by the sea.

It was Spring,
school, parents, "her".
Need a break,
Can't think, thinking, thoughtless,
More is better than,
Less noise, distraction,
Direction.  We're here.
"Section E".

"Son of a Beach", "Carpe Manana",
"Dances With Waves", "Sedation",
"Suits Us", and for me?
Next to "Phil's Litter Box"
Is where I'll be.  Michael Lee.

Allison, John, Wayne -
They leave.
Marci, Chuck, Lorane,
Return, go, stay, grieve.
They feel;  need not see
He'll remain.  No high dudgeon
But quiet, soft wind on
Michael Lee.  R.I.P.


Later, Lorane. . . .

Stepping on THE Corner

       It's a Friday here(presumably elsewhere as well) and the significance of this datum in this summer 'cottage vacation spot' on the Outer Banks of North Carolina  (OBX, for you car decal decoders who have trailed vehicles across states beyond your destination, lured by the slim hope of getting the driver's attention long enough to inquire as to where he has been lately) is that for many sun/sand/surf-worshippers, it is the last day.  At the crack of ETD, wives, who've been packing at Mach speed - in the dark - will be lining all manner of bags/containers/luggage, neatly, efficiently, adjacent to the soon-to-be home bound car.

       And the driver - car packer, payor, padre - will be utilizing everything he can recall of plane geometry in a stunning example of perseverance, occasional pain and paternal pluck (Did I forget grace under pressure?  No.  There'll not be any.) in this 'no-way-to-start-any-day' enterprise of 'loading her up'.  He'll be muttering, reduced to a babbling idiot, but one who is aware of one fact certain: there were maybe half the number of 'to-be-packeds' when last he was charged with this task.  Moreover, their arrangement/containment was requiring nothing short of 'Rubrics' exactitude.

       Ultimately successful, he will be pale, perspiring, but immersed in an odd expression of art appreciation.  Then he will de-trance, responding to a directive from his significantly and demonstrably patient co-captain to, ". . .pu-leez, seat/secure the (three to six) kids", who stand at attention (co-cap's) awaiting seat assignments and the last merry brawl of the vacation, focused on their placement/comfort during the upcoming seven to ten-hour trek home.

       This is (due to lack) no time for petty arguments between the adults concerning, "Where did all these bags/kids come from?"  Nope.  Last bathroom check; first of what will be many head-count checks and then the vehicle pulls away, a dazed but victorious driver at the helm, seeing only his Nirvana - their own driveway and the frosted glass and its good buddy, cold bottle of beer, carefully positioned during the last pre-departure check.

       So today, Friday (It's still Friday here.) is pull-out-all-the-stops day.  Cameras have been clicking since sunrise.  The posed, freshly-clad family shots done and already "shared" with everyone they know.  The cottage, dunes, surf, one last sand-sculpted masterpiece - even if created by the kids next door - the frolicking (and crab-hunting, please see above) pets, the first-time-at-the-ocean toddler.  The cast on this 'master'-designed set.

       The Northeast wind is brisk and the tide strong - has caused the raising of the red flags by the vigilant life guards.  Sooo, surfing - body and board - is out.  But the surf anglers are in their glory - and well beyond the marked areas of beach where sane, thoughtful humans would heave and yank shards of barbed/honed steel hooks suspended on threads of nylon into such a frenetic ocean.  (Over the years, my husband, 'doc', has removed such menacing 'equipment' from the pierced-through toes of unsuspecting strollers.)

       This unabated, barely supervised ". . .one more for the Gipper" frolic will continue, undisturbed by weather/warnings until the last illegal cherry bomb is fired, the last limbo leaned, the final slam of a cottage door behind the last sand-encrusted, bare feet - feet that for the past week have been 'tripping the life fantastic' on this little corner of Heaven. Dancing with waves.  Life is good.  Life is even better by the sea.

Later, Lorane. . . .

 

 

 

 



  

Where DOES the Time (Life) Go?

       So this Grams (moi) walks over to her favorite sofa - an old 'crate-designed' piece, made by a company (This End Up) long-since defunct and re-covered once.  She had selected the material years before her own children were married but were in the 'grown-up' genre.  It depicts an abstract, friendly collage of jungle animals, done in a variety of primary shades, looking out at the human body parts that impress, relax with them.
       The initial family reviews were mixed to silent.  One bravely voiced thought just wondered why she had selected  such a, well, uh, child-like pictorial.  By way of response, she had asked the asker to name the members of the feral array.  "Mom, I know from tigers and zebras and elephants.  But, thanks for the science experience."  Chuckles all around.  She had just mused to no one in particular - well, maybe the zebra - "Some day, some one will want to 'call roll', as it were."
       There had really been no abstruse, connived rationale behind her choice at the time.  She liked it.  And today, in the same desultory fashion, she had begun this blog by selecting a photo from those taken by her or sent to her "Sky Drive" collection.  The selection had been stored in something called "The Family Room", a label that held NO meaning for her.  Moreover, she had no idea who had created the work and/or posted it to her collection.
       Roll call:  Of our three remaining children's families, only one consists of two parents, one big sister, one little brother and a dog.  That it appears to be drawn on a chalk board is meaningless, such is the power/variety of the endless collection of 'play things' found in and around our offspring homes.  So, I guess this is an 'all skate', as you know as much as I about our 'star visual'.  I'm going with a close-knit (hand-holding) happy (smiling faces) active (even dog is barking plus there appears to be an object of play at the end of the line) bunch that - as a group - is sending a message (Daddy holds the written evidence).
       Well, back atcha, Guys! (I promise, when I've discovered the entire story - senders, reason, content, etc, I'll share.  For now, I'm thrilled with the innocuity (is that a word?) of it.  The drawing, that is.  It conjures up nothing threatening, unhappy, mysterious or costly.  It IS.  And that works for me.  It's been a somewhat reflective twenty-four hours for me.  I'm alone - well, Bridie beagle is here - at our modest and, for this time of year, rather quiet cottage.  We are enjoying a brisk, Northeast wind on a sunny day.  The surf, as is its wont in late afternoon, is shiny white but rushing about a tad more frenetically than usual.
       I have been in sad-ish reverie since learning last evening that James Gandolfini has taken his last cruise on the Jersey Turnpike.  You may recall, I was raised in Brooklyn.  My mother's family is Italian.  Our 'extended' Italian family, although not extensive, was a vivid part of my childhood, a major player, perhaps in why I became a member of the diaspora of 'former New Yorkers' (former Brooklynites, more accurately)  I was not a 'Soprano' but knew them very well. 
       It is a credit to the talent and serious approach to his art that Mr. Gandolfini was able to bring so much material - people, ways of life, backgrounds, motives, values, tastes, smells, colors, places, clothing, "types" - so vividly to the consciousness of someone who had lived in tandem with the characters in the scripts from which Tony Soprano emerged.  Most importantly, along with the writers/creators, he is to be congratulated for not only including, but placing 'center stage' the private weaknesses, insecurities and fears of this giant in a world where giants ruled by force, bludgeoning the weak, the needless, the no-longer-useful.  If asked 'Why?', you might have heard, "Whatever."
       Early this morning, I passed a couple wheeling a young toddler
whose attention was riveted on our beagle.  I stopped.  We chatted as the boy rubbed compliant, silky, droopy ears.  Absent preliminaries and never having met, we began talking about Mr. Gandolfini.  They were from New York - not a typical find on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  In fact he hailed from Queens;  she from the Bronx.  They were Italian.  They, too, knew the Sopranos - in their own frame of reference.  We fell very easily, however, into OUR family backgrounds. 
       They, too, had been embroiled in their respective pasts since last night's evening news.  His family - from Sicily - came here in the early seventies.  Late arrivals, compared to me and his wife.  She and I were both second generation New Yorkers and had so many more stories, characters, experiences - as Americans and, from the previous generation, the determined 'will-bes' - than he.  Indeed, to some extent Papa still showed signs of the 'inchoate patriot' of this adopted, wonderful nation.  
       The forty-five minutes of shared (very willingly) history, accomplishment and dreams for the future for us and ours flew by but left an indelibly common, shared and nostalgic aftermath.  It surrounds me as I sit here, among my animals,  (all quiet, trying to peer at the developing story on the screen - except for Bridie,  napping, having 'been there, been that') trying to share this happening with you.
       It may have been very trying, indeed.  You may come away thinking nothing, or worse, "say what?".  Well, you needn't.  Say anything, that is. And recollection is certainly not a requisite, either.  Perhaps, just being in the present, doing 'your thing', wondering nothing is your best course.  DO remember with fondness and respect, Mr. Gandolfini.  He is a part of ALL of us.  He, in portraying a non-all-American, is firmly ingrained in the fabric of our American artistic culture.
       Like great artists who precede him - the author F. Scott Fitzgerald comes to mind - he was able to authentically convey, to re-create,  to capture, through the portrayal in a string of stories stitched together  - another time and place; to shed light on its participants.  Because remember, all the material differences of some things - between THEIR time and yours, between YOURS and that of your offspring - are timeless. 
       And if, in fact, there is a reason for everything we do/experience, then perhaps, I decided to insert a picture at the beginning of this outing, indeed, that particular picture - shrouded in mystery at the time - because I needed a tool, a means of communicating feelings meant to be shared.  Perhaps, I've simply reproduced what is written on the piece of paper 'the Daddy' is holding.  (A bit too "Kumbaya", you say?)  Maybe. 
       Maybe not.  But definitely, "Thank you, James Gandolfini.  Thanks for giving us your talent, for being a part of our dramatic culture."  As to providing the stimulus for recollection, reverie, re-living that/those precedent and hoping for those subsequent,  who's to say.  If you asked Tony Soprano "why?", you'd get, "Whatever."
Later, Lorane. . . .

SERIOUSLY?

       I KNOW, I KNOW.  Where have you been, girlfriend?  So hard to believe, but truth to tell, I've been MIA lo, these past several ?months because of MEN.  Clarification is fiendishly in order here.


MY PARTY ANIMALS

 

 

I DID want you to meet my new friends first.  Even Do Tell loves 'em.  They (stray thought, I know.  But it's my best kind.  Of thinking.  I don't stray.  Who has time?)

       were carved in Kenya - by children!  In the 60's, my husband - Dr. Lt.on-a-Navy-destroyer-cruise at the time - spent a few days in Kenya and was fascinated and very attentive as he stood watching these Masai Warrior Tribe guys carve two foot-tall statues of warriors in 'war regalia' in a matter of minutes using only long, very honed sabres and quick, broad, sweeping stabs at air and oak. Attentive indeed.  I always imagined ole doc turning into a frozen, white statue transfixed and formed by fear in stark contrast to the creation aborning before his stony eyes.

       Well, this amazing culture has passed this exquisite art form down to the youth of the tribes.  Others of them are taught to make the dyes with which the intricate figurines are then painted.  There is a tiny carafe on the table and their tiny cups match the partyers.  So there is one zebra, one giraffe, one elephant, one hyena, one lion and a hippo cup complementing the sippers.  (Our two year-old grandson insists on calling it "Madagascar")  Whatever.  They cause only pleasure - unlike the 'men'.

       No surprise that William De Vane was the instigator.  In our current economic crisis he actually got my attention one day with, "Seriously.  What's in your safe?"  Instead of just muttering some abusive, well-deserved critique of this clueless precious metal pit her, I thought, "Dunno."  (The guy can reduce even a semi-literate, decently educated speaker to 'pablum-speak'.)  So it was that I began an unobtrusive quest for our "safe".

       It wasn't long before I was obsessed with the search, pretending to pay attention to visitors or delivery persons whilst performing raggedly-executed sneezes and coughs that permitted the surreptitious head turn or drop that allowed for a glance behind a wall hanging or down to the hardwood floor in hopes of finding tell-tale marks of sharp, piercing instruments making their way en route to "the safe".

      



 

 

The dogs offered to help but to no avail.  Finally, when I was busted by the second 'male', hubby, as I was ripping up the recently-installed wall-to-wall in the master bedroom, glaring up only long enough to hear, "We don't have a safe" in response to my barked demand as to its location, I collapsed in despair which soon morphed into anger.  The observant, dear and glorious physician, seeing his wife's maniacal scouring

 of the home and environs couldn't even ONCE come up with a, "Lose an earring?".

       Then, this evening, while catching up on missed discussions in my writing group, I chanced upon an article pointedly titled, "Are You the Great Gatsby?". I read the saddest of possible words - and they weren't "Tinker to Evers to Chance".  No, this male 'author' was pontificating about the fact that it's such a pity that this sublime literary work, compulsory reading in most high school curricula, is totally lost on our youth.  Rather one must LIVE and FEEL and EXPERIENCE for quite a while before one can appreciate Fitzgerald's genius, the depth of his philosophical gropings, the abundance and variation of feelings.  (and alcoholic concoctions, one could add.)  LIVID.  That's how my 'relaxing read' left me - drained and livid - at the obtuse meanderings of male number three.

       I read ALL of Fitzgerald's work in high school.  Read Gatsby several times just to admire and savor his language, his art with the literary instrument - pen/typewriter - that permitted the most vivid of pictures to Charleston in your head, paint your red, Clara Bowed lips and dive into spot-lit fountains. Then I 'lived' a bunch of decades and trebled my admiration.  So when I saw this cinematic outing - twice so far - and watched Leonardo's hand grasp forward toward the green light on Daisy's dock, I could feel my body moving away from the light - rowing backwards, unable to fight the tides of fate.

       (Indeed, you may be able to add a fourth male to my obstacle course because if a man designed/programmed the formatting for this site, he's the reason I can no longer get the type to 'left align'. Sorry.)  But if you happen upon that article, the answer should be "YES" whether you are sixteen or sixty-one.  Fitzgerald wrote for ALL seasons, all ages, all the time - 'old sport'.

Later, (Nah, sooner), Lorane. . . .   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 













Last Seen Wearing Thin: So That Others May Live

Last Seen Wearing Thin: So That Others May Live
www.linkedin.com/loraneleavy

So That Others May Live

Julie, 'Momma' to Mia

       Forty-five years ago today, an equally bright, sunny day filled with dreams and hopes of an equally bright future with the medical student I was about to marry, we celebrated our union at a high nuptial mass in Queens, NY.  The Forest Hills reception, island honeymoon and our very own first apartment in Maryland were pure 'Disney'.
       Then the reality of obligations - career and family - 'took the wheel', catapulting us into and through the rigors of daily living - and supporting same, as well as each other.  We dedicated ourselves to our professions, ever striving to learn more, improve skills and, hopefully some day, be a part of 'doing the miracle', saving a life.  We were then blessed with a life - our fist-born.  The Navy brought our inchoate family to Norfolk, VA and took First Lieutenant Philip G., MD to the pier, depositing him on a destroyer - the flag ship of a fleet bound for a nine month cruise.
       Having but three weeks to acclimate - to the South, a new city, new status, singular responsibility for a 10 month-old son - was to feel a mudslide of life slosh over and around you with untenable force, unrelenting helplessness.  So often I'd lie awake asking why, how, what - all the unanswerable but permanently affixed-to-my-being questions.  Fortunately, there were but seconds to laze/dawdle in this fashion, so entrenched was I in the basking of the luxury of frenzied survival.
       And survive we did; the lieutenant returned, terrifying his son with a handlebar mustache, looking so like the "Frito Bandito" and making a clean shave the first order of 'welcome home, Daddy' business; and then on to the dual reality of military doctor/husband-father.  Working long and extra hours, we managed to buy a starter mansion but had great trouble filling it.  We couldn't afford furniture but didn't need it because we couldn't bring child number two to viability.
       Again, the nagging 'whys'.  Quite unexpectedly, the questioning was back-burner-ed when clothes began not buttoning at the waist (even though pregnancy tests were negative).  We quickly erred on the side of hopeful caution, hunted and found an enormous, affordable starter mansion 'two' and just as quickly moved our fourteen pieces - total - of furniture into it in time to assemble the cradle into which baby Julie was carefully placed.
       The following four years were absorbed by illness, loss and change - of the monumental variety.  After eleven months of fighting pancreatic cancer (we had moved my parents and their bedroom furniture into our home), having won some extra innings, Mom lost the game; Dad remained living with us - angry, frustrated and devoid of his entire former wardrobe.  Mom had always bought 'blues' to match his eyes.  He hated blue.  After throwing everything out, he acquired the most encompassing brown wardrobe known/possessed to/by any man.
       Again, a protracted period of the 'whys'.  But it was short-lived as we watched in awe this little angel child grow and run and speak.  Mom's illness had so taken over our lives that Julie was  - at age two - a brand, new experience.  Naturally, we, as my mother before us for as long as she could, fawned over the child.  Indeed, big brother Philip began muttering aloud about the "golden years" - the first seven of his life, an only child.
       A serious, non-whimsical child (a toddler who would stare at the food on her plate, then at her family and, though saying nothing aloud, shouting with her glare, "Touch nothing on this plate and nobody gets hurt.") as she grew older, it came as no surprise when she announced her desire to attend Georgetown - the School of Nursing.  A sedulous and happy student, she made wonderful, lifelong friends and loved her profession.  After graduation, she spent a year at our Level I Trauma Center in Norfolk, then drove North to Boston, her new, adopted home, and her future - husband, child, achievements.
       Sad and missing her so, we focused on her remaining siblings - Jennie, born four-years after Julie and Declan, who was only to be with us for seventeen months before he was returned to God, a victim of a choking accident.  Of cours Philip, devastated at losing his little brother - "big guy" - went through his personal hell during this time as well.  Why?  Why?  Why?  We had a standing family 'mantra'.
       The years flew as did the kids, starting their own families.  Philip and Jennie settled in nearby Portsmouth.  Julie worked for ten years in ER/Trauma at Boston City, married and moved back to Virginia - Richmond.  They had Mia - who charms the world still.  But Boston kept calling Julie back.  Tufts Medical Center wanted to be a Level I Trauma Center and her friends at Boston City told them Julie was the one gal who could get the job done - well and fast. 
       And so she did - while Matt stayed behind to sell their home in Richmond.  Whispering into the phone on her first day, she urgently confided, "Mom.  I have this bog office.  What do I do?"  I suggested she go in with". . .this lady who keeps following me around" (her secretary).  She then described a huge desk (seaworthy variety) seeming larger in that it was home to one telephone, a lamp and two yellow past-its.  After reading the first one (Nurse A informing the new director that she had personally observed nurse B remain in he rest room for twenty minutes during their wok shift), Julie asked the 'follower' to kindly bring her the files of the employees involved.  To the silent, raised eyebrows she explained, "I'm going to terminate both nurses.  If A spent twenty minutes in reconnaissance, she wasn't working either.
       That incident began a series of investigation, observation, one-on-one interviews and working side-by-side with the Emergency/Trauma nurses for several hours on each shift. Within four months, staff was terminated, replacing those unfit/unwilling to perform at Level I Trauma Center pace.  They were easily replaced by recruiting staff from Boston City with whom she'd worked and knew- personally and professionally.   Tufts became a Level I in October, 2011.
       Last year, Julie fought long and hard to convince the administration that there should be tents set up during the Boston Marathon - in case inexperienced runners needed fluids or more
 serious medical attention. She got a green light - albeit reluctantly.  Due to unusually hot temperatures, Tufts admitted over 30 runners last year - some with life-threatening conditions.
       That experienced planted the seed for unified, broad-based protocols to be utilized in the tents during the race.  This year, they were disseminated and used in ALL the Boston hospitals.  And didn't it pay off.  We spoke often, but briefly, during the week.  She went to the interfaith service.  She was asked to do many interviews.  Everyone was thrilled when players from the Nw England Patriots, and Boston Red Sox visited the bombing patients as well as the first responder staff in the ED/Trauma areas, spending time to say thanks and pose for pictures. 
       Last night, she represented the medical First Responders at the Boston Celtics game where all the services were honored.  "Mom, I can't explain how it felt, walking out on that shiny, wood, court floor - standing next to those great cops who saved so many lives."
       During an interview, she was asked how she would feel caring for a suspect.  She responded, "It's the ultimate ethical dilemma. What do you do?  You have to do the right thing.  It's not one of the things they teach in Ethics 101."  (It turned out that she had treated a suspect.  She admitted to not liking the patient before knowing it was a suspect, but administered appropriate treatment nevertheless.)
       We have no more 'whys'.  We have loans to repay and worries about her mental state post this traumatic experience.  We are concerned for the integrity of her unborn child and the pregnancy in general. But I am - along with her Dad - celebrating HER life today.  Julie proved unequivocally and with grace and ease, that she does what she does so that others may live.  Thanks, 'Muffin'.
Later, Lorane. . .. .
      

Another William DeVane PSA

       Once again I must spit some ink on the likes of William DeVane, of "Seriously, what's in your safe?"  As I sit listening to our president address a temporarily broken, bleeding citizenry in the Cathedral in Boston, I feel only pride and gratitude.  That's what's in my safe.
       Additionally, our daughter, a trauma nurse, sits in that audience, by invitation of 'potus', because she devised the medical/triage protocols that filled those tents with the life-savers of whom she is so proud.  That's what's in our safe, DeVane.  And that's all we need.
       You, 'Bill', can take your solid, cold, shiny gold and silver from your safe, and have an orthodontist shove it over your teeth so you'll always have it - even if some whacko takes your safe.  Then you - and the results of your life's hard work - will always be safe.
Later, Lorane. . . .

In the Name of the Mother

       I lost an old friend the other day.  (Now isn't that the wackiest expression?  And we all use it.  I mean it's not like the event was along the lines of,
"Where the hell did I put Mary?  I was just using her - in this very room, I think - and I reluctantly answered the phone only to immediately hang up on some wench trying to sell me something so I could get back to Mary.  And now - no hide or hair of her.  Not that noticing a longish strand of dirty blond hair with an inch of white root on a throw pillow or finding a half bitten, Mary-polished fingernail lounging on a coffee table book would aid in solving the dilemma.  How could I 'misplace' something as imposing as Mary?"
No.  The more appropriate comment should be _____ died the other day.  Or I heard that our Mary is, you know, no longer 'among the quick'.  (There I go again.  "Among the quick"?  I see myself and everyone I know dashing about like dervishes and, inducing stark noticeability, Mary just about standing still in our midst.  Which may actually be the genesis of the phrase.  Imagery's a potent little potable - unless, of course one usually washes one's Prozac down with Mescaline.)
       Perhaps "friend" is a bit of overkill (let's not go there) when it comes to my relationship with Mary.  We attended a very small Catholic high school in Brooklyn together back in the late fifties-early sixties.  "Saint Francis Xavier Academy for Young Ladies" was its formal moniker and it was among a group of similar college preparatory schools for girls all staffed/administered by the Sisters of St. Joseph - an order of nuns dedicated to education.  (Once in college, it became apparent that their dedication far outshined their accumulation but, a sedulous student could overcome the deficiencies that came rolled up in our diplomas.)
       I don't recall ever being in the same home room - but could have been - nor do I recall taking the same classes taught by the same nun - again, my recollection could be faulty (that is an interesting turn of phrase, the implication being my ability to gather up/piece together parts of this 'relationship' may not be up to the task.)  But Mary was very much a part of my high school experience.  She was a member of a clique - in which I always felt fortunate to hold membership - of ten or so gals - each of whom embodied qualities to which I futilely aspired - they were Irish, flat-chested and very funny.  My inclusion, I assumed, was my occasional bon mot and their kindness.
       Mary's inclusion stemmed from a lock on the first two qualities, a common after school neighborhood plus a few genuine 'friends' in the group.  (I was not among the latter.  Nor was my best friend, a relationship Mary spent a lifetime seeking without apparent success.)  After graduation, I was the first to lose touch as I attended college in Washington, D.C.  I was never really out of the loop, however, because my best friend then is my best friend today.  (You met her in an August, 2011 post)  Her relationship with Mary was too much + too often = too bad.
       For her part, Mary soldiered on, maintaining bonds with the original clique and then, much to her credit, assumed the arduous/thankless/enormous task of locating the original ninety-nine graduates of the class of 1962 for a twentieth reunion.  At that juncture in our lives we were focused either on family (positive and negative aspects) or career.  Mary, having conquered both - in her estimation - gathered us together in 'hometown' Brooklyn to share, re-bond, celebrate, commiserate and, under the unsolicited guiding hand of 'Mother Mary', integrate.  This last would be in a therapeutic sense as Mary was now all PhD'd in Psychology.
       Best friend had seven children and I had four.  We brought our husbands (who went bar-hopping and talked sports) and focused on 'being thin' - running after kids does that for you) while listening to/laughing with our old classmates' achievements.  All still living were accounted for save one - Marilyn Munroe, the only black girl in our class.  She'd been located living in Atlanta, but had declined to attend.  We were disappointed as Marilyn was the ONE girl in our class known for never speaking ill of anyone.  We missed seeing her.
       Mary spent the evening taking pictures and bows for her outstanding work with the decorations, the menu, the color coordination and the little verbal vignettes she elected to share with us - some bit of history, news or accomplishment of everyone in the room.  Mary had married a gentleman older than she with whom she'd had two children, one divorce and a PhD.  I recalled how little I ever heard of her Dad and how much of her wonderful Mom.  Mrs. O'Rourke was that parish lady who washed, starched and ironed the altar linens, saw to it that the good Fathers ate well and encouraged the doing of the good works Catholics pray so much about.
       The ensuing twenty years saw growth, graduations, emptying nests and burgeoning new careers.  I know this because once again, Mary spearheaded the movement to locate, consolidate and commemorate the remaining members of the Class of '62 - this time in a cruise to Bermuda.  My best friend could not make it.  I'd just had disc surgery.  Mary assured 'everyone' (who would listen) that Lorane would never come  sans best friend.  Well, Mary was wrong.  We had a ball and since movement was limited for me, the camera and I became buds.
       On one day when the group was off the ship touring, I was catching some rays on deck when a giant bee (of which I am terrified) found me - at sea!  Scrambling out of the chaise was a bear but all of a sudden Mary was standing there, swatting the little monster into oblivion.  I was NEVER so happy to see Mary O'Rourke.  My penance was the endurance of hearing every episode of her decades of suffering from Crohn's Disease, the escort who accompanied her on her final cruise last week.
       Apparently, Mary left explicit instructions for a memorial service to be held in a hotel in NYC next weekend.  (Perhaps the "full bar" will be shrouded in crisp, white altar linens for old times' sake)  Also the singing of the high school song is strictly forbidden.  So much for all things Catholic.  I'll not be attending but may hum a few bars of the song just as payback for any angst Mary may have caused friends over the years - in the name of therapy.  And, too, I'll say a few prayers for the 'bee-gone' days.  Godspeed, 'Mother' Mary.
Later, Lorane. . . .
      






      

The 'Hood' - An Explanation

       You may have noticed - if you had occasion to read my last post - that were it to be evaluated on the issues of form and continuity, it fails triumphantly.  It was one of those 'stories-within-a-story' a personal favorite re: style.  As such, it most likely confuses or at least makes readers 'work' to follow.  I'm sure it's not rare to hear, "Oh, God, woman (punctuation can be everything), can't you focus on just one, simple point?"

       Adding to this flawed, addictive style, I committed the most mortal of prose-writing sins - I took a walk break with husband and dog.  It was during this commission that just desserts were served.  We saw something that confused and shocked and shut down any notions of continuing that post with any semblance of candor.  So, rather than write, I rambled (perhaps it went right by you) in true desultory fashion, changing the original em-pha'-sis to a different/wrong syl-la'-ble, as it were.  This gambit ended the post with me in The Cloud - where the few remaining readers had already arrived.
        The true story was amputated after the last parenthetical/italicized entry ending with, ". . .VERY quiet.".  In reviewing it today, I noticed that the title - "On the Other Hand" - was never changed and stares back at me accusingly, "How come you left that other hand behind your back, Lorane?"

Do Tell ignored me completely, suddenly captivated

 by the news, which is kept on at a low volume all day.  I was feeling so ostracized I was certain even William DeVane would refuse to let me see his wall safe.  Perhaps of more consequence, I was nagged by the reaction the truth would have on kids; the questions parents might have to answer; the soul-searching I might be forced to do. 

       If by some fluke, this little angel heard someone talking about the goings on, was it fair to have Daddy Matt be forced to give her some sort of explanation?  IS there an explanation?
       There were reasons generating my reluctance:
Husband:  "Why don't you just write what went on?"
Me:  "Fear of potential consequences; loathe to report an ugly truth."
Resolution:  I've been convinced that I have an obligation - along the lines of a PSA - to at least finish documenting what I knew of the matter.
       I was about to do just that yesterday when my tablet announced it would be 'down' for a day installing important updates.  Reprieve.  I was able to deal with the annual pollen blizzard which, predictably coincides with the mating season of our local wasp population (think etymology, not genealogy).  The latter, due to allergies, is a potentially life-threatening event for me so I called Mr. Hornet/Wasp remover STAT. 
       Then it was business-as-usual, wandering around with a can od wasp spray in one hand and a sturdy lint remover roller in the other.  Daily, I can roll up basketful of particulate matter - especially when some residents don't use doormats.
       I'd reached the end of my temperamental tether and was checking my own tennis shoe treads (I was fairly sure the wasps were shoeless) when I decided to get out, walk, drink in the sun - mull it all over.  Tomorrow would come.

       Now we've all turned around twice and we're back on Wednesday.  After describing the circumstances of my neighbor retrieving her dachshund (overweight) puppy, I took that walk break.  We have a beagle.  She's 5years old and no stranger to the neighbors.  Our one friend has now two year-old Lappy, the trimmed down dachshund, sibling to one year-old Dicey beagle, purchased to amuse/annoy/trim down Lappy.  (I'll just be mentioning the dogs who play a role in this saga)
       The gentleman in the house across from Lappy and to the left, has a white toy poodle.  Our newest neighbors (? four months) have a terrier - Tabby, who is walked regularly on our street and the street perpendicular to ours - home to white poodle, Tabby, Lappy and Dicey.  Next door to white poodle, the family originally had one Rottweiler, Bullet, and hen inherited Mom's brother's mixed breed, fluffy, red Diva. From the outset, Diva was not friendly to other dogs and our 'involvement' began on a day I was walking Bridie and when we approached Lappy and
Dicey's house, Bridie was very focused because their 'mommy' LOVES to share treats.
       So it was that we were caught unawares when Diva lunged out from behind a bush on her lawn and attacked/bit Bridie.  The injury was not nearly as troublesome as separating the dogs as my back surgery (temporarily, I hope) robbed me of my usual Olympian speed/dexterity.  Finally, we were out of range and had our usual long, pleasant walk.  Returning home became an 'issue'.  Bridie would not willingly walk past Diva's house.  This scene was repeated once again a few weeks later so I had a chat with the very embarrassed owner.
       Interestingly, Lappy and Dicey were never on Diva's hit list but then, it was Diva's 'Mom' who had rescued Lappy from the dog-less next door neighbor when Lappy was a pup.  Maybe Diva just felt that, like her owner, she was to take care of, not harm the guys across the street.  Our new neighbor's Tabby, was not in the same category.  In fact in a period of a month, Tabby was assaulted/bitten three times - with her owner falling during the last tussle.  To say the least, Diva was wearing a black hat.
       While on the topic of 'bad guys', let's recall that Lappy's predecessor, the chocolate lab as well as her buddy, the swimming pug, had 'gone missing' three years ago and folks were looking somewhat askance at the dog-less household.  New neighbor's hubby, understandably peeved, had a heart to heart with Diva's Daddy and for about two weeks, all was quiet on the canine front.
       Then.  Signs went up all over the neighborhood with full-color pictures of DIVA!  She 'went missing' on March 17th, a day her 'daddy' said the dog less ones went away on vacation.  New neighbor and I were walking less anxiously, Lappy and Dicey's 'folks' were sure the dog-less household was involved.  White toy poodle's 'daddy' was acting as though nothing had happened.  (He's a pal of dog-less) The kids were devastated and Bullet was VERY twitchy.
       The original posters offered a reward and gave contact numbers.  On 'walk-break' day, the object of repulsion was the addition of a poster addendum (please see photo above).  It asks for ANY information leading to the discovery of the person(s) who tortured, beat and killed Diva, leaving her thusly mutilated body to be found by the head of the household in a church across the road from the neighborhood entrance.
       We have had occasion to see/talk with the children, stressing the futility of hate/vengeance and the power of prayer.  I think, too, of the evil of pre-judgment.  Of only one thing am I certain.  Diva does not hurt  and will not hurt anymore.  What is the lesson of Diva?  That will have to be a personal conclusion/decision.  Time heals.  Memories fade.  Why is it that the one indestructible constant is unabashed EVIL?
Godspeed.  Later, Lorane. . . .

On the other hand. . . .

Keep it Light

       Generally speaking - the genesis of that qualification, bye the bye, simply bears witness to the fact that eighty per cent of what I write is written because I am genuinely moved to communicate what I feel are significant ruminations/observations.  The remaining twenty per cent has been urged upon me as material/information that someone else wishes to 'get out there' and would but for lack of a forum - I write from emotion and intuition.
       I've never been one to concern myself with the trappings of accuracy or the drudgery of plodding through authoritative tomes in the pursuit of factual data that might lend  some weight or significance even to my Scribner ship.  (That's kind of like a raft but powered by ink instead of toxic/combustible liquids.)
       This actually makes sense (another of my 'non-concerns')because I rarely read anything in its entirety unless it touches a nerve, causes an irrepressible commitment to continue.  (I think how fortunate this was for my children that I wasn't thusly "grabbed" by, say Exodus, when there were three tykes, a dog and a husband relying solely on my efforts for food and clean clothing.)
       This is one of the reasons I've distanced myself from several writing groups given to hosting conventions/workshops dedicated to the craft of 'writing', usually featuring known/successful authors who address us 'would-bes' pleasantly but tutorially nevertheless,  frequently with a soupcon of smugness and always with a semi sagging from the girth of their latest opus prepped for display and that personal note to the drooling purchaser; signed by the accomplished hawker.
       I prefer working in obscurity and, I daresay I've fixed the place up and festooned it with 'favorite things' such that I'll remain here - untarnished by commercial success and soaking in a bath of unconventional lack of sagacity for as long as I remain among the 'quick'.
       However, this being a twenty per cent day, I fear I must subject you to yet another discomfiting run-in with my bête noir - technology.  The matter became a twenty per center when both my best friend and my husband were skewered by the beast on the same day last week.  Moreover, they each looked to me for an explanation.  I suppose to some extent that made this exercise at least a twenty-one per center.
       My husband went to check his email (a Hotmail address) and was greeted by a screen titled, "Goodbye Hotmail; Hello Outlook".  My best friend (in Connecticut) with an Optonline address sounded borderline  psychotic as she announced the 'loss' of ALL email addresses and that she could not access my blog.  (That issue resolved itself - unfortunately - as she was using the wrong URL.)
       After an hour or so of tinkering on the keys, I threw my hands up re: Hotmail.  It had - as they have come to annoyingly say, "gone missing".  As he is a doc who works with attorneys that pass along highly confidential information in their attachments, I could hear rumblings of a major storm, the dark clouds of breach whipping up a torrential DRAFT which in its final form would have the title "Complaint".
       I offered to write a post so my friend could test accessibility and suffered through several hours of lost paragraphs, wrong photos and a compilation of words - sans beginning, middle or end which I titled "Confusion" but NEVER PUBLISHED.  Imagine my surprise when the abort-o-piece appeared as a post.
       (This entire fiasco infuriates me.  Were I to have the freedom to write about some really interesting things that have "gone missing" around here, you'd have some riveting reading today.)
       After absolutely NOTHING was said or done, my husband calmly announced that his email was back.  He didn't even inquire of the masterminds at Outlook what had caused the lapse.  (There's a guy who will NEVER get ulcers.  He's just a carrier.)  I didn't dare contact my friend, such was my embarrassment at the tripe she'd had to endure when using the correct URL.
       (Six years ago, shortly after we moved here, we saw signs on all manner of trees/posts seeking ANY information about a 'chocolate lab' that had "gone missing".  The owners, heartbroken, had to leave on their long-planned cross-country Summer vacation, never seeing the lab again.  While biking in the Dakotas, however, they received an email that the little pug, that used to swim across a patch of bay to visit the lab, had ALSO "gone missing".  THAT family got a new pug immediately.)
       Technology be dammed, I spent my week re-finishing furniture.  It relaxes me and keeps me from breaking expensive, aggravating equipment.  In fact, today was the first time since the 'lost email' episode that I took a break from painting and returned to the computer.  I've been amusing myself responding to ninety-nine Facebook notifications.  AND I promised my friend I'd work on getting the blog to behave.
       (Vacation over, the despondent lab less neighbors were training/spoiling their new dachshund puppy.  Lappy gained so much weight, his owner was walking him in a stroller!  Finally, she decided to get another pup just to get Lappy moving.
       One day, upon returning home from a puppy search, she didn't hear the now familiar crying of lonely/hungry Lappy.  A neighbor suggested she check the house next door.  And, boldly, she did.  As she neared the door, she could hear Lappy whimpering.  She banged on the door and the owner, with cowering Lappy at his feet, handed the dog over but not before telling her, "The next time you find him - if he's missing - you'll find him here with a bullet between his eyes, VERY quiet.")
       As much as I've come to rely on my computer, it has been something of a chore to keep up with its use.  The children gave me a Surface for Christmas and just as I was BEGINNING to learn its nuances, I managed to get my cell phone wet during one of my mandatory 3-walks-a-day, so I got a new Windows phone free.  Oye! It - the Windows cell phone - is 'sync-ed' with the Surface (the manufacturer suggested that the same user name be employed) and they are both VERY chummy with "Sky Drive", a new friend I didn't even know I had.
       Sky Drive is like a giant "Jack Rabbit" storage warehouse.  Apparently, one's material - documents, photos and something called "Public" - tagged with one's user name, is kept in "The Cloud" - the eponymous nickname which has been bestowed on Sky Drive, the infinite keeper-of-things-technologically/photographically and in other mysterious ways generated.  I can access things I've already forgotten and intentionally chose never to revisit.
       Taking pictures of the grand peeps, I (jokingly) said, "You're all going to the "Cloud" - on three.  Can you feel it?"  And, by gosh, the following day, with some time for editing, I downloaded the pictures. Guess where they were?  Yup.  "The Cloud" had my family.  If, by ANY chance, you read of an unknown would-be author 'gone missing', do call the 'tip line' and casually mention (YOU KNOW).  Gotta run.  BY now, Niemans MUST have a coordinated "Wing Line", yes?
Later, Lorane. . . .
      
          
      

SOME DAYS THE BEAR BITES YOU.MCOLOR ME BITTEN.

       Georgetown JUST LOST THE TOURNAMENT. Yup. Jes like that. The 2nd seed lost to seed 15 - ole What's Their Name. As an old Hoyette, attending during the Camelot years - when we had a team (and a president), it smarts. Even now, in my dotage, I can still get a chuckle recalling that cute little bulldog, Jack, being led onto the gleaming, screaming planks, only to ceremonially void and then regally exit.  (Were I in attendance this evening, I might well have done the same.) And just when I could really use a sherry, The Tombs is out of range.

       Now tomorrow, I shall be comforted by my spectator role at a soccer game plus two lacrosse games. Emma will be wedged between her two cousins - ripping the leather off that checkered ball against similarly determined but hardly as deft as our girl.  We don't call her the "Motivator" for laughs.

 

       Speed-demon Molly, having just finished basketball and soccer, is in fine form for lacrosse. Molly is quite the kidder around the family, but her public prowess is legend. Act Two in the lacrosse arena will give star billing to our eldest grandpeep, Declan.  He's been playing for a few years and is such an amiable and kind little shaver, folks on the opposing team never anticipate an 'issue' with him as an opponent.

       Indeed, tomorrow we shall separate 'the men from the boys and the women from their inferiors'. The Hoyas will be playing nothing - same old, same old.  One other fond memory wanders through my consciousness from my Georgetown days.  I dated an Annapolis midshipman for awhile.  He hailed from the deep South (double loser).  He was a man of a few words.  Unfortunately for me, a few of those few were memorialized by someone whom he apparently held in some esteem (as well as a bored daze when together).  So far too oft, he was given to drawling, "Some days you bite the bear and some days the bear bites you."
       The remaining seventeen or so words in his lexicon must not have been quite so riveting - or utile - as I simply cannot think of one.  Which is of no moment because, as you may have guessed, I'm the happiest of grandmothers, secure in the knowledge and gratitude of not having spent the last forty-five years listening to that drivel daily and abed, comfy and enjoying the anticipatory thoughts of the shining sportsperson-ship to which I'll be treated on the morrow.  Do Tell allows as how he shall miss you as well.
Later, Lorane. . . .

'Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.' (PSA)

            Sitting around the other day, pondering the big questions, (Sorry. That's "Do Tell" above. He's my choice listener and I've never introduced him to you. Allow me to apologize for this sloppy  breach of taste.) like, "What did 'masked revelry' mean?" A friend used it while chatting the other day.  Like me, Do Tell proffered, "Nothing. If it's  masked, it can't be seen/appreciated."
       Moving on, we wondered whether joy runs out or is there an infinite resource. The answer: When you subtract all resistance, the feelings will flow endlessly.  Embarking on a list of resistances, our conclusion was putting off all of those joy-producing, attainable possessions until, well, you never get them. So then. There'll be no more putting off our 'dream garden'. Off we went to the research/list-making endeavor.
       Gardening magazines are jumping off the racks these bleak, chilly pre-Spring days and we selected a reputable one seemingly brimming with colorful displays.  Immediately catching our eyes was one featured for its uniqueness and run-on commentary by the creator/planter herself. We'll call her Marge.  At first blush, her creation seemed to be one, large, sectioned unit.  Reading its history/description, inserted randomly, the reader was instantly alerted to the depth and complexity of Marge mirrored obliquely in her remarkable remarks.
       "Most people decorate the house first but I did the garden."  (She brought bulldozers in to dig a 50 x 30 foot area on the mountainside below the house.)  The residence is tucked into the side of Lookout Mountain, above Chattanooga.  The soil is a sticky clay which our girl replaced with humus and organic material. (Ashes?  Wood pulp?  Soy pods? WHAT?)  Then she devised a design that had to be as attractive from the house above as from within.  "It had to have bones."
       We were instantly curious as to the rate of prosthetic femur implantation in the state of Tennessee.  The reader's queries may focus more on the design.  We would simply suggest a 'sub-focus' on Marge's word choice.  She refers to a pleasing structure where one can ". . . add things or take things away."  When a storm took away some of the mature trees (Ah, the wisdom of age. They knew when to get out.), Marge built a pergola (open trellis made of wood columns supporting cross-rafters) to follow the bed curves and protect little shade-loving plants.
       A white picket fence separates the formal garden from the deck (informal, for guests) which is cantilevered out from the mountainside.  A white gabled gate leads nowhere.  It serves as a focal point to guide guests' eyes up into the garden. (Imagine if you will, "She's gone to get lemonade, Florence.  I'm just dying to see what she's done on the other side of that fabulous gate!" Indeed.)  About the pergola, Marge feels it adds to year-round appeal and ". . .provides support for the ornate cottage windows that hang as a backdrop for the plants."  The writer saw these as a witty accent, accenting the sense of being in an outdoor room.
       So, we thus far have a bifurcated mélange of flora: the more casual, utile deck where guests can relax on dark metal chairs (so they ".  . . would virtually disappear.") They also leave deep waffled indentations in the sitter's derriere as Marge chose to use comfy, colorful pillows ONLY on the backs of chairs.  While thus relaxing, guests enjoy a profusion of color and a mixture of form - spiky and round, short and tall - to keep the eyes moving up and down and all around the garden.
       (I can't help but picture a cousin of mine who suffers from mystagmus - a condition of eye muscle weakness which causes her eyes to continually move back and forth. Coupling this image of someone who additionally suffers from ADHD yields an uncomfortable guest seated on Marge's deck, eyes wildly jumping from one garden-caged filum to the next as though possessed or afflicted with an uncontrollable tic.)
       Complementing the precariously organic material-supported deck and just on the other side of the white picket fence that is color-coordinated with Marge's ingenious pergola and gabled-gate-to-nowhere, we have the 'garden to die for' (or in) with all of the color and architectural splendor that any self-respecting retina could take in at one (uncomfortable) sitting. So enticing is this view and so unbearable the chairs, a guest may actually - having calculated the odds of 'grab-ability' on the cliff walls during descent - opt to take a foray toward that gate.
       So, if you find yourself overlooking the Chattanooga area, house-hunting, do be aware. You see the stunning symbiotic interplay between guests and nature provides - at this residence - a macabre but melodic response to the presumably oft-posed question to our Marge: "How does your garden grow?" So, then, caveat emptor: when in those Chattanooga hills, darling, tip-toe through those tulips, calceolarias and pergola-protected ground coverings. And 'beware of sweet sellers, who come to the door, wistful and pale, of fifty and four, delivering daisies with delicate hands. Beware of sweet daisies. Beware of their hands. Beware.
Later, Lorane. : . :

Going to Be A Meeting. . .

       The other day, we had just embarked on our 'walk-Bridie-our-dog' morning jaunt when we encountered a lady, paused on her bike, about to put something in our mailbox.  We saved her the trouble, inquiring about its nature.  She said it was a Civic League memo and pedaled off.  Seems our neighbors are all a-whisper about some potential City Council business.

       Reading the memo, we were reminded of a very old Kingston Trio song about a railroad train - "Number 97":

    "Buddy better get on down the line;  Buddy better get on down
    the line.  Here comes ninety-seven makin' up some time.
   Buddy this is Ninety-Seven at your back; Got a ton of
    coal poured down her back.  Here comes Ninety- 
    Seven roarin' down the track."

       In our version of the song, "Ninety-Seven" would be our area's new light rail system - the TIDE.  Rumor has it that among the citizenry - landed gentry and peanut farmer alike - the 'Fathers' (city fathers) are planning, spelled, p-l-o-t-t-i-n-g.  They are going to venture over the rim.  (Thus far, the TIDE hasn't been the subject of particularly favorable ink.  I mean any fool knows that "mixin' electricity and water can bring nothin' but trouble.") Indeed, this area is known as the 'Tidewater Region".  It is also a fact that New York City has been 'coasting  along' on the East and Hudson Rivers and flirting with the Atlantic Ocean all the while being connected by a rail system - built by Indians and immigrants - that prides itself on the technical reliance on a very 'hot', live third rail for power.  Imagine my surprise when  this phenomenon escaped an entire population that just didn't 'get' the TIDE.

     The advance PR allowed as how the TIDE would bring the cities closer - unite Hampton Roads by making it oh-so-easy and affordable to "Park and Ride" from Norfolk to Virginia Beach faster than you could say in-te-gra-tion.  They built it and people came - to and fro, saving gas on our very own 'speeding bullet'.  In fact, the Big Picture brings our brothers and sisters from as far as Suffolk and Portsmouth into the Loop.

 

       They can drive to the Portsmouth Harbor and 'Park and Ride' or float on the ferry to Norfolk where they can see baseball and hockey games, attend the opera as well as several live theater venues, visit internationally-known museums and top of the line restaurants.

 

 

        Then they can head on East to the land of surf and sand.  (I see a billboard:  "They say the world is a book but if you don't travel, you've only read one page.")  Well, our TIDE is a tome of monumental proportions.  In fact, as to monuments in particular, once in Downtown Norfolk, the traveler can avail himself of the "MacArthur Memorial" as well as the eponymous 'Side-scapes' in its environs.  Similarly, Virginia Beach sports a magnificent "King Neptune" and is studded with artistically-rendered mermaids throughout the city.  Portsmouth - at its own, nationally recognized Children's Museum, now honors the Ayers Family in a stunning bronze sculpture of children reading. (The element of common denomination here - if you've not already guessed - is the accessibility of these treasures via our TIDE.)

       I say, "Here, here" to all of this movement.  Brooklyn-raised, I was never one for driving anywhere - regardless of how economical it is made to sound.  But it seems our Fathers, who art in Virginia Beach (hallowed be ITS name) agree and now want to give us even more of our daily bread of transport via the TIDE.  They want to add a slice or two of variety into the kneading.  (Some may say that insodoing, they want to lead us into temptation!)  Hmmmm. . .

 

       Now the rumor is in its inchoate, 'we-had-a-dream' stage.  (Pssst. A dream is just a dream.  A goal is a dream with purpose and a deadline.)  It - the rumor - purports a plan to divert these straight and narrow tracks at strategic points such that some TIDE pellets will pop out, plopping down in some of the better-known, recherché shopping centres so that ALL of Hampton Roads will have access to, shall we say, "Marquettes for All Seasons" or "Rides for all Reasons."  Or not.

 

       So, folks, the citizens of Virginia Beach are going to a meeting - just to make sure since we seem to be the projected pellet targets - that the philosophical as well as the gustatorial and sartorial questions are asked and responses are provided lest we find ourselves on the far side of the rim with no going back.

 

       The philosophical question for our neighborhood is:  "Who's to say if this is good or bad for Virginia Beach?"  The first order of business, then, would be a look at the subject. It has become a city steeped in tradition and marinated in its cultures.  During that marinating process, a new native culture with its own population identity evolved.

 

       It has become a bustling, well-earned hive of tourism, hosted by its natives.  They, in turn, are a many and varied group unified by their diversity. This same quality permeates its co-existent civilian/military components.  The majority of the civilian population has its roots in the older, more conservative city of Norfolk.  The heritage of the military population: the world.  Visually, it is a climatically warm, appealing coastal town.  The community is a tangle of sprawling neighborhoods and copses that seems to embrace that 'uneven pavement' essence of cohabitation of the landscaped 'swells' with the 'average-Joe-DIY-ers' sharing the same piece of God's little acre with impunity.

 

       Of course there's more to this.  My thumbnail sketch seems (and is) reductive.  But it does function as a filter that would equip a meeting attendee/potential question poser - YOU - who have what it takes to GO TO A MEETING, ponder AND comment on the likely effects of the TIDE further infiltrating the easternmost borders of the city.

 

       Ultimately, however, what you plus our neighborhood and any other potentially affected areas, can do is comment.  You see, the city Fathers meet as well - and all are invited to attend.  Should we feel trespassed upon, we can always forgive.  If the feeling is deliverance from the evil of exclusion, we can revel in the glory that accompanies such good fortune. You have 'happened in' to a win-win participatory adventure.  You may go to the meeting and profer an opinion as to whether the Fathers' plan is good or bad for the kingdom.  For thine is the kingdom and, if you've become a 'TIDE-ie', yours is the glory.

 

       Oh.  Guess that leaves just one more thing.  It wasn't in the memo, but if memory serves, (Lord knows, no one else seems to) the Fathers have the POWER.  Still want to play?

 

Later, Lorane. . . .