https://mountainmornings.wordpress.com/
It's been real google, but I'm growing a little! Will leave this link up for awhile, see you'all at Wordpress!
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Saint of Lost Things
The Saint of Lost Things (aka my handsome Husband) has found my cell phone. He has become a Saint due to his many miraculous successful hunts for anything lost. It could be the back of my Sister's earring, an important tax-related receipt, or even my Mother's charm bracelet. Yes, it's the same charm bracelet that she gave to me a few months before she died, the one filled with gold charms that mark all the important events in her life and that I remember hearing tinkle ever so vividly whenever she was getting ready for a big night, dressed to the nines! Granted he IS the one who had hidden it, and then later denied that he hid it in his desk before a trip and persisted in gaslighting me for years about it. Oh the sheepish grin when he discovered it, and I wasn't sure if I should kiss him or hit him. Perhaps he is paying penance for that time by always finding the lost object?
It made me wonder about my memory, of course. Should I just get that new test for Alzheimer's now, and start the medication while I still have a chance of remembering to take it? I could always blame my mental lapses on:
1) Being a Nursing Mom with no Sleep in my 30's, and
2) Going Through Menopause in my 40's
3) Having the Occasional Senior Moment in my 50's
4 ) And now, it's either ADD or early-onset you know what in my 60's, right?
We have always thought that said Husband would have been medicated early and often if there was an ADD diagnosis when he was a kid. Our son, the Rock Star, was reluctantly thought to have it, like his Dad he was only happy doing lots of things at once and continually lost his cell phone, and his clothes (which I'd find his friends later wearing since they were left at friends' houses) and his towels at the beach, and I could go on and on. But medication is never the answer - please don't Tom Cruise me about this - I think a lot of little boys are just active with a capital "A." Giving all these young kids psychoactive drugs is a dangerous custom and over-prescribing for the sake of our big pharmaceutical industry, in my opinion. Plus, so long as the Rocker had his guitar, he could focus just fine. So I'm thinking that he may have gotten his forgetfulness from me, and not his Dad. Because after all, Dad keeps all his appointments on a Google calendar and rarely forgets anything! And now back to granting sainthood.
The Bride, as I mentioned in the last post, had the power to stop a plane from taking off when she was flying from Atlanta. All those Halloweens in the Wonder Woman outfit payed off! Then when she returned to her hospital, she was one of many residents who presided over a resuscitation of a patient who had died at a Lady Gaga concert. Imagine. No really, imagine we are in say the time of the Tudors, the Catholics are taking a beating and they need some new saints quick. Well, a young woman who can stop a big Airbus and make somebody rise from the dead? I'd nominate her!
http://www.cnn.com/2011/HEALTH/04/22/tennessee.gaga.heart.attack/index.html?hpt=T2
It made me wonder about my memory, of course. Should I just get that new test for Alzheimer's now, and start the medication while I still have a chance of remembering to take it? I could always blame my mental lapses on:
1) Being a Nursing Mom with no Sleep in my 30's, and
2) Going Through Menopause in my 40's
3) Having the Occasional Senior Moment in my 50's
4 ) And now, it's either ADD or early-onset you know what in my 60's, right?
We have always thought that said Husband would have been medicated early and often if there was an ADD diagnosis when he was a kid. Our son, the Rock Star, was reluctantly thought to have it, like his Dad he was only happy doing lots of things at once and continually lost his cell phone, and his clothes (which I'd find his friends later wearing since they were left at friends' houses) and his towels at the beach, and I could go on and on. But medication is never the answer - please don't Tom Cruise me about this - I think a lot of little boys are just active with a capital "A." Giving all these young kids psychoactive drugs is a dangerous custom and over-prescribing for the sake of our big pharmaceutical industry, in my opinion. Plus, so long as the Rocker had his guitar, he could focus just fine. So I'm thinking that he may have gotten his forgetfulness from me, and not his Dad. Because after all, Dad keeps all his appointments on a Google calendar and rarely forgets anything! And now back to granting sainthood.
The Bride, as I mentioned in the last post, had the power to stop a plane from taking off when she was flying from Atlanta. All those Halloweens in the Wonder Woman outfit payed off! Then when she returned to her hospital, she was one of many residents who presided over a resuscitation of a patient who had died at a Lady Gaga concert. Imagine. No really, imagine we are in say the time of the Tudors, the Catholics are taking a beating and they need some new saints quick. Well, a young woman who can stop a big Airbus and make somebody rise from the dead? I'd nominate her!
http://www.cnn.com/2011/HEALTH/04/22/tennessee.gaga.heart.attack/index.html?hpt=T2
Friday, April 22, 2011
Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday
It's Holy Week. Happy Earth Day to all today, and if you are Christian not sure if saying Happy Good Friday is correct? Good Yontef? I remember all the images in Sacred Heart Catholic Church being covered with purple velvet on this day, the day that Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross. Easter is hopping right along this Sunday; the purple cloth will come off. We all celebrate renewal, rebirth, and forgiveness. But for me, a lapsed Catholic who would most likely describe myself as an anti-any-organized religion type, who once converted to Reform Judaism but is now considered an Agnostic married to a Jew (in secular terms only), well I have the whole pilgrimage to my MILs for the Passover Seder to discuss.
My 87 yr old MIL has been putting on this holiday ever since her older sister, Mary, now dead, became too ill and incapacitated to do it, which means about 20 years. I've been making the charoses for 32 years, since my own wedding. Everyone is assigned a dish to bring, so I guess you could call it a pot luck Seder! My hubby is her eldest son, he gets to read the Haggadah (the book of the exodus from Egypt) and lead everyone in the tradition - washing hands, hiding matzoh, talking about the fear of change and the wandering around the desert with Moses in order to escape slavery, etc. Jesus was a Rabbi, the Last Supper a Seder, and there is a hard boiled egg on every Seder plate. The similarities are endless because of course Christianity grew out of the Jewish monotheistic faith, just as Lutherans sprang from the Pope. The food that is served, in strict order symbolic of the holiday, is pretty much the same all over the world - gefilte fish, matzoh ball soup, tzimmes (carrots and beef), chicken. You are supposed to clean out all the bread and leavened products and only eat matzoh for eight days (7 for Reform) to signify the wandering around the desert wilderness part, with no time to let bread rise. But it's not the food that gets me.
It's the drama. 35 people show up, some as early as noon last Monday when the Seder begins right before sundown. Aunt Mary's single daughter from NYC comes to my MIL's house six days ahead of time to get the place ready. She brings folding tables, silverware and linens. along with her latest addition, gravlax, which is like a fancy lox for the appetizer table. They make ancient, disgusting food from Yiddish ancestors that maybe a few people will eat, like eggs in chicken aspic (p'cha) or burned chicken fat and feet (gribbenes). And a long time ago I learned that it doesn't matter how early I get there (I used to go up 2-3 days early to "help") when we lived an hour's drive away instead of 8 hours - there is nothing for me to do, except chop up the apples and nuts of Charoses. We drove at dawn on Sunday, the day before the Seder, in order to pick up the Bride at the airport. The Groom had to work. But my son was coming and indeed he arrived before noon on Monday.
The Flower Girl bit her Aunt Becky; my MIL called me Sheila when she remembered to thank me; the NYC cousin insulted my sister who came out from NYC; the 55yr old disabled brother-in-law, who is still living with my MIL and her husband, showed up rarely and did nothing, which means he was "...having a good day." When I got there I was informed that 11 people out of the 35 were Jewish, and they didn't count me as one, I'm only half...which I had always half suspected. We did get to meet the 5 month cousin who was born in Iowa and is adorable! As usual, I was happy to get home, to passover the Mason Dixon line and return to my flowering dogwoods and mountain serenity. But I can't complain since my daughter's pilgrimage beat mine for its level of complexity and confusion.
The Bride's plane was 4 hours late from Atlanta. First, there was something wrong with the crew and they had to get another crew to come in. Then, while sitting on the tarmac, a lady had a nose bleed. Paramedics were called and my exhausted ER doctor didn't bother to get up. Then, after packing the nose, they were actually taxiing to take-off, when another tumult was happening in the back of the plane. Someone said a passenger was having "...difficulty breathing." Magic words to an ER doc and so my daughter tended to her patient, who was not the nosebleed. The flight attendants brought her a stethoscope, and said the pilot wanted to know if they could take off. She said, "No." Imagine, she had the power to stop a plane? I'm sure the other passengers loved her at that point. Back to the gate, paramedics were called again and the patient was transported directly to a hospital. The Bride received a free ticket to anywhere Delta flies, though they did want to see proof that she was indeed a doctor.
"Once we were slaves in Egypt," and now I refuse to be a slave in the kitchen. It's important to know when the time is right to gracefully give up the things of youth, and pass on your wisdom to the next generation. In this family, we seem to have jumped that shark long ago.
My 87 yr old MIL has been putting on this holiday ever since her older sister, Mary, now dead, became too ill and incapacitated to do it, which means about 20 years. I've been making the charoses for 32 years, since my own wedding. Everyone is assigned a dish to bring, so I guess you could call it a pot luck Seder! My hubby is her eldest son, he gets to read the Haggadah (the book of the exodus from Egypt) and lead everyone in the tradition - washing hands, hiding matzoh, talking about the fear of change and the wandering around the desert with Moses in order to escape slavery, etc. Jesus was a Rabbi, the Last Supper a Seder, and there is a hard boiled egg on every Seder plate. The similarities are endless because of course Christianity grew out of the Jewish monotheistic faith, just as Lutherans sprang from the Pope. The food that is served, in strict order symbolic of the holiday, is pretty much the same all over the world - gefilte fish, matzoh ball soup, tzimmes (carrots and beef), chicken. You are supposed to clean out all the bread and leavened products and only eat matzoh for eight days (7 for Reform) to signify the wandering around the desert wilderness part, with no time to let bread rise. But it's not the food that gets me.
It's the drama. 35 people show up, some as early as noon last Monday when the Seder begins right before sundown. Aunt Mary's single daughter from NYC comes to my MIL's house six days ahead of time to get the place ready. She brings folding tables, silverware and linens. along with her latest addition, gravlax, which is like a fancy lox for the appetizer table. They make ancient, disgusting food from Yiddish ancestors that maybe a few people will eat, like eggs in chicken aspic (p'cha) or burned chicken fat and feet (gribbenes). And a long time ago I learned that it doesn't matter how early I get there (I used to go up 2-3 days early to "help") when we lived an hour's drive away instead of 8 hours - there is nothing for me to do, except chop up the apples and nuts of Charoses. We drove at dawn on Sunday, the day before the Seder, in order to pick up the Bride at the airport. The Groom had to work. But my son was coming and indeed he arrived before noon on Monday.
The Flower Girl bit her Aunt Becky; my MIL called me Sheila when she remembered to thank me; the NYC cousin insulted my sister who came out from NYC; the 55yr old disabled brother-in-law, who is still living with my MIL and her husband, showed up rarely and did nothing, which means he was "...having a good day." When I got there I was informed that 11 people out of the 35 were Jewish, and they didn't count me as one, I'm only half...which I had always half suspected. We did get to meet the 5 month cousin who was born in Iowa and is adorable! As usual, I was happy to get home, to passover the Mason Dixon line and return to my flowering dogwoods and mountain serenity. But I can't complain since my daughter's pilgrimage beat mine for its level of complexity and confusion.
The Bride's plane was 4 hours late from Atlanta. First, there was something wrong with the crew and they had to get another crew to come in. Then, while sitting on the tarmac, a lady had a nose bleed. Paramedics were called and my exhausted ER doctor didn't bother to get up. Then, after packing the nose, they were actually taxiing to take-off, when another tumult was happening in the back of the plane. Someone said a passenger was having "...difficulty breathing." Magic words to an ER doc and so my daughter tended to her patient, who was not the nosebleed. The flight attendants brought her a stethoscope, and said the pilot wanted to know if they could take off. She said, "No." Imagine, she had the power to stop a plane? I'm sure the other passengers loved her at that point. Back to the gate, paramedics were called again and the patient was transported directly to a hospital. The Bride received a free ticket to anywhere Delta flies, though they did want to see proof that she was indeed a doctor.
"Once we were slaves in Egypt," and now I refuse to be a slave in the kitchen. It's important to know when the time is right to gracefully give up the things of youth, and pass on your wisdom to the next generation. In this family, we seem to have jumped that shark long ago.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
My Guilty Pleasure
For the past few days I've been mesmerized by a bird...well, four and a half birds really. I've got the Duke Eagle Cam up and running all the time on my desk-top computer. It's a live feed from high up in a sycamore tree at their research facility in Hillsborough, NJ. This year the nesting pair of eagles, who mate for life btw with no pre-nups, laid their first egg in the nest on February 28th. This was followed, at three day intervals, by two more eggs. When I started tuning in to this miraculous event there were two baby hatchlings, all grey and woobly, with one egg left to hatch. I saw the papa eagle swoop in with a fish in its talons and proceed to feed on it while it was still breathing (yes, I know fish don't breathe but this one was moving its gills). I saw the mama Eagle gently roll the egg around and step off the nest to feed ever so carefully both babies. I got all mushy and cooed to myself over this amazing bit of technology. Mere minutes turned to hours of eagle gazing.
It brought back memories of the spring when a Robin made its nest right outside my bedroom window in NJ. Backyard ornithologist that I am, I loved to see the Great Blue Heron swing over our house at dawn on his way to breakfast in our tributary. Catching a glimpse of Egrets nesting in the trees around a pond on our street was always a show-stopper on my daily dog walk. Listening to the bird's cacophony when our backyard huckleberry tree ripened was the harbinger of Spring. But this year was the year my son was getting ready to leave for college. So I kept an eye on the comings and goings of this Robin pair. Finally, the last little baby robin was left alone in the nest. I'd watched its nest mates hopping around the branches, testing their wings, only to fly into the woods. The last baby was crying for its mama. I was getting desperate. Finally one morning, he jumped onto the lawn and proceeded to hop over to the woods. At last he flew up into a tree. I found myself crying with joy and relief. Because very soon, we'd be packing up our son the future Rock Star, our last child, for his college adventure.
Just got an email from a cousin who said she's worried, "The Eagle looks cold." I've turned so many friends and relatives onto the Eagle Cam, I'm afraid we'll overload its circuits! I'm concerned about the third egg. It should have hatched a couple of days ago, and now I can't see it. Of course I didn't like to see the first hatchling getting more food than the little second one, and being beak-bonked by its bigger nest mate too. But that seems to have evened out, the mama bird makes a point of leaning over the bigger first-born to feed its smaller baby equally. A living and breathing lesson in Darwinism, maybe the third egg will hatch, or maybe she's pushed it out already as nonviable.
After this past week, and the news stories about the GOP holding our budget ransom with riders about de-funding Planned Parenthood, I was happy to zone out on the Eagle Cam. After all, Roe vs Wade happened in 1973...almost forty years ago. And the morning-after pill (emergency contraception) has cut down significantly on the number of abortions performed in this country. If these ideological zealots can't get it into their heads that we American women have the right and freedom to choose what we can do with our own bodies, well maybe they should be watching the Eagle Cam too!
http://www.dukefarms.org/Education/Eagle-Cam/
It brought back memories of the spring when a Robin made its nest right outside my bedroom window in NJ. Backyard ornithologist that I am, I loved to see the Great Blue Heron swing over our house at dawn on his way to breakfast in our tributary. Catching a glimpse of Egrets nesting in the trees around a pond on our street was always a show-stopper on my daily dog walk. Listening to the bird's cacophony when our backyard huckleberry tree ripened was the harbinger of Spring. But this year was the year my son was getting ready to leave for college. So I kept an eye on the comings and goings of this Robin pair. Finally, the last little baby robin was left alone in the nest. I'd watched its nest mates hopping around the branches, testing their wings, only to fly into the woods. The last baby was crying for its mama. I was getting desperate. Finally one morning, he jumped onto the lawn and proceeded to hop over to the woods. At last he flew up into a tree. I found myself crying with joy and relief. Because very soon, we'd be packing up our son the future Rock Star, our last child, for his college adventure.
Just got an email from a cousin who said she's worried, "The Eagle looks cold." I've turned so many friends and relatives onto the Eagle Cam, I'm afraid we'll overload its circuits! I'm concerned about the third egg. It should have hatched a couple of days ago, and now I can't see it. Of course I didn't like to see the first hatchling getting more food than the little second one, and being beak-bonked by its bigger nest mate too. But that seems to have evened out, the mama bird makes a point of leaning over the bigger first-born to feed its smaller baby equally. A living and breathing lesson in Darwinism, maybe the third egg will hatch, or maybe she's pushed it out already as nonviable.
After this past week, and the news stories about the GOP holding our budget ransom with riders about de-funding Planned Parenthood, I was happy to zone out on the Eagle Cam. After all, Roe vs Wade happened in 1973...almost forty years ago. And the morning-after pill (emergency contraception) has cut down significantly on the number of abortions performed in this country. If these ideological zealots can't get it into their heads that we American women have the right and freedom to choose what we can do with our own bodies, well maybe they should be watching the Eagle Cam too!
http://www.dukefarms.org/Education/Eagle-Cam/
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Letter Writing
When Elizabeth Taylor, one of the greatest movie stars of all time in my humble opinion, died last month, one of the news stories to catch my interest had nothing to do with her awards or her philanthropy or her husbands. No, it seems Taylor's earliest romantic letters will be going up on the auction block. She was barely 17 and writing to some guy we never heard of, William Pawley; it was her first fiancee though she didn't marry him. And Pawley kept those letters all these years, and now his estate will be getting a pretty penny for her thoughts...like this:
"I've never loved anyone in my life before one third as much as I love you - and I never will (well, as far as that goes - I'll never love anyone else - period)." Elizabeth
Now we know that's not true! She went on to marry 8 times, twice to Richard Burton, back in the day when "living in sin" was seriously considered living sinfully and could break your contract, and drown your career in the Hollywood studio system. What touched me about this story is how we are losing so many wonderful love stories to emails, texting and twitter accounts. Think about the letters of John and Abigail Adams, or Winston and Clementine Churchill.
"Time passes swiftly, but is it not joyous to see how great and growing is the treasure we have gathered together, amid the storms and stresses of so many eventful and, to millions, tragic and terrible years?" Winston
For me, writing is a form of meditation. It's a way to make sense of the world, and a way to keep me focused on the here and now. Why perseverate about a problem in the middle of the night, when I can jot it down in a notebook and be done with it. A relative once looked at me menacingly and said about his ex-wife, "So you're the one who told her to write me letters!" OK, so maybe her letters were more like, "Why don't you get up up off the couch and be useful for a change?" Everything we write may not be full of starry-eyed, wonderfully romantic prose.
One of my earliest treasures was finding a letter my Mother had written to an Aunt while my Father was dying and I was a baby. It's dated Oct. 20, 1948 Scranton, PA. She was trying to write to everyone and let them know about the new baby, me.
"She is wonderful, God bless her. She crys at night from 7 to 10 but the rest of the time we don't know we have a baby. Jimmy was such a crybaby that it is a great relief to me to have such an angel...we are having her Christened Sunday. ...her hair is still red and I'm hoping it stays that way...Bob (my Father) stays about the same. He doesn't have those spasms anymore. Also the tic in his eye and face have disappeared. - his right arm is useless - he seems to get more helpless every day. I thought having the baby would cheer him up, but he gets more depressed."
My Father died the following April of a brain tumor. Maybe I carry the letter because that makes a part of my childhood real, it's better than stories, I can hold it in my hand, something that happened when he and I existed in the world together. And my Mother always kept with her a letter I wrote to her my first year in college. I had just returned to my Boston dorm room after marching in a peace rally after the assassination of Martin Luther King. I was a fledgling activist, and Mother must have loved that little spark, that forging of my young identity.
I have a few love letters, and a poem from my husband. I keep them locked away in a hidden place. He wrote them many years ago, before we were married, as a way to woo me I'm sure. So this is what I'd recommend for any newly engaged couple....take the time to write to each other. If we're lucky when we write, it's as if some higher power takes over and types what we'd always longed to say. And since We missed out on our 30th Anniversary a couple of years ago because, there was a family wedding, and an 85th birthday party to plan, and a move and life in general, I think I'll start planning our 33 and 1/3 Anniversary Party. After all, I love him at least two thirds more!!
"I've never loved anyone in my life before one third as much as I love you - and I never will (well, as far as that goes - I'll never love anyone else - period)." Elizabeth
Now we know that's not true! She went on to marry 8 times, twice to Richard Burton, back in the day when "living in sin" was seriously considered living sinfully and could break your contract, and drown your career in the Hollywood studio system. What touched me about this story is how we are losing so many wonderful love stories to emails, texting and twitter accounts. Think about the letters of John and Abigail Adams, or Winston and Clementine Churchill.
"Time passes swiftly, but is it not joyous to see how great and growing is the treasure we have gathered together, amid the storms and stresses of so many eventful and, to millions, tragic and terrible years?" Winston
For me, writing is a form of meditation. It's a way to make sense of the world, and a way to keep me focused on the here and now. Why perseverate about a problem in the middle of the night, when I can jot it down in a notebook and be done with it. A relative once looked at me menacingly and said about his ex-wife, "So you're the one who told her to write me letters!" OK, so maybe her letters were more like, "Why don't you get up up off the couch and be useful for a change?" Everything we write may not be full of starry-eyed, wonderfully romantic prose.
One of my earliest treasures was finding a letter my Mother had written to an Aunt while my Father was dying and I was a baby. It's dated Oct. 20, 1948 Scranton, PA. She was trying to write to everyone and let them know about the new baby, me.
"She is wonderful, God bless her. She crys at night from 7 to 10 but the rest of the time we don't know we have a baby. Jimmy was such a crybaby that it is a great relief to me to have such an angel...we are having her Christened Sunday. ...her hair is still red and I'm hoping it stays that way...Bob (my Father) stays about the same. He doesn't have those spasms anymore. Also the tic in his eye and face have disappeared. - his right arm is useless - he seems to get more helpless every day. I thought having the baby would cheer him up, but he gets more depressed."
My Father died the following April of a brain tumor. Maybe I carry the letter because that makes a part of my childhood real, it's better than stories, I can hold it in my hand, something that happened when he and I existed in the world together. And my Mother always kept with her a letter I wrote to her my first year in college. I had just returned to my Boston dorm room after marching in a peace rally after the assassination of Martin Luther King. I was a fledgling activist, and Mother must have loved that little spark, that forging of my young identity.
I have a few love letters, and a poem from my husband. I keep them locked away in a hidden place. He wrote them many years ago, before we were married, as a way to woo me I'm sure. So this is what I'd recommend for any newly engaged couple....take the time to write to each other. If we're lucky when we write, it's as if some higher power takes over and types what we'd always longed to say. And since We missed out on our 30th Anniversary a couple of years ago because, there was a family wedding, and an 85th birthday party to plan, and a move and life in general, I think I'll start planning our 33 and 1/3 Anniversary Party. After all, I love him at least two thirds more!!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Rebirth
Last night, the Bride delivered a baby. I found out on Facebook this morning and felt my throat tighten. Birth elicits such visceral responses, even the birth of a total stranger. But to somehow know that my daughter was there - as a guide, a facilitator, a supremely well educated ER baby catcher - had me near tears. You see, last night when I curled up next to my husband in bed and he asked if I wanted to hear about his day, I didn't know what his bedtime story would be; I didn't know it would be a nightmare before sleep.
Last night, he presided over the failed resuscitation of a home birth gone horribly wrong. He would never tell me names, or in any way breach doctor/patient privacy, but I sensed he had to rid his mind of this image before sleep. And so he talked. The baby was over eleven pounds and was stuck in the birth canal. The midwife had tried but failed to deliver, and the baby's heart rate was weak. It seems midwives can monitor a baby's heartbeat at home now. The mother arrived by ambulance and went straight to the OR. The Pediatrician and the OB were there, waiting, but to no avail. An emergency C-section delivered a stillborn, but the Emergency PA was running a code on the baby. By the time my husband arrived from the very busy ER, there was not much left to do but check that all measures had been tried, and of course lend his gentle words to all those professionals involved. There was nothing more to do. This is never an answer an Emergency Physician is easy with, as they will do just about everything to save a life.
It is strange how my daughter's work life is now mirroring my husband's. She is, of course, in a very busy trauma center, and he is in a somewhat sleepy community hospital. But they have recently submitted a paper together, about palliative care. About how to speak and deal with those hard cases that show up, much more frequently than newborns in distress, in a very busy ER. The way to navigate the best treatment protocol for a terminal patient. This requires a doctor who has time to listen to family members, and maybe even more importantly, one who is not afraid to broach the subject of death. Too often, endo-tubes are shoved down someone's neck only to prolong the pain and agony of everyone, including the patient. I read about hospitals now adding adjoining buildings purely to house these semi- comatose, dying patients for the last 6 months of their lives. The cynic in me sees this as a way to bill medicare until the last possible moment. And I so want to stop being cynical.
And so, my husband slept peacefully, while I lay awake. My old dog has become a heavy breather, and the small mechanical sounds of the house lulled me into some pitiful sleep before dawn. Next month we'll be traveling to the dreaded Seder, my people will be coloring eggs while his will be hiding egg matzoh; everyone celebrating renewed birth. The universe is unfolding as it should, and some things are in God's hands.
Last night, he presided over the failed resuscitation of a home birth gone horribly wrong. He would never tell me names, or in any way breach doctor/patient privacy, but I sensed he had to rid his mind of this image before sleep. And so he talked. The baby was over eleven pounds and was stuck in the birth canal. The midwife had tried but failed to deliver, and the baby's heart rate was weak. It seems midwives can monitor a baby's heartbeat at home now. The mother arrived by ambulance and went straight to the OR. The Pediatrician and the OB were there, waiting, but to no avail. An emergency C-section delivered a stillborn, but the Emergency PA was running a code on the baby. By the time my husband arrived from the very busy ER, there was not much left to do but check that all measures had been tried, and of course lend his gentle words to all those professionals involved. There was nothing more to do. This is never an answer an Emergency Physician is easy with, as they will do just about everything to save a life.
It is strange how my daughter's work life is now mirroring my husband's. She is, of course, in a very busy trauma center, and he is in a somewhat sleepy community hospital. But they have recently submitted a paper together, about palliative care. About how to speak and deal with those hard cases that show up, much more frequently than newborns in distress, in a very busy ER. The way to navigate the best treatment protocol for a terminal patient. This requires a doctor who has time to listen to family members, and maybe even more importantly, one who is not afraid to broach the subject of death. Too often, endo-tubes are shoved down someone's neck only to prolong the pain and agony of everyone, including the patient. I read about hospitals now adding adjoining buildings purely to house these semi- comatose, dying patients for the last 6 months of their lives. The cynic in me sees this as a way to bill medicare until the last possible moment. And I so want to stop being cynical.
And so, my husband slept peacefully, while I lay awake. My old dog has become a heavy breather, and the small mechanical sounds of the house lulled me into some pitiful sleep before dawn. Next month we'll be traveling to the dreaded Seder, my people will be coloring eggs while his will be hiding egg matzoh; everyone celebrating renewed birth. The universe is unfolding as it should, and some things are in God's hands.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Alone at Last
Since we returned from St Barth's, my house has been full up with the in-Laws, my BFF from MA, her husband and dog, Jovie, who (or whom if it's a dog?) we washed at a self-serve doggy wash and cooked fresh liver for, even though he seemed determined not to eat it. Luckily he was happy to chase Miss Bean around the yard; having two tongue-dragging tired dogs in the house along with old man Buddha (part Samoyed/Shepherd) was a slight reprieve. And whenever we went out to enjoy the VA Festival of the Book, which was awesome as ever btw, we met up with the Richmond cousins, thankfully staying at the Omni, for many a fine dining experience as well. I'm exhausted! What does it say about me that an 87 year old woman can run me ragged?
But this morning I was able to luxuriate in a long shower, floss ALL my teeth, and have two cups of coffee. Not having to make breakfast every morning is a freeing experience; like not having to actually talk with people before consuming one cup of coffee. When the in-Laws left yesterday - taking with them the pansies she had bought and wanted to plant, and a big piece of the oak tree he wanted to carve when they got home - I was able to sit on the porch and have that Sunday-morning quarterback conversation with my good husband. What exactly is it about my MIL that leaves me so emotionally drained? It's not just that she is like an energizer bunny, waking every morning and eager to take on a day full of action and adventure. It's the things she says...like the filter in her brain is failing and whatever pops into her head comes right out the mouth.
For instance, my cousin wanted to know more about her mother, who is my MIL's BFF and comrade in arms; together they coordinate the multiple illnesses and deaths and general gossip of their contemporaries in northern NJ. Instead we learned about my MIL's mother, and her cousin, who they buried in the back yard (her ashes) next to her best friend's poodle. Always entertaining, we took a trip to Wallmart for planting soil, and learned the intricate details of a salesperson named Steve's life. When my MIL is not talking, she's singing, or she's talking on her cell to: a) a NYC cousin who checks with her every day; b) her 55 year old son who lives with her; or c) the above-mentioned mother of our Richmond cousin who is functioning as The Oracle of Dover while my MIL is away. But I did put my foot down on occasion.
The first night she wanted to stay with our cousins in town for an evening meeting on "Civil Society." This would have meant driving an hour, round trip at night, to pick her up and return her to our home. I said, "No." My husband would have just been returning from work, and I was tired because the sound of Buddha panting was keeping me awake at night. It seems he is like Poe's story of the Tell Tale Heart. Banished to the living room, I could still hear his heavy breathing. Then there is the tale of the pansy, which starts with a Book Festival event on Memoir. A woman wrote a book about her mother, who is a serious hoarder. In her discussion, she mentioned that she and her mother practice "radical honesty." When my MIL showed up mid-way in the week with two flats of pansies and insisted on planting them, even starting to dig (while I was in the shower?) in my perennial bed, I said, "Please, thank you, but no!"
In retrospect, perhaps practicing radical honesty on an 87 year old is not such a good idea. I told her that I view the pansy like a mum, one of those intermediary flowering annuals that would look very nice if I had my own gardener to take care of the property. Then I felt bad...oh Catholic guilt, I thought I'd seen the last of you! Next month my MIL will put on yet another stupendous Seder, for 30 - 40 people. My husband, being the eldest son, will lead it. My FIL told me as they were leaving that she is really tired of the Seder, and she knows that I'd be more than happy to take it on. My Richmond cousin and I would alternate celebrating the Passover festival of Exodus..."once we were slaves." But that NYC cousin, the single daughter of my MIL's older sister long gone, is pushing her to continue the tradition. And so we tiptoe around her. I can only hope to be so active and engaged at that age, and in a very good continuing care facility!
But this morning I was able to luxuriate in a long shower, floss ALL my teeth, and have two cups of coffee. Not having to make breakfast every morning is a freeing experience; like not having to actually talk with people before consuming one cup of coffee. When the in-Laws left yesterday - taking with them the pansies she had bought and wanted to plant, and a big piece of the oak tree he wanted to carve when they got home - I was able to sit on the porch and have that Sunday-morning quarterback conversation with my good husband. What exactly is it about my MIL that leaves me so emotionally drained? It's not just that she is like an energizer bunny, waking every morning and eager to take on a day full of action and adventure. It's the things she says...like the filter in her brain is failing and whatever pops into her head comes right out the mouth.
For instance, my cousin wanted to know more about her mother, who is my MIL's BFF and comrade in arms; together they coordinate the multiple illnesses and deaths and general gossip of their contemporaries in northern NJ. Instead we learned about my MIL's mother, and her cousin, who they buried in the back yard (her ashes) next to her best friend's poodle. Always entertaining, we took a trip to Wallmart for planting soil, and learned the intricate details of a salesperson named Steve's life. When my MIL is not talking, she's singing, or she's talking on her cell to: a) a NYC cousin who checks with her every day; b) her 55 year old son who lives with her; or c) the above-mentioned mother of our Richmond cousin who is functioning as The Oracle of Dover while my MIL is away. But I did put my foot down on occasion.
The first night she wanted to stay with our cousins in town for an evening meeting on "Civil Society." This would have meant driving an hour, round trip at night, to pick her up and return her to our home. I said, "No." My husband would have just been returning from work, and I was tired because the sound of Buddha panting was keeping me awake at night. It seems he is like Poe's story of the Tell Tale Heart. Banished to the living room, I could still hear his heavy breathing. Then there is the tale of the pansy, which starts with a Book Festival event on Memoir. A woman wrote a book about her mother, who is a serious hoarder. In her discussion, she mentioned that she and her mother practice "radical honesty." When my MIL showed up mid-way in the week with two flats of pansies and insisted on planting them, even starting to dig (while I was in the shower?) in my perennial bed, I said, "Please, thank you, but no!"
In retrospect, perhaps practicing radical honesty on an 87 year old is not such a good idea. I told her that I view the pansy like a mum, one of those intermediary flowering annuals that would look very nice if I had my own gardener to take care of the property. Then I felt bad...oh Catholic guilt, I thought I'd seen the last of you! Next month my MIL will put on yet another stupendous Seder, for 30 - 40 people. My husband, being the eldest son, will lead it. My FIL told me as they were leaving that she is really tired of the Seder, and she knows that I'd be more than happy to take it on. My Richmond cousin and I would alternate celebrating the Passover festival of Exodus..."once we were slaves." But that NYC cousin, the single daughter of my MIL's older sister long gone, is pushing her to continue the tradition. And so we tiptoe around her. I can only hope to be so active and engaged at that age, and in a very good continuing care facility!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Spring Forward
We're back, but the luggage is delayed. Not to worry, I am on island time. It would take a major catastrophe to throw me off this groove - something like my MIL visiting for the Book Festival in a few days, my cousin coming into town for the Festival, my book club meeting in the middle of the Festival about Cleopatra which I haven't finished since it is in hardcover and not on my Kindle, and maybe my BFF from MA is coming to visit too with her husband and dog in tow - these things will not alter my blissful state and make my skin erupt in psoriasis. But this tsunami in Japan, now that might just do it.
We remain unplugged on our little piece of paradise, although I must admit I did check Facebook from time to time on my husband's Ipad. The poor Japanese people, it is almost unfathomable. While I was swimming in the crystal clear multiple shades of blue and green Caribbean waters, an 8.9 earthquake was forming off the coast of Japan. While I was celebrating Carnevale on Fat Tuesday, Teutonic plates were getting ready to shift under the Pacific Ocean. Pictures of crawling dark water devouring whole cities and airports, were showing on every TV in every airport we ran through yesterday to get home; Gustavia, St Maarten, Charlotte and finally here. It didn't seem real.
And so, to save a little bit of my sanity I, the noteworthy news junkie, am forsaking Anderson and most news programs. Instead, today I walked around the property with my dogs, picking up doggie poo and stray sticks and balls, lamenting the deer ravaged azaleas. I did laundry. I shopped for milk, and for just enough food for tonight's supper, the way the French shop. I'd better start soon; salmon with lemon, green beans with ginger leeks and rice with salad. I miss hearing the sound of French children. I miss my friend who had us to her home for a family-style dinner on the island, "Chin Chin!" I miss waking up to the sound of the waves and the early morning traffic. I miss my daughter, the Bride, who finally relaxed and had her edges smoothed with massage and her Groom, who knows how to soothe her. OTOH, my pet sitter cleaned my refrigerator! It sparkles and I am finally recreated.
Tonight we put the clock ahead one hour, but I will remain on island time. Oh and I think I'll try and watch some real housewife TV....usually I hate reality TV. But our last night on the island we ate dinner next to Alex, the pretentious NY housewife with the vaguely smarmy husband and the two little adorable boys who were quite well behaved. We ignored her and left them to their peace. We all deserve a little peace from time to time, don't you think?
We remain unplugged on our little piece of paradise, although I must admit I did check Facebook from time to time on my husband's Ipad. The poor Japanese people, it is almost unfathomable. While I was swimming in the crystal clear multiple shades of blue and green Caribbean waters, an 8.9 earthquake was forming off the coast of Japan. While I was celebrating Carnevale on Fat Tuesday, Teutonic plates were getting ready to shift under the Pacific Ocean. Pictures of crawling dark water devouring whole cities and airports, were showing on every TV in every airport we ran through yesterday to get home; Gustavia, St Maarten, Charlotte and finally here. It didn't seem real.
And so, to save a little bit of my sanity I, the noteworthy news junkie, am forsaking Anderson and most news programs. Instead, today I walked around the property with my dogs, picking up doggie poo and stray sticks and balls, lamenting the deer ravaged azaleas. I did laundry. I shopped for milk, and for just enough food for tonight's supper, the way the French shop. I'd better start soon; salmon with lemon, green beans with ginger leeks and rice with salad. I miss hearing the sound of French children. I miss my friend who had us to her home for a family-style dinner on the island, "Chin Chin!" I miss waking up to the sound of the waves and the early morning traffic. I miss my daughter, the Bride, who finally relaxed and had her edges smoothed with massage and her Groom, who knows how to soothe her. OTOH, my pet sitter cleaned my refrigerator! It sparkles and I am finally recreated.
Tonight we put the clock ahead one hour, but I will remain on island time. Oh and I think I'll try and watch some real housewife TV....usually I hate reality TV. But our last night on the island we ate dinner next to Alex, the pretentious NY housewife with the vaguely smarmy husband and the two little adorable boys who were quite well behaved. We ignored her and left them to their peace. We all deserve a little peace from time to time, don't you think?
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Ides of Winter
It's pruning time in Virginia, spring is right around the corner. Out with the old, in with the new. Despots are falling around the world thanks to a growing youth movement, and social media sites that make community organizing a cinch. And this past weekend I listened up close to Anderson Cooper speak - rapid fire - about his life as a journalist. And his Mother.
First, he spoke with the conviction of a zealot, in spiritual tones. His major at Yale (political science, mostly Communism) was made moot by the fall of the Berlin Wall. He was drifting. Then his brother committed suicide. He was a young man at loose ends, in pain, who decided to travel to the farthest ends of the earth, on a fake press pass, and report some of the worst atrocities we humans could dream up. He had to "...bear witness," he said. He described seeing what a family of four could dissolve into at the side of the road in Somalia - fluids and a patch of hair. Seeing a woman washing her fifth child for burial, with the last of her water. Gruesome stories about rape in the Congo; "Congo holds the numbing distinction of being home to the deadliest war in the world since World War II - with more than 5.4 million people killed during the past 15 years." And he talked about Egypt. But what he said to this large group of southern businessmen and women, was pay attention. Don't let the media distract you with Lindsay Lohan's dress. And I thought about the Holocaust, and how it happened because the world wasn't watching, because of silence and indifference. And believe me, I wanted to canonize Anderson and his silky grey locks right there on the spot.
I also had to read an essay from my older brother, the psychologist, about his memory of our car accident when I was a baby after our Father died. He was only seven years old and watched his Mother, Grandmother, sister and me dragged off the road and positioned on someone's front lawn, bloody and waiting for whatever served as an ambulance back in 1949. It was hard reading even though I had always said I was "lucky" for being only nine months old and remembering nothing. Imagine that this is one of your first memories? Not picking blackberries or sitting on your Father's foot while he reads the newspaper above your head, or getting stung by a bee under a clothesline of clean sheets bustling in the wind.
I didn't mean to write about such gory stuff, but that was my weekend. In a few days we'll be heading for the French West Indies, to rest and recuperate with the newlyweds but without the rock star and his girlfriend this time. He's in Texas, smack in the middle of dubbing and post-production (whatever that means) on the band's new album. A good friend, who is going through a divorce, will be joining us too. The hardest questions will be, pain au chocolat ou yogurt for breakfast and which beach should we visit today? My daughter the Bride just saved a baby's life, and she's been working nights. The Groom has come down with the flu, after nights of call and traveling for conferences and interviews. They need this vacation desperately.
My days of covering school board and borough council meetings are over, and I'm not about to strap on a bullet proof vest and head to a war zone. But I can still write letters to the editor, op-ed pieces, and post some petitions on my Facebook page. Hey, that little site helped take down a dictator! But for now, I'm packing a bathing suit. Happy Spring everyone and I'll be back here in a few weeks! Oops, almost forgot what Anderson had to say about his Mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. He was embarrassed when he had to proof read her sexy memoir, and she called an ex-lover the "Nijinsky of cunnilingus." He told her he knew nothing about modern dance - and I felt like shouting, "He was a classical Ballet dancer!" But I restrained myself.
First, he spoke with the conviction of a zealot, in spiritual tones. His major at Yale (political science, mostly Communism) was made moot by the fall of the Berlin Wall. He was drifting. Then his brother committed suicide. He was a young man at loose ends, in pain, who decided to travel to the farthest ends of the earth, on a fake press pass, and report some of the worst atrocities we humans could dream up. He had to "...bear witness," he said. He described seeing what a family of four could dissolve into at the side of the road in Somalia - fluids and a patch of hair. Seeing a woman washing her fifth child for burial, with the last of her water. Gruesome stories about rape in the Congo; "Congo holds the numbing distinction of being home to the deadliest war in the world since World War II - with more than 5.4 million people killed during the past 15 years." And he talked about Egypt. But what he said to this large group of southern businessmen and women, was pay attention. Don't let the media distract you with Lindsay Lohan's dress. And I thought about the Holocaust, and how it happened because the world wasn't watching, because of silence and indifference. And believe me, I wanted to canonize Anderson and his silky grey locks right there on the spot.
I also had to read an essay from my older brother, the psychologist, about his memory of our car accident when I was a baby after our Father died. He was only seven years old and watched his Mother, Grandmother, sister and me dragged off the road and positioned on someone's front lawn, bloody and waiting for whatever served as an ambulance back in 1949. It was hard reading even though I had always said I was "lucky" for being only nine months old and remembering nothing. Imagine that this is one of your first memories? Not picking blackberries or sitting on your Father's foot while he reads the newspaper above your head, or getting stung by a bee under a clothesline of clean sheets bustling in the wind.
I didn't mean to write about such gory stuff, but that was my weekend. In a few days we'll be heading for the French West Indies, to rest and recuperate with the newlyweds but without the rock star and his girlfriend this time. He's in Texas, smack in the middle of dubbing and post-production (whatever that means) on the band's new album. A good friend, who is going through a divorce, will be joining us too. The hardest questions will be, pain au chocolat ou yogurt for breakfast and which beach should we visit today? My daughter the Bride just saved a baby's life, and she's been working nights. The Groom has come down with the flu, after nights of call and traveling for conferences and interviews. They need this vacation desperately.
My days of covering school board and borough council meetings are over, and I'm not about to strap on a bullet proof vest and head to a war zone. But I can still write letters to the editor, op-ed pieces, and post some petitions on my Facebook page. Hey, that little site helped take down a dictator! But for now, I'm packing a bathing suit. Happy Spring everyone and I'll be back here in a few weeks! Oops, almost forgot what Anderson had to say about his Mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. He was embarrassed when he had to proof read her sexy memoir, and she called an ex-lover the "Nijinsky of cunnilingus." He told her he knew nothing about modern dance - and I felt like shouting, "He was a classical Ballet dancer!" But I restrained myself.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
February Follies
Hear Ye, Hear Ye - next week, in the local newspaper, our newly married Couple will be featured in their Hook Wedding insert. It seems our photographer knew someone who knew someone who thought they had a romantic story. What a wonderful way to celebrate Valentine's Day, right? Being a true romantic at heart, I had always celebrated the day at home, even sending Valentine's goody boxes to both kids when they flew the nest. My daughter, however, never liked cupid's day, preferring to repeat her Dad's mantra of calling it a "Hallmark Holiday." Smart women who are single through most of their 20's, or may have dated one semi-monogamous-commitment-phobic man after another, are rightfully jaded by cupid's bow. The Groom in fact, knowing my daughter's true feelings about Valentine's Day, ignored the day that first year they became a Couple...much to her dismay. You see, secretly she wanted to be wooed, who doesn't? Instead, he surprised her with flowers, candy and a hand-made card on President's Day! I told you he's a keeper.
Here is a small tease about the featured wedding article; when asked to describe their love story in one sentence or less, this was her reply:
"We met in anatomy lab while dissecting a cadaver, how could we help but fall in love?"
And last night, I fell head over red T-strapped heels in love with the Tango all over again. My husband and I had a much needed night out on the town with good friends. A delicious dinner in a fancy restaurant on the pedestrian mall, followed by an exhilarating performance of the Tango Fire Company of Buenos Aires at The Paramount Theatre. I turned to my friend mid-milonga and said, "This is sex in clothes!" I'm not sure why, but I fell in love with the accordion player (also known as a bandoneon) in the band and made a decision immediately to study the Tango. Years ago, we took some ballroom dancing lessons, which included your basic American Tango, but this is the apex - the supremely divine Argentinian Tango. The women were ravishing and actually smiled with pleasure instead of looking off and away disdainfully while they danced. The dresses were to die for, slit up to here with a touch of Vegas thrown in, and the men. Ah, the men were real men! Dashing and dark, strong and engaging, strutting like peacocks across the floor. It was ballet, with passion and desire, longing and pain mixed with ecstasy. It's hard to describe the Tango, it's something you must feel for yourself. And being an old modern dancer, who was once a student at the Martha Graham Company, I felt reborn.
It snowed last night. On the way to the theatre my husband's cell rang. It was the Bride. She was walking two miles home in a snow storm, since cars were piled six floors back trying to get out of the hospital's parking garage. I knew she was a New Englander at heart. And by the time we left the show, it was snowing here too. Just enough to keep cars in the left lane doing 30 miles an hour in our Southern town. So February, come on, show me what else you've got!
The name of the show was: "Tango Inferno — The Fire Within;” ten dancers, four instrumentalists and a vocalist. http://www.tango-fire.com/COMPANY.html
Here is a small tease about the featured wedding article; when asked to describe their love story in one sentence or less, this was her reply:
"We met in anatomy lab while dissecting a cadaver, how could we help but fall in love?"
And last night, I fell head over red T-strapped heels in love with the Tango all over again. My husband and I had a much needed night out on the town with good friends. A delicious dinner in a fancy restaurant on the pedestrian mall, followed by an exhilarating performance of the Tango Fire Company of Buenos Aires at The Paramount Theatre. I turned to my friend mid-milonga and said, "This is sex in clothes!" I'm not sure why, but I fell in love with the accordion player (also known as a bandoneon) in the band and made a decision immediately to study the Tango. Years ago, we took some ballroom dancing lessons, which included your basic American Tango, but this is the apex - the supremely divine Argentinian Tango. The women were ravishing and actually smiled with pleasure instead of looking off and away disdainfully while they danced. The dresses were to die for, slit up to here with a touch of Vegas thrown in, and the men. Ah, the men were real men! Dashing and dark, strong and engaging, strutting like peacocks across the floor. It was ballet, with passion and desire, longing and pain mixed with ecstasy. It's hard to describe the Tango, it's something you must feel for yourself. And being an old modern dancer, who was once a student at the Martha Graham Company, I felt reborn.
It snowed last night. On the way to the theatre my husband's cell rang. It was the Bride. She was walking two miles home in a snow storm, since cars were piled six floors back trying to get out of the hospital's parking garage. I knew she was a New Englander at heart. And by the time we left the show, it was snowing here too. Just enough to keep cars in the left lane doing 30 miles an hour in our Southern town. So February, come on, show me what else you've got!
The name of the show was: "Tango Inferno — The Fire Within;” ten dancers, four instrumentalists and a vocalist. http://www.tango-fire.com/COMPANY.html
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday Bloody Monday
Yesterday was the anniversary of Bloody Sunday in Ireland. A day when the Irish were peacefully protesting in Northern Ireland and were met by a massacre, courtesy of British troops on January 30, 1972. The deaths in Derry were originally blamed on the 13 dead and 17 or more wounded protesters, but finally this past year, justice has been served and they were all proven innocent. Even a father and son were killed together, while he was crawling to the aid of his son. "And in the end, 1972 was to prove Northern Ireland’s bloodiest year by far with nearly 500 people killed," said Prime Minister David Cameron. The IRA officially disarmed in September 2005. Growing up Irish in NJ in the '50s, I remember my foster father giving the milk man extra money every week, and the whispers about how we were helping the Republicans in Ireland. And I didn't quite understand how we Democrats would want to help the Republican Army.
I was thinking about that yesterday as I watched a revolution in real time in Egypt on CNN. I wonder what will happen when they stage a "million man march" tomorrow. Will the soldiers fire at their own people? I worry for Israel, such a small spit of land in the region. Have we learned yet that we cannot export our Democracy to a culture that is not ready, and may not even want to receive it. And, the British. We managed to throw them out of our colonies, but the shadow of that empire still lingers. Gertrude Bell tried to draw lines in the sand for Arab tribesmen, and look where that got her! "Queen of the Desert" was our book club pick a couple of years back , and now coincidentally, we are reading "Cleopatra" by Stacy Schiff. Alexandria is a shining city by the sea, a seat for great thinkers in math and science and the young goddess/queen “...knew how to build a fleet, suppress an insurrection, control a currency, and alleviate a famine.” Her beauty and personality became the myth that surpassed her vast intellect. A strong and powerful woman, even the ancients didn't know what to do with her. If you are looking for a good read about Egypt, try the Cairo Trilogy by Nobel Prize winner Naguib Mahfouz. You will not be disappointed.
On a lighter note, - what a difference a couple of decades make. While visiting my MIL I gave her the link and the ability to search for my blog on Google. The key here is to add to the name "MPJ." This stands for Momma Pajamma, my nickname from the Bride. Well my MIL still somehow cannot find it, although if you're reading this now dear MIL, I will retract my statement later. And my sister in NY, bless her heart, who is still without a cell phone but using her Apple laptop like a pro, finally called her broker (which I advised her to do) so she could follow her portfolio online! I'm sure he's a little scared right now. And not only is my son blogging, but his girlfriend is too! I am so proud. Catch her at:
http://manicpixiedreamgirls.tumblr.com/
What a powerful community the internet has created. Tunisia fell by texting and Facebook helped to fuel the protesters in Cairo. I feel as if we are living at the cusp of a great time, where history unfolds immediately, in our global hand-held devices. I once asked my Mother if she went out on the street to celebrate the end of WWII. She laughed, as she did at many of my young, inane questions, and said that news traveled slowly in her day. They didn't even hear about it for a couple of days....radio was kinda new back then. Today, we get the news before the evening news has a chance to analyze it. I'm glad not to be in the news biz anymore;
"You say you want a revolution......"
I was thinking about that yesterday as I watched a revolution in real time in Egypt on CNN. I wonder what will happen when they stage a "million man march" tomorrow. Will the soldiers fire at their own people? I worry for Israel, such a small spit of land in the region. Have we learned yet that we cannot export our Democracy to a culture that is not ready, and may not even want to receive it. And, the British. We managed to throw them out of our colonies, but the shadow of that empire still lingers. Gertrude Bell tried to draw lines in the sand for Arab tribesmen, and look where that got her! "Queen of the Desert" was our book club pick a couple of years back , and now coincidentally, we are reading "Cleopatra" by Stacy Schiff. Alexandria is a shining city by the sea, a seat for great thinkers in math and science and the young goddess/queen “...knew how to build a fleet, suppress an insurrection, control a currency, and alleviate a famine.” Her beauty and personality became the myth that surpassed her vast intellect. A strong and powerful woman, even the ancients didn't know what to do with her. If you are looking for a good read about Egypt, try the Cairo Trilogy by Nobel Prize winner Naguib Mahfouz. You will not be disappointed.
On a lighter note, - what a difference a couple of decades make. While visiting my MIL I gave her the link and the ability to search for my blog on Google. The key here is to add to the name "MPJ." This stands for Momma Pajamma, my nickname from the Bride. Well my MIL still somehow cannot find it, although if you're reading this now dear MIL, I will retract my statement later. And my sister in NY, bless her heart, who is still without a cell phone but using her Apple laptop like a pro, finally called her broker (which I advised her to do) so she could follow her portfolio online! I'm sure he's a little scared right now. And not only is my son blogging, but his girlfriend is too! I am so proud. Catch her at:
http://manicpixiedreamgirls.tumblr.com/
What a powerful community the internet has created. Tunisia fell by texting and Facebook helped to fuel the protesters in Cairo. I feel as if we are living at the cusp of a great time, where history unfolds immediately, in our global hand-held devices. I once asked my Mother if she went out on the street to celebrate the end of WWII. She laughed, as she did at many of my young, inane questions, and said that news traveled slowly in her day. They didn't even hear about it for a couple of days....radio was kinda new back then. Today, we get the news before the evening news has a chance to analyze it. I'm glad not to be in the news biz anymore;
"You say you want a revolution......"
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Crossing the Mason Dixon Line
Ah home! It's always a pleasure to return, and this had been a long trip. The intention was to visit our son, the rock star, in his new house. Years ago my children were told that I will no longer "help" them move, but I'm happy to help decorate. The last time I "helped" my son move, we were crossing the threshold of home to college. I'd been diagnosed with encephalitis, which we presumed was a form of West Nile. He was heading to The College of New Jersey, as I sat in the car putting steroid drops in my eyes every hour. I eventually lost some peripheral vision, which makes driving north, by myself, for some seven hours especially challenging. I got lost on the DC Beltway, even with GPS guidance, but eventually arrived at the new digs in Asbury Park, NJ. He's sharing a house with the bass player in the band, another friend and two girls. And one girl, is his girlfriend of three years! She's a sweetheart and I taught her to knit while I was there since she said she'll be having a "craft night" with the rock and roll road widows - the girlfriends left behind while the band travels to Austin to produce a new album.
The sheer joy of knowing my son cooks - well really the bass player is the cook, the girls are the sous chefs, and my son is the clean up artist - was the piece de resistance of my trip! I had a great time meeting his girl's Mom one afternoon, and promptly invited her to their new digs for dinner. The spotless kitchen was a beehive of activity. The chicken was filleted and hammered and stuffed with prosciutto, cheese and spinach. In no time we'd prepared chicken saltimboca with spaghetti and stir-fried squash. It was deliriously deliciouso! All the while I was visiting, he was mentally going through the things he had to accomplish before he left for TX, in two days. The van was still in the garage (yes, someday they'll have a big tour bus, but for now, it is what it is), and all the small details of leaving a life in suspension for two months. This is how it worked out, but I couldn't be happier. He's lived in some slightly seedy spots over the past few years, since he left college to make his dream a reality. He's even delivered pizzas for awhile. But the band was picked up by Roadrunner and the mere fact that they are producing a second album is a very big deal! Maybe my next online purchase for another MOB dress will actually be for a red carpet Grammy dress? "He's living the dream," as my husband likes to say, and I'm happy to go along for the ride!
Some thoughts on life above the Mason Dixon line: Driving is a nightmare - I could barely pull out in traffic anymore since I'm used to cars actually stopping and motioning me into a lane; Personal space is at a premium - people would downright shove and bump into me to get ahead in a line, or maybe that's my blind, or as I like to call it, my "blonde" spot?; It's better to comply than try and argue. No wait, that has more to do with visiting my big sister in NYC, who tells me she has a blueberry scone for me before bed. And after three protestations followed by recriminations, I just give in and eat the damn thing. Everyone who is the baby in their family will understand. She was absolutely lovely and generous, taking me out to eat every night. One evening we ate at a small Paris bistro on Madison Avenue, and the next I'm at a Rotary dinner in NJ with my MIL and her husband ordering fish (skate) at a Columbian restaurant....only to find out that like the "Chicken Franchise," skate was a typo and I had really ordered steak!
I didn't tell any friends I was coming since I had a limited amount of time to see family for no reason - there was no medical or emotional crisis to tend to on this trip - only fun! And I got to meet my new Great Nephew Devin, nine months old and already a rocker in his sunglasses and dimpled chin. A happier or more content baby would be hard to find. They waited a long time for this little angel, they are both in their late 40's. His Dad, my nephew, is in NY real estate, but has a jazz band on the side and they live on the lower East Side. Music runs deep in our family. I heard later my son's band, The Parlor Mob, got to meet The Bride in Nashville at midnight as they roared through town on the way to TX. She was working the late shift. The next day she was sitting at a coffee shop trying not to stare at Taylor Swift.
The band has started blogging. You can follow them at:
http://theparlormob.wordpress.com/
The sheer joy of knowing my son cooks - well really the bass player is the cook, the girls are the sous chefs, and my son is the clean up artist - was the piece de resistance of my trip! I had a great time meeting his girl's Mom one afternoon, and promptly invited her to their new digs for dinner. The spotless kitchen was a beehive of activity. The chicken was filleted and hammered and stuffed with prosciutto, cheese and spinach. In no time we'd prepared chicken saltimboca with spaghetti and stir-fried squash. It was deliriously deliciouso! All the while I was visiting, he was mentally going through the things he had to accomplish before he left for TX, in two days. The van was still in the garage (yes, someday they'll have a big tour bus, but for now, it is what it is), and all the small details of leaving a life in suspension for two months. This is how it worked out, but I couldn't be happier. He's lived in some slightly seedy spots over the past few years, since he left college to make his dream a reality. He's even delivered pizzas for awhile. But the band was picked up by Roadrunner and the mere fact that they are producing a second album is a very big deal! Maybe my next online purchase for another MOB dress will actually be for a red carpet Grammy dress? "He's living the dream," as my husband likes to say, and I'm happy to go along for the ride!
Some thoughts on life above the Mason Dixon line: Driving is a nightmare - I could barely pull out in traffic anymore since I'm used to cars actually stopping and motioning me into a lane; Personal space is at a premium - people would downright shove and bump into me to get ahead in a line, or maybe that's my blind, or as I like to call it, my "blonde" spot?; It's better to comply than try and argue. No wait, that has more to do with visiting my big sister in NYC, who tells me she has a blueberry scone for me before bed. And after three protestations followed by recriminations, I just give in and eat the damn thing. Everyone who is the baby in their family will understand. She was absolutely lovely and generous, taking me out to eat every night. One evening we ate at a small Paris bistro on Madison Avenue, and the next I'm at a Rotary dinner in NJ with my MIL and her husband ordering fish (skate) at a Columbian restaurant....only to find out that like the "Chicken Franchise," skate was a typo and I had really ordered steak!
I didn't tell any friends I was coming since I had a limited amount of time to see family for no reason - there was no medical or emotional crisis to tend to on this trip - only fun! And I got to meet my new Great Nephew Devin, nine months old and already a rocker in his sunglasses and dimpled chin. A happier or more content baby would be hard to find. They waited a long time for this little angel, they are both in their late 40's. His Dad, my nephew, is in NY real estate, but has a jazz band on the side and they live on the lower East Side. Music runs deep in our family. I heard later my son's band, The Parlor Mob, got to meet The Bride in Nashville at midnight as they roared through town on the way to TX. She was working the late shift. The next day she was sitting at a coffee shop trying not to stare at Taylor Swift.
The band has started blogging. You can follow them at:
http://theparlormob.wordpress.com/
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Tragedy in Arizona
I'm waiting for yet another snow storm to lock me into this house on a hill. And I've been listening to pundits and reading facebook accounts about how so and so met Congresswoman Gifford, and how could the shooter in this horrific tragedy pass an FBI background check? And all I could think about, post the VA Tech shooting which was closer to home, was "Guns!"
But first, if we must, let's talk about the young man who 'ran amok' in AZ. From all accounts he should have been flagged and hospitalized when his schizophrenia-like jargon was spilling out of his mouth and his journals and his 'you tube' videos. When will his mother go on a talk show and say she had no idea what he was up to? How many different ways will this story spin out in American life? Will more members of congress carry guns and/or hire security? Will we go back to our frontier way of life? One of the first things I heard from VA Tech students was that many wanted to get a license to carry a concealed weapon.
In my mind, the abundance and ease of acquiring guns is our national tragedy. We let the assault weapon ban run out, so now a Glock can be purchased almost as easily as a bow and arrow. And why would a hunter need such a gun? When the Bride was little and her brother was in pre-school, I carried a bunch of toy guns into a Congressman's town hall meeting in NJ. His reps didn't want to call me., but finally I said my piece, scolding him for his pro-gun lobby vote. I dragged a friend with me for moral support and we dropped the bags of toy guns at his feet. I had run a "Toy Exchange" at the local Peace Fair. I got Proctor and Gamble to donate boxes of the Snuggle Bears for my booth where I encouraged children to exchange their toy guns for bears. It was wonderfully succesful...then I wrote an OpEd about this Rep (R-Zimmer) voting to allow assault weapons to be sold. I asked how he could look at himself in the mirror. It was one of the most personally scathing articles I'd ever written. But I was proud of it and like to think I helped to unseat him in the next election, where an actual Princeton rocket scientist was elected (D-Holt).
But back to AZ. We can try and help the mentally ill, who will always be among us, by early identification and treatment. However, ask any doctor in VA if there are enough hospital beds for the mentally ill and they will say, "No." Ask any parent if mental illness is covered by their insurer. These are policy issues we can address as a nation if we see fit. As a nation, we regulate where and how our children can sit in a car...but we can't seem to regulate guns.
Gun violence is our largest public health enemy. Will Congress and our President wake up to that?
But first, if we must, let's talk about the young man who 'ran amok' in AZ. From all accounts he should have been flagged and hospitalized when his schizophrenia-like jargon was spilling out of his mouth and his journals and his 'you tube' videos. When will his mother go on a talk show and say she had no idea what he was up to? How many different ways will this story spin out in American life? Will more members of congress carry guns and/or hire security? Will we go back to our frontier way of life? One of the first things I heard from VA Tech students was that many wanted to get a license to carry a concealed weapon.
In my mind, the abundance and ease of acquiring guns is our national tragedy. We let the assault weapon ban run out, so now a Glock can be purchased almost as easily as a bow and arrow. And why would a hunter need such a gun? When the Bride was little and her brother was in pre-school, I carried a bunch of toy guns into a Congressman's town hall meeting in NJ. His reps didn't want to call me., but finally I said my piece, scolding him for his pro-gun lobby vote. I dragged a friend with me for moral support and we dropped the bags of toy guns at his feet. I had run a "Toy Exchange" at the local Peace Fair. I got Proctor and Gamble to donate boxes of the Snuggle Bears for my booth where I encouraged children to exchange their toy guns for bears. It was wonderfully succesful...then I wrote an OpEd about this Rep (R-Zimmer) voting to allow assault weapons to be sold. I asked how he could look at himself in the mirror. It was one of the most personally scathing articles I'd ever written. But I was proud of it and like to think I helped to unseat him in the next election, where an actual Princeton rocket scientist was elected (D-Holt).
But back to AZ. We can try and help the mentally ill, who will always be among us, by early identification and treatment. However, ask any doctor in VA if there are enough hospital beds for the mentally ill and they will say, "No." Ask any parent if mental illness is covered by their insurer. These are policy issues we can address as a nation if we see fit. As a nation, we regulate where and how our children can sit in a car...but we can't seem to regulate guns.
Gun violence is our largest public health enemy. Will Congress and our President wake up to that?
Monday, January 3, 2011
New Day, New Year
Happy 2011 Everyone! Hope all your dreams and schemes will come true in this new year. We had a fun New Year's Eve at the hospital gala held at Prince Michel Winery. This was the same winery that owns the barn that featured prominently at our daughter's wedding in the apple orchard. They hosted a wine tasting for our guests before the ceremony, and promptly served as a staging area for the Bride to rest and munch on some goodies before tripping down the aisle, slowly, after our beautiful flower girl. Our daughter didn't want the labels on the wine bottles to display their names, only the beautiful Blue Ridge mountain logo. Putting their names, or monograms on everything, in her universe, equals too tacky. The only thing that was personalized was the book mark we had made and inserted into every guest's hotel gift bag. Stuffed right there beside the pickle flavored potato chips! Along with the programs, my husband's printer went into overtime making the bookmarks, starting with the names of The Couple, that said "in lieu of a wedding favor," a donation has been made to the local SPCA. And speaking of the SPCA....
My plan had been to walk some of the shelter dogs on Xmas day while my other half was saving lives in the ER. It is a "no kill' award-winning shelter that tugs at my heart every time I think of it. Why is it we can listen to news of the latest war casualties coming out of our miss-guided missions in two wars without so much as a tear, while hearing about some small dog being thrown out of a car onto a freeway gives us nightmares? Once upon a time, I was quick to pick up my pen (so to speak) and address just this type of issue in my column. In fact, I've written about the futility of war, as we know it, for our local paper since moving here. But time has a strange effect on us all, and I'm afraid my days of trying to "save the world" as my Irish cousin calls it, are dwindling. The news junkie in me has been laid to rest, slowly, after the Big Move, the Loss of Vision (and temporary loss of smell), and the Wedding. Think global, act local? Or maybe just try to tackle what I can actually get my arms around - like the hunting hounds that are left there because they are not prey-driven. The "special needs dogs." Miss Bean came from this shelter, and she is love-driven, just as I am driven to love her. Even when she escapes outside the invisible fence, causing great tearing and rendering of clothes and gnashing of teeth!
The Book Club this week will be tackling Emma Donoghue's "Room." An exquisite account of being held prisoner through the POV of a five year old boy, Jack, who was born inside this cubicle. The walls of the room, this 'visible fence', take on the character of the boy's vivid imagination. His mother has created a host of activities and games to entertain and teach him. Donoghue is an Irish writer, and Jack's world is so beautifully nuanced, you come to perfectly understand why the 'real world' cannot measure up. It was a haunting read for me, laid up with the stomache flu over xmas, thanks to my vector of a husband. He says this stomache flu is, "...going around." In fact, did you know that my MIL can catch it just from talking to me on the phone?
So, instead of volunteering at the Pound, I spent the holiday reading, and recuperating from my little bug and wondering if I'll ever want to eat sushi again. Now I must go out and buy a little camera for my computer. The Bride just called me and we Skyped for the first time! Why am I so late to this party?? I could watch her eating breakfast, playing with the dogs, and showing me her orchids which have found their perfect place on her desk getting filtered light all morning.
Some people create their own prisons, and some people Skype.
My plan had been to walk some of the shelter dogs on Xmas day while my other half was saving lives in the ER. It is a "no kill' award-winning shelter that tugs at my heart every time I think of it. Why is it we can listen to news of the latest war casualties coming out of our miss-guided missions in two wars without so much as a tear, while hearing about some small dog being thrown out of a car onto a freeway gives us nightmares? Once upon a time, I was quick to pick up my pen (so to speak) and address just this type of issue in my column. In fact, I've written about the futility of war, as we know it, for our local paper since moving here. But time has a strange effect on us all, and I'm afraid my days of trying to "save the world" as my Irish cousin calls it, are dwindling. The news junkie in me has been laid to rest, slowly, after the Big Move, the Loss of Vision (and temporary loss of smell), and the Wedding. Think global, act local? Or maybe just try to tackle what I can actually get my arms around - like the hunting hounds that are left there because they are not prey-driven. The "special needs dogs." Miss Bean came from this shelter, and she is love-driven, just as I am driven to love her. Even when she escapes outside the invisible fence, causing great tearing and rendering of clothes and gnashing of teeth!
The Book Club this week will be tackling Emma Donoghue's "Room." An exquisite account of being held prisoner through the POV of a five year old boy, Jack, who was born inside this cubicle. The walls of the room, this 'visible fence', take on the character of the boy's vivid imagination. His mother has created a host of activities and games to entertain and teach him. Donoghue is an Irish writer, and Jack's world is so beautifully nuanced, you come to perfectly understand why the 'real world' cannot measure up. It was a haunting read for me, laid up with the stomache flu over xmas, thanks to my vector of a husband. He says this stomache flu is, "...going around." In fact, did you know that my MIL can catch it just from talking to me on the phone?
So, instead of volunteering at the Pound, I spent the holiday reading, and recuperating from my little bug and wondering if I'll ever want to eat sushi again. Now I must go out and buy a little camera for my computer. The Bride just called me and we Skyped for the first time! Why am I so late to this party?? I could watch her eating breakfast, playing with the dogs, and showing me her orchids which have found their perfect place on her desk getting filtered light all morning.
Some people create their own prisons, and some people Skype.
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