In an otherwise rather banal and prosaic February, a definite high point was Baby Boy Fletcher's finding his toes, feet, and mouth AND his efforts to connect the bottom parts to the top! Put him down on his back and both legs go up in the air, creating a rather 90-degreeish angle. Then a smile takes over his entire face and the hands grab for the feet as the feet rotate towards the mouth. Almost! Oops! Got it - nope lost it again.
An especial treat is seen when changing the baby boy's diaper. As soon as his diaper comes off, he joyfully takes advantage of this unexpected opportunity - absolute freedom! No bulky encumbrances to impede him, away he goes, feet to mouth! The absolute delight in this act, minor as it may seem to we jaded adults, is evident in the sheer sparkle in his eyes, the wide and ecstatic grin on his face, the giggles and trills which escape from his mouth.
And I sit transfixed and watch this little person as if he were performing a double lung transplant one-handed. Actually it is ever so much more important and impressive than any surgery - it is a baby learning! A wonder and a miracle. Inexplicable. The grace of god.
WHAT ME? POWERLESS?
I was at a first step meeting last night and today I went to a big book meeting and the discussion was on powerlessness - again! I guess I needed to hear this, at least twice, if not every day. I know I am powerless against that first drink - this I know for sure. But what has been worrying me lately is that I am feeling like I am taking back my old life again. That maybe I have sufficient defense against that first drink after all these years. That relapse cannot happen to me. After all, I am working the steps right now with a newcomer so that should protect me, right? And the longer I don't work my program, the more difficult I find it to jump back in. Yet when I do - I love it! The people in the rooms know me and love me in spite of myself. Even when they do not "know" me, they know me and care. Why is it sometimes so very difficult to accept this, do the "WE" part of step one.
Someone shared a wonderful metaphor today at the meeting. He was talking about being a kid and putting the baseball card on the spokes of a bike with a wooden clothespin. I remember doing that. It felt so sophisticated and so cool! But at some point all the spinning of the wheel, the going around and around, over and over, again and again, destroys the baseball card and it disintegrates or just falls away. And it occurred to me that that is what being an alcoholic is like - feeling sophisticated and cool at first, drinking to fit in, flying around in wild wonderful endless arcs. Then the wonderful starts to fade and the spinning gets faster and faster and yet never catches up again with that blissful feeling. Just like the once new and pristine baseball card could not go back to its original shape, color, form.
And then spinning, spinning, needing more and more alcohol to fuel the spins, stuck - going around and around, over and over, and again and again. Until I could not longer hold on to the spokes of my life: to myself.
Great metaphor! I guess that there is something to going to meetings! Dare I say "It works, if you work it?!"
An Homage to Joe Pilates
Pilates was "created" by Joseph Pilates during World War 1 as a system of physical movement to enhance the rehabilitation of returning war veterans. It was seen as being beneficial to overall physical and emotional well being. The principles are control, centering, precision, breathing, concentration, and flowing motion - somewhat similar to the practice of yoga.
Wikopedia noted that:
According to practitioners, the central aim of Pilates is to create a fusion of mind and body, so that without thinking about it the body will move with economy, grace, and balance. The end goal is to produce an attention-free union of mind and body. Practitioners believe in using one's body to the greatest advantage, making the most of its strengths, counteracting its weaknesses, and correcting its imbalances. The method requires that one constantly pay attention to one's body while doing the movements. Paying attention to movement is so vital that it is more important than any other single aspect of the movements.
So, here I am with my damaged lungs, struggling to get up a flight of stairs. I tried weight training and the sudden and extreme exertion of the movements led very quickly to overwhelming fatigue. The treadmill I can do, but I felt I needed something else. I am so fat and awkward with this unexpected and useless weight which I know I cannot lose unless I go off of the steroids. And right that is not very likely! So I looked around to see if there were any other physical activities that could make me feel more balanced, flexible, tall, thin & blond.
I decided to settle for flexible and balanced so I signed up to take Pilates at my gym. And I am ever so grateful that I have a well-developed sense of the humor about most aspects of my daily life! Else I would have fled in tears - no, hysterics - needing at least a month of intensive in-patient treatment at a very good mental health facility to recover from my Pilates experience.
I could not even assume the Pilates Stance; a way of standing that puts your feet at an awkward angle to the rest of the body and assumes you can stay in an upright position while holding this stance. I less than gracefully wobbled and then fell.
Next we had to lay on our backs - me trying to see over the mountain of my belly - and slowly sit up using our core muscles (mine are just buried too deep to be found) and then, bend our body slowly into a "C" shape. This is where I lost it - I was laughing so hard I fell off the platform. I can no more do a sit up than I can be tall, thin, and blond these days. I was able to raise my shoulders; that was it. I tried again and rocked my body to get a bit of a momentum; no go. So I just used my arms and pushed myself up, laughing all the while.
But it did not end here. I had to make a "C" shape with my body. I started to bend from my seated position and very quickly realized that this only did one thing to my body - it cut off my breathing - the very thing I was hoping to enhance! Whatever it was I looked like, sitting there with a small bend to my upper body as my belly fat put an end to any more bending, it was not a "C!" That is when I lost it laughing and fell off the platform.
I am sure god was laughing with me too!
There was a time in my life, most of my life actually, when I would not go out in public wearing gym clothing and being so fat (of course, until this past year, I have never been so fat). I was too self-conscious, self-centered, and I knew that EVERYONE was looking at me in shock and awe that I was so fat and could still walk AND go out in public! There was a time when I would not even wear gym-type clothing, shorts, bathing suits, running bras, nor take any group exercise class. No swimming pools, no hot pants, just layers of baggy loose cotton. And mind you, most of my life, I was a petite size 4! I weighed 90 pounds when I was married at age 20 (I am 5'2") and I got down to the low 80s in my late 30's and still felt fat.
And now I am my own worst nightmare! And I find it hilarious. Funny. A source of humorous stories. I don't like that I am fat and that in itself is very unhealthy - and that I am fat because I have to take steroids for a chronic lung disease which has reduced my lung capacity by 40 percent. That is not funny. But I might as well put the other 60% to good use and laugh it all away!
Simplicity
“Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.”
Henry David Thoreau
1. Flying to Cecelia
Chapter One of FLYING WITH CECELIA: Actually, about her life and times and being her gramma.
August 18, 1999. I remember getting the phone call from Michael. "Megan’s in labor. Why don’t you come out now." I had been anxiously awaiting this call and now that it came, I felt suddenly overwhelmed. Here it was, the arrival of my first grandchild. What would it be? A boy? Hmmmmm…our family was mostly girls and a boy would be an adjustment. A girl? That’s the right answer I thought!
So I went to the airport and got on the plane to Syracuse. There I was, up in the air on a beautiful summer afternoon. And I had nothing to do. A dangerous place for me to be. I did what I usually do when I have nothing to do – I think. I ruminate. I fuss. I bother. I get into those little nooks and cranny's that merit being left in the dark. Elaborate conversations take place in my head. And sometimes they are downright silly.
So, never one to let dangerous places and behaviors stop me, I said to myself “I wonder when I will love this baby?” Never having been a gramma before, I was clueless about the emotional side of things. I knew that my love for my daughters was immediate and forever. But this was not a daughter – it was a grand-something. So I wondered next if I would even love this baby! Maybe grandparents did not experience the depth and strength of feelings for a child “once removed” from themselves. Then I figured that I probably would love the baby, but when? Would it take a couple of days? Weeks? How long? Someone, please tell me! Maybe there is something on the Internet - I need to search the Internet. That surely will tell me. When, how, when?
I continued thinking in this vein for the remainder of the flight. It was a good thing that it was a short flight! Who knows where I might have ended up with these less than quotidian questions.
I got to Syracuse and commenced the waiting process. Megan labored and she labored and she labored. And I waited. I had gone to Megan and Mike’s home to get things ready, although I really had no idea what things, or where they were. So I waited some more and finally, fell asleep on the couch. Around 2:00 am, Michael called to tell me that they had a girl (oh for joy!) and everyone was doing well. He said he would pick me up in the morning and take me to the hospital so I could meet Cecelia Ellis Root! A girl! I was excited, thankful, relieved that Megan and Cecelia were both doing well. But I was not in love with the baby. So, hearing about the new baby was not the answer to my incessant questions. WHEN would I know I loved her? Would it even happen? How long would it take? Awake at 2 in the morning is also not a good place for me to be!
So, the morning of August 19, 1999 I went to St. Joseph’s Hospital to meet Cecelia. All the way there I was wondering, puzzling, ruminating, obsessing, worrying, about loving this new baby girl. What I would think about this new person in my life? And still wondering when it would be that I would love her. How many minutes, hours, days, egad - weeks?! Walking up to the hospital, still wondering. How long would it take to love her? Into the lobby, in the elevator, when does a gramma love a grandchild? walking to Megan’s room. When will I love this baby? How long is it going to take? Will I love this baby? What am I going to feel about this baby?
Baby love. Be my baby. Baby I’m yours. Sweet baby baby. Baby I love your way, Love to love you baby, Pure love baby, Love struck baby, Baby you send me, I love my baby.
Finally, I was in the room. Michael handed me the tiny warm bundle of a baby – I took her in my arms and held her close to me. I was in love.
Ooh baby I love your way every day
Wanna tell you I love your way uuhh
Wanna be with you night and day
Ooh baby I love your way every day
Wanna tell you I love your way uuhh
Wanna be with you night and day.
Peter Frampton
Getting Rid of Old Baggage
I have been in a downsizing mood lately - clutter is making me anxious, and I have been attacking it with a vigor and frenzy akin to that energy surge you get right before you go into labor. I put a set of luggage on Freecycle last week, nice stuff that I have not used in more than 5 years. It went right away. I felt pounds lighter!
As I was cleaning it off to get it ready to be picked up I pulled the baggage tape from the handle and was about to throw it away. But I stopped and held it in my hand. I don't know why. Then I looked at it. February 13, 2001. BWI - MSP. And I knew why I was holding it in my hand.
That was the day I returned home from Krista's funeral. 7 years ago.
I made that round trip dozens of times in the almost 3 years she was being treated for ovarian cancer. She was 14 when she was diagnosed - 17 when she died. I went to Minneapolis almost monthly to be with her during that time. She never had a remission - she never got to go home again.
I remember sitting by her bed early on. She was sleeping. And I was battling with god for an answer. A reason. WHY does a 14 year old get OVARIAN cancer? Why does she get any kind of cancer, let alone one that is supposed to be for old women! I never did get an answer. What I did receive after a much prayer and struggle was acceptance of god's will.
It may sound odd, but the visits with Krista were some of the most fun times I have ever had. My daughters and my cousin would often join me on my Krista visits. We laughed! And laughed! And laughed till our stomach's cramped; till we cried; and then laughed some more - again and again. We would play pranks on the hospital staff. We would have them rolling on the floor laughing. Her doctors were always shaking their heads in wry amusement at Krista's antics and her crazy Aunt Pattee. How could that insane woman have a Ph.D. in anything, I could hear them saying in their minds. We had slumber parties in her hospital room. Beauty salon days. Movie nights - popcorn and all. We overflowed the dishwasher and flooded the hospital hallways. We stole movies from the Ronald McDonald House to take with Krista for another hospital stay. We stole movies from the hospital to home with her to the Ronald McDonald House. There were more shopping trips to the Mall of America than I can count. We did wheelies with Krista in her wheelchair in parking lots.
We had ecstatic moments of hope. We firmly believed in miracles. We absolutely and without a doubt believed each new treatment would be the one that cured her. Vincristin, cisplatin, paclitaxel, radiation, surgery and more surgery, a bone marrow transplant, more cemo. She never had a remission.
And we cried more tears than a body should hold. Tears of fear and horror at the start. Tears of frustration as the process went on. Tears of anger when a new treatment did not work. Tears over the pain she was suffering. Tears over our fear of losing her. Tears of despair as the doctors began to run out of treatments. And finally, tears of relief and sorrow when she died. Relief that Krista was no long in pain. Of sorrow for our loss, for Krista and all the things she would never do.
We finally took Krista home to her beloved Ashland. It was cold beyond bitter. That gray which was a lack of color settled over everything. Gray as only February can be. February in Ashland, Wisconsin. On Lake Superior. Below zero, too cold to snow out. Everything was frozen solid. Including those of us who went to bury her. Numb, frozen, in a state of disbelief, suspended animation. Just for a little while. Her mom and I readied her body for the burial. We massaged her favorite lotion all over her scarred body. We dressed her. I made the funeral plans, bought the coffin, wrote the eulogy for the newspaper. Keep busy, just jeep busy.
We were kind and loving to everyone who came to the wake. We found ourselves, after a while, in a large circle of Krista's friends and their moms. And we began to tell Krista stories. And we began to laugh, hesitantly and quietly at first. And then with great relief and true joy at the funny stories, the memories, the short but meaningful life of that girl. We roared! It felt so good to let all that come out there in the lobby of the funeral home.
We had the funeral. The lid to her coffin was closed. It was so final. I wanted to scream NO! Instead, I read a story and told a story. Her girlfriends sang. Her minister comforted. We picked up her coffin. By the time we got to the church door she had more than a dozen pall bearers. No one wanted to let her go. The cemetery was cold-bleak-blustery, colorless and empty. There was a hole in the ground. We brought the coffin there. We stood and prayed. Tears froze on our faces. We left her there.
Krista is still with me today. I believe in the existence of what people call "ghosts." I prefer to think of them as spirits of people I loved. I can see Krista at times, hear her talking to me, feel her next to me. She even can make me laugh out loud! Especially when I am in the pajama section at Target! She is always urging me to buy her some new colorful flannel pajama pants - that is all she lived in her last year of life. And I am delighted to have Krista hang around. Her spirit is kind and funny and loving. She is saying "Remember me Aunt Pattee. Remember me."
JUST FOR TODAY
Just for TODAY I WILL:
Pray
Move
Breathe
Eat,and
I WILL NOT pick up.
These are my simple daily rules. So, why are they so hard to remember - except for the last one, that is. And if I can get these first 5 simple acts accomplished, then Just for Today I will:
Laugh
Relax
Talk
Listen
Ask for Help.
Be HonestJust for Today!
Be open-minded
Be willing
Make amends where needed, and
Do a joyful thing!
Thinking About Robert
My brother Robert has been on my mind. He generally is. Which is a change from how it used to be with Robert. He was my goofy, odd, funny little brother; always getting into trouble but never meaning to do so. It just seemed that Robert was born suffering from a all-but-fatal case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was awkward, klutzy, and had the judgement capabilities of a frog. That is not an insult - I think frogs do pretty well making decisions relevant to their pond lives. It is just that Robert did not live in a pond. He lived in the world with the rest of us.
So Robert got into trouble right from the start, daily, inadvertently, without even trying! That never changed. And he also always got caught. My parents had a keen eye, ear, and sense of smell where Robert and his activities were concerned. They possessed an uncanny prescience about Robert.
As a result, Robert rarely - if ever - "got away" with anything! He even was blamed for things he could not possibly have done. No matter. He was a born scapegoat. Robert always lied about whatever incident. He was hard wired to immediately and always respond "I did not do it!" And one thing Robert could not do well was lie. He would fumble for words, look away, stutter, contort himself into Houdini-like shapes to avoid the blows that he knew were coming. And the whole time he was getting slapped, shoved, pushed, hit, he would keep protesting his innocence. He would repeat like a mantra, "I didn't do it."
Pretty soon, we all stopped listening to Robert because he became the child-who-lies. Everyone generalized his protests - those LIES - to everything Robert said. That became his persona. He was a liar, plain and simple! The family stopped expecting anything from Robert but for him to mess up and then lie. Robert was given a blessing and a curse. The blessing was that no one expected anything of him! He was freed from all of the normal childhood and teenage expectations and activities. He failed in school. He had no friends. He did not have any hobbies nor did he play a sport. He was not a reader, a writer, an artist. He did not get jobs delivering the newspaper or sweeping the grocery store. Nothing was expected of him. He was just Robert who lies.
The curse of this was that he never became anything. I do not mean that in a derogatory or demeaning way. He was a loving child of god, painfully ill-formed by nature and nurture. But he never matured; he never developed into his capabilities because no one thought he had any capabilities. He was not given affection, he was not enabled to develop self-esteem, he was not challenged to learn or to be successful. He just was left to be. Thus, upon reaching adulthood (in years, not in maturity), Robert was not equipped to handle the world. He had no skills, no social abilities. He was not trained to work or think. He was not raised to take care of himself. He was fed, clothed and sheltered - and ignored and derided.
Robert easily fell into the family disease at an early age. And it became the one thing he excelled at - alcoholism. He took to alcohol and drugs, immersing himself in the dreams that they gave him, the shelter they provided. Alcohol was his loving mother, his caring and proud father, his family, his friends, his successes in school, his major achievement in his life. And it became his life.
This was easy for Robert. His family had already "written him off" so the fact that he became a drunk and a bum at a young age was no surprise. And no concern either. It was just a natural extension of Robert who lies. And just as we negated and turned away from that child, so did we do the same to the adult.
I have so much to say about Robert - to Robert. My brother.
My brother who was murdered in December of 2003 in Eureka, CA. Once again, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Drinking and drugging, homeless and wandering, as he usually was. His bones were found buried in a forest in February 2004. No identification or distinguishing physical features remained. Robert was listed as John Doe. How fitting.
We had put put a missing persons report on Robert in March of 2004. He had been out of contact since November and that was not like Robert - he always stayed in touch with my parents. I received a phone call from the County Coroner in Eureka and it shattered my soul. The Coroner said they had a John Doe in the morgue who might be my brother. But there was really no good way to positively ID him other than doing a DNA match. So local police came and swabbed my cheek and my mother's cheek. Then we waited. Robert had suddenly gained a status that he never had in life. I thought about him constantly. I worried, I was fearful, anxious. I wanted to know who was in the morgue and I never wanted to find out.
In February 2004, the Coroner called me. The DNA was a match. We had found Robert. He was 52 years old. He was penniless, homeless. He never married or had a family. He was a drunk. A bum There were more than 30 stab wounds on his body. He did not die easy There was nothing kind and loving about Robert's death. Why should it be any different than his life.
5. His Eminence – The Baby Boy Fletcher
THE ALL NEW MOSTLY TRUE ADVENTURES OF BABY BOY FLETCHER
With astonishing ease, Baby Boy Fletcher settled into his new life at home in Parkville. He seemed pleased with his surroundings and the fact that his mom & dad waited on him hand and foot was also not to be sneered at. Mostly he slept. And he was quite good at it – except when he wasn’t, which, was most of the time! He had a persnickety colic that created major gurgles and disturbances in his GI tract and the BBF found this cause to fuss, cry, twist, and shout. His parents, in spite of their super powers-which were only to be used for freedom and justice to protect and save the good and the innocent-could do nothing! They began to look wan, drawn, outright droopy. They got cranky.
There were nights when the BBF did not give them a moment of rest. His parents tried all the usual and already-established as “never works” remedies. They swaddled; they burped; they walked him; they rocked him; they took him for car rides; they prayed.
Meanwhile, the BBF thrived! By the time he was 4 months old he weighed 15 pounds! He had tripled his weight – a portent of things to come. A literal instantiation of his future prowess. 15 pounds. Heavier than a bag of sugar or potatoes. Heavier than a case of beer. Heavier than Merriam-Webster’s dictionary, a weighty tome indeed! The BBF was having an impact on his surroundings.
People came from far and wide to admire him; bill and coo; exclaim with delight a at his roundness, creases, beautiful blue-gray eyes. They came from Elgin, Syracuse, Rockford, Ithaca, Rochester, Columbia, bearing gifts as did the Magi.
It was the Christmas season after all.
A sweet newborn baby,
A crib for a bed,
The Baby Boy Fletcher
Lay down his sweet head.
The cats were meowing
The baby awakes,
But Baby Boy Fletcher no crying he makes (for once).
I love you dear baby
Dear gift of my heart,
You’re holy and precious
And n’er shall we part.
To be sung to the tune of "Away in a Manger"
Incredulous Maybe?
Too extraordinary and improbable to be believed! And for only $119.00 !!
I was perusing a cosmetics catalog and came across a NEW PRODUCT which created instant mirth! Tummy Flattening Gel - WOW - can you believe it? Would we all (or most) not love to have some of this!
It is a "topical slimming concentrate" which is touted as being "a Breakthrough Slimming Gel that works." And I am tall, thin and blond.
The product purportedly will make one's tummy look flatter and more well-defined - and you don't have to exert any more effort than rubbing the stuff on your tummy. No sit ups, ab machines, dieting.
AND - this wonder gel also claims to "reduce the appearance of bulging pockets of unsightly fat wherever they pop up." Gotta love it. It is so embarrassing when those bulging pockets of fat start popping up when I am in public. It will be great to just rub on some of this gel and get rid of them before anyone notices. I feel so much better now. Relieved to not have to worry about that one anymore.
So, call me a skeptic but, REALLY! If a gel could reduce my tummy I would buy it in a minute - even if it does cost $119.00. I would by a case of it to keep on hand for the pop-up bulges as well. But something just does not seem right here...is it that it might be irrational to expect a gel to do such wondrous and miraculous things when diet and exertion, targeted exercise and workouts cannot? Don't get me wrong. I do believe in miracles. I just do not believe in something for nothing - except $119.00.
The Scooter Girls Live in Columbia!
The Scooter Girls just finished a one week engagement in Columbia, Maryland where they were – as always – a huge success! Their engagement began Sunday December 23, 2007. Everything was set. There were sprinkles, Cheetos, root beer floats, cookies to decorate, exotic juices, fancy glass, china and silver, cheese crackers, marshmallows, presents, books, and of course, Olivia’s special sleeping nest with an abundance of pillows.
The weather was fine, although not very “Christmas-like,” It was warm and sunny, which was actually a great boon. Because the Scooter Girls had just been gifted with new scooters from Santa! Days were spend flowing up and down the curvy, winding road in front of Gramma’s house. Skills of great balance, speed, and grace were demonstrated to the wonderment of the neighors. The Scootter Girls devised cunning routines as artistic as water ballet, as intricate as an Olympic gymnastic offering, as swift as the Indy 500, as perfectly balanced and breathless as a slalom race!
And through it all the two beautiful Scooter Girls smiled, sang, giggled, yelled “Watch ME!” and scootered with great abandon and joy. And – believe it or not – the injuries were kept to a minimum! Unbelievable given the complexity and speed, and the tremendous risk involved in their many routines. Two scraped knees, a skinned palm, an elbow scraped; that was the extent of it. Those Scooter Girls certainly do live up to their reputation.
Another Year...
goes by. From 2007 to 2008. When did using two-thousand become so prosaic and using nineteen hundred, historic!
4. Baby Boy Fletcher Goes Home –OR – The Great Escape
THE ALL NEW MOSTLY TRUE ADVENTURES OF BABY BOY FLETCHER
Time passed. Slowly. Interminably. Lives were focused on the NICU, coming and going at all hours to be with Baby Boy Fletcher. Waiting. The medical staff was cautious. The parents were worried and tired. The world was waiting. And yet another day went by. Slowly. Interminably.
Suffice it to say, the BBF was getting restless. He had learned in a very short time that boredom quickly encroached when one is contained in a plastic bin, hooked up to machines and lights, being constantly prodded and observed, yet not allowed to observe or prod back. It had been eight long nights, a duration beyond expectation or bearing. Oh my. What to do!
It was time to make a run for it. He needed a plan. Fortunately, he had had more than sufficient time lying in his plastic cage to formulate many plans, evaluate the relative merit and likelihood of success of each. He also, since time was not in short supply, did a risk assessment and s cost-benefit analysis, just because he could. Finally he settled on the one plan he felt was most likely to succeed. He made himself “well enough” to be discharged from the hospital. Simple, elegant, brilliant! He ate, pooped, breathed, passed all of his blood tests with top grades, and ate and pooped some more to reinforce the obvious conclusion that he was ready to go home.
At last, the medical authorities agreed. They said he could go home! The parents were jubilant. Tired, but jubilant. But of course, the medical bureaucracy had to first be tackled and it gave a gallant fight before it allowed Kate and Ed to walk out the front doors of the University of Maryland Medical Center with the Baby Boy Fletcher. It was ten o’clock on a hot humid September night in Baltimore when the BBF took his first breath of fresh air. Well, it was Baltimore, where “fresh” air was in short supply. It was actually drippingly damp and dank in texture; saturated with unhealthy levels of ozone and particulate matter; reeking of the exhaust of too many cars, buses, SUVs; and redolent of the rancid odor from decaying Burger King and McDonalds less-than-happy meals scattered about the sidewalks and curbs. But, it was not hospital air. Ode to joy!
Aided and abetted by the Goddess of the Universe and her consort, Ed surreptitiously went to retrieve his car. He was careful to not attract attention as the paparazzi were ever ready to pounce on BIG NEWS and the emergence of the BBF into the Baltimore commons was Big News. Meanwhile, Kate, the Goddess, and her consort took up position in the midst of the ongoing mass of humanity entering and exiting the hospital – a perfect spot to be anonymous. The consort kept lookout and he seamlessly conveyed Kate and the BBF to the car once spotted. And they were off! Mission Accomplished!
Monet Refuses the Operation
Monet Refuses the Operation
Lisel Mueller
Doctor, you say there are no halos
Around the streetlights in Paris
And what I see is an aberration
Caused by old age, an affliction/
I tell you it has taken me all my life
To arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
To soften and blur and finally banish
The edges your regret I don’t see.
To learn that the line I called the horizon
Does not exist and the sky and water,
So long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedra is build
Of parallel shafts of sun,
And now you want to restore
My youthful errors: fixed
Notions of top and bottom,
The illusion of three-dimensional space,
Wisteria separate
From the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
The Houses of Parliament dissolve
Night after night to become
The fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
Of objects that don’t know each other,
As if islands were not the lost children
Of one great continent. The world
Is flex, and light becomes what it touches,
Becomes water, lilies on water,
Above and below water,
Become lilac and mauve and yellow
And white and cerulean lamps,
Small fists passing sunlight
So quickly to one another
That it would take long, streaming hair
Inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shape, these verticals,
Burn to mix with air
And change our bones, skin, clothes
To gases. Doctor,
If only you could see
How heaven pulls earth into its arms
And how infinitely the heart expands
To claim the world, blue vapor without end.
3. Baby Boy Fletcher Meets the Goddess of the Universe
THE ALL NEW MOSTLY TRUE ADVENTURES OF BABY BOY FLETCHER
On his first day, here on earth, the Goddess of the Universe (hereafter referred to as the goddess) made a visit to the hospital to meet the Baby Boy Fletcher. Her visit was unannounced so as to cause as little of a stir as possible to the hospital staff and patients. She was expert at avoiding the ever watchful paparazzi so it was not difficult for the goddess to make her way to the BBF’s room without discovery.
You may wonder why the goddess took an interest in the newborn child, floating in his netherworld of tubes, lights, and sterility. Well, I suppose it would be only fair to disclose that the goddess is the mother of Wonder Woman, making the BBF her grandson. As a matter of fact, her FIRST grandson. She was eager to see this marvel – a boy grandchild. To explore the mysteries of a boy grandchild. To determine his standing in her heart and her world, although this really was of no doubt given her experience with grandchildren and their ability to immediately stake out their forever place in her heart. And to assess the quality of his care, knowing how all too human we are, and mistakes are inevitable regardless of the professionalism of the attending staff. But mistakes were not an option when it came to the care of BBF and the goddess would assure his protection and care with her laying of the hands.
Even though, as a goddess, she carried no harm, she followed the rules of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and scrubbed and gowned before entering the realm of the BBF. She immediately went to her boy’s incubator, with no doubt in her mind that this was the one. All other objects in the room took on a blurry opacity except for that of the BBF. And he was shining and clear and wonderful! Goddesses cry, as demonstrated by the Goddess of the Universe as she stood at the side of her new grandson, filled with an unimaginable joy and peace. It was clear that the new grandchild’s boyness had no effect on his ability to leap into her heart and claim his spot for all eternity. She placed her hands on his back, feeling the life flowing through his tiny being. It felt strong, and good.
The Goddess of the Universe and the Baby Boy Fletcher had bonded.
When Words Don't Work
I love words, especially those that sound like what they mean or make me hear their meaning. Susurration, tintinnabulation, glaucous, gloaming, juggernaut, malevolent, chimera, choleric, numinous, vicissitude.
But sometimes, the meaning of a word seems to me to be just plain contrary to how it sounds. Which frustrates me to no end. These words that don't work for me become words that I can't seem to define, no matter how often I hear or read them.
Hypocorism- A name of endearment; a pet name.
Quotidian - Occurring everyday; common or ordinary.
Oneiric - Of or relating to dreams.
Consistory - A church council; a solemn assembly.
Obnubiate - To be cloudy.
Manque - frustrated in the fulfillment of one's talents.
Obloquy - A strongly condemnatory utterance.
These are just a few examples for my when words don't work category. And of course, the reason these and other words do not work for me is entirely subjective. But look at these words above - now really!
Does the word HYPOCORISM in any way at all suggest that it means a "pet name?" Come onnnnn......
"Megan was generally called "booper;" it was a hypocorism used by the family."
Or ONEIRIC! For goodness sake! Dreams - Oneiric; Dreams - Oneiric; Dreams - Oneiric.
Where is the connection?!
"Michael did not get much work done today due to his oneiric state."
Manquy! (an adjective pronounced ma-'kay)When you do not get the job of your dreams do you feel a bit "manquy-ey"? NO, dejected, angry, frustrated, but MANQUY! NO WAY!
2. The Provenance of Baby Boy Fletcher
THE ALL NEW MOSTLY TRUE ADVENTURES OF BABY BOY FLETCHER
Of course, Baby Boy Fletcher did not spring fully formed and appear one day in the NICU at the University of Maryland Medical Center! Nor was he brought to earth by a stork; not found under a berry bush; never left in a box at someone’s front door; not even discovered in a basket floating in the reeds of an ancient river.
Baby Boy Fletcher is actually the progeny of two extraordinary individuals. His mother, Kate Welsh, nee Fletcher, is famous for her legendary acts of bravery and courage, although not as Kate Welsh. It is little known that she is actually Wonder Woman! Yes indeed – Wonder Woman; that timeless and eternal Amazon most often described as "beautiful as Aphrodite, wise as Athena, swifter than Hermes, and stronger than Hercules." All this, and special powers! Most of us are aware of her heroic exploits down through the centuries. But Wonder Woman is a woman of action and not words so many of her most daring and important ventures are not generally known. She was advisor to the French Resistance during WW2, leading them on to many successful missions against the Nazis. She was there when Genghis Khan tried to take over the world, stopping his maleficence in its tracks. She took down Al Capone while letting Elliot Ness take all the credit. While the photo we use of her here is from her younger days (to protect her privacy) it clearly shows that famous, characteristic Wonder Woman image of confronting the world.
Baby Boy Fletcher’s father, Ed Welsh, disguised as a youthful accountant in this photo to protect his privacy, is in real life the immortal eEejai – The Dragon King! We are all familiar with The Dragon King’s fight for truth and justice; his successful battle to save the dragons from becoming extinct by being insidiously and illegally exploited in gaming dragon fights; his more recent work with reducing the carbon footprint that is desecrating our planet; and of course, his peculiar ability to extinguish fires by exhaling tons of water from his massive lungs! He has saved millions of lives, forests, prairies, homes, and landmarks since the time of the Last Days of Pompeii!. And then there are his super powers which are the stuff of legend. eEejai has the ability to become invisible at will; his wizardry at seeing into the minds of the “bad guys” enables him to stop their evil machinations before they get started; his shape shifting talents which let him blend into any crowd, confront any foe in whatever guise he deems fit; and his virtuoso mastery of the bagpipes.
Baby Boy Fletcher’s parentage is impressive indeed. The coming together of these two legendary heroes bodes exciting adventure for the Baby Boy. It is almost beyond imagining what his future holds. But of course, we can always imagine. (11/28/07)
KINDLE Also Means to Start a Fire
Amazon has launched what they hope will be the electronic replacement for the book in the form as we now know it. It is called KINDLE which is to call to mind the crackling of the fires of innovation; or could it be the crackling of the paper of burning books. As Amazon founder Jeff Bezos related to Newsweek reporter Steven Levy, "Books are the last bastion of analog."
I am not quite sure why books are seen, metaphorically, as analog's final defensive posture. I have never thought about books as continuous, time-steady signals, generally of the electronic variety. So maybe I need to tilt his comment a bit sideways. Does Bezos mean that the last bastion that analog must conquer is that of the book? By creating a revolutionary new way of experiencing books - digital in nature - will we thus conquer the paper versions of reading technology that have worked so well for more than 550 years? Conquer, bastions, revolutions - it is getting a bit militaristic all of a sudden. Books as a battlefield in the Art of War?
I am certainly NOT a Luddite, but maybe a curmudgeon, certainly a librarian, a volitional reader, and most definitely a bibliophile, bookworm, and collector of books. I love the feel of a book in my hands. The weight and heft of it. The paper. The font type and size. Margins. Inlays. Book covers. Frontispieces. Gilded fore-edges. The information on the book jacket flaps. All of the components, tangible and "un" that make each book unique.
Can Kindle give me this experience? Doubtful. Bezos' Weltanschauung of a book appears to be quite different from mine. And most likely from that of others as well. His attributes of a book - which must be an integral part of the Kindle - include projecting an "aura of bookishness" which by itself has all or no meaning. So to create this "aura", Kindle is the size of a paperback and extremely light. It also emulates a book with its tapering width. From a side view, Kindle has the same width as an ordinary pencil, not a "bookishness" characteristic where I am concerned. I personally enjoy a hefty book and the size and width of hardcovers are often a part of their appeal to me.
It uses a long life battery so that reading a book does not resemble the long past nascent experience of going to the movies and being confronted with "cliffhangers."
And if you go to the Amazon page and read all the features of Kindle, well, it is pretty impressive and certainly goes far beyond the scope of a book as we know it today. Its wireless connectivity enables it to function as an Internet device opening highways, roads, and bridges of literary opportunities. I cannot fault it for a lack of innovation.
But I am more concerned with how such devices will alter the creation of a story, a textbook, biography, poetry, newspapers. How will authors and readers alike be influenced by Bezos' vision of a new way of reading, writing, and publishing. In a world of infinite connectivity we can write along with an author - but do I want to? Authors can adjust text based on real time reviews of work-in-progress. Writing by poll. Hmmmm....
As much as the Internet has created a platform for all to pontificate, muse, yes, blog, debate, and so on, are we all Richard Russo quality writers? Writing along with David Sedaris as he works on his latest book of wit and satire leads to the creation of something other than that unique quality of "Sedaris-ness." Much will be lost. Being able to add an epilogue to Bob Woodward's latest book on the administration leads to never-ending books which may stray far and wide from the original topic and point of view. I cannot imagine the hubris of believing I can add anything of creative merit to Alice Munro's stories and would be bereft if indeed, her future works were edited or supplemented by we-the-reader.
So, I'll hold on to my home library for now as I investigate the potentials and uses of devices such as Kindle. Books will not go away anytime in the near future, nor will libraries or bookstores. And more will be revealed!
Joe Lewis & Me Go To The Gym
If I must resort to getting a trainer and working out - and I must - than I plan to do it in good company. Joe Lewis, Heavyweight boxing champion of the world! He held this title from June 22, 1937 until June 25, 1948 and made a division-record 25 successful title defenses. Someone I would be proud to emulate!
I am still on steroids and still struggle to breathe. And the weight gain from the steroids has just created more problems with my ability to be active. I get so exhausted just doing daily activities and my endurance is pretty non-existent. So what next? Sit in my chair and get fatter and fatter?
Nope! I have joined a gym - what has been relabeled in today's parlance as a fitness center - and acquired a trainer. If I want to get into any semblance of good shape, I need to train! So train I will. Two days a week with a trainer and then all the cardio, weights, balance, flexibility I want to take on.
My first appointment with Molly - such as sweet sweet name for this woman of steel. Former Air Force; and to my way of thinking there is never anything "former" about military! So Molly and I walk to a treadmill. Treadmill:
An exercise device consisting of an endless belt on which a person can walk or jog without changing place;
A mill that is powered by men or animals walking on a circular belt or climbing steps
A job involving drudgery and confinement.
Here's a definition I can relate to:
Instrument of discipline in prisons. A cylinder made to revolve by the action of prisoners putting their weight on boards fixed as steps on the surface of the cylinder. It was intended to be an irksome and monotonous punishment.
Some good words here: endless, drudgery, punishment, monotonous...
So back to me and Molly at the treadmill. I have not exercised in years - I have sarcoidosis - I am 59 years old - I am grossly overweight. So Molly says to me, "Let's do 55 minutes on the treadmill today."
I looked at her as if she were recently released from a long-term treatment center for the severely mentally impaired. FIFTY-FIVE minutes! ME! On a treadmill! I wanted to cry, but that would not have been very sporting of me. I WAS however mentally contemplating how to get out of my contract with the fitness center. There must be some other way to get my lungs back in shape!
So she starts up the treadmill and my feet begin to move. By minute ten my legs were burning and I was ready to leave, that is, if I could have had the stamina to walk out of the gym and to my car.
Twenty minutes - not even halfway through. I knew something that Molly did not - there was NO WAY I could do 55 minutes on a treadmill. Inclines, speed up, slow down, more inclines, and 40 minutes had passed. I was still upright. I could hear Joe Lewis urging me on, and on. Suddenly, time was up! I had gone 55 minutes on a treadmill.
I casually walked down to my car, got inside and shouted with joy! ME - 55 minutes! I was exuberant, ebullient, ecstatic, euphoric, rapturous! Me and Joe go to the gym again on Sunday.
1. ROCKET MAN
THE ALL NEW MOSTLY TRUE ADVENTURES
OF BABY BOY FLETCHER
As is well know by now, Baby Boy Fletcher (BBF) made his arrival six weeks early, eager to begin his adventures here on earth. On the fifth of September he came to Baltimore to take up residence and begin his all new adventures. While he weighed a good weight – 5 pounds and some odd ounces – he was not quite ready for the blue skies and open roads of life. So he spent some time awaiting his “all systems go” before he could venture out into the world.
He was hooked up to snaky opaque tubing, and bound with wires of rainbow colors and undetermined purposes. Bright lights were aimed at various parts of his fragileness and new and unexplained sounds abounded; susurrations, clangs, dings, beeps, swooshes, jabber, all filtered through lights and tubes and hard plastic shell of his new home.
This was not how most babies were greeted by the world. One could say it was unworldly in its lack of congruence, certainty, or general sense of celebration one would have expected. BBF began to take on the “otherness” of where he was placed becoming more like a being from a place far away in time and space than a newly born baby boy. In fact, his resemblance to a Bradburian rocket man, was noted by many who came to stare at him and marvel.
Thus began his first week on planet Earth.
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