Jun 23

Time to Smell the Flowers, and Other Summer Fun

DoggieLimoCustomersThis is my last blog for a couple of months. My wife Maureen and I just bought a new car and we’ve decided to put it to good use this summer. That, and a garden that is fast becoming a handful.

I said “grow little garden, grow,” and it is! Now, other than the tomatoes, all the veggies and flowers are doing exceptionally well. Too well. We now have fresh cut flowers in the living room, dining room, kitchen, front hall, our bedroom and our bathroom as well as the downstairs bathroom… and a yard-full of budding replacements just dying to get in! We’ve run out of vases and are now using canning jars. Our little compost box will be full by July at this rate, but that’s not the half of it.

We decided to build a new deck so we can better enjoy the back yard gardens. Our 12×12 deck is fifty years old, so it’s time. We’re replacing it with a 16×30 version that will run along the back of the house and allow us to watch television from the deck. You, too, would quickly rationalize the cost if you saw all the hummingbirds, robins, blue jays, finches, blackbirds, and cardinals fighting for the flowers and accompanying bird feeders. Endless entertainment. The new deck will also allow us more room for still more potted flowers, which means a bigger compost. Still all good.

Here’s where it starts to get expensive. The builders are going to trash the back yard with their equipment and with stacks of lumber and supplies during the seven-to-ten days it will take to complete. All the grass will grow back, so… But they have to remove part of the fence to get to the back yard, and that means our dogs will have to remain inside. For ten days. Not good. So we decided it would be a great time to visit distant friends and relatives; we can take the dogs!

Now you see why we needed a new car. SUV’s were quickly ruled out; too high off the ground. The Dodge Grand Caravan was the only new car low enough that our two old mutts could hop right in without the need of steps or a ramp. That is, once we removed the center row of seats and turned it into a doggie limo.

I had no idea a garden could cost so much.

Have a wonderful summer, all!

-Phil

 

 

 

 

Jun 21

Chautauqua?

ChautauquaWhat do you think of when you hear the name Chautauqua, Chautauqua, New York?

The first thing I thought of was an Indian Tribe. Was I wrong! Wikipedia says, Chautauqua was an adult education movement in the United States, highly popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. …The Chautauqua brought entertainment and culture for the whole community, with speakers, teachers, musicians, entertainers, preachers and specialists of the day. Former U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt was quoted as saying that Chautauqua is “the most American thing in America.”

I first became interested in the Chautauqua Lectures when I was driving home from work in Chicago. I’d tune in to Public Radio and frequently the announcer would say they were “live at Chautauqua”, carrying a speech by someone well known in their field. I felt very fortunate to be able to listen in! So when I read that Road Scholar was offering weeklong trips there, I knew we had to go.

Today Road Scholar, an educational travel organization for anyone 50 and over, offers weeklong trips to Chautauqua. They are filled with lectures on various interesting topics from 9:00 to 12:00 each morning. The speakers are interesting and well prepared.

The afternoons are for yoga, nature walks, relaxing or exploring on your own.

After dinner there’s live entertainment. One night we heard a singing group, another night it was a jazz trio and the last night was a musical performance by a one-man orchestra!

My husband and I went for the week starting May 15.

I’m not sure what was more enjoyable: The lectures, the Athenaeum Hotel where we stayed or the town of Chautauqua itself.

We stayed at the Athenaeum Hotel, a few yards from Chautauqua Lake. The view was lovely. The hotel had been built in the 1880s and modernized. It had large front and side porches with rocking chairs for reading and chatting and tables for eating outside or playing cards.

This is the view from our room, #22.

After this experience, I agree with Theodore Roosevelt, Chautauqua is “the most American thing in America.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jun 18

Coffee Shop Chronicles, Father’s Day edition: Saying goodbye

FullSizeRender (3)Starbucks

Rt. 40, Delaware

April 2006

Last week, I hugged Roomie down in Maryland, and that’s when it hit me: I’m saying goodbye.

I almost cried.

I’m moving soon, so it’s time for those farewells, that talking to the people I should’ve been talking to all along. My Grande Java Chip Frappuccino turns into a venti with extra ice added. More room to cry in my proverbial cup of coffee, if I did such a thing.

It was a wonderful chat, in a Starbucks of all places. We discussed families. Her boy is having some of those young child sensitivities, including separation anxiety. I totally get that today.

Her second baby is due in August, and she thinks she’s having a girl. Will a family of my own be in the future?  We laughed about keeping kids occupied with a video or DVD for an hour. Years ago, we never would. Now, that’s an hour well spent!

I lamented our distance to come. She said, “We’ll always be friends,” casual as if saying the rain has stopped outside.

Then she drove away. When I arrived, the parking space next to my car was empty, so she had parked there. An hour later, when I left, her spot was still empty.

Coffee shops should be places to say hello, welcome people with hugs and squeals, or at least a handshake. I’m here in my usual spot drinking my usual drink, missing my familiar places already. I’ve taken them for granted.

Looking out the window into the dark night, my car’s in her usual place, headlights facing towards this store. Too many nights like this, I sat in that car, talking to Dad on the phone about his frustration that Mom wasn’t getting better and she didn’t seem to be trying. We talked and I stared into Starbucks, feeling empty even though there were lights inside. I willed the night to go away so I could forget him, Mom, and my own heartbreak.

Dad’s been gone for one year and three months. I miss those talks. They weren’t all bad. We compared notes every week about which one of us saved the most money with our grocery store coupons that week. It was a pretty even matchup. We talked about my job, his bus rides and talking to the regulars there, Pittsburgh sports and how terrible my high school teams were playing, and always the weather.

Dad would be tickled that I’m moving to Detroit, the place where he and Mom honeymooned. They toured the Ford manufacturing line, and that’s all I ever knew about it.

I wish I could ask him now. I’m curious about what else they did.

As if a higher power is watching over me, a little girl and daddy walk out of the Red Robin next door. Pink shirt, jeans faded, red balloon. Leftovers, two boxes of Styrofoam. Dad’s in long sleeves, maroon, and tan pants. He buckles her in the backseat, a minivan with silver doors and auto close. He puts the food on the front passenger seat. They back out now–how charming, how happy and content. Unlike a family of four just moments ago: the mom yelled at one girl while dad takes another girl in the restaurant.

What a shame.  A wasted opportunity.  I’d never take that for granted.  My throat closes up at the thought.

I can’t take this. I need to write. My journal is filled so far with my newspaper article transcripts, notes about the houses we’ve already looked at in Michigan, reactions from my coworkers at my announcement and, funny this, a list of the four closest Starbucks to the area we’re looking at moving to. Now I add to that:

“At K’s parents’ house, I couldn’t find my School Days book. Did I take it to Delaware already?  Worry, worry. An hour ago, found it. Looked through it, found Krista-TN stuff, letters Dad wrote me. Read one, his familiar print, all caps. A Penn State item taped in the letter. Weather report. Shows he videotaped for me. Mom and Star Trek group news. I missed Dad and I cried. I talked to him, to no one, about how I miss sharing this Detroit move news with him. I have to believe he knows, but I miss hearing his voice, his thoughts on it all. Cried more. Then had the strength to go into our Home Theater room and watch my wedding video. Father-in-law took it, used to think that was distracting from our ceremony. I am so blessed to have those images. Dad smiling. A smile! A cough. His large glasses, his cane. And somehow, that comforted me. I still cried.”

Gotta stop here. I’m about to cry again. Time to go out to my car and cry into my cup of Frappuccino. Time to say goodbye to this night.

Jun 16

Driving Detroit with Dad

michigan graphic“Dad would like you to drive the van,” my mom says to me. “It’s easier for him to get in and out of it.”

Despite my dad’s notoriously poor behavior as a passenger, I immediately respond, “Sure, I’ll drive.” Then I conjure an image of how the rest of my family will react when they find out that I’ve pulled the short straw. Relieved, they will celebrate by high-fiving one another and cheering, “Woo-hoo! Kelly has to drive!”

Soon thereafter, on a sunny and warm spring morning, I arrive as promised at my parents’ house, where Mom and Dad have been waiting with my sister and brothers. Waiting is the most popular item on the day’s agenda. It starts with the family waiting for me. It is to continue downtown at Henry Ford Hospital where we will stew for eight hours and hope that dad gets to come home with us after his surgery.

Dad sits up front beside me. Everyone else piles into the seats behind us, and we begin our trek to the hospital.

“Your dad likes to be early.” Mom doesn’t have to remind us of that. We know it. Dad is a morning person, and he’s never late.

When my siblings and I were children and living at home, we had Saturday mornings to look forward to Dad waking us up. He would step into our rooms while we slept and begin a loud phonetic rendition of the bugle call, “Reveille.” Then he’d sing these words in the same cadence:

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up in the morning!

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up in the day!

Dear Ol’ Dad had borrowed that morning routine from his camping days with the Air National Guard from 1954-1962. Other young men were being called up by the United States Army to serve in far-away places. Dad thought that by enrolling in the Guard, he had a better chance of staying close to home and finishing his six-year-long apprenticeship to become a printer. All worked out even better than he had planned. About half-way through his eight years of service, he met my mom, who had come to vacation in Michigan.

Dad enjoyed getting up at the crack of dawn and I think he wanted his family to like—or at least embrace—mornings too. Whenever we took a road trip, we’d rise before daybreak. The sky was dark; the air was crisp and chilly. There was no time to waste. Other people weren’t around to tie up the freeways. We had at least three hours to get ahead of everyone else.

On the morning drive to the hospital, I am reminded of how hard it must be for Dad to have to relinquish control of the steering wheel. He’s used to being the one behind the wheel. He drives everywhere he and Mom go, and sometimes he even drives me where I need to go.

Practically every year, Dad takes me to the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice where I complete my annual stint of jury duty. He spoils me. I don’t have to go into downtown Detroit alone, find a parking space, and walk by myself to the courthouse.

“I’ll drive you,” he insists.

Mom comes along and the two wait for me to get a break or to be excused for the day. They wile away their time at Greek Town Casino and then the three of us get lunch. Our little arrangement is something pleasant that I think we all look forward to.

Today, however, I experience familiar and familial pressure as I drive downtown. I go an acceptable five miles over the speed limit. Dad gruffly says, “Slow down!” Moments later, when I drive at the posted speed limit, Dad suggests that I could “go a little faster.” All the time, he foresees potential problems with traffic and warns, “Watch out!” “Take it easy!” “Give ‘em a little more room.”

I force myself to relax, despite the tension everyone in the van is feeling. There’s a hush that comes over us. No one wants to distract me from focusing on Dad’s instructions.

“The road coming up has a big pothole. It’s just past the light. See it?”

When I was sixteen, I had my first car accident—which wasn’t my fault. My dad didn’t seem mad at all. During college, when I had a second car accident which was my fault, he again showed only concern for whether or not I was alright.

I’m sure he’s not remembering these things that happened decades ago. He treats my brothers and sister the same when they drive. He just likes to be the one in charge and taking care of everyone else.

Having worked as a printer for The Detroit Free Press for over forty years, Dad knows the city’s history, the parks, the office buildings, the old stadiums, the bars and hang-outs, and most importantly, the back ways into town. He skillfully directs me down streets and through neighborhoods that I wouldn’t be comfortable in if I were by myself.

Dad explains that the humming bridge over the Rouge River needs to have water poured onto it to cool it down when it gets hot. He says that when he was a little boy, the Army responded to race riots by camping out in Clarke Parke. Later, more race wars took place in the 1960s, and the National Guard came to keep order but they didn’t have ammunition in their guns. Army paratroopers came in next and shot a bunch of people.

We drive east on Fort Street from downriver and pass by desolate Woodmere Cemetery, where several generations of my ancestors are buried. It has been over twenty years since we visited. Back then, a recorded voice was blasted over a loud speaker to tell women not to stop at the gravesites alone. Today, I wish I could forego this drive to the hospital and take a detour inside the wrought iron, gated yard in order to kneel beside my grandparents’ graves and reminisce.

I would rather not have to face the fact that my dad has bladder cancer. I don’t want him to have to undergo surgery, to be poked and prodded, to be in pain and discomfort.

Dad seems to calm the more he talks about places that he’s passed thousands of times. We see the old, abandoned Greyhound Bus station and turn at the corner of 14th Street. A block down at West Lafayette is Green Dot Stables. Dad tells us, like he had many times before, that the guy who opened it used to be a harness racing jockey. Dad doesn’t seem to notice the graffiti and burned-out buildings along our route. Unlike him, my brothers and sister are squirming in their seats because they would have rather taken the freeway. Doesn’t Dad realize that I-75 would be faster?

I’m not nervous about driving through poor parts of town with my family, mostly because my dad is sitting right beside me. Despite the fact that he’s turning eighty this year, I still believe he’ll keep us safe, no matter what.

It occurs to me that my father is behaving like an imperfect tour guide. I consider his insider’s knowledge of Detroit, his familiarity with the roads, and his ability to tell great stories. I set aside the fact that Dad has little to no patience when behind the wheel of a car, and I get a crazy idea. I blurt out, “You should be an Uber driver!”

Laughter erupts in the van. I sneak a peek at my dad and can tell that, for a brief moment, he isn’t thinking about cancer, pain, and surgical complications. He’s not worried or stressed. He’s simply smiling in response to my ludicrous suggestion.

That moment was worth waiting for.

 

 

Jun 15

Bones

If you’ve never fractured a bone, you’re either lucky or should work on a more interesting life. Fracturing a bone is more than painful; it’s a frightful experience. My first occurred when I was 17 years-old, delivering a box of frozen deer-carcass chunks from my father to a friend in the neighborhood. Don’t ask. As I turned to leave the porch, I slipped on the icy steps, landing on my left elbow. I cradled my non-functioning, seriously hurting arm to my chest, thankful I hadn’t split my head open instead. Mind and body immediately knew the difference between a really bad sprain and a fracture, and neither the head nor heart was happy about it. 

“Dislocation fracture of left ulna,” read the report from Henry Ford Hospital in downtown Detroit. For those bereft a medical background, that’s a break in the long, elbow-to-wrist forearm bone closest to the body when, in this case, a bloody end doesn’t actually protrude from the body for all to see. A compound fracture would have broken bone fragments lacerate soft tissue and protrude through an open skin wound. Although, in my case, even with no bone sticking out, horrible thought, animal instinct told me I had been badly damaged. 

Yes, it hurt like hell. My arm was instantly numb and out of action, saying, “Don’t even think about touching me or I’ll make you pass out right where you are.” Worse, this fracture had occurred while delivering a box of frozen deer-carcass pieces, not heroically tripping while proceeding down a church aisle carrying a crucifix. The ignominy of it all. Thankfully, hospital reports don’t go into more detail. Think of it, “Dislocation fracture of left ulna while delivering frozen deer-carcass chunks.” 

A broken bone forces an owner to give up all personal preferences and responsibilities to any attending physician willing to see him or her as soon as possible. There’s no arguing with your damaged body. Whatever the doctor wants you to do, you do it; anything for relief. The first trick is to not pass out from shock and pain on the way to the hospital. Once they inhale a lungful of disinfectant aroma, some people, like me, feel queasy and pass out just entering an emergency room to visit the sick. So, in this case, I was in trouble. 

When it’s time to immobilize the limb, you’re usually doped up with so much magic juice you no longer care if the doctor walked down the hall carrying your broken part to show his associates. Various techniques are used. Long ago, a white building-material called plaster of Paris was used to coat the broken limb. The material was named after a gypsum deposit in Montmartre near Paris, France. Medical plaster of Paris is the same plaster used for coating walls and ceilings, but costs thousands more than redoing your kitchen. Mixing dry powder with water creates a gooey paste, and the hardening reaction liberates heat through crystallization. A cheese-cloth bandage impregnated with this stuff is wrapped around the damaged limb and quickly dries into a close-fitting orthopedic cast. The problem is, plaster casts become so hot while solidifying they feel like the doctor has poured lighter fluid in and thrown a match on top. 

Fortunately, Fiberglas epoxy casts have replaced plaster to immobilize broken parts, unless you find yourself in Burkina Faso’s backcountry. Epoxy casts are wrapped around the offending limb just like plaster casts, after the magic juice has taken full effect, hopefully. Just before the process of applying an epoxy cast begins, and you’re doped enough so you don’t know if you’re right-side up or not, someone playfully asks what color you want to live with for several weeks; pink, blue, orange, or green. Such colors are supposed to be cute but, really, who gives a damn except the youngest of children? 

A second fracture occurred in my mid-twenties while finishing off a well-made martini at my parent’s house over the holidays. I reentered a living room filled with relatives and attempted a Charlie Chaplin-ish pirouette, for some reason long forgotten. But Charlie did it better. I tripped, landing in a heap on the floor, fracturing a bone in my right foot. It somehow took the bloom off the occasion. A quick x-ray revealed a mild, non-dislocating fracture that didn’t require a cast but lots of explanations for several weeks. Should I have explained I simply tripped and broke my foot, or admitted to a martini-influenced attempt at a fool-hardy pirouette for which I had no training? The former, by all means. 

A third fracture, this time a right wrist, occurred in my mid-thirties, towing our two small children on a sled across a frozen pond. Is there a pattern here? I was wearing snowmobile boots and couldn’t feel how slippery the pond’s surface was as I tried to spin the sled to give them a thrill ride. An out-of-control flop to the ice broke the wrist, requiring two different casts; the first positioning the wrist upward for two weeks to semi-knit together, and the second bending the wrist down for three more, altogether an even-less-than-fun experience. It seemed I would never be shed of casts. Of course, it was necessary to hand-write a dozen work-related reports the following week, a surprising and unexpected opportunity learning to write left-handed for a while. 

My fourth and hopefully last fracture happened years later in my mid-fifties, slipping on an ice-covered wooden deck leaving for work on a dark and wintery morning. This one occurred too fast to exclaim, “Oh no, not again!” Another inelegant pratfall (are any unexpected falls elegant) broke my left forearm, leaving the arm hanging at a painfully unnatural angle. Ulna or radial bone made no difference, it still hurt. Fortunately, this one was attended to by a doctor who had never seen me before, so he couldn’t exclaim, “Oh no, not you again!” With the new Fiberglass-epoxy casts, nobody could write stupid sayings on it, including myself. 

But my timing wasn’t great. Our daughter had broken her knee in a Canadian skiing accident a week before and couldn’t drive because of her leg cast. I was elected to drive her back and forth to work for several weeks, until she knitted herself together. I suppose we would have made quite a sight if we had been stopped by the police for an infraction; a driver piloting a car with a left arm in a cast accompanied by a passenger-daughter hitched to one side with her right leg in a cast. On the other hand, if we’d been in an accident, at least our limbs were already in casts and protected.