Unreported in Alameda County:
An evil cat hoarder had three -of 15- cats (that I know of) taken from her home. Basic abuse of innocent animals, this is a recurring legal and, obviously, ethical issue with her. She's been previously cited by Animal Protective Services numerous times yet finds a way to scoop up more felines and destroy their simple, unsullied short lives.
The cats were ill: one whose face bore a huge,uncared for mass that extended from nose tip to lacrimal corner of the eye. Another sported matted, clumpy fur and appeared malnourished, and an essential flea haven. Fluid poured from the third's nose. If they survive, how long will it take for their feral, survival instincts to soften before they're willing to trust another human?
Sadly, this isn't one of those Animal Planet/Animal Cops shows. Real life, real abuse, real sickness for the kitties and resulting from a reproachful, poisonous woman. She lives alone - is that a surprise?
It leads me to wonder what drives the human mind to such measure? Why don't we protect the innocent a little more and burn more fire under the offenders, especially repeat offenders? We let rapists out of prison in 7 years or less ("good behavior") only to find them lurking and assaulting women again; it's up to her to prove that she didn't provoke him. We move molesting priests around from parish to parish to hide their heinous, life-damaging acts. A college professor molested a baby --yes, a baby--with the approval of its mother. I don't know what's worse here: the molestation or the mother who allowed this to happen. A woman who takes in kittens and roving cats only to kick them, snap their legs, and/or ignore their medical & physical needs? What kind of people do this?
We say that the laws to protect animals are 'good enough' because, well, 'they're just dumb animals.' I have to say that sexual predatory laws are equally as ineffective. Who upholds these lame laws, these sweep-under-the-carpet molestations, these 'good behavior' gives you freedom options? Obviously 'prayer' and a good chastisizing waggly finger does not make the priest change his ways. I can't help but wonder, if it make the defendant/offender/convict feel better to know that he/she has gotten away with something and will only receive a slap on the wrist?
Oh, it just irks me. And then there's the Tea Party idiots.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Olympic Reflections: 2 tiny similarities
I watched some of the events of the Winter Olympics this year with great zeal, others with mild curiosity.
The bobsled, skeleton, and luge are all engaging 45 second runs. However, after seeing three in-a-row, I was bored. The focus of the boring NBC commentators was on Curve 16, the deadly, rupturing curve that cast a dark shadow on the Games before they began. I was reminded, though, why I do enjoy watching some of these sledding events.
In my childhood neighborhood, during the worst of snowy-icy snowstorms, many of us took to the 10% grade hills for Skeleton-like sledding. As we all know, the best time for Mach 5 sledding is at night, when the temperature drops, the ground hardens, and, of course visibility decreases (especially if it's snowing or foggy). Toss these latter factors in and multiply times 20 if a passing car travels along the sledding route. At that point, there's a bit of quick-action decision making, given the fact that most cars have little control under such wintry conditions.
My sister owned the best sled: light, small, and always waxed on the rails, it tore down Council Crest Drive and with intensive full-body steerage elbowed into a right turn down Beaverton Avenue. Major ice, velocity, and non-stop leg-pumping (just like on a swing) enabled the sledder to continue down the 100 yard, 12% grade Himes Street. This was a true vertical slope, similar to the ski-jumping hill, but without the open space at the bottom: a road, a guard rail, a bunch of icicle-laden ivy that crept out underneath the metal barrier, and a grove of barren maples and firs just beyond.
And if the thrill of zooming down Himes wasn't enough, there was always the thrill of the curb on one side (often with parked cars) and the 15-foot cement wall on the other. Due to the laws of physics, motion, and gravity, these hazards presented themselves as reasons to Bail Out. Take the Tumble. Let the unmanned sled plow into the asphalt while the rider rolled and Supermanned down the hill, coat zippers and boot toes serving as the only frictional tools towards reduced speed.
At the bottom of Himes, once the sled was retrieved or the ride savored a choice was made. Take Chesapeake or trudge back up the 1/2 mile and repeat. Chesapeake was a snaking, 10-foot wide, potholed, sparsely-lit road that simply tore down hill. In the multiple I took the hill, (with an Olympiad's running start, legs pumping, and knuckles clawing at the ground) twice I made it to a point far enough to not know where I was and rather than take some road to a neighborhood unknown, I plodded back up in the blackness of the night. Most times I spilled off the right edge on a maniacal left turn that dumped me into hill of ivy and ferns.
I suppose that it's here in these wild-night memories that I find myself drawn to the luge track.
On another note, I would like to point out that I watched some of the snowboarder events. And each time Shaun White's face appeared, I kept thinking, "Who does he remind me of? Who is this person?" Well, there are those internet 'similarity' photos between people and dogs: Carol Channing and a pug, Joe Lieberman and (Deputy) Droopy Dog, Wilfrd Brimley and some grouchy-faced fat cat.
Shaun White rang a similarity in me that was equated with a human, not a 4-legged. Today, it came to fruition with the article and adjacent regarding a potential inter-denominational marriage. Shaun White and, yes, Chelsea Clinton are veritable twins. Same hair, same face (hers appears a bit cheekier), same height. Sure, she might be a Rhodes Scholar with some sort of intellectual awards and he a two-time gold medal Olympian, but one could easily step in for the other if the paparazzi aren't sharpening their focus.
And there, my friends, sans the fire place and snowflake-patterned turtleneck are my Olympic reflective moments. Shaun White doubles for Chelsea Clinton, and vice versa. And skeleton and two-man toboggan syncs with nighttime, streetlamp sledding (and pigpile sledding) on Portland's west hills' icy streets.
The bobsled, skeleton, and luge are all engaging 45 second runs. However, after seeing three in-a-row, I was bored. The focus of the boring NBC commentators was on Curve 16, the deadly, rupturing curve that cast a dark shadow on the Games before they began. I was reminded, though, why I do enjoy watching some of these sledding events.
In my childhood neighborhood, during the worst of snowy-icy snowstorms, many of us took to the 10% grade hills for Skeleton-like sledding. As we all know, the best time for Mach 5 sledding is at night, when the temperature drops, the ground hardens, and, of course visibility decreases (especially if it's snowing or foggy). Toss these latter factors in and multiply times 20 if a passing car travels along the sledding route. At that point, there's a bit of quick-action decision making, given the fact that most cars have little control under such wintry conditions.
My sister owned the best sled: light, small, and always waxed on the rails, it tore down Council Crest Drive and with intensive full-body steerage elbowed into a right turn down Beaverton Avenue. Major ice, velocity, and non-stop leg-pumping (just like on a swing) enabled the sledder to continue down the 100 yard, 12% grade Himes Street. This was a true vertical slope, similar to the ski-jumping hill, but without the open space at the bottom: a road, a guard rail, a bunch of icicle-laden ivy that crept out underneath the metal barrier, and a grove of barren maples and firs just beyond.
And if the thrill of zooming down Himes wasn't enough, there was always the thrill of the curb on one side (often with parked cars) and the 15-foot cement wall on the other. Due to the laws of physics, motion, and gravity, these hazards presented themselves as reasons to Bail Out. Take the Tumble. Let the unmanned sled plow into the asphalt while the rider rolled and Supermanned down the hill, coat zippers and boot toes serving as the only frictional tools towards reduced speed.
At the bottom of Himes, once the sled was retrieved or the ride savored a choice was made. Take Chesapeake or trudge back up the 1/2 mile and repeat. Chesapeake was a snaking, 10-foot wide, potholed, sparsely-lit road that simply tore down hill. In the multiple I took the hill, (with an Olympiad's running start, legs pumping, and knuckles clawing at the ground) twice I made it to a point far enough to not know where I was and rather than take some road to a neighborhood unknown, I plodded back up in the blackness of the night. Most times I spilled off the right edge on a maniacal left turn that dumped me into hill of ivy and ferns.
I suppose that it's here in these wild-night memories that I find myself drawn to the luge track.
On another note, I would like to point out that I watched some of the snowboarder events. And each time Shaun White's face appeared, I kept thinking, "Who does he remind me of? Who is this person?" Well, there are those internet 'similarity' photos between people and dogs: Carol Channing and a pug, Joe Lieberman and (Deputy) Droopy Dog, Wilfrd Brimley and some grouchy-faced fat cat.
Shaun White rang a similarity in me that was equated with a human, not a 4-legged. Today, it came to fruition with the article and adjacent regarding a potential inter-denominational marriage. Shaun White and, yes, Chelsea Clinton are veritable twins. Same hair, same face (hers appears a bit cheekier), same height. Sure, she might be a Rhodes Scholar with some sort of intellectual awards and he a two-time gold medal Olympian, but one could easily step in for the other if the paparazzi aren't sharpening their focus.
And there, my friends, sans the fire place and snowflake-patterned turtleneck are my Olympic reflective moments. Shaun White doubles for Chelsea Clinton, and vice versa. And skeleton and two-man toboggan syncs with nighttime, streetlamp sledding (and pigpile sledding) on Portland's west hills' icy streets.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Walk
When I stepped into the unit, I found Mom walking down the wide, 25 yard-long hallway. As if blind, she bumped against the right wall which caused her to straighten her inner steering mechanism and veer back towards the center. Her gait was driven, forceful, not fast but definitely furtive, her head bent slightly forward like when we're drunk and our bodies are drawn by some green exit sign to the world beyond or a faraway lavatory's magnetic pull towards relief. The difference being that she didn't stagger. She wasn't inibriated.
Lacking shoes, I saw that a flap of extra blue sock hung out beyond her right toe like a tiny, cozy flipper while a thick red sock snuggled around her foot perfectly. Her definitive step thumped out a clear drum beat across the carpeted plywood flooring. I worried in that moment that walking without foot support would hurt her, cause the bone spurs in her heels and the bunions on the lateral left to scream out. She only grimaced slightly, perhaps because when I caught up with her, she'd reached the end of the hall, the locked exit door, the closure of any escape her mind might have conjured in some single, or, perhaps repetitive moment.
Was she trying to get out? Or, was she trying to get out of the disease that seeped into her intelligent mind? She'd tried on numerous occasions to escape: once she saddled up next to the nutrition staff who carted in an 8-foot metal box filled with hot food trays for the residents. As he wheeled out, Mom stepped in line with his cart and slipped out the door to freedom, to the unlocked, assisted living area where the senior aged front desk woman caught her heading out the front door. "Mary! Are you going out for a walk?" She knew that Mom was a Houdini of sorts. "You'll need a coat. It's quite cold outside." And from there, she escorted Mom back into the locked Alzheimer's unit where she could take a stroll within the confines of the locked courtyard and gardens.
Walking kept her going. She wasn't idle until the disease began to affect her balance -- about a year later. Her muscles and tendons stiffened and she spent a lot of time in a love seat rocking up and back in ab-killing half-crunches. I tried these at home and couldn't accomplish even half the amount she did during one visit.
Who needs an Ab-Cruncher (for three payments of just $19.95 + shipping & handling if you act now!) when you could simply try following the Mary Strohecker exercise regimen? She did half-crunches from the cushiony couch, like a rusty bear trap's jaws that opened only slightly before slamming shut again. She was a Jack LaLanne fan forever, starting many mornings with his 5am televised exercise routine before she headed off to work. While I sat beside her in the over stuffed couch, I wondered if this was one of the episodes he recorded: non stop crunches during a cocktail party.
Mom walked. She walked endless laps in the hallways, she once told me 'to keep her muscles loose. Everyone here is so staid and stale! Nobody moves!' She'd windmill her arms then tuck her elbows in and ante-up her velocity in a power-walker mode. For as long as possible, she walked away from, or perhaps, tried to escape the Alzheimer's that crept up on her and nibbled away at her life, intellect, love, and energy.
That green EXIT sign never allowed her to get away from it.
Lacking shoes, I saw that a flap of extra blue sock hung out beyond her right toe like a tiny, cozy flipper while a thick red sock snuggled around her foot perfectly. Her definitive step thumped out a clear drum beat across the carpeted plywood flooring. I worried in that moment that walking without foot support would hurt her, cause the bone spurs in her heels and the bunions on the lateral left to scream out. She only grimaced slightly, perhaps because when I caught up with her, she'd reached the end of the hall, the locked exit door, the closure of any escape her mind might have conjured in some single, or, perhaps repetitive moment.
Was she trying to get out? Or, was she trying to get out of the disease that seeped into her intelligent mind? She'd tried on numerous occasions to escape: once she saddled up next to the nutrition staff who carted in an 8-foot metal box filled with hot food trays for the residents. As he wheeled out, Mom stepped in line with his cart and slipped out the door to freedom, to the unlocked, assisted living area where the senior aged front desk woman caught her heading out the front door. "Mary! Are you going out for a walk?" She knew that Mom was a Houdini of sorts. "You'll need a coat. It's quite cold outside." And from there, she escorted Mom back into the locked Alzheimer's unit where she could take a stroll within the confines of the locked courtyard and gardens.
Walking kept her going. She wasn't idle until the disease began to affect her balance -- about a year later. Her muscles and tendons stiffened and she spent a lot of time in a love seat rocking up and back in ab-killing half-crunches. I tried these at home and couldn't accomplish even half the amount she did during one visit.
Who needs an Ab-Cruncher (for three payments of just $19.95 + shipping & handling if you act now!) when you could simply try following the Mary Strohecker exercise regimen? She did half-crunches from the cushiony couch, like a rusty bear trap's jaws that opened only slightly before slamming shut again. She was a Jack LaLanne fan forever, starting many mornings with his 5am televised exercise routine before she headed off to work. While I sat beside her in the over stuffed couch, I wondered if this was one of the episodes he recorded: non stop crunches during a cocktail party.
Mom walked. She walked endless laps in the hallways, she once told me 'to keep her muscles loose. Everyone here is so staid and stale! Nobody moves!' She'd windmill her arms then tuck her elbows in and ante-up her velocity in a power-walker mode. For as long as possible, she walked away from, or perhaps, tried to escape the Alzheimer's that crept up on her and nibbled away at her life, intellect, love, and energy.
That green EXIT sign never allowed her to get away from it.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Dead Stuff
In order to break through 'writer's block,' one guidebook suggests to open a drawer and write about the contents inside.
I haven't had the block for a while now, but I did open my lil' desk drawer today to withdraw a pen. My desk only has one, slim drawer, in which I've packed in a standard, black desk tray complete with three small divots that hold paperclips, clickster pencil refills, and other sundries, and a longer, scallop that's filled with writing implements. I have another, undivided white plastic tray that's filled to the one-inch brim (the drawer's height is only 2 inches so I need to be a good packer) with important items including white-out (important while working on a computer), an unpeeled Bandelier National Monument sticker with Kokopelli figurines, a tiny, jawbreaker-sized orange iMac computer screen with "hello (again)"
Back to the sectionalized tray. Funny, it's really a black, plasticine version of our old school lunch trays, minus the rails on the bottem used to slide along the lunchroom's stainless steel bars when selecting a square of overcooked spinach mush or salisbury steak & an icecream scoop of mashed po's. Intelligent design, I suppose, using all those long lost trays as tool and trinket holders in our desks. Portion sizes prob became too small for the American appetite, just the same.
Inside my drawer, beyond the moat of unused wallet, memory sticks, and broken-armed reading glasses, the left, corner tray cup draws my attention. Life forms, or items that once were life forms lay upon each other like ancient carcasses. A sickle-shaped tooth, capped on the root end with silver intended for a key ring or necklace with a silver tip covering the point. It's smooth, like a polished stone yet without the polish. Years of pocket time or endless nights spent beneath a handkerchief in my mom's jewelry drawer wore it to a sheen.
Beneath it rests a tubular antler piece, calamari-sized, sans the breaded edges. It, too is smooth, but the grooves of time and age are darkened, like rings on a tree. Two opposite holes bored through it, ideal for a string tie or a very eager worm working in one direction. It peaks on one side, such that when it's resting on my desk like a standard ring, and I look down at it, the pointy edge becomes a nose a beneath it, the gaping hole a mouth. Behind the mouth, of course, is that cavernous ring, then on the backside, the opposing hole or mirrored mouth: the backdoor for that hungry worm.
To its immediate left is a postage stamp sized square of what I'm assuming is tusk. It's wafer thin and yellowed from at least 75 years of ownership in Mom's jewelry drawer. She showed it to me once when I was a curious little first-grader digging through her strings of artsy necklaces and clangy bracelets. "Alaska" sweeps across the top of a single-line mountain ridge in 10-pt cursive engraved font. Beneath is an etched caricature of a hooded musher - his back to my eye - leading a packed sled with distinct rail lines which slices across the curved, ivoried snow. A perfect hole, just wide enough for a b-b sized brass ball keyring punctures through the upper left corner above musher's head. It's smooth on its underbelly in the small concave arch. The etching, though, is rough like an Alaskan winter. The chiseling is deep and time-defying.
Mom told me once that her Uncle Charles gave this to her when he traveled up to Alaska. She loved her Uncle Charles and he doted upon her even from across the country.
Sand-blasted snail and clam shells and a miniscule, urn-shaped seed small enough to fit through a buttonhole round out my drawer of non-living items. The seed's gradation in color from desert tan at its round base to its rich mahogany tip shows how time and change affects even the tiniest of life forces such as a seed.
There's a certain comforting strangeness to all these dead things, these bony relics that fill my little square cup in the corner of my desk drawer. This is especially odd when I contrast those once-livings with the tiny broken string of baby blue beads, some the size of tapioca and others a slightly larger, say, blanched papaya seeds. An embossed 'W' on a pearly papaya bead separated by single blue tapioca, then ten more pasty whites spells out my last name and reaches out to the tail of five baby blues again. This was my father's i.d. bracelet when he lay in the maternity ward just after his birth. His name, his life denoted by this tiny 10-inch bracelet which wrapped around his pudgy infant wrist two times showed passersby and the nursing staff who he was, who he'd become.
Now, it's a simple sign of life that snakes around these little momentos of once-life in my drawer and reminds me of how the past steps into the present and back again.
I haven't had the block for a while now, but I did open my lil' desk drawer today to withdraw a pen. My desk only has one, slim drawer, in which I've packed in a standard, black desk tray complete with three small divots that hold paperclips, clickster pencil refills, and other sundries, and a longer, scallop that's filled with writing implements. I have another, undivided white plastic tray that's filled to the one-inch brim (the drawer's height is only 2 inches so I need to be a good packer) with important items including white-out (important while working on a computer), an unpeeled Bandelier National Monument sticker with Kokopelli figurines, a tiny, jawbreaker-sized orange iMac computer screen with "hello (again)"
Back to the sectionalized tray. Funny, it's really a black, plasticine version of our old school lunch trays, minus the rails on the bottem used to slide along the lunchroom's stainless steel bars when selecting a square of overcooked spinach mush or salisbury steak & an icecream scoop of mashed po's. Intelligent design, I suppose, using all those long lost trays as tool and trinket holders in our desks. Portion sizes prob became too small for the American appetite, just the same.
Inside my drawer, beyond the moat of unused wallet, memory sticks, and broken-armed reading glasses, the left, corner tray cup draws my attention. Life forms, or items that once were life forms lay upon each other like ancient carcasses. A sickle-shaped tooth, capped on the root end with silver intended for a key ring or necklace with a silver tip covering the point. It's smooth, like a polished stone yet without the polish. Years of pocket time or endless nights spent beneath a handkerchief in my mom's jewelry drawer wore it to a sheen.
Beneath it rests a tubular antler piece, calamari-sized, sans the breaded edges. It, too is smooth, but the grooves of time and age are darkened, like rings on a tree. Two opposite holes bored through it, ideal for a string tie or a very eager worm working in one direction. It peaks on one side, such that when it's resting on my desk like a standard ring, and I look down at it, the pointy edge becomes a nose a beneath it, the gaping hole a mouth. Behind the mouth, of course, is that cavernous ring, then on the backside, the opposing hole or mirrored mouth: the backdoor for that hungry worm.
To its immediate left is a postage stamp sized square of what I'm assuming is tusk. It's wafer thin and yellowed from at least 75 years of ownership in Mom's jewelry drawer. She showed it to me once when I was a curious little first-grader digging through her strings of artsy necklaces and clangy bracelets. "Alaska" sweeps across the top of a single-line mountain ridge in 10-pt cursive engraved font. Beneath is an etched caricature of a hooded musher - his back to my eye - leading a packed sled with distinct rail lines which slices across the curved, ivoried snow. A perfect hole, just wide enough for a b-b sized brass ball keyring punctures through the upper left corner above musher's head. It's smooth on its underbelly in the small concave arch. The etching, though, is rough like an Alaskan winter. The chiseling is deep and time-defying.
Mom told me once that her Uncle Charles gave this to her when he traveled up to Alaska. She loved her Uncle Charles and he doted upon her even from across the country.
Sand-blasted snail and clam shells and a miniscule, urn-shaped seed small enough to fit through a buttonhole round out my drawer of non-living items. The seed's gradation in color from desert tan at its round base to its rich mahogany tip shows how time and change affects even the tiniest of life forces such as a seed.
There's a certain comforting strangeness to all these dead things, these bony relics that fill my little square cup in the corner of my desk drawer. This is especially odd when I contrast those once-livings with the tiny broken string of baby blue beads, some the size of tapioca and others a slightly larger, say, blanched papaya seeds. An embossed 'W' on a pearly papaya bead separated by single blue tapioca, then ten more pasty whites spells out my last name and reaches out to the tail of five baby blues again. This was my father's i.d. bracelet when he lay in the maternity ward just after his birth. His name, his life denoted by this tiny 10-inch bracelet which wrapped around his pudgy infant wrist two times showed passersby and the nursing staff who he was, who he'd become.
Now, it's a simple sign of life that snakes around these little momentos of once-life in my drawer and reminds me of how the past steps into the present and back again.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Curtains
I slipped inside the oak phone booth and picked up the handle of the payphone with my thumb and forefinger. It's a public phonebooth afterall, no matter the location be it an urban sidewalk or an esteemed private womens' college, these things are still scummy. When I unfolded the glass and wooden door into place, the bare bulb overhead did not automatically illuminate. Dark wood, a tiny, cornered slat for sitting worn to a darkened, graffitti-engraved sheen, a black metal phone and dismal sunlight sneaked through the scratched, personally, and unprofessionally etched glass which made it nearly impossible to see the vacant plasti cover where a phone book once hung.
I held the receiver in my left and tugged on the broken handle with my right to accordian the door once again. Lacking a good caulking since 1947 and suffering from far too many angry, door-slamming conversations, the glass rattled when I banged the two sides of the door into its closed glass-to-glass position. Air and diffused light from the ancient hallway poured in.
I punched in the numbers, checked my watch, and knew that my 20 minute break would be taken in entireity. I added tall-man finger to my receiver grip for strength while holding the ear piece just on the edge of my ear cuff. Two rings and a giggly "Hello?"
"Hi mom, it's me, Cass."
"Honeylamb! I've been trying and trying and trying to get in touch with you. Where are you?!"
"Well, I'm still down here in California. Remember, I told you that I had this two-week seminar and I'd be rather busy during the suummer months?"
"Oh. What's the seminar about? And what about your 4-legged friend?"
"He's at home watching squirrels in the trees. It's a science seminar. I get to learn different methodologies for developing some life science techniques in the classroom and I get paid for it too."
"How much?"
"About $400. Not a lot, but enough to put away for a rainy day."
"Oh, that's a lot of money! Is it raining down there? It's lovely here. I've got to finish putting the mulch on the flower beds. The Dahlias are just coming up now. You know Bud has cancer."
"Well, there's not much rain here in July" I wiped my ear and the phone receiver with my shirt tail and readjusted my grip: elbow on wall just below an I LUV CINDY 18 point carving. "Yea, I know he has cancer. You told me when I talked to you two weeks ago. Remember, I was up there for his oncologist's appointment with you. We talked about his options and all that."
"Options? Is it snowing then? Remember it was soooo cold during your graduation. There was snow on the ground and then there was that asterix next to your name. I almost died when Elizabeth told me what that was for."
"Mom I'm not in Montana and I did finally graduate two months later. That was four years ago. Remember? I graduated?"
"[Giggle-snort]No, not exactly. I keep getting these curtains that come down, like a sudden darkness then it seems like it's gone. I forget things."
"Huh. You seem to remember the stuff that I'd prefer you forget. So, when does these happen? At night? In the morning? When? Do they hurt like a headache?"
"[Giggle] Oh, I don't know. Why does it matter? They just happen, like a curtain, then it's dark."
"Are you standing or just waking up? Does it make you fall down or lose your balance?"
"Does what make me fall down? Honeylamb how come you sound so worked up?"
"I'm not worked up, I'm worried about you. The curtains. The shroud of darkness that you feel does it make you dizzy or anything like that?"
"How'd you know about those?"
"Mom, you just told me. You just said that sometimes you can't remember something, and it's like a curtain comes down, like a darkness falls over you."
"Oh."
"Mom, you need to make an appointment to see your doctor."
"Why? I feel okay except for these darned sniffles."
"Mom, you need to get these curtains checked. It could be more serious like mini-strokes or something like that."
"What are you talking about? I feel fine."
I checked my watch. Three minutes remained during my break and people were already filing back into the classroom. I still needed to use the bathroom before returning.
"Mom, these little blackouts. You need to talk to Dr. Naito and have them checked out. Maybe he could do some tests or something."
"Dr. Naito? How'd you know about him? Gosh, you're a smart little cookie! Now, tell me about your 4-legged friend. How is he? How's Nancy?"
"Mom, please. I have to get back to my class. Will you please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment to get these mini blackouts checked?" One minute.
"What class are you in? I thought you had a break from your students. How are they this year?"
"It's an adult class, mom, for me. A seminar. Mom, I have to go. Please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. Please."
"For what?"
"Mom, get a pen out and write this down." A colleague walked by and mouthed an 'Are you okay?' I shrugged and turned inward towards the dark wall. I ran my finger over the various LUV and FUCK carvings on the wall. Gum wads filled the holes where other carvings expanded into giant zeroes.
"Okay, I have a pen and some paper." Paper ruffled in the background.
"Not the newspaper or the margin of some magazine. You need to get a blank piece of paper. I know there's a yellow post-it pad in the drawer right in front of you."
"How do you know where I'm standing?" A drawer opens and more ruffling. "How'd you know this pad was here?"
"I'm smart. Okay, write this down on the pad. Call Dr. Naito make appointment to have blackouts checked."
"[Giggle] This is quite funny, you telling me what to do. It's just like skiing: there was no time to admire the view. You made me keep heading downhill! [Giggle] Such a Bossybeehive you are!"
"Yep. Sassy Cassy too. Can you read the note back to me?"
"Uh, oh, I need my glasses. Okay. 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' What's this for, anyway? Who needs to call Dr. Naito?"
"Mom, you do! Is Bud there or around where you are?"
"He's in the basement. He's got that Rush blaring on the radio. He gets so angry when he listens to him. I don't even go near him."
"Okay, well Rush will do that. Can you call him please? Tell him I need to talk with him?"
"[Giggle] Okay honeylamb. Bud! Bud!" Pause. Footsteps fill the void as she headed towards the top of the basement stairs. A tinkling of metal on metal syncopated with a flap-flap of
giant ears that whap together. "Oh, hello Mabel! Good girl. Bud!" Mabel is a basset hound.
"What?!" a distant voice snapped.
"Cass wants to talk to you. She's on the phone." Mabel shook her head again. Probably rubbed up against mom's leg to get petted. "Yes, now!" Stomping feet.
"Where?"
"On the phone. Here."
"Hello?" He was panting. His shallow voice grabbed for bits of air.
"Hi Bud, it's me, Cass."
"Oh, hey there Cass. How are you?"
"I'm alright. Hey, I only have a second. But I need you to do me a favor. I asked mom to write
down on a yellow pad that she needs to call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. The pad should be there on the kitchen counter."
"Yes, I see it. It says 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' Is this it?"
"Yea. Mom seems to be having interludes of forgetfulness and these mini blackouts. I think she needs to get checked by Naito."
"She does?"
"Um, yea she's been having them for a while. So, can you call and make an appointment for her?"
"Yea, sure.
Gosh, I didn't know that she was having these. Mary, have you been having little blackouts?"
Water ran from the tap. "How'd you know?" I heard a toothy crunch. Her mouth was full of some raw vegetable. "Did I tell you this?" She snort-giggled again.
"Okay Cass, I'll make the appointment. You know, she parked the car down the street the other day then walked home. I had to go out and look for the car."
"It was a beautiful day. I just wanted to go for a walk!" She laughed in the background. "Mabel, do you want to go for a walk?" Mabel shook her head again and her collar and tags clinked together like bells. Toe nails happily clicked across mom's kitchen floor and a door creaked then slammed.
"That'd be great Bud. Let me know and I'll come up and go with you."
"Okay. Is that all?"
"Yea, I have to go. Take care of yourself. Tell mom I love her and I'll talk to you soon." I hung up the phone and heaved a diaphragm-filling breath. Outside the wall of windows, bees crashed-landed into the camelia blossoms that adorned the building. A hammocked spider's web extended between four twigs that appeared vacant of passing insects and the spider. She was probably waiting on the outskirts for her supper.
Another deep breath lifted my shoulders to my earlobes. I wiped my left ear with my shirt collar, just in case phone cooties jumped ship and walked back into the classroom where everyone was delving into shallow basins filled with crawfish. I was 10 minutes late.
I held the receiver in my left and tugged on the broken handle with my right to accordian the door once again. Lacking a good caulking since 1947 and suffering from far too many angry, door-slamming conversations, the glass rattled when I banged the two sides of the door into its closed glass-to-glass position. Air and diffused light from the ancient hallway poured in.
I punched in the numbers, checked my watch, and knew that my 20 minute break would be taken in entireity. I added tall-man finger to my receiver grip for strength while holding the ear piece just on the edge of my ear cuff. Two rings and a giggly "Hello?"
"Hi mom, it's me, Cass."
"Honeylamb! I've been trying and trying and trying to get in touch with you. Where are you?!"
"Well, I'm still down here in California. Remember, I told you that I had this two-week seminar and I'd be rather busy during the suummer months?"
"Oh. What's the seminar about? And what about your 4-legged friend?"
"He's at home watching squirrels in the trees. It's a science seminar. I get to learn different methodologies for developing some life science techniques in the classroom and I get paid for it too."
"How much?"
"About $400. Not a lot, but enough to put away for a rainy day."
"Oh, that's a lot of money! Is it raining down there? It's lovely here. I've got to finish putting the mulch on the flower beds. The Dahlias are just coming up now. You know Bud has cancer."
"Well, there's not much rain here in July" I wiped my ear and the phone receiver with my shirt tail and readjusted my grip: elbow on wall just below an I LUV CINDY 18 point carving. "Yea, I know he has cancer. You told me when I talked to you two weeks ago. Remember, I was up there for his oncologist's appointment with you. We talked about his options and all that."
"Options? Is it snowing then? Remember it was soooo cold during your graduation. There was snow on the ground and then there was that asterix next to your name. I almost died when Elizabeth told me what that was for."
"Mom I'm not in Montana and I did finally graduate two months later. That was four years ago. Remember? I graduated?"
"[Giggle-snort]No, not exactly. I keep getting these curtains that come down, like a sudden darkness then it seems like it's gone. I forget things."
"Huh. You seem to remember the stuff that I'd prefer you forget. So, when does these happen? At night? In the morning? When? Do they hurt like a headache?"
"[Giggle] Oh, I don't know. Why does it matter? They just happen, like a curtain, then it's dark."
"Are you standing or just waking up? Does it make you fall down or lose your balance?"
"Does what make me fall down? Honeylamb how come you sound so worked up?"
"I'm not worked up, I'm worried about you. The curtains. The shroud of darkness that you feel does it make you dizzy or anything like that?"
"How'd you know about those?"
"Mom, you just told me. You just said that sometimes you can't remember something, and it's like a curtain comes down, like a darkness falls over you."
"Oh."
"Mom, you need to make an appointment to see your doctor."
"Why? I feel okay except for these darned sniffles."
"Mom, you need to get these curtains checked. It could be more serious like mini-strokes or something like that."
"What are you talking about? I feel fine."
I checked my watch. Three minutes remained during my break and people were already filing back into the classroom. I still needed to use the bathroom before returning.
"Mom, these little blackouts. You need to talk to Dr. Naito and have them checked out. Maybe he could do some tests or something."
"Dr. Naito? How'd you know about him? Gosh, you're a smart little cookie! Now, tell me about your 4-legged friend. How is he? How's Nancy?"
"Mom, please. I have to get back to my class. Will you please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment to get these mini blackouts checked?" One minute.
"What class are you in? I thought you had a break from your students. How are they this year?"
"It's an adult class, mom, for me. A seminar. Mom, I have to go. Please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. Please."
"For what?"
"Mom, get a pen out and write this down." A colleague walked by and mouthed an 'Are you okay?' I shrugged and turned inward towards the dark wall. I ran my finger over the various LUV and FUCK carvings on the wall. Gum wads filled the holes where other carvings expanded into giant zeroes.
"Okay, I have a pen and some paper." Paper ruffled in the background.
"Not the newspaper or the margin of some magazine. You need to get a blank piece of paper. I know there's a yellow post-it pad in the drawer right in front of you."
"How do you know where I'm standing?" A drawer opens and more ruffling. "How'd you know this pad was here?"
"I'm smart. Okay, write this down on the pad. Call Dr. Naito make appointment to have blackouts checked."
"[Giggle] This is quite funny, you telling me what to do. It's just like skiing: there was no time to admire the view. You made me keep heading downhill! [Giggle] Such a Bossybeehive you are!"
"Yep. Sassy Cassy too. Can you read the note back to me?"
"Uh, oh, I need my glasses. Okay. 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' What's this for, anyway? Who needs to call Dr. Naito?"
"Mom, you do! Is Bud there or around where you are?"
"He's in the basement. He's got that Rush blaring on the radio. He gets so angry when he listens to him. I don't even go near him."
"Okay, well Rush will do that. Can you call him please? Tell him I need to talk with him?"
"[Giggle] Okay honeylamb. Bud! Bud!" Pause. Footsteps fill the void as she headed towards the top of the basement stairs. A tinkling of metal on metal syncopated with a flap-flap of
giant ears that whap together. "Oh, hello Mabel! Good girl. Bud!" Mabel is a basset hound.
"What?!" a distant voice snapped.
"Cass wants to talk to you. She's on the phone." Mabel shook her head again. Probably rubbed up against mom's leg to get petted. "Yes, now!" Stomping feet.
"Where?"
"On the phone. Here."
"Hello?" He was panting. His shallow voice grabbed for bits of air.
"Hi Bud, it's me, Cass."
"Oh, hey there Cass. How are you?"
"I'm alright. Hey, I only have a second. But I need you to do me a favor. I asked mom to write
down on a yellow pad that she needs to call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. The pad should be there on the kitchen counter."
"Yes, I see it. It says 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' Is this it?"
"Yea. Mom seems to be having interludes of forgetfulness and these mini blackouts. I think she needs to get checked by Naito."
"She does?"
"Um, yea she's been having them for a while. So, can you call and make an appointment for her?"
"Yea, sure.
Gosh, I didn't know that she was having these. Mary, have you been having little blackouts?"
Water ran from the tap. "How'd you know?" I heard a toothy crunch. Her mouth was full of some raw vegetable. "Did I tell you this?" She snort-giggled again.
"Okay Cass, I'll make the appointment. You know, she parked the car down the street the other day then walked home. I had to go out and look for the car."
"It was a beautiful day. I just wanted to go for a walk!" She laughed in the background. "Mabel, do you want to go for a walk?" Mabel shook her head again and her collar and tags clinked together like bells. Toe nails happily clicked across mom's kitchen floor and a door creaked then slammed.
"That'd be great Bud. Let me know and I'll come up and go with you."
"Okay. Is that all?"
"Yea, I have to go. Take care of yourself. Tell mom I love her and I'll talk to you soon." I hung up the phone and heaved a diaphragm-filling breath. Outside the wall of windows, bees crashed-landed into the camelia blossoms that adorned the building. A hammocked spider's web extended between four twigs that appeared vacant of passing insects and the spider. She was probably waiting on the outskirts for her supper.
Another deep breath lifted my shoulders to my earlobes. I wiped my left ear with my shirt collar, just in case phone cooties jumped ship and walked back into the classroom where everyone was delving into shallow basins filled with crawfish. I was 10 minutes late.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Alzheimer's in the Atomic Age
Alzheimer's. There, I said it. Some people actually pronounce it, "Old-timer's," perhaps because many seniors are afflicted with this awful disease. Old Timer's makes me think of whiskey and old, surly men sitting on porches and spitting over their sleeping coon hounds. Old Timer's, like bony-faced, sallow-eyed Okies wearing suspenders and carrying castiron skillets; these are survivors in my mind. Survivors who listen to scratchy Hank Williams LPs on the phonograph and write letters on 5"x8" paper to their moved-away offspring. These are Old Timer's. These are the survivors of the times.
Those afflicted by or diagnosed with Alzheimer's are not survivors. They don't survive. They die from it. This is a disease that is literally an alien in the brain: it corrodes the brain, eats away at all the good parts, the memories, the speech, the joy, the springy step and the ability to smile.
Alzheimer's leaves no surivors. Rather, it is the A-Bomb of the soul, mind, and body of those whom we love and adore. A vacuum of life is sucked into the arsenal of this disease leaving only the dregs of a person behind. A shell, if you will, of the person we always knew and who always knew us. Not unlike The Bomb, which rips at the junctions in a victim's body, Alzheimer's tears away at the connections and synapses in the brain, damaging the tissue around it and, like the lingering radiation, continuing on its destructive path towards other healthy brain cells.
It doesn't care who it attacks. Esteemed teachers, mechanics, and physicians all fall prey to the Alzheimer's seeping annihilation. The stricken die, their bodies give up since there brain can no longer fire off the impulses to do the basic functions like breathe or swallow.
The scars that remain are left upon those of us who stood by. The caretakers. The children. The friends, neighbors, and colleagues. We witnessed the demise, we denied it, grew frustrated with this neuro scorching, then -- ideally -- dealt with it. We are left with the memory of once was the wholeness, a life, a mother, father, brother, sister who we adored.
My mother, Mary died from Alzheimer's. It was awful. It was painful to see and feel. As the disease cored out the impulses in her brain leaving vacant plaque, it also cored out me, leaving a hole where so much of who she was once thrived.
Initially, Alzheimer's, unlike, say, Cancer or Liver Disease in which we can SEE the physical destruction of the patient -- weight loss, skin discoloration, fatigue, hair loss -- does its damage internally without us SEEING a physical change. Mom Appeared the same: her stature remained constant, her laughter, her zippy step, her outward affection. Internally, though, the disease was laying claim to parts of her brain, beginning with the area the controls vocabulary. Fortunately for Mom, she had a veritable Oxford Dictionary going on in there --proof in our incomprehensible Easter Bunny notes that used Shakespearean quotations and polysyllabic words that even my oldest brother, John, then 12 didn't understand. The disease chewed away that area, but it was a slow process, not unlike how radiation crept and poisoned the lymphatic systems of Hiroshima & Nagasaki victims.
The disease moved on to other areas. Trust, wherever that's stored in the brain was immediately pummeled by the A-Bomb arsenal. What remained were thoughts of deception, lies, and thievery. Mom hid her purse in various parts of the house. We discovered newly-mailed credit cards not in drawers or in zipped up pockets in her book bags, but in soap boxes under a fresh bar of Yardley, or in a tennis ball can tucked alongside a Wilson #2. Given that Alzheimer's also chips away at the short term memory, the fact that she hid her purse -- from her husband, aka, the philandering thief -- in a different location each day made it nearly impossible to locate if she was going to leave the house.
Whenever new credit cards arrived in the mail, she'd nab them - I've no idea if she did that call-in activation we all must do from our "home phone." They would show up in sock drawers, tucked inside the folds of bar soap boxes, edged into tennis ball cans. I found one behind four cans of dog food in their pantry once when I was searching for a flavor to feed Mabel, their waggy Basset hound. She hid them because she was certain "Bud was out spending money on some woman."
One day, when she was still rather functional, she drove home and simply parked her car a few blocks away from the house. She got out, keys in hand, and walked home. There was no friend in the vicinity of her car, no construction zone that obscurred her drive, she didn't run out of gas. In her mind, it was time to park the car, and she did. When she walked in the front door - an unusual event given that always parked in the rear of the house and used the back door - Bud, her husband asked where the car was. "The car?" she inquired not knowing what he was talking about. She looked at the keys in her hand, "Don't you have your own car?"
He looked out the front window, saw only grass and an empty street, then strolled out to the curb to find a vacant road. He spent the better part of two hours walking around the neighborhood searching for her car. She didn't know why he was out there let alone why he seemed so angry. "He's probably out on a picnic with that woman."
"What woman, Mom?" I asked.
"Oh that Melissa woman. He writes her name all over the place."
"Mom, he's tutoring Melissa for math. She's in high school."
"Are you sure? Melissa? Didn't I work with a Melissa?"
"Yes. The very same. Is her name all over the calendar and on pieces of notebook paper?"
"How'd you know? I thought he had lunch dates with her."
Mom continued to hide the credit cards, her purse, bills, cash, and even some pieces of flatware silver despite this explanation. It's just the disease. It eats away at Trust, at Rational Thinking, at all Complex Problem Solving, at Communication capacities, at basic mental processes, including the simplest to help one survive, such as the ability to clean and feed oneself. Strangely, it forces the rest of us to release our years-held frustrations, disappointments, and hoped-for acknowledgments because they just aren't going to resolve themselves or happen once this disease strikes. It eats away at all those pent-up everythings that have been festering and simmering since childhood. It forces an unravelling and cooling off. Relinquish, let them go, and close that wound. This corrosive disease won't help the healing of any wound still gaping and dripping with unsettled emotion.
Alzheimer's, like the A-Bomb, it leaves behind a blistered trail of nothingness, hardly a shadow of who the person once was. And, for those of us who remain, our hands, our minds, our hearts are left with shredded images of who the person eroded to and became in this recessive process all messed into the fond memories of who she once was before the acidic explosion seeped into her mind. It's a catastrophe that even a thousand paper cranes cannot thwart, nor can a child's heartfelt love stave off the destruction.
Those afflicted by or diagnosed with Alzheimer's are not survivors. They don't survive. They die from it. This is a disease that is literally an alien in the brain: it corrodes the brain, eats away at all the good parts, the memories, the speech, the joy, the springy step and the ability to smile.
Alzheimer's leaves no surivors. Rather, it is the A-Bomb of the soul, mind, and body of those whom we love and adore. A vacuum of life is sucked into the arsenal of this disease leaving only the dregs of a person behind. A shell, if you will, of the person we always knew and who always knew us. Not unlike The Bomb, which rips at the junctions in a victim's body, Alzheimer's tears away at the connections and synapses in the brain, damaging the tissue around it and, like the lingering radiation, continuing on its destructive path towards other healthy brain cells.
It doesn't care who it attacks. Esteemed teachers, mechanics, and physicians all fall prey to the Alzheimer's seeping annihilation. The stricken die, their bodies give up since there brain can no longer fire off the impulses to do the basic functions like breathe or swallow.
The scars that remain are left upon those of us who stood by. The caretakers. The children. The friends, neighbors, and colleagues. We witnessed the demise, we denied it, grew frustrated with this neuro scorching, then -- ideally -- dealt with it. We are left with the memory of once was the wholeness, a life, a mother, father, brother, sister who we adored.
My mother, Mary died from Alzheimer's. It was awful. It was painful to see and feel. As the disease cored out the impulses in her brain leaving vacant plaque, it also cored out me, leaving a hole where so much of who she was once thrived.
Initially, Alzheimer's, unlike, say, Cancer or Liver Disease in which we can SEE the physical destruction of the patient -- weight loss, skin discoloration, fatigue, hair loss -- does its damage internally without us SEEING a physical change. Mom Appeared the same: her stature remained constant, her laughter, her zippy step, her outward affection. Internally, though, the disease was laying claim to parts of her brain, beginning with the area the controls vocabulary. Fortunately for Mom, she had a veritable Oxford Dictionary going on in there --proof in our incomprehensible Easter Bunny notes that used Shakespearean quotations and polysyllabic words that even my oldest brother, John, then 12 didn't understand. The disease chewed away that area, but it was a slow process, not unlike how radiation crept and poisoned the lymphatic systems of Hiroshima & Nagasaki victims.
The disease moved on to other areas. Trust, wherever that's stored in the brain was immediately pummeled by the A-Bomb arsenal. What remained were thoughts of deception, lies, and thievery. Mom hid her purse in various parts of the house. We discovered newly-mailed credit cards not in drawers or in zipped up pockets in her book bags, but in soap boxes under a fresh bar of Yardley, or in a tennis ball can tucked alongside a Wilson #2. Given that Alzheimer's also chips away at the short term memory, the fact that she hid her purse -- from her husband, aka, the philandering thief -- in a different location each day made it nearly impossible to locate if she was going to leave the house.
Whenever new credit cards arrived in the mail, she'd nab them - I've no idea if she did that call-in activation we all must do from our "home phone." They would show up in sock drawers, tucked inside the folds of bar soap boxes, edged into tennis ball cans. I found one behind four cans of dog food in their pantry once when I was searching for a flavor to feed Mabel, their waggy Basset hound. She hid them because she was certain "Bud was out spending money on some woman."
One day, when she was still rather functional, she drove home and simply parked her car a few blocks away from the house. She got out, keys in hand, and walked home. There was no friend in the vicinity of her car, no construction zone that obscurred her drive, she didn't run out of gas. In her mind, it was time to park the car, and she did. When she walked in the front door - an unusual event given that always parked in the rear of the house and used the back door - Bud, her husband asked where the car was. "The car?" she inquired not knowing what he was talking about. She looked at the keys in her hand, "Don't you have your own car?"
He looked out the front window, saw only grass and an empty street, then strolled out to the curb to find a vacant road. He spent the better part of two hours walking around the neighborhood searching for her car. She didn't know why he was out there let alone why he seemed so angry. "He's probably out on a picnic with that woman."
"What woman, Mom?" I asked.
"Oh that Melissa woman. He writes her name all over the place."
"Mom, he's tutoring Melissa for math. She's in high school."
"Are you sure? Melissa? Didn't I work with a Melissa?"
"Yes. The very same. Is her name all over the calendar and on pieces of notebook paper?"
"How'd you know? I thought he had lunch dates with her."
Mom continued to hide the credit cards, her purse, bills, cash, and even some pieces of flatware silver despite this explanation. It's just the disease. It eats away at Trust, at Rational Thinking, at all Complex Problem Solving, at Communication capacities, at basic mental processes, including the simplest to help one survive, such as the ability to clean and feed oneself. Strangely, it forces the rest of us to release our years-held frustrations, disappointments, and hoped-for acknowledgments because they just aren't going to resolve themselves or happen once this disease strikes. It eats away at all those pent-up everythings that have been festering and simmering since childhood. It forces an unravelling and cooling off. Relinquish, let them go, and close that wound. This corrosive disease won't help the healing of any wound still gaping and dripping with unsettled emotion.
Alzheimer's, like the A-Bomb, it leaves behind a blistered trail of nothingness, hardly a shadow of who the person once was. And, for those of us who remain, our hands, our minds, our hearts are left with shredded images of who the person eroded to and became in this recessive process all messed into the fond memories of who she once was before the acidic explosion seeped into her mind. It's a catastrophe that even a thousand paper cranes cannot thwart, nor can a child's heartfelt love stave off the destruction.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Age for the Not-so-Aged: XLVI
XLVI
This does not stand for X-tra Large Very Important. Rather, it's our friendly Roman Numeral indication for a number not widely used in crossword puzzles, número cuarenta-seis.
Kind of isolating, the number 46 - makes me wonder about all those other funky numbers and ages, like next years solid prime, La 47. Live for the now and don't contemplate that far ahead. I'm not much of a planner anyway, so 364 days off is just a ludicrous notion.
Changes so far? Things to contemplate? Given that Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah just passed, it only seems appropriate to settle in and take some sort of inventory of my life this past year: accomplishments, sins, failures, desires, and chocolate. The latter, I'm certain is worthy of its own self-reflective category, since it is a fave. Including Jujubes and Jujyfruits seems right, seeing as I spend oodles of time trying to nudge these from the recesses of my natural dental work in lieu of listening to a dear friend's divorce calamity, financial woes, or health scares. When my tongue is working that hard to chisel these syrupy nuggets from my teeth and gums, how could one expect me to donate 95% attention to another's tribulations. It's not much different than trying to maintain a conversation with someone who's "busy" surfing the internet for something, anything, anywhere more intriguing than this discussion.
Reflections on the year or what's new & different in the sub-semi-century age:
>Still searching for a job. Ugh.
>Writing more now that I have a p/t job. Discovering how much I enjoy this action when I've whittled away my free time.
>In combat with one, yes one, particular gray hair that resembles a RR crossing arm, including the shiny reflective paint, moreso than a blended-in brown hair. This one defies gravity and tends to point the way for lost tourists to head east or north, depending upon which direction I face; it's perpendicular to my spine.
>The gold nuggets I discovered in the Stanislaus River, making me an imaginary millionaire, have turned out to be a medley of pyrite & mica. Still pretty, shiny, and goldy, just not worth much. Fool.
>John F. Kennedy was assassinated at age 46, just one month & 22 days after I was born. Now that's freaky.
>I'm in a double-prime year. 45 was a good number, with lots of factors: 3,5, 9, 15. Seemed powerful: the year WW2 ended. 45th parallel is the 'halfway' point between the Equator and the N. Pole. My home state of Oregon lies on the 45th parallel, a state of which I'm quite proud and fond. 45 rpms were the standard record that we played on our little record player, when Capitol records' label was a meld of orange-yellow swoops, kind of like Yin-Yang, or interlocking Nike swooshes, only better. 45th wedding anniversary is the sapphire wedding (25: silver, 50: gold). Sapphire happens to be my birthstone too.
To make amends with this new age of 46, I'd like to point out that that solo crossing guard hair makes me just that much more unique. It's truly a glistening, follicled lightsaber by which my friends can locate me on a moonless night.
46 is the sum of the number of human chromosomes (23 pairs, in case you were a little foggy during that Biology class chapter on genetics). I'm the proud owner of all 46, no less, no more, despite what my siblings might occasionally say.
And, to mark the day on a positive note, I chewed a piece of slurpy Juicy Fruit gum, the very same (yellow pack) gum that my maternal grandmother honored each of the five of us with every time she visited, or on my birthday. Hers fell on September 5, so we oft shared a 9th month celebration. We grew old together: the wise chain smoker carved from tenacity, "Old Kentucky Blood," and 5pm High Balls and me the youthful, tomboy, baseball-loving, pyro-sprite.
Juicy Fruit still has that burn-the-back-of-your-throat spicy sugary sensation, not unlike Beeman's, or Clove, or BlackJack, without the red or black tongue after effect. It's just enough to make the silver fillings in my teeth erode just a smidge, yet antagonizes my salivary glands to the point my jowls are flooded and I slaver over my lips like a broken levee. It's a stick gum with a jagged, Charlie Brown embossed print on each end. It's still wrapped in that serrated edge metallic wrapper, such that a tiny speck of said paper (invisibly glued to the stick) still has the capacity to fire off an electrical jolt through my brain when my fillings make contact. There's no way to get that particle out of the dental canal without a mirror, a good toothbrush, and a rinse. Or, when such amenities aren't available, withdraw that syrupy wad of ABC Juicy Fruit and utilize it's under-desk sticky factor to suction it away.
Toss that wad, btw. It's an electrical hazard now. Fold another piece across those central incisors and start fresh, like a new age, or a brighter outlook.
Despite it all, it's a happy gum, written in joyful black print with a slim, vaguely present red outline that borders each letter. With an oral and aromatic wave of secret-spiced gummy lusciousness Who wouldn't want to etch away their tooth enamel?
Given the Juicy Fruit, the birthday brunch and dinner with my family and pals, and the crisp, clean, gently-warm air and azure sky that marks the skin-tingling Autumnal kickoff, I admit this celebration of my birth day has been darned good. So long ole 45! Forty-six?! Here I come!
XLVI:
Xenogenesis, Lucky, Verve, and Iridescence
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
