Born to be mild?

SHE SLIPPED INTO THE ROOM, made her way to my Dad’s bedside and stealthily took his vitals. He stirred a bit and an eyelid strained open a bit to observe this early morning invader, recognizing her beyond the haze of his sedation and a smile weakly blossomed on his face.

Sorry to bother you, George – I mean Buck – but I gotta get this information for the charts. What can I do for you? she asked, gently touching his forehead and peering into that sliver of an eye looking back at her. Okay, let’s move you a bit and let you get a look outside, okay. It’s cold but it’s a pretty day outside coming your way?

A shift of a few centimeters gave the man a glimmer of a salmon-colored sunrise erupting beyond his window. His visitor reached for his hand; she smiled and winked at me as she left the room. Other cases to evaluate; other patients to see. And I suspect each received the same respect and level of care, and the depth of comfort that my Dad had received.

About a week later, he was gone. Just like that on a late Sunday night. It was a few days before Thanksgiving, and I was grateful my Dad finally was at peace.

But I recall most clearly those final few weeks when he drifted between this world and the next marking time in his room with my Mama, sibs and close family and friends. It didn’t occur to me then as it does now. Curing disease often doesn’t happen in this dimension, but it always does in the next. The human body comes only with a limited warranty. That is why the Manufacturer installs us with souls, I believe.

Stretching the bounds of kidhood

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME, back in the summer of 1964. One afternoon, my older brother and I didn’t have much on our itinerary, so we decided to play that time-honored game called “Stretch.” A rather ordinary diversion for boys in our neighborhood.

 

Here’s how it works: You borrow a steak knife from the utensil drawer in the kitchen and go find a decent piece of turf to begin. Then you and the other player take turns throwing the blade to alternate sides of both feet. Perhaps a few inches or maybe a foot. The goal, of course, is to make the other spread their stance to the point where they topple over. If you fall first, you loose. But there was another strategy; alternate the distances between long and short. Really gets into your opponents head.

If you were a true gladiator, you played “Stretch” barefoot. I have a few scars on the top of both feet to prove it.

Our game was going fine until one of us speared the knife into a hard surface and the blade broke. Uh-oh. We got some serious explaining to do now.

Words on words

THE PARTY WILL BE OVER IN A FEW HOURS. Mardi Gras will wind down and transform into the sobering observance of Lent. A 40-day journey of Christianity leading up to the betrayal, execution and resurrection of a humble carpenter's son.  Earlier this morning as I slugged down my first much-needed cup of coffee, I pondered briefly on what this season means. For some, it's a time to give up some pleasure or pledge some temporary sacrifice geared walking a more focused path to the Creator.

After my routine scanning of news sites and the wires, it occurred to me how powerful words can be. In myriad ways, words can encourage, build others up, inspire and energize us to strive to be better folks. In other ways, words can tear down, hurt and devastate. 

And then there are those seemingly innocent words all of us use; the quietly delivered unsubstantiated "secrets" we share from time to time: Gossip.

Got me to thinking about an old Hebrew bit of advice I once read: What you don't see with your eyes, don't witness with your mouth. Suffice it to say that Mosaic memo about bearing false witness against your neighbor was not a suggestion.

Mid-way through John Patrick Shanley's play "Doubt," one of the lead characters, Father Brendan Flynn, is delivering his Sunday homily. It comes at a time when the affable priest's church and community are caught in the swirl of change of the early1960s. The good padre, too, finds himself under suspicion and attack by the disciplinarian principal of the church's school, Sister Aloysius. The harsh headmistress suspects him -- without any shred of evidence -- of having an inappropriate relationship with the school's newly admitted and first African-American boy.

The music of garages

BLACK FRIDAY – THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING.

 I’d rather eat my pancreas and climb Mount Everest naked than venture near to any shopping center or mall on that day. But there I was in Greenwood, Ind., with Robyn hitting a fabric store for gifts she would make for Christmas 2010. Knowing there was a slight possibility of escape, I took the rational course of action and ducked into the Guitar Center next door.

Love that place, and I go there from time to time. Mostly to dream.  It’s like stepping into a Holy Sepulchre of Telecasters, Strats, Martins, Gibsons and other Excaliburs for any squire shouldering a guitar.  Not to mention myriad accessories that any self-respecting ax-swinger seeks to stuff into his or her gig bag. And if you’re a non-musician without talent – say a person who plays keys or drums – it’s a pretty fascinating place, too. The GC caters to all.

On that dismal, dark November day a few months ago, I sought refuge. I did my usual entry, walking past the advertised specials and made my way over to the amp area, all surrounded by wall-mounted well-strung cornucopia.
The seduction is made easy: Select a guitar, plug it in and do your thing. And the store is wise enough to leave out picks.


Strum, play, -- do whatever Muse might strike you. Then move on and try more.

Where History and Hysteria Converge...

Take a brief slideshow tour of Central State
http://www.kizoa.com/slideshow/d1504922k5834261o1/where-history-and-hysteria-converge

'Please to no come back again ever!'

BEEN FOLLOWING THE EVENTS unfolding in Cairo and other Egyptian cities the last few weeks, all of the demonstrations, rallies, riots and clashes between the government and protesters. And that includes the harsh crackdown on professional journalists and amateurs able to get their word out through blogs and Facebook. There hasn’t been this much calamity in that country since Moses commandeered an uprising, leading his folks on an exodus away that thick-headed Pharaoh, who couldn’t get the hint after some fairly dramatic plagues.

Sadly, people wielding tremendous power so often are unable to read the handwriting on the wall. I don’t know enough to know whether President Mubarak should pull a Nixon, but it seems at this point he has no ttrump card in the hand he’s playing.

All of this has gotten me to remembering about my own brief time near that part of the world during the winter of 1991. You see, the magazine I worked for had bought my pitch to send me and staff photographer John Simon to Saudi Arabia to cover the unfolding Desert Storm war. Remember that? Saddam Hussein’s troops rumbled into oil-rich Kuwait in August 1990 and occupied its capital and other key places. Kuwait’s ruling class was able to get the hell out of Dodge into safer havens while the lower and largely imported hired hands were forced to hang on nearly eight months under a brutal force.

A sweet song and a dead leaf

During last week’s ice storm I was fortunate to have the flexibility to work from home for two days, thanks to the Internet and ability to tap into my company’s internal server. It was a good opportunity for a variety of reasons: I could wear my battered Grateful Dead sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, not have to scrape the whiskers from my face, drink endless cups of Cuisinart-crushed fresh coffee, and do what I do most days when I am not wearing the button-down uniform of the typical day.

I was working the “Operation Snowflake” beat in the Frozen City, wondering why Al Gore and the other zanies were noticeably absent for interviews during this assault, and I was providing updates on closings and delays about our hospitals and other pedestrian communications. While refilling my “I Love Grandpa” coffee mug at one point, I could hear the creaking of sagging tree limbs, similar to the sounds of my knees and elbows when I get up each morning. 

And then I heard a faint sound of a bird – singing its blessed heart out against that cold chorus. It was the sweetest sound of optimism I ever have heard.