There seem to be a lot of them going around, lately, it being June and all. Big Bob and MOTG still look like the high school sweethearts they were. Crowds connected to Fast Eddie and JannyLou are cruising in Alaska, celebrating the blending of their families 40 years ago.
Today, G'ma and Daddooooo would be celebrating their 67th aniversary, married, as G'ma would ruefully remind me, on a Thursday because of something about Counting the Omer. As a child, I wondered how she let herself be pushed around; she was The Bride after all. As an adult, considering her socialist upbringing, her parents the least Jewish Jews I knew, as I wondered why she let religion decide for her. Today, I wonder who paid for it.
They were married at the Waldorf Astoria... when that meant something. There was a ballroom and there was dancing to a live band. There are lots and lots of pictures of people none of us remember, all of whom look like they are having a fabulous time.... all but Daddooooo who was, of course, scowling at the camera for most of the shots.
Should she have turned and run then?
I asked her once, after an awful scene of some sort or other, why she stayed. Her answer wandered around finances and children but she was working and her kids were grown and I wasn't having it. I pressed her and she stiffened. "We made a commitment and that means something."
They made their peace with one another, with G'ma learning tools to handle the behaviors no therapist would declare she could treat. "You don't expect him to change very much, do you?" she was asked... more than once... as the decades wore on. Still, they persisted.
I have no doubt that he loved her, to the best of his ability. I'm not so sure that my mother was comfortable with the whole concept of love, whether she brought that to her marriage or ended up there after a bumpy ride. I do know that when I was 7 or 8 I slipped notes into the hands of all 4 of my grandparents and both of my parents, requesting that, on the count of 3... or 5... or something.... they kiss.
There was an awkward silence. There was no kissing.
And so here I am, judging from the outside that which can be truly known only from within. The long-term marriage itself takes on its own place in the relationship,. Did any of the adults in that room, all of whom I loved to distraction, smile when they turned out the lights, crawling into bed beside one another? Was it the public display of affection they disdained or was there something more, something my parents brought to our suburban tract home in 1953?
Whatever the reason, they were married until death did them part, bringing joy and angst in equal parts, I think. It wasn't the happiest of marriages, but it was theirs and they are the only parents I had so it's the only time I can celebrate the union that created me. Thanks, Parental Units.
The 90-something woman in a wheelchair talked about her WWII vet husband, living in a VA facility, supported by services provided through Arizona's Medicaid expansion.
The nicely dressed 40-something woman wore her Planned Parenthood button proudly on her chest; she held dozens of pink postcards destined for the Senator's desk.
The 60-something gentleman carried a sign: Sen. Flake, Choose One: ⌧ Leader ⌧ Lackey
The 40-something lady on crutches swung her legs through the open door and into the office with a smile on her face and fervor in her heart.
I was there, too, 60-something and sweaty, carrying a letter written on my personalized stationary. They know my story, but I continue to repeat it.
For all of us, the facts remain the same. Our lives would be quite different if the ACA is repealed.
Yes, it's falling apart, but that is, in large measure, due to the uncertainty surrounding continued funding. If I've heard it once I've heard it a thousand times: insurance companies like stability. It's easier for them to pull out than to manage the chaos.
I can't blame them. I can blame President Trump and the Republican Party, including all three of my Federal, elected officials. Martha McSally's amendment requiring government officials to use the AHCA has vanished from the Senate's proposal. I've not heard a peep from her about that. Sen. Flake was Gabby's friend, he saw her suffering, he doesn't think that universal health care is a good idea. Sen. McCain remains skeptical, but I've heard no proposals from his office, one way or the other.
All of us outside Sen. Flake's office this morning had ideas. We shared them, in writing, with the 20-something young man behind the bullet-proof glass. We shared them with one another, smiling at our activism and its results - as we were parking, the news came over our individual car radios that Mitch McConnell failed to rally the troops. The vote is put off until after the recess.
And so, there is more work to be done. Indivisible and Move On can aim you in the right direction, whether it is calling or writing or protesting with signs and chants and microphones and bullhorns. In addition to being the resource for all things trails, American Trails provides a screen shot view of all the links and phone numbers you could possibly need; they even show you how to address your MOC. Resistbot will type up a fax for you and send it on its way; it doesn't require an app or a download.
None of the calling or writing takes more than 5 minutes. While you're waiting for the coffee to perk, the toast to toast, the carpool to arrive.... make use of the time and feel good about yourself and become a part of the solution.
And this goes for those of you who might think that Repeal and Replace is a good thing. Your voices should be heard, as well. I've been looking for you, fruitlessly. I often feel as if I'm preaching to the choir, here in The Burrow. It may be possible, on this issue, that the choir is the entire population of the United States.
It's where I put my plants, so it's my garden. I try to ignore the fact that it is prickly and brown and dependent upon enormous amounts of supplemental irrigation just to stay even, let alone put out flowers of any color or substance even though it's summer time and that plus garden should equal earthly delights.
Not so much here in Tucson. I went out early this morning, before the heat brought out the snakes after the bunnies and coyotes had finished their rounds. There's a sweet spot for the sun then, too. It puts both my front and back containers in the shade. Without my gloves, I surveyed the scene.
Pieces of the irrigation system are mal-functioning; I left the tools to repair the situation outside overnight. The Bic lighter was out of fuel so I couldn't heat the tubing; I thought that the sun alone would soften it, but that didn't happen. I cooked dinner and forgot about the breech I'd created when the lighter failed. This morning I was privileged to watch as the emitter-less tube, waving aimlessly, disgorged a stream of (hot) water. I knew that it was futile to attempt to stopper it, but the water flying in my face as I tried cooled me off and made the whole thing feel marginally less wasteful.
I aimed the tube into the watering can and moved on.
That which has been consistently watered is quite happy. That which suffered during the 24 hours the system was shut off (I did it and forgot to turn it back on) has, for the most part, come back to life. The plants whose leaves curled brown and fell off, the branches brittle enough to be snapped, those were pruned and planted in the live here or turn to compost pot. Those which the bunnies and prairie dogs pruned in the name of nutrition and hydration (there's water in the xylem and phloem, after all) joined them.
I watered and fertilized everything, using the manual setting on the controller and remembering to reset it to automatic when I was through.... I think.... I'll go out and check after I finish writing this.... because that's one of the main lessons you learn when you garden in the desert - mistakes can be costly.
I'll be up tomorrow morning, continuing to help things limp along. There is always something to do. I just wish that the temperature would drop out of triple digits so that I could do it.
It should have been simple. A right click on the 3x3 square in the top right corner of the write-a-new-post page of Blogger, my fairly-seamlessly-integrated-with-Google hosting site for The Burrow, should have done the trick.
Instead, I got this, reprinted here for your amusement:
Meet your Google Assistant
Ask it questions. Tell it to do things. It’s your own personal Google, always ready to help.
I thought that's what I had. Now, instead of connecting me to my calendar, Google was selling me products.
Heeding Big Cuter's admonition that there are no unanswered questions, Mom; that's why we have The Google, I can tell TBG how old Shirley Temple was when she made Fort Apache (19) without missing a scene. I know if I'm free for lunch next Tuesday without being tethered to one hard copy of my calendar. I can write to you from many platforms (even my iPad) and Google takes care of the back office pieces. I am grateful.
I'm willing to have ads in the sidebars for the freedom to roam the world's knowledge, while keeping that which I need close at hand, at no charge. I have no problem with data collection; I don't do anything that would cause a problem to anyone should it become public.
I'm boring. As long as my numbers are safe, I'm happy to share that I love Hanna Andersson almost as much as FlapJilly loves Minnie Mouse. They both pop up with delightful regularity as I browse and read and click. Is someone making money by selling that information? I don't really care, as long as my interwebs are free and fast (which is why net neutrality is such a big deal, but that's an issue for another time, written by someone else). It feels like a fair trade to me.
But I draw the line at talking to the tv or the computer. I have turned off Lenore-the-Lenovo's microphone enabled assistant. We don't talk to our tv remote control. I don't want them listening to me. It's on all the time; how do I know what's being recorded? There are things I say out loud with the door closed that I don't necessarily want to share with the world. I find the thought of an inanimate device responding to my requests to be a bit unsettling.
I tripped myself up right there, in this rant... because I love pushing the microphone on my phone and asking her a question.... and hearing her answer out loud makes me smile.... and I realized that this argument is going nowhere fast..... and then I laughed.
It's not a right click that brings up the calendar; it's a left click. Finding fault with Google because I couldn't remember which piece of the mouse to hug just doesn't seem fair. And, there are actually some very useful tips over there on the right click side of The Google Apps .
I have no excuse, beyond the fact that it is about a zillion degrees outside and my brain has melted.
Our gym has been under-going a refurbishment. It's been closed for several weeks; we've been Wandering Jews, working out at the chains' other locations, running into familiar faces in strange locations. Without a routine, a rhythm, a usual pattern of where-to-walk-when, my weight workouts have suffered.
Okay, I'll be honest. I've only gone to one other gym one time during the renovations. TBG, however, has made the rounds, from 1st Avenue to Marana to Oro Valley, experimenting with different bikes in different rooms, lifting with strangers instead of old friends. It's not the worst problem in the world, but it made a difference in our lives.
So, when My Yogi sent an email announcing the reopening on Monday at noon, my heart soared. I anticipated balloons and snacks and lots of cheerful worker bees roaming the gym floor, explaining the new equipment and leading me to that which I couldn't find. Once again, I'd have a cozy workout location exactly one mile from my house. I could get into a routine that would work; stopping at the gym on the way home is much easier when the gym itself is on the way home, too.
But, as with most things LA Fitness, the plan went awry. I organized my Monday so that I was hydrated, fed, finished with my errands, and in the parking lot at 12:05pm. The door was open, but there was no bunting. I parked, wondering why they were letting the air conditioning flow freely into the outdoors. Upon closer inspection, as I untangled my headphones, I noticed buckets and tools strewn across the entryway.
Working out next to worker bees always makes me uncomfortable. I feel guilty indulging myself next to someone who is vacuuming or painting or installing for a living. But I was there and I was dressed and I was ready to see the new digs..... until a friend turned back from the doorway, shoulders sagging. I rolled down my window to hear "It's not going to open until 5."
I went home, deflated. I gave myself mental credit for showing up, but my body did not reap the benefits. TBG and I went out to lunch, planning to attend the delayed opening later in the day. Wisely, I called before I drove over. The phone went directly to a recording that told me, over and over and over again on a never-ending loop, that my call was important and they would get to me shortly. Did I mention that the recording repeated itself endlessly? I listened for a while, in futile expectation of a connection, before I hung up in frustration.
I drove to pick up dinner at the restaurant we were going to go to after we'd worked out, the one that shares a parking lot with our gym. Again, the door was open, construction equipment strewn about the entrance, and disappointed exercisers turning away in frustration. 5 was as useless a time frame as noon; they were still working. I smiled as I passed, noting the chairs still covered in plastic. This gym never fails to disappoint me.
I went to Pilates on Tuesday morning, considered going to the gym, just to see if it was actually open, and spent the day doing other things... including a massage that was heavenly. Ms Magic Fingers and I laughed; I'd worked my traps and triceps in Pilates and, because I'd not been in the gym in two weeks, they were the object of much attention by her fabulous hands. I was sorry that the rest of me had not had the same opportunity to become stressed. I promised that I'd go to the gym this morning, no matter what.
And so, I did. After the audiologist and a quick errand, I stowed my treasures in the glove compartment and entered my brighter, cheerier, cleaner, new gym. The mini-lockers, the ones that hold a wallet and keys, are now back by the locker rooms; I stowed my stuff and worked out. Some of the equipment was different, some was the same, some was missing, and none of it was where it had been before. I lifted and I sweated and I smiled at old friends.
When it was time to go I turned the little dials to the code I'd entered, and pulled. Nothing. I tried the other code I always use. Nothing. I spun the dials, tried again, failed again. I asked for help and found myself alongside the maintenance staffer whose key couldn't open it, either. The Operations Manager's key didn't work. The Facilities Guy (his term, not mine) was at the southeast location, a long drive away from our northwest situation.
"I don't know what to tell you," was the OM's response. No offer of a cab home. No offer of a phone to call a friend. No apology. No concern beyond the fact that their keys were unable to solve the problem. I began to look for a power drill. I really wanted to go home.
Another member, faced with the same situation, was more sanguine. I felt the steam coming out of my ears, but I tried to remain polite, channeling The Cuters who tell me that I'll get further if I don't scream at everyone. Shortly, there was no one to whom I could direct my outrage. The OM disappeared, after telling me that all the other lockers opened and if I'd only put in my combination correctly my door would open, too.
Thanks. Blaming the victim, especially when I'm the victim, is not the way to win my heart. I entered the correct code. The problem was with the door and their keys, not with my memory or ability to roll a dial. I began to reframe my morning, changing plans as I added hours of waiting to my day.
And then, there was chatter behind me. In Spanish, but with gestures I could clearly understand, one of the painters was describing exactly what I'd suggested to the maintenance worker at the start of the issue. Pry the door open. With me standing by, full of encouragement, they used two screwdrivers inserted in the seams to bend the back of the door, then the bottom of the door, then the side ... and poof, there were my wallet and my keys.
The sanguine fellow who'd been waiting beside me asked for the same treatment; I left as they were working on his unit. I didn't get far, though. I returned to make certain that Jose, my painter friend, was not in trouble for breaking into the locked unit. The OM assured me that everything is fine, but I've been around LA Fitness enough to know to check with the people who are actually affected by management decisions before I relax and let an issue go. Shaking Jose's hand once again, I listened as he thanked me for my concern and insisted that he was fine.
I'll buy my own lock and use a larger locker from now on. I'll smile at Jose whenever he's around. I'll check to see if they've fixed anything when I work out tomorrow. I won't be using the mini-lockers any more. That's the best way to deal with LA Fitness.... on my own terms, watching out for me and mine, and not expecting very much in return.
He's younger than I am.... a fact he delights in sharing. He's still not Medicare eligible, so I worry about his GERD diagnosis and continuing health care and pre-existing conditions as I try to remember that it's only 2 years and 4 months that separate us. He'll be old soon enough.
He stopped shaving a while ago, and now sports a full beard. Not many men look better with a lot of facial hair; my brother is one who does. He doesn't scratch it or pull at it or play with it. It sits there, on his face, making him look distinguished and delightful. He's all about balance - work, family, friends, exercise, religion, sex, learning, adventures all have a place in his life. Eschewing the razor is just another way he's made his life conform to his ideals.
He wears sneakers everywhere; they are comfortable and who are we to judge.
He drives a Chevy and a pickup truck and a Miata, a recent addition that makes him very very very happy. He carries a collapsible bike in his car, and cycles near and far. He doesn't believe that large metal tubes should fly through the air; his car takes him where he wants to go when he wants to go there. He's driven back and forth to Chicago more times than I can count; he always tries to stop at Little Cuter's house on the way.
"I love Uncle Jeff!" she says.
"SIR is one of my favorite people," he tells me in front of family and friends.
They make my heart sing.
He spent three hours in a toy store searching for exactly the right gift for FlapJilly. He donned a headlamp and crawled under the kids' deck to help repair the solar lights on the pergola. He bought a much-too-heavy-to-lift-without-help power tool in a garage sale in Indiana or Ohio or someplace off a highway on his way hither or yon, and dropped it off with SIR who he knew would love it.
They've bonded over home repairs and parenting daughters and loving their wives. SIR sent him to a White Sox game with corporate tickets for the area behind home plate; Brother's still kvelling and telling the story to anyone who will listen. The love goes both ways.
And today is his birthday. I'll call and sing and send him a card and I'll remember to tell him that he is special to me in a way that no one else can claim. He's known me and liked me for all of our lives. We've laughed and cried and celebrated and mourned and vacationed. He's sent letters I'll save forever.
He's the best little brother I've ever had. Today is his day. Lift a glass and send him some love.
My kids have been teasing me about this for years.
I pronounce Donkey to rhyme with Monkey; they both have short-U sound.
This is an endless source of amusement for my children, They pronounce it with an ON instead of my short-U. Of course, this means that they should also be calling that cute furry creature scampering through Queen Elizabeth's castle in Sea Hawk a mONkey.
Don't you agree? Munkey and Dunkey.... no one calls it a mONkey, now, do they?
There are pronunciation guides which purport to put this problem to rest. This one and this one seem to agree with my offspring. If only my parental units were still around to explain the realities of growing up on Long Island to my Chicago and California raised kids. They'd understand it in a heartbeat.... before reminding me how weird Daddooooo and G'ma talk.... that New York accent gets them every time.
Just a little something to mull over on Wednesday. It's 120 degrees outside, according to the thermostat in my rental car; my brain is stuck at the monkey/donkey dilemma. It's too hot to think more deeply that that.
We met when I was coming out of hibernation. My only job was to heal, and so I lay on Douglas, the couch, for 14 weeks, watching the sun move across the horizon as the days and months passed. Getting up and getting out was a major production, especially once my Suzi-Sitters were gone. I needed help at every piece of the process - off the couch, over the thresholds, down the path, into the car (somebody do something with my assistive device, please), being driven and then reversing the process to arrive at my event.
I don't usually include real names in The Burrow. Blogonyms are used to protect the innocent and the guilty alike. But this is different.
This is a tribute to a Wonder Woman, a Kindness Crusader (second from the right), an educator and a parent and a friend. This is a story about GRIN, and how a well placed foot in my keister kept the ball rolling when it faced deflation and despair.
This is a tale of a true American hero.
She started out in Wyoming, and that's where she's returning. The kids are grown and on their way, and it's time for a change. She's taught and she's administered and now she's taking those skills back home.
She will be missed.
When all seemed lost, when no one signed up, when interest flagged, Tanya was there, propping me up. Just because it's hard doesn't mean it shouldn't happen - she reminded me of that whenever things looked bleakest. We will get this done, she promised. And we did.
She convinced teachers and administrators and students that Pilates in the Classroom was a worthwhile endeavor; the GRIN/BodyWorks/Amphitheater collaboration happened only because she believed that it would. Now, five years and counting, we are part of the PE Curriculum at Amphi Middle School. It's only one of the lasting impacts Ms Wall has had on her students.
She ran AVID, supporting those students who were looking for a more structured path to a more favorable future. She saw potential where others saw problems. She put herself at risk - chaperoning middle schoolers on a three day trip to Ft. Lauderdale must qualify one for hazard pay - and she took time from her weekends - picking up and transporting and returning three otherwise-rideless-teens to Pilates practice every Sunday for months - and she never stopped smiling.
Just because it's hard doesn't mean it shouldn't happen. I don't know many people who talk the talk and walk the walk the way that Tanya does.
She moved on from Prince and Amphi Middle to the more upscale K-5 school where she'd taught before I met her, before she began pursing her administrative career. They loved her there as much as we did at Prince and, although the details were different, the challenges were the same. Teachers and parents and students have issues no matter how much nicer the cars in the parking lot appear to a casual observer. Parents don't live together, English isn't a primary language, violence is seen as a solution instead of a problem.... all that mixed in with lost sweatshirts and forgotten homework and families who certainly know what's best for their child, even if everyone else disagrees.
Her office's glass windows face the parking lot and the main office; she sees things coming and going. The walls are covered with student art and upbeat reminders and a diploma or two. It's the official time out space for kids who are too stressed, too defeated, too angry to be anywhere else. Ms Wall's energy is a Zen Blanket for those in need; you admit your errors while feeling the love.
Isn't that the definition of an educator?
She's someone who steers you along your path, opening doorways and windows to spaces and places you've never considered, but which look pretty interesting once she shares her enthusiasm. She's a Yes, you can! person in a What do I do now? world. She's got a hug and a smile and an encouraging word for everyone.... but don't think that she's a pushover. There are rules and there are standards and they exist for everyone in her aura - colleagues, parents, students, and friends. She has high expectations and boundless energy. She's a reader and a thinker and a doer. She sees the need and constructs a solution, bringing others along, happily in her wake.
She's a friend who has never disappointed me. She will be missed.
The rent-a-cop took our picture in the courtyard outside Senator Flake's Tucson office. I'm certain that I would outrun him in a race to shelter, but it was nice of the organizers to consider some small measure of security for our group meeting with the Senator's staff. Jeff Flake is considered to be wavering on his support for TrumpCare; we were there to tell our stories and ask for his vote.
I'd begged off on the previously scheduled sidewalk demonstration; I don't feel comfortable being that exposed. But following gunfire at a baseball game with chanting and protesting about health care seemed an odd mix to the OFA organizers; the sign waving piece was deferred to another time.
I was fine with an inside the office sit-down. The office feels very safe to me; I visit there at least once a month to share an opinion or two. I look around, as I always do. I'm aware of places to hide, of escape routes, of unlocked doors and out-of-the-way niches. It's second nature to me now, like breathing out and breathing in. It doesn't interrupt the flow; it's just there.
After introductions and photo ops we went in to meet with the Senator's District Director, a lovely woman who always has a sympathetic ear. She's smart and personable and thoughtful and she seemed touched by our leader's expressions of condolence and admiration for the Senator.
"He'd deny that he was a hero. He would say that he did what anyone would do in that situation. But yes, he was there...."
and she looked right at me. I looked right back at her, eyeball to eyeball, and nodded. "Yes, and now he knows.... and maybe he will take some time and think about the issue in a different light."
I didn't want to hijack the agenda, but the point had to be made. Being in the cross-hairs, feeling the bullets ripping through the morning air, seeing the blood, hearing the ambulances, experiencing that eerie quiet before the screaming.... it changed me in a visceral fashion, in a way that reading and hearing and watching could not.
TBG and I are mailing him a letter tomorrow, telling him how sorry we are that he's joined the club. No one wants to be a member of this club, yet here we are, survivors, those who were there, who lived it first hand, and who are here to tell the tale.
My email, my Facebook, my phones (both land line and cell), the cashier at the grocery store and classmates in Romantic Composers...... every one wanted to know how I was doing.
I appreciated the love. Really, I did. Thinking of you right now made me smile. Heidi's How do you keep your sanity made me smile. All the heart emoji's warmed my real one, and the hugs and loving looks reminded me that life is good.
I was lucky. I was in the South Bend airport, ready to board my first plane, when the news broke. By the time I landed in Tucson it was no longer a breaking story. TBG told me the facts as we left the lot; MSNBC on XMRadio filled in the personal stories of eye witnesses leaving the YMCA and hiding behind their cars. I'd been eased into the idea of another shooting; I didn't make the connection to our Congress on Your Corner until I saw Mark Kelly on CNN later in the afternoon.
It didn't make me sad or scared. It made mad. This is the United States of America. We do not shoot people who disagree with us. We just don't. We argue, we write letters, we protest, we hold rallies and we make personal visits to local offices. Violence has no place here.
And so I'm irritated, which is a much better place to be than any of the alternatives. I'm watching Republican Congressmen and their associates describing things that I've been saying for six and a half years. Did they think I was making it up out of whole cloth? Did they think I was exaggerating?
Yes, it's terrifying. I've been telling anyone who would listen that the moment is seared into my memory, that it has a quality unlike anything else, before or after. And yes, now there always will be a Before and and After for you and yours, as there is for me and mine.
Yes, it's unfair; you were only playing baseball. Didn't I mention that I, too, was participating in an American tradition when the bullets began flying? Do you get it, now?
So there it is; I'm disgusted. Thanks, once again, for asking.
Big Cuter called from San Francisco as we walked in the door. "Just wanted you to know that I wasn't at the UPS facility today.... though I was on my way to the grocery store right near there when I noticed the streets were closed."
Auntie M sent a thinking of you email which I read as we were talking.
Gabby sent a copy of her official statement, talking about Congressional service and American values.
Moms Demand Action and Americans for Responsible Solutions and my Survivors Network all sent take care of yourself today emails, reminding me to check in with my emotional barometer, warning me about the 2 minute cell phone video airing on all the networks, replete with the sounds of the baseball field shooting.
The sounds.... I was okay until the sounds.
Thinking back to six and a half years and one week ago, I remember the eerie silence. There is no screaming in my memory. There is quiet, an unearthly quiet, a quiet defining an absence of sound because the sounds preceding the silence were just awful.
On the radio this morning, a bystander reported hearing the noise of the bullets as they moved through the air; he called it whooshing. I heart a bang and then felt the rending of the air as the bullets that struck Gabby and Judge Roll whizzed by me. I can still feel it at my elbow, now, typing to you, safe and secure (I imagine) at my desk.
I wonder what the 10 year old hiding under the dugout bench, hidden behind his father's legs, will remember when he is 16. It's an awful image for a grown up. I can't fathom what a child will make of it.
And so it goes. My son checks in with his college roommates, one living a few blocks from the SF UPS facility and the other living in Alexandria. What are the odds, he wonders, and then answers his own question: with 154 mass shootings thus far this year, those odds are probably equally depressingly high.
Does a man with a domestic violence complaint (she never followed through and filed charges) and a visit from the police for discharging his high powered rifle into the woods behind his residential neighborhood really have permission to possess an automatic weapon? His friend said he was a nice guy, always laughing. Probably not always, I'd wager.
Children and educators are slaughtered in their classrooms. A Congresswoman has her brain shattered. My little friend died. Clubbing kids are mowed down while dancing. Legislators and lobbyists are attacked on a YMCA baseball field.
The Ballerina's husband is a pianist. He's many other things, but I always consider his prowess at the piano to be his defining characteristic. A neighbor complained to management that his practicing was disturbing her afternoons; I'd have traded living spaces with her in a heartbeat.
He took lessons and learned all the Chopin etudes and created a CD and celebrated with a party. The piano teacher's house was filled, upstairs and down, people sprawled on the couches and the stairs and on pillows on the floor. That's where I was, on the floor, with a perfect view of his fingers on the keyboard. People kept offering me space on chairs and sofas (there were lots of very well behaved young people at this affair) but I had chosen my space with a purpose. I wanted to watch his hands.
I was reminded of that afternoon as Tannis Gibson showed our Humanities Seminars the way to play the piano.... at least the way she and Chopin agree the instrument ought to be played. She showed us Chopin Playing The Piano In Prince Radziwill's Salon as she talked about the elevation of the bridge of his hand.
My piano teacher used to balance a small box of raisins on my wrist in, I now recognize, an attempt to achieve the same result. I just wish she had shown me how elegant it would be. On the other hand, my little fingers paled in comparison to Chopin's. Once you get over the creepiness of the thing itself -a cast of Chopin's hand, done at his death- look at how long those fingers were.
There were technical musical terms for the breadth of his finger spread and for the compositions which required digital gymnastics of the highest order. The performances she and her graduate student cued up and shared with us were embellished, almost to the point of giggles, with swirls and trills on the keyboard. The class was, as usual, quite wonderful and I was trying really really hard to be present and in the moment but my mind kept wandering to Mill Valley on a sunny Sunday afternoon, watching my friend's fingers fly across the piano.
They've come a long way from the old ear trumpet. I used to hold my hand behind my ear to capture voices that were faint. Now, I have two coordinated electronic devices which communicate with one another without wires or any visible means of transmission. If I raise the volume on one side, the other ear increases at the same time. It's magic.
My old units had a zebra pattern, which blended nicely with my salt-and-pepper hair. Since my hair has become more salt than pepper over the past four years, my new devices are pure silver. The audiologist called the manufacturer to be certain that the zebra stickers were unavailable before I decided to become comfortable with this new, more mundane, look.
Not that anyone can really see them; they fit behind my ears and are covered by my hair. Still, as I plug in my ears and my eyes in the morning I long for the days when all my parts worked well.
These new devices are programmable and today, on my first assessment visit after the initial calibration session last month, I asked for help with hearing the kids in the car and help with the television in my cavernous living room. Now, with the press of a button on either ear, I can direct the microphone to my right to catch the voices in the passenger seat. If I press it twice, the microphone is directed straight ahead, to pick up the audio from the tv before it bounces around the uneven surfaces of my house.
I tried it out on TBG this afternoon and we were both smiling by the end of the test. Technology is wonderful, we decided.
These new devices came with their own special re-charging kit. That's right; I no longer need to deal with those teeny tiny discs. The new packaging was annoying, too. I turned the wheel and all the
batteries spilled out on the counter. I was stumbling across them for days. Now, I put my devices into their own special charger when I turn off the lights at night and when I awake, they are charged and ready to go for a full 24 hours.
Plus, the charging case has a little fan which dries them off. And the case is green inside!
I suppose if I have to use assistive devices, they might as well make me smile.