Shamrocketship

Spring

There's a silver-feathered mocking bird

that has been winging around lately.

Troublesome as a memory

of words better left unspoken.

Most days, he watches me with icy eyes

from a peach tree's flowery branch.

I pretend not to notice his visits,

the new nest he builds.

By day, it is easy to drown out his boastful song

just by thinking of other things. 

Anything.

But hours later, when the bird sleeps and I cannot,

his song is all I hear.

Every note a humbling reminder that

I was never really

that important. 

Little Things, or The Best Gift Ever

Sometimes, when I sit down to write something, the list of things I can't write about comes easier than any topic to write about.  It's a pretty long list, The Can'ts:  Can't write about some things that are too close to home, that's just taboo. Can't write about work - not anything too specific, anyway - that's just dumb.  Can't talk about politics or sports because they're really not my bailiwick.  Can't talk about a few other things because no matter the distance or time that's elapsed, they are still just so raw or painful that words won't do.  No amount of crafting, drafting, editing, backspacing, or trips to the dictionary can help getting those things down on paper, properly. 

The death of my Aunt S is one of those things.  It happened over ten years ago, but it was a sudden, premature, and shocking thing and I guarantee you there's no one who knew her who doesn't still feel the same fierce stab-wound to the heart every time we realize she's no longer here.  I just can't go there with words.  And that's not what this post started out to be about, anyway. 

It's supposed to be about my Swiss Army Knife. 

You see, my Swiss Army Knife is the best gift I ever got.  Aunt S gave it to me for Christmas when I was 22 and planning a trip to Ireland the upcoming spring with my then-future, eventual ex-husband. If I remember correctly, she told me "people who travel should always carry a Swiss Army Knife."  She, of all people, would know that.  She traveled a lot. 

At the time, that Christmas, I thought it was a strange little gift, but kind of neat.  More a "boy" thing than a "girl" thing, but neat.  Compact.  Heavy for its size.  Red.  With two knife-blades, a pair of scissors, a corkscrew, a screwdriver, a can opener, an awl, plus a removable toothpick and tiny pair of tweezers.  Yeah, it was neat.  But I didn't realize at the time it was the best gift ever. 

The Swiss Army Knife did indeed make it to Ireland the following spring.  I don't remember actually using it on that trip, and it may even have just sat in the bottom of my backpack for a while after that.  But eventually, it got moved to my purse.  And it got used every once in a while.  I would remember on occasion, with surprise, that "Yes!  I do have a pair of scissors" when someone went looking to snip off a wayward thread.  Or "Yes!  I do have tweezers" when someone else got a splinter from a picnic bench.  The actual knives were probably the least-used parts of the Swiss Army Knife, and if I had to guess, the most well-used tool in it has been the corkscrew.  "Yes, I do have a corkscrew, and we can open that bottle of wine!"   

Over the years, the occasional surprise uses of The Knife faded.  No, the use of it didn't fade, but the surprise part of it did because it was now part of my "mandatory" equipment.  If I was traveling or hiking, it moved to the backpack.  If I was carrying only a purse, it was transferred there. Without a purse even, it was in my front jeans pocket.  It was always there with me, and I relied on it now, deliberately, instead of serendipitously finding uses for it now and again. 

As well-made as Swiss Army Knives are though, mine eventually reached a point where the red plastic casing fell apart.  It was still usable, but not as nice in the hand.  So I bought another, of exactly the same type with exactly the same tools.  Could have had a bigger one with a saw, and more blades, and niftier tools, but I liked my version just fine.  I kept the old one - it is still in my jewelry box - and I will keep it forever.  But for practical purposes, I will always have a good, workable one with me.  Always.

Unless I am going on a plane, of course: isn't it ironic that the gift was given to me for it's value to "a traveler"? Haha. Never mind that.  The Swiss Army Knife is my trusty companion even if the "trip" is to the mall.  "Yes, I do have a pair of scissors so you can cut the plastic fob dangling the price tag from your new sweatshirt so you can wear it before we even get home!" 

Handy thing, that knife.   Sharp, too.  Each and every frequent time I reach for it, it will be there.  I will feel my hand close around it, its cool heft in my palm conveying to me at once the utter satisfaction of having such a small, useful thing, and the memory of just how it came to be there in the first place. 

No matter how old it gets, worn out, or used up, or replaced, or which particular part of it I am in need of at the moment, my Swiss Army Knife will always be the one tool I can rely on to deliver a very quick, sharp, stab-wound to the heart. 

Summer Re-runs

Apologies to the faithful few who've seen this post before.  I've just been thinking of my Grandmother a lot lately.  This was originally written in September of last year, and she died two months later.   

If I Ever Leave This World Alive . . .

That's the title of a song by the band "Flogging Molly." And it was the phrase that kept running through my head today thinking about my Grandmother.

Up until a couple of years ago, Grandma lived rather independently. "Independent" if you ignore the fact that she could no longer drive, and required daily visits from my Mom or Dad to make sure she hadn't fallen, left the stove on, or neglected to take her numerous medications. I'd visit her on occasion and bring take-out Chinese food. She'd set the table beautifully and we'd sort out the various cartons, spooning out the contents and remarking on each other's choice of chicken chow mein (her favorite) or chicken with broccoli (mine). We'd talk about my job, or the kids, or trips she'd made years ago, or what was going on with other family members. We'd have second portions which both of us inevitably regretted minutes later. We shared our fortune cookies, and I'd usually have to read hers to her because the red ink on white was too little contrast for her eyes to easily see. She'd always make tea afterwards. Both of us really enjoyed those meals.

But it finally got too dangerous for her to live "independently" any longer, and the difficult decision was made to move her to a nursing home. She's 88 now, and her brain is leaving this world a whole lot faster than her body is. I went to visit her today. She recognizes me as a family member, but not the specific relationship. In fact, I think at times she believes she's younger than me. Today, she believes the nursing home is the school where she is a student. At other times, it's her place of employment. Most days, it's just "this place" and she's not quite sure anyone remembers that she is there. I always reassure her. "Yes, Grandma. We know exactly where you are. June [her daughter, my mother] knows where you are. She's away on vacation this week but she'll be back." That calms her for a bit.

I approached her today and as my face came into her view, she smiled broadly.

"Hi Honey! How are you? You look so nice. Can you come up and I'll make you some tea?" She gestures to her room, which is really only half hers. And with just a bed, a dresser, and chair in there, there's certainly no way to make tea.

"No thanks, Grandma. I'll just take this extra chair out in the hall and we can talk for a while."

She points at the chair and tells me "I made that, you know. I put it together."

I don't know why she says that about this chair every time. It's an ordinary wooden folding chair which I know for certain she didn't make or assemble. But she seems so proud of her work. I tell her it's beautiful and she's very talented.

She doesn't like to sit in the crowded main room, but prefers to sit at the perimeter watching the other chair-bound patients (excuse me, students) from her own chair. Mostly she watches silently. But lately she's gotten more upset with the others. She points to one woman and tells me in a hushed voice:

"That one. She borrowed my walker and now she won't give it back."

I said "Grandma, maybe she forgot where she put it?"

She laughs and waves her hand in the air. "Oh, it's my fault. I shouldn't have let her take it. Well, I won't do that again." And she giggles a little.

But sometimes the perceived faults or infractions of others bother her more. She got quite upset with another woman recently and actually dragged her out of her wheelchair to the ground. She tries to tell me about it today, pointing to the very real bruises up and down her arms. She remembers a scuffle, but believes it was "the four teachers, all men, who were trying to pull me down . . . to stop me . . . and I still have no idea why." I can't offer any possible explanation that will help her with this one.

An elderly man in a trucker's cap slowly approaches us, inching up the hall pulling his chair forward with shuffling slippered feet.

"Here comes the cowboy," Grandma says. "He's always on my trail. But I'm not interested."

I smile at her. As he passes and waves, I get the impression she might have blushed if her heart was strong enough to push a little more blood to her cheeks.

Eventually, I tell her I have to go, and she asks if I don't want to stay for supper? She offers to heat up some soup. And for a second, I consider running out to get Chinese food. But I know, according to the big white activity board in the hall, that her supper will be a turkey sandwich, with macaroni salad, and a pudding cup. I tell her thanks, but I really have to get home to feed the cats. She asks me to come back soon, and I promise that I will.

My Grandmother is, most days, not unhappy. She has happy moments. But I really don't want to live like that for any length of time. My friend Mary feels the same way. We have a loose agreement that someday, when we have outlived our respective spouses and significant others, she and I and a couple other women will live together. We'll share responsibilities to the best of our ability, and when the time comes when we are no longer happy most days, or when we are in too much pain, we will help each other slip to the other side. We will have agreed in advance on what method each of us prefers and whom, if anyone, to contact afterwards. What arrangements we want. We'll have all the details sorted out years in advance so when the time comes, it'll be easier on everyone.

I just hope, when that time does come, one of us will remember those details. Or where we wrote them down.

Happy Birthday Nellie

Today is Nellie's birthday.  And that's almost all I know of her.  In fact, she may spell her name Nelly.  Or Nelley, or Nellee.  She's my age, but in my mind, I will always see her as nine or ten years old.

Nellie was a resident at Mt. Loretto, an orphanage on Staten Island.  When she (and I) was about nine or ten, Nellie started coming to visit my family in NJ.  She'd get a break from living in the tall, imposing (scary-looking to me) brick dormitory to come stay with us for Christmas, or some time in the summer, and at least once, for her birthday.  Or it might have been my birthday but we were celebrating for both of us since the dates are close enough.

I remember she was a pretty, hispanic girl, and we think her last name was Rodriguez.  I also remember giggling excitedly with my sisters one day while Nellie was staying with us.  I think I'd overheard my parents mention the word "adoption," and immediately concluded that meant Nellie was going to be our new sister.  I was cool with that.  I mean, I already had two sisters, but Nellie was my age and we'd share a room and everything and together we'd join forces and rule the world.  Or something like that.  It was a pretty awesome half a day that I got to dream that idea.

But no, the word "adoption" hadn't meant that at all. After talking to my mother last night about my vague Nellie memories, I learned the orphange had apparently approached my parents about actually adopting Nellie.  Which was a surprise.  We'd always thought Nellie was just temporarily living in the orphanage because she had a "real" family somewhere who was going to come get her as soon as they could.  Some scrap of memory tells me she already had a sister, anyway.  And my family wasn't in any position to adopt anyone at that time.  So, very quickly, I lost the new sister I almost thought I had.

I don't remember if that was Nellie's last visit with us.  It probably was.  And although she spent very little time with us in total, I've never forgotten her and never stopped wondering what happened to her.

And I always remember that today, August 9, is her birthday.  Hope you're doing well, Nellie.

Here's a Feel-Good Chance

Y'all know Jett?  From All Blogged Up?  If you do, you probably know she was in a pretty serious car wreck last week.  Car vs. tractor, and it was a tough round, but the referee declared the tractor the winner.  Jett was not in the tractor.  And now she's got a pretty messed up leg as a result. 

I don't know Jett personally.  I read her stuff all the time, but never corresponded off-blog with her.  Actually, never on-blog either but that doesn't matter.  I felt really awful when I heard about the accident because Jett seems to be a person who spends  a good deal of her life doing good things for other people.  And so I was happy that in a little little way, I could help her out.  A fund's been set up on Amazon to offset some of her medical expenses.

Click here and you too can help a fellow blogger and decent human being.  You'll get a case of the warm fuzzies afterwards, I promise.

P.S. Now that I know how many Googlers found there way here after I wrote that I HATE MICROSOFT because they tried to make me "REVIEW AND SIGN THE AGREEMENTS," I'll say it again.  I HATE MICROSOFT.  Because they wanted me to "REVIEW AND SIGN THE AGREEMENTS."

Hope that helps, Jett.

Reunion Anxieties

I don't normally get anxious about reunions.  Especially not high school ones.  I went to two, then I think my high school class grew even more apathetic than the rest of general America and ceased holding them.  Too much going on in our own lives to wonder about what someone you never really cared about is doing these days. Let alone pay $75 to listen to them tell you over a badly-cooked prime rib dinner with potato in tin-foil and steamed carrots and bad 1980's big-hair music being spun by the DJ.

Tomorrow I will experience a reunion of a different kind, and it does have me anxious.  A loved one is returning from six months overseas in the Persian Gulf.  The nature of his job kept us apart fairly often during the first 1.5 years of our relationship.  But only for a couple of weeks at a time, every other month or so.  This was the first really long separation and to be honest, I didn't know I could do it. Didn't know I wanted to do it. 

When he left in mid-October, I thought it was nigh-on the end of the world.  Well, not really.  But I was upset.  Lonely.  Angry.  Winter was coming, days were getting darker and colder, and April seemed a helluva long way off.  I was facing an entire winter alone.  Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and other things. 

I wrote something back in September, a witty little thing comparing the leaving of summer to the end of a relationship.  How the winter (i.e., aloneness) was hard. But come spring, and then with the eventual return of summer, the one left behind would emerge stronger and happier and ready to start anew.  Little did I know how I would really go through all those emotions.

It did turn out to be a painful time. But I indeed grew stronger this winter. I stretched.  I learned.  Branched out.  And even though I've always been fiercely independent, I learned also to be self-reliant. Not just the 98% self-reliant I was before. 100% self-reliant. And therein lies the source of my anxiety.  How do I merge this new self with the old self that my loved one remembers?  I have learned to fill up my time with new people and hobbies and projects so that no day had an empty hour.  In the beginning, that was intentional.  Down-time meant time to ponder, worry, cry.  But later, the filled days weren't a deliberate attempt to stave off lonely hours.  They just got that way.  And I learned I like it this way. 

I've read about this syndrome before.  Especially in these days of war, when men and women go overseas for long periods of time.  They come home expecting to resume right where they left off. But in the meantime, the earth has revolved a bit.  They don't land in the same spot they jumped off from.  The landscape is unfamiliar. Their loved ones have learned to deal with the new place because they had time to get used to it gradually.  The person returning feels like they landed on another planet entirely.  They feel unnecessary in the new scheme of things.  Left out.  Left behind when everyone else went exploring the new world.

I don't know that my loved one and I will have difficulties in this regard.  I tend to think not. He's used to his lifestyle, having been through this re-entry from orbit before.  And although right now I feel as if I am welcoming home a stranger (I cannot remember how he takes his coffee),  I think we'll fall into an easy routine before long.  Somehow blending the old and the new to make something entirely different. 

I hope.

Score One for the Little Guy (Gal)

A couple of months ago, I alluded in a post to some problems I was having with my Honda.  My beloved Honda CRV.  I didn't discuss the details while the problem was unresolved, but it finally has been resolved to my complete satisfaction, so I thought I'd share the good news. 

I really do love my car.  Her name is Ruby.  I purchased that particular make and model after studying numerous vehicles for six months.  I kid you not.  It took me six months to make up my mind and feel comfortable with the decision.  I liked the roominess, the gas mileage, the price, the 5-speed manual transmission.  Most of all, and my number one criterion, was Honda's legendary reliability.  I looked forward to many fun years with Ruby. And because I knew in advance I would never trade her in but would drive her to the grave (hers, I hope, not mine), I felt wonderfully free to decorate her.  There's a picture on the right under "My Beloved Red Bank."  I've added at least 4 stickers since then, also.

Ruby and I tooled along just great for the first 4.5 years after I bought her from DCH Kaye Honda in Eatontown.  I put a lot of miles on her.  We went to Vermont at least 5 or 6 times.  To Maine three or four times.  Virginia a half dozen times.  New Hampshire once.   Nova Scotia once.  And conservatively, over 1000 35-mile round-trips to Piscataway (Pissthataway), NJ where I am oh-so-happily employed. 

I have rewarded Ruby with the best maintenance possible.  Oil changes every 3000 miles (even though Honda says 7500 is OK).  All scheduled maintenance, including some expensive things like a nifty new timing belt and a shiny new water pump and a smooth new clutch, always done on time and always by her doctor at the original dealership.

Suddenly, this past June, Ruby started having respiratory problems.  She was stalling when I slowed to first gear.  It didn't worry me too much in the beginning. I got the air filter changed.  I used some STP in the gas.  The problem was only occasional, say every couple of days, but it didn't clear up.  Finally, in early October, I brought her in to her doctor.  I figured it was maybe a timing issue, or the fuel injectors needed cleaning.  I left the car there never expecting what was to come.

Two days later, my service advisor Don called. He said "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.  This is a valve train problem.  To make a long story short, you need a new head and new valves.  That's gonna run you about $4500."  I made him repeat the price several times before I grasped it. And he added, "It would be cheaper, at $4000 or so, to replace the entire engine."

I hung up the phone without approving the estimate.  $4500?  No freakin' way did I have $4500.  The car's not even paid off yet!  Did he say forty-five hundred?  He did.  Uh oh.  What the heck am I gonna do?  I was a wreck, to say the least.  The only thing that kept me from a major stress attack was that with So-Co gone to the Persian Gulf for six months, I had his car as a backup for that length of time.  I had time to deal with the problem. 

Over the next several days, Don and I exchanged further phone calls. He said one alternative was just a valve adjustment that might fix the problem.  But probably not.  In other cases they'd seen (huh? light bulb going on here) it usually didn't work.  I could also sell the car as is (but not to Honda, since they obviously wouldn't want it).  I could just drive it away and hope the stalling didn't get worse.  But their history (huh again?) showed it usually got worse.  My disbelief gradually turned to anger.  And those phrases kept bugging me. I began to get the picture that I wasn't the only one with this problem.  Not even the only one at this dealership.  I did a little research on the internet and decided to fight back.

I told Don that I was not picking the car up until I had contacted American Honda headquarters.  By now, two weeks had gone by since I'd dropped it off.

Dealing with American Honda headquarters was quite frustrating, quite slow, and quite funny at times.  After I finally filed a case and got a number assigned, a representative contacted me and asked me to explain the problem.

Lynne: I can't explain it, technically.  But I do know that I bought this car because of it's supposed reliability. 

Rep:  The car has how many miles on it?

Lynne:  107 thousand.

Rep:  So it's way out of warranty.

Lynne:   I agree.  But I find it unacceptable that this type of major work is needed at only 107 thousand miles, when this car should last me another 100 thousand easily.  Reliability was the number one reason I purchased a Honda. I have had every single piece of scheduled maintenance done, by the dealer. And I know I'm not the only one with this problem.  I really think you should be doing a recall, you know. 

Rep:  /after 10 full seconds of silence/ So what is it you'd like American Honda to do for you?

Lynne:  I'd like the car fixed.

Rep:  At no charge to you?

Lynne:  At no charge to me. 

Rep: We'll get back to you shortly.

American Honda's version of "shortly" is different than mine.  It was nearly two weeks later, after many unanswered messages from me, that I called Don at Kaye Honda and explained that I still did not have a response from American Honda and I still wasn't picking up the car. 

Don:  Oh, they didn't call you to tell you?

Lynne: /heart sinking/ No . . . they didn't.

Don:  They agreed to fix it at no charge to you.

Lynne:  What?

Don:  They agreed to fix it at no charge to you.

Lynne:  You're kidding. Did you say they agreed to fix it?  No charge to me? 

Don:  Yup. I'm glad I was able to be the one to tell you the good news.

You see Don had been a sympathetic service advisor through all this.  His hands were tied when it came to making such a decision, though, and all he could do was provide some guidance.  I believe it was his help that was the key.

It took another two weeks, for about six total, before Ruby and I were reunited.  They had to order parts, and since they knew I had a second vehicle, they weren't rushing around their paying customers to get the job done.  But the happy day finally came.  Ruby's got a new head and new valves and she's not coughing any more.  I've even got a one-year warranty on the work. To say I'm satisfied is way understating it. I'm elated. And still hardly able to believe it worked out this way.

A couple of weeks later I sent Don a thank-you card with a gift certificate for a local restaurant.  A small token of appreciation.  He immediately called to thank me back.  I asked him if he had any problem with me talking publicly about this and since he didn't, I'm singing his praises as far and as wide as I can. 

Thanks, Don!

 

If I Ever Leave This World Alive . . .

That's the title of a song by the band "Flogging Molly." And it was the phrase that kept running through my head today thinking about my Grandmother.

Up until a couple of years ago, Grandma lived rather independently. "Independent" if you ignore the fact that she could no longer drive, and required daily visits from my Mom or Dad to make sure she hadn't fallen, left the stove on, or neglected to take her numerous medications. I'd visit her on occasion and bring take-out Chinese food. She'd set the table beautifully and we'd sort out the various cartons, spooning out the contents and remarking on each other's choice of chicken chow mein (her favorite) or chicken with broccoli (mine). We'd talk about my job, or the kids, or trips she'd made years ago, or what was going on with other family members. We'd have second portions which both of us inevitably regretted minutes later. We shared our fortune cookies, and I'd usually have to read hers to her because the red ink on white was too little contrast for her eyes to easily see. She'd always make tea afterwards. Both of us really enjoyed those meals.

But it finally got too dangerous for her to live "independently" any longer, and the difficult decision was made to move her to a nursing home. She's 87 or 88 now, and her brain is leaving this world a whole lot faster than her body is. I went to visit her today. She recognizes me as a family member, but not the specific relationship. In fact, I think at times she believes she's younger than me. Today, she believes the nursing home is the school where she is a student. At other times, it's her place of employment. Most days, it's just "this place" and she's not quite sure anyone remembers that she is there. I always reassure her. "Yes, Grandma. We know exactly where you are. June [her daughter, my mother] knows where you are. She's away on vacation this week but she'll be back." That calms her for a bit.

I approached her today and as my face came into her view, she smiled broadly.

"Hi Honey! How are you? You look so nice. Can you come up and I'll make you some tea?" She gestures to her room, which is really only half hers. And there's certainly no way to make tea.

"No thanks, Grandma. I'll just take this extra chair out in the hall and we can talk for a while."

She points at the chair and tells me "I made that, you know. I put it together."

I don't know why she says that about this chair every time. It's an ordinary wooden folding chair which I know for certain she didn't make or assemble. But she seems so proud of her work. I tell her it's beautiful and she's very talented.

She doesn't like to sit in the crowded main room, but prefers to sit at the perimeter watching the other chair-bound patients (excuse me, students) from her own chair. Mostly she watches silently. But lately she's gotten more upset with the others. She points to one woman and tells me in a hushed voice:

"That one. She borrowed my walker and now she won't give it back."

I said "Grandma, maybe she forgot where she put it?"

She laughs and waves her hand in the air. "Oh, it's my fault. I shouldn't have let her take it. Well, I won't do that again." And she giggles a little.

But sometimes the perceived faults or infractions of others bother her more. She got quite upset with another woman recently and actually dragged her out of her wheelchair to the ground. She tries to tell me about it today, pointing to the very real bruises up and down her arms. She remembers a scuffle, but believes it was "the four teachers, all men, who were trying to pull me down . . . to stop me . . . and I still have no idea why." I can't offer any possible explanation that will help her with this one.

An elderly man in a trucker's cap slowly approaches us, inching up the hall pulling his chair forward with shuffling slippered feet.

"Here comes the cowboy," Grandma says. "He's always on my trail. But I'm not interested."

I smile at her. As he passes and waves, I get the impression she might have blushed if her heart was strong enough to push a little more blood to her cheeks.

Eventually, I tell her I have to go, and she asks if I don't want to stay for supper? She offers to heat up some soup. And for a second, I consider running out to get Chinese food. But I know, according to the big white activity board in the hall, that her supper will be a turkey sandwich, with macaroni salad, and a pudding cup. I tell her thanks, but I really have to get home to feed the cats. She asks me to come back soon, and I promise that I will.

My Grandmother is, most days, not unhappy. She has happy moments. But I really don't want to live like that for any length of time. My friend Mary feels the same way. We have a loose agreement that someday, when we have outlived our respective spouses and significant others, she and I and a couple other women will live together. We'll share responsibilities to the best of our ability, and when the time comes when we are no longer happy most days, or when we are in too much pain, we will help each other slip to the other side. We will have agreed in advance on what method each of us prefers and whom, if anyone, to contact afterwards. What arrangements we want. We'll have all the details sorted out years in advance so when the time comes, it'll be easier on everyone.

I just hope, when that time does come, one of us will remember those details. Or where we wrote them down.

Fragile

(How many of you just read that title as 'Frah-jee'-lay' as in Leg of Lamp?)

Warning. Public Service Announcement coming up in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

I had an incredible weekend. From the moment I left work on Friday (actually, a few hours before that) until arriving at work today, everything was perfect. Great company. Doing lots of fine, fun things in the rarely-beautiful July NJ weather. I even, ahem, spent part of the day Saturday at the beach. (Ignore Sunday, June 20 entry here). Granted it wasn't spent swimming or sunning, but rather at a bar under the palms drinking Gin & Tonics. Still, I was sharing space with and being friendly to the bennies. Give me credit.

There was also some hanging out relaxing, out in the back yard, listening to Nat King Cole on the CD player. There was a stop at the local Irish House of Worship (pub). There were dinners that included roasted clams and crab dip. There was an awesome party Sunday with about 300 people, including 5 cousins, two great blues bands and dozens of other musicians, free food and champagne. That was to celebrate the issue of CD #2 from this great bunch of friends: http://www.terraplaneblues.com.

Weekends, at least here in NJ, just don't get any better than this one. I was alive every moment I wasn't sleeping. I was enjoying every minute, not one of them taken for granted. I delighted in the sights, smells, touch, and voice of so many wonderful people. I appreciated it. And I'm glad I could.

I arrived at work today to e-mail and voice-mail messages regarding a friend of mine. I've known him for 25 years. He has been in a serious car accident and is now in a trauma center hospital, in critical condition, and they've placed him in a drug-induced coma. Very upsetting news indeed.

Y'all know what my PSA announcement is going to be and here it is for the umpteenth time. Carpe Diem. Do the right thing, by yourself and by others. Live as if you expect this to be your last day.

Oh, and regardless of your religious/spiritual/otherwise persuasion, send some good thoughts my friend's way, OK? I'll let you know how it turns out.

Amen

I so believe in fate right now. Follow me on this one . . .

I called Sal, my piano tuner, on Wednesday to confirm this Friday's tuning appointment. He said he thought it was scheduled for Friday the 28th. I said no, and I can't make it then anyway. He said OK, I'll come this Friday at 4:00.

If he gets the date right, he's always on time. So now it's 4:55 and I know that means he got the date wrong even after we just spoke two days ago. Which is a very common thing for Sal. We will now dance around rescheduling and missing each other for the next three months. It's a tradition we have been following for over 10 years.

But I am convinced now of fate. Or maybe it's God. While preparing for his visit today (Sal's, not God's - that's gonna take a lot more preparation from me) I was cleaning off the piano and getting out a mute from the piano bench that he left inside the piano at his last visit. (That's typical Sal too. This one he left in a particularly nifty spot that took me two hours, a carefully balanced flashlight, a coat hanger, a toothpick and a great yoga pose to get it out of the nifty spot he left it in. Or I could have just played without that E above middle C for the rest of my life. Another story.) I put his mute in the bench after I extracted it so I'd remember to give it to him next time he appears. See above. You just never know when THAT is gonna be.

So in the bench, which I haven't looked in in six months, wouldn't cha know it - I found a bunch of ear plugs someone gave me a long time ago to help me tune out background noise in the event I ever get around to learning tuning again.

And I SO need earplugs right now. With a double ear infection and a half hour before I leave for Emily's and Declan's three-hour long school "talent" show. Three hours of Kindergarten through 8th graders singing and dancing. And sitting next to a hundred parents thunderously applauding and cheering for each of the 627 acts. Maybe I should bring extras and sell them? Bet I could make a few bucks.

Thanks, God.

Update 5-18-04: I should mention that this particular talent show was incredible. The kids were all great, and I cried because I was so proud of my two. I have been enlightened. These kids, even the kindergartners, do have talent. Lots of it. So do the people who organized it. No need for earplugs. Kudos to all.