My wife supervises the rehabilitation department of a children’s hospital. This is the first Christmas she has worked there. Every Christmas the hospital puts on a pageant. It’s the only chance that some of these disabled kids will ever have to be in a Christmas pageant.
The cast of the pageant isn’t exclusively hospital patients. The therapists who produce the pageant also like to include non-disabled kids from the community, so that the hospital patients get a chance to hang around with normal kids. My two daughters, ages 7 and 3, were part of this year’s pageant. They’ve been going to frequent rehearsals for several weeks.
The pageant was presented yesterday. The cast included some Down syndrome children, some autistic children, some children who couldn’t walk, and a little girl with an extreme (but reconstructed) cleft palate. The audience included a little girl, maybe five or six, dressed up in a frilly, gold-colored dress, who seemed sad and may have been blind. Another little girl in the audience had a portable IV.
The program itself was a pretty typical Christmas pageant. It included: A skit entitled “The Magic Toyshop” (I didn’t pay much attention to it, since my kids weren’t in it); one entitled “The Kingdom of Sweets,” which consisted of excerpts from the Nutcracker (using dancers borrowed from the local ballet school); an enactment of “The Night Before Christmas;” an enactment of “The Twelve Days of Christmas;” and at the end, a re-enactment of the Nativity scene.
I watched most of the pageant through the viewfinder of my video camera, trying to focus on my own children. And it wasn’t easy, because I had to lean back and forth around the guy in front of me, who was watching the pageant through the viewfinder of his own video camera.
During “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” my younger daughter was a golden ring, and she got to stand up and twirl around prettily every time the song came to the drawn-out “FIVE. . . GOL. . . DEN. . .RINGS. . .” part of the song. There was another golden-ring girl who appeared to have Down syndrome who enjoyed jumping up and twirling so much that she would start early and wouldn’t stop.
During “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” I heard from time to time what sounded for all the world like the honking of a goose. I didn’t think much of it, since the song does include repeated references to six geese a-laying. But after the song was over, and the cast was just standing there accepting the applause, I noticed that the honking continued. It was coming from a boy who appeared to have multiple disabilities. Apparently, honking was just what he did and didn’t have anything in particular to do with the song.
The final scene was a re-enactment of the Nativity, with a recording of someone singing “Silent Night” playing in the background. My younger daughter was not in this scene, but my older one was. She was dressed as an angel, with a long, satiny white dress and a white, fuzzy halo. Her job was to just stand there. She was beautiful. And—by the grace of God or random good fortune—so healthy.
The wise men, dressed in resplendent gold costumes, came with their gifts for the baby Jesus. The first was a large boy, probably in his teens. He felt his way forward as he walked with a cane, and a helper led him where he needed to go, which included walking to center stage. There, he turned toward the audience, and looking beyond them with sightless eyes, held up a small bag of brightly colored, shiny cloth for the audience to see. He then turned and was led back to the baby Jesus (played by one of the hospital’s infant patients). The blind wise man presented his gift to the man holding the baby, and then his helper led him off to the side.
The next wise man was a slight boy with a very thin face, in his early teens, I’d guess. He used two black orthopedic canes to walk. His walking looked like a struggle, as he threw his elbows and hips and shoulders out at odd angles as he moved from one step to another. He, too, walked to the center of the stage, faced the audience, and held up his little bag of shiny cloth. He then turned and made his way to the man holding the baby, gave him the bag, and then lurched off to one side.
The third wise man was another teenager. It looked to my untrained eye that he had cerebral palsy, or something like it. His head and arms and hands were held at odd angles. A man stood behind him, held him up, and helped him walk to the center of the stage. Like the two other wise men before him, he turned to the audience, held up his bag as though presenting a toast, and then, with his helper, hobbled over to the man holding the baby.
To my eye, the face of each of the three wise men held an expression of determination, but not triumph, as he faced the audience and held up the gift he was about to present to the Christ child. I could imagine that each was saying, “This is just the way it is for me. I go through this every day.”
After the third wise man presented his gift, the mistress of ceremonies thanked us all for coming, and the show was over. The actors stayed on the stage to have their pictures taken, and the audience was milling around. I stayed seated for quite awhile, looking at the disabled children and at my healthy angel-daughter and thinking of the three wise men. I considered tearing up but decided against it. The honking boy started up again.
I'm happy for the hospital kids who got to be in a Christmas pageant. I'm glad my kids got the opportunity to learn about children who are different. I hope my kids contributed in some small way to a pleasant experience for the hospital kids. Most of all, I'm grateful that my kids were outsiders and not patients. And I hope with all my heart that the same is true next Christmas.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Showing Off for My Kids
I got it into my head the other day to talk about gravity with my older daughter (whom I will refer to by the initial of her first name, “A”). After looking forward to it all day, I brought the subject up at the dinner table when we had finished eating.
“Have you ever wondered why things fall down instead of up?” I asked her.
She looked at me sideways with an intrigued smile. I could see she was trying to tell whether I was asking a legitimate question or just setting her up for a word-game trick.
She said no. I then asked her if she knew what gravity was, and she gave a good answer: it was the force that made us fall back down when we jumped up in the air.
“So why do we fall back down instead of falling up?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, still suspecting a trick.
“Well, sometimes things actually do fall up.”
“What?!! How?”
I started moving things around on the dining table to represent the earth and the moon and the planets and a rubber ball. I explained that if the rubber ball was very close to earth—like in our dining room—and you dropped it, it would fall down to the floor. But if you took it far enough away from earth out into space and close enough to the moon, for example, it would start falling away from earth—in other words, up—and toward the moon. I told her it would work the same way if you moved the ball close enough to Venus or Mars or the sun. If the ball got close enough to any of those bodies, it would fall toward it and away from the earth.
Then I did a few historical riffs, talking about how Isaac Newton figured all this out hundreds of years ago by studying the movements of the planets. (I left out the part about the apple bonking him on the head, since I understand there is little evidence to support that story.) I told her that Newton was one of the smartest people who ever lived and that she would be hearing more about him as she continued in school. I added that Newton had to invent a completely new branch of mathematics just to figure these things out (which didn’t mean much to her) and that he did it a long time ago before it was possible to even send rocket ships out into space to see if something would in fact start falling away from the earth and toward the moon if it got far enough away from earth (which did seem to catch her attention). And I closed with this moral: “Smart people don’t just try to answer difficult questions. Sometimes they start by thinking up entirely new questions that seem silly, like why things fall down instead of up, and then they try to answer those questions that other people might think are silly.” I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.
When I was originally planning my talk to “A” about gravity I imagined that I would be contributing to her education. But I think the truth is that I was just looking for a chance to show off by demonstrating that I knew things that my children haven’t learned yet. And I figure that my time for doing that is running out.
My father was a pretty smart man, and he could explain lots of things to me when I was a boy. Often, he would do it by drawing a diagram of some sort. He would take out his elegantly slim Paper Mate® mechanical pencil (the kind with the little raised white dot on the barrel near the top), give it a twist, send me to fetch a piece of paper, and then draw a picture. Sometimes, the picture would illustrate some concrete, physical thing (like some principle of mechanics) and at other times something abstract (like Roman numerals).
One day I came to him with a textbook opened to a page showing a simplified diagram of a rocket. There was something about the working of the rocket I didn’t understand. He looked at the picture only a few seconds and then handed the book back to me.
“Son, you’re asking me things now I don’t know anything about,” he said.
I don’t know if the sadness was in his voice or just in my hearing of it, but I was sorry I had asked the question about rocket science. I was in elementary school at the time.
So I figure my kids are going to catch up with me very soon. If I’m going to show off for them, I’d better hurry.
Here’s a list off the top of my head of things that I need to hurry up and teach my children before someone beats me to it:
1. How to use a map and compass.
2. How to use a watch (analog only) as a compass, based on the position of the sun. (Don’t forget to adjust for daylight savings time, because the sun doesn’t know anything about that.)
3. “GOP” stands for “Grand Old Party.”
4. In writing, use the passive voice as little as possible.
5. In writing, don’t use big words just to make yourself sound smart.
6. How electricity works (direct current only).
7. The moon rises approximately 55 minutes later each day.
8. “A quitter never wins.
A winner never quits.
When the going gets tough,
the tough get going.”
(From “Memo to My Son,” by Randy Newman, on his Sail Away CD.)
9. You don’t really have to change the oil in your car every 3000 miles. Most cars can go 7,500 miles or more between oil changes without harm, according to Consumer Reports.
10. Pay off your credit card bills each month.
11. The speaker implies; the listener infers.
12. “The Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, Roman nor an empire.”
But first things first:
13. How to ride a bike without training wheels.
“Have you ever wondered why things fall down instead of up?” I asked her.
She looked at me sideways with an intrigued smile. I could see she was trying to tell whether I was asking a legitimate question or just setting her up for a word-game trick.
She said no. I then asked her if she knew what gravity was, and she gave a good answer: it was the force that made us fall back down when we jumped up in the air.
“So why do we fall back down instead of falling up?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, still suspecting a trick.
“Well, sometimes things actually do fall up.”
“What?!! How?”
I started moving things around on the dining table to represent the earth and the moon and the planets and a rubber ball. I explained that if the rubber ball was very close to earth—like in our dining room—and you dropped it, it would fall down to the floor. But if you took it far enough away from earth out into space and close enough to the moon, for example, it would start falling away from earth—in other words, up—and toward the moon. I told her it would work the same way if you moved the ball close enough to Venus or Mars or the sun. If the ball got close enough to any of those bodies, it would fall toward it and away from the earth.
Then I did a few historical riffs, talking about how Isaac Newton figured all this out hundreds of years ago by studying the movements of the planets. (I left out the part about the apple bonking him on the head, since I understand there is little evidence to support that story.) I told her that Newton was one of the smartest people who ever lived and that she would be hearing more about him as she continued in school. I added that Newton had to invent a completely new branch of mathematics just to figure these things out (which didn’t mean much to her) and that he did it a long time ago before it was possible to even send rocket ships out into space to see if something would in fact start falling away from the earth and toward the moon if it got far enough away from earth (which did seem to catch her attention). And I closed with this moral: “Smart people don’t just try to answer difficult questions. Sometimes they start by thinking up entirely new questions that seem silly, like why things fall down instead of up, and then they try to answer those questions that other people might think are silly.” I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.
When I was originally planning my talk to “A” about gravity I imagined that I would be contributing to her education. But I think the truth is that I was just looking for a chance to show off by demonstrating that I knew things that my children haven’t learned yet. And I figure that my time for doing that is running out.
My father was a pretty smart man, and he could explain lots of things to me when I was a boy. Often, he would do it by drawing a diagram of some sort. He would take out his elegantly slim Paper Mate® mechanical pencil (the kind with the little raised white dot on the barrel near the top), give it a twist, send me to fetch a piece of paper, and then draw a picture. Sometimes, the picture would illustrate some concrete, physical thing (like some principle of mechanics) and at other times something abstract (like Roman numerals).
One day I came to him with a textbook opened to a page showing a simplified diagram of a rocket. There was something about the working of the rocket I didn’t understand. He looked at the picture only a few seconds and then handed the book back to me.
“Son, you’re asking me things now I don’t know anything about,” he said.
I don’t know if the sadness was in his voice or just in my hearing of it, but I was sorry I had asked the question about rocket science. I was in elementary school at the time.
So I figure my kids are going to catch up with me very soon. If I’m going to show off for them, I’d better hurry.
Here’s a list off the top of my head of things that I need to hurry up and teach my children before someone beats me to it:
1. How to use a map and compass.
2. How to use a watch (analog only) as a compass, based on the position of the sun. (Don’t forget to adjust for daylight savings time, because the sun doesn’t know anything about that.)
3. “GOP” stands for “Grand Old Party.”
4. In writing, use the passive voice as little as possible.
5. In writing, don’t use big words just to make yourself sound smart.
6. How electricity works (direct current only).
7. The moon rises approximately 55 minutes later each day.
8. “A quitter never wins.
A winner never quits.
When the going gets tough,
the tough get going.”
(From “Memo to My Son,” by Randy Newman, on his Sail Away CD.)
9. You don’t really have to change the oil in your car every 3000 miles. Most cars can go 7,500 miles or more between oil changes without harm, according to Consumer Reports.
10. Pay off your credit card bills each month.
11. The speaker implies; the listener infers.
12. “The Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, Roman nor an empire.”
But first things first:
13. How to ride a bike without training wheels.
Friday, August 20, 2010
First-Day Jitters
My older daughter starts first grade Monday. I can tell that this is going to be a traumatic and upsetting experience. As for my daughter, I think she, also, is a little nervous.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
El Flaco, the Back Story: Part 1
I recently added a page entitled "The Story of El Flaco." I described a tough guy in Mexico long ago (19th century, I guess) and the barest outline of a plot. I was just clowning around and being facetious.
But something about El Flaco captured my imagination, and now I'm taking him seriously. Accordingly, I have now added the first part of his "back story," in the form of a new page entitled "El Flaco, the Back Story, Part 1: Learning to Be Strong." Feel free to look at it if you're curious.
But something about El Flaco captured my imagination, and now I'm taking him seriously. Accordingly, I have now added the first part of his "back story," in the form of a new page entitled "El Flaco, the Back Story, Part 1: Learning to Be Strong." Feel free to look at it if you're curious.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Story of El Flaco
I've added a page that tells the story of El Flaco (or so much of it as I have been able to come up with so far). The "pages" are separate from the "posts." (You are now reading a post.) The pages are marked by links on the right side of the screen.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Eye Boogers
I took my six-year-old daughter to an ophthalmologist recently, because we suspected she might need glasses. During his examination, the doctor thought he saw signs of a minor infection of her eyelids. He asked me, "Have you noticed an unusual amount of matter--goop--in her eyes lately when she wakes up in the morning?" I told him I hadn't, but the truth is I'm not very observant at that time of the morning, since she gets up pretty early. He turned to my daughter.
"When you wake up in the morning, do you have lots of matter, you know, stuff, in your eyes?"
She seemed to ponder the question for a few seconds. Then she looked up brightly. "Do you mean eye boogers?" she asked.
He and his assistant laughed. I felt vaguely embarrassed that I hadn't taught her a more genteel way to refer to the substance in question, but I couldn't really remember the subject having ever come up.
They confirmed that eye boogers was what they were talking about, and the conversation proceeded from there.
Here is an illustration from Gray's Anatomy, which I have altered slightly to bring it up to date on the subject of eye boogers:
"When you wake up in the morning, do you have lots of matter, you know, stuff, in your eyes?"
She seemed to ponder the question for a few seconds. Then she looked up brightly. "Do you mean eye boogers?" she asked.
He and his assistant laughed. I felt vaguely embarrassed that I hadn't taught her a more genteel way to refer to the substance in question, but I couldn't really remember the subject having ever come up.
They confirmed that eye boogers was what they were talking about, and the conversation proceeded from there.
Here is an illustration from Gray's Anatomy, which I have altered slightly to bring it up to date on the subject of eye boogers:
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Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Love the Hat! It's a Good Look For You.
Here's an Associated Press photo of Texas Governor Rick Perry talking to a group of Texas sheriffs on July 26. (Perry is the one without a cowboy hat.)
This photo reminds me of the Smothers Brothers' version of "The Streets of Laredo":
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a young cowboy all dressed in white linen,
All dressed in white linen as cold as the clay.
(Dick Smothers): I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy.
(Tom Smothers): I see by your outfit you are a cowboy, too.
(Both): We see by our outfits that we are both cowboys.
If you get an outfit, you can be a cowboy, too.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Thing Itself
A friend recently mentioned a trip she had taken to Morocco, which reminded me of my trip to Morocco many years ago.
I was traveling alone, and my trip to Morocco began with a ride on the ferry from Algeciras, Spain across the strait to Tangier, Morocco. The weather was blustery, sunny, and very hazy, and the sea was choppy. I was leaning on the rail looking south towards Africa when I noticed through the haze in the distance off to my left a dense mass, like a mountain, jutting up from the ocean. It probably didn't take me but a matter of seconds to put two and two together and figure out what it had to be, but while I was working on the problem I experienced a moment of disorientation--that feeling of a rug being pulled out from under me--that I'll always remember. What I was seeing didn't match at all the only depiction I had ever seen of the Rock of Gibraltar: it did not bear the slightest resemblance to the logo of the Prudential Insurance Company.
As a boy, I had sometimes watched "The Twentieth Century," hosted by Walter Cronkite on Sunday afternoons and sponsored by Prudential. I'm not sure how the subject had come up back then, but I believe my father had explained to me that the big mountain-looking thing in the Prudential logo (although the word "logo" was unknown to us then) was the Rock of Gibraltar. Maybe he told me something else about it. I didn't give it much thought after that. But like everyone else, I saw the Prudential logo all around me as I grew up.
But the mountain I saw rising out of the sea in the distance through the haze as I rode the ferry didn't look anything like the Rock of Prudential. Prudential's graphic designers had picked just the right point of view for a very effective composition that has stood the test of time.
But as I was looking toward the east, my point of view had been selected by no one. The shape the Rock presented to me was completely different from the Prudential logo, and I didn't recognize it at all.
I've thought often about that brief instant of mental vertigo I felt when I discovered the real Rock of Gibraltar. It still makes me squirm a little to remember my first glimpse of that giant, misshapen, hazy hulk that I was completely unprepared to recognize.
I was traveling alone, and my trip to Morocco began with a ride on the ferry from Algeciras, Spain across the strait to Tangier, Morocco. The weather was blustery, sunny, and very hazy, and the sea was choppy. I was leaning on the rail looking south towards Africa when I noticed through the haze in the distance off to my left a dense mass, like a mountain, jutting up from the ocean. It probably didn't take me but a matter of seconds to put two and two together and figure out what it had to be, but while I was working on the problem I experienced a moment of disorientation--that feeling of a rug being pulled out from under me--that I'll always remember. What I was seeing didn't match at all the only depiction I had ever seen of the Rock of Gibraltar: it did not bear the slightest resemblance to the logo of the Prudential Insurance Company.
As a boy, I had sometimes watched "The Twentieth Century," hosted by Walter Cronkite on Sunday afternoons and sponsored by Prudential. I'm not sure how the subject had come up back then, but I believe my father had explained to me that the big mountain-looking thing in the Prudential logo (although the word "logo" was unknown to us then) was the Rock of Gibraltar. Maybe he told me something else about it. I didn't give it much thought after that. But like everyone else, I saw the Prudential logo all around me as I grew up.But the mountain I saw rising out of the sea in the distance through the haze as I rode the ferry didn't look anything like the Rock of Prudential. Prudential's graphic designers had picked just the right point of view for a very effective composition that has stood the test of time.
But as I was looking toward the east, my point of view had been selected by no one. The shape the Rock presented to me was completely different from the Prudential logo, and I didn't recognize it at all.I've thought often about that brief instant of mental vertigo I felt when I discovered the real Rock of Gibraltar. It still makes me squirm a little to remember my first glimpse of that giant, misshapen, hazy hulk that I was completely unprepared to recognize.
Prudential's logo today
There's a poem by Wallace Stevens entitled "Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself." The title reminds me of my encounter with the Rock of Gibraltar, but the poem itself is completely beyond my comprehension. If you want to take a crack at it, you can find it here: http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/not-ideas.html
By the way, in addition to being a serious poet, Wallace Stevens was a successful corporate lawyer and insurance company executive. But not for Prudential. He was a vice president specializing in investment banking for Hartford Accident and Indemnity Co.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Just a Cave
We were passing through San Marcos this past weekend and decided to take a side trip to Natural Bridge Caverns. I’ve passed by the billboards advertising those caverns dozens of times without giving them much thought, figuring that the caverns couldn’t amount to much—certainly not compared to Carlsbad Caverns, which I’ve seen once or twice.
But S thought the kids would enjoy seeing the caverns.
While we were lined up with the other tourists on the sloping walkway waiting to head down into the mouth of the cave, my younger daughter, fresh from Disneyworld, asked me if there was going to be a movie. I told her no. Then she asked if there was going to be a ride. “No, honey. It’s just a cave.”
It was a pretty good cave, though. Lots of stalagmites and stalactites with fanciful names, as you would expect. There were some very big rooms. Water dripping on us from time to time. I jokingly asked my older daughter if the water dripping on us meant that a stalagmite would start growing on us. She dismissed the possibility quickly and perhaps didn’t realize I was joking.
It was quite a long walk in and out and down and up. About a mile in all. I didn’t think my younger daughter would make it on her own, but she did. Both girls were excited to be there.
I don’t actually remember all that much about Carlsbad Caverns, but I’m sure—because it is more famous—that it must be bigger and more spectacular than the little Natural Bridge Caverns of San Marcos. But Natural Bridge Caverns were the caverns that we had handy Sunday afternoon, and they suited us just fine. Comparisons to grander caves a thousand miles away would be pointless.
But S thought the kids would enjoy seeing the caverns.
While we were lined up with the other tourists on the sloping walkway waiting to head down into the mouth of the cave, my younger daughter, fresh from Disneyworld, asked me if there was going to be a movie. I told her no. Then she asked if there was going to be a ride. “No, honey. It’s just a cave.”
It was a pretty good cave, though. Lots of stalagmites and stalactites with fanciful names, as you would expect. There were some very big rooms. Water dripping on us from time to time. I jokingly asked my older daughter if the water dripping on us meant that a stalagmite would start growing on us. She dismissed the possibility quickly and perhaps didn’t realize I was joking.
It was quite a long walk in and out and down and up. About a mile in all. I didn’t think my younger daughter would make it on her own, but she did. Both girls were excited to be there.
I don’t actually remember all that much about Carlsbad Caverns, but I’m sure—because it is more famous—that it must be bigger and more spectacular than the little Natural Bridge Caverns of San Marcos. But Natural Bridge Caverns were the caverns that we had handy Sunday afternoon, and they suited us just fine. Comparisons to grander caves a thousand miles away would be pointless.
Friday, July 16, 2010
I Guess He Read the Book
Marine General James Mattis has been selected to head Central Command in Afghanistan.
Earlier, while stationed in Iraq, he had a meeting with tribal leaders during which he made the following statement:
"I come in peace. I didn't bring artillery. But I'm pleading with you, with tears in my eyes: If you f— with me, I'll kill you all."
Source: http://news.yahoo.com/s/weeklystandard/20100712/cm_weeklystandard/thecomingstudentloandebacle
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
I Am Eccentric and My Life Complex
The only thing I know, or ever intend to know about the Chinese zodiac is what I’ve learned from reading the paper placemats at Chinese restaurants while waiting for my food. They all say the same thing.
Unlike the Western zodiac, the Chinese zodiac doesn’t divide the year into different periods. Instead, it gives each year its own sign until it uses up twelve signs in the twelfth year and then it starts over again. Thus, everyone born in the same year has the same sign, and the signs are named after animals—the rat, the snake, the sheep, etc. All the animals in the Chinese zodiac are real except for one. I'm proud to say that in the Chinese zodiac I'm the one imaginary animal--the Dragon.
Being a Dragon makes up some for the fact that in the Western zodiac I’m the most embarrassing of signs, a Virgo. I’ve never studied the subject in any detail, because I don’t believe any of this stuff, but Virgos are usually made to sound like very unpleasant people. I much prefer the thought of being a Dragon.Over the years of eating lots of Chinese food, I’ve learned verbatim all that a placemat can teach me about Dragons, except for the important parts. Here’s what the placemats say to Dragons: “You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Marry a [some animal I don’t remember] late in life. Avoid the [some other animal I don’t remember].”
I did in fact marry late in life, but I didn’t marry the animal the placemats say I should have married. It’s worked out okay so far, though.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Genesis 1:14
"Sometimes we’d have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark—which was a candle in a cabin window—and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two—on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. It’s lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky, up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened—Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done." The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapter 19; by Mark Twain
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A Quiet, Intimate Little Blog
Things are pretty quiet in here. Just as well. Crowds make me nervous.
Which reminds me of a joke.
Seems there was a man (out of respect for his privacy, I will refer to him only as “K”) who became fed up with the rat race and the general decline of Western Civilization and moved out to the country. Way out in the country. His closest neighbor lived miles away, in fact. Shortly after his move, one of his neighbors, Farmer Joe, dropped by for a visit. After exchanging pleasantries, Farmer Joe brought up the subject of a party he was having at his place that night.
“Anyway,” said Farmer Joe, “I would surely be pleased if you could come.”
“I’d love to,” said K.
“We’ll cook some barbecue, play some music, do some dancing. You like country music?”
“You bet!” said K. “‘Kindly keep it country, don’t wanna hear no symphony!’” he said, mimicking the song.
“How about rock ‘n roll?”
“Of course. Rock on!”
“Uh . . . right. Now, I do need to mention,” said Farmer Joe, “there will be alcohol in various forms served, and things may get a little rowdy. There have been occasions in the past when some fisticuffs broke out.”
“That’s okay,” said K. “I figure I can take care of myself all right.”
“Well, I figured you probably could. Oh, and one more thing. As the night wears on, there’s liable to be a little hanky-panky, if you know what I mean.” Farmer Joe playfully elbows K in the ribs. “I hope you won’t be offended.”
K chuckled a bit. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been around the block a few times. I know the score.”
“Great!” said Farmer Joe. “I’ll look for you around 7:00.” Farmer Joe starts to leave when K calls him back.
“Hey, what should I wear?” asks K.
“Oh, whatever you want. It’s just going to be you and me.”
Which reminds me of a joke.
Seems there was a man (out of respect for his privacy, I will refer to him only as “K”) who became fed up with the rat race and the general decline of Western Civilization and moved out to the country. Way out in the country. His closest neighbor lived miles away, in fact. Shortly after his move, one of his neighbors, Farmer Joe, dropped by for a visit. After exchanging pleasantries, Farmer Joe brought up the subject of a party he was having at his place that night.
“Anyway,” said Farmer Joe, “I would surely be pleased if you could come.”
“I’d love to,” said K.
“We’ll cook some barbecue, play some music, do some dancing. You like country music?”
“You bet!” said K. “‘Kindly keep it country, don’t wanna hear no symphony!’” he said, mimicking the song.
“How about rock ‘n roll?”
“Of course. Rock on!”
“Uh . . . right. Now, I do need to mention,” said Farmer Joe, “there will be alcohol in various forms served, and things may get a little rowdy. There have been occasions in the past when some fisticuffs broke out.”
“That’s okay,” said K. “I figure I can take care of myself all right.”
“Well, I figured you probably could. Oh, and one more thing. As the night wears on, there’s liable to be a little hanky-panky, if you know what I mean.” Farmer Joe playfully elbows K in the ribs. “I hope you won’t be offended.”
K chuckled a bit. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been around the block a few times. I know the score.”
“Great!” said Farmer Joe. “I’ll look for you around 7:00.” Farmer Joe starts to leave when K calls him back.
“Hey, what should I wear?” asks K.
“Oh, whatever you want. It’s just going to be you and me.”
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Our Dog the Abstract Expressionist
We have a pathetic little dog named Max. My wife acquired him years ago from some people who kept him on a short chain in their front yard through all kinds of weather, including the most inclement. Finally, Susan had enough of watching their neglect of the dog, knocked on their door, and asked them if they really wanted him. They admitted that they didn’t and gave him to Susan there on the spot.
But no good deed goes unpunished.
We believe Max is a poodle-schnauzer mix. Or something. He has long black and white hair and an extreme under bite that makes his lower jaw jut out, giving him the profile of a grouper. The protruding lower teeth are crooked and yellow. We don’t know how old he is.
He has cataracts and he sleeps with his eyes open. When he's asleep, his staring, cloudy eyes and his limbs splayed out in all directions make him look for all the world like he has shuffled off to the next plane. But so far he has never turned out to have been sincerely dead.
Max has no manners at all. Someone could say that’s our fault, and maybe it is, but I think his earlier life had left him largely untrainable by the time my wife rescued him. He erupts into barking fits at the slightest provocation and charges people who come to our door. It's embarrassing.
He's expensive to maintain, because he has allergy problems. The allergy problems and the scratching they provoke make him stink most of the time. You don’t have to get close to him to smell him; you can just walk into a room where he is and immediately want to do an about-face. My wife bathes him several times a week, but it seems like each bath kills the stink for only an hour or two. She takes him to the vet for cortisone shots for his allergies, but the vet says it’s dangerous to give the shots too often, so Max often suffers severely from the allergies near the end of the period of the shots’ effectiveness. And the harder he scratches, the more he stinks. When the shots stop working and we’re still waiting for the time to come when it’s okay to give the shots again, we can only rely on the allergy pills, hidden in Cheez-Whiz. They don’t work very well, but at least he enjoys the Cheez-Whiz.
Apparently, Max’s butt itches a lot, despite Susan’s diligence in keeping him medicated with worm medicine. So it’s not unusual to see him scooting along the floor to scratch his butt. It would be funny to watch if he were someone else’s dog in someone else’s house. For some reason it reminds me of the late Michael Jackson doing the moon walk.
Because Max has long hair, his feces occasionally get caught in the hair around his rear end. We send him to the groomer often to try to keep his hair short, but there’s only so much we can do. And my wife bathes him often. But still.
Most of the house has wood floors, and you can imagine that if you were a dog looking for a place to scratch your butt, you wouldn’t want to do it on a wood floor. Thus Max’s favorite, indeed exclusive place to scoot is the carpet at the entrance to our bedroom; he likes the nubby texture. I’m sure you can see where this is going. He’s got feces caught in his long hair. He scoots on the carpet. He leaves skid marks.
For a long time, it would gross us out when he left a skid mark on the carpet, and we would call the carpet cleaners right away (since our do-it-yourself efforts at getting the stain out never worked very well). But the carpet cleaners are expensive, and over time we’ve learned to ignore the skid marks for longer and longer periods before calling the carpet cleaners. And that means more skid marks accumulate, all in the same place.
There are more skid marks at the entrance to our bedroom right now than I believe there have ever been at any one time. In this most recent episode, I first noticed one brown line that started faintly at the edge of the carpet, grew darker and bolder as it extended further into the bedroom, curved, and then faded away. A few weeks later, I noticed another line that crossed the first and made a curving, loose, stylized “X.” Now this started to get my attention. Then another one or two short lines showed up, intersecting one of the two main lines of the “X.” Each line varied in thickness and darkness in soft, subtle ways, almost like calligraphy. And because there are several overlapping skid marks, I’ve started to see them as forming patterns--which means I’m looking at them as though they were art. The pattern of skid marks reminds me a little bit of the “action painting” of Jackson Pollock.
Pollock was more extravagant than Max has been, though. Max takes a more minimalist approach.
I should say it’s minimalist so far, since it’s a work in progress. I suppose if we tolerate it long enough before calling the carpet cleaners, it might start to compare with Pollock in the density of the work, and the carpet at the entrance to our bedroom might start to look like one of Pollock’s finished paintings.
But no good deed goes unpunished.
We believe Max is a poodle-schnauzer mix. Or something. He has long black and white hair and an extreme under bite that makes his lower jaw jut out, giving him the profile of a grouper. The protruding lower teeth are crooked and yellow. We don’t know how old he is.
He has cataracts and he sleeps with his eyes open. When he's asleep, his staring, cloudy eyes and his limbs splayed out in all directions make him look for all the world like he has shuffled off to the next plane. But so far he has never turned out to have been sincerely dead.
Max has no manners at all. Someone could say that’s our fault, and maybe it is, but I think his earlier life had left him largely untrainable by the time my wife rescued him. He erupts into barking fits at the slightest provocation and charges people who come to our door. It's embarrassing.
He's expensive to maintain, because he has allergy problems. The allergy problems and the scratching they provoke make him stink most of the time. You don’t have to get close to him to smell him; you can just walk into a room where he is and immediately want to do an about-face. My wife bathes him several times a week, but it seems like each bath kills the stink for only an hour or two. She takes him to the vet for cortisone shots for his allergies, but the vet says it’s dangerous to give the shots too often, so Max often suffers severely from the allergies near the end of the period of the shots’ effectiveness. And the harder he scratches, the more he stinks. When the shots stop working and we’re still waiting for the time to come when it’s okay to give the shots again, we can only rely on the allergy pills, hidden in Cheez-Whiz. They don’t work very well, but at least he enjoys the Cheez-Whiz.
Apparently, Max’s butt itches a lot, despite Susan’s diligence in keeping him medicated with worm medicine. So it’s not unusual to see him scooting along the floor to scratch his butt. It would be funny to watch if he were someone else’s dog in someone else’s house. For some reason it reminds me of the late Michael Jackson doing the moon walk.
Because Max has long hair, his feces occasionally get caught in the hair around his rear end. We send him to the groomer often to try to keep his hair short, but there’s only so much we can do. And my wife bathes him often. But still.
Most of the house has wood floors, and you can imagine that if you were a dog looking for a place to scratch your butt, you wouldn’t want to do it on a wood floor. Thus Max’s favorite, indeed exclusive place to scoot is the carpet at the entrance to our bedroom; he likes the nubby texture. I’m sure you can see where this is going. He’s got feces caught in his long hair. He scoots on the carpet. He leaves skid marks.
For a long time, it would gross us out when he left a skid mark on the carpet, and we would call the carpet cleaners right away (since our do-it-yourself efforts at getting the stain out never worked very well). But the carpet cleaners are expensive, and over time we’ve learned to ignore the skid marks for longer and longer periods before calling the carpet cleaners. And that means more skid marks accumulate, all in the same place.
There are more skid marks at the entrance to our bedroom right now than I believe there have ever been at any one time. In this most recent episode, I first noticed one brown line that started faintly at the edge of the carpet, grew darker and bolder as it extended further into the bedroom, curved, and then faded away. A few weeks later, I noticed another line that crossed the first and made a curving, loose, stylized “X.” Now this started to get my attention. Then another one or two short lines showed up, intersecting one of the two main lines of the “X.” Each line varied in thickness and darkness in soft, subtle ways, almost like calligraphy. And because there are several overlapping skid marks, I’ve started to see them as forming patterns--which means I’m looking at them as though they were art. The pattern of skid marks reminds me a little bit of the “action painting” of Jackson Pollock.
Jackson Pollock at work
Pollock was more extravagant than Max has been, though. Max takes a more minimalist approach.
MAX, Dogshit Composition No. 1, 2010
I should say it’s minimalist so far, since it’s a work in progress. I suppose if we tolerate it long enough before calling the carpet cleaners, it might start to compare with Pollock in the density of the work, and the carpet at the entrance to our bedroom might start to look like one of Pollock’s finished paintings.
JACKSON POLLOCK, Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist), 1950
But I’m pretty sure we won’t let it go that far.
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