Summer Time, and the Livin' is Easy

I love summer.  I despise winter.  It's as simple as that.

Growing up in Michigan, one might think I would be favorably inclined toward the season of snow and ice, but the fact is, since about the age of 8 or 9, I have dreaded the onset of winter much as I dread a trip to the dentist, or a funeral.  The only time I ever want to really see snow is on Christmas day--and even then, I would prefer the snow come without the frigid temperatures.  Of course, that never, ever happens.


As children, we were into children's winter "sports", such as sledding, tobogganing, ice skating, and, of course, the annual "snow-bowl", which was our neighborhood football game that took place on the first snowfall of the season.  And I do remember having fun participating in all of those events.  But I can also remember the exact moment I swore that, when I "grew up" (which has yet to happen), I would move to the south, or Hawaii (and see where swearing gets me--I live in Northern Indiana).  I can't recall my exact age when this revelation occurred, but I was in the woods behind our house, with my brothers and some other neighborhood kids.  We were engaged in the fun game of diving down this hill, sliding on our bellies in the snow and then stopping (hopefully) before reaching the pond.  I loved doing that sort of thing, because I was quite the daredevil.  I launched myself from the top, at the same time thinking that I was impressive in both form and distance.  As I hit the snow, I could feel myself speeding up and could see the pond coming ever closer.  I was unable to stop.  As I recall it now, I can see it in slow motion, as if it is part of the opening credits of "The Wide World of Sports", but, sadly, representing the "agony of defeat" line.  I slid, head first, into the pond, which, at the time had a thin layer of ice--so thin that it broke the moment I hit it and almost my entire body went underwater. 


That day was a frighteningly cold day (as are all days in Michigan in the dead of winter).  I came up crying. My brothers, of course, were laughing, and laughing...and...laughing.  Soaking wet, I began what seemed an interminable walk home.  I remember shivering and feeling the tremendous weight of my wet clothes, and I worried about frostbite (not as if I knew what that was).  I envisioned freezing to death before making it to the house.  I imagined my parents out searching for me, and finding me, half buried in snow, a solid dead block of frozen ice.  In reality, the walk was from pond to house was 7 or 8 minutes, but as a little girl, it seemed much longer, and it gave my imagination ample time to create scenarios.


By the time I arrived home, my hair, which was long and thick, was frozen into icicles--even my eyelashes were frozen, and my stocking cap was stiff as cardboard.  My clothes also had transformed from cotton into ice and I had much difficulty getting things off.  Back in the day, I wore heavy jeans to play outside in the winter.  Frozen jeans are nearly impossible to peel off, and to this day, I remember the struggle I had trying to get them off of me.  Of course, I cried the whole time, focusing on how very miserable I was.  From that point on, sledding and playing in the snow had no appeal for me.  I hated being cold.  I hate being cold to this day.  I will never, ever like the cold.  The only ice I ever want to see is in a cocktail glass.


I hate winter so much that even the advent of fall brings on a sense of malaise and even depression.  We have some absolutely stunning autumn days here, especially when we are fortunate enough to experience "Indian Summer", right when the colors of the leaves are at their finest.  Still, for me it is just one day closer to the season I dread--one more nail in the coffin of summer.  Even now, in the height of summer, I wish with all my heart that time would stand still.  Every day of summer that has rain or is remotely cool seems a wasted day. It is one day I can't take the dog to the beach, or swim or golf or be outside just feeling WARM.

But really, as I reflect more seriously on it, I think my love of summer goes deeper than a desire to be warm.  It comes from, I think, a barely conscious wish to recapture childhood, and a much more simpler time--a time without worry, or bills, or figuring how to make it from day to day on my little paycheck.  As a kid, things such as oil spills and politics and the economy didn't enter into the fray.  My biggest worry then was how severely I was going to be punished for my latest childhood adventure.  Some adults may have discovered the secret to enjoying life, and I suspect those folks tend to have endless supplies of cash, but, for me, true enjoyment is reflecting back on my youth.

I received, recently, one of those email attachment things we all get.  This was a slideshow reminiscing about the simplicity of childhood.  I suspect that the person who put this together grew up in the 1950s or 1960s.  My childhood went from the 60s to the 70s, but I can certainly relate to what's in the slideshow, which I'll link to here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cy6ibCAU40

The odd thing is that most of memories referred to in this slideshow are summer childhood events.  Yes, there are a few references to school (yukky) and Christmas.  But, in reality, the things that I think back on, and the things that this slideshow reminisces about are summertime things; things such as Red Light, Green Light, Red Rover, hide and seek, wiffle ball, swimming, lemonade, picnics and beaches.

It may seem strange that I can only recall a few happy events from the dead of winter.  I'm sure there were more, particularly around Christmas time.  However, even my fond adult memories center around barbecues, cottages on lakes, picnics at Lake Michigan, boating, golf tournaments, hiking with the dog (and never in winter), traipsing through woods in Northern Michigan, eating ice cream on Mackinac Island, traversing through Arizona canyons, tubing the Tickfaw river, and other summer vacations.  I have NO good memories of snow skiing, snow shoeing, or snow anything.  It doesn't help that I was pathetic at winter sports.  I tried skiing on several occasions, but could never get up after falling.  Help, I've fallen and I can't get up.  And there I would lay, in cold, wet, frigid snow, making me hate winter all the more.

The onset of winter causes, in me, a profound heaviness of heart.  I know it's a necessary season in these parts.  My friend Gooch tells me it's good for the soil, and so the farmers need it or something.  I try to care, really, but it feels like death--death of happiness, or, if not death, at least a hibernation of sorts.  It's a time of darkness.  It's a time being sedentary, eating everything bad in the cabinets, and gaining weight.  It is certainly a time of incurable sadness.  But, I suppose it's also a necessary time of anticipation, waiting and expectation.  And, of course, hope.  Hope that, as always, spring will follow and the snows will melt.  The sun will shine again, life will be resurrected, and, for a few months, the much simpler, carefree easy time of youth can be recaptured; if not in reality, at least in memory.  And, as my friend Gooch would say, this is probably an allegory for something else much more esoteric, abstruse and complex revolving around the ultimate Mystery of life here on earth.

The Recent Death of Some Old Souls

"I am not going to tell you my name, not yet at any rate. For one thing it would take a long while: my name is growing all the time, and I've lived a very long, long time; so my name is like a story. Real names tell you the story of things they belong to in my language, in the Old Entish as you might say. It is a lovely language, but it takes a very long time saying anything in it, because we do not say anything in it, unless it is worth taking a long time to say, and to listen to. "- Treebeard (From Tolkien's The Two Towers)

Tuesday was a sad day on the golf course.  For once, it wasn't because of my poor abilities at ball striking and putting.  The sadness came from witnessing, up close, the devastation caused by the storm that moved through our area last Friday night.  High winds approaching 100 miles per hour left many, many casualties.  The casualties I saw today were not, fortunately, human ones.  Still, one could not help but be filled with profound sadness upon seeing the destruction of so many large, old and venerable trees.

During our round of golf, we came across four enormous trees that were totally uprooted in the storm, and literally countless others that were split or severely damaged, with huge limbs being severed from the trunk, now laying lifelessly on the ground below.  

Photo by Pat Karpinski

Most of us have been confronted with the loss of plants, shrubbery (or in my case just about anything I have tried to grow in my garden this summer) and other flora.  Losing our greenery to disease, drought, weather or incompetence is frustrating for sure.  But typically these emotions are not comparable to what we feel at the loss of a large old tree.  These are beings that have been around for years--before our time, before the time of our houses and dwellings.  Many pre-dated the shopping malls, wide, multi-lane paved roads and even the advent of automobiles.  If they could talk, the stories they could tell...

I am not a pantheist, but trees, especially the big gnarly ones, are like mystical old souls.  Who among us has not, at some point or other, felt a sort of spiritual connection to a tree? Perhaps it is because of our familiarity with great children's books such as The Giving Tree, or reading about the heroic and wise tree-like Ents in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. Trees aren't always the good guys in literature, such as those grumpy trees who were brought so vividly to life in Frank Baum's The Wizard of Oz--throwing their own apples at Dorothy and her gang.  Still, it never seemed far fetched or ridiculous to read about trees in literature as if they were creatures personified.  

Photo by Pat Karpinski

As a child, I spent many hours in trees.  I was a climber, as were many of my childhood pals. We had an enormous old apple tree abutting our home that I used to love to climb and hide in--it was too large to access from the ground, so I had to climb out of the second story window, onto a little roof and then onto the tree.  The thick foliage kept me hidden, and I could observe, without being observed, what was happening below me.  My tree was a friend--not a peer, but more like an older, wiser companion, who was about the business of protecting, shielding and sheltering me.  I spent hours alone sitting in trees, and yet, it was never a lonely experience.  There was something comforting about perching on my favorite branch of my favorite tree.  It was an experience of solitude that was good and safe.

Photo by Pat Karpinski

The golf course felt strange and disordered today, with so many of its guardians altered or felled.  It was an alien place.  Even the wildlife seemed confused by it all.  We witnessed two enormous hawks close up--one hopping agitatedly from one very low branch to another on a very damaged tree, and the other, perhaps its mate, walking on the ground as if he or she was looking for something--perhaps a nest? Or a favorite roosting place, if hawks can have such a thing.  How many nests were destroyed?  How many creatures were confused at the sudden loss of their homes?

Some of the trees destroyed in this storm had survived, doubtless, for hundreds of years. Obviously, new trees can be planted, but none of us will be here to see them achieve the venerable old age and status of those trees who, as if accepting that their time was at an end, released their hold on the soil and on life, and slowly and majestically toppled to the earth.

Photo by Pat Karpinski

Photo by Pat Karpinski

Photo by Pat Karpinski

 

Someone PLEASE...STOP THE MADNESS!

Does anyone remember that freaky blonde who did those weight loss infomercials and used to yell "Stop the MADNESS!"  I've been yelling that for at least two weeks now inside of my head.


Every day, when I walk to my office, I pray that I will not see the machinery and equipment outside my building; the absence of which might signal the completion of the continuous work being done there.  Apparently, they are sandblasting the brick.  Apparently, this is work that cannot be done quietly. This seemingly critical campus project results in the creation of a bone jarring, continuous loud noise inside of my office--well, at least until 3:30 when they seem to knock off work.  It is beginning to wear on me to the point that I am starting to feel that I have to do violence in order to feel better.


This morning, I had the occasion to chat with the nice lad who seems to be heading up the project.  Politely, I asked him how long he thought this project would take.  Politely, he informed me they would be out there until August 20th.  Wait...WHAT????

  


STOP THE MADNESS!


Perhaps this would be a good time to:
-Pretend to have meetings elsewhere on campus
-Call in sick
-Schedule appointments with doctors, dentists, mammogram people and veterinarians
-Pray to be selected for jury duty Thursday
-Go to the student center and watch daily World Cup Matches
-Hope for a sudden onset of deafness
-Bang my head endlessly against the block wall in my office, hoping to knock myself unconscious
-Wish for an early birthday gift of Bose noise cancelling headphones
-Take vacation time--unfortunately, I do not have enough days to get me to August 20!!!

My Weekend with Zipster

Despite the fact that a huge and damaging storm roared through here on Friday evening, we had a great weekend.  About mid-morning on Friday, I decided there just wasn't enough work to do and the day was way too beautiful to waste.  It has rained too much this summer, and I started thinking I didn't want to squander what was turning out to be a gorgeous day by sitting in my office watching and listening to the guys work on the outside of our building.  So, I took off at noon, and headed home to get the dog.

Nothing big, nothing exciting; well, unless you're Zip.  Zip hears the word "go" and he loses control.  Sentences such as "Do you want to go for a walk?", or, "Do you want to go for a ride in the car", or "Do you want to walk out with me to throw out the garbage" are the cause for lots of butt wagging.

I don't care what you say, dogs have a bigger vocabulary than we give them credit for, and I can testify that the sentence "Do you want to go to swimming?" or "Do you want to go to the big lake?" cause even bigger butt wagging and some whining as well.  I swear he knows what I'm saying.  Friday, I asked him if he wanted to go to the big lake.  Of course, he said yes.

The afternoon was picture-perfect, especially at Lake Michigan.  The photos are actually from our day Sunday at Lake Michigan--Friday, we swam like crazy, and I didn't want to bring my camera/phone along.  I'm just looking for an excuse to post more photos of Zip at the lake.

The only bad part about Friday was coming home and watching a horrific storm roll through the area, which downed huge trees, and deprived people of power for two days or more.  And then, unfortunately, I made a late trip to my mailbox Friday night to find that I am ORDERED to report for jury duty on Thursday.  Yippee kay ay.  Still, I wasn't going to let that stuff spoil my weekend.  Summer is speeding by too fast for my tastes. We have to grab the gusto.

Zip was a bit exhausted on Saturday, from both the day at the Lake and the terror of living through the big storm the night before.  So I just gave him his normal walk, and let him rest.  I, however, went swimming at the pool.  It's a rough life, but I am forced to live it.

On Sunday, I realized that the weekend was coming to an end, so I opted not to sit around waiting for Monday to arrive.  Yes, I should have ironed some clothes for work and done some stuff around the "house", but, frankly, life is too short.

Sunday was Father's Day, and Zip and I drove to Grand Rapids (actually, I drove and he rode in the back seat), to spend a few moments at the cemetery. It was my hope to stop at Lake Michigan, at Hagar Shores on the way back.  The drive up was gloomy and overcast and, passing along the lake my temperature gauge said 69 degrees.  This June day did not look very promising, and so I was attempting to break the news to Zip that we might not be going to the lake on the return trip.  His vocabulary is great for a dog, but it's not as if he's a dictionary.  He didn't have a clue.  Fate did end up smiling on us.  On the drive home, I could see the clouds breaking up to the west.  The temps were barely 70, but by the time we reached the shores, it was actually a beautiful day.  Zip loves the big lake, almost as much as he loves marrow bone and pupperoni treats, chewing his paw, and rubbing his butt on the carpet.  Check out the video proof:
A view of Lake Michigan
Zip at the Big Lake (turn down your sound, I'm screaming!)

We arrived back home around 6.  Zip promptly went off to nap in the sun beam and I went off to play nine holes of golf.  3 pars, a birdie and 3 disasters.  I was on my way to record golfing, but then I started thinking about it, and proceeded to lose a few balls in the water, scoring the dreaded double, triple and who knows what bogies.  It was Juday Creek after all.  I wish to heck they'd drain those lakes--I'm not out there to look at pretty.  I want good golf scores.  Still, it's better than work, and much better than watching it snow!

We had a great weekend, despite the storm, and despite the fact that it's now over.  Here's hoping for a few more of those this summer.

Father's Day and My Pop

I realize that not everyone shares my attitudes, but I would imagine most people who have lost their parents find the following days somewhat difficult:  Christmas, Thanksgiving, Mother's Day and Father's Day.  The truth is that, since my parents have passed on, I find many more days difficult, because it seems impossible to get through an entire day without recalling, sometimes quite painfully and emotionally, the fact that they are no longer here.  Perhaps that's because we are taught to believe that, with the passage of time, naturally comes the passage of grief; only to find that while the grief takes on a different character, it never really goes away.  Or maybe this is the lot of children who don't have spouses or children of their own to turn to, since, in losing parents, we also lose what we always have referred to as our "home".  Instead of "going home to Grand Rapids," my home has become a rented apartment in Mishawaka, and it's a very poor substitute.  I can only speak to my own experience about this, but it really seems to be true that one's home is where one's family is.

Father's Day is upon us, and I find myself wishing I had before me the task of shopping for a card and a present for my own father.  It was never hard to buy something for dad.  What he really coveted was my Notre Dame key chain, which was a gift from Lou Holtz and had his signature engraved on it.  (Oddly, I lost track of that key chain around the time my father passed away, and, I must admit, I am suspicious of foul play--he was always lifting it from my keyring).  After I took my job at Notre Dame, my dad became a huge fan of the team, but more than that, of Lou Holtz.  As was typical of my father, he would never admit to it, and was always dissing Lou and the Irish.  That was just his way though--he never meant it.  Growing up, we had a dog whom I adored, and dad was always calling him names (some real bad and naughty names!) and acting as if he didn't like the dog, but it was all in jest, because I think my father cried the hardest when Tuffy died.  The day the Irish Football team lost to Boston College, a mere week after beating Florida State and rising to number one in the polls, I realized how much my dad loved the Fightin' Irish.  My parents came down for the game, and, afterwards, the mood in my rooms at Breen Phillips Hall was funereal--or worse, if there is such a thing.  Nothing would cheer him up.  I don't know if I ever saw him so depressed.  He was beyond all consolation and I found myself feeling more miserable about my father's reaction than about that horrific loss.

Because I knew he secretly loved the Irish, for Father's Day, I usually gave him some Notre Dame memorabilia.  The sweatshirt he has on in the above photo is one such example.  And he always wore them.  He never wore the tie I gave him, but that's because he possessed really great taste in clothes and shoes, and, when I purchased that tie, I was far too young to have any taste.  I'm relatively certain that it must have been hideous and incredibly cheap.  Even though my father was kind and generous, especially with me, there were just some things he couldn't do, and wearing a tacky and ugly piece of clothing was probably beyond his sartorial ethic.

My father handed down several things to his youngest child and only daughter:  a love of dogs, a love of the crap table, a love of beer and scotch, a strong desire and penchant to spend beyond my means, and a fondness for "colorful" language, oh, and my life's motto:  "just have fun".  I think I also inherited his somewhat sudden temper and his dysplastic hips.  Dad was a bit of a rogue, all the more reason for me to look up to him.  My mother would often say, with a sigh, "You're just like your father."  This was usually after admitting to having lost the rent money at the crap table in Laughlin, or after watching me come home with a six pack of some premium beer, popping the cap on one, and announcing "it has to be noon somewhere."  This, by far, is the favorite phrase I inherited from my father.  I saw a t-shirt like that a few weeks back.  I wish I had purchased it.

Truthfully, there was much to admire about dad.  He was a self-made man.  He never graduated from high school, yet he taught himself an amazing amount, especially about do-it-yourself home repair.  I don't know that he ever, ever called in a pro. Dad taught himself how to wallpaper, and, in his first such project, employed much of that colorful language I referred to earlier.  The problem was that he was a perfectionist.  You would never see a ragged edge or a crooked line.  When he was finished, after much cursing, it was done perfectly and beautifully.  In an odd way, despite his lack of patience, he was patient.  He stuck with it until it was done right.  I did NOT inherit any patience whatsoever from either him or my mother.

I remember well the time he decided that my mother spent too much time in the kitchen; so he purchased a dishwasher for the house and opted to install it himself.  This was before the time that dishwashers were standard equipment in most kitchens.  Again, the house was filled with a lot of interesting words--some were actually new to me.  But, he never gave up and, in the end, the dishwasher was installed properly; however, it took him awhile to convince my mother she had to use it.  She was worried about wasting hot water.  After his trying ordeal of installing it, he was a bit more than exasperated with this attitude, and finally convinced mom to make the dishwasher a part of her life, although she insisted on pretty much hand washing the dishes before she placed them into the newly installed machine.  Dad painted like a pro too, and, when he ran out of things to do in the house, cleaned out the closets and painted the insides of them.  Plumbing was a snap for him, and I don't think he liked anything as much as going to the hardware store.  Impressively, he learned all about electrical wiring, and seemed to go about it properly and safely.  But, I think what my father was most known for was his perfectly manicured lawn.

We had the greenest, most pristine, lushest lawn on the street--complete with a very expensive automatic underground sprinkling system.  When giving directions to friends, I would often tell them that we lived in the house with the gorgeous yard and they had no problem finding it.  Dad got into mowing it in a crisscross pattern, making it look so soft and beautiful that you would want to go and lay down on it.  That was probably not allowed, but nevertheless, the temptation was there.  I remember the day his beloved Golden Retriever, Bumper, went out into the front yard and urinated on the grass.  I thought my father was going to have a stroke.  He became apoplectic.  He wasn't actually yelling at Bumper, because he was too stunned to accept that anyone, even a dog, could defile his yard.  He ran to get the hose and washed it down immediately, and more thoroughly than probably was necessary.  He then taught Bumper to never do that again; and, I might add, he was successful in that.  Bumper was devoted to Dad, and seemed to know what he was saying.  Crazy, I know, but the dog knew to go only in the back yard after that.  We kids, of course, never dared go potty on the lawn.

When I think of my dad, or "Pop" as I called him, I remember him as being  very cool.  I probably am revealing no secret when I say that I think I may have been dad's favorite.  I inherited that title merely by being the only girl.  Dad was of the old school, and, in his view, the girl needed more care and attention than the boys.   Therefore, he never left me without stuffing money in my hand.  We went to some pretty swanky places to eat when I was in college, and they were living in New Orleans--he would meet me in the French Quarter and we would go eat at Brennan's or, on occasion, Ruth's Chris, or we'd go to Acme's for several  dozen oysters, and then he would order me "Don't tell your mother."  This is because all of these places had too high a price tag, but (see above) that didn't stop dad from going, and I was certainly happy to tag along.  He had great taste in everything, and certainly loved fine dining.  And now, so do I.

My dad used to like to drive to Detroit on occasion to go to the horse races during the summer--DRC or Hazel Park, and I never turned down an opportunity to go with him.  I learned quite a bit about horse racing, odds and jockeys back in those days, and was instructed about his firm belief to "never bet the gray horse".  It seemed silly and superstitious to me, and, therefore, I always betted the gray horse.  And I always lost.  Still do.  Fortunately, while I do enjoy horse racing, I didn't take to it as I did to the crap table.  Dad's advice on the crap table:  when the dice go cold, walk away.  It doesn't seem logical to me that dice can go cold, and often, I ignore that advice, which causes me to lose my rent money at the crap table (see above).

I had a lot of fun with my dad, and have not really met anyone else with whom I can share my appreciation for some of things mentioned here in this blog.  He was gruff, but funny, and, really, his gruffness was just a front.  In retirement, he ended up driving a school bus for kids.  The kids loved him, as they could see through that tough exterior in an instant.  The truth is, especially in his later years, he would go to extremes to help us out if we needed it.  It was a very different relationship than the one I had with mom.  With mom, you always knew what she thought--she said it.  If she didn't like what you were doing, she told you, and there seemed to be much to dislike about some of my behavior, especially regarding the frivolous expenditure of money.  I teased her about nagging--but she was just being a mother.  My father was often silent in such discussions.  He certainly had opinions about the decisions we made as adults, but he took the tack that, in the end, we had to make our own decisions, and he didn't think it was right to meddle.  On the few occasions where he would express an opinion, one would definitely take note.

He was, without a doubt though, the disciplinarian in the house.  "Wait until you father comes home" was not a phrase restricted to television sitcoms of the day.  I heard it in our house, a bit too often for my tastes.  After my mother discovered whatever dastardly deed we had committed, she would utter that phrase, striking fear in my little young heart.  Dad had a trick that instilled absolute terror in me and, I suspect, my brothers.  After arriving home and being told the horrific tales of our childhood misbehaviors, he would start up the steps (our bedrooms were upstairs), and, removing his belt, would actually snap it.  With each snap of that belt, getting closer and closer, my heart would beat faster, and the tremors would begin. Clever child that I was, I always hid in the same place--under my bed.  Dad was smart, but really, did one need to be a genius in order to find me?  At any rate, I was never injured but I think the tactic was quite successful in making me reflect upon my bad behavior.

It is interesting that, in these blogs, I appear to have sanctified my mother (who truly was a saint) and painted my father as somewhat less than saintly.  Well, dad wasn't exactly a saint, but my mother did, in later years, lead him into the light.  But he was, in fact, a very good man who taught me a lot about life (and playing craps) and, in my opinion, was also a very good father to me.  Mom was the sensitive parent.  She was patient, kind, and almost never raised her voice.  Dad was the stern one, and while he wasn't really very patient and had no concerns about raising his voice, especially when we were young, he was kind.  He helped me out of more jams that I care to count.  He helped me buy my first (and second and third) cars, and assisted me through some very major decisions with his quiet reason during my young adult life.  The times I had my minor surgeries--knee and tonsils (hey, I had them taken out as an adult, and it really hurt) he was there for me--in New Orleans and South Bend respectively.  And, I remember him well during my childhood illnesses.  One of my earliest memories of him centers around a time I was sick in bed, probably with the flu. Dad came home from work that day, bringing me the book Puss and Boots and a big bottle of Tahitian Treat.  To this day, that is my favorite childhood book--which I made him read me numerous times, until I could recite it too, even though I could not yet read.  And, despite the calories and sugar, I would love to down a big glass of Tahitian Treat for old time's sake.  The first time he brought it to me, it seemed so exotic.  I have not had it for years, but I will still say it's my favorite soft drink, and whenever I see it on the store shelves, I am filled with a very deep and bittersweet sense of nostalgia.  My parents, with their varying strengths and differences, complimented each other quite well, and I was grateful he was my dad.  I miss him very much.

So today, on Father's Day, I find myself wishing that I could somehow reach out to him, send him a silly card and a gift--even if it be an ugly tie, and wish him a happy day.  To those of you fortunate enough to still have your father, make sure you contact him.  Believe me, when he is gone, you will wish you had spent more time with him, and, of course, it is time that you cannot ever recapture.  I never realized, when he was here with me, how deeply I would be affected by the void created by his departure.

Happy Father's Day Pop.

Oh the Competence that Reigns!

These are photos of what is currently happening right outside of my office. "It" has been going on for about two weeks now.  I say "it" because none of us has the slightest clue what these guys are doing, but one thing is certain:  they are not doing it quietly.

Two days ago, heavy thunderstorms were moving it.  I went home for lunch, collected my fearful little dog, and, as I can often do during the quiet summers, brought him back to work with me, because I knew he would be terrified with the thunder.  This turned out to be a serious error in judgment.  One of these guys was right outside of my window, and, for two solid hours, used something that sounded for all the world like an over-amplified dentist's drill.  My dog was beside himself.  Needless to say, I was also on my very last nerve as well.

Not only is the noise never-ending and about to send me right over the edge, but, today, a new, cool thing happened:

Yes, that is the inside of my office window.  They are using a high-pressure water sprayer to do whatever it is they're doing.  OH, and LOOK!  My windows, which clearly aren't sealed very well (perhaps explaining why it is often about 17 degrees in my office in the winter and about 105 in the summer), are leaking!  Gee!  It's peeling the paint right off the wall, and goody, it's dripping down onto my desk!

I went out to inform them of this.  Guess what?  They looked at me as if I was speaking a foriegn language.  And then they turned the pressure sprayer back on. 

Well, I was hoping to get my office painted, and maybe now (doubtful), it will be approved.  Keep dousing me with water boys!

Medical Procedures Can Be Fun

This morning, I was scheduled to have an MRI.  I swore to myself I would not blog about this, because, quite frankly, I know that the only thing to be achieved by droning on and on about medical procedures such as this is to bore the pants off of the few readers that I have managed to snag.  However, I'm relatively certain that ship has already sailed.  Today was a slightly traumatic experience, and, as the way I tend to deal with my inner feelings is to write about them, I am going to detail the trials and travails of my morning at the St. Joseph Medical Center and Hospital in Mishawaka.  So, you can heed this warning and stop right here, or risk utter boredom and read on.  The choice is yours.

First I have to go back to an earlier time, when I had a CT scan with contrast dye, maybe 6 years ago.  As I was lying on the table, I asked the technician if there was a cat anywhere in the room.  He laughed, thinking I was making some sort of joke, and asked why I posed such a silly question.  It was merely because my eyes were itching profusely and I was breaking out in hives on my face.  As soon as I told him that, all sorts of serious and frightening commotion ensued, resulting in the doctor being brought in to the room.  I was immediately pumped up with Benadryl and then they proceeded to stare at me for about 45 minutes.  It was an hour before they finally agreed to let me leave, with the very stern command that I always remember to tell them down the line that I have an allergy to contrast dye; because, as the doctor said verrrrrry seriously, "It only gets worse the next time."

Well, I didn't worry, thinking that, as a perfect specimen of health, contrast dye was not going to play prominently, or at all, in my medical future.  As is often the case with me, I was wrong.

As I seem to have this unremitting joint pain, my doctor chose to prescribe an MRI with contrast dye for my hips.  Remembering that I promised, upon pain of death, to admit to my contrast dye allergy, I obediently informed him of this fact.  He was unconcerned.  Paraphrasing him, he said "we'll just pump you up with drugs."

I admit to being somewhat afraid of this procedure.  I envisioned going into anaphylactic shock there on the table, and then going into some sort of cardiac arrest and then, floating above my body while they phoned my emergency contact persons to inform them that there was some "bad news."  But the constant pain forced me to go for the procedure in hopes of some sort of solution and relief.

MRIs are miserable things, and anyone who has ever had one knows this--with the exception of the time I had the "open" MRI--that was a snap and I think that the medical profession should quit utilizing MRI machines that were manufactured in Medieval times and resort to using the open MRI.  My physician tried to prescribe Xanax or some other tranquilizer so I wouldn't freak out beyond control when I was rolled into the tube of suffocation and ultimate death.  I am, admittedly, severely claustrophobic--a condition I attribute to my brother Jody (he is so tried of hearing this) who, when we were children, enjoyed locking me in dark closets and also putting a pillow over my face in an attempt to smother me.  However, since I knew I was going into the tube of suffocation and death feet first, and because I didn't want to find a "driver" (required if you take the tranquilizers), I opted to forego that particular drug and hoped I would just be lucky.

Nobody, and I mean nobody had discussed with me the procedure of getting that contrast dye into my hip.  I was sort of hoping I would drink something. With the CT scan, I think it went in through an IV.  I don't remember it being particularly stressful.  So, as we were walking into the hospital, the MRI lady (they will, heretofore be referred to as MRI ladies or men, or Radiology ladies or men since I don't know their proper titles) asked me if anyone had discussed the process of inserting the dye.  This sounded ominous.  Clearly, it can't be a good thing if a procedure merits such serious discussion beforehand.  She then explained that first they would inject a deadening agent into my hip.  Now I knew this wasn't good.  The word "injection" sends chills up and down my spine to begin with.  If a deadening agent has to be injected in (something that is going to hurt to begin with), then whatever comes behind it has to really suck.

Nevertheless, she cheerfully dumped me at the Radiology place, where a radiology woman explained in gory detail exactly what they were going to do, which was to first stick a big-assed needle in my groin in order to shoot in some drugs that will help me to not scream so loudly when they stick in the bigger-assed needle.

What happened next should not be surprising.  It explains why hospitals often cut off the wrong arm or leg.  I find it amazing how you are asked the same questions no less than 20 times by 20 different personnel, and yet, the information never seems to find its way to the person who matters and needs to know.  The Radiology doctor guy comes in and explains that, since I'm allergic to iodine, they can't give me that particular contrast dye,  The stuff they can give me; however, only works in about 80% of cases.  He explained that he would rather give me the iodine, but in order to do that,  he would have to give me Prednisone and Benadryl to counteract the allergy.  I looked at him in a very confused manner, as I had been taking both of them since the day before--as prescribed by my physician in order to allow me to have the iodine contrast dye.!!!  When I told him that he said, "That's not anywhere in your records."  It's just frightening, isn't it???

OK, so who wouldn't be slightly terrified by this?  It was a HUGE deal.  My physician's office went back and forth with hospital personnel the week before, deciding on what dosages to prescribe and what time they needed to be taken.  This took 3 or 4 hours and 4 different calls to each other to sort that out.  And yet, nobody thought to inform the guy who was actually going to shoot that crap in me???? Geez, I don't even know what to say about that.

Anyways, this procedure was, in a word, traumatic.  The "deadening agent" needle made me jump off the table.  The thing was rammed into my groin area.  And, imagine my reaction upon hearing that this first injection was "just a little pinch."  I have to admit to being a bit of a coward, especially where needles are concerned, but go ahead and ram a needle into that area on your body and then come back and tell me it doesn't hurt.

I then made the mistake of opening my eyes, just in time to see the Radiology Doctor guy take out something that looked very similar in size and shape to a jousting lance.  Grabbing it by the hilt with both hands, he then thrust it down, deep into my hip.  I practically leapt of the table--almost hitting the ceiling.  As he then took both hands and twisted the lance around inside me (I could feel it against my bone), and sternly admonished me that it was very important not to move.  Are you KIDDING me????  Not only was the pain intense (making me wonder why they bother wasting time with the "deadening agent"), but the feeling of some massive steel blade deep inside your hip, in a place your body knows nothing like that belongs, is indescribable and, I might add, something I never, ever want to endure again.

Telling me one more time that I can't move, he wriggled the blade around a bit more, made the horrific mistake of saying "we're almost done, only two more minutes" (as if two minutes didn't seem like an eternity at that point!) and then, began to pull it out--twisting it in a million circles, I'm sure, as he did so.  I was brave though, and, after about an hour, the trembling and crying ceased.

I really thought that, next to that, the MRI itself was going to be a piece of cake.  The Radiology woman person wheeled me, half naked, back to the medical building, so I could get inside the metal tube of death and have magnetic pictures of my hips taken.

Actually, going in feet first, and being tall, my head was right at the end of the tube--still inside, but right where it opens up and becomes wider, so I didn't really suffer any claustrophobia.  The worst part is that you aren't allowed to move, or it will just mess up the quality of the photos.  The problem is though, I was there because of pain in my joints--pain that is amplified by lying on my back and not moving for long periods of time.

I was asked what music I wanted to listen to for the duration of this trial.  From previous experience, I knew it was a waste of time to request classical music, because it is just drowned out by the loud noise created by the MRI machine.  Knowing they had Sirious Radio, I asked for channel 7--sounds of the 70s, and then prayed for Donna Summer.

I did ok for the first 10-15 minutes of this procedure, but the pain and ache in my hips and back soon set in.  I started wincing.  Then I started groaning.  Then I started praying.  And, just at the time I thought that this procedure needed to be at an end, the song "Fool if you think it's Over" came on.  I was there at least another 20 minutes trying not to move, and, quite literally, in agony.  The gaping wound left by the jousting lance injection was throbbing, and my joints were screaming out, saying "MOVE US!!!"

Well, as you must guess, it finally did end.  By that time, I was frozen into place, and the MRI people had to literally push me up and off the thing.  Rigor mortis had apparently set in and I had to be unfolded and helped up like an old person.

I sit here this evening, exhausted and aching, but being totally glad the ordeal is over.  It is important to say that, despite the unpleasantness of it all (now there's a mild word for it), the staff of professionals that assisted in these procedures were all kind and, despite my words above, as gentle as possible in dealing with me.  There's no possible way to make these sort of things fun or enjoyable--they're not meant to be.  All I can hope for is a solution so that I can stop moving around like an old woman well before my time.

Chance Encounters with Famous People and Some Not So Famous People (with Stock Photos Borrowed from the Internet)

I haven't run across anyone famous lately, and so I don't know what has really moved me to reflect on this topic, except, perhaps, that I recently viewed a photo of Patrick Stewart and was reminded that I have seen him in person on the street, not once, but TWICE!  I am not ashamed to admit that I do enjoy spotting famous people in person, especially those whom I really, really like or admire.  Those who scorn this idea and stick their noses up at those of us who admit to getting a thrill out of chance encounters such as these are either lying to themselves or they're stuck up prigs.  All of us think it's a big deal to see famous people.  Only some of us are willing to admit to it.

 In the case of Patrick Stewart (Captain Jean luc Picard of Star Trek fame), my first sighting of him was probably in about 1996.  I was walking down Oxford Street in London, and he was coming right towards me.  I am not the autograph type, and am the sort of person that believes that the famous folks would much rather not be bothered when out in public; so, other than almost screaming out loud, which was, in all honesty my first impulse, I stopped in shock, crossed the street, ran ahead of him, and then crossed back so I could walk by him again.  I realize this comes close to stalking, but it's not.  In order to describe true stalking, I will detail my second encounter with Patrick Stewart.

First, it's crucial, in understanding this episode (and to not jump to the conclusion that I am a scary psychopath) to realize that I love Patrick Stewart.  I cannot explain why.  The guy is bald and, comparatively, he's old.  But there is something about him--his bearing, his "Englishness" (whatever that means), the way he speaks, and certainly the way he acts that is extremely attractive, at least as far as I'm concerned.

I have seen Patrick Stewart in two plays.  The first was a play called the Masterbuilder, and he was the sole artist on stage.  That, of course, worked quite well for me, as I was able to watch him non-stop for two hours.  It was also an interesting play and, it goes without saying, very well acted.  It was during his run in the second play that I spotted him.

I had tickets to see Patrick Stewart in a play on the same day I ran into him in the street.  He was starring, with Ian McKellan and Simon Callow (NOT Simon Cowell!) in a play called Waiting for Godot.  Oddly, I saw Ian McKellan earlier that day in the nearly the same spot I later saw Patrick Stewart.  McKellan was sitting at a sidewalk table ("my table" in fact) at a nearby restaurant.  I was walking by, noticed him sitting there, and remember thinking to myself "It's a pity that isn't Patrick Stewart."  Later that evening, I showed up to have a meal before the play.   Stewart was walking out of the restaurant, by himself, with a baseball cap pulled low over his face.  He stepped out of the door onto the sidewalk right in front of me, in fact.  Our eyes met briefly.  I'm sure he saw the startled look  of recognition in mine, and in his I saw, well, suspicion and, could it be fear?  He must have wondered if I would recognize him, and then pester and annoy him for an autograph.  Of course I would never do something so very crass.  I did something so much classier:  Instead of walking into the restaurant, which is where I was initially headed, I followed him as he walked up the street.  Nobody recognized him and I was dying to shout to people:  "You just walked past Patrick Stewart!!!"  However, I do note that the Brits seem much calmer about seeing famous people than Americans.  Or maybe that's just Londoners--they're probably used to it.

Regardless of all this, I continued stalking Patrick up the street until he, quite disappointedly, turned into a shop called Spar.  Apparently, he opted not to eat at my restaurant, and was looking for food prior to his performance.  Spar is a little market that also has (vile) pre-prepared sandwiches and other deli food.  When he went into Spar, it was as if my bubble had burst.  How could I idolize someone who would eat at Spar?????  I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, hoping he would burst out of there as a man breaking the surface of the water and gasping for air.  He did not (perhaps he was hiding from me?)  Disillusioned, I turned around and went back to my restaurant to eat.  I still love Patrick Stewart.  However, when he finally does invite me to dine with him, I will have to decline.  His tastes just aren't on par with mine.

By the way, I didn't really enjoy Waiting for Godot as a play.  The actors' performances were beyond stellar, but the play is just sort of strange and depressing as far as I'm concerned.  Still, I was able to watch dear Patrick on stage all evening. 

It seems as if the majority of my encounters with famous people have occurred on the streets of London.  My very first famous sighting of someone famous there was back in 1995, when I was walking out of the building where our London school was then located, on Albemarle St.  There were a couple of quite ritzy art galleries on that street and as I popped out the door, on a very cold winter's day, there, in front of me, stood Joan Collins.  She was hanging on the arm of a beautiful blond boy half her age, and she was decked, literally, from head to toe in enormous fur.  They were looking in the window of the art gallery next door which, at the time, was showcasing MY painting--a Holbein copy of Thomas More.  I was dying to purchase it (I think it was listed at L60,000 or something akin to that.  My memory might be faulty here, but suffice to say it cost a teeny bit more than I had in my bank account). 

Seeing Joan Collins was a thrill.  She was such a glorious bitch in Dynasty!  I ran back into our building, wanting to tell someone--ANYONE. Alas, the place was dead as a doornail and there was absolutely nobody to tell.  I ran back out, but by then, she was gone.  I suspect she saw me, and then saw me dart back inside, with the obvious intention of announcing her presence to the world.  She probably hightailed it out of there at the speed of light with her young toyboy.  Or is it boytoy?  I never really know.  Regardless, I have to say that Joan should give out the name of her plastic surgeon.  Most actresses, in an attempt to stay young, end up looking creepy after their plethora of plastic procedures.  Whoever Joan is going to is a cosmetic surgery god or goddess.  It is definitely money well spent.  It almost doesn't look fake.

Other people I came across on the streets of London include Sarah Jessica Parker, and, in all fairness, she looks much better in person.  She was walking alone down Bond Street one afternoon, loaded with shopping bags.  She had done her hair in such a way that it minimized that sort of horse-faced appearance that she is famous for.  On that very same street, but a different day, I saw George Carlin, also walking alone.  He was much shorter than I expected him to be.  Probably the least famous famous person I saw was Jeff Daniels, walking down Piccadilly Street one day.  I like him because he's from Southern Michigan.

My favorite all time sighting though, is the time I saw Judi Dench.  I LOVE Judi Dench.  I will watch her in anything and I don't care how bad the reviews are.  Dame Judi was starring in a Noel Coward Play called Hayfever, and it was at the Haymarket Theatre.  The back stage door of the Haymarket exits onto the little alley where the front door to our London Centre building is located.  Leaving there late one night, I saw a little crowd of people gathered around the backstage door and I almost wet myself when I realized that they were waiting for Judi Dench to exit.  I walked down there, but never crossed over the street.  After all, I just wanted to see her.  I have a sort of fear of actually meeting my famous heroes because I am afraid that they might be jerks and then I will be disillusioned for life.  This happened on several occasions when I worked the senior PGA tour in Indianapolis (but NOT with Arnie Palmer--he was a star!)  Judi finally exited, signed every autograph, and politely spoke to the small crowd.  She entered into the back of a waiting car and as they drove off, she WAVED to me.  Sigh...I love her.  I should edit that last line out since it is repetitive and one should never say the same thing twice in a paragraph, but it's true.  She is awesome.

I saw Dame Maggie Smith one evening at that very same place.  Coming back to the London Centre from a concert with my friend and her young grandson, I noted a small crowd out back and told Fabian, the young boy, that they were more than likely waiting for Maggie Smith who was starring in a play there.  When I told him that she is the actress who plays Professor McGonagall in the Harry Potter movies, he became really excited, and so we wandered over there in hopes of meeting her.  I admired her before, but that night I became a true fan.  She was polite to the people gathered to collect her autograph, but then she turned, looked down and noticed Fabian.  She made a big fuss and said (literally) "OY!  What are you doing out of bed this late on a school night?"  In fact, he was missing a week of school in Wales, having come to London to stay with his grandmother.  She chatted with him for a few moments, and then asked him for something she could autograph. She signed his concert program with both her name and Professor McGonagall's.  The kid was thrilled.  It took her but a minute of kindness but she gave the young boy a great memory.  She's a classy dame.

My closest and longest personal encounter with a famous person was on a 3 hour flight from Phoenix to Chicago.  I was fortunate to be able to upgrade to first class that day; however, when I boarded the plane, there was an enormous man sitting in my seat.  In a very timid voice, I suggested that he was sitting in my seat, and he turned to me and stated that the woman in the window seat (who was elderly and was all wrapped up in a blanket, and already apparently asleep leaning against the window) was sitting in his.  I stood there like a fool.  I was more concerned with my precious first class seat, but I did note something familiar about this gentleman.  The flight attendant came and shuttled the poor woman back to coach seating, and we both sat there feeling like pond scum for having made this poor granny unravel herself from her blankets, and then practically crawl back to the miserable seating in coach.  She clearly had pre-boarded, as she was one of those people who "needed extra time."  As this gi-normous man and I were talking, I noted that as people boarded, they were nodding to him, waving at him and saying hello.  At first, I thought that he must have known other passengers on the plane, but by about the 10th person, I started to realize this guy was "somebody".  I knew I had seen him before, and at first I thought he looked a lot like Charles Barkley, but he was wearing a ballcap and was huge like a football player.  His hands were enormous--I have big hands, so I can say that.  But his hands dwarfed mine and his feet were the size of snow skis.  In fact, I remember thinking at the time that this guy was a freak of nature.

I was considering asking him if he played football.  I was exceedingly glad I kept my mouth closed, because when the flight attendant came around, she referred to him as Mr. Barkley--you know, the basketball player.   She wasn't showing preference--she called me Ms. Hutchinson, so that's just fine.  I didn't recognize him initially, not because I had never seen him.  Sir Charles was, at the time, on television frequently, as a sports commentator.  But he had gained a bit of weight, and therefore did not look the same as he did when I had last viewed him on television. That's fine--I had put on some weight myself, and I'm sure that's why he didn't recognize me. The rest of the flight was uneventful, except he did take my banana from my food tray.  I offered it though (after he asked if I was going to eat it)--it wasn't as if he ripped it off in a sudden fit of low potassium.  And, when we arrived in Chicago, I was taking down my bag from the overhead bin and asked if he wanted me to get his.  He said yes, and when I picked it up, I realized it was made of perhaps the softest leather I had ever felt.  I rested it on my seat, and lovingly ran my hand over it and said "Nice bag, sir."  That's right--I'm full of them--there are many more clever and witty sayings where that one came from.

My least famous encounter of all time, and the one that is most laughable occurred in Grand Rapids at the Festival of the Arts.  I might have barely been in high school and, near the Calder Stage one afternoon, spied Buck Matthews.  Buck was a local weatherman for WOOD TV as it was known at the time.  I went up jokingly (seriously, I WAS joking--I didn't much care for Buck), and asked for his autograph.  His response was:  "I'm sorry, but if I gave you one, everyone else would want one too."  I looked about, and saw absolutely nobody waiting to get Buck's autograph (or even to speak to him).  Hmmm, I think Buck thought he was a bigger deal than, in fact, he was.  I walked away, trying, for politeness' sake, to not smirk and snort Coca Cola through my nose.

In my time, I have come across many other people who are considered famous in one way or another, but the majority of them are well-known because of their academic disciplines, and therefore, people not involved in the world of academia, or in certain disciplines of academia, may not recognize the names.  There is nothing more deflating than saying to someone "GUESS WHO I JUST SAW?" And then, after telling the person, receiving the blank stare of someone who has no idea what you're talking about.

Still, my favorite all-time relationship was with such a famous academic.  And it was my favorite relationship for precisely this reason:  he was extremely well known internationally in his academic discipline of Philosophy, and, on top of that, was equally well-known for his prolific output of fictional writing, and, despite all that, he was genuinely nice, kind, and witty to me every single time we met.  I am talking about Dr. Ralph McInerny.  I think my favorite encounter with Dr. McInerny was when we met coming out of daily Mass one afternoon and he offered to take me to lunch at the Huddle on campus.  I'm sure I sputtered and made an ass out of myself, but I went along, because, frankly, it was about the biggest thrill of my life.  He told me he was buying, as he had just received a big amount of money from the folks who were going to turn his Fr. Dowling mysteries into a television series.  I loved that hour, and learned a lot of very interesting things about him that day.  The most interesting thing I learned is that, until that point, he thought I was a nun.  I forgave him though.  After all, he was buying.

I have a real photo of Ralph, and I'm actually in it, proving that I do really know him.  It is a graduation photo.  Ralph, having garnered his PhD from Laval University in Quebec, was decked out every year in a fabulous academic gown with a luxurious stole made of ermine fur.  I loved his commencement getup and he agreed to pose in a photo with me one year.  I don't show it often, because I look like a bit of a dork in the picture. 

Ralph passed away this year.  When I left work everyday and made the walk across campus to my car, I used to anticipate running into him. I often did meet him in the library and, as he was both famous and too humble to act like it, it was a pretty big highlight for me.  He never, ever acted as if he did not have the time of day to stop, say hello, and have a chat with me.  Alas, I no longer have that to look forward to, as Ralph is with the angels and with far more famous beings that Charles Barkley and, even Patrick Stewart.