words of love at the threshold

"Nothing is impossible...if you don't have to do it."

-- Cornelia, a.k.a. my grandmother.

This entry contains excerpts from a letter I wrote in late 2005 to my Grandmother, Cornelia, who at the time was 96 years old and showing signs that she would leave us sometime soon. She died on her 97th birthday in December, 2006.

How can I count the ways in which you’ve been so influential in my life? I’m but one of your many grandchildren (how many? Let’s see: Lois, Clarke, me, Liz, Bobby, Dwyer, Scott, Craig, Hilary, Lori, Philip…and then there are all the great-grandchildren, and then there are the great-great grandchildren….oh my goodness, I’m not sure how many altogether!). All of us have admired your strengths, enjoyed your company and benefited from your seemingly constant cheerful disposition; but I have always seen you as someone to look “up” to, even though you are small in physical stature. In some ways, our lives followed similar paths. At some decision points along the way in my own life, I thought of you, and felt that if you could go through some of the things you did, and maintain such equilibrium, then maybe I could, too.

You have been through many different experiences in life – some difficult, some wonderful, some dreary, some tedious, some unimaginable in both the bad and good senses — and yet you continually retain an unshakeable sense of wonder, joyful anticipation and of course, good humor. I have always admired you for that. I have always wished that I could emulate those qualities in you. I still try, and will always try, because I think our lives are much more fruitful and meaningful when we try, and never give up.

And what about courage? It takes immense fortitude to face the unknown, and yet you do it with aplomb. The cowboys of old who bravely burned trails to the West; the intrepid inventors who built the railroads and flew the first aircraft over vast deserts and wide oceans; the fantastic accomplishments of modern men traveling into outer space; all of these cannot and do not surpass the steadfast resolution of women like you, who lived graciously through a time that I can’t even comprehend.

If I look at your life and the times you have lived through, I realize that you experienced things in radically different ways from my own experiences. You were born into a world where women could not vote; you grew up in a world where women who held jobs were stigmatized; you lived as a teenager during a time that divorce was viewed as something disgraceful, even as your own mother became a divorced, single mother due to circumstances beyond her control; and you held a steady job through decades where women who worked as hard as men in the same jobs were paid far less, with little or no opportunity for advancement. When women did not have nearly as many choices as they do now (or will in the future), you rose above those deterrents and quietly made your way in the world.

Looking back at the vast changes in our society and indeed the whole world during the 20th century, I can’t imagine what it must have been like to live through it all. But you did. Everything seemed to speed up starting about the time when you were born: automobiles replaced horses for ground transportation, and steam turbines powered faster ships across the oceans. Train travel gave way to the aviation industry, which now dominates distance travel in a way I’m sure most people never imagined could happen. Technology development accelerated dramatically, affecting every aspect of people’s lives – especially in industry and medicine. I read that more technological advances occurred in any 10-year period following World War I than the sum total of new technological development in any previous century! After World War I, people learned to live with new terms like “world war” and “nuclear war.” In your lifetime the world moved into an era where the looming prospect of mass destruction by modern weapons is ever present. Mechanization of goods and services, and certainly the advent of global communication also greatly quickened the pace of everyday life – and not always improving life. Every aspect of life in almost every human society changed in some fundamental way during the 20th century, and you were there to see it all and to experience momentous change in your own life.

I think we “youngsters” often forget how important it is to acknowledge what our parents and grandparents lived through, and we certainly are guilty of not remembering that you have a great amount of collected wisdom to pass on to us if we would listen to the words from your heart. If there is one thing I personally regret about our modern life in America, it is our society’s tendency to “hide” our seniors. Instead of focusing on what you can tell us from hard-earned experience, we tend to focus on pursuit of a materialistic and pleasure-filled existence.

What have you told me through the life you lived? I think hard about your life and how it has affected me, and can honestly say that there is much you have taught me, and still teach me, without even knowing it. You have taught me through your own life that I too can rise above my own inherent weaknesses and inadvertent mistakes, and live graciously and with joyful anticipation, no matter what the circumstances. You have taught me that even when you lose someone you dearly love, you can go on, and still enjoy a continued life of investing in those friends and family members that are all around you. You taught me that even when others are seemingly heartless and do hurtful things to you or those you love, you can choose to leave it behind and focus on living a fully satisfying present while anticipating and crafting for yourself a better future.

You still teach me today. Despite the fact that you are slowing down, and your body is weakening, your mind is quick and sharp and your high spirits are intact. I can tell they are because that’s just who you are. I love that about you, and I aspire to be the same way, no matter what my own future holds. This is what I think about when I think of you. And this is what I will always think about when I find myself in similar circumstances to yours – no matter what stage of my life. As I said earlier in this letter, in many ways both our lives followed similar paths. And as I also said, I often think to myself, if you could go through some of the things you did, and maintain such equilibrium, such dignity, such strength, then maybe I could, too.

Thank you for being who you are. Thank you for loving me all my life long, whether you were near or far. Thank you for teaching me through your example that I can choose to be happy no matter what my circumstances are. Thank you for your joyful approach to life, for still being a party girl well into your 90s, and for being adventurous enough to try one of Elliott’s Scarlett O’Hara cocktails! Thank you for passing on to me your blue eyes and your blue blood, and your Irish tenacity. Thank you for your gentleness and your loving heart toward me.

I will visit you soon, and we can laugh together, and trade warm hugs. I look forward to looking into your eyes. Until then, my thoughts are about you and my heart is with you.

All my love,
Your grand daughter,
Jill

911 angel

This is a letter I wrote to the 911 operator who courageously instructed me on how to perform CPR on my dying husband when he suffered sudden cardiac death in 1995. Together, we saved his life. Years later, her own husband, a fire fighter, died in his sleep -- a cruel twist of irony and one that I puzzle over from time to time.

Dear Linda,

Your life's work is helping people. As a dispatcher for the fire department, you are the person responsible for saving lives and property. Because of your experience, training, and calm, assured manner on the phone, 911 callers get the help they need. You and your colleagues are truly heroes of our society.

My husband and I are just two people who have benefited from your quick actions -- actions that once saved his life -- but I know there are thousands of other people like us, who have been aided by you, who haven't thanked you. You may remember that you were the 911 operator who answered my call for help. You instructed me over the phone on how to administer CPR to my dying husband after I found him in full cardiac arrest. The response team you summoned came within a few minutes, used a defibrillator on him, administered oxygen, and packed him off to the hospital. Although he narrowly escaped death, he fully recovered, and that one event changed us both. We are grateful for every day we have together.

We had the pleasure of meeting you several months later, when you and your colleagues were recognized for the quick actions that saved my husband's life. Although we only spent a short time together that day, I have often thought about the ceremony and tour of the dispatching center and fire station, and how impressed we were with your caring, kind, and self-effacing manner. We often think of you and of the team from our local fire station.

You and your colleagues perform heroic deeds as a matter of course in your work. And we, the protected citizens, have come to depend on the fact that you'll always be there for us if we need you. We forget that you are just like us -- a person with a life and a family, someone who experiences pain and necessity, someone who is human and sometimes even vulnerable. I was thinking along those lines when I recently read the newspaper article about a firefighter who died of heart failure. As I progressed through the article, I suddenly realized that this heroic firefighter I was reading about was your husband.

How ironic, how terribly perplexing life's twists and turns can be. My husband and I lingered silently over that article, wondering how we could possibly help. I wish I could have been there for you, like you were for me. I wish there was something I could say or do that would lessen your suffering. I wish I could give you comfort and relieve the pain you must be feeling, but I know that will come only with the passing of time.

We hope you'll continue on with good memories and the knowledge that your husband and you saved many lives and brought joy and relief to strangers in need. We want you to know that we are thinking of your husband's noteworthy, heroic life, and others like him, with grateful hearts. And we think of you. Your life and your wellbeing are important to us. We wish you, a hero in your own right, all good things.

a life worth saving

In 2004, I agreed to help out in the university student affairs department about 10 hours a week during a search for a new director of admissions. Since I spent about five years in a major university's undergraduate admissions office between 1984-1989, the senior administration figured I could help hold down the fort while they busied themselves with a national search. And although 14 years had passed since I had worked in undergraduate admissions, it’s a little eerie how much I seemed to remember about the business of recruiting and enrolling incoming freshmen. After signing on for the interim role of “deputy director,” I made a point of going over to the office and introducing myself to the staff.

Marta was a young woman who worked in what we affectionately referred to as the back room of the admissions office. In the old building, where I worked many years ago, it really was the back room – a tiny niche in the rear portion of an old house that had been converted into office space. Although admissions subsequently occupied a much nicer (and bigger) facility, another, more accurate term for the same work space might be "sweat shop." It’s the place where the really tedious work of filing all applications and support materials is done – none of it automated, all of it by human grunt power.

In the height of the admissions season, working in the sweat shop can be a lot like working in a mine shaft: you come in to work in the dark, and you leave in the dark. During the “season,” which lasts October to May, you suffer hundreds of nasty paper cuts, breathe plenty of paper dust while manually opening thousands of envelopes, experience sore, aching muscles from lifting heavy stacks of loaded folders, and alphabetize so many transcripts and other support materials that you start wondering whether a comes before or after z.

Shortly after I settled into my office in the admissions suite, Marta ventured in to see me. Marta was friendly, albeit a bit shy and rather soft-spoken. I liked Marta’s quiet but straightforward manner. She and I chatted for a while – just about the mundane things people share when they are getting to know one another. She knew, like everyone else in that office, that I was there for only a short term. But she still wanted to get to know me as a person.

That was just before I unexpectedly ended up in the hospital for emergency surgery. I returned to the office briefly afterward – thinking I could carry on as I normally do. Marta was first in my office to welcome me back. She handed me a small diffenbachia plant, which was cradled in a wicker basket, as a token of her wish for me to heal quickly. She had bought it for me while I was recovering at home. I exclaimed over the plant, and told her how much I enjoyed having the greenery in an otherwise bare office. I put the plant in the window and admired its healthy, waxy, multicolored leaves. As it turned out, that was the only day in the space of about a month that I went back into that office. I suffered a relapse, and it was several weeks before I could return to a normal routine. In that space of time, I never once went into the office, and of course I forgot all about the diffenbachia. Meanwhile, it was quietly dying by inches, slowly drying up, turning brown, and ultimately wilting in its sunny place on the windowsill.

Marta knew the plant was there, silently screaming for water, behind my locked door. No one opened up my office for those weeks, and of course Marta didn’t have a key to my office, so she couldn’t rescue the plant. About the third week, she couldn’t bear it any longer, and timidly asked if she could get some help entering my office so she could water the plant. I wasn’t there, of course, but apparently several people became involved in trying to open the door.

Once inside (I don’t know who came up with the key), Marta found the plant where I had placed it. It was nearly dead. Apparently the others in the office did declare it dead. Marta, however, carefully pulled off its withered leaves. She gave it a much-needed watering, and set it back on my windowsill. It had one remaining green leaf – a short, spikey little shoot that hadn’t quite unfurled. But the plant was alive. And, when I arrived back at work the following week, Marta was there to point out that it was indeed alive, but should be tended more carefully in the future. It was a life worth saving.

the fourth dimension

We are in our own universe
Whether or not we dwell in the same space.
Evolving, we write our story
With no introduction
With no final chapter
We continue on to a distant, curved horizon
Beyond which nothing is known.

...the author

I think we develop stories during our lives to help us make sense of what occurs. Sometimes, the stories explain the seemingly unfair. Sometimes, the stories end happily, with an unexpected favorable turn. Other times, the stories culminate with a predictably painful outcome. Rarely, a miracle happens, and what was evil is turned to good.

Our stories are told with meaning in mind. Over the eons, brain evolution gave rise to the conscious state, and we now reason through our meager lifespan. “This thing has meaning.” “We are here for a purpose.” “You have a divine destiny.” “This thing was pre-ordained.” These most often refer to some higher power, some entity that micromanages our every moment.

Do I believe those kinds of stories? Not really, although I was brought up in a religious home, and taught to believe. Believe in God, believe in the Son of God, believe in the Holy Spirit, believe in the Devil and his awful Demons. Believe in Temptation and Sin and perhaps, Forgiveness of Those Sins.

I saved a scrap of paper I tore out of a newspaper some fifteen years ago. I rarely do that – tear up a publication – somehow, it goes against my grain. But I remember how the letter to an editor, titled “Religion” and that I eagerly snipped, rang so true. I remember stopping, pondering. I remember being rooted to my chair as I read it over and over. I still agree with it to this day.

…a great example of human failing is insisting on knowing what nobody really knows, i.e., is there or isn’t there something known as ‘God,’ or ‘gods’? For thousands of years countless societies from the most ancient to the contemporary have tried to credit – or blame – mythical, unprovable beings known as ‘gods’ for the creation and operation of all that is in the universe. Each group arrogantly insists that its myth is the theologically correct myth and all others are false. Millions of people have killed and tortured each other in the name of their various ‘faiths.’ (‘Faith means ‘I believe what I believe because I believe it. No proof or logic is needed.’) ‘Homo sapiens’ we call our species – it means ‘wise men.’ If we really were, we would allow the ‘answer to it all’ to remain a beautiful mystery and thankfully and peacefully enjoy it.

--Walt Hopmans, Santa Barbara resident and writer of poetry, plays, television scripts, and other works, and author of Some Poems and Some Pictures (1989) and Some Zen Zingers (2001).

Comfort arises from belief systems that promise an endless existence. For many years I have knowingly avoided the question of death and the possibility of an afterlife. Mostly because I like too many people who believe in an afterlife, and I didn’t want to offend or hurt them. But even though it’s true that no tangible proof exists to support an afterlife, whether it be as invisible entities or as reincarnated creatures, millions of people still cling to the notion that individuals are transformed at death and their lives are continued in some other state: Life Goes On.

But does it? And more importantly, does my belief that it does – or doesn’t – change whether it does? As Mr. Hopmans so eloquently put it, I choose to let the answer to that question remain a beautiful mystery, and instead thankfully and peacefully enjoy it.

fixin'

I spent two days in southern Louisiana recently, and I have to say, I’m always intrigued by the way people talk in that region of the country. Of course, it’s all a matter of perspective; I don’t have an accent, they do. Singer-songwriter Tom Petty calls it the “southern accent,” others call it the “southern drawl.” No matter the delivery style, I’m most interested in the words Southerners use to describe certain actions.

I boarded an Embraer ERJ-145 Jet bound for Dallas out of Baton Rouge on a stormy Friday evening. With two flight legs and over six hours to reach my destination, I was hoping to relax a little. I had checked the weather earlier in the day and expected clear skies all the way. However, Wunderground must not know about those sudden Dixie Storms. At 4 pm, the sky was clear and it was 90 degrees in Baton Rouge. At 5pm, as I headed for the airport, the rainstorm that had rushed in from nowhere was so heavy, and the clouds were so dark, visibility was down to about 20 feet on the crowded highway.

As I attempted to dry off my soaking shoes and backpack at the airport terminal, the power cycled on and off as if someone with OCD was flipping a light switch up and down, up and down. It was unnerving enough to experience sudden and total darkness in the terminal, followed by equally sudden blinding light. But the most annoying part was the Muzak, which eerily cranked itself up to the highest volume possible over the loudspeaker system, and blared out a string of forgettable tunes like Girl From Ipanema and Tara’s Theme from Gone with the Wind. Peoples’ hair stood on end as the wall of sound slaughtered their eardrums.

Don’t worry. I’m fixin’ to get to the point.

I was ready to use my computer case as a pillow and hope for a wink of sleep in the cold terminal when the power cycled on for the third time. The rattled flight attendant announced our late-arriving flight and insisted that we all charge forward poste-haste and board as quickly as possible so we could “get outta here.” Hey, we were all for that. Just before that dubiously hopeful announcement came, I was fixin’ to call home with the news that I could be later than my scheduled 1:30 am arrival.

We quickly boarded and settled in to the small jet while the pilot and co-pilot repeatedly started up and shut down the engines. As with the black-white-black-white experience of the terminal, we jostled around, fixin’ to settle into our seats as they reset the onboard computers, which had malfunctioned due to the lightning storm.

But the storm was headed east, and we were ostensibly headed west. (I know, I know, Detroit is east of Baton Rouge, but the airline industry likes to show you around the country more than it likes to deliver you direct.) While the crew fiddled with the aircraft electrical systems, a young man seated in front of me called home one last time before takeoff. I couldn’t help but listen, since he was fairly shouting his conversation into the already bleeding ears of his fellow passengers. “Ahm fixin’ to come home,” he said in the most indescribable dialect.

Where had I heard that before? My mind wandered back to college days in East Texas, where some of my friends owned various forms of the classic southern accent. It seemed to me they were always fixin’ to do something. But honestly, I never quite connected with the supposed meaning of fixin’ until today. It seems the term was coined in Texas (Crawford’s George W. loves to sprinkle his own form of English with the occasional fixin’); and apparently its origin links to fixing one’s gaze through a gun sight. Well that figures: the common assumption is that everyone owns a gun in Texas. According to Cathy Frye of the Beaumont Enterprise, the average Texas household probably has at least one firearm, whether it's kept in the bedroom or a shotgun rack. I suspect Michigan runs a close second to Texas. Anyhow, I’d best be fixin’ my sights on other topics before I run amok here.

References
Guns in America, Part III: Texans' close ties with guns foster favorable views, laws, CATHY FRYE © 1997 Beaumont Enterprise

Some possibly interesting reading:
Fixin' To Be Texan (Paperback) by Helen Bryant

The Yankee Chick's Survival Guide to Texas by Sophia Dembling

The Southern Word Homepage (although fixin's not listed, it's still an interesting walk through southern word usage and pronunciation). By Patrick Crispen, University of Alabama class of 1998.

rest

Meeting full of morning
Coffee spills to run
Matters wise the warning
Rest, the leaves undone.

Meeting full of morning
up the door to out
Silver wrist adorning
Rest, we’re all about

Char the drip pan fire
Dog my happy lap
Day forgets the prior
Rest, we dark enwrap

heuristic

So next time you are having difficulty understanding a problem, try drawing a picture (George Pólya, How to Solve It, 1945).

Several years ago I was encourged by a friend to take a life drawing class. For some time, I felt as though I had somehow frozen in place, rather like a large stone suspended inside a slowly-moving glacier. The glacier moved a few inches a year; the stone that was me, suspended in time and space deep within my icy host, seemingly moved not at all. Everything around me, the trapped stone, was slowly moving forward - yet I was unable to perceive the slightest forward motion. My usual way of dealing with stasis -- or stasis due to problem-overload -- was to write. But during that time, I could find no words that would adequately articulate my view of the world.

With all my words essentially off on extended holiday, I figured, ok, try something new. I bought a pad, a few graphite pencils, and I began to draw. For over a year, I went nowhere without a pad and pencil. I spent evenings, weekends, and all my spare moments in between, wordlessly shaping images on paper with my black, smudgy fingers. I lived in this black and white world for maybe a year. But I still couldn't write.

Eventually, it was time to move on from black and white. I decided to try painting my perceptions, so I picked up a paint brush and dipped it in bold, bright acrylics. These new color images begged words, just as a catchy tune begs lyrics. As I painted, my fingers began to remember how to type words. My first attempt to describe what was going on in my mind as I painted images inspired by crystal structures (which are fascinating, let's face it) ended up in an obscure file on my laptop. I unearthed it the other day, dusted it off, and discovered something new. The act of drawing, then painting, had somehow helped me breach the dam. Using crystal structures as metaphor for life, I could methodically strip away all visible layers, and magnify that which makes us who we are. As I painted simple structures at first, then moved to more complex versions that hid human features within the shapes and colors, I rediscovered my writer's voice.

Crystal structures are miniscule building blocks that form basic frameworks for inorganic and organic materials – rocks, metals, polymers, and everything in between. They are symmetrical and asymmetrical, simple and complex. They are also beautiful, better than the best abstract art. They tell one piece of the marvelous story of evolution. My brain works best when it’s acting like an efficient file clerk; organizing everything around me gives me some measure of that elusive feeling of control. No wonder I straighten furniture and pick up clutter when I walk into a room. Doing so gives me strange comfort. What naturally follows is that I should latch on so vigorously to the idea of expressing my need for order by painting crystal structures.


The first few paintings I did were miniatures -- depictions of pyrite, marcasite, talc and other crystal structures such as those from the Kaolinite group (named for its type locality, Kao-Ling, Jianxi, China; a common phyllosilicate mineral) that have these mysteriously wonderful gaps between the molecular layerings. It’s hard to tell why these structures hold together…it’s a bit of magic (like my own life). The most common usage of Kaolinite is in ceramics, porcelain, and as the “gloss” on magazine paper; but also as a filler for paint, rubber and plastics since it is relatively inert and is long lasting.

My fascination with crystal structures has influenced all my paintings. Many are abstract faces, based on a crystal structure theme. I have always been especially drawn to peoples’ eyes, and find great pleasure in doodling the human face and form.

For me, the act of painting is a heuristic path toward words. For now, my words are those water droplets in the poem below, written at a time when I was suffering from writer’s block. Lately, I find myself repeating words and phrases in my head at all times of the day. I awake in the night to the beat of rhythmic word-sounds, whirling and dancing in my sleepy subconscious, like a heady concoction in Jimmy Buffet’s blender. The phrases demand to be poured onto paper, rearranged, and worried into the shape of a story.

Words
Collect at the intersection of inner mind and outer world;
Like water droplets, they soon merge
Flowing into silver strands
Forming rivulets and soon, streams
Then rivers of thought
Teeming with ideas
Overflowing the banks of my narrow existence.
Would that my mind flowed as freely toward the ocean
Of creation as the mightiest river
Charges toward the sea

To see some of my paintings, click here.

duct tape forever

My outbound flight to Washington National sat at the gate an unusually long time before taxiing to the holding area in preparation for take-off. After a good fifteen minutes of silence, the captain announced that we would be delayed a "few more minutes" due to an "equipment malfunction." He said there was a mechanic on the way to the plane and that the problem would likely be fixed shortly. There was a low buzz in the cabin as people conjectured which engine would fall off upon takeoff, or whether the toilet was actively dumping chemical waste into the small bathroom (and beyond) at the back of the plane. I silently decided that we'd likely sit there another half hour while our landing gear was jimmied, only to lose functionality at our destination. I resigned myself to ultimate disaster, as I often do on these flights, and began putting my mental house in order.

Then I noticed what was wrong, although I didn't make the connection to what the captain was talking about right away. One of the overhead storage bins two seats ahead of me and across the aisle was still open, although all the others were shut and locked tight. Just as I was staring at this, wondering why the flight attendants had left it that way, the captain announced that a mechanic had been sent to fix the "malfunctioning overhead bin" in the main cabin.

I thought -- ok, great, we're not losing an engine today. But then I immediately followed that thought with, WHERE IS THE DUCT TAPE. Geez...a whole plane load of people, 30 minutes late for take off, and not a shred of duct tape in sight!!

Just then a burly, big Irish mechanic boarded the plane. He had on a tool belt as big as Texas, complete with drills, measuring tapes, wrenches, a long trail of red and yellow caution tape, and lots of other unidentifiable hardware, all hanging cattywampus from his rather ample derriere. He was sweating profusely -- it was hot both inside and outside the cabin, and the humidity had to be equal to the temperature. Beads of sweat dripped down his red, round cheeks and onto his monogrammed workshirt as he wiggled the bin door up and down, tested the locking mechanism, all the while shaking his head and muttering under his breath. All eyes were on him. No one else spoke. Would the plane be turned around and sent back because NO ONE HAS ANY DUCT TAPE?, I thought.

It was as if our Irish mechanic heard my thoughts. As his left hand held the bin door closed, and his right hand groped around inside his enormous tool belt pocket, a sly smile crept across his big, red face. A barely perceptible titter rippled up and down the passenger rows as he tore off a long strip of silver DUCT TAPE, slapped it on the recalcitrant bin, and then turned to exit the plane. The titter turned to a few guffaws, the guffaws into full scale laughter, with some applauding his efforts. We were on our way.

fire

The word FIRE evokes strong feelings in most people for a good reason as old as the first ancestors of modern humans such as Homo erectus, who used fire as early as some 790,000 years ago: Uncontrolled, it can quickly destroy most everything in its path. We are at once drawn to and repelled from fire's magical dance; we can take only so much heat and light before we must either retreat to a safe and secure watching distance, or snuff it with water, dirt or some other retardant.

Born and raised in earthquake country, I have rarely given fire danger a second thought. Oh yeah, I read the labels on all our electrical appliances, clothing, bedding, and myriad other potentially flammable things we use every day. But beyond that vague consciousness, I don't think about fire. That changed last night.

I was on a business trip, staying in a high rise hotel in a suburb of Washington, DC. The day-long Board meeting I was attending had me feeling the way I always do after sitting for 8 hours straight -- sluggish and irritable. So I jumped at the opportunity to join a couple of my colleagues on a brisk walk along the Potomac. We logged about 4 miles, and I returned to my hotel room about 9 pm to refresh and relax. One hot shower, phone call home and an ice cold drink later, I had myself all tucked in to my overstuffed "Sweet Dreams" hotel bed, mindlessly surfing TV channels and generally enjoying the prolonged endorphin rush that still lingered after the march along the river. By now it was almost 11 pm, and I was definitely headed toward dreamland. I felt good knowing that I would get a decent night's sleep.

As I drifted off, I was vaguely aware of voices in the outer hallway -- those kinds of noises are typical in a large hotel -- and combined with the cacophany of the TV, they worked together to effectively drown out the first few sentences of a sudden and rather startling announcement that came blasting via hidden intercom into the sanctuary of my little room. Like a slo-mo scene in a movie, I watched myself sit up in bed and strain to decipher the message of the disembodied, heavily accented voice. I think the accent was French, but it was so strong and the speech so slurred, I had trouble making out individual words, much less figure out what they meant. I searched for the "mute" button on the remote, couldn't find it amid all the other buttons, so opted to turn off the TV altogether, and waited for a repeat message. I must say this experience was a first for me. I've stayed in hundreds of hotels in the last two decades of constant business travel, and never heard a garbled and alarming message broadcast over a hotel-wide system. I should admit that I thought I detected the words "FIRE" and "STAND BY" in the first message, so the adrenaline had already started pumping into my system. Fire?? Aren't you supposed to leave a building on fire?? Yet the announcer was anything but understandable, so I also wondered whether this was some sort of silly Friday night hoax.

A couple of minutes passsed. The voices in the hallway were louder. Curious and a little rattled, I got out of bed, standing at the door and peeping out the security eye. I couldn't see anyone. The full length closet mirror adjacent to the door reflected my state: a quick glance revealed disheveled hair, rumpled summer nightie, and just a touch of fear in my expression. I slid the mirror door aside and wondered whether I should get dressed.

Meanwhile, the noise out in the hall increased, and I caught sight of my across-the-hall neighbor, a middle aged African American man, dressed in khakis and Hawaiian shirt, standing in the doorway of his room and peering down the hall. I could hear him talking with others in the hall about whether to wait or to take the stairway down to the lobby level of the hotel. Ok, my first confirmation: there might be a fire.

I quickly dressed, threw my purse and laptop over my shoulder, and joined the others in the hallway. Not wanting to seem to anxious, I nonchalantly stood in my doorway, not fully committed to leaving my room, but ready to run at the faintest whiff of telltale smoke. At that point, I got my first glimpse of the other voices in the hall: two African American women, probably in their 40s or 50s, dressed in party clothes. A couple of African American teenage boys, who looked very agitated and were talking to the others in insistent tones. A young Latin couple, maybe in their 20s. One of them addressed me as I emerged from my room. You better get down to the lobby, he said. The fire trucks are on their way and we're supposed to evacuate the building.

Well. That was enough for me, except I immediately thought, ok, who gave that order? So I said, the Frenchman on the loudspeaker in my room said wait until another notice. I didn't hear him say to evacuate the building. But the kid was adamant. Yeah, well -- they changed that. We gotta get down there now. Then one of the women chimed in: You know, they told those folks in the Twin Towers to wait, too. And look what happened to them! With that, the teen opened the door to the back stairway and beckoned me. I turned to see whether the others were following. But nobody was moving, not an inch. Since we were on the 7th floor, taking the stairs was apparently more of a commitment than the others expected to make. In my gut, I just couldn't quite decide to take the initiative and rocket down those stairs. Still, I struggled with that 9/11 comment. But not for long. I'm not usually one to endlessly hash over my options, so when the teen moved away from the stairway, shrugged, and headed for the central stairs, I decided to duck into the back stairway and go down to the first floor to see what was going on.

I was careful to sniff the air on entering the concrete stairwell -- I felt just a little like my Chihuahua, Lusso, who sometimes sniffs the air when he's trying to detect a strange scent. I didn't smell smoke, so I started my descent. Of course I had on the most inappropriate shoes possible -- a pair of floppy, bright green mules with bows and 3 inch heels -- and I noisily clomped all the way down to the floor labeled "1". The only door I could open at that level led to the Ballroom, which looked like it had been hastily abandoned by staff who had been dismantling it after a big dinner event. Tables were half-dressed, linens thrown helter skelter on the floor and chairs, and there wasn't one person in sight. I involuntarily sniffed the air again to make sure I wasn't heading into a roaring fire as I made my way through the table maze. I reached a closed door, and quickly turned the knob and pulled it open. A closet! I didn't hear voices, I didn't see anyone, and I felt a growing sense of alarm. My heart was beating very fast, and I struggled to keep my thoughts under control. Get to an exit, get to an outside door, I kept thinking. A second and third door were also closets -- full of chairs, tables, and linens. I wheeled around and headed toward the opposite side of the football field-sized room, where I saw some closed double doors.

Once through those doors, I rounded a couple of corners and found the main lobby, which was deserted. The next level down was the main entrance to the hotel, so I ran down the final flight of stairs to get to what I knew were the outside doors. Finally, I saw people -- lots of them, milling around, half-dressed, disheveled, and a bit frightened. One lady had big, pink curlers in her hair. An elderly man had a pair of shorts on, and nothing else. His ample belly sagged over the elastic waistband. He looked tired and nervous. Outside the glass entryway were fire trucks, big red ones with flashing lights, and those blessed firemen, all dressed up in their asbestos suits. They were ready to roll, they just needed to find the fire.

So where was the fire? we were all asking that question. Were we supposed to go all the way outside? It was muggy out there, and hot. Inside, we had air conditioning and lights. Taking unlikely comfort in the crowded lobby filled with people I didn't know, I silently watched and listened to others' conversations. How long would we be here? Was there really a fire? Would we be up half the night, and end up displaced? Would the mysterious disembodied Frenchman come back over the PA system and give us some kind of clue as to our fate?

None of those questions were answered. Instead, we milled around, talking, nervously joking. Maybe 20 or 30 minutes passed. Then a couple of hotel guests walked in from outside and started telling people that it was ok to go back to the rooms, that there was no fire, and the non-emergency was now over. Well, who were they, and how did they know that? I wasn't at all assured. I felt very alone in that big crowd. It seemed that everyone else had a friend to talk to except for me. People looked past me, through me, over me, but no one spoke directly to me. Like the others around me, I hesitated to accept the latest message. I waited for further confirmation, but nothing "official" came. Maybe another 20 minutes passed. Then I became a sheep, along with everyone else.

Gradually, we began summoning the elevator cars, boarded them, and headed to the upper floors. At first I thought, how stupid is that! But then I somehow found myself shuffling forward, and ended up in the 5th or 6th group of intrepid elevator riders, not entirely sure about what I was doing, but not willing to camp out in the lobby, which was quickly becoming an empty space. In the end, I went where the others went, mostly to avoid being alone. A total sheep.

Once on the 7th floor, I headed back to my room. There were a few people in the hall, laughing and talking, and their presence made me feel somehow safe. I swiped my room key in the door and entered. The door banged shut behind me. I didn't throw the security bolt this time, mostly because I had had trouble undoing it when I was trying to get out earlier. I wanted a quick escape in case of another warning.

I shuffled toward the bed, dropped my laptop and purse on the floor, and sat down. I was more wired than if I had just consumed a gallon of espresso, and I knew it was going to be a long night. Reluctantly, listening hard to hallway noises, and occasionally sniffing the air, I changed back into my nightie, and climbed into bed. On went the TV. With one eye on the screen and the other on the door, I lay awake in purgatory.

Somewhere around midnight, The Voice returned. We are sorry for the inconvenience ... his delivery slowed, and he enunciated each word, carefully inserting a virtual space in between each one. ... but ... there ... is ... no ... emergency ... at ... this ... time.

AT THIS TIME? I thought. Ok, does that mean in 2 minutes, or 2 hours, there WILL be an emergency? Doors banged afresh in the hall. My hallmates were shouting -- what the #@* does he mean, AT THIS TIME!!?? A younger self would have thrown off the covers, hurriedly dressed and packed, and checked out of the hotel. Years ago, I had the energy and wherewithal to pack up and blow. But ... I was tired. I lay there calculating the odds. And then I turned over, turned off the light, extinguished the TV, and settled in for a long night of sleeplessness.

furtwangler

furt'•wang•ler: a four-footed, furred, weenie-shaped creature with large eyes and manipulative personality. Also: Lusso.

Lusso is a young Chihuahua who became part of our family a little under three years ago. We stand guilty of microchipping him and dressing him in purple sweaters and strange hats during the holidays.


I must add that we have also fallen under his spell and are now trained to respond on command to his every whim. The other night we were sitting at the dinner table, watching him do his begging routine. The guy has it down pat. First, the gentle touch of a tiny paw on your leg. Just one little touch. But then he keeps it up, one little nudge followed by another, until you have to look at him, ostensibly to tell him to stop it. If you fall for the gag and happen to lock in on his intent, buggy-eyed gaze, it's all over. You just find yourself pinching off a piece of chicken or beef or whatever else might be on your plate, and despite a Strangelove-like effort to hold it in check, you watch your hand pop the morsel into his mouth. I've been trying to practice NOT LOOKING and so far, it's not working.

It helps to call out when this routine is about to go down so everyone at the table knows not to be taken in. So we have a code word now. Of course, this new word is like many others we've bestowed upon his wee-ness. So there's one right there. We have called him "weenus" so much, he now answers to it. Shorten it to "ween," and he still comes running. In our house, there is a state of weenus-osity, which is to be generally squirrely, rather like a Chihuahua. We'd just about run the whole weenus gamut when this nouveau appellation, brought on by His Weenus' beggarly ways, arrived unexpectedly. Elliott was the first to say it. "FURTwangler," he said. A weiner-like creature wangling food from hapless diners. Frankenweenus? I asked. No, he said. FURTwangler. He's a furtwangler.

So now I find myself mouthing that word, over and over, while I'm driving, working out at the gym, during meetings, or when I'm waiting in line at the grocery store. Like that maddening jingle you can't escape after unfair exposure to Muzak while taking the elevator to the 40th floor, the furtwangler word is omnipresent.

boomerag 2

That boomer post got me thinking. The baby boomer era was in full swing when I hit the scene. I was born on the 20th day of September, at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Burbank, California. I am told it was a hot, sticky evening. I was a healthy 8 lbs, 14 oz. My mother recalls the hospital nurses exclaiming over my pink, pudgy cheeks. There are no photographs of me as a newborn, so I’m not sure what I looked like, but 8 lbs 14 oz sounds pretty healthy. The attending physician, a Dr. Walker, signed the routine paperwork. The bottom of my foot was dipped in ink and pressed against a small, pink card with my name on the front. After my arrival, I was bundled up and trundled off to the baby ward while my parents worried whether they would be able to afford the $100 hospital bill.

I was born into a world filled with all the fear and anxiety associated with the aftermath of WWII. Harry Truman was President of the United States. The Cold War with the USSR was in full swing; national intelligence was busy estimating Soviet capabilities for clandestine attack against the U.S. with weapons of mass destruction. (Half a century later, that statement has a familiar ring). Perry Como, Rosemary Clooney, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, Mario Lanza, Johnny Ray and Eddie Howard all had hit songs with titles like “Because of You,” “Be My Love,” “Cry,” “Sin,” and “How High the Moon." The first color telecast of a football game on a network occurred that month, and a scientist by the name of Nicholson discovered the 12th moon of Jupiter. The Senate Crime Investigating Committee declared Italy the heroin trafficking center of the world. The United Nations was busy acting as referee between the fledgling Israel and its hostile Arab neighbors. (Some things don't change.) Polio was still a common crippler. Bell Labs was introducing the transistor’s amazing versatility to industry. Herbert Hoover delivered a speech entitled “Men are Equal Before Fish” to the American public – a rather eloquent treatment of the virtues of getting back to nature and calming one’s troubled mind by going fishing. The Korean war was raging. George C. Marshall was serving his last month as Secretary of Defense, retiring just after the United States concluded three important security treaties with the Philippines, Australia and New Zealand, and with Japan. This last pact coincided with the signing of a peace treaty between Japan and 48 other nations, marking the official end of the Pacific phase of WWII. “I Love Lucy,” “The Red Skelton Show,” and the Ed Sullivan Show were the most popular TV shows. Pope Pius XII had just delivered “INGRUENTIUM MALORUM” (On Reciting the Rosary) to Catholicism’s Venerable Brethren, Patriarchs, Primates, Archbishops, Bishops, and other Ordinaries having Peace and Communion with the Apostolic See.

Of course I’m only relating what I’ve been told of that time, being little more than a crying, hungry brainstem. I still cry, I'm still hungry, and my brain? well...

boomerag

Ever think about that word, *boomer* ? The word transmits a feeling forceful expansion - all muscle and sweat and bigness. It has heft. You pucker your lips, open your mouth to form a perfect O, and with the authority of an orator, push the sound out over your tongue. When I say it, I always emphasize the BOOM, with the er a mere ornament, a grace note enhancing the central note.

The word itself is fun to follow. Check out the entry in Wikipedia. Historically, a boomer was a tradesperson in certain American industries like oil or construction. These gave rise to spinoff terms like boom-up (to change jobs, usually with better pay) and boomtown. Today, we nickname serious atheletes Boomer (think football quarterbacks and baseball pitchers). The military can't ever be left out of the fun, so to submariners, a vessel that carries ballistic missiles is a boomer. Then you have your garden variety boomer mushroom, an Australian leaping boomer (aka kangaroo), a mountain beaver boomer, a cartoon strip character boomer, and even a robot boomer.

But my favorite boomernomer happens to be an American demographic category. Soldiers returning home from overseas after World War II (how many bloggers remember that war?) were largely responsible for a giant spike in the nation's head count between 1946 and 1964. The baby boomer generation - really, a generation plus - effectively messed with the conservative (read constrictive) cultural norms of the period. But you knew that.

Why boomernomer drivel as my first posting? Maybe that question will be answered by any blogsniffers willing to deconstruct the whimsical.