SmokeSound

Once, in a moment of realization, a security guard at an airport, recognizing that I was old and tottering, told me that I did not have to remove my shoes as I went through the checkpoint.  Not this time.  You know the drill:  take off your coat, your shoes, your belt, your sense of decency, and empty your pockets into several plastic pans:  wallet, comb, keys, coins, handkerchief--"Do people still carry those, Sir?"--fingernail clipper, little note papers, a pen, belt, phone and phone case, and ear wax.  Oops!  Another dime! I did that.  "Raise your arms and pretend you are Jesus on the cross!"  Sure.  Easy.  "Palms up, Sir!"  "No, turn around and face your plastic bins so you can see that no one is robbing you!" O.K.  I am being cooperative and uncomplaining. I listened to the pre-game instructions:  gloves, back of the hands up my crotch, finger around my pants top, patting my man-boobs, nothing personal, you know:  it is all public,

"When I die, I want to go peacefully, as my grandfather did--in his sleep--not yelling and screaming like the passengers in his car." I ought, but I am incapable of enough shame, to apologize for the nature of that anonymous quote.  While I have nearly always been incapable of remembering people's names, I find that I wobble my way through the difficult times remembering things I ought not to say aloud.  I did not, in this case--this case being the death of my first wife--probably because the quote was not apropos, and everyone knows that. We met in Decorah, Iowa, where we had last lived together, at the house where we had lived together, now alive with Margaret's daughter, and son-in-law, and grandchildren.  Other children came, with some of their children. The younger called themselves, appropriately, "cousins".  They gathered like spokes around their grandmother, on the wheel of life and, as they should, lamented their commonalities and celebra

 It is my ethical duty to report what we already know:  women are much better at being decent human beings than men are. When Mari was to be discharged from the hospital and sent home to be cared for by her . . . her . . . good intentioned but hampered husband, Patti, who is a nurse, called and said, "Just say the word and I will be on the next plane." Mari said the word before Patti got to the, "and I will be on the next plane" part.  It is not that Patti was unrewarded for her generosity.  We arranged for there to be buzzards and a snake, generations of javelinas, and cacti everywhere. "You are welcome," Patti said. And then she gave Mari a back rub.  It was almost too much of a good thing.  When Mari smiled sweetly at me, I recognized the message:  "You don't get it, do you?" We sent Patti home when she said she thought the suckling javelina could probably use a back rub. Love is a javelina  back rub.  

Patti is here from Minneapolis,  purportedly to help Mari ease into the ordinaries of Life Beyond a Gall Bladder but, so far as I can determine, the two of them are on a secret mission to restore the English language to a position of pre-eminence in our culture. We will never achieve national greatness again until, as Sarah Palin reminds us,  we start to talk American again. Since we do live in the Sonoran Desert, I thought it only a kindness to impress upon Nurse Patti that there be snakes, so today Buzzard landed across the street and stayed for lunch.   I asked but Mari and Patti said they are not particularly hungry. Buzzard ate alone.

Mari is home from the hospital! About ten minutes ago, we came through the door. About nine minutes ago, she found her cards and letters. About eight minutes ago, she eased into her favorite chair. At this very moment, she is calling to me that she is thirsty, hungry, and that she needs help, but I had to tell her that I am sending a message telling everyone how well she is doing, so she will have to wait. My own completely objective assessment is that she is much, much better than even yesterday, and she is starting to get curious about everything that happened to her since last Sunday when she went to the emergency room; not that she has been unaware, but that she has some perspective now on the whole, grand adventure.   She did, of course, leave a very nasty gall bladder at the hospital.

What began last Sunday as a suspicion about an aggressive bowl of chili, or perhaps even food poisoning, turned out to be a very bad gall bladder.  Mari was hospitalized, operated on, and might possibly return home tomorrow (Friday, Sept. 18). It was a really serious operation, as gall bladders measure things; it having already begun to destroy itself and whatever else it could.  The surgeon had a great need to show us detailed pictures, quite possibly because the outcome might not be pretty.  But so far, fairly good. Mari is weak, hurting, and trying to rehabilitate her pulmonary system, but it hurts to breathe deeply.  "Do it, anyway!" everyone tells her. I have not told everyone earlier because she is still too weary to want to take a lot of phone calls, and there are a lot of people who want to do just that!  Tough!, guys.  Later. You may, of course, wish her well any way you please.  

Floyd calling his wife: "You knew they were going to surprise me, didn't you?" Since age 55, a new jersey every year. Floyd's team. The team to beat. Ahhhh! At first, at last. It reads:  "Happy Birthday Floyd" "That old cat is 90?" Carl came to see Floyd. Both became Old Timers in 1999. Does your field have your name on it? Opposing pitcher Back at work at 90. "Man down!  Man down!  Or is that Dan down?" Bat at work at 90. Back at work at 90 mph. "Is Floyd still going strong?  By Neddy Dingo, he is!" Glad to be here! Another great first baseman. Ed remembers, too. After the game. "Let me see:  that was in 1812." For when you need a sport with a cart. Tool for Floyd the Club Statistician His Superman Shirt Add caption The Plaque from the Gang