Having Neighbors

The weatherman has been forecasting gloom and doom for the last 2 weeks. It's going to snow, no it's going to miss us, snow 4 to 6 inches, no ice only. Well it finally snowed, albeit 10 hours later than they said it would.
I watched my neighbors out snow-blowing their front driveway for a while. David, the son, bundled up like Nanook the Eskimo was pushing their blower around and occasionally dislodging chunks of ice with a stick. What I didn't see was this same David taking his snow-blower around the corner of our house to clear our driveway. My Mom tells me he's done this with every snow fall this year. She said she wishes she knew his phone number so she could call him and thank him. I think I'll make cookies instead. But it occurred to me how blessed we are to have these people in our lives. Nick and Phyllis are country folks right out of the Arkansas hills. They keep us company, share electricity in storms, they take my Mom out to lunch when I'm not around, they used to bring her lunch when she couldn't get out. They cut grass, shovel snow, dig up stumps. David has been known to show up and climb onto our roof to fix storm damage. He comes over when we gather for work like roofing the house. He doesn't ask for anything other than your company. How do you value something like that. The 3 of them truly are in the old fashioned sense, neighbors. Nick and David bailed me out of trouble when I was trying to repair the plumbing in this house. All I'd managed to do was poke a hole through a water pipe. It's hard to explain here but it's not about the things they do, despite my having listed some of them. But it's about who they are. What they believe in, how they live. I'm scatter brained, we all know that, I wish I had a way to tell them how much we appreciate them. In the way of neighbors, they are the KaChing in our live. We hit the jackpot.

Les Paul and John

I've been in DC for a couple of months now taking care of John following hip replacement surgery. Johns recovery has been nothing short of miraculous. He's up and walking with zero pain. I give the guy credit, he's no whiner.
Sunday night we were talking about Les Paul and decided to just go. So we got online to make reservations, called the Iridium Jazz Club for tickets and before you knew it we had the day planned out. Caught a cab to the bus station as 1) I'm scared to drive in NYC and 2)trains and buses were too expensive. So off we went. I rode for 4 hours, John about 15 minutes. I say that cause he slept the whole way waking only at my urging while in the Lincoln tunnel. My records intact. I simply cannot sleep on planes, trains, auto's any kind of moving conveyance.
We got there around 6pm, cabbed it to the hotel and checked in. There are reported to be 20,000 cabbies in NYC and I'm convinced they are all Middle Eastern, have a secret death wish and learned to drive at the CIA. We weaved in and out of traffic, slid sideways through intersections and in general had a great time. Our driver did us proud by rolling down his window to shout at other drivers and flip off a few of them.
We checked in then walked down the street and there was "Manny's Music Store". It's a well known shop and so we went in. At first they didn't pay much attention to us. I asked the worker if he had an Anderson Hollow T atlas something or other. That raised some eyebrows and they took him into this interior room where their expensive guitars are. Hooked John up and let him rip. The guy was impressed. He went over and opened the door so the people outside could hear it too. That was pretty exciting. John played a few more guitars and we left for Times Square to watch the people and lights. We found the Iridium so we'd know where to go later. We ate a burger at McDonald's and were entertained by 2 women having a loud, vulgar, disgusting conversation. The details of which I shall leave to your imagination but I assure you if there were a sale of cuss words these women bought them all.
We got to the Iridium 2 hours early so we could be first in line. We were second. The couple in front of us were from Florida and the girl was wearing a skirt, hose and high heels. I was more than impressed. The building across from us had a marquee showing time and temperature and I watched it like the snake charmer watches his basket. It was 26F most of the time. The doorman told us he'd let us in at 9. The closer it got to 9 the more Wendy, my frozen friend, and I began plotting our strategy for getting in the doors fast. It was painfully cold. Unfortunately the early show ran over and we had to wait it out. That last half hour was a lifetime. When we did finally get in there were already people seated around the room. I was not feeling especially magnanimous at their warm happy faces. I snarled at the waiter and Wendy rallied to the call. We were itching for a fight. By the time the concert started we were back in our happy shoes. It was incredible. Les Paul is 92 years old now but he can still tweak some pretty crazy sounds out of a guitar. We were sitting reasonably close to the front. After a few songs, he invited a singer to join him for a song; then a fellow who had one arm amputated just below the elbow. It was his strumming hand. He had been experimenting with sound and played some riffs for us. It was great. Then he pulled an elastic sock on his stump that had a pick fixed to the end. You'd be amazed at the range this guy could get. He was fun to watch. A saxophonist joined him for a song and then Les started to go back into the scheduled set. The rhytum guitarist, Lou Pollo, spoke up and said well Les we have a guitarist in the audience we'd like to bring up. He's an old friend of ours. So I get John out of his seat and drag him around the club and up on stage. A stagehand takes him to the front where they get him a stool to sit on and a guitar to play. Les asked him what he wanted to play and John said "Honeysuckle Rose" so they launched into it. You could have heard a pin drop. The audience froze. The other musicians were looking at each other and seemed startled. John was oblivious. He was playing guitar and having a blast. His face was radiant, huge grin stretching his mouth. I was so happy for him. When the song ended John started to take off the strap on the guitar and people in the audience started shouting Encore, More More More, they stood up, they clapped and cheered, they wanted John to play. The guys played one more song and then Les wanted to go back to his set. It was late and pretty much the end of his show. He did a few more songs and the evening ended way too soon. Les is gracious and signs autographs so John and I sat around waiting for the line to go down. People were coming over to him and shaking his hand, patting his back and telling him how good he is. John was ecstatic just to be playing with Les Paul, but to get so much praise made him super happy. One fellow even gave me his business card and asked me to email him anytime John was playing cause he wanted to come to every show. The whole night was a kodak moment. Every time I think about it I get goosebumps. John played with Les Paul and it was fabulous.
Lots of people asked me for my email as they had taken great photo's of him. It will be fun to see if anyone remembers to send. One guy is going to mail his on CD cause they're high resolution and we don't want to lose that.
The heater in the hotel gave us fits so I never did really get warm. But the next day we went to Rockefeller Center and walked all around it. I took pictures. We walked around in Central Park then took a carriage ride around part of it. We went to Ray's for some authentic NYC pizza and called it a day. Rode the bus back to DC and got in time to spare. It doesn't get much better than this. Sometimes, he's very romantic. I love it that he's spontaneous. He has to be to live with me. Les Paul. I saw Les Paul play. I saw John play and crack jokes with the audience. He had them eating out of his hand. Les Paul. I am blessed.

Turn off the light and go to bed.

How many times have we heard that shouted at us? It's a part of the night time routine. So I turn off my computer and all the lights in the condo and go to bed. The wierd blip in my routine is that John is still up. He sits in his rocker chuckling softly to something on the internet. I can see his head surrounded by the bluish electronic glow. Other than that, it's completely dark. Since he doesn't see the screen he rarely turns it on. So it's the tiny lights showing power supply or such that illuminate him meaning its very dark in here. Even though I know John is blind, that he always has a black field of vision, it just doesn't connect with me sometimes.
Another disconnect is when I am standing someplace and he is walking towards me. Sometimes I remember to speak so he knows I'm there. Other times I stand there dumbstruck as he walks right into me. Not something I mind doing, but I'm sure he'd rather not get the unexpected thump.
I find strangers do this a lot. John and I get on the elevator freezing the person already in there. Then suddenly they'll scramble wildly trying to stay out of his way. A simple "hello there" would fix the problem, but they seem incapable of speaking out. We call it the deer in the headlights stance. Not just elevators, but everywhere. By the way, how many times have you gotten on an elevator alone and used the opportunity to tug a snuggie out of your posterior? Or picked at that ticklish place in your nose? Or farted happily knowing you were finally in a place where you could do that and no one will know? Not so for blind people. Anything and everything they do is on display. People stare with no sense of wrong doing. Most blind people I know hate being stared at. They'd rather you go ahead and ask what's on your mind, or better yet just engage them in conversation.
Some people switch into hyper gear protective mode around us. They block traffic with their arms, they hold doors as if John were royalty. Running ahead to open the next door also. They stop cars and block people from walking. They wave their arms at cars, push obstacles like shopping carts aside and so on. All of this is done without making a sound. I find it rather confusing, John just accepts it and tries not to crash into the door that is carefully held open for him.
He has come to accept minor miracles in his life. There is a swimming pool at the condo where he lives. No matter how many people are out there he always gets a chaise lounge. It's always in the same place. I asked him once if he knew how that happens. He says no, it just magically appears. I've watched the magic now and it is a life guard or a neighbor who will snatch up a lounger and place it in the same spot where he is sure to find it. Sometimes asking another sunbather to give up their lounger. All this is done, again, without a word. It's like his underwear, he doesn't know how to buy it, it magically appears in the mail. Yes America I am admitting that his Mother buys his undies. Although I got him some boxers before surgery. One has skulls on it, one has tiny spidermen all over it, my personal fave has a large spiderman flying across the crotch with a baloon that says "My spidey sense is tingling". I had him wear that one right after surgery. Made me smile. He's a hoot and wears anything I give him.
We were in Rehoboth Beach once for the 4th of July. John dresses like Captain America. He's decked out in red / white / blue shorts, shirt and a tall hat with blinking stars on it. He parades up and down the boardwalk collecting comments from strangers. One man approached us and said "I told my wife if I go blind she better never dress me up like that". He wasn't serious, he was one of the off beats as I call them. I am collecting off beat comments into a journal. In Florida and elder gentlemen advised me not to walk him out too far into the waves and then desert him there. Off Beat. Well meant, but off beat.
So good night Mary Ellen, good night myJohn, turn off the lights and go to bed.

We interrupt this broadcast........

I wanted to title this one fingerprints but I hated to break the continuity. So... There are fingerprints all over my computer screen. They've been there for about a year and sometimes make reading difficult. Today I read t i g h t as t r g h t simply because a fingerprint added something to that i. I considered, for the thousandth time, wiping them off. I just can't do it though. They are Gwyndolyn's fingerprints from our favorite website. She loved Elmo's site. We would pick out hats to put on Elmo and then pick out which adornments the hat would get. She would point to the images she wanted and in doing so leave a wet print. I don't have to call up the site to tell you where the blue hat was, or the duckies quacking on the brim because I can look at my screen and see their faint reminder. Fingerprints on the screen, fingerprints on my heart.
She's growing up and changing now, a whole different child than the one who sat on my lap and played peek a boo with Elmo. I doubt she even remembers doing it. I keep this little photo album in my head. Cause I'm a 21st century kind of gal, my photo album includes movie clips. In my head, she'll always be 18 months to 3 years. Such a sweet child, I miss her lots. Come April I expect to be with her again. Yippie!

Super Glue and your body

I saw a television program recently in which a doctor closed an incision with super glue. Seems it makes sweet little scars and holds the skin together until it sort of wears off. Makes perfect sense to me. The tube has a warning label that says if you super glue your fingers together wash them with warm soapy water and roll the stuck part into a tube that you can roll off your skin. Well yippie ki yo ki yeah. What happens if you super glue yourself to some inanimate object. Not like you can roll something like say a dresser between your fingers. Hypothetical here but how in the world do you unstick yourself other than just pulling it off and leaving skin behind?
I found myself in this unenviable position recently. Trying to finish up scads of little jobs that never get done. I super glued the ribbon back on the Christmas decoration for my Mom. I glued the soles of my shoes back unto the body of the shoe. I repaired eye glasses, glued tiny wooden toys and a couple of cracked dishes got fixed. I glued the tear in the lamp shade and even tried short cuts to a small quilt block by using super glue. I glued broken picture frames and silk flowers onto frames and oh yeah, I glued myself to the table. I didn't realize I'd done so until I tried to walk away. Head, legs and trunk of my body moved out smartly. Right hand stayed in one spot.
I got a lot done yesterday. We're packing for a short trip to see my nephew Zak, his wife Rachel and their four babies. I am a reasonably intelligent person. I just don't understand how things like this keep happening to me. I glued myself to a table. sigh. The good news is I don't need stitches. Shoot, I managed to get out of it without even bleeding. My finger's are fine, my palm looks kinda dirty from the stuff that's still on there. But it will wear off, just like I did it deliberate. I'm just practicing to be a surgeon. I'll super glue your ouchies easily because I've got personal experience.

Warlords and Chocolates

I was in Washington DC recently riding the subway around and around. I love the subway and will spend time just riding from one end of the line to the next. My favorite subway stop is called Foggy Bottom. I don't get off there, but the name intrigues me. So.... on to my thought process.
I am obsessed with Africa. Especially the part of Africa (a moving wasteland) where babies are starving to death. Year's ago I saw this photograph by Kevin Carter and I've never been able to shake it from my thoughts. Neither could he as he committed suicide after this. Warning, warning, warning, Will Robinson, it's a horrific picture and will change your life forever. One cannot look at it without being altered on some cellular level. Daily I think about what is going on over there and how we can stop it. How we can't ignore it, how we must, must, must answer the cry of these innocents. America is a nation with great passions and compassions. We have poured money into the money pit of Africa for years. Billions of dollars have been poured into it's gaping maw and yet the babies starve. The definition of insanity is executing the same set of circumstances over and over again and expecting different results. Are we kidding ourselves here? Africa is hungry and we think we know why. It's the warlords who intercept the red cross and other aid organizations. They who keep the food for themselves and charge the villagers enormous prices for it. They who build up power and wealth literally on the skeleton's of their children. So far, we've been helpless to turn this around. I've often thought we should put together a think tank of some of our brightest and best thinkers. We know what doesn't work. Let them figure out what will.
Into this mess I get on the subway train and a young woman sit's near with a small girl and an infant strapped to her chest. The little girl is dressed in lime green and pink which sounds atrocious but looked good on her. I stared at the family and let my mind drift. If a warlord climbed into the car with us, raised a machete and started towards the woman. If I had a gun, I would kill him. If I didn't have a gun I would jump up and put my body between him and the children in hopes that it would buy some time for others in the car to jump on him. In short, I would sacrifice my life so the children could live. Now, lets go back to Africa.
Suppose I managed to orchestrate a plan in which I included a box of Russel Stover Chocolates with each shipment of rice and milk I sent to the villages. We know the warlords take charge of the food stuff's and dole it out at their leisure, and the villager's ability to pay. The difference today is the chocolate. Do you think they'll share it with the babies? Not a chance, rich smooth chocolate is going right to their own bellies. So let's poison the mix. Instead of creamy nougat you get creamy arsenic. I don't know which would work best, but I'm thinking it should be slow acting. Give them time to go home and relax before dying. That way they can't alarm the other warlords in the area. Not that they would. So I have now committed mass murder. I will be punished for this obviously. Will I sacrifice myself for the multitude with the same conviction as I did on the train? In the interests of saving the innocents, I've killed thousands and thousands of brutal men who are killing the children daily. Is it a sin? Of course it is, but is it any worse a sin than killing the man on the subway train who waved a machette in front of the woman and her children? Do you think God keeps a tally sheet in heaven and when the score is oh say...... 20...... you go to hell. I believe the death of the one man is as onus as the death of many. Does it matter that your intentions were good? I don't know. I suppose soldiers the world over struggle with this one. I could not sit and watch the machete man kill them. That would be a sin. But could I kill him to stop him? Knowing it's a sin? Yes, I believe I could do that. Could I kill the warlords in Africa? No of course not. I am an ordinary woman living in Kansas fer crying out loud. But if the means were available to me, it would sure make me think long and hard.
I tried to post that photo at the end here, but the blogger rules aren't letting me do it. I'm not sorry for showing it to you. I think everyone should know this is still going on today. If you want, google Kevin Carter and you can learn more about the photo and the man.

We interrupt this program.....

Aunt Tolli say's I exaggerate in my blogs about her and Alice. I think she's defending her actions at Hoover Dam by accusing me of fancying up the story. Either way I'm delighted she read about herself online. It was at the occasion of her 80th birthday and she cornered me by the buffet line. Shaking her finger at me she managed to keep a straight face for at least 30 second.

Baron Von Munchausen said: I pity anyone who doubts my veracity.

I think I agree.