Old Friends

I was messing with some publicity for the band and ran into this fairly recent one. When you've been a band for 17 years, you accumulate photos. I regretfully announce that we have aged. On the other hand, I guess that's one of my life's goals: to continue to age.

Big Wooden Radio has endured its share of drama and conflict, but these days we're making good music and getting along. We have struck an equilibrium of sorts, focusing on live performance and trying for more balance between performing and travelling, and being with our families and friends at home. We're going to play in Grinnell, on Live at the Java House (or whatever it's called now), and at the Farmer's Market. A little burst of show biz! I am grateful to be able to make music with these fellas. It's important to remember what we're grateful for.

Margins

I'm the last guy in the neighborhood to get his lawn mowed. The front is shaggy after all the rain and this was the ideal day to mow, cool and dry and a breeze. Instead, I took Mom to the Lincoln cafe in my new Rabbit. I got to drive and we both got to eat and we didn't discuss topics that are hard between us.

Mom commented about my Aunt Peg, from whom she hasn't heard in a while. "She's all mixed up with her family, over-involved," Mom said. I asked her what she meant.

"They're all involved in making each other's decisions, all involved in each other's lives. I'm glad we're not like that." She took a sip of her tea and we sat awkwardly for a second. "I like seeing you all from time to time. I like being on the margins of your lives."

To my mother, this is a virtue. I'm launched, grown up. She feels my intrusion into her zone of control, counting bottles and throwing away a rotten pear in the fruit bowl. She says "I can do that."

When I was a little boy I could name every car that passed by my house. I still recognize most automobiles and can name them. This skill occupies parts of my brain that could have been filled with tact, or discretion.

My family drove a 1963 Anglia. This is a '67, and ours was black, but you get the idea. It was different from everybody's car. Noteworthy among its characteristics were bucket seats, hinged at the front for rear seat access, with no lock to hold the seat back in the event of a sudden stop. In 1963 there were no requirements for safety belts.

In a sudden stop, my mother routinely threw her arm across my chest to restrain me.

Incidentally, Harry Potter's friend, George Weasley, drove this car to Hogwarts in the second movie. I think it was the second movie, anyway.

I believed that there were normal families, ones where dads went to work and mom's stayed home and dads had jobs other people understood, such as fireman, plumber, engineer at Boeing, and not "writer." Kids would ask what book my dad had written and I would say that he had not published a book yet. The would ask "What does he do?" And I would explain that he sits at a table and writes, and re-writes, and writes more. Other kids didn't get it. "But what does he do?"

I believed that normal families drove Buicks and Chrevrolets and probably voted Republican and ate t.v. dinners. I believed that they were different from us, driving in our little, finned English Ford. They owned their homes and had dependable jobs and dads who could handle small talk and corporate thought. They didn't move from town to town, after greener pastures.

I hope my kids come over for supper and bring their kids. I don't want to interfere in their lives, but I'd sure be willing to help. I hope my kids don't dread seeing me. I hope they feel that I contribute and support.

I do not wish to experience life from the margins.

Dave the Horn Guy

Meet Dave, the Horn Guy. He attached horns of various pitches to a jumpsuit. He dances in order to play the correct horns at the same time. Some horns have to be pressed by hand, some by closing a knee or an elbow. This is a very impressive feat, and I couldn't help thinking that you'd go crazy if he was the tenant in the apartment next door.

Dave can flat play those horns. He's got good sideshow patter, and various low-tech gimmicks for the audience. But the main feat he accomplishes is to play complicated chords and melodies on his horny jumpsuit. Learn more about Dave at http://www.davethehornguy.com/ .

It was bloody hot the day we saw Dave, and I felt better about the Big Wooden Radio "long pants" rule. At least Joe doesn't insist on coveralls. Ouch!

Catfish Keith often plays in a three piece suit. Not for this sweaty boy. My performance criterion is "how will this look when I'm soaked with sweat?" Keith has a look, and it is a cool look. He backs that look up with W.C. Handy-award-nominee-authenticity and some serious joy. He's from Scotch Grove, Iowa, and I drive by that turn off every week and think of Catfish Keith.

When Keith took on his moniker, he was just beginning to catch on. Word was that Greg and Bo and Beau and the folk folks referred to him as "the kid." My friends and I mostly were picking at open mikes and at each other's houses, but we thought this "fish name" thing might be the way to go. Cam Waters became Swordfish Cam, and Seth Levy was Gefeltefish Levy, Calliope became Dophin Safe Calliope, or some such thing. I coudn't figure out what to call myself, but Cam knew that I was mostly living off sandwiches, made from big bowls of tuna salad. He piped up with an evil grin: "Sam 'Big Tuna' Thompson!" I became Big Tuna.

When I worked at UAY, a lot of the kids called me Tuna. I didn't mind, and they felt as though they were getting away with something. One kid ran in the door at 8:30 a.m. yelling "Tuna, you got to get me to school! I can't be late again!" I took him because he called me Tuna.

So without Catfish Keith, and Cam Waters, I wouldn't have my moniker. These days a lot of folks don't know about Tuna. Managers and Clincal Supervisors and Consultants generally don't use such names. When you think your kid is nuts, and you're desperate for help, you don't look in the phone book and decide to call Big Tuna, LISW. But maybe you should.

Perhaps I digress.

We had a great care conference at Ridgeview. Mom went to the Hy Vee and bought three bottles of wine. We had decided to try a number of different interventions, but Mom did exactly as she pleased. I am beginning to root for my Mom!

So far she's not falling down or anything, so we'll see how things go. My point is that she has a terminal illness and if she thinks she's happy, and we can support that feeling, why shouldn't we? She's almost past the point of insight, and I think this is going to be a blessing. Awareness of the negative inevitable, without hope of cure or reversal, is far too sober a thing. My Dad was conscious and aware of his condition almost to the end. I'm sorry for that. I hope Mom can be happy and as comfortable as possible. I hope she thinks she's in charge.

What the care conference needed, what Ridgeview needs, is Dave the Horn Guy! A human being can only stand so much accordion and bingo. I want Dave to play the Star Spangled Banner on his jumpsuit and squirt the old folks with his big splash squirt cannons and wow them with his digital loop effects. Don't think old folks don't want to have fun. I used to play poker with Shorty and Marie. They ate new fish for ors d'ourvres . . . hoovers d'voires. . . ours d'ovaries. . . .

This weekend, I vow to have some fun. I vow to be silly while I take care of biz. I promise to blow off minor offenses and tap into the cosmic vibe. I'll find my center and ponder it. I'll make some music and mow some grass and drive blue highways. I might take my Mom. Buy her a glass of wine.

Peace. S.

Horoscope today: "Seek Counseling!"

Cancer (June 22 - July 22) (6) Have you ever gone to a counselor? It's a good time to talk things over. It's not a good time to do anything else. . . .

As many who know me are aware, I believe in newspaper horoscopes and fortune cookie fortunes (if I like the fortune, I eat the cookie).


This was my horoscope today. At 9:00 a.m. we have a care conference for Mom. Fortunately, my Nurse Practitioner Neurologist person will attend. Hopefully I can be more of a spectator than I was last time, when I fear I earned the moniker of "difficult." I think the next thing I'd like to do after this conference is have one with her present (my usual custom), but we'll see.


At the Fair, therapy is performed by pillows, as you can see above. And more than one therapy, too! Folks can enjoy a little free sample therapy as well. Below, my family members address their issues.


Robyn appears to have found contentment.


Well I don't care what the newspaper says, I'm going to the care conference and participate meaningfully. Then I'm going to meet with my assistant and we'll set her goals for the week. She's a peach and only needs a little direction in order to be a whirlwind of productivity. Then it's off to a long meeting about agency related issues.

One of my colleagues reportedly blew up at her boss in another meeting earlier this week, so the non-verbals should be absolutely stimulating. I hope she maintains her calm, however. Perhaps she is a Cancer as well. Today would not be a good day for her to try and accomplish anything.


I'm grateful for the Fair, for my friends, for music. I'm grateful that my daughter has not hit the floor like a sack of potatos for at least three days. I'm glad Robyn's back has healed and that Tye is a good dog. I'm glad it rained last night because I didn't have to mow the back yard. (It's actually going to be more of a harvest than a mow at this point.) I'm glad school is in session and my son is running four miles per day at cross country practice.


I'm glad I live in a country where we may recieve "therapy's" from a pillow.

Shucks

Corn. I really enjoyed riding the Sky Rail, or whatever they called the ski-lift looking ride that crosses the Iowa State Fairground. I caught this guy doing what must be done in the space between the food stands. Someone has to shuck, y'know.

Fainting kid. This morning Caitlin got up and did what she's been doing lately on a semi-weekly basis. She fell to the floor, unconscious. This usually happens in the morning. She has had a CT scan, a day with a heart monitor and numerous blood tests. Today the doctor on call suggested that this may be a phenomenon called Syncope. This is reportedly a speeding up of the heart via a disturbance of the electrical signals from the brain regulating the heart beat. Dr. Bertroche (GP on call) is going to consult with a cardiologist and get back to us. Web MD describes this as treatable with beta blockers, and some other drugs I know less about. In the meantime, somebody needs to be with her. She may not drive. And she gets off work today. A dead faint works every time for that.

It is significantly off-putting to hear a large thump in the kitchen and to realize that that thump is your daughter.

In the Victorian era, women fainted all the time and it was considered attractive. This was becauase of those whale bone corsets they used to wear. Caitlin has a very slender waist without a corset, so perhaps she is afflicted with karmic whalebones.

Most wonderful time of the year. . . . School has begun and Robyn and I are beginning to reclaim our home from our kids, it's full time summer tenants. We welcome the rain and the cooler weather. I have heard no complaints of drunken rowdiness from the Assisted Living Joint regarding my mother. Apparently she is being discreet. That's a nice way to say "sneaky." Sometimes I take my martini out into the yard in a plastic glass so it looks like pop. No sense in inviting neighborly comment. Discreet, you know.

Sunflower. The Ag Building at the Fair has great plants and gardens growing around it. This puffy sunflower stands in a row, as is required of sunflowers.

Not that I'm feeling sorry for myself, but our sunflowers grew spectacularly and then fell over. We have them planted in the side garden and the wind comes whistling off the field behind us and shoots between the houses, with, apparently, too much velocity. This seems not to happen at the Fair.

Commenting. It'd be good to know who's visiting this site. Feel free to comment, if only to say hello. What I like about blogging is it gives me a space to think about things differently. Writing was once a primary coping skill for me and in time I let it slide. It's good to take a little time and see what one's thought look like on "paper." Anyway, don't be shy.

Hey! I found my camera!

My camera had wedged itself under one of the front seats. Today it unwedged itself and Caitlin picked it up and handed it to me. I am a very happy guy.

I went over and deep cleaned my Mom's place and felt much better on Sunday. We can't help who we are, myself least of all.

There was also a butter Harry Potter and some other butter accessories.






I'm just going to show you a few shots from our walking around. It's a people watcher's cornucopia. Everyone's here and everyone's sweating.














Serious judging of vegetables. Lots of nearly identical peppers are lined up on identical plates. Determined, sober judges. This is serious business.

Somebody can't just look back.

















Love to you from the Iowa State Fair, where things are really sticky and there's more kitsch than you can shake corn on a stick at.

Pigs did not fly

Dan Brown turned 50 last week and his girlfriend bought him a flight in a open-cockpit biplane. To say that Dan once feared flying is to understate the matter. He has overcome this fear with a vengeance. It makes me proud to see my friend untangle himself.

This has been a busy week for us:

My mother resumed buying and drinking wine, after informing me that it was NOT the case that she had forgotten her promise. She had merely chosen to resume drinking. In the battle for her independence, she appears to have joined the losing side. I'm torn about whether to be mad at her selfishness or to attribute it to Alzheimer's relentless assault on her personality. It becomes hard to distinguish subtle changes in personality which exaggerate traits she always had. My aunt Peg says she was always selfish and wilfull. Anyway, that was Thursday.

On Friday, Big Wooden Radio took off to play the square at Corydon, Iowa. Getting there earlier than planned, we decided to eat in the courtyard of a local establishment, to "accustom" ourselves to the heat. In retrospect, this may have been an optomistic move, not warranted by the oppressive weather, which coated us with our own sweat and denied us the luxury of evaporation. The sound man was well meaning and appreciative, but was unable to notch out a particularly nasty mid-range hum that randomly assaulted us most of the evening. Given that he only had two microphones to manage, this was frustrating. The crowd was very appreciative, if patently immobilized by heat, humidity and a median age of about 67.

My family came down and met me, and we went to Osceola to stay at a Day's Inn. Between the Sprint Car Nationals in Knoxville, and the State Fair in Des Moines, most Central Iowa motel rooms were booked by the time Robyn started looking. It turns out that Corydon has a motel, called the Nodyroc (hint: it's backwards). We probably should have checked it out.

The Day's Inn in Osceola is right next door to the Super 8 in which a man from Kansas was brutally murdered with an axe a few years ago. Dan told Walker this, and Walker replied: "Sweet!" The Day's in in Osceola is also a rat hole. Crickets floating in the pool, carpet so dirty that you wear shoes, loose plumbing in the shower, and a view of a dumpster highlighed our stay. Oh, and a Continental Breakfast. I probably don't need to describe this. We drove to Des Moines and found a Starbucks.

We got to the Iowa State Fair about 11 a.m. and walked all over the place, again, in amazingly unforgiving heat. We bought cooly things to wrap around our necks and dipped them in the water and ice that water-sellers used to keep their goods icy. I was wishing MY goods were icy. I love the Fair and had a good time, as my symptoms of heat stroke accumulated. Robyn was grimly determined to "do" the whole Fair, but we eventually wore her down about 2 and left for Jordan Creek Mall. The only reason I can see that I went to the mall was that it was air conditioned and I was obviously addled.

Walking back to the car, all I could think of was removing my sweat soaked shirt and getting the air on. I dropped my camera and changed clothes under the open tailgate. Enduring Jordan Creek Mall, I managed only to mutter rather than openly bitch.

When we got home, I discovered that my camera was missing. I'm sure it's in the grass of the yard we parked in. The yard is owned by a very nice Mexican family who offered us water when we returned to our car. I will drop by on Wednesday when I'm in Des Moines on the off chance that they found and kept the camera, which I got for Father's Day. It is full of interesting State Fair pictures.

Interestingly, I really enjoyed this trip with my family. Must be the anti-depressants.

The Fair encompasses so many aspects of life in Iowa. It's a magnificent place to people watch or eat ice cream made in a blender filled with squash, ice, bananas, and a bunch of other stuff not normally related to ice cream. Every human phenotype is represented. Animals of all species and breeds are there, many sporting, Walker pointed out, enormous sexual organs. (It's good to have a 13 year old at the Fair.) We saw the butter cow, and the butter Harry Potter, got free stuff, and ate food on sticks. Robyn won the award for cussing the most on "Big Ben" a ride which raises you about 8 stories and then drops you. Caitlin took her on the ride because she likes to hear Robyn cuss.

If that Mexican family kept my camera, I'm going to take them out to dinner.

Hitting the road

My Dad always like to wear his Marine fatigue jacket. I can still smell it - pipe smoke and some unidentifiable dad-smell. In this picture he's pretending to read to me, outside by my grandparent's chimney, and I am not with the program. This was probably my grandmother's idea. It was clearly not mine. I am two and I know that folks don't read books outside by a chimney. In February.

Today begins my work week: Des Moines, Iowa City, Dubuque . . . . for a moment I'm just drinking coffee, anticipating. I'm not quite ready to go.

No one is quite a ready to go as when they are two years old. Put me down and let me run around, for God's sake! Sometimes I still feel like that. Not this morning, though. Let's hear it for lethargy!

Orchidae

Hello. Today I have logged in again in order to show you some photographs of orchids. You may recognize this fellow, my large Phaelaenopsis. It is in full bloom, with a shoot still budding (not visible here).

This big guy should still sprout it's shoot. Then, after the flowers are all done, I'm supposed to trim the stalk just below the last joint, and it should send out another one.

The orchid to the left is a smaller one I got from http://www.orchids.com/ . It is cool but has lost flowers and leaves, so I'm still working on it. I thought I'd better get a picture while it still lives. The other orchid I got there is doing well so the jury's out on these guys.

It's cool looking, though.


















I promise semi-regular orchid updates at this site. Let me know if you only want to see the showy flowers, or hear about the tragic vicissitudes of orchid death.

'Cause it could happen. That's all from orchid world.

Love to all of you for whatever reason. S.

Weeds, whites and wine

In England, daffodils grow like weeds because the ground seldom freezes. When we arrived, much of Central London was carpeted with wild daffodils. If these grew in my yard, I would never spray.

Mom called last night asking if I would bring wine. I declined. She said she'd bought herself a bottle and had run out. How she got by all her supervision and got that done is beyond me. I checked her bank account on line and detected no activity, but she could have written a check that did not go through yet.

In the world of "old memory" my mother is a capable woman who loves a glass of wine when she gets home. She does not fall down, spill, or stumble. I know that when I am old and demented I will demand that the young folks trot along and make me a vodka martini, rocks, three garlic stuffed olives, a little dirty. I am learning not to expect new learning to "stick."

Diana was writing about her mother, who wants a DNR note in her file the majority of the time and occasionally wants to be revived. My mother planned suicide for a while, I think. She never intended to let her Alzheirmer's Disease go this far. But each new day brought something else she wanted to do, and her sense of time diminished, as did her appreciation of her own decline.

Mom wants to be revived if something happens to her. The other day she announced that she plans to live to be 102.

My mother wants to sit in a sunny room, with the New York Times, sipping wine, with one of her cats on her lap. She would like to go to Kansas and see her friends. She'd like to go to England with us, next time we go, and see those daffodils.

Optimism and dementia go hand in hand.

Order

I took this picture at Hampton Court Palace when we were in the UK, almost by accident. These are formal gardens, obviously, beautiful and ordered. They also have a maze, where Robyn and Walker spent a good deal of time.

Today I spoke with our neurologist, an ARPN, who said "moving a demented person is about the worst thing you can do." She pointed out that Mom has little, if any ability to learn. She is relying on old memory.

Mom is in the moment, and she's happy for the most part. She says "I don't feel any different." It's a blessing that she doesn't. A lot of the time she sits and reads New Yorker Magazine, probably over and over again. She takes naps with her cats and goes on excursions with the folks.

Julie commented that what looks like manipulation is actually Mom relying on old memory. When we got to my house she asked if I had a beer, or wine. I reminded her that she decided to stop drinking. She had to trust me on that one.

I can still tell my Mom a joke, as long as it's not a shaggy dog story. I said something to Caitlin and she said something about my "slimy fucking shit." There was this awkward pause and then I said "Caitlin, how many times have I told you not to say "slime"in front of Grandma?" Since we are a mutual admiration society, we were overcome with mirth.

Soon the new Assisted Living wing will be complete. There will be a major sales push to fill those rooms. It would be good if the people in the dining room did not act confused or frail. Better for our prospective tenants to think of lively, sharp old folks. It'd be a shame if my Mom came down at 2:30 and complained that nobody served lunch, right in the middle of the introductory orientation. We're rounding up the dotty and getting them over to Meadow View, where folks are equipped to assist those who are memory impaired.

We are not defenseless. We have money. We know how the game is played. The facility has twice exchanged information with my aunt without an Authorization to Release Information. I have two complaints against their license if I so choose. More importantly, we have a plan of care, ordered by the attending physician (APRN), that says "leave the old lady alone."

Assist us in living. Vacuum behind the chair. Help clean out the cat box instead of telling me it smells. Help Mom finish the dishes. Assist her when she is confused. Help her feel like a regular gal.

From moment to moment my mother is as marvelous sometimes as she ever was. We forget entropy and in real time we laugh and tease and talk. We are living in the afternoon.

I don't think it's a lot to ask for assistance with this.