a flower grows

“Imagine what it was like when the dinosaurs roamed the earth,” my voice is barely above a whisper. I feel the small hand in mine clutch a bit tighter as we walk among large fronds from palms trees and then through an area lush with ancient ferns, mosses and outcroppings. We are enveloped by a fog-like mist and it’s not difficult to imagine the jurassic period. The older child, a couple of feet away, makes a low-pitched throaty sound. I look toward him and he smiles, “That was me,” to reassure us that there really isn’t a dinosaur milling nearby. It’s about 28 degrees fahrenheit outside, but we are warm and cozy, ensconced in the midst of sweet smelling, plant-purified air. 

I’ve been bringing my grandchildren to the Garfield Park Conservatory for about 10 years. The conservatory occupies 4.5 acres, including all of its indoor and outdoor areas. It stands proudly in the center of Chicago’s 185 acre Garfield Park. And it never ceases to stun me with its beautiful botanical treasure. It is a jewel of unmeasurable worth.

As you walk from one indoor room to another, you are bowled over with the ever-changing beauty of design, making each visit a unique experience. Oh, and did I mention that it’s free, with free parking? (Although donations are definitely welcome and well merited.) And when the harsh winter ends, they open up the outdoor gardens and the beauty seems to roll along forever. The first time I took our older grandson to the outdoor “city garden” he was about two. He ran out onto the lawn and threw himself on the ground, at first with his eyes closed he grasped the grass, then rolled onto his back, opened his eyes, laughing and throwing up his little arms, moving them as if he were awash in a sea of trees and birds and sunshine and clouds, that he could grasp, pull and place in his pockets.  

Yes, it is a jewel of unmeasurable worth, and one that is set in a war zone.

This grand piece of nature lies in an economically downtrodden neighborhood, one that is spiked with unfathomable gun violence, as at any given time, it can rank near the top in the nation for homicides by guns.

As I walk from my youngest grandchild’s home on the Northside of Chicago to the nearby Mariano’s grocery store, where well-dressed, young families peacefully abound, buying organic groceries or expensive ready-cooked meals, it’s hard to imagine that just 7 miles away, as the crow flies, that crow will leave a site with scads of young families safely and happily frolicking outside and fly to an area where young children, who aside from their walk to and from school, mostly remain inside their homes, for fear of stray bullets from warring gangs.

Like many U.S. cities, Chicago contains segregated neighborhoods. Although many areas  remain relatively unaffected by gun violence, in some neighborhoods the bloodletting is constant and unrelenting, and this is nearly always in black or Hispanic neighborhoods, where the victims are usually male.

When someone is shot, there are never any witnesses. I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t tell the authorities anything if it virtually guaranteed that I’d be the next victim. And I wasn’t raised with a lifelong mistrust or distrust of the police department. A code of silence is strictly enforced. It’s no different than turning evidence against the mafioso, except that there is no witness protection program for these people.

To whom does one turn for help if you can’t turn to the city officials? Even the religious leaders are stymied as to a permanent solution. Chicago's famed Catholic priest Michael Pfleger says, “Guns have become part of America’s wardrobe. People out here presume everyone has one, and they’ll tell you, ‘I’m going to draw mine before I get laid down.’ ” And throw in the fact that we, in the U.S., have a lily-livered Congress that kowtows to the gun and rifle associations' lobbyists (who insist "guns don't kill..." !) and thus refuse to put sensible restrictions on sales and ownership of assault weapons.

Teenagers are lured to gangs for companionship but also for a sense of protection, even though ironically it puts them at increased risk for one day becoming a statistic on the homicide chart. We all know that the teenage brain is not wired to think as logically as an adult brain, - “Consequence? What is consequence?"

Over a particularly bloody weekend, the youngest Chicago homicide victim is a 16-year-old boy, shot in the chest as he stands on a sidewalk in the East Garfield Park neighborhood. Was he a gang member? I don’t know, but I do know that 16 year old boys often make poor decisions, decisions they might rationalize differently were they lucky enough to live to be 28 years old.

There is a part of Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World documentary where a scientist discusses creatures found in the deepest of the oceans:  

"They range in the way that they would gobble you up from slime-type blobs, but creepier than classic science fiction blobs - these would have long tendrils that would ensnare you, and as you try to get away from them you just become more and more ensnared by your own actions. And then after you would be frustrated and exhausted, then this creature would start to move in and take you apart…" 

Werner Herzog responds (this may not be verbatim but it’s close):

“Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of a hell that during evolution some species crawled... fled onto solid land.”

Come, come crawl away, flee from the danger and into the Conservatory, I think.

***

On a recent, unseasonably warm June day, I ask my youngest grandchild (almost 2 1/2 years old), “Where do you want to go today, to the beach or to Morning Glories?” Each Monday the conservatory hosts a program, for 2-5 years olds and their caregivers, called Morning Glories. There is no charge for this amazing program, where young children, mostly from privileged caucasian families, play in the sanitized dirt, dig for worms, plant seeds, mist the plants and flowers, have stories read to them, make take-home projects, -all against the prettiest backdrop you could envision. He’s a pretty sharp kid, so he replies, “Morning Glories first and then the beach."

I stand and watch as he clambers up a grass-covered hill and we look over the grounds. A Green Line CTA train passes nearby. As always, I’m astounded at the show of contrast between natural beauty and a city beset by combat. Just like the air purified by the trees, flowers and plants, there is a palpable change in this environment; the chaos of city life seems to have evaporated here and a sweet calm form of condensation falls upon us, like invisible raindrops. And I think of the flower that grows in a tiny crack or small fissure in the concrete...

Come on over, come on in, neighborhood children, this is your conservatory, too. Come, come and flourish...

a flower grows

grandson prepares to throw his small change into the ever-changing coin pond - this particular week a tribute to Prince

inspirational labyrinth

the ever cool cactus room

the fern room - when the misters are on seems like ancient america

the eye-popping color of the display room

the outdoor lily pond

the indoor koi pond

the indoor children's room slide

 this display just after the paris shootings, (when, I wonder, will I see a remembrance for
the nearby child victims of gun violence?)

would you believe me if I told you this is in the middle of "war-torn" Chicago?

Greatness from the Corner of Market and Main, (part two)

Where was I? Oh yes, on the corner of Market and Main Streets, just exiting the ice cream/coffee shop/bistro located across from the county courthouse, headed to the outdoor portion of a small, midwestern town's Memorial Day service.

The town seems to do the Memorial Day remembrance a bit different each year, but it always begins with a speech at the middle school, followed by an outdoor service that starts on the grounds outside the courthouse.

We find a shady spot on this unseasonably warm day. People are beginning to drift in from every direction, families, senior citizens, troops of brownies, girl scouts, cub scouts and boy scouts, individual military veterans…  -A motorcycle pulls up directly in front of us and a man in his 60s hops off, takes off his protective helmet, exposing a head of silver hair, upon which he places his veteran of foreign wars cap. A woman, carrying two military rifles, walks past. Kids of all ages clutch flowers in their small hands.

White crosses bearing the name of each war or conflict from the Spanish-American War to the present day Afghanistan War line the grounds on Market Street. Today’s celebration will include a portion where individual veterans ceremoniously place a wreath on each of the crosses, as we, collectively, pause a moment to remember those whose lives were lost.

Like I said, this little town seems to do the Memorial Day service a bit different each year, but no matter how it’s done, it never fails to bring me to tears. This year I am reduced to barely-controlled, audible sobs. Even the youngest of children seem to recognize the solemnity of the event.

As I gaze about taking in all of the people, I spot the guest speaker standing off alone. Usually Practical Husband, a Navy veteran, can identify the man’s uniform from at least 100 yards away as that of an Army Sergeant Major. I identify that he is a handsome, dignified black man. I’m happy to see a non-white person, representing our military in this rural area, with demography indicating a 98.53% white population. I could only have been more pleased had it been a female speaker. I glance at him once, okay maybe it was twice, before I decide to snap a photo, okay maybe it was two photos of him.

So I’m guessing, you probably don’t rise up through the ranks to the most senior enlisted position in the U.S. Army without some intelligence and observation skills. He has instantly noticed my glances and photo taking, and has fairly quickly made his way across the grounds to me. He extends his hand, respectively nods his head, looks me in the eye and addresses me, “Ma’am.” As I reach out, he envelops my hand with a warm, solid yet gentle enough grasp. I beam and he returns with an eye-crinkling, dimple-showing charmer of a smile. He asks how I’m doing. “I’m fine,” I answer. “I, as well, Ma’am,” he responds, “but I see I'd better check and find the location they’d like me to take,” as he gestures to the parade beginning to assemble. As he heads down the stairs, a gray-haired man extends his hand, “Thank you, Sgt. Major, for your inspiring speech. Very well done. I appreciate your words.” I can tell that Sgt. Major shook this man’s hand with a bit more firmness and physical strength than he did with my hand. He continues down the stairs to the middle of Market Street, where the veteran directing the ceremony puts his hand forth and escorts him to a spot saying, with utmost respect, “Sgt. Major, please stand here, directly behind our colors. I will walk beside you, followed by our veterans.” And so they line up, with the scout groups forming behind the veterans, followed finally by the veteran drummer and the trumpet player, followed by the tractor pulling the veterans, who due to age or injury cannot walk the distance to and from the cemetery.

An audible "Ten’ hut,” calls the Sgt. Major and veterans to attention, and you can see their spines and appendages immediately straighten. And as many times as I’ve heard the call and seen the reaction, it still fills me with a chilling pride for our military. The drum roll begins and the director calls “Forward march!”

As the groups pass, the audience files in behind and the procession to the river begins. "Ppparrumm, ppparrumm, pparrumm, ppumm, ppumm,” the group’s pace matches the beat of the snare drum. We stop at the river, where there is a twenty-one gun salute and Taps is played. Adults and children come forth and drop flowers in the river, to honor those who died in service for their country and are buried at sea.

The group reassembles and continuing to follow the cadence of the drum, marches to the town’s cemetery, where there is another twenty-one gun salute and Taps is again played. Flowers are placed on individual graves of those who died in military service.

I feel solemn, my heart weighted with sadness, and yet I feel good about myself, about this little midwestern town and about my country. There are many great places in the world to live. Many of those places have people who are also proud of their heritage and are also happy with their homeland. And so it is with me.

From the corner of Main and Market, I say, unabashedly, that America is great, it’s always been great, it’s always going to be great… But, recognizing that America doesn’t have a lock on “greatness,” as greatness comes not from a nation but from the individuals within a nation.

A cross for each conflict

a scout

a brownie

everyone assembling

I first spotted Sgt. Major chatting with this senior couple

veterans carrying wreaths

small town pride assembling

love seeing the female vets!

choke- sob

Sgt. Major

scouts assembling

cub scouts, then boy scouts

small town pride

the injured and infirm

flowers floating for those buried at sea

even pet spirit

Greatness, Part 1 (Or, Greatness on the Corner of Main and Market Streets)

It's been almost 5 years since we permanently moved from one of the busiest, most populated cities in North America to a rural area, where to quote myself, “the livestock outnumber the humans.” Usually Practical Husband has well adjusted to the less crowded, slower paced, laid-back kind of lifestyle. However, when it comes time to attend an event in one of the small towns outside of Privatopia, he slips right back into big-city-mode. He wants us to leave early to “get a jump on traffic” and to secure a “parking place” because in his mind there will be, not only gridlock, but nowhere to park. I’ve acquiesced to just going along with his needless fret and worry.

Sometime after buying our home in Privatopia, we began to attend an annual Memorial Day remembrance at one of the nearby towns (about 12 miles southwest of our home.) I know there are other such services in small towns around here, but this one is our favorite.

We arrive, oh, I don’t know exactly, but probably at least one hour early (having secured “primo” parking before the arrival of “throngs of people”). To pass the time we stroll about the small town. It’s quite a quaint little place.

Usually Practical Husband suggests we get some coffee from the newer ice cream/coffee shop/bistro on the corner of Main and Market streets. It’s in a newly gentrified building. An eager young lady, dressed in the latest, hippest fashion patiently awaits our perusal of the menu.

Standing closer to the counter, Usually Practical Husband begins, “I’ll have a regular coffee.” He turns to me and asks, "How about you, Hon?” 

“Uh, em, I’ll have the iced chai tea. Small, please,” and as I am half-way through my order, Usually Practical Husband begins chatting with the young lady. I discern that it’s perhaps somewhat difficult for her to follow the both of us talking at once. But, she does her best, taking in our words and simultaneously entering the two orders on the fancy computerized register.

Without missing a beat, she looks at me, “And you did say ‘small’ correct?"

I smile at her, “Yes.” She nods in acknowledgement as her finger hits the corresponding key.

“That will be $4.75, please,” she says. After Usually Practical Husband pays, she smiles and with a wave of her hand, gestures to an area with tables and seating, “Have a seat, please and I’ll bring out your order shortly."

We choose a small round table, next to a shelf of discarded, hard cover books on sale from the town's local Carnegie Library. After I glance at the book titles, I sit and pronounce to Usually Practical Husband, “She is freakin’ adorable!"

He laughs aloud and agrees. She is young, about 9-10 years old, or so, I’d guess. Yet her mannerisms had perfectly imitated the most capable adult waitress/barista I’ve ever encountered. We watch as she completes the order preparation herself (standing on her tiptoes to utilize the coffee urn pump), with only minimal verbal guidance from her parents. She delivers our order, producing a straw for my iced tea from her pint-sized waitress apron. Later, Usually Practical (and often fussy) Husband pronounces the coffee as “surprisingly very good.” I find my iced chai tea to be comparable to anything I’ve gotten from Starbucks.

At some point the cafe’s telephone rings and the girl instantly zips across the room to answer the call. Her mother and father are meanwhile busy overseeing the mixing and flavoring of ice cream, overseeing the updates that are still being completed in the rehabbed building and keeping one eye on their pint-sized assistant.  

This, I think, this is it, this is what it means when I hear the much-ballyhooed, political banter of American “greatness.” A family, working together, trying hard to make a living. It takes courage, toil and teamwork. You pour your funds into purchasing the wares you’ll need, put your best foot forward and hope that buyers will come, you hope that you can make a “go of it". 

As we leave the cafe, there is a lull in the action and I see the little girl off at a small, two-person window table, pulling a little cash out of her tiny apron. I smile at the familiar sight of a waitress tallying her tips.

“Are these your tips?” I ask (as there had been a tip jar at the counter.) She nods as I hand her some cash. “Thank you, that was one of the best iced chai teas I’ve ever had.” She adds the money to her coins and few singles.

On our stroll to the Memorial Day event, I beseech Usually Practical Husband, “Promise me we will make an effort to come here on the first Saturday of every month this summer (when the town has their artisan display/farmer’s market) and have breakfast.” He smiles and says, “Good idea.”

***

Check back in a couple of days for Greatness, Part 2.

our adorable barista

Once...

Once upon a time there was a girl who loved Elvis and Gene Pitney. The girl was only three years older than me but to me she always seemed wiser and more worldly. Urbane was a word I'd read as a young kid. Back then I'd looked it up in the dictionary. And, yes, back then I thought of her as urbane.

I’d often asked her for advice, or sought her approval. Depending on her mood she would either begrudgingly comply, defiantly ignore me or snickeringly mock me for my jejune concerns. This did not deter me from following her around like a needy puppy.

Years later my cellphone chimed. A male voice, “Rrrnll? Eeesh mme, Shmm. Shrry furr mm gubbdeegukkk bu I jeshh guch bekk furmm duh dentish offish. Mmm juh ish wwrrdd. Ennyhuh, Yeshshe ish nn duh hoshpidlll. Yeshshe ashdd mm tuh ttlll uuu.”

I made arrangements to accompany her to some of her doctor visits and to some of her chemo treatments, which were given in “rounds” or cycles of four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off…

I sat beside her in the waiting room. Were it not for the telltale identification wristband, it would be difficult to discern the patients from the accompanying friends and family. Often hale and robust looking adults were actually in treatment. As I glanced about the room I noticed that the person I sat with was clearly the sickest, most frail person in the room.

She was often handed sheafs of paper, to which she would cast a cursory glance, then pass off to me. On the top of one pack was a beautifully produced booklet entitled, “Dealing with Stage-IV Cancer."

We made the best of our time away from the hospital, going to favorite eateries, visiting the past haunts of our childhood, lazily watching the White Sox or Cubs on television, shopping, sipping wine, reminiscing and laughing until we cried.

*

“How've you been sleeping?” I ask her one day. “Not too well. They give me these sleeping pills, but I won’t take them.” “Why not?” “Well, I’m afraid I’ll become dependent on them."

*

“I was looking through your paperwork and one of the brochures says they have a 'support group' service and they can put you in contact with...” “Sorry, not interested.” “Well, they also have an online group, so you wouldn’t have to actually go in person…” “Thank you, no."

*

“I read somewhere that it’s sometimes less stressful to have your haircut very short, then it is to fret over watching it fall out.” As I tell her this I brace for a rebuff, but she is silent.

*

When I pick her up for lunch, she says, “Do you mind stopping somewhere first?” “No, of course not. Where are we going?” “To a salon a couple of blocks from the restaurant.” As I drive her to the address she seems chatty and upbeat. “Don’tcha wanna know why I wanna stop here?” “Um, to get fitted for a wig?” “No, Silly, to have my head shaved. It was your suggestion you know.”

*

“Are you angry that I asked someone else to take charge of my arrangements and estate?” “No, actually, I’m quite relieved,” I tell her, "I’m not good at that kind of stuff.” “Yeah, I know."

---

Once upon a time there was a group of trees, planted with purpose, the purpose of providing shade, the purpose of providing privacy from neighbors and passersby, the purpose of beautifying, the purpose of improving the quality of the atmosphere… The trees grew strong and beautiful and fulfilled their duty.

One day, while sitting outside my home, I look up and notice that one of the trees looked different, not as full as the others. Her once green leaves are yellowed and falling out at an alarming rate as it's still the middle of summer. An online search turns up info about infestations, mold, canker, fungus, mildew and other tree ailments. I trim her bare branches. I make certain she has sufficient nourishment and fluids, and I wait. But, she continues her decline. I call a tree “doctor,” actually an arborist. He examines just five of our dozen, or so, trees, five trees that his trained eye detects as problematic. The five are probably all sick, but in the tree where my concern began, the problem is the most pronounced. “But, why this tree?” I ask. I listen in a daze as he talks, “the invader seeks out the weakest tree first. This one has the most southern exposure. It’s probably been drier during drought periods…"  Three of his words strike a chord, “invasive” “spread” “aggressive." Why do those words affect me? Did he say “note the crown” or did he call it a canopy? I struggle to remember the biblical passage about a woman’s crowning glory, as he continues talking.

The arborist proposes a strategy of injecting what will basically be a poison…- I stop him, “Wait, will the poison hurt the environment, or the trees, or, or me?” “No,” he assures me, “It will not harm you or your nearby shrubs and greenery. It is safe to use and it targets just the invasive, blah, blah, blah...” I agree to his master plan, which he says will entail injecting annual “rounds” or cycles of poison. He will do the first injection today. He writes out a prescription for me, in the event I wish to have another arborist do the procedure in the future.

Today four trees stand tall, beautiful and strong, protecting our home. But, the fifth tree, the tree that I sat near, and that I couldn’t help but notice that it looked frail and weakened compared to its robust compatriots; that tree was eventually cut down and the wood was burned.

“Your yard looks great!” I hear from a golfer who passes our home. I stand with him and look out at the breadth of the property and force a smile. He doesn’t know that once there stood a tree, a strong and very beautiful tree, and now it is gone.

I'd No Gumption for Fashion

The temperature hovers around 63 degrees, it’s a bit breezy, but the sun shines brightly, nary a cloud in the sky. As we head outside my aging brain tries to factor the season, our latitude and the axis tilt of earth -all should add up to a warming sun, yet…  Aloud I say to my two-year-old grandson, “You better wear a sweatshirt or something.” I hold up two articles of clothing and ask, "Do you want to wear this beige sweater or this red sweatshirt?” “Beige,” he says slowly, smiling, rolling the word around on his tongue as if to taste it. I'm fairly certain he’s not familiar with the word ‘beige.’ But, I can tell that he likes the sound of it and is filing it away for some future date when he'll use it, appropriately and in his parents presence, and they'll marvel, “Where does he get these words?”

Then he says quickly and emphatically, “No beige. Want red sweatshirt.” How early does a child develop a sense of clothing color preferences?

As a child, I’d have picked the beige clothing, nothing flashy or fancy for me. If I’d a choice between navy blue and bright yellow, navy would do fine, gray better yet. Mind you, I quite enjoy looking at people who are fashionably clad and I can readily identify a “sharp dresser.” I’ve just never had the gumption to be one.

This makes me quite the opposite of my younger sister. Her keener sense of fashion, especially as it applies to “matching” outfits, is most apparent to me when she appears on the golf course. I’ll be darned if not only does she manage to nicely match her clothing, but also her hat, shoes, golf glove, golf tees and even golf ball as well. For that’s the way she’ll have shopped, buying entire outfits at once. (She and her husband are avid snowmobilers. When they traded in their slightly used machines to purchase the newest souped-up version, she donated her hardly worn snowmobile outerwear, helmet, gloves and boots to charity, as they no longer harmonized with the color of her new snow machine. She immediately purchased all new color-coordinated gear.)

I, on the other hand, tend to buy clothing motivated by three factors, 1) it fits me, 2) it’s practical and not too flashy and 3) it’s on sale. In this manner I end up with a bunch of stuff I then have to figure out how to put together in some manner that demonstrates I have at least some semblance of color and pattern sense.

In my head I have a picture of the two of us being featured in some Golf for Women-type magazine, with my sister, modeling a well-coordinated outfit under the headline, “How to Dress for Success on the Golf Course,” and my photo on the opposite side titled, “Don’t Let This Happen to You!"

I mention this notion to my sister and she says, eyeing me carefully, “Oh, you’re not that bad. Although might I suggest limiting yourself to two, perhaps three, different colors at the max. And try tucking your shirt in and maybe adding a coordinated belt. No, you’re fine."

Recently, Reliable Husband and I had lunch in one of those charming little touristy towns  with another couple. While they are both well-dressed, the wife of the twosome I  especially consider to be a person who epitomizes someone with good fashion sense. As we strolled about after lunch, window browsing, she pointed out a couple of beautiful items that caught her eye. The only clothing that caught my eye was a black knit sweater that some fashionista had cut about six inches out of just above the elbows and sewn in bright, multi-colored splotches of fabric. I wish I could pull something like that off, I thought. But it takes some courage.

I ask my friend if she’s ever looked at some of Bill Cunningham’s “On the Street” fashion photos for the New York Times. She hadn’t. It occurred to me later that I should have also mentioned Iris Apfel. Or the wonderful blog, “What Ali Wore” by Zoe Spawton. Iris and Ali are at the top of my charts for gutsy folks of fashionable taste. I love looking at both of them, wishing I could be as courageous. But it’s not in my genetic code, I guess.

I’ve never understood the humor behind the supposedly funny pictures of Walmart shoppers. I don’t care to laugh at people who may be poor, people who might be obese and have difficulty obtaining well-fitting clothing, people with possible psychosocial disabilities, people from other cultures, or people who are just plain different. I had a dream once that someone snapped a shot of me and I’d waken to find that the picture had gone viral and I was the butt of worldwide laughter. That was enough to scare me into really forcefully wakening myself from the nightmare, with a vow to myself to never, ever raise an eyebrow at anyone else’s style of dress.

Here are some photos of people who possess a style I wish I had the courage to use in expression of my soul.

Check out Spawton's blog or book for closeups of Ali and his wonderful outfits

There is an worth-watching documentary out on beautiful Iris Apfel

Ditto for Bill Cunningham, great documentary out about him

Steal, Pilfer, Nick, Swipe, Filch, Purloin, Appropriate, Lift, Take...

...Or, My Sunday Sermon

There were four exits to choose from, but as it was raining hard, I opted for the exit door nearest my destination, the University’s library. This meant passing through the laundry/barber’s room. As I recall, there were 3 or 4 washing machines and a couple of clothes dryers in the room and off to the side a barber’s chair. A barber came one evening per week to cut the hair of any of the religious order who placed their names on the signup sheet hanging nearby. The laundry/barbershop was solely for the use of the religious order who ate, slept, socialized and prepared for work and study on the four floors above the lower level that also contained a bank of University offices.

As I entered the room I saw an employee. He worked in the crowded Facilities Department offices on the north end of the building. My department was housed on the south end. He looked down at his hands which held a see-through ziplock closure plastic bag, and then, sheepishly up at me. He gave a half-smile and shrugged his shoulders. Inside the bag was about 8 ounces of powdered laundry detergent he had nicked from the religious order’s supplies. I sighed, shook my head and exited the building.

His name was… well, that’s irrelevant. He was an ebullient young gay man. The only reason I mention his sexual orientation was that I was certain that, due to his upbringing, it played a part in his arrested personal development. He’d the misfortune to be born to parents of an ultra-conservative Christian religion that especially frowned upon male homosexuality. His wealthy family put him through a “sexual orientation reversal” at a residential rehab. It didn’t achieve the result they’d hoped for and I felt, perhaps it had irrevocably harmed him.

When I saw him later, after the purloined detergent incident, I said, like a disapproving parent, “Don't ever let me see you do something like that again."

"But, but it was nothing, just a bit of the soap, which by the way, they buy tax-free uh, and, uh, and-and in bulk..."

His life was full of petty, sordid misdoings. He would find a McDonalds receipt on the ground, a receipt from a large order, and later enter the very same restaurant, present the receipt and indignantly claim that he’d been through the drive-thru earlier and been shorted on his order. On my birthday he presented me with a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers, that I later found he’d cut from somewhere on the University’s grounds.

I continued my discourse, “Listen, you may think that something like this detergent incident is small and will have no impact. But it does. It makes an impact on your integrity. Each act creates a tiny chink or fissure in your essence. And it adds up until your soul is pockmarked, weak and homely. Don’t let this sort of petty thievery be your purpose. You are so better than this."

***

I thought about the above incident recently when talking with several neighbors about the seemingly rampant petty cheating that goes on here in Beautiful Privatopia. For instance, golf is free for dues-paying residents, yet a waterfront homeowner, in the healing business of medicine, for years allowed his non-resident/non-member, fully-employed adult son to “borrow” his golf privileges. “Well, my son loves golf and I don’t golf at all, so why shouldn’t I?” Or, consider the many who “sneak” guests onto the golf course. Or, people who get caught every year not paying the fee for each automobile registered at Privatopia, instead placing a “free” visitors pass in the windshield. Or, those who go to the “all you can eat buffet” and stuff food in their bags to bring home. Visiting family members and guests who ask their young children to lie about their age to get the discounted price at the swimming pool. And I’ll just bet there is someone, who after leaving church services on this (as I write) "blessed-holy" Easter Day, will attend Privatopia’s special Easter brunch and lie about the ages of children- just to save a few bucks.

And like my co-worker they have somehow reasoned it out. “Well, that 'non-motorized watercraft’ fee is ridiculous. I’m not paying it." "Let them catch me.” “Why should I be the only one?” “Ef ‘um! They charge too much.” Most of them would never dream of taking something from an individual, yet ‘cheating’ an organization is somehow justified.  They don't see that as they steal from the community they are also taking from themselves, and not just in the form of higher fees and dues.

Cautious Husband says, “You and your blog are going to get us kicked out of Beautiful Privatopia.” He’s kidding. -I think? “Aw, no one from here reads it," I reply -I think? At least no one from Privatopia has ever said, 'Hey, I read your stupid well-intended blog…' ” and at least someone would have said that by now, right? Anyway, I don’t mean to give the notion that the majority of Privatopians are somehow less than honest. I believe if one were to ‘run the numbers,’ the percentages would coincide with dishonesty figures everywhere in the world, from the onset of humanity. And I happen to personally know a few of the schmucks more honest individuals out here who, like me, try to follow the rules to a "t" -so I know they exist.)

As Spring appears with her burgeoning promise of a fresh start, let’s consider becoming acquainted with the slow compounding effect, that consistently doing “the right thing,” has on producing a strong, healthy and comely essence.

a wholly unholy soul, or weakened diseased tissue or, porous rock? I can't tell

Feel the Pain...

Sitting on blue matting, directly opposite young boys, he says, “Keep your legs straight and spread your feet out as wide and far from your body as you can. Like this.” The boys imitate the young man’s movement. He continues talking as they groan but eventually relax in their new positions, then says, “Okay, now let’s all reach with both hands to grab hold of our right foot.” “It hurts,” whines one of the boys attempting the move. “Yeah. Yeah, it hurts a bit. But not that much, right?” It was a phrase I would hear him repeat, when appropriate, as his young gymnastic students complained of discomfort. 

*** 

Only hours into her surgical recovery, I help her sip water when a nurse enters to perform a routine check, involving putting gentle pressure on the surgical area. I see the fear on my friend’s face as she overreacts to the simple procedure. When the nurse finishes I take my friend’s hand and say, “Don’t be afraid. She’s in the healing business. She would never do anything that would cause you harm.” The nurse, seems surprised and asks me to repeat my words. I repeat them. “That’s correct,” she responds and turning to my friend, “I’m trying to help you, not hurt you.” Later, my visit over, I pass an open room down the hall where I hear the same nurse saying in a soothing voice to a different patient, “Don’t be afraid. I’m in the healing business…." 

*** 

When I was a teen in the 1960s, there was a physician in Chicago's Edgewater neighborhood, who would write drug prescriptions to anyone with the $5 cash-only fee he charged for an office visit. I accompanied a friend, for moral support, as she endeavored, unbeknownst to her parents, to obtain Dexedrine, having decided it would help her lose weight for an upcoming senior prom. When we arrived, (no appointment necessary) we found a line of about 20 adults in queue outside his office door. He worked without office help, and seemed to have a never-ending line of patients. Fascinated, I craned to get a better view of Dr. S***. He looked, to me, to be 70+ years in age, was white-haired and frail. In his dimly lit office I could see outdated medical equipment, so that you might expect to also see dust and cobwebs upon them. On a table near a worn exam platform was an antiquated infant scale. Who would allow their baby to be placed upon it? Atop the desk was a dated Bell System black rotary dial telephone and a blotter, upon which sat his prescription pad. One of the patients, upon leaving, gave a smile and “thumbs up” to those waiting. My friend said that when she handed Dr. S*** the cash fee, he immediately dropped it into a partially filled-with-cash medical bag sitting on the floor. She’d no problem obtaining her  prescription. No questions were asked when she presented it to the nearby Walgreens pharmacy. This was to be her only foray into illicit drugs. She attended her prom, graduated, married and raised three sons. 

  

***

It’s with interest that I recently read about the new legislation regarding the (CDC) Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s new painkiller guides aimed at reducing the addiction risk associated with opioid prescriptions. The statistics are alarming. Prescription drug abuse is classified as an global epidemic and as the world’s largest consumer of such drugs, the U.S.A., is the world’s biggest addict. 

If so, let’s stop the television and radio ads that constantly promote prescriptions for every single ailment known to humans. The world has followed our lead regarding the banishment of cigarette ads from the airwaves. 

The pattern for drug dependency begins early, as we are given the idea that pain, illness and physical problems can be easily “fixed” with a pill. Let us keep drug use, both over-the-counter and prescription, at a minimum. Store them out of sight of yourself and your family. Use medicines judiciously, as a last resort.

Favor a buddhist-like attitude that acknowledges that some pain and suffering are a fact of life. “Yeah, it hurts. But not that much, right?" I don’t advocate withholding pain relief to patients recovering from complicated surgeries, patients with serious or end-of-life cancer treatments, and such. That is what the opioids are meant for. But, I think for many of the rest of us, there is some merit to the words of an interviewed pharmacist, who said “We are becoming a nation of wusses.” 

I didn’t watch much of this year’s NFL Super Bowl, as I was busy preparing food for guests, but when I walked into the big-screen-TV-filled room, I saw a commercial for a drug to help those with “opioid-induced constipation.” So, now we are promoting drugs to help us combat the side-effects of the drugs to which we’ve inadvertently become addicted? Seriously?!? 

I’m inspired by a young female friend who, two years ago, had a serious back problem that threatened her career, and was immediately offered Vicodin or Percocet by her physician. She quickly found another physician. She recovered and retained her job thanks to exercise therapy and an occasional over-the-counter pain pill. "It’s called 'pain management' for a reason," she explains, "It takes awareness, acceptance, planning, and effort to keep it manageable." 

Opioid painkillers like OxyContin, Percocet and Vicodin have become the most widely prescribed drugs in the U.S.A, with sales nearing $2 billion annually (according to a research firm that collects prescription data). Many opioid-prescribing primary care physicians have little or no training as to their proper use. Find yourself a physician who recommends opioids only as a last resort. 

Curious as to whether my recall of Dr. S*** was accurate, I google and find this blurb in a news article on “the welfare queen.":

"Dr. G**** S***..., who is now deceased, had agreed to stop practicing medicine in 1970 to avoid prosecution on charges of “selling dangerous drug prescriptions to youngsters.”

*** 

Last week I was reaching for an object, no strain, just a simple extension of my arm when a searing pain shot through my back. Unable to bend, Reliable Husband tells me the color drained from my face. I’d recently read about the therapy of walking for managing back pain, so I stayed mobile, walking  as much as possible. The next evening, still in pain but reasoning that “Yeah, it hurts a bit. But not that much, right?” Reliable Husband and I attend a large social gathering, where it was easy for me to walk about, chatting with acquaintances. A women, attached to the medical business, asked why I’d not been at Ladies’ bowling league earlier and I explained my back pain. As the evening ended and I was preparing to leave, she whispered, “If you need prescription-strength pain pills, just let me know.”

Egad!, I thought, Dr. S*** lives on!

[Here is my previous blog on addiction: http://topeacenquiet.blogspot.com/2014/02/not-once-not-even-one-time.html ]