Reality check

My sister, the one closest in age to me, a mere eighteen months older, had a heart attack today. Damn. That is not supposed to happen to chicks as young as we are.

Wait, though... she is only one year younger than our dad when he died of cardiac related issues. And,...oh, yeah, just four short years younger than our mother, who died of a heart attack aided by the incompetence of a doctor.

Hunh... maybe we are in that window of opportunistic death. Maybe we are facing mortality.

I can't take this. I don't want to deal with this. The family is calling, calling, texting, e-mailing... What's up? How serious is this? Serious. Really? Really. But, you two are the 'little girls', the babies, how can this be?

Time, baby. It catches up with us all. We trade the bad habits, the studious ignoring of symptoms and heredity for the future. Time to pay up. Sad and alarming, but true. As a famous law enforcement instructor told me, "There are very few true victims".

I will pray for a better tomorrow for my sister, and for the changes wrought by a wake-up call.

Ice pug-cades

Winston the Wonder dog was in rare form this morning. He was going on a ride! (Twitch of tail, lick of lips) Yes, a ride! (Snort to clear mucus from tiny little nose), Do you want to go on a ride? (Head tilt, snort, twitch, run to door, look back over shoulder)...

When the door opens, he races out, sideswiping the opener-person, and does wild laps around the nearest vehicle. Or, attempts to.

Today, the morning began with a thick sheet of ice on everything, results of a night long freezing rain. Even the sides of the cars were glazed with ice. Which makes high speed laps dangerous to humans, but hilarious for Pugs. Even more so when the Pug in question is wearing red and white checkered long johns with a trap door at the butt.

Winston realized his problem at the first turn, which did not go the way he anticipated. He slid wide, skittering madly, his rear end passing his face. He looked over at the offending part like it was a rival driver in a drag race. He scrabbled even faster with his front paws. No luck. Now his front end was doing something strange, turning slowly away from the rest of him.

He made the turn, missing the nearby truck by mere inches, and passed by his shrieking audience; red, white, black; red, white, black. We laughed until our sides hurt at the sight of the poor black child in the dim morning grayness spinning on the ice.

Which made him get all silly and show-offy. He made multiple laps then, enjoying it for its craziness and class clown potential, deliberately spinning out on his tummy, tongue lolling and eyes wild.

Early morning ice-pug-cades.

Graduation day

(My son and his thesis adviser, the Dean of Sciences)

Today, my husband and I attended the graduation of our middle child, our son the pre-med soccer player. He graduated with honors, cum laude, with an additional degree from the Honors College in addition to Biology. He was selected by the faculty to speak at the ceremony.

A reception followed, during which time we were surrounded by professors who were effusive in their praise of my son's intellect, character and kindness. It was, as George says, a report card for us as parents. And, we got A+.

We have had two of our children graduate from college so far, and one will follow next year. I am grateful for the hard work and diligence my kids give to their studies and future. I came from undereducated, low socioeconomic roots, and I have been determined for my kids to have better than I had. I made it through both university and nursing school, but with lots of loans and hardship.

Now, another one faces the real world, equipped with education, no loans, a good car, and a deep appreciation for what put him where he is.

Congratulations, my son, the graduate.

No encore

In this season of joy, anticipation, hope, healing and birth, our friend is dying. Will die, today.

Because he has deteriorated in two short weeks from being a vibrant, handsome, talented man of fifty to a wasted patient in intensive care, connected to tubes and drains and monitors. Because the doctors have concurred that he will never make it.

If a miracle occurred and he did somehow find a way to support his own life, he would be blind and deaf. He is a professional musician with a voice like a god. He might cope with the blindness, but to silence his music would be to lock him in a living hell. In this performance, he gets no encore, though we are applauding as loudly as we can through our tears.

But, he cannot live without the machines right now. And they will be stilled as soon as the family gathers later today.

For the songs, the smiles, the encouragement, the decades of friendship, thank you, Dan.

You have been more than a friend. You have been music to our ears.

God bless, Danny Boy.

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If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder without any such gift from the fairies, he need the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in.

--Rachel Carson

Cabela's Club

Yes, we are a member of the sacred Redneck Society of Cabela's. We worship at the shrine of the Bargain Cave. We love this stuff.

However, at Christmas time, when Club Card Bonus points are being spent in the furtherence of holiday magic, it is hard to keep a secret. These assholes report every little damn transaction. I have no secrets.

Just yesterday, George opens an envelope and asks, 'What boot dryer did you order?'. I am flabbergasted. The order went in yesterday, as in: less than 24 hours ago! Damn!

I pause... then, I am suddenly pissed at this snoopy invasive person called husband. 'It was supposed to be a Christmas gift! Maybe, you could have just pretended not to read that so I might be able to surprise you once in a while!' I purged my Cabela's wrath!

He looked at me through those stupid fucking magnifying reading glasses, which just serve to make that little hurt expression more intense, and said, 'Well, I didn't know...'

Not to be deterred, I said, 'George, it's December! Don't ask questions about the bills!' and stomped out of the kitchen.

For a long while after, we both felt kinda lousy...

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Aren't we forgetting the true meaning of Christmas? You know… the birth of Santa.

--Bart Simpson