Flash of Genius

Onto a lighter note . . .

My husband R is a car person.

He can list off year, make and model of every car that he or his family has ever owned. And believe me, there are many. Though I don't think he has ever named any (at least he hasn't told me their names) I know he feels a certain, shall I say, connection to each and every car that ever called our driveway home. And he can list in detail all the work that he has done to every one of those cars. From brake jobs to exhaust work, shocks, struts and I don't even know what else, he's got an almost intimate knowledge of the inner workings of all his current and ex-cars. I often kid him when we are driving, if I catch him rubber-necking, I know he has seen a FOR SALE sign somewhere in some windshield or back window. He just loves cars.

So it seemed appropriate a few weeks ago when we went out to celebrate our A.L.L. anniversary to go to the matinee showing of the movie Flash of Genius. This movie tells the story of Robert Kerns, the man who invented the intermittent wiper blade motor. It is based on a true story. The account goes as follows: Kerns brings his invention to Ford Motor Company. Ford gets a look at his prototype, says "thanks, but no thanks," then promptly introduces the intermittent wipers on the next year's models--effectively stealing Kerns' invention. There is a long, drawn out legal battle that takes years . . . anyhow, I won't go into it too much. It is a good movie. Go see it if you get the chance.

As I said, it was an appropriate choice of movie, for R's sake because it involved cars. For my sake because I love good a good story.

But something happened midway through the movie that left me laughing for days.

Robert Kerns had a nervous breakdown.

Okay, not so funny. . . .

As it goes in the movie, Kerns is getting nowhere with Ford and with his lawyers and all. He knows he has been robbed and is powerless and frustrated and now on the edge. The scene goes, he is driving around in a rain storm, spots a random car drive by with intermittent wipers--his invention--in use. He follows the car around until the driver arrives at his own home. After said driver goes inside the house, Kerns approaches the driveway and proceeds to break into the car, lifting the hood and attempting to remove the wiper motor. This is obviously a poignant moment in the story: a man at the edge of desperation, resorting to a criminal act.

Sitting in the nearly empty theater, R and I were commenting freely on the movie. R, the whole time this scene is going on, is saying "What is he doing? What does he think he is doing? Don't do that! What is he doing?"

I say, "It looks like he is breaking into the car. Oh yeah, that's what he's doing. He's trying to steal the wiper motor."

R turns to me and says, "But it's a GM!"


Peace.
C

The word

A few days ago was the 5 year anniversary of the diagnosis. I wrote the following some time ago when remembering how things happened. By way of explanation, Acute Lymphatic Leukemia (ALL) is a very aggressive cancer. Time is of the essence when starting treatment. I knew this first hand. A friend that I met in the Philippines had this same diagnosis. It took her in a week. So I understood the immediacy of the situation.
R and I went out yesterday--had a date to celebrate the occasion. Just the two of us. :)
Here goes . . .

It was a conversation I knew would happen. You had told me what the plan was for the day. You had told me to come after work for the meeting with Doctor to discuss the strategy. I knew the outcome of the evening. I knew the word I was waiting to hear--dreading to hear. I passed through the day in a haze of numbness--thankful for a new job to distract me--seeking to avoid even the fifteen minute break. Fifteen minutes was time enough to emerge from the numbness into the pain.

I left your place of work, thinking the task of driving would be enough. But the miles of highway sameness offered no solace. I was a pendulum between numbness and pain those sixty miles. A soul between purgatory and hell.

"There you are!" you called out cheerfully when I entered the room. You were flanked on either side by Doctor and Nurse. You three had already started the conversation, but would review for my benefit. Doctor began at the top, explaining diagnosis, disease and options. I listened quietly, nodding attentively. I was waiting to hear the word. I knew it would be spoken before the end of this meeting. Would I have the strength to bear it?

Into my head came an image of our children. I saw them as clear as if they were standing there by your bed. Our children. Our little boy and little girl. Images of them came to mind--after they were born. First was our son, then within two years our daughter. We had them close in age so they would be companions as well as siblings.

You and I had made a similar arrangement as my parents had, so I named our son, then you named our daughter. I saw our blond, blue-eyed children as infants. I thought about how we would gaze at them in amazement and pick out familiar features. We would even see our parents' and siblings' features in our children's eyes and noses and chins and hands.

Our little boy was the picture of you in your youth. He would follow you around--Daddy's little helper. He would always insist on accompanying you to the garage. You were stern but gentle with him. You would take the time to show him things that he needed to know--how to wash and wax a car, how to fix a stereo, how to pet a cat properly.

Our little girl had you completely bewitched. She would wear her dress-up party costumes and invite you for tea parties. Even at your busiest, you would make a point to give her special attention, even if you couldn't sit down next to Mr. Bingles for crumpets and cookies.

You would shake your head in amazement to see an obvious feminine heart forming in our young daughter. And I would thrill to see the young man our son was developing into--already showing signs of those character traits which I so admire in you.

Doctor continued, broaching the subject of a medical study, that you were a prime candidate, that it was entirely up to us . . .

My mind went to my parents, the proud grandparents of our children. We had wracked our brains for weeks to think of the perfect way to bring them the news of their first expected grandchild. How my mom had cried. My dad had embraced his new role with fervor, "horsey-rides" "airplane" and "hide and seek" despite his age. My mom worried and scolded him, but he didn't care. Now that our son was getting a little older, my dad would take him to every airshow he could, pointing out all the different planes. My mom would sit with our little girl and teach her to stitch and sew. "She's quite talented" my mom would beam proudly, inspecting her handiwork.

The word was in the wings, waiting for its inevitable entrance into the conversation, into our lives. I sensed it was near. I glanced at you, wondering if you felt its presence. You were listening to Doctor. He had begun.

He was reading from a list. Page upon page of poisons. Tools they would use to fight this enemy which had invaded us.

The laughter of our children echoed in my mind as the side effects were lined up and ticked off. A whole new list for each poison. I waited and listened . . .

"...nausea . . . diarrhea . . .rash . . . anemia . . . blurred vision . . . dizziness . . . headaches . . . cramping . . . bleeding . . . hair loss . . . blindness . . . "

Then suddenly it was there. The word. Spoken. Hanging in the air. Filling the room. Mingling with our children's laughter.

Doctor didn't stop reading until you reached over and took my hand--the closest you could get to comfort me. Nurse sprang into action, trying to find a tissue for me. Are there no tissues in this room for this weeping woman? Doctor looked at me, surprised. I had been taking it all so well, until the word was spoken.

"Do you two have children?"

I looked at you through my tears.

You answered Doctor for me.

Doctor and Nurse both waited respectfully until I quieted. Doctor gently explained that there was no time to delay. No time. We must start the regimen tomorrow. I nodded. I knew we had waited too long.

Doctor continued with his list. No more surprises. The room was silent, except for Doctor's voice . . .

". . . seizures . . . loss of appetite . . . muscle spasms . . . blood in the urine . . . dementia . . . . . . "


Peace
C

An Upcoming Anniversary

The next few posts I am adding to mark a milestone for me and my husband. October 6, 2003 R was diagnosed with Acute Leukemia. It was a dire diagnosis that changed our world. His treatment required months of chemotherapy followed by a Bone Marrow Transplant. He was out of work for a full two years recovering from the treatment. He is now two inches shorter, has cataracts in both eyes, must carry eye drops with him all the time, has permanent scars on his chest from two Hickman ports they had to insert, will sometime soon need both shoulder and hip replacement surgery . . . but he is alive.

We are thankful to all the doctors and nurses who walked us through the toughest of times with an amazing amount of patience and grace. We are also grateful to all our family and friends who stood by us and provided tangible help to us. JT and DC who crawled under the trailer in sub-zero temps to work on plumbing that awful January. AK who fought the phone company to get our phone back in service. IW who provided financially when we had almost no income. TB who cared so wonderfully for our cats so we didn't have to get rid of them. KP who came with his snowblower every storm that winter. KS who sold us the car at a ridiculously low price when my car finally gave up the ghost. Countless others who sent cards and called and visited at the hospital. These were the people who kept us sane and didn't judge when insanity won out.

Five years later it is sometimes easy to forget what we went through. Though I would never wish it on anyone, that time is precious to me. The reality of life and what is important was so close during that time. I remember when Gracia Burnham returned home after 14 months as a captive of the Abu Sayaf rebels in the Philippines. She said something similar--that when she was a captive, if she was thirsty or hungry or sick, she was dependant on God to provide for her needs. Now that she is home, if she is thirsty, she goes to the refrigerator. She missed the tangible reality of her dependence on God. I know what she means. Although I felt far from God during that time, I know I was more in his hands then than I am now that the sickness is mostly a memory.

I have recently been reuniting with some old friends through Facebook. In the catching up with what people have been doing since I last saw them however many years ago, I discovered that at least one family is familiar the situation of a dire diagnosis. In their case, it is a young son. It's funny. Having gone through something like this, you run the risk of developing kind of an elitist attitude. As if to say "I've done something important. I've looked in the eyes of death . . . what have you done?" I was squarely put in my place when I realized that my story is not so unique. I wrote the following in response to this discovery. I didn't really finish it, it kind of just peters out. But here it is . . .


So you know . . .

You know the day-by-day, hour-by-hour existence, when the word FUTURE changes its meaning. It becomes closer--you turn claustrophobic in its definition. You cannot plan your day, your wardrobe. You cannot trust that the short sleeves will be sufficient, because the morning can turn to afternoon, to evening, to midnight with no prior warning.

So you know . . .

You know what it is like to sit through biopsies and blood draws and spinal taps without flinching. You know how to look into his eyes and become the rock, the anchor. You cannot wince--no sympathy pain--except for in your soul where it doesn't show. No sign of weakness. You are strength. You are comfort. You are advocacy. You are the stiff upper lip.

Did you become the weakness as well? Did you cry because you recognised that he would not? Did you rail against him in his helplessness? Did you make your appeals to God? Did you long for others' help, then resent it when it came?

Did you want to scream or spit when other people looked at you in amazement. They shook their heads and told you that they could never do what you were doing--as if you had chosen this life for yourself--for him. Of course they would do what you do! What option would they have had? What option did you have? You longed to pick up your cards and go home--declare that enough is enough. But retreat is impossible. Escape does not exist. The past is unattainable. The future is non-existent. There is only the present. The pain, the anxiety, the boredom, the desperation, the craziness, and the waiting. The ever-present waiting.


JM, Thanks for the lesson.

Peace
C

Mr. Van Doren

I have recently made a delightful discovery.

By way of background, I am an avid reader, from a long line of avid readers. Lately though, not so much. I still read a lot, but I have been disappointed or bored by the books I have chosen to read. There seems to be a trend recently of completely entering a character's head and dissecting his/her inner thoughts for page after page ad nauseum. I don't have the patience to withstand such an assault. Books that have come to me highly recommended have been tossed aside partly read, simply because I couldn't stand the inner angst of protagonist A.

I do like poetry, but there is so much bad poetry out there that I tend to stick to Shakespeare, Yeats or Eliot--pretty hefty stuff. For me, poetry has been a mental exercise, wrapping my head around an idea, stretching my mind to figure out what the writer is trying to say, wrestling with the language or meter. Just the idea of good poetry exhausts me.

Enter Mark Van Doren.

Who?

I knew the name only from the movie Quiz Show. The movie is about the rigged game show 21. Charles Van Doren basically became the face of the scandal. He is the son of Mark Van Doren--a Columbia professor and Pulitzer Prize winner. Anyways, I picked up a book of his poems at a yard sale earlier this year, only because I recognized the name and because the price was right (50 cents, I believe). The book sat in my "yard sale bag" for several weeks, untouched. I picked it up a few nights ago when I needed to unwind after a long day.

The very act of reading--especially an old book--can be a pleasure. The feel of the book (preferably hard cover), the smell and color of the pages, the sound the book makes as you touch the pages. Sometimes you come across some old memento that a previous owner used as a book mark. Well, all of these things were coming together to work their magic. The first few poems went by barely noticed. Then the spell began working. The fourth poem in, I stopped . . . something had caught my attention, my imagination. I had to slow down and reread. The ninth poem in--a beauty called Immortal--I was completely bewitched.

I don't presume to know anything about Mr. Van Doren. And it has been too many years since my college Literature classes for me to dissect what about this book is so enchanting. All of the poems in this book involve rural life, something of Nature. He also gives some human traits to nature and vice versa. So a spring (water) can experience fear, or an old woman turns into a stone when resting. But they all have an intangible quality, a yearning, a sadness, a joy. I read through all 66 poems that night and have since reread several of them. I even read a few to my husband--always a risky affair. He enjoyed them as well.

So thank you to Mr. Van Doren for the surprise and delight!

Immortal

The last thin acre of stalks that stood
Was never the end of the wheat.
Always something fled to the wood,
As if the field had feet.

In front of the sickle something rose--
Mouse, or weasel, or hare;
We struck and struck, but our worst blows
Dangled in the air.

Nothing could touch the little soul
Of the grain. It ran to cover,
And nobody knew in what warm hole
It slept till the winter was over,

And early seeds lay cold in the ground.
Then--but nobody saw--
It burrowed back with never a sound,
And awoke the thaw.


From Spring Thunder
by Mark Van Doren

Peace
C

Happy Birthday, G!

Today is my older brother's 40th birthday. I won't mention more about the idea that it is a shock to me that all the old gang that I started hanging out with when I was in my 20s are now crossing that 40 year threshold. I am at the younger end of the group of friends, so I have a little time left, but not a lot. I have been told by family members the next generation up that the 40 decade is wonderful. I hope so, since I am staring down the barrel of the "40 age shotgun!"

Okay. In honor of my big brother passing this milestone, I would like to share a little family story concerning him.

My brother has an unusual name. In the interest of anonymity, I will simply call him G. G's name caused him a fair amount of grief growing up, all the way through elementary, junior and senior high school. Now, members of my family are blessed with a certain degree of oddness--shall I say nerdiness. There are a few who escaped that gene, but only a very few. So, here you have an odd boy with and odd name. On top of all that, he is a red-head. Kiss your social life good-bye, especially for a boy!!!

Now, the story goes, my parents had made an agreement when they were expecting their firstborn. If the child was born a boy, my mom would name him. If it was a girl, my dad would have the honors. Then whoever didn't "win" the contest the first time would name the second child. Also, they agreed that the names would be kept secret from each other until the baby came.

So the time came, and behold! a child was born--a boy. Some time after the delivery, my dad went in to my mom's room to find out what his son's name was. My mom, in delirious exhaustion mumbled out "Horace." Whenever my dad repeats this story, he flinches at this part. All he could think was "oh no! The poor child!"

So he leaves for a little while and returns when my mom is more awake and alert. He asks her at this point, "so, what is his middle name?" I'm sure he was thinking, maybe we can call the boy by his middle name. My mom answers "Paul." So my dad tries out the full name "Horace Paul."
And now, this is the point where my mom yells out incredulously "Horace?! Who's Horace?!" . . .

So the moral of the story: if you're a geeky, gawky, red-haired kid with a funny, at times embarrassing name, take heart! It could be worse! Your name could be Horace!

Happy Birthday, G!

Peace
C

My roots--the treasure

My mom left this week for a trip out west to North Dakota, where she grew up. I have been thinking about my roots since before I posted last. I wrote previously about where I came from on my dad's side--rural Connecticut. My paternal grandfather was the quintessential New Englander. He was the do-it-yourself farmer, with tendencies toward intellectual elitism. He was uncomfortable with emotion and did not show affection well. I think he did not know what to do with his grandchildren, who in many ways displayed artistic "bents." I still have unresolved feelings about him. I never felt close to him. He frightened me in some ways, disappointed me in other ways. but I do have some pride in his strength and fortitude. I am his progeny, so some of his strength (as well as his disdain) is mine. He is my backbone.
My heart is another story.
My mother's father was a child of the prairie. He and his brother were the younger set of half siblings. During WWII, he moved his family to California to the San Diego area. There he worked in a factory which made airplanes for the war. He took a lot of pride in his work there, but he missed home. So after the war he brought his family back to the open skies of North Dakota. When I knew him, he was newly widowed from my grandma (I have only vague memories of her). He was retiring from his work as a diesel mechanic. And he had taken up a new hobby--beekeeping.
It's kind of funny. I saw my CT Grampa several times a year while I was growing up, but the feelings that I have for him are at best undefined. I could probably count on two hands the number of times that I actually saw my ND Grampa, but I can honestly say that I adored that man (I still do). I know I was cherished by him whenever I saw him. I remember him getting on his hands and knees and playing with me. He visited my family in NH when I was in elementary school. I remember him walking with me to school and listening to me. He would hug me freely. He would spend time with me.
The last time I saw him was when I had gone to ND after my step-grandma had died. By then he was suffering the affects of Alzheimer's. The morning that I left, I was hugging him good-bye. He looked intently into my eyes and told me most assuredly "I will never forget you."
He passed away one year later. All his grandchildren were his pallbearers.
I treasure the memories that I have of my Grampa. The only regret that I have is that there are not more of them.

My Roots--the tether

I've been feeling a little nostalgic of late.
I grew up in New England--Nashua, NH specifically. I was born there and, except for a couple years in very early childhood, lived in the same house until I was married and moved to NY state. I know all the streets of my old neighborhood like the back of my hand. I still refer to houses as the family homes of people who have not lived there for decades. I remember the dog on the corner who would wait for us every day to toss a dirty tennis ball for him to catch and bring back. My friends and I would grow tired of this game long before he would. And the bike riding. The corner food market--Jean's Foodland--was always a favorite destination of mine for buying candy bars and birthday cards. Later on I worked my first job at that store. It still is sometimes a surprise to me that it has been replaced by a Rite Aid--has been for 20 years or so.
Yeah, Nashua is my hometown, but my roots are planted somewhere else.
I am the granddaughter of a Connecticut dairy farmer and his wife. The farm that Reuben S. worked was in the family for at least 2 generations before him (I know I will be corrected soon on this). He was literally born in the house in which he lived his entire life.
I remember going to the farm as a kid and walking out to the cow pasture. My brother and I were each given the honor of naming one of the cows. I can't remember the name I gave my cow (I'm sure it was something sensible like Bessie or Blue Bonnet). My brother, being such a boy, named his Cow Flop. Yup. That poor creature is immortalised in my memory for that unfortunate name bestowed on her.
It was always a treat going to Grandma's and Grampa's. In the summer Grandma would give us an empty coffee can with a shoe lace handle to pick berries. Those were that best blackberries! And the thunk! sound they would make when they would hit the bottom of the coffee can. Of course, they would always make that sound. I don't think there would ever be more that a single layer of berries--I would always eats too many for that to happen!
But the best was the house itself. It is an old farmhouse. I to this day love the smell of wood smoke--it smells like Grandma and Grampa's. Our coats would be hung up behind the wood stove in the kitchen upon arrival. That provided the added benefit of saturating our coats in wood smoke, to bring the memories home with us. The adults would talk around the wood stove, my brothers and I would spread throughout the rest of the house. It's funny, the rest of the house has kind of an echo quality to it. There is no carpeting, the floors are bare except for some throw rugs. Despite the echo, it is not an empty house. It is full of memories of generations of my family. I suppose that a large part of the reason that I love old things now is because of that house. It is a sort of tether for me. It is my roots.
Peace
C

PS It is a recurring dream of mine that somewhere in that house there is a secret passageway to a hidden room. It gets more and more real every time I dream it!

Introducing . . . Freddie the Freeloader

R and I have been having an interesting problem of late.

Three weeks ago, I woke up to a tremendous squeaking and chirping going on downstairs. Usually that means one of our cats have brought in and are dispatching with some critter. I got up and went downstairs to survey the damage. Well, one of our cats (I think it was Felix) was standing in front of the microwave cart, looking all hunterish. I peaked behind it and was instantly assaulted by the most virulent stream of curses ever uttered by a chipmunk. I made some attempts to sweep the critter out with a broom, but only succeeded in getting a new strain of chipmunk obscenities rained upon my head. After some time, I had to leave to go to work. I figured I would just shoo him out that evening, when both R and I were home. I just hoped that I would not return home to find a corpsified critter in pieces on the floor.

As I said, that was 3 weeks ago. For those of you who don't know, R and I are blessed with nine cats--NINE CATS! Do you think that with NINE CATS in the house, a rodent would dare to draw breath? Well, Freddie the Freeloader--as he is now referred to--has apparently found our home a good land, flowing with Milk and Honey. Every once in a while we will hear him chirp away. The sound is at such a pitch that it is difficult to hone in on where it is coming from. And he will only call out a couple times, then he will fall silent. I look for help from the cats, sure that at least one will show interest. The most I will get is a yawn or a stretch, followed by the hopeful looking of the cat begging for a treat.

We have bird feeders, so we have a stash of birdseed in the house. We also have a perpetual cat food feeder, so I'm sure he feels he has never had it so good. When R and I are home for any amount of time, all doors stay open, hoping he will make like a tree and scram. All for naught. Maybe we have to stop feeding our cats regularly, so they will show some interest in Freddie. The irony is that our cats are still hunting outside. The other day, Nugget brought in and dropped a mole on our living room floor. Within 5 minutes, Freddie just happened to chirp out his presence. Actually, I think I detected a distinct sound of laughter in his voice.

Well, at least he's not a skunk!!!

Peace
C

Summer's finally here

It finally felt warm today, two days after the summer solstice. I always go into a sort of mourning at this time of the year. After June 21st, the days begin getting shorter. It doesn't seem right, somehow. Of course, on Dec 21st, I begin celebrating, because I know that the days from then on are longer. It somehow takes a little bite out of the frozen season.
I spent sometime last night cleaning out messages from our "sent" folder. We had ones going back to when R went through the GVH setback, starting November of 2005. It was really interesting reading all those old messages. Most of them were to Dr S in Boston, composed by me, since R was too sick or weak to sit at the computer. Just reading them, I could sense that tone of desperation. I really was on the edge. And of course the brunt of it happened in the dead of Winter, my worst time of year under normal circumstances. It's funny, as the time stretched on into Spring, there is a definite change in the tone of the emails. Of course, Rich was getting better by then. But I was relaxing with the warmer temps as well. And to have his 40th birthday party that Spring was really special. It was a real milestone to celebrate. Not just because he was turning 40, but also because we were on the recovery end of that brutal fight. I know that it was really something special for him to see so many of his friends, many of whom traveled from a far way off.
I guess it is good every once in a while to go back and see from where you have traveled. Boy was last night a big dose of perspective!!
Peace
C

The maiden voyage

So this is my foray into the blogging universe.
I have always felt that blogging was catering to a person's self-important tendencies. But I am coming to think that is a good way of keeping up with people in your life. I have a friend with whom I rarely get to spend time with anymore. She keeps a regular blog going, so I am able to keep up with what is going on in her life. Of course, it does not replace picking up the phone and calling her, but we both lead busy lives and it is difficult to carve out time.
An explanation on the name of my blog. It comes from a song by John Mellencamp, "Between a Laugh and a Tear." The line goes "I know there's a balance, I see it when I swing past." I often feel like that, like I am swinging between extremes. One moment life makes sense and I am on my game, in a zone. The next moment I am spinning plates, waiting for them to come crashing down. I know this is a common experience for a lot of people, so maybe you know what I'm saying.
And a word to anyone who may stumble upon this, I many times feel I am perhaps the most uninteresting person that I know, so don't expect high art here. Don't even expect proper grammer, though I will try my hardest.
Peace.
C