MountainMornings

We are back in the Blue Ridge, except the mountains were orange this morning. And after almost a week in a news-free Curious George zone, I eagerly tuned into CNN for the Democratic debate last night. 

My ears picked up when Anderson Cooper brought up gun violence. And Hillary made a point about the special immunity gun manufacturers have from prosecution and civil suits. Bernie’s position on this issue seems to be evolving, but his reasoning about being from a rural state like Vermont didn’t ring true to me. 

The tide is changing. Two policemen in Milwaukee who were both shot in the face by a criminal – a guy who obtained his gun from a “straw” buyer – just won their suit against the gun store who sold the gun originally. This is a first. 

A jury found the gun store liable and ordered it to pay 6 Million in damages to the officers. 

It’s time we decided to tackle this issue head on, and to see Hillary come out swinging last night was a relief. 

If a car manufacturer sells a car with a faulty ignition, or a roll-over problem, or lies about emission controls, all hell breaks loose. We carry children strapped up tight in the back seats of our cars and we expect safety to be a number one priority. Yet we as a nation have allowed guns to be sold out of car trunks at gun shows. 

In other news, heroin deaths this year in VA have surpassed highway fatalities for the first time. The media is blaming doctors who write scripts for opioids. Of course I asked Bob how many Viginians died from gun violence this year in the state. He couldn’t find that data. 

The gun lobby doesn’t let the CDC collect those numbers. It’s time to study immune-resistant gun violence once and for all. 

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“Why do you always yell at me? I don’t really care what we do.” 

This was what the woman in the next car was saying to her presumed husband. I’m sitting in a parking garage waiting for the Bride and her family. It turned into a really rainy day so a trip to the aquarium was in order. This random woman was yelling about something Dr Jim had just told me about, the Abilene Paradox. 

This paradox is almost like “group think” or committee work, it occurs when a group of people decide to do something that is counterintuitive to each individual. In other words, it’s the old go with the flow. It’s like getting caught up in the Gulf Stream going the wrong way. 

Imagine everybody is sitting on the front porch and the grandfather says “Hey let’s go up to Abilene for dinner!”  He’s thinking aloud and hasn’t been there since he was a kid. The whole family agrees. Except the drive of 50 miles becomes interminable, the kids are cranky and once they arrive the restaurant is no longer there. One by one each family member realizes they didn’t really want to go to Abilene for dinner. 

If you’ve ever been vacationing with a group I’m sure you’ve experienced this paradox. How the heck did I get here? 

Well I’m glad we all decided to go to the aquarium. We saw an albino alligator named Alabaster. The Love Bug touched a starfish. And Bob found out what that bird was in our driveway – a juvenile White Ibis! Here is his buddy, an Egret!

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This morning we woke up in the Palmetto State. This trip to the Isle of Palms was planned months ago. Before surgery, before the thousand year biblical flood and dams breaking everywhere. Before we knew what we were made of. 

We passed fields of cotton in standing water, like white cranberry bogs. We passed lots of roadside gun shops. And because the Intestate was closed, we passed iconic small towns on two lane highways. I was tempted to go into a Lifeway Christian Store, maybe thay had a small model of Noah’s ark we could borrow?

But Bob brought along every navigational device known to man. He downloaded WAZE in order to be on point with crowd-sourcing traffic/flooding detours. I wonder if future generations will know what to do with a map?

We are no strangers to flooding; we moved to our mountain from the Jersey Shore and watched our tiny river swell its banks and invade our cars. We knew to watch the cycle of the moon and the tides. But what we didn’t know was how floods happen inland, and we didn’t know about Climate Change. We know now. 

Wish us luck, we have another 150 miles to go before we reach the ocean. Driving toward muddy flood waters wasn’t what I had in mind for this short vacation with the grandbabies. 

The sun is out and this is not a Bruce Willis movie. Still I wonder when the Waccamaw River will crest? Maybe we should fly?

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We’ve been visiting doctors lately. One gentlemanly Southern doctor in a bow tie plopped his black Doctor’s Bag down on the desk and introduced himself. He was young, meaning maybe 30 something, and I was surprised enough to mention his old-school bag. 

He pulled out the tools of his trade and did the most complete physical exam I’d ever seen in my life. Lots of hammering for reflex checks. Lots of listening via stethoscope. 

I’m not sure Bob ever carried a doctor bag per se. He always carried an old fashioned, beat up brown leather briefcase. Not as snazzy as DeNiro’s vintage case in The Intern, but just as efficient.

Bob carried lots of paper back in the day since he’s been an ED director for much of his working life. He remembers when he could no longer find his Mad Men briefcase in any store after using and abusing the original till it fell apart. That, he tells me, was a sad pre-Internet time! 

Today, in a small black duffle bag you’d find his iPad. The stethoscope still holds a place of prominence, but so does a Mophi for charging devices. This old duffle is getting threadbare. I asked him what most young doctors are carrying these days, and he told me backpacks. 

I was all set to get Bob a backpack – something with gravitas if possible – when we saw DeNiro pull his calculator out of his briefcase, right before trying to turn on his laptop. I laughed, didn’t he know there’s a calculator in his phone? Then I saw his flip phone. Later in the film, one of his younger colleagues found a sweet ancient briefcase on eBay.

So now I’m all about that Google search for a new briefcase. I know some hipsters carry old WWII messenger bags slung across their chests. And obviously some young docs have kept the mystique of the Doctor’s Bag alive, but there’s just something very 007 about the standard leather briefcase with a nice lock under the handle. Don’t you agree?   

Notice the handsome Darth Vader neck brace and the minimalist desk. Notice the body posture. Welcome back Doc!

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At one point, in the build up to last night’s debate, we heard about the very first job each Republican candidate held as a youngster. Mowing lawns, life guarding, and all the usual career choices that open up to a sixteen year old aspiring politician. 

My very first job was temporary, wrapping Christmas presents at a women’s clothing store. Later that summer I was a counselor-in-training (CIT) at Camp St Joseph for Girls. I had to quit that job suddenly when the nuns found out I was the coordinator for night time trysts on the golf course between the boys camp and the girls. You may have heard the story, passing notes to the altar boy while receiving Holy Communion…

CITs lived in a limbo between the freedom of counselor life and the rules and regs of campers. I was happy to leave my childhood behind and get on with growing up! That summer helped me realize I was finally a “Lapsed Catholic.” 

I made a whopping $500. I lost my faith. And I cut my long hair. My feminist sensibility was growing roots. 

When I heard that Trump’s first job was collecting rent for his father I had to laugh. The arrogance and sense entitlement was ingrained. He must have learned that the world was his oyster at an early age. That everything comes easy with a little hard work and a lot of powerful privilege and leverage. 

When this bubble bursts, he can always go back to collecting the rent.  Here is the Love Bug, the next generation of feminist warriors, practicing her Jedi Knight moves!

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My daughter the Bride was born at 6:02 in the evening 36 years ago on this day! It was a beautiful sunny September day, in fact Bob took a little time that weekend to staff the medical tent at the Josh Billings run aground race. It took me awhile, but I finally forgave him for leaving me alone in the hospital.

And forgiveness is what Rosh Hashanah is all about. We listened to the shofar this morning at the family service. It’s the start of a new year and the slate is wiped clean. We say we are sorry for words or actions that may have hurt others. Some find it easy to say, “I’m sorry,” it rolls off the tongue or may include an eye roll. It becomes meaningless. 

When I was in Catholic school, we went to confession every Friday. We only had to tell a priest and say some prayers to get right again with God. Jewish people everywhere have only one shot a year to dig deep and seek out those they may have harmed. 

It’s only ten days of reflection, before Yom Kippur, but we need to be inscribed in the Book of Life. It’s an intense period of time. So if my words were in any way hurtful my dear readers, please forgive me. My intention with this blog is to keep my family and old Jersey friends and new friends close and speak my truth. 

I’m grateful for this New Year and for my wonderful daughter. She not only brings her Daddy milkshakes, she downloads podcasts and juggles a husband, children and a pretty insane job. Happy New Year to all and Happy Birthday sweet girl. We are all striving to be happy.  

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While we were in NYC, we had a number of choices for transportation. My big sister Kay’s apartment is on the East Side and the hospital’s on the West. I’m not great with the subway, and cabs I was told, would be too expensive. 

So Kay gave me the number of a car service. I called them:

Once they asked me if I was ready to go now. I said “No,” I was hoping they could come in exactly two hours. They said to call them back when I’m ready. 

Once I called them after dark, a bit later in the day. The guy who a answered the phone said, “Sorry, I’m already at home eating dinner.” Each time it seemed he hung up the phone a little harder, as if to say I had a helluva nerve bothering him. 

I felt like Goldilocks. 

Because the third time was just right. The Bride grabbed my phone and downloaded Uber.  

So far I’ve met drivers from the Ivory Coast, Nepal, and Ecuador. The cars were spotlessly clean and ranged from a huge Escalade to a Toyota. I love using the App, putting in my destination and watching all the tiny cars on my cell, driving around on the Uber GPS map and hearing the ding that says someone is coming my way!

There is no money changing hands, and there is no tipping. And it’s cheaper than a taxi or the temperamental car service. 

Sometimes it’s hard to leave our comfort zone. It requires a certain degree of trust in people; “As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.” 

Uber is a good thing! It’s  the universe unfolding as it should.  

Waiting for Uber

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There’s a book about the things soldiers carried with them to war. There’s an article about the things millions of refugees from Syria carry with them over borders. And there’s the things I carried with me for a short stay at a NYC hospital. 

I wore one pair of very sensible shoes so I wouldn’t have to pack any other shoes. I didn’t anticipate time to walk or visit a gym, and sneakers take up too much space. 

I purchased one of those plastic partitioned pill bottles old ladies use for their meds. I put one allergy pill, one Aleve, and one multivitamin in each of the seven compartments. I emptied the last compartment today. The Flapper gave me good genes. 

I threw in one nightgown and seven shirts with underwear. I thought two sweaters would do, after all I’m a New Englander at heart and figured the nights might be getting cold. 

I packed two blue eternity necklaces for the Bride. I had just learned to string seed beads and pearls with crystals and figured it was good hand therapy for the broken finger. The Bride’s birthday is coming up and I wanted to surprise her. Then I kept stringing, one for Cait, one for Kay my other September birthday girls. And for good measure I made one for Ada. 

Because these are the women who bring sparkle into my life, and because I know we are family in an eternal circle of love. 

The Circle Line just went by our window on the Hudson. And it made me think, when we leave here I forgot to pack a hat. 

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We’re back up in NY for a short time. There’s a slight chill in the air. One of us is going under the knife today and I wish it was me. 

That must be love. Wanting to take away every pain, to soak it into your own skin and own it. Wear it like a badge of unadulterated positive regard. Look, see how I can heal my beloved with a mere touch of my hand. 

I knew this was the kind of powerful love we feel for our children. I’ve spent many nights over the years trying to sap a fever away from one child or another, trying it on myself instead. Bargaining with God in some twisted take on Faust. 

I didn’t expect after 36 years to still feel such primitive devotion. Such tenderness. And I told him not to worry about me. Because I will always be alright. Whatever happens, we made a vow and I’m sticking to it. A deal is a deal 

Early this evening Ada told me to “dress for dinner” and I had no idea what she was talking about. We were heading out, we had just finished dinner. She looked at me and gestured toward her chin – the implication became clear. Whatever happens, I need to be strong. 

This picture is from 1992, somewhere on the Jersey Shore, when he had salt and pepper hair. We’ve been through so much over the years. And he’s always been my safe harbor. Now I get to be his for awhile.  

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