Last night we all went to the Sushi House to celebrate my birthday. Five couples sitting around a half-sunken square table in a small room, eating raw fish (among other not-so-raw dishes), and laughing, a lot. And not only at Markís presents; to Adam, a walking, nodding giraffe; for me, a flying boar. Yes, Diane loved the pun.

If boars could fly
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On the way to the restaurant from Hubbarston, Jan penned this poem:

A Summary of Michael

Mikeís the best husband and dad
Diane and Matt have ever had.

Heís done many kinds of work,
but each of his bosses was a jerk.

He did respiratory therapy and helped people breathe,
but hospital rules always made him seethe.

Heís very creative at web design
an old BMW he tried to align.

He can build a deck or fix a wreck,
but camping and hiking are more to his liking!

While playing poker he likes to bluff,
at Queijoís pond he swims in the buff.

Heís always willing to help a friend,
you have something broken?
Heíll try to mend.

Heís a sneaky refrigerator raider.
Heís small but has a mouth like a gator.

With his curly red hair and sparkle in his eyes,
youíre never quite sure if heís telling you lies!

He likes to talk about feelings,
which leaves both Marks’ brains a reeling.

If we all look as young when weíre 57,
Trust me Mike, weíll be in heaven.

During dinner Adam assembled:

They ate ’til they could eat no more
Sushi, shumai, and gyoza galore
But the night was a drag
Until out of a bag
Came our savior — a hip, flying boar!

Mike and Dan both wore teal blue
Nice coincidence — but an eye-assault, too…..
And we made lots of noise
Over drinks and cool toys
Ten good friends, and one birthday fool!

“Mike, before you go, I have something to talk to you about.”

The dining room, the kitchen and bath, they were all done, and I had but a few tools to collect when Noland stopped me.

“Loretta, you go in the kitchen or play in traffic, whatever you want.”

I didn’t know what was coming, but I sat down in the stuffed chair next to Noland’s, where I have often listened to his life stories.

“Mike, you know those commercial on televison, the ones for that product like Viagra. I think it starts with a “C.”

“Cialis.”

“What?”

“Cialis,” I yelled back.

“Yeah, that’s it. They have this pretty blond woman and…”

I nodded as if I had seen it.

“They say it gets you up for four hours. What are you going to do with an erection for that long? Admire it?”

“You mean what do you do for the remaining three hours and fifty-five minutes?”

“The only thing I can think of is call the rescue squad.”

“You know, Noland, they give that to men in nursing homes.”

Noland remembers jokes – an art I think, since I can remember maybe three that I’ve heard in my life, and one of those involves, perhaps appropriately, a moron with an alarm clock. But Noland doesn’t have a computer, so I played this one with a straight face.

“What for?” he replied with a concerned look.

“So they don’t roll out of bed.”

This one, Robby’s math notes for the year, is worth viewing at full size.

The Blogs:

Yesterday the blog turned one. There are 285 entries and 1166 comments.

Mine

Iím not slighting any of my past surprise birthday parties (thanks to adorable Diane), but Monday nightís was the best. Sitting at our dinner table, forcing down my favorite fish dish – Baked Schrod under parchment paper with Bok Choy and Shiitake mushrooms – were Joe, Robby, Chris and Matt.

Why was it so great? Except for opening two birthday cards and two presents, there was not one moment during which the limelight was focused on me. And after dessert, it was over. Up from the table and out the door.

Maybe there was one other moment.

Chris looks my way, ìYou give me the creeps.î

Matt yells, ìWhat? What do you want?î

Robby says, ìThe extensive staring? It doesnít give me the creeps so much as makes me uncomfortable.î

ëTis my habit of staring after the conversation has ended. Something I am not aware of but makes Matt fidget.

Iím guessing itís an age thing. Sixteen-year-olds take in information instantaneously, but for me it takes a few moments longer.

For instance Matt will say, ìWhat are you doing today?î

Iíll turn to him, lock on, think, answer, focus some more, wait for his reply (many times there isnít one), drift off, have a few private thoughts, and finally release. If they think Iím bad, and Matt knows this better than anyone, they should meet Peter. He doesnít drift off, he drifts in.

Another pic from Adam’s birthday brunch:

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Mark Queijo

As usual there are so many sagas leading up to and surrounding the surgery, but I promised to keep this short. 7:30AM we arrived at Heywood hospital in Gardner MA for the pre-surgery check in. The surgery was scheduled for 9:00. Why they needed me in so early is a mystery, although I suspect it is to make sure I am subject to the correct amount of discomfort and embarrassment.

The first step is to strip you of all clothes and get you into a butt crack revealing gown. Why can’t I keep my underwear on? They are doing surgery on my knee, right? Why do I have to change at all, I came in wearing shorts. Then there is the temp and blood pressure check. Temp was somewhere around Maine in October, the blood pressure machine wasn’t working. They no longer do it the old fashioned way with the stethoscope, pressure†arm band†and a watch with a second hand, no, it’s all computerized and digitized, and of course it doesn’t work. Probably has a virus.

Meanwhile the nurse tells us a story about the guy going in for surgery. When they asked him to remove all of his jewelry, they forgot to be specific enough to make sure he removed his penis stud. Did I mention the whole Heywood experience was the most fun I’ve had in years?

Next was the anesthesiologist. A grey haired frazzled looking English bloke who told me the following:

“You have three options, local anesthesia, a spinal, or general anesthesia. We could do local, but we don’t do them very often, so we’re not that good at them. We could do a spinal, but like the local, we don’t do them that often, so…. Or you could have the general. We do them quite frequently and are pretty good at them.”

My surgeon had already told me he recommended the general because he wanted to make sure the knee was totally relaxed, but I enjoyed the anesthesiologist’s sense of humor. When they got me into the OR and had me settled into a very comfortable table with a nice headrest, I asked the anesthesiologist if I should count down from a hundred or something. He said it wouldn’t be necessary. The next thing I knew I was waking up in the recovery room.

The entire process (now 8 days later) was without nausea, pain, or any discomfort at all. Thanks Michael for the tips, I took my pain meds like clockwork even though I was never in any pain.

To anyone who needs time off, but doesn’t have any vacation time, I highly recommend short term disability! Have Knee surgery!

The next saga is asking Jan to cut my hair. Lucky I have two weeks for the bald spot to grow back!

Yes, it was a stunning place! And for a week we wandered around the high desert, oblivious to the political expostulations we’re normally immersed in.

But near the end of our trip, we saw the headlines about Reagan’s death in some Utah newspapers. The Utahans are Reagan worshippers, and the editorials of their papers expounded on the “earth-shaking” things he did. But if you ask anyone in Esteli what they thought and think of Reagan, you will get a different answer:

After returning here, I was stunned at the differences of opinion in the DC area. While thousands mourned their hero in the parade on the Mall, many others shook their heads and wondered whether America has changed at all since the 80’s (or the 50’s). William Raspberry, writing in the Post today, pointed out how Reagan had given tax exemptions to the racist Bob Jones university. This afternoon, a caller from So. Africa to NPR’s Kojo Nambe show recalled Reagan’s inability to reject the fascist government that jailed Mandela. Others quoted the polls of Reagan’s last year in office: his popularity was lower than Clinton’s immediately after the votes for impeachment.

I’m heading for the mountains again Thursday. It’s time to abandon what serves for civilization.

Matt, Joe and Robby left our yard Sunday afternoon, blue canoe carried aloft, gunwales riding on their shoulders . Assuring me there was a stream but fifty yards down the railroad tracks, I laughed as they passed the bushes in front of our house bobbing down the sidewalk like a huge Portugese Man-of-War. But water they found, and except for one flip of the canoe – a predictable result of one or all of the following: Matt jumping out, Joe jumping in, the attempt to paddle over a two foot dam- they made it to Darylís wet but happy.

The return trip, but with Matt, Joe and Daryl.

Perhaps the issue that most distressed Flo about her move was the lack of a bathtub in her apartment. Here she demonstrates the community spa, which according to Diane of Concord Park, is under utilized.

Diane helps Flo slide into the pod.

Door closed, ready for water.
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Waiting for visitors.

“Hello.”

“Mike?”

“Hi Flo, what’s up?”

“There is a pianist playing today.”

“Oh no…ah, that’s great but I have a birthday brunch to go to.”

“I know. But I knew you would want to know, and that I was thinking of you.”

It wasn’t so much her words but the voice. Strong, clear and direct. An aunt Rose without the high tones. Diane, and Susan before she left, told me how busy Flo is : tea in the country kitchen, a root beer float social with trivia contest, a “tame” version of bingo, a walk to the local supermarket with Kitty, a visit from Kitty’s daughter Kitty, spa appointments, and of course those frequent visits to the hair salon. Busy, yes, for me it was the voice.

This link was left by Hil in the Dispensable comments. Images of Esteli, Egdalina, and the forests around Esteli. Beautiful.

The Art of War , from the op-ed section of the NYT.
Searing poems about the war – thanks to Adam for the link.

From that birthday brunch – Adam’s 44th.
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rakkity checking in with this image from Moab, Utah. The people in the foreground give scale to the double arch.

The back side of Dwight’s house. Not so high, the footing firmer, this time the windows are plumb and the siding level…I have no after pics so you’ll have to trust me.

Visit this site for the best Quicktime panoramas. After the wedding, if you follow the link to Nyberg’s site, you’ll not return for days. There is: this and links to both the French and Italian Riveria, and panos of the Piazza San Pietro with accompanying music, others with operas, and it goes on and on. Virtural tours that will save you thousands of dollars. Link sent by shinydome.

I was grabbing items from the dairy section in Donelans – milk, whipped cream in a tall, red and white can, a block of smoked maple cheddar – when I spied one of those coffee courtesy tables. Two Thermos jugs side by side, one with decaf. I’ve stopped drinking all coffee, even decaf, but I figured a small cup of hot would enhance my shopping experience.

I reached across the table, picked up a mini cup, held it in front of the Thermos and pumped. Nothing happened. Quite often nothing happens when I pump those things. Empty? Too complicated? I pumped twice more, still nothing. I was beginning to feel self-conscious. What if people were watching me? I mean, how hard are these things to work?

I looked closely at the top and saw a little black lever. I turned it to the left until the lettering on it said, open. Oh, I thought, that must be it. I pumped vigorously but still nothing. I could feel fellow shoppers turning from their orange juice selection to watch me. I wanted my decaf and to be on my way.

Before I could press the top again, a young guy with curly hair like mine walked past me to the back of the table. That would be the other side from where I stood. That would be the working side of the table, the one with cream, sugar and spouts. He asked, “Would you like some coffee?” I’m not sure what I had been holding my cup under, but I now knew why it was empty. Face flushed, I squeaked, ”Yes,” and I peered over the tops of the Thermos bottles. Spilling down the sides of the flat black plastic overflow container, and along the table cloth, was what looked like tributaries to the Amazon river.

The display had been set up by the Equal Exchange Coffee folks – free samples come with literature and a pep talk. Bill showed me a photo album of coffee beans picked and processed in Nicaragua. As I stared at the women in colorful dress scooping up coffee beans, I imagined sneaking into the upright freezer and hiding behind the frozen pizzas. I told Bill I’d been to Jamaica, brought beans back to grow, and that my son Matt and his friend Hil were going to Nica.

Patiently, Bill explained that he was new to the job, rattled on a bit more about why I should support Equal Exchange, all the while completely ignoring the pool of coffee gathering at his feet. As though this sort of thing happened all the time. He was the perfect person to promote a fair trade organization, and before I scooted away, full cup in hand, I pleaded with him,” Look, if my son ever happens by, promise me you won’t tell him what I did today.”

An offer was made and accepted on Flo’s condo hours after Susan handed it over to Laura, the real estate agent. There are contingencies, there always are, but the probable closing date is July 21st.

How’s that for a job done, and done well? Susan, the whirling dervish, arrives, gives the unit a spit shine, watches it sell for the asking price, dusts off her hands, and then jumps into her car for the drive back to Torroemore.

We’ll miss her, but so will Danny, Nubia, and Paula, waitresses at Daniela’s Cantina. When Susan sits down, Paula ( “You remind me of my friend in Brazil”) knows to bring her the usual: cheese quesadillas without meat, and a Cantina Margarita with rocks and salt.

6:08 AM

Susan’s St Joseph’s fourth grade report card.
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On the back instructions for a more virtuous life.

How many supermarkets boast harp music in the deli section? Rebecca Swett plays most Saturday mornings and many Mondays at Donelanís on 2A.
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Thunderstorm damage to the property next to Torroemore. But where is the panorama?