Last night wind rattled the blinds covering wide open windows, and then the sky lit and the thunder clapped and by gosh if we didnít have an old- fashioned midwestern storm. However, it didnít last long, not even waiting for me to fall asleep. This morning the air is damp and much cooler, but I still have plans to move Helen outside for a spell, as was suggested by her visiting physical therapist.

I have been pretty darn helpful, if I donít say so myself. So far I have helped my father fix the driverís side window on my truck and Iíve helped him change the front brake pads. I had to change the oil myself as my creaky body creaks less than his in the slide-under-the-truck way.

Last night, armed with a box of Chicken Thyme Soup and directions from Diane, I proceeded to create this healthy and way-hearty soup Diane made here on our last visit. I started with one pot, began adding what the recipe called for, plus what Diane suggested I toss in – more chicken and more vegetables – but ran out of room. I grabbed a bigger pot, poured everything into it from the smaller one, added more of what I had cutup, but ran out of room again. If there were a bigger pot, Iída grabbed it, but there was not. For dinner we had delicious Chicken Thyme Stew, and afterwards Tupperwared about a weekís worth. That is, if we have it every day.

I do miss Diane.

Yesterday

Helen leads off:

ìMy grandmother hung on so long because she was afraid to die. She was in the nursing home for ten years and the gals there knew her very well. Anyone else wouldnít have lasted so long, but they said she was afraid to go. Thatís the thing with Joan, she thinks I can move in with her; she doesnít know how much is involved. My fatherís sister had pernicious anemia, and his father died in our house. I know what itís like to care for people, Joan doesnít.î

ìHere is the way I see it. Joan doesnít have a thing to worry about because I donít see you hanging around.î

ìNeither do I.î

ìIt is so obvious. Youíre just waiting for the opportunity to see what is next. You get this cold or whatever it was and itís check out time. Your not eating is the same as packing your luggage.î

We are both laughing pretty hard at this. Helen thinks Iím funny or finds my laugher infectious, or she is laughing along with me and plotting ways to cut me out of her will. Could be any of the above.

ìThis is why Iíve put you in charge of me at the end.î

ìIím your health care proxy?í

ìYes. I know youíve worked with dying people before and I know you … .î

ìYou mean you sat down and thought which one of my kids do I want to consign a lifetime of torment to? ëGee, I really thought she was dead, but now that I said pull the plug, I do remember a twitch..oh, dear god, I killed my mother!í

**************
Today

It is only noon and already we have had a full day. The cable guy installed broadband, the visiting nurse popped in to give Helen a quick checkup, and I called a plumber to fix the clogged sink drain. We are having lunch, right before departing to visit the dentist to have Helenís crown re-glued.

HO. ìMy blood pressure is good today.î

Mack. ìGood for what?î

Me. ìGood to keep her alive another day.î

HO. ì I wonít be joining Terri Schiavo today.î

Me. ìIf my prayers are answered youíll die the same day as Paul Wolfowitz, and youíll ride his soul for all eternity.î

HO. ìWho?î

ìWolfowitz. Or Cheney or Pearl or Bush or Powell. Pick anyone of them. If you donít go on the same day you might never find them.î

ìOooo, Iíd love that. Iíd ride ëem.î

Matt and his cousin, Emma, taken Easter Day.
View larger image

Itís 4:30 AM, Matt and Diane are fast asleep, my truck is packed and Iím about to jump in and drive to Indiana (Peter Finlay refers to all those interior states as ìSomewhere in the middle.î) to visit my parents. A planned trip that follows my sisterís visit where she was able to provide comfort to my mother who is a bit under the weather. Anyway, I figure the blog needs all the commenters it can get, and her absence the last two and a half weeks has been glaring. I hope I can help move her back in front of her iMac; sheíll love la Chicaís baby pictures.

**************************

I have Dianeís permission to have, for the purposes of a non-boring blog entry, a clinical, no strings attached, one night stand with a middle aged, marriage-on-the -rocks, bleached blond named Brenda. Iím pretty sure Iíll meet her tonight in the Motel Six bar just outside of Dayton and sheíll be from Brownsville. Thatís usually the way these things work. In Dianeís exact words, ìIf even Chris is no longer sending witty and poignant stories, well heck, Mike, you gotta do what you gotta do.î

Itís 4:30 AM, Matt and Diane are fast asleep, my truck is packed and Iím about to jump in and drive to Indiana (Peter Finlay refers to all those interior states as ìSomewhere in the middle.î) to visit my parents. A planned trip that follows my sisterís visit where she was able to provide comfort to my mother who is a bit under the weather. Anyway, I figure the blog needs all the commenters it can get, and her absence the last two and a half weeks has been glaring. I hope I can help move her back in front of her iMac; sheíll love la Chicaís baby pictures.

**************************

I have Dianeís permission to have, for the purposes of a non-boring blog entry, a clinical, no strings attached, one night stand with a middle aged, marriage-on-the -rocks, bleached blond named Brenda. Iím pretty sure Iíll meet her tonight in the Motel Six bar just outside of Dayton and sheíll be from Brownsville. Thatís usually the way these things work. In Dianeís exact words, ìIf even Chris is no longer sending witty and poignant stories, well heck, Mike, you gotta do what you gotta do.î

Hil at one with her mom and her older sister, Laura.
The Big Picture

Hil at four.
The Big Picture

An observant reader sent me this link to compare with the the sandy toes picture below. She asked, “Separated at birth?”

My crop of this photo prompted Diane to say, “My God, it looks like they set her out to sea.”
View larger image

In many ways, those first days at school are not unlike being set adrift.
View larger image

This week’s mystery child. Who is she?
View Entire Image

Diane’s birthday dinner at the Hopkins.
The Big Picture

Adam Kibbe

“Don’t scrunch up your eye like that!” said Tricia to me, laughing.

Hard not to when someone’s trying to get to your eyeball through the unfamiliar, thin skin of your eyelid with an even more unfamiliar eyeliner pencil. I was getting an improbable education in the things women put themselves through in the name of “beauty”, in the service of the theme of this year’s Dorothea Birthday Extravaganza chez Cynthia.

Last year it was “Titian and Topiary”, both color and set piece decor. This year it was the less precise but more flexible “White and Gold”. Tricia had gotten me a nicely pleated white tux shirt and burnished-gold-metal-mesh bowtie for a song at Keezer’s, a Cambridgeport emporium serving the formalwear needs of Harvard students (and others) for many decades, partially through clothing “recycling”. But even atop off-white pants and a metallic belt, we hadn’t yet “nailed it”.

Accessory one was a small paste diamond literally glued to my right earlobe (however good a sport, I wasn’t getting pierced for the event). Arguably, it started the thought process that led to the current excess. The ladies would augment their own splendid wardrobes with gold jewels, gold finger and toenail polish, and gold blush — why not yours truly? So here I was in Lynn’s bathroom minutes before departure for Le Bash, gold & white eyeshadow in place, along with a touch of mascara, and having eyeliner run along my already affronted lids. To say I was acquiring a case of self-consciousness would be an understatement.

But my homage to Valentino and Nureyev (and Chaplin and others from an era of men-with-makeup) was a hit. “God you have beautiful eyes! For a girl.!” A few homophobic come-ons followed, but whether earnest dissembling, flattery or truth, the ladies all seemed to dig my look. Arriving with the complementary clash of a long black cloak and woven black scarf, and unveiled in the obsequious glow of golden drama that is their house — itself tarted up something fierce — I was just another perfect accessory to the evening’s themed party. The melodramatic guest.

The others were “lovely” as well, in gold lame, or shades of varying golds layered with white, one full black tux with gold cummerbund and bowtie, melded tones of softweave whites, and even a cook’s jacket with gold buttons. The house positively shimmered, and the foods would carry the theme, with white mascarpone/Vidalia pizza studded with black Nicoise olives, a to-become-legendary leek/fennel/Pernod cream soup, and other delicious decadence, including the theme drink of cream, white chocolate liqueur and vodka. Cynthia gets her theme from some small inspiration and then uses it as a phrasing structure off of which she can riff as she conducts the songs and set changes of the evening’s opera.

But for all the color ñ white, after all is a blend of all colors and serves to let the use of simple saturated subset colors play in elevated accent ñ perhaps the most memorable passage was of the observance of some classic, colorless “black & white”. Though warned by her husband it could kill the evening, Cynthia eased us sideways into participating in her current rage for the DVD of the 1987 Roy Orbison tribute concert, first released as a CD in the year of his death, 1988, and recently remastered on DVD as “Black&White Night”. Staged in dinner-theater fashion before notable guests, and filmed in black & white in kinetic cutaway style, it features an astonishing ensemble of talent, and a playlist for a generation. Or two or three generations.

By then well-lubricated by champagne, the wines of dinner, and the evening’s signature drink, we were off-handedly asked our impression of/predilection for Roy’s music. With favorable to rave results, the path was clear for a surprise screening. And so, with the epic soundtrack ripping through the soundsystem-on-steroids of our hosts’ basement “Flamingo Lounge” party space, we settled into the demanding task of grooving to the outpouring of a stagefull of legends joyously giving everything to honor their leader for the night, this firmly pedestaled icon of their craft. He of the black helmet of hair and even blacker shades. He of the inimitable, operatic warble, with its deep-baritone-to-falsetto range. He of the quintessential 50’s and 60’s love ballads, such as “Only the Lonely” and “Blue Bayou”. And of the concert’s climactic coda, “Oh, Pretty Woman”, with which his name is arguably more lastingly associated than even that of the richer, more notorious (and still living) Julia Roberts.

But he of an amazing band-for-the-night, too. Elvis (Costello that is) earnestly handled acoustic rhythm guitar, while Bruce (need I say Springsteen?) shared moments of lead guitar with T-Bone Burnett and did backup vocals with Jackson Brown and J.D. Souther, while the oh-my-god trio of k.d. lang, Jennifer Warnes and Bonnie Rait did sweet doo-wop for the gang, and Tom Waits tickled piano and organ into the mix. Through it all, Roy stood stalwart at the center, only occasionally moving about to acknowledge his friends, but emoting whole eras of love and equaling the sonic power of any crooner name you care to conjure with matter-of-fact natural grace.

An epic concert, and this excess of talent melded into the tightest, livest, most professional group of studio musicians you ever saw, their own names and egos damped in the service of this greater name, their rapture to be there in whatever role evident in every move and note. And the enthusiastic audience of yet more names another active component of the visual and auditory energy. Transformed by shared experience, we shook our tambourines and booties, and despite the “just-a-song-or-two” premise of pushing “play”, we participated in the whole damn thing, start to finish. Just one part of how most of us rocked past 2:30 before heading home, leaving the even more hardcore to head for the hottub and their own “enough” of 5:00 a.m.

When we first got the annual invite, I little expected to sit for an application of eyeshadow and eyeliner, and while I knew full well there’d be dancing and tambourines, I also could not have predicted we’d have music royalty for “live” entertainment. There are times this evening seems but over-rehearsed ritual, with little discernible variation from those that came before, however unique and excellent the individual elements that go at great effort into forming each event might be. But through a certain amount of restraint in intoxicants, and the ebullient infusion of energy Roy & Co. gave us, we staggered home more replete of friendship and good times perhaps than usual, afterimages of many colors, but especially of three, still dancing in our eyes well past final curtain.

Photo Gallery

Adam Kibbe

“Don’t scrunch up your eye like that!” said Tricia to me, laughing.

Hard not to when someone’s trying to get to your eyeball through the unfamiliar, thin skin of your eyelid with an even more unfamiliar eyeliner pencil. I was getting an improbable education in the things women put themselves through in the name of “beauty”, in the service of the theme of this year’s Dorothea Birthday Extravaganza chez Cynthia.

Last year it was “Titian and Topiary”, both color and set piece decor. This year it was the less precise but more flexible “White and Gold”. Tricia had gotten me a nicely pleated white tux shirt and burnished-gold-metal-mesh bowtie for a song at Keezer’s, a Cambridgeport emporium serving the formalwear needs of Harvard students (and others) for many decades, partially through clothing “recycling”. But even atop off-white pants and a metallic belt, we hadn’t yet “nailed it”.

Accessory one was a small paste diamond literally glued to my right earlobe (however good a sport, I wasn’t getting pierced for the event). Arguably, it started the thought process that led to the current excess. The ladies would augment their own splendid wardrobes with gold jewels, gold finger and toenail polish, and gold blush — why not yours truly? So here I was in Lynn’s bathroom minutes before departure for Le Bash, gold & white eyeshadow in place, along with a touch of mascara, and having eyeliner run along my already affronted lids. To say I was acquiring a case of self-consciousness would be an understatement.

But my homage to Valentino and Nureyev (and Chaplin and others from an era of men-with-makeup) was a hit. “God you have beautiful eyes! For a girl.!” A few homophobic come-ons followed, but whether earnest dissembling, flattery or truth, the ladies all seemed to dig my look. Arriving with the complementary clash of a long black cloak and woven black scarf, and unveiled in the obsequious glow of golden drama that is their house — itself tarted up something fierce — I was just another perfect accessory to the evening’s themed party. The melodramatic guest.

The others were “lovely” as well, in gold lame, or shades of varying golds layered with white, one full black tux with gold cummerbund and bowtie, melded tones of softweave whites, and even a cook’s jacket with gold buttons. The house positively shimmered, and the foods would carry the theme, with white mascarpone/Vidalia pizza studded with black Nicoise olives, a to-become-legendary leek/fennel/Pernod cream soup, and other delicious decadence, including the theme drink of cream, white chocolate liqueur and vodka. Cynthia gets her theme from some small inspiration and then uses it as a phrasing structure off of which she can riff as she conducts the songs and set changes of the evening’s opera.

But for all the color ñ white, after all is a blend of all colors and serves to let the use of simple saturated subset colors play in elevated accent ñ perhaps the most memorable passage was of the observance of some classic, colorless “black & white”. Though warned by her husband it could kill the evening, Cynthia eased us sideways into participating in her current rage for the DVD of the 1987 Roy Orbison tribute concert, first released as a CD in the year of his death, 1988, and recently remastered on DVD as “Black&White Night”. Staged in dinner-theater fashion before notable guests, and filmed in black & white in kinetic cutaway style, it features an astonishing ensemble of talent, and a playlist for a generation. Or two or three generations.

By then well-lubricated by champagne, the wines of dinner, and the evening’s signature drink, we were off-handedly asked our impression of/predilection for Roy’s music. With favorable to rave results, the path was clear for a surprise screening. And so, with the epic soundtrack ripping through the soundsystem-on-steroids of our hosts’ basement “Flamingo Lounge” party space, we settled into the demanding task of grooving to the outpouring of a stagefull of legends joyously giving everything to honor their leader for the night, this firmly pedestaled icon of their craft. He of the black helmet of hair and even blacker shades. He of the inimitable, operatic warble, with its deep-baritone-to-falsetto range. He of the quintessential 50’s and 60’s love ballads, such as “Only the Lonely” and “Blue Bayou”. And of the concert’s climactic coda, “Oh, Pretty Woman”, with which his name is arguably more lastingly associated than even that of the richer, more notorious (and still living) Julia Roberts.

But he of an amazing band-for-the-night, too. Elvis (Costello that is) earnestly handled acoustic rhythm guitar, while Bruce (need I say Springsteen?) shared moments of lead guitar with T-Bone Burnett and did backup vocals with Jackson Brown and J.D. Souther, while the oh-my-god trio of k.d. lang, Jennifer Warnes and Bonnie Rait did sweet doo-wop for the gang, and Tom Waits tickled piano and organ into the mix. Through it all, Roy stood stalwart at the center, only occasionally moving about to acknowledge his friends, but emoting whole eras of love and equaling the sonic power of any crooner name you care to conjure with matter-of-fact natural grace.

An epic concert, and this excess of talent melded into the tightest, livest, most professional group of studio musicians you ever saw, their own names and egos damped in the service of this greater name, their rapture to be there in whatever role evident in every move and note. And the enthusiastic audience of yet more names another active component of the visual and auditory energy. Transformed by shared experience, we shook our tambourines and booties, and despite the “just-a-song-or-two” premise of pushing “play”, we participated in the whole damn thing, start to finish. Just one part of how most of us rocked past 2:30 before heading home, leaving the even more hardcore to head for the hottub and their own “enough” of 5:00 a.m.

When we first got the annual invite, I little expected to sit for an application of eyeshadow and eyeliner, and while I knew full well there’d be dancing and tambourines, I also could not have predicted we’d have music royalty for “live” entertainment. There are times this evening seems but over-rehearsed ritual, with little discernible variation from those that came before, however unique and excellent the individual elements that go at great effort into forming each event might be. But through a certain amount of restraint in intoxicants, and the ebullient infusion of energy Roy & Co. gave us, we staggered home more replete of friendship and good times perhaps than usual, afterimages of many colors, but especially of three, still dancing in our eyes well past final curtain.

Photo Gallery

Closer Look

Closer Look

Thin

How anything
is known
is so thin-
a skin of ice
over a pond
only birds might
confidently walk
upon. A bird’s
worth of weight
or one bird-weight
of Wordsworth.

Kay Ryan

Subway Seethe

What could have been the big to-do
that caused him to push me aside
on that platform? Was a woman who knew
there must be some good even inside
an ass like him on board that train?
Charity? Frances? His last chance
in a ratty string of last chances? Jane?
Surely in all of us is some good.
Better love thy neighbor, buddy,
lest she shove back. Maybe I should.
Itís probably just a cruddy
downtown interview leading to
some cheap-tie, careerist, dull
cul-de-sac heís speeding to.
Can he catch up with his soul?
Really, what was the freaking crisis?
Did he need to know before me
if the lights searching the crowdís eyes
were those of our train,or maybe
the train of who he might have been,
the person his own-heart-numbing,
me-shoving anxiety about being
prevents him from ever becoming?
How has his thoughtlessness defiled
who I was before he shoved me?
How might I be smiling now if heíd smiled,
hanging back, as though he might have loved me?

J. Allyn Rosser