Those babies are tucked up under the roof of the garage and it’s hard to get a good clear shot. Maybe once their heads are poking above the nest. However, while I was on the ladder their parents returned with food, and squawked at me. I was using my 90 mm prime, not my telephoto.

My neighbor down the street cultivates a beautiful flower garden that borders both her driveway and Central St. It’s impossible to drive by without stopping to take pictures, and yesterday’s overcast skies and recent rain made her orange poppies pop. Near those poppies is a purple flower that up close looks like a Hubble photo of the universe.

From Mary Oliver’s Poppies:

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.

Disk not accessible. Abort, Retry, or Fail?

Last Sunday I lost 7 hours out of my life, I wonder if I’ll ever get them back. The day before, I arrived in Huntington Beach, where I had stopped to visit relatives on my way to Berkeley for a science meeting. Everything was normal on Saturday, and I enjoyed a Middle Eastern dinner with my sister, Cecelia, her boyfriend, Chuck, my father, my cousin Dave and his girlfriend Jayne. On Sunday, I drove my dad home from my stepmother’s resthome, and got out of the car to go inside.

That’s where my memory stops: about 2 pm on November 14. My memory restarts at the point where I was sitting on a bed in the emergency room of Fountain Valley hospital, answering questions from two white-coated doctors. One of them was a neurologist, Dr. Lum. He told me that there was a problem with my memory, but it looked like I was going to be all right. They left, and my Dad, who had been sitting nearby, tried to fill me in on what had happened that day. It was too much to absorb, and I was thinking furiously, trying to get “today” into perspective, as he said goodbye, and promised to return tomorrow morning. My right wrist hurt. There was a needle and tubing embedded in it, with translucent tape wrapped around it. What exactly had happened to me? I put a lot of effort into thinking it through.

First I was able to recall that I had come to Huntington Beach on a business trip to Berkeley. But was this before or after the trip? If it was after, then this had to be Thursday. But the month seemed to be October. Or was it? Let’s see… Had I celebrated my birthday on October 11? Yes! Beth. Patrick and Katie gave me presents and a cake. And what about Halloween? Yes. There was that party where I went as a tree! So this was November. And what happened in early November? Jean-Pierre Raulin was visiting from Brazil, and I did go to California for the meeting in Berkeley. That was a Friday, and I flew into San Francisco with a stopover in Denver. Then I stayed somewhere, not in Berkeley at the Golden Bear hotel, where I had been scheduled. Was it in LA? Ah! It was the DoubleTree in Burlingame, where American Airlines put me up when they canceled my flight to Santa Ana Airport. Then my Saturday morning flight was canceled too, and finally I flew into SNA via United, where I was met by my Dad.

Gradually the pieces of my recent past came together. I deduced that I had not gone to the meeting in Berkeley at all. But what day was today? At the earliest, it had to be Sunday, although it could be later. Then I noticed that I was wearing my pants. I was in a very busy “holding” room, with immense activity behind a desk about 10 yards away. (I realized later that it was the E.R.) There was another curtained bed next to mine, with no one in it. Without much experience of hospitals, I didn’t know what floor or department I was in, and was too busy recollecting my thoughts about the last few days and my place in space and time, to ask the orderly any questions when he came in with a wheelchair to roll me up through the halls to a more permanent room. I donned a hospital cloak, and lay back on my new bed, studying the clock, and tried to guess what day it was.

It must be Sunday evening, I decided. A nurse came in and introduced herself as Maria, and I asked her if I could have a pad of paper and a pencil. I rested and worked on my memories. Much later, possibly an hour or two later, when I had nearly forgotten about my request for pencil and paper, Maria came in with them. I thanked her and started writing down my memories of the last few days. Everything fit together up until early afternoon on Sunday, November 14th. Then I noticed my wristband with numbers and letters on it:
“Edward J Schmahl 11/14/99 “ was the top line. So it must be Sunday. and I was admitted to the hospital this afternoon. Memories cascaded in. I recalled the dinner of Saturday night, breakfast on Sunday, and my visit to my stepmother Sophie, and the drive back to Huntington Beach. But after that? Nothing.

The story of the missing 7 hours came in gradually. Beth called, and explained a lot. Apparently I had been feeling bad on Sunday afternoon at Dad’s condo, lay down, and then called her to ask questions. I must have sounded crazy. She was instrumental in getting Dad to take me to the hospital right away, because my scrambled speech and thought patterns could have been caused by a stroke. So, reportedly, during that missing 7-hour period, I was questioned by a neurologist, and I questioned back, repeating the same questions over and over again without comprehending any answers. (At least this is what others told me, not recalling an iota of it.) I was given a CAT scan, which came up negative. All other tests came up negative for brain problems, heart problems, and anything else, with the sole exception: my blood was low in potassium.

The next morning, I had the last few days completely ordered in my mind, with the exception of the 2-9 pm period yesterday. In one of her calls, Beth told me that our neurologist friend Phil had guessed that my condition was “Transient Global Amnesia”. Unknown cause, improbable repeat. Later Monday morning, I checked my chart while I was being wheeled down for a chest X-ray. Diagnosis by Dr. Lum: ‘Transient Global Amnesia”. Finally, when I was tested again by another neurologist, Dr. Julie Thompson, she said that I had (you guessed it) “Transient Global”Amnesia.

It slipped my mind to ask her if I’d ever get those 7 hours back. I’ve always wanted to see a CAT scanner. And I had been inside one, and don’t have a single memory of it!

Ed
Tues, 11/16/99, UA229 en route to BWI.

Today, Wed, I returned to work. Played racquetball against Patrick at the gym. (won 3/3). Still no access to that 7-hour period. But everything else is intact!

I’m waiting for dark.”

As I’ve mentioned before, Adam and rakkity and I are fans of the writers Michael Connelly and Lee Child. We’ve read them all, and we usually round robin the new book which can found in the Murder/Mystery/Mayhem aisle. As rakkity prepared to fly across the pond, I informed him that Lee’s newest, “Nothing to Lose,” would hit Britain’s stores first.

He sent me this synopsis of chapters one through ten written in the author’s style:

Chapter 1
Reacher is walking/busing/hitch-hiking from Maine to San Diego, and enters Colorado at the town of Hope, just inside the Kansas Border. Reacher gets a good meal there, including his favorite, a bottomless cup of coffee, and a cheap hotel to sleep in. He buys some clothes and throws the old ones away.

Chapter 2
Continuing his walk west the next morning, Reacher finds that the asphalt pavement ends at the border of Hope, where it changes to gravel in the neighboring town of Despair. He walks into town, looking for a coffee shop. He finds one, but is refused service. This puzzles Reacher, but he is ready when four tough guys approach him and tell him to leave town.

Chapter 3
Using implied and direct threats to the restaurant’s owner that he’ll mess up the restaurant with the blood and guts of the 4 above-mentioned thugs if he isn’t served coffee, Reacher gets his cup of coffee. Then he goes outside to deal with the thugs.

Chapter 4 (By now you have noticed that these chapters are really short.)
Reacher gets ready to waste the 4 thugs, but he lets them off easy by slugging only one of them, so hard he’s unconscious before hitting the ground 10 feet away.

Chapter 5
Reacher gets taken to the jailhouse for the night by the cops of Despair. In the morning, he’s released and driven to the border of Hope, where Despair’s cop warns him not to re-enter town. Reacher does not take the warning lightly.

Chapter 6
As Reacher walks into Hope, a cop car pulls up. The driver is a beautiful woman who tells Reacher about the strange town of Despair, which has the world’s largest metal re-cycling plant, and where everyone is paranoid.

Chapter 7
Reacher ignores the advice of Hope’s female cop, and buys stuff (garbage bags, flashlight, etc) to continue his westward walk through Despair, with a goal of finding out why Despair is full of misanthropes.

Chapter 8-10
Reacher sneaks into Despair in the dark, and watches all the town’s cars driving into a gigantic building. Trucks carrying metal to be re-cycled head into its vast portals. He evades the ever-circling guards, and enters the building.

(That’s as far as I got in London-Heathrow’s Borders shop yesterday.)

–Ed

I’m waiting for dark.”

As I’ve mentioned before, Adam and rakkity and I are fans of the writers Michael Connelly and Lee Child. We’ve read them all, and we usually round robin the new book which can found in the Murder/Mystery/Mayhem aisle. As rakkity prepared to fly across the pond, I informed him that Lee’s newest, “Nothing to Lose,” would hit Britain’s stores first.

He sent me this synopsis of chapters one through ten written in the author’s style:

Chapter 1
Reacher is walking/busing/hitch-hiking from Maine to San Diego, and enters Colorado at the town of Hope, just inside the Kansas Border. Reacher gets a good meal there, including his favorite, a bottomless cup of coffee, and a cheap hotel to sleep in. He buys some clothes and throws the old ones away.

Chapter 2
Continuing his walk west the next morning, Reacher finds that the asphalt pavement ends at the border of Hope, where it changes to gravel in the neighboring town of Despair. He walks into town, looking for a coffee shop. He finds one, but is refused service. This puzzles Reacher, but he is ready when four tough guys approach him and tell him to leave town.

Chapter 3
Using implied and direct threats to the restaurant’s owner that he’ll mess up the restaurant with the blood and guts of the 4 above-mentioned thugs if he isn’t served coffee, Reacher gets his cup of coffee. Then he goes outside to deal with the thugs.

Chapter 4 (By now you have noticed that these chapters are really short.)
Reacher gets ready to waste the 4 thugs, but he lets them off easy by slugging only one of them, so hard he’s unconscious before hitting the ground 10 feet away.

Chapter 5
Reacher gets taken to the jailhouse for the night by the cops of Despair. In the morning, he’s released and driven to the border of Hope, where Despair’s cop warns him not to re-enter town. Reacher does not take the warning lightly.

Chapter 6
As Reacher walks into Hope, a cop car pulls up. The driver is a beautiful woman who tells Reacher about the strange town of Despair, which has the world’s largest metal re-cycling plant, and where everyone is paranoid.

Chapter 7
Reacher ignores the advice of Hope’s female cop, and buys stuff (garbage bags, flashlight, etc) to continue his westward walk through Despair, with a goal of finding out why Despair is full of misanthropes.

Chapter 8-10
Reacher sneaks into Despair in the dark, and watches all the town’s cars driving into a gigantic building. Trucks carrying metal to be re-cycled head into its vast portals. He evades the ever-circling guards, and enters the building.

(That’s as far as I got in London-Heathrow’s Borders shop yesterday.)

–Ed

Mike,

At last I’ve visited every single latte shop in Boulder, at least until another one opens up, which may happen tomorrow. Not counting the repetitions, where the owners or franchisers have more than one storefront, I’ve found 28 legitimate espresso shops in town. There are some others in libraries, bookstores or restaurants, but they don’t count as true espresso shops if it’s not their main business. At least 20 of these places are run by non-franchise owners — families or single-owner businesses.

And you know the seriousness of the Espressoria owner when you see the bistro-maestro drawing a fern or a heart or a mushroom or a swan on your latte!

We never saw such artistry in Italy. Frankly, I was somewhat disappointed. There isn’t a cappuccino (shot of espresso with a shot of foam), or a cafe latte (glass of hot milk with an in-mixed shot of espresso), or an espresso shot by itself, or an Americano (espresso diluted in hot water). And it’s strictly an Italian grind. No Ethiopian, Peruvian, Mexican, Vietnamese, or other exotic grounds, as we have here. The Italians must be appalled by our arrogance at our attempts to “upgrade” an old European custom.

–rakkity