Paying Forward

Paying Forward

            Today Becca's dad Dick is busy rebuilding The Girls' back fence. Dick also restores vintage cars in the garage next to Becca and Todd's house. The Girls' daughter is Kady, who tracked down the "neighborhood" crutches for me recently when I injured myself on my bike. Turns out they were at Wendy the Amazing Dog Walker's house. Wendy walks our dog Amazing Gracie. Gracie fetches the ball over and over for ten-month-old Oscar who giggles uncontrollably. Oscar lives next door with his mom and dad Robin and Ryan whose house is between Todd and Becca's and ours.

            The "Girls" are Zara and Rebekah (not to be confused with Becca), moms of Kady and also of two-year-old adorable Natasha for whom Gracie also retrieves the ball. (Dog owners know it's all about the ball.) They are also caring for Raya, age two months, placed with them as temporary foster parents right from the hospital. They are saints! Foster parenting is also how Kady, the crutch-finder, and Natasha came to live with Zara and Rebekah.

            While Dick worked on the fence, Robin and son Oscar were over visiting two-month-old Cora, the newest addition to our neighborhood and the daughter of Jill and Joel who live across our lively alley from us. Jill and I tend our gardens and compare notes - when I'm not laid up, that is. Joel fishes and brings us Dungeness crab in season, and Jill, a working mom, grows flowers commercially as a sideline.

Bedtime Story

 

          Who knew there were so many fun things to do when flat on one's back in bed for three weeks and counting? How dare I complain? It hasn't been all that sunny outside anyway -- typical Juneuary in the Pacific Northwest -- including serious monsoons, serious gulley-washing downpours lashing the trees and sending picnic tables and chairs flying horizontally for nearly an hour.

            Ha ha ha, you poor able-bodied people! Forgive my gallows humor.

            "Deep groin pull," said the doctor. "Aaghh," saith everyone else I repeat the diagnosis to. Both are accurate.

            I am thankful that, when I took flight over the top of my handlebars and landed in the street (a) my face didn't hit first, (b) I'm not now a soprano, (c) the oncoming car saw me in time to stop, and (d) apparently I was able to execute a full twist out of a pike position for which even a stingy panel of judges would have given me nothing lower than a 9.6! But it hurt like hell to barely lift my right foot off the pavement, let alone walk. Walk I did, however, four blocks home dragging my right leg Festus-like and trying to guide a wobbly and useless bicycle.

            The first week of convalescence, shooting groin pain was so severe it brought tears to my eyes. Lifting my right leg to, oh, walk . . . to, let's say, the bathroom? Ever encouraging, the doc said it'd get worse before it got better. "Usually six to eight weeks," spoke Dr. Bedside, "and not much we can do for it. Or for the rib you seem to have broken or cracked -- doesn't really matter which, does it? Bed rest. Pain meds. Nurse Ratched, write up a prescription for the lad, please." Exit exam room, stage left.

            "Nothing we can do" was the lame (sorry) outcome of a trip to the doctor's office I forced myself to make using a borrowed wheelchair via a hydraulic lift into paratransit vehicle #1; out of the doc's office and into vehicle #2; across several blocks to X-ray; up onto the exam table to the tune of whinnies of pain in front of an open-mouthed technician and nurse; back out to vehicle #3  and to home where a kind neighbor managed to extract me from the wheelchair, muscle me up five front steps, and collapse me into bed.

            Which is where this narrative began. Bored? Complain? Moi? As I moaned softly from time to time, I also:

• Silently cursed well-wishers and their "It could have been worse" refrains despite the fact that they were right.
• Stared at the ceiling or out the window when it wasn't raining and watched happy, mobile neighbors gather, chat, play whiffle ball and soccer, and bike off down the alley.
• Played infinite games of solitaire on my iPad as hour after draining hour passed.
• Learned to shower sitting on a bench that's half in and half out of the tub. (Warning: The shower spray thingy has a mind of its own. Do not antagonize it! If you can't reach it to get to some part of your body, just forget about it and pretend you did.)
• Slept (a lot), waiting in vain for the miracle cure that would see me waking from the bad dream and bounding out of bed.
• Listened to books on tape and read eBooks; print books required turning pages and jostling.
• Contemplated what it would be like to be able to turn over; because of the rib damage, I couldn't sleep either on my back or on my right side -- think fetus-like, very large and overweight.
• Stared at the ceiling some more and gauged the dimensions of my nine-by-ten-foot room/cave (which direction was the nine, and which the ten?).
• Assessed the overall ambience of a bedridden person's room -- the clutter, mussed sheets and bedspread, bottles of meds, crumpled heating pad and extension cord, the faint stuffy smell, a flyswatter (?), and a certain unmentionable item.
• Memorized the latest poem I like, "O Solitude" (Keats).

            Were we having fun yet? This could depress a person. It wasn't what I'd planned for the early days of my retirement.

            But then there came breakthroughs. Visits from the physical terrorist slowly became productive. I graduated from a wretched gray aluminum alloy walker with defective wheels to better one -- with a seat! (Nothing marked the extent of my situation more than the look on visitors' faces when they'd first see me guide my flimsy, noisy walker into the room. A silent OMG every time. Repeat visits were rare.) The walker, however, caused shoulder pain until I was taught not to lean on it, just use it to steady myself. At least I was out of bed from time to time.

            Breakthrough #2, the drug cocktail. An inexact science, to be sure, but helpful. Since I was unable to use narcotics, I resorted to a mild analgesic which, along with extra-strength Tylenol and ibuprophen allowed the pain to decrease from sharp yelps to a moderate ouch with each step. Sleeping became more doable. Fiddling with the dosage and mostly following instructions, things started to get better. Largely, my mood.

            Breakthrough #3, a handrail thingamajig anchored under the mattress, which gave me the leverage to pull myself upright in bed. (The handle was even wrapped with golf club grip leather!) This was most helpful during the night when I'd need to . . . actually I'll skip the detailed logistics (see "unmentionable item," above). Suffice it to say, my "liquid throughput" apparently had not been affected by this calamity. Let's also say that thirty years of loving spousehood had never been so "intimate." My wonderful wife was a saint!

            Breakthrough #4, the cane! After the walker, I'd matriculated to a set of borrowed crutches. Mistake! Lacking a cushioning pad on one side and scrunched up into my armpit on the other, the crutches aggravated the rib injury which swelled, became even more painful, and set back sleeping for two nights. Who knew that might happen and have warned against it? Three guesses; the first two don't count.

            Then I found I could use a cane, a spiffy looking shiny mahogany objet d'art handed down from my mother. The cane freed me up to travel to all sorts of far-off, inaccessible and wondrous locales such as our upstairs master bedroom for a visit, and out into my backyard, sitting in the sunlight watching goldfinches and chickadees fight over the thistle feeder. I could lift myself into the truck and be driven for long journeys through town, some for nearly an hour, all the while marveling at everyone else's mobility.  

            Things improved, of course, albeit at glacial speed. So why record this odyssey? Why bemoan my outcast fate at this length? So readers will feel sorry for me? Of course.

            But also to remind myself of what less-abled people endure every day -- the permanently wheelchair bound or those on crutches or confined to bed, those with chronic pain that drugs don't help, the alone and unvisited and lonely, often with fine caregivers but who have no loving family or friends.

            I will take up my bed and walk at some point (John 5:8), drive a car, hike a mountain trail, walk the dog, maybe even ride a bicycle! The sun will shine again, even here. I pulled up the blinds today and gazed at the suddenly bright-white mock orange out my window whipping in the Juneuary wind.

            This episode is for later, to reread so I don't forget my good fortune. For now, in the meantime … oops, gotta go -- literally!

 

Ike

 

            I had an interesting conversation with Dwight Eisenhower the other day. Yeah, that Dwight Eisenhower. Ike. Thirty-fourth president of the U.S. of A. Retired.

            He was sitting by himself at one of the cafeteria tables in a forest campground friends and I had rented for a get-together. It was a large room, and he sat ramrod straight, down the way past large windows, some distance from the rest of our group. His back to the table, he sat on its bench with his arms crossed, staring into the woods.

            I went down and, brazenly perhaps, sat on a bench facing him.

            “Mr. President, what an honor! I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

            “Not at all, not at all.”

            The familiar Kansas twang, the sort of googly eyes, the famous grin, and the effortless, living-room charm of the man. The man who sixty years before had routed Rommel in North Africa and landed thousands on the beaches of Normandy couldn’t have been more at ease sitting there with me.

A Strange Slavery

            One brisk winter day, I wandered like a tourist through Georgetown, D.C. Cobbled streets led me across George Washington's B&O Canal and beneath an elevated on-ramp and down to the Potomac River. College crews in bright-colored shells water-skeetered along the gray and choppy river. A chilly wind carried sounds of traffic and, this being Washington, sounds of eternal construction. I selected a bench where someone had left a yellow balloon tied to an armrest, and it bobbed above me in the breeze.

 

            I pulled my jacket close. It'd been several years, and I marveled at the crowd of buildings that now extended all the way to the Watergate Apartments which, once upon a time, both before and after the ignominy of the Nixon years, was the only building of its kind in either direction.

 

            Waning daylight shooed me back into town, as did waxing hunger, and in time I gained the windowed shops that line M Street. I chose an unremarkable Italian grill I'd been to before. When I walked in, it was buzzing with patrons even at that early hour to confirm that it was a good choice. Directed to a small table with a white tablecloth, napkins in rings, and nice silverware, I set my jacket and briefcase on the chair opposite. I loosened my tie and surveyed the menu. I chose the spaghettini Bolognese.

            Scanning the clientele, as often happens when sitting by oneself, I noticed a pleasant attraction, an extremely pretty woman sitting at the small bar. She was with a man who I guessed was the owner or perhaps the manager of the establishment. She did most of the talking, until her acquaintance interrupted her off and on to greet a guest or instruct a waiter. The woman was young. She had long dark hair and the cheekbones and eyes of a classic beauty. She wore a black parka, open over a black top and black pants which tapered to just above the ankle. Plain gold hoop earrings and a simple necklace that matched it completed the ensemble, plus small leather sandals, one of which dangled from her instep like a calling card.

            The woman motioned with her hands as she talked, and touched her companion's arm frequently. It struck me as odd that she seemed to be flirting with him, yet he was noticeably unresponsive to her advances, if that's what they were. Not a particularly attractive man, he faced her, his knees near hers and the heels of his expensive shoes hooked on the rungs of the high wicker stool on which he sat. The woman sat half facing him, toying with the stem of a pair of dark glasses and occasionally sipping her sparkling water.

            How could this fellow not be captivated? Why was he not joining her in repartee or paying more attention? Was he accustomed to her attractiveness or just preoccupied with his job? Was she his sister? No, her mannerisms were not those of a sibling. I fancied he might be gay.

            She paid no attention to me, oblivious of the fact that I had been watching her off and on during my meal. When her companion left her alone from time to time, her uninterested gaze would sweep the restaurant but never encounter mine. Nor did I stare at her in a way that would be impolite. For that matter, her inattention prevented me from being rude. But the place was small and eye contact was hardly unlikely.

            I ate slowly and finished an excellent Bolognese. I ordered dessert, cheesecake with chocolate drizzled over it and a dusting of powdered sugar around the edge of the plate. I ordered coffee, which was delicious even though it was sure to keep me awake. I was not in a hurry to leave.

            The noted 17th Century diarist Samuel Pepys wrote, "A strange slavery that I stand in to beauty, that I value nothing near it." I make no excuse for being like most men, particularly in a strange city, enslaved as it were by feminine beauty. Art galleries the world over and statuary and poetry dating back for millennia agree. "Truth is beauty, beauty truth," or however that goes. So it is that on subways, in airline terminals, waiting to cross a street, on beaches of course, and in bistros and coffee shops, beauty is there to be appreciated. That evening, in that restaurant, the woman was exquisite.

            The check came. I didn’t reach for it. A few minutes later, my waiter returned to inquire if there was anything more I required. I shook my head, then checked the time on my smartphone. I toyed with the straw basket of a decorative bottle of Chianti. I rearranged the salt cellar and wooden pepper mill. Over and over. The waiter came back and hovered at a nearby table. I folded and refolded my napkin into different shapes. I sorted the contents of my wallet, then did it again. I ordered another glass of wine -- my third, I think.

            As I sipped, suddenly the pretty lady at the bar looked to have been deserted. The fellow she was with went to greet a table of people he seemed to know and joined them. Surely now she'd look my way and smile. Then she did!

            More than that, she slid off the tall stool and began to walk toward me, slowly. The nearer she came, the more gorgeous she was. God in Heaven! What do I do now? She was only steps away.

            I rubbed my wine-bleared eyes and looked again ... just in time to see my wife wave from the doorway, hang up her coat, and walk toward me. Beyond her, the object in my mirage shrugged on her coat and left.

            "So how'd it go?" I managed as she moved my briefcase and sat down. She was beaming.

            "Terrific! Motion granted, case dismissed, happy client. Badda-boom, badda-bing." She paused for a second, looking at me a little askance as only a spouse of several years can. Then she said, "You went ahead and ate. Good. How's the cheesecake?"

            In her go-to-court white blouse with the ruffles down the front, her tasteful scarf and knee-length skirt, shining auburn hair, bright wind-glazed cheeks, and lipstick re-applied as always, she looked radiant! Once again, I was smitten.

            I rest my case.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Perfect Fall

            Ah, fall!

            Leaves flash gold and red. The afternoon sun slants lower and earlier. Recipes appear in the newspaper for green tomato pie. Rose and dahlia cuttings get thinner. Smoke wafts from wood stoves. School's started, so neighbor kids don’t play flashlight tag past my bedtime. Folks lock their cars and doors against zucchini-growing neighbors.

            If March comes in like a lion, what to use as the metaphor for the first big storm of the season in the Pacific Northwest? It’s loud and it’s scary, like a crowd scene where no one knows what’s going on and no one’s in charge and something bad will happen. It’s November, and the temperature’s dropped twenty degrees over the past day and a half.

            Slabs of grey clouds push north. Flurries of pear and apple leaves flee across the yard, mount the fence, and race up the alley.  Across the street, poplars and bright yellow elms bend in the gusts, and everywhere spruce, cedar, ponderosa and even giant Douglas firs writhe and dance and whip around like crazed dervishes.

            I'm crazy, too. I climb out the upstairs window and begin to crawl across my sloped roof. Time to clean out the gutters. The asphalt shingles are gritty and wet from the rain which is half-hearted, annoying, and more spitting than falling. I slide bottom-first to the roof edge to retrieve the hose that I’ve tossed up here, cleverly I thought, hooking the trigger of the sprayer on the lip of the gutter. Now, it hisses a small stream of water in my direction. My perch worries me. The wind blusters in arrhythmic blasts. My weakening confidence plays games with my balance. Clumsy duck boots provide precious little purchase. The ground looms thirty feet beneath me.

            “Be careful,” says my wife helpfully from below. Yeah, right.