Stoned for the Holidays

Every year it starts earlier:  Holiday music in stores, Christmas decorations, gift catalogues. It's no longer the holiday season; it's pretty much the holiday quarter of the year.

Suffering under the influence, Evan has already started and revised his Christmas list more than once or twice. Taking a trip to the hobby shop has deteriorated from a fun morning to a hand wrenching, angst producing event-- each time leaving with another revision of that list in mind: Rock polisher, telescope, steam locomotive, diesel locomotive, RC cars, RC airplane.

Walking out to get some shopping done for school clothes Saturday afternoon it was all he could talk about: worried as to whether he might get this or that, what he should wish for.

"Evan, this is ridiculous. It's too stressful. You are way too worried about presents."

"I need a worry stone."

"A worry stone?! What about Santa?"

"And a wishing stone."

At least I know what I'm getting him for Christmas.

Pop Tart Redux

The old saying is, something to the effect of, you can never go home again. And that saying, I'm here to tell you, is wholly incorrect. The fact is, often times one can go home again-- it just might not be quite the same as when you left it-- or more likely: how you remember. You may have to do some pruning, patching, paint, and plaster. And other times it just won't work-- gone.

Unfrosted Blueberry Pop Tarts brought me to this understanding. When I was a kid, Blueberry Pop Tarts were among my most favorite, and least available, food treats. (You'll note: just Pop Tarts. Frosting the little bastards was a nasty idea still lying well ahead in the youth of this country's over indulged future.) Heated in the toaster or right out of the box, I loved those Blueberry Pop Tarts.

The bond was strong. Over the years, while walking through grocery store aisles filled with cereals and breakfast bars and snacks, I have cast many a guilty glance toward the Pop Tart selection, a selection that has grown to the point the product is almost unrecognizable from my youth. (I'm pretty sure though-- looking at the assortment of hideous flavors, all slathered with some type of frosted surface-- that a stoner from my generation has been in charge of product development for some time now.) Whoever it is that is in charge of product development, I have noticed in all those visits, someone at Kellogg's holds unfrosted Strawberry Pop Tarts dear to heart as they seem to always be available. (Again, more support for the stoner theory of product development.)

And then it happened: A week or so ago I nearly bumped into a large displaystand filled with boxes of unfrosted Blueberry Pop Tarts. The clouds parted, the sun shone down in great Jesus beams, and a box of unfrosted Blueberry Pop Tarts levitated to my shopping cart. Hallelujah! I proceeded to tell my daughter about just what great fortune this was, that plain Blueberry Pop Tarts were one of the finest breakfast pastries ever conceived. And now my daughter knows, I too, was a stoner.

But I digress. After getting home from the market I immediately unpacked one of the foil pouches, snipped open the top, and admired the unchanged appearance of that micro thin delicious pastry, appearing unchanged, after all those years.

Of course, being of my age and generation (I know, it's redundant but it sounds so erudite), I had to read the nutritional information.  (Another annoying development since the golden age of Pop Tarts. Who in their right mind wants to know the fat and calorie content of a Pop Tart, for crissakes!) Ignoring what should be a black box warning, I put one of the pastries straight into my pie hole-- no need to toast 'em, I told my daughter as she looked on somewhat bewildered but, by this point, certain of her father's history of drug use. And that's when it happened. The filling was right but the pastry itself, all anemic looking, cold and dense, tasted like, well, lard.

To say I was disappointed goes only half the distance. I felt cheated, lied to, frightened and confused all at the same time. How could my memory be so wrong? How could I have fooled myself so completely in creating such an unrealistic expectation of eating a mass produced slab of pastry with more perforations than an acoustic tiled ceiling?

To her credit, my daughter was surprisingly sympathetic. She doesn't like to see her dad suffer. To my credit, I didn't give up. About two days later, home alone, I slipped another Pop Tart in the toaster and warmed it through. Success! The aroma, the pastry, the filling-- it was all there.

Yep. Sometimes you can go home again. Even if it's just to enjoy a moment with a 240 calorie, 6 gram of fat pastry; filled with blueberry jam, buttered, not frosted.

That Girl

Ev and I tried to get on a tennis court yesterday. You would think on a Saturday, just as college football season is getting into full swing and both the Cubs and the Sox have scheduled games, that we might be able to get on a court for a half hour or so. No such luck. We managed about 5 or 10 minutes during change overs-- just enough to see Evan's righteously evolving ability, but not enough to say we played tennis yesterday.

So, it was a quick jog to the busy play area. And jog we did. Evan made me run from the tennis courts to the play area, something I don't do anymore for a couple of reasons, legitimate or otherwise. But the play area is always fun for Evan and there is always a good mix of parents present to supervise and insure against bullying and the insane fearless risk-taking so common among young kids. And that's where it happened:

Sitting there with racquets and tennis balls in hand, minding my own business, watching Evan play on the swings and twirl down the corkscrew, when all of a sudden she just shows up. Boom. She walks over, beautiful reddish brown hair, smokey grey eyes, gorgeous cardigan sweater and coordinated pants, and plops down right next to me. Frankly, it made me a little uncomfortable but she was all about showing me her camera and wondering how it worked. It wasn't long before I'm thinking how great it would be to come home to a girl like this every day.

Of course it wasn't long before the guy that was with her came over to stand right next to us, like, duh, I get it already. Surprisingly, he let her stay for a bit, seemingly not at all jealous or worried. Obviously the confident type.

She ended up leaving with him-- and her mom, and her grandmother. Even so, it was nice to realize I still have that effect on girls-- even if they're all of 2 years old.

I had a daughter like that once. Cute as she was at two, she's only gotten better with age. But I like to think she'd still perch next to me on a park bench-- if only she had the time.

Heading West

I write this as I am seated in row 43 on a westbound 757 en route to Portland, Oregon. Not much of a seat for a grand but it’s what you get when you have to go-- and go now.

“Heading west” is an old expression for those who have departed. And so it is that I am presently headed compass west, to gather with my family and pay respects to my dear sister Lois who passed away earlier this week.

Lois was my oldest sibling in the family of eight children in which I am the youngest. She was a generation removed from me, old enough to be my mother; she was out of the home and a teacher on her own by the time I tumbled onto the scene. In fact, she has always remained quite a bit removed from me. We took great joy in one another but we had a bridge between us that always stood in place. For me, as with several of my older siblings, she was a living testament to a past I never knew, the upbringing I never endured, the relationship to young parents I never knew. If I wanted a glimpse at what life might have been like had I been born in 1936, to young first-time parents married just 2 years, I needed to look no further than my big sister Lois.

There are lessons to be learned from a much older sibling, lessons in how to, or how not to, live life. Lessons easily ignored but never too late to revisit, to relearn. Lois was among the fortunate to have lived a life filled with friends and family, several of whom were able to sit with her as she slowly set off for the west. And a loving husband who stood by her literally to the very end.

So much life. So much joy. So much pleasure taken in being a participant rather than an observer. All good lessons. The very best. So much to teach me and those around her. Life lessons—in living and in dying.

I should be so lucky-- and so wise-- as to now take time, look within, and learn those lessons she so generously demonstrated.

Farewell dear sister.

Time and Change

Looking out my window at the early morning light it’s all about time and change: The light is bright yet altered by just a shade or two. We’ve tilted a bit. Lower, warmer.

It’s forecast to be in the 80’s today with a thunderstorm or two. Still 21 days left of summer, officially at least, but fall is definitely knocking at the door. The birds know it: they’re starting to flock up, discussing their flight plans. The squirrels know it: talking with their mouths full, scurrying about, diggings holes in lawns, acorns bulging their cheeks all out of proportion. The trees are starting to get the idea as well: perfectly airbrushed highlights in just the slightest, most subtle accents of yellow, just a touch of orange.

It’s really the most beautiful time of year and, at the same time, one of the most thought provoking. It’s all about change, the march of time, another year slipped between my fingers. There’s lots of time left, really, And yet, as the breeze blows in off the lake and massages free the first of the colored leaves from the trees along the street below, it’s undeniable: In these parts at least, all too soon we’ll be shutting down, bundling up, preparing to slow the pace and stay warm—the lucky ones will follow the birds lead and head south.

As for me, I’ll be here watching, working, participating and, in fact, enjoying the fact that I will once again have the incentive to stay inside and CLEAN OUT MY OFFICE!! Now that would be a change.

Drinking It In

Yesterday was one of those delicious summer mornings that begs a person—should he or she be so lucky—to spend an hour blasting along a country road with the top down, hair being blown about, grinning from ear to ear. Fortunately for me, I do have an old convertible and I did need to drive about 30 miles in the course of seeing patients on a Sunday morning. The road wasn't exclusively mine, nor the idea: There was a pretty stout representation of motorcyclists and a few on bicycles as well.

As I drove along I noticed just how perfect a day it was: 72 degrees. Not a cloud in the sky, low humidity, the roadway flanked by fields of corn, 6 feet high, a brilliant green. But every now and then there was a tree, a beautiful green leafed tree in full foliage, giving me a sign. It’s a blush really, just the top of the t-shirt showing from under a dress shirt, but it was undeniable: The leaves on a few of these trees were visibly hinting at a change. A gold cast to the green, a little edging in yellow: the message was clear, it’s getting to be that time. A bit premature on an early August morning but, as we all know too well, nature doesn’t always heed the calendar.

By late afternoon this beautiful day had turned to a hot hazy affair—one of those “lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.” What had started as a cool and brilliant Sunday morning was finishing out a bit more in command of the season and, again, the trees reflected the time of year with a peculiar golden glow, leaves reflecting the lower angle of the sun. The message was being broadcast a little more clear to any who bothered to pay attention: We're winding down here. It won't be summer forever, Drink it in.

Nature has its way. And in this experience the message was clear: Our days are grand and life is full. And with that, the advice to drink it all in. Everyday moves a person a little further along that road, that calendar, that life. It can be such a gorgeous journey but one needs to pay attention—open arms, open eyes, alert and welcoming. In short: Drive fast, smile big, and keep the top down for as long as nature will allow.

First Day of School

First Day in OR

Remember all those "first day" photos? First day of Kindergarten. First Grade. The ritual kind of peters out after first grade, it seems. It falls to graduation photos-- daycare, kindergarten, high school, college. Last night I wish I'd had the camera at the ready: I went to dinner with my daughter last night because today is her first day of medical school. I won't be there to see her off, to pack her lunch, to give her a hug, a kiss, and a "good luck" wish as she leaves.

It amazes me to think of the ground she's traveled and where she's at today. I started that journey 34 years ago and it's passed in the blink of an eye.  When I look back at the road she's travelled, I realize she has done well. It's me, it's her mom, but mostly, it's her.

Before leaving her last night, I told both Kels and her roommate: pay attention. This is a privilege, an honor, an opportunity most will never have-- and the responsibility that comes with it is even greater. As with every other instruction you give your child-- look both ways before crossing, always fasten their seatbelt, wear a helmet, listen well, moderation-- one can only hope they hear you and remember your words, taking them to heart and understanding your meaning. That said, I wished her good luck and gave her a kiss and a hug goodbye.

My daughter, the doctor.