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George Floyd

George Floyd

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Twelve

 

George Floyd.

 

Just like in the book I introduced last week, Ralph Tells a Story, where Ralph struggled to get ideas to write about, I had no story for this week.  I was okay with that.

It was a hectic week.

Memorial Day Monday was nice.  Kim and I took long bike ride on the W&OD Trail.  But with the holiday that meant we were facing a four day work week.  And though Covid 19 social distancing was beginning to be relaxed across the country, Northern Virginia was still waiting for Friday.

Then on Tuesday I had to make an unexpected trip out to help my mom with an issue with my dad.  So early in the morning on Tuesday I made the familiar trip out to the Eastern Shore of Maryland.  The fog on the Bay Bridge was so thick, with no other traffic around me, I felt like I was traveling in my own little bubble of disoriented visibility, waiting patiently for the signs of the Kent Island shoreline.  Concerned about the weather, and traffic and arriving on time, I ignored my usual Little Steven’s Underground Garage and opted to listen to the news channel instead.  I heard an interview with a pastor from somewhere in the south talking about his plans to open up their church.  Proud of his progress, his plan included taking the temperature of every one of his congregation before they could enter the building.  Very responsible move I thought.  Then he said something like this, “Anyone with a temperature of 104 degrees and above were not going to be allowed in.”

I admire this pastor for trying to open his church, but I am not sure he should be the one in charge of the reopening committee.  I am not sure that a gathering of people with temperatures ranging from 100 to 103.9 degrees is going to have a good outcome.

And then of course there was,

 

George Floyd.

 

This Memorial Day was unlike any other. Yes, it is true that we remembered those who fought bravely for our country and lost their lives in that effort. But we did so more quietly. There were no concerts, no ceremonies, no parades, no barbeques.  Sure, there were some wreaths placed and flags displayed. But the beaches and boardwalks seemed to be the big story as crowds flocked to the ocean to celebrate the reopening in phase one.  But then there was also,

 

George Floyd.

 

Though I was not at work on Tuesday, like most of you,  I did my 7 PM meeting on Zoom from the deck as the sun was setting over the river to the west.  I decided to spend the night to make sure all was well and got up at 5 AM to head back home and to work.  Like the trip out, the trip home included thick fog once again.  As a result of the weather and my concern about getting to work on time, I listened once more to the news station so I could hear the traffic, the conditions on the Bay Bridge.  And once again I heard about,

 

George Floyd.

 

Now with just three days left in the work week to get my stuff done, I was home late and tired on Wednesday and Thursday. Then it was Friday, with the weather warm and with no story idea in my head, I put aside my need to post for this week and settled in for a relaxing evening on the deck.  After dinner, I called my mother to check in on the day’s events and how my dad was doing.  After we finished talking about all that, she told me about how angry she was.  How angry she was about,

 

George Floyd.

 

After hanging up the phone with my mother, Kim called her dad and I went inside the house.  I finally decided I needed to view the video of the incident that I had been hearing about on my journeys earlier in the week and the one that everyone else was angry about.  The one about,

 

George Floyd.

 

It is true this Memorial Day was different.  And though the reopening of our lives as we remembered them had begun to a small degree, there were no parades, no barbeques, no ceremonies, no concerts.  And yes, we still we remembered our fallen soldiers as we should do on Memorial Day.  But this year we will also remember the last eight minutes and fifty-three seconds of the life of

 

George Floyd.

 

Maybe it is time we remember that every day.

 

George Floyd

 

The Coronavirus Post Script:

 

And remember to keep in your prayers:

Healthcare workers and their families. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8);

All those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues;

Those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home;

Families who have lost loved ones;

Those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

 

 

Week Twelve

 

Boo Boos, Bert and Ernie, Jesus, and Me

Boo Boos, Bert and Ernie, Jesus, and Me

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Eleven

 

“Curtis! Put that down! You will poke your eye out.”

If you are someone my age how many times growing up do you remember your mother saying that to you?

I was cutting the grass this week at work.  Working within the evergreens with many cut off branches about eye level along the west side of the property, I was thinking about heeding my mother’s advice and my need to be careful that I didn’t “poke my eye out” when all of a sudden I was jarred back to reality by a sharp pain and my head being knocked back.

I felt the blood dripping down my eyebrow and watched it hit the sleeve of my shirt.  With my head hung out ahead of me so the blood would now drop down to the ground and not on me, I walked back to my truck to find a paper towel to apply pressure to the bleeding.

With my glasses now off and holding a towel to my head, I went inside the building and  to the first aid kit that I knew was on the kitchen counter  grabbing the first band aid I could find from the box that happened to be lying open on top of the kit.  I headed to the restroom to get a look.  The gash was about an inch and a half above my right eye.

Happy I didn’t “poke my eye out,” I washed the wound out thoroughly and applied my band aid.

The band aid I had grabbed was a Bert and Ernie band aid.

Back at my desk in the spirit of never letting a good crisis go to waste or, as it may apply to my kids, never let a good boo boo go to waste without getting some sympathy, I took a selfie to send to my wife.     Knowing that seeking some sympathy from Kim “No blood, no bones, no sympathy” Christiansen was a risk, I hoped for the best and sent the photo.

Upon closer inspection of the photo there was me, with Bert and Ernie, and over my right shoulder was Jesus.

How cool is that? I thought.

 

It’s already Memorial Day Weekend and we are, based on my beer bottle counting system, eleven weeks into this new world of Covid-19.

Along with my image of Bert, Ernie, Jesus, and me, photos seemed to be the theme of the week as reminders of this week from years past kept resurfacing.

My Facebook memories popped up this photo from 2018 of Ethan.

isn’t he cute?

Here is another from that same trip to Florida of Christian and Alexa and Namaan.

At the beach, isn’t he cute?
Alexa and Namaan

From Hayley, came this photo from  thirteen years ago  of the two of us on our adventure from Des Moines, Iowa to Fort Lauderdale, Florida when we joined other truckers on the road again moving Alexa to her  new home.  It was a hoot.  By the time we got to Florida we knew all the words to every popular country song at the time. I even bought a cowboy hat somewhere in Indiana.

Next to the rental truck somewhere on the road

Savannah posted a photo that goes back further than that of her and Donny with the McLaughlin boys.  She posted it on May 19, which  would have been Jimmy’s 32nd birthday.  Both Jimmy and Donny were taken from us way too young in life, both by tragic accidents. In fact Jimmy’s accident was four years ago this week as well.

 

Donny on the far left, Jimmy on the far right.

Courtesy of Google, here is when I accompanied Cameron on a field trip this same week in 2017.  Here he is showing me his grilled cheese.  That was a fun day.

On the field trip with Cam. Isn’t he cute?

There was the video from the Preakness in 2015 that popped up on my Facebook memories.  That was the year American Pharoah won in a downpour and ultimately went on to win the Triple Crown.  I can’t post the video here but here is a photo from that same day.

Baffert discussing the race with Victor Espinoza before riders up

And another from the Preakness in 2012.

Kim and I at the 2012 Preakness

And yet another Preakness in 2010:

Kimmy in the Winners Circle at the Preakness 2010. Isn’t she cute?

 

Memories of this week from the present and from years past.

All nice, but some bittersweet.

 

Another virus induced practice for me is that I have started to do video recordings of reading children’s books for my two little guys in Florida since I can’t go to visit yet.

This week I read them “Ralph Tells A Story” by Abby Hanlon.  The book is about how Ralph, unlike his classmates, struggles to come up with ideas to write his stories and about  how he overcomes this problem to become a very productive writer.  Ralph’s writing tips were to:

  1. Get comfortable.
  2. It’s okay to ask for help.
  3. You can always write about what you had for breakfast.
  4. And to eat lots of chocolate.

In other words, you can pretty much write a story about anything and it will be okay.

 

Even one about boo boos, and Bert and Ernie, and Jesus looking over your right shoulder.

 

 

 

The Coronavirus Post Script:

 

And remember to keep in your prayers:

Healthcare workers and their families. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8);

All those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues;

Those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home;

Families who have lost loved ones;

Those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

 

 

 

 

Off You Go…My Friend

Off You Go…My Friend

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Ten

Ecclesiastes 7

A good name is better than fine perfume,
and the day of death better than the day of birth.
2 It is better to go to a house of mourning
than to go to a house of feasting,
for death is the destiny of everyone;
the living should take this to heart.
3 Frustration is better than laughter,
because a sad face is good for the heart.
4 The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,
but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure.

 

 

On Monday about an hour before my weekly zoom staff meeting, I received a call from the daughter of a friend of mine telling me that my friend had passed away.

My friend was a victim of the virus.

We always have a devotional at the beginning of our meetings. For this meeting one of my co-workers chose a reading from Ecclesiastes 7.  It seemed to fit with my morning phone call I thought as she was reading.

 

As this new normal continues we are getting more used to forgoing our traditional rituals or at least creatively modifying them.  For Mother’s Day the kids set up a table in the driveway and surprised Kim with a “to go” lunch from a local restaurant.  We social distanced. It was the first time we had seen the kids in about eight weeks. Cameron even put on a tie.  Of course we had to settle for the live feed over the cell phone for the Florida kids.  But in the end, Kim said it was one of her best Mother’s Days.

Sadly however, forgoing our rituals applies to celebrating life in death as well.

 

My friend was older than me, really just four years younger than my father.

He also shared something else in common with my dad and that was that he too had Parkinson’s Disease.

 

I always thought it a bit ironic that my friend who I very much thought of in a paternal way, would also have Parkinson’s.  I used to think, what a coincidence, both my “dads” have Parkinson’s.  And the same patience I learned to exercise with my father became more important as my friend’s disease progressed.

 

I first met Frank while I was a student at Northern Virginia Community College’s Respiratory Therapy program.  I believe he was the medical director of the program at the time, but he also was one of the two pulmonary physicians who taught our disease case study class.  I remember hearing before the first class, all the rumors, and the warnings, and advice from those who had previously taken this class was that you definitely didn’t want to get Dr. Fusco as your case study instructor.  He would tear you up.  But then meeting him for the first time in class and sizing up his personality I realized he was just another Italian guy from North Jersey.  What is wrong with that?  Having recently relocated from New Jersey, it made me feel at home.

 

After graduating, the next time I saw Frank, I was as his patient.

 

An enlarged lymph node was found on a routine chest x-ray in my mediastinum.  The unilateral enlarged node presented itself more like a cancer finding and less like something benign.  After a CT scan was ordered I was referred to a chest surgeon for the biopsy. On the day before I was to be admitted to Fairfax Hospital for the procedure, I was sitting in Frank’s waiting room when he came out from the back and sat down beside me, put his arm around me and he said,

“Let’s just hope it’s benign.”

Up to that time he hadn’t given me any real reason to be worried, but once he came out to the waiting room and did the whole arm around me “let’s hope it’s benign” thing I proceeded to panic.

The biopsy confirmed it was benign.  It turned out to be histoplasmosis, a fungal infection you get from bird poop.

But I would always remember that moment of compassion and concern for my health.  And it greatly impacted our friendship.

 

Time went on and I went to work in the ICU at Fairfax Hospital (now Inova Fairfax).  Frank was one of the more senior pulmonary physicians practicing at Fairfax and he was also the medical director of the Respiratory Therapy Department.

 

When I left the hospital to work in respiratory homecare and the company I worked for needed a medical director, I asked Frank.   Once again we were working together.

 

I remember a time waiting in line in a hotel lobby in New Orleans where we were both attending the National Association of Respiratory Care’s annual meeting when I said something to him that he thought was too much in his personal business.  Once we were both checked in he took me aside and set me straight on just how far I was crossing the line.  It was awesome.  Just like getting yelled at by my dad.

 

Having been in the Air Force, Frank loved to fly and in fact owned his own plane with another physician.  One evening we sponsored a company function at the Barns of Wolf Trap for our referral sources and he was telling me about the vintage Navy trainer he was going to rent the next morning from the airfield at Quantico and he invited me to fly with him. I think he was a member of the Civil Air Patrol at that airfield.

“Hell no,” I said continuing with something like, “you are not going to get me up in one of those little planes, let alone an old, little plane.”

But by the end of the evening and after a couple beers I had signed on as co-pilot.  The drive from my home in Reston to Quantico that next morning was one of the most prayer filled hours of my life.  We took off, flew over the Chesapeake Bay, up the Little Choptank River and at a low altitude I literally waved to my parents who were out in their yard on the river confused over the plane that was buzzing them.  But still they waved back.  On the return trip to Quantico he let me take the stick and fly the vintage plane myself.

It was an experience I will never forget.

 

After he retired and moved to Florida I didn’t see him too much.  I would send him our Christmas letters and keep in touch by email.  Sometimes I would email him blog posts.  If he was up in Northern Virginia we would meet for dinner and maybe have a couple of beers, occasionally with Kim and his wife Barbara, but most of the time just the two of us.
As his Parkinson’s progressed, dinner and beers became more lunch and ice teas.  He liked to talk about the old days at Fairfax Hospital, the crew we worked with, and our days of experimenting with high frequency jet ventilation which I think brought us all closer together.  He liked talking about his kids, his grandkids, his great grandkids, and his wife Barbara who passed away a couple of years ago.

 

He always asked about my dad and how he was doing.  I didn’t always tell him the truth since my dad was a little ahead of him on the disease curve in my opinion.

 

The last time I saw him he told me that he thought I had a gift with structuring a story and to make sure I did something with it.  His approval meant a lot to me.

 

He would often say after discussing the days long past during our lunch meetings, “we had some fun.”

 

I thought of him as my mentor, teacher, attending physician, medical director, co-worker, surrogate dad, and my friend.

 

And now my friend, the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning.  Whereas death is the destiny of everyone, you have reached yours.  And if the day of death is better than the day of birth, I’m sure you are already in paradise.  As for me, if a sad face is good for the heart, then my heart is strong.

 

Rest in peace.

 

And yeah, we did have some fun.

 

Post Script:

The photo above is actually a Navy trainer my Uncle Ted serviced during the Korean War.  The plane Frank and I flew that day was very similar.

 

And remember to keep in your prayers:

Healthcare workers and their families. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8);

All those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues;

Those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home;

Families who have lost loved ones;

Those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

Cameron wearing his tie as we celebrate Mother’s Day 2020 in the driveway

A Hole in the World Tonight

A Hole in the World Tonight

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Would You Like a Lime With That Week Nine

 

There’s a hole in the world tonight
There’s a Cloud of fear and sorrow
There’s a hole in the world tonight
Don’t let there be a hole in the world tomorrow
(from “Hole in the World” written by Don Henley and Glenn Frey)                                                                                                          

 

I woke up a number of times last night worrying about having written nothing for this week and worse than that, not having any inspiration or motivation to do so.

It seems this week I have been more bothered by what is going on in our world and how it is affecting my world.

It’s somewhat depressing.

I can’t see my kids.

I can’t see my grand-kids.

I can’t see my parents or my mother on Mother’s Day.

We can’t see Kim’s parents or her mother on Mother’s Day.

We can’t visit our siblings.

Why am I telling you all this, you can’t either.

Well, unless they live with you.

Okay let’s not get too crazy.

But you know what I mean.

It’s tough.

 

I read that May is Mental Health Awareness Month.  How fitting is that?

The CDC warns that stress during an infectious disease outbreak can include:

  • Fear and worry about your own health and the health of your loved ones.
  • Changes in sleep or eating patterns.
  • Difficulty sleeping or concentrating.
  • Worsening of chronic health problems.
  • Worsening of mental health conditions.
  • Increased use of alcohol, tobacco, or other drugs.

 

Can you check any of those off?

And they also suggest ways to cope with stress:

  • Take breaks from watching, reading, or listening to news stories, including social media. Hearing about the pandemic repeatedly can be upsetting.
  • Take care of your body.
    • Take deep breaths, stretch, or meditate.
    • Try to eat healthy, well-balanced meals.
    • Exercise regularly, get plenty of sleep.
    • Avoid alcohol and drugs.
  • Make time to unwind. Try to do some other activities you enjoy.
  • Connect with others. Talk with people you trust about your concerns and how you are feeling.

 

And if it isn’t the pandemic it’s murder hornets, seventeen year cicadas, snow storms in May, politics, and the warning that we shouldn’t put the words fitness and Ben Roethlisberger together.

How do you not get stressed?

 

Last Saturday, as I mentioned last week, would normally have been Kentucky Derby Day, one of my  highlights of the year.  I usually make homemade meatballs and other foods and have some friends over, and watch the races.

This year since there was no race and therefore no friends I was a little sad.  But then on Friday evening my son in law Namaan and I decided we would “go to the races” virtually on Saturday anyway. Kentucky Derby or no Derby,  instead we would follow the races from Gulfstream Park in Hallandale Beach,  Florida.  Gulfstream still has live racing however with no patrons in the stands.

We would “make time to unwind and do some activities we enjoy.”

So I made meatballs and macaroni salad.

And in the same manner we do everything lately, through the use of computers, texting and cell phone calls, Namaan and I followed the Gulfstream races all day while practicing good social distancing by about a thousand miles or so.

The thing I didn’t like about it though was that I had to buy my own beer, but on the plus side it wasn’t  PBR.

And though by the end of the day, in spite of the fact I think my wife was a little annoyed with me, and my daughter Alexa was probably annoyed with Namaan, it was fun.

It was a good distraction.

 

And it’s been fun writing again on a weekly basis.

But as I said, this week it did add a little to my stress.

Lying in bed this morning I told myself, “don’t worry about it, if you don’t want to write this week…you don’t have to.”

So that was it, problem solved.

I don’t have to.

I feel much better.

 

 

Post Script:

“Hole in the World” was written in response to the attacks of 9/11.

Oh they tell me there’s a place over yonder,
Cool water running through the burning sand
Until we learn to love one another

We will never reach the promise land

 

Something to think about.

 

Kim and I found the sign above on a corner in Herndon while out walking on Sunday.  A good reminder to say thank you to all those taking a risk to serve us.

Continue keeping healthcare workers and their families in your prayers. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8);

All those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues;

Those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home;

Families who have lost loved ones;

Those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

The Birds and the Bees, Finally

The Birds and the Bees, Finally

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Eight

 

Another week.

I got the sense this week that people are starting to get tired of this new lifestyle.

Normally on this upcoming weekend, the first Saturday in May, I would have the homemade meatballs cooking, the Derby decorations up, and the TV’s all on for the Kentucky Derby festivities.  This year that will be the first Saturday in September.  At least I hope.

I was busy since my last post.

I successfully “painted the roots” and made my wife even more beautiful.

On Sunday afternoon the remaining large potted plants that made the trip to “Plant Camp” back in October returned home again for the summer.

But I also must admit, since that last post, I broke the rules and made a quick twenty four hour visit to see my parents.

The last couple of weeks I had been more concerned that I hadn’t seen them and the phone calls were getting a little more weird and stressful each time.

 

My parents live in a small town called Woolford on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, west of Cambridge.  Their house is on the water, on a tributary of the Little Choptank River that empties into the Chesapeake Bay in the area of Taylor’s Island.

At the time I wrote this Dorchester County Maryland had the fourth lowest number of Coronavirus cases in Maryland with 51.  In fact with the exception of Wicomico County with the city of Salisbury, the Eastern Shore counties are all at the lower end of the list.

Never the less, without any traffic on the roads, I made good time and didn’t stop until I got in their driveway.

The last time I had been out there was the weekend of the 9th Annual Crawfish Boil and Muskrat Stew Festival on March 1st, so it had been about eight weeks.  That’s a long time when you are used to making that trip every two or three weeks.

 

The sun porch where we tend to spend most of our time faces the river, their pier and bulkhead.  In the yard there are a couple of trees, a flag pole, and two large purple martin houses high up on poles.  Purple martins like open areas which makes the waterfront yard perfectly accommodating.  By this time of the year, the purple martin houses were full of activity with birds swooping back and forth from their perches on their houses to the yard, and back again.

At one point, my mother and I were sitting at the table looking out the window and there were two birds rolling around in the grass.

So I said to my mother, “look at those two birds out there… they are really fighting!”

If you know my New Jersey mother you know she is awesome.  You also know she has never been shy about saying whatever is on her mind whenever she feels like it. She has no filter.  You always know where you stand with my mother.

In this case, her rather loud response was:

“THEY’RE HAVING SEX!”

“THEY’RE NOT FIGHTING!”

“THEY’RE HAVING SEX!

“Oh” I said rather sheepishly.  “I thought they were fighting.”

“THEY’RE HAVING SEX!”

“THEY’RE NOT FIGHTING!”

 

 

“Gee,” I thought to myself.

For the first time in my now almost sixty four years, I think my mother just had the “SEX” conversation with me.

In her own way, we just had “the talk.”

For me I wanted it to be like “C’mon Ma, yuck, is that what they are doing?  No, please tell me they’re fighting…!”

But no, they weren’t fighting.

THEY WERE HAVING SEX!

This is awkward…

But how was I to know?

I am naive about these sorts of things.

 

While I was there I was able to check and clean the gutters, a chore that included my dad insisting that he climb the ladder to check my check of the gutters.  Thankfully the quality control part of the gutter cleaning process included only one gutter section.

I also changed a couple of light bulbs, replaced a shower head, and fixed a smoke alarm.

We talked about memories of their growing up in our hometown of Oceanport and memories of me and my siblings growing up there too.

We stayed up late.

In the morning, we assembled and raised on a pole, a third purple martin house in the yard.  It was a birthday present from my mother to my father.

Probably a good thing because with all that sex going on, the purple martins were sure to need another boarding house pretty soon.

My father and mother then brought down the American flag, now frayed from the winter winds and needing to be replaced.

After all that was done, I packed up the truck, and headed back home.

I felt good about the time I spent and what I was able to accomplish.  My parents were grateful for the visit.  I was a lot less worried.

And best of all, I now understood:

“THEY’RE NOT FIGHTING!”

“THEY ARE HAVING SEX!”

 

Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my wife what I had learned!

 

Post Script:

As of today in Virginia, medical and dental offices are starting to open up, and elective surgeries will begin again.  A good sign.

Don’t forget to continue to keep those healthcare workers and their families in your prayers. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8)

As well as all those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues.

Also those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home.

And those families who have lost loved ones.

And those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

 

Coming home from Plant Camp
Week Eight

 

Groomin’…On a Friday Afternoon…Doin’ Anything We Like to Do

Groomin’…On a Friday Afternoon…Doin’ Anything We Like to Do

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Would You Like A Lime With That Week Seven

 

It’s Friday again, another week in “quarantine” comes to an end.

This week the focus in my house turned to appearances and what we might look like when this is all over and what we have to do to avoid that.

 

Last week I heard a story about a judge who made a plea in a letter for attorneys showing up for court hearings on Zoom, to put on some clothes and get out of bed.

Of course, this in was in Fort Lauderdale in Broward County, Florida.

Wait, wait, wait, my daughter is an attorney in Broward County, Florida.

Alexa, please tell me you were clothed and not still in bed for one of these Zoom hearings?

 

Grooming…or, not.

Things have certainly gotten a little more casual with our current situation.

Have we found the perfect hideout for our vanity in lockdowns, sheltering in place, physical or social distancing, and working from home?

Are we exhibiting paradoxical behaviors?

 

The dry cleaning pile sits ignored in a spare bedroom.

Casual business attire is now jammies and baggy sweatshirts, or less maybe, according to the judge in Florida.

 

And then there is hair.

Proverbs 16:31 says Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life.   

 

Though my wife has lived a very righteous life, she chooses to not flaunt that by making her hair blonde.  And she is very beautiful. However, lately she has been worried about her roots.

Do you ride it out?  Or do you go to Walmart or Target and do it yourself?

As a result of this root issue, this weekend I get to add beautician and coloring specialist to my “additional skills” on my resume as I will be the in charge of painting the roots.

 

Eyebrows are an issue too.

Kim wants me to wax hers.  I am thinking about drawing the line on that one. I keep having this image of Kim with one eyebrow or maybe two little ones.

Or maybe worse, third degree burns on her face.

Making her hair fall out I can live with, but disfiguring her face? Nope I ain’t doing it.

 

I am glad I don’t have to worry about all that.

Surely it’s a little bit of an exaggeration to think that  I will look like the “me” in the photo above.

But a couple of weeks ago I ran into my buddy Jim who was then sporting a full beard for the first time, taking advantage of the opportunity that working from home has allowed.

Though as an adult I have always had some level of hair on my face, never have I attempted a full beard.  I wasn’t sure I could.  I must say I was a little disappointed when it took my wife a full nine days to even notice.

But still she was encouraging.

Now that I think about it, she was very encouraging.

Hmmm…

My wife once told me a long time ago that she used to only date guys with beards.

Hey, I’m thinking maybe this could work out for me!

 

Growing up my hair was blonde and though I sure don’t know how much of a righteous life I have lived, right now I couldn’t tell you what color my hair is.  If I had to describe it, I would say gray with white highlights.

My hair is also, right now, longer than it has been since the 70’s.

“It’s getting’ kind of long,” almost like I am “letting my freak flag fly” again as David Crosby put it way back then in “Almost Cut My Hair.” 

Thankfully my “freak” days are way behind me.

 

But I don’t suppose all this is hurting anyone and I don’t have to worry about my dad yelling at me to “get a haircut!”

 

I do hope the day comes sooner than later, albeit when it is safe to do so, that those folks who rely on our hair, our eyebrows, our finger nails and toe nails, and our dry cleaning to make a living, are able to get back to work.

 

Earlier this week on a Zoom call for work we were asked what we were thankful for in this time of crisis.

The truth is I am realizing just how hectic life was for Kim and I before this pandemic forced us to slow down. I am spending quality time with my wing man once again. I’m even painting her roots.

I guess maybe that’s my paradox, finding peace and love in the midst of a crisis.

 

I will end with some more words from Crosby in the final verse of “Almost Cut My Hair;” “When I finally get myself together…And I find a place inside to laugh…I feel like I owe it to someone.”

Hopefully we will all be able to look back at this someday and find something to be thankful for and hopefully something to laugh about.   I think we are all owed that.

 

 

Post Script:

 

I did find one other Bible verse relating to hair that seemed a bit ironic and fitting:

Therefore say to them, “This is the nation that has not obeyed the Lord its God or responded to correction.  Truth has perished; it has vanished from their lips. Cut off your hair and throw it away;  take up a lament on the barren heights, for the Lord has rejected and abandoned this generation that is under his wrath.”  (Jeremiah 7:28-29)

 

I realize not everyone out there is experiencing what I am experiencing therefore:

Don’t forget to continue to keep those healthcare workers and their families in your prayers. Remember “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8)

As well as all those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues.

Also those non healthcare caregivers working to take care of a loved one while isolated at home.

And those families who have lost loved ones.

And those who have lost jobs and businesses.

And keep reaching out to those who may need some attention.

Got my mojo working…

 

Hello In There

Hello In There

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Would You Like a Lime with That Week Six

 

“I am an old woman, named after my mother

My old man is another, child that’s grown old”

 

I am not an old woman and I don’t have an “old man.”  I didn’t write those words.

The person who wrote those lines was also not an old woman and didn’t have an old man either.

What made this person such a great songwriter was his ability to write from the perspective of the characters he created and wrote about in his songs.

John Prine passed away earlier this month, a victim of complications of the Covid-19 virus, another reminder of the times.

Those words are from the song “Angel from Montgomery,” one of my all-time favorite songs, written by Prine, made more popular by Bonnie Raitt.  It contains one of my all-time favorite lines:

 “If dreams were lightening, and thunder were desire

This old house would have burnt down a long time ago”

 

According to Jason Isbell, another singer/songwriter I have mentioned before who was a close friend of Prine’s, “John always said, when he grew up, he wanted to be an old person.”

I have always thought, when I grew up, I wanted to be a writer.  I guess for me being an old person some day was just assumed.

John Prine was a writer who just wanted the chance to grow old and proved you can’t just assume.

 

Kim and I had a nice Easter.

We got up at 6 a.m., had coffee by the fire pit while we viewed the on line Sunrise Service on Kim’s iPad.

Then we took a four-mile walk.

We planted flowers at Donny’s gravesite, now an Easter Sunday custom.

We did a Zoom call with all the kids and grandkids.

My cousin sent us a nice photo of my aunt, who along with my parents, are the last surviving members of that generation in my family.

We talked to our parents.

 

It hit home to me a little more this week, just how this virus, has impacted our older generation.

Almost a month ago now I wrote about how I wrote about “Mr. Nobody” and had read a lot of nice comments about my dad that I promised to read to him the next time I went out to see him.

When I made that promise, I thought it would be soon.

Now a month later I know I really don’t know when that will be.

And this past weekend a similar situation presented with my dad’s birthday.  Again there were many nice comments and remembrances, I promised to read them all to him.  I was thinking this time over the phone.  But there were so many, that didn’t seem practical.

So just before dinner on Easter Sunday I tried to teach my mother how to access my dad’s Facebook feed on his smart phone while trying to communicate this while on a video call over the Amazon Echo.  Understandably for an older person, trying to learn how to use a smart as well as navigate Facebook proved to be way too hard to manage.

Let’s face it, technology isn’t always an option for an older person.

After dinner, again sitting by the fire pit, I sat with my wife as she talked to her mother on the phone and towards the end of the call I listened to my mother-in-law weep as Kim assured her she would up to visit as soon as it was possible.

Then I received the photo of my Aunt Joan being wheeled out of her assisted living facility on Easter Sunday by a healthcare worker so that my cousins and their kids could see her from a safe distance.

 

And I realized, on a good day without a virus, most older folks don’t get to see their families or friends enough.

Prine had a song for that too called “Hello in There” that might make you cry if you have never heard it.

“We had an apartment in the city
Me and Loretta liked living there
Well, it’d been years since the kids had grown
A life of their own, left us alone”

Sad right?

The kids have moved on, they have a life of their own now.

 

Special days, like birthdays or Easter Sundays, are a big deal for our older family members and friends.

Maybe they get to go to church, which may be their one social outlet.

Maybe they get a visit from their family.

Maybe they get taken out to lunch or dinner.

But not now.

Some, like my dad, may not always understand that.

They are being deprived of that birthday visit, deprived of the Easter visit, deprived of being able to worship and have fellowship in church.

Instead, they have to wave to their family on a six-inch screen.

Or, from a wheelchair, with loved ones a safe distance across the street.

And they have to watch their church sermon on their cell phone or computer, using Facebook or YouTube.

Maybe.

Because, what if your older person can’t navigate a cell phone or computer; like my mother, my father, my mother in law, and my father in law.

 

Prine’s song “Hello in There” beautifully yet sadly captures the loneliness of an older couple.

“You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello”

 

I understand why we have to live like this right now.

I guess the message is, if you have an older person or couple that you know is alone and isolated at this time more than ever, reach out to them.

And, if you have an older person who doesn’t have the technology or know how to use the technology, maybe once you are logged on to your online sermon or small group or happy hour Zoom group chat, call that person on the phone so they can at least listen with you.

Somehow find a way to do this:

“So if you’re walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes
please don’t just pass ’em by and stare
As if you didn’t care, say, “Hello in there, hello”

 

Say “hello in there.”

 

Post Script:

So, wanting to make sure my dad saw all those nice comments from all of you, I decided to print out hard copies of the Oceanport Centennial post and the birthday posts and mail them to him.  He received them on Wednesday and has been taking his time to read all of them.  He told me “they were great.” Thanks again to all.

The photo above is of my aunt,  Joan Christiansen, with the caption “Grandma! And the amazing healthcare worker that brought her out so we could wish her Happy Easter!”

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8)

Please continue to keep those healthcare workers and their families in your prayers.

And keep all those sick or compromised from the virus and all other health issues in your prayers.

And of course, all those families, who like the Prine family, who have lost loved ones.

The sun rising on Easter morning

And All God’s People Say…

And All God’s People Say…

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Would You Like a Lime With That Week Five

 

In the darkness of the early morning, the worshipers began filling the benches of the church’s outdoor venue.  The fire was already burning, providing some helpful light as folks settled in their places, as well as a little welcomed heat on the chilly spring morning.  To the left of the fire was the cross, draped with white cloth and covered in fresh flowers now illuminated by the rising flame, creating a beautiful image to celebrate the resurrection.

As the time of the service approached the lone musician began singing songs of Easter unplugged on an acoustic guitar as the worshipers waited.

Now 6:30 a.m. the scheduled start time, and everything was perfectly in place for a beautiful Easter sunrise service; the fire, the cross, the music, the worshipers.

Yes, all the pieces were there, except for one, only one thing was missing.

The Preacher!

Six-thirty dragged on to 6:35 a.m., now approaching 6:40 a.m. while the music continued, the worshipers were starting to get antsy and whispering to each other.

I leaned over to Kim and said: “maybe I should go see where he is.”

I quickly walked into the building and found the pastor, Steve Vineyard, behind his desk hunched over his laptop working away.

I stood in the doorway of his office and the exchange went something like this:

“Hey man,” I said.

He spun around in his chair to face me and replied very cheerfully “hey Curt, how are you?”

“I am good,” I said.  “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he replied, “just reviewing my sermon, why?”

“Well,” I said, “because there are a whole lot of people outside waiting for you to come out and preach the Sunrise Service.”

He bolted straight up out of his chair and stood briefly visibly disturbed by what I had just told him.  He quickly collected his jacket, Bible, and sermon notes while muttering   “This is my worst nightmare!  I have nightmares about this kind of thing! Forgetting the service!”

We headed out the rear door towards the outdoor sanctuary and split up to not give the appearance that anything was wrong and that this was nothing more than Steve’s dramatic Sunrise Service entrance.

With the sunrise still some minutes away he hit the lectern and began the service, with surely a sigh of relief from the musician and the worshippers.

As I settled back in my seat next to my wife, in the distance I could hear sirens.

As the sirens in the background began to get louder indicating they were getting closer, once again I leaned over to Kim and whispered: “I hope they aren’t on their way here.”

Within minutes, a fire engine from the Sterling Volunteer Fire Department pulled up to our Sunrise Service.  Apparently a concerned neighbor had reported a fire at the church.   After a brief discussion with the firemen and a few laughs, we were able to finish our service with our fire intact.

At 6:54 a.m. the sun rose.

The sun was now up on Easter Sunday, April 1, 2018.  Our service ended around 7:15 a.m. The fire engine provided the necessary comic relief and the pastor being late for the service was quickly forgotten.  And Pastor Steve, it turned out, was a huge fan of fire engines. All was perfect again.

 

Twice in the last couple of weeks, I have been reminded of the events of Holy Week of 2018.

Kim was going through our Google photos one evening and said “look, here’s a picture of Steve,” as she found some photographs I had taken of the Good Friday service on March 30, 2018.

A few days later, while preparing for a presentation for this year’s Good Friday virtual  “service” I found folded up in one of my Bibles, the instructions for my role in that 2018 Good Friday service.  I was one of the eight readers assisting in the service.  I was reader number four, the eighth and final reader was Steve.

My instructions were “After you read your Scripture, each of you will be helping to ‘strip the Altar’ as the lights in the sanctuary are slowly dimmed.  We have eight items and eight readers…LEAVE THE LAST CANDLESTICK FOR STEVE TO CARRY OUT AS HE LEAVES THE SANCTUARY AFTER THE FINAL READING…Steve will read the eighth and final Scripture and carry the remaining candlestick out of the Sanctuary.

Bell Toll.

Pastor Steve stripping the final item, the candlestick, off the altar and carrying it out of the Sanctuary. Good Friday 2018

Though it was nice reliving those memories from the past, it was a hard reminder that in spite of the chaos of our current crisis that is affecting all of our church services,  Easter at my church wouldn’t have been the same anyway.  My church was broken before the disruption caused by the virus.  Maybe you know because you attend my church, maybe you remember my post from January titled The Stone,  but our pastor who delivered all our sermons for the last four Easter Sundays, Pastor Steve Vineyard, passed away unexpectedly in January of this year.

He would end all of his sermons by saying, “And all God’s people say…”

Only one of those sermons that I know of, was he late for.

Only one I can pretty much bet, featured a real fire engine.

And though all were meaningful to me, I can say, truly one of those sermons was life-changing for my family.

And so, this Easter’s diversion, this Easter’s “fire engine,” is in the form of a virus. On that Easter Sunday in 2018, it was the fire engine that helped us forget that the preacher, who for the only time in his shortened life, was late for a service he was to preach.

For my church, I hope that the arrival of this Easter’s “fire engine”, the Coronavirus, doesn’t have the same result it had two years ago, I hope it doesn’t cause us to forget.

Therefore, let us not allow this virus to help us forget what is really missing from this Easter season.

Because once again,

It’s the preacher.

Pastor Steve.

 

“And All God’s People Say…”

Amen

 

 

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8)

Please continue to keep those healthcare workers and their families in your prayers.

Happy Passover and Happy Easter to all.

By the way, the photo above was taken at 6:35 a.m. Easter morning, 2018.  The lectern located between Willis on the guitar and the fire, as you can see, was still vacant at that time.

The arrival of the fire engine.

 

Rollin’ Stone – Would You Like a Lime With That Week Four

Rollin’ Stone – Would You Like a Lime With That Week Four

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According to my cool guitar calendar on the wall in my office that I have mentioned before, today is the birthday of Muddy Waters.

Wikipedia refers to Muddy Waters as the “father of modern Chicago blues“, and an important figure on the post-war blues scene. His style of playing has been described as “raining down Delta beatitude.”

A beatitude, a supreme blessedness.

Quite the compliment.

Well, my mother told my father
Just before hmmm, I was born
“I got a boy child’s comin’
He’s going to be, he’s going to be a rollin’ stone
Sure enough, he’s a rollin’ stone
Oh well he’s a, oh well he’s a, oh well he’s a…  (from Rollin’ Stone, Muddy Waters)

Featuring that classic blues chord progression, it’s a great harmonica song.

It is said that the band the Rolling Stones and the magazine Rolling Stone both took their names from this song.

 

I spoke with my brother Gary a week ago and he was prodding me about how I had to keep this corona theme going now that I had started.

I haven’t written a weekly post since 2014.

I had to make a beer run.

 

Things got worse this week.

Some people think this is the end of times.

Some people think it is all part of a grand scheme for Trump to declare Marshall Law and take over the country.

Some people think this is this generation’s 9/11.

I don’t think any of that.

It may be the end of times for some things, like values maybe.

This is a different country than what it was twenty years ago.


Gas is cheap.

But we can’t drive anywhere.

Flights to Florida are $49.

But who wants to fly to Broward County right now?

I mean I do, my little guys are there, but I can’t.

Yesterday I got the email that my June 4 Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit show with David Crosby opening at Wolf Trap Farm Park has been rescheduled to a future yet undetermined date.

That’s okay because maybe that means Kim and I can go to the Kennedy Center.

Oh, they are not open either?

 

Do you remember when guys used to carry a prophylactic in their wallets?

I am carrying a rubber glove folded up in my wallet

You can never be sure when opportunity knocks so you have to be prepared.

Hey, you could be driving down the road and on the next street corner something catches your eye.

That’s it!  I’m doing a U-turn for that one.

$1.69 a gallon?

Yup and  I’ve got my glove on!

 

And speaking of prophylactics.

Every time I see Andrew Cuomo on the TV, I think of how elated he was a little over a year ago as he was celebrating the signing of his new abortion law, and lighting up buildings in New York City pink.

87,325 dead babies in New York (the average number of abortions per year in New York) and you get so excited you light up buildings.

As of last night, New York had 5,489 Coronavirus deaths.

But no lights.

But I guess it’s different.

Well, who knows, without those 87,325 abortions he might be needing 50,000 ventilators right now.

Maybe that was part of his Emergency Preparedness Plan.

Maybe he should run for President.

 

Well, I feel, yes I feel
Feel that I could lay down oh, time isn’t long
I’m going to catch the first thing smoking
Back, back down the road, I’m going
Back down the road, I’m going
Back down the road, I’m going
Sure enough back, sure enough back (from Rollin’ Stone, Muddy Waters)

 

Got the Blues?

Read your Bible.

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday.

The day Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey, the crowds laid down palm branches before him. We begin the holiest week of the year and sadly, we will not be in church.

“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

 

So I began with a “Delta beatitude,” I will end with another beatitude.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy” (Matthew 5:8)

Keep those healthcare workers and their families in your prayers.

 

 

And if you want to hear a little Muddy Waters playing Rollin’ Stone at the 1960 Newport Jazz Festival, here is a link.

Don’t Piss on My Boots and Tell Me It’s Raining -Would You Like a Lime With That Week Three

Don’t Piss on My Boots and Tell Me It’s Raining -Would You Like a Lime With That Week Three

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My hands hurt.  They are cracked and bleeding.

I am washing my hands a lot.

Back in the early 80’s I was working as a Respiratory Therapist in the ICU at Fairfax Hospital (now INOVA Fairfax Hospital) and I worked with a nurse whose husband was from somewhere in Africa.  I remember her telling us one evening that her husband would say that if you had a wound or cut your skin you should urinate on it.

I don’t know about that but I do know that on those occasions that I have to apply hand sanitizer to my now split, cracked, and sometimes bleeding hands peeing on them sounds like a less painful option.  Alcohol on cut skin stings.

 

This is now the third week of our escalation of caution related to the Coronavirus Pandemic.

And speaking of peeing, there was a lot of pissing on boots and claiming it’s raining this week from all sides but thankfully the bill was finally passed that would begin to bring some economic relief to workers and businesses big and small.

I don’t know that I understand all the detail nor do I want to but I am comforted to know that it may be just the beginning and could be expanded should it be needed in the future. I want to be sure that if the Kennedy Center goes through their $25 million too soon they can get more.

 

Also this week I had a “first” experience.

Instead of kissing my wife goodbye when she leaves for work we started elbow bumping.

Now I want you to know that this year, on July 1st to be exact, will be my 20th wedding anniversary.

And if, by July 1st, the only thing my wife and I are touching are our elbows, I am going to be pissed.

 

And this week the President got in trouble encouraging the use of a drug called chloroquine and another closely related drug called hydroxychloroquine.  Sadly, a man in Arizona ingested an aquarium cleaner with a similar name, chloroquine phosphate and died, which the President got blamed for on social media.

Dr. Anthony Fauci, who we have all come to know and love, said he would take the drug if sick but only within a clinical trial.  I understand the need for data, but sometimes it’s hard to understand the delays in treatment while you set up the protocols, qualify the patients to meet those protocols, and then finally at some point begin the treatment while all the time you are your loved one is dying.

 

Yesterday I was going back through some Google photos and realized it has been four weeks since I have seen my parents. The first Sunday in March we were attending the 9th Annual Crawfish Boil and Muskrat Stew Festival in Cambridge, Maryland with my parents and my sister Pat and brother-in-law John, as we celebrated their 68th wedding anniversary that weekend.

Ralph, the winner of last year’s and this year’s Muskrat Leg Eating Contest.

Life was still normal back then.

Well, at least as normal as eating Muskrat legs can be.

Congratulations to “Peg Leg” Ralph Bramble for repeating as Muskrat Leg Eating World Champion again this year.  We didn’t stay to watch the competition but I did ask Ralph for a photo before I left.

 

We also learned this week that Easter was canceled.

Well, not canceled really, you can’t cancel Easter, but churches, at least United Methodist churches are to be closed until at least April 23.

Too bad, I think we could all use a little reminder of Jesus and what Easter is all about right now and in the coming weeks.

 

Please continue to pray for those who are sick, those who are taking care of the sick, those families who have lost loved ones, for our leaders as they navigate us through this situation, and those working on a cure and vaccine for all diseases.

 

Post Script:

While writing this I thought it best to look into this peeing on a wound question and from what I have determined, it is not advisable.  So, let me make it clear I am not encouraging you to pee on the next wound you get.  I don’t want to be demonized on social media for causing you to be septic.  Soap and water and little antiseptic only, please.