Time Out

In a few minutes this whole computer set-up will be unplugged. We are having the computer room floors re-finished, the ceiling fixed, the walls and woodwork painted and the whole place spiffed up. From time to time I hope to be able to get to the library or borrow an Internet connection. That will work for e-mail, but isn't an ideal solution for posting to a blog.

Then comes the problem of plugging it all in again (including two printers, a scanner, a Picturemate and a Dymo.) I may have to send my brother a transatlantic plane ticket.

Hope to be back soon.

In Memory of Joe

One of my dearest friends in Los Angeles was Joe Margon. He was a fellow teaching assistant, but his journey to that place was very different from the norm. He was in his forties and had left an interesting life and career (he evaluated books and plays for Warner Brothers to see if they would translate into movies) to become a lowly graduate student with the aim of eventually teaching classics in a university. How he did this with a wife and two children, I never knew. I wish I had a photo of him. I can see his face with its big grin clearly in my mind’s eye, and remember the general impression he gave—a grey, rumpled teddy bear. I loved spending time with him and he was a valuable window for me, young and English as I was, into the life and culture of America. His was the rarified air of the arts. After all, his wife, Saritha, was an artist and his best friend, Howard, was married to a woman who had been married to Mel Ferrer before—or was it after?—he was married to Audrey Hepburn. (That’s about the closest I got to Hollywood.) Joe was serious in his pursuit of a degree. We kept in touch for a while and later I heard he had accepted a position at the University of California, Santa Barbara. I heard about him from time to time from mutual friends, eventually hearing of his death. No surprise that he was as much loved in Santa Barbara as he had been in LA.

So why do I always remember Joe at this time of year? Well, Joe loved baseball and part of my introduction to life in the USA was Joe’s paean to the national sport. He loved baseball intellectually and aesthetically, as perhaps only a son of Brooklyn can. He talked of timing and the chess-like machinations of the runners and the coaches. I tried, Joe, I really tried, but I couldn’t quite get there. But every year as we get to the play-offs and the World Series, I watch baseball, hoping I’ll get to see the interesting innings and that some of your enthusiasm will finally rub off.

And if the Tigers ever get their act together again I’ll work on understanding baseball with all the zeal we used to put into those Greek prose compositions.

Brief Encounter

She dropped something on the floor of Krogers in the Village. I heard the sound of her exasperation, and recognized on her face a look which probably mirrored my own expression, “Here I am for the three thousandth time buying pork chops and paper towel and milk and carrots, while I would much rather be anywhere else.” I made a comment in commiseration, and when she responded, I heard the distinctive Scottish accent in her words. She pegged me immediately too. So we started to chat. “Where are you from?”—safe beginning. The answer, in her case, was Edinburgh. We talked about Inspector Rebus and Irn-Bru, and moved on. “How long have you been here?” Me somewhat longer than she. How often do you go home?

The subjects came thick and fast. Do you have family there? Too bad British Airways no longer flies Detroit to London. Wouldn’t it be nice to go back, rent a place and spend some time? We were both aware, I think, that the Britain of today is not the Britain we remember, that life is not the same, we are not the same.

We mentioned our current homes—she in the City on Dodge Place (nice, that) and me in the Park. But we never exchanged names. She seemed like a very nice person, but we are not destined to be friends, just to remind each other in a brief encounter of other days in other places, of what has been and what might have been.

Linus Is Two

Look at this adorable photo: I hope to take some more this month when we go to DC to check on affairs there, but until then everyone who has suffered through photos of tongues hanging out and fingers making gestures over someone's head will know the score. Then there's his yellow duck—no security blanket for this Linus. Look at the bandaid on the toe. I can't wait to kiss it better. Finally the baseball themed outfit. Er, sorry about the Yankees, Marcie.

OK, Linus, get ready to tell me what it is like being a big brother.

Me Too!

I borrowed this cartoon from Aenodia. It kind of speaks for itself.

Here It Is, Folks!

I have already e-mailed this photo to most of the friends and family who have watched this creation from its inception, through its birthpangs to the final delivery. This was Ernie's chef-d'oeuvre of the summer and my pride and joy. I had always wanted an arbor to lead from the main garden through to the vegetable garden and Ernie designed, made and erected this beauty. The project involved digging down the existing paths and carting over four tons of the white crushed rock you see there. That's a purple clematis to the left and with any luck it will grow up next summer to crown the arbor.

I think a tasteful champagne launch is in order.

On the Horns of a Dilemma

At the stroke of midnight on October 1, the hospital we had frequented for over forty years with our broken bones and gory abrasions, always known as Bon Secours, became Beaumont, Grosse Pointe. And, with my customary sense of occasion, I was there. Literally. In a bed. I certainly hadn’t intended it. I swear that when I had pneumonia seven years ago and they gave me a shot, they told me I would never get it again. But, apparently, it’s only good for five years and I fell victim to pneumonia for a second time. This time with pleurisy. So after several X-rays and a CT scan, I found myself admitted to the hospital. And that’s where my problems began.

I was wheeled into my room sometime after midnight and the first thing I noticed was that the television next to the other bed in the room was blaring away. The nurse kindly turned it off, noting that my roommate was sleeping. But, at 6:00 a.m. that television came on and was not switched off until I left, thirty-four hours later. Have you any idea what shows are on at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning? Her visitors came and went. My visitors came and went. Meals came and went (very fancy now, you pick up the phone and order what you want. Unless it is something not on your allotted diet and then they tell you that you can’t have it.) Quiz shows, soap operas (her stories), movies, the Home Shopping Network— I was forced to listen to it all, whether I wanted to sleep or not.

I could, I suppose, have told her to turn it down/off. Or could I? What is the definition of “reasonable noise?” It made her happy and I was forced to ask myself where her rights ended and mine began. If the hospital provides the television, it is with the expectancy that patients watch it and the sound is collateral damage. It wasn’t her fault that I like complete silence or my fault that she likes noise. I vented my feelings on the pad of paper provided by the nice lady from “Guest Services” (don’t you love it?) and I am about to write a letter to the honcho in charge. The only reasonable suggestion I have is earphones and they would probably get mixed up with the oxygen thingies we had in our noses.

I am glad I am home.