Tax Day

“Sergeant, what’s our bearing?”

“Pardon?”

“‘Pardon, sir?’!”

“Pardon, sir?”

“What was that?”

“What did you ask, sir?”

“Our bearing!”

“246, sir.”

“No, that’s our heading. What’s our bearing?”

While the officer and the sergeant, who had both lost a lot of money in poker geames the night before, took their monetary shortage frustrations out on each other, a storm reached their horizon.

“This is the Meteorological Experiment Station Charlie Charlie Charlie. Come in, please?”

“This is Sergeant Sargent. What’s goin’ on?”

“Sarge…”

“Call me Sargent.”

“Sergeant…”

“No. Sargent.”

“Actually, I’m a leftenant…”

“You mean, lieutenant, sir?”

“Let’s dispense with the formalities, sergeant. There’s a major electrical storm headed your way, with winds kicking quite a lot of sand.”

“Lieutenant, this is General Capitane. Does the storm have any effect on our bearing?”

“You’ll have to ask the sergeant, captain.”

“No, it’s Capitane, lieutenant.”

“Pardon me. Are you saying you’re a captain leftenant?”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Leftenant Cooperal.”

“I’m not a corporal, lieutenant. I’m General Capitane.”

“And neither am I a captain, general. However, the storm is close upon your position. Sergeant, do you see the storm on your radar?”

“That’s Sargent, Lieutenant Cooperal.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with the way NATO reassigns duties. You’re a sergeant leftenant corporal?”

“No. Sergeant Sargent. You’re a lieutenant, Lieutenant Cooperal.”

“Curious how they double the titles, eh, general?”

“Perhaps. What about our bearing?”

“The storm should be bearing down upon you right now.”

BOOM!

“Sergeant, that’s what I’m talking about! Increase the speed of this land yacht. And corporal, lieutenant or whatever you are, carry on.”

“Leftenant Cooperal, captain or general. Your sergeant sergeant was quite informative.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. That’s Sergeant Sargent, though, sir. And he’s General Capitane, not a captain.”

CRUNCH!

“Sergeant, what was that?”

“I believe we got some sand in our bearings.”

“We can only have one bearing at a time.”

“Yes, sir. In that case, our bearing is stuck.”

“Then change our bearing!”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but we’re bearing a broken bearing.”

“Don’t bore me. Fix it!”

“Yes, sir. One less boring bearing change coming up. Although I may have to bore into the gear to fix it…”

“Enough! Libyan liberation waits for our clear-headed leadership and a straightforward bearing!”

Ode to a Pillow

Pillow, sweet pillow,
How you bend like a willow;
Your polyester stuffing,
Your tender, loving fluffing,
Comfort me like nobody can.

I ask for a companion,
I get a bouncy canyon,
Cradling,
Hugging,
Holding me tight
Like the roots of a banyan.

You never complain,
Stay dry in the rain,
Wait for me without pain,
Lay in bed for my mane.

Does any mate treat you less kindly?
Does your silence mean you mind me?

How shall I count the ways I love you?
The way you look in a fresh pillow case?
The way you give every bed a complement?
The way others admire you when we’re together?

A few rhymes cannot suffice,
Never once, twice or thrice,
A throw of the dice,
To describe how you entice
One such as me, among mice,
To say you’re more than nice.

To you I bow my head,
At a loss for words,
Because you tempt me to sleep
Like an air traffic controller
With only a radar screen
To dream, drool and snore upon.

Sweet dreams, pillow!
I dare say “I love you!”?

Whittling a cereal bowl

In a house, hearing noises, seeing lights, with no warm bodies to touch – neither wife nor cat – a mood sets in.

Do I only accept terms and phrases like “God’s Plan,” “coincidence,” “fate” and “destiny” when I feel I have little or no part in an activity or outcome?

What if all I want is to sit here, write, and have a warm sleeping companion?

What calendrical day is it?

If all rituals are bunk, with whom do I bunk when my bunkmate is unavailable?

No anti/stimulants to change my mood.

The silence of tinnitus to tune out the world.

Vulnerability of sleep to comfort me.

At peace with a peace that is my piece of the universe.

Was the Russian princess who never was named Anastasia?

Paint a poster board with glowing paint and watch the stars shine brightly in a darkened room, vivifying dreams.

Potato soup and bread pudding – a hospital dietician is a chef in a food pyramid fantasy.

Can a painter draw blood?

Thanks to Robert and Naomi at Walmart; Pal’s Sudden Service; Hawkins County EMS; the Testermans; Kay’s Classic ice cream…

…getting sleepy…zzzzz

The Torrents of Spring

“No patient or staff food to be kept in refrigerator. (please help keep our kitchen clean)” – sign on wall posted next to Coca-Cola dispensing machine.

Where the cost of living is low, one can afford to not worry about whether kitchen visitors can read.

Do we sing the songs that speak our thoughts or our emotions?

Should the labels “thought” and “emotion” represent separate concepts?

What is hidden inside a box labeled as a Douwe Egberts coffee dispensing machine?

What is taedium vitae?

Do you understand the effects of the profit motive on your actions?

You see, I find myself at the usual center of two lines of warriors: the defense budget cutters and the social services budget cutters.

If either side “wins,” I win and lose.

My household budget depends on both.

My investment portfolio will roll with the punches.

Newspapers tell me about a group or groups of people in Libya – “Help us!” they shout over the political maneuverings of the U.S. government of the people, by the people and for the people.

As a simple man, I ask myself who is the maker of the wooden basket full of snacks provided for hospital patient families.

A virtual horn of infinite plenty.

What is the difference between real artificial flavour and the “real taste” of its zero calorie equivalent?

Which is better, “original” or “new and improved,” and which one is better for me?

Just because you can pack more people into an arena doesn’t mean the product is any better, just that the owner(s) and investor(s) are spreading fixed costs across a larger portion of the population.

…where was I?…

…hmm…diverted by Kenny at the Rogersville PO (thanks for the U.S. Civil War and evergreen stamps, btw) for a trip to Eidson to get some Ronald Reagan stamps, purple heart stamps and golden ring stamps, breathing in the view from mountain top twisty roads…

Has Shirley Begley claimed a dog named Bella as a dependent on her 2010 taxes? Rita Richardson won’t say but she did share the story of a Japanese lady who made the origami gift of love hanging in the rural post office.

Was it Brenda who kindly brought the Ingraham clock?

Thanks to Peggy for the delicious boiled custard! I’m spoiled!

Thanks to Joe Price for stopping by.

There is, in conversation, a level of understanding, corresponding to our number of experiences, to which we adjust regularly, willingly or not.

Most used tags

Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw.

’tis pleasantries that often pass for ‘onesty and civility, no doubt.

‘istory, all the same.

Jargonese.

Maple salmon, carmelised cabbage and creamed beans complemented by Nottage Hill shiraz in the Troutdale at the Hale Springs Inn, courtesy of Chef Ellis (from Chateau Elan), server Tom (from Greeneville) and proprietor Ben Zandi (from Bristol).

Candlelight accompanied by robin, mockingbird and starling hunting insects on the town square.

Highlights selling public radio.

Bloomin’ white/pink dogwood bloomin’ in front of the Masonic Temple Overton Lodge and usbank.

Middle-aged daughter brought 80-year young mother for birthday.

A spa where three U.S. presidents stayed.

Almost a guilty pleasure eating there while my mother in-law heals – call it a self-assigned reward for a personal attaboy.

More people to thank: Ashley, Danielle, Carla, Karen, Dana, Bobette, Kate and Casey; Jolee at Meadowview Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat specialists.

Tired…more later.

Literacy for the Lateral Literal Lot-In-Life Lottery

Knowing I’ll probably go to a local racetrack on Friday, I sit here wondering about the choices we make when we shouldn’t be given choices.

Wandering into the territory of parenthood.

Thinking about the difference between TV/video and newspapers/Internet text.

Readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic.

As a parent, would I insist my child learn to read/write as much as if not more than develop athletic skills?

Symbology symbolises idolatrous habits.

No natural law states we must distinguish one set of scripts from another.

We can tell a sick plant/animal from a healthy one, identify substances with natural (although weak in comparison to concentrated artificial) healing properties, cook meat/vegetables/seasoning to eliminate/reduce foodborne illness (converted to a whole industry of infinite appeals to one’s palate) and participate in activities that facilitate barter exchange – without reading or writing.

Oral teaching. Oral history.

Memes, black swans, mortgage derivatives, deepwater well valves, cruise missiles, political constitutions and nuclear power plants are symbols of writing and reading.

So are holy texts.

What would I expect my child to accomplish with reading/writing skills?

On the racetrack, one finds green/yellow/red lights, a few dials and switches, a radio headset and the determination to have a faster/smarter trip toward Victory Lane than the other drivers in a race (and/or a good show for one’s sponsors).

In the hospital, lots of medical charts get updated with doctors’ notes, prescriptions, allergy notices, X-rays, CT scans and vital sign readings.

I imagine an infographic poster demonstrating the value of one’s developed skills/talents as a racecar driver/crew/chief/owner vs. a hospital doctor/staff/administrator/owner.

Pyramids, pies and dotted lines.

What would my child enjoy learning, regardless of hieroglyphic interpretation skills?

Heuristics? Vagabond? Farming? Desk jockey? Car racing? Ruling the known universe?

Up to age six, my child would be subject to my rule as reading/writing teacher.

After that age, peers and professional educators would assist in my child’s search for a viable means of self-support (assuming no dependent medical condition).

If my child didn’t learn to read by the end of the third year of primary school, would I start directing my child toward a career path that requires no formal reading/writing skills?

And if my child couldn’t finish, then what?

Questions from a childless one, envious of every parent’s dream for progeny, no matter whether it’s simply to get a child out of the house or rocketing to Mars.

Carpet Pad

Do you bluff your way through a game of cards or play to the strength of cards you’re dealt?

You see, my grandmother was a Southern Baptist and I learned that her religious sect/dialect/denomination didn’t allow card playing.

My mother in-law is a Presbyterian and she plays bridge but has never touched a drop of alcohol.

I watch players on the national political level bluff and bet, some who drink or use other body enhancement substances before and after negotiating.

“I’ll bet my defense budget cuts against your elderly medical care vouchers, come next elections.”

I hear ancient Greek and Roman politicos, Asian princes, African pharoahs and Central/South American kings making the same bets.

The pure essence of a social species complicating simple barter exchange.

You raise/grow your own food for your family or you don’t.

My thoughts and prayers to those who’ve lost loved ones, including the Manis family.

To see a family that puts gentle loving first reminds me that murderous, maniacal members of our species are not the norm.

Those who negate the nesting habits of suburbanites should take a detailed account of alternatives.

Healthy alternatives that affirm life, regardless of lifestyle.

My time on this planet is limited, approaching zero.

I live in a neighbourhood that resembles a housing estate and is surrounded by them.

From nomads to farmers to soldiers to urban dwellers, we find ways to live for ourselves and families.

After college, my mother in-law settled into a three-story farmhouse, living there 60 years before moving into this single-floor rancher in the suburbs.

At 93.5, she looks at her remaining years and asks where she wants to live…

…in this house a few more years, with neighbours both as friends and family, many who enjoy not only playing bridge but also serving in the name of the Lord for community service?

…with her daughter in-law she loves, a Southern Baptist who doesn’t play bridge, in a multistory house having difficult egress, away from my mother in-law’s lifelong church and friends?

…a nonsuburban setting such as a nursing home or assisted living facility, with full medical attention 24/7 but she having to make new friends, some she’d hope who both play bridge and read the Bible daily, monthly cost being another major concern?

She asked her daughter (my wife) to make the decision.

Tomorrow, we implement the plan my wife wisely chose after talking to her mother, with final input from the doctor.

Family or inter/national politics – negotiating skills are important.

However, we don’t elect people into or out of families, do we?

What are politicians doing with your family’s money, though, huh, wolfly sheepish sheepshearers that they are?

More thanks

Thanks to:

Nurse: Andrea, Brooke; Meds: Bobby; Tech: Mindy; Respiratory: Tiff, June, Gwen;

Dr. Cirrelli, Natasha;

Vicki Hughes;

Food Services: Tammy, Trina;

Environmental Services: Chandra;

Paperwork: Mary;

Flutter valve by Acapella;

Posterboard, cellophane tape, and Sharpie from Walmart;

Visitors: Tommy, Georgia, Melinda, Patricia;

Phone: Peggy, Pat, Jonathan, Jana, Anne, Janeil, Bobbie, Lil

Today is a day of rest for my mother in-law while her body recovers from the bump, clearing hematoma and pneumonia.

Note to self: ask doctor if the red/white cell count is okay (in other words, continue to play the role of the ignorant family member to hear explanation of flow of colour across face (e.g., “So, Doc, does this mean her face is still bleeding or what?”)).

Time for me to go quiet for a while. My humour side is itching and scratching it will release a flood of jokes when I should be serious right now. Best to bite my lip and serve humble pie to the kind folks around me.

Your Proboscis Fits Into My Prognosticating Diagnosis

“Hello. I am Dr. Acapelli. These are my medical student assistants, Ivan from Serbia and Natalya from Croatia.”

“Yes, we are a long way from home,” the assistants sing in two-part harmony.

“Greetings.”

“And you are?” the doctor asks.

“Her son in-law.”

“Then I shall examine your mother in-law, shall I not? This is an Italian opera so pardon us while we bellow in loud tones from now on. MA’AM, HOW A-R-R-RE YOU TODA-A-A-AY?”

“TODA-A-A-AY!” the assistants scream together as a chorus chorally, with a touch of colic coincidentally.

“Is there someone here who can fix my hearing aid? I don’t understand you.”

“MY ASSISTANTS TELL ME YOU HAVE PNEUMONIA-A-A-H!”

“Cough! Cough! What was that?”

“PHLEGM!!!” the trio harmonise for one minute in minuet form.

“No. I mean on your ear. Is that an earring?”

“IT IS MY MINIATURISED PORTABLE ELECTRONIC LAWSUIT-REDUCING RECORDING DEVI-I-ICE.”

“You’re wearing a piece of ice on your ear? What’s the world coming to? Did you know it costs $42,000 a month for a nursing home?”

“IS THAT SO? LET ME LISTEN TO YOUR BACK.”

“PLEASE VERIFY MY OBSERVATION, DOCTOR ACAPE-E-LLI!” Natalya spends ten minutes singing for her featured, signature solo.

Meanwhile, the mother in-law has nodded off.

“JUST AS I SUSPECTED! HER LUNG SOUNDS LIKE SHE IS SNORING!”

“SHE IS?” Ivan and Natalya counterpose in a twenty-minute duet.

“She is,” the son in-law replies offkey.

“WE MUST EVACUATE…” the doctor begins as small pellets of ice fall from the ceiling, “ALL HAIL IS BREAKING LOOSE!”

The assistants and son in-law prepare to leave the room.

“NO-O-O!!!”

The mother in-law stirs. “I think I hear a noise. Could you see if there’s someone at the front door,” she squeaks, momentarily confused about her whereabouts.

The floor nurse steps in. “What’s going on! Sounds like a lot of shouting and screaming in here. Oh, Dr. Acapelli and the Two Medical Student Assistants. My apologies. Please continue.”

“We… ARE IN A HOSPITAL!!!” all five sing to the mother inlaw.

“EVACUATE! EVACUATE! WE MUST EVACUATE HER PHLEGM!!!” the doctor ends Act I with his famous run up and down the octaves using key changes not yet invented.

Are you familiar with this pattern?

Do we exhibit patterns of heightened/weakened activity that has been classified for medical professionals examining/treating newly-admitted patients?

Having sat with my mother in-law through several hospital visits, I’ve watched her go through a few phases:

1. Initial excitement about all the attention she’s receiving, being gracious and kind, polite;

2. Big drop in energy due to too much excitement/stimuli, being courteous and just slightly impatient/grumpy;

3. Slow rise in energy level as she recovers from illness/injury, trying to keep new information straight as her thoughts clear up and she returns to her cheerful self.

Through it all, we assure her the world is not coming to an end.

And I have to ensure myself I have not aligned my thoughts too closely to hers, for I am neither 93.5 nor a woman so, although our socioeconomic backgrounds are nearly identical, we have small but noticeable differences.

Sensitising one’s states of energy to some sort of quantum synchronisation-like shared condition with another is a curious trait to believe one has.

There are days when I read my words and feel like they were spoken by my mother in-law, not me.

Spooky? The chameleon in me thinks not.