A Nana Story for Halloween

Nana moved with us when my father was transferred to Connecticut. A widow, my dad was her only child. I was seven. Our little family was all she really had.

As the oldest of four, I got to stay up later than the rest on those nights Nana babysat. She'd read me poetry from slim and seemingly ancient leather books embossed with gold curlicue lettering. I had regular readings of "The Spider & the Fly;" "The Owl & the Pussycat;" and something with the ominous refrain of "And the goblins'll gitcha if ya don't watch out..."

She'd read me grown-up poems, too, poems by Whitman, Longfellow, Shelley, and Dickinson. But it wasn't all serious stuff - I recall taking particular delight in Robert W. Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and "The Shooting of Dan Magrew."

Later, she'd sit on the edge of my bed and say a night-time prayer with me. We had any number of conversations there in my darkened bedroom. Nana especially liked to talk about her religion.

"I'm a Spiritualist," she'd tell me solemnly. "And we believe in two things.

"We believe in the Golden Rule - 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.'"

I already knew that one from Sunday School.

"And the second thing we believe," Nana continued, "is that you can communicate with the dead."

"Okay, Nana..."

(Needless to say, my religious education has been eclectic.)


Years later, in my mid-20's, I saw a tiny newspaper notice for services at the local Spiritualist Church. On Wednesday nights, they held 'readings.' I liked the sound of that. Something unusual to try and, in a way, paying homage to my grandmother. I wanted to see what it was all about and, who knew, maybe she'd get in touch!

The church was brick and tiny, somewhere off Van Brunt as I recall. One big room, painted sky blue, with a small, raised wooden platfom on one end.

There were three people seated on the platform in old wooden chairs. Two women and a man, each as old as the chairs they were sitting in. They were the readers, and they took turns talking with an individual in the audience, until everyone had been read.

The old man pointed to me and asked, "Does the name Bernie - or Ernie - mean anything to you?"

I told him it didn't.

"Well, he's real close to you." Then he asked me if I knew an Alfred. "He lived on a farm," the old man said.

Nope again.

What a disappointment. I called my parents the next weekend and told them about it, that Nana would have loved it but that there was really nothing there.

My father asked me what the old man had said.

I dismissively told him about "Bernie or Ernie" and he said, "Bernie was my father's real name."

That was a shocker - I'd always been told my grandfather's name was the same as my father's middle name: Burns.

"Okay, then," I said, "is there an Alfred in there somewhere?"

My mother answered in the affirmative. I'd forgotten both the great-uncle and the farm.

I went back to the Spiritualist Church the next Wednesday. The same guy read me but came up with zilch. The week after that, the sweet little old lady with the snow white hair and piercing blue eyes pointed to me and said, "You - the little girl in white. Does the name Hazel mean anything to you?"

Hazel was Nana's name.

She told me Nana was close by, watching and protecting, at peace. That she loved me very much. Then she started patting her chest and asked, "Did Hazel have lung problems?"

A negative on that one. Nana had a lot of problems, but her lungs weren't one of them.

"Well, I just feel like I'm having a hard time breathing," the old woman told me, continuing to pat the front of her housedress.

Two hours later, having a cup of coffee with the friend who'd accompanied me, it hit me.

I was with Nana when she had her fatal heart attack. By that time, we were both babysitting (I'd reached the age where I didn't need - nor did I want - to have a babysitter. I was 12.)

We were watching late night TV in the downstairs family room when she fell over onto the floor. She lay there with her eyes open but glazed, unseeing.

She was trying to breathe, but her breath came in a long, harsh rasp, over and over and over.

That's my last memory of her.

Happy Halloween...

Home Again, Home Again

So...back to reality. And here we are.

A solid week of autumn color, Ozark hills, and hot water.

Accommodations ranged from a tent in the woods to a - gasp - $200 a night hotel/bath house/former bordello (complete with a neon sign outside in the shape of a penis).

What fun.

Took the waters in Hot Springs; did a little shopping in Eureka Springs. Communed with nature and our pillows.

Home again...and grateful for a job with paid vacation. (Hell, grateful - period. I had a long stretch of unemployment once, so I know too well what that feels like...an experience too many are now suffering.)

Like I said, back to reality...

Getting Out of Dodge...

If I can make it through the day, Mr. Demosthenes and I are heading off to another patch of woods: specifically, the Ozarks. More specifically: we're heading for the "sprangs" (that's Arkansan for springs).

We've kept our tax refund in a safe place (buried next to the cluster oak in the woods) and have dithered for months about how to spend it. The Black Hills? North Carolina? What to do?

We've earmarked the money (ooo-bad word) for a vacation. And we're making ourselves spend it on us. (Not our usual inclination - any $$$s usually go into our money pit of a house).

We're overworked, overtired, occasionally overwraught. Battered body and soul. It's time to head for the springs.

Others around the world understand the healing power of the baths. I guess Americans just move too fast.

So tomorrow we're going to pack up the truck and head south. I found a new scenic drive we've not taken before, and we're bringing our equiment to camp along the way.

The ultimate destination: the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs. We've signed up for two two-day packages, which includes a couple of free baths and massages. (The Bath Department - circa the 20's - is on the 3rd floor. You just get on the elevator in your bathrobe and voila'. You're there.)

We've done this a couple times before and it's WONDERFUL. We usually wind up spending our first couple days either in hot water, eating off the room service menu, or sleeping.

My idea of vacation heaven.

Debate #3

A little bit of new ground broken, but not much. I heard a couple details from both Obama and McCain last night, but again - not much.

I liked what Michael Beschloss said last night on PBS' post-debate analysis: that when a candidate goes on the attack, he is the one most diminished. Especially when his opponent seems cool as the proverbial cucumber in the face of whatever...

I hope that's true. I hope that - whoever wins the election - the rest of us realize what a mess we're in, decide to get over ourselves, and focus on what's really important.

Recommendation: PBS is a welcome refuge from the self-important chatterers on the commercial networks. Their analysis - following the debates and on election night - is thoughtful and balanced. What a relief...

Fall, Falling, Fallen

A cold front's moving through and rain is falling. It's been cloudy all day and now evening is falling, too.

Funny how your sense of smell can trigger strong memories. Tonight - for the first time this season - I smelled fall.

The earthy aroma of fallen leaves and wet dirt.

Sunday Morning Rants

* Is the election over yet????? My God, this is going on FOREVER.

* I wrote a few weeks ago that I thought I'd probably like Gloria Squitiro if I met her outside of City Hall. (I tend to like earthy, outspoken women - being one myself.)

After the incident at KCI, I've changed my mind.

Throwing her weight around, being "snotty and sarcastic" (as the skycap testified), threatening the rage of the mayor's office at two people just doing their jobs, are NOT the kinds of behaviors of which I approve.

And does she remember 9/11? Jeez....

* Is this what the start of the Great Depression felt like for my grandparents? Too bad they're no longer here to share that experience. I could use the advice.

* Screw the finger-pointing. BOTH parties are to blame. The subprime mess started in the Clinton administration with an effort to get those who couldn't really qualify into houses of their own. Then Bush loaded up that program even more. A noble idea - but......

Add to that the GOP anathema toward regulation and, well, here we are.

* Back to the Funkhousers: the mayor has managed to make himself completely irrelevant. Notice the recent spate of 12 to 1 votes? The City Council is obviously moving on without him. All he has left is the bully pulpit and, when your colleagues are ignoring you, YOU DON'T MATTER ANYMORE. Even Deb Hermann and Bill Skaggs - one time allies - have gone over to the other side, voting with the rest of the councilmembers.

What I thought was principle turns out to be massive stubborness.

* And is anybody as scared as I am at the way this election has turned? Whack jobs yelling "Kill him" and "Off with his head" at the latest McCain-Palin rallies...as those two candidates try to turn him into 'the other'?


To hell with it all. I'm going for a walk in the woods and relish in the fact that Mother Nature bats last.

Bumper Snickers

A Leading Cause of Stress is Reality!

Saw that bumper sticker on the back of an old Corolla in the heart - of course - of Midtown. (Now, before you get all twisted, I lived in Midtown for 25 years and loved it. Loved it despite gunshots in the night and the regular sound of sirens and the police helicopter.)

But I digress...

I haven't had a bumper sticker on my car since this one back in the '70's:

Women Belong in the House

And in the Senate

Look how far we've come, ladies! We, too, can have simplistic, uninformed candidates on the national ticket. I'm SO proud...

Since then, I've avoided slapping bumper stickers on my various and sundry automobiles because I didn't want to advertise what I really thought. I am not stupid - I know that other drivers are packing.

But I've mentally collected them over the years. Some of my favorites:

Don't believe anything until it has been officially denied

If ingorance is bliss, why

aren't more people happy?

Well-behaved women

seldom make history

Not all who wander are lost

Just say NO

to negativity

Because they really piss me off:

I brake SUDDENLY

for tailgaters

The one that could get me shot on my way to work (illustrated with the icons mentioned):

When fascism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.

--Sinclair Lewis

And finally - my personal favorite:

Don't make me release the flying monkeys!

I actually BOUGHT that bumper sticker, and have been seriously considering either putting it on my car or, better yet, hanging it over my desk at work.

Debate a Rerun???

McCain voted with Bush 95% of the time. Obama's going to raise your taxes. No, McCain's going to. Obama didn't support the surge. No, McCain blew it by supporting the original (mistaken) Iraq invasion. Etc. etc. etc. heard that all last Thursday - and was hoping for some fresh material in the second debate.

I've got the message points down, boys, could we move onto something NEW? Maybe something RELEVANT? Like the fact that we seem to be going down the economic toilet and - specifically - WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT????

I think copying our Mother Country might be a good idea: in Britain, you're only allowed to campaign for four weeks (or something like that). I know, I know...free speech and all that. Except most of the speech isn't free...it's paid for by special interests with way more money than you or I will ever see.

Everybody says they hate the negative campaigning but guess what, boys and girls: the candidates and their overpaid advisors happily get down into the mud BECAUSE IT WORKS.

And by the time the campaign is over, whoever emerges the victor is covered in the aforementioned mud, and is hated and despised by those whose candidate lost. And the national vitriol continues...

Sad sad sad.

Election Vacation

The remote control is my new best friend.

Irritating campaign commercial? Bloviating TV talker? The 'mute' and 'last' buttons are getting a workout at our house. (Does anyone still remember having to get up and walk across the room in order to change channels and/or the volume?)

I refuse to watch ANYONE'S campaign ads - they're essentially worthless, usually nasty, and absolutely unhelpful. (God luv the mute button.)

Same goes for the angry chatterboxes on the cable news networks. I wish they'd all just shut up. Or maybe we could put them all in timeout and send them to their respective corners to think about their behavior.

I've watched the debates...and will continue to do so, more for the entertainment value than anything else. I know the candidates' positions, though still need to do a little more research into some of the local/state offices and figure out whether to vote for or against light rail.

I urge you to join me on my election vacation. Pick up that remote and feel a real sense of freedom. Of power.

Yes, that sense of freedom and power will be fleeting - how much control do we really have in our lives - but the momentary satisfaction of shutting some asshole up is delightful.

Morning Fog

6:55 a.m.

My brain is full. Or so it seems.

The economy. The election. Gas prices. Hurricane Ike. Whatever. Add to that constant deadlines, the usual work stress, (fill in your life's pressures here).

The adrenaline is pumping all the time and we zoom from one thing to another... to another... to another...

And then a morning like this one happens.

The sun isn't quite up but the eastern sky is bright, glowing through fog that's crept up from the lake on Sandberg's 'little cat feet.'

The landscape is blurred and softened. The woods are quiet. It's 43 degrees outside - too cold for the bugs and frogs to sing, and the birds are still just waking up.

Take a breath.



Then another.




And another...