What is Lost in the Great Blender’s Whirl

09-09-19

Everybody worked late today.  So dinner will be late.  Ours will be a simple dinner.  Two more or less homemade pizzas with the various add ones divided up so that nobody’s favorites get touched by someone else’s “must not be on pizza” items. For me I cannot stand green peppers.  Used to love ‘em.  But after the gall bladder departed for warm parts, by that I mean a medical incinerator, I just can’t eat them any more. Others find mushrooms anathema.  We do not ever put pineapple on pizza.

The making of the pizzas made me think about what we in America had in common and what we didn’t when I was growing up. Spreading the sauce out made me think about how we used to define ourselves and how we define ourselves now.

Making the pizza took me back to the treat it was to be getting a pizza from Penns Grove when I was a kid.  What was the place called, Tony’s?  I think so, but I am not sure.  All I remember was you had to dial AX9 and four other digits and you placed your order.  Sometime after the call one of my family members would drive to the pizzeria and back and viola, there on the table was a pizza pie.  Thin crust, tomato sauce and cheese, it was a family feast.  

I grew up with many Italian kids.  I learned words in Italian that I should never have learned.  I ate things with lots of tomato sauce and fresh farm produce. Italian Ice was a treat at the shore,  yeah...the Jersey Shore.

When you grow up somewhere you just assume the things you experience are the same things that everybody experiences.  I don’t know if pizza was a staple across America in the early 1960s, before Domino’s and Little Ceasar’s had spread their tasteless cardboard tentacles across this great land. But I know we had pizza where I lived and Italian subs.

As I would come to find out from a couple of doctors from the land of Birch Bayh, Indiana had pork tenderloin sandwiches.  Cleveland, as I discovered on weekend trip to the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame and one great art museum, had a special beef sandwich.  The Upper Pennisula had pasties.  Detroit had Vernors, Strohs and Coney dogs. Chicago had its own great style of hot dog.

We all kids had different television.  Detroit had the Ghoul.  Philly had Gene London, Wee Willie Webber and Sally Starr.  We had local radio that played different music.  In Philly we had Wibbage and WFIL.  In Detroit there was CKLW.  I could run through some of the clear channel stations but if you are my age you already know them.

But all that has changed.  The government’s big cave in to big media have taken regional variations in music away to a far greater extent than people want to admit. The same is true in the news business. There are few if any regional view points really. The handling of food has migrated regional foods onto the menu of chain restaurants around the country, if only on a rotating basis. At the worst you can find you local delicacy at some little store tucked away but advertised like crazy on the web.

We used to bring different voices and different experiences to the table.  But with homogenized media and the instant access to everything that the internet has provided us, we have been transformed into us and them, right and left, privileged and poor.  There is no middle group any more.  Regional voices weren’t always good, think segregation, but they brought different perspectives.  

We are much more alike than we have ever been.  But, we are much more deprived of the oxygen of local experience. I really don’t think that is a good thing.  I don’t know I am probably wrong.

Old Friends

I may be old, but I am not dead.  Today is a football Saturday in East Lansing.  The game is at night.  People are just starting to tailgate.  A lie it would be if I said I did not notice the coeds with bare midriffs, tight tube tops and perky breasts.  (Had to suss out what word to use their to be the least lecherous and offensive -tatas, hooters, boobs, etc.). The males out at these beer and weed fueled fests are of course living that Bruce Springsteen lyric, “The boys try and look so hard”.  Alums with their seat cushions, aviator shades and Spartan logo’d hats are passing by me in droves.

Right now I am sitting in the Union.  I am in what used to be the Union Grill.  It has undergone a number of changes since my days here.  For a time they had real restaurants.  Given the three months of dead time in the summer, the Wendy’s and the other chains folded up tents and left. Now there are three nondescript bowl, Mexican and chicken places.  The quality looks to be about the same as when this place was the Union Grill.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

A friend of mine, an old roommate from college and after, has been trying to catch up with me for several weeks. We have kind of, sort of set this as a place to connect.  My friend, and he is a good friend, is worried about me. You tell someone you have cancer and they get concerned.  Gotta say that makes two of us.  Together we make up two thirds of the raunchiest acts to ever participate in the Mayo Hall talent show.  The details will be spared for your dear reader.  At least for now.

This is the man who introduced me to the Lutheran faith, really.  On Sunday mornings he would pound on my door and drag me to services.  Our pores would be oozing oily with the smell of Jack Daniels and Jim Beam.  Our stomachs would be churning with the acids from too many Lay’s potato chips, too much alcohol and too little real food.  We might have reeked of weed too.  But like I said he would pound on my door and we off to church there to work our way through the liturgy set out in the old red Lutheran hymnal.

We sat in the back of the church, near the door.  You never know when you may have to fly out into the sunlight to hurl the bit of that hard shell Taco Bell taco that just will not digest. He was the man who gave me the lesson in chain reaction vomiting.  One morning following a  night we spent consuming several rounds of shots of JD at the Green Door Lounge we drove over to Don’s Windmill, the one that used to be near Frandor in Lansing Township.  Looking at the menu I got the bright idea of getting one of Don’s unique specialities, chili waffles.

For some reason the idea of beefy, meaty chili on a crunchy waffle just sounded good to be.  It came to the table, it was meaty and the waffle was crisp.  Both of my table mates, including this man looked on in disgust.  Well we drove back to our student rental hovel on the east side of Lansing, North Clemens Street..  It only took the time of the drive for the remnants of the shots to begin a battle with the now soggy waffle bits, the beans and the greasy meat.

Eventually I made the decision that I would let the queasiness run its course and I bolted for the bathroom.  I made the long call on the big phone.  I knelt at the porcelain altar.  I spewed in Technicolor. No sooner had my stomach emptied then my table mates who had been listening to me had to run to the other half bath and the garbage can out the back door.  It was contagious by sound.

[hours later]

We caught up.  We went to the dormitory for dinner.  We watched the MSU Marching Band play the fight song several times.  We walked through the tailgating next to the stadium.  It was good to see my friend.  It was good to have someone voice such clear care and concern.  We met over 40. Years ago in a public speaking class.  We have had our ups and downs.  But the friendship remains.  This is a good thing.

At Compline

Compline , also known as Complin or Night Prayer, is the final church service (or office) of the day in the Christian tradition of canonical hours. The English word compline is derived from the Latin completorium, as Compline is the completion of the working day.

Tonight as I write this I am listening to Stile Antico’s Music for Compline.  Somehow I knew that Compline was one of the canonical hours, just like I knew that Matins was also one of the hours. Vespers too.  Maybe I picked it up when I went to the Jesuit university.

While I knew Compline was a church hour, or office, I just didn’t know which one.  Often I use Compline for meditations at the start of my work day.  Rolling out my rubber mat I sit for six to ten minutes and try and clear my mind.  The music obliterates the world around me’s noises, the coughs, the doors opening, etc.

When I arrived at my writing spot this evening there were two women sitting nearby engaged in an overly loud discussion regarding tomatoes and the diabetic diet.  One woman seemed to simply be tolerating the random conversational spurs travelled by the other.  The loud speaking woman was sitting in a green chair facing the window with a magazine of some kind.  As she flipped the rag’s pages it seemed whatever bolded text sitting atop of paragraph became her next talking point.

I had to leave.

I ended up in what is for all intents and purposes a study carrel.  Here I sit staring at three faux blond wood sides panels and a cream colored work surface.  Without hesitation I knew I needed to release my soul from the boundaries of this narrow workspace’s constraints.  What better use of ancient music than to free the soul from my exile?  I am listening to In Pace In Idipsum.  The rough translation of the whole phrase, not just this snippet  is “In peace and into the same I shall rest and sleep” Yeah that sounds good doesn’t it?

Today was a day of time not well spent.  I got up.  I walked to work.  I listened to people profess they had profoundly changed.  I mulled over again and again what I could believe and what I could not believe.  More disbelief today than belief. At lunch I tried to come up with a list of must does before my surgery.  Trouble was my wheels just spun.

Some nights it just makes sense to hang it up early.  There is something to be said for moving into the silent peace early. Tomorrow will be my day for list making.  Tomorrow will be my day for the correction of errors.  Tomorrow will be a day for looking forward. In peace and I shall rest and sleep.

https://youtu.be/UbQF7Cziff4

Love for a Fall Night

On the end of its stay, August raises a heavy damp warm hand up.  With a singular motion the sweaty beast named after Augustus Octavius Caesar, flips the switch of the seasons.  As certain as turning off a light when you are leaving a room the change is near immediate.

At least that is the way it usually seems in Michigan.  Quite late into the eighth month, the
 old air conditioner is working hard to stay on top of the heat and most especially the humidity.  Still, by September 4th there is no need for night air conditioning.  The air has dried and the temperature will be in the 50s by midnight.  The temperature will be in the law 50s by 4 am. Yes the switch flips and everything is different.

September is here and on the side deck the walnut wars are well underway.  Like everyone else in East Lansing this house is surrounded by squirrels.  Near the deck stands a stately walnut tree.  Starting at the end of August and running until later, after fall has officially has arrived, the squirrels chuck the walnuts down from the tree. Down the hard green ovals fly. Down they plummet flung by the tree rats as hard as they can.

Down, down onto the deck they smash with an ungodly clamor. There used to be lattice on top of this deck, but the squirrels shattered the thin interlaced pieces of wood.  Almost every flat surface has the shredded green flesh of walnuts surrounding the remnants of broken black shells.  Bang.  Another direct shot at the porch.

Mind you there is no grousing here, except maybe about the lattice.  When the switch flips the whole tenor of the place changes.  The luxuriant green of summer will give way to multi colored hues of deciduous leaves about to fall.  The pumpkins and apples will be up for sale in no time.Saturday mornings will be filled with the sounds of leaf blowers and not lawn mowers.  Giant piles of leaves will live the curb for the annual pick up by the city.  Sweaters will come out of storage.  Does anyone still use moth balls?  In days past it was an unmistakable smell came late September.  Not so much these days.

September is a month when things go into neutral and real life begins to slow.  Not talking about Santa, turkeys or the earlier goblins yet.  Harvest time is coming first.  Real life, the trees, the squirrels, the animals  on the fringe of human encroachment, these prepare for the tough slog that is winter. Apple orchards and farm markets are packed with the bounty summer has offered up. Soon the hammock will need to be taken apart and put away.  Soon a new cord of wood will need to be delivered.

But right now, sitting at a table in light at 7:50 pm is a comfortable and relaxing thing to do. I am not going to create a list...get a cord of wood ordered...set up the chimney cleaner...get the furnace tuned.  Nope tonight I am just going to be in this moment of perfect balance.

Labor Day is Over

September 3, 2019

Yesterday was Labor Day. I tried to write something but I couldn’t come up with anything original.  Mostly I was just filled with memories of my family’s big get together.  Made a choice not to poke around their for a time, have done a good number of stories relating what it meant to be one of the Asher Clan.

 Today my wife has headed up to Traverse City.  She is heading to the funeral service for a damn good person, the daughter of a dear friend. So young to be leaving this world.  So much life lived, but with so much left undone.  I grieve for her parents.  I grieve for all that knew her.

Somebody on Facebook asked me my plans after I posted that I, at minimum, have 31 ½ days to work.  The plans are simple to state but not simple to execute.  The plan is to work up until 09/27/19.  09/30/19 go to Ann Arbor for the night.  10/01/19 have part of my left kidney removed.  10/02/19 to 11/26/19 recuperate.  11/27/19 and ½ of 11/28/19 work.  Thanksgiving.  Work until 12/20/19.  Burn vacation until 01/31/19. Retire.  02/02/19 head to Portugal.  Stay in Portugal until 06/01/19.  Decide what to do from there.

What happens after four months in Europe I don’t know.  All I know is that I want to chase some dreams. All I know is that I want some different experiences.  Life is too short.

Ocean City Labor Day

How I wish I was In Ocean City. Labor Day would be hot and steamy. The boardwalk would be crowded with people jostling each other as they tried to walk whatever distance they chose, be it from 12th street to 4th Street or from 7th Street to 10th St. The smells of Johnson’s popcorn, Mack and Manco’s pizza and the creosote of the boardwalk would mingle all together as they strolled.

And there I would be behind a shiny aluminum counter. Wearing a T-shirt that said Zap, I would be dispensing Coca-Cola or soft serve ice cream, or hot J & J pretzels or frozen novelty treats. All day up until about 430 the business would be steady. Large twin twist chocolate ice cream cones would be dispensed covered with nuts and sprinkles to begging seven-year-olds.

Come 430 the summer would be over. Summer rental on those cottages had then expired. Cars would be packed everything from pots and pans to bathing suits and the pillowcases. Dads in sweaty short sleeve brown shirts would be piloting a big assed Chevrolet back up to Upper Darby and points west. As the evening wore on the foot traffic would thin out on the boards. Kurly Kustard would close early because Ocean City would be a ghost town by 9 pm.

With very few people stopping by, I could get about cleaning up and closing up the store. Between emptying out the salt tray beneath the pretzel baking machine, tearing down the soft serve units and sanitizing them, I would look out on the Atlantic. The mighty Atlantic so impressive even when it was calm.

I so loved the salt air. I so loved lying in the sun reading cheap paperback copies of classic literature. I so loved the girls in their skimpy bathing suits. I so loved the humidity that would turn a feather pillow into a rock over the course of three months. Kind of liked the beer in Somers Point late at night, too.

The summer of youth is fast fleeting. I would advise the young to do what I would do if I were young again. Drink some beer, read some Shakespeare,get to know a romantic partner, maybe smoke some weed, and watch the sun go down over the ocean. Feel the warmth of the day and then feel it fade away as night comes on.

News From an Unanticipated Front

Several people over the past few days have asked how I am doing.  Odd as it seems to say, I am doing okay.  

The bottom line is I have renal cancer discovered about four weeks ago.  The next line on life’s ledger sheet is, if the doctor at the big cancer hospital is correct, thatI have a 97% chance of cure without anything but surgery.  The cancer is said to be Stage 1. With that being the case, while I am worried I am only a little worried.  More on this below.

Of all my concerns the biggest bugging me is a fear that during the surgery the doctor will screw up. Surgeries don’t always go as planned and you can get really messed up in unanticipated ways.  The odds are in my favor, but trouble is a always a possibility. Still, I will keep a positive attitude. I would be lying if I said my heart doesn’t flutter when I think ‘what if?’.

 

So, to sum up.  I am not thinking about the cancer much right now.  My concerns are primarily focused on my wife and my family, and a little bit about  people screwing up in the hospital.  Right now, I can put those concerns in the back of my head. Well, I can put them in the back of my head until September 20 or so, when I meet with the pre-op team.  

From September 15  to October 1 it will be like walking on broken glass. Nothing is guaranteed but  I am okay for now. Anticipated time in the hospital is about 2 nights.  Anticipated moaning around the house is a month.