First the news about Daddy - who has pulled through a kidney infection and is out of ICU. When I saw him on Saturday I had serious doubts that he'd make it through the weekend. But he's a fighter with the most amazing constitution and modern medicine is a multi-faceted miracle. Of course, Sister and I are still (at last) making those final plans and attending to the picky details because we know the end of this story. We just don't know the time. We've tossed out the idle comment for a year that we "really ought to start making plans". This episode merely spurred us into action.
There are reasons we haven't acted earlier, not the least of which have been the Other Things on our plates. There is also the jinx factor - as in - "I'm not dead yet. I don't want to talk about it." Like people who won't write wills. In fact, I find a bit of fascination in planning end-of-life details. It's probably the story teller in me, the part that asks "and what happened next?" Yet discussing these things is such a taboo. It's funny how Somebody in my house "doesn't want to talk about it" and yet he can dash out into the realm of modern political commentary and find proof that the world is going to hell in a hand-basket and rant about that crap all day long - with no intention or even possibility of acting on these subtle and/or massive social shifts. While I can be mildly curious about the esoteric, I refuse to invest my passion, or even much of my time, in the pursuit of the miserable with no intention of action. It seems a rather creepy sort of mental stimulation.
Anyway - I make no apologies for my Polyanna tendencies. I know the world is a far better place for its differences than it ever would be for its similarities, so when the conversation begins to spiral into the morass of solution-less problems I go to bed. ...where I have spent a great deal of my at-home time this week, defeating the sinus infection with modern chemistry. I am substantially better today - was actually much better yesterday - well enough, certainly, to do a story telling program at both my own and a neighboring library as part of the summer reading program. My stories were all about courageous children - some fiction, some true - and one from my arsenal of childhood memories that I love to tell most of all, about a brave girl in my fifth grade class who, with courtesy and valiant bravery, defeated our evil teacher.
That horrible school year, a year when each morning was an exercise in stoic submission; when my report card was liberally sprinkled with Fs; when the only way I could see to defeat the nemesis of my days was to refuse to do any assignments at all, was one of the pivotal stretches in my development. It was a time when I began to analyze how things come about in the micro-society of a single life. How did she know, that Brave Gail? Who told her how to protect herself like that? To defeat an enemy with calm courtesy? And could I apply her methods to my world? I don't even remember Gail's last name, but I remember her face and I remember her triumph and I remember thinking that life could be a series of victories - and the possibility of that carried me all the way through my teens ... In fact - I believe it still upholds me now and maybe ... just maybe that's another reason why I don't like rants about politics. I don't believe them. I don't believe the world is evil and going to crash and burn any day. I believe there are evil Miss W's out there - but I don't think she's gonna win.
Cool. and THANKS! Gail. Wherever you are.
Anyway - I make no apologies for my Polyanna tendencies. I know the world is a far better place for its differences than it ever would be for its similarities, so when the conversation begins to spiral into the morass of solution-less problems I go to bed. ...where I have spent a great deal of my at-home time this week, defeating the sinus infection with modern chemistry. I am substantially better today - was actually much better yesterday - well enough, certainly, to do a story telling program at both my own and a neighboring library as part of the summer reading program. My stories were all about courageous children - some fiction, some true - and one from my arsenal of childhood memories that I love to tell most of all, about a brave girl in my fifth grade class who, with courtesy and valiant bravery, defeated our evil teacher.That horrible school year, a year when each morning was an exercise in stoic submission; when my report card was liberally sprinkled with Fs; when the only way I could see to defeat the nemesis of my days was to refuse to do any assignments at all, was one of the pivotal stretches in my development. It was a time when I began to analyze how things come about in the micro-society of a single life. How did she know, that Brave Gail? Who told her how to protect herself like that? To defeat an enemy with calm courtesy? And could I apply her methods to my world? I don't even remember Gail's last name, but I remember her face and I remember her triumph and I remember thinking that life could be a series of victories - and the possibility of that carried me all the way through my teens ... In fact - I believe it still upholds me now and maybe ... just maybe that's another reason why I don't like rants about politics. I don't believe them. I don't believe the world is evil and going to crash and burn any day. I believe there are evil Miss W's out there - but I don't think she's gonna win.
Cool. and THANKS! Gail. Wherever you are.
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