After six weeks our office phones have been installed and my first phone call…

From my son. In the middle of his school day, the middle of my work day.   Couldn’t have planned that one better!

“Mom?” he asks.

“”Hi Sweetie.  What’s going on?”

“Remember my friend that you took home from a show in Burlington last summer with her cousin to somewhere in McLeansville?”

“Yes, well I remember doing that. “

“Could you come to school and pick her up?  She has a really bad fever and she’s throwing up all over the school.”

May I interrupt one moment?  This is typical.  My kids don’t hesitate to reach out on behalf of their friends, in sickness, in sadness but also in happiness and for fun.  I have been asked by teenagers to just be there as they shivered and sweated fevers.  I have been spontaneously hugged in fits of  untraceable exuberance.  I am sure his friend’s parents are out of town or work too far away or for some reason are not immediately accessible.  He thinks nothing of putting a contagious puking person in my car.  Neither do I.

“One of her parents has to give verbal permission to the school for me to pick her up.  Have her call someone and then call me back.”

A few minutes later the phone rings again.

“Her father is finding someone to pick her up.”

“OK.  Make sure she has some water, will you.”

I hear a voice in the background–”tell your mother I love her.”  I feel tears.

“Tell her I love her, too.”

Several minutes later, another phone call.  There was no one to pick her up.  Her mother would call the school and could I come?

“Twenty minutes.”

The dean by that time had caught enough of one side of the conversation to know what was going on.  He was standing by my desk for the last call.  He looked at the small garbage can I had picked up from under my desk, for ’spillage.’

“You haven’t gotten a flu shot, have you?” he asked.

The dean is a chemist, as in better living through chemistry.  That’s why he’s the dean.

“If she has the flu, it’s not the one their vaccinating for right now.  But I’ll give her some vitamin C and have some echinacea tea when I get back” because I believe in better living through a cuppa.  Then again, I haven’t had the flu in 12 or 14 years.

She was all right.  Her fever was coming down, her skin had that clammy feeling of oozy sweat just after a fever breaks.  She was tired but not so fatigued that she couldn’t talk.  She was gracious and thirsty.  I hope that this round of flu is mostly irritating and not miserable.  It’s going to be a long season this year.

This from Reuters

“School children dressed as Mahatma Gandhi take part in a cultural programme on the eve of Gandhi’s 140th birth anniversary, in the central Indian city of Bhopal October 1, 2009.”

Adorable, yes?

Thanks to Bill for the heads-up.

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This must have been fun for them.

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It’s hard to find the audio quality for older live stuff. I actually have this on vinyl.

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Saturday served to redefine the principle of privilege.  Exiting a funky corner restaurant at Walker and Elam, we were embraced by mild fall sunshine.  I looked at my dearest friend Laurie and my sweet daughter Helen and said, “I am the most fortunate woman in the world.”

“Because of your friends?” asked my daughter.

“Because of your family?” suggested my friend.

“Yes,” I affirmed.  “And because of health and great food.  Because of yoga and belly dancing.  Because 18 is a great age and so is 48.  We are incredibly privileged.”

That morning Laurie, Helen and I had attended a ‘yoga-by-donation’ class in a great bright naturally lit space above the Green Bean on Elm St.  It is a vinyasa class that was a challenge to each of us.  Jennifer, the instructor took special care to note our differences and abilities and to make sure she could offer variations to suit each of us.  I, of course, am still healing from a territorial dispute with some pissed off yellow jackets.  Lovely Helen is a little tight and the postures are still new to her.  Laurie has done yoga on and off for years though it’s been more off than on of late.  We each could benefit from the Tin Man’s magic oil.

We were put through the paces–supported cobra, full cobra, all warrior poses, triangles, cat-cow, downward dog (for me puppy dog).  Jennifer reintroduced me to postures I hadn’t done in a long time, that I had really enjoyed but forgotten about like threading the needle and the tree.  Afterward I asked Helen how she felt.

“Light,” she said.

Light of my life.

As we crossed the street Laurie said she had worked up a sweat.  Helen said her posture had to be corrected.

“I was sweating.  Were you Helen?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

“I was shaking the whole time.  How about you two?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Then 100% of the people surveyed sweat and tremble when they do yoga.  That makes us completely normal.”

Not wanting to part company just yet we headed for one of our favorite eateries–Fishbones on Walker and Elam.  Blackened tuna tacos.  Grits and shrimp.  Black Bean Burritos.  Helen was satisfied with a cheese quesadilla and french fries.  Laurie asked for a fish burrito to order.  Me?  I like their sides.  Wasabi Slaw.  Garlic Ciabatta Bread.  Black Beans.  I asked if instead of green beans I could get blackened asparagus–no problem.  And sauteed garlic spinach.  This place is killer.

After stuffing ourselves we combined our leftovers in one to-go container which Helen decided to hand over to a man sitting on the corner with a hand lettered sign that said ‘Help me.’

Laurie and I have known each other almost all of Helen’s life.  We have found this great comfort zone in our relationship.  While we have both changed over the last 15 years, Helen’s growth has been monumental.  She was a toddler who talked in polysyllables.  She was an artist of natural materials in the Andy Goldworthy school at seven.  She was a little pitcher with big ears, than a reader then a writer and now a thoughtful speaker.  She has gone from climbing in my lap to walking by my side.  She is respectful.  She is loving.  She even contributes ideas for the older ladies to explore.

Last Saturday privilege was redefined.  I am the most fortunate woman in this world.

‘Nuff said.

OK.  Here’s the story.

Sunday is my day to shop for food and cook for the week.  The oven is stuffed and pots crowd the burners on top of the stove.  Amidst the peeling, pouring, simmering and baking, Chris came in the kitchen with a dust and web covered coffee can.

“Three guesses, what’s in the can,” he tells me.

“Ummmm. Water,” I say.

“Nope,” he says with a big smile.

“Dirt,” I guess.

“No again,” he is on the edge of some kind of hilarity.

“Umm.  Coffee,” I give on my third try.

“No, a snake.  It was in the garage.”

“What kind of snake?” I ask.

“I don’t know.  I need to look it up.  Can I have a fork?” He grabs one out of the dish rack.

“What? don’t use a fork. What are you doing?  How big is it? What does it look like?”

“It’s really little.  It’s a baby.  I just want to put some air holes in here so it doesn’t suffocate.”

“OK, use a skewer but be careful not to harm it.  What does it look like?”

“Oh, its like brown and tan in splotches and it’s about 4 or 5 inches long.”

“Don’t open that in here.  What are you doing?  What does it’s head look like?”

“It’s kind of pointy.”

“Like a triangle or a diamond?”

“You know, mom.  Kind of pointy looking.”

OK, by now I am pumping adrenaline and not remaining calm.  Because with my x-ray vision I am seeing this inside the can.

“Chris, don’t open it.  Do you remember what a copperhead looks like? You know baby copperheads are just as venomous as adults?”

“Cool.  Let’s look at it,” he answers.

“Don’t open that in the kitchen,” I order then to be completely idiotic. “I’m cooking in here.”

“Mom, you’re freaking.”

“Just get it out of the kitchen.  Get it out of the house.”

I turned off the burners and follow him into the attached garage to get to the backyard.

“Where did you find it, anyway?” I ask.

“In the garage,” he answers.

“Jeez, Chris, you know copperheads have live births of up to 8 snakes. You know August and September is birthing season for them?  Ghuuh.  Where exactly, JUST  GET OUT OF THE GARAGE!”

“Mom, you know you’re really freaking,” he said with perfect aplomb.

“Just bring it to the back, not in the firewood pile, the back in the woods.”

“OK, mom.  Don’t you want to see it.”

“Honey, I’m going to stand 20 feet away so when you get bit someone can drag you back to the house.”

“Your really wierd, mom.  OK. Here it goes.”

Chris pried the lid of the can and gently dropped a pinky thin snake onto the grass.  It looked like this guy.

That’s a chocolate hatchling, a very little baby corn snake.  Corn snakes hatch from eggs, clutches of 8 to 20.  They are absolutely nonaggressive.  They constrict their prey rather than biting.  Not as good as a pair of black snakes but very effective for keeping mice out of the house.  The one Chris caught is probably the boldest of a bunch of siblings curled up somewhere under the cardboard or old boxes or motorcycle parts or stacks of old carpet that can’t seem to make it to a dumpster so don’t get disturbed very often.

“So, that’s a copperhead?”

“No, honey.  That’s a baby corn snake.”

“Oh, so you freaked out for nothing?”

“Yes, sweetie.  Pretty much.”

I have known for a long time that war is gruesome.  I made that connection when I was only nine years old and this picture taken by photojournalist Nick Ut was published.  Here was another nine year old girl from the other side of the world.  She effected me profoundly.  It frightened me then and even now makes me little nauseous.

Phan Thi Kim Phuc, Vietnam, 1972

Perhaps we have forgotten that war is a messy place where people get maimed and killed.  Maybe out of respect for this girl’s family, for her own dignity our media should have suppressed this picture.  Certainly Robert McNamara would have appreciated a little space to do his job without being hounded by liberal humanists that didn’t have the heart to recognize that when you make an omelette you have to crack a few eggs.

Lance Cpl. Joshua Bernard, Afghanistan 2009

(update: photo of Bernard family and John Bernard’s recent efforts here)

Robert Gates is not very happy about the publishing of this photo which was taken by Julie Jacobson, an embedded photojournalist in Afghanistan.  He publicized his criticism of the Associated Press which included this sharp retort.

“Why your organization would purposefully defy the family’s wishes knowing full well that it will lead to yet more anguish is beyond me,”

“Your lack of compassion and common sense in choosing to put this image of their maimed and stricken child on the front page of multiple American newspapers is appalling,” Gates said.

“The issue here is not law, policy or constitutional right — but judgment and common decency.”

My heart goes out to this boy’s father, his family, his friends.  I have never forgotten that little girl or the image that helped shape my political perspective.

We do not have to be a brutal species.

A couple of weeks ago I watched the original Omega Man.  This was a pretty big step for me.  You see, when we were young there was this thing called a drive in theatre.  Friday nights, Saturday nights young parents would pack the kids in the back of a station wagon and head for a field with a great big screen.  They would park next to a post that had a speaker about the size of a coffee can and connected to a long wire.  This would hook on the inside of the driver’s side window.

The sequence of events those long ago nights never varied.  We would put on our pajamas after dinner and get in the car.  Dad always drove and he would find us a good spot.  Although we had assigned places on the long bench seat in the back and we did have seat belts we did do a certain amount of rolling over each other (kind of a weebles wobble but they don’t fall down thing).  If we got there early enough we would get to run down to the playground under the screen.  There was a slide and some swings, enough to burn some batteries and work out the excitement of being out of the house in our nightgowns.  Once the fire flies started coming out and the bats swooped on some luckless mosquitoes we’d run back to car.  The movie was starting!  First there would be a family film like The Swiss Family Robinson,  The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes or The Love Bug.  This was way back in the day when Dean Jones looked like all the fathers in the neighborhood and before Kurt Russell tried to put a quarter’s worth of gas in his car to take his girl for a drive.

There was a longish break between the first and the second feature.  Families needed time to reorganize.  Parents went to the back where they lifted the hatches and let down the tailgate.  There’d be some sleeping bags or just some wool blankets.  Each of us had brought the pillows from our beds and these were arranged. Sometimes it was hard to look away from the intermission display of dancing hotdogs and happy faced burgers.  Once we were deposited in what we used to call “the back back” (as opposed to the back seat),  I’m sure there was a certain amount of “he’s touching me!” and “eeeew.  Get your foot away from my face!”  before we settled in.  That was the deal.  Playground, movie, go to sleep.  No variations, that is how it is done.

Except when it’s not.  See, the second movie was not put out by Uncle Walt.  This was mommy and daddy’s time and sometimes mommy and daddy get to watch movies kids wouldn’t be interested in.  Them’s the rules.  You get in the back, get comfortable, go to sleep and you don’t peek over the seat because.  (This was an era when ‘because’ occurred regularly at the end of a sentence.  Because equated with reality and what is, is simply because.)

Only we did.  That’s how my sister ended up seeing Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.  That’s how I had the be-geebies scared out of me watching The Omega Man. Man, for years I freaked out about this movie.  The lead character played by Charleton Heston intrigued and repelled me.  When he needed a new car he just broke into a dealership and drove a new car through the plate glass window.  That was naughty!  But it was kind of cool.  And for the longest time I would look out my window at night and think that I saw ashen face people with iris-less eyes.  Brrrr.  Creepy.

So a couple of weeks ago I decided it’s time.  I am going to watch that movie again and see if it really is as scary as I remembered.  I was going to sit through that sucker (OK, with all the lights left on high and the doors securely locked and maybe I’ll watch it during the day, yeah) and I was going to enjoy it.  And I did.  It actually is a pretty creepy movie.  It has its moments, it has its merits.  It has a pretty good story.

So I was talking to my mother and told her about it.  But I had to share with her something that I didn’t pick up on the first time around.  You see, this movie was made quite awhile ago, in 1971.  While I was too young to be aware of it, there was a whole context in current events and fashions and politics that went unnoticed by a child.  (Yes, this was before there were designer clothes and runway fashion shows for five year olds).  What I noticed about the movie this time around was that Robert Neville, the doctor-hero played by Charlton Heston took several opportunities to take his shirt off.  And generally it was after he had done his daily exercise routine so he was pretty sweaty.  And this is what he looked like.

Let's Go Shopping!

I mean, a wee bit creepy.  Maybe worse than the vampire people.

So what’s the point.  Well, it occured to me that this was the image of masculine attractiveness from my early youth and my mother’s young adulthood.  Taking a good look, things have changed.  Here’s a hefty guy, kind of looks like he smells a bit, a little paunchy.  But that’s not the clincher.  I told my mother how my boys are particularly self-conscious about, well, body hair.  You want to really freak a teenager out?  Just say out loud “back hair.”  Talk about distraught, you’ll get a look that is both appalled and slightly nauseated.  Really.   Well, my mom needed to think about that.  She hasn’t really given a lot of thought to what makes macho or who’s the latest hotty hunk in a while.  She has a keen artist’s eye and it doesn’t rest on the superficial.

So the next week when we talked she was laughing.  This is what constituted hot when she was younger.

(Everything should be seen in direct HD. Well, maybe not everything.)

She started to pay attention to what’s marketed as ooh la la these days.

Mario Lopez and some kid named Adams

I mean, don’t you think you’d slide right by these guys? Put out a hand to shake and go, zing.  They’re like, like dolphins or something.

So it’s not just young guys and not just hollywood.  How about politics.  Did you know that Putin is now a gay icon based on this shot here?

"I looked in his eyes and saw a good man."

But see, he’s still old school.  He’s been outdone, from our very own…

Take that Mother Russia. Owned.

We had a pretty good laugh about this.  I hope my boys are OK with whatever degree of hair they sprout.  I thought that this body image was pretty much a female thing but it looks like it’s not.  So, if you are a hairy guy, you’re all right by me.  If you’re bald as a baby, that’s cool too. If you are a skinny guy, you’re fine.  If you can’t pick up a pencil with your glutes, that’s okay.  And if you can pick up a pencil with your glutes, you go.

Times change, fashions change, public opinion is manipulated.  But you know what, mom used to say something then that is just as true right now.  “Handsome? she’d say.  Handsome is as handsome does.”

Here she goes again. In case you don’t believe your ears, the quote follows.

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“make sure we bring down the cost of health care for all Americans and that ensures affordable access for all Americans and is pro-life because it will not put seniors in a position of being put to death by their government.”