The musical Mame includes the well-known song "We Need a Little Christmas." Its appearance in the score occurs just after the crash of the New York Stock Market, and the penniless Mame Dennis is depressed, facing the prospects of a rather dismal Christmas. Believing that an early celebration of Yuletide to be just the thing to lift both her spirits and those of her live-in nephew, she responds immediately and with full force to the idea that it is time to "...haul out the holly, put up the tree before my spirits fall again."
Patrick, her young charge, is baffled by her timeline:
"But Auntie Mame," he counters, "it's one week past Thanksgiving Day now!"
As if to say: Okay, Auntie, I know your daily philosophy is that life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death, but the idea of decorating for Christmas now -- three full weeks before the holiday itself -- is really out there.
Auntie Mame would get along perfectly well with the modern celebration of Christmas, when retailers and theme parks -- and even households! -- think nothing of hauling out an entire forest of holly, well before Thanksgiving. Sometimes in conjunction with Halloween, even.
Don't get me wrong. I adore Christmas decorations, especially the outside displays that brighten up the darkest nights of the year. Those December evenings -- when the sun fades from the sky by 5:00 p.m. -- I love nothing more than driving home and enjoying the inflatable Santas, the trees festooned with thousands of colorful lights, the bunting and ribbons.
I just blanch at the thoughts of them when leaves are still in their full-splendor of color change and the Thanksgiving turkeys are still fattening on the farm.
It wasn't always this way.
Consider the Christmas song "Mistletoe and Holly," as sung by Frank Sinatra, which features this line:
"Then comes the big night/Giving the tree the trim."
Which implies that assembling the Christmas tree and decorating it is an activity for Christmas Eve.
Hollywood bears this out as well. The climax of the Capra classic It's a Wonderful Life shows the Bailey family prepping for Christmas Day by spending the Eve tossing tinsel on the sturdy evergreen standing in the parlor. Of course, that's before the forlorn George decides to check out early.
My parents remember when Christmas Eve preparations for Santa meant tree-trimming that night and not before. Their traditions carried over into our own, and when we were young, we went to bed Christmas Eve with only our stockings hung and the creche set up on a small table in the living room.
Imagine our wonder -- miracle of miracles -- when we pounded down the stairs the next morning and saw not only our heart's desire in the toy department, but also a tree gleaming with lights and ornaments, and all kinds of other foo-faws making the living room a red-and-green wonderland.
Of course Santa was real. Who else could pull off that kind of magic in just one night?
I'm not even sure when all this started to change. Of course the retailers played a role. Black Friday isn't called Black Friday for nothing.
The availability of artificial trees had to have played a role as well; after all, a cut tree wouldn't survive being indoors for six solid weeks.
But the biggest culprit is probably our modern world's constant time-crunch. Christmas Eve means cooking and cleaning and church and large dinners and family visits and travel and packing the car and picking up relatives from the airport and wrapping last-minute presents and jamming Locking Tab A into Holding Gasket B and who's got time to put up a tree in all that mayhem?
So we'll back it up a day.
A week.
A month.
It all starts to blur together, increasing our slide toward Hallothanskmas, that mishmash of holiday observances that takes the separate traditions of October, November, and December, places them in a Cuisinart, and whirls them all together.
The true shame of this earlybirdism is that the holidays grow wearisome rather quickly. The earlier we jump the gun on Christmas, the earlier it collapses into a din of repetitive Christmas songs, congealed egg nog, and candy cane comas.
It's Noel nullified. Over before it even begins.
Just consider how many tattered trees find their way curbside -- cast aside for the trash truck -- even before the new year. Nothing to me is more depressing than a December 26th marked by naked Christmas trees, stripped of ornaments and lights and wearing just a few shreds of tinsel, tipped over at the end of a driveway like a drunken fratboy the day after a party.
But I suppose it's all part of time marching on. Of course the Christmas decorations have to go (except in certain households, where they stay up year-round, but that's another issue altogether).
By the time the sun sets on Christmas Day, Valentines is a scant 49 days away.
I have renamed my blog.
It took the comment of a long-ago friend to point out the shortcomings with the former title, but once she did, I agreed 100%.
The phrase "It wasn't enough" was among the parting words from my former place of full-time employment. It was uttered in April when I was cut loose. That departure came after a period during which I was told (and believed, color me naive) that my extra efforts could actually save my position. In assessing the results, it was determined by the Powers That Be that I had fallen short.
"We know you tried really hard. But it wasn't enough."
Stuck for a title to my new blog, the time for which was afforded by my lack of full-time employment, I put the phrase to use, hoping to sap it of its power the way that racist and sexist labels are often re-defined by the people to whom they're meant to slur.
It never really worked out that way.
I see now that I was becoming trapped by it. Those offhand words -- and all they signified -- were boxing me in.
And funny enough, I'm sure my employer long ago put me in its rear view mirror and zoomed onward to the next set of meetings, projects, conference calls, sales pitches, product launches, and deadlines.
While I remained in the past. Even if it were just from the standpoint of this blog. Every time I launched a new posting through Facebook or Twitter, there it was: It Wasn't Enough.
A message wrapped in a three-day old flounder, reeking of rot and buzzing with flies.
Well, no more.
I'm looking upward, onward, forward. I like the new name -- the hope that it engenders, the positive outlook, the anticipation of things to come.
Being unemployed has opened me to dozens of pieces of advice. One of the most compelling also came from a friend (not the same person who pointed out her displeasure with my former blog's name, but someone just as insightful).
She told me this: "Be the man you are now, right at this moment, with all your experience and insight and talent and wit and drive. Not the person you were back in April when you were cut loose."
My former blog name -- a big fat albatross that I wore like a cowbell -- was a huge part of who I was in April.
But it is not who I am in November. Or who I will be in December. Or next year. Or next decade. Or beyond that.
Welcome to my newly named blog.
My head hurts. My heart hurts.
I have just come back from the hospital where my sister-in-law, Kathy Morris Weckerly, is dying.
Cancer is killing her. Or the chemo designed to fight the cancer. Doesn't matter, really. The cause won't change the outcome, which is that, at age 54, after dealing with this enemy since her 20s, she will lose this battle.
Kathy has been hospitalized since the end of September, put there originally by fluid that accumulated in her lungs. Barely one month prior, we were together in Ocean City, NJ, where she fared well, despite needing to take a nap or two during the day.
Isn't that what being at the shore is all about anyway?
Eight weeks afterward, neither Ocean City nor Kathy are the same. How quickly things change.
Kathy came into our lives at a time when it seemed we all needed her. My brother had a rocky first marriage. We didn't care for his first wife much -- less so when she left him, taking every possession they co-owned. He arrived home from work one day and knew that the relationship was over when he found the house completely emptied, save for a lawn chair and a disconnected phone cord.
Hell apparently hath no fury like a moving man's daughter's scorn.
Paul was down and out. His fractured relationship with my parents -- born of rebellious teen years -- had caused rifts that had never quite healed. So it wasn't as if he were going to become a baby-boomerang, an adult child moving back in with mom and dad, thanks to economic setbacks.
Into this brokenness, Kathy wandered. I believe they met in a bar or something, and she could see from early on that he was at the bottom of a very deep well. Patiently, subtly, cautiously, she led him out. He rebuilt his life, starting on the inside. When sufficiently bolstered, he began rebuilding bridges on the outside.
Eventually, Kathy brought him back into the fold of our family. Best, it was a two-for-one deal, for with him came her.
Her last hurdle was to convince him to get married, a convention he had sworn off years ago. This iceberg, too, melted under her warm smile, quick laugh, and openness.
Kathy embraced all of us, warts and all. She ingratiated herself to my parents, to Eileen and me, and eventually to our kids.
Even our pets loved her. She often told the story of her first dinner with her soon-to-be in-laws. Kathy learned quickly that for the most part, where my Dad went, so, too did his dog, Murphy, a thoroughly lovable, floppy-eared, mildly disobedient Basset Hound.
During that dinner, Dad lost track of Murphy. Kathy soon found him: He was half-standing on a kitchen chair, devouring an entire pound of butter she had left in the open.
Didn't bother her. She laughed then and continued to laugh about that incident.
Our kids came along. They adored her, too. She was unable to have children on her own, but that didn't slow her from being the best aunt a trio of nieces could ask for.
Medically,
Kathy was a continual yin and yang. Some days good. Some days worrisome. Never to burden anyone with her issues, she downplayed everything. "I'm okay," she'd comment. "They're watching x, y, or z, but I'm not too concerned about it."
She helped immeasurably when we were forced to bid my Dad goodbye.
She then shouldered much responsibility with my mother's needs, as Mom tried -- and ultimately failed -- to live alone. Through this trying time, Kathy was the perfect blend of pragmatism and humor; she either knew exactly what to do to solve a difficulty, or she knew the exact comment that would cause a chuckle and break the tension.
She was there 100% when Mom left us, too.
Family was crucial to Kathy. No bother was a bother if it involved family. And she was abundant with family. Her birth mother passed away when she was quite young. Overwhelmed, presumably, he father almost allowed the family to crack apart, but he eventually remarried and things stabilized.
Then along came my brother Paul and our crew.
She made time for all, attending each birthday party, Christmas dinner, Confirmation, dance recital, and Communion along the way.
It was only this past April that she slowed down. The cancer getting active throughout her body, and the chemo she fought so hard to avoid all her life finally became a necessity.
The effects were swift and drastic. Unable to manage her work, she went on medical leave. She continued doing her best through the summer, feeling well enough to join us at the beach. Beyond that, she and Paul were planning an Aruba trip in October, and we all crossed fingers that she would be well enough to go.
She wasn't. Her kidney performance got shaky. A lung collapsed. She was just on the verge of recovering from these two setbacks when the bottom dropped out.
Scans and tests confirmed the worst. The cancer was back, it was spreading, and it was proving to be as stubborn as hell.
This past weekend, her blood pressure plummeted, the result of internal bleeding. Her doctors examined her through an endoscope to see if there were some way of stemming the tide, perhaps surgically. But there was none. The cancer -- or the chemo -- was leading to a wholesale breakdown of the structures within her organs, causing massive bleeding.
Bowels. Liver. Pancreas. Spleen. Lung. Brain. All teeming with a wildfire that could not be controlled.
It is only a matter of time before she escapes the confines of her failing body. At that moment, her bright spirit will soar onward. We wept over the initial news, and I am sure that when the final result is confirmed, we will weep again.
One more loss in a series of losses; one more exit from our lives in short proximity to the other exits from our lives. So arbitrary. So unfair.
I comfort myself with a few thoughts, though: My stint of unemployment provided opportunities to visit her during times that I would otherwise be chained to a desk. During one of those visits -- it was just she and I -- I thanked her. I thanked her for bringing my brother back to us. I told her that my parents would forever hold her in their hearts because of the manner in which she helped heal that rift.
She nodded. She understood. It probably didn't have to be vocalized, such was the power of her insight into family dynamics. But I comfort myself with the knowledge that I was able to say something so heartfelt and full of gratitude.
I also find peace in knowing that there are legions of loved ones waiting her arrival. My parents are among them.
And another soul...
A certain thoroughly lovable, floppy eared, mildly-disobedient, butter-eating Basset Hound.
Godspeed, Kathy. We love you. We will miss you. And we are richer for having known you.
Tomorrow -- Nov 03 -- marks the two-year anniversary of the loss of a very close friend of mine.
He left this world very suddenly, almost shockingly so.
He suffered an ailment that, despite my closeness to him, I was unaware of. If he felt poorly, he never mentioned it. But that was his way, really.
By the time I knew what was going on, it was too late.
He was a study in interesting contrasts. He could be fiercely independent and sometimes aloof, but to his close friends, he was gentle, warm, and kind. He could be stand-offish to strangers, but once he let you into his circle, you were a pal for life and could do no wrong.
My children grew up with him nearby. He enriched their young lives, both physically and emotionally. Physically, he helped the youngest learn to walk, offering steady support as she toddled along. Emotionally, he was a constant presence, an open ear, a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
He and I had long, deep, philosophical conversations on a steady basis. He listened well --very well -- and often responded to my problems with a silence that enabled me to figure things out for myself. A great gift, that.
He helped me reach beyond my own bubble and make friends that I would have never encountered otherwise. Although he is gone now, those friendships remain rock solid, and I expect them to stretch well into the future.
He helped me set goals, which we achieved together. I was very proud of our accomplishments as a team, none of which I could even have dreamed of before he became a part of my life.
Our relationship wasn't always butterflies and rainbows. We differed in approaches, opinions, habits, and details, and often it took a sturdy hand to show him that he had crossed a line. He never held it against me, though, appreciating the boundaries.
He had faults. He was not always friendly with those who were like him. I commented on his behavior often by saying: "He will never start a fight, but he will certainly end one."
Little kids loved him; my dad thought he was a prince; strangers who met him on the street would comment about his handsomeness; I still miss him on a daily basis.
He was Wesley, our black Labrador Retriever.
He came to our home in 2000 at eight weeks, when Amanda and Claire were little kids and Kristin was barely on the horizon.
He had some health problems early on, including a heart murmur that turned out in adulthood to be tricuspid valve dysplasia (TVD), an abnormality in one of the flaps of the heart that caused a little backwash of blood with each beat. As he aged, we addressed this issue pharmacologically.
His behavior as a teen was reprehensible, to the point that he was on the verge of losing his happy home and being returned to the breeder. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed, including that supplied by our obedience trainer. Her advice and constant attention brought him around, and I remain grateful to her to this day for her insight, wisdom, and patience.
In adulthood, Wesley and I had some limited success with the American Kennel Club's program of obedience titles. He earned a Companion Dog designation, meaning he passed a number of tests designed to evaluate how well we worked together as a team. He also earned a title in Rally Obedience, which is similar but involves doing different behaviors on a course, dictated by a series of signs.
The last phase of his life was as a therapy dog. We were part of a program called DART, which stands for Dog Assistant Reading Trainers. Each week, we met at the local library to work with children who were having difficulty reading. The crux of the program is the fact that in non-threatening environments such as that created when reading to a dog, kids who struggle verbally improve dramatically.
All it really involved for Wesley was lying on the floor, next to a kid, and listening to him/her read for 15 minute intervals.
He loved the attention.
The years crept up on Wes rather stealthily. At age two, his muzz began showing a few gray hairs mixed into the weave. By seven or eight, this frosting was showing up on his haunches and between his toes.
He remained sprightly. After a snowfall, he was fond of leaping through the drifts and digging tunnels with his snout. And he never lost his interest in swimming, taking each opportunity he could to paddle through the water, come ashore to shake vigorously (the twizzle of his tail quivering last), and then dive in again for more.
But as the years wore on, his naps became longer and more sound. And I could tell that the winter chill was beginning to settle into his bones.
The end was ugly. A few days prior to his departure, he got totally disoriented during a walk around our neighborhood. It was as if he had suffered a stroke or something; he just stood on the sidewalk with a confused look on his face, not seeming to know where he was or what he was doing.
It frightened me. He wouldn't even walk, just stood stock-still.
In a few seconds, though, it passed, and we came home.
A handful of days later, he stopped eating. And the morning of Nov 03, he wouldn't go outside at all, unable to rise from his sleeping spot on the floor. I called the vet and got an emergency appointment. Somehow by the grace of God, I got him in the car and over to the office.
Tests followed. The vet was unsure what the issue was until he did a CAT scan and found a large, ugly tumor on Wesley's spleen. Worse, it had ruptured. I was told that even if it had been whole, removing it was a dangerous and often fatal proposition. But since it had ruptured...
I was numb. I knew this day was coming eventually, but I had no idea it was that day. I called Eileen at work and we wept. She offered to take off and come and share this final farewell with me, but I declined. This was my task to do, and I would do it alone. We were ushered into a separate room, and Wesley Matilda Murphy was set free.
The outpouring was enormous -- more than I could have dreamed. Wes had led me to an online community of Labrador Retriever owners, and, in sharing his escapades over the years, we had become very close to the fellow owners there. Their grief was almost as compelling as mine.
And our obedience class friends were all shaken. Even though Wesley and I hadn't competed in years, we continued to go to class. It was good for him to continue to sharpen his skills. It was good for me to get outside, bond with others, have a laugh or two.
Wesley gave many gifts over the course of his life. I like to think of the kids he helped as readers, that perhaps they're on their way to high school now, bolstered academically by a paunchy guy with a big black dog that listened to their stories.
As a final act, his remains were donated to the University of Pennsylvania's School of Veterinary Medicine. I had been contacted with the initial diagnosis of TVD and told that, should I choose, the veterinary community would find enormous value in the ability to study his heart post-mortem. I decided that day that if I could spare some other family the difficulty of dealing with this disease, Wes' demise would have a benefit.
Wes' heart was too big for one family, anyway.
Wes changed our household. In fact, he continues to have an influence. Not only are we still finding errant black hairs nestled into the nap of the carpets but we also have been so indoctrinated into the joys of owing a dog -- a Labrador Retriever at that -- that we've re-upped for this adventure with another dog. Parker, a yellow Lab, is quite unlike Wesley was, but he has also found a way into our home and our hearts, thanks to the path his predecessor forged.
So tomorrow, as usual. I will be up before the sun, leash in hand, dog trotting at my side. I will smile as he sniffs from adventure to adventure, prancing happily through the fallen leaves, nose working double-time at the scents brought in by the autumn breeze.
But if I'm a little quieter tomorrow, a little grateful to be somewhat on my own, a little blue, a little distracted, a little wistful...
Well...
You'll understand why.
Halloween in the neighborhood where I grew up was cool.I remember dashing home from school and scurrying to the basement, where we had a storage closet under the steps. In its deep recesses was a collection of bags that housed our Halloween costume stash. This hodgepodge included castoff clothes, oddball accessories, rummage-sale leftovers, and hand-me-down-and-outs, all smelling heavily of mothballs.
I remember my mother had sent for a collection of masks that were free, in exchange for mailing in a predetermined number of Ivory soap bar wrappers. I recall this because the plastic masks each were marked on the inside with the brand name "Ivory" stamped in light blue ink. These were of nondescript characters -- a generic princess, a no-name monster, a run-of-the-mill ghoul -- probably because Ivory wasn't going to license any of the major cartoon characters of the day.
These masks, too, were part of the Halloween possibilities, stiff plastic faces held in place by white elastic bands that, if an elder brother were feeling particularly vengeful, could be pulled back, released, and allowed to snap back in place with a painful twang that always left a red mark.
Using one of these masks and risking the sibling injury, I was a black cat for at least two years running, probably at ages six and seven. When not trying to snap my elastic band, my older brothers teased me about repeating a costume in back-to-back Halloweens. I also remember not caring much.
Dinner on Halloween night was always a rushed affair. The entree was always -- always! -- hot dogs. Mainly for their convenience and their heft. Mom figured that if we were full up of hot dogs, that we would be less likely to munch on candy while still on the hunt.
Woe be it if our bell happened to ring with an early-bird trick-or-treater while we were still at the table: "We are going to miss Halloween!" we'd wail.
Dad always took us through the neighborhoods on Halloween, monitoring from afar as we shoof-shoof-shoofed our way through the accumulated fallen leaves.First stop was always Mrs. Bender at the bottom of our street. Mrs. Bender lived alone -- she had probably been widowed many years before -- and other than Halloween, she was barely visible. She kept very much to herself during the year and could only occasionally be spotted in her yard, pulling weeds or watering summer flowers.
But each Halloween, she made a batch of the most delicious caramel apples I have ever had. I'm not sure at all what her secret was, whether it had to do with apple selection or caramel recipe, which, from the taste, was something homemade and not crafted out of Kraft caramel squares melted in a pot.
There were two secrets to snagging one for Halloween.
First, you had to get to her house ASAP. Mrs. Bender turned off her porch light very early Halloween evening and would not answer her bell afterward. So her treats were definitely a case of snoozing equals losing. Arrive at 7:15 or so when her door was abandoned and her stoop was dark, and you were out of luck.
Second, you had to be known to her from the neighborhood. She only made enough apples for the kids that she knew, and she required self-identification before she forked over the goods. So yes, that meant lifting your mask or pulling off your wig and letting her squint at your face in the dark.
"It's us, Mrs. Bender. The Weckerly boys from up the street. Sean, Paul, and Danny."
"Sean, Paul, and Danny," she'd repeat. "Yes, yes, yes. Here you go."
Maybe that's why today I'm not all that offended by the PA Voter ID law that has been in and out and in and out and in and out. Once you've subjected yourself to Mrs. Bender's verification for a caramel apple, doing so to vote is no big deal.
As a teen, I remember going out with friends on Halloween. We would visit the customers on our Philadelphia Evening Bulletin paper route, benefiting from their gratitude for all the good service throughout the year.
In the pile of Halloween costumes, we had an old cutaway tuxedo coat and, of all things, a pith helmet. I supplemented the outfit with a thick, black, shoe-polish mustache and eyebrows, creating a rather convincing Groucho Marx/Captain Spaulding costume. Although few of my contemporaries knew who I was, the elderly customers on the paper route got it right away.
We trick-or-treated through the early 1970s, which meant scares about narcotics and needles being cruelly tucked inside treats. I remember the days when a Halloween haul could be taken to the local ER for a quick X-ray. We never resorted to those measures, but we did have to pass the Parental Inspection once we got home, and eating anything along the route was strictly forbidden.
Also indicative of the time were a few visits to a few homes that had a specifically hippie bent, and I remember one or two along the way with clouded air in the living room and clouded occupants partying away.
Still, the loot was always plentiful and safe.
The years passed. When I was too old to trick-or-treat, I helped Mom scare the other kids who came to our door. We created a creepy reception: She would don a wild fright wig (again, from the costume bag); I tossed on an old, black choir robe. When the bell would ring, she opened the door slowly, and I would be seated at the organ in the living room, ominously playing a few bars from the Bach Toccata and Fugue in D minor.
That's all in the past now. The costume bag has disappeared to the ages, taking its moth ball perfume with it. Mrs. Bender departed this world for the next, where she's probably making caramel apples for the angels. I moved onto being the dad-walker for my own band of ghouls, but now, even those years are behind us.
So tonight, I'll answer our own bell, peeking at the parade of princesses and pirates, skeletons and monsters, and perhaps even a Honey Boo Boo or two.
But part of me will hear their squealing in the dark, the giggles and chatter, and drink in the brief scent of fallen leaves mixed with pancake makeup, and wish I were out there with them.
I had a working mother. But her employment was under ideal circumstances: She was an RN and worked nights. So our routine was thus:
- She came home from the hospital after finishing her shift at 7 a.m.
- She ensured that we three boys (my brothers and me) got off to school
- Then she went to bed.
- She slept during the day while we were at school
- At 3 p.m., when we arrived home, we awoke her.
It was ideal. We enjoyed the financial benefit of her employment and still had her presence after school, through dinner, up to and including bedtime. After we had been nestled to sleep, she left for the hospital for her 11 p.m. start time, and the cycle began anew.
Having a mother who was an RN was an interesting way to grow up. She was always on duty. Whenever a need arose -- and these always seemed to be at the most unexpected moments -- she emerged from a crowd of onlookers and offer whatever assistance she could.
Whether it was at the supermarket or on a neighborhood sidewalk, we boys watched this exchange countless times during emergencies:
"Is there a doctor nearby? Is anyone here a doctor?"
Mom would step forward: "I am not a doctor, but I'm an RN."
"You'll do."
We were witness to mom's skill and knowledge in all kinds of situations: Helping a teen who had hit his head on the bottom of the swim club pool; assisting a seizure victim; providing first-aid on a roadside after a nasty accident; icing a little-leaguer who had twisted an ankle in a heroic slide to second.
The car accidents were always memorable. As we passed twisted machinery and diamond scatters of safety glass, Mom quietly said: "Pull over, George."
Dad, who was driving, guided the car to the shoulder, and Mom was out in a shot.
"Stay here. Be safe."
She kept an emergency medical kit in each of our cars back then, and she would grab this small plastic container on her way back to the mayhem.
Often, she did nothing. Police were onsite, and medical attention was on the way. The last thing she wanted to do was get in the way.
But in those instances where we were first on the scene, she frequently lent a crucial hand.
She loved to tell the tale of how, on her word, a commercial airline flight was diverted to the nearest airport. She and Dad were on their way to the west coast on a vacation, when a flight attendant got on the PA system and asked if there were a doctor on board. No response. After a few moments, the request came again, and Mom described that the first threads of panic were beginning to find their way into the request.
Mom flicked on her call-light: "I am not a doctor, but I am an RN."
"You'll do."
A passenger was having chest pain. She ministered to him as best she could, given the limited resources. But when the pilot asked mom if she felt the medical emergency were cause enough to land right away, she said yes.
And so, on her word, an entire commercial jet was diverted. An ambulance was sent to the tarmac and, upon touching the ground, the patient was taken away. For her efforts, the airline unearthed the hotel at which my parents were staying at and arranged a bottle of champagne delivered to their room.
Having a nurse for a mom had benefits that went beyond benevolence toward strangers. Within our own household, any of our boyhood scrapes, sprains, and bruises were assessed with skill, and there was no guesswork as to whether an injury required an ER visit.
She was also extremely calm in these situations.
While goofing around with a set of golf clubs, a neighbor kid accidentally beaned me with a nine iron, cutting a huge gash in my scalp. As all head wounds do, the thing bled like a stuck pig. Mom was called, and I can remember lying on the grass as she arrived, a blood-soaked towel covering the damage.
She matter-of-factly got me to the ER as quickly as she could, assuring me that I would be fine. 14 stitches later, I was sent home with instructions for her to watch me closely for signs of a concussion, which, thankfully, there were none.
She never screamed. Never cried. Never panicked, despite seeing her youngest bathed in his own blood.
She did, however, admit later, in the quiet of her room, to breaking into tears.
Mom also had the nurse's touch. I remember on days when I was feeling sick, she needed no thermometer to assess a fever. She could feel whether or not we were running inordinately "hot" or not just by pressing her hand on our foreheads.
That cool hand on a flush face was often more comforting than any St. Joseph's Aspirin for Children and provided a balm that outdid Vicks VapoRub.
"You're hot. Let's get back into bed."
She then -- treat of treats! -- wheeled our ancient black and white TV into the sick room and allowed an entire day of Popeye, Woody Woodpecker, and Huckleberry Hound. Lunch would assuredly be tomato soup with a flotilla of Zesta saltines bobbing in it. And the afternoon unfold in a cycle of naps and quiet book reading.
How I miss that hand on the forehead. The other one cradling my chin. The warm eyes conveying that everything was going to be all right.
How I'd love to feel it just once more...
A slice of dialog from the movie A Christmas Story came to me full-force yesterday.
In the movie, Ralphie and his brother Randy go to Higbee's Department Store to see Santa. The siblings approach the line, relatively short, and prepare to see the Big Kahuna.
They are interrupted, however, by a gentleman who calls out to them: "Hey, kid! The line ends here. It begins there!" He motions over his shoulder to indicate several hundred kids eagerly waiting.
Adult Raphie laments in his narration: "The line stretched all the way back to Terre Haute. And I was at the end of it."
This vignette came to me yesterday as I went on a mission to resolve a problem with the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania's Unemployment Compensation program.
In a nutshell, my status was automatically declared "inactive." I was no longer able to file claims, either by computer or phone, thereby cutting off payment.
Not a good scenario.
The online directions I accessed for resolving the problem provided a telephone number for the UC Service Center. I called Monday and was informed that the offices were closed due to the Columbus Day holiday, but that I was welcome to call the next business day, Tuesday, between 8:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m.
Jim dandy!
I called Tuesday morning and got a busy signal. Tried again a few minutes later and again, the number buzzed busy.
And again.
A few hours later, ditto.
That day, October 09, I tried 15 times to get through. And the number was busy each time.
Okay, I thought, I guess with the holiday the phone traffic has backed up. I'll call again tomorrow.
Wednesday, I dialed 40 times. Nada.
I suspected that perhaps the number was out of service, but as a test, I called after the 4 p.m. cutoff time and it rang through, telling me to call back during regular business hours.
Thursday, I ramped up to 53 times. Zzzt-Zzzt-Zzzt.
I was on the verge of total frustration at this point. There was no other way to resolve this than over the phone, and I couldn't connect!
The continual rap of my head on this brick wall led me to action: Among the materials received through the Unemployment Compensation Office was a list of regional UC offices. I scanned them quickly. One was in Philadelphia. Another was in Allentown.
Thinking that perhaps I could get my problem expedited in Allentown rather than Philadelphia, I drove the 40+ miles northward.
I found the office on W. Hamilton Street and went to the front door. Locked.
I saw a side door and tried it: Success.
I needed to hunt for the Suite 500 listed on the address. I found Suite 400. I found Suite 600. 500 was nowhere to be found. There were signs posted on all doors: This office is for the payment of State and Local Taxes on UC payments only. Do not ring bell unless you are making one of these payments.
Friendly, yes?
I found someone wandering the halls and asked where Suite 500 was. She helpfully pointed me to the right door -- the number had been plastered over with more signage -- and I rang the bell.
A voice responded. I told of my plight and that I was there to resolve a problem.
~sigh~ "Just a moment."
The door opened and a short, gray, elderly woman blazed into the hallway, her State ID dangling fiercely from a lanyard.
"Good morning," I started. "I need help with --"
"I can't help you here," she blasted. "Nobody can help you here. We're not set up for this. People come here all the time with their issues. It's the wrong place. You're in the wrong place."
"Isn't this the Service Center?" I asked.
"Yes. But it's the call Service Center. You can only access help by phone. We are not set up --"
Now I broke in. "But there must be something wrong with the phones. I've been calling for four days and..."
"Not my problem," she countered. "You cannot be here."
This went on for some time until she told me that there were direct lines into the Call Service Center. All I needed to do was go to a CareerLink office.
"Wait," I said, desperate to understand. "I need to drive to the CareerLink office. To access a phone. To get me to the Call Service Center people. Who are right through that door, ten feet away?!?!""All of this is in your booklet, sir. If you had read your booklet..."
"Can you give me the address of the nearest CareerLink center?" I asked, no longer interested in her lecture.
She provided it -- the only nice thing she did for me since blowing through the door -- and I left.
I drove through the winding streets of Allentown on the way to the CareerLink center. Had I known this was the solution, I could have gone to the one in nearby Norristown. Instead of one requiring a hour's drive!
I got to the CareerLink center, parked the car, and entered. It was a large, dingy room that smelled of anxiety and hopelessness. The receptionist, trying his best to be cheerful, said that yes, he could direct me to the necessary telephone, but there was a line.
Understatement of the decade.
The line was 30 people long, sitting in a spiral of chairs. The ring led to two telephones that connected permanently with the Customer Service reps. As one claimant finished with his/her issue, the entire line got up, moved one chair closer to the Promised Land, and sat.
I joined the end.
All the way in Terre Haute.
I looked at the faces of my fellow unemployed: Forlorn. Shamed. Bored. Angry. Desperate. Embarrassed. Resigned. Worried.
I understood all those faces.
During the 3+ hours it took for me to wait my turn, several took out cell phones and patiently updated family/friends on their progress. Several small conversations bloomed along the way -- and then quietly died like a weed after a week of no water. The center provided several editions of the local paper, and the steady sound of the flapping of their pages was often the only thing breaking the gloomy silence.
Fortunately, I had thought to bring my Kindle. I passed the time reading.
When I finally got to the phone, I felt like one of those Eastern Europeans who waited hours in line for toilet paper.
Thankfully, the rep I connected with was able to resolve my problem. Turns out a computer glitch deactivated thousands of recipients all across the state. That explained the jammed lines.
Why the state didn't just a) Inform us via email or website what the problem was; and b) extend the phone hours until the backlog was resolved (even if it did involve overtime or swing shifts) is a mystery to me.
I'm sure the answer has to do with budgetary restrictions. Or the fact that my solutions involve just plain old common sense.
Something the state often seems to have in very short supply.
