myTunes

If there were a way for another person to somehow tap into my inner sound track, I would be committed to the nearest psychiatric facility before sundown this evening. 

My mind is constantly blaring some form of music unless I am reading, talking or typing on this keyboard.  Has it always been like that?  I’m not sure, but lately I am cracking myself up when I catch myself humming and/or whistling silently to some of the most bizarre tunes imaginable.

This morning I staggered into the bathroom to get ready for the day.  As I swirled a neat strip of toothpaste on my brush, the noise broke through to my consciousness.  Here is what I was humming, with gusto:

Tantum ergo Sacramentum

Veneremur cernui:

Et antiquum documentum

Novo cedat ritui:

Praestet fides supplementum

           Sensuum defectui.          

My Catholic readers, fallen or otherwise, will recognize these lyrics and chime right in just as soon as the church organist slams fingers onto the keyboard, producing a thunderous introductory chord.  For many of you the sound will trigger an immediate memory of the cloying incense used in the rituals marking transubstantiation, the conversion of what appears to be plain bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ.  Why on earth would I be humming this solemn hymn while I stare into the mirror at a sleepy-eyed woman who, at the moment, is foaming at the mouth?

Yesterday I was walking Coqui the Spoiled Dog and her friend Romeo.  It was 95º on a day when the normal high in Atlanta is allegedly 84º.  All three of us were panting like porn stars and anxious to get the deed done.  When one of the four-legged ones stopped to inspect a fire hydrant, I tuned into the MP3 player in my head.  Frosty the Snowman was thumpety, thump, thumping through my pathetic brain.  Look at Frosty go!

I spend a major portion of my time with only Coqui as company, so unless I turn on something electronic in the house, I am surrounded by silence.  Since I find silence too deafening in large doses, I guess my subconscious does what it can to fill the void.

Whatever the reason, my lips have taken on a semi-permanent pucker from what can only be described as a facial tick that accompanies the sound of whistling that occurs only in my head.  I look like I am sucking on a soda straw or worse, taking a toke on a joint.  When someone I know suddenly drives by and waves, I am always wondering if they got a look at that mouth of mine.

Come to think of it, a lot of myTunes come from the liturgical charts rather than any top 40.  Another one that pops up often is this:

Bring flowers of the fairest,
Bring flowers of the rarest,
From garden and woodland
And hillside and vale;
Our full hearts are swelling,
Our Glad voices telling
The praise of the loveliest
Rose of the vale.

 This one refers to the Virgin Mary, whose statue was crowned every May with a circlet of fresh flowers.  Down the center church aisle, little girls in snow white dresses slowly preceded the eighth grade girl deemed the holiest in the school and named the May Crowning Queen.  Needless to say, I never had the honor.

In fact, heathen that I am, I haven’t been near a church of any denomination since 2006, and that was only because my grandmother’s celestial sendoff was held in our hometown Catholic church.  Either my daily incantations of Latin hymns and other church-related songs are signs of Somebody trying to get my attention OR the part of my brain that remembers details from grade school is having a second childhood.  And here’s the worst part.  I remember these things word…for…word! 

Why

Mom says the first word I ever spoke was “why.”

I wondered why the sky was blue

And why the rain would change the smell of air.

If money didn’t grow on trees, why not?

Why boys can stand to pee but I cannot?

And why can’t babies talk when they are born?

I cried and asked her why some girls hated me

When nothing I had done deserved their ire.

And when my classmates had to go across the world

To fight and kill or die themselves, I asked her why.

Then… why couldn’t I?

If there’s a God, why does he let so many people starve?

And why do people think my brown skin stinks?

That is what they think, right?

“Ours is not to reason why,

Ours is just to do or die.”

She’d quote Lord Tennyson, trying to explain.

I would listen raptly, pause and think;

Then look up at her, sincere as I could be:

“But, why?”

 Why are lettuce and watermelon never found in freezers?

Why do people cry, but animals do not?

Why can’t people live whichever way they choose

Without being judged and criticized and ostracized?

Why does black mean bad while white means pure?

Who says it’s better to be in love than not?

And why, when we ARE in love, does it seldom last?

Photo by moi 

Killer Trees

The storm that refuses to die had its way with Metro Atlanta last night and early this morning.   We lost three of our citizens last night when they were fatally injured by falling trees.  The wind howled and the rain pummeled the parched ground so fast that many cars in certain low areas of the city found themselves windshield deep in water with nowhere to flow.

I have lived in Atlanta for more than 18 years now.  We have our issues here; growing violent crime and gang activity, rampant  homelessness, a weaker than average economy in an era of weak economies, and strange weather patterns that are tending to swing from extreme cold to extreme heat.  None of those cause me as much fear as the thick canopy of towering trees that shade our strikingly beautiful neighborhoods.

 

This century old oak dwarfs my car and stands guard outside my front door.  It is roughly 14 feet in circumference and 60 feet tall.

From National Geographic:  "For a sprawling city with the nation’s ninth-largest metro area, Atlanta is surprisingly lush with trees—magnolias,dogwoods, Southern pines, and magnificent oaks."

Current estimates state that Atlanta’s tree coverage stands at 36%, the highest for all major cities in the country.  Without this canopy, the relentless summertime heat would be beyond bearable and our ever-growing smog would choke us all to death.

 This elegant elm stands the same 60 feet tall directly opposite the oak pictured above.  Oaks to the right of me, elms to the left...

But here’s the rub.  In 1974 the tree canopy sat at roughly 48%.  Since then there has been an assault on the canopy from heavy rains, drought, aged forests, new pests, and urban construction.  The trees that are left standing have been significantly weakened from these assaults, making them far more likely to have roots more shallow than they should be to carry the massive weight and limbs less able to support themselves without snapping spontaneously, wind or no wind.

It is impossible to walk outside my door without passing under a giant tree, much less walk the neighborhood without concern.  Yesterday afternoon two 61-year-old best friends were heading home from work in a Mazda Miata, one of those spiffy little two-seat convertibles.  Reports say there was a loud snap before a huge old tree fell squarely on their car, killing them both instantly.

A 19-year-old was in his driveway last evening attempting to clear a fallen tree that was blocking access to the garage when he was struck and killed instantly by a second tree. 

My dog and I have been walking in the neighborhood on a bright sunny day, turn a corner and encounter a twenty-foot-long dead tree limb blocking the sidewalk.  When did that happen?  Was it just seconds before we turned the corner?  What if I hadn’t allowed Coqui to sniff around that bush for as long as I did? 

Men like to joke about how unpredictable we women can be.  I’m pretty sure it was a man who assigned the female gender to Mother Nature for exactly the same reason.  It is certainly true that for every thing of great beauty and utility we have been given, there is a dangerous side of it that can be equally profound.   It is the way of the world.

So, yes, I stay home when there is a threat of wind and rain, if I can.  But when I can’t I strive to shelve my apprehension and surrender to the cosmos.  Que será sera.

 Photos by L

Schmaltz in the Afternoon

You know the type of person who never wants to find herself in the dark about anything other people are discussing?  I’m like that.  Some might unkindly characterize me as a know-it-all, but I chose to think of myself as up to speed on current events.

Which is why I tuned in yesterday to Oprah’s last (if only…) hurrah, the end of her 25-year stranglehold on daytime talk television.  When I heard she was to be her own last guest, I felt my eyes rolling up into the heavens at the same time my stomach did a cartwheel.  Who else, I’m sure she asked herself, would have the stature, the wisdom or the charisma to enrapture an audience of billions for a solid hour? 

So, yes, I tuned in at 4 p.m. Wednesday and saw the Big O take the stage in her Pepto Bismol pink sheath, tailored perfectly to her waspish waist and oh-so-womanly hips.  The soon-to-be Professor Emeritus of All Things Human did not sit with her $900 Christian Louboutin pumps’ red soles carefully pointed at the camera this time. No, she was about to bestow upon her audience the priceless Gospel According to O, and that required her to hit her mark at the center of the stage and stay there, hand glued to one hip.

Pearls of Oprah wisdom spewed forth.  Her delivery style was an amalgam of her mentor Maya Angelou, Rev. Billy Graham, Wanda Sykes, Barack Obama and Minnie Pearl.   It was all about thanks, she said at the beginning.  What she didn’t say was exactly who was thanking whom.  Were we, her loyal subjects there to thank her for hanging in for 25 years, so that we could study at her knees?  Or was she there to thank us for enduring her smarmy antics for all that time?

She told us we and The Oprah Winfrey Show were the loves of her life.  That must have really gone over well with Stedman Graham, her domestic partner for most of those years, who was sitting in the audience.  She gave instructions on how to become…well, her.  Fully actualized, spiritually fulfilled and “paying it forward.”  What she didn’t go into was how to amass her $2 billion fortune.  I suppose that would have taken longer than she had.

When she left the stage, I thought I was through and that she was finally gone. After all, the screen faded to black.  But back up it came, with Oprah stepping down into the audience to be greeted by the ever-tall, ever-handsome Stedman, who she dutifully embraced and kissed, then dismissed for the next fawning audience member. 

Hundreds of Harpo Studio employees lined the hallways, the stairways and the airways as she passed, shouting “We did it!” in that tiresome Oprah way she has.   Finally, mercifully, it was just her and one of her cocker spaniels smooching.  The longest goodbye in the history of mankind was over.

I wonder where she’ll pop up next.  Democratic National Convention?

 Photo from Oprah.com

 

 

 

 

Joplin’s Survivors Have a Rougher Road Ahead Than Some Know

 

The degree of death and destruction in the city of Joplin, Missouri has some media people speculating about the amount of time it will take for the citizens to recover.  That discussion is usually geared to the rebuilding aspect of recovery, the time and resources it will take to restore the physical elements.

My thoughts went immediately to the people I see wandering zombie-like among the detritus left by a tornado of historic proportions.  While the death toll climbs, so does the trauma experienced by those who rode out the storm and managed to survive.  The recovery for them will take years as they will most assuredly suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It has been said that winning a lottery isn’t always a total blessing.  All too often the elation felt upon learning of one’s win is soon replaced by headaches on a grander scale than could ever be imagined.  

I won a lottery once, but it wasn’t for piles of cash.  It was in 1989, when I was working in San Francisco.  The San Francisco Giants were meeting up with the mob across the Bay, the Oakland As.  The All Bay Area World Series would be played entirely “at home” for us, so I entered the ticket lottery with little hope of breaking my personal losing streak.  When I actually won, I was not only beside myself with excitement, but also the object of sudden affection from friends I hadn’t known I had the day before.

On October 17, 1989 my friend and co-worker Kathi was the beneficiary of my ticket largesse.  We took a city bus to what was then called Candlestick Park, made our way to our seats in the upper deck and settled in.  We decided to go to the concession stand before the game started.  I didn’t want to miss one pitch of the game.  When I stood up from my seat I saw that most of the 60,000 or so seats in the stadium were already filled, the crowd buzzing in anticipation.  

“This would be a terrible time to have an earthquake,” I said to Kathi.  She agreed and looked around. It was 80º and muggy.  Earthquake weather.

We were standing in a hot dog line not five minutes later when it started.  I felt suddenly nauseated before I became aware of the floor moving beneath my feet.  The Loma Prieta Earthquake began and it rumbled violently for nearly 20 seconds that felt like forever.  Grown men were screaming and so was I.  I was sure I was going to die and my thoughts went immediately to my college-aged son who was not with me.  Then I prayed for a swift and relatively painless death.  It was 5:04 p.m.

Instead of dying, I was in for a harrowing and dangerous journey from the darkened and strangely silent stadium to my home in the East Bay.  The entire city was dark, except for the flames in the distance.  The sound of sirens began to pierce the silence eventually.  Street gangs filled the streets to take advantage of the darkness.  Someone fired a bullet into the side of the NBC-TV luxury bus on which we had finagled a ride.  When we reached downtown San Francisco, we had to walk in the blindness to find our generator-powered office lobby.  After commandeering a company fleet car, I had to drive some 70 miles out of my way because the Bay Bridge, my normal span across the frigid bay, had collapsed during the temblor.  I arrived home at 1:30 a.m. to find my son pacing the floor with worry.  He was shaken but fine and the house was intact.  I had been crying off and on for more than eight hours straight, but now I sobbed with relief.

For two solid months, I couldn’t utter a single word without a trembling voice.  I suffered bouts of uncontrollable and unpredictable crying and I never wanted to leave the house.  Eventually, the symptoms subsided and I thought I was back to normal.  However, I have never since entered a stadium of any kind without wondering if something horrible would happen while I was there. 

All was well until the 1996 Summer Olympic Games.  By then I had relocated to Atlanta and was working again in AT&T Public Relations.  Although my specialty was Community Relations, all PR employees were required to staff the press room at the AT+T sponsored Global Olympic Village.  I had just completed a 12-hour shift in the stifling heat of the un-air-conditioned lower level offices when Eric Rudolph detonated the nail bomb that killed and maimed people who were standing in front of the stage where ribbon ceremonies were held.  I had already left the area and was not aware of the bombing until I got home.

As if someone pushed a button, every symptom of PTSD I had suffered in the aftermath of the 1989 earthquake in San Francisco descended at once.  The trembling voice, the stammering, the tears and the fear.  It was seven years after the fact. 

If my own experience with disaster is any indication, the people of Joplin will need lots of help to not only rebuild the city itself, but also to return to some semblance of their former selves.  I feel for them deeply.

Photo by Ryan Harper for Christian Post

From a Different Point of View

 

She gave me the name Coquette.  I thought that was kinda cute, even though I had no idea what it meant.  I heard Her telling somebody it was the perfect name for me because I was such a tease.  See, I’m not too keen on people putting their filthy hands on my head, so I always back away.  I mean, who knows where those hands have been?

When She picked me out of my litter, I was so happy.  I had done everything a puppy of 12 weeks of age knows to do to attract Her attention.  I felt Her insides go all mushy when I jumped onto the couch and snuggled against Her left thigh.  That turned out to be a good move, I must say.

I answer to Coqui because She has never once called me by my whole name.  Humans are funny people.  I heard Her tell Her friend She had thought for weeks about what to name me.  So what does She do?  She immediately shortens it.   If She was going to do that, why didn’t She just call me Rex or Fido?  Probably because I’m a bitch.

I’m nine years old now.  Apparently that makes me a senior citizen in dog years, but I still feel pretty much like a pup.  Some days I get a little sore in the joints, but since She started giving me those special treats with gluc… -- well, whatever it is – that hasn’t been a problem.  I do take a lot of naps, though.  Seems like I just can’t get enough shuteye.

I walk Her twice a day most of the time.  I like long walks.  She usually goes along with that, unless it’s raining or Her foot is hurting Her.  That foot does give Her fits.  I feel pretty bad about that foot, ‘cuz She broke it when I was walking Her about five years ago.  Talk about your freak accidents.  It was like that tree root just crept out onto the sidewalk and tripped Her backwards.

She must really love me a lot, because I am spoiled rotten.  She spends a lot of those green pieces of paper at Petsmart and everything She buys there is for me.  I get ice cubes in my water, too.  I guess you could say I have trained Her pretty well.  It wasn’t easy, but She finally got the hang of it.

My favorite thing to do is lie on the couch and watch Her.  I don’t know how to laugh, but if I did I would be laughing my tail off.  She forgets what She’s doing a lot so She just stands in the middle of the floor talking to Herself.

“What was I getting ready to do?”  She says out loud.  Like I know?!

I cock my head politely so She thinks I care about what She’s saying.  What I’m really thinking is “You know you are pathetic, right?”

I don’t like it when She doesn’t take me with Her when She leaves the house.  Just to make sure She doesn’t sneak out without me, I follow Her wherever She goes.  I don’t know why, but sometimes She seems to get fed up with that.  She calls me The White Shadow (just because I’m white, I guess) and orders me to lie down and stay there.  I make Her feel bad by laying on my chin and gazing up at Her with my big brown eyes.  It always works.

I have no idea what She would do without me around to keep Her company.  She sits on the couch for hours on end staring at that thing with the buttons She pushes with Her fingers.  I have to bark at Her sometimes just to remind Her it’s time to eat.  I don’t know what She is staring at, but every once in a while She will chuckle or even laugh out loud.  That’s the same thing She does when I do my tricks to try to attract Her attention away from that puter or whatever She calls it.  She’s so cute when She does that!

Life is pretty good for us.  The only time I really get upset with Her is when She takes me to see that guy with the white coat.  I haven’t even been bad, but this guy always sticks me with something sharp.  It’s not in my nature to snarl and bite, so I just cry.  It doesn’t hurt all that much, but She always gives me extra hugs and treats when I cry, so why not? 
 
All in all, I think I made an excellent choice when I picked Her.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see a dog about a man.