1. IrvingSnodgrass - June 28, 1999 - 9:37 AM PT
Here it is at last... the thread to tell your stories about the good ol' days.
I fully expect the Fray's storytellers, such as Hashké, Marjoribanks, Pellenilsson, DanDillon, ProfEmeritus, etc. to entertain us all here.
2. cllrdr - June 28, 1999 - 9:55 AM PT
Well it looks like Irv has decided to deliver on one of my key campaign promises by coughing up a Proust thread. Good man!
Just finished reading "The Year of Reading Proust" by Phyllis Rose (Scribner's, 1997) Great stuff. Highly reccomended.
Eagerly awaiting the Raul Ruiz film of "Time Regained." Bet it'll be at the New York Film Festival in September.
3. glendajean - June 28, 1999 - 9:58 AM PT
cllrdr -- you can't just pop in and then pop out. Tell us a story!
4. judithathome - June 28, 1999 - 12:28 PM PT
So, where are all these raconteurs who were champing at the bit to regale us with stories of days gone by...I find it hard to believe everyone has suddenly been overcome with shyness.
Let's hear from the boys! After all, we spent enough time naming this thread, the least you Madeliene-fanciers can do is post some memories as delicious as a tender French cake in a porcelain saucer...
5. uzmakk - June 28, 1999 - 1:41 PM PT
Irving:
You have clearly opened yourself up to unlimited posts from the fray's
Pornography Writers' Union. I expect that their eyes must be all glazed over for some reason and they will soon discover the thread.
6. cllrdr - June 28, 1999 - 2:31 PM PT
OK, here's a story:
Once Upon a Time Cellar Door attended the High School of Music and Art. It was alovely place, full of "red diaper babies," bohemians of all sorts, future presidents; of the American Communist Party, the future director of "The River's Edge," the future Laura Nyro (it was Negron back then), and so on and so forth. And lo there was a menage a trois: three of cellar's classmates who were constantly tearing off to the boys room to have at one another. Jeff and Bob wee the ringleaders. Marty was their "boy toy." But all was not happy in this seeming sybaritic paradise. For Marty felt he was being torn apart --much like James Dean in "Rebel Without a Cause," but erotically. He confessed it all to Cellar who had been watching patiently from the sidelines, waiting for one of the three to crack so he could make his move. He was only too happy to have Marty cry on his shoulder, snuggle up * de temps en temps* and share a an idel smooch or two -- with the promise of more. In Cellar's yearbook Marty wrote "I wanted you for my very own."
And then they all graduated and went their separate ways.
About eight years ago Cellar ran into Marty at the wedding of semi-friend. Same old Marty -- except he was married with children. Cellar could see desires decades old sailing through the windmills of Marty's mind like bats rudely awakened from their slumber on a bright summer day.
Then Marty changed his named to "Mark Snow," moved to Portland, wrote all the music for "The X-Files" and became a grandfather.
"Slow curtain. The end."
7. judithathome - June 28, 1999 - 2:37 PM PT
Geez, cellar...wonder how Marty feels about your story? Or how his grandchildren feel...maybe John Cheevers grandchildren ought to give them a call.
8. uzmakk - June 28, 1999 - 2:44 PM PT
Liked River's Edge.
9. Aldavis - June 28, 1999 - 3:13 PM PT
I was fishing up in the Merced River in Yosemite. I had waded out about half way in ice cold water about up to my knees. It was about 5:30 in the afternoon and long shadows were falling across the river, Out of nowhere I heard this woman's voice, "You won't catch any fish there." The voice startled me as there was no one in sight. I kept on fishing and again the female voice, "You heard me, you won't catch fish there. I though I might be hearing things, but the voice was far too clear and distinct.
On the next cast I hooked a small trout. As I worked the small fish into my net, I again heard the voice. "Oh, so you did catch a fish. Let me take a look."
At that point my eyes suddenly focosed on the far bank. There, bathing in the river was a young woman, stark naked and not at all shy about my watching her. I guess she had assumed I had seen her all along, which was far from the case. The story had more to it, but a gentleman never reveals all.
10. AzureNW - June 28, 1999 - 3:15 PM PT
It's strange that many of the best memories I have
involve extreme physical hardships, exhausting hikes
and ski treks, nearly drowning in a freezing river, giving birth to a child. It's interesting that the memory of the physical discomfort disappeared leaving just the glow of triumph. It's interesting that pain can be a deterrent, since it is nearly impossible to remember it clearly, at least for me. That may be true of all kinds of pain to some extent, given the way history repeats itself.
11. JJBiener - June 28, 1999 - 3:18 PM PT
AlDavis - Boy! Talk about a fish story!
12. cllrdr - June 28, 1999 - 3:20 PM PT
John Cheevers' kids have turned their father's dalliances into a growth industry.
I'm going to be writing Marty shortly, btw. A friend is supplying me with his current address.
13. Aldavis - June 28, 1999 - 3:21 PM PT
JJ
Well, my boy, they do not all get away.
14. Aldavis - June 28, 1999 - 3:36 PM PT
When I was in my young 20's I worked for Singer Sewing Machine Co. in San Francisco. I was very poor at it and they fired me after about 6 months. As I remember, I never sold even one. Most of the time I went out on service calls, minor repair stuff. One day I got this call to fix a machine in the tenderloin district, probably on Turk St. I found the apartment, knocked on the door, which was answered by a gay fellow, who showed me to the sewing machine. The repair job was easy, just a matter of adjusting the tension.
However, just as I got started, this beautiful young lady comes into the room. Evidently she was a dancer. She had on a very sheer costume, I mean sheer, see through, nothing on underneath. As I started to thread the needle, my hand began to shake. I was trying to look at the needle but my eyes
kept shifting and I realized, I would never get that big piece of thread through that tiny little hole with my hand acting the windmill. I think she was enjoying my dilemma, for she stood even closer. When I could stand it no longer, I put down the thread, turned in my chair and feasted my eyes.
Now it was her turn to feel uncomfortable. I could see the color rise in her cheeks and it did not take long for her to vacate the room. Once she was gone, my job was quickly accomplished, and I was left with a pleasant memory.
15. hashke - June 28, 1999 - 3:40 PM PT
AlDavis:
Sounds like moremaid than you could handle.
16. Aldavis - June 28, 1999 - 3:44 PM PT
hashke
You are absolutely right! I might have been able to handle the situation if she was stark naked, but trying to see through all that sheer material was too much for me.
17. hashke - June 28, 1999 - 3:47 PM PT
Aldavis:
I was referring to the mermaid in the stream -- sheesh!
18. hashke - June 28, 1999 - 3:48 PM PT
mermaid/moremaid
19. Aldavis - June 28, 1999 - 3:58 PM PT
Oh well, then, I think maybe the jokes on you.
20. robertjayb - June 28, 1999 - 4:03 PM PT
Message #6
"...desires decades old sailing through the windmills of Marty's mind like bats rudely awakened from their slumber on a bright summer day."
Sniff...
That's beeyootifull!
21. Aldavis - June 28, 1999 - 4:15 PM PT
One more and I'm gone.
I grew up in Daly City, California, which borders San Francisco. We had a kid in the neighborhood who was, at least to us, a genius with photography. Most of his stuff was done in doors because Robert was not fond of the out of doors. He had set up in his garage (we called them basements because they are all under the house but people find that confusing when we say we put the car in the basement) a small movie theatre. It was rather ornate for young kids. We were around 11-12 and Robert was a couple of years older but quite mature. He would get movies, silents of course, and charge us a few pennies to see them. His little theatre had a projection booth, a screen with several outer screens, one which pulled up and one that pulled sideways.
Somehow he got hold of girlie movies; fan dancers, very tame stuff by today's standards, but wild and exciting to us. The Daly City Police found out about it and raided us one Saturday morning. They lined us up outside, took down our names, and of course confiscated the evidence. We were all sure we were headed for San Quinten. As a matter of fact, several were, but that's another story.
22. ChristinO - June 28, 1999 - 4:28 PM PT
When I was a kid in Dallas my mother did a lot of dinner theatre. The practice was to hire local actors most of the roles and then get a "name" to headline and attract audiences.
I got to meet Gilligan and Mr. Whipple but the highlight of my youth was preparing for the arrival of Julie Newmar who I thought was absolutely the coolest of the cool. I labored over an extremely nubile drawing of The Catwoman that I copied from a comic book-----free-hand not traced-----and counted down the days until I got to meet her.
I was too young to actually see the show---I was 7 or 8, but my mother came and got me in the lobby when it was over and took me backstage to Ms. Newmar's dressing room. She was still in costume and stage make-up and she had her hair up in two pig-tails. I have no idea what I said to her but I presented her with the picture I'd drawn and she laughed out loud and said "You darling! You've given me HUGE bosoms!" Then she kissed my cheek and I don't even remember leaving I was so awed by her.
23. AzureNW - June 28, 1999 - 5:00 PM PT
I remember how confused and worried I was when as a six year old a teacher gave me a mirror and the assignment to draw a picture of my own face by lunchtime. I could kind of get the eyes, the mouth and the long brown-black braids, but I couldn't figure out what to do about the nose, since it didn't have a definite outline. I ended up with a big black smudge for a nose from repeated erasures and completely stressed out about having my ugly drawing of myself pinned up on the wall with the other kids' for everyone to see. I think the experience sent me stumbling at the beginning of first grade and I believe it made learning to read more difficult. Everything about school seemed overwhelming for a long time after that. I spent many hours on my own trying to draw a face that looked right, and eventually developed some skill in drawing portraits. You never know what will freak a kid out or inspire them.
24. hashke - June 28, 1999 - 5:36 PM PT
Aldavis:
"Oh well, then, I think maybe the jokes (sic) on you."
No joke. A pun. The difference is widely recognized, but no big deal.
;-)
25. lemwalker - June 28, 1999 - 5:43 PM PT
On or about this day in 1969 I pulled out of Cortez Colorado on my thumb. Had only spent one night, but it was small enough it only took about twelve hours for everyone to know you. Was heading south towards the Four Corners. Rides were few and short. Lots of Navahos turning off on dirt roads and disappearing in a trail of dust. By afternoon it was pretty toasty and the traffic was nil. Was resting in the shade of a Cottonwood tree about 30 feet below the road. Suddenly heard a bullhorn announcing that if "you ain't on the road in 30 seconds you are going to jail". So hauled my pack and person uphill to road in about 28.
There stood a Colorado State Trooper with a smile creasing his hardened visage. I asked him how he knew I was down there. He responded with; " See any other shade? ". Anyway he let me walk the rest of the way out of the State. No steerage tours in this great land!!
26. hashke - June 28, 1999 - 8:30 PM PT
lemwalker:
Good tale.
I know that stretch. A trooper once stopped me along there, right about where the cottonwood is, in a driving rainstorm, for going 5 miles over the limit. Mighta been the same officer. Good sized fella with what appeared to be a broken beak? I remember the smile, too. Not altogether unfriendly, right? As he wrote up the ticket I axed him numerous personal questions so as to get him totally marinated. He had to write two or three tickets because they all dishragged out on him in the downpour.
He was not too bright because he stood in the drench answering my neighborly questions in considerable detail. When he finished up and went back to the cruiser I could hear the slosh-slosh splash-splash in his boots.
About 6 ft. tall, brown soused hair, mebbe 190lbs. soaking wet??
27. cmboyce - June 28, 1999 - 9:23 PM PT
When I was a boy I sailed lots in the summers, often in a small boat of a class named Turnabout (designed by a Mr. Turner) about 10' long. One day, racing in a big regatta with many boats of many different sorts, having been towed in my boat to another yacht club and filled with the excitement of the day, I happened to glance over the side at the precise moment that a hammerhead shark appeared from the depths, swimming straight at the boat. He got maybe 6' away and veered back down out of sight. It all took maybe a second and a half. I had no time to be afraid, though I shook somewhat for a few seconds afterwards. This shark was at least as long as the boat, as I noted to myself at the time, in that cold-blooded second in which I first assimilated what it was.
On another occasion, in the same waters, I was crewing on a sportsfishing boat for a couple, friends of my parents, who were fishing for giant tuna. We saw a pink slick on the water, the slip composed of tiny shrimp, and this is a good sign, for small fish eat them, and larger fish (a foot or so) eat _them_, and, sometimes, the tuna come to eat *them*. So we trolled over there. But as we arrived, a school of whales (we called them "blackfish" and I don't know what species they were; they were small, maybe 15-20 feet long) appeared, also chasing fish. Since tuna generally avoid the company of whales, we were about to leave, when suddenly a killer whale, the beautifully pied orca, leapt completely out of the water—no more than thirty yards away—soared his own length through the air, and splashed back in (though smoothly, without the crashing splash of, say, a playful humpback such as is featured on PBS) and disappeared.
Both of these sightings (about 5 years apart, I aged 11 or 12 & 16) have never lost their vividness for me, and I often contemplate the memories of them, delighting again in my good luck.
28. IrvingSnodgrass - June 29, 1999 - 5:29 AM PT
Hashké:
Thanks for suggesting this thread!
Great reading from all participants.
29. pellenilsson - June 29, 1999 - 5:38 AM PT
But Irv,
You know about my obsession for topicality. Are we still posting travel anecdotes in Travel? I may have a couple in the pipeline.
30. IrvingSnodgrass - June 29, 1999 - 8:36 AM PT
pelle:
It's very simple. Anecdotes involving travel in the Travel thread. Other anecdotes right here.
31. JJBiener - June 29, 1999 - 8:40 AM PT
We were talking about New Orleans in the Corner yesterday so I thought this story would be appropriate.
I was in New Orleans for a business conference. We had some free time so I was wandering the French Quarter. As I was walking through Jackson Square, I saw an old upright piano, the kind you see in schools, sitting in front of the St. Louis Cathedral. It was all by itself with no one or nothing around it. I figured no one would mind, so I sat down a started playing around. After a few minutes, a guy with a sax walks up and listens a bit. He says, "Hey, man, you want to jam?"
"Why not." I replied. I started off a traditional 12-bar blues and he joined in. There was no question that the man could play. A few minutes later a guy with a guitar and a girl with a tambourine came over and joined in. We played a few standards and had a crowd or 30-40 listening, clapping, dancing, etc.
I had to get back to the conference, so I headed back to the hotel. When I came back later, the piano and the other musicians were gone.
32. hashke - June 29, 1999 - 8:54 AM PT
Irv:
My pleasure. Glad to see things rolling along!
How about some Snodgrassian anecdotes here. And the great train story never did appear in Travel -- to my knowledge!
33. CHristipEtERS - June 29, 1999 - 9:09 AM PT
When I was growing up we would spend about a week each summer in Northern Michigan at a cabin my Dad's best friend owned on the Au Sable river. My brother and I would blow up air mattresses and get on them in the freezing cold stream in front of the cabin. We would then float, splash, and hand-paddle on down the stream to our favorite "swimming hole". This was a wider area of the stream where it took a right turn and at the end of Whirlpool Road. The road's name, of course, came from the whirlpool in "our" swimming hole. It wasn't a strong whirlpool, just enough to spin our air mattress rafts around when we got to it. We would have a blast swimming in the freezing water, splashing and ducking under to avoid mosquitos and deer flies, annoying each other until my Dad would come pick us up on his way home from fishing.
34. incognito - June 29, 1999 - 11:18 AM PT
growing up we had a "swimming hole" too. I'm wondering if that term is something that everybody has grown up with?!
I still don't know why we didn't just call it a lake?
35. judithathome - June 29, 1999 - 11:20 AM PT
Every summer of my life 'til I was 18, I had to accompany my parents to their former hometown, Hermitage, Missouri. There was little to do there but suffocate from the heat and swat flies...the insect sort.
Both sets of grandparents lived there and my folks would spend 2 weeks doing chores around the respective farms...painting, wallpapering, fixing fences, etc. I got to go into town once a day and see the town square.
When I was about 14, they got a movie theater! It was a long hall with folding chairs and a projector which ran 16mm film and showed it on a big sheet at the back of the hall.
(cont.)
36. judithathome - June 29, 1999 - 11:29 AM PT
(cont.)
There was a river running thru the town and out into the countryside called Pomme De Terre. At age 16, I learned there was to be a dam built across the river and a natural lake to spring up, complete with resorts and all sorts of touristy things to do...I didn't believe it at all, it was just some cruel carrot to be dangled in front of me to make me less grumpy about having to go there every year.
But of course, it WAS true and by the time I turned 18, it was fait accompli...a great little place to spend a couple of weeks during the summer, complete with antiques shops and even an herb shop and country store. There was a beach front and outdoor cafe with a jukebox...
Naturally, that was the year I became a married woman and never went back to Hermitage except for funerals. I plan to return someday... but not for an entire 2 weeks. It just wouldn't be the same with something to do.
37. chRIstiPeterS - June 29, 1999 - 11:39 AM PT
"I still don't know why we didn't just call it a lake?"
Well, in my case it was a wide bend in the river, so I guess calling it a lake wouldn't be too accurate, huh.
judithathome - isn't it great how times we hated as kids, turn ito such good stories when we grow up?
38. incognito - June 29, 1999 - 11:45 AM PT
RIPS
actually I'm not sure now if the "swimming hole" we frequented wasn't also a bend in a river or something like that? it looked big enough to be a lake, but now I'm not sure.
39. ChristinO - June 29, 1999 - 12:57 PM PT
When I was five we had an actual swimming hole. It was a cold spring that bubbled up in the woods about a quarter of a mile from the farmhouse we were living in. It was about five feet by seven feet by three feet deep and it was partially covered by the roots of a big tree.
I really wasn't supposed to go there since I was only five, but I had a couple of friends who were older and when they came to visit we would sneak out to the swimming hole to skinny dip.
It was pretty cold and there wasn't enough room to swim around so you pretty much just had to just crouch there in the freezing water wishing that the sun got through to that part of the forest. We found a turtle in there with us one day----the kind with the bright orange accents----and decided that we could forego the swimming hole from there on out.
When fall came my parents were teaching in town and we moved out of the farmhouse so the swimming hole was left behind.
40. CHristipEtERS - June 29, 1999 - 12:57 PM PT
incognito -
I have found that being raised in Michigan gave me a slightly different perspective of what "big enough to be a lake" means than my friends raised in New Mexico and Texas. I remember when I first got this job and was proudly shown "the company lake, stocked with fish where employees can go fishing on designated days". The lake was about half the size of my parents' pond (also stocked with fish). Luckily, I managed to keep my hysterical laughter all on the inside and completely silent.
41. Aldavis - June 29, 1999 - 5:28 PM PT
I tried to post this earlier, but the time demon ate it. I will try again in short bursts.
On our first trip to New York City we stayed in a friend's place in one of the nicer parts of town, West 57th St., in Hell's Kitchen. I was convinced that the best thing that would happen to me would be a mugging that left me alive. Along with that fantasy, I had just ended a mild 25 year smoking habit, oh only 4 to 5 packs a day. I was also suffering a severe case of jet lag, having just flown in from Heathrow.
Early the first morning I decided to go our for some soad water, which seemed to allay my withdrawal. When I entered the foyer, I saw that both the inner and outer doors had been blocked open. This seemed a strange thing to do in a neighboorhood where killers lurked. I quickly unblocked the doors, remaining on the inside to discover what maniac would so endanger our lives.
(cont.)
42. Aldavis - June 29, 1999 - 5:36 PM PT
Moments later a scraggly looking fellow pounded on the door. "Let me in, let me in. I'm the plumber and I'm working on the boiler. Let me in or you'll freeze your ass off tonight."
As you could imagine, letting him in seemed unthinkable, but keeping him out was not a happy alternative. In my confusion I opened both doors, in he shot an headed for the elevator. Now Evie was in the apartment on the third floor so I stood there determined to see if he went down or up. I suddenly realized there was no down. We were as low as that elevator could go. That really scared me. I went to the elevator, pushed the button, and as the door opened, I saw him huddled in the corner. "Oh yeah," he said, "the boiler's on this floor."
I was now certain I had made a fatal mistake. He scurried down the hall to the left, turned a corner and was gone. I suddenly remembered that I had seen a Police Station across the street.
(cont.)
43. Aldavis - June 29, 1999 - 5:58 PM PT
Across the street I shot and flew up the stairs, pulled hard onb the door, but no matter, it would not open. Feeling sure there must be another entrance I fairly jumped down the stairs, nearly knocking down a diminutive lady who as she reached the top, pushed the door open. I was right behind her. NYPD Blue could not equal the bedlam of the interior scene. There seemed to be no reason to the place. I did see a Cop on a raised platform who looked as if he might be in charge. "Excuse me, sir, I'm not from this.."
"Get to the fucking point, now. Don't beat around the bush, just get to the fucking point."
"Well, you see sir, I'm not from this ..."
"Come on now, get to the fucking point. You didn't just come in here for a travel log, now what's the fucking point?"
"I think I just let a murderer intoan apartment house across the street."
Armed with that information he hailed two large Policemen who sauntered across the room. "Hey Joe, Charlie, get your ass over here and go with this guy across the street." Their response was immediate and clear.
"Fuck no! We're on our lunch hour."
"I told you to get your ass over here. This guy has got a killer across the street so go and handle it."
(con't)
44. Aldavis - June 29, 1999 - 6:10 PM PT
Now a short man, say 6 foot, 6 foot one, might have felt a little intimidated walking between these two, but I must confess, it gave me a certain assurance. Whe the one on my left unsheathed his gun and growled, "I'm gonna blow his fucking head off", I did twitch a little.
"So, ya got a key to let us in?" the shorter one queried. As I crocked my neck to look up I felt a little foolish saying no, but I had no choice. Fortunately, Evie buzzed us right in. By now both Officers had their guns at the ready and I did belive that poor pseudo plumber was not long for this world. As I walked behind them down the hall, I felt quite safe, for unless the killer was behind us, I could not be seen. I motioned them down the hall to the left, where an open door could be plainly seen.
In that room tyhey found the killer, standing atop a ladder, taking some part off the boiler.
"Hey," he shouted at the two guns pointed a few feet from his privates, "for god's sake, I'm the plumber, I'm the plumber. What's going on here.
You can imagine my embarrasedment and the disappointment of those two Policemen. They turned deaf to my profuse apologies.
45. ranheim - June 29, 1999 - 6:12 PM PT
I was 12 or maybe a teenager when my father started taking courses at the U of MN; working on his doctorate. Mom and 3 kids spent the next 4 summers with her parents in the "north woods" of MN. A godforsaken place to attempt to make a living; a fine place to visit or to fish or hunt.
One of my jobs was milking my grandfather's cows (5 or 6) - by hand. One was a Brown Swiss. As kids, we couldn't wait for July 4th as that meant ice cream. For a couple of days prior to the 4th, my grandmother would ask me to select out the milk of the Brown Swiss. On the 4th, that milk having been sitting, had a mighty "head" of RICH cream. Now, people, that WAS ice cream!
I have a private laugh when the current YUPPIES (or whatever they are called) try to brag about Hagen Dasz (spelling - I don't believe I have ever bothered tasting any) or another specialty brand. Nothing could compare with my childhood memories of that home-made ice cream.
46. Aldavis - June 29, 1999 - 6:15 PM PT
When I returned to the apartment for several tranquilizers to calm my nerves, I made the mistake of mentioning to Evie that I had seen washing machines down in the boiler room. She insisted on sending me back down there with a load of laundry.
Our plumber friend turned out to quite a nice fellow, and seem to bear me no ill will. Of course, he wore glasses so thick I could not really be sure he knew I was the fool standing behind the Policemen.
47. joezan - June 29, 1999 - 7:08 PM PT
On a very warm, early May day during an unusually warm week when I was 16, two of my friends and I decided to skip school and drive out to Sound Beach, on Long Island's north shore. My family had summered there the past few years, and I knew alot of the local kids, many of whom were year-round residents of this tiny summer town.
No luck in finding anyone I knew, so we drove down to the private association beach, and parked in the small dirt lot at the top of the bluff, from where we could see, through the tall pines, the rocky beach 120 feet below. And, sunning herself in complete solitude, a young woman who, we could tell even from that distance, was worth a closer look. We also couldn't help but notice that the only other car in the lot was a brand new Corvette.
Curious, we walked down the steep stairway, with the gazebo mercifully placed at the half-way landing for people to rest after the first couple of hundred steps (but not us - no time to dawdle and maybe carve our names into the wooden benches - there was a beautiful girl (and each other) to impress...what stairs?).
As we reached the beach, the girl, who was reading a magazine, didn't notice us - or pretended she didn't. So, as boys will do when looking for a girl's attention, we started playing dumb little grab-ass games - chasing and tackling each other, and being as loud as possible, as we gradually moved closer for a better look.
(cont'd...)
48. joezan - June 29, 1999 - 7:19 PM PT
(...cont'd):
When she could no longer ignore us she looked up at us, and sort of cocked her head, as if sizing us up - for what I couldn't tell. She certainly didn't appear afraid, or even nervous. But I could now see that she was even more beautiful than I'd thought - lovely, long strawberry blond hair, light blue eyes, and perfectly placed freckles on her sun-reddened faced. Her long, athletic body was barely covered in a string bikini, and she appeared to be at least three years older than my friends and I. But I didn't care. I was in love.
Then, catching us completely off guard, she called to us to come over and join her. So, very nonchalantly, we walked over to her blanket, as if being invited into the presence of a goddess was nothing new to us.
As we stumbled for words, she introduced herself. Paula was her name, and I recognized her last name as that of a prominent Miller Place attorney's family. She went on to explain that her family was in Florida for another couple of weeks, and she had come up early to their cottage. She was 18, and would be working as a lifeguard at the community pool that summer...and the Corvette was hers.
We were obviously, painfully out-classed, and we knew it. We had absolutely nothing to say which would impress her. It seemed to me, in fact, that her whole purpose in sharing this info was to politely let us know that we should go get lost - catch some tadpoles or whatever it is little boys do.
My friends, visibly humbled, got up and, brushing the sand from their shorts, said their good-byes. But I wasn't letting this girl off easy. And, I thought, I might still impress her!
(cont'd...)
49. joezan - June 29, 1999 - 7:24 PM PT
(...cont'd):
I asked her, "So you must swim pretty good, huh?". She shrugged her shoulders. "Yea".
"You wanna race out to the rock?", I dared. "The Rock" was about 1/4 mile out in Long Island Sound, one of many huge boulders dotting this beach and the waters immediately off-shore, but the only one so large that it could be seen above the water even at high tide. I had swum out to it dozens of times over the summers. It was low tide now, and there were many rocks visible in the Sound, but she knew which rock I meant.
"That water's about 55 degrees - you'll never make it", she countered. But I could tell I'd piqued her interest.
"I've made it there in October", I lied. "Tell you what. If I beat you there, you let me drive your car".
Without the slightest hesitation (and without saying what, if anything, she expected from me if I lost the race), she got up and said, "Deal".
We started in a foot race out to the water, and splashed in at about the same time. The water was, indeed, cold - colder than I'd ever attempted to swim in. But, pumped with adrenaline, I easily took an early 10-length lead, and held it for about 100 yards.
Then, suddenly, I realized it was getting harder and harder to move my legs. They were like ice cubes, and my arms weren't doing much better. I knew I didn't stand a chance of surviving - forget about winning! - unless I turned around immediately and headed back to shore.
But I couldn't. I could not be shown up by a girl - not with my two best friends watching. So I pressed on, like an idiot.
(cont'd...)
50. joezan - June 29, 1999 - 7:30 PM PT
(...cont'd):
A minute later Paula passed me, and asked, "Do you need help?" I shook my head no, because I could not say anything, my teeth were chattering so badly.
A minute later still, and she was so far ahead she wouldn't hear me yell for help, even if I could. I was not quite at the half-way point, and my shoulders and biceps felt as if they were pulling dead weight - which they were, as I had lost all feeling from my chest down. I was now also having trouble breathing.
So, much too late, I turned around and headed for shore.
With everything in me, I pulled myself along, managing maybe a stroke every 5 seconds. Occasionally, I would roll onto my back, but only to rest, as my arms would not work in that position and I barely had enough breath to stay bouyant.
After one of these rests, with at least 100 yards to the shore, I realized I had to give it one last shot before I froze to death. So I rolled back over and tried to pull my arm back. I couldn't. I was exhausted, and had lost the will to even try. I could see my friends in the distance, jumping up and down and screaming something to me, but I couldn't hear them. (They told me later they were calling me a "f---ing p---y").
(cont'd...)
51. joezan - June 29, 1999 - 7:34 PM PT
(and, finally!):
I let out my final breath, and let my legs fall. I did not even know that my knees had bent, and were resting on the ocean floor, until I realized I had stopped falling, and my eyes were still above the water. I somehow managed to pull myself up, and realized I was standing in four feet of water.
I stood there, unable to move except for a few feeble attempts to signal for help to my friends, for what seemed an eternity.
Finally, I heard Paula swimming up a few feet behind me. I turned, and started doing the Frankenstein walk towards her...
...and stepped right off the sand bar that had saved me.
As I floated down, I felt strong hands grab my hair and pull my head out of the water. I could not say a word - I only remember shivering uncontrollably before I lost consciousness - as Paula pulled me back to shore, swimming with one arm in water my entire body had given up on.
And, no...she didn't let me drive her 'vette anyway.
52. Aldavis - June 29, 1999 - 7:38 PM PT
joezan
Great story! And well told.
53. joezan - June 29, 1999 - 7:58 PM PT
Thanks, Al.
It took almost as long to post as it did to write, what with all the post time expirations, 800 Errors, etc, etc. (That's a hint, Irv).
54. hashke - June 30, 1999 - 10:59 AM PT
one day at recess i floored the school bully, jack smudge, a tow-headed pale-eyed devil of bad seed, and before he could regain his gnat's-ass wits i ran all the way home but paid the price the next day when the lurking and disguised figure by the swings turned into smudge himself who put a knob on my head before i threw dirt into his eyes and scuttled off home again to be accosted by smudge later in the day cantering along on horseback by my house, smudge leaning over and striking me with a horsewhip as he rode by with carlos behind him on the horse and i throwing a slab of rock, hitting carlos in the head, carlos falling from the horse and smudge wheeling the animal around for another go at me, the matter then passing to the higher councils of my father who erupted from the front porch and letting go with both barrels of a shotgun -- into the air -- sending the incestuously-begotten smudge away at a gallop with carlos standing at our mercy to be mollified with cool-aid, cookies, and a ride home.
55. cmboyce - July 1, 1999 - 4:32 PM PT
Wow. Two good tales of boy-trouble. Myself, I wasn't much of a swimmer and made no efforts to impress anyone in that line, but "older women"... Ah!!! I remember well the awe and delight they triggered!
One girl in particular, two years older than I, a senior to my soph, was regarded, by me and many, as the coolest thing afoot. I wouldn't have thought she knew my name, but one fine day she arrived in her fantastically cool '54 Ford convertible (this in 1960), at the local hangout ("The Morgue", a drugstore with a shortorder counter) looking for someone to drive her car out to a friend's house out in the country, maybe 30 miles out of town, up the York Expressway (I-83, then a brand new road), so she could have it out there for some occasion or other. To my flabbergasted delight, she picked me (and by name!). She would drive out in her boyfriend's car and pick me up and bring me back to town in time for me to get home for dinner.
Well, this dinner business was important, for my family was strict about being home, and I missed the deadline often, and took immense amounts of grief therefor, but there was no missing this opportunity!
There isn't much more about this deal—I drove on up there (found the car had an alarming shimmy at 79 mph, but it disappeared at 81, and I pushed it up to 105, the first time I'd ever topped 100 (I didn't care much for it—it scared me—and I only did it ever once or twice more), feeling about as cool as a kid could be and fantacizing wildly about regular encounters with this splendid creature, being a young sidekick of some sort, and then (but of course) ... !!!
Once at my destination, I found myself awkardly present at a spectacular hunt-country mansion inhabited only by its staff, who had not expected me, did not want me there and didn't care if I knew it. The girl didn't show up for an hour and I was late for dinner again (and in addition got
56. cmboyce - July 1, 1999 - 4:36 PM PT
Wow. Two good tales of boy-trouble. Myself, I wasn't much of a swimmer and made no efforts to impress anyone in that line, but "older women"... Ah!!! I remember well the awe and delight they triggered!
One girl in particular, two years older than I, a senior to my soph, was regarded, by me and many, as the coolest thing afoot. I wouldn't have thought she knew my name, but one fine day she arrived in her fantastically cool '54 Ford convertible (this in 1960), at the local hangout ("The Morgue", a drugstore with a shortorder counter) looking for someone to drive her car out to a friend's house out in the country, maybe 30 miles out of town, up the York Expressway (I-83, then a brand new road), so she could have it out there for some occasion or other. To my flabbergasted delight, she picked me (and by name!). She would drive out in her boyfriend's car and pick me up and bring me back to town in time for me to get home for dinner.
Well, this dinner business was important, for my family was strict about being home, and I missed the deadline often, and took immense amounts of grief therefor, but there was no missing this opportunity!
There isn't much more about this deal—I drove on up there (found the car had an alarming shimmy at 79 mph, but it disappeared at 81, and I pushed it up to 105, the first time I'd ever topped 100 (I didn't care much for it—it scared me—and I only did it ever once or twice more), feeling about as cool as a kid could be and fantacizing wildly about regular encounters with this splendid creature, being a young sidekick of some sort, and then (but of course) ... !!!
Once at my destination, I found myself awkardly present at a spectacular hunt-country mansion inhabited only by its staff, who had not expected me, did not want me there and didn't care if I knew it. The girl didn't show up for an hour and I was late for dinner again (and in addition got
57. cmboyce - July 1, 1999 - 4:37 PM PT
my ass chewed for driving someone else's car—"think what would've happened if you'd had an accident, with no insurance!"—but all discomfort was worth it. From getting the proposal until I got to the house, I had felt *cooler* than I ever had, and again on the way home, conversing friendlily (if a bit awkwardly) with this paragon of womanhood.
Regretably, she seemed to have less than no use for me, thereafter. I think she may have caught some shit from someone at the mansion (her boyfriend's house), for she ignored me, humiliatingly, twice, until I abandoned the hopes that had been provoked.
But it was still worth it.
58. cmboyce - July 1, 1999 - 4:42 PM PT
Fuckin' Fray! It took a good 8 min of painful waiting and button pushing to get that up, and it was only almost right. I can see that the timed-out message (here only following 3 [!!!] "Socket" error messages) often means it has actually been posted, but I can't figure out how to know it.
59. cmboyce - July 1, 1999 - 4:43 PM PT
Fuckin' Fray! It took a good 8 min of painful waiting and button pushing to get that up, and it was only almost right. I can see that the timed-out message (here only following 3 [!!!] "Socket" error messages) often means it has actually been posted, but I can't figure out how to know it.
60. cmboyce - July 1, 1999 - 4:44 PM PT
QED
And I'm outa here!
61. judithathome - July 1, 1999 - 4:53 PM PT
I have a great memory tho it's not that old...I can recall only a year ago stumbling onto the Fray and enjoying all the things I would read there. Then, I began to post and it was good. I was able to zip from thread to thread, making a pest of myself...
But alas, those days seem to be "remembrances of things past" and from the the looks of the last few days, never to be again. If history is time passed, then we of the Fray are most assuredly making history.
62. joezan - July 1, 1999 - 8:00 PM PT
Amen to that, judith. I've been here for over a year and a half, and there were always times when things got "slow".
Ha! What was slow 6 months ago would now be like greased lightning.
The worst part is that, now, things never get better - every fix only seems to make things worse. Very discouraging.
Very Microsoft.
63. AzureNW - July 1, 1999 - 10:07 PM PT
joe, you (using you as an example) sound like an illiterate fool. Do you ever take a look at this magazine you scribble in the back pages of? It is changing.
64. joezan - July 2, 1999 - 4:11 AM PT
Azure:
First off, we are discussing The Fray here - not Slate.
But now that you've mentioned it, what, exactly, has changed? The font?
The arrangement of the columns maybe?
The writing has always been sloppy, snide, and cynical - which is ok, in small doses. But this magazine seems intent, in its obvious insistence that all its articles contain some elements of the above (sprinkled with healthy doses of (yawn) jadedness and (HA!) hubris), on defining some kind of new journalistic standard, wherein nothing is truly taken seriously.
Sort of like The Fray.
Only, The Fray has better writers. And they have to answer to what they've written.
The articles sucked in '97, and they suck in '99.
65. judithathome - July 2, 1999 - 5:44 AM PT
Azure:
No need to be rude...even late in the day.
66. chRistIPeters - July 2, 1999 - 7:13 AM PT
bye
67. hashke - July 2, 1999 - 7:41 PM PT
ranheim:
Your creamy cow piece in Message #45 reminds me of the early days when we had three cows, all Jerseys. I was a grade schooler at the time. I remember my father crunching through the snow in the dark on early winter mornings going to the barn to milk the cows. My mother strained, bottled, and capped the milk. The bottles were pints and quarts and the rich cream took at least a third of each bottle. My brother and I delivered the milk to the few customers we had around the neighborhood. We collected the empties and carried them back home in an open carton. I can still hear the clink of glass against glass as we wound our way home, pushing and shoving at each other, stopping here and there for a bit of 'rassling', telling jokes. We had not an inkling of how tough times really were.
The down side of the cow tale is that my brother and I were assigned to cowlot duty every day. We had to shovel the pies into a trailer by the fence. My father then hitched the trailer to the car and took the load out into a field of sagebrush. The problem was that with all the other chores, we could only do the cow pies after school and several girls would come by the cowlot on their way home from school. They ribbed us and hurled at us what they thought were profound witticisms about cow dung. We were embarrassed, so my brother and I took turns as look-outs. One of us shoveled when the coast was clear, the other was a sentinel. When the girls approached we holed up in the barn until they passed by. The times were tough.
68. joezan - July 2, 1999 - 9:34 PM PT
Cheer up, hash. I never had any luck with girls either.
Well...that's not entirely true. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I never had any luck with the girl I had my eye on - I'd always have to settle for someone else.
...until I met my wife, that is.
... anyway, I'm reminded of one of the very few times I actually managed to impress the girl who was the object of my attention. It was during a housewarming party, when my sister finally moved out of our parents' house and into one of her own. I was 18.
As soon as I arrived this cute little Italian firecracker caught my eye. I somehow screwed up enough nerve to walk up and introduce myself, and I physically felt a *click*, as her eyes lit up and we both blushed.
Within minutes we were all that existed for each other. I didn't even want to go to the bathroom - I was afraid she'd be gone when I returned.
A couple of hours into the party we went out into the back yard and found a picnic table to sit on (there were no benches) and began kissing. As luck would have it, the back door opened and some people came out and started tossing a frisbee around. So, feeling a bit self-conscious we stopped kissing, and instead just gazed longingly into each others' eyes.
Then....WHAM!
...I took the frisbee right across my nose, which was instantly cocked at about a 30 degree angle. Blood splurted all over the place, and I was rushed to the emergency room, where the nose was fixed.
But the night was ruined.
I did manage to finally catch up with the girl again a couple of weeks later, and we dated for a little while. It was nice.
But nothing compared to what that night would have been.
69. bloodnfire - July 3, 1999 - 3:11 AM PT
When I was 23, having completed my four years in the British Royal Navy, I lived for a couple of years in the Belgian Congo. In Leopoldville, as it was called back then, the capital.
Every morning, I would go to a little coffeeshop on the main boulevard for a cup of coffee.
One morning, as I entered I noticed two young men, apparently tourists, talking at one table, and a man who appeared to be in his
thirties sitting at a separate table reading a newspaper.
I joined the conversation with the young tourists, who were Germans just 'passing through'. The subject of communism came up, and I told them of a condensed book in the Readers' Digest which I had been reading that very morning before I left the house. It was called "The Other Side Of The Mountain", by a young Doctor named Tom Dooley. It told of the cruelty of the communists in SouthEast Asia, (Cambodia I believe) who had thrust chopsticks into the ears of children to try and force them to betray their parents.
After a few minutes, the very pleasant young Germans said their farewells and left. After they had gone, the man at the other table said..."I'm so glad you like my book". It was Dr. Tom Dooley !
I have always been a rotten gambler, probably because I am not good at assessing the odds. What are the odds, do you think, against that kind of incredible co-incidence ?
He was on his way to Lambourine to visit Dr. Albert Schweitzer. He had dinner with us that same evening, and left. A couple of years later he died very tragically, having fallen in the jungle back in Cambodia and contracting cancer from hitting a stump as he fell.
I still feel a sense of utter amazement/bewilderment remembering that morning.
70. bottomfdr - July 3, 1999 - 12:47 PM PT
hashke: When I was a kid I used to have to milk the cows too. Hated it. Didn't like cows then and still don't. But one time however, when I had just finished milking ol' Judy, she turned to me and said "how come you're always sqeezing my tits but you never kiss me?" Needless to say, I had no answer. I got away from the farm as fast as I could.
71. hashke - July 3, 1999 - 4:20 PM PT
joezan:
Good tale! The best laid plans of mice and men...
When I was a senior in college I was on the Harvard-Yale combined track team headed for England for a meet with Oxford-Cambridge -- and after that a tour of Ireland with several track meets in the north and south of the country.
We sailed on the Queen Elizabeth and took our final exams on board the ship. After the exams I met a girl and we became friendly. On the last night of sailing, during a heavy fog, we were kissing and carrying on in a cozy little spot somewhere forward and high up on one of the decks of the great ship. It was great! Very warm and amicable...when suddenly the fog horn went off in our very ears. The monster was no more than a few feet away and the noise had to be second only to the combined decibel level of both the Hiroshima and Nagasaki explosions. All amorous fires were temporarily quenched. And alas, there was no other nest to be found that night.
My ears jangled throughout Britain and Ireland, or was it just the melodious speech of the Irish?
A couple of years later, returning from Europe on the Ile de France, I had the good fortune to meet another nice woman, and the only distraction was a parrot she had smuggled on board.
72. hashke - July 3, 1999 - 4:33 PM PT
A fine story, bloodnfire!
73. hashke - July 3, 1999 - 4:38 PM PT
bottomfdr:
Who was milking whom?
Sounds udderly tit for tat. Or mebbe she was just blowing her own horn. You could have sold that cow for a lot of moolah.
74. ProfEmeritus - July 3, 1999 - 4:48 PM PT
Pak Hashke
Fun story. Did the dish run away before the spoon(ing)?
75. hashke - July 3, 1999 - 5:11 PM PT
Pak Gurubesar!!!
No, but she certainly was a dishy spooner. Just my cup of tea, very saucy.
I left a note for you in travel a couple of days ago regarding your going home again.
76. hashke - July 4, 1999 - 4:22 PM PT
I remember my father telling me that on the fourth of July in 1910 fireworks burned the family home in Missouri to the ground. Luckily there were thirteen kids in the family -- ten of them by then young men -- to help with the rebuilding.
77. cmboyce - July 7, 1999 - 8:33 AM PT
When I was 17 my parents took me and my sisters to Europe for a 4-week "grand tour", and we sailed over and back on the SS United States, then still the king of the seas, having recently set the record, etc.
We had "cabin class" tickets, but some friend of my banker father's who worked for United States Lines got us bumped up to first class. Very nice, especially from the pov of the young snot I was at the time. Anyway, the most significant thing about this trip for me was not the treasures of Europe, though certain memories of them became important to me later, but rather the fact that my parents had decided to ignore my drinking.
I was, to be frank, a teenage drunk. My parents, poor souls, had no idea what to do about it, and as serious trouble had not (yet) presented itself had evidently decided to see what giving me my head might do.
So after dinner every night, I got drunk as a skunk in the First Class Lounge, where there was a band and dance floor. My parents would retire at 10 or so, and I'd go on til 3 or 4, drinking stingers like they were fruit juice.
One night Peggy Lee appeared on the dance floor, and I, as young-puppish as could very well be (as my mother put it, on hearing (the first part of) the tale), cut in on her partner and danced with her. I was very pleased not just at my own effrontery, though that too, but because I was a bit of a radio fan of hers. She was in what appeared even then (1961) to be the twilight of her career (though it proved a long twilight), and I was startled at her evident age. She was _very_ heavily made-up and _very_ drunk. After we made a little small talk, she invited me down to her cabin. Holy shit! Was I gonna sleep with Peggy Lee!? I was immediately ecstatic and fearful simultaneously, but of course I could only act on the first, so I accepted, and we walked off the dance floor together. But we had not gone six feet when a very large man of about 50,
78. cmboyce - July 7, 1999 - 8:35 AM PT
a very large man of about 50, quite bald and quite angry, accosted us. He told Peggy very sternly, angrily, to go to bed, and she whimpered a bit and left. He then _lifted me from the floor by the lapels_ (something I would have sworn could not actually be done) and uttered words to the effect: buzz off, kid.
So I did. (Secretly relieved.)
I was later told by someone who had seen this event, that the guy was the famous owner of some famous 52nd St. nightclub (I've forgotten who and what), who was her protector and friend, by some rumored her lover. Whoever he was, I've sure never forgotten (nor ceased admiring, I might add) the quality of his protection.
79. hashke - July 7, 1999 - 9:47 AM PT
Great story of drunken entusiasmo and chutzpa, cm!
Peggy Lee is still living, no?
80. cmboyce - July 7, 1999 - 10:34 AM PT
Yes. At least I think so. I should have written "has proven to be a long twilight".
81. joezan - July 7, 1999 - 7:45 PM PT
Hashke's mention of a parrot reminds me of a restaurant - and its owner - back on Long Island. And now that my family have nearly all settled down within a few minutes of here, and the only thing I really miss about New York is the food, this memory instantly sets my mouth to watering.
The place is Two Sisters - a name the chef, Bruno, chose in honor of his two daughters. It's a fairly small restaurant, whose large front window, facing a busy highway, is covered with a wooden, hand painted flag of Trieste.
The decor is arboreal, the ceiling hung with white-washed lattice-work, strung through with artificial grape vines. The white linen-covered tables are divided into 2 small diningrooms by 2 panes of glass about 4 feet in height and 18 inches apart, covered by a wooden shelf, on top of which sit plants, and mementos from Bruno's days in the Yugoslav resistance. And in between the 2 panes of glass, through the strategically placed dead branches and real plants, dart a dozen or so canaries and finches, some tending to their eggs.
The fare is Northern Italian, with occasional French, Greek and Turkish dishes added as specials. The Zuppa di Pesce, Veal Marsalla and Steak Diana were the best I've ever eaten. And Bruno's was the only antipasto I've ever had, besides my gramma's many years ago, which included cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto. But what kept me going back was the zambaglione. After the first couple of times my girlfriend and I had eaten there, Bruno would send us this scrumptious dessert on the house - frequently throwing in a snifter of ouzo and a pot of perfect espresso, also on the house. Bruno had a "thing" for my girlfriend.
(cont'd...)
82. joezan - July 7, 1999 - 7:47 PM PT
(...cont'd from #81)
The first time we went, we got there late. So, halfway through our dinner we were the only diners left in the place. As we were finishing up, Bruno brought out our dessert himself, carrying a bottle of wine for himself, and plopped himself down next to my girlfriend. He was obviously already half-in-the-bag. He was also huge, and ugly as they come - with a badly scarred face and tattoos all over his arms, the most prominent being another Trieste flag, on his right forearm. "This guy just got out of prison, and he wants my girlfriend", I thought. It turned out that I was half right.
Oh - and on his shoulder was the biggest parrot I'd ever seen.
In an accent I didn't recognize, he introduced himself and his bird, Dino. Then he launched into the story of how he and his best friend had escaped Tito's Yugoslavia years earlier, through Trieste, where he lived for a few years, then on to Genoa, Italy, where he learned his art.
As Bruno talked, Dino constantly pecked at his ear, until he scolded him in Italian and set him down on the table. The bird stepped over to my snifter, and stuck his beak in, lapping at my ouzo with his thick tongue. Again, Bruno scolded the bird, this time in English; "Ju wanta da trink? Ju mekka songa forst".
At this, the bird sang the entire first verse of "That's Amore" in his crackly parrot's voice, bowed deeply, and knocked on the edge of my glass with his beak. I told him "Help yourself", and he did.
(cont'd...)
83. joezan - July 7, 1999 - 7:50 PM PT
(...cont'd from #82)
Bruno explained that he had gotten Dino in Italy more than 20 years earlier, and had tried at first to teach him Frank Sinatra songs. But Dino took to Dean Martin like a fish to water, and wanted nothing to do with Sinatra - hence his name.
And Bruno was quite the character himself - made it clear from the very beginning that he was out to steal my girlfriend, and would look for any excuse to personally attend to her. She would tell me when we got back on the road all the things he would promise her while I was away from the table, and we'd enjoy a good laugh.
But we loved his stories of his days in "Da reziztanz", or of keeping one step ahead of some Italian girl's poppa or husband. And we loved the fact that every one of his stories started out in exactly the same way - "We wassa reeelly tronk dissa won time...".
Despite the fact that this restaurant was way out in the God-forsaken town of Centereach, my girlfriend and I made a point of eating there at least once a month for years - "Going to the Bruno-and-Dino Show", we called these excursions. And we were never disappointed.
84. Jenerator - July 8, 1999 - 7:32 AM PT
I love this thread.
85. hashke - July 8, 1999 - 11:46 AM PT
Atsa very gooda story, joezan!!
86. Ronski - July 8, 1999 - 11:53 AM PT
Peggy Lee is still living, though with one lung.
And, apparently, with a memory of the man that got away...
87. hashke - July 8, 1999 - 12:09 PM PT
This is a remembrance of something just past.
About an hour and a half ago I was on an operating table where a surgeon removed cataracts -- I call 'em 'cattletracks', or 'cat rags' -- from my right eye. I am typing this with a shield over that eye.
The prep for the surgery takes a couple of hours, mainly drops of various kinds, dilators, antibiotics, anaesthetics. Once in the operating room I was on oxygen, ekg, and blood pressure monitoring.
I was conscious the entire time, a period of only twenty minutes. The eye is taped open and a speculum put in to prevent blinking. The surgeon, Dr. Tina W., made some slits in the eye, did a bit of phacoemulsification to break up the harder part of the cataracts, and used some aspirating equipment to vacuum out the soft cataract. There is very little pain, if any. Mostly just a feeling of pressure, with some stinging here and there. Finally a new lense is placed in the eye, spring-loaded to keep it stable, and a shield is put over the eye. Voilà, 20/20 vision -- if this eye turns out as well as the one I had done a month ago.
Tomorrow I see my ophthalmologist, a different doc, and off comes the shield except at night -- and that for only a week. Unbelievable!
88. cmboyce - July 8, 1999 - 1:02 PM PT
Message #86
Ronski, thank you for that preposterous gesture. (g)
Message #87
Hashke, congratulations! I'm glad it went so well.
What does "phaco-" mean?
89. joezan - July 8, 1999 - 2:27 PM PT
hashke:
Amazing, what they do now - from certain blindness just a few years ago, to a (usually) total recovery of sight.
I wish you the best.
P.S. I realize I probably spelled the names of all those Italian dishes wrong, but I have a vowel problem. (I probably just need a lexative).
90. hashke - July 8, 1999 - 3:41 PM PT
cmboyce and joezan:
Hey, thanks you guys! You make a post-op feel pretty damn good!
cm:
'Phaco-' -- you know, as in '____identity'.
No, just kidding. The word is from Greek 'fakos' -- 'lens'.
91. hashke - July 8, 1999 - 3:44 PM PT
joean:
Great word play there! You better have that looked at, have a colonoscopy if necessary. Should be fairly easily rectumfied.
92. ProfEmeritus - July 8, 1999 - 8:47 PM PT
Pak hashke
Just read your number 87. Talk about pluck; only an hour and a half and you are back to your favorite activity - punning. I am delighted that everything went so well and that it was so painless. When I get older (do you get the joke?) I will probably need the same procedure
according to my opthamologist.
93. hashke - July 9, 1999 - 8:40 AM PT
Thank you very much, Pak Gurubesar! Yes, I get the joke! ;-)).
You should talk about pluck. As I remember, you were posting to the fray on your laptop while a pacemaker was actually being installed!
Another of my favorite activities is seeing -- especially seeing the runway when I land! The shield is now off and yipeeeee! 20/20 (or very close thereto) uncorrected! What a bright new world.
Paradieseshelle! -- the brilliance of Paradise!
94. theDiva - July 9, 1999 - 8:41 AM PT
hashke
I'm so glad you're doing well. Congratulations.
95. hashke - July 9, 1999 - 9:03 AM PT
Thank you, Diva! I'm the kid with the new toy!
96. Jenerator - July 9, 1999 - 12:14 PM PT
1981 was a very sad year because my father died. I was ten years old when it happened. It turns out he had a toxic reaction to Tylenol, and died at the young age of 36. Not knowing how to handle a ten year old in this time of grief, my mother planned several trips for me to take, probably hoping that the excitement would distract me from the death of my father. One trip was to Mississippi to see some of my deep Southern-roots relatives, and another trip during December to see my grandparents in Washington state. It turned out that the Washington state trip was thee best Christmas I ever had.
Growing up in Southern California, I was used to the warm climate and the beaches. In fact. I had only felt it dip below 40 once when I lived there! So, going up to the cold "tundra" of the Northwest in the winter WAS an adventure. My dad's folks live up there on a beautiful piece of property on a private cliff top overlooking the islands of Pugitt Sound and Mount Rainer. The first big treat was all of the snow. It was a winter wonderland. It was so much fun going outside and experiencing falling snow that I could actually play in without worry of a passing skier. Even though I was only ten, I really loved the natural beauty of the place and deep down inside, it made me so happy just being there. Boy was I in for a treat! My grandparents informed me that they didn't have a Christmas tree for a reason -- the reason being that *I* had to go pick one out. Which I had done before in San Diego. (When you go to those tree stands, pick out one that isn't too damaged or too expensive, rope it up, drag it across the parking lot, and bring it home.) But this time was different, I got to go to my first Christmas tree farm.
(cont.)
97. Jenerator - July 9, 1999 - 12:16 PM PT
pt. 2
There, it was a forest! My grandfather said with delight "Sweetie, you pick out whichever tree you want and take as long as you want. This is going to be your tree." So, I scoured the place looking for the perfect one, and I finally found it. It was HUGE, but it was so beautiful. My grandpa just laughed and let out a giggle and said something to the effect of "She knows how to pick ?em!" I felt so proud, and I was shocked that they forked out over $200 for it. But it kept getting better. He asked me if I wanted it flecked. Of course I said yes, because I had never seen a flecked tree before. When we got home, we had fit this awesome tree in through the sliding glass doors. It made the whole room feel like my own forest.
Later, my grandparents took me to a little decorations boutique for ornaments. Again giving me complete freedom, my grandpa said to me "Jenny, you pick out the most special ornament you can find." Thinking I was in a treasure store, I spent what felt like hours looking over all of the ornaments until I found "the one." We decorated the tree later that night.
For the next three days I marveled at the generosity of my grandparents. I knew that they were being super-sweet to me because of the death of their son and my father, but all I could feel was indescribable love for them because they cared so much for me.
On Christmas morning, I found a roomful of presents, some from Santa and the rest from relatives. They outnumbered everyone's by something like 40 to 1; I couldn't believe it. My favorite gift -- peach colored leg warmers!
That Christmas brings back such good feelings. I am so blessed to have such a caring family.
98. joezan - July 9, 1999 - 3:52 PM PT
Wonderful, sad, happy story, Jen.
Do you still see much of your grandparents?
99. hashke - July 11, 1999 - 4:29 PM PT
When I was seventeen and still in high school I enlisted in the Marine Corps to help kill off the bespectacled, bucktoothed enemy -- as portrayed in cartoons and John Wayne movies -- who was then disturbing the tranquility of the Pacific. I thought then that I was the cat's meow, having had a successful athletic year and a steady girl, so I was surprised when I arrived at the infamous Parris Island, South Carolina to learn that my name was not 'hashke', but 'Phucking Shitbird'.
(continued)
100. uzmakk - July 11, 1999 - 4:35 PM PT
Hey, here's a good one. I was at the Leonard Cohen concert in Montreal when he came back after an abscence of 20 years or something. Quite the experience. Small? medium size? theatre. I recall the atmosphere as electric. Many encores. I remember he crawled back out on the stage after the fourth or fifth. They wouldn't let him go. That's the way I remember it, anyway.
Sorry so boring. But there are so many good stories that are just better left in the past.