There is a certain geography to hospitals. You learn to map out your worries, and fears and dispair by it, if given the time and oppertunity. 6th Floor? No big deal. 4 West? What did the doctor say? 4 Northwest? Not so good.
Needless to say, when the phone rang at 5:00 am, and my mother said, "the hospital called, they are moving grandma down to 4 Northwest," my first question was "Should I go down there right now? The answer, of course, was yes.
I don't want to dwell on the ventalator, the pacemaker, the dialisis machine or the sound of suctioning somone's lungs, and the way that the body shudders while that is done.
I want to dwell on Saturday afternoon, seeing a TV tribute to Al MacGuire, with all telling us that the only thing that you can give to old people is time.
I want to dwell on friday night, sitting in the 6th floor room of my grandmother, listening to her tell us about ballroom dancing, and seeing zoot suiters in Cleveland, and how Catholics and Lutherans were not supposed to get too close back in those days.
I want to dwell on Thursday night; watching her as she carefully hooked all of ther tubes and bags to the rolling meatal tree of medicine so that she could walk to the restroom and empty her foley bag. And how, right before getting up, she ran her hands over her head and smoothed her hair. And she smiled. And she laughed.
I want to dwell on three weeks ago; going to lunch with her at Club 21 and asking the staff to turn on the TV in the bar so I could walk in every so often and come back with the U of A score for her.
I want to dwell on the hope for the chance to give more time to her.
-e 4/3/2001
Last week I went over to my parents’ house to watch the U of A play Illinois in the Midwest Regional Final. When the game ended, my Dad went down to the neighborhood pool to do some of the work necessary to get it ready for summer. I went for a ride with my sisters -- one teaching the other how to drive. We rode up to the old Circle K near the house that has been closed for decades, and my younger sister took some pictures for her photography class. We took the time to look at all the changes and building that was happening at that corner. It used to be one building and three corners of desert at that intersection. No wonder the store had been closed for so long. With all of the apartments going up, we wondered out loud if the dusty old building would make a comeback after 25 years of sleeping.
Afterwards, we rode up to the pool As we walked in, I could hear the post game chatter of AM radio. I looked and saw that my dad was using a portable radio that I had given him, and something about that made me feel pretty warm inside. I had given him the radio because his truck does not have one, and it didn't seem right for him to not have the option to listen something besides the hum of the truck.
Standing there, memories flooded back to me -- memories of listening to all sorts of sporting events on the radio with my dad. I can remember hot, sticky summer nights listening to Dodger Radio -- sponsored by Farmer John Meats, of course -- with Steve Garvey at bat, and Vince Scully calling play by play for the game. I can remember going down to the asphalt basketball court next to the pool, and shooting baskets while listening to the Wildcats play in the Fiesta Bowl, back when the Fiesta Bowl was no big thing.
Maybe there is something about listening to sports on the radio. I still love to tune into games, carefully adjusting the knob and navigating through all the squeeks and sqawks of the AM dial to find just the right reception. I close my eyes and open my mind and imagine all of the movement that the announcer is telling me about. There are times that I am honestly glad that I don't have cable so that I get to picture every foot fall in my mind.
Of course, maybe I am just remembering and reliving that time spent with my dad.
-e 4/2/2001
The other day, we went into a sandwich place for lunch. As we walked up to the counter, the woman behind it exclaimed, "oh wow, you look just like Mickey Rourke!" "Um, really?" I replied, looking down and trying to remember who Mickey Rourke was. Was he one of those guys in the old black and white movies? I had no idea. Karan offered, " I think it might be the goatee," clearly forgetting that I can't remember the names of any actors except for Helen Hunt, and, and....well that's just about it. The woman behind the counter replied, "It's also the way that he walks. Did you see the movie Barfly? You have to go see Barfly. Barfly." Later, as she brought our order to our table, she exclaimed to her coworker coming into the room: "Look, we have a star in the house. He looks just like Mickey Rourke." And as she turned to set our food down she added, "go see barfly." So, we pretty much had to go rent Barfly.
And...
Yeah, she was pretty much right. I really do tend to walk like that. Especially if I am tired. My face and, um, torso also come fairly close. Man, what happened to the days when I would be mistaken for Ducky?
-e 3/29/2001
Want to know a good way to get Eric to leave the Riverpark fast? Shine a police helicopter light on him while he is riding his bike. Yes --creepy.
-e 3/26/2001
He gets around - without a car Ah, this is the type of story I like to read. The current Utne Reader has a lot of alternative transportation articles. One of my favorite stories talks about Ford's Think! Anyhow the Utne stories are:
LIFE AFTER OIL | By Jeremiah Creedon
No matter how much oil is left in the ground, it's going to be less than we need. What will happen when we realize the glass is more than half empty?
Plus: BILL FORD HAS A BETTER IDEA; THE RAIL REVIVAL; CAR-SHARING IN PORTLAND; and MOTORLESS IN MONTREAL."
-e 3/23/2001
Do you remember the Sesame Street cartoon where the child goes on a walk, and gets lost? He finds his way back by remembering all of the crazy things that he passed on the way. That is how my afternoon was yesterday. I rode my bike from home down Speedway (normally, I would not do this, but I needed batteries for my headlight). I then cut down Park, which is a crowded 2 lane street that runs up against the university, and has 200 pedestrians, 4000 cars, and 12 stop signs. About half way down to University Ave, I pulled over because I heard sirens. I couldn't see any flashing lights, but the 80s red hatchback driving towards me in the wrong lane, zooming around other cars, and drumming his horn made me think pulling over was a good idea. Right behind him was a black Suburban with the police lights hidden in the grill and windshield. I watched as the passed me and weaved their way to Speedway. The Suburban fishtailed at least once trying to avoid oncoming traffic. I moved on my way, and took the helicopter heading back to base to be a sign that they caught them.
As I neared the Y, I saw a man on a double-decker bike. Somehow, he had welded one bike frame on top of another, and then used some additional chain to join the top peddle to the bottom gears. He was also wearing a bowler.
After I worked out, I had the good fortune of being stopped by a train at 7th Ave. As I watched the train go by, I noticed that a couple of people had wandered over from the dance studio on the other side of the tracks. They were standing as close as you could to the train as it passed, and when it had indeed passed, they walked back to the dance studio. It was nice to be in the company of like minded people.
My little trip was capped off with a ride past the park where the society for creative anachronism group was busy practicing with their swords and whips.
Silly, wonderful, quirky Tucson.
-e 3/21/2001
More Tales from the Barber:
Mr. Ortero was telling me today about how, when he was a small boy growing up on the family ranch near Tubac, the man in charge of finding illegal immigrants in the area stopped by one afternoon. His mother invited him in to eat, and he asked her if she had seen a group moving through the area that he was trying find. "No, no," she said. No people today." What the man did not know, was that earlier that day, the group had been to the ranch. She had fed them breakfast, and packed something for them for lunch. Mr. Ortero concluded that there is something about the hospitality of mothers, and added that we should all try to treat people well, however we may find them.
-e 3/20/2001
