Ask David

WHY IS THERE SO MUCH “RELIGIOUS” HATRED?

2011-02-15T16:08:00.003-05:00

I watched “8: the Mormon Proposition”. A documentary that follows the Mormon church’s work in the political campaign to pass Prop H8, and wondered. $22 million dollars and uncountable hours spent for Prop H8's passage. What was even more shocking, Bishops told their followers that they would be expelled for not contributing to the H* campaign, and that there was an expectation of each follower’s family contributing thousands of dollars and even traveling to another state for the campaign. Why? Why was the money and time better spent on taking away other’s civil rights, more important than feeding the hungry or clothing the homeless? I can not fathom their reasoning.

The catholic church is no less innocent of such hateful actions. They are famous for taking ark-loads of tax-deductible charitable donations, and using them for their anti-gay political plotting. I don’t think there are any anti-gay ballots in this country that aren’t funded catholics. Campaigns in Maine are funded by baskets passed in catholic masses in Arizona.

The Mormon Church continues to publicly say that they want to uplift the sinner and not bully them. I don’t hear of ANY attempts at their uplifting, I hear accounts of electro-aversion torture, I hear of families having to defend their gay children from physical and mental harm by sending them away, into hiding.

And even though I can’t personally abide a faith holding it’s followers to puritanically hetero rules, I understand that some may choose to be so restricted; BUT why be overly concerned with another not of their faith, someone who doesn’t belong to your chosen church?

Mostly I wonder, why is their so much hatred professed by people that call themselves “religious”?

How can faiths supposedly based on love teach so much hatred? And how can people who say they love me still follow behind these people?

- - - David

YOU COULD ALSO CALL HER FATE

2010-08-21T13:25:00.011-04:00

There was a David

and a dog,

And Yo Yo is her name-o.

(Clap) - Y - o - Y - o !

And Yo Yo is her name-o

There I was, sitting at my desk thinking of my lost love, Anioł, the dog who left us on my mother’s birthday in 2008. (THAT in itself isn’t the strange part, I think of Anioł often.)

I opened up facebook, saw there was a note from Bunny Girl waiting for me in my inbox and clicked on it. “ Did you need another puppy girl, one of uncertain heritage?” the puppy was one of seven born to the dog of her niece and needed a home. I thought NO, I thought Maybe, I thought, B said NO. I wrote Jenn back, “I would LOVE a puppy. I am not allowed, at present, to get one. He who makes the bacon says no. Maybe you could plaster my wall with photos and we could guilt him into it? It's worth a try”

Jenn sent the photos. Any ball of young animal fluff is difficult not to love. For me, puppies in particular.

Whatever reservations of getting a new puppy immediately vanished. POOF

The pup's given name was Holly. She was born to a young mother who was a mix of Australian Shepard (recognized for their trainability, eagerness to please, highly successful use as a therapy dog, and, above all, companionship); Border Collie (often cited as the most intelligent of all dogs); and a little Chow (the ultimate guard dog). Her father was a mix of Husky (a loving, gentle, playful, willful, mischievous, happy-go-lucky dog) and German Shepard (strength, intelligence and the ultimate trainee). These are the breeds we know about, there may be more in there somewhere. These breeds are some of my all time favorites. A little bit of Weimaraner would have been nice, but I already have of house full of that.

Another of my favorite PEOPLE is a woman I met from W-S that also goes by the name of Holly. I wrote her and asked if the coincidence was a good sign or a bad omen. She replied. “Well...I guess that is a debatable topic . . . I say go for it. You'll be able to say stuff like, ‘HOLLY! Don't pee on the rug!!! ‘ " Did I mention that Holly always makes me laugh?

Jennifer drove me across the state to her niece’s house in South Haven, MI. Jacqui was waiting for us, waving at us from the end of the driveway. The parents were at the window, they seemed to be smiling. We walked into the house and met them, and the pups. I picked up the black fluff ball (dog) known as Holly.

She didn’t squeal, she didn’t squirm, she licked my nose. It was then that I noticed her markings: white chin, white chest and four white toes. She was marked like Anioł. I was a bit taken aback, it was like a reincarnation. I admit that my eyes may have welled up a little.

I would never get a puppy to “take the place” of a lost dog. That would be like setting the dog up for failure and very unfair. But I was not looking for a replacement. I didn’t even know that I was looking for a dog. It was like she came looking for me, (or at least she had sent scouts).

I may be naming her Yo Yo, but for me her middle name will alway be Fate.

~ “What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide.” ~

William Shakespeare

~ “Fate throws fortune, but not everyone catches.” ~

Polish Proverb

~ “Angels deliver Fate to our doorstep - and anywhere else it is needed. “ ~

Jessi Lane Adams

A Question: Why did I choose the name Yo Yo? Isn’t that a bit demeaning?

An Explanation: Growing up my favorite uncle, Uncle Eugene and his wife Aunt Dolly were the lights of my life. They entertained us kids like no other adult would. They were fun. We’d constantly go over their house in Detroit, we’d take memorable vacations where the major goal was not a destination but to be with them.

This aunt and uncle invariably referred to me, my brother, sister and all my many cousins with the same name “Yo Yo”. It wasn’t a put down, you could hear the love in their voices when they said it, it was a term of endearment. Since then I have always loved nick names, and that particular one is the zenith of all the names. So no, I am not making fun, putting down, or making her a joke. Quite the opposite. The word Anioł is Polish for angel. The name Yo Yo is David for love.

- - - David

The Great Pie Debate

2010-05-03T13:12:00.004-04:00

There are many important issues in “Our World”

We drove out to Holland (MI). Some thought the reason was to help MomJudy move into her condo. Some believed the reason was to drop off our Wegman (print) to be reframed at the incredible Uptown Gallery. Others may have believed we were going there to get a sneak peek at the infamous “Tulip Time” blooms or to visit the historic lighthouse at sunset. I am here to come clean. We were there to settle the debate going on in my head (and elsewhere).

Which pizza is better Skiles Tavern or Fricano’s?

Both places are highly appreciated. Both have their followers. And both have qualities that make them contenders. I happened to have married into a family of Fricano’s-Fanatics and have ONLY been there, until recently that is.

We had an hour to spare before we met MomJudy and niece Audrey for dinner at, yes, Fricano’s. I suggested that we pop into Skiles for a quick beer and sample a pie (Skiles‘ entry pictured above). Then later we’d order similar toppings down the street and settle (in MY mind, Skiles fans) which pizza I preferred.

We ordered. We tasted. We became judgmental.

Skiles’ creation WAS less oily than it’s competition. I had heard this from followers. I noticed a prevailing flavor of mozzarella, which, being a cheese lover, I enjoyed. But I couldn’t taste the sausage, which at Fricano’s can over power a car, house or refrigerator. The oily-less quality also caused the crust to be a bit brittle.

We finished, drank up, and got to Fricano’s just in time for our companions arrival.

B ordered the Sausage. We tasted. We thought hard. Our companions discussed weighty issues. We tried to listen. We did have a race to witness. (Fricano’s at right)

OUR DECISION

Skiles was good. The speed, pleasent staff, and speedy service couldn’t sway us though.

Fricano’s still gets our vote. But maybe trying to sway true RABID fanatics is hopeless anyway.

- - - David

Highly Extraordinary Events

2010-04-28T10:38:00.005-04:00

He laughed at the idea of little miracles,

until he learned to accept them

Shortly after our dad died in 2005, my mother started seeing things. Not imagining apparitions but interpreting happenstance as miraculous. Frequently it was the rainbows.

Mom has little dangling glass crystals hanging in various windows which inevitably disperse sunshine, creating many dancing multicolored points of light in her house. If the optical phenomenon happens to hit a photo or a certain object, she is convinced dad is sending a message from the great beyond.

“Definitely a miracle, mom,” we usually say, “light would NEVER do that naturally.”

We giggle lightly, chuckle inwardly or guffaw together, not polite I admit but you have to be there AND be related, you’d understand. Especially since she sees the divine in other events; a broken wafer, an incidental thought, a sudden storm. We’ve have come to expect, accept, and even encourage her peculiar perceptions. But not believe in them.

Recently mom had serious heart surgery. “Serious” because I believe all medical heart manipulations are precarious. Not only did I get to watch her recovery at the hospital but I got to spend a lot of time with her at her house. Frankly, she not only needed our help but we were frightened at the idea of an 85 year old heart patient living alone and doing the right thing when it came to meds, frequent healthy eating and sporadic home care visits. Along with my saintly sister, nurse B and my bro-in-law, I became a care giver. We watched her travel from death’s door through a walk in the park to supervised self care.

In between meal planning and prep, med dispersion and light housekeeping I would wander around the house cleaning drawers cabinets and closets, grouping years of mementos and thinking. One frequent subject of thought was my mom’s speedy recovery. I had read and listened to many reports about how quickly people bounced back from having their chests spread opened, their veins ripped out of the legs and patched onto their heart, even having a pig’s heart valve sacrificed and transplanted onto a human. It’s another thing to witness the change in someone you love. It is extra-ordinary.

As I wandered and wondered I would often see little points of springtime sunlight refracted into small spectrums. I started to imagine my father telling me that he would take care of things, that everything was going to be OK. I took comfort. I began to rely on these other worldly reassurances. I started to think of the comforting spots of color as hugs from my dead father, as teeny miracles. It became a way of understanding my mother.

So maybe she takes comfort thinking my dad is still with her sometimes. So she truly believes he’s silently com

municating with her, continuing to take care of her, to watch out for her.

So what?

And who’s to say he isn’t.

Miracles happen.

- - - David

The Lady in the Kitchen

2010-04-26T10:48:00.013-04:00

This old house Spirit, imagination, farce, you decide. I’m not taking any chances.

Years ago, we had just moved into our current home, an 1850 fix up. My parents were visiting the house for the first time. My dad, who was already exhibiting the earlier signs of Alzheimer’s (bless his heart) was wandering around the new house a bit.
“There you are.” I said to him as he joined the room, “I was wondering where you were.’
“I was just talking to the nice lady in the kitchen.” he said to us.
As far as I knew the only ones is the house were now all together. We shrugged it off but I was a little excited at the idea of moving in with a ghost.

Ages have since past without any truly mysterious voices, knockings or gauzy sightings but she’s become our excuse for anything odd that occurs, especially in the kitchen (burned dinners included).

This morning I placed my coffee cup down on the island. Brian and I were both in the room, our backs happened to be turned to the cup.
“CLUNK”.
We turned, the mug was laying on its side in a little puddle of leftover coffee.
“What happened,” I asked, “I wasn’t anywhere near it.”
“Neither was I” answered B.

There she goes again. Nice AND naughty. We call her “Sassy”.

- - - David

Travel

2010-03-28T12:28:00.004-04:00

It may seem that our travels are all about food

but there’s so much more.

But eating IS necessary

so we might as well eat local

We just returned from diving out to California with the grrrrls.

It started with the Saint Louis Arch (big!) and a homo slur written by some one (small) on our “do not disturb” sign in the same town.

We crossed Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Utah, Nevada and on to Palm Springs, California. We stayed at the Coral Sands for a few days and then we started back. Arizona, New Mexico, back through Texas, then Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio and ... HOME.

During the week there, the week back and the week in Palm Springs we were fully occupied with driving, site seeing, snap shot snapping and .... well ... snacking. We saw a lot and yes we ate, only succumbing to the ease of “Fast-Food” very few times. We posted most snaps on face book, and a lot of that was food.

To see our entire California Road trip “Roadfood©“ collection.

Please go to our Apple blog (the 3rd)

http://web.me.com/brockowskiofmichigan/Site/Blog/Blog.html

- - - - David

On the road trip again ... but

2010-03-04T06:41:00.007-05:00

Going West

We're about to take off. Brian is jobless but interviewing, I'm, of course, free and the grrls, both young and old, have yet to disagree with the idea. But this time it's a little different. It's all been B's idea.

I'm prying myself off the sofa and just going along.

Yes, I am helping with the planning. I am charting and fine-tuning stop overs, searching for motels that take dogs, alerting far flung friends in our path and piping in with my excellent, if unneeded. opinions but the trip was all Brian's idea. We're taking the dogs and three weeks and crossing to CA and back. But it was his idea. I've just been self-centeredly thinking of my recovering self. Taken down by a simple belly-button-octomy, embarrassing.

Presently we've planned stops in St. Louis, Wichita, Tucumcari, Santa Fe, Monument Valley and Escalante on the way out. A few days with Ruby at the Coral Sands in Palm Springs. The way back is still a work in progress but we know we're seeing family in Phoenix and friends in Albuquerque and Cincinatti.

We're confident that both old Sophie and oozing stroke boy will make it. Cross your fingers, Justin Case.

It all starts this Saturday!

Lets go on with the show

I DO (like London)

2009-12-12T02:59:00.005-05:00

Topping off the vacation with a picnic of Neal's Yard Cheddar,

fresh bread and very garlicy cornichon on a bench in Green Park on a sunny December day

There are coffee shops everywhere! (There is also a lot of tea and ale, but never mind). The parks have huge WELL tended plantings of flowers in Mid-December. The museums are also everywhere, spectacular AND FREE (the churches are NOT but just ignore that). The Royal presence is quite subtle. The BBC is live. People here are nice (there are a few loud drunks at night but they're walking [or attempting to] NOT driving). There are all kinds of people, all sorts, different colors, and ALL with English accents.

They all seem to really enjoy Christmas.

I Like London.

- - - David (reporting from the United Kingdom)

A Londony Christmas at last

2009-12-03T10:03:00.009-05:00

The preparations continue. We are leaving tomorrow for Jolly Ol' London, the weeks of getting ready are about to crescendo. The suitcase is on the bed and there's actually something in it! Do you think B will notice that I've packed his Cashmere jacket?

Besides tour books, essential toiletries and that jacket, I'm packing light. I will just head straight to Harrod's for anything else I need. I am happy to live in the jeans in which I'm flying and to live on English shortbread.

I wouldn't mind a bit of Dickens. A little Oliver, a touch of Scrooge. We Americans grow up (and grow old) living in London a bit each Christmas. It may be through someone else's imagination and the accents may be staged but somehow Christmas wouldn't the same without a teeny Tiny Tim and coal on the fire.

Seeing London for ourselves (at last) should put us right in the mood for a bit of flaming pudding in Adrian.

---David

How I lived since my Summer Vacation

2009-11-23T13:23:00.004-05:00

On SOME plane going SOMEwhere

I think I may be neglecting the blog.

Do you miss me? Probably not. You must think that I am so busy. Truth is I stay at home, tag along with Brian on trips (which tends not to be as often as I'd like), take a LONG time to do anything "normal" and practice my A.D.D. whenever possible.

Want to do a load of laundry? First I end up doing 100 other extraneous and often unnoticeable chores and somehow the clock has gone from 7 AM to 7PM, I'm exhausted and the laundry is still dirty. FML as the kids would write.

Let's see, since the trip to get the 100 year old mounted Caribou head (still not on the wall) we've
visited friends in Seattle and Chicago,
done the Equality March in DC (visiting friends there too)
had a Birthday (as have many of you)
celebrated Halloween and honored Dios de los Muertos
been on facebook so many times I think I may have an issue

I attempted to go through all the photos and update the iWeb blog but the "Genius" at the Apple store that had the iMac for 2 days (the 1st time) and charged Brian $65 (the 1st time) not only disabled the blog access (along with all sorts of other things including all my flagged email) and screwed up my iTunes, STILL didn't fix my iCal and now I can't Sync my phone. GRRRR as GinGin would "say"
So I was too frustrated and infuriated to be creative. This entry is the result.

Let's just say there are a LOT of great photos and memories of the past few months and let me know if you want more details.

- - - David

Ruffing It with the Grrls

2009-10-05T11:23:00.006-04:00

Our room, however temporary, with a view

Tent: Origin Middle English: from Old French tente, based on Latin tent- ‘stretched,’ from the verb tendere. Which looks like tender, as in “showing gentleness and concern or sympathy” HAH I say HAH . . . HAH.

It all began gently enough. Ann had invited us for the weekend to camp in her woods in the Adirondacks. Brian had bought the tent, almost a year ago, in hopes of camping out on the way to our wedding. (It had yet to leave the backyard.) We drove out and in clear PERFECT woodsy weather had pitched the tent on the leafy pine needle ground of the Arcadian, historic, pastoral countryside.

We had dinner, talked and laughed with our gentle hostess and climbed into the spacious accommodations with our two fur coated roommates. The moonlight shone through the diaphanous ceiling, the loons called from the lake, everyone was snug. Then the rain began.

It was gentle enough, some would say sympathetic even. We remembered not to touch the walls lest it encourage a leak, though bug chasing dog noses didn’t heed that rule. The bugs and the noses would “entertain” us for 2 nights.

I kept slipping off the air mattress too. This would be fun for you normal folk. For a dizzy headed do nothing like me, reclining itself is a bit of a challenge. Laying on the ground in the too dim night light of the Coleman lantern was enough. Laying on the ground in a tent in the woods in the rain AND swoon-slipping off the damn thing was a bit much for stroke-boy. But I simply smiled a clenched toothed smirk and threw the f**king thing out of the tent and went to powder my nose in the trees . . . in the rain. This is when the low animalistic growls greeted me mid-powder. Intellectually I knew this was, probably, merely Ann’s aging, cautious Pug snugly calling from her nearby tent. Nonetheless, I reacted like it was a voracious hostile Yogi looking for my picnic basket. Mid-powder I dove into the tent. B diplomatically swallowed any amusement.

We spent the next day in bright sunshine. Touring the grounds, visiting town, brunching at one of the jaw dropping clubhouses, and enjoying a club-wide picnic dinner top off by a pancake dessert. I never knew the rich could be so entertaining. I never knew you could put melted butter, maple syrup AND brown sugar on a pancake.

That night, like clockwork, the rain began the moment we bedded down in the tent. This time we were entertained by bug chasing, nose pokes AND supernatural uninhibited rolling thunder. (We thought the loons had been loud.) And I refrained, despite my engaging needs, from taking a powder.

Monday dawned pastorally and B packed up the tent, loaded the Caribou onto the roof while I busied myself snapping pics on my iPhone (someone has to attend to the art) . . . and off we went.

Happy, grateful, still full of pancakes, and ecstatic that we have a tent in the storm.

- - - David

A Little About the Camp at Little Moose Lake

2009-09-01T13:31:00.009-04:00

Looking-out for the Little Moose

So, we drive all the way to the mid-Upstate NY with two dogs mainly to pick up a 100 year old Caribou head but that’s not the whole story. What is a nice girl from Graaaand Rapids doing in the Adirondacks, and inviting people such as us to visit? Let me give you a brief history.

Ann and I moved to NYC in 1979 after graduating from the U of M (I did live in LA for half a year then I graduated, I changed my mind about locations, she graduated and we went). We lived on the upper East Side in a nice “garden” apartment, actually I lived there twice. After I met Michael there and moved out, about ’84, Ann met and married Milo Williams in ’89. He was a descendant of one of the founders of Sherwin-Williams, which was started by Henry Sherwin and Edward Williams in 1866. The Adirondeck League Club was founded as a hunting and fishing camp and became a get-away for many. I don’t know when the venerable Williams clan built their “camp” at the ALC but I think it was right around then.

I was at Ann and Milo’s wedding in 1989 at the “boathouse” of the “Summer Lodge” at the ALC. I was shot in the heart by the rustic beauty of the “camp”, the lodge and the 50,000+ acres of American history. If you’ve ever been enchanted by the beauty of an Adirondack chair or the magic of the Adirondack “style”, imagine being surrounded by the real thing. Back when it was founded the privileged families (at first the men only) took trains up to Saratoga (where the tracks stopped) and then barged, boated, horsed and hiked to these elaborate compounds (at first just the lodges) in their victorian versions of L.L.Bean.

The architecture is mainly brown with green highlights, wooden and timbered. The furniture is twiggy, rustic, Stickley, Mission, with a smattering of refined period but not purist. The people are upper crusty and very nice and extremely friendly. What’s a Polish boy from Motown, HIS husband and their Non-hunting-hunting dogs doing at a place like this? They’re guests, just visiting, and extremely lucky.

Back to the story. Milo and his siblings inherit the camp, and the dues. Life and League revelry continue, Ann and Milo have a child, buy their own smaller house at the Club. Milo suddenly dies. Morgan, Ann’s son, inherits property, Ann gets the membership, and the dues. Years later, Ann and Morgan are fixtures at the League. This year, Ann & Son decide to sell property, finance Morgan’s college, store a lot of the furniture, boats and accumulated hunting trophies, leave the Caribou to us, and keep the Club membership, all for now.

What will the future bring to our friends, to the property and it’s artifacts, indeed to the bucolic environment? Can we ever know the future?

I do know that we were very fortunate to be able to visit that long weekend in August, to have such friends, to meet such people, to be able to experience those places.

The Caribou? An amazing souvenir

- - - David

Coming soon: Camping it up

Getting There

2009-08-27T16:44:00.005-04:00

It all started with this photo on facebook.

So, why would anyone load a tent and two big dogs into the car and drive eleven hours each way to spend two nights in the Adirondack woods? One with BEARS? Let me tell you our story.

Late last month Ann, a friend from college, (YES, I went), posted a photo of this caribou head on facebook saying she had put it on craigslist on a whim, saying ”I don't think it will sell. I will probably have to give it away.”

Nobody would want it? Was she nuts?

Let me explain. I’m the type of guy who loves animals, feels guilty about eating meat and loving it, even hates to kill a fly (I’ll comically karmically capture and release) and has always had this fanatic fascination with taxidermy. I know, it’s sick. I’ve always wanted to collect heads (be warned). So when the opportunity arose, I fired off an email offering WHATEVER she wanted: it’s a good thing I don’t have a first born.

The head was at her camp. See, Ann was married to this guy who came from the kind of family who had long ago (late 1800’s?) built this “camp” in the woods of the Adirondacks. All rough twigs and logs, rustic, hunt and gamey, vernacular and compound-y and very, very cool. She had her wedding there in the boathouse of ONE of the lodges in the late 80’s. I attended. I fell in love with the buildings, and all 50,000+ park-like acres of it. But more on the camp later. We decided to go again. The Caribou was the door prize.

We left last Friday afternoon, heading due south to the turnpike. I drove but don’t let the picture of me an Lucy fool you. Brian soon tired of my speed limit “speed” and got behind the wheel at the 1st opportunity in Ohio and we continued to head east. Making good time despite a stand still near Cleveland.

I love the north east coast of our country. It’s all mossy and historical. (Laugh all you want Europeans, smirk-on Westerners, I love it.) The further East, the older it seems to get. We were headed into Buffalo that night, and hopefully Frank & Teressa’s Anchor Bar, and the 1930’s and the 60’s

Teressa is credited with the invention of Buffalo Wings one late Friday night in 1964, for her bar tending son Dominic’s ravenous friends.

We checked into the Motel 6 and made it to the Anchor before it closed, we ordered the wings, we thanked Teressa.

The place was a great big. friendly. noisy. aging, paneled NE bar. I loved it, loved the wings, loved the company, loved that our waitress told me I could keep the menu. Face it, we’re Road Food-y kind of guys. Hope that’s alright.

- - - David

My summer "vacation"

2009-08-11T12:35:00.011-04:00

Don’t let that pretty friend
or that dentally clasped daisy fool you,
that guy’s on pain pills

Less than a week after our return from hot humid heavenly NOLA I was being wheeled in for a little surgical tune-up. The umbilical hernia that was protruding from my abdomen for so long it had earned the nickname “my little alien” had been recently joined with one a little above it and another a little “below” it. This unknown doctor had been recommended by my new not much better known GP who had been “pin the tail on the donkey” chosen from a three page list provided by my beloved but retiring OLD GP.

Because I had had two previous laparoscopic hernia surgeries I was both optimistic and no longer a candidate for yet more. This procedure would have to be the old fashioned, hands on (in), scalpel cutting kind. Still I was optimistically expecting a few days of recovery. WRONG

This one seemed to get worse, not better, with the passing of time. This time I REFILLED the prescription pain killer TWICE and the doctor eventually threw in some antibiotics too (for the infection that set in). I’m not complaining, I survived. It’s just that a month+ of my summer has been spent on shuffling, house-bound, couch sitting solitude. AGAIN. A month of “Hey Gods, I just did this a few months ago!” feeling tired, mopey, grumpy and sorry for myself.

There’s an upside though. All this concentrating on the leaking incisions, taped gauze and a different sort of pill collection has taken my mind off the stroke. I was able to trick myself with this diversionary tactic from the tedious relearning and therapeutic remastering of simple BORING tasks. Walking slowly down the hall I was thinking about the belly NOT the wobbling.

Looking back, this was quite enjoyable. Surely there’s a suitable parable for this. Like “Don’t count your chickens in one silver basket” or something. This muddled brain can’t think of one so please provide a suitable one of your own. Perhaps you could email it to me?

I was ALSO grateful for the immediate visitation/diversion of my new friends Wendy and her family (Greg and [the most adorable] Sophia) in the days immediately after the “procedure”. They stopped by on their way from Taos NM to Costa Rica. (I didn’t even know we were on that route). They were joyous/joyful/a joy. I am SO grateful they came (AND to B for making us a pile of my favorite Overnight Waffles).

Following on their heals was our Seattle pal Calyn. Who graciously made her way to our door for an overnight after visiting family in Okemos before she made a journey to her Ol’ Kentucky home.

Seeing the C after all these years was a godsend, a blessing and even MORE sheer joy for this patient and his caretaker. The brief hours spent touring Hidden Lake Garden, visiting Ann Arbor, shopping for scooters, having (a recession improved?) fine dinner at Evan’s Street or just couch potato-ing and schmoozing was the best medicine I could request. The memory of her smile AND the thrill of her laughter AND the glowing warmth of her presence may have dimmed but now I clearly recalled the love she radiates so freely.

Look for the silver lining kids, that golden cup of nectar from the gods, it’s there somewhere. You may need it when you’re on the sofa, staring at your toes, realizing how easily the world goes on without you.

- - - David

New Orleans, The Eating Ends. For Us. For Now.

2009-07-23T13:21:00.008-04:00

The Magic Kingdom?

You could call it that.

I do.

Four days of touring and near gluttony, what are two guys to do . . . eat a little more.

After the perfect lunch we would try an over the top dinner. Thursday night took us back to the Garden District, an area of fertile silt, big trees and big ol’ houses just a streetcar ride west of the Quarter along St Charles. Commander’s Palace Restaurant has been on this quiet little street since 1880.

When I was 20-something I took my visiting parentals to NYC’s Tavern on the Green. Not for the food, not for the bevy of hovering waitrons, not for the dress code, for the experience. This reminded me of Tavern. Brian even noticed the similarities and he wasn’t even there, the first time. This place was like that but better.

We were seated in the back corner of what seemed like the 5th of 4 dining rooms. I say this out of wonder not anger. From the outside the place looks normal, inside it goes on and on in the way that 125 year old destination restaurants tend to do. I hardly remember what we had but like I said we were there for fun. I do remember an appetizer of a trio of soups, one of which was turtle, the waitress’ smiling professionalism and the Peach Shortcake that CAME with my meal. I do remember the suddenly appearing waitrons who would materialize, one per plate, deliver the food, smile-nod and disappear. I love that. Oh, and the food was good, too.

Friday, July 3rd, was our last day in New Orleans. We planned a Jazz breakfast at Bourbon Street the Court of The Two Sisters and lunch at the famous Acme Oyster House near the hotel and then to the airport by three. We were up early. We got to The Court. Judiciously, it doesn’t open until 9. This is a bit late for us early risers. So we kept walking. Back towards Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral and then further east to the older, lower, quieter part of the Quarter. We were hungry, we knew Stanley’s. So, t looks like a nice ice cream parlor but . . . First, we just ordered coffee, then, deciding we were hungry we ordered breakfast, expecting mere food, we were pleasantly surprised. My Egg’s Stanley, a modification of Benedict topped with fried Oysters, was delicious. Brian got corned beef hash, (in New Orleans?!?), but ,in his defense, it was VERY nice.

We eventually made it back to the hotel, checked out, checked our bags, and headed, around the corner, to “Friday Lunch”. This, we learned, is a N.O. tradition, an event. Get in line early with the rest of the city, wait awhile, a long while, and then spend a few hours over a lot of food, preferably great, with a few friends, preferably good.

By 11:30 there was a line down the block at ACME. Like the Roadrunner, we stopped in our tracks. They were packed, our bags were packed, we were more than sated, we had done the tourist thing, the food thing, the thing thing. We headed back to the hotel, a cab to the airport and a brief rest at the Sky Club. The New Orleans food world had won, we had given up, like the coyote,raised the white flag. In our case, the napkins.

It may have won but it owes us a meal.

AND I plan on collecting.

- - - David

A little more Eating in New Orleans: Part Three

2009-07-12T10:09:00.012-04:00

The ceilings are as high as our expectations had become in this town.

For dinner on Wednesday in New Orleans We walked a few blocks and into a place I will admit the snob in me never thought I would. An Emeril Lagasse restaurant. BAM! It's not his food, no, he's just a little too, too for me, a little too energetic, a little too infomercial. But this place came so highly recommended, I mean not only everyone BUT Jeff likes it, how could I not? I am glad we did.

Appetizers were broiled oysters and a sausage brushetta. Dinners were Rib Eye for him and a Pork Tenderloin, the freshest green beans and the most amazing dish of Mac n' Cheese I EVER had.

Dessert was a lucious Strawberry Shortcake I meant to share.

I think there might have been a chilled bottle of French Rosé in there somewhere.

And so ended our third night in New Orleans. BAM!

The morning dawned and a new day beckoned. But it did so gently with hot coffee and A few fried orbs of sugared dough around the corner from our hotel at a little off shoot of a more famous place in the Court of the Two Sisters. Cafe Beignet. We did eat outside in a shaded court. So it was a yellow Police Station, it was nice and their were kittens.

We took a ride out to the Garden Distict for a little touring and to check out our dinner restaurant (anal, yes, but I did say this trip had a bit of a food theme). As we made out way into the Garden District we came accross B's 1st New Orleans Cemetary, BONUS! Well, he put up with it nicely, I was the excited one. First a streetcar, touring houses, viewing a cemetery and checking plans . . . heaven.

Then a ride back into the French Quarter and a cab to a piece of heaven we would both agree to. "Willie Mae's Scotch House", in the 9th Quarter, for the WORLD'S BEST FRIED CHICKEN. The afternoon was bright and hot, the line was long, carefully clinging to the shadows but friendly, we opened the door to give them a name and we’re met with the aroma of the gods.

This made the seemingly LONG wait both endurable and invigorating. We were let in at last and presented with a family plate of chicken I swear was the best thing these lips EVER met. (And I’ve been around). The coating was ethereal and slightly spicy and the meat was perfect, just perfect. Even the Red and Butter Beans were angelic.

I WILL be back.

- - - David

Eating in New Orleans: Part Two

2009-07-10T12:05:00.008-04:00

There are a lot of places to eat in New Orleans, and even more delicious things to taste.

We did our very best to go to as many places and try as many things as we could.

These are our stories.

Tuesday night (June 30th, 2009) we thought we would try a real “old-line” restaurant. Yes the waiters were in tuxes, yes we had to wear jackets, yes pretty much everything was sauced. But everything WAS good and I constantly felt that a chorus of “Mame” could break out any second. The Place was Galatoire’s and, yes, it’s on Bourbon Street It’s almost the only authentic place left there amid the 20 something bars, the Larry Flynt this and Hustler that. This is the kind of hetero “moral values” with which I can agree.

Galatoire’s has been there since 1905. It’s bright and tiny tiled and the tables are covered in white and the dinnerware is bright white, loud and plentiful. We started with Oysters Rockefeller and Oysters en Brochette. The fist is well known but we’d never had them and decided it was time. The latter was wrapped in bacon, breaded and delicious. Entrees were Trout Amandine for B (butter-toasted almond slivers on trout fillets dusted with flour, sauteed in butter, moistened with a bit of lemon and garnished with parsley) and Crabmeat Sardou for me (hunks of sweet crab atop artichoke hearts with spinach under a blanket of hollandaise sauce) This was accompanied by Potatoes Soufflé. AND for dessert we had, well, we were cut off, or our sweet waiter thought we had eaten as much as we could, or he thought we didn’t want any but we would have tried . . . so Brian sipped black coffee but we would have “tried” the Banana Bread Pudding.

Wednesday morning found us AGAIN at Mother’s this time for the famous “breakfast at Mother’s” I had read about. B got some kind of omelet (I asked him to get grits) and I ordered their ham on a biscuit. Lordy. The ham was thick cut, moist and well, hammy. The biscuit was definitely fresh made; chewy, soft, melting, real delicious. I had to stop myself from coming back here for lunch.

Luckily, for Brian, we didn’t. Lunch took us walking across town to Jackson Square and beyond into the French Market. There lies a famous Italian Market/Grocery/Deli known as Central Grocery and the very, very famed some would say legendary Muffaletta. Something B now describes as “the best sandwich I’ve ever had”. It begins with the bread: Fresh, pure. aromatic, round, squat, Italian, sesame seeded amazement. Then that’s layered with deli: ham, cheese, salami, Then THAT’S topped with a concoction called “olive salad”. Wrapped it paper, eaten at a formica counter with a crowd of fellow "muffas”, priceless. The place is crowded, noisy, famous, wonderful. Ya gotta!

I almost forgot. There was another stop between Mother's and Central. I mentioned we went walking? On the way down Chartres St. to revisit the convent and to prove to me that the corn hotel really existed and to see the Zulu exhibit (I hope to get to all this) we passed Stanley's a little place right on Jackson Square and by the Cathedral and in one of the apartment buildings put up by the Baroness Pontalba in the 1850's and B was a little peckish so he ordered a little ice cream and fruit, etc., just the thing for 2nd Breakfast on a hot sultry morn.

Yet more stories (and FOOD) to come . . . there is SO much, try as we did, there was still much untasted.

- - - David

Eating in New Orleans: Part One

2009-07-07T19:12:00.007-04:00

The wait was ALWAYS worth it.
It WAS New Orleans.
This trip was all about the food.
The only things we planned were Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner.
The chefs, the staff, the food were still there
and this was OUR way to support the community

I landed a little before 5 P.M. last Monday. Brian was at the airport, we jumped in a cab and by 6:30 we had dropped my bags at the W on Chartres St. in the French Quarter and walked to Bayona for dinner.

The postings on facebook had worked. On the back of an envelope I had scribbled our food plan for the week. All the places were suggested by friends, and a few friends of friends, and we were booked solid for breakfast lunch and dinner until Friday. Bayona was the first stop.

An old townhouse had been converted into a white table cloth restaurant. We wobbled out way the few blocks and were met with utter bliss. Although traditional, the dinner was a fresh 2009 take on Creole/French/New Orleans tradition. Apps, Dinner and dessert never stopped amazing us. . . and we ate every bite.

And Good Night.

We made it to the most touristy, but authentic and stop-worthy spot for breakfast. Between the French Market and the base of Jackson Square, right next to the Mississippi levee, Cafe Du Monde. Coffee with Chicory and a plate of freshly fried to order Beignets dowsed with powdered sugar. Heaven. My taste usually runs more to the savory than the sweet Firrst thing in the morning. But these hot doughy sugared pillows took my breath away. The equally word famous beverage, Coffee and Chicory, is the perfect match. Hot, smooth, soft, not bitter, it goes well with the hot pillows. But this is where the “touristy” rears its head, it’s served at the table, in styrofoam. At least the “cup” makes a nice FREE souvenir. (Orange juice, milk, soda and pricier souvenir are available.

For Lunch we left the French Quarter and headed across Canal to Poydras Street and Mother’s, a “blue-collar” “restaurant” where you order at the counter, grab your drink (cold Local beer in the fridge), sit at any available table, and are served by a “strictly no tipping” waiter. The Food is the draw here: 19 Huge Po’ Boy sandwiches on the menu, “regular” items include gumbo, jambalaya, étouffée, red beans and rice, and then there’s daily specials, and lets not forget the ham.

But more on that later. I had a simple fried Oyster Po’boy and Brian had something called Famous Ferdi Special (Ham, Roast Beef, Debris and Gravy Po’ Boy). What is Debris you ask? It’s the beef that falls into the pan while the roast is cooking. I have a feeling it started that way but that some beef must be specially slivered for the purpose now . MY GAWD you should see the line and hear how many people order Debris. Mother’s is out of the Quarter so it’s ONE of the places that were hard hit by Katrina. Evacuated. Closed for weeks. Then rebuilt and sanitized, the parking lot acting as a refuge for the workers and their families.

I may love the food in New Orleans (and I do!) but I love the spirit of survival and of sense of neighborliness more.

Quite the Life (Ma Vie en Le Vieux Carré)

2009-07-06T15:52:00.001-04:00

Staying in New Orlean’s French Quarter reminded me of life . . . AND of living

The balcony of our room at the W on Chartres Street (sorry, no cast iron)

We’re back but I seemed to have left a part of me there. Every few minutes my heart and mind turn to the streets of New Orleans. Whether it’s a 17th Century Convent or a 21st Century restaurant, if you come across a grey haired guy with a far away look in his eyes who looks like me, that’s where I am.

Five days isn’t a long time, but it seems like five hundred years. What is so damned special with New Orleans? If you’ve been keeping up with me on facebook, you’ll know my first answer. I’ll start with the food first, and lot’s of it, in my next entry. Soon.

- - - David

First One And Then The Other

2009-06-27T19:50:00.004-04:00

Where the wild things are

going next

(photo from facebook’s New Orleans fan site)

Brian leaves Sunday for a Human Resources Convention in New Orleans. On Monday I fly in (it was cheaper). We’re staying in the French Quarter. We will be in the New Orleans’ Vieux Carré for five days. I have EVERY breakfast, lunch and dinner planned and a few more places to try if we get hungry.

Expect a lot of food shots on my page on facebook (you DO fb DON’T you?)

I feel like I am going to heaven. 9 years in Adrian and months of attempting a healthy diet leaves me MUCH to think about. You can imagine why I am obsessing about FOOD!

Please try to follow us on facebook and on blogger for the next few days, I will try to blog between meals.

http://askdavidstas.blogspot.com/

--- David

At "Work"

2009-06-15T07:44:00.005-04:00

Home . . .

. . . like me, a work in progress

Project, project, project. When you live in an old house you get used to the endless nature of the list. Lately, well, since last October, I’ve become this “old house”. Along with the weeding, the planting, the new this and the fix that, I’ve made it to the list. I can avoid it no longer. I too need work and lots of it.

This week along with watching what I consume (no longer allowing myself limitless quantities of whatever), improving my general comportment, getting this so called physique to the “Y”, having various follicles trimmed, I will finally be having a colonoscopy.

Also, in early July, I will finally be going into get my hernia prone torso patched up again (3 done, 3 to go). Yes, the current alien bulge on my stomach will not be allowed to explode into a scurrying dining hall visitor but will be physically forced back to isolation. While in there the doc promises to try and also repair a new 2nd emergence of another newer and smaller stomach protrusion and yet another one “elsewhere”. This time I will be experiencing the ol’ laparoscopic AND the older conventional razor sharp scalpel.

On July 9th, I will be laid up AGAIN while I mend. Best wishes, silent prayer, flowers, cards, small gifts and cookies will AGAIN be happily accepted, but this time at home SWEET home.

This time I promise to recover more quickly.

- - - David

A bit of a hike

2009-06-04T20:05:00.008-04:00

The aptly named Wellness Park, Tacheva and Miraleste, Palm Springs

Quite a month. An end to the long long winter. A month of blazing white sun and aqua pool oases of Palm Springs. A Beginning.

M-F, every morning, Miss Rubi, the motelier's driver (OK, Ruby) has driven me and then picked me up at the Stroke Center. Stationary Bike: 15mins, Arm Pedal: 10 mins, 50 reps on the Crunch machine, 60 on the Leg machine, stretch out on the Pulleys and remember to do the blocked Calf Stretch. Workout total: usually One Hour. Believe it or not: For me that was quite the workout. I pressed myself. I was good for little else that day. (Not that I am usually any good at all for anything, but . . .)

No Tram, no Art Museum, no architectural tours, sometimes dinner, sometimes a card game, always a little ironing. Things were simple.

Today for the first time I got it in my head to walk to the Stroke Recovery Center. I was up at 4 something, so I had lots of time for getting dressed, coffee, papers, waiting. At 8:30, I slipped out and headed south. I had a hat, sunglasses, drinking water and had googled directions and put the turns into my iPhone. A bit much? Yes, but I didn't want to get in any inexcusable trouble. I could imagine my sister calling me in the hospital. "You did what?" she would say. Brian would be standing one side of the bed, Ruby on the other, no one would be smiling.

I wanted some insurance that nothing stupid would happen.

Nothing did. I made it .5 mile down Palm Canyon to Tachevah. I made it another .4 mile to the park. Across the intersection from the Desert Regional Hospital there is "Wellness" Park.

A new looking, beautifully planted, all ability friendly park with 5 or so exercise stations right up my alley. So I did the circuit, passing on the sit-ups, and was walking like a pre-stroker. Then Ruby called. I'd been found. I had time to snap a few more pictures on my iPhone and walk a few blocks closer to the Center where i said my thankful misty good-byes. I told them what I thought about the fabulous park, that I had done my exercising and that I hoped I'd be back.

I do plan to come back. Lighter, quicker, stronger. Someday soon I'll be ready for a REAL vacation.

Wanna come?

- - - David

Back to the Ironing Board

2009-05-30T17:54:00.017-04:00

Exercise Therapy, only available in the mornings from 8:30 until 12:30, leaves the afternoons open. To keep myself occupied and to try and help out Ruby a little with her Coral Sands motelier chores. I will clumsily attempt to do things such as make the beds and clean out various room refrigerators but my specialty is to press the pillowcases.

When she first asked, I blurted: "I haven't done it since the stroke . . . but I'll try." I didn't have much hope of succeeding. Not only hadn't I done it since THE BRAIN ATTACK but I've never been very good at ironing.

I bellied up to the board, aimed the fan my way, noted that I had a view of the pool from the ironing station in Rube's "Let'er Buck Suite". I warily took hold of the waiting pre-warmed tool (Black & Decker®) and went for it.

I've been ironing almost every day for three weeks. Left alone to my own devices. I am surprising myself. I am getting self assured. Cocky even. Yesterday, as a test of skill, I spent my day off slowly ironing five of MY OWN shirts. One shirt was linen. Two were rayon. As I slowly pressed, I thought. Though always from a different viewpoint, ironing has seemed a marker in my life.

When I was a kid, before I was in kindergarten, I used to follow my mother around while she did chores. My Pop was at work. My brother was at school. She seamlessly ran the house, on a schedule. Tuesdays were ironing day. She would stand at the board set up in our small "dining" room, take the clothes she had washed on Monday, had smoothed and rolled up, slightly damp, and iron all day. Before spray-bottles, it was important not to let clean laundry get completely dry. If needed, an old 7-up bottle, filled with water and fitted with a wide perforated cap, stood by.

I know that it was pre September 1959. I remember she wore (ironed) full skirted pastel house dresses. There was something hypnotic to a toddler in her repetitive sway at the board. The huge, flared, slip filled skirt agitating like the washing machine itself. I recall the vision as it appeared to me, laying on the floor looking up at her ironing. The enveloping, luminescent umbrella-like dress moving back and forth, following a few seconds behind her repetitive twists, the sight and sound of the big softly starched cotton, like a pastel tent in the wind. I remember sadly the day that all ended. My mother thought I was looking up her dress for other reasons not even dreamed of by this fey 4 year old. So it stopped but the ironing went on weekly, until after I was in college.

In college, a lot of my time was spent with the girl I met at 16. We were together for 8 years. In all that time, Gerri must have ironed. But I was young, I ignored that.

After Ger came Michael. A painting painter from New York. In the 5 years together, he never ironed. Clothes came out of drawers wrinkled and splattered with paint. We wore them proudly.

After Michael and my 30th birthday came Dick. Richard was a clothes pony. Hence he always ironed, meticulously, even clothes made out of fabrics I thought could NOT be pressed. He was an artist, both graphically and at the iron. Not only would he do his own wardrobe, he would do mine. He would press the clothes from the famous designers we had found for me at the New York and New Jersey outlets. I looked FABULOUS. I was happy to let him have at it.

At 35, After he left me (for another, well-pressed, guy), I was in extreme pain PLUS I couldn't iron all the clothes I was left in the divorce. I was alone, I was wrinkled, and not just from crying. A collegue at the magazine I worked at took enough pity on me to offer to teach me how to iron the educated way. She made me promise that I never reveal that the high powered New York business woman she now was had once studied Home Economics in COLLEGE. I never did, sorta. We laughed through her serious lessons. I learned the correct way to do a shirt. It goes like this: Collar/yoke/cuffs/sleeves/the rest. DB taught me to do the back of doubled fabric first, the importance of pulling, what needs to be done up-side-down on a cloth. I listened. Sponge-like, I absorbed. I attempted this alone. I still fumbled.

Soon after, my magazine, the black sheep in a family-values type of publishing company, was sold off to the hipper, more experimental French. Almost everyone was fired, including me. Suddenly I knew how dirty laundry felt. Loveless, jobless, seemingly worthless and rumpled.

A few months later my sister-in-law needed me in Seattle for a design consult. She called, I went, I moved there. A few weeks later Ruby was installed permanently in my life. Then, after a few years of single (permanent press) living, the bouquet carrying B entered my life.

Brian was a younger, unfettered bachelor. I was fettered, some would say "styled" stylist/writer/freelancer with all the encumberance that would fit in my Queen Anne backyard bungalow. Everything but an ironer. Eventually I got a real job, Brian got a real car, we got a bigger house, our first Weimaraner, a domestic partnership certificate from city hall. A life together. A new iron. Brian can iron when he wants to but usually chooses to use the dry cleaner. I go right along. I have for 15 years.

Then in October of 2008, Stroke struck. Early this month, after a long, cold, snowy, housebound, ironing free winter, I came here. To Palm Springs, The Stroke Center, The Coral Sands Inn, Ruby, and circuitously back to the ironing board.

Dear Ruby asked and I tried. The first few cases came cautiously easy. Then the Jersey cowboy cases rode in. Ruby rules that ALL pillowcases be pressed. "They just FEEL better". So, for Rube, I struggle, (I may curse, but I keep ironing). Our lovely photographer friend Debra, overlapping my first few days of respite here, came like the cavalry into the room to help me tug, pull and smooth the bunching, creasing, uncooperative fabric decorated with the deceptively grinning cowpokes. Eventually, AND for the last three weeks reappearing, cases calmly get done. I was taught to muddle through. (But for the record, I DON'T LIKE THEM)

In the last three weeks of slow ironing I have had a lot of quiet time to think about my life. I not only considered how lucky I am to be here (in Palm Springs and on this earth), I found that I have had time to gather together what I've learned about this art of ironing from some wise women in my life.

Among these: Ginka (my mom) taught me craft, Donna taught me the economy of technique, Debra taught me that when the going gets rough, diligence (one of the Seven Holy virtues) will eventually smooth things out and Miss Ruby taught me to keep trying, to never ever give up.

All by myself I learned that falling tears, whether wept due to heartbreak or deep appreciation, will iron right out.

- - - David

Week 2 draws to a conclusion: Let the 3 day weekend begin

2009-05-22T17:14:00.008-04:00

Stroke Recovery Center, Palm Springs, CA

I know, I know, you are all wondering HOW I am doing. How do I do it? What AM I doing?

For all of those enquiring minds, here's the scoop; for the others, run while you still can.

I still get up early, 6 AM at the latest. That means this tired old body is ready for rest just when the other folks at the Coral Sands are getting going, but it also means that I can wobble around in the morn, sight unseen. I might even take off my shirt and go into the pool, a thing I would never inflict upon witnesses. I hear you, but apparently vanity is the last to go, way way after stomach muscles.

I can also be there waiting like a panting dog when Ms Ruby cracks open her doors to let out the fellow canines. I can assure her that I am in no hurry to get going to the Center. I can wait.

Ruby's my saint of a driver. She and her VW, "Dinah", take me the 2.3 miles and pick me up after. So far I have never called a cab (though I did foolishly try to walk back once). I think I'll wear out my welcome first. Don't I always?

Once there I am watched over by two ladies and sometimes a trainer. I usually start on the bike, a machine, fully balanced, on the floor. I foot pedal for 15 minutes then arm peddle for 10 minutes more. I am up to a resistance level of 10. The ladies seem to think that's good, but I think they would tell me it's good even if it were bad. The perfect overseers.

I also do stomach crunches on a machine that lets me do it sitting up, strapped in and never reclining. Instead. I crunch forward. A miracle find of a machine. I can exercise the flab without lying back and up which caused my head to spin so badly once that I am afraid to try it again. So far I've done 50 crunches a day, and no tilt-a-whirl effect.

There are parallel bars to practice heal to toe walking (in case an officer of the law ever wants to drunk test me). There are pulleys to pull, calf muscles to stretch, a machine to build up my legs with reclined squats, another press to exercise them differently and one to jiggle my Chi. I even saw a "personal trainer" this week who gave me a series of leg and eye exercises to do at home to lessen the wobbles. I am getting into this.

I just may have the nerve to get on a real bicycle soon. (Do they make adult training wheels?)

Someday I may even restart my pleas to Brian to get me a motorcycle.

I have to do that quickly, while he still feels sorry for me and before I get too much older. Do they have a cut off age for the license?

Even if he balks (and I have a funny feeling he will), I know in my heart that I am already better (even though I still walk like a drunk). Much better than I was 7 months ago

As Brian wrote when he sent the picture of Lucy and me in the hospital wheelchair, "Amazing how far you've come!"

He wasn't referring to the 2,500 mile flight, was he?

- - - David

oh lucy

2009-05-17T13:40:00.002-04:00

bedouin
Originally uploaded by saikiishiki

I miss my grrls (and my man, of course)

- - - David

photo on flickr

Singing in the dead of night

2009-05-16T11:14:00.006-04:00

Looking up from the NYTimes at the Coral Sands

The mockingbird song is always changing, I am told. The bird doesn't have a singular sound; it mimics the songs of other birds (as well as insects and amphibians, Wikipedia informs me). The mockingbird might do this for devious reasons but it sings beautifully, full-out, exquisitely.

Wikipedia also relates this birds' place in history. "Charles Darwin noticed that the mockingbirds . . . differed from island to island" . . . "with what he had been told about Galapagos tortoises, could undermine the doctrine of stability . . . "

The mockingbird: inspiration, evolution, natural change put into song.

Sung to me.

The birdsong is performed every morning, a repeat show at sunset, it's permutations cannot be predicted, not by me. The sound of change, it is in the air. This "symbolism" has finally sunk in. With a little work, with a little effort, I can not only talk the talk, I WILL walk the walk.

The Coral Sands, taken in by the Ruby, embraced by friends old and new, my Lourdes of the desert, should I be surprised that it's not only a life changing miracle but that it's been put to music by this historic song writer?

My life has become a stupendous musical.

I can dance to it.

Well, I plan to, soon.

- - -David

Miracles in the desert, already

2009-05-11T11:09:00.009-04:00

It's dawning on me in Palm Springs

Heavenly intervention? Mothers' Day karma? Full Moon? Ruby's Lemon Pie? Somehow something seemed to make everything right. But it was a bit of a trial, I may have exhibited a little discombobulation.

Everything started out fine, we even left a little early for the airport, I was packed a full day early. After getting B to his gate for his plane to San Antonio, I made the flight (by myself) in Detroit, the mile long connection in Minneapolis, and I even made the long walk out to the main terminal, through security, and all the way back through another terminal in San Francisco. (No big deal, you say, and I would have said that too, BEFORE, but now the longest trek I had grown accustomed to was the way to the back door at home.)

It was at that LAST x-ray machine in SF that I noticed that my iPhone was lit up as it went through the inspector in it's little grey bin. "That's odd." I remember thinking, "Maybe Brian's trying to call"

When I retrieved it, and my laptop, bag, belt, watch, wallet and slip-ons, the iPhone was in call mode and locked, the bottom "return to main screen" button didn't do it's job, nor did the off button, the ringer button, the loudness toggle, nuttin' honey.

No time to spare, I had 20 minutes to make my plane to Palm Springs, I pocketed my phone and wobbled to the gate, finding the new Samsonite™, 4-wheel rolling suitcase doubled as an ersatz walker for the weary.

Finally, making it to the gate, I called B, in San Antonio. (is it me? Is it ALWAYS the last gate?) "Have you ever had your iPhone stuck in the phone function?" I asked. "No." he replied. I said goodbye, I hung up, I was starting to feel panic, I had made it so far, but NOW I couldn't check my email OR facebook!

I boarded the almost deserted Alaska Airlines flight and made sure to sit on my phone. Did I mention the "off" button wasn't working? When the steward said the speech about dis/enabling all electronic devices, I may have appeared just a little guilty and blushed slightly, I may have shifted in my seat JUST a bit, I remember praying that nobody called and lit up the phone JUST as the steward passed. Was it my imagination or did he look a little like Himmler?

No one called, the phone was still locked but we made it to Palm Springs, I was able to call Ruby's machine, and I made it through the FABULOUS open air terminal to carousel 2 in baggage claim. The near empty plane's luggage was already waiting. Mine was not. The carousel stopped moving. It emptied. I glanced at the "baggage assistance" desk, closed. I made my way to the small sign on the desk, I was instructed to go back to ticketing, 1000 yards later, I find ticketing also closed, at 7:30 PM, did I mention it was after 9?

Ruby had gotten my message and left a message. I knew this by looking at my phone screen, apparently the ringer was also out of order. I went to the curb with my carry-on. The airport was deserted, I was alone. Eventually I grew impatient (big surprise) and walked back to the deserted ticket counter. I reread the sign, picked it up, planned to do something creatively evil with it and noticed a call bell next to the small sign. I pushed. I waited. I left. Seconds later from a few feet away I heard a door creak, I saw a head pop out, I yelled. The drill: flight, name, UPC code, phone? Phone? WhaT? Like I had my own cell number memorized? Ruby's? Isn't the address enough? Did I mention I can remember all the phine numbers in my life until I reached the age of 30 and then it STOPS?

"No phone" the tired worker said as I tried to explain my predicament. "No phone" I repeated wearily, glancing down at my iPhone where Ruby's smiling face was now displayed. She must have called again. I explained and hurredly made my way back to the curb. Ruby's dazzling grin was now not only frozen on my phone but also in front of me. I made it to her open arms, her blonde convertible named Dinah, a star covered desert night and to a full up Coral Sands. Waiting for me on the boisterous pool deck were the cheering Debra and Charlie, our old pals from Seattle, now dear friends of Ruby's. We hugged hello. I had a feeling all would work out.

And it did. Sunday morning Marcy, the wonderful wife of my college roommate, the mother of my Georgetown grad student/former W-S worker bee/pal/"niece" AND my facebook friend, fixed my iPhone VIA FACEBOOK! I was offered clothing, given toothpaste and served coffee and comradery by my fellow guests AND my luggage arrived on the morning flight from SFO.

Mothers Day miracles . . . or the magic of the Coral Sands Inn? You decide, I have.

I'm feeling lucky.

- - - David

Driving, Miss Daisy?

2009-05-06T15:23:00.005-04:00

WARNING: Horn you may hear is being tooted by this old driver

Question: What is more bothersome than an old geezer slowly inching into traffic in front of you? Answer: Being the old geezer.

Yesterday I practiced, with B in the passenger seat, driving the highway from my NEW doctor’s office in Ann Arbor to the lovely alley behind our house in Adrian. No one was hurt. This drive was momentous enough for BOTH of us to mention it on facebook. No red lights were run; no vehicles were sideswiped; no curbs got in my way; I barely cringed when oncoming traffic sped by inches away. I felt like a student driver except for the invulnerability. I felt mortal, in a big way.

Other things have changed. When I see someone seemingly DWE (Driving while elderly) gone are any pangs of anger, instead there is a feeling of connection and a prayer of support. I have not become an sainted angel. The same old furor has simply been transfered to tailgaters, passers who ignore yellow lines and those who refuse to take notice of blinking school buses. “He’s just in a holy hurry” I mutter or “She must be so much more important than the rest of us”. Maybe it’s the effect of IEED or just another sign of age but I do not suffer the ways of bad drivers lightly.

Early this morning, with Brian following in the Honda behind me, I drove back to the area to have my blood drawn. Both the dogs were in my car. This increased the sense of accountability. If I crashed so did they. Brian followed me all the way to the hospital. There I walked in, like many times before, for a simple draw to test for various things my new doctor might find interesting. I made my way to the lab passing the Emergency room. I glanced and at the gurneys and the IVs and the antiseptic halls. Unexpectedly I shuddered. 3 weeks of forgotten incarceration came flooding back. Another silent prayer came to my head, all those people, all that pain, countless people offering aid. Help them.

I strode on. I became fully aware I was walking; no wheelchair, no walker, not even a cane. I was never as happy to go into the lab and chatter with the techs. If they had asked I would have gladly filled many more vials. I finished and got back into the car. The grrls were waiting. I was back in Adrian before I had a chance to get nervous. I was driving highway solo. By 8:45 AM I had gone over 55 mile. I was following a slow going vintage pickup, an aqua and white Corvair, past our local 1885 courthouse.

I was happy.

- - - David

Recovery?

2009-04-29T12:02:00.006-04:00

a sign

Maybe it was the heat of the sun, but this idea came to me in the desert.

First we were invited to tag along to an Aids benefit kick off party. Cocktails and hors d'oeuvres were at the home, well the court yard to said home, of this benefactress, Jackie Lee Houston, or simply Jackie Lee. In prepping for small talk with Della Reese, Mary Wilson and the lord and lady angels of Palm Springs, Brian googled her.

That is when we discovered that besides patronizing the PS Film Festival, the PS Art Museum, and the Aids Assistance Program (Ruby’s on the board), ONE of the other irons Jackie Lee has in the fire is named the Stroke Recovery Center.

Brian mentions this, we both say hmmmm, we put it in the back of our vacation muddled minds. Soon after, he strolls, I wobble, out to the pool deck to sip our morning coffee. Picking up the local Desert Sun newspaper what should I behold but an article about a fund raiser for THE Stroke Recovery Center?!?

It was then, coinciding with my amazement at this coincidence, that B brings up the Center in conversation, mentioning that he looked it up and its 8 minutes away. I say “I’m just looking for further guidance”; their motto “We begin . . . where others leave off”. Strange?

Fast forward, interview, tour, nice garden, nice people, Ruby offers free bed. Did I mention cost is FREE? Donations optional? I’ve been praying for help, but this is sudden. I call, someone picked up.

Whirlwind.

Just like “that” I’m in. The place is a godsend. The woman doing the interviewing asks me if I’d agree to them using my nameless statistics to impress the need for places like this around the country. She read my fogged mind. “Why? WHY aren’t there more places like this? “ Surely I’m not the only one who is wobbling through life. The hospital took care of my life. Rehab took care of getting me off the walker, now what? Goodbye, good luck.

What do I eat? How do I get strong enough to get off the couch? Are there exercises I can do? I’m inoperable, OK, am I condemned to death? I have a lot of questions.

So, I am looking into living in the desert for awhile, who’d have thought? Leaving the comfort of my garden, my dogs, my sister, my HUSBAND and the sofa and the TV. Did I mention I found an oasis?

Discuss.

http://www.strokerecoverycenter.org/Index.html

- - - David

Taken For Granted

2009-04-15T10:59:00.005-04:00

A Simple Gift: Washed, rinsed and drip dying

A rush towards the door, no time to pour a to-go cup, too hurried to put on his coat it’s enough that he has it in one hand, the two panting dogs receive a quick dismissal.

“David will feed you.”

Four words. Presumption never sounded so good.

Six months ago I was flat on my back, only allowed strained hospital food. Five months ago my therapy included placing pegs into a board, throwing a ball and reciting phone numbers. Opening a can was an unspoken aspiration.

Did I mention the drooling.

This morning, as he sped out of the house, I was once again an option. I would take care of things, not just be taken care of. At 8:00 I wobbled to the kitchen, successfully avoiding on the frenzied Weimaraners, carried the bowls, opened the cans, remembered the meds, fed the grrls, and washed up after. A Simple task. I’ve done it before. It was the assumption that I hadn’t heard in a long time. Music, my ears, you know the feeling.

Last December, I was repeatedly whining about my limitations and my lack of improvement, my sister Karen sent me a list of my simple “successes” that I saved and even put on my computer’s dock to click on for motivation.

I look at Karen’s list, my growth chart, when I need a reminder of how my wounded brain is still taking care of me.

I will mentally add feeding the grrls and Brian’s parole from this prison I created to her log.

- - - David

If You See Me Walking Down the Street

2009-04-08T11:25:00.007-04:00

When I was a kid and I got to go to the Hospital Emergency Room for a broken collar bone, I thought it was VERY exciting. Even when I had to take Brian in for a food allergy intervention ten years ago it was a bit of a rush.
Now I feel a little bit differently.

Over the past few months, I’ve talked about little else: Stroke, Stroke, Stroke. I must sound like the guy in the bow of the boat yelling to his team. For the last six months, I’ve thought about little else. Myself, my condition, my limitations: me, me, me. But now I can get around better. I am still messed up BUT I have started to get out of the house.

Therein lies the rub. You, dear reader, may happen to see me soon. I am compelled to yell out to my team, give some direction, WARN you what to expect.

I wobble. Remember how I used to walk on that rare, rare occasion when I had a little too much to drink? It looks a little like that but slower, more deliberate and more careful of obstacles. The subject of alcohol brings me to my next point

I drink a lot less. One beer can last me a very long time. It’s economical. I’m a cheap date. I already walk funny (see above) so the end visual effect is the same.

I don’t smoke at all, do you think it’s related? Not smoking is the one piece of advice I got from spending weeks in the hospital and thousands of Brian’s dollars. The house, the cars and the dogs all smell better now or at least more natural.

I don’t control my emotions like I used to. (it is a good thing I drink less.) I will sob during the most inane TV shows. I will chuckle uncontrollably like a 3rd grade kid in the back of a classroom. I can’t stop. It’s kind of fun, as long as I can breathe.

That's the good side. (It is?) The bad side: I can also easily loose my temper. The Banks? WHEW! Can't find my wallet? WHOA! Poor Brian had seen this a lot. Can be entertaining,(well, to ME, once the storm has passed).

I lost my BIG laugh. It’s just gone. It’s not that I don’t think things aren’t funny, (see above), It’s just not there any more. So if you liked it, heed the warning, remember to enjoy things while you can. If it bothered you, relax, it’s gone.

Although it takes me longer, I am happy to do the things that would have driven me crazy before. I can happily sit there and find stones in the lawn and toss them back on the path. I learned patience as a patient. I had no choice. I learned that fuming and swearing at 6 in the morning don’t make Lattes from Starbucks and a NYTimes magically appear. It was much like breaking a horse, but I learned. E-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y.

I’m fatter. In the hospital I discovered that I couldn’t hold-in my stomach. (Yet another indignity of a nurse assisted shower.) I have gotten better control of my core “muscles” but I am still fatter. Benefit: no padding required to play Santa. Disadvantage: reliance on sweat suits.

Consider this a warning.

I am sure that there are other changes to my appearance/demeanor. (like I talk funny, I tire quicker, I sleep more, I’m addicted to facebook) If anyone would like to add to the list, it would be appreciated.

Ah, the brain, it’s full of mystery. I am living proof. If You’re listening, thanks for that.

- - - David

Dig it? I Can Dig it, Baby!

2009-03-16T18:10:00.005-04:00

I spent 4 hours outside today. The sun was so warm that I almost took OFF my sweatshirt. Lucy and Sophie were sunning on the cement. I was able to get one garden bed cleared. Last year spending 4 hours on one bed would be labeled as downright failure, this year it’s a major achievement.

I plopped myself on the ground, no more balancing, no squatting rapidly up and down. This year the trash can was carefully placed within reach. Clipping (not pulling) was the now the rule, and anything that could be chopped up and left as mulch was (WHY didn’t I do this before?). I slowly and surely cleaned up, inch by inch. I wasn’t getting as much done as before, but I noticed that I was doing a better job. I didn’t have a problem taking the time to pull the tiny little clumps of weedy grass from between the Sempervivum tectorum (that granny fave succulent A. K. A. Hens-and-Chicks or Common House Leek) or to untangle the hoop fencing or to SLOWLY sweep the walkway. I was even monotonously picking walkway stones out of the lawn, one at a time.

Spending all those weeks under forced bed arrest at the hospital or cached safely on the sofa in front of bad TV for those 6 months house-bound in Adrian, had taught me, I was forced to sit there and be patient.

Here I was, happily sitting in the mud, spending hours close up and personal with the dirt and the dead things and the random green shoots that are now my garden. I liked it. Lucy would stroll up once in awhile to check on me, breathe in my face, seemingly wonder what I was doing digging in HER dirt and playing with HER sticks but then she would loudly sigh and run off to play.

I pictured myself becoming that old man carefully trimming his flowers and artfully pruning his tomatoes and yelling at the kids on the block to PLEASE step on the grass. I actually longed to be him, a zen Mr. Wilson (I am referring to the Dennis the Menace antagonist, NOT the cast away volley ball).

I went into the cocoon at the end of September as the fluttering butterfly and I emerge now as the slower worm.

But it’s spring and I am here and I am oh so happy to be out again.

- - - David

BoysTown

2009-03-10T10:35:00.003-04:00

My view from the sofa,
(courtesy of my iPhone)

I didn’t see Dawn. I didn’t see Marj. I didn’t get into Frontera. I did spend good time with Luka and Boden.

I got to do a lot in a little time. Not only did I get out of the house, I got out of state! I didn’t even get dizzy (much). I also got to see Tracy and Ray and Ann. I got a breakfast of waffles (Thanks Boden, Thanks Ray), I got a Chicago Mexican Dinner (Thanks to Tracy) AND thanks to Ann’s reservations I got a foot massaging pedicure! I will never reveal which I liked best: waffles, dinner, feet attention, but I will say I got a lot of happy.

Boden and Luka are Tracy and Ray’s boys, 2 and 4, and both lovely, polite and TALKING. They are not yet mesmerized by my sage how-to advice so it was difficult to get my many (potential) words in to the conversation, but they held this grateful audience’s attention and we never strayed far from their side.

Even though someone peed on the guest room carpet and even though no one would own up to the crime the hosts were gracious and forgiving and we thank them.

I am now back, in captivity, and ever so grateful for being let out into the world. I hope to be let out again soon.

With good behavior?

- - - David

My kind of Town

2009-03-07T08:25:00.003-05:00

So it's a little Wintery

photo: Wikimedia Commons

I’ve been pretty much housebound since October. Yes, we’ve made it up to Ann Arbor; we’ve made it to my sister’s and mother’s near Mt. Clemens; we’ve even made a virgin trip to O’ahu; but in between outings, I’ve spent a lot of Adrian time. This weekend we’re taking a little drive. Brian and I are packing the grrls in the Element and taking I-80 to Chicago. See you late Monday.

I love Chicago. It’s urban but it’s friendly, unassuming mid-west. And we’re off, this morning. Time to pack the car. Obama-town, here we come.

- - - David

Twootsie

2009-02-23T10:40:00.010-05:00

Lucy àu Louvre
She IS a piece of work.

Photo composed online with PhotoPlay

“She’s still a puppy”.

How many times have I told myself that excuse?

“She’ll settle down . . . by the time she’s five."

Two down, today; three to go. (is that semi-colon worthy St. Eph?)

La Lucy is two today. The world joins me in singing her Stolat. Brian is in Singapore so he will miss her special (and unusually pre-Lenten) day. I can’t get out to get her a cake, so an extra cookie will have to do. The bad news is, it’s too hard to stick in a candle. The good news is, she would just eat the flaming stick anyway.

Happy Birthday to the grrl who makes me smile through it all.

Happy Birthday Santa Lucia Fernanda Brockowski.

And many many more.

- - - David

While the Cat's Away

2009-02-20T13:13:00.002-05:00

Saint Joseph of Cupertino.
Patron saint of fliers, for obvious reasons

Brian is on a plane. He’s flying away from Detroit, not me. Tokyo, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong, wouldn’t you?

A husband flying is an stereotypical time to feel religious. I am saying a prayer to Saint Joseph of Cupertino, it can’t hurt. Saint Joseph’s story is pretty funny. During his life, he was “prone to levitation” . . . so . . . the Vatican made him the patron saint of people who fly airplanes. Logical, right”?

Saint Joseph of Cupertino, pray for us.

- - - David

CUTE STUFF

2009-02-14T11:26:00.002-05:00

According to MY bible, wikipedia, there are many legends:
“. . .The first representation of Saint Valentine appeared in the Nuremberg Chronicle, (1493); alongside the woodcut portrait of Valentine the text states that he was a Roman priest martyred during the reign of Claudius II, . . . He was arrested and imprisoned upon being caught marrying Christian couples . . . “

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Valentine

Valentine was arrested, and later beheaded for marrying STRAIGHT CHRISTIANS?

Ironic?

- - - David

Stroke, Stroke.

2009-01-28T17:37:00.001-05:00

October 2008, Just visiting

Brian has been in San Francisco all week, I’ve been living alone (with the grrls) knowing that IF something goes wrong, well, I’m on my own. I keep my cell phone in my pocket. There’s only so much Lucy can do. She’s limited. Sitting on me can only help SO much. Don’t get me wrong, even if I die tonight, I am only grateful. Shoot, B took me to Hawaii! I saw Obama inaugurated. Karen asked me what my third wish was . . .

When I was in the hospital, even though everyone was very kind. I felt imprisoned. Now I just feel alone. These little feelings of numb dizziness come and go, but when they start I get a little freaked, thinking this is IT. Then they go away and I can pretend I am normal. I’ve been doing THAT pretending since before puberty, so I am well practiced, an expert. This time I even have a sticker for the cars and a cane when I need it. But this time, like at the beginning, I am alone. If I talk about it I scare people. So I don’t. Brian and Karen and YOU are scared enough already. Shut up!

I just want the 20 more years the statisticians quoted me. I want to chase Lucy around the yard, to garden, to laugh like I used to, to stop crying like a baby but I’ll take a dizzy less day. Heck, I’ll take the day.

So, I have two months and 2 days more to get “normal”. Some people think 6 months will be as good as it gets. Some feel a year long recovery is possible. Me? I am going for the long shot.

Wouldn’t you?

- - - David

We're BACK!

2009-01-20T15:18:00.001-05:00

All the comforts of home

I kept saying, in my head, “ Please Gods, let me just make it to Hawaii and back, just let me see Obama sworn in”

Now I kick myself for not making a third wish.

Maybe there’s still time.

- - - David

Our STAY in Oahu

2009-01-16T12:33:00.004-05:00

What would Obama do?

So it's a little windy! SO they've closed the government, the education system AND the catholic Schools. SO they've closed the pools AND the beaches? I still want to go swimming!

How often does a guy from MICHIGAN get to go SWIMMING in the middle of January?
NOT VERY OFTEN

I guess I settle for a coffee and an old newspaper. Really . . . I'll just look.

We may be stuck here for awhile?

- - - David

Greetings from Waikiki

2009-01-14T12:51:00.009-05:00

Surf boards next to the Honolulu's Moana Surfrider Hotel on Waikiki Beach

Saturday we left Sophie at the Reye's, the coats in the car and prayed that the plane would take off. Outside it was COLD and it was SNOWING, (so, believe us, the catholic guilt is alive and well). We made it to our seats and jesusmaryjoseph we took off! Let's just say the ride from Detroit through SFO to HI takess long time.

Saturday night we were just like a couple of frozen Michiganders in paradise, the full moon helped. The lobby and grounds of the Moana Surfrider are beautiful. Think Mackinaw Island's Grand Hotel hedged in by skyscrapers on the beach of Waikiki (got it?)

Sunday, we hit Waikiki beach and then headed off to the Windward Coast on H1, (an inter-state [?] highway!?!). Very beautiful, old volcanic mountains covered in odd greenery, a tunnel, then . . . more ocean! We found our way into a cemetery and the Valley of the Temples. The Byodo-In Temple is an immense SCALED DOWN version of a Japanese Buddhist Temple complete with a huge Buddah statue, all backed by a few Oahu mountains. Amazing.

From there it was back in the Mustang (we only rent American!),down to the southern coast, Hanauma Bay (lots of STAIRS!), the beach from From Here To Eternity, Diamond Head, ( B calls it Black Diamond), and home to Waikiki.

Monday we drove to the infamous North Coast, the historic town of Haleiwa, the surf at The Banzai Pipeline, (cowabunga!), back down to Kualoa Point, back up to Malaekahana Beach (great little rental huts), an Epi-Pen worthy lunch a Giovanni's shrimp truck, then back to 99, a brief out of body experience, H2 to H1 and home to Waikiki.

Tuesday, Brian had to get some client work done. I tried to stay out of trouble at the Sheraton, straying little and watching the workers renovating the hotel. Today I may venture to the pool, I may venture out for a pineapple laden hamburger, but my heart and soul will stay in the verdant hills of O'ahu.

- - - David

See you soon

2009-01-09T16:33:00.001-05:00

If the snow doesn’t fall too hard, if the planes take off, if the dogs find shelter, so many ifs . . .

Gods willing, we’ll be gone, in Oahu, from Saturday, January 10th to Saturday, January 17th.

We will try to access the blogger blog and throw an update at you from the trip, gods willing.

- - - David

49 Down, 1 To Go

2009-01-08T19:58:00.003-05:00

Ah . . . laska, #49

June, 2006, On the shores of Sadie Cove on The Kenai Peninsula (near Homer)

Today I walked the slushy, snowy streets of Ann Arbor. I was without walker, I was without cane, I wobbled but I went. The only thing that Dr. Bennett, the optometrist, called out was a little less acuity, vision wise, but I knew that even BEFORE the stroke. I need new glasses. Not “Don’t drive!” Not “ Oh, that’s to be expected with a stroke.” Nothing. I felt almost normal. As if we were celebrating, we bought a new pair of glasses AND new contacts AND had lunch at Zingerman's Roadhouse. Ah Life!

Then I thought, “Oh gods, let this continue long enough to get me to Hawaii. (jinx, jinx)”

Home alone, normalcy, t.v., desk, computer, facebook, hours. Then I felt a swoon. I never knew what a swoon was before. But I felt one.

Dizzier than I ever felt before, I was immobilized with fear. And I was immobilized with immobilization. Reaching for the phone for help, it rang. As if by secret twin powers, it was Brian. “Call me back. Give me a minute,” I said. Then it passed.

Was it the great spirit saying “I’m in Charge. Not you. This good stuff can end ANY time. Didn’t you get the message the first time?”

I am perfectly fine now. Reading away. Walking like nobody’s business. Packing.

Which brings us to Saturday. Lift off. (jinx, jinx) Our trip to Hawaii and my question.

When the plane lands in Oahu, my 50th state, will the band play? Will the fat lady sing? Will the Grim Reaper be waiting for me, pointing his bony finger at a hole in the sandy soil? Nooooooo!

I’m not finished.

After I hit my 50th state I have every intention of visiting ALL the countries too. I’ve ONLY been to the USA, Canada, Mexico, Italy, Switzerland, France and Spain. According to WorldAtlas.com there are 193 countries to visit PLUS Kosovo (disclaimer), Palestine, Greenland and Western Sahara AND a lot of Dependencies and Territories TOO! I’ve only been to 7!

7 down, LOTS to go.

- - - David

Found

2009-01-05T08:10:00.004-05:00

I once was lost but now I'm found.

There was a time I was a little too addicted to this website. They post something strange everyday. A polaroid of an odd couple, an eerie shopping list, a note written by a kid being bullied . . . anything is possible, all of it is found, most of it takes me by surprise. http://www.foundmagazine.com/

It all started years ago, with a note found on a windshield in Chicago. http://www.foundmagazine.com/about . This evolved into a magazine. Then another, talk radio (NPR among them), tours, a website, international fans; much followed.

Fame. Not too bad for a couple of kids with a fixation for the odd? Now the staff is HUGE.

Oh, and my friend Ginny knows one of the founders, Davy Rothbart, (from Ann Arbor).

Oh, and on Saturday I was found (above).

When the addiction was at it’s zenith, before facebook, a little over 2 years ago, we were renovating the kitchen. One day I tore down a wall that exposed the area under the stairs. It was odd, It was an eerily empty space. Hobie the cat and I immediately explored. There was a lot of dust, a few small kids toys and this strange piece of paper.

I read it and put it with the rest of the small objects we had found around the house. OK, I had found around the house. I keep most everything. There is a fine line separating me from that and an apartment stuffed full of newspapers and cockroaches. Finders Keepers is a comforting mantra to me. A piece of paper with a typewritten message is a FIND. I’m someone who thinks a dirty old miniature dog is a treasure, after all. I kept it. Then on a whim I sent a photo of it to Found™. Saturday, almost 2 years after I sent it in, it was published. I didn’t know until I got a Google Alert.

“Squeeze my cheeks and I’ll give you a kiss.”

or follow you anywhere.

ask Brian.

- - - David

Driving, (me crazy?)

2009-01-03T13:38:00.005-05:00

Marcy wrote at 11:37 am (on facebook)

“Sandy is driving too...driving me crazy! :)”

lmao

Today, I drove. This is a major moment. This should be a historical red letter day . . . everybody, holiday, NO working! Drinks are on us!

I still walk and talk like I’ve been spending a little time (and a little money) at the bar at Cub’s, but there I was behind the wheel, and I was doing OKay.

I started safely, in an empty parking lot, but it wasn’t long before I headed out to the mean streets of Adrian. There was traffic, the normal running of the stop signs, the normal pick-ups going 20 over, even the normal pulling out into traffic, ahh, life, I love the smell of danger in the morning.

I even pulled onto Adrian’s equivalent of the Indy 500 . . . U.S. 123. Brilliance. Whoever chose the name 1 - 2 - 3 gets a prize, great numbers. Better yet, Brian gets a prize for having the nerve to sit in the passenger seat. The dogs? No prize, they’d drive with anyone.

For those shaking their heads and thinking, “what’s the big woof, we drive every day”, I say : try sitting in the house or better yet the hospital, too, for 3 months (oh, and throw in some pureed food, some tubes AND then quit smoking.)

How many of us remember learning how to walk and talk? I try to keep the same attitude as a toddler, “So, I’m a little wobbly, I’m getting there!” Walk slowly, smile broadly, cry often, don’t pay attention to people who are watching, these are good guidelines when you are toddling . . . kids do this automatically, they have the right idea, I give them credit. You will notice that few toddlers carry hot cups of coffee, there’s a good reason for this.

Now I am to driving again. This one I remember. So, we could have a few fender benders, I’ll be careful, (isn’t that what the kids say?)

- - - David

Blue Christmas

2008-12-29T14:18:00.002-05:00

Room with a view? Pray this comes true.

In 12 days, (that’s a week from Saturday), we’ll be on our way. As we used to say in grade school, "No Brag, just fact". I mean it.

I am freaking.

There’s the good freak, the fact that I’m lucky enough to be alive and going, but also the more frequent and intense freak freak because I am not in the least bit prepared. I am just starting to read the Blue Planet book (at least I didn’t wait until I got on the plane!), but I have very few ideas of what to do/see/visit. I realize there is only so much an old gay guy with a dizzy head, a slow walk and a cane can accomplish in a week while B is attending to business, but if you have any ideas, e-mail them to me. Anyone have a map of O’ahu?

Brilliant ideas like my sister had, “take me with you”, are funny, but not helpful. I wish I had the money and the power to do it. You know you will be there in my heart. I know that’s not as good, but for now it will have to do.

- - - David

My Modest Proposal

2008-12-26T14:53:00.004-05:00

O before R

Much ado has been made about Obama’s choice of Rick Warren as a prayer giver at next month’s historical/hysterical inauguration.

On one hand Warren’s on screen analogy of gay marriage with the incest of a brother marrying a sister as a reason for his backing of California’s Prop (H-)8, his further rantings, his church’s banning of unrepentant homos and his citing of “biblical” reasons for legalizing discrimination.

On the other hand, there is Warren’s reported return of 25 years of church salary, reported tithing/return of 90% of his future earnings and his support of the AIDS crises and his publicized support of other charities. Melissa Etheridge (Singer/Survivor/Activist) publishes and accepts Warren’s apologies. Obama further points out that it’s an opportunity to reach out to evangelicals. Saner talking heads say that Warren is only one of the preachers appearing.

Has all this hullabaloo over? Hardly. What can I will I do? Well I am torn. I will cancel my plans to go to D.C. to watch the occasion. I will plan on watching Obama’s swearing in on television, at least most of it. I will turn my back on and not listen to Warren’s prayer.

Maybe this is what the founders had in mind when they planned to separate church and State.

What happened?

I am heartened that a well spoken, thinking man has been elected. But I am tired of the same old politics. I am tired of the hatred that calls itself religion. I am tired of the opinions. I want to be inspired. I crave hope.

So, I will (not quite so) silently protest hatred, unless of course it changes it’s ways.

I can hope.

- - - David

16 Random Things: (tag, you're it.)

2008-12-23T08:19:00.004-05:00

Like the flu, but nicer, this thing is going around (on facebook, on the internet).

I am going to send it to everyone who sent it to me and to everyone who might do it. My advice? Don't think, write.

"Rules: Once you have been tagged, you have to write a note about 16 random things pertaining to you. When you're finished tag 16 others. Tag the one who tagged you. If I tagged you it's because I want to know more about you."

1. I was raised catholic, went to mass daily for 8 years, served as an altar boy, wanted to be a priest, then the church made a point of saying I was bad. They embrace child molesters and murderers, but I am bad. No problem, I left.

2. I am a reverend of the universal life church. You can be too. I now describe myself as a Latitudinarian. That is described, by my DICTIONARY as allowing latitude in religion; showing no preference among varying creeds and forms of worship. I still have the faith like I thought the nuns meant when I was young.

3. I love to travel. In January I plan to visit my 50th state. If I make it, Yahoo says there are 194 countries on the planet. 6 down 188 to go.

4. I also love to be home; TV on, feet up, friends over, (between trips).

5. I have always loved to read. I love to read CRAP. I will read whatever is put in front of me. I agree with it, fine. I disagree with it, interesting. I never read anything like it before, fabulous. I go crazy if I can't read a newspaper in the morning, 2 or 3 even better. The New York Times will not deliver to my house. This is barbaric. This is a reason to move.

6. I used to write an advice column. A kind of advice for the home, design/decorating, how-to, why-not column. I was fired, after years. I am still full of it, advice that is.

7. I avoid mirrors. Sometimes I use them to see if I am covered in something odd, most times I do not.

8. I enjoy dogs. They do not look in mirrors either. I do not know if they read, if they bother to write or if they are former Catholics. But I think I know what they are thinking, sometimes.

9. I have always loved science fiction, crime. detective or vampire stories, scary things like Stephen King and/or freaky movies like Blair Witch. Since the stroke they all scare me a little too much to enjoy. Strange but true. I have not bought this up in therapy.

10. Someday, when I go. I would prefer a large party. a pine box, as many containers for my ashes as people want, and to be scattered/buried wherever people choose. I do not wish to be mourned, more than usual.

11. I am getting used to this dizzy stuff, but I do not enjoy it.

12. I wonder if I will ever laugh/dance/run normally again. I hope so.

13. I am monogamous by nature, I can't help it.

14. 14. I am attracted to bright lights and funny people who are not mean.

15. 15. I cannot tie knots very well. or untie them. This is why I avoided tying in kindergarten, dropped out of boy scouts, failed as a sailor and prefer loafers.

16. 16. I do not like heights, but they thrill me.

- - - David

2008-12-22T08:18:00.005-05:00

So, it's surrounded by high rises? At least it's Hawaii.

Brian made the reservation today, (don’t tell Lucy). So it’s official, not a sure thing, but official. Kalakaua Avenue it is.

A week on Waikiki beach. I pray for nice weather, but anything would be fine. Oceanfront, balcony . . . spa, surfing . . . leis, luaus.

If I have to be stuck somewhere, it might as well be in a Honolulu Hotel. Hello, room service?

Want to check it out?

http://www.moana-surfrider.com/

- - - David (meet us on the veranda.)

Get Me Out of Here?

2008-12-16T07:30:00.006-05:00

A plane with a view . . .
I haven’t been this giddy since I got out of St. Joe’s.

I’ve been out of the hospital since late October. I mostly stay at home. I have been allowed out of the house a few times since then, but mostly I’ve become one with my television and with facebook. I am starting to read more and walk better, but for weeks it’s been me the dogs and the television and the sofa, and sometimes Brian (Though he probably feels that it's ALWAYS and CONSTANTLY Brian). I am not whining. I am grateful for the time I’ve had and the abilities I’ve been afforded and the friends who’ve cared and EVERYTHING.

But between you and me, I’m getting a little cabin fever. Just a little. The mere thought of escape is mesmerizing. Throw in a plane ride and I’m ecstatic. So imagine how happy I am with the idea of getting out and visiting my 50th state . . . Honolulu is calling . . . and I am packing my bag.

Brian has business on the big Island in January and there’s a hotel ( Hōkele ) with a big bed and a larger pool just waiting for me and my cane and calling my name. Can you hear it?

“Aloha”

I can.

Mele Kalikimaka, indeed.

- - - David

College becomes Her

2008-12-12T07:45:00.004-05:00

A Radiant Future Awaits

We got the call last night, first from Ginka News, then immediately from the source. I was startled, but not surprised.

Alison Nicole Genevieve (Staskowski) Lunau was accepted by the University of Michigan. (My sister’s daughter/our alma mater) The youngest niece and the Maize and Blue!

She has not decided whether yet whether to major in medicine, law, neuroscience, environmental science, business, the fine arts, a combination of all of the above or to strive for a degree in general studies . . . anything could happen, but she’s in.

If she does what is planned, she will be in the college of L.S.& A. (Literature,Science and the Arts) in the Autumn of 2009. This is where Miss Ruby (Music), the blogger (Architecture & Design), and Brian (B.G.S.), all began. Just 30 years after this favored Uncle (me) graduated, it all begins again. I said favored, not favorite, Brian.

We congratulate her, and remind her we are never far away, (that goes for her brother too). The healing and studious pies of Uncle Brian await you.

Always A Scholar

I’ll just watch, proudly.

- - - Uncle Dave

Solitude

2008-12-11T09:42:00.002-05:00

Watching the bulbs grow

The highlight of my life? Sadly, it’s Therapy . . . and that’s ending soon. That either means I’ve progressed so far that it’s no longer beneficial to throw a ball at the trampoline while balancing n one foot OR it means I’ve stopped progressing and I’ll be dizzy for as long as I last.

It’s been almost two months since I left the hospital. The walker and the shower chair are gathering dust, I actually read 15 pages yesterday, what do I have to whine about? The answer is NOTHING. I know that I am lucky to be alive. I am lucky to be given the chance to give up smoking and to give up drinking, and to give up ladders . . . but I want to go outside!

Be careful what you wish for. Two dogs and a husband? Got em. A quiet house with a yard and a white picket fence? Check. No retail work on Saturday? Oh what I wouldn’t give for the voice of a stranger asking why my pots are so expensive.

So what that I almost fell off a step stool hanging holiday greens? I can get around, can’t I? Why the heck would I want to go to Meijer anyway? What’s so special? Thank the gods for the TV, and for the ease of typing on facebook (If you want to join, email me. I’d be happy to invite you. it’s fun!)

I am trying to be careful, to be grateful, to be patient and to be hopeful. I really am! But I am getting tired, and I really want to go outside!

I’ll stop complaining, I am fine. I better get on with my day, Brian was even nice enough to get me the N Y Times, before he left for work. There are places to go, at least in my mind.

- - - David

Feast Day of St. Eph

2008-11-24T14:56:00.002-05:00

Birthday Wishes go West

Yesterday was spent honoring our dog.

Today is the day we honor our favorite show girl’s birthday. No, no not Bette, but Steph.

We celebrate her day by canceling all pop quizzes until after the Holidaze. Everyone gets an A.

- - - D

Our Grrl !

2008-11-23T11:33:00.002-05:00

Happy Birthday Dear Sophie, Happy Birth Day to you!

As a human, she’d only just be a girl, as a dog she’s all grown-up and grey muzzled.

In either case it’s her birthday today, and it’s worth celebrating!

She’s 12 and she’s S O P H I E !

We salute you.

- - David

YES!

2008-11-05T09:07:00.001-05:00

I had a dream

My dream Came true!

- - - David

I Voted . . .

2008-11-04T12:58:00.003-05:00

. . . did you?

Walker in hand. I did my duty. Duty. Right. Privilege? . . . you decide. But we did it, Brian and I.

The scanner was broken so I don’t know if it counted, but I did it. I Marked my ballot and handed it in, the historic 2008 American election.

I can only hope my candidate wins, and all is well and my country is no longer led by a fool . . . I think we’ll be fine either way, getting “W” out is enough for me. Recovery is bound to happen eventually,

I’ll be patient.

- - - D

BEING THERE

2008-11-01T08:55:00.007-04:00

The biggest problem with being in the hospital, was DEALING with all the tubes,
(AND the plastic bed)

Now . . . Where was I?

Whisking cross the dessert?

Running across the Planes?

Running?

In any case, here I am NOW, an inVALID? A Drooling, Talking-Funny InVALID. . .

using a walker!

And happy to do so!

ReHab is humbling, I no longer look at life the same way. Now I am SO Happy with the LITTLE Things in life.

Sunshine and Fresh air are wonderful gifts, not to be missed or taken for granted, neither are friends (however infrequently seen) Or Family (However FAR AWAY) OR Loved ones. (However angry at you) Or the freedom just to walk outside and dig in the soil . . .

All are worthy of Incredible Respect.

All should be constantly thanked.

All are gifts to be grateful for.

As Joni says . . . “You don’t know what you got . . . til it’s gone.”

Or as John McCain says, “You learn ‘Not to waste time!’ “

And I am Grateful . . . for learning this in time.

I wouldn't recommend a stroke, or a months stay in the hospital to anyone, but it was an eye opener.

- - - David

You CAN Go Home Again

2008-10-23T09:29:00.001-04:00

At Home, ALL is Well

At Home at Last.
Grateful.
Grateful for ALL.

- - - David

Twelve Days So Far

2008-10-13T20:44:00.006-04:00

David has now been at St Joseph Mercy Ann Arbor (it’s actually in Ypsilanti) for 12 days. For David it’s been 12 days too long in the hospital. For me, it’s been a blur since the stroke. But I’m happy to report after a week in the rehab unit, Dave is making slow but steady progress in his mobility, coordination, speaking, and swallowing. We had a “family meeting” with the whole rehab team and doctor in charge today. Everyone is very pleased with his progress. He barely needs assistance with the walker anymore, but does need a spotter. The rehab team just cautioned him from getting too confident as he tends to be impulsive (really?!). Safety first. Today, his constant dizziness seemed gone. The patch is to help alleviate double vision. Right now they will likely keep him (or as David says, “hold me as a prisoner”) for another 9-10 days depending on progress. Unfortunately, I need to continue to work, take care of dogs, and mind the house, so I’m no longer spending the night in his hospital room. Visitors are welcome (Rm. 416) after his therapies at 4 pm on weekdays and all weekend or between 5-7 am if you are wielding a latte (2 sugars please). Everyone’s cards, flowers, treats, and stuffed dogs have been very much appreciated, so keep them coming to brighten his room for the next 10 days. He is checking email, FaceBook, and has his cell.

The hospital has a great service to send a personalized card here: http://www.sjmercyhealth.org/body.cfm?id=1084

Or the old-fashioned location is: St. Joseph Mercy Hospital, 5301 McAuley Drive, Ypsilanti, MI 48197, Phone: 734-712-3456

David’s sense-of-humor is helping me, at least, get through this. I think it’s helping him cope too. We both appreciate everyone’s prayers, thoughts, warm wishes, and offers for help. I can’t wait for him to be home.

My David and Yours - From Brian

2008-10-08T13:26:00.004-04:00

I’m sure like me, you’ve all been eagerly awaiting David’s next blog entry.

Which is written brilliantly by him on behalf of both of us. The blog began a couple years back as a way to connect our daily lives to yours . . . to share pics and stories about the dogs, our travels, the house renovation and more in this iAge. What the blog became expanded beyond that. It became interesting musings of not only our life, but David’s observations all around. The blog became dedicated to special birthdays and people we love, memorials to pets we miss dearly, and sometimes rantings about the injustices of this small world we all share. So forgive me, because I don’t know how to format this blog the way Dave does with pics here and text there . . . you all know how picky he can be about design and styling, so bear with me on this entry as I learn.

By now many of you have heard the news of David’s stroke this week. For those of you who have not, I’m truly sorry to tell you in this e-medium way. I write this blog today as I take a guilty break from caregiving at the hospital. I write to tell you that the blog will be on what I expect to be a temporary hiatus. I write to give you a sense of how we both are today. But mostly I write to ask for and thank you for your love, prayers and wishes. . . .and helping hands. We need helping hands. Thanks already to the helping hands of dear friend Ginny and sis Karen for allowing me a break from the hospital and helping with the dogs. And everyone’s emotional and moral support from near and far is also very greatly appreciated. So please accept my apologies when I can’t take or return calls immediately, because I may be in the middle of helping David with basic daily tasks.

So the medical update: David has a blocked artery to the brain and we are awaiting news on how that will be treated. Inpatient Rehab might begin as early as Monday for speech, physical, and occupational therapy. We will know more of “the plan” for treatment and recovery this weekend. What’s great: his mind is good (and thankfully so is his wry but often blatant sense-of-humor). He’s already given the classic David sarcastic “look” as well as the “smirk.” The NOT great: he is frustrated with his speech can’t up with his mind; he can’t walk on his own and can’t swallow pureed food that is not loaded with butter or salt.

I am very eager to see him home in about 2 weeks at which time outpatient rehab would begin 3 times a week.

I will figure out a way to keep you all updated as I try to manage our house and resume work. Alas, the blog will have to wait; David cannot. Please know that my number one priority is rehabilitating your dear friend, your favorite uncle, your beloved brother and son, and my best friend, lover, partner and now husband. In a California marriage, I shared the happiest day of my life with David a couple of weeks ago and now I realize that the happiest the day of my life is each day I have with him . . . in sickness and in health indeed.

All my love, Brian

Car, Pool: 6 Nights and 5 Days at the Coral Sands Inn

2008-09-28T15:35:00.020-04:00

The coral siding and turquoise pool give
the desert sunset a run for it’s money

I don’t think of myself as the type that is satisfied to stay pool side all day. I consider myself a museum goer, road food lover, rock stealer, path hiker, map reader, secret seeker, a dawn to dusk doer. I’m the one who comes back from vacations more tired than when I left. I tend to believe that resting is better done when there’s nothing else to do.

I did try to stay active, when I was at the Palm Springs home of Ruby Montana I was often found at 3 in the morning sitting at the formica table in her kitchen solving the world’s problems. But while the sun shined, especially at high noon when the Bubble-Up thermometer read 120℉, you’d find me floating like a redwood log in the calm healing waters of her pool, even when there was a wedding to be planned.

On Wednesday, September 3rd, our Element of Stylelessness pulled up just in time for cocktails at the Coral Sands Inn. Unlike the British TV star, Nick Knowles, who, reportedly, jumped into the pool directly from his motorcycle in full leather, I first drank Rube’s icy beer and THEN jumped in, suited appropriately in drip dry trunks. Immediately, I was enchanted by the healing waters. For 5 days I never ventured far except for sustenance, legal matters, kitchen cabinet meetings and, regrettably, sleep.

I discovered that if you stay in the pool long enough, miraculous apparitions begin to appear. Younger men will come into your life and ask you to marry them. Visions of sleek taupe colored animals will lounge on pool chairs. And buff pool grrls will float by, instructing you to seek enlightenment by performing the holy rites of water crunches. And I swear, in the glowing light of another desert evening I was whispered to by furry sirens who hovered just out of reach.

Ruby, you had better get out the skimmer, I think I have left part of my soul in your pool.

- - - David

Route 66 Part Five: The Finale S T R E T C H

2008-09-26T22:23:00.013-04:00

All of Route 66 was memorable,
but if I had to pick just one stretch not to miss . . .

If you’ve never been to the Grand Canyon, no words I could conjure would begin to describe it. If you have been, you know that all the pictures you take look dull and flat compared to what the eye takes in. Our short 5 hour tour of the south rim was memorable, I get the feeling that a 5 day tour wouldn’t be long enough. We went, we saw and once again I vowed to return for a real visit, one with burros and a stone lodge.

After the canyon we made out way back down to Williams and on to Seligman, and some authentic Route 66 travel. Seligman is a gateway to an arch of 2 lane pavement that heads up towards western Grand Canyon, leads through small towns and then comes back down to Kingman. After Kingman the real adventure begins. The way to the “ghost town” of Oatman, is a roller coaster, hairpin, Black Mountain joy with deserted desert 2 lane stomach dropping cliffside no guardrail views. My kind of ride. After Oatman things settle down a bit but scenic is still the word as you go downhill into Topock.

Before we left Michigan, doing research on Route 66, I saw a lot of photos from the road. At home, they all seemed so far away, so remote, so different from the views I had from my windows in Adrian. At home I tried hard to imagine what it was going to be like to be on that road and here I was. I was actually there, taking my own photos, the road was real and I could smell the air. I still can, I hope that sense of being there doesn’t fade.

From Topock we jumped on I-40 long enough to cross the Colorado River into California and got off again to drive 66 into Needles. We had a quick lunch at Burger Hut, some excellent tacos, and headed into the Mojave. The desert was whiter, flater, drier and even more desolate. We drove 66 for miles until we reached Najah's Sahara Oasis, in Fenner. Gas was suddenly a dollar more, but there were palm trees and jets of water coming out of a algae green pool.

After Fenner it was only 50 miles to our turn off at Amboy. It was hot and dry and our few stops were quick, jumping back into the air conditioning. There were the ruins of an old rest stop who’s plaque asked you to listen to the silence and imagine crossing the mojave in the 1920’s. There were a few ruins of road stops like the Road Runner, modern flintstone graffit that spread across the berms for miles and at Amboy, Roy’s Diner, Gas and Motel, being renovated by Albert Okura, who owns the Juan Pollo restaurant chain.

Roy’s old owner used to own the town of Amboy, which isn’t much more than Roy’s and now Okura does too. The renovation had been going on for awhile and there’s no end in sight just yet, I hope that there will be a there there someday.

We turned off Route 66 at Roy’s in Amboy, but we weren’t “home” yet. We drove across the dry lake beds, through the Sheep Hole Mountains and into Twentynine Palms. From there we took the road past the orgy of windmills and into the Coachella Valley. Then it wasn’t far to the Coral Sands Inn and the welcoming arms of our minister, motelier and friend, Ruby Z. Montana.

Now that was an oasis we could be happy to see. No mirage, no high gas prices, a cool deep pool with no algae and the beers were cold and waiting.

Ruby, in red, scurried to meet us at the gate of the Coral Sands Inn

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Route 66 Part Four: Into the Desert

2008-09-24T22:46:00.015-04:00

The Blue Swallow Motel, in vintage neon, in Tucumcari, New Mexico

(where we DIDN'T stay)

“Tu - cum - car - i, Tucumcari” Brian was chanting, sounding like Babe the pig trying to befriend the sheep. It was Monday morning, September 1st, we were 40 miles into New Mexico. Tucumcari is neon heaven. The renovating Safari Motel where we stayed was planning on $20,000 to fix their sign. We had seen great examples the night before, including the Blue Swallow Motel, (above), which didn’t allow dogs. (dang it)

Our goal Monday was to get to Gallup, but we had a side trip planned to Santa Fe. We weren’t deserting 66, we were following the path of the original route that made it’s way to the Santa Fe trail. There were rock stops on the way and the road the guide book took us on was nice. We did get a little lost once and ended up in a Bible resort, but we put the car in reverse and got out fast.

Santa Fe is surrounded by sprawl but the center of it is very beautiful and peaceful, a teeny river runs through it. When we got there we found full parking lots and a craft/art fair in the main square. Brian held the dogs while I ran into the churches.

San Miguel Mission is the oldest church in the USA, built by Spanish missionaries and the Natives they brought with them in 1610. The Cathedral is much newer, 1887, but still okay. We walked the dogs along the river and through town then made a quick exit. The Travel Channel’s Samantha Brown had a much nicer time, maybe next time.

Next, after dropping back down on 84 to Moriarty, was Route 66 into Albuquerque, (now that’s hard to spell). The big A is a bonanza of old Route 66 buildings. My doctor’s office told us we had to stop at the Route 66 Diner, so we did. Walking in I had the impression that it had all the charm of a Johnny Rockets. While we waited for a waiter, I checked out the Road Food site for an alternative. Surprise! Road Food had reviewed the place and Michael Stern himself had liked it. R-E-L-I-E-F. The place was built in ’92, I pondered, so maybe we had to give it a little credit for the 66 revival. The fried okra was great.

It seemed to take a long time to get out of the Big A. When we did, we lost 66 for awhile, buried under 44. We got off at Mesita where 66 picked up again. The road through Laguna Pueblo was an almost religious experience, and I was so taken back that I forgot to take pictures. The land has been populated for 5,000 years, rocks had names, there were house ruins made of rocks and the road had Dead Man curves.

We made our way to Gallup, 66 got easier, we relaxed. The red setting sun lit the red rocks, all was good, all was beautiful.

Then we arrived at the Best Western in Gallup. It was on the far west side, there was nothing near by, and the only window in the room opened to an enclosed corridor. It wasn’t pretty. But we had a few beers and went to bed.

We woke, we packed, we headed back into Gallup for breakfast. Wendy Zuverink, a middle school friend of Brian’s who used to teach in Gallup told us to go to Jerry’s for “local flavor”. We arrived just as the venetian blinds were being raised. A beautiful woman brought us menus. “The sopaipillas aren’t ready,” she apologized when she brought our food, “So I brought you fresh tortillas”. They were as warm as her welcome. A really great breakfast lifted the mood.

We headed off to Arizona, into the desert and made our way to our first National Park. The Petrified Forest tour starts with the Painted Desert and then goes south into the land of trees turned to stone. I had pulled into a view point when I told Brian of my first time there as a teenager. I was disappointed then because I had envisioned a standing forest of petrified trees not a bunch of stone logs on the desert sand. One look at Brian’s frown and I knew he had had the same vision, until that moment. “The trees had all fell down”. We hurried through the rest of the park.

We made our way into Holbrook and the second great meal of the day at Joe and Aggie’s. Not only did Road Food know this place but so did our spiral bound tour book. There were a few booths, petrified wood for sale in a bushel basket and we finally got to taste sopaipillas. We took a quick tour of the Wigwam motel, Brian named all of the owner’s cars that had been characters in the movie “Cars”.

We headed off to our second National Park and Brian’s first view of the Grand Canyon.

- - - David

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Route 66 Part Three: Onto the Great Plain

2008-09-22T14:56:00.010-04:00

Half way point:
Sunday August 31st, 2008
Texas

On Saturday night, the moment we got into the car at the Oklahoma City National Memorial, the skies opened. It was a deluge, a can’t see out the windows, driving on the crest of the road, black night deluge. The 30 miles to El Reno took us a bit longer. Brian’s iPhone suggested we take the InterState but I reasoned we should take Route 66, even if we couldn’t really see it. (we DID see a bit of neon before we got out of the city!).

Sunday morning, August 31st, dawned bright, blue and promising. We were in El Reno, revered birth place of Ruby Z. Montana, our friend and the woman scheduled to marry us the following Sunday morn. Brian had researched Road Food and learned that El Reno was infamous for something called an Onion Burger and he was determined to find one for breakfast. What my fiancé was realizing was that it was Sunday morning and though the cafes were famous for serving up this griddle fried wonder starting at 6 AM, they would all be closed. Fry cooks need to go to church too. One after another we drove slowly by the burger stops, Robert’s, Johnnie’s, Jobe’s and Sid’s, all were dark. In the quiet of a Sunday morn people were startled awake by the sound of Brian’s dreams shattering.

Spirits lifted a little once we got on the road, (after a sorry stop at a Sonic Drive-In), and we had a glimpse of the Great Plains. Rainfall had left the soil bright red and the grass deep green, and we were back on the two lane pristine portland cement of Route 66. We blared our theme song on the radio and headed for Texola.

The road architecture continued to amaze us. In Texola we found a hundred year old Territorial Jail where ne’er-do-wells were locked up together in the stone building. The door and windows were open to the August heat and the January cold. Miscreants were not coddled back in the day.

A few minutes later we were in Texas. Shamrock held a vintage Conoco and a restored Magnolia service station. In McLean we visited The Devil’s Rope Barbed Wire Museum, where docent Anita Sealy followed us around to make sure we signed the guest book. The place was a hoot, and I was amazed at the collection, the displays AND the Gift Shop.

After McLean we headed to Amarillo where we had Sunday supper at Dyer’s, again guided by Road Food. Another hour of awe inspiring scenic driving on 66 got us to Adrian, YES, Adrian, Texas, the Route 66 midpoint between Chicago and Los Angeles. Again, disappointment for Brian, the famous MidPoint Cafe, home of the Ugly Crust Pie was closed for the day. But there was a big sign and a photo op then we bravely . . . if pielessly, drove on.

We made it to the Texas/New Mexico border by 5:15, crossed a time line and it was 4:15. It wasn’t far to Tucumcari and the vintage Safari Motel right on Route 66, dinner at the Pow Wow Lizard Lounge and the end of our third day on the road.

I felt as if I had left Adrian, MICHIGAN, far far behind.

- - - David

Route 66 Part Two: Through Missouri, Kansas and into Oklahoma

2008-09-21T16:44:00.023-04:00

Business along the original Route 66 once boomed, then languished while the super highways expanded.
Some, like Wrinks Market in Lebanon, MO are coming back to life, neon and all.

The decision to get married was almost instantaneous after we heard the California Supreme Court struck down the state's ban on same-sex marriage on May 15th. The place, also a quick choice, as soon as Ruby Montana announced her impending minister certification, the Coral Sands in Palm Springs was the obvious venue. The date, September 7th, the 12th anniversary of our Domestic Certification in Seattle. Mode of transport: I’d been itching for another cross county trip, an opportunity to show Brian my favorite landscapes and to initiate him as a national park junior ranger. And if we drove, we could take the dogs.

Then that song popped into my head, like the voice of an angel heralding a plan. “If you ever plan to motor west, travel my way, take the highway that's the best. Get your kicks on Route 66”

The planning began, websites, books, maps, motels. Motels still live on Route 66, but finding ones that allowed two Weimaraners wasn’t that easy. Most of the classic restored ones consider themselves too fragile to allow canine. Their loss, ours too. But while we missed out on the Munger Moss and the Blue Swallow, there was plenty else to see.

The Mother Road starts in Chicago and ends in Santa Monica. We had enough time to drive it from St. Louis to Amboy, California. The road isn’t a straight shot. Not only does it wind and turn, sometimes it disappears completely. Parts have been consumed by Interstates and some have been abandoned or lay on private land. But there is enough left to follow for miles and days and plenty of magic remains.

Through Missouri, 66 sticks pretty close to I-44 but the parts that take off into the hills and valleys of the Ozarks are buccolic and the little towns still hold friendly cafes and vintage motels. we stayed and ate in Cuba, Mo our first night and visited a great section the next day that took us to Devils Elbow. At Lebanon we took a spur that revealed Wrinks Market (top photo) and the “exclusionary” Munger Moss Motel. The motel has a gift shop, run by the owners, that is crammed full of 66 curios and souvenirs. We stocked up on postcards and decals.

After Phillipsburg, the road strays away completely from 44 and we got to experience complete solitude. After Springfield it got even better. We brought along a spiral bound book, EZ66, which guided us to a 1920’s section of the road and into the remains of Spencer, MO. We crossed a 1926 steel thru-truss bridge and stopped at an old filling station that someone is restoring, complete with sign, canopy and Ethyl gas pumps.

The old station, bridge and roadway were eerie and beautiful, we now officially had 66 fever and we were still in our first state. West of Joplin we followed a remote stretch and crossed into Kansas where 13 miles of 66 cuts the corner of the state and leads into Oklahoma. Construction and bad directions got us a little lost, but we didn’t care we found our way to the border of Oklahoma.

It was small towns with one-of-a-kind names like Quapaw, Narcissa and Venita that greeted us in Oklahoma. In Vinita we used our Road Food online guide to find Clanton’s, in business for 81 years, and famous for it’s chicken fried steak, which of course I needed to try, and I did.

17 miles east of Tulsa is the town of Catoosa which is famous for a little roadside attraction called t he Blue Whale. It was built in the early 70’s by Hugh Davis for his wife Zelta. Zelta loved whales and collected figurines. It is the ultimate collectible. It is the center of a swimming hole that went from family use to a tourist attraction. You can’t swim anymore but it’s easy to have fun. We even met Hugh’s son who still watches over the place and who told us tales while he walked around hunting for litter. He had no problem letting the dogs join us on a tour.

From Catoosa, it was through Tulsa and Route 66 down to Oklahoma City. It was getting dark and threatening rain but we wanted to make a detour to the Oklahoma City National Memorial on the site of the 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.

By the time we found our way there it was dark. We got out of the car to booming thunder and flashes of lighting. We walked through a monolithic gate that marks the time of the explosion and down into the park. We were met by a large reflecting pool that is faced on one side with ghostly glowing chairs. The thunder got louder and it started to gently rain. There are 9 rows of chairs, for the people killed in the explosion and a group of 19 smaller chairs representing the murdered children. It is a beautiful memorial made even more poignant in the flashing thunderous dark of the night. We walked around the pool to the Survivor Tree, an American Elm, that withstood the the attack. The tree is protected now by a wall that encloses it and you like a chapel. We slowly walked up to this symbol of enduring life. By then my tears were mixing with the rain.

- - - David

Route 66 Part One: How It Began

2008-09-19T10:47:00.008-04:00

Friday morning, August 29th.
The Element rests in a quiet alley in Adrian, no idea what’s to come.

Three weeks ago today, it all began. Two 60 lb. dogs, their dog food, dog meds and dog beds, dog crate and dog blankets, and some of our stuff were all piled into and on top of the Element and the journey began.

We had plans, my friends, big plans. We needed to get to St. Louis and onto Route 66 where we would follow it as best we could to California. We’d get on a desert road and travel down to Palm Springs, get a license and get legally married. Then we’d get back into the car and do a zig zag tour of a few national parks and the great plains then rejoin Route 66 to follow the part of the Mother Road we missed up to Joliet. Then it would be a quick drive due east back to Adrian, and home. We had our plans, an alligator file folder of maps and we had 16 days.

We’ve crossed the country before. Brian did it twice with Hobie Cat, I’ve done it alone, a few times with friends and twice with Anioł. We never did it together, at least not in the same car.

Our goal this crossing was to take less traveled roads, HWY 52 out of Adrian was the first one. 13 miles led us to Ohio 108 and then to Indianapolis where road construction forced us into the city and to the first of our second goals, Road Food. I admit to my share of McDonald’s on the road but we wanted more. We wanted local food, and we found it at Mug n’ Bun, guided there by the Road Food web site.

A car hop served up pork tenderloin on a bun, excellent battered onion rings and the best glass mugged root beer I’d ever had. And it was all delivered to our car window on a clip on tray. Only hours into our first day, we were blissed. Mug n’ Bun was also handing our free bumper stickers, and that is how another goal was born. We slapped the sticker on the Thule roof box (named ”the coffin”) and resolved to collect place stickers wherever we could.

Fed and fueled we made our way back to the highway. We got a little lost, but were guided back by our iPhones. I learned the value of the the phone, a little pin found us and another one showed us the way. We drove to another detour around St. Louis which we navigated with a map I had emailed to myself from the AAA site, and met up with Route 66.

Route 66 was commissioned in the 1928 and started as a series of connected and signed local roads, many unpaved. It stretched from Chicago to Los Angeles, over the years becoming 4 lanes of portland cement in many states. Parts of it are gone or buried, but enough of it remains to follow. We were gong to do that, staying off the Interstate as much as we could.

We joined Route 66 outside St. Louis and followed it for the next two hours. The Route kept cutting across HWY 44 which had been built along and on it’s original path. It wasn’t easy but we persevered and were rewarded with some great road through the rocky Ozarks. We had reservations at a dog friendly Super 8 in Cuba MO. It was dark when we got there, but not so dark that we couldn’t find a six pack before we checked in. First Day 574 miles, travel time 12 hours.

Why Route 66? There are web sites and fan clubs coast to coast. There are groups in every state it crosses dedicated to preserving what’s left. It is lined with enough original architecture to keep me awake and too many turns to allow you to lull yourself into road hypnosis. There are neon encrusted Motels still operating AND there’s the famous song.

I had loaded two versions of the Bobby Troup song to the iPod. We played it often, we played it loud, the music bouncing off pavement, rocks and abandoned service stations.

“If you ever plan to motor west
Travel my way, the highway that's the best.
Get your kicks on Route 66!”

The guest books we were encouraged to sign attest that foreigners seem to adore the road even more than americans do. Despite all the attention Route 66 is getting lately, we often found ourselves totally alone on the pavement. This was a very different way to cross the country. There was nothing familiar to this old traveller. This was a dream that came true every day.

- - - David

Racing The Rain, Parting the Waters

2008-09-16T12:42:00.008-04:00

Sophie helps with the trip plan in our motel in Springfield, Illinois.

We’re home. Actually the dogs and I are home. Brian flew out early yesterday morning for a meeting in San Jose. But we made it back, all of us. And we’re now legally and officially husband and husband.

We decided to speed through the last three days of our trip. Friday it was !-70 from Cisco, Utah through Colorado, into Kansas, sleeping in Goodland 588 miles in less than 9 hours. That included a scenic drive from Moab on 128, a snow storm on Loveland Pass, and rush hour in Denver.

Saturday, still on I-70, we crossed Kansas went through Kansas City, into Missouri and finally St. Louis. We got onto I-55 and made it into Springfield, IL. 792 miles in under 12 hours. That included a hour and a half side trip to Lucas, Kansas for a tour of the Cabin Home and Garden of Eden of outsider artist S. P. Dinsmoor, and a meal stop at the Woodyard Bar-B-Que in Kansas City. Robin Sirna, the wonderful woman who doted on us at Woodyard, asked us where we were heading. We said Springfield, she said, “That’s right in the path of the storm.” Before we got far out of Kansas City, the rain started. Hard driving rain, hurricane rain. We persevered made it to Springfield, soggy but safe, at 10:30. We had left over BBQ for dinner, all was good. We had less than 400 miles to go.

We left the motel in Springfield Sunday morning before 8. It was still raining but we were pumped for the last sprint. We pilgrimaged, on Route 66 again, to the Old State Capitol to see where Obama stood. We got on and off 55 to follow a few remaining stands of 66 in Illinois. We even saw the Hot Dog Giant in Atlanta, IL., all by 9:30 in the morning. (Lucy was unnerved by the giant’s size and barked loud enough to disturb the locals, all of who where either in church or the bar that was already opened.) We made it to Joliet at noon and joined I-80 for the final swoop home. A few minutes later, traffic stopped.

We sat . . . no cops, no signs, no alerts from the Chicago Tribune. (Though I did get two alerts about the White Sox games). We waited. The rain had stopped but so had we. Over the next 4-1/2 hours we crept 3 miles. Brian was able to find out, on the beloved iPhone, that I-80/I-94 was closed because of flooding and that traffic was being detoured, somewhere up ahead. Finally, we started moving a little faster and stopping dead less frequently. We slowly crossed the Indiana border, with the time change it was now 5:21 PM.

When we reached the one lane exit, it was 4 lanes of mayhem. Most people waited their turn. But some felt they were allowed to drive to the head of the line and then signal to be let in. This is why hand guns are not allowed in my car. There was no one directing merging traffic. Finally we saw one cop car from the town of Hammond, IN stationed at the ramp.

The officer was alone and as each car or truck drove by it stopped and he gave them directions. He gave us directions, his voice was already hoarse. I hate to think how long he was going to stand there to deal with the 6 hour pile up on I-80 through Chicago. I wondered where everybody else was. It scared me to think of how we would handle an actual disaster.

After an hour de tour of Hammond, we got on I-90, sped back down to I-80 and speedily made it through Indiana, into Ohio, the final 12.6 miles of Michigan and home. The dogs were ecstatic. It was sometime after 10 PM. 425 miles in 13 hours. Brian had a 6:30 AM flight and a meeting to finalize, but first he unpacked the car while I fed the dogs and opened some windows.

Did I mention we left the refrigerator door ajar for 16 days?

- - - David

And now for the bad news. I will be blogging about the trip out to California on Route 66, the nuptials at the Coral Sands, and everything we did, saw and ate on the way home.

That should take up all your discretional reading time for quite awhile.

So you’ll just have to put away that novel and ignore the elections.

We're BACK

2008-09-15T01:53:00.000-04:00

We're home, we're fine, we're tired.

More soon.

September 12th . . . that's still officially summer, right?

2008-09-13T02:33:00.007-04:00

A summer's day out our car window in Colorado

We spent most of the morning sweating in the heat of the high desert. First it was the red cliffs in Arches National Park. Then we took another incredible road through Utah, A/C on, a way of avoiding the MegaInterState. (much more on that later).

We admitted defeat with the clock and joined I-70 in eastern Utah. We had to, time is ticking and Brian has a plane to catch.

I-70 into the Rockies is not bad at all for an interstate, winding, river following, almost desolate . . . my kind of road . . . and the speed limit, which everyone exceeds whenever possible, is 75mph. All in all, good road.

We were getting pretty high, elevation-ally speaking, when I noticed we were losing speed. A second later the blobs on the windshield revealed the reason. It was sleeting, soon we were in a full fledged snow fall.

Snow is not to be laughed at in the mountains, even if it's still summer. So happens, I didn't feel like laughing. I like a good mountain drive, trucks going full tilt down hill, then crawling up the next incline. It is an adventure. But, suddenly, I am fearing for my passengers.

It got worse before it got better. We finally pulled off to the strange rest stop because in the middle of this, Lucy needed to go outside . . NOW! I jumped out of the car, clad in shorts, to meet the equvilant of a Michigan December.

By the time we got back on the road, though, it eased up. The sun came out, life was beautiful and the whole experience was now a subject of relieved laughter.

Life is like that once in awhile. You fear for your life one minute and the next you are laughing in relief at another close call.

One other thing. This all happened on Loveland Pass . . . Ginny Loveland, Gary Loveland . . . you got some Splainin' to do.

- - - David

After the storm, Brian about to get hit with a snowball

You see the most amazing things on the road

2008-09-12T23:54:00.000-04:00

There's a reason to drive slow on the open road. You'll see things.

In Nevada, and more than a few times in Utah we had to stop for cattle on the road.

Oh the stories I could tell . . . and I will.

We're just over the border in Kansas now. Tomorrow we're crossing Kansas, Missouri and Indiana. We're "bookin it" now. Brian has a 7 AM flight back to the west coast.

I know, I know.

- - - David

A moment to remember a horrible day

2008-09-11T09:17:00.004-04:00

a moment we'll never forget

America . . . a WONDERFUL Place for a Drive with the Dogs

2008-09-11T04:00:00.006-04:00

Lucy, Sophie and the newlywed Brian Brockowski
near the shore of Lake Isabella, California

Tonight, just as the iPhones chimed midnight, we have made it to Cedar City, Utah.

Today we wandered through Yosemite, (YO-s'mighty, to her friends), for hours then drove through mighty wonderous landscapes and one spiritual storm in Nevada. 15 hours and 541 miles.

Yesterday it was over 500 miles up the middle latitude of the Sunshine State, a drive through the Sierras, a circuitous tour of Sequoia National Park followed by a quick bypass of Fresno and a dark ride into Fish Camp, California.

It is 2 in the morning at the Motel 6 on Hwy 56.

I is tired, that is all I can say for now.

After some sleep, we take on southern Utah!

- - - David

There's got to be a Morning After

2008-09-08T13:29:00.004-04:00

Lounging Lucy, pool side.
If you've got to get rested, what better place than the Coral Sands?

The midnight wedding, momentous. The after party, memorable. The next morning . . . just a little blurry. I do remember brunch with brother Brad and Brian at Rick's, then the Phoenix Brocks departure. I do recall Mom and Pop Heath stopping by with an offer of lunch, just a little too soon after that. The rest of afternoon was spent in the shade, the pool just a quick hot skips across the flagstones.

The sunset, the carry out dinner from Thai Smile with the Reverend Ruby Montana and our star witness, Rebecca, I remember clearly, then it all starts to fade. I was asleep before MadMen started, and I didn't mind. That's how tired I was. And it's a good thing I got a little rest.

Sweet Lucy awoke us before 4 AM, letting us know she needed a walk, NOW. Seems she has a bit of a bug and her body wants nothing to do with it. So today will be another day by the pool. Siestas, (and dog walks), will be frequent and will keep the Pepto Abysmal flowing. Lucy will be dining on her spa meals of white rice and water.

Tomorrow morning we still intend to leave for Yosemite and the beginning of our journey home.

Cross your fingers, and wish us continued luck.

- - - David

A few shots from this morning's wedding

2008-09-07T17:28:00.004-04:00

A few minutes after midnight, the Reverend Ruby Montana with the powers vested in her by the state of California, pronounced us MARRIED!
There wasn't a dry eye by the pool.

That's not to say it was all seriousness and solemnity.

the WEDDING party
Brad Brock, David, Reverend Ruby Montana, Brian and Rebecca Chekouras

A Big toast to the camera woman, Rebecca
Brad, Ruby, Judy, Len, Lee Ellen, Becky, Amanda, and US

Ding Dong: the bells chimed at midnight

2008-09-07T13:24:00.002-04:00

If you wish you were here last night . . .
If you were wondering what was said . . .
Now at least you'll have the script:

(MINISTER Ruby):
We are here to join together these two in matrimony, which is honorable among all people; and is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly – but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly. Into this estate these two now come to be joined.

Marriage is a union in heart, body and mind. It is intended for their mutual joy – and for help and comfort given in prosperity and adversity. But more importantly – it is a means through which a stable and loving and legally stable environment may be attained.  

Through marriage, David and Brian make a commitment together to face disappointments – embrace dreams – realize hopes – and accept failures. Brian and David will promise one another to aspire to these ideals through mutual understanding and openness – and sensitivity to each other. 

A marriage stands for love, loyalty, honesty and trust, but most of all for friendship. Marriage is an act of faith and a personal commitment as well as a moral commitment that requires and deserves daily attention. Marriage should be a life long consecration of the ideal of loving kindness – backed with the will to make it last.

Love One Another, verse by Kahlil Gibran,

Love one another, but make not a bond of love
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup, but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread, but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping;
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together yet not too near together;
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow

The vows

Do you Brian take David be your lawful wedded
husband? Brian responds, "I do.”

Will you love, respect and honor him throughout your years together? Brian responds, "I will."

Do you David take Brian to be your lawful wedded
husband? David responds, "I do.”

Will you love, respect and honor him throughout your years together? David responds, "I will."

Brian, Repeat after me:

I take you David
to be my lawful husband,
to have and to hold, from this day forward,
for better or for worse,
for richer or for poorer,
in sickness and in health
for as long as we both shall live.

David, Repeat after me:

I take you Brian
to be my lawful husband,
to have and to hold, from this day forward,
for better or for worse,
for richer or for poorer,
in sickness and in health
for as long as we both shall live.

The Rings

Would you place the rings in my hand?

May these rings be blessed as the symbol of this unity, these two lives joined in one unbroken circle. Wherever they go – may they always return to one another. May these two find in each other the love for which all men and all women yearn. May they grow in understanding and in compassion. May the home they establish be a place that all will find a friend.

May these rings forever symbolize the spirit of love in their hearts. 

(Handing ring to Brian) 
(MINISTER RUBY) Brian, place the ring on David’s finger and repeat after me:

“David, I give you this ring
as the pledge of my love
and as the symbol of our unity
and with this ring, I thee wed.”

(Handing ring to David)   
(MINISTER RUBY) David, place the ring on Brian’s finger and repeat after me:

“Brian, I give you this ring
as the pledge of my love
and as the symbol of our unity
and with this ring, I thee wed.

Pronouncement

An Apache prayer expresses our parting hope:

Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other.
Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other.
Now there is no loneliness for you.
Now you are two bodies, but there is only one life before you.

Go now to your home,
To enter into the days of your life together,
And may your days be good and long upon the earth

(MINISTER RUBY): 
May you always share with each other the gifts of love, generosity and kindness.  
As David and Brian have consented together in marriage before this company of friends and family, have pledged their love – and declared their unity by giving and receiving a ring – are now joined.

You have taken vows of marriage, but remember to always be each other’s friend.  

And so, by the power vested in me by the State of California, I now pronounce you married.  
–
Congratulations.   

PHOTOS COMING SOON.
Just waiting for the bidding war between The National Enquirer and People to end.

It's a fine day for a PINK wedding

2008-09-06T13:10:00.007-04:00

The witness, a groom and the minister departing for dinner with Judy and Len

Yesterday started to feel almost traditional, ALMOST!

Brian made us a poolside breakfast then Ruby took me for a morning of pampering, a pedi, a mani, and an ATM.

While Brian was having his turn at pampering, I helped Ruby a little prepping the rooms for the arriving guests. The rooms here are works of art, so it felt more curatorial than custodial. I was honored.

While Ruby enlisted the fabulous doggie-sitter/architect Diane to watch the little ones, Len and Judy, Brian's step-dad and lovely mom, took us all to Davey's Hideaway, a classic Palm Springs place with tinkling piano, pink lights, fabulous art and mighty fine food. Judy called it a rehearsal dinner, Rebecca thought a Wing-It Feast was a more appropriate title.

Driving back, under a star speckled dessert sky, top down in Ruby's VW Bug, Dinah, I couldn't help feeling like one very lucky man.

Love is all around and I am smack in the middle of it.

- - - David

Rebecca "Peaches" Chekouras, flew from San Francisco and into the pool.
She was drafted to be a star witness in tonight's legal proceedings.

From the YOU REALLY REALLY Shouldn't have department.

Floral Love from Calyn, our historical witness in Seattle, 12 years ago.

A Box of Good Luck from Ginny and Trish:
Something borrowed, Something Blue, Something Old, Something New, and a Piece of Sixpence for my shoe.

Waiting

2008-09-04T21:36:00.003-04:00

It's hot here, 107 degrees, is that why Brian is breaking into a sweat? Or is it the community property laws here in California?

We got to the County Offices in Indio and were greeted by the receptionist with a calm business like attitude, as if boyz had been walking up and asking for marriage licenses for years. That was nice.

We waited for an hour and our ticket number finally popped up on the screen. The county clerk was all business but with a smile. We raised our right hands and swore that our information was accurate. Brian said "yes", I said "I do".

I thought it was good practice.

- - - David

100 Degrees of Anticipation

2008-09-04T13:36:00.003-04:00

Lucy lifeguards a weary traveler soaking in the pool at the Coral Sands

TA DA! 2500 miles, 6 days of roadside attractions and a few too many replays of "(Get Your Kicks) on Route 66", our travelers have made it to Palm Springs and the magical motelier known as Ruby Montana.

At 5:00 on Wednesday, just in time for cocktails, we pulled up to the Bouganvilla draped gates of our favorite inn in the world. Ruby and the diminutive pup, Lola, were waiting for us with cold ones and a warm welcome. It's so nice to be home.

Today we're off to Indio, the county clerks office, to fill out paperwork for the marriage license. I almost can't believe it, his is really happening, Ruby is brushing off her reverend robes and the rings are in the motel safe.

This is going to be fun.

Isn't it?

- - - David

5 days down, 1 to go

2008-09-03T01:41:00.007-04:00

Brian's virgin trip to the Grand Canyon

That's what we call a bachelor party

Since you've last heard from us in Tucumcari, we've done the spur to Santa Fe, the Mother Road through Albuquerque, seen ruins of rock houses in Mesita and the red rock cliffs that made me cry outside Galllup.

We've had amazing Mexican food for breakfast in Gallup and drove to Arizona for lunch at Joe & Aggie's in Holbrook AZ.

Then it was Flagstaff, a little "spur" to the Grand Canyon where, I at least, saw God.
A zip down to vintage Route 66 Williams, AZ and on through an incredible mountain sunset to Seligman, AZ where we rest tonight at the Deluxe Inn Motel in Seligman, AZ on Route 66, of course.

Tomorrow, it's a heavily anticipated final part (for us) of the Route, and down into Palm Springs and Ruby Montana's Coral Sands. Brian is tempted to get on the interstate,"'for expediency", but he realizes he must stick to the Route 66 plan.

We're all a little weary, but determined. Tomorrow eve we'll be ready for some pool time and a cocktail. Maybe then we'll be ready to plan the wedding.

- - - David

Lucy, dog tired but not about to lay down

It's a Long Way to Tucumcari

2008-08-31T21:12:00.006-04:00

So far everything has gone as planned, just a little slower.

We joined up with Route 66 outside St. Louis, not inside, due to road construction all around the city. Not a perfect start, but who are we to complain. The road was thin and curvy and just right. We made it to Cuba, Missouri the first night.

We followed Route 66 through Missouri, into Kansas and then Oklahoma. We got into Oklahoma City after getting a bit lost, but finding our way to the Oklahoma City National Memorial, (the site of the 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building). It was sunset and thunder was sounding in the background, as we got teary eyed, the rain began. By the time we got to the car it was a torrential down pour. We got lost in a dark deserted unfamiliar city. But we made it the 30 miles out of the city and into El Reno. A miracle, you decide.

Today we drove throught western Oklahoma, the Texas panhandle and into New Mexico. Moat of the ride is on vintage, bumpy, deserted Route 66. We made it to the Safari Motel in Tucumcari before dark.

The trip has been wonderful, but I am too exhausted to give the stories justice. AND Brian is waiting to go to the Pow Wow Lizard Lounge for dinner. And I would enjoy a cold drink.

I promise to write more later, whether you want me to or not.

- - - David

Stay Tuned for Route 66 Updates

2008-08-29T08:14:00.002-04:00

We will be attempting to post from the Road, so check back.
OR sign up for email updates, you can always cancel it later.

- - - David