Psalm weiters

Mack Edward

Yesterday, Dec. 30, 2010, at 8:02 a.m. Mack Edward Felt was born. Our first grandson, our second grandchild.
We are grandparents.
Grandparents.
And our son is a father. Our daughter, a mother.
This life chain continues.
Lucas and Melissa called from the car on their way to the hospital. We had texted throughout the day. Contractions seven minutes a part. We learned later she had shopped, returning shirts from Brooks Brothers that were too short in the sleeve for Lucas. Climbing the stairs to their third-floor condo. Unsure that this could be the real thing. So, when we talked to them enroute they were light-hearted. Chatty. Convinced they would be sent back home. No doubt false labor.
That was 9:30ish Thursday evening. Maybe. Then a text that she had been admitted. This was the real thing. Then we learned later in the evening, now early on Dec. 30, my mother's birthday, that hard labor had ensued and an epidural was going to be administered.
At 7:30 Pacific time, I texted a tentative "OK?" and less than an hour later came a photograph of newborn Mack. Long arms like his father. Long legs. Beautiful color. Gorgeous lips and a pug nose.
the thing about this grandparent experience is it catapults you back to the moment when the earth tilted on its axis and you became a parent. To the moment when that child is experiencing in their way but in a universal way that moment of birth. And for a moment I was in Norton's Children's Hospital in Louisville on a muggy, hot July morning with Dr. Lavery announcing that we had a boy. A boy. A son. The first male in my small McGaw clan in 51 years (I was so good to my parents to give them grandchildren at such a young age.) They put Lucas' warm, wet body on my stomach and I remember thinking how silky he felt. How alive. Lucas got to cut the umbilical cord and he hasn't left the side of his wife or son since. Nor will he.
They will occupy their posh digs in the impressive Northwestern Unversity Prentice Maternity Center for another 24 hours and then venture out into their home, its nursery painted, prepped, outfitted for the arrival of their son and for the start of this time when their universe tilts anew on its axis.
As has ours.
So Happy New Year. It's been nine months since last I posted. Then it was to write about Grace's birth. And now Mack's.
Two names that a year ago at this time weren't stitched in my heart, she said, sounding so like a grandmother.

Grace

Today (now tomorrow in England) our granddaughter was born at 9 a.m. March 20 in Portland Hospital in London. She was delivered C-section. Her father cut the cord. Her mother nursed her and those of us on the other side of the Atlantic forwarded each other the photographs that her father quickly posted on the internet. We heard her cry. We heard her father wonder for the first time if something might be wrong and we heard ourselves gasp at the glorious sound of our granddaughter's voice. Lusty, strong and adamant.
Her Aunt Melissa and her Uncle Lucas cooed across the ocean to bid her welcome and I ordered what will be the first of endless copies of photographs of Grace just to hold and share with those who will indulge me.
We have become grandparents and I am beside myself.

If we were having coffee

We'd be on our third cup of coffee by now. Or I would. And you would have patiently listened to me trying to catch you up on the surgeries, the upcoming birth, the rain here, Winston's mental state and my expanding shallow knowledge.
We had the second eye surgery. As you will recall the first one failed because of bad donor cornea cell tissue. The second one took. And reminded me how splendid it is to be in the presence and the recipient of superb nursing care and physician skill.
We continue putting the patch on at night and four drops of eye medicine daily. But, so far, so good.
Ken had an epidural last Friday. Basically, that means a shot in the dura of his spine to calm and numb frayed nerves in his lower back. More up and down with that. But it takes two weeks to know if this has worked.
Amanda will most likely deliver Grace by C-section because of a rather indelicate complication. Look up perianal fistula. She has one. It became abcessed. Had to be drained and now the dressing changed daily and she'll need surgery after Grace is born. (I'm pretty sure they will name this child Grace, but lately Chloe and Charlotte have been spoken as possibilities.) Amanda is doing well but the doctors are probably going to err on the side of caution and forego any possibility of tearing,e tc. w/ a C-section.
It has rained here for what seems like 3 months. At least for two weekends in a row. I am most grateful for rain. I need to be. We live in a desert and we are in a drought. But I feel like I've moved to Seattle. It's March. We here in Phoenix are use to blue skies, endless sunny skies and watering grass, plants and flowers as if we lived in Seattle. So, I feel guilty whining about rain. Other evolved souls here squeal in delight at the rain. I don't, but I try not to sulk either.
Lucas, Melissa and Melissa's brother Jeremy arrive tomorrow for Jeremy's spring break. We will show him Sedona, hopefully sunshine and the weather about which I am unduly proud and fine Mexican food. At 6 we will move from sipping coffee to sipping wine.
Life is good.
Forgive me for the absence. Since I follow four other bloggers fairly religiously I know that I get a little irked when they take more than two weeks off.
And as we are leaving the little coffee shop, I will mention in passing my addictions to The Wire. It's like crack. I have to rent only a few DVDs at a time. And The Good Wife. It's the one show I won't quit watching to talk to my children unless of course it was an emergency.
And I'd say get Abide With Me. It's by the author of Olive Kittridge. Then we could talk about it.

Back on the Jet Plane

Chuck is headed back to Columbus. He's leaving on a jet plane. He came out here to help us through Ken's eye surgery.
He has done that.
Since he's been here we've:
Consumed 12 gallons of fresh squooze orange and grapefruit juice.
Realized you can use a golf club to shake citrus from the trees.
Developed a fondness for Progresso soup, especially Tomato Basil. (He brought 6 cans with him.)
Redeveloped an appetite for candy, popcorn, thriftstore shopping.
Increased our already large book selection by 20 more books Chuck is leaving behind.
Been to our first Saturday's farmers' market where we were fortunate enough to have only $20 cash on hand.
Become hooked on The Wire.
Watched the finals of two stockcar races and found the drivers very cute.
Introduced Chuck to Tess and the Golden Greek.
Discovered Chuck is no fan of sauteed kale.
Celebrated that Ken can now indeed see from his left eye, declaring the second surgery a complete success.

Dr. Bob

I have shallow knowledge about many things, but not about hospitals, nursing care and post-op care. All of which we experienced yesterday.
Here's the update.
Ken's second eye surgery to replace the bad corneal pumper cell donated tissue with a fresh new one went splendidly. This morning when we saw Dr. Bob (the affectionate name for the eye surgeon who is now our hero) Ken could read not just the big E on the chart but the second line too. (When we went for the post-op check the morning after this same surgery in November he could make out the nurse's three fingers having failed to see the big E let alone the line of letters underneath it.)
We left with three bottles of eyedrops, detailed instructions along with a dose chart (something not given by the other doctor the first time around) and Dr. Bob's cell phone number. (Certainly not anything I was given the first time. Although, in fairness, I didn't ask how I would get hold of the doctor over the weekend if something happened. Dr. Bob offered his cell phone and said please don't hesitate to call me. I know.)
Yesterday, the nurses were arguing over helping Ken through his pre-op stuff because they loved working with Dr. Bob and his gas guy, Dr. Peter. They had each had these two men do surgeries on them. They would have no other. Now, neither would we.
In the midst of this is Chuck. He got up at 5 after flying here yesterday and being stuck on the tarmak in Columbus and Memphis for de-icing. He waited with me until 11 a.m., with a break at Matt's Big Breakfast and a plate of their incredible organic thick-cut bacon and sourdough bread, for Ken to be transported back home.
When I got home, there was a tablecloth he had brought from Columbus (Mexican theme) on the dining room table. Candles lit, a cheese plate ready and a salad ready for tossing. We had leftover chili and cookies for dessert, something Chuck had brought with him.
We are on the mend here in Phoenix.

Chuck's arrival

For the second time in 10 years, my college roommate, matron of honor and dearest friend Margot is sending us Chuck.
Her husband is coming to help us navigate the second eye surgery. The first one didn't work. It appears that the donor pumper cell tissue was bad. So, Ken has been blind out of his left eye since before Thanksgiving as we've sorted out our next step.
The next step is Dr. Bullington who will lay a new layer of donated pumper cell tissue on Ken's
cornea, place a bubble over this new tissue to hold it in place, stitch things up and send Ken home. There he will spend the next 24 hours mostly on his back looking at the ceiling while Chuck cooks us luscious meals and brings his usual energy, crazy jokes and unbridled excitement over weird caps, thrift store finds and most anything he finds on the produce aisle.
The last time he came Ken had developed spinal meningitis right after fracturing his ankle. So, he was tethered to an IV pole for high powered antiobiotics and bound in a wheelchair. That time Chuck bought material to make a tablecloth, new napkins and made us chicken salad with fruit, his sweet potato fries and all kinds of calorie-laden desserts. Ken recovered, lost the IV and eventually the wheelchair but never the weight.
It was during this trip that Chuck discovered the Mormon thrift store. We'll go there this weekend after Ken's done lying on his back staring at the ceiling and hoping that this time the tissue transplant takes.
Thank you, Margot.

Post Thanksgiving

Pumper Cells Part II

It appears scraping the back of the cornea and then wallpapering it with new cornea cells is a bit painful. But the patient is doing well despite discomfort and having to keep his head back and his eye focused on the ceiling above for 15 minutes four times a day.
The surgeon declared his handiwork successful and Ken's recovery on track.
I was a bit alarmed when he couldn't see the very big E on a cursory eye check yesterday morning, but he could tell that a hand was being held up in his line of vision if not the number of fingers.
Not a surprise since there's an air bubble in his eye placed there to hold the new layer of cells in place until they adhere to the cornea and voila, sight is resumed. Or so my understanding of this procedure goes.
We'll lay low this weekend waiting for the air bubble to dissapate and sight to resume and our fragile routine to return.

Pumper cells

We have another surgery today. We meaning Ken.
This time it's the eye. And here's where my shallow knowledge could be a problem. I'll try to confine this to my dim understanding of what's happening.
It appears that his optical pumper cells (who knew) have aged and those remaining can't adequately pump. The result is dim vision that means he has to squint to see. He got Kindle. The e-reader lets you enlarge type and it's his most favorite possession. He's gone through three. But now, even with his good eye, it means he has to squint to read.
Today, he will not only have a small cataract removed, because why you are there why not, but he will also have a kind of re-wallpapering of the lining of his cornea with healthy donor pumper cells. The procedure takes up to four hours. And it's a 1 in 10 chance it will all go well and he'll be reading his Kindle squintless next week at this time. I take him at noon and I'm gathering we'll be home in time for the semi-final rounds of Dancing with the Stars. (Ken called to vote for Kelly last night.)
Tomorrow, we return to the doctors to check the stitches and within the next few days we'll know if the surgery was a success.

Jonathan

On Oct. 14 at 12:30 p.m. on an unseasonably warm day in Arizona, I watched as my godson's casket was lowered into the grave and his family and friends each dropped a yellow rose into his grave.
It is inconceivable that Jonathan Zinsli is dead.
His mother had called me a week earlier at 5 p.m. on Oct. 7 sobbing, asking me if I could come to her home. What's wrong? Can you come to my home, she repeated. I had never heard such anguish in her voice. Yes.
The police had reached them to say that their 21-year-old son had been killed in a motorcycle accident earlier that day in Daytona Beach. Jon had moved there shortly after graduating from high school to attend Daytona State College. The school had a top-rated photography department and Jon was a talented photographer. His mother helped him move to Florida. He worked at Best Buy while he established residency and had enrolled in the school. He'd also bought a motorcycle. And on that morning, as we later learned from his legion of friends, co-workers, professors and exquisite girlfriends, he had ridden that motorcycle on his way to or from a photo shoot. A short distance. And an 80-year-old man in a red Toyota, driving the opposite direction, had made a left hand turn in front of him and Jon had hit the car, been thrown from his vehicle and died probably at the scene.
A young woman at the scene was with him and in the way information now gets shared these days posted on the Orlando Sentinel site that Jon's bravery in his last minutes of life had changed hers forever. She and Fran would wind up emailing back and forth in the first days that this crushing, unbelievable news seeped into the marrow of his mother's and father's bones, forever changing them.
On Oct. 14 in the Chapel of the Chimes mortuary those who love the Zinsli family and Jon, came to pay their respects. We filled the room. All there to weep and mourn with this remarkable family because the death of a vibrant, beautiful, smart, talented 21-year-old son full of life, of aching potential is an incomprehensible thing.
There was Rachel, Jon's first friend and co-worker, then fellow photography student, who Best Buy flew from Florida to attend the funeral. The family would learn that Best Buy had to bring in a grief counselor when word of Jon's tragic death spread. Photography professor Eric Breitenbach brought some of Jon's exquisite photoraphy and a message board students and professors had signed during a standing-room-only memorial service they held on Thursday morning after Jon's death. "He brought us all closer,'' Eric said.
Fellow students and Jon's roommate, Lukas, were there. His high school friends. His Boy Scout leader. His high school photography teacher who'd first scene Jon's talent and challenged him to step aside from his adolescent rage and self-absorption to first learn this craft before he explored its fringes.
His sweet sister. His two older brothers. His grandmother who held his newborn body in her arms when he was born at home with his grandmother, two brothers and the Glendale firefighters in attendance. His grandfther who took him on numerous deep sea dives and would have given him more camera equipment for underwater photography this Christmas. HIkers who, with Jon's family, had hiked most of the trails in Arizona and beyond.
The members of the B'Hai community and the Swiss community who watched him grow. The former sang piercingly aching songs at his funeral and at the gravesite. They read prayers.
And his family: his father, brothers Peter and Phillip, his sister, Katya, his uncle Michael and his mother each eulogized him. Unbelievably, eloquently, painfully standing before all of us talking about Jon. Their brother, son, nephew, grandson. And his professor, his girlfriends talked about his love, his talent (the most talented student I've seen in 29 years), his passions, his kindness, his loyalty, his wit, his mind, his hope.
And the story that lingers is the story his mother told of a fig tree the family had brought back to the desert with them from their two-year sojourn in Switzerland when Jon was a kindergartener.
She'd planted the tree and it had born sweet, full, delicious fruit. This remarkable family savors all things of the earth, most especially its fruit. They had enjoyed this fruit for many years and then the tree had begun to wither. It had seemingly tired so they cut the tree down. But Fran said that lately she had noticed a small, green shoot from the stub of its trunk. She'd begun watering the tree. Nurturing its tender green signs of life as I've watched her do with her children, her students, with all of us that gather round this remarkable woman.
And in that story, told at the funeral of her youngest son, Fran led each of us to the barely visible blades of hope.

Travel notes

In no particular order of importance, some snapshots from our recent trip to London to visit Amanda and Michael:

It's very disconcerting to be in a country where they speak English, although sometimes it sounds like a foreign language, and drive on the wrong side of the street. You never know where to look for oncoming traffic when you are walking. And when you are a passenger in a car it seems equally confusing figuring out where you are headed and where the round-abouts are really directing y ou.

Amanda and Michael's flat is on Kensington Gardens Square, near Bayswater, Hyde Park and a 15-minute walk from their old flat in Notting Hill. It's a first-floor flat which means that you look out their living room picture window that's at least five-feet high with white wooden shutters that fold into the wall right onto the sidewalk and narrow street that amazingly accommodates parked cars, city buses, delivery trucks and cars sometimes simultaneously. Two doors down is this hip neighborhood bar and restaurant where you can get eggs, coffee and pastry in the morning and martinis and tapas at night. The laundromat is less than a block away and there are a series of hair dressing, waxing, nail places within spitting distance. Across the street is Nandos where you can wave at the person taking your grilled chicken order over the phone.
It's, as they say, bustling with a steady stream of Moslem women in scarves , everyone talking on cell phones and a lot of people smoking.
As Michael says, there's a lot of energy. You could literally sit at the window and watch an all-day drama. It's like a day at the beach without the sand and sunscreen.
You can step out their front door and most times of the day can hail a taxi within five minutes.
You can also walk down the street and take the No. 23 bus and be on Bond Street next to Sufridges, the large, local-favored department store, within 10 to 15 minutes.
I now can identify the Marble Arch from a bus window two blocks away.

Last year we went to the races at Ascot, a sublimely British thing to do.
This year we went to the last night of the Proms at Hyde Park where Barry Manilow was the headliner. Really.
Think the 4th of July meets tailgating at a Steelers/Bears game. Thirty-seven thousand people with their picnics spread out on blankets (some had brought tables, tableclothes, candelabras , sliver, china and crystal) most waving the Union Jack flags, sipping champagne and ale and dipping into salmon pates, cheese plates and other nibblies. By the end of the evening, which celebrates music and patriotism -- you heard this random mix of Handel's Water Music, Copacabana and Auld Lang Syne.
At the end there were fireworks and this unforgettable scene of a park full of Brits -- we were with alumni of USC -- singing a full-force rendition of Britannia, God Save the Queen and then linking arms and singing Aud Lang Syne.
At the end, magically there appeared black plastic garbage bags near each blanket pad. People bent down, grabbed a bag and began disposing of their rubbish. All very civilized, sensible and efficient. Brilliant.

The high T

Winston's nervous breakdown

The other day we took our dog to the vet and asked, in addition to the examination, if they could keep him overnight so we could sleep.
Winston, our basset of some nearly 10 years, is having a nervous breakdown. Or at least a very severe anxiety attack.
Even the pills many people give their dogs during monsoon season to sedate them during thunderstorms don't work. He spends his days and nights panting, pacing, whining and trembling.
I think this summer of detox, pain pump surgery and the subsequent trial of rejiggering Ken's pain med mix have taken their toll on Winston.
He's always been very emotionally sensitive and needy, like the rest of us.
He's been the steadfast, tail-always-wagging, emotive dog that follows Ken's every move and could sit beside him 24/7 having his back scratched or his head petted.
But lately, he's taken a turn and it's not been good. His tail is frequently down, not wagging. He has poddy issues, as in he goes on the carpet. Frequently. Yesterday he couldn't even gather the wherewithal to jump up on the couch, something in the past he would have done enthusiastically. He spent the day panting, whining and staying as underfoot as he could as we followed us from room to room.
The vet concurred that he's got something that in canine language is akin to anxiety. He's on some kind of doggie Xanex that won't probably really take hold, if it does, for a month. He gets it twice a day.
But, as with Ken, there is progress. Teeny, tiny progress.
And I've decided rather than homicide, I will be understanding and reassuring.
Last night, he was able to jump on the couch, although he stood up on the cushions and faced away, not even understanding that it's customary to sit on a couch, curl into a nice ball and/or lay your head on your mistress's lap.
Eventually, hours later, he assumed the normal dog-on-the-couch position. And for a while quit shuddering.
Last night he slept through the night. He only paced and panted for a few minutes.
This morning, as if he forgot that he's suffering from anxiety attacks, he wagged his tail and for a moment was the old, happy-go-lucky, happy-to-see-you-and-be-alive-in-this-world Winston. Then he remembered and began panting, the sight of a doggie bone being offered him too much to cope with.
We're a house of healing this summer. Stepping our way to healing one little jump-up-on-the-couch at a time.

The last brother

Saturday morning I watched Ted Kennedy's funeral from 7 a.m. until maybe almost noon. All of it. Even the dead TV time when the rain spattered the streets of Boston outside that big, solid Catholic church that looked much more splendid inside than outside.
I noted the new brick and slate sidewalk approaching the church steps and then all the unlikely mix of people extending themselves to each other the way you do at weddings and funerals when strangers or adversaries or exes wind up sharing a pew or a dinner table because celebrations and mournings eclipse, even now, grievances and positions.
And my heart felt a familiar sag remembering earlier Kennedy funerals. A kind of televised history we baby boomers share from the time many of us were in junior high and watched Jackie, Bobby and Teddy walk -- the two brothers in mourning suits -- behind JFK's riderless horse-drawn casket (with the riding boots in the stirrups backwards.)
I -- forgive me Catholics -- rolled my eyes at the priest's lame, hollow-sounding, self-important homily and found it not surprising that people leave this institution although at the same time I respected the Kennedy family's embrace of the faith and the church.
I tried to sort the faces and names and stories of the Kennedy clan, noting the sweetness of the children each asking for Ted Kennedy's passions: a health care system that worked for all and a people who embraced one another or at least respected one another regardless of gender, nationality and who they chose to love. We all prayed Hear our prayer -- those unlikely seatmates (Hillary next to George. Bill grabbing face time with Barack. Nancy Pelosi talking to Jimmy Carter and Rosalyn (still seems such a sourpuss.)Orin Hatch. Caroline. The Smith boy who was accused of raping the girl. That whole sordid moment. Jean, the last sibling. Was that Joan Bennett Kennedy? The blonde with the sort of unfortunate facelift. I had these catty thoughts while transfixed and sad at the passing. The careful watching of Vicky whose countenance seems to deserve a more noble name.)
And then Obama's eulogy, pitch perfect.
And when the family walked out beside the casket of the man who was father to too many of them I wondered where Vicky would sleep that night.

Cool mornings

This morning I sat in my garden with a cup of coffee and the morning pages I've been doing fairly faithfully since Margot and I went to a conference in Sedona with the Artists' Way writer, humorist and sage, Julia Cameron. (She was married to Martin Scorcese, something that somehow added a great deal of heft to her words.)
And to my point: it was cool. Sweet, sweet cool air with just a hint of moisture. The sky, of course, was cloudless blue and the sun bright. But the air was cool. Refreshing with a promise that this back-breaking heat was finished. The afternoons may be in the triple digits, but the mornings were cool and cool mornings make all the difference. It allows for a time to regroup, gather your energies and be still.
The heat 24 hours is relentless. When they say it saps your energy, it's true. There's no regathering time.
Soon, we'll be able to eat dinner outdoors again. But for right now morning coffee in the garden is sufficient.

38 Years

Yesterday we observed our 38th anniversary. Ken bought me black pearls. A 72-inch strand of black pearls purchased from the neighborhood jewelers from a catalogue they seldom ordered from.
The jewelry lady was impressed that the pearls at that price looked this good. They do. I appreciated the story about how impressed she was that you could get 72-inches of black pearls at "that price'' because we'd agreed, or I had stated, that we weren't getting any presents for each other.
A card would do.
And it would have.
But it's 38 years. Thirty-eight years. This summer has felt 38 years long.
So last night we packed Ken's walker into the car and made it to the 7 p.m. showing of 500 Days of Summer. We had movie theater popcorn for dinner. Perfect. And we watched this very clever movie about love. Unrequited love. (You learn that from the outset so it's not a spoiler.)
One of the lead's friends has known Robin, his girlfriend of years, since they were in elementary school. There's a line he says, which I can't recreate, that describes the girl of his dreams. She has fuller breasts, likes sports more and something else. But that in the end Robin is better b/c that's who he loves.
Ken and I met in 2nd grade. It's a tale I have told at a lot of dinner parties. I offered him a quarter to draw me a squirrel. He had sketched an amazing pencil squirrel. Very detailed and perfect, especially for a second grader. And a quarter was a high price given the times and that I didn't have an allowance. It was my ice cream money. He refused. One of what would be only a handful of times he would refuse my request. But he was smitten with Patsy Crarey at the time and couldn't be bothered.
But we were in second grade together. We had Miss Kraner, a first-year teacher whose classroom was completely out of control. Ken and I dated in our sophomore year of high school, but I didn't really like him. Then we began dating in earnest our senior year. I had to really work hard to woe him. I walked him home after school -- something you did in Kokomo, IN, in 1966 when only about a dozen kids in high school had their own cars. We were not among those.
We journeyed down memory lane last night. Not back to second grade but to our wedding day. I'm in contact with all but one of my four bridesmaids. Amazing really. Ken is in contact with two of his. We wondered at his choice of groomsmen. We remembered who he'd asked to be ushers. That Melissa Moore and Beth Shagley had served cake, a disaster because they thought they had to dissemble the tiered cake to cut it. We remembered the Phi Delt fraternity brothers who'd come and who had seranaded me when we returned to my parents' home for an after-reception reception where we could serve wine and beer since you couldn't do that at the First Presbyterian Church where we'd had the reception in the fellowship hall. That Ron and Sandra had been there. Sandra in black pants, a first for a Kokomo wedding and something probably still rememberd in some circles. Our children's godparents and such a fixture in our lives now and then merely wedding guests.
And I thought that then both of our fathers had been alive and my grandmothers and great-grandmother. And that these souls -- Amanda and Lucas -- who would enter our lives three and seven years later and transform them -- were not even in our imagination.

Julie and Julia

I read the book and couldn't wait to see the movie.
I had no idea I would weep through much of it.
If I had only one movie to take to the island this might indeed be it. I love food movies, but this is much more than a food movie. It's like An Affair to Remember (the one w/ Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr) meets Babette's Feast. Only different.
I think Nora Ephron nailed this. Just like I thought she nailed it in Heartburn, one of my other favorite movies.
This is a love movie on all kinds of levels. Certainly food, but more fundamentally the joy of life. Of relationships. Husbands and wives. Sisters. Friends and the bone deep pleasure in food. Its preparation. Its mystery. Its chemistry. Its soul-satisfying goodness and the joy of sharing a meal with friends and family.
My friend and colleague, Karen Fernau, admitted that she too wept almost without restraint when she saw the movie and vowed that she was going to end her relationship with low-fat Mediterranean diet and embrace butter. And that she was going to live each day with much more joy than she had allowed herself.
It was that kind of sweet, sweet movie.
At the end of the movie, they applauded in the Twin Lakes, Wisconsin, movie theater where I saw this. I didn't really notice because I was so transported to the world that Julia Childs created with her husband, Paul.
I think as much as this movie celebrates French cooking with its butter and its sauces and its heart-stopping flavors, it also celebrates marriage. Soul-satisfying, deeply known to another marriage.
And it made me weep in tender appreciation.
(The critics are right. Don't go to this movie hungry. Get the medium-size popcorn at least.)

Recovery II

After nearly three months of detox, there's a light.
Ken has gotten himself off oxycotin. He weaned himself from pain pops. And then was told he could go back on them and now we are waiting for his pump refill. Same cocktail ingredients, different proportions.
He had his morphine levels goosed up and now he walks, with the help of a delux walker loaned to us by a neighbor, back and forth from the bedroom and dining room with ease. We've put up the folding couch in the den, a sign that he doesn't need three crash spots throughout the house, just one.
He went to the movie with Lucas and dinner at Durant's. He takes long naps but he is no longer bed-ridden.
He can make coffee, let the dog out and remind me where I left my glasses.
The trip to London to visit Amanda and Michael that we thought at one point might be out of the question is now back in the very real realm of possibility.
He gets his pump refilled with the new mixture next week.
It will be as close to what the doctor thinks is the right mix as we've had.
The doctor expects that Ken will indeed be headed to London to visit his daughter and son-in-law in early September.
We may be on the other side of this.